THE SAILOR's MEDLEY, SONG

It was far retir'd from noise and smoke, O hark! I hear the woodman's stroke, Who dreams not as he fells the oak, What mischief dire he brews; Or what may shape the falling trees, He knows no luxury nor ease, Nor weighs not matters such as these, But sings, and hacks, and hews.

The tree now fell'd by this good man, Perhaps may form the spruce sedan, Or wheelbarrow, where Oyster Nan So vulgar runs her rigs; The stage, where boxers croud in flocks, Or else the quacks, perhaps the stocks, Or poles for signs of barber's blocks, Where smiles the parson's wig.

This bold peasant, O what grief, The gibbet, or where hangs the thief, The seat where sits the great Lord chief, The throne, the cobler's stall; 'Tis pompous life in every stage, Makes folly's whim prize equipage, And children's toys and crutche for age, And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford, Those chairs and this convivial board, The binn that holds Bacchus's hoard, Confess the woodman's stroke; He made the press that bled the vine, The butt that holds the generous wine, The hall it self where tipplers join, To crack their mirthful joke.