The Cobler and his Creditors

An honest Cobler and his wife,
Who never had a moment's strife,
Industrious, honest, yet so poor,
They cou'd not keep the wolf from door,
In spite of all their care and pains,
Heavy their labour, small their gains;
Great his soul, little was his all,
A true attendant on his stall,
Save, now and then, perhaps he'd hug,
With too much zeal, the alehouse mug;
When thoughts grew heavy, always found,
To make them lighter, was to drown'd,
And in good draughts of wholsome beer,
To bury all his load of care.
His brats wou'd oft make much ado,
This wanted stockings, that a shoe;
He found his troubles daily grew,
'Spite what he cou'd say or do,
His wife from morn to night wou'd scrub,
Her knuckles bare at washing tub;
She hop'd her troubles soon wou'd end,
If fortune once wou'd prove her friend,
Her hopes oft made her seem to bear
Her troubles with a better air
Than she wou'd otherwise have shown,
Had not she her reasons known.
For she by Gypsies had been told,
Her coffers shou'd be lin'd with gold,
And she had often lucky been,
When at fair or wake she's seen,
The raffle-stand, or chanc'd to draw
The longest, and the lucky straw.
For eight long years she'd made a hoard,
And hid it underneath a board,
That Time had loosen'd in the floor,
On purpose to receive the store;
Unknown to Snob, for she was sly,
She weekly put a tester by,
Till she had sav'd ten guineas bright,
She thought they shone a lovely sight;
It made her heart ach oft to think,
Of risking all her pretty chink.
Which she so oft with joy beheld,
When they with hope her heart have fill'd,
But as her luck had oft been kind,
She still resolv'd to hold her mind;
Resolv'd her fortune soon to try,
So enter'd in the lottery.
But from that day no rest she had,
Her husband often thought her mad,
He ne'er a night went up the stairs,
But found his pious wife at prayers;
Saint Whitfield had been preaching there,
Which fill'd the Cobler full of fear;
He begg'd, from praying she'd desist,
He thought her turn'd a Methodist,
A Methodist! she made reply,
I've other methods in my eye,
Think you, such fellows can exhort one,
I'm praying to my mistress, Fortune.
Ah, you may kneel, and you may pray,
She'll never mind a word you say;
Pray, pray to God to send us bread,
And don't get Fortune in your head,
A fickle, partial, flaunting jade,
She seldom lends the poor her aid.
Lord bless you, man, you talk so odd,
Pray, does not fortune come from God;
It is to him, from day to day,
To him I do for fortune pray.

One day Snob sat at alehouse-door,
For he had got a plaguy score,
He did not care to venture in,
The white-chalk'd lines made such a grin;
He wish'd he cou'd the score erase,
It star'd so grimly in his face;
He call'd a pint, it was refus'd him,
The hostess threaten'd and abus'd him;
In vain all pleading now to her,
What matter'd his being customer;
What tho' he many pounds had paid,
Nothing wou'd pacify the jade,
All obligations she forgot,
Whene'er he ow'd her for a pot.—
He much lamented his condition,
Yet he had not the least suspicion,
That she'd a catchpole near, in waiting,
While they the matter were debating,
He now began, enrag'd, to scold her,
But streight felt some one tap his shoulder,
Then turn'd around, quite stiff with wonder,
As if he had been struck with thunder;
He pleaded wife and family,
His hostess wou'd hear no reply,
Av'rice did her breast controul,
She'd no compassion in her soul;
The catchpole said he cou'd not stay,
And wou'd have hurry'd Snob away,
Had not his wife come, with a Spark,
Full of his scrapes, a broker's clerk;
She 'gan to hug him, and she cries,
My ticket, Snob, is come a prize!
Psha, what the devil, are you mad?
Cry'd Snob, you fool, you never had
A ticket in your life, not you.
Indeed, good Sir, her saying's true
The Clerk reply'd, ten thousand pounds,
This day was drawn her prize: Odszounds,
My boy, if what you say be true,
Good hostess, I'll be one with you.
'Tis true enough, for here behold,
The weighty bags of shining gold.
The hostess all confus'd appear'd,
When she the confirmation heard,
Wou'd made believe too, if she cou'd,
She meant to do it for his good;
But all her coaxing wou'd not do;
He paid the score, the bailiff too:
Now, huzzy, you may shut the door,
Your house I'll never enter more,
I'll sue you for your insolence,
That shall be my sole pretence;
Whene'er I visit you again,
You shall you scoundrel then explain.
He kiss'd his wife, and then sat out,
To know, how it cou'd come about.