See Clinchie to the hen approach,
A scoundrel screen'd in gilded coach.

Near to Edina's lofty town,
Upon a worthy Baron's ground,
A poor old woman pray'd to Jove,
That he might, from his wonted love,
Give her a hen, she'd give him praise,
And thank his Godship all her days.
Jove heard the pray'r unto Amen,
Then granted a most charming hen;
Upon her dung-hill dropt the fowl,
Which pleas'd and cheer'd the widow's soul.
Just by her hovel liv'd a Lord,
With ev'ry grace and virtue stor'd:
He fed the poor, the orphan blest;
This widow too, among the rest,
Receiv'd a sixpence ev'ry day,
As duly as her hen did lay.
The bard must glory here to clerk it,
And heav'n with pleasure view such market,
Our matron liv'd by this same hen,
As well as some folks by their pen;
Till CLINCHIE, scourge of human race,
Replete with wealth and damn'd disgrace,
Did on a day, by fate unlucky,
Cast his curs'd eyes on keckling chuckie.
He try'd to purchase, but in vain,
She would by no means sell her hen;
From whence, said she, shall come my dinner.
If you take chuckie, my bread-winner,
But CLINCHIE, as the devil greedy,
Regardless of the poor and needy,
Resolv'd to steal the widow's hen,
Tho' hell should be his portion then:
The dirty rogue, with purpose vile,
Contriv'd to catch her by a wile;
With hook and line he baited chuckie,
And basely stole her off from luckie.
In his gilt car away he rode,
Triumphant home to his abode,
Where he bereav'd the hen of life;
Despising Jove, and the poor wife.



In second Canto, truth comes out,
The wife with Clinchie has a bout;
She slaps his face with strangled hen,
And calls him thief, and worst of men:
Next to her Lord and Benefactor
She represents the wicked actor,
Who graciously attempts redress,
By sentence of the court of Sess.
In Canto third are many stories,
To entertain both whigs and tories;
Atchievements of infamous CLINCHIE,
Who daily plays the game of Pinchie.
You'll likewise in this Canto read
How CLINCHIE cheapens a sheep-head;
And sev'ral other puny wares,
Which may be call'd low life up stairs.
Our Canto fourth contains amours,
His partnerships with bawds and whores.
The BOOK-BINDER's GHOST; Or, the Second Part of the Clinchiad, A Dreadful Tale.
'Twas at the dark, and midnight hour,
When mankind take repose,
That Braidwood enter'd Clinchie's bower
And stood before his nose.
With fiery eyes the spectre star'd
Upon the guilty man,
And with a speech, long, long prepar'd,
It fiercely thus began.
'From gloomy shades, my bloody corse
'Permitted waits on thee,
'To strike thy soul with dire remorse,
'For basely murd'ring me.
'What! tho' I check'd thy vile amour,
'In yonder bawdy cell;
'Why did'st thou bribe that son of whore,
'Now chimney-sweep of hell,
'To dash my brains with sooty pole,
'Upon Edina's street;
'And send my unprepared soul,
'Prostrate to Satan's feet?
'Thy curs'd revenge and whoredoms great,
'Shall soon avenged be,
'And hell shall ope' its dreadful gate
'To welcome thee to me.
'Thy av'rice, theft and dirty tricks,
'Shall now meet their reward;
'And Charon waft thee o'er the Styx,
'To the infernal guard.
'The widow's hen, by heav'n design'd,
'To bring thy crimes in glib,
'And point thee out to all mankind;
'A Magor Missabib
'Should on thy coach fair painted be,
'That ev'ry one may shun
'Thy equipage, as infamy,
'And from a rascal run.
'Thy kindred far from having blame,
'Might shine in honour's page:
''Tis only CLINCHIE's manners lame
'Which swells the spectre's rage.
'Yet impudence sits on thy brow,
'Thou scorn'st to be asham'd;
'While ev'ry tongue swears all is true
'For which thou art defam'd.
'Assassination, dreadful thought!
'Must shock each human breast.
'The villain who can thus be bought,
'Must forfeit all that's blest.
'But now the dawning draweth nigh,
'The cock begins to crow,
'We phantoms, who on furlow fly,
'Must then descend below.'