The Rolliad. an Heroick Poem, Canto II

Once more the Sun his daily course began, Once more shrill noises through the chambers ran, Once more the scanty Breakfast was prepar'd, Once more, O monstrous! a French Roll appear'd.

Not Echo from her cave so deep resounds With the full cry of twenty packs of hounds; Not cawing rooks, pies chatt'ring, scolding wives, Cats mewing, grating saws, and grinding knives, Not all Hell loose, led on by Death and Sin, E'er rent the ear with such tremendous din!

" It is the Cause, it is the Cause, my Soul!" Enrag'd, she cry'd, and seiz'd the fatal Roll. " Call! ring the bell! Ned! Thomas! Harry! Jack! The Roll! Here! Seize it! Burn it! Take it back!"

Now thro' the streets, like Bedlam fiend she reels, With all the village rabble at her heels. So raving through Troy Town of old was seen Ill fated Hecuba, the Mob-led Queen. " Curst be the man that ever eats, she said, " And doubly curst be He that gives him Bread! " Bread, the prime cause whence all our evils flow, " Which now to Bakers shall work bitter woe!" Onwards she went, whirl'd like a schoolboy's top, Ent'ring with dreadful stride the Baker's shop. The pliant paste He well could knead and mould, And better loaves no London Baker sold; But his old frame now tottering with years, Deafness had clos'd the portal of his ears; With murmurs vague th' imperfect sense betray'd, And sounds uncertain to his ears convey'd. Him did My Lady with rough questions greet, And he reply'd, but ne'er gave answer meet.

Why Traitor!—Villain! why is this? she said, Why dost thou load me with such heaps of Bread? Is't not enough to send Brown Bread by Pecks? And that the White my stately table decks, But Rolls, vile Rolls, my quiet must perplex?

Madam, he cried, half hearing what she said, I'm sure no Baker e'er sold better Bread. And as for Rolls, not Brentford sends so white, Or Uxbridge Bakers make them half so light.

And dost thou mock me then? vile slave, she cried; Madam, You're very welcome. He replied.

As on the kitchen-fire a boiler large Heats by degrees it's elemental charge; First from the top a misty steam it flings, Warms, then ferments, then simmers, and then sings; Now foaming, raging, boiling, bubbling quick, Scarce on the brim the rattling lid will stick: So heated by degrees, inflam'd at last, Full at his head a huge Peck Loaf she cast. Ah Vixen Lady! as he fell he cried, And the loose tallies clatter'd at his side.

O for a Muse to sound the trump of war, And all this dread encounter to declare! How Bricks, Rolls, Crusts, in thick confusion flew, Huge Pecks, Half-Pecks, and Quartern Loaves, they threw! Now from within ran forth the Baker's Wife, Aghast and trembling for her husband's life. Revenge! she cry'd, for sweet Revenge I come: My poor deaf husband! have they struck thee dumb? Then greeting first with most uncourteous flap My Lady's face, she fasten'd on her cap: Her own that instant felt my Lady's hand, And face to face, and cap to cap they stand. Pulling and rending, pinching, tearing, biting, Now slap, now scratch, now scolding, and now fighting. So have I seen in Jack o'Lanthorn quick, Fierce Battle 'twixt a Baker and Old Nick: Full closely each engag'd in desp'rate hug, This way the Baker, that the Devil tug; Now here, now there, in contest most uncivil, Pull Tom, pull Nick, pull Baker, and pull Devil.