Merchant poems |
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The Webster's Wife's Tears over her Husband's Testicles, who Castrate
himself: In a Dialogue 'twixt her and the Matrons of Middleton.
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 | Merchant |  |
The Webster's Wife's Tears over her Husband's Testicles, who Castrate himself: In a Dialogue 'twixt her and the Matrons of Middleton.
Dole, dole, dear Cummers, dismal News!
The Webster Lown's lost both his Clews,
My Luckie Loom will idle be,
For neither Woft, nor Worp, has he,
Oft has he stoln to bring us Pelf!
But now the Rogue steals from himself;
Himself quoth I, confound the Villain!
All that's his own's not worth a Shilling,
What signifies his Heart and Head?
No more than theirs that's sev'n Years dead,
The Loss of these I'd ne'er bewail,
His only Talent was his Tail.
And now, alake, alake, dear Kate
He's laid it on a Pewter Plate,
Wo to him and his bloody Knife,
A bonny Break-fast to a Wife!
The Webster Lown's lost both his Clews,
My Luckie Loom will idle be,
For neither Woft, nor Worp, has he,
Oft has he stoln to bring us Pelf!
But now the Rogue steals from himself;
Himself quoth I, confound the Villain!
All that's his own's not worth a Shilling,
What signifies his Heart and Head?
No more than theirs that's sev'n Years dead,
The Loss of these I'd ne'er bewail,
His only Talent was his Tail.
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He's laid it on a Pewter Plate,
Wo to him and his bloody Knife,
A bonny Break-fast to a Wife!
I must Inter with Grief and Pain,
The Thing will never rise again,
For let him steal as fast's he can,
He'll never make a standing Man:
Poor Dactylus, you'll soon be miss'd,
I'll make you Flannels and a Chest,
Bury you at the Martyrs Tomb;
As formerly in my own Womb;
When Cammeronians come with Groans,
And sigh, upon their Martyrs Bones,
To mourn with them I will not fail,
Upon my Cammeronian's Tail:
Say, Jenny, Bessie, Kate, and Ann?
What shall be done to this base Man!
Quoth Bessie let us e'er we rise,
Pronounce a Verdict of Assize;
Go take him to the West Brae-head,
And Stone the Stoneless Villain dead.
The Thing will never rise again,
For let him steal as fast's he can,
He'll never make a standing Man:
Poor Dactylus, you'll soon be miss'd,
I'll make you Flannels and a Chest,
Bury you at the Martyrs Tomb;
As formerly in my own Womb;
When Cammeronians come with Groans,
And sigh, upon their Martyrs Bones,
To mourn with them I will not fail,
Upon my Cammeronian's Tail:
Say, Jenny, Bessie, Kate, and Ann?
What shall be done to this base Man!
Quoth Bessie let us e'er we rise,
Pronounce a Verdict of Assize;
Go take him to the West Brae-head,
And Stone the Stoneless Villain dead.
Says, Jenny do not let us stone him,
But all sit down and Piss upon him,
For since he's been, such Rogue and Fool
To mangle thus the Marriage Tool,
Most just to put him to Disgrace!
Let's make a Piss-pot of his Face!
Te he, quoth Anne and Kate that's best,
And we'll strone Fine, among the rest!
So let us take a hearty Bicker,
And that will make us Piss the Quicker.
But all sit down and Piss upon him,
For since he's been, such Rogue and Fool
To mangle thus the Marriage Tool,
Most just to put him to Disgrace!
Let's make a Piss-pot of his Face!
Te he, quoth Anne and Kate that's best,
And we'll strone Fine, among the rest!
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And that will make us Piss the Quicker.
| Merchant | |