The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

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,

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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,

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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.