Each shook his head--hung back--"Your goods so dear! "In fact (said they) the devil's in the man! "Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (cry'd honest Sam) "In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram; "No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate) "While gauze is valued at so dear a rate." Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day; No custom came; and nought but discontent Gloom'd through the shop.--"Well, let them have their way, (The merchant said) I'll sell at cent per cent, "By which, 'tis plain, I scarce myself can save, "For cent per cent is just the price I gave." "Now! (cry'd the squire who still had kept his pence) "Now, Sir, you reason like a man of sense! "Custom will now from every quarter come; "In joyous streams shall flow the inspiring rum, "'Till every soul in pleasing dreams be sunk, "And even our Socrates himself--is drunk!" Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load; In three short hours the kegs of wine ran dry-- Swift from its tap even dull molasses flow'd; Each saw the rum cask wasting, with a sigh-- The farce concluded, as it was foreseen-- With empty shelves--long trust--and law suits keen-- The woods resounding with a curse on trade,-- An empty purse--sour looks--and hanging head.-- THE PUNCHEON'S EULOGY "Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said) "Its debt to Commerce now, no doubt, is paid.-- "Well--'twas a vile disease that kill'd it, sure, "A quick consumption, that no art could cure! "Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out, "Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about! "Time is the tapster of our race below, "That turns the key, and bids the juices flow: "Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task "To moralize upon this empty cask-- "Thank heaven we've had the taste--so far 'twas well; "And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!" EPILOGUE[31] Well!--strange it is, that men will still apply Things to themselves, that authors never meant: Each country merchant asks me, "Is it I On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?" Friends, hold your tongues--such myriads of your race Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes, A man might rove seven years from place to place Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes.-- Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known, Perhaps New-England claims him for her own: And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew, What is the imagin'd character to you?"