Cold is Beau * * tongue, That soothed each virgin's pain; Bright perfumed M * * has cropp'd his head: Almacks! you moan in vain. Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-cropt head, In humble Tyburn-top we see; Esplashed with dirt and sun-burnt face; Far on before the ladies mend their pace, The Macaroni sneers, and will not see. Dear lost companions of the coxcomb's art, Dear as a turkey to these famished eyes, Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart, Ye sunk amidst the fainting Misses' cries. No more I weep--they do not sleep: At yonder ball a slovenly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of fair Nature's hand; With me in dreadful resolution join, To CROP with one accord, and starve their cursed line. IV. Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of barber's race; Give ample room, and verge enough, Their lengthened lanthorn jaws to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When all their shops shall echo with affright; Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets ring, To see, like Eton boy, the king! Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws, That crape the foretops of our aching heads; No longer England owns thy fribblish laws, No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds. They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast-beef behind. V. Mighty barbers, mighty lords, Low on a greasy bench they lie! No pitying heart or purse affords A sixpence for a mutton-pye! Is the mealy 'prentice fled? Poor Coe is gone, all supperless to bed. The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux, While vainly strutting through a silly land, In foppish train the puppy barber goes; Lace on his shirt, and money at command, Regardless of the skulking bailiff's sway, That, hid in some dark court, expects his evening prey. VI. The porter-mug fill high, Baked curls and locks prepare; Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live, Close by the greasy chair Fell thirst and famine lie, No more to art will beauteous nature give. Heard ye the gang of Fielding say, Sir John,[7] at last we've found their haunt, To desperation driv'n by hungry want, Thro' the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way. Ye tow'rs of Newgate! London's lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith's[8] fame, And spare the grinning barber's chuckle head. VII.