Chapter XIV: Canto I

_The_ HUMOURS _of an_ ELECTION ENTERTAINMENT.
Oh, born our wonder to engage!
HOGARTH, thou mirror of the age!
Permit a Bard, though screen'd his name,
To court the sanction of your fame;
Pursue your genius, taste, and art,
And knowledge of the human heart:
Just as your pencil, could my pen
But trace the various ways of men;
Express the tokens of the mind,
The humours, follies, of mankind;
Then might Thyself this verse regard,
Nor deem beneath the task the bard:
Yet, though unfit, perhaps unknown,
I supplicate thy aid alone:
Let others all the Nine inspire,
Do Thou, O _Hogarth_, tune my lyre!
Let o'er my thoughts thy spirit shine,
And thy vast fancy waken mine:
I feel the genuine influence now!
It glows!--my great _Apollo_ Thou!

The Writs are issued:--to the Town
The future Members hasten down;
The merry bells their welcome sound,
And mirth and jollity abound,
The gay retinue now comes in,
The crouds, with emulative din,
Proclaim th' arrival, rend the sky,
And _Court_ and _Country's_ all the cry.
Each joyous house, of free access,
For patriot plebeians, more or less,
Is now reveal'd, in printed bills;
So quacks contrive to vend their pills.
So _Bayes_ makes Earth, and Sun, and Moon,
Discourse melodiously in tune;
And, full of wit and complaisance,
Cry, "First of all we'll have a dance!"
So at Elections 'tis discreet
Still first of all to have a treat;
The pulse of every man to try,
And learn what votes they needs must _buy_;
No freeman well can tell his side,
Unless his belly's satisfied.

Behold the festive tables set,
The Candidates, the Voters met!
And lo, against the wainscot plac'd,
Th' escutcheon, with three guineas grac'd,
The motto and the crest explain,
Which way the gilded bait to gain.
There _William's_ mangled portrait tells
What rage in party bosoms dwells;
And here the banner speaks the cry
For "Liberty and Loyalty."
While scratches dignify his face,
The tipsy Barber tells his case;
How well he for his Honour fought!
How many devilish knocks he got!
While, forc'd to carry on the joke,
The 'Squire's just blinded with the smoke;
And gives his hand (for all are free)
To one that's cunninger than he:
With smart cockade, and waggish laugh,
He thinks himself more wise by half.
See _Crispin_, and his blouzy _Kate_,
Attack the other Candidate!
What joy he feels her head to lug!
"Well done, my _Katy!_ coaxing pug!"
But who is this pray?--_Abel Squatt_--
What has the honest Quaker got?
Why, presents for each voter's lady,
To make their interest sure and steady:
For right and well their Honours know
What things the Petticoat can do.
Discordant sounds now grate the ear,
For music's hir'd to raise the cheer;
And fiddling _Nan_ brisk scrapes her strings,
While _Thrumbo's_ bass loud echoing rings,
And _Sawney's_ bagpipes squeaking trill
"God save the King," or what you will.
Music can charm the savage breast,
And lull the fiercest rage to rest;
But _Sawney's_ face bespeaks it plain,
That vermin don't regard the strain;
A creature, well to _Scotchmen_ known,
Now nips him by the collar-bone:
Ah, luckless louse! in ambush lie,
Or, by St. _Andrew_, you must die!

Ye vers'd in men and manners! tell
Why Parsons always eat so well!
Catch they the spirit from the Gown,
To cram so many plate-fulls down?
The feast is o'er with all the rest,
But Mayor and Parson still contest:
I'll hold a thousand!--Lay the bett--
The odds are on the Parson yet:
Huzza! the Black-gown wins the day!--
The Mayor with oysters dies away!--[A]
But softly, don't exult so fast,
His spirit's noble to the last;
His mouth still waters at the dish;
His hand still holds his favourite fish:
Bleed him the Barber-surgeon wou'd;
He breathes a vein, but where's the blood?
No more it flows its wonted pace,
And chilly dews spread o'er his face:
The Parson sweats; but be it told,
The sweat is more from heat than cold:
"Bring me the chafing-dish!" he cries;
'Tis brought; the savoury fumes arise:
"My last tit-bit's delicious so;
Can oysters vie with venison?"--No.

Behold, through sympathy of face,
(In life a very common case)
His Lordship gives the fidler wine!
"Come, brother _Chinny!_ yours and mine:"
And o'er a pretty girl confest,
The Alderman, see! toasts "the best."
Ye hearty cocks! who feel the gout,
Yet briskly push the glass about,
Observe, with crutch behind his chair,
Your honest brother _Chalkstone_ there!
His phiz declares he seems to strain;
Perhaps the gravel gives him pain:
But be it either that or this,
One thing is certain--he's at * * * *,
A wag, the merriest in the town,
Whose face was never meant to frown,
See, at his straining makes a scoff!
And, singing, takes his features off;
While clowns, with joy and wonder, stare,
"Gad-zookers! _Roger_, look ye there!"
The busy Clerk the Taylor plies,
"Vote for his Honour, and be wise:
These yellow-boys are all your own!"
But he, with puritanic tone,
Cries, "_Satan!_ take thy bribes from me;
Why this were downright perjury!"
His wife, with all-sufficient tongue,
For rage and scandal glibly hung,
Replies, "Thou blockhead! gold refuse,
When here's your child in want of shoes!"

But hark! what uproar strikes the ear!
Th' opposing mob, incens'd, draw near:
Their waving tatter'd ensigns see!
Here "Liberty and Property:"
A label'd _Jew_ up-lifted high;
There "Marry all, and multiply."
These, these, are patrotic scenes!
But not a man knows what he means.
The jordan drives their zeal to cool,
With added weight of three-legg'd stool;
But all in vain; and who can't eat,
Now sally out the foe to beat;
For glory be the battle try'd;
Huzza! my boys, the _yellow_ side.
Observe the loyal work begin,
And stones and brick-bats enter in!
That knocks a rustic veteran down;
This cracks the Secretary's crown;
His minute-book, of special note,
For every sure, and doubtful vote,
Now tumbles; ink the table dyes,
And backward poor Pill-Garlick lies.
The Butcher, one who ne'er knew dread,
A Surgeon turns for t'other's head;
His own already broke and bound,
Yet with _pro patria_ decked around.
Behold what wonders gin can do,
External and internal too!
He thinks a plaster but a jest;
All cure with what they like the best:
Pour'd on, it sooths the patient's pain;
Pour'd in, it makes him fight again.
His toes perchance pop out his shoe,
Yet he's a patriot through and through;
His lungs can for his party roar,
As loud as twenty men, or more.
Ye courtiers! give your _Broughton_ praise;
The hero of your eleven days,
'Tis his to trim th'opposers round,
And bring their standard to the ground.
The waiting-boy, astonish'd, eyes
What gin the new-turn'd quack applies;
And fills a tub, that glorious punch
May make amends for blow and hunch.
But stop, my lad, put in no more,
For t'other side are near the door;
Nor will their conscience deem it sin,
To guzzle all, if once they're in.

Reader, perhaps thy peaceful mind
Is not to noise or blood inclin'd;
Then, lest some hurt should happen quick,
For see a sword! and many a stick!
We'll leave this inn, with all my heart,
And hasten to the second part.