Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HUMOURS OF THE KING'S BENCH PRISON, A BALLAD, by LEONARD HOWARD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HUMOURS OF THE KING'S BENCH PRISON, A BALLAD, by                    
First Line: Now we're met, my brethren benchers
Last Line: Benchers only live by rules.
Subject(s): Law & Lawyers; Prisons & Prisoners; Attorneys; Convicts


NOW we're met, my brethren Benchers,
In this mean unhappy place,
Though so deep our foes entrench us,
We can show a cheerful face.

Though our worldly schemes miscarry,
And our persons are in thrall,
We have still facetious Harry
To keep up the jovial ball.

We have parsons quite lighthearted,
Though by patrons left in lurch:
Who can say that we're deserted,
When with us we've got the Church?

We have merchants, lawyers, sages,
Those who never thought think here;
We have captains, prince's pages;
To our College all repair.

We have Jack, who no disaster
Can his careless temper seize;
We have little Driver's master,
Who always strives his friends to please.

The young Cantab. from chopping logic,
Just commenced magister art.,
Takes his Covent Garden frolic,
Then comes here to feel the smart.

Mamma with chiding tips a guinea,
Grieves to see her sprig confined:
'The De—I sure,' she says, 'was in you';
'O no, 'twas love, and love is blind.'

Here are men of all conditions;
Flashy wits and stupid fools;
Quacks and regular physicians
Sit on our repentance stools.

Bloods and bucks undone by wenches
To Dog and Duck with pains repair;
Their youthful fires that Lethe quenches;
No cure is like St. George's air.

Our creditors we've oft petitioned,
For us our weeping friends have met;
'Discharge them and be good-conditioned',
But Shylock will have flesh or debt.

When committed first we whimper,
Wring our hands at fortune's stroke;
But a bumper makes us simper,
Fill it up, the gall is broke.

The Marshal, if by our behaviour
In his graces we can get,
Loves to show his prisoners favour,
And by being good is great.

Though we've squandered our possessions,
Marson's pity here extends,
Scorns to load us with oppressions,
Treats us all like men and friends.

Tapsters here are only surly,
And if chalked behind the door,
O what noise and hurly-burly,
Pay we must, or call no more.

This is Falstaff's field of battle,
Want of cash may strifes create;
Morris will regard no prattle,
No scoring's here but on the pate.

What joy to see a pot of porter,
With nick and froth the humming beer;
Beyond a girl, in thirst we court her,
O what cloth and colour's here!

Angry fathers, envious brothers,
Nature's duties here neglect;
Scraping misers make their pothers,
On our conduct all reflect.

But ev'ry man has got his failing,
Ev'ry class produces fools;
Vice is through the world prevailing,
Benchers only live by rules.





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