Of a Matron most distrest.
Now the Venal Poet sings
Baby Clouts, and Baby Things,
Baby Dolls, and Baby Houses,
Little Misses, Little Spouses;
Little Play-Things, Little Toys,
Little Girls, and Little Boys:
As an Actor does his Part,
So the Nurses get by Heart
_Namby Pamby_'s Little Rhimes,
Little Jingle, Little Chimes,
To repeat to Little Miss,
Piddling Ponds of Pissy-Piss;
Cacking packing like a Lady,
Or Bye-bying in the Crady.
_Namby Pamby_ ne'er will die
While the Nurse sings _Lullabye_.
_Namby Pamby_'s doubly Mild,
Once a Man, and twice a Child;
To his Hanging-Sleeves restor'd;
Now he foots it like a Lord;
Now he Pumps his little Wits; }
Sh--ing Writes, and Writing Sh--s, }
All by little tiny Bits. }
Now methinks I hear him say, }
_Boys and Girls, Come out to Play, }
Moon do's shine as bright as Day._ }
Now my _Namby Pamby_'s found
Sitting on the _Friar's Ground_,
_Picking Silver, picking Gold_,
_Namby Pamby_'s never Old.
_Bally-Cally_ they begin,
_Namby Pamby_ still keeps-in.
_Namby Pamby_ is no Clown,
_London-Bridge is broken down_:
Now he _courts the gay Ladee,
Dancing o'er the Lady-Lee_:
Now he sings of _Lick-spit Liar
Burning in the Brimstone Fire;
Lyar, Lyar, Lick-spit, lick,
Turn about the Candle-stick_:
Now he sings of _Jacky Horner_
_Sitting in the Chimney corner,
Eating of a Christmas-Pie,
Putting in his Thumb, _Oh, fie!_
Putting in, _Oh, fie!_ his Thumb,
Pulling out, _Oh, strange!_ a Plum._
And again, how _Nancy Cock_,
Nasty Girl! _besh-t her Smock_.
Now he acts the _Grenadier_,
Calling for _a Pot of Beer_:
_Where's his Money? He's forgot;
Get him gone, a Drunken Sot._
Now on _Cock-horse_ does he ride;
And anon on Timber stride.
_See-and-Saw and Sacch'ry down,
London is a gallant Town._
Now he gathers Riches in
Thicker, faster, Pin by Pin;
_Pins a-piece to see his Show_;
Boys and Girls flock Row by Row;
From their Cloaths the Pins they take,
Risque a Whipping for his sake;
From their Frocks the Pins they pull,
To fill _Namby_'s Cushion full.
So much Wit at such an Age,
Does a Genius great presage.
Second Childhood gone and past,
Shou'd he prove a Man at last,
What must Second Manhood be,
In a Child so Bright as he!

Guard him, ye Poetic Powers;
Watch his Minutes, watch his Hours:
Let your Tuneful