BEING A SONG IN THE SHAPE OF A LETTER SENT TO MR. HARRY BROWN, ENCLOSING A SPECIMEN OF THE NEW TIMES AFTER THE APPEARANCE OF “A SLAP AT SLOP.”
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Air—“Dear Tom,
this brown jug which now foams with mild ale.
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Dear Sir, this town drug which now foams with mild rage,
(In which you will find that the Doctor's grown
sage)
Was once Booby Phil-Slop, a crusty old soul,
As e'er crack'd a noddle, or sailed in a bowl.*
In slopping about 'twas his praise to excel,
And of all men alive he lov'd sending to h—ll.
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It chanc'd, as to dog-days he slopp'd at his ease,
In his flow'r-woved jargon, as high as you please,
With his slops, and his chaps puffing Murray and
Co.,
And calling men nature till his tongue couldn't go,
His throat by a Hone was most marv'lously cut,
And he died, looking big, with an If and a But.
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His paper, when long torn to rags it has lain,
And time to it's uses revolves it again,
Salt butter shall find, for a cover so snug,
And with parts of fat bacon shall share this town drug;
Now sacred to nonsense, to mirth, and mild rage,—
So peace to Old Slop, and the Doctor grown sage.
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P.S. If you thing this imitation of your style parodial, not too much polluted by its unfortunate subject, it is much at your service from, Dear Sir, one who has the honour of being christened by your name,
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* See the history of the Wise Men of
Gotham.
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