On the Sawyers Procession

Behold, my Muse, nor dread the Critick's Claw, But sound thy Notes in Chorus to the Saw; Hoarse as itself may all thy Numbers flow, In sturdy Strains to praise the gallant Show; Nor care a Fig what Wits do frown or smile, But tune thy Distichs to the Lyrick File; Thence thy Scale of grateing Musick bring, Nor weak nor faintly of the Sawyers sing: Loud as themselves, when e'rey jarring Stroke Does rend the Texture of some knotted Oak,— O may my Lines produce such busling Stir, As when their Arms divide the crack'ling Fir To mike their Worth in lofty Sonnets shine, I scorn the Compass, or the Chalking Line. Disdaining Method in my daring Song, By Rule of Thumb, I fear not to run wrong. Tho' I deal with Judges of both Rhime and Wit, Because their Station's always in the PIT; Yet like the most who fill that Place, we know Their Sense is sometimes high, and sometimes low. This Truth indeed confess I freely must We're all beholden to their friendly Dust; For that which serves to cool their sweaty Feet, Preserves the Wine which warms the Poets Wit; Those sacred Atoms form a funeral Bed, And Sawyers Dust is buried with the Dead. But see themselves! a Train and sprightly Band, That does our Wonder and Surprise command: See, see, they march in gaudy proud Array, With various Ribbonds, glittering in the Day: Behold their Arms, which rends the massy Beam, And pulls and hauls like Horses in a Team; With martial Order move in Pomp along, A dreadful Bluff and well disciplin'd Throng: The cutting Ax appears serenely bold, An endless War with Blocks and Boards to hold. The gaping Crowd their manly Praises speak, And Creeping Joyners in their Levee wait; With craving Visage at their Elbow stand, And begs the Labour of their nervous Hand. On them the Herd of hungry Starvlings wait, Like Beggars mumping at some great Man's Gate; How pitiful the filly Chips appear, And cringing come for some of their Phineer; And sadly tell their heavy mournful Tale, When forc'd to idle for some two-cut Deal. From Morn till Noon the splendid Gang we meet, In solemn Motion pass through every Street; Then all agree, with fierce accord Repair, To cram their Craws with good and wholsome Fare; For Ax and Wedge they wield the Knife and Fork, Instead of Saws, their Teeth begin to work. A dreadful Carnage ends the gorging Day, And stuff'd with Triumph, homeward reel their Way.