Classic Poem

Necessity, so Proverb mentions,
Is fruitful Mother of Inventions
Makes the whole Man for Action fit,
And sets a Keenness on the Wit.

She, prudent Matron, grave and sage,
Ev'n in old Saturn 's early Age,
When Men wore Sandals for their Ease,
Or Shoes hew'd out from Rinds of Trees,
Did Science to the World impart,
And taught the Cobler's handy Art.

Authors, in favour of my Theme,
Have somewhere wrote (or else I dream)
How Vulcan , when from Skies he fell,
(Learn'd Readers know my Story well)
By Juno hurl'd, and made a Cripple,
Base Shrew! tho' bred up at her Nipple,
Hurl'd, as from Garret-top aloft
Sluts Kittens hurl, and Puppies oft;
Well, this same Brat of Jove 's i'th' Falling
Got on his Foot so sore a Mawling,
(How he 'scap'd Death a Wonder much is)
That he could only halt on Crutches;
'Till a kind Cobler of the Town,
Worthy in Song of high Renown,
(By superstitious modern Wight,
Sainted, I trow, and Crispin hight)
Brought in all haste Ends, Awls, and Pegs,
And set his Godship on his Legs;
Clap'd a neat Lift beneath his Shoe,
And his lame Limping hid to View,
From whence the Name of Craftsman grew.

M ITCHELL , that lofty Poetaster,
Once hapless! felt a like Disaster,
And to his Fame who cur'd his Hobling,
A Poem writ in praise of Cobbling;
Where for the Brother-Craft the Poet,
Most grateful does (let all Men know it)
In warm and feeling Terms express a
Respect — quite thro' that Epic Essay. — —

Ah! why, ye Gods! shou'd gamesome Boys,
In these bad Days, with Smoak and Noise,
Surround by Night the peaceful Hut,
Where the translating Seer is shut,
And on his hoary Face and Shirt
Sour Grains eject, or Urin squirt;
And not contented so t' have stunk him,
Burn Brimstone, poison, choak — and funk him.

What, cou'd relieve the starv'ling Beau ,
(Gloss'd tho' his upper Leathers show)
While Soals are leaky and unfound,
Were there no Cobler to be found?
Who can restore the founder'd Hopper,
For few coarse Bits of paltry Copper.
What cou'd redress the Poet 's Want,
When Geer is worn, and Bullion scant?
Did in his gloomy central Cell,
Dark hous'd, no kind Translator dwell,
Who at cheap Rate, with mended Ware,
Can the immortal Man repair?
What at Elections would the Knight ,
Unfriended do, for Tools to fight?
To knock down Pollers , shout and bawl,
Without 'Squire Cobler of the Stall?

Coblers! tho' Fops the name degrade,
That antient, venerable Trade,
In ev'ry Faculty we trace;
(I'm waxing to an End apace)
Some of each Sect, of all Conditions,
Mechanicks, Statesmen, Bards, Physicians,
Make up and join the general Sessions,
A Brotherhood of all Professions.