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The Catholick Poet

or, Protestant Barnaby's Sorrowful Lamentation: An Excellent New Ballad [by John Oldmixon]

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THE Catholick Poet;

OR, Protestant BARNABY's Sorrowful Lamentation: An Excellent NEW BALLAD.

[_]

To the Tune of, Which no body can deny.

My Song is of SAWNY, the Poet of Windsor,
Whose HOMER will sell, when the Devil is blind, Sir;
And the Hump is before him, that now is behind, Sir;
Which no Body can deny.
His Muse fed with Sack: Growing warmer, and warmer,
He Ravish'd a Lock from the pretty Bell. Fermor,
And thought with vile Smut to have charmed, the Charmer;
Which, &c.
On the Stage Collier fell, long ago, and did maul it;
He cares not for that, he's more Bawdy than all yet,
Ev'n Horner Would blush at his Lewd What d'ye call it;
Which, &c.
This Papist, this Atheist, this FIGURE, this Writer,
Feels his Purse to grow heavier, as Lintott's grows lighter;
Ah Barnaby Bernard Thou'rt Bit, tho' a Biter;
Which, &c.

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When he has undone thee, his Muse will be jaded,
And grinning he'll cry, thou hast traded, and traded,
But never did'st know what was Greek for a Spade yet;
Which, &c.
From Learned and Simple, from Goers and Comers,
From Oxford, and Cambridge, from Rome and St. Omers,
A Thousand Subscriptions I got for my HOMERS;
Which, &c.
Quoth Lintott, G---d Z---ds, tho' you bully and vapour,
I value your Pen, Sir, no more than your Rapier;
What a Plague are your HOMERS to me but waste Paper?
Which, &c.
'Tis a Lye by the Mass, cries the Catholick Poet,
To the Wall will I stick thee,—Quo' Bernard, aye do it;
I'm a Protestant, Z---ds, and I'll make you to know it;
Which, &c.
Dear Bubble, the Poet reply'd, with some Kisses,
As dull, and as heavy a Bargain as this is;
You may thank me, I think, that I left the Odysses;
Which, &c.
A Pox of your Picture cries Barnaby Bernard,
Who the De'el would ha' Dealings with those they call Learned,
'Tis eating one's Pudding before one has earn'd it,
Which, &c.
Nay, prithee says Sawny, don't mutter and mumble;
Thou'lt ne'er get a Groat, if thou always dost grumble,
Come, pay, and Print on, and I'll be thy most humble;
Which, &c.
I'm a Dog if I do, reply'd he, let me tell ye,
As bad as my Nose is, by G--- I can smell ye;
Tho' I have no Pope, you've a Chap in your Belly;
Which, &c.
Quoth Sawny, I'll burn my next Book, by St. Peter;
Quoth Bernard, I care not, G---d D---m ye, your Metre
Will make any Mortal a Minter or Fleeter;
Which, &c.
[_]

Note, The Reader is desir'd to excuse the Swearing in this Ballad, without which, Mr. Lintott's Character had been misrepresented, it being, as Mr. Pope has observ'd, his Essential Qualification.

 

Mr. Pope's Breakfast is Sop and Sack.

A Lewd Character in Wycherley's Country Wife.

A ridiculous Farce, with Mr. Gay's Name to it.

Mr. Lintott's Christian Names.

Mr. Lintott has, at his own Cost, cut the Author's Effgies, which no body buys.