A country bumpkin the great offer heard-
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
''No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze;
'T was a vile razor - then the rest he tried, -
All were impostors. "Ah !" Hodge sighed,
"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse."
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped,
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and
made wry faces,
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er;
His muzzle formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it, - laughing at the steel and suds;
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
''Razors! a mean, confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"
Hodge sought the fellow, - found him, - and begun:
"Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives.
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave
To cry up razors that can't shave!"
"Friend," guoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave;