As saunt'ring I rang'd in the park all alone
A sparkish young fellow was making his moan;
Oh, he cried like a child that had newly been whipp'd,
And vow'd he had rather at hazard been stripp'd,
For his dear Farrinelli had flown into Spain,
And he never should hear the sweet creature again.

Come, never lament for a singer, said I,
Can't English performers his absence supply?
There's Beard, and there's Salway, and smart Kitty Clive,
The pleasantest, merriest mortal alive.
Let's go to The Dragon , good company's there,
There's Marg'ry and Mauxy and Signor Laguerre.

Oh, talk not of horrible English, said he,
I tell you Italian's the language for me.
'Tis better than Latin, 'tis better than Greek,
'Tis what all our nobles and gentry should speak;
Plain English may serve for the cit or the clown,
But not at the elegant end of the town.

Fly, Heidegger, fly, and my idol restore;
O, let me but hear the enchanter once more,
For Handel may study, and study in vain
While Strada's expell'd, and my Broschi's in Spain.
For Oh, his sweet warble so highly I prize,
Give him to my ears, I'll surrender my eyes.

A curse upon silver, a curse upon gold,
That could not my favourite songster withhold;
'Tis gold that has tempted him over to Spain,
'Tis nothing but gold can allure him again.
Let's pay the sev'n hundred, and sev'n hundred more,
Nay, sev'n times sev'n thousand, and ten times ten score.

Adieu, Casserelli, Chimenti likewise,
Whom parties at Hickford's extol to the skies;
Adieu, Covent Garden, adieu, Drury Lane,
I never will darken a playhouse again.
Without Farrinelli the Op'ra must fall,
So I'll fling up my ticket, and not pay the call.