A wind, which to my Noddle flew
(upon a day when as it Snew;)
Which to my Brains the Vapors drew
And there began to work and brew,
'Till in my _Pericranium_ grew
_Conundrums_, how some Peal that's New
Might be compos'd? and to pursue
These thoughts (which did so whet and hew
My flat Invention) and to shew
What might be done, I strait withdrew
Myself to ponder--whence did accrue
This _Grandsire Bob_, which unto you
I Dedicate, as being due
Most properly; for there's but few
Besides, so ready at their Q----
(Especially at the first View)
To apprehend a thing that's New;
Though they'l pretend, and make a shew,
As if the intricat'st they knew;
What _Bob_ doth mean, and _Grandsire True_,
And read the course without a Clue
Of this new Peal: Yet though they screw
Their shallow Brains, they'l ne're unglue
The Method on't (and I'm a Jew)
If I don't think this to be true,
They see no more on't than blind _Hugh_.
Well, let their tongues run _Titere tu_,
Drink muddy Ale, or else _French Lieve_,
Whil'st we our Sport and Art renew,
And drink good Sack till Sky looks blew,