Measter! Measter!

Is not my measter here among you, pray?

Nay, speak—my measter wrote this fine new play;

The actor-folks are making such a clatter!

They want the pro-log:—I know nought o' th' matter!

He must be there among you—look about—

A weezen, pale-fac'd man, do—find him out—

Pray, measter, come—or all will fall to sheame.

Call mister—hold—I must not tell his neame.

 

Law! what a croud is here! what noise and pother!

Fine lads and lasses! one o' top o' t'other.

     [Pointing to the rows of pit and gallery.

I cou'd for ever here with wonder geaze!

I ne'er saw church so full in all my days!—

Your servunt, Surs!—what do you laugh for? Eh!

You donna take me sure for one o' th' play?

You shou'd not flout an honest country-lad,—

You think me a fool, and I think you half mad:

You're all as strange as I, and stranger too,

And, if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you. [Laughing;

I donna like your London tricks, not I,

And since you've rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why?

And if you wull, since now I am before ye,

For want of pro-log, I'll relate my story.

 

I came from country here to try my fate,

And get a place among the rich and great;

But troth I'm sick o' th' journey I ha' taken,

I like it not—wou'd I were whoame again!

 

First, in the city I took up my station,

And got a place with one of th' corporation,

A round big man—he ate a plaguy deal,

Zooks! he'd have beat five ploomen at a meal!

But long with him I cou'd not make abode.

For, cou'd you think't?—He ate a great sea-toad!

It came from Indies—'twas as big as me:

He call'd it belly-patch, and Capapee:

Law! how I star'd!'—I thought,—who knows, but I,

For want of monsters, may be made a pye;

Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain,

I'll back to whoame, and country-fare, again.

 

I left toad-eater; then I'sarv'd a lord;

And there they promis'd!—but ne'er kept their word,

While 'mong the great, this geaming work the trade is,

They mind no more poor servants, than their ladies.

 

A lady next, who lik'd a smart young lad,

Hir'd me forthwith—but, troth, I thought her mad:

She turn'd the world top down, as I may say,

She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day!

I stood one day with coach, and did but stoop

To put the foot-board down, and with her hoop

 She cover'd me all o'er—where are you, lout?

Here, maam, says I, for heav'n's sake let me out. 

I was so sheam'd with all her freakish ways,

She wore her gear so short, so low her stays—

Fine folks shew all for nothing now-a-days!

 

Now I'm the poet's man—I find with wits,

There's nothing sartain.—Nay, we eat by fits.

Our meals, indeed, are slender,—what of that?

There are but three on's—measter, I, and cat.

Did you but see us all, as I'm a sinner,

You'd scarcely say, which of the three is thinner.

 

My wages all depend on this night's piece,

But shou'd you find that all our swans are geese!

E'feck I'll trust no more to measter's brain,

But pack up all, and whistle whoame again.