Classic Poem

If any line I write's a hobbler,
Consider, Sir, that I'm a cobbler;
Therefore, I hope you'll give allowance
To an old friend that you did know once.
Nor should I this compar'son offer,
Wer't not for Jonathan of Cloffer.

Now I'm to show the world, d'ee see,
That I'm like you, and you're like me—
Like as two pegs, or as two tacks,
As this to t' other ball of wax.

In all things perfect cousin-germans—
I vamp old boots, you vamp old sermons;
My verses are but so and so,
And yours I think a peg too low.
Like you I oftentimes wax warm,
And yet I do no creature harm.
If I've a rupture with a friend,
I patch it up, and there's an end.
I oftentimes am forced to hammer,
Like you, to make my verses grammar.
Whole hours prepond'ring in my stall I
Sit for a rhyme to “Shilly shall I”;
And after all I think, dear Billy,
I'm forced to make it “shall I, shill I.”
You see we both agree in rhymes;
Why wits you know will jump sometimes,
In one thing (though in all we're brother-wise)
We differ, which I wish were otherwise:
Our black's applied to diff'rent use;
You blacken men, I blacken shoes;
Yet one thing you observe that's mine—
The more you black, the more they shine.
To make us both alike in awl,
Oh, that your rev'rence had a stall!
For you can never hope a mitre,
Because you are too fine a writer.

I must cut short, my verses fail,
'Tis time to take a pot of ale;
Dear Jet, I wish with all my heart
That you were here, and t' other quart.