THE STATIONER'S CHAUNT.
A New Song.
When the wise men of Gotham were calld to decide,
On the best means of keeping besiegers outside,
The Poulterer placed a great weight on a feather,
And the Shoemaker stood to the last upon leather,
Tol lol de rol lol, &c.
It is thus each one thinks his own bus'ness the best,
And moves on, if he can, at the cost of the rest;
But exceptions there are to all rules—we're to this,
For, if we're not Stationers, who the deuce is?
And yet, if one e'er of their bus'ness may boast;
Let me ask if we might not indulge in't the most;
When we think that, but, for what I deal in—and you,
Man's mind, like our Stock, had been station'ry too.
Why, each one of us, should but the earth need a prop,
Could supply a New Atlas from out his own shop;
And if e'er a State in't a government seek,
Imperial or Royal they’ll have in a week.
Nay, if it will not have the Medium we use,
Super-Royal, or even Double Crown it may choose;
But if Anarchy rather it seek—to its shame—eh I
We might send it our purse in a large lot of Demy.
Your Statesmen and Patriots we'll suit to a hair,
Not with Foolscaps alone—which so many might wear,
But with that I am sure they of all things wish most,
Be't of Kent or of Country—a very fine Post.
The lover may have the full use of a quire,
If his mistress to serenade he but desire,
Whilst Hot-pressing, he'll learn, that a wife if fantastic,
Is the better—like Ledgers—of being Elastic.
And if in extent her expenditure be
Antiquarian—either for Sugar or Tea,
We've a remedy too for his poor hen-peck'd lot,
Since he’s only to send the virago to Pot.
Then a bumper let's drink to the fam'd paper trade,
And consumpt to papers, coarse, fine, wove or laid;
For of all trades it surely doth hold the first rank,
Without it you know there’s an end of the Bank.
And, since like a letter I've sealed up my song,
The address it but wants, which need not be long,
So I'll send it, my friends, to two funny chiels,
The remainder now of the Three-far-fam'd Dells,
Tol de rol lol, &c. &c.
