I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺,
Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church,
Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot,
Starts from his counter, piping hot,
To warn us of the dire intent,
And, like himself, is eloquent.
Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread
Th’ alarm of danger widely spread;
Then quaking Custards join the cry,
And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!”