A NEW JINGLE ON TOM DINGLE by ANONYMOUS

Though Sh-----d-n will
Be Sh-----d-n still,
And show his great skill
In writing as ill
As any pupil
Or Tom, Jack or Jill
Bred up in a mill,
Built over a rill,
By a country vill,
That han't a door sill,
Nor hardly a spill
Of money in till
To buy them a pill,
Or ale made of Jill,
To take when they're ill;
Yet 'tis the Dean's will,
By good codicil,
He now should be still
Who han't wit at will,
Nor pow'r o'er his drill
To save him from nil;
Which if he'd fulfil,
And not his time spill,
Nor let his ink trill
No more from his quill,
He'd find by't a bill,
When death Swift did kill,
Would answer all ill,
And crown him with dill;
For thus says Tom Lill,
Who lives at the Brill.

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