Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN THE LATE WAR .

I WHO with such success — alas! till
The war came on — have shav'd the Castle;
Who by the nose, with hand unshaken,
The boldest heroes oft have taken;
In humble strain am doom'd to mourn
My fortune chang'd, and state forlorn!
My soap scarce ventures into froth,
My razors rust in idle sloth!
Wisdom! to yon my verse appeals;
You share the griefs your Barber feels:
Scarce comes a student once a whole age,
To stock your desolated college.
Our trade how ill an army suits!
This comes of picking up recruits.
Lost is the robber's occupation;
No robbing thrives — but of the nation:
For hardy necks no rope is twisted,
And ev'n the hangman's self is listed. —
Thy publishers, O mighty Jackson!
With scarce a scanty coat their backs on,
Warning to youth no longer teach,
Nor live upon a dying speech.
In cassock clad, for want of breeches,
No more the castle-chaplain preaches.
Oh! were our troops but safely landed,
And every regiment disbanded!
They'd make, I trust, a new campaign
On Henley's hill, or Campsfield's plain:
Destin'd at home, in peaceful state,
By me fresh-shav'd, to meet their fate!
Regard, ye justices of peace!
The Castle-Barber's piteous case:
And kindly make some snug addition,
To better his distrest condition.
Not that I mean, by such expressions,
To shave your worships at the sessions;
Or would, with vain presumption big,
Aspire to comb the judge's wig:
Far less ambitious thoughts are mine,
Far humbler hopes my views confine. —
Then think not that I ask amiss;
My small request is only this,
That I, by leave of Leigh or Pardo,
May, with the Castle — shave Bocardo
Thus, as at Jesus oft I've heard,
Rough servitors in Wales preferr'd,
The Joneses, Morgans, and Ap-Rices,
Keep fiddles with their Benefices.