V.
Mighty barbers, mighty lords,
Low on a greasy bench they lie!
No pitying heart or purse affords
A sixpence for a mutton-pye!
Is the mealy ’prentice fled?
Poor Coe is gone, all supperless to bed.
The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat,
Comb their lank hair on forehead flat:
Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux,
While vainly strutting through a silly land,
In foppish train the puppy barber goes;
Lace on his shirt, and money at command,
Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway,
That, hid in some dark court, expects his evening prey.
VI.
The porter-mug fill high,
Baked curls and locks prepare;
Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live,
Close by the greasy chair
Fell thirst and famine lie,
No more to art will beauteous nature give.
Heard ye the gang of Fielding say,
Sir John,[8] at last we’ve found their haunt,
To desperation driv’n by hungry want,
Thro’ the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.
Ye tow’rs of Newgate! London’s lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[9] fame,
And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head.
VII.
Rascals! we tread thee under foot,
(Weave we the woof, the thread is spun;)
Our beards we pull out by the root;
(The web is wove, your work is done.)
“Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d, here to mourn.”
Thro’ the broad gate that leads to College Hall,
They melt, they fly, they vanish all.
But, oh! what happy scenes of pure delight,
Slow moving on their simple charms unroll!
Ye rapt’rous visions! spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Coventry we wail:
All hail, ye genuine forms; fair nature’s issue, hail!
VIII.
Not frizz’d and frittered, pinned and rolled,
Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,
Without their tetes and wigs appear.
In the midst a form divine,
Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvania line;
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.
What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air!
What crowds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh, hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heaven her Quaker-coloured wings.
IX.
No more toupees are seen
That mock at Alpine height,
And queues, with many a yard of riband bound,
All now are vanished quite.
No tongs or torturing pin,
But every head is trimmed quite snug around:
Like boys of the cathedral choir,
Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear;
Each simpler generation blooms more fair,
Till all that’s artificial expire.
Vain puppy boy! think’st thou you essenced cloud,
Raised by thy puff, can vie with Nature’s hue?
To-morrow see the variegated crowd
With ringlets shining like the morning dew.
Enough for me: with joy I see
The different dooms our fates assign;
Be thine to love thy trade and starve,
To wear what heaven bestowed be mine.
He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs’ height,
Quick thro’ the frozen street he ran in shabby plight.