Scripscrapologia or, Collins's Doggerel Dish Of All Sorts. Consisting of Songs Adapted to familiar Tunes, And which may be sung without the Chaunterpipe of an Italian Warbler, or the ravishing Accompaniments of Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee. Particularly those which have been most applauded in the author's once popular performance, call'd, The Brush. The Gallimaufry garnished with a variety of comic tales, quaint epigrams, whimsical epitaphs, &c. &c. [by John Collins] |
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THE FRANK CONFESSION. |
 | Scripscrapologia |  |
THE FRANK CONFESSION.
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Inserted by the Author some Years ago in the Bath Chronicle, in Consequence of a Report being spread with a View to injure him in the Eye of the Fashionable World:—Which Report was Nothing more nor less, than his being the Son of a Man who supplied his Employers with Raiment for the Body, while he was furnishing the Public with Amusement for the Mind.
“What can ennoble Sots or Slaves or Cowards?
“Alas! not all the Blood of all the Howards!”
Pope.
“Alas! not all the Blood of all the Howards!”
Pope.
A Race-horse's Pedigree proudly we trace,
And his Lineage with Care we record;
At a Match on the Turf, 'tis confirm'd by his Grace,
And, a Leap to enhance, by my Lord!
And his Lineage with Care we record;
At a Match on the Turf, 'tis confirm'd by his Grace,
And, a Leap to enhance, by my Lord!
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While I, brushing hard over Life's rugged Course,
Its up and down Bearings to scan;
Derive my Descent from no high mettled Horse,
But, alas! the Ninth Part of a Man!
Its up and down Bearings to scan;
Derive my Descent from no high mettled Horse,
But, alas! the Ninth Part of a Man!
This Blot in my Scutcheon, I never yet try'd
To conceal, to erase, or to alter;
But suppose me, by Birth, to a Hangman allied,
Must I wear the Print of the Halter?
To conceal, to erase, or to alter;
But suppose me, by Birth, to a Hangman allied,
Must I wear the Print of the Halter?
To humble proud Wolsey, that Butcher-bred Puff,
Each Lord in the Land had a Wish;
And his Slaughter-house Eminence often took Huff,
When the Calf's Head was thrown in his Dish!
Each Lord in the Land had a Wish;
And his Slaughter-house Eminence often took Huff,
When the Calf's Head was thrown in his Dish!
But I, who no Eminence ever yet sought,
Nor aim'd at the Purple or Lawn,
Regard not by whom I was born or begot,
Nor whence my Existence is drawn.
Nor aim'd at the Purple or Lawn,
Regard not by whom I was born or begot,
Nor whence my Existence is drawn.
Besides;—Genealogy, strictly trac'd down,
Is a mere problematical Thing;
As a King may, perchance, raise up Seed to a Clown,
Or a Clown cross the Breed of a King;
Is a mere problematical Thing;
As a King may, perchance, raise up Seed to a Clown,
Or a Clown cross the Breed of a King;
From Peasant or Prince then what Offspring may rise,
This Fact from Experience we gather:
“Though Fathers may wish for their Sons to be wise,
“'Tis a wise Son that knows his own Father!”
This Fact from Experience we gather:
“Though Fathers may wish for their Sons to be wise,
“'Tis a wise Son that knows his own Father!”
And since 'tis a Truth I've acknowledg'd through Life,
And never yet labour'd to smother
That “a Taylor, before I was born took a Wife,
“And that Taylor's Wife was my Mother:”
And never yet labour'd to smother
That “a Taylor, before I was born took a Wife,
“And that Taylor's Wife was my Mother:”
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This humble Alternative falls then to me,
And an humble one 'tis to be sure:
That, “the Son of a Taylor I surely must be,
“Or else I'm the Son of a Wh---re!”
And an humble one 'tis to be sure:
That, “the Son of a Taylor I surely must be,
“Or else I'm the Son of a Wh---re!”
Yet, while I've a Heart which nor Envy nor Pride,
With their Venom-tipp'd Arrows can sting,
Not a Day of my Life would more gladsomely glide,
Were it prov'd,—I'm the Son of a King!
With their Venom-tipp'd Arrows can sting,
Not a Day of my Life would more gladsomely glide,
Were it prov'd,—I'm the Son of a King!
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