The Poetical Works of the Right Honourable, Thomas, Lord Erskine ... With a Biographical Memoir of His Life |
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THE BARBER. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Right Honourable, Thomas, Lord Erskine |  |
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THE BARBER.
[_]
A fragment of a Pindaric Ode, from an old Manuscript in the Museum, which Mr. Gray certainly had in his eye when he wrote his “Bard.”
I.
Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe!Confusion on thy frizzing wait;
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more shouldst touch my pate.
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Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail
To save thy horse whipp'd back from daily fears;
From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears!
Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride
Of Coe the barber scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane
He wound with puffing march his toilsome, tardy, way.
II.
In a room where Cambridge townFrowns o'er the kennels stinking flood,
Rob'd in a flannel powd'ring gown,
With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood;
(Long his beard, and blouzy hair,
Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air;)
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner.
Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell,
With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell!
O'er thee, oh Coe! their dreaded notes they wave,
Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave;
Vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day,
The grace already said, the plates all swept away.
III.
Cold is Beau --- tongue,That sooth'd each virgin's pain;
Bright perfumed M--- has cropp'd his head:
Almacks! you moan in vain
Each youth whose high toupee
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capt head,
In humble Tyburn-top we see;
Esplash'd with dirt and sun-burnt face;
Far on before the ladies mend their pace,
The Macoroni sneers, and will not see.
Dear lost companions of the coxcomb's art,
Dear as a turkey to these famish'd eyes,
Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart,
Ye sunk amidst the fainting Misses' cries—
No more I weep—They do not sleep:
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I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avenger's of fair Nature's hand;
With me in dreadful resolution join,
To crof with one accord, and starve their cursed line.
IV.
Weave the warp, and weave the woof,The winding-sheet of barber's race;
Give ample room and verge enough
Their lengthen'd lanthorn jaws to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When all their shops shall echo with affright,
Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets ring,
To see, like Eton boy, the King!
Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws
That crape the foretops of our aching heads;
No longer England owns thy fribblish laws,
No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds.
They wait at Dover for the first fair wind,
Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff, roast-beaf behind.
V.
Mighty barbers, mighty lords,Low on a greasy bench they lie!
No pitying heart, or purse, affords
A sixpence for a mutton-pye!
Is the mealy 'prentice fled?
Poor Coe is gone, all supperless to bed.
The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat,
Comb their lank hair on forehead flat:
Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux,
While vainly strutting thro' a silly land,
In foppish train the puppy barber goes;
Lace on his shirt, and money at command,
Regardless of the skulking bailiff's sway,
That hid in some dark court expects his ev'ning prey.
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VI.
The porter-mug fill high,Baked curls and locks prepare;
Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live,
Close by the greasy chair
Fell thirst and famine lie,
No more to art will beauteous nature give.
Heard ye the gang of Fielding say,
Sir John at last we've found their haunt
To desperation driv'n by hungry want,
Thro' the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.
Ye tow'rs of Newgate! London's lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith's fame,
And spare the grinning barber's chuckle head.
VII.
Rascals! we tread thee under foot,(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun);
Our beards we pull out by the root;
(The web is wove; your work is done).
‘Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me uncurl'd, undinner'd, here to mourn.
Thro' the broad gate, that leads to College Hall,
They melt, they fly, they vanish all.
But, oh! what happy scenes of pure delight,
Slow moving on their simple charms unroll!
Ye rapt'rous visions! spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn beauties crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Coventry we wail:
All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature's issue, hail!
VIII.
Not friz'd and fritter'd, pinn'd and roll'd,Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,
Without their têtes and wigs appear;
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Her dress bespeaks the Pensylvanian line,
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
What sylphs and spirits wanton thro' the air!
What erowds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh, hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her Quaker colour'd wings.
IX.
No more tupees are seenThat mock at Alpine height,
And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound,
All now are vanished quite.
No tongs, or torturing pin,
But ev'ry head is trimm'd quite snug around:
Like boys of the cathedral choir,
Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear,
Each simpler generation blooms more fair,
'Till all that's artificial expire.
Vain puppy boy! think'st thou yon' essenc'd cloud,
Rais'd by thy puff, can vie with Nature's hue?
To-morrow see the variegated crowd
With ringlets shining like the morning dew,
Enough for me: with joy I see
The different dooms our fates assign:
Be thine to love thy trade and starve;
To wear what Heaven bestow'd be mine:
He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height,
Quick thro' the frczen street, he ran in shabby plight.
| The Poetical Works of the Right Honourable, Thomas, Lord Erskine | |