The Barber's Petition.

.......

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My wife, perhaps, may cease to scold and grumble,
My shop may thrive, and I shall be your humble.
Besides, from wigs, your merry smiling faces
Will gain sure all imaginable graces;
With leave, I'll prove it; and, like poets, big
With theme Sublime, tho' mine's an humble wig,
I'll raise my voice, and in a barber's song,
Chaunt all the praises that to wigs belong.

CHAUNT.

Of all the gifts dame Nature gives, and mighty man possesses,..
Tho' varied as they well can be, none equal to the face is;
Yet wigs you must allow, nay I'll prove it by example,
Lend force to every feature, and this bob is my sample;
'Tis a pretty bob, and gives the face a sort of a Moderation.
I call this bob the Lover's Wig, because you see it made is,
To play the very devil with the hearts of all the ladies;
Nay, smile not, you'd scarce think it, but without the least

design,

Scores of females have felt the power of this little bob of mine; Because, when I've smiled from under it, I've seen 'em all

in a Twitteration.

Would you your Chloe's he art besiege, as soldiers do a city, First arm your heads, as mine is now, I warrant Joe shall

fit ye;

Then from each eye let glances fly, thus, as it were, at random; If lovets would but attack in wigs, the ladies could not with

stand 'em;

Because, an ogle or a leer from a bob, puts their hearts in a

Palpitation.

To a Doctor, when he his patient asks to swallow draught or pill,
This wig would give a simple face a monstrous deal of skill;
Each muscle full of gravity, what wisdom in the eye;
Pray, where's the doctor's wisdom, now the wig's thrown by ?
All simplicity, all vacant like mine, and full of Stupification.
This blockhead, now a lawyer, a moment let's suppose.
All tricks and cases, quirks and statues, mighty well he knows,
This wig denotes him Counsellor, and wise he does appear;
Unwigg'd, and he's empty as any blockhead standing here;

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The Barber's Petition.

So you see in a lawyer, as well as a doctor, it's the wig makes

all the Alteration. With this snug knowing wig, pray let me now approach ye, It would, (that is, if it could but speak,) say it was made for

Coachy.

Thus wigs give character to men, I speak it not in raillery, Without this wig, who'd know that was a coachman in the

gallery,

I don't mean that gemman with his arm round the lady's waist,
and his face full of love and Agitation.
And to married folks, whose wives deight to scold and domi-
meer,

I fain would speak a word or two in private in their ear :
Let all your heads be closely shav'd, and shaving, too, will

cool 'em;

For depend on it, when your locks are off, your wives can

never pull 'em;

Besides, the heads of married men should always be cool, clear,

and in Moderation.

But stop, I fain would speak two words; I hope, good folks,

you'll bear 'em?

Who'd rather part with powder'd locks, than give you gold to
wear 'em;
Since you no longer need the puff, nor will be guinea-pigs,
Oh, keep poor Joe! assist his trade, -and let him make your

wigs,

Taxeration.

Without a dust of power, for then you'd still be liable to • The times are monstrous hard, good lack! no frizzing in the nation, But yet I hope, for poor Joe's sake, beards won't go out of fashion;

If you'll entrust him with your chins, all dangers he will brave And then, sirs, as in duty bound, honest Joe will ever-shave For a penny, cut hair for two-pence; with good razor, smoking hot lather, clean cloth, and all to Admiration.

MONSIEUR TONSON.

A TALE:-WRITTEN BY J. TAYLOR, ESQ,

And spoken by Mr. Fawcett.

There liv'd, as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least, some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom King!
A fellow, that was clever at a joke,
Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing.
To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone;

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood
Would crowd, his stories and bon-mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humour flow'd in such a copius flood.
To him a frolic was a high delight,
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,
Careless how prudence on the sport might frown;
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er edge and ditch away he flew,

Nor left his game, till he had run it down.
One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near fam'd St. Giles's chanc'd his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials height: -
'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamb display'd a twinkling light.
Around this place, there liv'd the numerous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans;

Known at that time by name of Refugees:
The rod of persecution, from their home
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam;

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.
Well! our two friends were saunt'ring thro' the street,
In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,

:

When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew. Strait at the door he gave a thund'ring knock,(The time, we may suppose, near two o'clock,)

"I'll ask, (says King,) if Thompson lodges here;"
"Thompson! (cries t'other,) who the devil's he?"
"I know not, (King replies,) but want to see
"What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time, a little Frenchman came,
One hand display'd a rush-light's trembling flame,

The other held a thing they call culotte;
An old strip'd woollen night-cap grac'd his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread,

Scarce half awake, he heav'd a yawning note.
Though thus untimely rous'd, he courteous smil'd,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,
Bending his head politely to his knee :
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
"I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vate;

"Pray, tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?"

* Sir, (replied King,) I merely thought to know, "As by your house I chanc'd to-night to go, —

"But, really, I've disturb'd your sleep, I fear;
" I say, I thought that you perhaps could tell,
"Among the folks who in this street may dwell,
"If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"
The shiv'ring Frenchman, tho' not pleas'd to find
The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer,
Shrugg'd out a sigh! that thus his rest should break;
Then, with unaltered courtesy he spake,

"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begg'd pardon, and tow'rds home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed;

F

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Monsieur Tonson.

......N

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But King resolv'd not thus to drop the jest,
So the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break, once more, the poor old Frenchman's rest.

He knock'd-but waited longer than before;
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door,
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound.
King, with the knocker, thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determin'd to remain,

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.

At last, King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wond'ring what friend again disturb'd his sleep:
The wag salutes him with a civil leer;
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise,
While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyes,

"Is there-a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"
The Frenchman faulter'd with a kind of fright,
"Vy, sare, I'm sure I tell you, sare, last night,
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere)
"No Monsieur Tonson in de varld I know,
"No Monsieur Tonson here, -I told you so.
"Indeed, sare, dere no Monsieur Tonson here!"
Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought, once more, repose,
The rogue, next night, pursu'd his old career;
'Twas long, indeed, before the man came nigh,
And then he utter'd, in a pitious cry,

"Sare, pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"
Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,
And the next night came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack went faster;
Anxious she strove his errand to inquire;
"He said, 'twas vain, her pretty tongue to tire,
" He should not stir till he had seen her master."

The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,