Classic Poem

A FELLOW in a market-town,
Most musical, cried " Razors! " up and down,
— And offered twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,
— As every man should buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard, —
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a thick black beard,
— That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
— " This rascal stole the razors, I suppose!

" No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
— It sartinly will be a monstrous prize. "
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,
— And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
— Just like a hedger cutting furze;
'Twas a vile razor! — then the rest he tried, —
All were impostors. " Ah! " Hodge sighed,
— " I wish my eighteen pence were in my purse. "
In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
— He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore;
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,
— And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
— So kept it, — laughing at the steel and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,
— On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
" Razors! a base, confounded dog!
Not fit to scrape a hog! "

Hodge sought the fellow, — found him, — and begun:
" P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun
— That people flay themselves out of their lives.
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my whiskers here a scrubbing,
— With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave! "

" Friend, " quoth the razor-man, " I'm not a knave;
— As for the razors you have bought,
— Upon my soul, I never thought
That they would shave . "
" Not think they'd shave! " quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,
— And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
" What were they made for, then, you dog? " he cries.
— " Made , " quoth the fellow, with a smile, — " to sell. "