Classic Poem

A sailor pops upon the Royal Pair,
On crutches borne--an object of despair:
His squalid beard, pale cheek, and haggard eye,
Though silent, pour for help a piercing cry.

"Who, who are you? what, what? hae, what are you?'
"A man, my liege, whom kindness never knew.'

"A sailor! sailor, hae? you've lost a leg.'
"I know it, sir--which forces me to beg.
I've nine poor children, sir, besides a wife--
God bless them! the sole comforts of my life.'

"Wife and nine children, hae?--all, all alive?
No, no, no wonder that you cannot thrive.
Shame, shame, to fill your hut with such a train!
Shame to get brats for others to maintain!

Get, get a wooden leg, or one of cork:
Wood's cheapest--yes, get wood, and go to work.
But mind, mind, Sailor--hae, hae, hae--hear, hear--
Don't go to Windsor, mind, and cut one there:
That's dangerous, dangerous--there I place my traps--
Fine things, fine things, for legs of thieving chaps:
Best traps, my traps--take care--they bite, they bite,
And sometimes catch a dozen legs a night.'

"Oh! had I money, sir, to buy a leg!'

"No money, hae? nor I--go beg--go beg.'--

How sweetly kind to bid the cripple mump,
And cut from other people's trees a stump!
How vastly like our kind Archbishop M[oo]re,
Who loves not beggar tribes at Lambeth door;
Of meaner parsons bids them ask relief--
There, carry their coarse jugs for broth and beef!

"Mine Gote! you Mashesty!--don't hear sush stuff:
De workhouse always geefs de poor enough.
Why make bout dirty leg sush wond'rous fuss?--
And den, what impudence for beg of Us!
In Strelitz, O mine Gote! de beggars skip:
Dere, for a sharity, we geefs a whip.
Money make subjects impudent, I'm sure--
Respect be always where de peepel's poor.'

"How, Sailor, did you lose your leg--hae, hae?'

"I lost it, please your Majesty, at sea,
Hard fighting for my country and my King.'

"Hae, what?--that's common, very common thing.
Hae! lucky fellow, that you were not drilled:
Some lose their heads, and many men are killed.
Your parish? where's your parish? hae--where, where?'

"I served my 'prenticeship in Manchester.'

"Fine town, fine town--full, full of trade and riches--
Hae, sailor, hae, can you make leather breeches?
These come from Manchester--there, there I got 'em!'
On which Great Caesar claps his buckskin bottom.

"Must not encourage vagrants--no, no, no--
Must not make laws, my lad, and break 'em too.
Where, where's your parish, hae? and where's your pass?
Well, make haste home--I've got, I've got no brass.'