So going out into the street, He bawls with all his might,— If any of you tread awry I’m here to set you right. I can repair your leaky boots, And underlay your soles; Backsliders, I can underprop And patch up all your holes. The vicar, who unluckily The cobbler’s outcry heard, From off the bench on which he sat With mighty fury rear’d. Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest Can hear this bawling slave, But must, in justice to his coat, Chastise the saucy knave? What has this wretch to do with souls, Or with backsliders either, Whose business only is his awls, His lasts, his thread, and leather? I lose my patience to be made This strolling varlet’s sport; Nor could I think this saucy rogue Could serve me in such sort. The cobbler, who had no design The vicar to displease, Unluckily repeats again,— I’m come your soals to ease: The inward and the outward too I can repair and mend; And all that my assistance want, I’ll use them like a friend. The country folk no sooner heard The honest cobbler’s tongue, But from the village far and near They round about him throng. Some bring their boots, and some their shoes, And some their buskins bring: The cobbler sits him down to work, And then begins to sing. Death often at the cobbler’s stall Was wont to make a stand, But found the cobbler singing still, And on the mending hand; Until at length he met old Time, And then they both together Quite tear the cobbler’s aged sole From off the upper leather. Even so a while I may old shoes By care and art maintain, But when the leather’s rotten grown All art and care is vain. And thus the cobbler stitched and sung, Not thinking any harm; Till out the angry vicar came With ale and passion warm. Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he, How impious ’tis to jest With sacred things, and to profane The office of a priest? How dar’st thou, most audacious wretch! Those vile expressions use, Which make the souls of men as cheap As soals of boots and shoes? Such reprobates as you betray Our character and gown, And would, if you had once the power, The Church itself pull down. The cobbler, not aware that he Had done or said amiss, Reply’d, I do not understand What you can mean by this. Tho’ I but a poor cobbler be, And stroll about for bread, None better loves the Church than I That ever wore a head. But since you are so good at names, And make so loud a pother, I’ll tell you plainly I’m afraid You’re but some cobbling brother. Come, vicar, tho’ you talk so big, Our trades are near akin; I patch and cobble outward soals As you do those within.