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Women! the wretches! had soil’d and marr’d Whatever to womanly nature belongs; For the marriage tie they had no regard, Nay, sped their mates to the sexton’s yard, (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off her L by inches)– And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!

The men–they fought and gambled at fairs; And poach’d–and didn’t respect gray hairs– Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses; And broke in houses as well as horses; Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton,– And would their own mothers and wives for a button: But not to repeat the deeds they did, Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, If all were true that fell from the tongue, There was not a villager, old or young, But deserved to be whipp’d, imprison’d, or hung, Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries To publish at Colburn’s, or Longman’s, or Murray’s. Meanwhile the Trumpet, con amore, Transmitted each vile diabolical story; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul’s, Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, Is famous for making the most of a hint. Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, Not a flying report that flew at a name, Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat, Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive mote, But vortex-like that tube of tin Suck’d the censorious particle in; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listen’d to serpent’s hiss, Nor took the viperous sound amiss, On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon!

The Dame, it is true, would mutter “Shocking!” And give her head a sorrowful rocking, And make a clucking with palate and tongue, Like the call of Partlet to gather her young, A sound, when human, that always proclaims At least a thousand pities and shames; But still the darker the tale of sin, Like certain folks, when calamities burst, Who find a comfort in “hearing the worst,” The farther she poked the Trumpet in. Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread East and West, and North and South, Like the ball which, according to Captain Z, Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth.

What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made wherever they came, That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame! For although it required such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To turn the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper “as sour as varges,” In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbors the village through, Look’d at each other as yellow and blue, As any electioneering crew Wearing the colors of Whigs and Tories.

Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, That “whispering tongues can poison Truth,”– Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid, Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel, Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel, Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel,– At least such torments began to wring ’em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.

The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fasten’d their nails on each other; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar–and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship–or skiff! The plighted lovers, who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk; And wish’d for two moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn’t look together on one; While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo– And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand, As the song has planned, Scratch’d her, penniless, out of his will!