A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes,
May now this country lad abuse:—
On meagre fare grown poor and lean,
He treats him like a mere machine,
Directs his look, directs his step,
And kicks him into decent shape,
From aukward habits frees the clown,
Erects his head—or knocks him down.
Last Friday week to Battery-green
The sergeant came with this Machine—
One motion of the firelock missed—
The Tutor thumped him with his fist:
I saw him lift his hickory cane,
I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!—
Yet this—and more—he's forced to bear;
And thus goes on from year to year,
'Till desperate grown at such a lot,
He drinks—deserts—and so is shot!
[83] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84]
In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round,
And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear,
A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound,
Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear:
In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead
And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said.
Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw
Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch!
'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law,
Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech:
No soul had you to face the wintry blast,
Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast.
Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul,
If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine:
I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl,
Nor from your poems filch'd a single line:
When I do that—then publish from your caves,
Who robs a beggar—is the worst of knaves!
[84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition.