 | Poems |  |
25
SIR PAUL AND THE SHAVER.
A TALE.
Sir PAUL, a gaunt old sinner, went one day,To a barber's shop, to take his beard away;
But scarce was seated in the place,
When, zounds, said Strap, the muscles of your face
Are all so lank, irregular, and weak,
So like, 'mong Catholics, a poor lay mumper,
I must insert my thumb by way of plumper,
To mow the stubble from your honor's cheek.
If the big world knew not, my pliant muse
Should tell that world how barbers deal in news;
And honest Strap, who, like the rest,
Was fond of politics and eke a jest,
About the Whigs and Tories 'gan to prate,
And poor Britannia's state;
When, lo! his razor slipp'd and made a leak,
From whence the writhing Knight's warm blood ran out,
In streams, like water gushing from a spout!
With terror, Strap remained three moments dumb,
As Paul roar'd out, you dog, you've slash'd my cheek;
Oh, curse your cheek, said Strap, I've cut my thumb.
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