Part 9

At which the squire quits his hold, And lugging out his blade, Full at the sturdy butcher’s pate A furious stroke he made.

A dismal outcry then began Among the country folk; Who all conclude the butcher slain By such a mortal stroke.

But here good fortune, that has still A friendship for the brave, I’ th’ nick misguides the fatal blow, And does the butcher save.

The knight, who heard the noise within, Runs out with might and main, And seeing Ralph amidst the crowd In danger to be slain,

Without regard to age or sex Old basket-hilt so ply’d, That in an instant three or four Lay bleeding at his side.

And greater mischiefs in his rage This furious knight had done, If he had not prevented been By Dick, the blacksmith’s son,

Who catch’d his worship on the hip, And gave him such a squelch, That he some moments breathless lay Ere he was heard to belch.

Nor was the squire in better case, By sturdy butcher ply’d, Who from the shoulder to the flank Had soundly swinged his hide.

Whilst things in this confusion stood, And knight and squire disarm’d, Up comes a neighbouring gentleman The outcry had alarm’d;

Who riding up among the crowd, The vicar first he spy’d, With sleeveless gown and bloody band And hands behind him ty’d.

Bless me, says he, what means all this? Then turning round his eyes, In the same plight, or in a worse, The cobbler bleeding spies.

And looking further round he saw, Like one in doleful dump, The knight, amidst a gaping mob, Sit pensive on his rump.

And by his side lay Ralph his squire, Whom butcher fell had maul’d; Who bitterly bemoan’d his fate, And for a surgeon call’d.

Surprised at first he paused awhile, And then accosts the knight,— What makes you here, Sir Samuel, In this unhappy plight?

At this the knight gave’s breast a thump, And stretching out his hand,— If you will pull me up, he cried, I’ll try if I can stand.

And then I’ll let you know the cause; But first take care of Ralph, Who in my good or ill success Doth always stand my half.

In short, he got his worship up And led him in the door; Where he at length relates the tale As I have told before.

When he had heard the story out, The gentleman replies,— It is not in my province, sir, Your worship to advise.

But were I in your worship’s place, The only thing I’d do, Was first to reprimand the fools, And then to let them go.

I think it first advisable To take them from the rabble, And let them come and both set forth The occasion of the squabble.

This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray, A man of no repute, The scorn and scandal of his tribe, A loose, ill-manner’d brute.

The cobbler’s a poor strolling wretch That mends my servants’ shoes; And often calls as he goes by To bring me country news.

At this his worship grip’d his beard, And in an angry mood, Swore by the laws of chivalry That blood required blood.

Besides, I’m by the Commonwealth Entrusted to chastise All knaves that straggle up and down To raise such mutinies.

However, since ’tis your request, They shall be call’d and heard; But neither Ralph nor I can grant Such rascals should be clear’d.

And so, to wind the tale up short, They were call’d in together; And by the gentlemen were ask’d What wind ’twas blew them thither.

Good ale and handsome landladies You might have nearer home; And therefore ’tis for something more That you so far are come.

To which the vicar answer’d first,— My living is so small, That I am forced to stroll about To try and get a call.

And, quoth the cobbler, I am forced To leave my wife and dwelling, T’ escape the danger of being press’d To go a colonelling.

There’s many an honest jovial lad Unwarily drawn in, That I have reason to suspect Will scarce get out again.

The proverb says, _Harm watch harm catch_, I’ll out of danger keep, For he that sleeps in a whole skin Doth most securely sleep.

My business is to mend bad soals And stitch up broken quarters: A cobbler’s name would look but odd Among a list of martyrs.

Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman, And that shall be my case; I will neither party join, Let what will come to pass.

No importunities or threats My fixt resolves shall rest; Come here, Sir Samuel, where’s his health That loves old England best.

I pity those unhappy fools Who, ere they were aware, Designing and ambitious men Have drawn into a snare.

But, vicar, to come to the case,— Amidst a senseless crowd, What urged you to such violence, And made you talk so loud?

Passion I’m sure does ill become Your character and cloath, And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just, Brings scandal upon both.

Vicar, I speak it with regret, An inadvertent priest Renders himself ridiculous, And every body’s jest.

The vicar to be thus rebuked A little time stood mute; But having gulp’d his passion down, Replies,—That cobbling brute

Has treated me with such contempt, Such vile expressions used, That I no longer could forbear To hear myself abused.

The rascal had the insolence To give himself the lie, And to aver h’ had done more good And saved more soals than I.

Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant To tell me was so bold, Our trades were very near of kin, But his was the more old.

Now, Sir, I will to you appeal On such a provocation, If there was not sufficient cause To use a little passion?

Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave, I’ll prove it to his face, All this is mere suggestion, And foreign to the case.

And since he calls so many names And talks so very loud, I will be bound to make it plain ’Twas he that raised the crowd.

Nay, further, I will make ’t appear He and the priests have done More mischief than the cobblers far All over Christendom.

All Europe groans beneath their yoke, And poor Great Britain owes To them her present miseries, And dread of future woes.

The priests of all religions are And will be still the same, And all, tho’ in a different way, Are playing the same game.

At this the gentleman stood up,— Cobbler, you run too fast; By thus condemning all the tribe You go beyond your last.

Much mischief has by priests been done, And more is doing still; But then to censure all alike Must be exceeding ill.

Too many, I must needs confess, Are mightily to blame, Who by their wicked practices Disgrace the very name.

But, cobbler, still the major part The minor should conclude; To argue at another rate’s Impertinent and rude.

By this time all the neighbours round Were flock’d about the door, And some were on the vicar’s side, But on the cobbler’s more.

Among the rest a grazier, who Had lately been at town To sell his oxen and his sheep, Brim-full of news came down.

Quoth he, The priests have preach’d and pray’d, And made so damn’d a pother, That all the people are run mad To murther one another.

By their contrivances and arts They’ve play’d their game so long, That no man knows which side is right, Or which is in the wrong.

I’m sure I’ve Smithfield market used For more than twenty year, But never did such murmurings And dreadful outcries hear.

Some for a church, and some a tub, And some for both together; And some, perhaps the greater part, Have no regard for either.

Some for a king, and some for none; And some have hankerings To mend the Commonwealth, and make An empire of all kings.

What’s worse, old Noll is marching off, And Dick, his heir-apparent, Succeeds him in the government, A very lame vicegerent.

He’ll reign but little time, poor fool, But sink beneath the State, That will not fail to ride the fool ’Bove common horseman’s weight.

And rulers, when they lose the power, Like horses overweigh’d, Must either fall and break their knees, Or else turn perfect jade.

The vicar to be twice rebuked No longer could contain; But thus replies,—To knaves like you All arguments are vain.

The Church must use her arm of flesh, The other will not do; The clergy waste their breath and time On miscreants like you.

You are so stubborn and so proud, So dull and prepossest, That no instructions can prevail How well soe’er addrest.

Who would reform such reprobates, Must drub them soundly first; I know no other way but that To make them wise or just.

Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said, Sure that is not the way; You should instruct your auditors To suffer or obey.

Those were the doctrines that of old The learned fathers taught; And ’twas by them the Church at first Was to perfection brought.

Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside, And calmly take your cup; And let us try in friendly wise To make the matter up.

That’s certainly the wiser course, And better too by far; All men of prudence strive to quench The sparks of civil war.

By furious heats and ill advice Our neighbours are undone, Then let us timely caution take From their destruction.

If we would turn our heads about, And look towards forty-one, We soon should see what little jars Those cruel wars begun.

A one-eyed cobbler then was one Of that rebellious crew, That did in Charles the martyr’s blood Their wicked hands imbrue.

I mention this not to deface This cobbler’s reputation, Whom I have always honest found, And useful in his station.

But this I urge to let you see The danger of a fight Between a cobbler and a priest, Though he were ne’er so right.

The vicars are a numerous tribe, So are the cobblers too; And if a general quarrel rise, What must the country do?

Our outward and our inward soals Must quickly want repair; And all the neighbourhood around Would the misfortune share.

Sir, quoth the grazier, I believe Our outward soals indeed May quickly want the cobbler’s help To be from leakings freed.

But for our inward souls, I think They’re of a worth too great To be committed to the care Of any holy cheat,

Who only serves his God for gain, Religion is his trade; And ’tis by such as these our Church So scandalous is made.

Why should I trust my soul with one That preaches, swears, and prays, And the next moment contradicts Himself in all he says?

His solemn oaths he looks upon As only words of course! Which like their wives our fathers took For better or for worse.

But he takes oaths as some take w—s, Only to serve his ease; And rogues and w—s, it is well known, May part whene’er they please.

At this the cobbler bolder grew, And stoutly thus reply’d,— If you’re so good at drubbing, Sir, Your manhood shall be try’d.

What I have said I will maintain, And further prove withal— I daily do more good than you In my respective call.

I know your character, quoth he, You proud insulting vicar, Who only huff and domineer And quarrel in your liquor.

The honest gentleman, who saw ’Twould come again to blows, Commands the cobbler to forbear, And to the vicar goes.

Vicar, says he, for shame give o’er And mitigate your rage; You scandalize your cloth too much A cobbler to engage.

All people’s eyes are on your tribe, And every little ill They multiply and aggravate And will because they will.

But now let’s call another cause, So let this health go round; Be peace and plenty, truth and right, In good old England found.

Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talk And only tends to laughter; If these two varlets should be spared, Who’d pity us hereafter?

Your worship may do what you please, But I’ll have satisfaction For drubbing and for damages In this ungodly action.

I think that you can do no less Than send them to the stocks; And I’ll assist the constable In fixing in their hocks.

There let ’em sit and fight it out, Or scold till they are friends; Or, what is better much than both, Till I am made amends.

Ralph, quoth the knight, that’s well advised, Let them both hither go, And you and the sub-magistrate Take care that it be so.

Let them be lock’d in face to face, Bare buttocks on the ground; And let them in that posture sit Till they with us compound.

Thus fixt, well leave them for a time, Whilst we with grief relate, How at a wake this knight and squire Got each a broken pate.

THE GENEVA BALLAD.

From Samuel Butler’s Posthumous Works.

OF all the factions in the town Moved by French springs or Flemish wheels, None turns religion upside down, Or tears pretences out at heels, Like _Splaymouth_ with his brace of caps, Whose conscience might be scann’d perhaps By the dimensions of his chaps;

He whom the sisters do adore, Counting his actions all divine, Who when the spirit hints can roar, And, if occasion serves, can whine; Nay, he can bellow, bray, or bark; Was ever _sike a Beauk-learn’d_ clerk That speaks all linguas of the ark?

To draw the hornets in like bees, With pleasing twangs he tones his prose; He gives his handkerchief a squeeze, And draws John Calvin thro’ his nose; Motive on motive he obtrudes, With slip-stocking similitudes, Eight uses more, and so concludes.

When monarchy began to bleed, And treason had a fine new name; When Thames was balderdash’d with Tweed, And pulpits did like beacons flame; When Jeroboam’s calves were rear’d, And Laud was neither loved nor fear’d, This gospel-comet first appear’d.

Soon his unhallow’d fingers stript His sovereign-liege of power and land; And, having smote his master, slipt His sword into his fellow’s hand; But he that wears his eyes may note Oft-times the butcher binds a goat, And leaves his boy to cut her throat.

Poor England felt his fury then Outweigh’d Queen Mary’s many grains; His very preaching slew more men Than Bonnar’s faggots, stakes, and chains: With dog-star zeal, and lungs like Boreas, He fought, and taught, and, what’s notorious, Destroy’d his Lord to make him glorious.

Yet drew for King and Parliament, As if the wind could stand north-south; Broke Moses’ law with blest intent, Murther’d, and then he wiped his mouth: Oblivion alters not his case, Nor clemency nor acts of grace Can blanch an Ethiopian’s face.

Ripe for rebellion, he begins To rally up the saints in swarms; He bawls aloud, Sir, leave your sins, But whispers, Boys, stand to your arms: Thus he’s grown insolently rude, Thinking his gods can’t be subdued— _Money_, I mean, and _multitude_.

Magistrates he regards no more Than St George or the King of Colon, Vowing he’ll not conform before The old wives wind their dead in woollen: He calls the bishop gray-hair’d coff, And makes his power as mere a scoff As Dagon when his hands were off.

Hark! how he opens with full cry, Halloo, my hearts, beware of Rome! Cowards that are afraid to die Thus make domestic brawls at home. How quietly great Charles might reign, Would all these Hotspurs cross the main And preach down Popery in Spain.

The starry rule of Heaven is fixt, There’s no dissension in the sky; And can there be a mean betwixt, Confusion and conformity? A place divided never thrives, ’Tis bad when hornets dwell in hives, But worse when children play with knives.

I would as soon turn back to mass, Or change my praise to _Thee_ and _Thou_; Let the Pope ride me like an ass, And his priests milk me like a cow! As buckle to Smectymnian laws, The bad effects o’ th’ Good old Cause, That have dove’s plumes, but vulture’s claws.

For ’twas the holy Kirk that nursed, The Brownists and the ranters’ crew; Foul error’s motley vesture first Was oaded {98} in a northern blue; And what’s th’ enthusiastick breed, Or men of Knipperdolin’s creed, But Cov’nanters run up to seed!

Yet they all cry they love the King, And make boast of their innocence: There cannot be so vile a thing But may be cover’d with pretence; Yet when all’s said, one thing I’ll swear, No subject like th’ old Cavalier, No traytor like _Jack-Presbyter_.

THE DEVIL’S PROGRESS ON EARTH, OR HUGGLE DUGGLE.

From Durfey’s “Pills to Purge Melancholy.”

_Frier Bacon_ walks again, And Doctor _Forster_ {99} too; _Prosperine_ and _Pluto_, And many a goblin crew: With that a merry devil, To make the _Airing_, vow’d; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laugh’d aloud.

Why think you that he laugh’d? Forsooth he came from court; And there amongst the gallants Had spy’d such pretty sport; There was such cunning jugling, And ladys gon so proud; Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants’ dealings It was his full intent: And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the croud. Huggle Duggle, etc.

He went into the city To see all there was well; Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for hell; And _Panders_ chosen magistrates, And _Puritans_ allow’d. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth: But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man plough’d. Huggle Duggle, etc.

With that the Devil in haste Took post away to hell, And call’d his fellow furies, And told them all on earth was well: That falsehood there did flourish, Plain dealing was in a cloud. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The devils laugh’d aloud.

A BOTTLE DEFINITION OF THAT FALLEN ANGEL, CALLED A WHIG.

From a collection of Historical and State Poems, Satyrs, Songs, and Epigrams, by Ned Ward, A. D. 1717.

WHAT is a Whig? A cunning rogue That once was in, now out of vogue: A rebel to the Church and throne, Of Lucifer the very spawn.

A tyrant, who is ne’er at rest In power, or when he’s dispossess’d; A knave, who foolishly has lost What so much blood and treasure cost.

A lying, bouncing desperado, A bomb, a stink-pot, a granado; That’s ready primed, and charged to break, And mischief do for mischief’s sake:

A comet, whose portending phiz Appears more dreadful than it is; But now propitious stars repel Those ills it lastly did fortel.

’Twill burst with unregarded spight, And, since the Parliament proves right, Will turn to smoke, which shone of late So bright and flaming in the State.

THE DESPONDING WHIG.

From Ned Ward’s Works, vol. iv. 1709.

WHEN owles are strip’d of their disguise, And wolves of shepherd’s cloathing, Those birds and beasts that please our eyes Will then beget our loathing; When foxes tremble in their holes At dangers that they see, And those we think so wise prove fools, Then low, boys, down go we.

If those designs abortive prove We’ve been so long in hatching, And cunning knaves are forced to move From home for fear of catching; The rabble soon will change their tone When our intrigues they see, And cry God save the Church and Throne, Then low, boys, down go we.

The weaver then no more must leave His loom and turn a preacher, Nor with his cant poor fools deceive To make himself the richer. Our leaders soon would disappear If such a change should be, Our scriblers too would stink for fear, Then low, boys, down go we.

No canvisars would dare to shew Their postures and grimaces, Or proph’sy what they never knew, By dint of ugly faces. But shove the tumbler through the town, And quickly banish’d be, For none must teach without a gown, Then low, boys, down go we.

If such unhappy days should come, Our virtue, moderation, Would surely be repaid us home With double compensation; For as we never could forgive, I fear we then should see That what we lent we must receive, Then low, boys, down go we.

Should honest brethren once discern Our knaveries, they’d disown us, And bubbl’d fools more wit should learn, The Lord have mercy on us; Let’s guard against that evil day, Least such a time should be, And tackers should come into play, Then low, boys, down go we.

Tho’ hitherto we’ve play’d our parts Like wary cunning foxes, And gain’d the common people’s hearts By broaching het’rodoxes,— But they’re as fickle as the winds, With nothing long agree, And when they change their wav’ring minds, Then low, boys, down go we.

Let’s preach and pray, but spit our gall On those that do oppose us, And cant of grace, in spite of all The shame the Devil owes us: The just, the loyal, and the wise With us shall Papists be, For if the _High Church_ once should rise, Then, _Low Church_, down go we.

PHANATICK ZEAL, OR A LOOKING-GLASS FOR THE WHIGS.

From a Collection of 180 Loyal Songs. Tune, “A Swearing we will go.”

WHO would not be a Tory When the loyal are call’d so: And a Whig now is known To be the nation’s foe? So a Tory I will be, will be, And a Tory I will be.

With little band precise, Hair Presbyterian cut, Whig turns up hands and eyes Though smoking hot from slut. So a Tory I will be, etc.

Black cap turn’d up with white, With wolfish neck and face, And mouth with nonsense stuft, Speaks Whig a man of grace, And a Tory I will be, etc.

The sisters go to meetings To meet their gallants there; And oft mistake for my Lord, And snivel out my dear. And a Tory I will be, etc.

Example, we do own, Than precept better is; For Creswell she was safe, When she lived a private Miss. And a Tory I will be, etc.

The Whigs, though ne’er so proud, Sometimes have been as low, For there are some of note Have long a raree-show. And a Tory I will be, etc.

These mushrooms now have got Their champion turn-coat hick; But if the naked truth were known They’re assisted by old Nick. And a Tory I will be, etc.

To be and to be not At once is in their power; For when they’re in, they’re guilty, But clear when out o’ the tower. And a Tory I will be, etc.

To carry their designs, Though ’t contradicts their sense; They’re clear a Whiggish traytor Against clear evidence. And a Tory I will be, etc.

The old proverb doth us tell, Each dog will have his day; And Whig has had his too, For which he’ll soundly pay; And a Tory I will be, etc.

For bodkins and for thimbles Now let your tubsters cant; Their confounded tired cause Had never yet more want. So a Tory I will be, etc.

For ignoramus Toney Has left you in the lurch; And you have spent your money, So, faith, e’en come to Church; For a Tory I will be, etc.

They are of no religion, Be it spoken to their glories, For St Peter and St Paul With them both are Tories; And a Tory I will be, etc.

They’re excellent contrivers, I wonder what they’re not, For something they can make Of nothing and a plot. And a Tory I will be, etc.