Scrub's Trip to the Jubilee. Spoken by Mr. Weston

From Stratford arriv'd—piping hot—gentle folks, From the rarest fine shows and most wonderful jokes, Your simple acquaintance, Scrub, comes to declare 'Twas fuller by far than our Litchfield great fair, Such crouds of fine ladies, serenading and singing Such firing of loud pateraroes and ringing, To tell it in London must seem all a fable And yet I will tell it as well as I'm able: First something in linguo of schools call'd an ode; All critics they told me allow'd very good, One said—you may take it for truth I assure ye 'Twas made by the little great man of old Drury, By my brother Martin—for whose sake d'ye hear, This night I'd a mind for a touch at Shakespeare. But honestly speaking I take more delight in A bit of good fun, than drums, trumpets and fighting. The Procession, 'twas said, would have been a fine train; But could not move forwards—oh la, for the rain. Such tragical, comical folks and so fine— What pity it was that the sun did not shine, Since ladies and baronets, aldermen, squires, All went to this Jubilee full of desires, In crouds as they go for to see a new play And when it was done—why they all came away. Don't let me forget—a main part of the show Was long tailed fine comets by fam'd Angelo, Some turtle I got which they call'd pashapee— But honest roast beef's the best turtle for me. I hate all ragouts, and, like a bold Briton, Prefer good plumb pudding to ought I e'er bit on. I drank too—and now I a poet may be— From a charming fine cup of the mulberry tree. To bed I must go—for which like a ninny I paid—like my betters—no less than a guinea. For rolling—not sleeping—in linen so damp As struck my great toe ever since with the cramp, Thus fleec'd—in my pocket I felt a great smarting Yet griev'd not when I and the splinters were parting, 'Twas worth ten times more to hear sweet brother Martin. He spoke till poor Scrub was just fit, with one eye To laugh, while the other was ready to cry: Which makes me now tell you without any brag He's second to none but the Warwickshire wag. The Jubilee over, I come to this place To tell you my story and sue for your grace. You never refus'd it—yet never before With granting such kindness bound gratitude more. I love but to own with a diligent spirit Your favours have ever out-run my slight merit.