VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON HIS PIES, &C.

I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺, Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church, Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot, Starts from his counter, piping hot, To warn us of the dire intent, And, like himself, is eloquent. Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread Th’ alarm of danger widely spread; Then quaking Custards join the cry, And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!” Defender of the Faith! rare Cook, Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book As formidable, and much more read Than that which our eighth Henry made, Whose Church-of-England oven bakes Protestant Appletarts and Cakes! Children that feed upon thy Pies Grow in religion as in size; While, often as their mouths they ope, They chew destruction to the Pope. Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker; Whose willing Pupils, apter far Than all the school of Lancaster, Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold.