human
The ballad-singers and the printers, Must surely now have starving winters; Their press they may break a' in splinters, I'm told they swear, Claudero's Muse, alas! we've tint her For ever mair.
gpt
Now Vice may rear her hydra head, And strike defenceless Virtue dead; Religion's heart may melt and bleed, With grief and sorrow, Since Satire from your streets is fled, Poor Edenburrow!