He has eight sides, I scorn to slide, I’ll bring them fairly in, The upperside and underside Are two for to begin; There’s backside, foreside, leftside, right-- I’ll put them down in pairs-- And inside, outside, which make _eight_, Belonging to Carstairs.
Down from his sides there spring two hips With sturdy well built thighs, Just like a pair of weeding-clips, But of a larger size; His legs they do like supples bend, When he gets in his airs-- Right taper’d down from end to end, Few men can match Carstairs.
His feet are much like other men’s, I guess them by the shoe, They’re neither of the fives nor tens, But just between the two. He’ll trip to Scotland in a trice, For speed he never spares,-- There’s few can trip it out so nice As thrifty Will Carstairs.
He’s near about the standard pitch, As nature can express-- They’re lubbers that’s above his size, And dwarfs that’s any less; But tho’ he be not quite so tall To rank ’mong grenadiers, There’s thousands of marines as small As little Will Carstairs.
[48] Carstairs, though a poor poet, was vain of his abilities as such. About the year 1731, Thomas Whittle and he being in a large company at the Burnt-house in Newcastle, the conversation turned on their respective merits as disciples of the Muses. A wager was soon bet on the subject; and it was agreed, that an hour should be allowed for each of them to write satyrical verses on the other. The two poets were accordingly placed in separate apartments; and at the expiration of the time specified, it was determined, by throwing up a halfpenny, which of the two should first read his lays: it fell to Whittle’s lot; but before he had got to the end, his competitor was so chagrined, that he put the concoctions of his less fertile brain in the fire; the wager of course was won by Whittle’s party.
THOMAS WHITTLE, HIS HUMOROUS LETTER, TO MASTER MOODY, THE RAZOR-SETTER.
Good Master Moody, My beard being cloudy, My cheeks, chin, and lips Like moon i’ the ’clipse, For want of a wipe: I’ve sent you a razor, If you’ll be at leisure To grind her, and set her, And make her cut better, You’ll e’en light my pipe.[49]
Dear sir, you know little The case of poor Whittle-- I’m courting Tantivie, If you will believe me, Pray mark what I say: I’m frank in my proffers, And when I make offers, To kiss the sweet creature, My lips cannot meet her. My beard stops the way.