Part 33

I think it first advisable To take them from the rabble, And let them come and both set forth The occasion of the squabble.

This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray, A man of no repute, The scorn and scandal of his tribe, A loose, ill-manner’d brute.

The cobbler’s a poor strolling wretch That mends my servants’ shoes; And often calls as he goes by To bring me country news.

At this his worship grip’d his beard, And in an angry mood, Swore by the laws of chivalry That blood required blood.

Besides, I’m by the Commonwealth Entrusted to chastise All knaves that straggle up and down To raise such mutinies.

However, since ’tis your request, They shall be call’d and heard; But neither Ralph nor I can grant Such rascals should be clear’d.

And so, to wind the tale up short, They were call’d in together; And by the gentlemen were ask’d What wind ’twas blew them thither.

Good ale and handsome landladies You might have nearer home; And therefore ’tis for something more That you so far are come.

To which the vicar answer’d first,— My living is so small, That I am forced to stroll about To try and get a call.

And, quoth the cobbler, I am forced To leave my wife and dwelling, T’ escape the danger of being press’d To go a colonelling.

There’s many an honest jovial lad Unwarily drawn in, That I have reason to suspect Will scarce get out again.

The proverb says, Harm watch harm catch, I’ll out of danger keep, For he that sleeps in a whole skin Doth most securely sleep.

My business is to mend bad soals And stitch up broken quarters: A cobbler’s name would look but odd Among a list of martyrs.

Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman, And that shall be my case; I will neither party join, Let what will come to pass.

No importunities or threats My fixt resolves shall rest; Come here, Sir Samuel, where’s his health That loves old England best.

I pity those unhappy fools Who, ere they were aware, Designing and ambitious men Have drawn into a snare.

But, vicar, to come to the case,— Amidst a senseless crowd, What urged you to such violence, And made you talk so loud?

Passion I’m sure does ill become Your character and cloath, And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just, Brings scandal upon both.

Vicar, I speak it with regret, An inadvertent priest Renders himself ridiculous, And every body’s jest.

The vicar to be thus rebuked A little time stood mute; But having gulp’d his passion down, Replies,—That cobbling brute

Has treated me with such contempt, Such vile expressions used, That I no longer could forbear To hear myself abused.

The rascal had the insolence To give himself the lie, And to aver h’ had done more good And saved more soals than I.

Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant To tell me was so bold, Our trades were very near of kin, But his was the more old.

Now, Sir, I will to you appeal On such a provocation, If there was not sufficient cause To use a little passion?

Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave, I’ll prove it to his face, All this is mere suggestion, And foreign to the case.

And since he calls so many names And talks so very loud, I will be bound to make it plain ’Twas he that raised the crowd.

Nay, further, I will make ’t appear He and the priests have done More mischief than the cobblers far All over Christendom.

All Europe groans beneath their yoke, And poor Great Britain owes To them her present miseries, And dread of future woes.