University of Virginia Library

The PUPPET-SHOW.

A Tale.

At Skipton Wake, where once a year,
With sports and pastime and good cheer,
The Lads and Lasses blithe regale,
And feast on cheese-cakes, tarts, and ale;
(Wakes! the old Midwives constant Friend,
Where frolic Love and Joys attend;
Where mad-cap pranks Dame Nature shows,
And Maidens their green-sickness lose)
Roger to shew his taste polite,
Mun visit Punch forsooth one night:
Here, undisturb'd by Critic rules,
And hemm'd by droves of neighbour fools,
The music, coarse-daub'd scenes, and light,
Cheaply afford our Hodge delight:
At Punch's smut which he thought wit,
His cudden sides were like to split;
And at each joke, his lanthorn jaws
Extended wide, roar loud applause;
Or when Distress, with awkward mien,
From some fair wooden nymph or queen,
With tragic handkerchief appears,
Roger could scarce refrain from tears;
The Gothic Story with our Clown,
As Gospel Truth goes glibly down:—
Not Quixotte's self was more deceiv'd,
When Melisandra's fate he griev'd,
And of the squeaking pigmy crew,
His vengeful sword whole squadrons slew:—
The Curtain dropt, the Drama ended,
The motley audience homeward tended,
Clowns, Nurses, Children, all well pleas'd,
And of their long-stor'd farthings eas'd;
While some more curious than the rest,
Behind the curtain rudely prest:—
On seeing this, our Roger too,
To ease his longings needs must go;
With fear and diffidence he enters,
And scarce to look about him ventures;
Here dangling on a pin were seen
A purpled king, or tinsel'd queen;
Here Punch with sceptred princes tumbled,
Here priests with Beelzebub lay jumbled;
Here sidelong hanging by a wire,
A chop-fallen hero, prince, or 'squire;
With such mock grandeur thus surrounded,
Poor Hodge, alas! was quite confounded;—
Twirling his hat, he scrapes and bows,
And his extent of breeding shews;
The rest, at Hodge's droll mistake,
Laugh 'till their sides and midriffs ake;
“Sure, never yet was seen,” cries one,
“Such a besotted simpleton;
“Were you not blind, you might behold
“'Tis tinsel this you take for gold;
“And what you fancy flesh and blood,
“Is naught save frippery rags and wood,
“That cannot speak, look, move, or stand,
“But owe all to the artist's hand,
“Who fix'd on high, lordly presides,
“And with a wire each action guides.”
Roger on this seem'd quite amaz'd,
He gap'd, he scrat his head, he gaz'd,
While gybes from ev'ry side accost him,
And laughing boobies coarsely roast him;
Each judging of his own great wit,
By neighbour Hodge's want of it.
“Nay, haw'd ye, haw'd ye, where's the wonder
“That I,” quo' Hodge, “should make this blunder?
“Sine, as a many do report,
“In London—nay some say, at Court—
“There's nought more common than to see
“The beaver doff'd and bended knee,
“To strutting wooden-headed beaus,
“With empty sobs and tinsel cloaths;
“Who, puppet like, ne'er speak or move,
“But as they're wire-led from above;
“And like these folk aside are thrown,
“As useless Logs—the work once done.”