THE CHEAP RAZOR MERCHANT,
The Words Written by Peter Pindar Esq."

A country Bumpkin the great offer heard,

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:

'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he try'd,
All were impostors,—"Ah," Hodge sight'd!

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse;
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and wined, and stamp'd, & swore;
Brought blood, & duced, blasphem'd, & made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er."

His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff,
Form as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:
So kept it _laughing_ at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, strech'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods.

"Razors! a damn'd, confounded dog,
"Not fit to sempe a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow _found him_ & began:

"P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you his sin,
"That people play themselves out of their lives:

"You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"Giving my crying whisker 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," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave:

"As for the razors you have bought,
"Upon my soul I never thought,

"That they would Shave."

"Not think they'd Shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries,

"Made." quoth the fellow, with a smile, "to Sell."

Publish'd June 9, 1806, by
LAURIE & WHITTLE,
53, Fleet Street, London.

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