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THE FUNERAL PROCESSION OF POLLY WHITEHEAD.
As lately I slept, ere yet approach'd the night,
Not one lively dream would my slumbers delight,
But screams rend my ears, and horrors fill my sight,
For ghosts, furies, devils, around seem'd to fight.
So I startled and groan'd,
And I sigh'd, and I moan'd,
Then round about I tumbled,
And I rumbled, and jumbled;—
But, I was all alone, and so no one could I fright.
Not one lively dream would my slumbers delight,
But screams rend my ears, and horrors fill my sight,
For ghosts, furies, devils, around seem'd to fight.
So I startled and groan'd,
And I sigh'd, and I moan'd,
Then round about I tumbled,
And I rumbled, and jumbled;—
But, I was all alone, and so no one could I fright.
Then I wake and get up, and my pillow duly spread,
Till furies and devils are all fairly fled;
When a funeral procession succeeds in their stead;
So now solemn fancies get into my head.
And thus straight I began;
“What, alas! is poor man,
“Or what woman, who shares
“All his griefs, and his cares?”
And a sad flood of tears, I in sympathy shed.
Till furies and devils are all fairly fled;
When a funeral procession succeeds in their stead;
So now solemn fancies get into my head.
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“What, alas! is poor man,
“Or what woman, who shares
“All his griefs, and his cares?”
And a sad flood of tears, I in sympathy shed.
Methought I was walking, as poets oft do,
Of sweet country air to drink one gale or two,
On the city new road, 'mid folks not a few,
Husbands, wives with their bantlings, and sweet hearts so true.
And when now I look back,
What a crowd all in black!
And from Moorfields they pad,
Silent, solemn, and sad,
For Bunhill-field's burying-ground they have in view.
Of sweet country air to drink one gale or two,
On the city new road, 'mid folks not a few,
Husbands, wives with their bantlings, and sweet hearts so true.
And when now I look back,
What a crowd all in black!
And from Moorfields they pad,
Silent, solemn, and sad,
For Bunhill-field's burying-ground they have in view.
So curious and thoughtful, I now take my stand,
With a troop of old gossips, a newsmongering band.
Who, without much ado make me soon understand,
What a terrible ill has befallen the land;
An ill, that rich and poor
Would have reason to deplore,
That to dames of each degree
Would be cause of misery.
And we alike had cause to fear, lest we should be trepann'd;—
With a troop of old gossips, a newsmongering band.
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What a terrible ill has befallen the land;
An ill, that rich and poor
Would have reason to deplore,
That to dames of each degree
Would be cause of misery.
And we alike had cause to fear, lest we should be trepann'd;—
And all London they knew, and all London's wife,
Who liv'd happy couples, and who liv'd in strife,
What wives were a-breeding, where cuckolds were rife,
Rogues soon to be hung, saints departing this life:
So all at once they tell
How a lily-white belle,
Oh! the dearest dear creature,
And so lamb-like in feature,
Had just been cut up by death's murd'rous knife.
Who liv'd happy couples, and who liv'd in strife,
What wives were a-breeding, where cuckolds were rife,
Rogues soon to be hung, saints departing this life:
So all at once they tell
How a lily-white belle,
Oh! the dearest dear creature,
And so lamb-like in feature,
Had just been cut up by death's murd'rous knife.
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To thousands and thousands this Polly was dear,
And thousands for Polly will now shed the tear,
As soon, if you look, will be now made appear,
For the groaners and mourners will all soon be here.
And so by me they move,
All lamenting their love;
And they seem'd to abound,
As ants cover the ground,
Sad black-tufted knights, whom, ah! nothing will cheer.
And thousands for Polly will now shed the tear,
As soon, if you look, will be now made appear,
For the groaners and mourners will all soon be here.
And so by me they move,
All lamenting their love;
And they seem'd to abound,
As ants cover the ground,
Sad black-tufted knights, whom, ah! nothing will cheer.
First the stationers come, and with great cause to mourn,
For since Polly travels to that dismal bourne
From which mortals more, ah! never shall return,
Alas! they are not able a penny more to earn.
They must now shut up their hall,
Or on some new scheme must fall,
And never more look gay,
On a lord-mayor's merry day,
So their ink they throw away, and their pens all they will burn.
For since Polly travels to that dismal bourne
From which mortals more, ah! never shall return,
Alas! they are not able a penny more to earn.
They must now shut up their hall,
Or on some new scheme must fall,
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On a lord-mayor's merry day,
So their ink they throw away, and their pens all they will burn.
And now come of authors a tribe great and small,
With great sense, and little sense, and no sense at all;
They must now give o'er writing, or get themselves in thrall;
So all the land will now in Egypt's darkness crawl.
For no more will they write,
Nor give a wink of light;
Henceforth they must turn ushers,
Or stoop to be bumbrushers,
Apothecaries, priests, or clerks, as it may fall.
With great sense, and little sense, and no sense at all;
They must now give o'er writing, or get themselves in thrall;
So all the land will now in Egypt's darkness crawl.
For no more will they write,
Nor give a wink of light;
Henceforth they must turn ushers,
Or stoop to be bumbrushers,
Apothecaries, priests, or clerks, as it may fall.
The printers now succeed all in lamentable taking,
For since Polly Whitehead this world is now forsaking,
All their presses must stand still, every soul will soon be breaking,
Since printing first began, there was never such heart-aching.
See compositors all go,
With their heads quite crack'd with woe;
And the pressmen, saucy race,
Who oft smack'd Polly's face,
But now, for all their airs, they are awkward faces making.
For since Polly Whitehead this world is now forsaking,
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Since printing first began, there was never such heart-aching.
See compositors all go,
With their heads quite crack'd with woe;
And the pressmen, saucy race,
Who oft smack'd Polly's face,
But now, for all their airs, they are awkward faces making.
Next their journeymen, their 'prentices, and devils follow all,
And, ah! where shall they fly? to whom for succour call?
Ev'ry shop is now shut up, there's not left a single stall,
And when masters thus all fail, soon their servants too must fall.
Tears, like show'rs trickling flow,
Wild and wild is their woe,
Who for poor men will feel?
They must dig, beg, or steal:
In limbo when they get, who will take them from their thrall?
And, ah! where shall they fly? to whom for succour call?
Ev'ry shop is now shut up, there's not left a single stall,
And when masters thus all fail, soon their servants too must fall.
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Wild and wild is their woe,
Who for poor men will feel?
They must dig, beg, or steal:
In limbo when they get, who will take them from their thrall?
Next a troop of bookbinders appear full in view,
And as sorrowful as any, to give them all their due:
For as husbands, who oft make their wives black and blue,
When their dearies once are dead, then their follies quickly rue.
Thus the book-binding trade,
Did lament the dear maid;
For, alas! they had lump'd her,
They had pinch'd her, and thump'd her;
And so to all comfort they now bid adieu.
And as sorrowful as any, to give them all their due:
For as husbands, who oft make their wives black and blue,
When their dearies once are dead, then their follies quickly rue.
Thus the book-binding trade,
Did lament the dear maid;
For, alas! they had lump'd her,
They had pinch'd her, and thump'd her;
And so to all comfort they now bid adieu.
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The booksellers next follow, and a comely-looking band,
From the Row, Paul's Church-yard, Cheapside and the Strand;
How deep, alas! their woe! all their trade's now at a stand—
For she is now no more, who their every hope once fann'd.
For, ah! not, as heretofore,
Can they feast their authors more;
For since Polly dear is dead,
All their profits now are fled;
So Old England they will leave, to seek some other land.
From the Row, Paul's Church-yard, Cheapside and the Strand;
How deep, alas! their woe! all their trade's now at a stand—
For she is now no more, who their every hope once fann'd.
For, ah! not, as heretofore,
Can they feast their authors more;
For since Polly dear is dead,
All their profits now are fled;
So Old England they will leave, to seek some other land.
Newspaper-folks now follow to see poor Polly's end,
Who, when the mourning's over, their course away will bend:
Their presses all are still, and the times will never mend;
And not a newsman more their bloody news will vend.
Hush'd now is all their fun,
Clos'd their bag of Helicon;
They care not now a pin,
Who's out, or who is in;
And their columns now no more they with ladies routs distend.
Who, when the mourning's over, their course away will bend:
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And not a newsman more their bloody news will vend.
Hush'd now is all their fun,
Clos'd their bag of Helicon;
They care not now a pin,
Who's out, or who is in;
And their columns now no more they with ladies routs distend.
Now come Old England's friends, who, while Polly was alive,
Hop'd that Alfred's laws and England together would revive.
To spread the people's rights they did boldly once contrive;
But now 'tis o'er, the die is cast, and they no more will strive.
Old Nick may have the law,
That but crams a premier's maw;
For, since Polly dear is dead,
Every hope of Freedom's fled;
And the bees will now leave England, where none but drones will hive.
Hop'd that Alfred's laws and England together would revive.
To spread the people's rights they did boldly once contrive;
But now 'tis o'er, the die is cast, and they no more will strive.
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That but crams a premier's maw;
For, since Polly dear is dead,
Every hope of Freedom's fled;
And the bees will now leave England, where none but drones will hive.
And, lo! the last in order I behold the poet-train;
Some who work'd about the drama, some who plied the epic strain;
Some who heroes lov'd to tickle, some who sooth'd the lover's pain;
And some, who wrote for glory, and some who wrote for gain.
Had fate but left to choose,
They had rather lost the Muse,
Or for Phœbus, god of song,
Padded, moping thus along;
Their hearts will all be broken, and turn'd be every brain.
Some who work'd about the drama, some who plied the epic strain;
Some who heroes lov'd to tickle, some who sooth'd the lover's pain;
And some, who wrote for glory, and some who wrote for gain.
Had fate but left to choose,
They had rather lost the Muse,
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Padded, moping thus along;
Their hearts will all be broken, and turn'd be every brain.
So ready now I stand, with my sympathetic tear,
Having just ek'd out an ode, to welcome the new year;
And, as an undertaker's shop to me was very near,
I got a gown and hatband, and jostled in the rear.
“So poets, with your leave,
“I come with you to grieve:
“The humblest of your train,
“Greatest cause has to complain;
“For Polly I could die, she was my dearest dear.”
Having just ek'd out an ode, to welcome the new year;
And, as an undertaker's shop to me was very near,
I got a gown and hatband, and jostled in the rear.
“So poets, with your leave,
“I come with you to grieve:
“The humblest of your train,
“Greatest cause has to complain;
“For Polly I could die, she was my dearest dear.”
So now all pale and sad we approach the burying-ground,
And sighings sad, and groanings deep, and wailings wild abound,
For stout and brawny Irishmen were howling all around;
And they, dear hearts, for Polly fair will raise their country's sound.
The priest begins to read,
But, good soul, cannot proceed;
And to heav'n he casts a look,
And then down he drops his book;
For he can't pray, nor read, nor yet his text expound.
And sighings sad, and groanings deep, and wailings wild abound,
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And they, dear hearts, for Polly fair will raise their country's sound.
The priest begins to read,
But, good soul, cannot proceed;
And to heav'n he casts a look,
And then down he drops his book;
For he can't pray, nor read, nor yet his text expound.
So now we waddle back, a woe-bewilder'd throng,
Heads drooping, hands wringing, ah! how we creep along.
And I tried my skill in elegiac song,
For sad strains suit weak souls, as lofty do the strong.
For most woeful bard am I,
Who by instinct seem to cry.
—So to soothe my secret pain,
I penn'd down a mournful strain,
Which did of right, thro' Britain wide, to mourners all belong.
Heads drooping, hands wringing, ah! how we creep along.
And I tried my skill in elegiac song,
For sad strains suit weak souls, as lofty do the strong.
For most woeful bard am I,
Who by instinct seem to cry.
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I penn'd down a mournful strain,
Which did of right, thro' Britain wide, to mourners all belong.
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