O Rareeshow, O Pretty-Show: OR, THE CITY FEAST.  

ON a Day of great Triumph, when Lord of the City,  
Does Swear to be Honest and Just, as he's Witty;  
And Rides through the Town, that the Rabble may Shout-him,  
For the wonderful Merits he carries about-him;  
B'ing an Honester Man I'll be bold for to say,  
Than has sat in the Chair this many a day.   

Like the rest of the Fools, from the Skirts of the Town,  
I Trotted to Gaze at his Chain and his Gown.  
With legs in a Kennel, quite up to the middle  
In dirt, with a Stomach as sharp as a Needle,  
I stood in the Cold, clinging fast to a Stump,  
To see the Wisakers march by in their Pomp.  
At last heard a Consort of Trumpets and Drums,  
And the Mob crying out, Here he comes, here he comes.   

I was carr'd by the Crowd, from the place that I stood-in,  
And the Devil to do 〈◊〉 was all of a sudden.  
The first that appeared was a great Tom-a-doodle,  
With a Cap like a Bushel, to cover his Noddle,  
And a Gown that hung draggling through every Puddle;  
With a Sword and a Mace, and such Pageantry Pride,  
And abundance of Formal old Fopry beside.  
A Troop of grave Elders, O then there came by,  
In their Blood-Coloured Robes, of a very deep die,  
On Jennets the best that the Town could afford,  
As Tame all as Lambs, and as Fine as my Lord,  
With very rich Saddles, gay Bridles and Cruppers,  
Would ne'er have been made but for such City Troopers.  
Like Snails o'er a Cabbage, they all crept along,  
Admired by their Wives, and Huzzaed by the Throng.   

The Companies followed, each Man in his Station,  
Which every Fool knows is not worth Observation;  
All clothed in Furs, in an Ancient Decorum,  
Like Bears they advanced, with their Bagpipes before'em;  
With Streamers and Drums; and abundance of Fooling,  
Not worth the Repeating, or yet Rediculing:  
So I'll bid adieu to the Tun-bellyed Sinners,  
And leave them to Trudg through the Dirt to their Dinners.   

At last I considered 'twas very foul play,  
That a Poet should Fast on a Festival Day;  
I therefore resolved it should cost me a fall,  
But that I would Drink my Lord's Health at a Hall:  
For why mayn't a Poet (thought I) be a Guest,  
As welcome as Parson, or Fool at a Feast,  
For the sport of a Tale or the sake of a Jest.  
I mixed with the Music, and no one withstood-me,  
And so Jostled forward as cleaver as could be.  
I passed to a very fine Room, thro'a Porch  
'Twas as a wide as a Barn, and as high a Church;  
Where clothes upon Shovel-board-Tables were Spread,  
And all things in order for Dinner were laid;  
The Napkins where folded on every Plate,  
Into Castles and Boats, and the Devil knows what.  
Their Flagons and Bowls made a very fine show,  
And Sweat-meates, like Cuckolds, stood all in a row.  
They walked and they talked; after some Consultation  
The Beadle stood up, and he made Proclamation,  
That no one presume, of a Member, till after  
He's dined, to bring in his Wife or his Daughter.  
Then in comes the Pasties, the best of all Food,  
With Pig, Goose, and Capon, and all that was good.  
Then Grace soon was said, without any delay,  
And as Hungry as Hawks they sat down to their Prey.  
The Music Struck up such a Bory advancing,  
As the Polanders Piped, when their Cubs were a Dancing.  
Then each tucked his Napkin up under his Chin,  
That his Holiday Band might be kept very clean;  
And pined up his Sleeves to his Elbows, because  
They should not hang down, and be greased in the Sauce.  
Then all went to work, with such Rending and Tearing,  
Like a Kennel of Hounds on a Quarter of Carri'n.  
When done with the Flesh, than they Clawed of the Fish,  
With one hand at Mouth, and the other in th' Dish.  
When their Stomaches were Cloyed, what their Bellies denied,  
Each clapped in his Pocket to give to his Bride;  
With a Cheesecake and Custard for my little Johnny,  
And a handful of Sweetmeats for poor Daughter Nanny.   

Then down came a Blade, with a Rattle in's Skull,  
To tickle their Ears, when their Bellies were full;  
After three or four Hems, to clear up his Voice,  
At every Table he made them a Noise,  
Of Twenty Four Fiddlers were all in a Row,  
Tho' the Singer meant Cuckolds, I'd have them to know,  
Then London's a Gallant Town, and a fine City,  
'Tis Governed by Scarlet, the more is the Pity.   

When Claret and Sack had trolled freely about,  
And each Man was Laden, within and without,  
The Elders arising, all Staggered away,  
And in Sleeping like Hogs, spent the rest of the day.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1698.