Part 30

I lose my patience to be made This strolling varlet’s sport; Nor could I think this saucy rogue Could serve me in such sort.

The cobbler, who had no design The vicar to displease, Unluckily repeats again,— I’m come your soals to ease:

The inward and the outward too I can repair and mend; And all that my assistance want, I’ll use them like a friend.

The country folk no sooner heard The honest cobbler’s tongue, But from the village far and near They round about him throng.

Some bring their boots, and some their shoes, And some their buskins bring: The cobbler sits him down to work, And then begins to sing.

Death often at the cobbler’s stall Was wont to make a stand, But found the cobbler singing still, And on the mending hand;

Until at length he met old Time, And then they both together Quite tear the cobbler’s aged sole From off the upper leather.

Even so a while I may old shoes By care and art maintain, But when the leather’s rotten grown All art and care is vain.

And thus the cobbler stitched and sung, Not thinking any harm; Till out the angry vicar came With ale and passion warm.

Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he, How impious ’tis to jest With sacred things, and to profane The office of a priest?

How dar’st thou, most audacious wretch! Those vile expressions use, Which make the souls of men as cheap As soals of boots and shoes?

Such reprobates as you betray Our character and gown, And would, if you had once the power, The Church itself pull down.

The cobbler, not aware that he Had done or said amiss, Reply’d, I do not understand What you can mean by this.

Tho’ I but a poor cobbler be, And stroll about for bread, None better loves the Church than I That ever wore a head.

But since you are so good at names, And make so loud a pother, I’ll tell you plainly I’m afraid You’re but some cobbling brother.

Come, vicar, tho’ you talk so big, Our trades are near akin; I patch and cobble outward soals As you do those within.

And I’ll appeal to any man That understands the nation, If I han’t done more good than you In my respective station.

Old leather, I must needs confess, I’ve sometimes used as new, And often pared the soal so near That I have spoil’d the shoe.

You vicars, by a different way, Have done the very same; For you have pared your doctrines so You made religion lame.

Your principles you’ve quite disown’d, And old ones changed for new, That no man can distinguish right Which are the false or true.

I dare be bold, you’re one of those Have took the Covenant; With Cavaliers are Cavalier, And with the saints a saint.

The vicar at this sharp rebuke Begins to storm and swear; Quoth he, Thou vile apostate wretch! Dost thou with me compare?

I that have care of many souls, And power to damn or save, Dar’st thou thyself compare with me, Thou vile, ungodly knave!

I wish I had thee somewhere else, I’d quickly make thee know What ’tis to make comparisons, And to revile me so.

Thou art an enemy to the State, Some priest in masquerade, That, to promote the Pope’s designs, Has learnt the cobbling trade:

Or else some spy to Cavaliers, And art by them sent out To carry false intelligence, And scatter lies about.

But whilst the vicar full of ire Was railing at this rate, His worship, good Sir Samuel, O’erlighted at the gate.

And asking of the landlady Th’ occasion of the stir; Quoth she, If you will give me leave I will inform you, Sir.