MARGERY TO THE REVIEWERS.
By the backside! good lack, good lack!
Chain'd to the chimney corner like a monkey,
You are as spiteful as a black,
That has been drinking drink for drunky.
I think I see my Master leap and skip,
And whisk about his tail;
Just like a pinnace when she makes a trip,
And whisks about her sail.
So have I seen a Highlander retire,
And turn about to court the wind,
Shot by a cinder leaping from the fire
Amongst his precious parts behind.
Laugh! no, he need not be afraid,
Though 'twould be comical, no doubt,
To see him squatting like a maid;
And making water like a spout.
But I should laugh at you Reviewers,
If I could view your buttocks bare,
Genteelly truss'd and pink'd with skewers,
And nicely larded like a Hare.
Nay, I could wish
To see your backsides sing'd and flead,
Just like your favourite dish,
A singged hede:
To smell them savoury and reeky,
Like Cocky Leaky.
And as your Cook, at a smith's forge,
Gives the fine flavour of the wool
To a sheep's skull,
Which makes you eat till you regorge;
So the communication is so great
Between your brains and your backside,
Between the seat
Of Laziness and seat of Pride,
That tho' the brains of all you jokers
Never struck fire into a single joke,
Yet if your bums were sing'd with pokers,
Your brains perhaps, might yield a little smoke;
Spite of your heavy jokes,
That fall upon the head,
Like apoplectic strokes,
Or pigs of lead.
We'll laugh, to see your Highland sparks,
Your Highland breeding, and good manners,
To see them strut about the parks,
With shirts display'd behind, like banners;
Shewing our maids, and modest wives,
Such modest sights,
As make their husbands weary of their lives:
They make them pass such restless nights,
Our Lovers sicken and despair,
Dejection preys upon our beaux;
The expectations of our fair
Are rais'd so highly, by such shows.
The Indians, I'm told, are more polite,
They don't produce their brawny powers,
They only shew their powers by candle-light,
Amongst their favourite squaws at certain hours.
Good Sirs, if I aright can read,
You are design'd for books,
Just as your friends, beyond the Tweed,
For gardeners and cooks.
Your pride and laziness, I guess,
Disorder and torment your minds,
And bring your country to distress,
For want of labourers and hinds.
I think, like you, it is a shame,
That its best blood should now be bleeding;
And blame
The Government for such proceeding:
I would have sent the very worst,
I would have sent you all a packing;
You should have gone the very first,
You're good enough for a good thwacking.
But I am weary of inditing
Such letters;
And so I take my leave of writing;
And leave you to my betters.
