University of Virginia Library

The Sot.

THE various ways which Death contrives,
To put an end to human Lives,
Would, were they told in prose or song,
Make out a tale so very long,
That few, aye very few, would lend
A kind attention to the end:
But e're they reach'd the fiftieth line,
Would the dull, tedious work resign.
'Tis how men live, not how they die,
That stirs up Curiosity.
Our thoughts, our spirits we convene
To look upon the living scene.
The Actor comes, he plays his part,
With Comic or with Tragic art;
But if 'tis order'd that he dies,
We leave him to his obsequies.
And the impatient eye expects
The hero that shall enter next.
But still my subject bids me state,
The whims and phantasies of Fate.
For laurell'd Heroes and the brave,
Glory oft digs a distant grave,
Deep in the blood-besprinkled plain,
Cover'd with thousands of the slain,
Whose ghastly, mangled forms invite
The Vulture to delay his flight.
—The scepter'd Monarch yields his crown
In state, upon a bed of down;
While Poverty doth oft withdraw
From life, upon a bed of straw.
Some die with hemp around their gullets,
And some from balls—and some from bullets:
But 'twas the fate of poor Jack Marrow,
To breathe his last on a Wheel-barrow.
Jack had a jolly Butcher been,
No Market had a better seen:
Oft had he led the jovial train,
In Leadenhall or Honey Lane;
But could a courteous visage put on,
Beneath suspended legs of mutton:
With frock of blue, and shining face,
Would welcome all with sprightly grace;
And had a certain leering eye
To tempt the passenger to buy.
He'd glance the knife across the steel,
And boast his beef, or vaunt his veal;
Talk of lamb's kidnies for a stew,
And sweet-breads, what a nice ragout:
While shoulders, breasts, and loins and hearts
Flow'd from his tongue, by fits and starts.
Nor was this all:—he had the skill
To manage weights and scales at will;
And, by a certain slight of hand,
Could a short ounce or two command.
Besides, his tongue was so bewitching
To all the maids who rul'd the kitchen,
That no complaints were ever heard,
Where Marrow's daily Tray appear'd.
At length, advanc'd in years and warm,
In added gains, he bought a farm:
He lik'd the mansion as he found it,
With just a score of acres round it,
Where he might fatten sheep, or graze
An added ox, for holidays.
Nay, sometimes, to keep up the knack,
He'd throw a wether on its back
And plunge his knife into the throat,
To let the stream of Life run out:
Or dress a calf, with knife and steel,
Into each well-known form of Veal.
But what was this, to when the stall
Claim'd ev'ry hour, in Leadenhall.
—Thus did Jack live a year or two,
But, tir'd of having nought to do,
He sold his cattle great and small,
And thought the Goat was worth them all.
Now this same Goat, I must define,
Was nothing better than a Sign,
That hung suspended in the air
To tell the Country Bill of Fare,
Which Village Alehouse doth provide,
Throughout the day, by highway side:
For it was best to Jack's own thinking
To've done with meat and take to drinking:
So to the Goat, on toping bent,
Or foul or fair, he daily went.
The Curate there his pipe would smoke,
Now moralize, now crack his joke.
The merry Miller would prolong
The evening with a cheerful song;
And chatt'ring Barber, o'er his ale,
Would catch the curious with a tale:
There the Exciseman, clad with power,
Would dignify the social hour:
The trav'lling Pedlar, looking wise,
Would rail at Taxes and Excise;
While Philpot, with a paunch as round
As his own butts, would bow profound.
Here, Jack by punch and ale subdued,
Smil'd always when they both were good.
Here he his copious draughts would take,
Or smoke, to keep himself awake,
Until his loving wife should come,
To guide her stamm'ring toper home.
Now she was one of those good wives
Who ne'er disturb their husband's lives,
But yet, without much grief attend
The season when those lives may end.