 | The songs of Joseph Mather |  |
SONG XLI. THE JUSTASS.
When poverty puts off her habit of rags
She quickly turns tyrant and boasts of her bags:
'Tis always the case with the dung-hill bred train,
To give the community cause to complain:
The poor are oppress'd by their infamous deeds,
For what they take from them their luxury feeds.
I'll tell you an instance will wonder surpass,
The son of a baker is made a just-ass.
She quickly turns tyrant and boasts of her bags:
'Tis always the case with the dung-hill bred train,
To give the community cause to complain:
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For what they take from them their luxury feeds.
I'll tell you an instance will wonder surpass,
The son of a baker is made a just-ass.
One Tuesday, behind a green table I saw
A grand ignoramus currupting the law,
I thought to myself 'twas a desperate case
To see a mule sit in a magistrate's place;
For want of a right cultivation at school
He acted like tyrant, and madman, and fool.
I ask'd what irrational rascal that was,
And found 'twas a baker's son turned a just-ass!
A grand ignoramus currupting the law,
I thought to myself 'twas a desperate case
To see a mule sit in a magistrate's place;
For want of a right cultivation at school
He acted like tyrant, and madman, and fool.
I ask'd what irrational rascal that was,
And found 'twas a baker's son turned a just-ass!
It was not by merit he rose from the mire,
Altho' he arriv'd at the pitch of a squire;
A wealthy old miser this upstart may thank,
Who rais'd him from indigence to this high rank.
It would be more proper for such a blackguard
To govern wild creatures, or be a bear-ward,
Than hector in court, while the men of his class
Spite the son of a baker turn'd to a just-ass.
Altho' he arriv'd at the pitch of a squire;
A wealthy old miser this upstart may thank,
Who rais'd him from indigence to this high rank.
It would be more proper for such a blackguard
To govern wild creatures, or be a bear-ward,
Than hector in court, while the men of his class
Spite the son of a baker turn'd to a just-ass.
He formerly travell'd the streets crying rolls,
With both stocking heels out, and shoes wanting soles;
But now the poor vagrant he'll send to knock hemp,
Forgetting his pedigree was of that stamp.
The people of Yorkshire will merrily sing
When upon a gibbet the rascal shall swing;
Jack Ketch is desirous to handle the brass,
For hanging the baker's son turned a just-ass.
With both stocking heels out, and shoes wanting soles;
But now the poor vagrant he'll send to knock hemp,
Forgetting his pedigree was of that stamp.
The people of Yorkshire will merrily sing
When upon a gibbet the rascal shall swing;
Jack Ketch is desirous to handle the brass,
For hanging the baker's son turned a just-ass.
| The songs of Joseph Mather | |