Classic Poem

Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
My wondering eyes did suddenly expand
Upon a pretty leash of Country Lasses.
" Heavens! my dear beauteous Angels, how d'ye do?
Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye." —
" Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you ;
We're just to London come: well, pray how be ye?
" We're just a going, while 'tis dark.
Lord! come, for once be so polite,
And condescend to be our Spark." —

" With all my heart, my Angels." — On we walk'd,
And much of London, much of Cornwall, talk'd.
Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious Structure would surprise;
How much from its awful Grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths and marv'ling eyes.
As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
Saint Paul's just opening on our view;
Behold, my lovely Strangers, one and all,
Gave, all at once, a diabolical Squawl;
As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well frightening people with their cries,
And sticking to a Ribbon-shop their eyes,
They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
And, clattering all together, thus begun:
" Swinge! here are Colours then, to please;
Delightful things, I vow to Heaven:
Why, not to see such things as these,
We never should have been forgiven.

" Here, here, are clever things: good Lord!
And, Sister, here, upon my word;
Here, here, look; here are beauties to delight:
Why, how a body's heels might dance
Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!" —

" Come, Ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I, " I fear:
Pray let us view St Paul's, it is so near." —
" Lord! Peter," cried the Girls, " don't mind Saint Paul;
Sure you're a most incurious soul:
Why, we can see the Church another day;
Don't be afraid; Saint Paul's can't run away ."

Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime ,
Drop tears of pity with the Man of Rhyme. PETER administereth sage Advice to mercenary Artists, and telleth a most delectable Story of a Country Bumkin and a Peripatetic Razor-seller.

Forbear, my friends, to sacrifice your fame
To sordid Gain, unless that you are starving:
I own, that Hunger will indulgence claim
For hard Stone Heads and Landscape carving,
In order to make haste to sell and eat ;
For there is certainly a charm in meat:
And in rebellious tones will Stomachs speak,
That have not tasted victuals for a week.

But yet there are a mercenary crew,
Who value Fame no more than an old Shoe,
Provided for their Daubs they get a sale;
Just like a man — but stay, I'll tell the Tale.

A Fellow in a market-town,
Most musical, cried Razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence:
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap;
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country Bumkin the great offer heard;
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick black Beard
That seem'd 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 soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd 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 imposters. " Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,
" I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his Beard, and bring the Graces,
He cut, and dug and winced, and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each Razor's body o'er and o'er. . . .

Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile Cheat that sold the goods.
" Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a Hog."
Hodge sought the Fellow, found him, and begun:
" Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal, for an hour have I been grubbing,
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 am no 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 ." PETER still continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep Reflection. — He telleth a Miraculous Story.

There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labour cannot to perfection bring:
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not Hints from other folks despise. . . .
Then, if you please,
I'll give you the Two Pilgrims and the Peas.