THE LINEN WEAVER by ANONYMOUS

ON Saturday with joy Bill dubs his half,
And plaits it most exact, then folds it up
And into wallets puts, then throws it o'er
His shoulder and, with many an eager stride,
He gravely stalks along. At warehouse door
He makes his entrance, takes his wallet down,
And empties the contents. His master's man
With poring eye surveys the piece before him,
And finds no fault. 'Why then,' cries honest Bill,
'A shilling more you'll give for work like this.'
'Nay,' says the servant. 'Then I'll bring my reed,
For this has been a most confounded piece,'
The weaver cries. 'Go call my master, I
Act only by instruction.' Then appears
A man dressed like a squire, or justice-like,
With large white wig and ruffles o'er his hands,
Enough to daunt a bolder man than Bill.
'Come, what's the matter, weaver?'—'He demands
A shilling more, sir, than the common wage.'
'No, sure! Does any other master give it?'
'I can't say so,' cries Bill.—'Why then should I
Give more than they? Maid, fetch a jug of ale:
Let's drink together, Bill, to thy good health.'
'I thank you, master.'—'Come, here's to'rds your own,
And all your family.' The matter ends.
But should some surly weaver chance to miss
His stripe, or selvedge mar, the game begins:
'Jack, you must bate for this.'—'Bate! What d'ye mean?'
Then by his G—and by his S—he swears
He never will, but, forced at last, he flings
Out of the warehouse door with dreadful curse:
'Must I, like slave in Turkey, hag and work
My heart's blood out to gratify the pride
Of wanton b—s, flounced and furbelowed
In silk and silver, sipping tea and cream,
Or powder check-men's wigs? No, d—n oppression;
I've brought my hogs t'a pretty market sure,
To slave for upstart gentry. I'll go serve,
With willing mind, his majesty King George.'

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