ODES OF IMPORTANCE:

VIZ.

TO THE SHOEMAKERS.

TO MR. BURKE.

TO IRONY.

TO LORD LONSDALE.

TO THE KING.

TO THE ACADEMIC CHAIR.

TO A MARGATE HOY.

OLD SIMON, A TALE.

THE JUDGES; OR, THE WOLVES, THE BEAR, AND INFERIOR BEASTS: A FABLE.

-Sic positi, suaves miscetis odores.

SWEET-BRIAR, hawthorn, lilies, nettles, roses;
What a nice bouquet for all sorts of noses!

Ludimus innocuis verbis, nec lædere quenquam
Mens nostra.
MARTIAL.

My Verse's sweetness, mildness, none deny:
Lord! playful Peter would not wound a Fly.

ODES OF IMPORTANCE.

RESIGNATION.

An Ode to the Journeymen Shoemakers, who lately refused to work except their Wages were raised.

SONS of Saint Crispin, 'tis in vain :

Indeed 'tis fruitless to complain.

I know you wish good Beef or Veal to carve:
But first the hungry Great must all be fed ;
Mean time, you all must chew hard musty Bread,
Or, what is commonly unpleasant, starve.

Your masters like yourselves oppression feel ;
It is not they would wish to stint your meal:
Then suck your paws like Bears, and be resign'd.
Perhaps your sins are many; and if so
Heaven gives us very frequently, we know,

The Great as Scourges for mankind.
Your masters soon may follow you, so lank;
Undone by simple confidence in rank.

The Royal Richmond builds his state on Coals;

Salisbury and Hawkesbury, lofty souls,

With their fair Dames must have the Ball and Rout.

Kings must our Millions have, to make a glare;
Whose Sycophants must also have a share.—
But pout not: 'tis a libel, Sirs, to pout.

Closed be your mouths, or dread the jail or thong: You must not for your Money have a Song.

Cease, cease your riot, pray, my friends:
It answereth (believe me) no good ends
And yet the time will come, I hope to God,
When black-faced, damn'd Oppression, to his den
Shall howling fly before the curse of men,
And feel of anger'd Justice the sharp rod.

Go home, I beg of you, my Friends, and cat
Your sour, your mouldy Bread, and Offal meat;
Till Freedom comes: I see her on the way.
Then shall a smile break forth upon each mien,
The front of banish'd Happiness be seen,

And, Sons of Crispin, you once more be gay.

Now go, and learn submission from your Bible:
Complaint is now-a-days a flagrant libel.

Yes, go

and try to chew your mouldy bread: Justice is sick, I own, but is not dead.

Let Grandeur roll her chariot on our necks;
Submission, sweet humility bespeaks:

Let Grandeur's plumes be lifted by our sighs.
Let Dice, and Chariots, and the stately Thrones,
Be form'd of poor men's hard-work'd Bones :
We must contribute; or, lo, Grandeur dies.
We are the Parish that supports her show ;-
A truth that Grandeur wishes not to know.

Full many a time reluctantly, I own,
I view our mighty Rulers with a groan,

Who eat the labours of us vulgar crew;
Bask on our shoulders in their lazy state:
And if we dare look up for ease, th' ingrate

Look down, and ask us,

Damme, who are you?"

Now such forgetfulness is most unpleasant.
The man who doth receive a Hare or Pheasant,
Might somewhat, certainly, from manners spare,
And say, "I thank ye for the bird or hare."

But then I'm told again, that Grandeur's sore
At owning obligations to the poor;