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-Miss;

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 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 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