Middletown Transcript

Select Poetry.
A PUN-GENT CONSIDERATION OF 'THE
VARIOUS TRADES.

Of all the trades that men may call
Unpleasant and offensive,
The Editor's is worst of all,
For he is ever pen-sive;
His leaders lead to nothing high,
His columns are unstable,
And though the printers make him pie,
It does not suit his table.
The Carpenter-his course is plane,
His bit is always near him;
He augurs every hour of gain,
He chisels-and none jeer him;
He shaves, yet it is not close they say,
The public pay his board, sir;
Full of wise saws, he bores away,
And so he swells his hoard, sir;
St. Crispin's son-the man of shoes,
Has awl things at control, sir;
He waxes wealthy in his views,
But ne'er neglects his sole, sir;
His indeed's a heeling trade,
And when we come to casting
The toe-tal profits he has made,
We find his ends are last-ing.
The tailor, too, gives fits to all,
Yet never gets a basting;
His cabbages, however small,
Are most delicious tasting ;
His goose is heated-happy prig !
Unstinted in his measure;
He always plays at thimble-rig,
And "seems" a man of pleasure.
The Farmer reaps a fortune plump,
Though harrowed, far from woe, sir;
His sickle forever proves a trump,
His bank is I've an hoe, sir:
However corned, he does not slip,
Though husky, never hoarse, sir)
And in a plow-share partnership
He gets his share of course, sir.
The Sailor on the giddy mast-
Cooperatively mast-er-
Has many a bulwark round him cast
To wave away disaster;
Even shrouds to him are full of life,
His mainstay still is o'er him;:
A gallant au top-gallant crew
Of beaux caprils before him.
The sturdy Irish Laborer picks
And climbs to fame-'tis funny.
He deals with none but regular bricks,
And so he pockets money ;
One friend sticks to him, (mortar 'tis)
In hodden gray, unbafled,
He leaves below an honest name
When he ascends the scaffold.
The Printer, though his case be hard,
Yet sticks not at his hap, sir;
'Tis his to canonize the bard,
And trim a Roman cap, sir;
Some go two-forty-what of that?
He goes it by the thousand?
A man of "form," and fond of fat,
He loves the song I now send.
The Engine-driver, if we track
His outward semblance deeper,
Has got some very tender trains-
He ne'er disturbs the sleeper;
And when you switch him as he goes,
He whistles all the louder;
And should you break him on the wheel,
It only makes him prouder.
I launched this skiff of rhymes upon
The "trade" winds of the muses;
Through pungent seas they've borne it on,
The boat no rudder uses;
To masticate its meaning once,
And judge not sternly of it-
You'll find a freight of little puns,
And very little profit.