The Poems of John Byrom Edited by Adolphus William Ward |
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TOM THE PORTER. |
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The Poems of John Byrom | ||
296
I. TOM THE PORTER.
297
As
Tom the Porter went up Ludgate-Hill,
A swingeing Show'r oblig'd him to stand still.
So, in the Right-hand Passage thro' the Gate
He pitch'd his Burden down, just by the Grate,
From whence the doleful Accent sounds away:
“Pity—the Poor—and Hungry—Debtors—pray.”
A swingeing Show'r oblig'd him to stand still.
So, in the Right-hand Passage thro' the Gate
He pitch'd his Burden down, just by the Grate,
From whence the doleful Accent sounds away:
“Pity—the Poor—and Hungry—Debtors—pray.”
298
To the same Garrison from Paul's Church-yard
An half-drown'd Soldier ran to mount the Guard.
Now Tom, it seems, the Ludgateer, and he
Were old Acquaintance, formerly, all three;
And as the Coast was clear, by cloudy Weather,
They quickly fell into Discourse together.
An half-drown'd Soldier ran to mount the Guard.
Now Tom, it seems, the Ludgateer, and he
Were old Acquaintance, formerly, all three;
And as the Coast was clear, by cloudy Weather,
They quickly fell into Discourse together.
'Twas in December, when the Highland Clans
Had got to Derbyshire from Preston Pans,
And struck all London with a general Panic;—
But mark the Force of Principles Britannic!
Had got to Derbyshire from Preston Pans,
And struck all London with a general Panic;—
But mark the Force of Principles Britannic!
The Soldier told 'em fresh the City News,
Just piping hot from Stockjobbers and Jews:
Of French Fleets landing, and of Dutch Neutrality;
Of Jealousies at Court amongst the Quality;
Of Swarston Bridge, that never was pull'd down;
Of all the Rebels in full March to Town;
And of a hundred Things beside, that made
Lord May'r himself and Aldermen afraid,—
Painting with many an Oath the Case in View;
And ask'd the Porter what he thought to do?
Just piping hot from Stockjobbers and Jews:
Of French Fleets landing, and of Dutch Neutrality;
Of Jealousies at Court amongst the Quality;
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Of all the Rebels in full March to Town;
And of a hundred Things beside, that made
Lord May'r himself and Aldermen afraid,—
Painting with many an Oath the Case in View;
And ask'd the Porter what he thought to do?
“Do?” says he, gravely; “what I did before;
What I have done these thirty Years, and more:
Carry, as I am like to do, my Pack,
Glad to maintain my Belly by my Back.
If that but hold, I care not, for my Part,
Come as come will, 'tshall never break my Heart.
I don't see Folks that fight about their Thrones,
Mind either Soldiers' Flesh, or Porters' Bones.
Whoe'er gets better, when the Battle's fought,
Thy Pay nor mine will be advanc'd a Groat.—
But, to the Purpose! Now we are met here,
I'll join, if t'will, for one full Mug of Beer.”
What I have done these thirty Years, and more:
Carry, as I am like to do, my Pack,
Glad to maintain my Belly by my Back.
If that but hold, I care not, for my Part,
Come as come will, 'tshall never break my Heart.
I don't see Folks that fight about their Thrones,
Mind either Soldiers' Flesh, or Porters' Bones.
Whoe'er gets better, when the Battle's fought,
Thy Pay nor mine will be advanc'd a Groat.—
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I'll join, if t'will, for one full Mug of Beer.”
The Soldier, touch'd a little with Surprise
To see his Friend's Indifference, replies:
“What you say, Tom, I own, is very good,
But—our Religion!” and he d---n'd his Blood—
“What will become of our Religion?”—“True!”
Says the Jail-Bird; “and of our Freedom too?
If the Pretender,” rapt he out, “comes on,
Our Liberties and Properties are gone!”
To see his Friend's Indifference, replies:
“What you say, Tom, I own, is very good,
But—our Religion!” and he d---n'd his Blood—
“What will become of our Religion?”—“True!”
Says the Jail-Bird; “and of our Freedom too?
If the Pretender,” rapt he out, “comes on,
Our Liberties and Properties are gone!”
And so the Soldier and the Pris'ner join'd
To work up Tom into a better Mind.
He staring dumb, with Wonder struck and Pity,
Took up his Load and trudg'd into the City.
To work up Tom into a better Mind.
He staring dumb, with Wonder struck and Pity,
Took up his Load and trudg'd into the City.
The Poems of John Byrom | ||