TO MR. COWPER,
WINE-MERCHANT, IN LIVERPOOL.
Dec. 24th, 1761.
A dizzy head, and thoughts o' th' ramble,
Makes me to write without preamble,
And bold as any trooper;
To let my friend at distance know,
The plague and trouble I go through,
Because of Mr. Cowper.
For my Crook's Rib, each-now and then,
Doth frowning ask me, Pray, Sir, when
May I expect my mountain?
I shrug my shoulders—why—e'er long,
'Twill be at Rochdale, good and strong,
And clear as any fountain.
But as the clock strikes at the heels
Of the last hour—so Timmy feels
His ears stunned with this question,
When will my wine and brandy come?
I clear my weasand,—answer–mum—
Tho' I've your word to rest on.
Perhaps your pictures you expect,
Before I feel the warm effect,
Of your care-killing liquor!
But hark you, Sir, the days are dark,
And cold: On then I hete aw wark,
As ill as any Vicar.
But in a month, or two, at least,
Except the sun wheel back to th' east,
You may expect your beauties;
But in the mean time must I fast?
Or guzzle Ale, not to my taste?
Nay, hang me on some yew-trees.
I from my cot, this Christmas-Eve,
Write with a troubled mind,――believe,
And wife in doleful dumps:
For who can merry be, that's wise,
While what he wants in Lerpo lies,
And vexed with jeers and frumps?
Pray send a line, that I may say,
To my Crook'd-Rib, on such a day,
Your gossips' nose shall job in
A tankard made of Mountain Wine,
Sweet water, nutmeg, sugar fine,
And set at rest
THE CUCKOO AND OWL:
A Cuckoo many years had rang'd
Amongst the feathered kind,
To see if he a mate could meet,
Would fix his roving mind.
He tried all; he loves but few,
For some too high did soar:
Some were too little, some too big,
And some too ragg'd and poor.
At last he would a courting go,
To broad fac'd Mistress Owl,
Believing her the prettiest bird
Of all the wingèd fowl.
Transported with this odd conceit,
Away the Cuckow flew,
And in a very amorous strain,
He thus begins to woo.
Dear Madam Owl, my heart has been,
Long captive to your charms,
Nor can it have a moment's rest,
Till your soft down it warms.
This said, the Cuckoo would have bill'd,
The Owl she turn'd her face;
As knowing coyness whets an edge,
And gives a better grace.
Sir Cuckow would not be deny'd,
But struggl'd for a kiss;
Which having gain'd, the Cuckow cry'd,
What melting joy is this!
Thus thirteen moons the Cuckow woo'd
Her ladyship, the Owl,
Who thought her sweetheart lov'd her more
Than Miller loves his toll:
Because he talk'd of Hymen's noose,
And needs would have her go
To have it ty'd about their Necks,
By help of parson Crow.
But as it chanc'd, the Owl was deep
With Rev'rend Crow in love;
And hoping still to make him hers,
The thing did not approve.
But lest she should not gain the Crow,
She would not flat deny
The roving Cuckoo's queer request,
Lest she alone should lie.
The Cuckow smelt the cunning jilt,
Too wise to be a tool;
And carrries on the farce awhile,
To countermine the Owl.
For long he'd lov'd and was esteem'd
By the solitary Jay;
To whom he flying, weds, and leaves
The Owl to time a prey.
For she not pleasing parson Crow,
Wish'd she'd the Cuckoo then:
But 'twas too late, the time was gone,
And would not come again.
Her ruddy face, so gay before,
Is turn'd a tarnish white;
Her sprightly mind and brilliant thoughts,
Are like the cloudy night.
So now she haunts the lonely woods,
And hoots in barns by night;
Complaining of her fine spun wit
And hates to see the light.
The virgin thus in all the bloom of life,
Is lov'd, and courted for a happy wife;
But she denies—expecting nobler game,
Till forty comes and she's no more the same.
For time is gone;—then wishes vainly rise,
She curses av'rice, and a maid she dies.
THE GARDINER AND THE ASS:
There is something like a Moral at the end of
this tale; but as Timothy could not, would not, or durst not,
deduce it naturally, from the general scope of the Fable, as it
ought to be; he has left it (like a skein of ruffled silk) for
hyperpolitical critics to unravel.
An Ass with poverty long strove,
And pastur'd in the lanes,
Till, hunger bit, he thus to Jove,
In rueful tone complains:
Ah! hadst thou made me any beast,
That laden by doth pass,
Then had my paunch been fill'd (at least)
With straw if not with grass!
Jove hears his plaint and soon doth send
A fox, with this advice,
Cheer up, and look more brisk my friend,
Hunger should make thee wise:
Behold how gay the fool and knave
Do stiffly strut along:
The rat is sleek, I fat and brave,
With murder, theft, and wrong.
Look thro' that fence, where spinage sweet,
And coleworts green do grow,
The lettice and the jucy beet;
Then who'd be hungry now?
The ass pricks up his slouching ears,
And into the garden peeps:
He longs the more, the more he stares,
Then thro' the hedge he creeps.
Balaam promiscuously doth brouze
On herbs, and choicest flow'rs,
Till Tom the gard'ner doth him rouse,
And all his sweetness sours.
For lo! a heavy club cries thwang
Upon the ass's side;
He starts at this unwelcome bang,
And o'er the beds doth stride.
The fine glass bells and pots are broke,
Carnations fully blown,
Alike are ruin'd at a stroke,
And wholly overthrown!
The gardiner distracted, sees
The havock which he makes,
He flatters much,—desires a peace;
And thus the ass bespakes:
So, honest Balaam; so, my lad;
Stand still.—I pr'ythee stand
The club is lost which late I had,
As witness now my hand.
Thus, fawning, he with cautious strides,
Lays hold on Balaam's ears.
And out of Paradise him guides,
To pay for all repairs.
For 'tis resolv'd old Hob must pay
And Balaam stoop to th' yoke,
By fetching pots and glass next day,
Instead of those he broke,
The morning scarcely peeps, when Tom
Between the crates is got,
And busy thrashing Balaam's bum,
For blunders past, God wot!
The ass bewails his dismal case,
And groans for freedom lost;
And longs his rider to displace,
From his triumphing post;
When, lo! he sees behind a ditch,
Two thorny bushes, where
He straight runs thro', as if bewitch'd,
And quits his rider clear.
The crates and Tom are left behind,
He sprawling in the mud.
His face is scratch's, his peepers blind
With mixèd mire and blood.
Thus crates and saddle which, of late,
Tom dauntless did bestride,
Mount in their turn—thus mighty Fate
Doth humble human pride!
He scrap'd his clothes, he wash'd his face,
And then far Balaam stares,
And saw him nibbling at the grass,
Discharg'd of worldly cares.
Tom swore by Jove, revenged I'll be
On thee, by hook or crook;
So with some pains and flattery.
Again he Balaam took.
The ass is saddled once again,
And Tom again him mounts;
Resolv'd to ride with careful rein,
And make him clear accounts.
He then bang'd on about a mile,
Where he'd a bridge to pass,
And Balaam's ready with a wile,
As any other ass:
For he was dry, or did pretend,
At least, for to be so;
Tom thinking he'd no other end,
So lets the bridle go.
The ass puts down his shaggy pate,
Then tosses up his rump,
And tumbles Tom from off his seat,
Who lights i'th' water――plump.
Balaam now thought he'd freedom gain'd,
But as he march'd away,
He found his head was still restrained,
Tho' Tom i'th' water lay.
For he'd the bridle in his hand,
By which the ass did draw
Him bravely sous'd unto the land,
Ills chagrin'd in his maw.
Tom had no sooner found his feet,
But banged at the ass,
As if on purpose to be beat,
As iron is, or brass;
But now his cudgel waxeth short,
And cooler grows his ire:
Yet mounting steed is not his sport,
Or trotting his desire.
For hanging bridle on his arm,
He walks before the ass,
As fearing that some greater harm
Might quickly come to pass.
So time, who sees the end of things,
Doth half his journey see,
Where Tom his pots and glasses rings,
Poor Balaam's load to be.
Now Tom his brittle ware doth pack
In straw well mix'd, with care,
And lays them on the ass's back,
Which made him grunt and stare.
Howe'er, with patience Balaam went,
Until he came unto
The place where will, or accident,
So late his master threw.
Nature, or man's contrivance, made
A high and lower way;
The one for such as love to wade,
One o'er a wood-bridge lay.
The ass by chance, or choice, had got
Upon the higher road,
When Tom began to dread the lot
Of his precarious load.
No farther durst he drive the ass,
Nor could he bring him back;
And Tom in such dilemma was,
As put his mind o'th' rack.
Fear and vexation fiercely mov'd
Like light'ning thro' his breast,
Until his fury master prov'd,
And then he smote his beast.
The blow on Balaam's nose did light,
Which drove his head askew;
A foot behind slips off for spight,
And all the rest o'erthrew.
Now, topsy-turvy, bell and pot
Do jingling tumble down;
And Balaam lies with four feet up,
Quite dead!――or in a swoon!
The gard'ner, with uplifted hands,
Extends his mouth and eyes,
And like a marble statue stands,
In terrible surprize.
A neighbouring tinker by doth come,
And shakes him by the nose;
Tom answers with a haw and hum,
As people in a dose,
Then index finger he doth stretch,
And points at all his woe;
For look, said he, that clumsy wretch,
Is tumbled down below.
Well, tho' 'tis so, the tinker says,
An ass is but an ass:
Tom quick replies, that's not the case,
He's broke my pots and glass!
The tinker owns the story bad,
But says――Thy standing here
Will never mend it――come, my lad,
Let's view thy broken geer.
Tom and the tinker now agree,
And soon unloose the ass;
Then roll him off the crates, but he
Seem'd deadly stiff, alas!
Then both of them began to throw
Away the broken ware;
But those they found in statu quo,
Are pack'd again with care.
This done, the tinker takes one crate
And saddle on his back,
Tom lifts the other on his pate,
And homeward both do pack.
As on the road they jogging went,
Tom told the story o'er;
The tinker did his case lament:
But still he roundly swore,
Tom was fool in grain, to think
Of coping with an ass;
Since more we stir, the more we stink,
In every dirty case.
The ass now left—contention sore
Arose between these two;
Tom thought him dead—the tinker swore
"No more than I, or you."
All authors since do vary here,
In this mysterious case,
Some write "he broke his neck," some swear
"He out-liv'd this disgrace."
Be this as't will, we'll leave him here,
'Twixt doubtful life and death;
Expecting time will make it clear,
If he still live and breathe.
So have I seen a Ministry bestride,
A Common-Wealth, in all the pomp of pride:
Who for the public good ne'er laid a scheme,
But dear self-interest was her only aim;
And nestl'd in the umbrage of a Crown,
Rode Jehu-like, nor dream'd of tumbling down.
Brib'd S—n—rs, sold votes, to make us pay,
Three fifths to those, who squandered all away;
But now such taxes ne'er before were known,
Yet knaves cry up the times, when freedom's flown.
O glorious times! when candles, and the sun,
Must yield them thousands, or all's dark at noon!
The red-streak apple golden juice must yield,
Like bits of paper, or the steril field:
We feel the yoke, and fatal ruin see,
Yet dare not struggle for lost l―――y.
But tho' at present all things smoothly pass,
Take care ye jockies, lest ye ride an ASS.
THE THREE CONCEITED BEAUTIES.
bumpkins chanc'd to meet,
Whose phizzes look'd like vizards:
The first, the second thus doth greet
Thy face is like some wizards!
The ugliest of the ugliest sort,
Thou art, or I'm mistaken:
Sure nature made thee all for sport,
Or sight has me forsaken.
But thou'rt all beauty in thy looks,
And every feature's pleasing!
This I wou'd swear on twenty books,
But for my sin encreasing.
For sure thy nose, thy mouth, thy eye,
Wou'd suit no other mortal;
Pluto and Jove will throw thee by,
On entering grim Death's portal.
The third, and ugliest of the three,
Said, Lord! how you'r conceited!
I cannot stand a mute, and see,
Two neighb'ring friends thus cheated.
I wonder why such mortals shou'd,
About their beauty fall out;
Were I as ugly, I ne'er wou'd
From my poor cottage crawl-out,
For with an ax, and owler-tree,
I'd make two men as handsome:
Or live a slave in Tripoly
And never sue for ransome.
This is an emblem of all human kind;
We every one to our own faults are blind:
Nay, tho' they're blazing, them we cannot see:
They're beauties all, or pass from censure free.
LANCASHIRE HOB, AND THE QUACK
A TALE. 1762.
A thrifty earl was tir'd of lonely cot,
Because the tooth-ach he so often got:
Six teeth were all he had to chew his food;
All gave him pain, but none could do him good.
Hob hearing Rochdale town did then contain
A famous quack, that drew teeth without pain.
To him he flies, and, in a voice as loud
As Stentor's, thus bespoke him thro' the crowd:
"Ho—onist mon whot munneh gi' ye to drea
A tusk cot pleagues me awmust neet on dea?"
Six-pence the quack replies.—Hob spoke again,
"On conneh do't me, thinkneh, beawt mich pein!"
Ho, well enough.—Quoth Hob, "Suppose I two,
Yoan do for neenpunce?" That I will not do.
"How monny then for twelvepunce winneh poo?"
All that thou hast.—Quoth Hob, "They're just enoo."
The doctor took this for a country joke,
'Till he saw Hob hard pressing thro' the folk,
And mount the stage.—Quack now some mirth
And slily for a pair of pincers sends;
Thinking he'd met one of those puny fools
Would run away from such inhuman tools.
Hob takes the pincers, "Vara weel," said he
"If they'n fit yo, I'm shure they win fit me."
Hob now aloft is seated in a chair,
With open mouth, in which the Quack did stare;
Who laughing said, You have but six, I find,
And they're so loose, they'll wag with ev'ry wind.
"Better for yo, yo known; do yo yer job."
Yes, yes, and quickly too, my honest Hob;
Hold up your head—"Oh"—here is one you see;
Come, hold again—here's two—would you have
"I think ot mon's a foo; we bargint plene,
Poo these aw eawt, or set thoose in ogen."
If that be th' case, hold up again, my friend,
Come, open wide, and soon the work we'll end.
Hob now extends his spacious jaws so wide,
There's room for pincers, and good light beside.
Cries Quack, here's three, here's four, Hob bawls
Hold, hold, says Quack, there's something more
Come, gape again;—here's five—here's six—and
And now I'm sure thy tooth-ach pains are past.
"That's reet, quoth Hob, gi' me meh teeth, on then
I'll pey os freely os some roycher men."
The Quack complies, and Hob his twelve pence
Then, in dismounting, to the mob thus said,
"They're arron foos ot six-pence pein for one,
While for o shilling I ha six jobs done.
But still they're bigger foos that live e pein,
Wheu good seawnd teeth mey choance to come
The doctor stares—and hastily replies
They come again! not till the dead shall rise,
One single tooth no more thy jaws shall boast,
I hold a crown thou ev'ry tooth hast lost.
"Tis done," quoth Hob: and stakes a Charles's
The Quack as nimbly throws five shillings down.
Hob takes up all and in a neighbour's hand
Secures the total: then makes his demand.
"Measter yo know eawr bet is, that I've lost
My teeth; and that I have not none to boast."
The Quack replies 'tis true; and what by that?
"Why, see I've six neaw o eh meh owd scull-hat.
Ne sur, if voan geaw wimmy whom, I'll shew
Yo e'ry tooth, of e meh meawth did groo."
The Quack ill-vex'd he such a bite shou'd meet
Turn'd on his heel, while Hob said, 'Sur—good neet.'
THE PLURALIST AND OLD SOLDIER.
A soldier maimed, and in the beggar's
Did thus address a well-fed Pluralist.
SOL. At Gundalupe
my leg and thigh I lost,
No pension have I, tho' its right I boast;
Your reverence please some charity bestow,
Heav'n will pay double—when you're there you know.
PLU. Heaven pay me double!
vagrant—know that I
Ne'er give to strollers, they're so apt to lye;
Your parish, and some work, would you become,
So haste away—or constable's your doom.
SOL. Mayn't please
your rev'rence, hear my case, and then,
You'll say I'm poorer than the most of men :
When Malbro siege Lisle, I first drew breath,
And there my father met untimely death;
My mother follow'd, of a broken heart,
So I've no friend, or parish, for my part.
PLU. I say,
begone:—with that he loudly knocks,
And timber-toe began to smell the stocks;
Away he stumps—but in a rood, or two,
He clear'd his weasand, and his thoughts broke thro'.
SOL. This 'tis to beg
of those who sometimes preach
Calm charity, and ev'ry virtue teach;
But their disguise, to common sense, is thin;
A pocket button'd':—hypocrite within.
Send me, kind heav'n, the well-tann'd captain's face
Who gives me twelve-pence, and a curse, with grace,
But let me not, in house, or lane, or street,
These treble-pension'd-parsons ever meet;
And when I die, may I still number'd be
With the rough soldier, to eternity.
JOHN OF GAUNT'S LEASES IMITATED.
By this, R――d T――y,
of B――d, doth grant
To John Clegg, the dyer, three things he doth want,
The dye-house, as he many years hath it held,
With leave for two tenters to stand i'th greave-field;
Which tenters do fence near the north and east sides;
One likewise the field into two now divides:
The brow, or the lower part, of the said field,
Together with all above mention'd, I yield
Unto the said dyer, for his life and mine,
Or whether lives longer: but then I confine
Him duly to pay me and mine, ev'ry year,
Three pounds of good money, and I'll taxes bear.
One half he at Whitsuntide strictly shall pay,
The other as duly each Martinmass Day.
To shew that the dyer this lease did not steal,
Behold, here I fix both my hand, and my seal.
Sign'd and Seal'd this Day, before
Two sober Mortals, and no more.
I R—d T—y, of B—d, the Younger,
Do grant to John Collier, for whether lives longer,
The Wheat Field, and th' Bylings, the rent four
Which payment neglected, are both mine again:
That my Heirs may take notice, know all that this
From my hearty good will, so I here write my name,
Day, sans fraud, or guiles
Dec. 10, 1758.
THE ECCLESIASTICAL AND LAY-MISERS
A RYMING SERMON, ON THE DECEASE OF DR. FORSTER,
From James, Chap. v. Ver. 1, 2, 3.
Go to, ye Rich Men, weep and howl, ye know
Your garments moth-eat: riches canker'd grow:
The rust shall eat your flesh, like fires that glow.
Hear this, ye gripes—ye blind infatite crew,
Whose hoards abound—whose heirs and friends
And your own fate in Forster's glass here view.
What's now become of all his griping schemes,
Of hoarding wealth, which foster'd silken dreams?
The flash is vanished like our northern gleams! (a)
The sweetest consolations riches yield (b)
Fly quick, and whither, like a flower o'th' field (c)
You trust a broken reed—a crazy shield! (d)
Woe to your misers—you that live at ease,
Who swallow up the poor, your wealth to increase,
Your mis'ries come: but tell me when they'll cease. (e)
Can racking tenants, and your treasur'd wealth
Give calm content, or purchase balmy health?
Or bribe grim Death from creeping on by stealth?
No,―here you're feeble!—tho'
this gloomy thought
Torments the mind, that time will not be bought,
Tho' bags, and chests, with mighty gold are fraught.
Consider, now, if sordid pelf will gain
A seat in bliss, or ease one dying pain?
If not, from squeezing of the poor refrain.
Expand your narrow minds—your bags untie;
Nor tremble when you give a groat, for why?
Your God will slip you, when you come to die. (f)
Relieve the wants, and cherish the sad heart
Of your poor neighbours, who endure the smart
Of meagre want, that pierces like a dart. (g)
But Forster's gone, whose life we thought was
And tho' the Devil at the Court be throng,
He'll fetch—who starts?—another e'er't be long.
(a) Prov. xxiii. 5; (b) Luke xii.
20; (c) Luke vi. 26; .
(d) James i. 1, 11; (e) James v. 1;
(f) Prov. xxiii. 5;
(g) Eccles. xi. 1, 2.
FROM A SCOTCH GENTLEMAN, AT GLASGOW,
TO HIS FRIEND IN MANCHESTER.
I mind your kindness, care, and pains
To shaw yer city, streets, and lanes:
Yer stately faubrics, on yer toors
Mognificent, bet net lik ours:
Then to yer Kirk conducted me,
The waa o worship there to see,
Wher auld bog-whistles soonded high,
And quiristers did joyn the cry:
But dills the sound to grate the ear
Of a North-British Presbyteer.
Thau you hawfe-brether Scoat de ken
My peins to shaw awr toon, whot then,
Ye sleetght aur fawbricks, streets an toots
As net so stately queet as yours:
Yet knaw, an auld aux-cliest may hoold
Mare wealth, than screwtore gelt with goold:
And in aur streets mare baubees pass to
Yen another, than a Glasgow.
But yet I've something to say mare man,
Ye de net leek awr awld-kirk organ;
Bet thinks a gude bog-peep soonds sweeter
Thon that at Rawme play'd in St. Peter:
Bet where's the marvel of aw this?
Trampets flay pigs, and ools, and geese.
AN ORIGINAL LETTER, FROM A WELCH
CONSTABLE TO A COUNTRY INN KEEPER.
To ETWART TAVIS.
I was have it
Warrant from too Shustices Pace, which make Orter upon me, to make
Orter upon you, to make your Peer, at Mrs. Worral of Ret-lion FAUR,
upon the 17th tay of Shuly ness, to give cose why you was not take
it te Licensse for sell Ale like unto oter Peoples—Ay—ant to give it
a very goot cose too; why te Shustice which poth all too, is very
goot mans, will not give it his warrant upon you to levy upon your
Goots and Kattles—So te Worts of the Warrant is.
Ay――ant inteet, I to tell
unto you, it is a very pig shame why you was not take it like all te
Popolls in to Comtozeth. For what purpose our goot
Prenin make it so goot Law, ant you was not mint hur? Hit was
as goot for the Prenin, cot pless hur, make it no Law, as make Law,
was no poty keep hur.
Ay――and you make te too pig
fool upon our too Shustice ant tat is very true inteet――for
they poth all too was sent to you two times, ant make spoke to you
very fronteoll put you was very pig agry, ant passuant, ant say, cot
tam our goot Prenin! Shustises! Parlamen! constapls an all!――Put
now I will tell unto you, pi cot—the Shustices poth all took very
much agar at you: ay ant inteet it will pe petter for you to come
without making a pig troost; ay, ant a pig costis upon yourself ant
will hurt your Fameel.――I do devise
you to take my conger, or it will be worse for you: for you to know
I was upon my swear to my Smyth: And pi cot hur will to hur.
Tis is a very gut notice from me to you: ant I was summon hur
upon to twenty tays of Shune, 1758.
John Jones of Goskisa Cunstap—for the
Wroxhom Regi—una Sheer—Timpy
—ant John Skefton is my Prother Cunstap,
and was upon the same Thinks with me—
in poth—pith I was say ant to Farewell to you.
A LANCASHIRE LETTER,
FROM THE ORIGINAL.
DIRECTED TO MR. JOHN SCOLFIELD, IN CHURCH LANE,
Frand John Sofeld I hafe sand you a Barle of Osters by
John Tester and I dasire you to sand me word ou you Lick tham fo I
bock the baste I could in oll London: and the man said he wold
hophould them to hep a fornet. But I would hafe you to youes tham
oscoun as yo can ConfeneLy and I desire you to sand me worde whear you wel
hafe a hole Barel or hafe one the nackes Gorenne But if ther be ane outher
sorte that you thank you can like Better nor tham that I hafe sand you, I
desire you to lat me no, and I will do Bast I can for you in any respeck,
the ousters cost 3 shelen and I had writ to you fore- nou Bout I hafe had
no time to do nothing at all for whe hafe had a sad mesforton at ouer
house for who hafe had ouer house Brocke and whe hafe about 40 or 50
poundesworth of plate stole out of side Bourde, and afers Bede sad thaat
sarfens most Be gelte of et, and I was nefer in so much troubel about
nothing in all my Life: But my mesters and I whent to Johnten whild
thef Cakcher in the ould Bale & he toulds hou the got in house, my
mistres sade she was glad that har sarfeens was clare and there was
another hous Bronk thes Last nite in our stret Bout got 20 shelens in
hapens in a grocers shope and the wack satham and the ranawase and I
bought a congel crouke for Henry Bamfoad, and et came douns in a
bockes to mrs. stott and I horderd tham to Lefard to you, and I
resafed 2 shilen torder, and et et cost hafe a croune, and I desire you to
tl hem that tha ma grencke the 6 penes amonche them in the shope Mr.
Scofeld I desire you to gife my sarfes to hefere body that hackes
hafter me. sonomore bot your most homble sarvant
ANOTHER FROM THE ORIGINAL.
Hollkom Fery 26 1752
Robert Ashworth you must order that Pes
that I Leveret yeu to this Pateran and you must Goo to witit her, and tak
1 pes of Allecksonder Weikater. It Is Rert op to chemlepes In
Grates It is a finewon that you most Get et A doboll bllu and dou your in
Dever for me as I Lii o gret wee of for I want them In my Shop. Put
Som Sop to them and I will pee you.
A YORKSHIRE LETTER
TO AN ATTORNEY FOR HIS ADVICE.
Ganging dreely odt' Lopn anent t' Brigg weet cout ads' ton
Hond, an o Poke o' Masfledin on him, an a bran Spau New Skeele it
tuther, ot I'd gust gean yan on Eleimpence for: griefly Illfav'r'd
Key o Jonny Lunds lawpt fru amangst Whinns, Or I thout theyd
baith a gaen full burr ower me: sa I puncht Dout to gar him gau odt
toan side, an he bein Skaddle ga file a Lawp ok if war sore flay'd
wod a swithurt ma intut Dyke. Sa I war fain to lig t'Skeele ot
Grund an click hawd odt Poke, an while I war doin tat, yan odt Kye
whimled ower it, trade ent, on dang it to tatters. Query Sur,
Woont Jonny Lund be like to make Satisfackshon ?
ON JO. GREEN, LATE SEXTON AT ROCHDALE.
Here lies Jo. Green, who arch has been,
And drove a gainful trade
With powerful Death, 'till, out of breath,
He threw away his Spade.
When Death beheld his comrade yield,
He, like a cunning Knave,
Came, soft as wind, poor Jo. behind,
And push'd him int' his grave.
Reader, one tear, if thou hast one in store,
Since Jo. Green's tongue and chin can wag no more
ON MR. JOHN HAMER, MATHEMATICIAN,
LATE OF ROCHDALE.
Ho, Passenger! see who lies here;
Perhaps 'tis worth thy knowing;
'Tis Hamer, the Philosopher,
Whose bellows have done blowing,
An arch and jovial wight he was,
And skill'd in Newton's notions;
He could demonstrate by his glass,
The twirl o'th' heavenly motions.
Copernicus's system he
Prov'd true, by quart and candle;
And harvest-moons, familiarly,
Like full punch-bowls did handle.
Ah me! what pity 'tis he's gone!
Say, Mortals, how it could be,
That he was cramm'd beneath this stone,
Where fools and misers should be.
ON DR. FORSTER, LATE VICAR OF ROCHDALE.
Full three feet deep beneath this stone
Lies our late Vicar Forster,
Who clipp'd his sheep to'th' very bone,
But said no Pater Noster.
By ev'ry squeezing way, 'tis said,
Eight hundred he rais'd yearly:
Yet not a six-pence of this paid
To th' Curate――this looks
His tenants all now praise the Lord
With hands lift up, and clapping,
And thank grim death, with one accord,
That he has ta'en him napping.
To Lambeth's Lord now let us pray,
No Pluralist he'll send us;
But should he do't, what must we say
Why――Lord above defend us!
THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH.
A yard beneath this heavy stone,
Lies Jack of-all-Trades, good at none,
A Weaver first, and then School Master;
A Scrivener next: then Poetaster,
A Painter, Graver, and a Fluter,
And Fame doth whisper, a C――r;
An Author, Carver, and Hedge Clark:
E Whoo-who-whoo, whot whofoo wark!
He's laft um aw, to lie ith dark!
BATTLE OF THE FLYING DRAGON
MAN OF HEATON.
Spectatum admissirisum teneatis?
POET. ver. 5.
TO THE READER.
I have very little to say to thee, O my Friend; only, I hope by the
following short Poem thou wilt see, that I wish Englishmen would be
content to be Englishmen, both in dress and politicks.
A Lancashire Beau being at London fell in love with the large
pig-tails and ear-locks, and consequently brought the French toys with him
to Lancaster; business calling him to Sunderland, on that coast, and the
day being uncommonly boisterous, he mounts his courser, dress'd in the
pig-tail, ear-locks, &c. a la mode de Fra. The toy roll'd on his
shoulders till the blasts blew away both that, and the ear-locks, they
being fastened to the tail with black ribbons.
A country man coming that way, and seeing them blown about in
the lane, takes the French medley for a Flying-Dragon, and, after mature
deliberation, resolved to kill it. This produced three battles; at
the latter end of which (the wind ceasing, and the pig tail lying still)
he thought be had manfully per-form'd. Elated with the exploit, he
twists his stick in the ear-locks, and carries all before him aloft in the
air, as boys commonly do adders; till meeting the Rector of Heysham, he
was, with much ado, convinced; and then in great confusion sneak'd away,
leaving his Reverence in possession of the monster; who still keeps it at
Heysham, and often shews it with much diversion to his friends.
THE FLYING DRAGON
AND THE MAN OF HEATON.
What man alive tho' e'er so wise,
With spaniel's nose, and eagle's eyes,
Can tell this hour, what th' next will fling us,
Or whether joy or sorrow bring us;
That no dispute there needs of this,
The Man of Heaton witness is;
A man he was, and very stout,
But whether quite so wise, some doubt,
And as my muse dare not decide,
The foll'wing facts must be our guide.
So leaving him in doubtful mood,
Let's hint at one more understood.
Our other hero, for we've two,
Hight Mijnheer Skyppo Vanderloo,
Was late arrived from that fam'd city,
Half French, half English―ah, what pity!
Where courtiers, pensioners, and place-men,
By frequent in's, and outs, disgrace men:
Where doughty Squires to Knights are vamp'd;
Where half-thick Lords to Earls are stamp'd,
Where all the arts of jockey-ship
Are us'd, as at the Turf and Whip;
Where one throws out his dearest brother,
And Statesmen jostle one another;
Who lay their megrim brains together
To make our feet find their own leather.
Our eyes must see, sans sun or candle,
And in the day mope—dingle dangle;
Where bribery's the chiefest trade,
And laws against our interest made;
Where Britain's fate is—hum—decided,
And all 'mongst w—s and r――s divided!
But stay! shou'd I their actions paint
Our heads wou'd ach; our hearts wou'd faint;
So leaving them and their grand squabble,
My muse of better things shall babble.
This man I say was just come down,
From that French-pig-tail foppish town,
As gay as daw, in borrowed plumes,
And all the airs of fop assumes.
His Ramille secundum artem,
Was toss'd up,—bless me,—ah—ad fa-t-m!
His earlocks too—! near eyebrows plac'd
His countenance genteelly grac'd,
A pig-tail dangling to his ――,
(O Truth, 'tis thou that shames my verse,)
Being tagg'd with curious shining hair,
In various colours did appear,
With powder dusted; smooth'd by Tonsure,
He look'd as grand as Monkey Monsure!
His nag high mettl'd shin'd like raven,
Both sire and dam, of blood in Craven:
He mounted, hem'd—fill'd cheeks with wind;
Spur'd nag—(who answer'd from behind)
Awaw he flew.—Now boisterous Boreas,
Vex'd to see man so vainly glorious,
Resolv'd this champion's pride to humble,
And make his furious courser stumble,
But finding soon this scheme to fail,
He aimed his force at the pig-tail,
And whisk'd it round both back and shoulder,
Still he rode on—and still look'd bolder!
Boreas chagrin'd and gall'd with pain,
At ear-locks blew, with might and main,
Not dreaming of their b'ing ally'd,
And to the tail so closely ty'd.
All Skyppo's head attire so gay,
The blast had nearly blown away,
When Fortune raising ruffl'd hand,
Kept wig and beaver on their stand;
But pig-tail with the ear-locks new,
Away with Boreas waving flew,
Our hero spruce ne'er miss'd the toy,
But rode for Sunderland with joy;
Thinking to shew the fashion new,
Which sight wou'd make one laugh—or spew.
But who comes next—! The Man of Heaton,
Whose very name old time hath eaten:
For authors in this point do vary;
Some call him Roaf, some Will, some Harry,
But I incline for private reason
To call him Oamfrey, at this season;
And sometimes Noamp, perhaps may fit,
As suits my rhime, or helps my wit.
But on he comes;—and Fame rehearses
His nose, two feet before his — is;
A trusty knob-stick fill'd his hand,
And thought no power cou'd him withstand
When lo—! his lifted eyes assail
A long, black, thing; with wings and tail!
The wings quick moving with the wind;
The tail in curls, turn'd up behind:
So Oamfrey stops his sauntering course,
And unto musing had resourse.
Then stamp'd his knob-stick on the ground,
And crying in amaze profound,
I'th neme o'Jesus, say—whot' art;
That two black tunes fro meawth con dart?
Whooas twisted body's like the hurn
O'that fem'd beeost the Unicorn!
I say, whot art? Ith' neme o'God—!
My stick shall—howd—I've heard a rod
Of willow, will demolish soon
The direst snake below the moon.
With that stout Noamp his thwittle drew,
And on the edge three times he blew;
Then from the hedge, he in a crack,
Brings a tough willow with him back;
But whilst, the leaves he from it strips,
Across the lane the Dragon skips!
Quoth he—I see theaw'rt marching off,
Boh howd o bit;—this willow tough
Shall, if strength fail not, stop thy flight;
So strikes the pig-tail with his might,
And cry's out boh—! then quick returns;
Then gives a stroke —then backward runs,
The monstrous animal up flew,
And Oamfrey starting, quick withdrew:
His eyes oth' stare; his face grew pale;
With open mouth he view'd the tail,
Which briskly wanton'd in the wind;
Then swore—It's of the dragon-kind!
On deep reflection he grew tardy,
And thought it sin to be fool-hardy.
If I con seve meh sell, quoth he,
Whot's Flying-Dragon's unto me?
There con no wisdom be I trow,
In feighting things we dunnaw know;
For should it chonce fly e meh fece
I'm deeo'd os tripe—witheawt God's grece;
So Oamfrey he the wand threw down,
Took up his stick, and march'd for town.
Two roods he had not gone before,
A blast of wind the monster bore,
Within two yards of Oamfrey's stick,
Which vex'd our hero to the quick.
Quo Noamp, be this I plenely see
It mun be oather thee or me:
And sin 'tis so, I'll never run,
Boh kill or dee before eh done.
Then in a passion from his hand
He threw his stick, and fetch'd the wand;
And poor pig-tail with courage fresh,
And all his might began to thresh;
But still the Dragon kept the field,
Cock'd up his tail, and scorn'd to yield.
This furious combat by report,
Did last till Oamfrey's stick grew short,
And a cessation, as fame reckons,
Continued, till he got fresh weapons.
But Oamfrey having luck to find
A weapon to his murdering mind,
Says softly thus unto himself,
Theaw feights for honour, not for pelf;
And if theaw gets this direfoo beawt,
Thy feme will bleze, on ne'er gooa out,
Then hemming twice—spits on his hand.
And snatches up the magic wand,
Resolv'd to do a feat to brag on,
So strikes with all his might the Dragon:
And thus the battle was renew'd,
And both sides to their tackle stood.
Again fierce Oamfrey's stick did dwindle
Into the length of common spindle;
But thinking now the battle gain'd,
Because he with no blood was stain'd
Resolv'd to fetch another switch,
To kill outright this Dragon-witch.
Now while this third great duel lasted,
Fierce Oamfrey's strength was almost wasted.
The Dragon too, now wanting breath,
Had symtoms of approaching death;
And ev'ry member seem'd to fail:
He hardly stirring wing or tail;
For Boreas likewise tir'd at length
Had quite exhausted all his strength,
And all was hush—so Fortune gave
The field and battle to the brave!
And pig-tail lies as still as stone,
As tho' to live it ne'er had known
And thus the Dragon here was slain,
Whilst Oamfrey lives to fight again.
Our hero's courage none can doubt;
Nor love of fame was he without,
For when this glorious feat was done
And such a victory fairly won,
Ambitious Oamfrey in a crack,
Put kersey coat on sweating back;
And then with cautious stare he view'd
The Dragon; which he'd hack'd and hew'd;
But still it prov'd above his ken,
And as it might do, to wiser men.
Here Oamfrey musters up his senses,
And pride threw down all meek pretences;
So he resolv'd he'd boldly bear,
In triumph, all the spoils of war.
With this intent his ample foot
Held down the pig tail, whilst he put
His stick within the frizzl'd hair,
And thus before him did it bear.
Ten furlongs he'd triumphing past,
But met no mortal man or beast:
When lo—! he met with heart full gleesome,
The Rev'rend Rector, stil'd of Heysham.
The parson star'd, whilst Oamfrey held
The Dragon, which he'd lately kill'd:
And after clearing up his weasand,
He query'd thus, to know the reason.
Why Oamfrey man! what have you got
Upon your stick? That I know not.
Where did you find the tawdry thing?
Tawdry—! quo Noamp—! why, 't has a sting.
A sting man—! nay, no more than you:
Byth' mass, good parson, that's naw true:
Look at its tongs—; its sting's ith tele,
Or else I'm sure my senses fail.
True—; quoth his Rev'rence, that may be,
And in that point we both agree:
But if my eyes, like thine, don't fail
It is, tho' large, a French pig-tail.
A pigtele, pars'n! that's good fun;
No moor thin bacco-pipe's a gun;
Why, 'twas alive ten minutes since,
An that I'll swear, be King or Prince
Nay, more thin that, it flew abeawt,
And that no swine-tele, or his sneawt
Cou'd ever doo, sin Noah's flood :
An this I will maintene for good.
The Rector laugh'd, and Noamp look'd sour,
For to convince he wanted pow'r
Nor cou'd Noamp to his thoughts give vent,
As anger cork'd up argument.
His Rev'rence then began again
To reason thus: Why, look ye man:
This is black silk: and this is hair;
Feel—and believe—you need not stare.
Not stare? Why pars'n did naw you
Affirm just neaw, o thing naw true
Did naw yo soy it war a pig-tele,
Which 'tis no moor thin 'tis a snig-tele;
Why man! but so they call the thing;
You see't has neither head nor sting.
These ribbands are to tye it on,
As you shall see, I'll do anon.
His Rev'rence then his wig took off,
And Noamp began to hem and cough;
His doubts he found to disappear,
And that he'd got wrong sow by th' ear:
For as the parson was adjusting,
Things grew the more, and more disgusting.
But when he put o'er all his wig;
"The D―l ta' yer tole o' pig!―
"What sense is there e tole so black,
"That's teed toth' heeod, an rows o'th back:
"If they'd ha things weh netur jump,
"The tole shou'd awlus ston o'th rump;
"That fok moot know oytch foolish brat
"For monkey greyt, or meawntin cat.
"Boh gawbies neaw gin kers'n nemes
"To things, naw hardly fit for flames."
So Oamfrey grumbling budg'n away,
But neither bad good night, or day.
The Rector laugh'd, and laugh'd again,
At Oamfrey's notions thro' the scene;
And took the pig-tail with him home,
For sport to friends in time to come;
And keeps it to this very day
At Heysham, as many authors say.