Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
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FARE AND FEED;
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
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FARE AND FEED;
OR, THE HACKNEY COACHMAN.
“An honest man's the noblest work of God,”
Said Pope. “A rogue's his own eventual rod,”
Experience says. All those from right path running
Take for associate th' impostor Cunning;
Time out of mind who for a wit has pass'd,
But proves too knowing for himself at last.
Said Pope. “A rogue's his own eventual rod,”
Experience says. All those from right path running
Take for associate th' impostor Cunning;
Time out of mind who for a wit has pass'd,
But proves too knowing for himself at last.
An hackney driver, honest and so forth—
“Whose word would pass for more than he was worth,”
If it would pass for aught—came home one night,
Put up his horses, and, by lantern's light,
Counted his whole day's fares upon the manger;
Conceiving of detection little danger.
Why did he dread it? ask you: 'twas his way
To halve the hackney-harvest of the day;
For Jarvis, whether fares were great or small,
Thought it bad practice to give master all.
Now it occurr'd, his master, who had oft
Suspected him, was hidden in the loft;
Look'd down the rack while coachee with precision
Thus conscientiously pursued division—
First peering round, if all were safe to see—
“This shilling for my master first,” said he;
“Then this for me; for master now another;
And to myself, by right, belongs its brother.”
Thus he went on, light-finger'd and light-hearted,
Till ev'ry shilling honestly was parted;
When an odd sixpence puzzled him, to know
To which, himself or master, it should go.
Conscience cried, Give it to your master, elf;
Interest whisper'd, Keep it, fool, yourself.
“Pity,” he cried, “it cannot be divided!”
A lucky thought, at length, its fate decided.
“I'll toss,” cried he; “dispute nought settles faster;
Heads for myself and woman for my master.”
He toss'd, with jerk 'mong cunning rogues quite common,
To make it come down heads; a voice cried, “woman!”
“Heads, be you who you may,” the tosser cried,
And saw his master grinning at his side;
Who coolly said, “I think the fairest course is,
Give me the sixpence, as I keep the horses.”
“Whose word would pass for more than he was worth,”
If it would pass for aught—came home one night,
Put up his horses, and, by lantern's light,
Counted his whole day's fares upon the manger;
Conceiving of detection little danger.
Why did he dread it? ask you: 'twas his way
To halve the hackney-harvest of the day;
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Thought it bad practice to give master all.
Now it occurr'd, his master, who had oft
Suspected him, was hidden in the loft;
Look'd down the rack while coachee with precision
Thus conscientiously pursued division—
First peering round, if all were safe to see—
“This shilling for my master first,” said he;
“Then this for me; for master now another;
And to myself, by right, belongs its brother.”
Thus he went on, light-finger'd and light-hearted,
Till ev'ry shilling honestly was parted;
When an odd sixpence puzzled him, to know
To which, himself or master, it should go.
Conscience cried, Give it to your master, elf;
Interest whisper'd, Keep it, fool, yourself.
“Pity,” he cried, “it cannot be divided!”
A lucky thought, at length, its fate decided.
“I'll toss,” cried he; “dispute nought settles faster;
Heads for myself and woman for my master.”
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To make it come down heads; a voice cried, “woman!”
“Heads, be you who you may,” the tosser cried,
And saw his master grinning at his side;
Who coolly said, “I think the fairest course is,
Give me the sixpence, as I keep the horses.”
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