Whilst modern wits with scorn may rage
O’er honest Oldham’s rugged page;
May vow his Muse was weak and pale,
His rhyming harsh, his humour stale;
May censure with a knowing leer
The failings of a pioneer,
And dullness ev’ry bard must own
In Oldham damn, in self condone;
I some times think, had he not dy’d,
Old John might shew another side:
For what could not the poet say
Of things these witlings scrawl today?