Yet he was kind—but if absurd in aught,
The love he bore to blackguards was in fault.
The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew,
’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too.
While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound,
Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around:
And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew,
That one droll head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame—the Rose and Crown,
Where he so oft got tipsy—is burnt down.