OHN JONES he was a builder’s clerk,
On ninety pounds a year,
Before his head was engine-turn’d
To be an engineer!
For, finding that the iron roads
Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart
Was set upon a rail.
But oh! his schemes all ended ill,
As schemes must come to nought,
With men who try to make short cuts,
When cut with something short.
His altitudes he did not take,
Like any other elf;
But first a spirit-level took,
That levelled him, himself.
Then getting up, from left to right
So many tacks he made,
The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well survey’d.
How crows may fly he did not care
A single fig to know;—
He wish’d to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow.
So, going to the Rose and Crown,
To cut his studies short,
The nearest way from pint to pint,
He found was through a quart.
According to this rule he plann’d
His railroad o’er a cup;
But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up!
Alas! not his the wily arts
Of men as shrewd as rats,
Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot of flats!