The Brewers should to Malt-a go,
The Loggerheads to Scilly,
The Quakers to the Friendly Isles,
The Furriers all to Chili.
The little squalling, brawling brats,
That break our nightly rest,
Should be packed off to Baby-lon,
To Lap-land, or to Brest.
From Spit-head Cooks go o’er to Greece;
And while the Miser waits