WHILE Prose-work and rhymes
Are hunted for crimes,
And things are--------the devil knows how;
Aware o’ my rhymes,
In these kittle times,
The subject I chuse is a mowe.

Some cry, Constitution!
Some cry, Revolution!
And Politicks kick up a rowe;
But Prince and Republic,
Agree on the Subject,
No treason is in a good mowe.

The Episcopal lawn,
And Presbyter band,
Hae lang been to ither a cowe;
But still the proud Prelate,
And Presbyter zealot
Agree in an orthodox mowe.

Poor Justice, ‘tis hinted--------
Ill natur’dly squinted,
The Process-----but mum we’ll allow-----
Poor Justice has ever
For Cunt had a favour,
While Justice could tak a gude mowe.

Now fill to the brim-----
To her, and to him,
Wha willingly do what they dow;
And ne’er a poor wench
Want a friend at a pinch,
Whase failing is only a mowe.