There dwells a kind old Aunt, and there you see
Some kind young Nieces in her company;
Poor village nieces, whom the tender dame
Invites to town, and gives their beauty Fame;
The grateful sisters feel th’ important aid,
And the good Aunt is flatter’d and repaid. 
   What, though it may some cool observers strike,
That such fair sisters should be so unlike;
That still another and another comes,
And at the matron’s tables smiles and blooms;
That all appear as if they meant to stay
Time undefined, nor name a parting day;
And yet, though all are valued, all are dear,
Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear. 
   Yet let Suspicion hide her odious head,
And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread;
A pious friend, who with the ancient dame
At sober cribbage takes an evening game;
His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs,
And oft renews, and innocently laughs;
Or growing serious, to the text resorts,
And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports;
While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend,
A grave protector and a powerful friend: 
But Slander says, who indistinctly sees,
Once he was caught with Sylvia on his knees; —
A cautious burgess with a careful wife
To be so caught!—­’tis false, upon my life. 
   Next are a lower kind, yet not so low
But they, among them, their distinctions know;
And when a thriving landlord aims so high,
As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye,
Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs,
He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs. 
   Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to say
What favourite Inn shall share his evening’s pay;
Where he shall sit the social hour, and lose
His past day’s labours and his next day’s views. 
Our Seamen too have choice; one takes a trip
In the warm cabin of his favourite Ship;
And on the morrow in the humbler Boat
He rows till fancy feels herself afloat;
Can he the sign—­Three Jolly Sailors—­pass,
Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass? 
The Anchor too affords the seaman joys,
In small smoked room, all clamour, crowd, and noise;
Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire,
Where fifty voices purl and punch require;
They come for pleasure in their leisure hour,
And they enjoy it to their utmost power;
Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while all
Call, or make ready for a second call: 
There is no time for trifling—­“Do ye see? 
We drink and drub the French extempore.” 
   See! round the room, on every beam and balk,
Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk;
Yet nothing heeded—­would one stroke suffice
To blot out all, here honour is too nice, —
“Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things,
We’re British tars, and British tars are kings.” 
   But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung,
Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung? 
His sign his image,—­for he was once seen