Clouds, days, and fashions, rise and wain;
And only set to rise again.
If you some variations view,
'Tis all routine, there's nothing new.
Although the title which I state
Be small, you'll find my subject great

A curious eye is pleas'd to scan
The fashions follow'd up by man;
Though 'tis ridiculous to have them,
He thinks it would be more to wave them;
With all their folly he'll pursue,
And all their inconvenience too.

Some writers sing the petticoat;
Some amplify the scarlet coat;
Others on hanging-sleeves insist,
Pendant a yard below the wrist.
The hoop, in Addison's gay lines,
With furbelow and top-knot shines.
Most learned heads in Stevens see,
But learned wigs shall fall to me.

While Cromwell Royalty enthrawl'd,
The hair was lank, the head was bald.
When Charles the Second climb'd the throne,
The crown conspicuously shone.
This was because the King's thin hair
Made the gay crown more gay appear.
Pray won't a di'mond brighter show
In sable than it will in snow?

But paltry hair was soon discarded,
And nothing but the wig regarded:
By ev'ry noble thought a prize,
It quickly grew a monstrous size;
And mantled o'er with wig the King,
What other part to light could bring?
His crown eclips'd, look'd no more gay,
Than thimble on a cock of hay.

Perhaps the reader'll think me wrong
In prefacing my tale so long;
May charge me with poetic sin,
For trifling when I should begin:
Yet pardon me, though not the mode,
I'll introduce an episode.

The noble Duke of Devonshire,
With others, the vast wig would wear;
Its want was sure to give the spleen;
None else in William's court was seen.
To order one he did not waver;
Which he could better wear than pay for.
A hundred guineas was the price;
A sum not pick'd up in a trice.
For such a sum was then, I vow,
Worth much about three hundred now.

'Twas made, brought home, approv'd, look gay;
But not a syllable of pay.
The wig which was to hide his head
Would well have hidden half his bed.
Without the wig the Peer was goaded,
And with it he was amply loaded.
But every soul throughout the land
Will bear a load at pride's command.

An humble barber's seldom found,
To trust one man three hundred pound.
To trade without this cash's a task;
My Lord is great--he dares not ask.
Through want he visited one day;
My Lord was too polite to pay.
The tortur'd barber ruin saw--
'Tis said, 'necessity's no law.'

A solemn court-day now was near;
His grace was sure to visit there.
In horrid fright the barber ran,
And pray'd his grace's gentleman
'That he the wig would let him take,
He recollected one mistake:
He'd alter't in an hour or so,
And not a soul should ever know.
For if one part was out of place,
'Twould issue in his own disgrace.'

Not a suspicion could he harbour,
But willingly indulg'd the barber.
The wig's detain'd!--the valet mourns;
And mourn he may till it returns.
Frequent enquiries follow'd close.
'The Duke a hundred guineas owes.'
The court-day came, the Duke was dress'd,
Call'd for the wig to crown the rest;
But might have call'd it from the skies.
It snugly with the barber lies,
Deposited in ample chest,
Which furnish'd half his shop at least.
The valet, with a dreadful face,
And fearful lest he'd lose his place,
Told the plain truth, as servants ought,
'And on the barber charg'd the fault;
Who wanted money bad, he said,
Must be arrested if not paid.'
The Duke, of philosophic turn,
Did not, like some, with fury burn,
Order'd the steward to be found,
And bid him raise a hundred pound;
Treated the matter with some sport,
Redeem'd his wig, and went to court..

When good Queen Anne possess'd the throne,
Then dressing hair was quite unknown.
The gentlemen acquir'd the knack
To load with wig, head, breast, and back.
The stranger would be apt to stare;
Half man and half a Russian bear.
And yet such serious blessings flow,
Who could the powerful bulk forego?
This fine exub'rance when put on
Kept far aloof the scorching sun.
Nor could the winter's cold attack;
It warm'd from noddle down to nack.
No show'r could signify a fig,
A man could only wet his wig.
The barber's art could cure the rain
By buckling up the wig again.

What but the wig could e'er produce
Such wit as then was brought in use?
Congreve, and Addison, and Steele,
Wore mighty wigs--wrote mighty well;
And half a dozen more that follow
We all allow have beat us hollow.
No other vortex could they shine in;
It was the wig, or else the lining.

When George the First, of fair renown,
Acceded to the British Crown,
The bulky wig kept on its pace,
And crept among the vulgar race;
For every male, down to the sprig,
A cypher was without a wig.
Nay, even infants had three things--
A cradle, scratch, and leading-strings.

THE SECOND PART

To keep my promise I'll not fail,
Without more preface tell my tale.

A bull appear'd in Derby fair
With a most curious head of hair;
'Twas long, 'twas thick, 'twas curl'd, 'twas white;
The eye survey'd it with delight.
This was observ'd by Mr. Bakewell,
Who law and gospel wigs could make well.
He long'd to call that hair his own;
''Twould cover well a pleading crown
It never should adorn a bull;
'Twould spirit up a head more dull.'

The lawyer knows what cause to prize;
And barber where his profit lies.
'Why, Mr. Lubin, I declare,
Your bull's an ugly head of hair;
It shades his eyes, and will not fail
To sink his price and damp his sale.
I'll cut it off.--None can cut neater.
''Twill make him look abundance better.'

'Na, but yo shonna sheer, I think,
Unless yole giz a quart o drink.
For aw yo tauke o mending th' lad,
Yole fill yore pocket first egad.'

'A quart I'll give you,' Bakewell cries,
'Merely to see the creature's eyes.'
The scissors find employment full,
To rob the honors of the bull:
And turn those honors into coin,
Which must the barber's pocket line.

From piping, baking, weaving, sheers,
Behold a first-rate wig appears.
Creators should not be elated,
But give joy to the thing created.
But this was not the present mode--
The wig was mute--the maker crow'd;
And in the height of joyous glee
Threw out this soft soliloquy:
'A face within this wig stuck fast
Certainly never can be dash'd.
This is the cream of eloquence;
'Twill rise triumphant over sense.
No enemy, though e'er so big,
Can stand against this powerful wig.
'Twill oust fair truth, and then supply
Its place with now and then a lie.
A client will this wig retain,
Though his last cause he did not gain.
The happy wearer will adore it,
Because 'twill carry all before it.
Give an opponent but a frown,
And right or wrong 'twill fell him down;
Will rise the first and keep it's place,
Beat down all modesty of face;
Will lead the bench, sustain its pride,
And humble every wig beside;
All arguments win at assizes;
From opposition bear all prizes.

In Derby town, if I look round,
Two counsellors are only found.
And yet I need not travel far
Before I find a purchaser;
For that which holds such excellence
Will never long be in suspence.

My fortune's made! The mark I've hit!
'Twill Goodwin at the college fit.
He's rather short, and thickish made;
But rather thicker in the head.
For he, of all who follow laws,
Only attempts to win a cause;
Nay, that attempt, it has been said,
Has never yet been often made.
And this defect, it may be, lies
In want of wig of proper size:
For, underneath that load profuse
Lie all the talents now in use.
'Tis virtue in the Doctor's pill,
And licenses to save or kill.
But if a man the case can't catch
No wonder if he's not the watch.'

THE THIRD PART

Two men deceive themselves, we view,
Without design; each other too.
Then what inducement to believe
The man who will himself deceive?

The human mind we'll bring to view;
'Tis ever seeking after new,
And often finds what it has not,
Pleas'd but an hour with what its got.
The change of fashion, we shall find,
Is nothing but a change of mind.
Thus the young daws, in twiggen domes,
With open mouth take all that comes;
But ere a single day is o'er
Discharge the whole, and gape for more.

Our wig of rhetoric is buckled,
And in a box, like cradle, truckled;
But not that cradle often seen,
'Twas one without a head I mean;
Nor was it needful for more stuff--
The wig itself was load enough.

The barber shoulder'd it elate,
And rapp'd hard at the college gate;
As men are wont to rap, who rather
Design to give than ask a favour;
Or one most conscious that he shou'd win,
Could he set eyes on Mr. Goodwin.

Who could be more indulg'd by fate?
The counsellor unlock'd the gate!
'Your servant, Sir,' the barber cries,
'Something for your inspection lies
In here.'--A smile upon his face,
And finger pointing to the place.

'Oh, Mr. Bakewell, pray walk in;
You're loaded with a magazine.'
What counsellor would not rejoice
If he should hear a human voice,
And see a well-dress'd person stand
With boy or bundle in his hand?
They're deeds of an estate, no doubt,
And he must make the title out.
He kens a fee, or a dispute,
Which may be follow'd by a suit.
His profit flows in just as fast
As one wave rolling o'er the last.

'At dinner we are going to sit,
I hope you'll stop, and take a bit.
We'll dine; and then, you understand,
Enquire into the matt'r in hand.'

How good the meat, how fine the drink,
How much they say, how little think,
Whether at emptying plates they shone,
Or whether they pick'd clean the bone,
How well the wine look'd through the glasses,
How smoothly through the palate passes,
Shall not a syallable be said;
I'll leave it to a better head.
While not a word was said of finishing,
Poor Goodwin saw his fee diminishing,
And frequently came to a stand.
And now, my friend, ' the matt'r in hand.'

But this expression, we contend,
The barber might not comprehend;
For where's the fox who will not stay
Who finds a chicken in his way?
And sure that man is void of thought,
Who gives up wine which costs him nought.

Though the great box was long and fast,
The barber open'd it at last.
'I'll shew you, Sir, without a flaw,
The nicest wig you ever saw.
For workmanship there's none to vie;
A man need only see to buy.
There's eloquence in every hair;
'Twill put to silence all the bar.
This, like a loadstone, profit draws,
Can twist the law to gain a cause.'
The lawyer saw he'd miss'd his fee--
'And pray, Sir, what's your wig to me?'
No wonder Goodwin rais'd a frown;
His heart and suit were both let down.
'You spunger! what have I to do
With either your great wig or you?
Go tweak your people by the nose,
And hang your wig to fright the crows.'