Poems » thomas carew » namby pamby or a panegyric on the new versification


Nauty Pauty Jack-a-Dandy
Stole a Piece of Sugar-Candy,
From the Grocer's Shoppy-shop,
And away did hoppy-hop.

All ye Poets of the Age!
All ye Witlings of the Stage!
Learn your Jingles to reform!
Crop your Numbers and Conform:
Let your little Verses flow
Gently, Sweetly, Row by Row:
Let the Verse the Subject fit;
Little Subject, Little Wit.
Namby-Pamby is your Guide;
Albion's Joy, Hibernia's Pride.
Namby-Pamby Pilly-piss,
Rhimy pim'd on Missy-Miss;
Tartaretta Tartaree,
From the Navel to the Knee;
That her Father's Gracy-Grace
Might give him a Placy-Place.
He no longer writes of Mammy
Andromache, and her Lammy,
Hanging panging, at the Breast
Of a Matron most distrest.
Now the venal Poet sings
Baby Clouts, and Baby Things;
Baby Dolls, and Baby Houses,
Little Misses, Little Spouses;
Little Play-Things, little Toys,
Little Girls, and little Boys.
As an Actor does his Part,
So the Nurses get by Heart
Namby Pamby's Little Rhimes,
Little Jingle, Little Chimes,
To repeat to Little Miss,
Piddling Ponds of Pissy-Piss;
Cacking-packing like a Lady,
Or Bye-bying in the Crady.
Namby Pamby ne'er will die
While the Nurse sings Lullabye.
Namby Pamby's doubly mild,
Once a Man, and twice a Child;
To his Hanging-Sleeves restor'd;
Now he foots it like a Lord;
Now he pumps his little Wits;
Sh---ing Writes and Writing Sh-ts,
All by little tiny Bits.
Now methinks I hear him say,
Boys and Girls come out to Play!
Moon do's shine as bright as Day.
Now my Namby Pamby's found
Sitting on the Friar's Ground,
Picking Silver, Picking Gold,
Namby Pamby's never old.
Bally-Cally they begin,
Namby Pamby still keeps in.
Namby Pamby is no Clown,
London-Bridge is broken down:
Now he courts the gay Ladee,
Dancing o'er the Lady-Lee.
Now he sings of Lick-spit Lyar
Burning in the Brimstone Fire;
Lyar, Lyar! Lick-spit, lick,
Turn about the Candlestick!
Now he sings of Jacky Horner,
Sitting in the Chimney-Corner,
Eating of a Christmas-Pie,
Putting in his Thumb, Oh, fie!
Putting in, Oh, fie! his Thumb,
Pulling out, Oh, strange! a Plumb.
Now he plays at Stee, Staw, Stud,
Sticking Apples in the Mud:
When 'tis turn'd to Stee, Staw, Stire,
Then he sticks 'em in the Mire.
Now he acts the Grenadier,
Calling for a Pot of Beer;
Where's his Money? He's forgot:
Get him gone, a Drunken Sot.
Now on Cock-horse does he ride;
And anon on Timber stride,
See-and-Saw, and Sacch'ry down,
London is a gallant Town!
Now he gathers Riches in,
Thicker, faster, Pin by Pin:
Pins a-piece to see his Show,
Boys and Girls flock Row by Row;
From their Cloaths the Pins they take,
Risque a Whipping for his sake;
From their Frocks the Pins they pull,
To fill Namby's Cushion full.
So much Wit at such an Age,
Does a Genius great presage,
Second Childhood gone and past,
Shou'd he prove a Man at last!
What must second Manhood be,
In a Child so bright as he?
    Guard him, ye poetic Powers!
Watch his Minutes, watch his Hours:
Let your Tuneful Nine inspire him;
Let poetic Fury fire him:
Let the Poets, one and all,
To his Genius Victims fall.