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| CLODPOLE, a simple rustic clown, | |
| Lived just a few miles out of town— | |
| The city’s name? I wont be sure, | |
| I think though, it was Baltimore— | |
| An honest countryman by trade, | 5 |
| Extremely clever with his spade, | |
| Could drive his plough off in a race, | |
| And plant potatoes with a grace. | |
| His wife too was a tidy soul, | |
| A thriving pair upon the whole. | 10 |
| But times grew hard; Embargo came; | |
| Poor things! they did ’nt know who to blame. | |
| Some said, “the English are the cause:” | |
| Some said, “Red-Breeches—burn his laws!” | |
| But now a lottery appear’d! | 15 |
| Poor Clodpole read the scheme and stared. | |
| For certainly the plan was great, | |
| And was n’t it sanction’d by the state? | |
| He goes at once to buy a ticket, | |
| And begs the clerk to let him pick it; | 20 |
| (’T was at the office kept by Waite, | |
| That is so truly fortunate;) | |
| Then looks and looks with all his eyes, | |
| And wisely thinks to choose the prize, | |
| And now all day he reads the scheme, | 25 |
| And ev’ry night he dreams—a dream. | |
| He thought the money in his pocket, | |
| And bought a chest and key to lock it. | |
| At length the lottery is drawn. | |
| Clod hears the news, and he is gone. | 30 |
| “My wife,” says he, “I ’m off for town, | |
| To see if I am still a clown. | |
| So if you see me coming, Harriot, | |
| A sure ’nough great man in my chariot, | |
| Mind, see it well with both your eyes, | 35 |
| You may be sure I ’ve got the prize. | |
| Then seize your longest-handled broom, | |
| And fly like lightning round the room; | |
| Break ev’rything you ’ve got—more too— | |
| And we ’ll buy everything that ’s new. | 40 |
| Yes! and I ’ll give you such a gown! | |
| Like Mrs Dashaway’s in town.” | |
| He goes to town, or rather flies: | |
| “My ticket, Sir, is it a prize?” | |
| The clerk soon read the fellow through, | 45 |
| And felt a little waggish too. | |
| So with a strange, mysterious look, | |
| He turns, and turns, and turns his book. | |
| “Your ticket, friend”—Clod stretch’d his eyes— | |
| “Has drawn—has drawn—” “what? what?”—“no prize | 50 |
| But a dead blank!” Clod heard no more, | |
| But down he fell upon the floor. | |
| “A doctor! run! the man will die.” | |
| A doctor was just riding by; | |
| (These doctors are as thick as crows;) | 55 |
| He smelt the carrion I suppose. | |
| He feels Clod’s pulse, and shakes his head | |
| “It is a fit: he must be bled. | |
| His constitution though ’s good stuff. | |
| I ’ll give him medicine enough. | 60 |
| They ’ll cure him—if they should n’t kill— | |
| At any rate they ’ll help the bill.” | |
| Out lancet, and he stuck a vein. | |
| The clown comes to himself again, | |
| And rolls around his wondering eyes, | 65 |
| Like a wise owl, in great surprise. | |
| The doctor bears him off in haste | |
| To his own chariot, sees him placed, | |
| And bids the coachman drive him home. | |
| Dame Harriot sees the carriage come, | 70 |
| “O! he has got the prize! we ’re made! | |
| Good by t’ ye to the hoe and spade!” | |
| Away she ran, and seized the broom, | |
| And flew like lightning round the room, | |
| Breaking up all she could get at— | 75 |
| Except the jug—she could n’t break that— | |
| A present from her mother Gray, | |
| And given her on her wedding day: | |
| There was none like it to be sold, | |
| And such fine beer as it would hold! | 80 |
| But all the rest demolished quite, | |
| You never saw now such a sight. | |
| Just then poor Clodpole enters in: | |
| “Stop! stop!” he cries; “it is a sin. | |
| For mercy quit this foolish prank, | 85 |
| He says my prize has drawn a blank.” | |
| See! there they stand as stiff as posts; | |
| And white as two meal-powder’d ghosts! | |
| At last Clod cries, “Give me a hug. | |
| I ’m glad to find you ’ve saved the jug. | 90 |
| Confound all lotteries, I say! | |
| Stick to the plough, and work away! | |
| Bad luck has made me monstrous wise, | |
| So, spite of chance, I ’ve got the prize.” | |
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