FEW HONEST COBLERS; A POEM. In Imitation of Dr. WATTS'S Indian Philosopher

Why should our shoes so soon grow old; So soon the hide with which they're soal'd Be worn and out of date—? Crispin, 'tis strange the thread that sews Millions of coats, should leave our shoes In such a ragged state!

Invain I sought the secret cause, Search'd in the leather for its flaws, The tanner curs'd invain; Stept into shops where shoes were made, Saw artists hourly ply their trade; But none would this explain.

Then tow'rd the west, and cross the street Where folks at tall St. Michael's meet, I hurried, vext in mind; 'Till near the banks of Ashley's flood, On soil of marsh I sighing stood, For tanner's use design'd.

Not far from thence a cobler's son Stood by his hides, and thus begun, With aspect dull and sad: Twice he came o'er the lazy stream, The faults of shoes were all his theme, For many a fault they had!

He said, "the spacious ample hide " That does for all our hoofs provide " No thinking man would blame, " Since, shap'd into so many foals, " Some would have flaws and some have holes " To blast the cobler's fame.

" The artist wise that shap'd the shoe " One hide from every creature drew, " And scrap'd that hide with care; " This is an honest skin," he said, " Then down he sat to try his trade, " And make a handsome pair.

" But scarce these hides had left the vatt " When, lodg'd aloft, a hungry rat " Attack'd them teeth and claws, " Ah cruel chance and ragged fate! " He gnaw'd them early, gnaw'd them late: " Starvation has no laws.

" Happy the man that finds a shoe " That's to his expectations true, " One real good below: " But O the crowds of wretched wights " That travel barefoot these dull nights " And wound the bleeding toe!"

THUS sung the cobler's hopeful son; I found at length his song was done: He said, he was no Jew: Sure, then, cry'd I, ere I'll agree For these damn'd shoes you mean for me, I will go barefoot too.

Some happier Crispin; tell me where, What other shop affords a pair, Where better shoes are found; Swift as Don Quixote's steed of old, I'd run to get my boots new soal'd, And wear them—tight and sound.