Classic Poem

In Doggrel Rhymes we seldom use
To stay for any Gods , or Muse ;
But in so nice a Case as this,
I think it cannot do amiss:
For all the Link-Boys round the Town
Have sworn (I hear) to run them down;
The Men of Tallom, Wick , and Cotton ,
The Tinmen too the Cry have gotten,
Whom, let me see, shall we retain?
Phaebus for once shall be the Man.
Great God of Lights! we thee invoke,
If not on t'other Side bespoke;
The Stars above, to us below,
Just like your Farthing-Candles show;
Whilst thou, with glorious Lustre crown'd,
Dost hang like one of Six in the Pound;
Thou, who'rt all Eye, cast half an one
Down on this new Invention.
'Tis knew indeed to Men below,
But known in Heav'n long ago;
The Stars, in such just Chrystal Spheres,
Have burnt above five thousand Years:
They fear no Storm by Day, or Night,
But thus hang Wind or Weather tight;
And so they'll hang till Day of Doom,
By that time they'll their Oil consume;
And then their Glasses breaking round us,
In Flames they'll fall, and so confound us;
Nay, we can prove the Milky-Way ,
(For all Sir Sydrophel can say)
Is but a Street of some such Lights,
To guide the heav'nly Folks arights;
The Council-Chamber, up above,
Is hung with such, and Jove 's Alcove;
Tin, Horn, and Grease they've none, and I dare swear,
There's ne'er a Tallom-Chandler there.
Prometheus once (that Son of Fame)
Upon a Visit hither came;
And lik'd the Thing so wond'rous well,
He strait upon the Tryal fell:
But whether (as some Authors say)
The Tallow-Chandlers shew'd foul Play,
Or Link-Boys us'd to break his Glasses,
(For variously the Story passes;)
The Project fail'd, and he ran mad,
But Luck the Virtusso had,
That's all the Bird (the Poets say)
Lies gnawing of him Night and Day.
May more propitious Fates attend
Our present Art-improving Friend;
Were this Invention understood,
'Iwou'd be of universal Good:
The Stars might go to sleep a-nights,
And leave their Work to these new Lights ;
The Midwise Moon might mind her Calling,
And noisy Lightman leave his Bawling:
Men might pull in their Horns , and be
From Officers and Summons free;
'Tis these Moon-Cursers that maintain
The Cry, by Darkness still to gain;
Whose chief Employ, Tom T — d-man right,
In Winter Weather, lies by Night:
Nay, with such potent Influence,
Their streaming Rays they do dispense,
That if the Sun shou'd lie too long
Here, he might have his Business done;
He might indulge in Thetis ' Lap,
And, while they burn, take t'other Nap.
Oh! had you been the other Night
In Cheapside , at th'amazing Light,
Where with their sawcer Eves they hung,
And gather'd the admiring Throng;
The plying Punks crept into Holes,
Who walk'd the Streets before by Shoals:
The Night cou'd now no longer skreen
The Tavern-Sots from being seen;
The Light-men they began to rally,
Who blush'd, and turn'd down Grocers- Alley .
The Tempest you have seen, no doubt,
Just so the Candles all went out:
Those silly Tools no more cou'd burn
Than Kitchen-Grease before the Sun.
The Quaker , with up-lifted Hands,
By Tea and Nay , the Rogue commends:
Of all their boasted Light, he said,
These never entred once our Head.
When we compare our Times with those are past,
We cry, this Age of greater Light can boast;
I'll say so too, if this Device hit right,
Else swear our Age wants Wit as well as Light.