'Twas in a dark and treacherous hour, Curst, inauspicious, crabbed, sour, Thy mother brought thee forth; At sight of thee the midwife squall'd, And terrified the attendants call'd, To view the horrid birth.
Sure thou wast born at SPITE'S decree, Sure hawk-ey'd ENVY nutur'd thee, And form'd thy mind malign; That mind with SPLEEN and MALICE fraught, Where dwells each vile and ranc'rous thought, Thoughts vulgar and obscene.
The veriest stuff of Grub-street lore, Thou truly imitat'st, nay, more, In nonsense, that exceeding, Old Pindar art thou like? I think, Where he is sweet that thou dost st—k, The Red-caps only leading.
But while thy pages foul I spurn, To others will I proudly turn, To those my voice will raise, Who nobly seek their country's weal, Whose loyal worth, and patriot zeal, Deserve a nation's praise.
Vain ape! do thou resign thy name, 'Midst Theban domes dwells Pindar's fame, Delight of learned men; Too mighty for thy puny rage, Ill-written, on the FOOLS-CAP page, By scrubbed, worn-out pen.
Each true-born Briton views thy fall With eye prophetic; aye, and all The loyal sing Te Deum; Thy vulgar thoughts, and low-bred wit, For CLOACINA'S temple fit, There find their MAUSOLEUM.
