Subject: Lyr Add: Tale of the Cobbler & Vicar of Bray
From:
chico
Date: 01 Jul 05 - 03:58 PM
Air : Vicar of Bray
Rara est concordia fratrum. Ovid. By Samuel Butler.
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In Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight, Sir Samuel by name,
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Who by his feats in civil broils obtain'd a mighty fame.
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Nor was he much less wise and stout, but fit in both respects
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To humble sturdy Cavaliers, and to support the sects.
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This worthy knight was one that swore he would not cut his beard
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Till this ungodly nation was from kings and bishops clear'd
Which holy vow he firmly kept, and most devoutly wore
A grizly meteor on his face till they were both no more.
His worship was, in short, a man of such exceeding worth,
No pen or pencil can describe, or rhyming bard set forth.
Many and mighty things he did both sober and in liquor, -
Witness the mortal fray between the Cobbler and the Vicar;
Which by his wisdom and his power
He wisely did prevent,
And both the combatants at once
In wooden durance pent.
The manner how these two fell out
And quarrell'd in their ale,
I shall attempt at large to show
In the succeeding tale.
A strolling cobbler, who was wont
To trudge from town to town,
Happen'd upon his walk to meet
A vicar in his gown.
And as they forward jogg'd along,
The vicar, growing hot,
First asked the cobbler if he knew
Where they might take a pot
Yes, marry that I do, quoth he;
Here is a house hard by,
That far exceeds all Bedfordshire
For ale and landlady.
Thither let's go, the vicar said;
And when they thither came,
He liked the liquor wondrous well,
But better far the dame.
And she, who, like a cunning jilt,
Knew how to please her guest,
Used all her little tricks and arts
To entertain the priest.
The cobbler too, who quickly saw
The landlady's design,
Did all that in his power was
To manage the divine.
With smutty jests and merry songs
They charm'd the vicar so,
That he determined for that night
No further he would go.
And being fixt, the cobbler thought
'Twas proper to go try
If he could get a job or two
His charges to supply.
So going out into the street,
He bawls with all his might, -
If any of you tread awry
I'm here to set you right.
I can repair your leaky boots,
And underlay your soles;
Backsliders, I can underprop
And patch up all your holes.
The vicar, who unluckily
The cobbler's outcry heard,
From off the bench on which he sat
With mighty fury rear'd.
Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest
Can hear this bawling slave,
But must, in justice to his coat,
Chastise the saucy knave
What has this wretch to do with souls,
Or with backsliders either,
Whose business only is his awls,
His lasts, his thread, and leather
I lose my patience to be made
This strolling varlet's sport;
Nor could I think this saucy rogue
Could serve me in such sort.
The cobbler, who had no design
The vicar to displease,
Unluckily repeats again, -
I'm come your soals to ease
The inward and the outward too
I can repair and mend;
And all that my assistance want,
I'll use them like a friend.
The country folk no sooner heard
The honest cobbler's tongue,
But from the village far and near
They round about him throng.
Some bring their boots, and some their shoes,
And some their buskins bring
The cobbler sits him down to work,
And then begins to sing.
Death often at the cobbler's stall
Was wont to make a stand,
But found the cobbler singing still,
And on the mending hand;
Until at length he met old Time,
And then they both together
Quite tear the cobbler's aged sole
From off the upper leather.
Even so a while I may old shoes
By care and art maintain,
But when the leather's rotten grown
All art and care is vain.
And thus the cobbler stitched and sung,
Not thinking any harm;
Till out the angry vicar came
With ale and passion warm.
Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he,
How impious 'tis to jest
With sacred things, and to profane
The office of a priest
How dar'st thou, most audacious wretch!
Those vile expressions use,
Which make the souls of men as cheap
As soals of boots and shoes
Such reprobates as you betray
Our character and gown,
And would, if you had once the power,
The Church itself pull down.
The cobbler, not aware that he
Had done or said amiss,
Reply'd, I do not understand
What you can mean by this.
Tho' I but a poor cobbler be,
And stroll about for bread,
None better loves the Church than I
That ever wore a head.
But since you are so good at names,
And make so loud a pother,
I'll tell you plainly I'm afraid
You're but some cobbling brother.
Come, vicar, tho' you talk so big,
Our trades are near akin;
I patch and cobble outward soals
As you do those within.
And I'll appeal to any man
That understands the nation,
If I han't done more good than you
In my respective station.
Old leather, I must needs confess,
I've sometimes used as new,
And often pared the soal so near
That I have spoil'd the shoe.
You vicars, by a different way,
Have done the very same;
For you have pared your doctrines so
You made religion lame.
Your principles you've quite disown'd,
And old ones changed for new,
That no man can distinguish right
Which are the false or true.
I dare be bold, you're one of those
Have took the Covenant;
With Cavaliers are Cavalier,
And with the saints a saint.
The vicar at this sharp rebuke
Begins to storm and swear;
Quoth he, Thou vile apostate wretch!
Dost thou with me compare
I that have care of many souls,
And power to damn or save,
Dar'st thou thyself compare with me,
Thou vile, ungodly knave!
I wish I had thee somewhere else,
I'd quickly make thee know
What 'tis to make comparisons,
And to revile me so.
Thou art an enemy to the State,
Some priest in masquerade,
That, to promote the Pope's designs,
Has learnt the cobbling trade
Or else some spy to Cavaliers,
And art by them sent out
To carry false intelligence,
And scatter lies about.
But whilst the vicar full of ire
Was railing at this rate,
His worship, good Sir Samuel,
O'erlighted at the gate.
And asking of the landlady
Th' occasion of the stir;
Quoth she, If you will give me leave
I will inform you, Sir.
This cobbler happening to o'ertake
The vicar in his walk,
In friendly sort they forward march,
And to each other talk.
Until the parson first proposed
To stop and take a whet;
So cheek by jole they hither came
Like travellers well met.
A world of healths and jests went round,
Sometimes a merry tale;
Till they resolved to stay all night,
So well they liked my ale.
Thus all things lovingly went on,
And who so great as they;
Before an ugly accident
Began this mortal fray.
The case I take it to be this, -
The vicar being fixt,
The cobbler chanced to cry his trade,
And in his cry he mixt
Some harmless words, which I suppose
The vicar falsely thought
Might be design'd to banter him,
And scandalize his coat.
If that be all, quoth he, go out
And bid them both come in;
A dozen of your nappy ale
Will set 'em right again.
And if the ale should chance to fail,
For so perhaps it may,
I have it in my powers to try
A more effectual way.
These vicars are a wilful tribe,
A restless, stubborn crew;
And if they are not humbled quite,
The State they will undo.
The cobbler is a cunning knave,
That goes about by stealth,
And would, instead of mending shoes,
Repair the Commonwealth.
However, bid 'em both come in,
This fray must have an end;
Such little feuds as these do oft
To greater mischiefs tend.
Without more bidding out she goes
And told them, by her troth,
There was a magistrate within
That needs must see 'em both.
But, gentlemen, pray distance keep,
And don't too testy be;
Ill words good manners still corrupt
And spoil good company.
To this the vicar first replies,
I fear no magistrate;
For let 'em make what laws they will,
I'll still obey the State.
Whatever I can say or do,
I'm sure not much avails;
I stall still be Vicar of Bray
Whichever side prevails.
My conscience, thanks to Heaven, is come
To such a happy pass,
That I can take the Covenant
And never hang an ass.
I've took so many oaths before,
That now without remorse
I take all oaths the State can make,
As meerly things of course.
Go therefore, dame, the justice tell
His summons I'll obey;
And further you may let him know
I Vicar am of Bray.
I find indeed, the cobbler said,
I am not much mistaken;
This vicar knows the ready way
To save his reverend bacon. (97)
This is a hopeful priest indeed,
And well deserves a rope;
Rather than lose his vicarage
He'd swear to Turk or Pope.
For gain he would his God deny,
His country and his King;
Swear and forswear, recant and lye,
Do any wicked thing.
At this the vicar set his teeth,
And to the cobbler flew;
And with his sacerdotal fist
Gave him a box or two.
The cobbler soon return'd the blows,
And with both head and heel
So manfully behaved himself,
He made the vicar reel.
Great was the outcry that was made,
And in the woman ran
To tell his worship that the fight
Betwixt them was began.
And is it so indeed quoth he;
I'll make the slaves repent
Then up he took his basket hilt,
And out enraged he went.
The country folk no sooner saw
The knight with naked blade,
But for his worship instantly
An open lane was made;
Who with a stern and angry look
Cry'd out, What knaves are these
That in the face of justice dare
Disturb the public peace
Vile rascals! I will make you know
I am a magistrate,
And that as such I bear about
The vengeance of the State.
Go, seize them, Ralph, and bring them in,
That I may know the cause,
That first induced them to this rage,
And thus to break the laws.
Ralph, who was both his squire and clerk,
And constable withal,
I' th' name o' th' Commonwealth aloud
Did for assistance bawl.
The words had hardly pass'd his mouth
But they secure them both;
And Ralph, to show his furious zeal
And hatred to the cloth,
Runs to the vicar through the crowd,
And takes him by the throat
How ill, says he, doth this become
Your character and coat!
Was it for this not long ago
You took the Covenant,
And in most solemn manner swore
That you'd become a saint
And here he gave him such a pinch
That made the vicar shout, -
Good people, I shall murder'd be
By this ungodly lout.
He gripes my throat to that degree
I can't his talons bear;
And if you do not hold his hands,
He'll throttle me, I fear.
At this a butcher of the town
Steps up to Ralph in ire, -
What, will you squeeze his gullet through,
You son of blood and fire
You are the Devil's instrument
To execute the laws;
What, will you murther the poor man
With your phanatick claws
At which the squire quits his hold,
And lugging out his blade,
Full at the sturdy butcher's pate
A furious stroke he made.
A dismal outcry then began
Among the country folk;
Who all conclude the butcher slain
By such a mortal stroke.
But here good fortune, that has still
A friendship for the brave,
I' th' nick misguides the fatal blow,
And does the butcher save.
The knight, who heard the noise within,
Runs out with might and main,
And seeing Ralph amidst the crowd
In danger to be slain,
Without regard to age or sex
Old basket-hilt so ply'd,
That in an instant three or four
Lay bleeding at his side.
And greater mischiefs in his rage
This furious knight had done,
If he had not prevented been
By Dick, the blacksmith's son,
Who catch'd his worship on the hip,
And gave him such a squelch,
That he some moments breathless lay
Ere he was heard to belch.
Nor was the squire in better case,
By sturdy butcher ply'd,
Who from the shoulder to the flank
Had soundly swinged his hide.
Whilst things in this confusion stood,
And knight and squire disarm'd,
Up comes a neighbouring gentleman
The outcry had alarm'd;
Who riding up among the crowd,
The vicar first he spy'd,
With sleeveless gown and bloody band
And hands behind him ty'd.
Bless me, says he, what means all this
Then turning round his eyes,
In the same plight, or in a worse,
The cobbler bleeding spies.
And looking further round he saw,
Like one in doleful dump,
The knight, amidst a gaping mob,
Sit pensive on his rump.
And by his side lay Ralph his squire,
Whom butcher fell had maul'd;
Who bitterly bemoan'd his fate,
And for a surgeon call'd.
Surprised at first he paused awhile,
And then accosts the knight, -
What makes you here, Sir Samuel,
In this unhappy plight
At this the knight gave's breast a thump,
And stretching out his hand, -
If you will pull me up, he cried,
I'll try if I can stand.
And then I'll let you know the cause;
But first take care of Ralph,
Who in my good or ill success
Doth always stand my half.
In short, he got his worship up
And led him in the door;
Where he at length relates the tale
As I have told before.
When he had heard the story out,
The gentleman replies, -
It is not in my province, sir,
Your worship to advise.
But were I in your worship's place,
The only thing I'd do,
Was first to reprimand the fools,
And then to let them go.
I think it first advisable
To take them from the rabble,
And let them come and both set forth
The occasion of the squabble.
This is the Vicar, Sir, of Bray,
A man of no repute,
The scorn and scandal of his tribe,
A loose, ill-manner'd brute.
The cobbler's a poor strolling wretch
That mends my servants' shoes;
And often calls as he goes by
To bring me country news.
At this his worship grip'd his beard,
And in an angry mood,
Swore by the laws of chivalry
That blood required blood.
Besides, I'm by the Commonwealth
Entrusted to chastise
All knaves that straggle up and down
To raise such mutinies.
However, since 'tis your request,
They shall be call'd and heard;
But neither Ralph nor I can grant
Such rascals should be clear'd.
And so, to wind the tale up short,
They were call'd in together;
And by the gentlemen were ask'd
What wind 'twas blew them thither.
Good ale and handsome landladies
You might have nearer home;
And therefore 'tis for something more
That you so far are come.
To which the vicar answer'd first, -
My living is so small,
That I am forced to stroll about
To try and get a call.
And, quoth the cobbler, I am forced
To leave my wife and dwelling,
T' escape the danger of being press'd
To go a colonelling.
There's many an honest jovial lad
Unwarily drawn in,
That I have reason to suspect
Will scarce get out again.
The proverb says, HARM WATCH HARM CATCH,
I'll out of danger keep,
For he that sleeps in a whole skin
Doth most securely sleep.
My business is to mend bad soals
And stitch up broken quarters
A cobbler's name would look but odd
Among a list of martyrs.
Faith, cobbler, quoth the gentleman,
And that shall be my case;
I will neither party join,
Let what will come to pass.
No importunities or threats
My fixt resolves shall rest;
Come here, Sir Samuel, where's his health
That loves old England best.
I pity those unhappy fools
Who, ere they were aware,
Designing and ambitious men
Have drawn into a snare.
But, vicar, to come to the case, -
Amidst a senseless crowd,
What urged you to such violence,
And made you talk so loud
Passion I'm sure does ill become
Your character and cloath,
And, tho' the cause be ne'er so just,
Brings scandal upon both.
Vicar, I speak it with regret,
An inadvertent priest
Renders himself ridiculous,
And every body's jest.
The vicar to be thus rebuked
A little time stood mute;
But having gulp'd his passion down,
Replies, - That cobbling brute
Has treated me with such contempt,
Such vile expressions used,
That I no longer could forbear
To hear myself abused.
The rascal had the insolence
To give himself the lie,
And to aver h' had done more good
And saved more soals than I.
Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant
To tell me was so bold,
Our trades were very near of kin,
But his was the more old.
Now, Sir, I will to you appeal
On such a provocation,
If there was not sufficient cause
To use a little passion
Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave,
I'll prove it to his face,
All this is mere suggestion,
And foreign to the case.
And since he calls so many names
And talks so very loud,
I will be bound to make it plain
'Twas he that raised the crowd.
Nay, further, I will make 't appear
He and the priests have done
More mischief than the cobblers far
All over Christendom.
All Europe groans beneath their yoke,
And poor Great Britain owes
To them her present miseries,
And dread of future woes.
The priests of all religions are
And will be still the same,
And all, tho' in a different way,
Are playing the same game.
At this the gentleman stood up, -
Cobbler, you run too fast;
By thus condemning all the tribe
You go beyond your last.
Much mischief has by priests been done,
And more is doing still;
But then to censure all alike
Must be exceeding ill.
Too many, I must needs confess,
Are mightily to blame,
Who by their wicked practices
Disgrace the very name.
But, cobbler, still the major part
The minor should conclude;
To argue at another rate's
Impertinent and rude.
By this time all the neighbours round
Were flock'd about the door,
And some were on the vicar's side,
But on the cobbler's more.
Among the rest a grazier, who
Had lately been at town
To sell his oxen and his sheep,
Brim-full of news came down.
Quoth he, The priests have preach'd and pray'd,
And made so damn'd a pother,
That all the people are run mad
To murther one another.
By their contrivances and arts
They've play'd their game so long,
That no man knows which side is right,
Or which is in the wrong.
I'm sure I've Smithfield market used
For more than twenty year,
But never did such murmurings
And dreadful outcries hear.
Some for a church, and some a tub,
And some for both together;
And some, perhaps the greater part,
Have no regard for either.
Some for a king, and some for none;
And some have hankerings
To mend the Commonwealth, and make
An empire of all kings.
What's worse, old Noll is marching off,
And Dick, his heir-apparent,
Succeeds him in the government,
A very lame vicegerent.
He'll reign but little time, poor fool,
But sink beneath the State,
That will not fail to ride the fool
'Bove common horseman's weight.
And rulers, when they lose the power,
Like horses overweigh'd,
Must either fall and break their knees,
Or else turn perfect jade.
The vicar to be twice rebuked
No longer could contain;
But thus replies, - To knaves like you
All arguments are vain.
The Church must use her arm of flesh,
The other will not do;
The clergy waste their breath and time
On miscreants like you.
You are so stubborn and so proud,
So dull and prepossest,
That no instructions can prevail
How well soe'er addrest.
Who would reform such reprobates,
Must drub them soundly first;
I know no other way but that
To make them wise or just.
Fie, vicar, fie, his patron said,
Sure that is not the way;
You should instruct your auditors
To suffer or obey.
Those were the doctrines that of old
The learned fathers taught;
And 'twas by them the Church at first
Was to perfection brought.
Come, vicar, lay your feuds aside,
And calmly take your cup;
And let us try in friendly wise
To make the matter up.
That's certainly the wiser course,
And better too by far;
All men of prudence strive to quench
The sparks of civil war.
By furious heats and ill advice
Our neighbours are undone,
Then let us timely caution take
From their destruction.
If we would turn our heads about,
And look towards forty-one,
We soon should see what little jars
Those cruel wars begun.
A one-eyed cobbler then was one
Of that rebellious crew,
That did in Charles the martyr's blood
Their wicked hands imbrue.
I mention this not to deface
This cobbler's reputation,
Whom I have always honest found,
And useful in his station.
But this I urge to let you see
The danger of a fight
Between a cobbler and a priest,
Though he were ne'er so right.
The vicars are a numerous tribe,
So are the cobblers too;
And if a general quarrel rise,
What must the country do
Our outward and our inward soals
Must quickly want repair;
And all the neighbourhood around
Would the misfortune share.
Sir, quoth the grazier, I believe
Our outward soals indeed
May quickly want the cobbler's help
To be from leakings freed.
But for our inward souls, I think
They're of a worth too great
To be committed to the care
Of any holy cheat,
Who only serves his God for gain,
Religion is his trade;
And 'tis by such as these our Church
So scandalous is made.
Why should I trust my soul with one
That preaches, swears, and prays,
And the next moment contradicts
Himself in all he says
His solemn oaths he looks upon
As only words of course!
Which like their wives our fathers took
For better or for worse.
But he takes oaths as some take w-s,
Only to serve his ease;
And rogues and w-s, it is well known,
May part whene'er they please.
At this the cobbler bolder grew,
And stoutly thus reply'd, -
If you're so good at drubbing, Sir,
Your manhood shall be try'd.
What I have said I will maintain,
And further prove withal -
I daily do more good than you
In my respective call.
I know your character, quoth he,
You proud insulting vicar,
Who only huff and domineer
And quarrel in your liquor.
The honest gentleman, who saw
'Twould come again to blows,
Commands the cobbler to forbear,
And to the vicar goes.
Vicar, says he, for shame give o'er
And mitigate your rage;
You scandalize your cloth too much
A cobbler to engage.
All people's eyes are on your tribe,
And every little ill
They multiply and aggravate
And will because they will.
But now let's call another cause,
So let this health go round;
Be peace and plenty, truth and right,
In good old England found.
Quoth Ralph, All this is empty talk
And only tends to laughter;
If these two varlets should be spared,
Who'd pity us hereafter
Your worship may do what you please,
But I'll have satisfaction
For drubbing and for damages
In this ungodly action.
I think that you can do no less
Than send them to the stocks;
And I'll assist the constable
In fixing in their hocks.
There let 'em sit and fight it out,
Or scold till they are friends;
Or, what is better much than both,
Till I am made amends.
Ralph, quoth the knight, that's well advised,
Let them both hither go,
And you and the sub-magistrate
Take care that it be so.
Let them be lock'd in face to face,
Bare buttocks on the ground;
And let them in that posture sit
Till they with us compound.
Thus fixt, well leave them for a time,
Whilst we with grief relate,
How at a wake this knight and squire
Got each a broken pate.
["The Sir Samuel of this Ballad is the same person - Sir Samuel Luke of Bedfordshire - who is supposed to have been the unconscious model of the portrait which is drawn so much more fully in the inimitable Hudibras. Ralph is also the well-known Squire in thesame poem. The Ballad, though published in Butler's Posthumous Works, 1724, was rejected by Thyer in the edition of 1784, and is not included in the Genuine Remains, published from the original manuscripts, formerly in the possession of William Longueville, Esq. If not by Butler, it is a successful imitation of his style, and abounds in phrases of sturdy colloquial English, and is of a date long anterior to the popular song, The Vicar of Bray." --Cavalier Songs and Ballads of England from 1642 to 1684, Charles MacKay]
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