Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BURLESQUE ODE: AUTHOR'S CLEARING A NEW HOUSE OF WORKMEN, by GEORGE KEATE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BURLESQUE ODE: AUTHOR'S CLEARING A NEW HOUSE OF WORKMEN, by                    
First Line: Midst the fair range of buildings which, new-reared
Last Line: Which with unnumbered cares this caitiff crew shall rive.


Midst the fair range of buildings which, new-reared,
The Bloomsbury and St. Giles gang divide,
A crew of workmen, who no mortal feared,
Sat idling by th' unfinished chimney's side.
A dusky smoke the smould'ring shavings pour,
Bruised empty porter-pots bestrew the floor,
And while their tools lie useless on the ground,
In wonted chorus thus the song goes round:
"Let confusion mark our toil,
What we cannot mend we'll spoil;
Let our worthy masters gain,
Do, -- and then undo again.
Fling about the iron crow,
Give this finished part a blow,
Glue a little, saw a bit,
Plane this panel, t' other split,
Making, marring is our duty,
Ne'er for line or plummet care,
Damn the compass, damn the square,
Crooked is the Line of Beauty.'
A pickled dog then rose, and told
What house best purl and spirits sold,
Of many an alehouse-gambol played,
Of matches fought and wagers laid,
Nay, more, and which worst is,
How oft he scaped justice,
How he'd blast a man's eyes with a jerk,
How down two pair of stairs
He once kicked two surveyors,
Who dared to examine his work.
How he damned Sir John Fielding, and gave him the lie,
How for Wilkes he got drunk
Till his cash was all sunk,
And went to gaol for -- Liberty.
Each roared applause, and all the caitiff throng,
Renewing first their quids, renewed their song:
"Let confusion mark our toil,'[etc.]
What toils await the trifling race of man!
Who multiply their cares the most they can;
Still sighing after something more,
They want a shelf, they want a door,
Heav'ns! what a fuss about it!
'Tis done -- In joiners who'd confide?
The shelf's awry, the door's too wide;
They'd better been without it! --
While unheeded fly the moments,
Giv'n to pleasure, lost in prate,
Others feel them linger tedious,
Weighed with anguish, black with fate.
My giddy pen forgot to say
It chanced 'twas Execution Day,
The hanging hour was past;
A half-scared mason rushing in,
Exclaimed, "To idle thus is sin,
I saw him breathe his last. --
Poor Jack upon the three-legged tree!
A pretty carpenter was he!
Good lack! --
Poor Jack! --
Gone in a crack! --
There's more of us will follow thee.
"Though 'tis my belief
That the dog was a thief
And both given to drinking and raking,
Yet he knew well his trade,
All advantages made,
But mistook for house-building, house-breaking.'
Fixed terror glared in ev'ry workman's face,
Each knowing Jack's was nearly his own case;
All rose, and searched their tools in sullen mood,
While the grim mason thus his tale pursued:
"Through St. Giles moving slowly
(All the gaping crowd intent),
Jack, with looks that pictured sorrow,
Sucked an orange as he went.
High and low,
Above, below,
From garret tops
Down to the shops
'Twas all one staring face to view the mournful show.
"Ye chips of the block,
What had been your shock
Had you seen when to Tyburn he came?
How he changed colour often
As he looked at his coffin,
And his coat that reproached him with shame,
For his coat and his coffin were both ready made,
Being stolen or borrowed in Jack's way of trade.
As he stood in the cart
It quite pierced my heart
To see him so tremble and snivel;
Soon the slip-knot was tied,
So he prayed, sang and cried;
And I hope he's not gone to the devil.'
As when a macaroni of high note
Trips through the streets in a short-skirted coat,
With self-applause humming an op'ra air,
If chance some chimney-sweeper unaware
Should turn short on him, and his dollship brush,
Or some rude porter's load his nosegay crush,
Ah, what can hide, what heal the shame!
His coat, his nosegay gave him fame!
No more his looks their wonted ease confess,
But on his altered brow is pictured pale distress:
So changed the features of this miscreant crew,
Who, by the story warned, their several tasks renew.
Labour now resumes his reign,
All are busy once again;
Hurry, hurry,
Bustle, bustle,
Workmen against workmen justle.
Hear you not the iron crow?
See you not the glue-pot flare?
Sharper far the echoes grow,
Dust and shavings choke the air!
With sounds that split the ear they nail and wedge,
And jagged saws set all one's teeth on edge!
Come and aid me, meek-eyed Patience,
Teach me to support delay;
Thou, O Time, at length relieve me,
Drive these wretches far away.
And lo! good heaven! their loit'ring course is run,
All's puzzled out at last, their destined labour's done.
Off, behold the vile troop pack,
Each his budget at his back,
Error stamping all their notions,
Error guiding all their motions; --
Nay, -- move quick, ye idle train,
Ne'er, oh, ne'er return again! --
They close the door -- but parting go
To cause some other person woe.
Ah, luckless mortal! for thy heart I grieve,
Which with unnumbered cares this caitiff crew shall rive.





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