Let not lac’d loungers mock their thankless toil, Their homely meals and toilets thrifty plan; Nor ’broider’d gen’rals hear with scornful smile The simple annals of a private man. The salutations which to rank are due, And all that gold e’er bought, or favor gave, Cannot the worn-out wheels of life renew, Promotion’s high way leads but to the grave. Nor you, ye beaus, forget that they are men, If no white dust their soapy locks disguise; If on their brawny limbs coarse cloth you ken, And from their cloaths no musky scent arise. Can kerseymere, or scarlet bought on trust, Compel the lungs to stay the fleeting breath? Can fun’ral vollies wake the slumb’ring dust, Or gleaming gorget ward the dart of death? Perhaps on tatter’d pillow now is laid, Some head by nature fashion’d for command, Whose solid sense in council might have sway’d, And led to victory a num’rous band. But science from their mind, with piercing rays, The fogs of ignorance did ne’er dispel, Mechanic toil consum’d their youthful days, And scarcely left them time to scrawl or spell. Full many an acre of uncultur’d land Fertility within its womb contains, Full many a rugged mass of sordid sand Conceals of virgin gold the latent grains. Some Wolfe that ne’er shall see pale Gallia fly, Nor in bright victory’s arms resign his breath, Some Marlb’rough inglorious here may lie, Some Coote unskilful in the art of death. Th’ applause of hoary vet’rans to command, The bribes and threats of monarch’s to despise, To raise the glory of their native land, And read their praises in an army’s eyes, Their lot forbids;――nor circumscribes alone Their martial genius, but their crimes restrain, Forbids to place a tyrant on a throne, And forge for free-born men dire slav’ry’s chains. Unmov’d to mark the frantic widow’s woe, And hear her orphans wail their slaughter’d sire, Or swell of guiltless blood the crimson flow, With fury kindled by ambition’s fire. Fix’d in the fav’rite seat of noise and strife, They never can enjoy one tranquil day, Along the rough walk of an irksome life They keep the restless tenor of their way. Yet from grave thoughts their feelings to protect, Frail temporary huts erected nigh, With uncouth phrase and wretched daubing deck’d, Invite their lips a cordial draught to try. Their mantling mug, their song’s sonorous swell, The place of port and repartee supply; And many a smutty tale around they tell That teach the social hour with speed to fly. For who, within the ranks by reason led, The joys of Bacchus to his soul denies, Treads the gay precincts of a sutler’s shed, Nor cast upon the door his longing eyes?