BALLAD. (What thof I be a country clown)

What thof I be a country clown, For all the fuss that you make, One need not to be born in town To know what two and two make:

'Squire Fop there thinks his empty pate Worth all ours put together, But how can that have any weight That's only made of feather.

Then duont ye be so proud, d'ye see, It 'ent a thing that's suiting; Can one than t' other better be When both are on a footing?

Now here's a man who seas and land Has dreamt that he can cross over, That all the world's at his command, For he's a great philosopher;

That to each secret he no bars E'er finds but can unlock it, And conjure down the moon and stars, And put them in his pocket:

But when you've caught him where's the prize So mighty to the getter? For sartin he can make us wise, But can he make us better?

My lady there, because she's dress'd In lappets, frils, and flounces, See how with pride her flutt'ring breast Throbs, heaves, and jumps, and bounces.

And then 'tis said they makes a face New spick and span each feature, As if they thought that a disgrace That's ready made by nature.

The money for a head so high, Such scollops and such carving, Would keep an honest family A month or more from starving.

As for the doctors and their pill, Odds waunds I can't endure them, For sartin they their patients kill More oftner than they cure them.

And as for master poet here, Who writes for fame and glory, I thinks as he's a little queer Poor soul in the upper story.

I've yet another wipe to spare, For waunds I'll give no quarter, Next time you'd find a fool, take care, You do not catch a tarter.