An Original Collection of Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

A learned sage, some years ago, when writing on mankind, sirs
To sheets of papers that are blank, compared the infant mind, sirs;
On which as growing sense dictates, or fate decrees their lot, sirs,
Virtue writes fair characters, or vice imparts a blot, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

The thought was happy—I'll pursue it—(that is with your leave, sirs,
To make you laugh, which you will do, if 'tis but in your sleeves, sirs;
There's various sorts of paper, as of men, and prove it I can, sirs,
Each sort of paper, somehow, represents some sort of man, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Your Lords and nobles that so grand in stars and garters vapour,
What are they, take them all in all, but merely emboss'd paper;
More fit for shew than use—while rich men, 'self call'd our betters,
Are but gilt paper, not in common given, sirs, to letters.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

104

The lower-orders, labourers, and mechanics,and so forth, sirs,
Are coarse brown paper, but for all that, still they have their worth, sirs;
They're strong, our goods they hold secure, although to feed our pride, sirs,
As on we journey through life's road in parcels they're outside, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Your beaux's are tissue paper—a fine, but flimsy race, sir,
Which next to beauteous objects to prevent set off, we place, sirs.
Your Lawyer is brief paper, and as many one atleges,
Is full of rules, likes cutting close, that is, about the edges!
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Our lovely maidens, young and chaste, and innocently sweet, sirs,
The best white paper are, each one a pure unsullied sheet, sirs;
On which the happy man whom fate to call his own ordains, sirs;
Can write his name, and blest for life, may take her for his pains, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

What are our modern scribblers? though they foul on me may fall, sirs,
Why, take both those who're read, and those who are not read at all, sirs;
They and their works believe me, in the same class you find, sirs,
Clapp'd on the shelf, and but the mere waste paper of mankind, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c,

The Soldier's cartridge paper, in honour's cause enroll'd, sirs,
The Statesman is post paper, and alike is bought and sold, sirs;
Your Prude she is touch paper, that a spark pretends to fear, sirs,
While the Drunkard's blotting paper, that drinks up all it comes near, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Psalm singers paper are in quires, and some in reams have been, sirs,
Your Glutton is pot paper, whose small water mark's scarce seen, sirs;

105

And the crowd of silly fellows, who delight the world to blame, sirs,
While there's such a thing as foolscap paper, want no other name, sirs,
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Your Bankers are note paper, and oft to some amount, sirs,
Although according to their stock, they're sometimes at discount, sirs;
Your Gambler is card paper, and by Cobbet we are told, sirs,
There's no such real gambling as paper against gold, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Emperors are Imperial paper, oft with ambition fill'd, sirs,
Whom John Bull keeps in boards cut to demy, and has well mill'd, sir;
Victoria's royal paper, and though Dan O'Connell frown, sirs,
And try to dissolve the Union, will ne'er yield to double crown, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Actors copy paper are, for our play wrights just the caper,
And the London actors, artists all have prov'd they're drawing paper;
As for me I'm tracing paper, that don't wish to offend, sirs,
And should say more about paper, but my paper's at an end, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.