The Man

IT is he who's unaw'd by the sound of a Name,
Yet harbours no Hate in his breast;
What his Betters may do he pretends not to blame,
As he hopes they do all for the best.
To his King he is just, to his Country he's true,
And true to his Friend and his Glass;
A Sportsman who always with spirit comes thro'
And ne'er baulk'd a Leap, nor a Lass.

No Office he flatters, compounds with no Cheat,
But ever takes Honesty's part;
Compassion awaits on his Justice's seat,
And Charity tenants his heart.
When a love-laden Lass with contrition appears,
For Girls are ensnar'd like the Game;
His tenderness turns not away from her tears,
His pity prevents her from shame.

To Game-Acts he fancies our Liberty yeilds,
So sets their inflictions aside;
Protection allows not to vermin in fields,
Which is to the Freeborn deny'd.
Suppose a Young Idler at birds shou'd take aim,
Or Puss take, perhaps, in a snare,
Must Englishmen's Birthright be forfeit for Game,
And Man made a Slave for a Hare?

If Sticks from the Hedge of his Honour are found
In the lap of the big-belly'd poor,
While sleet fills the air, and deep snow's on the ground,
And Misery groans at the door;
Humanity tells him to seek out the cause,
Which prompted Distress to turn Thief;
Convinc'd 'twas mere Want, he awakes not the laws,
But stops future crimes by Relief.

This, this is the Man, uncorrupted he stands,
To Baal who ne'er bow'd the knee;
Unmortgag'd, enjoys all his Ancestor's Lands,
And ever liv'd debtless and free.
Yes, yes, this is He, this the Man to my mind,
The Man who no Party can snare;
Shall I tell you, my Friends, where this Man you may find,
I wou'd—if I cou'd but tell where.