(1)
O Raree-Show, O Pretty-Show:
OR, THE
CITY FEAST.
|
ON a Day of great Triumph, when Lord of the City,
|
Does Swear to be Honest and Just, as he's Witty;
|
And Rides thro' the Town, that the Rable may Shout-him,
|
For the wonderful Merits he carries about-him;
|
B'ing an Honester Man I'll be bold for to say,
|
Than has sat in the Chair this many a day.
|
Like the rest of the Fools, from the Skirts of the Town,
|
I Trotted to Gaze at his Chain and his Gown.
|
With legs in a Kennel, quite up to the middle
|
In dirt, with a Stomach as sharp as a Needle,
|
I stood in the Cold, clinging fast to a Stump,
|
To see the Wisakers march by in their Pomp.
|
At last heard a Consort of Trumpets and Drums,
|
And the Mob crying out, Here he comes, here he comes.
|
I was carr'd by the Crowd, from the place that I stood-in,
|
And the Devil to do there was all of a suddain.
|
The first that appeard was a grear Tom-a-doodle,
|
With a Cap like a Bushel, to cover his Noddle,
|
And a Gown that hung dragling thro' every Puddle;
|
With a Sword and a Mace, and such Pagentry Pride,
|
And aboundance of Formal old Fopry beside.
|
A Troop of grave Elders, O then there came by,
|
In their Blood-Coloured Robes, of a very deep die,
|
On Jennets the best that the Town cou'd afford,
|
As Tame all as Lambs, and as Fine as my Lord,
|
With very rich Saddles, gay Bridles and Cruppers,
|
Would ne'er have been made but for such City Troopers.
|
Like Snails o'er a Cabbage, they all crept along,
|
Admir'd by their Wives, and Huzza'd by the Throng.
|
The Companys follow'd, each Man in his Station,
|
Which ev'ry Fool knows is not worth Observation;
|
All cloathed in Furrs, in an Ancient Decorum,
|
Like Bears they advanc'd, with their Bag-pipes before-'em;
|
With Streamers and Drums, and abundance of Fooling,
|
Not worth the Repeating, or yet Rediculing:
|
So I'll bid adieu to the Tun-belly'd Sinners,
|
And leave them to Trudg thro' the Dirt to their Dinners.
|
At last I consider'd 'twas very foul pla[y]
|
That a Poet should Fast on a Festival Day;
|
I therefore resolv'd it should cost me a fall,
|
But that I would Drink my Lords Health at a Hall:
|
For why mayn't a Poet (thought I) be a Guest,
|
As wellcome as Parson, or Fool at a Feast,
|
For the sport of a Tale or the sake of a Jest.
|
I mix'd with the Musick, and no one withstood-me,
|
And so Jostl'd forward as cleaver as cou'd be.
|
I pass'd to a very fine Room, thro' a Porch
|
'Twas as a wide as a Barn, and as high a Church;
|
Where Cloths upon Shovel-board-Tables were Spread,
|
And all things in order for Dinner were laid;
|
The Napkins where folded on every Plate,
|
Into Castles and Boates, and the Devil knows what.
|
Their Flaggons and Bowls made a very fine show,
|
And Sweat-meates, like Cuckolds, stood all in a row.
|
They walk'd and they talk'd; after some Consultation
|
The Beadle stood up, and he made Proclamation,
|
That no one presume, of a Member, till after
|
He's din'd, to bring in his Wife or his Daughter.
|
Then in comes the Pasties, the best of all Food,
|
With Pig, Goose, and Capon, and all that was good.
|
Then Grace soon was said, without any delay,
|
And as Hungry as Hawks they sat down to their Prey.
|
The Musick Struck up such a Bory advancing,
|
As the Polanders Pip'd, when their Cubs were a Dancing.
|
Then each tuck'd his Napkin up under his Chin,
|
That his Holy-Day Band might be kept very clean;
|
And pin'd up his Sleeves to his Elbows, because
|
They should not hang down, and be greas'd in the Sauce.
|
Then all went to work, with such Rending and Tearing,
|
Like a Kennel of Hounds on a Quarter of Carri'n.
|
When done with the Flesh, then they Claw'd of the Fish,
|
With one hand at Mouth, and the other in th' Dish.
|
When their Stomacks were Cloi'd, what their Bellies denied,
|
Each clap'd in his Pocket to give to his Bride;
|
With a Cheese-cake and Custard for my little Johnny,
|
And a handful of Sweet-meats for poor Daughter Nanny.
|
Then down came a Blade, with a Rattle in 's Skull,
|
To tickle their Eares, when their Bellies were full;
|
After three or four Hems, to clear up his Voice,
|
At ev'ry Table he made them a Noise,
|
Of Twenty Four Fiddlers were all in a Row,
|
Tho' the Singer meant Cuckolds, I'd have them to know,
|
Then Londons a Gallant Town, and a fine City,
|
'Tis Govern'd by Scarlet, the more is the Pitty.
|
When Claret and Sack had trould freely about,
|
And each Man was Laden, within and without,
|
The Elders arising, all Stagger'd away,
|
And in Sleeping like Hogs, spent the rest of the day.
|
|
|
|
|
|