A Song, Pasted Upon the Walls, and Scattered About the Town of Rothbury, Several Years Ago
Young Solomon, tir’d of a bachelor’s life,
Is resolv’d, by report, on a fat greasy wife,
Though merit might gain him a good natured girl,
Would forfeit his prospect for brazen Miss E——
If he wish to be wedded to folly and dirt,
To a lie-loving hussy, and impudent flirt,
Let him take what the captains of Alemouth have left,
And of comfort I warrant he will be bereft.
If a creature he takes who in muslin would shine,
Poor Solomon must on a red-herring dine;
To buy her fine clothes, and rich tippets of scarlet,
And dress the poor beggar in garbs of a harlot.
If willing with good cheerful neighbours to spend,
Or a convivial hour with some gay social friend;
To Bo——m’s would go, and therein not to be check’d,
Let him shun the hard fate of a husband hen-peck’d.
If he wish not to labour with want and disgrace,
Nor to answer demands which will fly in his face,
Nor would open his purse for the debts of another,
Let him think in due time of the case of Poll’s brother.
If children he’d have, with free use of their frame,
Let him not take a part’ner stiff-jointed and lame;
But let him look out for some wholesome clean girl,
And escape from the clutches of shameful Poll E——.
The following ANSWER was handed about at Berwick upon Tweed and the neighbouring Villages.
Ah! pen, ink, and paper, proves pleasing,
To pirates who plunder the fame
Of females, by lewdness and teasing,
Too naughty and nauseous to name.
A rector, more rude than the rabble,
Compos’d an incendiary song,
More base than a Billingsgate bauble,
And like his stale strumpet stinks strong.
That seat on a summit for cent’ries
Assigned to sages and saints,
Was kept by those scripture comment’ries
From tete-a-tete, tarnish, and taints.
But time tells a tragical story,
Of truths well attested by some;
The term has turn’d out transitory,
That bulwarks a brothel become.
The mansion (I need not to mention)
Affords an affectionate feast,
To vassals of vicious invention,
A pander, two punks, and a priest.
Their pastimes and sports are pollution,
Each minx is unmarry’d—each man
Prefers to his spouse prostitution
Upon a ’postolical plan.
By priestcraft the pulpit’s perverted,
The parson’s deprav’d and impure;
With projects profane preconcerted,
A leacherous lout to allure.
Each cuddles his coney or rabbit,
And pleasantly purr with puss-cats;
Hence with husky harlots cohabit,
And handle a herdling’s old hats.
When pregnant, the spinster’s exported
Till she spawn her spurious sprouts,
Hence home with due caution escorted
To free the fecundine from flouts.
At Alnwick, this pious imposter
And Betty have boarded their brats;
Where they keep a female to foster
Their moppets, and Matthew’s pit-rats.
The quorum confer’d a commission
Upon this canonical quack,
Expecting the learned logician
Contentions would quell garb’d in black.
This pastor unprick’d with compunction,
His church with unchastity chimes,
And forfeits the fame of his function,
By columns of scandal and crimes.
Here follows a fatal relation,
By curses and conduct unkind,
(A fact prov’d by clear demonstration)
The brute broke the heart of his hind.
This curate (kept quite unconnected
With chums who in crowds coalesce)
Was by the whole parish respected,
For piety, prudence, and peace.
I’m sanction’d to say in the sequel,
His worship, by keeping a wench,
Incurs the contempt of each equal,
His betters, the bar, and the bench.
Traduce not the strains of a student,
Untaught in a technical style;
Nor pronounce a pupil imprudent,
For truths told on varlets so vile!!!