Classic Poem

Sir, first to shew my pedigree,
I sprang from an old birchen tree.
The artist long remain'd in doubt,
Into what shape he'd cut me out,
Whether a ladder for Jack Ketch,
Or madam Flora's nightly watch.
At length a thought came in his noddle,
To make a god on a new model.
Upon my back he plac'd an hunch,
By which you all know Mr. Punch;
And next a cane, by whose assistance,
I keep boys at a proper distance;
An horses mane bedecks my head
Of prowling hags the nightly dread.
Tho' my dominion is but small,
Scarce ten by twelve from wall to wall,
Yet here strange things I can perform,
E'en raise the devil in a storm;
And if I wave my hazel stick,
As glib as Jack is club-foot Nick:
And as before in ancient Rome,
Ghosts answer from the hollow tomb:
Then with my thumb and finger cracking,
I send them in consusion packing.
Here cloaks and bracelets you may find,
And false-hair scatter'd by the wind.

But now our dancing days are over,
And clowns will all our tricks discover,
Shou'd I, who once appear'd a godhead,
Like a poor debtor now be quod'd;
Or kept in garret's narrow precinct,
Shew that my magic pow'r is extinct;
Seiz'd by the host for rent and diet;
But Lignum chiefly suffers by it;
For I cou'd live from this 'till Easter,
Without the produce of a tester;
But he, poor fellow, frail and mortal,
Must have a stopper for life's portal;
And if I'm left in prison longer,
He'll surely die of thirst and hunger.
Hit off some plea that may content 'em,
They'd set me free — tender argentum .
And we will pray then, absque mora ,
For you, your Fanny, and miss Dora.