The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our President, in Days of Yore,
Upon his Head a Caxen wore;
Upon his Head he wore a Caxen,
Of Hair as white as any Flaxen:
But now he cares not of a Fig;
He wears upon his Poll a Wig,—
A shabby Wig upon his Poll,
Of Hair as black as any Coal.

II

A sad and dismal Change, alas!
Choose how the Deuce it came to pass!

Poor President! what evil Fate
Revers'd the colour of his Pate?
For if that lamentable Dress
Were his own choosing, one would guess,
By the deep Mourning of his Head,
His Wits were certainly gone dead.

III

Sure, it could ne'er be his own choosing
To put his Head in such a Housing.
It must be ominous, I fear;
Some Mischief, to be sure, is near.
Nay, should that black, fore-boding Phiz
Speak from that sturdy Trunk of his,
One could not help but think it spoke
Just like a Raven from an Oak.

IV

A Caxen of so black a Hue,
On our Affairs looks plaguy blue.
We do not meet with such an Omen
In any Story, Greek or Roman;
A Comet, or a blazing Star
Were not so terrible by far.
No, in that Wig the Fates have sent us
Of all Porténts the most portentous.

V

Who does not tremble for the Club,
That looks upon his Wig so scrub?
Without a Knot! without a Tie!—
What can we hang together by?
So scrub a Wig to look upon,—
How can the dire Phænomenon
Be long before it has undone us?
Oh! 'Tis a cruel Bob upon us.

VI

The President, when's Wig was white,
He was another Mortal quite;
Nay, when he sprinkled it with Powder,
No Man in Manchester talk'd louder.
How blest were we! but now, alack!
The wearing of a Wig so black
Such a Disgrace has brought about—
Burn it! 'twill never be worn out.

VII

Thou art a Lawyer, honest Joe,
I prithee, wilt thou let us know,

Whether the black Act won't extend,
So as to reach our worthy Friend?
What! can he wear a Wig so shabby,
When Folks are hang'd from Waltham Abbey,
For loving Ven'son, and appearing
So like that Head there, so like Fearing?

VIII

You're a Divine, Sir: I'll ask you,
Is that a Christian, or a Jew,
Or Turk? “Aye, Turk, as sure as Hops,
You see the Saracen in his Chops.”
And yet these Chops, tho' now so homely,
Were Christian-like before, and comely.
That wicked Wig! to make a Face
So absolutely void of Grace!

IX

You, Master Doctor, will you try
Your skill in Physiognomy?
Of what Disease is it a Symptom?
Don't look at me, but look at him, Tom.
Is it not Scurvy, think you?—“Yes;
If any thing be Scurvy, 'tis.”
A Phrenzy? or a Periwigmanie
That over-runs his Pericranie?

X

“It seems to me a Complication
Of all Distempers, o' some Fashion;
It is a Coma, that is plain,
A great Obstruction of the Brain.
A Man to take his Brains, and bury 'em
In such a Wig!—a plain Delirium!
I never saw a human Face
That suffer'd more by such a Case.

100

XI

“If you examine it, you'll see 'tis
P---burnt: that shows a Diabetes.
Bad Weather has relaxt, you see,
The Fibres to a great Degree;
Certès, the Head, in these black Tumours,
Is full of vitiated Humours,—
Of vitiated Humours full,
Which shows a Numbness of the Scull.

XII

“So of the rest.”—But now, Friend Thomas,
The Cure will be expected from us;
For while it hangs on him, of course,
It will, if possible, grow worse.
“Habit so foul! there is, in short,
Nothing but Salivation for't.”
But what can Salivation do?
It has been fluxt, and refluxt too.

XIII

But why to Doctors do I urge on
The Bus'ness of a Barber-Surgeon?
Your Barber-Surgeon is the Man
It must be cur'd by, if it can.
Ring for my Landlord Lawrenson;
Come, let's e'en try what can be done;
A Remedy there may be found,
Provided that the Brain be sound.