Aaron Hill

Look here, he cries (to give him words):
Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds!
Look here, read more

Look here, he cries (to give him words):
Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds!
Look here, thou vile, predestined sinner,
Doomed to be roasted for a dinner.

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!

Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp read more

Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt the eyes of Europe on his tail.

A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A read more

A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A daw's not reckoned a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.