Classic Poem

BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD JUST LEFT OFF HIS BOB .

All hail, ye Curls, that, rang'd in reverend row,
With snowy pomp my conscious shoulders hide!
That fall beneath in venerable flow,
And crown my brows above with feathery pride!

High on your summit, Wisdom's mimic'd air
Sits thron'd, with Pedantry her solemn sire,
And in her net of awe-diffusing hair
Entangles fools, and bids the crowd admire.

O'er every lock, that floats in full display,
Sage Ignorance her gloom scholastic throws;
And stamps o'er all my visage, once so gay,
Unmeaning Gravity's screne repose.

Can thus large wigs our reverence engage?
Have barbers thus the pow'r to blind our eyes?
Is science thus conferr'd on every sage,
By Bayliss, Blenkinsop, and lofty Wise?

But thou, farewell, my Bob! whose thin-wove thatch
Was stor'd with quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
That love to live within the one-curl'd Scratch,
With fun, and all the family of smiles.

Safe in thy privilege, near Isis' brook,
Whole afternoons at Wolvercote I quaff'd;
At eve my careless round in High-Street took,
And call'd at Jolly's for the casual draught.

No more the wherry feels my stroke so true;
At skittles, in a Grizzle, can I play?
Woodstock, farewell! and Wallingford, adieu!
Where many a scheme reliev'd the lingering day.

Such were the joys that once Hilario crown'd,
Ere grave Preferment came my peace to rob:
Such are the less ambitious pleasures found
Beneath the Liceal of an humble Bob.