University of Virginia Library

The Parish hind oppressions humble slave
Whose only hopes of freedom is the grave
The cant miscalled religion in the saint
& Justice mockd while listning wants complaint
The parish laws & parish queens & kings
Prides lowest classes of pretending things
The meanest dregs of tyrany & crime
I fearless sing let truth attend the ryhme
Tho now adays truth grows a vile offence
& courage tells it at his own expence
If he but utter what himself has seen
He deals in satire & he wounds too keen
Intends sly ruin by encroached degrees
Is rogue or radical or what you please
But shoud vile flatterers with the basest lies
Attempt self interest with a wished disguise
Say groves of myrtle here in winter grow
& blasts blow blessings every time they blow
That golden showers in mercey fall to bless
The half thatchd mouldering hovels of distress
That edens self in freedoms infant sphere
Was but a desert to our Eden here
That laws so wise to choke the seeds of strife
Here bless a beggar with an Adams Life
Ah what an host of Patronizers then
Woud gather round the motley flatterers den
A spotted monster in a lambkins hide
Whose smooth tongue uttered what his heart denied
Theyd call his genius wonderous in extream
& lisp the novel beautys of his theme
& say twas luck on natures kinder part
To bless such genius with a gentle heart
Curst affectation worse then hell I hate
Thy sheepish features & thy crouching gait
Like sneeking cur that licks his masters shoe
Bowing & cringing to the Lord knows who
Licking the dust for each approving nod
Where pride is worshiped like an earthly god
The rogue thats carted to the gallows tree
Is far more honest in his trade then thee
Thy puling whine that suits thy means so well
Piteous as chickens breaking thro its shell
That rarely fails to ope the closest purse
Is far more rougish then the others force
I dread no cavils for the clearest sink
When ere the bottoms stirred is pure to stink
So let them rail I envye not their praise
Nor fear the slander stung deciet may raise
Let those who merit what the verse declares
Choose to be vexd & think the picture theirs
On Lifes rude sea my bark is launched afar
& they may wish the wreck who dread the war
Then waves in storms their spite is nothing more
That lash rage weary on a heedless shore
A public names the shuttle cock of fame
Now up then down as fashion wills the game
At whom each fool may cast his private lie
Nor fears the scourge of satires just reply
While those who rail may do what deeds they list
They hide in ignorance & are never missed
Their scorn is envys imp conscieved by hate
That tortures worth in every grade & state
As mists to day as shadows to the sun
These stains in merits welfare ever run
Diseases that infect not but at last
Die of their own distempers & are past
Such friends I count not & such foes disdain
Their best or worst is neither loss nor gain
Friendship like theirs is but the names disgrace
A mask that counterfiets its open face
Cant & hypocricy disguise their ways
Their praise turns satire & their satire praise
Good men are ever from such charges free
To prove them friends is praise enough for me

Satire should not wax civil oer its toil
Tho sweet self interest blossoms on the soil
Nor like a barking dog betray its trust
By silence when the robber throws his crust
Till fear & mercey all its wrath divides
To feeble portraits buttered on both sides
Ill strive to do what flattery bids me shun
Tell truth nor shrink for benefits to none
Follys a fool that cannot keep its ground
Still fearing foes & shewing were to wound
A jealous look will almost turn her sick
& hints not meant oft gauls her to the quick
& hide or shuffle or do what she will
Each mask like glass reflects the picture still
As powder kindles from the smallest spark
Confusion buzzes & betrays the mark
From such frail scources every fact is drawn
Not sought thro malice or exposed in scorn
But told as truths that common sense may see
How cants pretentions & her works agree
I coud not pass her low deceptions bye
Nor can I flatter & I will not lye
So satires Muse shall like a blood hound trace
Each smoothfacd tyrant to his hiding place
Whose hidden actions like the foxes skin
Scents the sly track to were they harbour in
& each profession of this Parish troop
Shall have a rally ere the hunt be up
To none that rules I owe nor spite nor grudge
How just the satire he who reads may judge

That good old fame the farmers earnd of yore
That made as equals not as slaves the poor
That good old fame did in two sparks expire
A shooting coxcomb & a hunting Squire
& their old mansions that was dignified
With things far better then the pomp of pride
At whose oak table that was plainly spread
Each guest was welcomd & the poor was fed
Were master son & serving man & clown
Without distinction daily sat them down
Were the bright rows of pewter by the wall
Se[r]ved all the pomp of kitchen or of hall
These all have vanished like a dream of good
& the slim things that rises were they stood
Are built by those whose clownish taste aspires
To hate their farms & ape the country squires
The old oak table soon betook to flight
A thing disgusting to my ladys sight
Yet affectations of a tender claim
To the past memory of its owners name
Whose wealth prides only beauty stood her friend
& bought a husband that same wealth to spend
Laid it aside in lumber rooms to rot
Till all past claims of tenderness forgot
Bade it its honourable name resign
Transformed to stable doors or troughs for swine
Each aged labourer knows its history well
& sighs in sorrow like sad change to tell
The pewter rows are all exchanged for plate
& that choice patch of pride to mark them great
Of red or blue gay as an harlequin
The livried footman serves the dinner in
As like the squire as pride can imitate
Save that no porter watches at the gate
& even his Lordship thought so grand before
Is but distinguished in his coach & four
Such are the upstarts that usurp the name
Of the old farmers dignity & fame
& weres that lovley maid in days gone bye
The farmers daughter unreserved tho shye
That milked her cows & old songs used to sing
As red & rosey as the lovely spring
Ah these have dwindled to a formal shade
As pale & bed rid as my ladys maid
Who cannot dare to venture in the street
Some times thro cold at other times for heat
& vulgar eyes to shun & vulgar winds
Shrouded in veils green as their window blinds
These taught at school their stations to despise
& view old customs with disdainful eyes
Deem all as rude their kindred did of yore
& scorn to toil or foul their fingers more
Prim as the pasteboard figures which they cut
At school & tastful on the chimney put
They sit before their glasses hour by hour
Or paint unnatural daubs of fruit or flower
Or boasting learning novels beautys quotes
Or aping fashions scream a tune by notes
Een poetry in these high polished days
Is oft profained by their dislike or praise
Theyve read the Speaker till without a look
Theyll sing whole pages & lay bye the book
Then sure their judgment must be good indeed
When ere they chuse to speak of what they read
To simper tastful some devoted line
As somthing bad or somthing very fine
Thus mincing fine airs misconcieved at school
That pride outherods & compleats the fool
Thus housed mid cocks & hens in idle state
Aping at fashions which their betters hate
Affecting high lifes airs to scorn the past
Trying to be somthing makes them nought at last
These are the shadows that supply the place
Of farmers daughters of the vanished race
& what are these rude names will do them harm
O rather call them ‘Ladys of the Farm’

Miss Peevish Scornful once the Village toast
Deemd fair by some & prettyish by most
Brought up a lady tho her fathers gain
Depended still on cattle & on grain
She followd shifting fashions & aspired
To the high notions baffled pride desired
& all the profits pigs & poultry made
Were gave to Miss for dressing & parade
To visit balls & plays fresh hopes to trace
& try her fortune with a simpering face
& now & then in Londons crowds was shown
To know the world & to the world be known
All leisure hours while miss at home sojournd
Past in preparing till new routs returnd
Or tittle tattling oer her shrewd remarks
Of ladys dresses or attentive sparks
How Mr So & so at such a rout
Fixd his eyes on her all the night about
While the good lady seated by his side
Behind her hand her blushes forced to hide
Till consious Miss in pity she woud say
For the poor lady turnd her face away
& young Squire Dandy just returnd from france
How he first chose her from the rest to dance
& at the play how such a gent resignd
His seat to her & placed himself behind
How this squire bowd polite at her approach
& Lords een nodded as she passd their coach
Thus miss in raptures woud such things recall
& Pa & Ma in raptures heard it all
But when an equal woud his praise declare
& told young madam that her face was fair
She might believe the fellows truth the while
& just in sport might condescend to smile
But frownd his further teazing suit to shun
& deemd it rudeness in a farmers son
Thus she went on & visited & drest
& deemd things earnest that was spoke in jest
& dreamd at night oer prides uncheckd desires
Of nodding gentlemen & smiling squires
To Gretna green her visions often fled
& rattling coaches lumberd in her head
Till hopes grown weary with too long delay
Caught the green sickness & declined away
& beauty like a garment worse for wear
Fled her pale cheek & left it much too fair
Then she gave up sick visits balls & plays
Were whispers turnd to any thing but praise
All were thrown bye like an old fashiond song
Were she had playd show woman much too long
& condecended to be kind & plain
& 'mong her equals hoped to find a swain
Past follys now were hatful to review
& they were hated by her equals too
Notice from equals vain she tryd to court
Or if they noticed twas but just in sport
At last grown husband mad away she ran
Not with squire Dandy but the servant man

Young farmer Bigg of this same flimsey class
Wise among fools & with the wise an ass
A farming sprout with more then farmers pride
Struts like the squire & dresses dignified
They call him rich at which his weakness aimd
But others view him as a fool misnamed
Yet dress & tattle ladys hearts can charm
& hes the choice with madams of the farm
Now with that lady strutting now with this
Braced up in stays as slim as sickly miss
Shining at christmass rout & vulgar ball
The favourite spark & rival of them all
& oft hell venture to bemean his pride
Tho bribes & mysterys do their best to hide
Teazing weak maidens with his pert deciet
Whose lives are humble but whose looks are sweet
Whose beauty happen to outrival those
With whom the dandy as an equal goes
Thus maids are ruind oft & mothers made
As if bewitchd without a fathers aid
Tho nodds & winks & whispers urge a guess
Weakness is bribed & hides its hearts distress
To live dishonourd & to dye unwed
For clowns grow jealous when theyre once misled
Thus pointed fingers brand the passing spark
& whispers often guess his deeds are dark
But friends deny & urge that doubts mislead
& prove the youth above so mean a deed
The town agrees & leaves his ways at will
A proud consieted meddling fellow still

Nature in various moods pursues her plan
& moulds by turns the monkey or the man
With one she deals out wisdom as a curse
To follow fortune with an empty purse
The next in opposite extreams is bred
Oerflowing pockets & an empty head
Beggars in merit share a squires estate
& squires untitled meet a beggars fate
Fortunes great lottery owns nor rules nor laws
Fate holds her wealth & reason rarely draws
Blanks are her lot & merit vainly tryes
While heedless folly blunders on the prize

Young Headlong Racket to the last akin
Who only deals more openly in sin
& apes forged love with less mysterious guile
A high flown dandy in its lowest stile
By fashion hated with the vulgar gay
& deems it wit to tempt their steps astray
No maid can pass him but his learing eye
Attempts to prove her forward or too shy
He brags oer wine of loves his wits has won
& loves betrayed—& deems it precious fun
Horses & dogs & women oer his wine
Is all his talk & he believes it fine
For virtue now is such a trifling name
That vice can prey ont unexposed to blame
& fools may join him but to common sense
His head pleads empty & has no pretence
He courts his maids & shuns the better sort
& hunts & courses as a change of sport
& hates all poachers game destroying brutes
Altho with both the name as aptly suits
With this one difference darkness brings their prey
& he more brazen murders his by day
& thus he lives a hated sort of life
Loves wedded wantons while he scorns a wife
Prepares by turns to hunt & wh---e & shoot
Less then a man & little more then brute

Next on the parish list in paltry fame
Shines Dandy Flint Esqr whose dirty name
Has grown into a proverb for bad deeds
& he who reads it all thats filthy reads
Near did a single sentence more express
Of down right evil or of goodness less
Than Dandy Flint grown old in youthful shame
By loathed diseases which no words may name
& worn so spare that wit as passing bye
Swears Nick will thread him thro a bodkins eye
A sot who spouts short morals oer his gin
& when most drunk rails most against the sin
A dirty hog that on the puddles brink
Stirs up the mud & quarrels with the stink
Abusing others in his cants deciet
To come off victor when the rest are beat
His mask is but of lawn & every space
Lets in new light to show cants crimping face
He apes the lamb & is a wolf in grain
& guilty darkness dares the light in vain
Thus fools by making others failings known
Become the self accusers of their own
So Dandy Flint may rail it nothing weighs
Sense takes the slander of a fool for praise

These are the things that oer inferiors flirt
That spring from pride like summer flyes from dirt
& teaze & buzz their summer season bye
Bantering the poor & struggling to be high
& shall such knaves 'neath flatterys garment hide
Or fear damp truth to turn its glass aside
The plea is urgd not but to common sense
Reason & truth will stand its own defence
Whilst dark hypocrisy affects the cheat
The real bitter mocks a seeming sweet
But who so dealeth openly in shame
Must bear being noticed by his proper name
As he who thrusts his phiz in every glass
Meets a reflection be it man or ass
& can they thus who love themselves to view
Chuse to be vexd to find the picture true
Be as it will none but the base are bit
& satire shows them as they chuse to sit
Which if disliked they may improve with ease
& make the likeness [better] if they please
& satire stingless—follys & defects
While yet defective still its glass reflects
But when they cease to be as heretofore
It suits with others & is theirs no more

Some of the old school yet my verse coud tell
& one from boyhood I remember well
Who near aspired on follys wings to soar
A plain mean man scarce noticed from the poor
Who near expected as he walkd the street
Bows from inferiors whom he chancd to meet
Inferiors bred from fashions idle whim
Equals & neighbours all appeard to him
& tho wealth scornd in such low walks to go
& pride disdaind & called his manners low
He sought nor paid prides homage unto man
But lived unshining in his humble plan
& when his rights tyrannic power assaild
His courage triumphd tho his pocket failed
For he was doomd to feel that worldly curse
An upright spirit & an empty purse
Nor did he try the shamless fault to cure
Still keeping honest & remaining poor
But he has left & one of different race
Spoilt his old mansion & supplied his place
Nor left he there in seeking were to dwell
One heart save prides but inly wishd him well
Thus fortune oft dishousd by blinded guess
Bids honour starve & knavery meet success
Smiles on the wickeds ways their hopes to glad
& sinks the good man to maintain the bad

Proud Farmer Cheetum turnd a rogue by stealth
Whom prosperous times had ripend into wealth
Hunting & shooting had its ceasless charm
When his full purse cared little for a farm
A trusty hand was left to plough & plan
The double trade of master & of man
He kept his stud for hunts & races then
& dogs fed even better then his men
Bought loves & changed them when the freak was old
& drank his wine without a wife to scold
& gaind a dashing name & livd in style
& wore a mask to profit byt the while
For he who dares to do a deed of shame
Feels none & only knows it by the name
& made large credit while his name was good
For all woud trust him draw on whom he woud
A man so stylish none coud dream to doubt
Till changing times the secret brought about
The grains sunk price oer knaverys tricks was thrown
& others failings well excused his own
The times he said & frownd disturbd & sad
Needed no comment to explain them bad
So ere he broke he honestly confest
His wealth all gone & credit had the rest
& proved to all a smuggling rogue too late
Cheat creditors—turnd bankrupt—& still great
Hunt shoots & rackets as he did before
& still finds wealth for horses dogs & whore
& dogs & wh--- & horses in his train
Are all that have no reason to complain
These show his kindness in their varied ways
& gild his rotting name with dirty praise
Like as when brooks are dry the village sinks
Boast their full dingy tide that flows & stinks
That seems to boast when other streams are dry
‘Neath summer suns how brave a dyke am I’

Old Saveall next whose dirty deeds & fame
Might put a young bards silken lines to shame
But my plain homespun verse lets none escape
Nor passes folly in its rudest shape
When satires muse puts on a russet gown
Tho vermin start as game she runs them down
So Saveall shall have place whom fortunes smiles
Unmixed with frowns hath made him known for miles
Famous for riches & by knavery prized
& famed for meaness & by work despised
Who trys to buy a good name & decieve
With fair pretentions that but few believe
Who seldom swears & that but now & then
A smuggled oath when vexd by better men
That beard hypocrisy with honest grace
& tears the mask from cants decieving face
Yet in religion he is made elect
& buys with wine the favours of the sect
Making each spouter welcome when he comes
& turning beggars from their fallen crumbs
Pleading up charity in whining tones
& driving dogs at dinner from the bones
The scraps which beggars plead for serve his swine
So their lorn hopes seek other doors to dine
The broken bones enrich his land for grain
So dogs beneath his table wait in vain
On neighbourly good will he often dwells
& in dry times locks up his very wells
& if twas but of worth we might suppose
Hed even save the droppings of his nose
Such is this Saveall first of fortunes fellows
Famous for wealth great farms & small beer cellars
With the elect most saintish or most civil
& with the rest a cunning knave or devil

Poor honour now yields to the stronger side
A wrinkld maid turnd stale & past her pride
Knavery & cant in triumph take her place
Unblushing strumpets with a tempting face
Religion now is little more then cant
A cloak to hide what godliness may want
As painters deaths to make the terror less
Wrap their dry bones within a cheating dress
The world is of a piece words mostly make
The little difference for distinctions sake
Vice must own bad so virtue takes the best
Coarse is the one mere cobweb is the rest
& when encroaching vice with cunning deeds
To make a hole in virtues garb succeeds
Tis but indeed a customary case
She darns it up as none may spy the place
& if once caught by slanders jealous eye
Tho breaches double & holes multiply
Virtue awhile turns penitent & then
Like rifled maid her title claims agen
Their prayers are read as old accustomd things
& offerd up for all souls save the kings
They love mild sermons with few threats perplexd
& deem it sinful to forget the text
Then turn to business ere they leave the church
& linger oft to comment in the porch
Of fresh rates wanted from the needy poor
& list of taxes naild upon the door
Little religion in each bosom dwells
& that sleeps sound till sundays chiming bells
When from each shelf is regularly took
The weekly wanted pious dusty book
Seeking the church an hours good prayers they read
& hear a sermon as the all they need
Then read when home the reccolected text
& lay religion by till sunday next
Some with reform religions shade pursue
& vote the old church wrong to join the new
Casting away their former cold neglects
Paying religions once a week respects
They turn from regular old forms as bad
To pious maniacs regular[l]y mad
A chosen race so their consciet woud teach
Whom cant inspired to rave & not to preach
A set of upstarts late from darkness sprung
With this new light like mushrooms out of dung
Tho blind as owls i'th' sun they livd before
Consiet inspired & they are blind no more
The dru[n]ken cobler leaves his wicked life
Hastes to save others & neglects his wife
To mend mens souls he thinks himself designd
& leaves his shoes to the uncalld & blind
He then like old songs runs the scriptures oer
& makes discoverys never known before
Makes darkest points as plain as A B C
& wonders why his hearers will not see
Spouts facts on facts to prove that dark is light
& all are blind till he restore their sight
& swears the old church which he cast away
As full of errors & as blind as they
& offers prayers no doubt as prayers are cheap
For chosen shepherds to his worships sheep
Thinking the while if such the will of fate
Self might become a hopeful candidate
& doubtless longs shoud reformation call
To leave his own & take his neighbours stall
Part urgd as scripture more as self consiet
To suit his ends each passage he repeats
& in as various ways each fact he weaves
As gossips riddles upon winter eves
Now storming threats now pleading comforts mild
In puleing whine soft as a sucking child
The[y] cant & rave damnations threats by fits
Till some old farmer looses half his wits
Looks back on former sins tho loath to doubt
Groans oer a prayer & thinks himself devout
Then learnings lookd on as an idle jest
& the old cobler preaches far the best
Who smooths with honied hopes the deep dyd sinner
& earns reward—a lodging & a dinner
Their former teachers as blind guides they mock
Nor think them chosen for the crazy flock
The crazy flock believe & are depraved
& just in time turn ideots to be saved

The Ranter priests that take the street to teach
Swears god builds churches where so ere they preach
While on the other hand protestant people
Will have no church but such as wears a steeple
Thus creeds all differ yet each different sect
From the free agents to the grand elect
Who cull a remnant for the promised land
That wear heavens mark as sheep their owners brand
Each thinks his own as right & others wrong
& thus keeps up confusions babel song
While half the tribes at bottom are no more
Then saints skin deep & devils at the core
Who act by customs & as custom shows
Lay bye religion with their sunday cloaths
Religions aim is truth & different creeds
By different channels for that aim proceeds
But many wander muddy by the way
& dark with errors struggle far astray
Till weary with the toil they fainter creep
& then like stagnant waters stink & sleep
Religions truth a plain straight journey makes
Which falshoods wandering never overtakes
As gold when purified flows free from dross
& leaves the worthless mixture without loss
So from black errors truths eternal morn
Mounts into light & smiles the night to scorn
Tis not religion but its want when sects
Rail each at each to hide their own defects
For calmness quiet cheerfulness & love
Its essence is to aid our hopes above
Tis vain philosophy that would decieve
The[y] heer too much to doubt or to believe
What is & was we feel—what is to be
Truth nothing knows tis guess pretends to see
Een earths least mysterys are above our skill
& would-be-gods are but her childern still
Wisdom still searching with her flickering flame
Lost in her mysterys dwindles to a name
Whence goeth light when evening hides the sun
& whence the darkness when the night be done
Hither it cometh—aye—& there it goes
Is the whole sum which mighty wisdom knows
So resignation should the worst befall
& faith to hope the best is best of all

Old Ralph the veriest rake the town possesd
Felt sins prick deep & all his crimes confest
Groand oer confessions to his ranting priest
& prayd & sang & felt his soul released
The new births struggles made him wonderous wan
& feebly prayd at first the baby man
Twixt doubts & fears yet viewd the cured complaint
& scarce percieved the devil from the saint
But soon the ‘outward man’ grown godly mad
Felt the good spirit triumph oer the bad
& cants dull prayers too lame to visit heaven
Lookd oer past sins & fancied all forgiven
He then whind lectures in a happier strain
& coaxd poor sinners to be born again
Shund old companions once beloved so well
As condemnd transports on the way to hell
& prayd & sang from sin & pain releasd
& smoothd his hair & fashiond for a priest
Old women heard him with oerjoyd delight
Some cryd & sind & others turnd out right
Theyd read the gospel studied good St Paul
But ralp[h]s good doctrine was the best of all
From him they found their old religions stuff
Was nought but like a play at ‘blind mans buff’
A pathless journey in a starless night
Till good St Ralp[h] restored the way to light
& thus as priest he exercised his wits
Forcd men to prayers & women into fits
& heard & cured each difficult complaint
& midst his flock seemd little less then saint
But hell untired with everlasting watch
(The fox grows cunning when preys hard to catch)
Crept into Ralphs new planted paradise
& met success in tempting him to vice
A simpering eve did in his garden dwell
& she was fair & he grew fond—& fell
Twas love at first but een when that began
The sinking saint grew more & more the man
& with his eve so treache[r]ously fair
Coud feel more joy then kneeling down to prayer
Yet still he prayd nor deemd his case so bad
As stone blind sinners tho his heart was sad
The bible still he read with saintly looks
& deemd all others as ungodly books
Unless a patch of scripture here & there
Redeemd each page & made them godly ware
Tho sinfull love had overpowerd his skill
With other sins he kept unspotted still
He drank nor swore & when a lye was told
Twas just gains trifle when he bought & sold
When bretheren met he woud his joys express
Groand while they prayd & said amen by guess
Then ‘da—& blame ye’ hed no further dare
Hell coud not urge the fallen man to sware
Till the compleation of his serpent sin
Urgd by the devil sunk him to the chin
Eve tho beguild forbidden fruit to haste
Had lovd an adam ere she loved the priest
& ere disgrace had ripend into light
Ralph had no power to wed her & be right
His fate was evident it came at last
His sheep was judge & shepherd ralph was cast
Then drink & rackett joind their former friends
& new born saint in the old sinner ends

Next comes a name who spite of all controuls
Reigns oer the bodys ills as Ralph the souls
A mighty doctor—what so thickly sown
That een the Parish can a doctor own
Yes own one too whose power so splendid shines
As een to name illuminates my lines
For every mouth is puckered with his skill
So sing his patients & so say his bill
The worst disease he does so quick subdue
That makes some think the devil helps him through
But what care they who helps—if pain endured
So long before he rose can now be cured
By reading in their water all their ails
& conjuring medicines up that never fails
Thus all the country join his fame to raise
& few but Dr Urine gets the praise
So now for skill the parish rules the roast
Renowned for Quacks that Citys cannot boast
—Ah where in City or in Town can dwell
Famed Dr Urine thy rare parrarell
No where indeed to match at once with thee
Thy mighty fame & humble pedigree
But can that taint the Laurel on thy brows
'Cause thou wert wont to docter Swine & cows
& rose to fame as fame was took by force
From giving judgment on a cholicked horse
To read the water of poor sickly clowns
& ease them not of illness but their crowns
Tho every ill swims on thy majic glass
& at thy conjuring bidding rise & pass
Like Mackbeths murdered spirits grimly on
& thou thy powers scheme cures for every one
Een from the boasting of thy self—& thine
Thy duped deciples—such thy fame doth shine
As if the dead were not beyond thy skill
But might be quickened from thy power & pill—
The poor old woman now half blind & lame
With age—has room to curse thy greedy fame
For she herself had fame ere thou hadst thine
& did as doctress of the Village shine
Tho one rare salve was cure for every sore
That Salve & that famed Doctress' race is oer
Say Dr Urine why—(& dont deride
My gossiping enquirey) shouldst thou hide
In such poor paltry Parish this renown
As seems well worthy of the finest town
Nay rather City for Im sure thy name
& Waterbottles might extend thy fame
To every patient that had death to fear
Then say good Docter why so linger here
Thourt no great ‘schollard’ that the learned tell
& all that buy thy drugs might know as well
But it so turns & lucky for thy pelf
Thy patients are less ‘schollards’ then thyself
—But what of learning words mispelt is small
Drawbacks on knowledge that gives cures for all
Distempers & diseases as he wills
& almost cures a broken limb with pills
The learned faculty are tools to thee
& from thy powers like thy complaints will flee
Then why thus linger in the worst of towns
To cure & hear the praise of foolish Clowns
But fools perhaps may be thy only game
To feed thy pockets & encrease thy fame
If so think not in greater towns to shine
Where skill would bid thy juggling tricks decline
& bright eyed reason send thee hasty back
Proving thee what thou really art a quack
So Dr Urine in thy nest remain
& till the dull dark age of fools be past
As conjuror & Water Doctor reign
Then drop into thy grave—a Quack at last

In politics & politicians lies
The modern farmer waxes wonderous wise
Opinionates with wisdom all compact
& een coud tell a nation how to act
Throws light on darkness with excessive skill
Knows who acts well & whos designs are ill
Proves half the members nought but briberys tools
& calls the past a dull dark age of fools
As wise as solomons they read the news
Not with their blind forefathers simple views
Who read of wars & wishd that wars woud cease
& blessd the king & wishd his country peace
Who markd the weight of each fat sheep & ox
The price of grain & rise & fall of stocks
Who thought it learning how to buy & sell
& he a wise man who coud manage well
No not with such old fashiond idle views
Do these news mongers trafic with the news
They read of politics & not of grain
& speechify & comment & explain
& know so much of parliment & state
Youd think them members when you heard them prate
& know so little of their farms the while
That can but urge a wiser man to smile

Young Brag a ‘jack of all trades’ save his own
From home is little as the farmer known
He talks with all the equal & the high
Equally ready to tell truth or lie
His betters view him in his just deserts
But equals deem him one of mighty parts
Opinions gratis gives in mens affairs
Fool in his own but wonderous wise in theirs
Upon his talents friends were strongly bent
Mistook his parts & off to school he went
A young aspiring hopeful youth at least
Whose parents deemd him fashiond for a priest
Twas somthing urgd the dissapointed view
With which religion had the least to do
Tho they baskd blessd in fortunes wealthy sun
They yearnd for more to bless their hopeful son
Whom school & colledge both had vainly taught
& learnd young hopeful to be fit for naught
His friends decievd beheld the faded charm
Resignd weak hopes & placed him in a farm
& there he lives & to great skill pretends
& reigns a god among his farming friends
Scrats paragraphs & sends them to the News
Signd ‘constant reader’ lest they shoud refuse
The illspelt trash on patriotic cavils
Leaving correction to the printers devils
Skits upon those by whom theyre never read
Who might as well write Letters to the dead
Or puffs upon himself in various ways
Whom none but self will either read or praise
& Poems too the polishd patriot chimes
Stanzas to Cobbets truth & Comic Ryhmes
To which he fits a hacknied tune that draws
From patriot dinners echoes of applause
& in the next weeks news out comes the treat
From ‘constant reader’ of the drunken feat
Were so much wine is lavishd in the strain
As even to make the reader drunk again
Were every dish on which the knaves regale
Find places there but common sense & ale
For common sense is grown too tame to teach
& ales too low to aid a patriots speech
& morts of speeches made to back reform
That raised applauses like a thunder storm
& almost loosd the rafters from their pegs
While chairs & tables scarce coud keep their legs
Reeling amid the hiccups & hurra's
& glass[es] rung & almost dancd applause
Nor will he pass his comic singing oer
For they too set the table in a roar
& then concludes it with the pompous clause
—Success to patriots & the good old cause
A hacknied tune which patriots daily sing
Like variations of ‘God save the King’
But when election mobs for battle meet
& dirty flags & ribbons throng the street
Hunting for votes some little borough town
Tis there his genius meets the most renown
When on the hustings bawling spouters throng
Who fight & war like women with the tongue
All speakers & no hearers were the crys
Piles up confusions babel to the skys
& croaking at the top in proud renown
Each party sits till tother pulls him down
Here shines our orator in all his plumes
Nor prouder bantum to a dung hill comes
Then he to crow & peck & peck & crow
& hurl bad english at retorting foe
No hungry magpie round a rotten sheep
A longer song of nonsence up can keep
Were small words all their utmost powers engage
& monnysyllables swell mad with rage
Who martyrs like to freedoms noble cause
Are choaked by scores in hiccups & hurras
The rest awhile in thick disorder flye
& from his mouth like crackers bounce & dye
‘I said’—‘says I’ &—then—‘he said’—‘says he’
Are the chain balls of his attillery
That storm & threaten at the deadly breach
& link the weapons of his broken speech
The head & tail piece setting off & close
That throws each sentence at his sneering foes
& when his monny syllables have spent
Their rage & given his utmost fury vent
& wore the cant thread bare that serves the throng
Like summers cuckoo tune for every song
Of ‘Rotten boroughs—‘bribery’—‘tyrants’—‘slaves’
Were selfs a patriot & opposers knaves
To fill the void his lack of words will cause
He bawls out freedom & expects applause
Then bows his head in oratorial grace
& exit makes to give new speakers place
So have I seen the schoolboy in his sport
(When playing soldiers) honours praise to court
Spout to his fancied army on parade
Bawling of valour ere the assault was made
Then drew his ‘wooden sword’ & led the way
To storm their castles & commence the fray
Pointing their pellets at unconsious foes
At bantum cocks that on the dung hill crows
When pop each gun went to commence the quarrel
Nor scared the flye that settled on the barrel
He ryhmes election squibs & meet[s] applause
From party critics that support his cause
His fustian wit trots wild on broken feet
Jostling the readers patience from his seat
Half prose half verse they stagger as they go
& after fashions follys dribbling flow
One line starts smooth & then for room perplext
Elbow along & knock against the next
& half its neighbour then a stop marks time
To close the sense—what follows is for ryhme
Pert forwardness & insolent consiet
In bard & patrons close as circles meet
All that is bad from one to tother jumps
Both play at cards & turn up knaves as trumps
& his bad wares in credits way to push
He boasts theres nought to make the modest blush
Tho common sense he neither fears or heeds
Who finds a cause to blush at all she reads
To see its name with fools as partners shown
& cursed with trash which dullness shrinks to own
Yet in the columns of the weekly News
They shine as laureat odes to ‘Pinks’ or ‘Blues’
Where humbug patron of cants tinsel gauds
Reads & with Fudge so sanctions & applauds
One blows the bubble up with puffing sides
& tother marks till stiff necked how it rides
Bawling aloud till hoarse ‘look here now there’
Till mobs throng round to wonder & to stare
Then flattery puffs a critique in their cause
& gain throngs in with interest & applause
So boys with their tobacco pipes & suds
Play while one bubble after tother scuds
Look there a fine one goes & there another
How bubble two beats bubble one his brother
Then blows again with cheeks distended wide
Till like the frog he almost bursts with pride
Then out goes bubble three & instant out
From gaping mouths come the applauding shout
That makes his pride & happiness redouble
& soap baloons flye up in many a bubble
Humbug still hailing with excess of joy
Who condescends to feed both men & boy
With this small difference the boys sports are stinted
Tho humbug praises theres no puff to print it
He games & drinks & rackets up & down
A low livd mocker of high life in town
& sips his wine in fashionable pride
& thrusts in scorn the homely ale aside
His fathers riches bought such foolish airs
But wasting fortunes een must need repairs
As parching summer checks the runnels haste
The greatest wealth will lessen spent in waste
Tho credit proves him poor his stubborn pride
Oer acts his purse & struggles dignified
Yet stung with tidings that his consience vents
He rails at tythes & hopes for falling rents
Curses all taxes as tyrannic things
& hates the pride of government & kings
Forgetting self tho on the brink to fall
A shade of mightier consequence then all
Turnd radical in spirit & in purse
He prays reform & deems the laws a curse
Speaks treasonous things before his friends & cousins
& toasts reforming patriots by dozens
& aping wit with ignorant delight
A village politician turns out right
Burdett & Brougham his Bibles place supplys
& these he reads & studys & applys
But choaks their wit to pass his narrow brains
& steals the stingless carcass for his pains
Like to the Daw dressed in the Peacocks coat
He gives proud utterance to each stolen note
While laughter roars he seems on clouds to walk
For laughter is the chorus of small talk
Election hums & Placards on the throne
He mars the joke & makes the rest his own
Runs reason mad in his unreasoning matters
& twists & tears poor common sense to tatters
Yet while he mimics second hand & storms
& mocks each echo hooting for reforms
& rants with oratorial pause & start
Each stale grown speech of patriots oer by heart
He meets applause in every spouting fit
By those who take impertine[n]ce for wit
Friends gape & wonder while they hear him preach
& swear it Ciceronian every speech
But others view him in wits sneard remark
A toothless puppy that can only bark
He hails his countrys foes his only friends
D---ms peace & prays for war that never ends
Its ruins lookd on as the way to wealth
& grace for all meals is reforms good health
& why is all this hubbub for reforms
This anxious looking for expected storms
That turns each fireside into parliments
In strong debates of taxes tithes & rents
Is aught of general good or general views
Sketchd in the pathway which reform pursues
Or is the rich mans lands or misers pelf
But grudgd in others to be claimd by self
Doubtless the reasons far more plain then good
Is far more true as such then understood
Our village politician clings no doubt
To one sole cause that moves the rest about
His general good perhaps is small akin
To self a core that smuggles in that skin
Taxes no doubt might be at peace & stand
If theyd sink claims on his conserns & land
& such forcd things as Landlords yearly claims
He hates no doubt—tho fear but inly blames
& views reform in but a selfish light
To make a level far as self is right
Turn Lords to farms or farmers change to Lords
Is the dear wish that with his heart accords
Or when all laws are ruind with the throne
Just but to make the farm he rents his own
Thus far no farther tho with reasons leave
Want pleads for times of adam & of eve
This must not be they toild for bread before
& some must still be rich & some be poor
To sink the many & exalt the few
Is still his creed in an extended view
Reform thus leveld to brags selfish will
Want still might toil & be contented still
With other nations mid tyranic strife
This miscalld mania[c] struggles oft to life
Fair is the mask that hides its visage first
But soon the infant to a fiend is nursd
That like a wolf howls hungerly & high
A cry for blood—& freedom apes that cry
For Freedom unrestraind forsakes her cause
& lawless pleasures are her only laws
Like as high tempests reckless whom they harm
Come headlong on their pleasures to perform
Too late the trees beneath their burthen groan
The lawless storm feels treason in that tone
& down its whole artillery lightning hail
& thunder comes the rebels to assail
Prostrate at once the groves in ruins lye
Their torn roots pleading pity from the sky
So with the tyrant whom he wills he blames
Mere treason is what ere his vengance names
& where that falls—defence—complaints—aye sighs
Are discontents & treasons in disguise
Thus laws grow lawless & the patriot dies
Dies & above his poor insulted dust
Fears made to sanction that the deed was just
Such is the case when freedom like a flood
Bursts out in mischief what was meant as good
So thy proud lilys haughty france was torn
Whose whitness dared the insulted light to scorn
& scorn did come & thou wert weak indeed
Torn down & trampled like the meanest weed
Thy laws a tyrants scoffing stock became
& thy white flag blushed red for very shame
When by a tyrants pompous threats unfurled
To show its former weakness to the world
Who mocking liberty where none remained
With stronger fetters former rights enchained
Heaven shield thee England in thy ancient cause
From tyrant governments & broken laws
Since freedom came & crowned thee free none dare
As yet to rouse thy Lion from its lare
Threats have assailed thee but as like the wind
They roared & into nothing rage resigned
& they may roar & bluster but in vain
So barks the Mastiff at his clanking chain
Nations in bonds can never cope with thee
For they alone are mighty who are free
& mayst thou ever be the same as now
With victorys laurels blooming on thy brow
That scource from which thy every glory springs
A land of liberty as well as kings
Thus village politics—& hopes for pelf
Live in one word & centre all in ‘self’
Thus village politicians urge repairs
& deem all governments as wrong but theirs
Cants juggling wisdom spurning reasons rules
The reasoning jargon of unreasoning fools
Versd in low cunning which to handle brief
Is but a genteel title for a thief
Nay start not reader such harsh words to hear
Nor deem the pen of Satire too severe
What is that shuffling shadow of a man
Were selfs deceptions shine in every plan
Who spouts of freedom as the thing he craves
& treats the poor oer whom he rules as slaves
Who votes equallity that all may share
& stints the pauper of his parish fare
Who damns all taxes both of church & state
& on the parish lays a double rate
Such is our heroe in his tyrant pride
Then is his honours title misapplied
Such with one breath scoff at the poors distress
& bawl out freedom for their own redress
True Patriotism is a thing divine
& far above a theme so mean as mine
To higher powers due praises may belong
But patriotism is above my song
Not that which tells its emptiness aloud
Like quacks & pedlars to a gaping crowd
That pleads foul robbery in an honest stile
& feeds poor hope on honied words the while
That deems it honour urgd in knaverys cause
& highest merit to evade the laws
With words of peace & plenty thickly sown
Deceptions aimd at ignorance alone
Empty as frothing bubbles on the stream
Or shadowy banquets in a beggars dream
Ruins the mark the motly monster bears
& vile hypocrisy the mask it wears
Cant as high priest around its alter prays
& preaches loud its mockery of praise
Oer blinded minds its poison quickly runs
But shrinks in mist from reasons searching suns
To those gilt Dagons knaves & fools may raise
Deceptions alters of decieving praise
& paint their claims as interest wills to paint
Call each a god a devil or a saint
Truth will his godships mighty claims betray
& prove like Daniel that hes made of clay
These soft politic saints may freedom preach
& vacant minds believe the lies they teach
Who think them walking canaans flowing oer
With milk & honey for the starving poor
& sure enough their wants may richly fare
If like camelions they can feed on air
Their promises sown thick degenerate run
& mildew into broken ones when done
& tho a plentious seed time dreams of gains
A blighted harvest falsifys the pains
Such promises to day to morrow straight
Like an old almanack is out of date
& they who break them no more credit breaks
Then Moors new year does for the olds mistakes
Thus freedom preaching is but knaverys game
& old self interest by a different name
But they alone are worthy of its claims
Who midst the storm that sanctions or defames
Firm like the Oak on their first ground sojourn
Neath suns & winds that shines & shocks in turn
Who fear no scoffs nor hunt the cloak of bribes
Those smiling tempters of declaiming scribes
Meteors that dazzle with a vapours flame
That rise in gilded praise & set in shame
Tho barren vineyards patriots labour in
Their countrys good is all they strive to win
Tho rough the road they struggle to the last
& look with joy upon the journey past
Their very faults are blessings misapplied
‘& een their failings lean to virtues side’
Tho crowds be found to scorn & few to raise
The ‘still small’ anthem of deserving praise
Yet consience triumphs like a setting sun
& self illumined feels its best was done
For men like these the heathens praise did claim
Seats with the Gods & gave their deeds the name
& still for such fame pulls from freedoms tree
A bough that blossoms with posterity
& twines like Ivy gathering strength with time
Green round the ruins of their native clime

& such art thou—but why should I proclaim
Thy worth that hideth from the gaze of fame
& in the conscience of a noble cause
Shrinks like a hermit from the worlds applause
Yet worth like thine a share of fame shall meet
That falls like sunshine on thy calm retreat
That fame that found the Roman at his plough
Follows thy footsteps & applauds thee now
& little need hath verse of mine to tell
Of one respected & beloved so well
& lest my humble muse unused to shine
Shoud with presumptive theme dishonour thee
I'll leave thy name to wortheir songs then mine
& pledge this offering to thy memory
Titles & power & riches & estate
All at thy birth conspired to make thee great
But these are baubles which distinction breeds
& are as shadows to thy noble deeds
Pomp is an insect that but makes display
For one poor season & so fades away
Tho flattery fawns by wealth & titles moved
True worth alone can make the man beloved
& worth is thine that through thy life hath won
The praise of many & the scorn of none
For foes grow silent when they hear thy name
& sanction praises were they cannot blame
For thy whole life hath sought one common end
The slave to free the feeble to befriend
No pompous speeches which ambition vents
Made thy name popular in parliments
No court intrigues a fawning hope to raise
Gilt thy first entrance with newspaper praise—
Mans general welfare & thy countrys good
Deeds on which honours noblest base hath stood
Were the first struggles of thy patriotic skill
& wears through life thy whole ambition still
Labouring along in each unshining part
With simple truth & such an upright heart
That when the poor hear thee their rights defend
They feel thee more their brother then their friend
& in such hearts thy name so good & just
Shall live behind & ‘blossom in the dust’
& may thy names successors ever be
Branches proved worthy of their parent tree
To bloom unblighted on a glorious race
Shineing unsullied on the page of fame
& like the sunrise on an ancient place
Gild the past memory of thy worthy name
Names without worth may be by beggars bought
Shadows of nothings that are less then naught
These will grow old like garments time will tear
Poor honours tinsel & make worse for wear
The proudest trials to prolong their date
When scut[c]heond pride turns rags & mocks in state
Aye marble bye & bye with sculpture deckt
Shall mingle with the ashes they protect
Brass eat its self away in fretting rust
& names on adamant shall fret to dust
Worth & worth only has the longest run
& virtue graves it on the golden sun
Eternitys escutcheon there it shines
With every day renewed which nothing lines
Piering its influence on the happy day
While bad ones moulder in the night away
What is mere honour that so charms the sight
A bauble gilt a shadow cloathed in light
A pompous nothing pride extolleth high
A boast of blood that runs its channels dry
To stagnate upon common shores at last
Honour in state what is the Farce when past
A veil death sends exposing tyrant knaves
To eke the refuse of ignoble graves
Honour in war the cannon vaunts so loud
What but poor insect weaving its own shroud
A danger where the bravest dare & die
For the cold praise that marble tombs supply
& such is honours all in every game
Like faithless friend she soon forgets their fame
& as a laccquey unto shame will turn
With littleness & meaness to sojourn
So what was Pompeys Cesars in the past
Race horses dogs & coaches heir at last

Mere titles without worth are withered bays
& paper crowns that mock at honours rays
The meanest tradesman in his flash attire
Struts from behind his counter an Esqr
Een knighthood from its throne is hurled afar
& fortune caught for clowns the fallen star
What honour wore times past Sir Ralph wears now
Whose feats of prowess sprung from flail & plough
Whose grandame spun & darned the cloaths she wore
& robed the dung hill to increase her store
Thus sprang the means that feed his present fame
& silver stars gild oer his little name
& just as much of honours light they leave
As pewter crests upon a paupers sleeve
The little odds thats hardly worth the name
Lie in the metal for the mans the same
While a good name however poor or small
Grows great in value & outshines them all

A shadow man between the two extreams
Of fat & lean like pharoahs hungry dreams
With visage such as frighted childern dread
When gossip stories haunt their dreams abed
In heart & head vain ignorant & dull
& fierce in visage as a baited bull
Appears the village constable who bears
The affairs of state & keeps them in repairs
Foremost in meetings he resumes his place
& gives opinions upon every case
Reigning & ruling in the mighty state
A jackall makeshift for a majistrate
Keeping the tools of terror for each cause
When the starved poor oerstep his pigmy laws
To mark the paupers goods the parish brand
Is in his mansion ready at command
Titles around his name their honours bring
Like rags & tatters round the ‘beggars king’

Churchwardens Constables & Overseers
Makes up the round of Commons & of Peers
With learning just enough to sign a name
& skill sufficient parish rates to frame
& cunning deep enough the poor to cheat
This learned body for debatings meet
Tho many heads the parliment prepare
& each one claims some wisdom for its share
Like midnight with her vapours tis so small
They make but darkness visible withall
Their secretary is the Parish Clerk
Whom like a shepherds dog they keep to bark
& gather rates & when the next are due
To cry them oer at church time from his pew
He as their ‘Jack of all trades’ steady shines
Thro thick & thin to sanction their designs
Who apes the part of King & Magistrate
& acts grand segnior of this turkish state
Who votes new laws to those already made
& acts by force when one is disobeyd
Having no credit which he fears to loose
He does what ever dirty jobs they chuse
Knight of the black staff master of the stocks
& hand cuff keeper—tools that sadly mock
His dignity—for common sense will sneer
& half acknowledge in his passing ear
That such like tools & titles near was known
To grace a name so aptly as his own
For though with natural cunning fortified
His deeds will often grow too large to hide
Tho' like a smugglers dealings shunning light
They peep thro' rents & often sprout in sight
Thus summons oft are served in hopes of pelf
To overcharge & get a fee for self
& village dances watched at midnight hours
In the mock errand of his ruleing powers
With feigned pretence good order to preserve
Only to break it if a chance shoud serve
For married clowns his actions closely mark
& jealous grow at whispers in the dark
Whence broils ensue—then from the noisey fray
Himself hath made sneaks unpercieved away
Like to the fox whom yard dogs barks affright
When on the point of robbing roosts at night
Such is this Sancho of the magistrates
& such are most knaves of those petty states
Where cunning fools are only reckoned wise
Who best can hide their faults from others eyes
& bold assurance forging merits place
Takes credit to be bad were all are base
Whose Staff becomes his law & succour too
The stoutest village rabble to subdue
Soon as he holds it in his mighty hand
It grows as potent as a magic wand
Clowns look & grow submissive at the view
As if the mighty weapon froze them thro
For when a Hudibrass oersteps the laws
A Ralph is ready to defend his cause
Tasking the pauper [his] labours to stand
Or clapping on his goods the Parish Brand
Lest he should sell them for the want of bread
On parish bounty rather pind then fed
Or carrying the parish book from door to door
Claiming fresh taxes from the needy poor
& if ones hunger overcomes his hate
& buys a loaf with what shoud pay the rate
He instant sets his tyrant laws to work
In heart & deed the essence of a turk
Brings summons for an eighteen penny rate
& gains the praises of the parish state
Or seizes goods & from the burthend clown
Extorts for extra trouble half a Crown
Himself a beggar that may shortly take
A weekly pittance from the rates they make
But the old proverb suits the subject well
Mount such on horseback & theyll ride to hell
Such is this fussy cur that well deserves
The business of the master whom he serves
The vilest thing neer crawled without its brother
& theyre as like as one Ass gets another
One sets no job but tother barks to do't
Both for self interest lick the foulest foot
& spite of all the meaness & the stink
Picks up gains crumbles from the dirtiest sink
One name serves both & that I need not name
For all may by the color know the game
As hungry dogs know carrion by the smell
So all may know them by their ways as well
Coarse as such images but nought would do
But coarsest stuff to make the picture true
As when some muse weeps over Tyburn tree
Hard words & hanging make the melody
So as they reign here let them hang together
Stinking when met like sinks in stormy weather
Tho natures marks are deep that all may scan
A knaves delusions from an honest man
Oppression often mourns the vile abuse
& flyes to justice—deemd of little use
Truth that coud once its own redresses seek
Is now deemd nothing & forbid to speak
Driven like an exild king from past renown
Power took its place & keeps it with a frown
But tis well known that justice winks at crimes
A saying thats in season at all times
Or why should the poor sinning starving clown
Meet jail & hanging for a stolen crown
While wealthy thieves with knaverys bribes endued
Plunder their millions & are not pursued
Nay at the foot of Tyburns noted tree
They do deserving deeds & still go free
Where others suffer for some pigmy cause
They all but murder & escape the laws
Skulking awhile in briberys dirty den
Then start new gilt & pass as honest men
& why shoud power or pride betray its trust
Is it too old a fashion to be just
Or does self interest inclinations bend
Aye Aye the Farmer is his worships friend
As parish priest from him he meets his tythes
Punctual as harvest wakes the tinkling sythes
Tho often grudgd yet he their hopes to glad
Prays better harvests when the last was bad
& as he deals so honestly with him
It must be malice in the poor or whim
Who seek relief & lay on them the blame
& hopless seek it & return the same
Within the church where they on sabbath days
Mock god with all the outward show of praise
Making his house a pharisees at best
Gods for one day & Satans all the rest
The parson oft scarce puts his sermon bye
Ere neath his pulpit & with mighty cry
The clerk anounces—what?—commandments meet
No—when these parish vestrys next shall meet
To fleece the poor & rob with vile command
Want of its bread too feeble to withstand
Altho its aching heart too often knows
Knaves call it debtor where it nothing owes
For in these Vestrys cunning deep as night
Plans deeds that would be treason to the light
& tho so honest in its own disguise
Twould be plain theft exposed to reasons eyes
For the whole set just as they please can plan
And what one says all sanction to a man
Self interest rules each vestry they may call
& what one sticks for is the gain of all
The set—thus knavery like contagion runs
& thus the fathers card becomes the sons
Both play one game to cheat us in the lump
& the sons turn up shows the fathers trump

Here shines the man of morals Farmer Finch
Smooth tongued & fine an angel every inch
In outward guise & never known as yet
To run in Taverns Brothels or in debt
In public life all punctual honest true
& flattery gives his graces double due
For pitys gifts are never public made
But there his name & guinea is displayed
In double views to answer prides desire
To purchase praise & to be dubbed Esquire
A sunday never comes or foul or fair
That misses him at church throughout the year
The priest himself boasts as the mans reward
That he near preached a sermon but he heard
Such is the man in public all agree
That saints themselves no better men could be
But now of private life lets take the view
—In that same church & in that very pew
Where he each sabbath sings & reads & prays
He joins the vestry upon common days
Cheating the poor with leveys doubly laid
On their small means that wealth may be defrayed
To save his own & others his compeers
He wrongs the poor whom he has wrongd for years
Making the house of prayer the house of sin
& placing Satan as high priest within
Such is this good church going morral man
This man of morrals on deseptions plan
So knaves by cant steer free from sins complaints
& flatterys cunning coins them into saints

Tho justice Terror who the peace preserves
Meets more of slander then his deeds deserves
A blunt opinionated odd rude man
Severe & selfish in his every plan
Or right or wrong his overreasoning heart
Believes & often overacts his part
Tho pleading want oft meets with harsh replies
& truths too often listend too as lies
Altho he reigns with much caprice & whim
The poor can name worse governers then him
His gifts at Christmass time are yearly given
No doubt as toll fees on the road to heaven
Tho charity or looses byt or wins
Tis said to hide a multitude of sins
& wether wealth-bought-hopes shall fail or speed
The poor are blest & goodness marks the deed
Tho rather leaning to the stronger side
He preaches often on the sins of pride
& oft while urging on the crimes of dress
His looks will tell the jealous were to guess
Vain offering mercys plea in hopes to cure
How wasted pride might feed the wanting poor
& wether just or not his own whole plan
Sets the example as a plain drest man
His three cockt hat & suit in colour met
Were youths first fashion & he sticks it yet
The same spruce figure traced in memorys back
Een strangers know him as ‘the man in black’
While playing boys on sundays without guess
Will scent their foe a furlong by his dress
Tho to complaints his aid is oft denyd
Tho said too oft to shun the weaker side
Yet when foul wrongs are utterd in his ear
Farmers themselves meet reprimands severe
Poor trembling maids too learn his looks to dread
By sad forcd errands to his mansion led
His worships lectures are so long & keen
Theyre dreaded now as pennance once has been
Tho it is said what will not rumour say
There een was seasons when the priest was gay
That now & then in manhoods lusty morn
His maids turnd mothers & were never sworn
Yet still he reigns what ever faults they find
A blunt odd rude good picture of his kind
Who preaches partial for both church & king
& runs reform down as a dangerous thing
& oft like hells its mystic deeds unravels
& dreads it name as children dread the d---ls
Yet mixes often in election dinners
& takes his seat ‘with publicans & sinners’
Drinks healths & argues wether wrong or right
Nor ever flinches to be deemd polite
But healths gave out by young reforming sparks
He drinks in silence & disdains remarks
Or puts the profferd wine untasted bye
& waits some wiser speech to make reply
Anothers faults with him are quickly known
Yet needs a micriscope to find his own
He deems all wrong but him unless they be
Of the same cloth & think the same as he
Thus self triumphant both in light & dark
He oft leaves reason & oer shoots the mark
& while he deems reform a knave & cheet
Extreams in both as equals nearly meet
For he who gains on reasons race the start
& good or bad thus overacts his part
Is quite as radical in reasons cause
As he who trys to trample oer the laws
What ever cause he banters or defends
Enthuseism baffles not befriends
The wild mad clamours that its votarys raise
Urge those to ridicule who meant to praise
& hurts religion tho it wears a gown
As bad as deists who woud pull it down
& thus his reverence often sinks in faults
& dashes on & never own[s] nor halts
Ranters & Methodists his open foes
In person & in sermons hell oppose
With superstition hell brook no pretense
& deems them catholics in all but sense
They in their turn oppose the urgd remark
& deem his worship grovling in the dark
Sifts the opinions which he puts in force
& strives to wreck him with his own discourse
Deeming the plan to which his pride doth cling
‘That little learning is a dangerous thing’
From whence reformd opinionists proceed
That near had been had they not learnd to read
They prove such plans in arguments at length
A very pope in every thing but strength
& tho the cobler priest lacks no consiet
His worship tires him & will not be beat
When the old snob despairing not resignd
Sighs while he sneers & pitys one so blind
Still with each rude assault he preseveres
Nor heeds the Coblers cant nor cares nor fears
& now & then his sermons length prolongs
To guard his flock against decietful tongues
& takes much trouble on a sabbath day
To lecture drunkards & drive boys from play
& tho from year to year unknown to use
To keep his peace & sunday from abuse
Beside the circling cross upon the hill
The dancing Stocks maintain their station still
& as derision & decaying time
Weaken their trumph oer abuse & crime
The priest still mindfull of his ruling cares
Renews their reign in threatning repairs
Laws or religion or be what they will
Self will not yield but stickles to it still
& still he rules in every baffling plan
The same head strong opinionated man

But now grown old in reading sundays prayers
& keeping village morals in repairs
Till een his very spectacles refuse
To see the largest print that age can chuse
He seeks a curate to supply his place
A kinsman of his worships sacred race
Who ages back sought priesthoods place to teach
The only spot were bankrupts cannot reach
& meeting riches in prosperity
Still chuse a scion from the family
To graft upon religions fruitful stock
Were blights near come ambitions hopes to mock
That bends with fruit when ere they like to pull
& bears all seasons & is ever full
So this young kinsman of his worships troop
That like to Levi keeps the charter up
Now fills with mighty lungs the plenteous place
Whose love of gain makes up for want of grace
Who wears his priesthood with a traders skill
& makes religion learn to make her bill
Who ere he cures his sheep of their disease
Like lawyers studys oer the churches fees
Who ekes new claims on customs ancient price
When reason ruled & priests were not so nice
& sets on registers his raising mark
That used to fetch their sixpence to the clerk
& from the age enquiring staring clown
Extorts the monstrous charge of half a crown
& if a wanderer leaves his wants to roam
& dies on other ills he meets from home
His church yard common for a bed is lost
& forfeits must be paid by double cost
& his jack all the clerk in double sense
Who sings his sunday task & counts his pence
Hies to his post instructed in his trade
To claim the fees before the grave is made
& marriage pays its earnest for a bride
Offering her fees before the knott is tyd
& new made mothers that with thanks repairs
Seek gods kind love but pays the priest for prayers
With him self interest has a face of brass
A shameless tyrant that no claims surpass
Who shrinks at nothing & woud not disdain
To take a farthing in the ways of gain
Or less what ere his claims & fees enjoin
If such a fraction was a current coin
Such is the substitute put on to keep
The close shorn remnant of his worships sheep
& bye & bye hopes at his friends decay
To be sole shepherd & recieve full pay
& is religion grown so commonplace
To place self interest foremost in the race
& leave poor souls in Satans claws confind
Crawling like crabs a careless pace behind
Excuse the priest he's prest with weighty cares
& tho the pauper dyes without his prayers
What if such worthless sheep slip into hell
For want of prayers before the passing bell
The priest was absent twas a daily song
Yet none except the vulgar thought it wrong
Perhaps when death beds might his aid desire
His horse was sick & might a drink require
Or friends for just nessesitys might claim
His shooting skill to track the fields for game
& when they needed patridges or hares
The parish pauper coud not look for prayers
Or if he did indulge the foolish whim
What cared the priest—dye & be d---d for him
& he had land to shepherd where the wheat
In a sly way the churches profit beat
Tho he kept one to manage of his kin
Yet self was foreman when the gain dropt in

& dwells no memorys in the days gone bye
No names whose loss is worth a present sigh
Yes—there was one who priesthoods trade profest
‘One whom the wretched & the poor knew best’
& in yon house that neighbours near the show
Of parish huts a mellancholy row
That like to them a stubble covering wears
Decayd the same & needing like repairs
Superior only was the mansion known
Instead of mud by having walls of stone
There lived the Vicar once in days gone bye
When pride & fashion did not rank so high
Ere poor religion threw her weeds away
To mix in circles of the worldly gay
Ere hunting Parsons in the chace begun
& added salarys kept their dog & gun
To claim & trespass upon ground not theirs
The game for shooting well as tythe for prayers
Ere sheep was driven from the shepherds door
& pleasure swallowed what might feed the poor
In that same time whose loss was keenly felt
The good old Vicar in this mansion dwelt
Plain as the flock dependant on his cares
Their week day comforts & their sunday prayers
Hed no spare wealth to follow fashions whim
& if he had she'd little joys for him
He kept no horse the hunting sports to share
He fed no dogs to run the harmless hare
Hed nought to waste while hunger sought his shed
& while he had it they near wanted bread
His chiefest pleasure charity possest
In having means to make another blest
Little was his & little was required
Coud he do that twas all the wealth desired
Tho small the gift twas gave with greatest will
& blessings oer it made it greater still
On wants sad tale he never closed his door
He gave them somthing & he wishd it more
To all alike compassions hand was dealt
& every gift tho small was deeply felt
The beggars heart dismantled of its fears
Leapd up & thankd him for his crust with tears
& ownd was worth rewarded as it ought
Hed claims to thousands were hed but a groat
Muttering their blessing as they turnd to part
Wishing his purse an equal to his heart
Ah weres the heart so hardend at its core
Or eye so dead on what it pauses oer
That times sad changes fail to be severe
That sees his havoc & near drops a tear
The Vicars greensward pathways once his pride
His woodbine bowers that used his doors to hide
& he himself full often in his chair
Smoaking his pipe & conning sermons there
The yard & garden roods his only farms
& all his stock the hive bees yearly swarms
Are swept away—their produce & their pride
Were doomed to perish when the owner dyd
Fresh faces came with little taste or care
& joyd to ruin what was his to rear
His garden plants & blossoms all are fled
& docks & nettles blossom in their stead
Before the door were pinks & roseys stood
The hissing goose protects her summer brood
& noisey hogs are free to wallow oer
The corner seat were weary hinds had rest
The snug fire side that welcomd many a guest
Not fashions votarys these disdaind his door
But plain old farmers & the neighbouring poor
The one in harmless leisure to regale
To crack his wallnutts & to taste his ale
With miserys humble plea the other led
To tell his sorrows & to share his bread
These are decayed as comforts will decay
As winters sunshine or as flowers in may
These all are past as joys are born to pass
Were lifes a shadow & were flesh is grass
Een memorys lingering features time shall rot
& this good man is nearly now forgot
Save on his tomb & some few hearts beside
Greyheaded now left childern when he dyd
Who from their parents all his goodness knew
& learnd to feel it as they older grew
When he was vanishd & the world was known
& troubles evil days became their own
Then woud they talk in sorrows gushing joys
Of the good priest that preached when they were boys
& shake their heads & wish such godly men
& good old times woud come about agen
Full well may they regret the seasons gone
Such happy times that pride hath trampld on
Well may the past warm in the peasants praise
& dwell with memory as the golden days
When the old vicar with his village dwelt
Ere prides curst whimseys was so deeply felt
When farmers used their servants toils to share
& went on foot to market & to fair
Not like the present petty ruling things
Disdaining ploughs from whence their living springs
& looking high among their betters now
Claim with the parson labours passing bow
Ere titled homage wore no vulgar names
Nor made a mockery to pretending claims
Yon cot when in its glory & its pride
Maintaind its priest & half the poor beside
These were the times that plainess must regret
These were the times that labour feels as yet
Ere mockd improvments plans enclosed the moor
& farmers built a workhouse for the poor
& vainly feels them & as vainly mourns
As no hopes live betokening like returns
The cottage now with neither lawn or park
Instead of Vicar keeps the vicars clerk
Wolves may devour oppressions fiends may reign
Nones nigh to listen when the poor complain
Too high religion looks her flocks to watch
Or stoop from pride to dwell in cots of thatch
Scenes too important constant business brings
That lends no time to look on humbler things
Too much of pleasure in her mansion dwells
To hear the troubles which the pauper tells
To turn a look on sorrows thorny ways
Like good samaritans of former days
To heal in mercy when foul wrongs pursue
& weep oer anguish as she once woud do
Distress may languish & distress may dye
Theres none that hears can help them when they cry
Compassion cannot stoop nor pride alow
‘To pass that way’ with oil or honey now
Still there are some whose actions merit praise
The lingering breathings of departed days
Tho in this world of vainess thinly sown
Yet there are some whom fashion leaves alone
Who like their master plain & humble go
& strive to follow in his steps below
Who in the Wilderness as beacons stand
To pilgrims journeying to the promised land
To give instructions to enquiring souls
& cheer the weak above the worlds controuls
To tend their charge & wanderers back restore
To rest the weary & relieve the poor

The past & present always disagree
The claims of ruin is what used to be
Old customs usuage daily disappears
& wash to nothing in the stream of years
The very church yard & its ramping grass
& hollow trees remain not as it was
Far different scenes its nakedness displays
To those familiar with its guardians days
Tho holy ground & trees that round it grew
Ownd claims sufficient to be holy too
Religions humble plea was felt in vain
When ruin enterd with the hopes of gain
Its weak defence was trampled under foot
& all its pride laid level to its root
Its awthorn hedges surely sacred things
That blushd in blossom to a many springs
Its hollow trees that time decayd in tears
& left to linger in the blight of years
Whose mossy finger scarrd on every grain
The trace of days that never come again
These old inhabitants are now no more
Oppression enterd & their reign was oer
Sure shades like these a natural end bespoke
Who'd thought their peace was ripening to be broke
Till other hearts the vicars place supplyd
That preachd a life that practice oft belied
Then ancient tenants of a sacred spot
They fell like common trees & were forgot

Ah sure it was a mellancholly day
That calld the good man from his charge away
Those poor lorn outcasts born to many cares
That shared his table welcome as his prayers
To them the bells worse tidings never gave
Then that which calld their guardian to the grave
To them no prayers so near their bosoms reachd
As the sad lecture oer his coffin preachd
Theyd no more harvests now of hopes to reap
Een children wept to see their mothers weep
& pulld their gowns to ask & question when
Hed wake & come to give them pence agen
‘Hell not sleep there for ever sure he wont
‘Wholl feed & cloath us if the Vicar dont’
Thus lispd the babes & while their parents sighd
Muttering their blessings by the pasture side
Warm repetitions of their griefs was given
& they hoped too to meet their friend in heaven

Beside the charnell wall in humble guise
A small stone noteth were the vicar lyes
Were age slow journying on the sabbath day
Oft potters up to wipe the weeds away
& show enquiring youth with mournfull pride
That good mans name that once its wants supply'd
To hear it read & bring back days to view
& feel his goodness & his loss anew
Blessing his name & praying as they weep
To be full soon companions of his sleep
To share with him the churchyards lonely peace
Were pride forgets its scorn & troubles cease
Were povertys sad reign of cares is oer
Nor tells its wants to be denyd no more
The last lorn hope & refuge that appears
Thro the dull gloom of lifes declining years

Shoved as a nusiance from prides scornfull sight
In a cold corner stands in wofull plight
The shatterd workhouse of the parish poor
& towards the north wind opes the creaking door
A makeshift shed for misery—no thought
Urgd plans for comfort when the work was wrought
No garden spot was left dull want to cheer
& make the calls for hunger less severe
With wholsome herbs that summers might supply
Twas not contrived for want to live but dye
A forced consern to satisfy the law
Built want this covering oer his bed of straw
Een that cheap blessing thats so freely given
To all that liveth neath the face of heaven
The light of day is not alowd to win
A smiling passage to the glooms within
No window opens on the southern sky
A luxury deemd to prides disdainful eye
The scant dull light that forcefull need supplyd
Scorn frownd & placed them on the sunless side
Here dwell the wretched lost to hopless strife
Reduced by want to skelletons in life
Despised by all een age grown bald & grey
Meets scoffs from wanton childern in their play
Who laugh at misery by misfortune bred
& points scorns finger at the mouldering shed
The tottering tennant urges no replye
Turns his white head & chokes the passing sigh
& seeks his shed & hides his hearts despair
For pity lives not as a listner there
When no one hears or heeds he wakes to weep
On his straw bed as hunger breaks his sleep
& thinks oer all his troubles & distress
With not one hope that life shall make them less
Save silent prayers that every woe may have
A speedy ransom in the peaceful grave
Close fisted justice tho his only friend
Doth but cold comforts to his miserys lend
For six days only it alows its fee
Pay scarce sufficient for the wants of three
& for the seventh which god sent to rest
The weary limbs of labouring man & beast
He too may pay for what blind justice cares
Theyve nought for sunday but the parsons prayers

He lived not from his cradle thus forlorn
Both friends & kindred blest his early morn
But kindred now are vanished all & gone
His friends turned foes & thus he lives alone
A Farm he rented in his prosperous days
& prides mouth never opened but to praise
Misfortune crossed his path he tried in vain
& sunk like Job but never rose again
His kindred pitied but no help supplied
His friends were sought but friends their aid denied
Kin turned away & left his wants forlorn
& prides eye never heeded but to scorn
To him the whole wide world contained no friend
His griefs to sooth his weakness to defend
Look where he may all he possessed is fled
& he himself tho living seems as dead

Old Farmer Thrifty reigns from year to year
Their tyrant king yclypd an overseer
A sad proud knave who bye a cunning plan
Blindfolds his faults & seems an honest man
He rarely banters when he buys or sells
But sets a price & there his honour dwells
He rails at cheating knaves for knaverys sake
& near asks double what he means to take
Shuns open ways which lesser rogues pursue
An outside christian but at heart a Jew
Each smooth deciet his blackend heart belies
& consience blushes thro the thin disguise
He seems so honest so says Farmer Slye
That even childern may his bargains buy
& pays all debts too with a feignd good will
& rarely frowns to read a trades mans bill
While those deemd moderate charges rarely fail
To buy a welcome & to taste his ale
Upright & punctual every bargains made
A very quaker in affairs of trade
He preaches down the faults in neighbours known
Scorns other roguery just to hide his own
Thus he mocks honour on deceptions creed
But let us read the riddle in the deed
Tho wealth nor makes nor want bemeans the man
With nought but luck the world & he began
Old men will tell you when the boy was small
How he blackd shoes & waited at the Hall
But natural cunning shone in early youth
& flatterys tongue which pride mistook for truth
Raisd by degrees the youngster into fame
& blotchd fates stigma from his little name
Gilding like blemished fruit his failings oer
Thats fair without & rotten at the core
Thro all the names that wait on wealth & pride
From shoe black vile to valet dignified
He rose successively without a fall
& ownd the cunning power to please in all
& as the serpent yearly changed his skin
Some old face fled to take the youngster in
At length power blessd him with its highest stretch
Which good mens merits might despair to reach
No longer doomd in servitude to wait
Next to the squire he managed his estate
Yclypd a Steward—strangers made their bow
& the squire took him as an equal now
While to neglect his former steward fell
For no one crime unless twas acting well
& soon the tyrant threw the mask aside
When wealth throngd in & power was gratified
Soon cloakd deciet that placed its owner there
To grasp at riches threw its visage bare
He raisd the rents of all the tennants round
& then distrest them as in duty bound
& then askd leave of the contented squire
To rent the farm & had his hearts desire
The storm at first must burst upon the poor
That urgd wants curses as they passd his door
The humble hind that kept his cow before
& just kept want from creeping to his door
He viewd their comforts with a jealous heart
& raised their rents & bade their hopes depart
Yet loath to leave—their cows was sold for rent
& the next year left nothing but complaint
Twas just as wished his plans was quickly known
Each spot was seized & added to his own
Others resignd & the half starving poor
Laid down their sufferings at their masters door
Unused to such complaints the easy squire
Was rousd to listen pity & enquire
The knave still ready up his sleeve to creep
Proved all as right & land as still too cheap
But friends familiar swore the squire was mad
To think of reasoning with a man so bad
To see & suffer such uncloakd abuse
From one whose plans was shuffle & excuse
Such whispers urgd the easy Squire to shift
& Steward Thrifty then was turnd adrift
But not before his purse was filld with pelf
For knaves work quick & near loose sight of self
His nest was featherd ere his fame was old
& land was bought when farms was cheaply sold
He now retires at ease & sells his grain
& strives to be an honest rogue in vain
With big round belly & sleek double chin
He reads the news & smokes & drinks his gin
& studys all the week oer gains affairs
& once a week at Chappel reads his prayers
& seems as striving former deeds to mend
Mild to a foe & coaxing to a friend
But to the poor his ways are still severe
Dwindled in Office to an overseer
Still deaf to want that seeks him to be fed
He gives them curses in the lieu of bread
Or scoffing at their hopes tells them theyre free
To seek a law as tyranizd as he
Thus want still proves the stewards cankerd heart
& wealth beholds him ape ‘the goodly part’
The one in nursing vengance while he starves
Is urged to curse him as he still deserves
The other blinded by his alterd plan
Forgives & takes him as a d---d good man
Why art thou, beggars king wants overseer
To helpless poverty alone severe
On their dependance thou hast fatly fed
& can thy niggard hand deny them bread
He pleads bad times when justice chides his ways
Tho justice self is ill deserving praise
& is bad times the cause of such despair
Go ask the wretches who inhabit there
If past good times their hopes had ever blest
& left them thus so wretched & distrest
Ask if their griefs can better times recall
Their startled tears tell plenty as they fall
& pitys heart can easy comprehend
That Farmer Thrifty never was their friend
Art thou a man thou tyrant oer distress
Doubtless thy pride woud scorn to think thee less
Then scorn a deed unworthy of that name
& live deserving of a better fame
Hurt not the poor whom fate forbad to shine
Whose lots were cast in meaner ways then thine
Infringe not on the comforts they posses
Nor bid scant hope turn hopless in distress
Drive not poor freedom from its niggard soil
Its independance is their staff for toil
Take that away which as their right they call
& thourt a rogue that beggars them of all
They sink in sorrow as a race of slaves
& their last hope lives green upon their graves
Remember proud aspiring man of earth
Prides short distinction is of mortal birth
However high thy hated name may be
Death in the dust shall humble pride & thee
That hand that formd thee & lent pride its day
Took equal means to fashion humbler clay
One power alike reigns as thy god & theirs
Who deaf to pride will listen humbler prayers
He as our father with the world began
& fashiond man in brotherhood with man
& learn thou this proud man tis natures creed
Or be thou humbled if thou wilt not heed
The kindred bond which our first father gave
Proves man thy brother still & not thy slave
& pride may bluster in its little life
To tyranize with overpowering strife
Its turn shall come when proud insulting death
Shall bid it humble & demand its breath
& cannot these fierce tyrants of vain deeds
Dare in their pomp to intercept his speed
As well may rushes stiffen in the storm
& try to wear the oaks unyielding form
As well may feathers float against the stream
& shadows grow to substance in a dream
Or clouds in tempests struggle to be still
As pride to tamper & so baulk his will
He meets them in their strength & torn from ease
They groan & strive like tempests thro the trees
While want from lifes dull shadows glad to run
As pride went foremost & claimed all the sun
Slips from the bitterness of mortal clay
As calm as storms drop on an autumn day
Death is the full stop that awaits to tell
The period of our earthly chronicle
The closing Finis that doth end the rude
Essay of life & bids its tales conclude
With all its failings in the lowly grave
Existance ceases with the all it gave
Wealth want joy anguish all do cease & lye
More blank then shadows neath the smiling sky
Leaving eternity to keep the key
Till judgment sets all hopes & terrors free
Pride & oppression here all meet their end
& find their weakness when too late to mend
With noiseless speed as swift as summer light
Death slays & keeps his weapons out of sight
Here thousands stript of earthly pomp & powers
Met death & perished in unlooked for hours
Their wealth availed not one in all the tribe
Death hath no ears to listen to a bribe
The rich fall poor into the grave & there
The poor grow rich an equal claim to heir
Deaths gloomy mansions owns no hall or throne
But all lye equal—Death is lord alone
Pomps trickerys in the grave are all forgot
& worms & eyless skulls distinguish not
The pomp that rotting in prides tomb doth lye
From rubbish that fills up the slaves just bye
Here tyrants that outbraved their God tho clay
& for earths glory threw the heavens away
Whose voice of power did like the thunder sere
As anger hurried on the heels of fear
Ordaining hosts of murders at a breath
How silent here doth sleep their rage in death
Their feet that trampled freedom to its grave
& felt the very earth they trod a slave
How quiet here they lye in deaths cold arms
Without the power to crush the feeble worms
Who spite of all the dreadful strife they made
Crept there to conquer & was not afraid
The warrior from wars havoc here detered
Bows before death lame as a broken sword
His power wastes all to nothingness away
As showers at night wash out the steps of day

Still lives unsung a race of petty knaves
Numerous as wasps to sting & torture slaves
The meanest of the mean a servile race
Who like their betters study to be base
Whose dung hill pride grows stiff in dirty state
& tho so little apes the little great
The Workhouse Keeper as old Thriftys man
Transacts the business on the tyrants plan
Supplys its tennants with their scanty food
& tortures misery for a livlihood
Despised & hated by the slaves he wrongs
& een too low for satires scourging songs
So may they yet sink down more viler things
& starve as subjects were they reign as kings
Or when on earth their dirty triumph ends
May hells obscurity reward its frends

A thing all consequence here takes the lead
Reigning knight errant oer this dirty breed
A Bailiff he & who so great to brag
Of law & all its terrors as Bumtagg
Fawning a puppy at his masters side
& frowning like a wolf on all beside
Who fattens beef where sorrow worst appears
& feeds on sad misfortunes bitterest tears
Such is Bumtagg the bailiff to a hair
The worshipper & Demon of despair
Who waits & hopes & wishes for success
At every nod & signal of distress
Happy at heart when storms begin to boil
To seek the shipwreck & to share the spoil
Brave is this Bumtagg match him if you can
For theres none like him living save his man
As every animal assists his kind
Just so are these in blood & business joined
Yet both in different colors hide their art
& each as suits his ends transacts his part
One keeps the heart bred villian full in sight
The other cants & acts the hypocrite
Smoothing the deed where law sherks set the gin
Like a coy dog to draw misfortune in
But both will chuckl[e] oer their prisoner's sighs
& are as blest as spiders over flyes
Such is Bumtagg whose history I resign
As other knaves wait room to stink & shine
& as the meanest knave a dog can brag
Such is the lurcher that assists Bumtagg
Born with the changes time & chance doth bring
A shadow reigns yclypd a woodland king
Enthrond mid thorns & briars a clownish wight
My Lords chief woodman in his titles hight
& base & low as is the vulgar knave
He in his turn for tyrant finds his slave
The bug-bear devil of the boys is he
Who once for swine pickt acorns neath the tree
& starving terror of the village brood
Who gleand their scraps of fuel from the wood
When parish charity was vainly tryed
Twas their last refuge—which is now denyd
Small hurt was done by such intrusions there
Claiming the rotten as their harmless share
Which might be thought in reasons candid eye
As sent by providence for such supplye
But turks imperial of the woodland bough
Forbid their trespass in such trifles now
Threatning the dithering wretch that hence proceeds
With jail & whipping for his shamless deeds
Well pleased to bid their feeblest hopes decay
Driving them empty from the woods away
Cheating scant comfort of its pilferd blaze
That doubtless warmd him in his beggars days
Thus knaves in office love to show their power
& unoffending helplessness devour
Sure on the weak to give their fury vent
Were theres no strength injustice to resent
As dogs let loose on harmless flocks at night
Such feel no mercy were they fear no bite

Here comes one different to mere parish stuff
A host of talents met in Mr Puff
Knowing in all things ignorant of none
To him mere genius is but farce & fun
While talent drops as from his finger ends
He knows all names—the greatest are his friends
& tho he never saw your face before
Hell jest at wit & run his nonsense oer
Familiar stuff so thick your shame assails
That even dogs to hear it wag their tails
He is so full of wisdom you would swear
Hed robbed the tree of knowledge till twas bare
& not contented with its store of fruits
Had seized the trunk & grubbed it by the roots
& as for quoting Puffs the man to quote
As if hed read all that was ever wrote
Yet like his coat his taste must ape the fashion
So Shakspears pages are his greatest passion
Nor can a beggar even scrat his head
But theres what Shakspears on the matter said
To show by trifles how the fool has read
Are you a Bard—write prose too—very well
Puff deals in all & does in all excell
& what he will not boast of having done
He casts that crumb of credit at his son
Mechanical pursuits to spout & write
‘My son sir’ rivals copper plate out right
Themes when a boy at school was never won
But foremost tho an infant stood ‘My son’
& so between them knowledge is possest
Like Pharoahs kine they swallow all the rest
Sir Walter, Byron, as his friends he styles
& at your ignorance thumbs his chain & smiles
Tho at the top of Fame[s] high towering tree
These share the worlds applause—poh so does he
If not in print he tells you bye & bye
He has a M.S. shall climb as high
Do you know half the poets—thats as none
He strokes his chin & knows them every one
Poet Philosopher Mus[i]cian
In fact all fames are bound in his Edition
What ere is great Puff is—but nothing small
All greatness dwells in Puff & Puff in all
If chance ere throws a Poet in his way
He worms him in their notice untill they
Half think theyve seen the smirking fiend before
With so much confidence he tongues them oer
But the mere Barber who is daily led
To clean his chin & drab his fustian head
If he but comes when he with friends hath got
He scorns the fellows speech & knows him not
Thus all small matters meet a rude rebuff
From this self oracle renowned Hal Puff
& all thats great he treats as his compeers
A downright Ass in every thing but ears

Others of this small fry as mean as base
May live unknown a pigmy reigning race
& sink to hell from whence their knavery came
As namless tribes unworthy of a name
Left on the dung hill were they reignd to rot
Hated while living & when dead forgot

Here ends the Song—let jealousy condemn
& deep reproofs they merit aimd at them
When pride is touchd & evil consience bit
Each random throw will seem a lucky hit
—If common sense its ears & eyes may trust
Each pictures faithful & each censure just
So let them rail—the proverbs truth is known
‘Were the cap fits theyll wear it as their own’
Full many knaves sharp satires wounds have met
Who live in aqufortis dying yet
In burning ink their scarecrow memorys dwell
Left to the torture of lifes earthly hell
As markd & lasting as the thieves burnt brand
Who lives & dies with villian on his hand