THE CHAMPION SHAVER;
Or, A Task against Time.
Largo al factotum! Shave all the world, one per minute!
Figaro beaten, Poll Sweedlepipe plainly not in it!
Wick of King's Road, Chelsea's champion chin-scraper, out of it!
Romola's garrulous razor-man whipped, there's no doubt of it!
Rustic's rough stubble, or working-man's wiry chin-bristle,
Mown from his gills in a twinkling, as clean as a whistle.
Even a bristly Hibernian boar he would gaily
Tackle, and trim him as smooth as that downy young Bailey.
Grand Old Tonsorial Hand with the soft-soap and lather;
Knight of the Razor, of hand-sweep redoubtable—rather!
Pat—or Shagpat-Hodge or Bluebeard, blue-gill'd British Workman,
Muscovite hairy, or whiskered, moustache-twisting Turkman:
Downy-cheeked boy, or big, wire-brushy Don Whiskerando!—
All one to him! All that sharp steel and soap-lather can do
Here is a Barber will buckle to, blade-armed, instanter,
Challenge competitive rivals, and win in a canter.
Neat Nelly Wick (thirteen men in ten minutes) is rather
A good 'un to mow, to say naught of her champion father;
But this Grand Old Shaver would shave,—against time, too, yes, trust us!—
Elephas Primigenius (the Mammoth), or Brontops Robustus!
Truly a Tonsor Titanic to chin-needs to minister!
Yet are there some who declare his dexterity sinister;
Say that 'tis not without reason this bland badger-waver.
And stirrer of soap-suds, is called—well, an Artful Old Shaver.
Like most of his craft he the Gift of the Gab shares stupendously.
And takes by the nose and belathers, with soft-soap, tremendously.
They call him for custom from all sorts and sizes a cadger,
And swear that he badgers the Mob to submit to his badger.
Be that as it may—and his rivals do rail at him viciously—
If you require "a clean shave," rattled off expeditiously,
Lather that's fragrant and frothy, and steel that slides slickly,
Sit down in his chair, and he'll polish you off pretty quickly.
He's had two tough customers lately; a workman stiff-stubbled
(He looks at his gills in the glass with a glance slightly troubled),
And him the young yokel whose beard's like a big bed of thistles,
Who flops in the chair and demands to be shorn of his bristles.
To shave—against time—such a shag-beard as is this young rustic,
Is hard, and the chance of success seems a bit nubibustic.
But list! The old Champion Shaver is courteously glosing!
"Bit bristly, my friend, but I'll leave you clean-mown before closing!"