The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
THE
COBLER OF TISSINGTON'S LETTER |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
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THE COBLER OF TISSINGTON'S LETTER
TO DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 1761.
My predecessors often use
To coble verse as well as shoes;
As Partridge (vide Swift's disputes)
Who turned Bootes into boots,
Ah!—Partridge!—I'll be bold to say
Was a rare scholar in his day;
He'd tell you when t'wou'd rain, and when
The weather would be fine agen;
Precisely when your bones should ache,
And when grow sound, by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d'ye see,
By what d'ye call't, astrology,
And skill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em.
And then it griev'd me sore to look
Just at the heel-piece of his book,
Where stood a man, Lord bless my heart!
(No doubt by matthew maticks art,)
Naked, expos'd to public view,
And darts stuck in him through and through.
I warrant him some hardy fool,
Who scorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blasphemously despise
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,
I'm sure 'tis Swift, or Bickerstaff.
To coble verse as well as shoes;
As Partridge (vide Swift's disputes)
Who turned Bootes into boots,
Ah!—Partridge!—I'll be bold to say
Was a rare scholar in his day;
He'd tell you when t'wou'd rain, and when
The weather would be fine agen;
Precisely when your bones should ache,
And when grow sound, by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d'ye see,
By what d'ye call't, astrology,
And skill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em.
And then it griev'd me sore to look
Just at the heel-piece of his book,
Where stood a man, Lord bless my heart!
(No doubt by matthew maticks art,)
91
And darts stuck in him through and through.
I warrant him some hardy fool,
Who scorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blasphemously despise
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,
I'm sure 'tis Swift, or Bickerstaff.
Excuse this bit of a digression,
A cobler's is a learn'd profession.
Why may not I too couple rhimes?
My wit will not disgrace the times;
I too, forsooth, among the rest,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I scarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding;
And wanting that's the sole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.
A cobler's is a learn'd profession.
Why may not I too couple rhimes?
My wit will not disgrace the times;
I too, forsooth, among the rest,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I scarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding;
And wanting that's the sole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.
You know they send me to and fro
To carry messages or so;
And tho' I'm somewhat old and crazy,
I'm still of service to the lazy.
For our good squire has no great notion
Of much alacrity in motion,
And when there's miles betwixt, you know
Would rather send by half, than go;
Then I'm dispatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myself by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excuse to show
Why other people cannot go;
And merit sure I must assume,
For once I went in Garrick's room.
To carry messages or so;
And tho' I'm somewhat old and crazy,
I'm still of service to the lazy.
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Of much alacrity in motion,
And when there's miles betwixt, you know
Would rather send by half, than go;
Then I'm dispatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myself by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excuse to show
Why other people cannot go;
And merit sure I must assume,
For once I went in Garrick's room.
In my old age, 'twere wond'rous hard
To come to town, as trav'lling card,
Then let the post convey me there,
The clerk's direction tell him where,
For, tho' I ramble at this rate
He writes it all, and I dictate;
For I'm resolv'd—by help of neighbour,
(Who keeps a school, and goes to labour)
To tell you all things as they past;
Coblers will go beyond their last,
And so I'm told will authors too,
—But that's a point I leave to you;
Cobling extends a thousand ways,
Some coble shoes, some coble plays;
Some—but this jingle's vastly clever,
It makes a body write for ever.
While with the motion of the pen,
Method pops in and out agen,
So, as I said, I thought it better,
To set me down and think a letter,
And without any more ado,
Seal up my mind, and send it you.
You'll ask me, master, why I chuse
To plague your worship with my muse?
I'll tell you then—will truth offend?
Tho' cobler, yet I love my friend.
Besides, I like you merry folks,
Who make their puns, and crack their jokes;
Your jovial hearts are never wrong,
I love a story, or a song;
But always feel most grievous qualms,
From Westley's hymns, or Wisdom's psalms.
To come to town, as trav'lling card,
Then let the post convey me there,
The clerk's direction tell him where,
For, tho' I ramble at this rate
He writes it all, and I dictate;
For I'm resolv'd—by help of neighbour,
(Who keeps a school, and goes to labour)
To tell you all things as they past;
Coblers will go beyond their last,
And so I'm told will authors too,
—But that's a point I leave to you;
Cobling extends a thousand ways,
Some coble shoes, some coble plays;
93
It makes a body write for ever.
While with the motion of the pen,
Method pops in and out agen,
So, as I said, I thought it better,
To set me down and think a letter,
And without any more ado,
Seal up my mind, and send it you.
You'll ask me, master, why I chuse
To plague your worship with my muse?
I'll tell you then—will truth offend?
Tho' cobler, yet I love my friend.
Besides, I like you merry folks,
Who make their puns, and crack their jokes;
Your jovial hearts are never wrong,
I love a story, or a song;
But always feel most grievous qualms,
From Westley's hymns, or Wisdom's psalms.
My father often told me, one day
Was for religion—that was Sunday,
When I should go to prayers twice,
And hear our parson battle vice;
And dress'd in all my finest cloaths,
Twang the psalmoddy thro' my nose.
But betwixt churches, for relief,
Eat bak'd plumb-pudding, and roast-beef;
And chearful, without sin, regale
With good home-brew'd, and nappy ale,
But not one word of fasting greetings,
And dry religious singing meetings.
But here comes folks a-preaching to us
A saving doctrine to undo us,
Whose notions fanciful and scurvy,
Turn old religion topsy-turvy.
I'll give my pleasure up for no man,
And an't I right now, master Show-man?
You seem'd to me a person civil,
Our parson gives you to the devil;
And says, as how, that after grace,
You laugh'd directly in his face;
Ay, laugh'd out-right (as I'm a sinner)
I should have lik'd t' have been at dinner,
Not for the sake of master's fare,
But to have seen the doctor stare.
Odzooks, I think, he's perfect mad,
Scar'd out of all the wits he had,
For wheresoe'er the doctor comes,
He pulls his wig, and bites his thumbs,
And mutters, in a broken rage,
The Minor, Garrick, Foote, the Stage;
(For I must blab it out—but hist,
His reverence is a methodist)
And preaches like an errant fury,
'Gainst all your show folks about Drury,
Says actors all are hellish imps,
And managers the devil's pimps.
He knows not what he sets about;
Puts on his surplice inside out,
Mistakes the lessons in the church,
Or leaves a collect in the lurch;
And t'other day—God help his head,
The gard'ner's wife being brought to bed,
When sent for to baptize the child
His wig awry, and staring wild,
He laid the prayer-book flat before him,
And read the burial service o'er him.
—The folks must wait without their shoes,
For I must tell you all the news.
For we have had a deal to do,
Our squire's become a show-man too!
And horse and foot arrive in flocks,
To see his worship's famous rocks,
Whilst, he with humorous delight,
Walks all about and shews the sight,
Points out the place, where trembling you
Had like t' have bid the world adieu;
It bears the sad remembrance still,
And people call it Garrick's Hill.
The goats their usual distance keep,
We never have recourse to sheep;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to say,
But I am sent express away,
To setch the squire's three children down
To Tissington from Derby town;
And Allen says he'll mend my rhime,
When e'er I write a second time.
Was for religion—that was Sunday,
When I should go to prayers twice,
And hear our parson battle vice;
And dress'd in all my finest cloaths,
Twang the psalmoddy thro' my nose.
94
Eat bak'd plumb-pudding, and roast-beef;
And chearful, without sin, regale
With good home-brew'd, and nappy ale,
But not one word of fasting greetings,
And dry religious singing meetings.
But here comes folks a-preaching to us
A saving doctrine to undo us,
Whose notions fanciful and scurvy,
Turn old religion topsy-turvy.
I'll give my pleasure up for no man,
And an't I right now, master Show-man?
You seem'd to me a person civil,
Our parson gives you to the devil;
And says, as how, that after grace,
You laugh'd directly in his face;
Ay, laugh'd out-right (as I'm a sinner)
I should have lik'd t' have been at dinner,
Not for the sake of master's fare,
But to have seen the doctor stare.
Odzooks, I think, he's perfect mad,
Scar'd out of all the wits he had,
For wheresoe'er the doctor comes,
He pulls his wig, and bites his thumbs,
And mutters, in a broken rage,
The Minor, Garrick, Foote, the Stage;
95
His reverence is a methodist)
And preaches like an errant fury,
'Gainst all your show folks about Drury,
Says actors all are hellish imps,
And managers the devil's pimps.
He knows not what he sets about;
Puts on his surplice inside out,
Mistakes the lessons in the church,
Or leaves a collect in the lurch;
And t'other day—God help his head,
The gard'ner's wife being brought to bed,
When sent for to baptize the child
His wig awry, and staring wild,
He laid the prayer-book flat before him,
And read the burial service o'er him.
—The folks must wait without their shoes,
For I must tell you all the news.
For we have had a deal to do,
Our squire's become a show-man too!
And horse and foot arrive in flocks,
To see his worship's famous rocks,
Whilst, he with humorous delight,
Walks all about and shews the sight,
Points out the place, where trembling you
Had like t' have bid the world adieu;
96
And people call it Garrick's Hill.
The goats their usual distance keep,
We never have recourse to sheep;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to say,
But I am sent express away,
To setch the squire's three children down
To Tissington from Derby town;
And Allen says he'll mend my rhime,
When e'er I write a second time.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |