In George-street, Westminster, there liv’d,
A Man of patriot Fame,
And there perhaps he liveth still,
And JOHN WILKES is his Name.

To all the Scots he Hatred bore,
Which grew to such a Pitch,
He would not with L[or]d B[ute] shake Hands,
He would not catch the ITCH.

His Pen was like a two-edg’d Sword,
His Wit was sharp and pat;
And keen North Britons he could write,
But not a Word of that.

The muckle Laird grew wan at this,
And try’d a thousand Ways,
But could not win him to himself,
As ev’ry Briton says.

This touch’d his Pride. — All in the Night
His Mirmydons he sent,
To take the Culprit safe in Hold,
He order’d; and they went.

The TOWER then receiv’d the Guest,
But he car’d not a F[ar]t a,
They soon were glad to let him go,
By Dint of MAGNA CHARTA.

The muckle Laird then gang’d his Gait,
Alas he could not stay!
A Cat will mew, as Shakespear says,
A Dog will have his Day.

Beware, gude Laird, — for tho’ this Work
By other’s Hands is done;
So bunglingly ’tis brought about,
We ken ’tis all thine own.

God prosper long our noble King,
And keep us bold and free;
So quaff the Bowl, and let us sing
To WILKES and LIBERTY.