Whoe'er has walk'd through _Chelsea_ town, Which Buns and Charity renown, Has many a College Veteran seen, With scar-seam'd face, and batter'd mien, But here's a theme for future story! Survey that Son of _Mars_ before ye! Was ever Pensioner like him?-- What, almost robb'd of every limb! Only one arm, one leg, one thigh; Gods! was that man design'd to die? Inspect his ancient, war-like face! See, with what surly, manly grace, He gives the Clerk to understand His meaning, with his wooden hand! Perhaps in _Anna's_ glorious days, His courage gain'd immortal praise: _Britons_, a people brave and rough, That time lov'd fighting well enough; And, glad their native land to aid, Leg-making was a thriving trade; But now we from ourselves depart, And war's conducted with new art; Our Admirals, Generals, learn to run, And Leg-makers are all undone. Still he's an open, hearty blade, Pleas'd with his sword, and gay cockade: Unbrib'd he votes; and 'tis his pride; He always chose the honest side. You think he seems of man but half, But, witty Clerk, suppress your laugh; His heart is in its usual place, And that same hook may claw your face. How learnedly that Lawyer pleads! "A vote like this, Sir, ne'er succeeds; The naked hand should touch the book; Observe h'as only got a hook." "Sir," cries the other, "that's his hand;" (Quibbles, like you, I understand) "And be it either flesh or wood, By Heavens! his vote is very good." Wise Counsellor! you reason right, You'll gain undoubted credit by't; But please to turn your head about, And find that Idiot's meaning out; Dismiss the Whisperer from his chair, 'Tis quite illegal, quite unfair; Though shackles on his legs are hung, Those shackles can't confine his tongue; Methinks I hear him tell the Nisey, "Be sure to vote as I advise ye; My writings shew I'm always right; The nation sinks; we're ruin'd quite _America's_ entirely lost; The _French_ invade our native coast; Our Ministers won't keep us free;--- You know all this as well as me. All men of parts are out of place; 'Tis mine, 'tis many a wise man's case; And though so _Cato_-like I write, I ne'er shall get a farthing by't." Good Clerk, dispatch them quick, I pray: How easy fools are led astray! He thinks th' insinuation's true, As all the race of Idiots do. But who comes here? Ha, one just dead, Ravish'd from out th' infirmary's bed; Through racking follies sad and sick, Yet to the cause he'll ever stick; Tie the groat favour on his cap, And die True Blue, whate'er may hap.