OF

THE FOOTMAN,

AN EPISTLE TO MY FRIEND MR. WRIGHT.

DEAR FRIEND,

SINCE I am now at leisure,
And in the country taking pleasure,
If it be worth your while to hear
A silly footman's business there,
I'll try to tell in easy rhyme,
How I in London spent my time.
And first,

As soon as laziness will let me,
I rise from bed, and down 1 sit me
To cleaning glasses, knives, and plate,
And such-like dirty work as that,
Which (by the by) is what I hate.
This done; with expeditious care,
To dress myself I straight prepare;
1 clean my buckles, black my shoes,
Powder my wig, and brush my clothes,
Take off my beard, and wash my face,
And then I'm ready for the chase.

Down comes my lady's woman straight;
"Where's Robin?" here, " pray take your hat,
And go-and go- and go-and go—
And this-and that desire to know."

The charge receiv'd, away run I,
And here, and there, and yonder fly,
With services, and how-d-'ye-dos,

Then home return full fraught with news.

Here some short time does interpose,
Till warm effluvias greet my nose,
Which from the spits and kettles fly,
Declaring dinner-time is nigh.
To lay the cloth I now prepare,
With uniformity and care;
In order knives and forks are laid,
With folded napkins, salt, and bread:
The side-boards glittering too appear,
With plate and glass, and china-ware.
Then ale, and beer, and wine decanted,
And all things ready which are wanted,

The smoking dishes enter in,
To stomachs sharp a grateful scene:
Which on the table being plac'd,
And some few ceremonies past,
They all sit down, and fall to eating,
Whilst I behind stand silent waiting.
This is the only pleasant hour
Which I have in the twenty-four;
For whilst I unregarded stand,
With ready salver in my hand,
And seem to understand no more
Than just what's call'd for out to pour:
I hear and mark the courtly phrases,
And all the elegance that passes;
Disputes maintain'd without digression,
With ready wit, and fine expression:
The laws of true politeness stated,
And what good-breeding is, debated :
Where all unanimously exclude
The vain coquet, the formal prude,
The ceremonious and the rude;
The flatt'ring, fawning, praising train;
The fluttering, empty, noisy, vain;
Detraction, smut, and what 's profane.

This happy hour elaps'd and gone,
The time of drinking tea comes on.
The kettle fill'd, the water boil'd,
The cream provided, biscuits pil'd,
And lamp prepar'd: I straight engage
The Lilliputian equipage

Of dishes, saucers, spoons and tongs,
And all th' et cetera which thereto belongs
Which, rang'd in order and decorum,
I carry in, and set before 'em :
Then pour or green or bohea out,
And, as commanded, hand about.
This business over, presently
The hour of visiting draws nigh:
The chairmen straight prepare the chair,
A lighted flambeau I prepare;
And orders given where to go,
We march along, and bustle thro'
The parting crowds, who all stand off
To give us room. O how you'd laugh!

To see me strut before a chair, And with a sturdy voice and air.

Crying" By your leave, sir! have a care!"
From place to place with speed we fly,
And rat-ta-ta-tat the knockers cry,
Pray is your lady, sir, within?"
If not, go on; if yes, we enter in.

Then to the hall I guide my steps,
Amongst a crowd of brother skips,
Drinking small-beer and talking smut,

And this fool's nonsense putting that fool's out;
Whilst oaths and peals of laughter meet,
And he who 's loudest is the greatest wit.
But here amongst us the chief trade is
To rail against our lords, and ladies:
To aggravate their smallest failings,
T' expose their faults with saucy railings.
For my part, as I hate the practice,

And see in them how base and black 'tis,
In some bye place I therefore creep,
And sit me down, and feign to sleep:
And could I with old Morpheus bargain,
'Twould save my ears much noise and jargon.
But down my lady comes again,
And I'm released from my pain.

To some new place our steps we bend,
The tedious evening out to spend:
Sometimes, perhaps, to see the play,
Assembly, or the Opera;

Then home and sup, and thus we end the day.

TO THE HONOURABLE LADY HOWE, UPON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, SIR RICHARD HOWE, BART. WHO DIED JULY 2, 1730, AFTER THEY HAD LIVED TOGETHER UPWARDS OF FIFTY YEARS.

HE's gone! the great good man is gone!

No power on Earth could save; The will of Heav'n at last is done;

This night conveys him to the grave.

But let this thought alleviate

The sorrows of your mind:
He's gone-but he is gone so late
You can't be long behind.

Heav'n saw your love; was very loath
To part so blest a pair

'Till it was time to take you both,
That each might equal share

As well in Heaven, as on Earth

The joys which each possess'd;

Knowing that either, whilst alone,

Would even in Heaven but half be bless'd.

TO MY FRIEND MR. WRIGHT,

UPON HIS COMMENDING SOMETHING I HAD

WROTE.

SAY, was the real merit of my lays
The happy motive of your gen'rous praise?
Or did your partial friendship in each line

Too much indulge the Muse because 'twas mine?
Yes, yes, 'twas so; the first can ne'er be true;
Tis hard to please a judge and critic too.

329

So calm content as oft is found complete In the low cot as in the lofty seat.

LET begging no more then be taunted,
If honest and free from offence;,
Were each man to beg what he wanted,

How many would beggars commence!
Grave church-men might beg for more grace,
Young soldiers for courage might call;
And many that beg for a pension or place,
Might beg for some merit withall.

THO' darkness still attends me,
It aids internal sight;

And from such scenes defends me,
As blush to see the light.
No villain's smile deceives me,
No gilded fop offends,
No weeping object grieves me,
Kind darkness me befriends.
Henceforth no useless wailings,
I find no reason why;
Mankind to their own failings
Are all as blind as I.
Who painted vice desires,

Is blind, whate'er he thinks;
Who virtue not admires,

Is either blind, or winks.

To keep my gentle Bessy,

What labour would seem hard? Each toilsome task how easy! Her love the sweet reward. The bee thus uncomplaining, Esteems no toil severe, The sweet reward obtaining, Of honey all the year.

THE boy thus of a bird possest,
At first how great his joys!

He strokes it soft, and in his breast
The little fav'rite lics:

But soon as grown to riper age,
The passion quits his mind,

He hangs it up in some cold cage,
Neglected and confin'd.

BEHOLD me on my bended knee,
Think on my father's cries!
O think the gushing tears you see
Drop from his closed eyes!

Let this sad sight your soul possess,
Let kind regret take place;
And save my father from distress,
His daughter from disgrace.

FROM THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

How happy a state does the miller possess !
Who wou'd be no greater, nor fears to be less;
On his mill and himself he depends for support,
Which is better than servilely cringing at court.

What tho' he all dusty and whiten'd does go,
The more he's be-powder'd, the more like a beau;
A clown in this dress may be honester far,
Than a courtier who struts in his garter and star.

Tho' his hands are so daub'd they 're not fit to be
The bands of his betters are not very clean; [seen,
A palm more polite may as dirtily deal;
Gold in handling will stick to the fingers like meal.

What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks,
He cribs without scruple, from other mens sacks;
In this of right noble examples he brags,
Who borrow as freely from other mens bags.

Or should he endeavour to heap an estate,
In this he would mimic the tools of the state;
Whose aim is alone their own coffers to fill,
As all his concern's to bring grist to his mill.

He eats when he's hungry, he drinks when he 's dry,
And down when he's weary contented does lie;
Then rises up cheerful to work and to sing:
If so happy a miller, then who'd be a king?

SONG.

IN THE TRIUMPH OF PEACE.
BANISH'D to some less happy shore,
The drum's harsh sound, the cannon's roar,
Shall thunder far from home:
The soldier, freed from war's alarms,
Shall rest his consecrated arms

In Honour's sacred dome.
The Arts and Muses now shall smile,
And in fair Freedom's fav'rite isle

Shall fix their envy'd seat:
The stone shall breathe, the canvas glow,
And public works arise to show

That Britain still is great.