Come all you tipling Freemen,
Now to our Harvest fly;
Haste, summon all the Seamen,
To join our Hue and Cry.
And a gleaning we will go.

See, yonder to our Harvest Fields,
What Men of Might repair;
All blythsome, mark, how each one yields
His Lips to bless the Fair.
And a gleaning, &c.

Remember, Friends, that rabble Rout,
Not worth a dozen Groats;
Who dar’d to close our Moor about,
’Till Watty cut their Coats.
And a gleaning, &c.

’Tis they who did the Lawyers hold,
To filch away our Rights;
’Twas Watty—ever firm and bold,
That crush’d the factious Wights.
And a gleaning, &c.

’Twas Watty all those Tyrants fought
Who flay’d our very Skin;
Let’s thank our Stars he hither brought
The learned Serjeant Glynn.
And a gleaning, &c.

Who will not vote for Blackett,
As Monsters must remain:
May they ne’er have a Cracket,
Nor Stool—to ease their Pain.
And a gleaning, &c.

Within the sacred Senate Walls,
In Thunder he can speak;
Before him every Tory falls,
Nay Phipps himself will squeak.
And a gleaning, &c.

Where’er the Voice of Watty goes,
The Bribed will it shun;
To him, they seem like Summer Snows,
Or Mists, before the Sun.
And a gleaning, &c.

To gain the Patriot Wilkes his Seat,
He like an Angel spoke;
And tho’ his Eloquence was great,
It ended all in Smoke.
And a gleaning, &c.

When on the Popish Quebec Bill,
He learnedly declaim’d
Mark, now the Courtiers all sat still,
Confoundedly asham’d
And a gleaning, &c.

What is your Phipps—with Boreas’ Air
To magistratic Men?
As well the Rabble may compare
A CHATHAM to a Hen.
And a gleaning, &c.

Who won’t at Watty’s Call appear,
We heartily disdain;
His Beef, and Bread, and good strong Beer
They ne’er shall taste again.
And a gleaning, &c.