All ye poets of the age, All ye witlings of the stage, Learn your jingles to reform: Crop your numbers, and conform: Let your little verses flow Gently, sweetly, row by row. Let the verse the subject fit, Little subject, little wit. Namby Pamby is your guide, Albion's joy, Hibernia's pride. Namby Pamby Pilli-pis, Rhimy pim'd on missy-mis; Tartaretta Tartaree From the navel to the knee; That her father's gracy-grace Might give him a placy-place. He no longer writes of mammy Andromache and her lammy, Hanging panging at the breast 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 playthings, little toys, Little girls, and little boys. As an actor does his part, So the nurses get by heart Namby Pamby's little rhymes, Little jingle, little chimes. Namby Pamby ne'er will die While the nurse sings lullaby. 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, All by little tiny bits. Now methinks I hear him say, Boys and girls, come out to play, Moon does 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; Liar, liar, 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. 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 apiece to see his show, Boys and girls flock row by row; From their clothes the pins they take, Risk 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, Should 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 Nine inspire him, Let poetic fury fire him: Let the poets one and all To his genius victims fall. A WORD UPON PUDDING.