The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee, A barber from Paris, of royal degree, (For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it, He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E]) Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long, Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent. This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray, Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way, Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh, A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:-- His merits are great (he would have us suppose) For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose, Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin, And handled a tongs--at the head of the Queen. [E] A popular French nobleman, who, A. D. 987, usurped the crown of France, and was the first of a new race of monarchs.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._ V. BOB: _a Ballad Singer_ A singer of ballads was next in our train, Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain; He sometimes would sing in a musical tone, And sometimes would scribble a song of his own: Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix-- And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six; Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine; Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;" Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes, And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose-- As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground, He knew it was folly to feed them with sound-- He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays, And was too much their friend to insult them with praise. For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob: On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361] He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small, But scarcely a shilling had got by them all-- So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade, And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid, That if times didn't alter, and that very soon, He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune. Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head If he took a short journey his fortune was made: Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems, Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains, That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made (And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade) Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd, Reform the old music, and fix a new taste. VI. O'BLUSTER: _a Seaman_