SONG CXX. The KENNEL RAKER

Tho' I sweep to and thro' old Iron to find, Brass Pins Rusly Nails they are all to my mind, Yet I wear a sound Heart true to George our King, Tho' Ragged and poor with clear Concience can sing, Tho' I sweep to and thro' yet I'd have you to know, There are sweepers in high Life as well as in low.

The Statesman he sweeps in his Coffers the blunt, That shou'd pay the poor Soldiers that Honours does hunt, The Action tho' dirty, he cares not a Straw, So he get's but the ready, the Rabble may jaw, Tho' I sweep &c.

I'm told that the Parson (for I never go, To hear a Man Preach, what he never sticks to,) 'Tis all for the Sweepings he tip's ye the cant, You might Preach by your selves, else depend Sirs upon't, Tho' I sweep &c.

One sweep's you from this Life, you cannot tell where, And to what place you go too the Doctor don't care, So he brings in his Bill your long Purses to broach. Then he Laugh's in his Sleve, as he Rides in his Coach. Tho' I sweep &c.

Your Counsel may plead but pray what is it for, His Eye's on your sob whilst he chatters the Law, Tongue padding he Rakes you and sweeps you quite clear. Of what's better than Iron you need not to fear, Tho' I sweep &c. But honesty's best in what Station we are, For our Grand Sweeper Death we can better prepare, Your Statesmen your Parson your Physick and Law, When Death takes a Sweep are no more than a Straw, Tho' I Sweep &c.