A Song for the Park at High Mall

Ye foplings, and prigs, and ye wou'd-be-smart things, Who move in wide commerce's round, Pray tell me from whence this absurdity springs, All orders of rank to confound. What means the bag-wig, and the soldier-like air, On the tradesman obsequious and meek? Sure sabbaths were meant for retirement and prayer To amend the past faults of the week.

The youth, to whom battles and dangers belong, May call a fierce look to his aid; Lace, bluster, and oaths, and a sword an ell long, Are samples he gives of his trade; But you on whom London indulgently smiles, And whom counters should guard from all ills, Should slily invade with humility's wiles, Lest splendor deter us from bills.

Old Gresham, whose statue adorns the Exchange, Displays the true cit to our view, And silently frowns on a conduct so strange, So remote from your interests and you; Then learn from his gesture grave, decent, and plain, To copy fair Prudence's rules, For Frugality's garb will conceal your vast gain, And secure you the plunder of fools.

The ease of a court, and the air of a camp, Are graces no cit can procure: Mons. Jourdain still trots in the Spittlefields tramp, Nor can Hart the grown aukwardness cure. Thus, if apes of the fashion St. James's you croud, Pressing onwards in spite of all stops, The Mall you may fill, and be airy and loud, But, trust me, you'll ne'er fill your shops.