BATT upon BATT. A POEM UPON The Parts, Patience, and Pains OF Barth. Kempster, CLERK, POET, CUTLER, OF Holy-Rood-Parish in Southampton.
By a Person of Quality.
To which is annexed the VISION, Wherein is described Batt's Person and Ingenuity;
With an Account of the Ancient and Present State and Glory of Southampton.
By the same AUTHOR.
The Fourth Edition.
Dedicated to the Gentry of Hampshire, for their Diversion: But more especially to the Inhabitants of Southampton.
LONDON: Printed for Samuel Crouch. 1694.
THE PRINTER TO THE General Reader, GREETING, But more especially the CLERKS of Parish-Churches throughout the Kingdom of England, Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed.
FOR your better understanding the Occasion of the Author's writing this ensuing POEM, I must tell you; That Rhyming BATT (like the Bell-man of this Town at Christmas) made some Heroick Stanza's upon the Author; who, in Requital and Gratitude, composed these following VERSES.
T. A.
Batt upon Batt. To the laud and praise of Bartholomew Kempster, Clerk, Poet, Cutler, of Holy-Roods in Southampton.
HAD I! O had I! Batt, thy face and throat,
Could I betune the Flock with such sweet note,
Could I with equal Metre Hopkins fit,
Out-Sternhold, Sternhold, Wisdom eke outwit;
Then would I venture to set forth thy Praise,
And rob Church-Pews to crown thy Head with Bays.
Or had I for thy sake the Triple-sconce
Of Cerberus, to bark three ways at once,
Clerk, Poet, Cutler, Baw, waw, waw, besides
That Cardinal Vertue, for on Mules it rides,
Patience I mean, in which thou dost excel,
As all thy Neighbours and thy Wife can tell;
Three Trumps then would I found to thy Renown,
And from thy Fame immortalize my own.
Ingenious Batt! by Trade and Nature fit
To set an Edge both on our Knives and Wit.
Vulcan, they say, made mighty Arms for Mars,
(Cuckolds are kind) but he ne'r made a Verse.
Apollo he made Verses, but in's life
I never heard that er'e he made a Knife.
Now Batt does all that both these Gods could do;
Hammers out Verses, and hard Iron too.
To sheath strong sense in Metaphorick words,
Is but the making Scabbards for his Swords.
He is a two sac'd Pump, whose Spouts do run
Smith's water one way, t'other, Helicon.
Have you not seen the thing our Butler uses,
With cabin'd belly, things call'd double Cruises?
The right side Vinegar, the left holds Oyl;
The Emblem's that of Wit, and this of Toyl.
Such is the Skull of Batt, in which the Brains
Are parted into Poetry and Pains.
He writes and works so equally, you'd think
One Cheek were black'd with Smoak, t'other with Ink.
Thrice happy temper! for what makes our life
More pleasant than a good Wit and good Knife?
Without their help, who can good Christmas keep?
Our Teeth would water, and our Eyes would weep:
Hunger and Dulness would invade our Feasts,
Did not Batt find us Arms against such Guests.
He is the cunning Engineer, whose Skill
Makes Tools to carve the Goose, and shape the Quill
Fancy and Wit unto our Meals supplies;
Carols, and not minc'd meat, make Christmas Pies.
'Tis Mirth, not Dishes, sets a Table off;
Brutes and Phanaticks eat and never laugh.
What man of Teeth then can be so ingrate,
To slice Roast-beef, and not remember Batt?
When Brawn with powdred Wig comes swaggering in,
And mighty Serjeant ushers in the Chine,
What ought a wise man first to think upon?
Have I my Tools? if not, I am undone:
For 'tis a Law concerns both Saint and Sinner,
That he that hath no Knife, must have no Dinner.
So he falls on; Pig, Goose, and Capon feel
The goodness of his Stomach, and Batt's Steel.
In such fierce Frays, alas, there no Remorse is;
All Flesh is Grass, which makes men eat like Horses:
But when the Battle's done, off goes the Hat,
And each man sheaths, with God-a-mercy Batt.
So when the Mistress cannot hit the Joynt,
Which proves sometimes, you know, a difficult point,
Think on a Cuckold, straight the Gossips cry:
But think on Batt's good Carving-knife, say I;
That still nicks sure, without offence and scandal:
Dull Blades may be beholding to their Handle;
But those Batt makes are all so sharp, they scorn
To be so charmed by his Neighbour's Horn.
When I the Edges of his Ware have seen,
(Seen they could not be, they were all so keen)
When I have found their Temper all so good,
From the long Rapier to the Oyster-spud;
Happy, thrice happy 'tis, I us'd to say,
For all Mankind, who wish for length of day,
That Batt no Cutler is unto the Fates;
His Sheers would cut our Threads off at strange rates:
Snip, —'tis no more; there's work for Batt, and die
We must, to find him Cakes and Elegy.
O mortal men! is Eating all you do
At Christ-tide? or the making Sing-songs? No:
Our Batt can dance, play at high Jinks with Dice,
At any Primitive Orthodoxal Vice.
Shooing the wild Mare, tumbling the young Wenches,
Drinking all Night, and Sleeping on the Benches.
I'll say that for him, were he to be hang'd,
He is as true a Blade as ever twang'd.
Shew me a man can shuffle fair and cut,
Yet always have three Trays in hand at Putt:
Shew me a man can turn up Noddy still,
And deal himself three Fives too when he will:
Concludes with One and thirty, and a Pair?
Never fails Ten in Stock, and yet plays fair.
If Batt be not that Wight, I loose my aim;
If any else pretend unto the same,
And say we dare not match him for a Pot,
They lye—provided Batt's Wife knew it not.
Hark, the Bells toll at Holy-Roods; away
To Church, this is Batt's Exercising-day.
He's sally'd out from sign of Pole and Bason,
With Clergy-Cloak, clean Band, and Sunday-face on.
Some commend Eunuchs chanting in the Quire,
But how they should learn Prick-song, I admire.
Some praise their Skill who in white Surplice sing,
Fa, la, fa, sol, Anthems, or some such thing:
But let them not our smutty Clerk despise;
Blackbirds still whistle better than Magpies.
Their charming Trills and Thrombo's must give place
To the melodious Consort of Batt's face;
Where Eyes and Nose, Mouth, Beard, and Chin agree
In each sweet Note: A Quire themselves they be;
And better Musick it most times appears,
To see his Strains, than hear the best of theirs.
Then at the Godly Twang, the two last Sta-aves,
Without which, Service is but done by halves:
Compar'd to him, what are they? such a thing
As is his Bell-rope to a Fiddle-string;
No more like him for Goggle, Snuff, and Groan,
Than blind Batt is to Batt with four Eyes on.
Search the Cathedrals, Colledges, and Halls,
All Churches, Chappels, Meeting-houses, Stalls;
Summon all men of edifying Voice,
From Deans and Chapters, to the Singing-boys,
Chaplain, and Vicar, Lecturers to boot:
Nay, that our Challenge may be brave and stout,
Take in th'Apprentice, by Indenture bound,
On every Sabbath-day the seven years round,
To spell his Master fast asleep, and then
Hem—till he wakes, and gaping, cries—Amen.
If any (bar mistakes) with greater pace
Can read the Chapters, let 'um take Batt's place.
Well then, put on thy Eyes, and look about thee;
Do what we can, we can do nought without thee:
Let's woo and woo, and gain good will, What then?
It comes to nothing, till thou say Amen.
No Woman can be Church'd, till Batt appear;
A Christening is no Christening, 'less he's there.
Without his help, Moll, Betty, Tom, and Will,
Sweet Babes, God knows had all been Cakebread still.
If any well-disposed Person is sick
Batt's sent to; Collects cheaper are than Physick:
To say the truth on't, Batt, no man can be
With credit hang'd, without thy facultie:
For who without a Psalm doth take a swing,
Dies like a Dog; hang him, he would not sing:
But who turns off in time, 's a proper man,
And, Batt, thy Knife may cut him down agen.
Nay, were I to be buried for my life,
And all the learned Parish-Clerks at strife
Who should the Shovel shake, Batt should be he,
Or else be buried who would for me.
He can go through the work, and close my Grave
Not with Dust only, but an Epitaph.
Then, in a word, he is the noblest Blade
That ever grac'd the Wheel and Whetstone Trade;
The Organ of our Church, the greatest Lay-man
That ever solemnly squeez'd out A—men.
He is the Wit, the Mirth, Religion,
The very Life and Death of the whole Town.
He is—Hold, Muse! Batt's Batt, and so will be;
Should I say more, 'twould be Battologie.
The VISION.
HOld, hold my head! O Jove, thou know'st my pain,
When Vulcan was Man-Midwife to thy Brain,
As Batt the better Workman is to mine;
Batt! thou that mak'st all the whole Parish whine,
Come, tune my Fancy, as thou dost the Psalms,
And with thy Bellows raise Poetick Flames.
No Inkhorn will I dip in but thy mouth,
Where Wooll, black Wooll, fit for sad purpose grow'th:
But lest the doleful Theme should make it dry,
We'll set, that's Mourning too, a black Pot by.
Bright Sol, with Perriwig of curled Carrot,
And a Face laccar'd or'e like his Chariot,
The cheerful Author of all Wit and Light,
But what the Bell-man stalks with in the Night,
Had drove the Stage-Coach to the place of rest,
Drest all his Horses, and himself undrest,
With Nights black Stockin had becapt his head,
And softly crept to Madam Thetis bed:
Where what he did, I think I need not name;
We Mortals, by his influence, do the same.
'Twas then, just then, soft slumber seiz'd mine Eye,
I wink'd, and winking Men most Visions spie I
When to my Fancy (what can't Fancy do?)
Appear'd a Satyr sad, and full of woe:
Batt's Person described.
Bald was his Crown, but bristly was his Beard;
I saw no Horns, but he was over-ear'd.
Grief had so sunk his Eyes, that through each hole
Methought I could look quite through to his Pole.
In his Dark-lanthorn-face, Nose stood for handle,
And a white Tooth supply'd the inch of Candle.
A Cloak upon one shoulder hangs as thin,
But not so black as was the Wearers skin:
To which compar'd, Charcoal and Jet seem wan;
'Twould make deep Mourning for an African.
A piece of dirty stretching Leather fac'd
His breast; an Apron, or his Conscience was't?
He drivell'd Ink, from Nostrils Tar distill'd,
Piss'd Coffee, and with Pitch his Hose full-fill'd.
No Fumes from sooty Hypochondria sent,
Could a more dismal Vision represent.
At first approach, in sweat and fear I laid,
And softly Fee faa fumm thrice over said.
Enchanted so, Devil, what art I cry'd;
Your very humble Servant, he reply'd.
I am the God of Wit in Masquerade,
The grand Improver of the Rhyming Trade;
Mechanick Fancy, a true Greshamite,
One that can sing, file, hammer, and indite.
Or if you would in Modern Language know it,
I am a Philo-pyro-technical Poet.
Surcease to wonder, reaking Mortal, that here
I do appear in Elegiack Tatter.
Grief, grief 'tis brings me unto thee to waite,
Both as chief Mourner for Batt's dearest Mate,
And to complain of this ungrateful Town,
Which lets a Matron of so good Renown,
An Alder-woman of the sacred hill,
Die, without Tribute from each Goose's quill:
One, at whose Grave all Muses ought to meet,
Like Swans, with paper-breasts and inky feet,
And with sweet Ballad crown her godly life,
The common right of every Poets Wife.
Hampton, O Hampton, in the days of yore,
The lawful Pride of all the Southern shore,
With all advantages of Nature grac'd,
Betwixt the Arms of fair Antona plac'd;
Guarded by Forrests both on Land and Sea,
From Storms, and Man, the ruder Enemy,
By Neptune and his Argonauts caress'd
And all that were in Tarpawlin dress'd.
Admir'd for Beauty, but for Riches more;
For nothing can be handsome that is poor.
Fertile in men of Valour and loud Fame,
In Knights and Giants, as thy Gates proclaim,
And gentle Poets, without whom those Wights
Had got but little honour by their fights.
Upon thy Banks fam'd Sternhold did compose
Those two last Staves which Batt so oft doth nose.
Sternhold born in Hampton.
Batt to thy Altars too sweet Metre brings,
And makes as learned Anthems as he sings.
Here once each Tradesman could both work and write;
As Coblers whistle at it, they'd indite.
Invention was so pregnant, that oft-times
Men would talk Poetry, that could not Rhymes.
Poems were pasted up in every Hall
As thick and thin as Cobwebs on the wall.
Formerly every house had several sacred Rhymes in it.
Here you might view Haman in all his pride,
Us'd like a Rogue, hang'd, and then Dittified.
Or the two Elders, Poets in their time,
Tempting Susanna in Battoick Rhyme.
Each Kitching, Parlor, Chamber, were all drest here
With Sampson, Joseph, Daniel, or Queen Hester.
No Room was thought well furnisht for Converse,
Till hung with Buckram paint and Buckram-verse.
Nay, I have seen a Ballad full of wit,
Tore down to singe a Goose upon the Spit.
Bless'd Town! where did the God's e're grant before,
That men might all be Poets, and not poor?
A happiness ne'r in Parnassus known,
Nor couldst thou, Hampton, call it long thy own:
For Age, who like a Bloud-hound, Glory traces
And destroys Towns as well as handsome Faces,
Hath made thee poor and dull like other places.
Imp'd with swift wings, thy Beauty's fled away,
The very ruines of thy Pride decay.
Thy Gates are mouldred, the Portcullis shew'th,
Like rotten Teeth in an old womans mouth.
Walls, Forts and Towers into their Trenches slide;
The Castle looks like a Nose Frenchisi'd;
As though in vain the Monsieur heretofore
Had made thee shift thy Lodging for a Cure.
The Town burnt twice by the French.
Whither are all thy winged Lovers flown,
The mighty Carracks and great Gallion,
With all that numerous train which did resort
In Marine Coaches to thy crowded Port?
They cease their Courtship now, and only own
Thou hast been once a rich and handsome Town:
But Time hath put a period to those days:
Farewel; when Miss grows old, the Gallant strays.
Nor art thou Bankrupt grown only in Trade,
But oh, thy very Wits too are decay'd.
Whither are now the race of Chimers gone,
Thy Quibble-Squires, and Knights of Helicon?
All the Wit-Jobbers are quite broke, they say,
Here's scarce one left that can at Crambo play.
Nothing of Wit or Poetry remains,
But thread-bare Coats, no Money, and crack'd Brains.
Oh, Heavens, how strange these alterations are?
Shall we want Ballads in a Country Fair?
The merry Fidlers long since left the Town,
There was formerly Musick for the Mayor and Town.
And now of late the Gallows is broke down;
Which by the ancient Charter still did use
To furnish matter for the Tragick Muse.
No wonder then if Poetry decay,
When such Encouragements are ta'n away.
There was a time when not a Dog could die
Within these Walls, without an Elegie.
Batt made an Elegie upon Capt. Narbon's Dog Quand.
A Dog of Note, I mean not every Dog
Bred up to tug the nasty tail of Hog;
But such as Quand, who liv'd in gentle fashion,
The Dog died of a Clap.
And di'd as Genteels do, of Recreation.
But at Meggs Grave they now all silence keep,
Batt made an Elegy upon his Wife.
As though they fear'd to wake her from her sleep:
Not all the Market will afford a Verse
To pin upon a Sister-Poets Herse.
Poet by Marriage, so she claims that honour,
As Madam hers, by a Knight's lying on her.
Nay, Batt himself stands mute, as dull and dead,
As Friar Bacon's thrice neglected head.
That Son of Fancy, got in Raptures, he
Whose life and living is all Poetrie,
Who suck'd Prosodia from his Mothers Teat,
Till like a Caterpiller he was all Feet:
A walking Ode, a Hymn of Ekes and Ayes,
Whose Pulse is but the scanning of his days;
He who ne'r speaks nor thinks, but in true time;
Farts Epigrams, and snores 'um too in Rhyme;
He, he stands disinspir'd, and some suppose,
Intends to take his leave of her in Prose.
A tame wild beast of late, knowing he must,
When he grew fat, be damn'd to Pasty-crust,
Chose a more noble fate, and licking in
Poyson, prevented the Cooks Rowling-pin.
Batt made an Elegy upon Capt. Narbon's Buck.
Heroick Act! which noble Batt did scorn
(Hoping to be rewarded with a Horn)
Should unbewail'd in Rhyme Heroick go:
And could not his own Dear oblige him so?
Must Megg, the Wife of Batt, aged Eighty,
Deceas'd November thirteenth, Seventy three,
Be cast, like common Dust into the Pit,
Without one line of Monumental wit?
One Death's head Distich, or Mortality-staff,
With sense enough for Church-yard Epitaph?
No stirrup Verse at Grave before she go?
Batt does not use to part at Tavern so.
Grief here prevailing, struck the Satyr dumb,
Who twisting hard his dropping Nose with Thumb,
Like one that turns a Conduit-cock about,
To let the water gush more freely out;
Methought I wept too then, and sighing said,
Courage, kind Gobling, though the Times are bad,
And Wit's as scarce as Money, yet no doubt
Fame will provoke some worthy Poet out,
Who from her Story will renown his Pen.
He kindly bow'd, and smiling said Amen.
At which I woke, as Men at Sermons use,
And heard Batt's knocking at the door for Dues.
Batt collects the Parsons Dues.
FINIS.