Of Adam's fall he tells,

Dark as twice ten thousand Hells,

Is the Gibberish which he spatters. Now a most dismal Elegy he sings,

Groans, doleful Groans are heard about,

The Issacharian Rout

Swell the sharp howl, and loud the Sorrow rings.

He sung a modern Buck whose End
Was blinded Prejudice and Zeal.
In Life to every Vice a Friend,

Unfix'd as Fortune on her Wheel.
He liv'd a Buck, he dyed a Fool,
So let him to Oblivion fall,

Who thought a wretched Body all,
Untaught in Nature's or the Passion's school.

Now he takes another theme,

Thus he tells his waking dream.

AIR.

After fasting and praying and grunting and weeping.

My Guardian Angel beheld me fast sleeping,

And instantly capering into my Brain,

Relieved me from Prison of bodily chain.

The Soul can be every thing as you all know,
And mine was transform'd to the shape of a Crow.
(The Preacher or Metre has surely mistook
For all must confess that a Parson's a Rook).

Having Wings, as I think I inform'd ye before, I shot thro' a Cavern and knock'd at Hell's door. Out comes Mr. Porter Devil,

And I'll assure ye very civil.

Dear Sir, quoth he, pray step within,

The Company is drinking Tea,

We have a Stranger just come in,

A Brother from the Triple Tree.

Well, in I walk'd, and what d'ye think?
Instead of Sulphur, Fire and Stink,

'Twas like a Masquerade,

All Grandeur, all Parade.

Here stood an Amphitheatre,

There stood the small Haymarket-House,
With Devil Actors very clever,

Who without blacking did Othello.

And truly a huge horned Fellow Told me, he hoped I would endeavour To learn a Part, and get a Souse, For pleasure was the business there.

A Lawyer ask'd me for a Fee,

To plead my right to drinking Tea;
I begg'd his pardon, to my thinking
I'd rather have a cheering cup,
For Tea was but insipid drinking,
And Brandy rais'd the spirits up.
So having seen a place in Hell,
I strait awoke, and found all well.

RECITATIVE.

Now again his Cornets sounding,
Sense and Harmony confounding,
Reason tortur'd, Scripture twisted,
Into every form of fancy.
Forms which never yet existed,

And but his Oblique Optics can see.

He swears,

He tears,

With sputter'd Nonsense now he breaks the ears;

1

At last the Sermon and the Paper ends.

He whines, aud hopes his well-beloved Friends,
Will contribute their Souse

To pay the arrears for building a House.
With spiritual Doctors, and Doctors for Poxes,
Who all must be satisfy'd out of the Boxes.
Hark-hark-his Cry, resounds,

Fire and Thunder, Blood and Wounds,

Contribute, Contribute,

And pay me my Tribute,

Or the Devil, I swear,

Shall hunt ye as Sportsmen would hunt a poor Hare. Whoever gives, unto the Lord he lends.

The Saint is melted, pays his Fee, and wends;

And here the tedious length'ning Journal ends.