University of Virginia Library

Now Jerry Wade, as authors say,
Was full nineteen a month and day.
Bred in the country where not skill,
But happy ignorance of ill,
From harm preserves the moral frame,
Jerry was free from vice or blame.
The gifts which exercise in fields
With wholsome air and diet yields,
Health in his look her image trac'd,
And Vigour every sinew brac'd.
Nature had to the lad with care
Of wit and judgment lent some share,
And well his country phrase exprest
His grave remark or artless jest:
Nor Learning had her gifts deny'd,
While by a tutor's care supply'd
With classic stores, the boy could tell
What ancient bards had written well.
Much did the hopeful lad delight
With his bright parts his sire, the knight,
But Lady Wade, whose nicer art
Could scan in youth each weaker part,
Thought that the lad, nor thought in vain,
Had yet some virtues to attain,
Which in due season to supply
It well became her care to try;
And on a day, her earnest thought
Soon into words befitting wrought,
With tender care of Jerry prest
My Lady thus the knight addrest:

“Sir John, you to your joy have found
My counsels always just and sound,
Nor can you doubt, that I who long
At town among the courtly throng
Shone of assemblies gay the pride,
Should be confest more fit to guide,
Than you who by the world unseen
Have in the country bury'd been.
Our Jerry grown to riper age
May well our prudence now engage,
And much we shall his spirit wrong,
If in the country kept too long
A rude companion he remains
To rustic squires and village swains,
Or patient at a tutor's will
His mind with learning vain to fill,
'Till lost to every grace polite
The bow becomes a booby quite,
Unfit thro' aukwardness and fear
In well bred circles to appear.
O, London, London, Sir John Wade,
Is now the place for Jerry made;
London, that school of polish'd arts,
Which to unfashion'd youth imparts
Good breeding, manners soft and free,
Graces which all admire who see,
With skill of life and men most sound
Not with vain pedants to be found;
London, where if the boy possess
His mother's talents as I guess,
Into the sprightly beau-monde thrown,
Soon by each bright attainment known,
Sure to excel in graceful ease,
Politeness and the ways to please,
Our Jerry yet to early fame
In the gay world will lift his name.
Sir John, you miss not what I mean
That I to London plainly lean.
'Ere yet this year its course completes,
From the dull country's stupid seats
Where clowns their sons more clownish breed,
To London air with fitting speed
Let Jerry pass, nor pass in vain,
Himself in arts polite to train:
So when in gay assemblies plac'd,
With courtly air and manners grac'd
The boy is quite accomplish'd grown,
I may not blush my son to own
A youth so polish'd, and confest
Of all his mother's grace possest.
Such is my council, and as fit
To sway my councils you admit.”

Thus spoke my lady with just aim;
Her looks her purpose fixt proclaim.
At first unwilling that his sight
Should miss in Jerry its delight,
And not unmindful of the snares
Which London for raw youth prepares,
The knight with discomposure hears;
But soon his cloudy brow he clears,
And is contented that her will
The gentle lady shall fulfil;
Taught in her purposes to rest,
As long approv'd, discretest, best.
A tender kiss salutes his cheek
Reward of his compliance meek.

But from the mansion of the Wades,
From guiltless plains and tranquil shades,
Where simple Nature still maintains
In sober joys the harmless swains,
Our Jerry now to town repairs,
To gather breeding, courtly airs,
And add one youth more to the throng
Whom giddy fashion draws along
To dance thro' her fantastic round
Of follies light on London ground,
Where vice and vanity at hand
To seize unwary striplings stand.
In London soon, enchanted spot!
His rustic aukwardness forgot,
Our Jerry quite polite is grown;
The modish Graces are his own,
The careless bow, the sauntering gait,
Disdainful smiles that ready wait,
Looks that defiance bold express,
The fop's vain plumes and tinsel dress,
Important airs to merit due,
And language to the bon ton true.
Each haunt that draws the young and gay,
The public gardens, park and play.
The midnight club where smarts repair,
The gay assemblies of the fair,
Ridotto, ball, and masquerade
See and admire our Jerry Wade.
The train of fashionable wits
Him gladly of their class admits;
The beaus with envying looks confess
His happier taste and matchless dress;
And rival nymphs at midnight dance
Cast on the fair a jealous glance,
Whose fan with gallant air and gay
The sprightly Wade delights to play.

Fame, winged messenger, whose speed
Leaves far behind the panting steed,
From the loud tumult of the town
Now hurries to the country down,
Where in fair Devon's fruitful plains
Wade-hall its worthy knight contains,
And through the villages and seats
With all her hundred tongues repeats,
That in address and manner blest,
And of the Graces quite possest,
Among the courtly ranks in town,
Our Jerry shines in high renown.
Who now exults but Lady Wade,
Glad to repeat with vain parade
How well she could in prudent thought,
Foresee the good by London wrought?
Nor less the knight with ravish'd ears
The praises of his Jerry hears.
Eager his darling to behold
Of whom these wonders fame has told,
Tho' much the labours of his swains
Demand his presence in the plains,
And still the lingering spring delays
To bring soft airs and genial days;
Yet on the boy the knight intent
To visit London town is bent,
And mounted on his steed defies
The beating rain and blustering skies.

But now restrain thy blasts, rude North,
And Zephyr send thy breezes forth,
Whilst with parental love inflam'd
And wish to see a son so fam'd,
A worthy sire forsakes his seat
In distant Devon's calm retreat,
To brave the rage of beating storms,
When winter yet the plains deforms,
Nor heeds the long space as he rides
That London from his fields divides.
Two days entire the patient knight
Journeys, tho' fierce rains shew despight:
Wide Sarum's plains are left behind
Open to blasts of northern wind,
And Bagshot heaths are crost in haste
Where evils worse annoy the waste;
But when the faint returning light
Of the third morn dispels the night,
From Staines, along the Thames that spreads
Sacred to Liberty its meads,
Up springs the knight with vigour fast,
His rugged journey well nigh past,
The pride of London to descry
While morning purples yet the sky.

The hasty minutes sliding soon
Brought on the shining hour of noon,
And Jerry taught by fashion right,
How best the vigils of the night
He may repair by morning rest,
Yet sunk in sleep his pillow prest;
When led by peevish fates that sought
To cross him with malicious thought,
Sir John alights in Grosvenor-street,
And eager now his son to greet
Knocks at the door that to the boy
He may express parental joy.
The sullen door with slow delay
Admits him as at early day,
But when an entrance once he gains,
No more his wonder he contains:
“What hours these London people keep?
At noon is Jerry Wade asleep
That wont to wake before the dawn!”
He calls aloud: but next undrawn
The curtains of his bed, he seeks
Within his Jerry's blooming cheeks,
When tossing in the vain embrace
Of unquiet sleep, with sickly face
And meagre looks he sees the boy;
Alas! how chang'd from him, his joy,
Who late to chace with hounds and horn
The flying hare at early morn,
Fresh as the day from slumber sprung,
Whilst lusty health each sinew strung.
A sudden dread the knight appals
And from his hand the curtain falls.
Now wond'ring much his eyes explore
The gay apartment's various store.
The gay apartments yet unswept
Declare the vigils lately kept
With reverence by the festive crew,
The praise of Bacchus to renew;
The table floods of wine o'erflow,
While shatter'd on the floor below
The glasses in a ruin vast
Around their glitt'ring fragments cast.
Here the beau's trapping are display'd,
The muff and hat in plumes array'd,
A motley dress, for heat and cold
Where silks and furs contention hold,
Embroider'd garments, and between
Masks, mantles, dominos are seen.
But there the trophies of past loves
Garters are spread, and fans, and gloves,
With charms and philters not a few,
Sacred to Comus' lustful crew,
Gifts that are fraught with am'rous power,
Which from her wanton Cyprian bower
The unchaste Venus sends profuse,
Not to be sung by modest muse.

This various disorder seen
The knight can scarce contain his spleen,
When still the fates to vex him bent
New subjects of amaze present.

Close by the window hung a cage,
The mansion of an Indian sage,
Brought from the banks of Ganges' floods,
The brightest parrot of the woods.
Conscious of the gay dress he wore,
His painted head aloft he bore;
Of brilliant hues his plumes are seen,
Where gold conspires with vivid green,
His eyes are bright with gentle flame,
And Pilpay was the parrot's name.
Borne from his groves and native air,
To skies less bright and fields less fair,
The Indian bird in Devon plac'd
The mansion of our knight had grac'd,
A guest that soon to favour grew
And from his merit honours drew;
Nor less in Devon's fruitful bound
Thro' all the villages around
Was Pilpay fam'd for sprightly parts,
For moral sayings, virtuous arts,
Than he, the sage, whose name he bore,
Had been in Indian climes before.
He still was wont with reverence meet
My lady and the knight to greet,
Good-morrow, Madam, or I pray
How does your honour do to-day?
To strangers entering at the hall,
Welcome his courteous voice would call,
And when the guest began to stir,
He civil said, adieu good sir.
If sneezing chanc'd the knight to take,
Orisons due would Pilpay make,
And straight, God save you, would invoke,
Politely bowing as he spoke;
But never impious oath he swore,
Gadsooth, gadzookers, but no more.
With love of industry possest
And frugal arts, the Indian guest
A houshold part full well could play,
And from his cage at break of day
Would call the servants all by name
To rise and mind their tasks for shame;
And if they careless slept too long,
Or if the morning churn went wrong,
Would scold in fitting terms at will
The maids that ply'd their tasks so ill.
To Pilpay oft it fell from harm
To guard the poultry-yard and farm:
In harvest time he taught the hind
With precept sage to reap and bind;
He well could call if there was need,
The turkey's tender brood to feed,
Or bid the straggling chicks take care
And of the hovering kite beware.
A stranger to these ditties quite
In which more wanton birds delight,
More subject to religious qualm
He oft would hymn a pious psalm,
Or else bewail in plaintive mood
The dying children of the wood,
Or to the notes of Chevy-chace
Attune his voice with martial grace.
Pilpay by arts like these became
The favourite of the knight and dame,
And Jerry yet a child carest
And fondly fed his feather'd guest:
But when on courtly breeding bent
Jerry to London town was sent,
Companion of his tender age,
Lo, Pilpay follow'd in his cage.

The knight the Indian stranger spies:
Good-morrow, gentle bird, he cries,
When Pilpay now no more the same
Requites his worship with the name
Of country putt, and more to brave
His wrath, salutes him cuckold, knave.
The knight amaz'd, scarce trusts his ears,
From courteous Pilpay when he hears
Words so unseemly and unfit;
When, lo, the more to shew his wit,
And parts improv'd by London air,
The graceless bird begins to swear:
First in the modish dialect,
These oaths which courtly beaus affect,
'Fore gad, plague take it, rot me, knight,
He lisps with air and grace polite.
Next he proceeds to harsher sounds,
Confusion! furies! blood and wounds!
Damnation! vengeance! fire and thunder!
And well nigh tears his throat asunder.
The wicked bird, O dire to tell,
Now freely gives his soul to hell,
Now Satan from the burning lake
He calls the worthy knight to take.
Nor will it yet his mind content
In oaths profane his wit to vent.
Bent by his manners vile to shame
The sage from whom he draws his name,
Forgot the seemly virtues all
Which late he practis'd at Wade-hall,
He now his hearer to confound
Flings from his bill impure each sound,
With which the modest porter greets
The damsel plying in the streets,
Or which the damsel will not spare
For modest porters to prepare,
While with discordant squalls around
A whore! a whore! the roofs rebound;
In triumph now he spreads his wings,
And with exulting note he sings
A revelling song, at midnight hour
That bacchanals are wont to pour,
Sore wounding with vile phrase the ear
Unus'd the sounds unblest to hear.

The knight stood for a-while aghast,
But pours forth all his rage at last
And thus exclaims: “Oons! Lady Wade,
Fine work indeed your plans have made;
I thought how well they would succeed,
But you my counsels never heed.
O simple fool, who thro' his life
Still fondly listens to a wife!
But I will be no more that fool.—
O London, London, precious school,
Whose happy influence imparts
Politeness, grace, and courtly arts;
This wicked and degenerate pair
Proclaim the blessings of your air.
But now befits it as I live
That of my skill some proof I give.
Zooks I will lose my lands and name,
But I this wicked pair will tame.
In this vile place they shall not stay
Another week, no not a day.
The Western stage shall to their sorrow
Bear them to Devon back to-morrow:
There shall they in retirement fast,
And inly rue their follies past,
Till purified by country air,
Aud tutor'd by my pious care,
The graceless creatures once again
Their wonted virtues may attain.”