Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest
Can hear this bawling slave,
But must, in justice to his coat,
Chastise the saucy knave?
What has this wretch to do with souls,
Or with backsliders either,
Whose business only is his awls,
His lasts, his thread, and leather?
I lose my patience to be made
This strolling varlet’s sport;
Nor could I think this saucy rogue
Could serve me in such sort.
The cobbler, who had no design
The vicar to displease,
Unluckily repeats again,—
I’m come your soals to ease:
The inward and the outward too
I can repair and mend;
And all that my assistance want,
I’ll use them like a friend.
The country folk no sooner heard
The honest cobbler’s tongue,
But from the village far and near
They round about him throng.
Some bring their boots, and some their shoes,
And some their buskins bring:
The cobbler sits him down to work,
And then begins to sing.
Death often at the cobbler’s stall
Was wont to make a stand,
But found the cobbler singing still,
And on the mending hand;
Until at length he met old Time,
And then they both together
Quite tear the cobbler’s aged sole
From off the upper leather.
Even so a while I may old shoes
By care and art maintain,
But when the leather’s rotten grown
All art and care is vain.