As I never could relish to travel alone,
I look'd round about, but could hit upon none
Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses
And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses;
At last, by repeating my trouble and care,
And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air,
And the curse and the plague of remaining in town,
Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down,
I got a few friends to consent to the trip;
And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip,
Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth,
The gravest of towns on the face of the earth;
Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim,
And poets, and painters, and girls of the game:
To him all its streets and its alleys were known,
But his travels had never exceeded the town:—
A salesman by trade (and a dabster was he
To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee)
With his wife (and he says I may mention her name)
Susanna Snipinda—so charming a dame,
The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head,
So freckled was she, and her tresses so red.
To wait on the will of so handsome a lady
A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready,
A sly looking lad that was 'prentice to Snip,
And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;—
When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb;
When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam.
III. O'Keef, a Swaggering Captain
The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef,
A killer of men, and a lover of beef:
With the heroes of old he had put in his claim,
And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame:
To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song
With his Andra Ferrara[C] he paddled along:
From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin,
He was known thro' the town by the name of Sir Bruin;
He was, among women, a man of great parts,
A captain of foot, and a master of arts:
He had, a sweet creature put under his care,
(Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear)
A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace,
Whom Cynthia[D] he call'd, for the sake of her face,
At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran,
He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man,
Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain
Of people—perhaps that may meet him again:
Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make,
By his words, he would venture to die for their sake,
Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd
Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword.
[C] A large kind of sword, in use among the Italians.—Freneau's note, 1795 edition.
[D] Cynthia is also a poetical name for the Moon.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.
IV. Touppee: a French Hair Dresser
The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee,
A barber from Paris, of royal degree,
(For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it,
He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E])
Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long,
Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent.
This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray,
Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way,
Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh,
A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:—
His merits are great (he would have us suppose)
For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose,
Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin,
And handled a tongs—at the head of the Queen.
[E] A popular French nobleman, who, A. D. 987, usurped the crown of France, and was the first of a new race of monarchs.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.
V. Bob: a Ballad Singer
A singer of ballads was next in our train,
Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain;
He sometimes would sing in a musical tone,
And sometimes would scribble a song of his own:
Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix—
And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six;
Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine;
Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;"
Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes,
And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose—
As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground,
He knew it was folly to feed them with sound—
He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays,
And was too much their friend to insult them with praise.
For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob:
On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361]
He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small,
But scarcely a shilling had got by them all—
So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade,
And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid,
That if times didn't alter, and that very soon,
He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune.
Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head
If he took a short journey his fortune was made:
Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams
Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems,
Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains
Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains,
That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made
(And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade)
Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time
For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme
To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd,
Reform the old music, and fix a new taste.