Chapter XV: Canto II

CANVASSING _for_ VOTES.
Free'd from the madness of the throng,
Now, gentle Reader, come along;
A broken head's no clever joke--
Sir, welcome to _The Royal Oak_;
Together let us look about----
We'll find that Show-cloth's meaning out.

Satire! 'tis thine, with keenest dart,
To shoot the follies of the heart;
And, issuing from the press or stage,
Reclaim the vain, the culprit age!
From _Rich's_ dome, of grand renown,
To thatch-torn barn, in country town;
From _Garrick_, monarch of his art,
To _Punch_, so comical and smart;
Satire delights, in every sphere,
To make men laugh at what they _are_:
"Walk in, the only show in town;
_Punch_ candidate for _Guzzle-down_!"
There see the pile, in modern taste,
On top with tub-like turret grac'd!
Where the cramp'd entrance, like some shed,
Knocks off the royal driver's head;
Lives there a Wit but what will cry,
"An arch so _low_ is mighty _high_!"
See from the Treasury flows the gold,
To shew that those who're _bought_ are _sold_!
Come, Perjury, meet it on the road,
'Tis all your own; a waggon-load.
Ye party-tools, ye courtier-tribe,
Who gain no vote without a bribe,
Lavishly kind, yet insincere,
Behold in _Punch_ yourselves appear!
And you, ye fools, who poll for pay,
Ye little great men of a day;
For whom your favourite will not care,
Observe how much bewitch'd you are!

Yet hush!--for see his Honour near;--
Truly, a pretty amorous leer:
The ladies both look pleasant too;
"Purchase some trinkets of the _Jew_."
One points to what she'd have him buy;
The other casts a longing eye;
And _Shylock_, money-loving soul,
Impatient waits to touch the cole:
But here's a Porter; what's the news?--
Ha, ha, a load of billet-doux!
Humbly to sue th' Electors' favour,
With vows of _Cato_-like behaviour;
And how the Borough he'll espouse,
When once a Member of the House:
Though wiser folks will lay a bet,
His promises he'll then forget.
But pray your Honour condescend
An eye on kneeling _Will_ to lend;
Grant to the fair the toys they chuse,
And what the letter says, peruse:
"To _Timothy Parti-tool_, Esquire."--
Your title may in time be higher.

Ha, who stands here?--'Tis Farmer _Rye_,
A man of cunning, by the bye;
In times like this a mighty stirrer,--
Of some small interest in the Borough.
Which side? you ask--the question's well,
But more, as yet, than he can tell.
The _hosts_ of either party try;
To both he casts a _knowing_ eye.
"Sir, I'm commission'd by the 'Squire--
Your company they all desire:
My house contains near half the town--
'Tis just at hand, Sir;--'tis _The Crown._"
Then t'other cries, "Sure I first spoke--
This inn is mine!--_The Royal Oak_--
Sir, here's his Honour's invitation;
The greatest Patriot in the nation."

Which party shall the voter take,
Since both the same pretentions make?
The same?--sure not--for see each hand!
Aye, now he seems to understand:
_The Crown_ Host fees him o'er his arm;
But t'other tips the stronger charm.
One, two, three, four--the jobb is done--
Troth, cunning _Fatty_, you have won;
Success in that sly glance is shown;
The honest Farmer's all your own:
But don't exult; for, being loth
To disoblige, he takes from both.

Oh, _Britain_! favourite Isle of Heaven,
When to thy Sons shall Peace be given?
The treachery of the _Gallic_ shore
Makes even thy wooden lions roar.
That royal beast, who many a league
At sea hath sail'd with vengeance big!
And oft has scar'd the hostile coast,
Tho' fix'd in _Inn-Yard_, like a post,
Still keeps his furious power in use;
Devouring of the _Flower-de-luce_.
How certain those expanded paws!
How dreadful those extended jaws!
Behind him sits the Hostess fair,
Counting her cash with earned care;
While at the door the Grenadier
Inspects her with a cunning leer;
As who should say, "When we're alone,
Some part of that will be my own!"

But who are those two in the Bar?
Guttlers I fancy--that they are;
The fowl to Him's a noble feast;
He sure makes mouths, to mock the beast;
And t'other hopes to find relief,
By eating half the round of beef.

From _George_, who wears the _British_ crown,
To the remotest country clown,
The love of politics extends,
And oft makes foes of nearest friends.
The Cobler and the Barber there,
That born to frown, and this to stare,
Both positive, you need not doubt,
Will argue till they both fall out.

"Well," says the Tonsor, "now we'll try,
Who's in the right, yourself or I:
One moment let your tongue be still,
Or else be judg'd by _Johnny Hill:
Vernon_ he thought a glorious fellow,
Which made him put up _Porto Bello_.
I'll teach you reason, if I can--
I should though shave the Gentleman;
But never mind it, let him wait;--
These bits of pipe the case shall state"--

"Drink," cries the Cobler, "I'm adry;
Pshaw, damn your nonsense, what care I?
I told you first, and all along,
I'll lay this cole you're in the wrong;
I hope his worship will excuse,
I should, though, carry home his shoes."

"Well, well," the Barber makes reply,
"Election-time puts business by:
Only six ships our Admiral had;
A very slender force, egad;
What then? our dumplings gave them sport:--
Here stood one castle; there the fort."--

"'Sblood," cries the Cobler, "go to school,
You half-learn'd, half-starv'd, silly fool!
I tell you, Barber, 'tis not true;
Sure I can see as much as you."

But hark, what noise our ears assails!
A distant, loud huzza, prevails;
Ha, ha, they're at their wonted sport;
That was a gun, by the report:
Behold the rabble at _The Crown_!
"Damn, damn, th' Excise; we'll have it down."
And all the while, poor simple elves,
They little think 'twill crush themselves.
Danger again may wait our stay,
So, courteous Reader, come away.