Of all the twice ten thousand bards
That ever penned a canto,
Whom Pudding or whom Praise rewards
For lining a portmanteau;
Of all the poets ever known,
From Grub-street to Fop's Alley,[103]
The Muse may boast—the World must own
There's none like pretty Gally![104]
2.
He writes as well as any Miss,
Has published many a poem;
The shame is yours, the gain is his,
In case you should not know 'em:
He has ten thousand pounds a year—
I do not mean to vally—
His songs at sixpence would be dear,
So give them gratis, Gaily!
3.
And if this statement should seem queer,
Or set down in a hurry,
Go, ask (if he will be sincere)
His bookseller—John Murray.
Come, say, how many have been sold,
And don't stand shilly-shally,
Of bound and lettered, red and gold,
Well printed works of Gally.
4.
For Astley's circus Upton[105] writes,
And also for the Surry; (sic)
Fitzgerald weekly still recites,
Though grinning Critics worry:
Miss Holford's Peg, and Sotheby's Saul,
In fame exactly tally;
From Stationer's Hall to Grocer's Stall
They go—and so does Gally.
5.
He rode upon a Camel's hump[106]
Through Araby the sandy,
Which surely must have hurt the rump
Of this poetic dandy.
His rhymes are of the costive kind,
And barren as each valley
In deserts which he left behind
Has been the Muse of Gally.