A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country b.u.mpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow _be_ a knave, Provided that the razors _shave_; It certainly will be a monstrous prize."

So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried-- All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed!

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of _opposition_ stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff!

So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a pa.s.sion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods.

"Razors; a d.a.m.ned, confounded dog, Not fit to sc.r.a.pe a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't _shave_."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.

As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would _shave_."

"Not think they'd _shave_!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to _sell_."

_John Wolcot._

THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest?

Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through.

A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair-- Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare For he thought there was surely a looking-gla.s.s there, But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation.

He pa.s.s'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility.

He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat; And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best.

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him.

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge.

As he pa.s.sed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of h.e.l.l.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work.

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition.

He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion!

And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's.

Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow.

Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come.

He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee.

Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat!

That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in.

When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling.

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians, My all sorts of--inians And all sorts of--arians; My all sorts of--ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils.

How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils!

My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the st.i.tches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! b.l.o.o.d.y news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see!

Great news? b.l.o.o.d.y news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had.