The Razor-Seller

A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard, That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose: With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried— All were impostors—"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd, "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

Hodge sought the fellow—found him—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave: As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,—"to sell."