The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
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THE MARKET. |
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 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
128
THE MARKET.
My brother Bards, (you see them here a'row)
Fair chapmen all, and honest—as times go,
Turn'd fowl—flesh—fruit—fishmongers for the day,
Will all the Market's various parts display;
Will show, how general wants crave private pains;
By private toils, how general plenty reigns.
Fair chapmen all, and honest—as times go,
Turn'd fowl—flesh—fruit—fishmongers for the day,
Will all the Market's various parts display;
Will show, how general wants crave private pains;
By private toils, how general plenty reigns.
But don't you find, upon consideration,
That mine's a ticklish kind of situation?
My theme's the Market; yet if I should dare
To speak of this or that, or t'other ware,
Here sits a Butcher, there a Poulterer gaping,
Eyes fix'd,—ears open,—sure to catch me napping:
These seven good men have each a separate calling;
And if I touch on one—snap—'tis forestalling.
That mine's a ticklish kind of situation?
My theme's the Market; yet if I should dare
To speak of this or that, or t'other ware,
Here sits a Butcher, there a Poulterer gaping,
Eyes fix'd,—ears open,—sure to catch me napping:
129
And if I touch on one—snap—'tis forestalling.
Well, Gentlemen, I'm willing to content ye:
Keep each his part; my verse shall ne'er prevent ye:
Tho' while your themes from mine exclude me so, Sirs,
You treat me, under favour, like Engrossers.
Keep each his part; my verse shall ne'er prevent ye:
Tho' while your themes from mine exclude me so, Sirs,
You treat me, under favour, like Engrossers.
So! Fish, Flesh, Fowl, nor Fruit, am I to mention,
And yet must sing the Market:—Now Invention!
Now all thy quaint creative power dispense;
Rhyme, reason, moral, mystic, nonsense, sense.
And yet must sing the Market:—Now Invention!
Now all thy quaint creative power dispense;
Rhyme, reason, moral, mystic, nonsense, sense.
Have you ne'er seen an human figure stalking,
Part running, and part standing, and part walking,
With furrow'd front, and vacant eye-ball plodding,
Finger on thumb, computing, numb'ring, nodding?
He's a Projector, in the World's great Mart,
And plays—“what?”—guess—a mere Egg-merchant's part;
Like eggs, are all the schemes he seems so deep in;
They crack, when touch'd; they're addled in the keeping.
In modern education, (spare my freedom,)
You rather train your children up, than breed 'em:
If Master scorns to blush—“The Rogue's so smart”—
How vast his memory—if he swears by heart!
That Miss may store up knowledge in the lump,
She reads—the cards; to comprehend—a trump.
Severer lessons only form their youth,
To antiquated virtue, and dull truth;
Virtue and truth might make them wise, and able,
The point is now, to make 'em marketable;
To fit them for a Mart, where fashion tries 'em,
Where trifles set the price, and folly buys 'em.
Part running, and part standing, and part walking,
With furrow'd front, and vacant eye-ball plodding,
Finger on thumb, computing, numb'ring, nodding?
He's a Projector, in the World's great Mart,
And plays—“what?”—guess—a mere Egg-merchant's part;
Like eggs, are all the schemes he seems so deep in;
They crack, when touch'd; they're addled in the keeping.
130
You rather train your children up, than breed 'em:
If Master scorns to blush—“The Rogue's so smart”—
How vast his memory—if he swears by heart!
That Miss may store up knowledge in the lump,
She reads—the cards; to comprehend—a trump.
Severer lessons only form their youth,
To antiquated virtue, and dull truth;
Virtue and truth might make them wise, and able,
The point is now, to make 'em marketable;
To fit them for a Mart, where fashion tries 'em,
Where trifles set the price, and folly buys 'em.
The Market!—'twere a crime past expiation,
Not to suggest a hint on Exportation.
That store of corn, how snug the adventurers thought it,
When all on board, for foreign sale they brought it;
And prompt to enrich a few by starving many,
Enjoy'd in hope, a swinging Market-penny!
Yet tho' that hope was baulk'd, one truth is sure,
Their loss is tenfold profit to the poor;
Since just where they embark'd, they disembark'd it,
The meal, thank Heaven, is still at the right Market.
Not to suggest a hint on Exportation.
That store of corn, how snug the adventurers thought it,
When all on board, for foreign sale they brought it;
131
Enjoy'd in hope, a swinging Market-penny!
Yet tho' that hope was baulk'd, one truth is sure,
Their loss is tenfold profit to the poor;
Since just where they embark'd, they disembark'd it,
The meal, thank Heaven, is still at the right Market.
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |