THE
Clerical Snob.

Evan's Printer, Long-lane, London.

ON a three-corner'd stool in the midst of a
mob,
Stood the fam'd Jerry Last, the old Clerical
Snob;
Ranting loud as a Stentor could bawl, Sir,
Oft advising his flock, as a sinner and friend,
To consider their last ere they came to an end,
For their soles were too surely their awl, Sir!

The joys of this life's but a blast and a whistle
That soon goads the heart like a piercing hog's
bristle.
And all dress is an upper not whole, Sir;
Says he, my good friends, you may think I'm
a crammer,
But of the heart's lap-stone we don't soundly
hammer,
'Twill all dickey soon be with the sole, Sir.

For all pride soon will fall; and he look'd like
a fool,
While one leg broke in half of his three-legged
stool,
And he fell from his pillow of wood, Sir;
When a wag from the crowd, cry'd your
doct'rine's wrong,
Even you have it seems made your upper too
strong,
And your sole, we all see, is not good, Sir!