A POEM UPON THE PRENTICES FEAST AT MERCHANT-TAYLORS-Hall.  

THe busy Town grew still, and City Fops  
Had bid adieu to melancholy Shops,  
Had left their lonesome Cells, and did repair  
to Drink, to Whore, to Feast or take the air,  
I knew not which; but being young I followed  
The shouting crowd, and most devoutly hollowed.  
At length arrived at a place they call  
The Cockscombs Court, or Merchant-Taylors-Hall,  
Where the starved Prentices kept Carnival.  
I entered; where in most prodigious sort  
Tables were placed al-a-mode at Court,  
I saw a Monster as I entred in  
( At first I took him for a rowling-Pin)  
till bowing with a grave majestic grace  
Drew up his chaps; and said Sir take your place;  
And so I did; for at a Loyal dinner  
There is no difference 'twixt Saint and Sinner:  
In one place sat an hungry Irish Teague  
And in another a sly cunning Whigg;  
In drouzie murmurs echoed round the Hall  
The different voices of the Festival.  
At length the young shop Beagles entered in  
And made a most confused hideous din;  
They yelp and bawl upon the hunting strain  
As if they meant to kill the Bucks again,  
till monumental pastry did arise,  
Which stopped their tongues and feasted all their eyes.  
The sharp set Prentices could scarce forbear  
W●ue●●. Crape did say a Puny Prayer,  
Which he made hast to do; but kept hi● eye  
Divinely fixed upon a pudding Pie,  
Least some base sneaking Rascal should convey  
The Schollers well beloved Bit away.  
He having said, they all did cease from prating,  
Left speaking nonsense and all fell to eating.  
One cries God save the King! Rips up a Pie,  
But traitorous steam did put out every Eye.  
And then he damns the Cook, and calls him Sot  
To serve a pastry up that was so h●●:  
Another gently tastes, and then he swore  
In all his life he ne're eat Buck before;  
Another his long silence 'gan to break,  
But's mouth was filled so full he could not speak;  
A fourth( whom they deemed to be i'th right)  
declared 'twas better for to eat then fight.  
At length their hungry paunches being full,  
With filled up Glasses, and with empty skull  
Bending their marrow-bones unto the ground  
With hoarse huzza's the Loyal Health went round.  
How many converts Wine and Age do make?  
When forced the earthly Region to forsake  
The aged sinners whine in pious tone;  
So every Drunkard is a Loyal Drone.  
I( who as loyal am, as tite, as true,  
As any of the Drunken Tory crew)  
Of all the modern Healths ne'er drank but this  
The best, the Loyallest, his Majesties.  
But now was forced to drink all Healths of famed  
A Catalogue, alas! too hard to name;  
For which base fact, I'm marked a fallen star  
In every Presbiterian calendar;  
But if they call me sot and fool, and say  
I was a Rogue; it was but for a day;  
I drank a Papist Health, and since 'twas so  
I had a mental reservation too;  
I in deceit to some a fool did show  
Tories to all are naturally so;  
Free from the Peoples censure and disdain  
I've cast my Tories skin, and now am Whigg again.    

LONDON, Printed for John Spicer, MDCLXXXII.