Classic Poem

spoken by Mr. Garrick in the character of a country boy

Measter! Measter!
Is not my measter here among you, pray?
Nay, speak — my measter wrote this fine new play.
The actor folks are making such a clatter.
They want the pro-log — I know nought o' the matter!
He must be there among you — look about:
A weezen, pale-faced man: do find him out.
Pray, measter, come, or all will fall to sheame.
Call Mister — hold — I must not tell his name.

Law, what a crowd is here! What noise and pother!
Fine lads and lasses one o' top o' t'other.
I could for ever here with wonder geaze.
I ne'er saw church so full in all my days.
Your servunt, sirs. What do you laugh for, eh?
You donna take me sure for one o' th' play?
You should not flout an honest country lad.
You think me fool and I think you half mad.
You're all as strange as I and stranger too,
And if you laugh at me I'll laugh at you.

I donna like your London tricks, not I,
And since you've raised my blood I'll tell you why.
And if you wull, since now I am before ye,
For want of pro-log I'll relate my story.

I came from country here to try my fate,
And get a place among the rich and great.
But, troth, I'm sick o' the journey I ha' ta'en.
I like it not — would I were whoame again.
First in the city I took up my station,
And got a place with one of the Corporation,
A round big man — he eat a plaguy deal.
Zooks, he'd have beat five ploomen at a meal!
But long with him I could not make abode,
For, could you think't? He eat a great sea-toad!
It came from Indies — 'twas as big as me.
He called it " belly-patch " and " capapee "
Law, how I stared! I thought — who knows but I,
For want of monsters may be made a pie.
Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain,
I'll back to whoame and country fare again.

I left toad-eater; then I sarved a lord.
And there they promised but ne'er kept their word.
While 'mong the great this geaming work the trade is,
They mind no more poor servants than their ladies.

A lady next, who liked a smart young lad,
Hired me forthwith, but, troth, I thought her mad.
She turned the world top down, as I may say;
She changed the day to neet, the neet to day.
I stood one day with coach and did but stoop
To put the foot-board down, and with her hoop
She covered me all o'er. Where are you, lout?
Here, ma'am, says I, for heaven's sake let me out.
I was so sheamed with all her freakish ways,
She wore her gear so short, so low her stays —
Fine folks show all for nothing nowadays.

Now I'm the poet's man — I find with wits
There's nothing sartain — nay, we eat by fits.
Our meals, indeed, are slender — what of that?
There are but three on's — measter, I and cat.
Did you but see us all, as I'm a sinner,
You'd scarcely say which of the three is thinner.

My wages all depend on this night's piece;
But should you find that all our swans are geese,
E'feck! I'll trust no more to measter's brain,
But pack up all and whistle whoame again.