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.  
Dedicated to the Gentry of Hampshire, for their Diversion: But more especially to the Inhabitants of Southampton.  
LONDON▪ Printed for Samuel Cr●●ch. 1680.   

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 Barwick upon Tweed.  
FOR your better understanding the Occasion of the Author's writing this ensuing Poem, I must tell you, That Rhyming Bat (like the Bell— man of this Town at Christmas) made some Heroic 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 virtue, for on Mules it rides,  
Patience I mean, in which thou dost excel,  
As all thy Neighbours and thy Wife can tell;  
Three Trumpets then would I sound to thy renown,  
And from thy Fame immortalize my own.  
Ingenious Bat! 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'er made a Verse.  
Apollo he made Verses, but in's life  
I never heard that ere he made a Knife.  
Now Batt does all that both these Gods could do;  
Hammers out Verses, and hard Iron too.  
To sheathe strong sense in Metaphorick words,  
Is but the making Scabbards for his Swords.  
He is a twofaced Pump, whose Spouts do run  
Smith's water one way, t'other, Helicon.  
Have you not seen the thing our Butler uses,  
With cabined belly, things called double Cruises?  
The right side Vinegar, the left holds Oil;  
The Emblem's that of Wit, and this of Toil.  
Such is the Skull of Bat, in which the Brains  
Are parted into Poetry and Pains.  
He writes and works so equally, you'd think  
One Cheek were blacked 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 minced meat, make Christmas-pies.  
'Tis Mirth, not Dishes, sets a Table off;  
Brutes and fanatics eat and never laugh.  
What man of Teeth than can be so ingrate,  
To slice Roast-beef, and not remember Bat?  
When Brawn with powdered Wig comes swaggering in,  
And mighty Sergeant 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 Bat.  
So when the Mistress cannot hit the Joint,  
Which proves sometimes, you know, a difficult point,  
Think on a Cuckold, strait the Gossips cry:  
But think of 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 Bat makes are all so sharp they scorn  
To be so charmed by his Neighbours 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 used to say,  
For all mankind, who wish for length of day;  
That Bat no Cutler is unto the Fates;  
His Shears would cut our Threads off at strange rates:  
Snip— 'tis no more; there's work for Bat, 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 Bat 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 hanged,  
He is as true a Blade as ever twanged.  
Show me a man can shuffle fair and cut,  
Yet always have three Trays in hand at Putskie:  
Show me a man can turn up Noddy still,  
And deal himself three Five 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 lose my aim;  
If any else pretend unto the same,  
And say we dare not match him for a Pot,  
They lie— provided Batt's Wife knew it not.  
Hark, the Bell toll at Holy-Roods; away  
To Church, this is Batt's Exercising-day.  
He's sallied out from sign of Pole and Basin,  
With Clergy-Cloak, clean Band, and Sunday face on.  
Some commend Eunuches chanting in the Choir,  
But how they should learn Pricksong, I admire.  
Some praise their Skill who in white Surplice sing  
Fa, lafoy, 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 Choir themselves they be;  
And better Music 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:  
Compared to him, what are they? such a thing  
As is his Bell-rope to a Fiddlestring;  
No more like him for Goggle, Sniff, and ●roan,  
Than blind Bat is to Bat with four Eyes on.  
Search the Cathedrals, Colleges, and Halls,  
All Churches, Chapels, 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  
Him— till he wakes, and gaping, cries— Amen.  
If any (bar mistakes) with greater pace  
Can read the Chapters, let 'em take Butt's place.  
Well then, put on thy Eyes, and look about thee▪  
Do what we can, we can do nought without thee:  
Let's woe and woe, and gain good will, what then?  
It comes to nothing, till thou say Amen.  
No Woman can be Churched, till Bat 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 Physic:  
To say the truth on't▪ Batt no man can be  
With credit hanged, without thy faculty:  
For who without a Psalm doth take a swing,  
Dies like a Dog; hang him, he would not sing:  
But who turns off in ●●●e, 's a proper man,  
And, Batt, thy Knife may cut him down again.  
Nay, were I to be buried for my life,  
And all the learned Parish-Clerks at strife  
Who should the Shovel shake, Bat 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 graced the Wheel and Whetstone Trade;  
The Organ of our Church, the greatest Layman  
That ever solemnly squeezed out A— Amen.  
He is the Wit, the Mirth, Religion,  
The very Life and Death of the whole Town.  
He is— Hold, Muse! Batt's Bat, and so will be;  
Should I say more, 'twould be battology  

The VISION.  

HOld, hold my head! O jove, thou knowst my pain,  
When Vulcan was Man-Midwife to thy brain,  
As Bat the better workman is to mine;  
Bat! thou that mak'st all the whole Parish whine,  
Come, tune my Fancy, as thou dost the Psalms,  
And with thy Bellows raise Poetic Flames.  
No Inkhorn will I dip in but thy mouth,  
Where Wool, black Wool, fit for sad purpose growth:  
But lest the doleful Theme should make it dry;  
We'll set, that's Mourning too, a black Pot by.  
Bright Sol, with Periwig of curled Carrot,  
And a Face laccaed o'er like his Chariot,  
The cheerful Author of all Wit and Light,  
But what the Bellman stalks with in the Night,  
Had driven the Stage-Coach to the place of rest,  
Dressed all his Horses, and himself undressed,  
With Night's 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 seized mine Eye,  
I winked, and winking men most Visions spy;  
When to my Fancy (what can't Fancy do?)  
Appeared a satire 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-eared.  
Grief had so sunk his Eyes, that through each hole  
Methought I could look quite through to his Pole.  
In his Dark-lant●orn-face, Nose stood for handle,  
And a white Tooth supplied the inch of Candle.  
A Cloak upon one shoulder hangs as thin,  
But not so black as was the Wearers skin:  
To which compared, Charcoal and Jet seem wan;  
'Twould make deep Mourning for an African.  
A piece of dirty stretching Leather faced  
His breast; an Apron, or his Conscience was't?  
He drivelled Ink, from Nostrils Tar distilled,  
Pissed Coffee, and with Pitch his hose full-filled.  
No Fumes from sooty Hypocondria 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 cried:  
Your very humble Servant, he replied.  
I am the God of Wit in Masquerade,  
The grand Improver of the Rhyming Trade;  
Mechanic 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, roaking Mortal, that here  
I do appear in Elegiac Tatter.  
Grief, grief 'tis brings me unto thee to wait,  
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 balded crown her godly life,  
The common right of every Poet's Wife.   

Hampton, O Hampton, in the days of yore,  
The lawful Pride of all the Southern shore,  
With all advantages of Nature graced,  
Betwixt the Arms of fair Anton● placed;  
Guarded by Forests both on Land and Sea,  
From Storms, and Man, the ruder Enemy:  
By Neptune and his Argonauts caressed,  
And all that e'er were in Tarpolin dressed.  
Admired 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 famed Sternhold did compose  
Those two last Staves which Bat 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 Cobbler's whistle at it, they'd indite.  
Invention was so pregnant, that ofttimes  
Men would talk Poety, that could not Rhymes.  
Poems were pasted up in every Hall, Formerly every house had several sacred Rhymis in it.  
As thick and thin as Cobwebs on the wall.  
Here you might view Haman in all his pride,  
Used like a Rogue, hanged, and then Ditti●●ed.  
Or the two Elders, Poets in their time,  
Tempting Susanna in Battoick Rhyme.  
Each Kitchen, Parlour, Chamber, were all dressed here  
With Samson, joseph, Daniel, or Queen Hester.  
No Room was thought well furnished for Converse,  
Till hung with Buckram paint and Buckram-verse.  
Nay, I have seen a Ballad full of wit,  
Tore down to sing a Goose upon the spit.  
Blessed Town! where did the Gods e'er grant before,  
That men might all be Poets, and not poor?  
A happiness ne'er in Parnassus known,  
Nor couldst thou, Hampton, call it long thy own:  
For Age, who like a Bloodhound, Glory traces,  
And destroys Towns as well as handsome Faces,  
Hath made thee poor and dull like other places.  
Imped with swift wings, thy Beauty's fled away,  
The very ruins of thy Pride decay.  
Thy Gates are mouldered, the Portcullis showeth  
Like rotten teeth in an old woman's mouth.  
Walls, Forts, and Towers into their Trenches slide;  
The Castle looks like a Nose Frenchified;  
As though in vain the Monsieur heretofore  
Had made thee shift thy Lodging for a Cure. The Town burned twice by the French.  
Whither are all thy winged Lovers flown,  
The mighty Carricks 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:  
Farewell; when Miss grows old, the Gallant strays.  
Nor art thou Bankrupt grown only in Trade,  
But oh, thy very Wits too are decayed.  
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 threadbare Coats, no Money, and cracked Brains.  
Oh, Heavens, how strange these Alterations are!  
Shall we want Ballads in a Country-Fair?  
The merry Fiddlers long since left the Town, There was formerly Music 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 Tragic Muse.  
No wonder then if Poetry decay,  
When such Encouragements are ta'en away.  
There was a time when not a Dog could die  
Within these Walls, without an Elegy. Batt made an Elegy 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 lived in gentile fashion, The Dog died of a Clap.  
And died as Gentiles do, of Recreation.  
But at Meggs Grave they now all silence keep, Batt made an Elegy upon his Wife.  
As though they feared to wake her from her sleep:  
Not all the Market will afford a Verse  
To pin upon a Sister-poets Hearse.  
Poet by Marriage, so she claims that honour,  
As Madam hers, by a Knight's lying on her.  
Nay, Bat 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 Poetry,  
Who sucked Prosodia from his Mother's Teat,  
Till like a Caterpillar 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'er speaks nor thinks, but in true time;  
Farts Epigrams, and snores to 'em in Rhyme:  
He, he stands disinspired, 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 damned to Pasty-crust,  
Chose a more noble fate, and licking in  
Poison, prevented the Cook's Rowling-pin. Batt made an Elegy upon Capt. Narbon's Buck.  
Heroic Act! which noble Bat did scorn▪  
(Hoping to be rewarded with a Horn)  
Should unbewailed in Rhyme Heroick go:  
And could not his own Dear oblige him so?  
Must Megg, the Wife of Bat, aged Eighty,  
Deceased November thirteenth, Seventy three,  
Be cast, like common Dust, into the Pit,  
Without one line of Monumental wit?  
One Death's-head of Distich, or Mortality-staff,  
With sense enough for Churchyard Epitaph?  
No stirrup-Verse at Grave before she go?  
Batt does not use to part at Tavern so.  
Grief here prevailing, struck the satire 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 jobling, 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 bowed, and smiling said Amen.  
At which I work, as men at Sermons use, Batt collects the Parson's Dues.  
And heard Batt knocking at the door for Dues.   
FINIS.