University of Virginia Library

THE Parish Gutt'lers: OR, THE Humours of a Select Vestry.

As Nations oft by cunning Knaves,
Are made consenting Fools and Slaves,
And tempted by delusive Arts,
To wrong themselves with willing Hearts,
Till Poverty creeps on at last,
And minds them of their Follies past,
Who then to late behold the Craft
And Fraud of those they've rais'd aloft;
So Vestries that are stil'd Select,
Whom many blame, but few respect,
Old surly Sots, and greedy Hounds,
Whose Wisdom lies in Pence and Pounds,
O'er injur'd Parishes preside,
And all their suff'ring Neighbours ride,
Oppress the Humble, wrong the Poor,
And half the Parish-Dues devour,
Feast their own Guts, like brawny Boars,
And starve their hungry Pensioners,
Frequent the Taverns Night and Day,
And live in Pomp on Parish-Pay;
Surfeit wirh Sausages and Fowls,
And drown their poor neglected Souls
In costly Wines, which few can drink,
But those that deal in publick Chink.
Nor are they thus content, alone,
To guzzle down what's not their own,
But mend their Fortunes, which is worse,
By tamp'ring with the Parish-Purse.
If Peggy, Betty, Nanny, Kather'n,
Or any tallow-fac'd young Slattern,
That pines at Heart, and grieves in Thought,
For want of knowing what is what;
If her old Father's Shop or Stall
Stands but without the City-Wall,
When he's Church-Ward'n, she need not fear
A Husband in that joyful Year;
And if a Dowry with his Daughter
Be wanting, to cement the Matter,
He'll raise a Bag, and richly cloath her,
By some damn'd Over-rate or other.
Nay! grind the Poor behind the Curtain,
Rather than not advance a Fortune.
And thus by Rogu'ry and Extortion,
Make the whole Parish pay the Portion.
So Bakers think it no Collusion,
To raise, by way of Contribution,
A Sunday's Pudding, by partaking
Of ev'ry one that's brought to baking.
From Gen'rals, which my sporting Muse
Does only as a Proem use,
She now descends to stand the Bears,
And sing of late Particulars,
That Fact may, in some measure, shew
Her former Allegations true,
And Parishes may see their Rulers
Display'd in their Cameleon Colours,
Who, Proteus-like, can change their Shapes,
To Lyons, Asses, Wolves, or Apes,
And for their Int'rest, and their Ease,
Imploy two diff'rent Consciences,
One very large, to rob the Spittle,
The other very dark and little;
The most capacious, to be sure,
They use when they defraud the Poor,
Because they never think, in such
Affairs, they serve themselves too much.
The same good Conscience gives Directions
In all Assessments, and Collections,
And dictates what they ought to do,
In Vestry, and in Tavern too.
In Acts of Friendship, or Compassion,
Or Works that merit Commendation,
In helping Widows in Distress,
Or Orphans in a wretched Case,
In serving God, or being just
To those for whom they are in Trust,
Then little Conscience doth appear,
And gives the Rule by which they steer.
Yet wise and honest Men deride 'em,
Tho' they've two Consciences to guide 'em;
Because their Actions shew, in troth,
One good one's richly worth 'em both.
As Spaniards with two Weapons swagger,
A huge long Sword, and little Dagger,
With which they guard themselves from Danger,
But often wound the peaceful Stranger;
So Vestry Bullies, when they please,
Misuse their Double Consciences,
Secure themselves, and Knaves that love 'em,
But injure those that disapprove 'em.
As modest Dames, with bashful Faces,
When forc'd to speak in bawdy Cases,
Make twenty Shuffles to evade
Paw Words, which must at last be said:
So my poor silly shame-fac'd Muse,
Now here Subpœna'd to accuse
A Pack of Sots, and Capon-Eaters,
Of many Crimes before their Betters,
Seems backward to expose their Failings,
As if avers'd to publick Railings.
However, since she must declare
The Knav'ries of this Grand Affair,
She hopes, unblam'd, to say or sing
The Truth. And so, GOD save the King.
To all wise Men of London Town,
And grave old Dunces, be it known,
Without that Gate that bears the Title
Of Rev'rend—leading to the Spittle,
There lies an ancient, ill-pav'd, hobbling
Out-Parish, fam'd of late for Squabbling,
Which has more Courts and Allies in it,
Than I could name by this Day se'ennight,
Stuff'd with such People, and such Matter,
That would disgrace the lowest Satyr.
Not but each open Street abounds
With Men of Sense, and Men of Pounds,
But Gossips, Trulls, and Marshal's Baili's,
Affect to dwell in Nooks and Allies;
As Owls, and other Birds of Night,
In Barns, and hollow Trees delight.
This ancient Parish, partly nam'd
Before, for present Discord fam'd,
Is wisely govern'd by the Mastry
Of those that call themselves a Vestry,
Their Number, by their own Accounts,
To about Twenty six amounts;
A small Detachment out of which,
More sly, more crafty, and more rich,
Govern the rest by Tavern/Treats,
And thus they carry on their Cheats.
So Statesmen make whole Nations Fools,
When Ays and Noes become their Tools.
But whence these modern Vestries, call'd
Select, derive the Pow'r they hold,
Like many others, I'm inclin'd
To think, is difficult to find;
Tho', I confess, the most concise
Account I ever heard, is this:
Demetrius being now withdrawn,
And Vestry glad to find him gone,
A grave Old Hunx, on this Occasion,
Began the following wise Oration.
Brethren, I say, on t'other Hand,
It may be, you misunderstand
The bitter Words this Man has utter'd,
Or if you do not, I'll be butter'd;
But let me see; where am I got?
I say, that is, I vow I'm out;
Good Brethren, help me in a little,
I know his Meaning to a Tittle:
Pray hear me, Sirs, I have spoke before
Lord-May'rs, a dozen times, or more,
Nay, Judges too, in Days of Yore.
But many Words will never fill
A Bushel, I remember still;
And, therefore, to be short and plain,
Must tell you, that this angry Man
Is mad he doth not drink and eat
His Share of ev'ry Parish-Treat;
He means not to affront, or wrong us,
But only wants to be among us;
And thinks, because we don't invite him
To e'ery Banquet, that we slight him:
Therefore, in my Opinion, really,
My honest Brethren, let me tell ye,
The way to stop his clam'ring thus,
Is e'en to make him one of us;
Observe me, When a Member rails
Against the Court he seldom fails
Of some Preferment that prevents
His further noisy Discontents;
And when his Mouth's once stop'd with Riches,
Farewell to all his biting Speeches;
Therefore take my Advice, you'll find
Our Neighbour soon will change his Mind.
This florid pertinent Oration,
Tho' spoke with no small Hesitation,
Prevail'd so greatly with the rest,
That the whole Vestry acquiess'd
In his Opinion, and agreed
To choose, with all convenient speed,
Demetrius, knowing no Man fitter,
To be install'd a Capon Eater,
Who when Elected to the Sweets
Of all their costly Parish Treats,
Drew in his Horns when thus befriended,
And so the mighty Quarrel ended.
But finding now himself exalted
Above each other Nighbour dolted,
And growing proud of his Admission
Into this Parish Inquisition,
Was ask'd by a familiar Friend,
What Notions now he entertain'd
Of that Assembly which had been
So long the Object of his Spleen.
Demetrius with a shaking Head,
Reply'd, Ah! Neighbour, what I said
Before I knew them, I confess,
Was but a wrong, ill-natur'd Guess,
I own, I thought 'em then a Crew
Of tricking, cheating, Knaves, 'tis true,
But now I sit, and vote among 'em,
The Lord forbid that I should wrong 'em;
I find 'em, as I hope to thrive,
The worthy'st Gentlemen alive;
I did not think there could have been
A Set of such wise, honest Men,
I dare to swear they would not hurt
A Worm that crawls upon the Dirt,
Much less do any publick Wrong to
The good old Parish they belong to.
HEY day! reply'd his Friend, I find
Of late you've strangely chang'd your Mind,
It was but t'other Day you nos'd 'em,
And as a Pack of Knaves expos'd 'em,
But now they've won your good Affection,
They're all turn'd Saints since your Election.
Whence I conclude this must be true,
You've mended them, or they've spoil'd you.
Demetrius answer'd, Let 'em be
What e'er they would, before they'd me,
I can sincerely swear and vow,
They're all good honest Mortals now.
So Statesmen, out of publick Trust,
Count others that are in, unjust;
But when themselves are once embrac'd,
And chosen in amongst the rest,
They often prove as great Transgressors,
As those that were their Predecessors.
Nor are these Corm'rants of the Parish,
Content to guttle, swill, and cherish
Their own immod'rate Appetites,
With costly Wines, and dainty Bits;
But the Church-Ward'n, when e'ery Sinner
Has cram'd his stretching Guts at Dinner,
Must send the Remnants of each Goose,
And other Fragments to his House,
Which ought to be at Tavern Door
Dispos'd of to the hungry Poor,
Beaause their Money often pays
Th'Expence of those devouring Days;
And therefore, have undoubted Titles
At Feasts, to all their broken Vict'als.
Nay! if the Wretches had their Due,
Should really sit at Table too;
For they, whose Money makes the Feast,
Should have an ample Share at least.
But Slaves and Beggars always must
Be wrong'd by those they're forc'd to trust.
In Hospitals, if well endow'd,
The Stewards all grow Rich and Proud,
Whilst the poor Pensioners are fed,
With Half their Due of Flesh and Bread,
Nay! punish'd, if they scatter Words,
Because their Servants are their Lords.
Our Parish-Beadles, heretofore,
Were Beggars, now they're Men in Pow'r;
And, often by the Choice of Fools,
Are made illit'rate Constables,
Who with their mercenary Staves,
Protect Night-walking Sluts, and Knaves
For Bribes; and always are as ready
T'oppress the Honest, and the Needy.
Thus some who wear the Parish-Cloth,
Sworn Constables, and Beadles both,
Shall make by the Abuse of Pow'r,
A Hundred Pounds a Year, or more;
And in the Parish take more Freedom,
Than those that pay to cloath and feed 'em,
Can swear, forswear, present, indict,
For Int'rest some, and some for Spight;
And as Church-Ward'ns direct their Mouths,
Can misapply both Lyes and Truths,
To stem the Laws, or puzzle all
The Justices at Hicks's-Hall;
And by false Oaths convict, or save
The poor old Bawd, or guilty Knave;
And as their Palms are greas'd, can make
Th'Offender either White, or Black.
These are the Vestry-Lacquies, dress'd
Like Apes, in Hats and Jackets lac'd;
That when the Parish-Gluttons meet,
O'er Pigs and Geese to swill and eat,
Tom Gripe, in all his liv'ry Pomp,
May wait at Mr. Church-Ward'ns Rump,
And let his Tun-Gut Master see,
What 'tis to dine like Quality;
Besides, he is a useful Tool,
To slide away a good fat Fowl,
Or Slice of Ven'son, and a Bottle,
To Mr. Church-Warden's Tittle-Tattle,
Who sits at Home adorn'd, tho' old,
With spreading Hoop, and Chain of Gold,
One monstrous wide about her Placket,
The other fasten'd by a Locket;
As if these Gugaws, which the Fair,
Around their Tails and Necks do wear,
Are only meant to let us know,
Tho' chain'd above, they're loose below.
Thus English Wives are for submitting,
To wear such Lockets as are fitting;
But scorn, like tame Italian Hussies,
To suffer their cross jealous Spouses
To padlock up their Tuzzy-Muzzies.
For British Ladies will defend
Their ancient Rights from End to End,
And will not be deny'd the Freedom
Of Tongue, or Tail, when e're they need 'em.
'Tis true, some Men have been too free
Of that dear Blessing, Liberty,
And sold their native Rights for less,
Than hungry Esau's dainty Mess;
Fair Madams, therefore, be no Slaves
To selling Fools, or buying Knaves;
But wear the Breeches if you can,
And tyrannize o'er silly Man,
Who sure would, rather of the two,
Be govern'd, and enslav'd by you,
Than barrack'd by the Lord knows who.
Reader, Excuse this short Digression,
Forgiveness should succeed Confession.
And now my careless Muse, who thus
Has been misled by Pegasus,
Shall of the Headstrong Jadé get Mast'ry,
And once more spur her to the Vestry.
Where merrily she means to take
A transient View, for Justice Sake;
That by one Sett of Parish-Rulers,
Well painted in their proper Colours,
The World may see how Fools are cheated,
By Knaves on upper Benches seated,
Who of their Betters learn the Way
To wrong the Poor as well as they.
And if we carefully inspect
One modern Vestry, call'd Select,
And give the Characters of those
That lead the Parish by the Nose,
The same may be apply'd to all
The Vestries round the City-Wall;
For Foxes will be Foxes still,
And prey on Geese, live where they will.
The first of this selected Crew,
That stands expos'd to present View,
Is an old hamm'ring Sot that deals
In Culinary Utensils;
And to indulge us in our Sins,
Sells Tavern Pots, and Nipperkins,
Huge Member-Mugs, call'd Looking-Glasses,
Not for our Faces, but our A**ses;
And useful Closet-Pans, design'd
To ease us when we're loose behind,
Or when venereal Symptoms call us
To Breakfast upon Pills, or Bolus.
Well may this cunning Fox grow rich,
That furnishes both Mouth and Breech,
With such Conveniencies that neither
Can well be destitute of either.
Besides, like Alchymists of old,
Transmutes base Metal into Gold,
Or can to Silver turn a Jordan,
Which others buy to drop a T---d in,
And this he does his Foes must own,
Without the Philosophick Stone,
Which none but South-Sea, to our cost,
Could ever find, but now 'tis lost.
One Excellency more does lodge in
This old Rheumatical Curmudgeon,
For tho' he feels in Change of Weather,
Th'Effects of Vice and Age together,
And hobbles when he creeps about,
Like an old Stallion quite worn out;
Yet he can act a Comic Part,
With so much Nature, mix'd with Art,
That all Spectators who behold
His Monkey Gestures, now he's old,
Must think he had been bred an Actor,
Or Andrew to some German Doctor;
For no Jack-Pudding, Playhouse Fool,
Or Pickl'd-Herring, taught by Rule,
Can move more Laughter, gain more Praise,
Or from our Pewt'rer win the Bays,
Especially, when nicely dress'd
In an old Beggar-Woman's Vest,
Whose Rags, and Party-colour'd Patches,
Should plead for such distressed Wretches,
Which none but an unthinking Fool,
Would turn to Sport, and Ridicule.
However, our wise Common-C---cil,
Who drives all Mumpers from his Groundcil,
Thinks it an Excellence to play
The Begging Part as well as they;
And therefore, at a publick Meeting,
Thought it of late most wisely fitting,
To dress himself in Rags and Tatters,
Like one of these poor ancient Creatures,
Whose humble Mein, and piteous Tone,
Their Cough, and now and then a Groan,
He mimick'd so extreamly well,
That all allow'd him to excel
The archest Fool, or merry Fellow,
That e'er appear'd in Red and Yellow:
A Talent that might rightly square
With a young Rake, or strolling Play'r,
But can't in Reason be allow'd
A Gift, to make an Elder proud,
A Vestry-Don of great Regard,
And Common-Council in his Ward;
A grave Old-Hunx, that hopes to wear
A Chain, and live to be Lord-May'r.
What! tho' he did his Servant wed,
And finely brought himself to Bed;
A Lord-Chief-Justice, to his Fame,
Was once so wise to do the same.
Therefore that Failing we'll excuse,
And leave him to his loving Spouse,
A Porter's Relict, who can bear,
More active Love than he can spare.
The next Caponian Fornicator
That claims a Place in this dull Satyr,
Is one that wears a Head almost
As large as any Bull can boast,
Whose spacious Mouth, when e'er it opens
At roasted Sirloins, Geese, or Capons,
Is so extensive that 'tis fit
To gorge a Pound at e'ery Bit;
Nor does his Belly shame his Face,
But struts with such a Giant's Grace,
As if his Guts, for their Relief,
Were ne'er without two Stone of Beef,
Besides some Pounds of Sausage Links,
And white-leg'd Fowls, to stop the Chinks,
Wash'd freely down, without all Question,
With Quarts of Claret for Digestion.
Thus Swills, and Crams, 'till grown a large
Fat Monster, at the Parish Charge,
As Courtiers grow profusely Great,
By Taxes to support the State.
Nor can a Bagpige make more Noise,
Or drown his loud Stentorian Voice,
Which deafens all that hear him Bawl,
In Vestry, or in Common-Hall!
Nor is he such a gifted Brother,
To talk more wisely than another,
Because in Sound, and not in Sense,
Consists his loud-mouth'd Eloquence.
His Charity is something more
Than common, to the Parish Poor;
For when he was their upper Guardian,
Or in that Office call'd Church-Warden,
When e'er distressed Objects came
To ask Relief, in Heaven's Name,
Instead of granting what might ease
Their craving, sharp Necessities,
He'd with indecent Answers fool 'em,
And bow, and cringe to ridicule 'em;
Ask 'em what Comfort they could have,
Or Bus'ness on this side the Grave,
Swearing he'd give 'em Alms to buy
Them Coffins, if they wou'd but die.
And thus dispatch'd the Sick and Old,
Oppress'd with Hunger, and with Cold,
Without the least Commiseration
Of Objects worthy of Compassion.
Such are the Drones that live at Ease,
And rule, and ride whole Parishes.
Upon a Time when this old Sinner
Had over-gorg'd himself at Dinner,
And greatly surfeited his Blood,
With Fowls too fat, and Wines too good,
The Poor grew joyful at his Sickness,
And cry'd, Pray GOD increase his Weakness;
But fear'd he only was discharging
The white-leg'd Capons he'd been gorging,
Enquiring daily in the Street,
What! has not Old-Nick fetch'd him yet?
And thus the Poor were pretty even
With him that mock'd both them and Heav'n.
This is that famous Maggot-monger,
Who'll ne'r be wiser till he's younger;
A Leader of the Vestry Crew,
And one o'th' Common-Council too,
Who close confin'd, for little reason,
A Porter middle Leg in Prison;
And for dispersing Papers there,
Adorn'd with his own Character,
Had sent him to that shameful Place,
Where Whores beat Hemp, for want of Grace
But knotty Tom escap'd that Jayl,
By timely putting in good Bail.
And thus the Porter, and his Friends
Baffl'd his Adversary's Ends.
This also was the Vestry-Don,
That went of late before Sir John,
To back the good Church-Ward'n in Matter
Still to be canvas'd by their Betters.
To th'Parish-Poor, before my Lord,
They seem'd to have a great Regard,
And therefore humbly hop'd and pray'd,
His wiser Lordship would perswade,
Or by the dint of Pow'r command
The Overseers, out of hand,
T'advance full sixty Pounds, no less,
To serve the Poor in their Distress.
But their Opponents, Men of Sence,
Knowing their Plea was but Pretence,
And that their Thirty Pounds a-piece
Would half be spent in Pigs, and Geese,
Refus'd t'advance so great a Sum,
And so our Vestry-Men, hum, drum,
Like Blockheads as they went, came home.
The next Parochial Capon-Eater,
That falls beneath the Lash of Satyr,
Is a poor thin-jaw'd, ghastly Soul,
That deals in Powder, and in Ball,
Not such as bloody Soldiers use
In Battle, to destroy their Foes;
But wholsome, fragrant, Ammunition,
That puts us in a sweet Condition;
With which each Tonsor puffs, and cleans
Our Wigs, and mundifies our Chins;
Such as the sanguine Dame applies,
To hide her Carrots from our Eyes,
And such as all the cleanly Sex
Sweeten their Hair with, and their Necks,
And oft correct those Imperfections
Which in nice Lovers raise Objections.
This mortal Shadow of a Man,
Whose Calves a single Hand may span,
And whose lank Sides appear as lean
As a poor Greyhound's, starv'd within,
Tho' by his Belly, one would think
He seldom us'd to eat or drink,
But like an old dry Stallion looks,
As if just risen from a Flux;
Yet at a Parish-Feast, where Fowls
Are sacrific'd to Kites and Owls,
And noble Sirloins grace the Board,
With Pigs, and other Dainties stor'd,
At such a Meal he'll cram more Pullet,
And other Poultry down his Gullet,
Than two young Plowmen can devour,
After hard Labour, in an Hour:
Nor does he fail at such a Meeting,
To drink according to his Eating,
But in Proportion swills down Claret,
Altho' he looks no better for it,
Than if for Years he had been fed
Scot-like, with Water, and Oat-Bread.
So hungry Marriot, at a Meal,
Would gorge five Stone of Beef, or Veal;
That is, he'd eat twelve Hours, or longer,
But ne'er the fatter grow, or stronger.
Yet tho' our thin-jaw'd Powder Monkey,
When dainty Bits are had for thank ye,
Will stuff, and gormandize himself,
Like greedy Hound, or rav'nous Wolf,
I'th' Time that he presided o'er
The Parish, and the Parish-Poor,
He took more Caution than was fitting,
To keep the last from over-eating;
For if Powdero chanc'd to meet
A Pensioner, in Lane, or Street,
Without a Badge, he'd stop their Pay
A Week, and make 'em Fast and Pray,
Whilst he himself, without Remorse,
Would to the Tavern have Recourse,
And there mispending what was theirs,
Deserve their Curses, not their Pray'rs.
So Parish Rulers often stray
From Church upon the Sabbath-Day,
To punish e'ery Sot's Offence,
Not for the Sin, but sake of Pence;
Which, like our Skeleton, they spend
I'th' House of some officious Friend;
And thus commit, by their Neglect
Of Church, worse Ills than they detect.
So fare thee well, consumptive Mortal,
Too thin and skinny to be Heart-whole,
Would'st thou prolong a happy Life,
With, once thy Servant, now thy Wife;
Which Match, altho' it was no Crime,
Postpon'd thy Honours for a time,
And kept thee back from having Place
A Vestry, to thy great Disgrace,)
Take this Advice, swill Punch no more,
Spend less, do Justice to the Poor;
Nor be by too much Love berest
Of that small Modicum that's lest;
Thy feeble Loins, and slender Shanks,
Were never form'd for am'rous Pranks;
And tho' some Women are so fair
That Flesh and Blood cannot forbear,
Yet Skin and Bones should have a Care.
Reader, Pray ope both Eyes and Ears,
For now more Noise than Work appears,
To one smart Stroke that hits the Nail
O'th' Head, he strikes six more that fail,
Yet makes th'Imployer pay as much
For those that miss, as those that touch
This also is a Parish Fox,
That dives into the Pauper's Box;
A craving mercenary Hunx,
That does not only deal in Trunks,
But has enlarg'd his noisy Trade
To building Houses for the Dead,
Which caus'd him to refuse free Quarter
To a defunct poor Wretch, a Porter,
Because his Brother had allow'd
A good Elm Coffin, and a Shrowd;
So that the Widow being driven
To send back what her Broth'r'd given,
Was forc'd to wrap the poor Cadaver,
In Shrowd that scarce would hang together,
And squeeze her quondam Husband into
A Slit-deal-Coffin, old, and thin too,
Which must be by the Church-Ward'n found,
Before he'd grant the Bury'ng-Ground,
For which he did vouchsafe to charge
A Price extravagantly large,
Having the Parish Purse in hand,
To satisfy his own Demand;
Which was no sooner made than paid.
And thus to propagate his Trade,
Wrong'd both the Living and the Dead.
A fair young Girl, some say a Maid,
Much indispos'd, and sick in Bed,
Our Knick-knock Warden living near,
In Hopes to bury her, went to see her,
Pretending kindly to assist
Her Soul, as if he'ad been a Priest;
But when her weeping Friends were gone,
And all, except himself withdrawn,
This hopeful Guide began to feel
What is not modest to reveal;
As if he fancy'd, from his Vileness,
The real Cause of all her Illness
Lay hid, where Female Honour lies
Obscurely fenc'd from human Eyes;
Attempted therefore to apply
A base, tho' pleasing, Remedy.
But she, not able to endure,
In Sickness, such a boist'rous Cure,
Cry'd out, e're he her Limbs had spread,
And scar'd the Doctor from her Bed,
Before his Lewdness had inclin'd her
To take the Nostrum he design'd her:
But she without it soon grew well,
And liv'd to broach the merry Tale.
Besides, it is by some allow'd,
That he, by Art, can make one Shrowd
Serve twenty Corps, by such a quick
Conveyance, none can see the Trick,
But, Jugler-like, can cheat the Eye
Of e'ery watchful Stander by.
Poor Knocky sneaking to another
Tavern, there met a Vestry Brother,
And other chosen Friends to treat,
Charging whate'er they drank or eat,
Good Wine, fat White-legs roast, and boil'd
To one Dol. Gulpin, big with Child,
A Faggot-Drab beneath their Care,
That lives no mortal Man knows where
Thus Ward'ns, like Captains, muster some
Ne'er seen abroad, nor found at home;
And keep in constant Pay, 'tis said,
Others that have for Years been dead.
The next that follows in his Turn,
Is crusty G---, the Under-War'n;
Who, by the W---mil o'er his Door,
Discovers how he grinds the Poor;
And by another in his Head,
Grinds the whole Parish, as 'tis said;
Brown G---e sometimes the People call him
Because that Title does most gall him,
Giv'n him by th'Poor, by whom he's curst
For selling second Bread for first:
Nor have the Pensioners the Freedom
To buy their Loaves whene'er they need 'en
Of any Baking-Hunx but G---ge,
Whose Weight is seldom found too large;
Therefore the Parish-Poor are paid,
Not in hard Money, but coarse Bread.
The Head Church-War'n he Tickets gives 'em
To the Low'r Warden, who deceives 'em.
And thus the Poor, to most Mens Wonder,
Betwixt the Upper Crust, and Under,
Are choak'd with Bread, as many think,
For Want of Pence to purchase Drink:
Whilst Madam, once the Baker's Maid,
Whose Foot long since was brought to Bed,
Adorn'd with massy Golden Chain,
Grows wondrous lofty, proud, and vain;
And, in his Absence, treats her Daughters,
With Coffee, Tea, and Cordial Waters.
Thus cunning Knaves that rob the Spittle,
Maintain the Bottle, and Tea-Kettle,
By coz'ning e'ery one a little.
The promising fat Babe of Grace,
Next lamely hobbles to his Place,
As if the painful Gout had seiz'd him,
Or that the Crinkums had diseas'd him:
However, tho' he seems too young
To be with Parish Honours hung;
Yet from his Spices, and his Plumbs,
He creeping to the Vestry comes,
There looks as big, and talks more bold
Than any Coxcomb twice as old;
Altho' his Brains are full as bare
Of Wisdom, as his Chin of Hair.
But Parish-Offices, we know,
Like Kissing, do by Favour go;
Or, like Court Places, often fall
To those whose Merits are but small.
Nor can this spicy Mortal vaunt
He'as been a long Inhabitant,
Or from his Standing claim a Seat
At Vestry-Board, among the Great;
Because much wiser Men than he,
And fitter for Authoritie,
Grave old Parishioners, have been
Postpon'd to bring this Whiffler in.
Some Neighbours scruple not to tell ye,
The Vestry chose him by his Belly;
For his huge pamper'd Quag of Guts,
Betray the Glutton, as he struts,
And to the gazing World discover
He's a true Gutt'ler, and a Lover
Of any Parish-Trust, or Post,
Where Men turn Swine at others Cost.
In this fat Pasture let him feast
His Guts, till grown a perfect Beast;
And that his Body may be fed,
'Till equal to his Joulter-Head;
Then might the Parish boast a large,
Fat Monster bred at her own Charge.
A Land-Tax-Gath'rer next appears,
Imploy'd full Five and Twenty Years,
Who by his Poundage, without wronging,
And Perquisites thereto belonging,
Makes it a sweeter Trade, with Care,
Than selling Sugars to the Fair:
His Tongue, altho' a Little Mortal,
Is louder than a double-Curtel,
And can excel th'expertest Dames,
At Billingsgate, in calling Names.
From Offices can save his Friends,
When 'tis to serve his own bye-Ends,
And slily can the same impose
On others, whom he deems his Foes.
Thus, like the Satyr fam'd of old,
Blows, as he pleases, Hot, or Cold.
The Vestry Silk-Worm, next in Turn,
Advances, full of Pride and Scorn,
Who, Hedge-Hog like, 'tis too well known
Rowls himself up in his own Down,
And unto the whole World beside
Turns nothing but his prickly Hide,
Loves no Man but himself alone,
And is himself belov'd of none:
Was never match'd in Carriage stately,
But by his Man, and that but lately,
Who, mimicking his Master's great
Example, walks, and struts in State.
“But if the Man such Praise must have,
“Then what must he that taught the Knave,
Nor does his Master walk without
A Pistol, which he wears to shoot
Any vain Upstart that discovers
More Pride than he exerts to others;
Yet no Man need to have a Care,
For all are safe but Lucifer.
Count Tallard next appears among
This Gormandizing, Vestry Throng
Who smells as strong of Cheese and Bacon,
As an old Trap where Mice are taken;
Is also, if Report be true,
Famous for Lies, and Swearing too;
And tho' he'as been advanc'd of late
To sit among the Fools in State,
He's not too Stiff, or Proud to stoop
To any forward Dam'sel's Hoop,
But, Bona fide , understands
The Art of Groping with his Hands,
As well as any Bawdy Jade,
That has Five hundred Women laid.