“Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of barber’s race, Give ample room and verge enough Their lengthen’d lanthorn jaws to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When all their shops shall echo with affright, Loud screams shall through St James’s turrets ring, To see, like Eton boy, the King! Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws That scrape the foretops of our aching heads, No longer England owns thy fribblish laws, No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds. They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast beef behind. “Mighty barbers, mighty lords, Low on a greasy bench they lie! No pitying heart or purse affords A sixpence for a mutton pie! Is the mealy ’prentice fled? Poor Coe is gone all supperless to bed. The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux, While vainly strutting through a silly land, In foppish train, the puppy barber goes, Lace on his shirt, and money at command, Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway, That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey. “The porter mug fill high, Baked curls and locks prepare; Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live! Close by the greasy chair Fell thirst and famine lie, No more to art will beauteous nature give. Heard ye the gang of Fielding say, Sir John,[65] at last we’ve found their haunt To desperation driven by hungry want, Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way. Ye towers of Newgate! London’s lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[66] fame, And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head. “Rascals! we tread ye under foot, (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun): Our beards we pull out by the root: (The web is wove; your work is done).” Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn, Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d here to mourn. Through the broad gate that leads to College Hall, They melt, they fly, they vanish all. But oh! what happy scenes of pure delight, Slow moving on their simple charms unroll. Ye rapturous visions, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Coventry we wail: All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature’s issue, hail!