It has long been agreed by all persons of learning
Who in stories of old have a ready discerning,
That in every country which travellers paint,
There has always been found a protector or saint.
Derry down, etc.
St. George for Old England, with target and lance,
St. Andrew for Scotland, St. Denis for France,
St. David o'er Wales, so long known to preside,
And St. Patrick, Hibernia's patron and pride.
Derry down, etc.
He was gallant and brave as a saint ought to be,
For St. George was not braver or better than he,
He would drink and would sing and would rattle like thunder,
Though 'twas said, he was, now and then given to blunder.
Derry down, etc.
But the jests of his friends he took in good part,
For his blunders were nought but th' excess of his heart;
Though there was but one blunder he ever would own,
And that was when he saw all the claret was gone.
Derry down, etc.
He'd fight for his country's religion and laws,
And when beauty was injur'd he took up the cause,
For the gallant St. Patrick, as ev'ry one knows,
Was fond of a pretty girl under the rose.
Derry down, etc
So many his virtues, it would be too long
To rehearse them at once in a ballad or song;
Then with laughter and mirth let us hallow his shrine,
And drown all his Bulls in a bumper of wine.
Derry down, etc.
Then St. Patrick, St. George and St. Andrew shall be
The Protectors of Kingdoms so brave and so free:
Thus in vain will the thunders of Denis be hurl'd,
For our Trio of Saints shall give laws to the world.
Derry down, etc.
Hard went the hands upon the board,
And Erin's praises were encor'd.
Thus when the pleasant song was heard,
Hibernia's minstrel was preferr'd;
Nor from the voice or in the eye
Was there a hint of jealousy:
Nay, while they took their parting glass,
These sentiments were heard to pass.
"The Thistle, Shamrock and the Rose
May challenge all the world at blows:
English and Irish names are known,—
There's Marlborough and Wellington;
And O, what men of glorious name
Do Scotia's annals give to Fame!"
engaged with jovial friends, or who sings best?
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus engaged with jovial Friends: Or—Who sings best?
With friends like these the 'Squire began His new career, and thus it ran, With others whom he chanc'd to light on In trips to Tunbridge or to Brighton, Swells at most public places known And as gay triflers 'bout the town; Who might, perhaps, at times resort To Billiard-rooms or Tennis-court, Where lively grace, and easy skill Might flatter Fortune to their will. Freeborn these gay companions sought, Who soon their brisk disciple taught How to direct his lively course By the snug compass in his purse;
In short, who tutor'd his quick sense In the gay world to make pretence By modest, well-dress'd impudence.
}
—Ye Dandies, Bucks or by what name Bond Street re-echoes with your fame; Whether in Dennet, Gig or Tandem, In five-cap'd coats you bang at random, With such nice skill that you may break Your own, or Dulcinea's neck: Or, when lock'd arm in arm you meet, From the plain causeway to the street, Drive Ladies in their morning walk, While you enjoy your lounging talk: Then saunter off to pass your hours In roving through those gaudy bowers Where purchas'd pleasure seems design'd To occupy the thoughtless mind:
And, having idled through the day, To quicken dull night's weary way, You seek the mask, the dance or play;—
}
With you our Hero did contrive To keep himself and time alive; But now and then too prone to trace Those scrapes that border on disgrace, And threat the unreflecting plan Of the best would-be Gentleman!
From such as these he was not free, As we, I fear, shall shortly see, In this so busy history.
}
—To him no social life was known, His home, his friends were through the town Who were seen wand'ring here and there, Caring for no one, no one's care; Prepared no pleasures to receive But coin could buy or chance might give; And would prove lively or were dull, As the silk purse was drain'd or full. For though deck'd out with all the art That Fashion's journeymen impart, They never pass'd the tonish wicket Of High-life, but by purchas'd ticket Obtain'd by the resistless bribe To Traitors of the livried tribe, Which, by some bold disguise to aid, Might help them through a masquerade; Or, with some sly, well-fram'd pretence And varnish'd o'er with impudence, A proud admittance might obtain With chance to be turn'd out again: Nor was the luckless Freeborn spar'd, When he the saucy trial dar'd. —One night, the hour we need not tell, Into a trap the coxcomb fell. As through the streets he rattled on Lamps with inviting brilliance shone; The music's sound, the portal's din Told 'twas a joyous scene within: The second bottle of the night, Might have produced a double sight, And two-fold courage to pursue The splendid prospect in his view, He, therefore bade the Hack approach, And at the door present the coach; Then made a push, got through the hall, And quickly mingled with the ball. —Whether his face was too well known Among the dashers of the town, Who do not an admittance gain Among the more distinguish'd train, Whose social habits will exclude The mere street-trampling multitude, Who, like the insects of a day, Make a short buzz and pass away: Or whether the intruding sinner Eat as he seem'd to want a dinner; Or if it did his fancy suit To line his pocket with the fruit; Or if he let some signal fly, Not usual in such company, Or if his spirits were so loud As to alarm the polish'd crowd; Whatever was the Spell that bound him, Suspicion more than hover'd round him;
For, he replied with silent stare, As he was taken unaware, When he was ask'd how he came there.
}
Nor did he show a visage bold When, in a whisper, he was told, But still with steady look express'd By the stern Master of the feast, If he wish'd not to play a farce To make his pretty figure scarce.
—That such a part he might not play Which menac'd e'en the least delay, He thought it best to glide away;
}
And, to avoid the threat'ning rout, As he push'd in, he darted out.
A tonish Matron who ne'er fail'd Where she was ask'd and cards prevail'd, My Lady Dangle was her name, And 'twas the fancy of the dame Still to retain the antique plan At night to dance in a Sedan Sedans, so known the fair to coop, When clad in the expanding hoop, Snug chairs borne on by sturdy feet, Once seen in ev'ry courtly street; And one a most uncommon sight, Was waiting at the door to-night; Which, in all due array, was come, To bear my Lady Dangle home. The Chairmen lifted up the top, When Freeborn, with a sprightly hop, And his cloak wrapp'd around his face, Made bold to seize the vacant place: The bearers, not intent to know, Whether it were a Belle or Beau, Went on—a cheary footman bore A flambeau, blund'ring on before: While, ere the 'Squire, in this sad scrape, Had time to plan his next escape, A heap of Paviour's stones which lay Directly in the Chairmen's way, Gave them a fall upon the road, With their alarm'd, mistaken load. Each Watchman sprang his rousing rattle, But as no voices call'd for battle, They did the best without delay To set the party on their way: While the attendants on the chair, Half-blinded by the flambeau's glare, First rais'd their weighty forms and then Set the Sedan upright again: Nor e'er attempted to explore The hapless head that burst the door. But such was Freeborn's falling fate, Which such confusion did create Within the region of his brain, He did not know his home again: Nay, when the wearied Chairmen stopp'd, Into the house he stagg'ring popp'd; Then to and fro got up the stairs, And, straddling o'er opposing chairs,
He star'd, but knew not he was come To Lady Dangle's Drawing Room, But wildly thought himself at home.
}
Then on a sofa threw his length, Thus to regain exhausted strength, And grunted, groan'd and drew his breath, As if it were the hour of death.
Sir David Dangle, whom the gout Had kept that night from going out, Was sitting in all sick-man's quiet, Nor dreaming of a scene of riot When, waken'd into wild amaze, He did on the strange vision gaze, While the bold reprobate intrusion Threw all the house into confusion. In rush'd domestics one and all, Who heard the bell's alarming call; While stamping crutch and roaring voice Encreas'd the Knight's awak'ning noise That he might quick assistance stir Against this unknown visiter. But while the household struggled hard To keep him still, and be his guard, Till he thought fit to lay before 'em The cause of all his indecorum; My Lady came to set all right And check the hurry of the night: She then, to soothe his rude alarms Clasp'd her dear Knight within her arms, Those arms which, for full forty years, As from tradition it appears, Had sometimes strok'd his chin and coax'd him, And now and then had soundly box'd him. "It is," she said, "some heated rake, Who has occasion'd the mistake. But loose your hands, I do protest, To be thus us'd, he's too well drest
For though his face I do not know He does some air of fashion show, Playing his pranks incognito."
}
—"It may be so," the Knight replied, And then he shook his head and sigh'd: "I'm not a stranger to the game, When I was young, I did the same." —Beside Sir David, Madam sat: To charm his flurry with her chat Her tongue pour'd forth its ready store And talk'd the busy evening o'er; Their biscuits took and, nothing loth, Moisten'd them well with cordial broth; Thus, till bed call'd, enjoy'd their quaffing, He with hoarse chuckle—she with laughing.
the party breaking up and quæ genus breaking down
Drawn by Rowlandson
The Party breaking up, and Quæ Genus breaking down.
As he his innocence had vow'd,
Our Hero press'd his hands and bow'd,
Nay look'd, with humble, downcast eye,
The Mirror of Apology.
Besides, he well knew how to bribe
The service of the liv'ried tribe;
So, without fear of ill to come,
He was convey'd in safety home.
—With the next noon his morning came,
And serious thoughts began to claim
Attention to the Life he past,
And how much longer it might last:
For the hard blow he had receiv'd,
By the chair's fall, had so aggriev'd
The Pericranium's tend'rest part
That it requir'd a Surgeon's art,
Who, to relieve the threat'ning pains
Applied the leeches to his veins,
He then with blistering proceeded,
The strong Cathartic next succeeded,
With light debarr'd to either eye,
And undisturb'd tranquillity:
Such was the system to restore
His health to what it was before.
Thus bound to silence and confin'd
It was a period for the mind
To yield to those reflecting powers
Which flow from solitary hours.
'Tis said by one, no chattering dunce
That changes seldom come at once;
And to those changes we refer
Which work in human character.
Reason at once does not disown us,
Nor instant folly seize upon us;
It is by a progressive course
That habit sinks from bad to worse,
And thus the happier impulse moves
By which the character improves:
The struggle that controuls the will
From ill to good, from good to ill,
Is not a contest for the power
That lasts but through a transient hour.
Virtue's fine ardor does not yield
But after many a well-fought field;—
Nor do the baser passions cool
Till they despair to overule,
By secret spell or Virtue's fire,
The glowing of the heart's desire.
Thus, as through pictur'd life we range,
We see the varying landscape change,
But, as the diff'rent scenes we view,
If we have hearts we feel them too:
And then, how charming is the sight
When Virtue rises to its height
And triumphs o'er the conquer'd foe
That flaps its baffled wing below.
What though such images as these
May look to Eccentricities
Beyond the reach of those whose claim
Is shelter'd by a borrow'd name:
Yet still our system may apply
The force of its philosophy
To ev'ry track of human life,
Where the heart feels conflicting strife;
In short, where 'tis the painful lot,
And in what bosom is it not,
To struggle in the certain feud
Between the evil and the good,
That in our mortal nature lies
With all its known propensities:
Nor shall we on our Hero trample
As an inadequate example.
He'll serve as well as brighter tools
To give an edge to moral rules,
And Freeborn's frolics may prevail
To give a spirit to the tale
Which in its fashion and its feature
Bears, as we trust, the stamp of nature.
—Besides, it surely has appear'd,
He was at first in virtue rear'd,
Nor do we fear, however cross'd,
His Virtue has been wholly lost:
Nor will our kind and honest muse
The hope, nay the belief refuse,
That, after all his follies past,
Much good may still remain at last
Which might, with Reason's aid, at length,
Be felt in more than former strength.
How this may happen we shall see
In our progressive history.
turned out of a house which he mistakes for his own
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus turned out of a house which he mistakes for his own.
Thus he, for many a night and day, In strict, prescriptive silence lay, For he all talking was forbid No friends must visit, if they did, All Galen's efforts would be vain For the re-settling of his brain; And when acquaintance chanc'd to come It must be said, "He's not at home:" Nay, his kind friends, when it appear'd, That e'en his life was rather fear'd, And that his hospitable fare Might quickly vanish into air: Though as the knocker still was tied, They just ask'd if he liv'd or died. But other reasons soon prevail That made his vain pretensions fail To ask them now and then to dine, And prove their welcome by his wine. For when they left him others came, More constant in their wish and aim; Who, while the Doctor order'd pills, Would call, perhaps, to leave their bills; And sometimes in the way of trade Might ask the favour to be paid. These things, as he lay still in bed, Would sometimes tease his shaken head,
And force him to consult his hoard, To know what hopes that might afford When he to health should be restor'd.
}
—That time arriv'd and he was free From offering another fee, But then he found more clumsy hands Ready to grasp enlarg'd demands. —In all the playgames he had sought He found, at last, as might be thought, In worst of scrapes he now was left, Our 'Squire, alas, was deep in debt, And which was worse, of the amount, He could not pay the full account: Nor were his drooping spirits cheer'd When ev'ry day a Dun appear'd. There were no frolics now to charm The mind from feeling the alarm, At thought so painful to endure Th' afflicting thought of being poor. But though Discretion oft had fail'd him, And Folly's Gim-crack schemes assail'd him Though his whole conduct might not bear The scrutinizing eye severe: Yet honour was not dispossest Of a snug corner in his breast, Which there an influence did maintain, And, call'd to speak, spoke not in vain; For he refus'd, at once, to hear What smiling Knaves pour'd in his ear, To scrape the relics of his hoard, Make a long skip and get abroad; Seize the first favourable wind, And laugh at those he left behind. —The counsel given, was given in vain; He met it with a just disdain, Bore with mild humour each sly sneer, And smil'd when Folly chose to jeer; Resolv'd to pay to his last groat, Though standing in his only coat. —'Twas thus he thought in temper cool, "I may be call'd vain, silly fool, And something more I might deserve, But I would dig or almost starve, Rather than in that concert join, Which sprightly vagabonds design." —Suspicion may be sometimes led To doubt the vows which, on the bed
Of pain and sickness, may be made, When, by a trait'rous world betray'd Hope's future prospects sink and fade.
}
For when Contrition views the past, Because the passing day's o'ercast Yet does no more its place retain When smiling hours return again, 'Tis but an hypocritic art To mock the world and cheat the heart. But our sick Hero, as the verse Will, with unvarnish'd truth, rehearse,
An eye of tearful sorrow threw O'er some past years' reproachful view, And trembling at the future too.
}
Thus, of some awkward fears possess'd, He held a council in his breast, And felt the way to be pursued Was now to do the best he could, And call on Justice to receive The only tribute he could give.
Thus, at once, honest and discreet, He call'd his Creditors to meet To hear proposals which he thought They would receive as just men ought: Nay, fancied, when he told his tale, That lib'ral notions would prevail; Nor could his gen'rous mind foresee The fruits of his integrity: For when he walk'd into the room He found th' invited guests were come, Who soon began in hideous measure, To play away their loud displeasure, Not unlike Andrews at a fair Who to make gaping rustics stare, Expand their lanky, lanthern jaws That fire may issue from their maws. One darted forth revengeful looks, Another pointed to his books
Wherein a charge was never made, That did not honour to his trade; And curs'd th' accounts which were not paid,
}
Nor fail'd to wish he could convey them, We'll not say where, who did not pay them. A third, as hard as he was able, Struck his huge fist upon the table. While, beastly names from many a tongue, Around the room resounding rung. As Freeborn had not quite possest The hope that he should be carest, He rather look'd with down-cast eye, To win by his humility, And put on a repentant face As suited to the awkward place: Nay, his high spirits he prepar'd And call'd discretion for their guard In case, though it was not expected, Decorum should be quite neglected:—
But when the Butcher strok'd his sleeve, Brandish'd his steel and call'd him thief, Belching forth mutton, veal and beef;
}
When touch'd by such a market sample They join'd to follow his example;
When stead of praise for honest doing And the fair course he was pursuing They loos'd their banter on his ruin;
}
His prudence then was thrown aside From sense of irritated pride, And, patient bearing quite exhausted, He thus the angry circle roasted.— "You all in your abuse may shine, But know—Abuse will never coin! Remember you have had my trade, For some few years, and always paid; While for your charges you must own, I let them pass, nor cut them down, And Customers, such fools like me Are Prizes in your Lottery. Put but your loss and gain together, I should deserve your favour, rather Than this rude and unseemly treating, As if I gain'd my bread by cheating. You know, you set of thankless calves, You are well paid if paid by halves; And spite of knowing nods and blinking, I have been told, and can't help thinking, All that now may remain to pay The claims which bring me here to-day, A just Arithmetic would tell Will pay your honours very well! But I have done—nay, I shall burst If I say more——so do your worst.——"
with creditors
Drawn by Rowlandson
Quæ Genus & Creditors.
He threw himself into a chair,
While each at each began to stare;
When, from a corner of the room,
A milder voice appear'd to come,
And, without prefatory art,
Was heard opinions to impart
Which as he spoke them, did not fail
O'er the loud rancour to prevail.
"Gem'men,—
"I cannot but refuse
My honest vote to your abuse;
And had I thought it was your plan
Thus to foul-mouth a Gentleman,
(And such he is, I'll boldly say,
By all he has propos'd to-day)
I would have stay'd and minded home,
Nor to this boist'rous Meeting come!
You could not give a harder banging
To one whose deeds had call'd for hanging.
What I've to say there's no denying—
Nor will I please you now by lying.
For no short time, you all can tell,
We each charg'd high and he paid well;
Nay, now that he is gone to pot
He gives us all that he has got,
And with a pittance is content
To take him to the Continent:
Nor by sly tricks does he deceive ye
But gives you all that he can give you;
And, if again of wealth possest,
I doubt not but he'll pay the rest;
Now he who does the best he can,
I'm certain he's a Gentleman.
For me, whate'er may be your will,
I'll take his terms and trust him still;
And my best judgement recommends
The same right conduct to my friends."
Much more the lib'ral tradesman said
And still continued to persuade
With arguments that bore the test
From that known power call'd Interest,
Which, by degrees, becalm'd the riot,
And clos'd the scene in gen'ral quiet.
Thus, grumb'ling o'er, with parting glass,
The settling hour was seen to pass,
And soon dismiss'd our Freeborn home
To meditate on times to come,
With the first pleasure man can know,
Of doing what he ought to do.
Whether it was his ready way, As we know not, we cannot say— But as he saunter'd through a court, A passage of no small resort, Well known to Lawyer's daily tread, As to the King's-Bench Walks it led, A Placard of no common size Compell'd the gaze of passing eyes: When, as he read, he saw it bore The well-known name he whilom bore, While there was forc'd upon his view The Rev'rend Doctor Syntax too; Nay, as he thought, it seem'd to be A Brief of his own History: Nor was it sure an idle whim To think that it belong'd to him. The Advertisement did address, In all the pomp of printing press, Th' important loss which was sustain'd And the reward that might be gain'd By those who should the loss restore To those who did th' event deplore. Then o'er and o'er he read the paper That set his spirits in a caper; For when he trac'd the pedigree, He whisper'd to himself—"'Tis Me."
Nor do I from the hope refrain, Nor do I think I boast in vain,— Quæ Genus is Himself again!"
}
But here it may become the verse,
The Placard's purpose to rehearse,
This Advertisement courts regard
To full FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS reward.
"Upwards of twenty years ago, Or more or less it may be so, Some one had ventur'd to expose In clean and decent swaddling clothes, An Infant, laid before the door Mark'd number three in number four, Of Chambers which distinction claim, And Paper Buildings is their name:,
Now any one who can but give Assurance that He still doth live, The above reward will then receive.
}
Quæ Genus is the Foundling's name, Which, if alive, he best can claim, For now at least it is not known That he can any other own.
The kind Protector of his Birth Was a Divine of highest worth— Who held preferment in the North—
}
Syntax was his much-honour'd name, Nor is he now unknown to Fame. But time has long since laid his head On his last low and silent bed; And search has hitherto been vain, The Foundling's present state to gain. A Laundress now is still alive Who can some information give, And Betty Broom is the known name Of the communicating Dame To whose kind care deliver'd first, The Babe was given to be nurs'd. Th' exposure she can well display As if it were but yesterday, But further knowledge is requir'd And what events may have conspir'd To shape his Life—If he should live, 'Tis what this paper asks to give. Who has such tidings and will tell 'em, With all due proofs, to Mr. Vellum, Or sent by Post to his abode, Near Shoreditch Church in Hackney Road, Will the remuneration prove That's fully stated as above."
Again he read the paper o'er, Resolv'd its purport to explore, And strait to Number Three repairs When hobbling down the ancient stairs, He met the Matron whom he sought, And told his story as he ought, A rapid sketch—nor did it fail To be an interesting Tale: Which when she heard, against the wall The broom she held was seen to fall, And scarce her old arms could prevail To bear the burthen of her pail. Her glasses then she sought to place On the Proboscis of her face; Not that a likeness she should see 'Tween riper years and infancy. But now her heart began to melt At Recollections that she felt, And thus she wish'd to tell them o'er, As she had often done before. "What, though so many years are gone, And you to man's estate are grown, Since I, in all its infant charms, Dandled the Foundling in my arms, Were I but certain it was you, Yes I would hug—and kiss you too." —But though he vow'd and did exclaim He was the very—very same;
And though he put forth ev'ry grace With which his words could gild his face, He could not gain a kind embrace;
}
Though twenty-five don't often sue To claim a kiss from sixty-two: But some suspicions had possess'd The avenues to Betty's breast; For she liv'd where her open ear Was practis'd ev'ry day to hear Of art array'd in fairest guise And truth o'erthrown by artifice. Thus what could the old Matron do? She fear'd him false, and wish'd him true: Then turn'd him round, but look'd aghast, As at his back her eye she cast; When she thus spoke, and heav'd a sigh, "I hope it is not treachery! Before that door the child lay sprawling, And mov'd the Doctor with its squalling: But, before Heaven I can swear, It then was as a Cherub fair; Strait as a little arrow he, In perfect form and symmetry; And from its neck unto its rump, Believe me, he had no such hump As that, though hid with every care, Your injur'd form is seen to bear; And cannot but appear to be A natural deformity. How this change came of course you know,— With the poor child it was not so;— Prepare its Hist'ry to explain, Or you will visit here in vain. —My good young man, strive not to cheat, Nor think to profit by deceit: You have with knowing folk to do, Not to be foil'd by such as you. I own you tell a moving tale, But Facts alone will now prevail: You will be sifted up and down Till e'en your marrow-bones are known. —I've not another word to say; To Master Vellum take your way, You'll find him at his snug abode Near Shoreditch Church, in Hackney Road: For, when the infant first was left, Of all parental care bereft, The Bookseller and I, between us, Had much to do with dear Quæ Genus: For to his shop I us'd to go 'Twas then in Paternoster Row, As he the money did supply For the poor Foundling's nursery.
—O, if he finds your story true, It will, indeed, be well for you! I will then hug and kiss you too!"
}
He took his leave—she gave a blessing As good, perhaps, as her caressing.
