Report allied thee to patrician blood,
Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,
Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,
And prov’d,—thy true nobility of mind.
With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,
Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,
In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,
Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.
O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,
And give the gloss,—thou Billy, wert the man,
No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo—
Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.
On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,
An extra polish could thine art bestow;
At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,
Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.
When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,
On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,
A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,
Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.
With rage theatric often didst thou glow,
(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)
As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,
Or else rehears’d vindictive Shylock’s part.
Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,
Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,
In Iago’s phrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaim
With too much truth,—“who steals my purse steals trash.”
Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,
Long wert thou emp’ror of the shoe-black train,
And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,
We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”