Classic Poem

A slave to crowds, scorched with the summer's heats,
In court the wretched lawyer toils, and sweats:
While smiling nature, in her best attire,
Doth soothe each sense, and joy and love inspire.
Can he who knows, that real good should please,
Barter for gold his liberty and ease?
Thus Paulus preached: when entering at the door,
Upon his board a client pours the ore:
He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause,
Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws.
Lindsay mistakes the matter quite,
And honest Paulus judges right.
Then, why these quarrels to the sun,
Without whose aid you're all undone?
Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat?
Did Paulus e'er the sun forget?
The influence of whose golden beams
Soon licks up all unsavoury steams;
The sun, you say, his face has kissed:
It has; but then it greased his fist.
True lawyers, for the wisest ends,
Have always been Apollo's friends;
Not for his superficial powers
Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers;
Not for inspiring poets' brains
With pennyless and starveling strains;
Not for his boasted healing art;
Not for his skill to shoot the dart;
Nor yet, because he sweetly fiddles;
Nor for his prophecies in riddles:
But for a more substantial cause:
Apollo's patron of the laws;
Whom Paulus ever must adore,
As parent of the golden ore,
By Phoebus (an incestuous birth)
Begot upon his grandam Earth;
By Phoebus first produced to light:
By Vulcan formed so round and bright:
Then offered at the throne of justice,
By clients to her priests and trustees.
Nor when we see Astraea stand
With equal balance in her hand,
Must we suppose she has in view,
How to give every man his due:
Her scales you only see her hold
To weigh her priests', the lawyers', gold.
Now, should I own your case was grievous,
Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us?
'Tis very true, and none denies,
At least, that such complaints are wise:
'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat ye more,
To cry, like statesmen, quanta patimur!
But, since the truth must needs be stretched
To prove, that lawyers are so wretched;
This paradox I'll undertake
For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake
By topics, which though I abomine 'em,
May serve, as arguments ad hominem.
Yet I disdain to offer those,
Made use of by detracting foes.

I own, the curses of mankind
Sit light upon a lawyer's mind:
The clamours of ten thousand tongues
Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs:
I own his conscience always free,
(Provided he has got a fee.)
Secure of constant peace within,
He knows no guilt, who knows no sin.

Yet well they merit to be pitied,
By clients always overwitted.
And, though the gospel seems to say,
What heavy burdens lawyers lay
Upon the shoulders of their neighbour,
Nor lend a finger to the labour,
Always for saving their own bacon:
No doubt the text is here mistaken:
The copy's false, and sense is racked:
To prove it I appeal to fact;
And thus by demonstration show,
What burdens lawyers undergo.

With early clients at his door,
Though he were drunk the night before,
And crop-sick with unclubbed-for wine,
The wretch must be at court by nine:
Half sunk beneath his brief and bag,
As ridden by a midnight hag:
Then, from the bar, harangues the bench
In English vile, and viler French,
And Latin, vilest of the three:
And all for ten poor moidores' fee!
Of paper how he is profuse,
With periods long, in terms abstruse!
What pains he takes to be prolix!
A thousand words to stand for six!
Of common sense without a word in!
And is this not a grievous burden?

The lawyer is a common drudge,
To fight our cause before the judge:
And, what is yet a greater curse,
Condemned to bear his client's purse;
While he, at ease, secure and light,
Walks boldly home at dead of night;
When term is ended, leaves the town,
Trots to his country mansion down;
And, disencumbered of his load,
No danger dreads upon the road;
Despises rapparees, and rides
Safe through the Newry mountain sides.

Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on
To state the question pro and con:
My satire may offend, 'tis true:
However, it concerns not you.
I own, there may in every clan
Perhaps be found one honest man:
Yet link them close; in this they jump,
To be but rascals in the lump.
Imagine Lindsay at the bar:
He's just the same, his brethren are;
Well taught by practice to imbibe
The fundamentals of his tribe;
And, in his client's just defence,
Must deviate oft from common sense,
And make his ignorance discerned,
To get the name of council learned;
(As lucus comes a non lucendo)
And wisely do as other men do.
But, shift him to a better scene,
Got from his crew of rogues in grain;
Surrounded with companions fit
To taste his humour, and his wit;
You'd swear, he never took a fee,
Nor knew in law his A B C.

'Tis hard, where dullness overrules,
To keep good sense in crowds of fools;
And we admire the man, who saves
His honesty in crowds of knaves;
Nor yields up virtue, at discretion,
To villains of his own profession.
Lindsay, you know, what pains you take
In both, yet hardly save your stake.
And will you venture both anew?
To sit among that scoundrel crew,
That pack of mimic legislators,
Abandoned, stupid, slavish praters!
For, as the rabble daub, and rifle
The fool, who scrambles for a trifle;
Who for his pains is cuffed, and kicked,
Drawn through the dirt, his pockets picked;
You must expect the like disgrace,
Scrambling with rogues to get a place:
Must lose the honour, you have gained,
Your numerous virtues foully stained;
Disclaim forever all pretence
To common honesty and sense;
And join in friendship, with a strict tie,
To Marshall, Conolly, and Dick Tighe.