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 ’TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 BETTY MARTIN; 
 
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 THE FOLLY OF MENS’ PURSUITS. 
 
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 ’TIS ALL MY EYE AN D BETTY MARTIN, 
 
 OR 
 
 TIIE FOLLY OF MENS’ PURSUITS. 
 
 Dean Swift, a clever versifier, 
 
 Thought life had no vocation higher, 
 
 Than dealing satire on the knave, 
 
 Whose hollow smile or aspect grave, 
 
 Under some plausible disguise, 
 
 Throws dust in simple people’s eyes. 
 
 He shewed us how the spangled dress 
 Put on to cover ugliness, 
 
 Will tell the tale, so often told, 
 
 That all that glitters is not gold. 
 
 My muse, scarce fit to hold the candle 
 To one so great, yet dares to handle 
 The self-same theme, to disabuse 
 The thoughtless youth, and bid him choose 
 The lamp of reason as his guide, 
 
 And never trust to mere outside, 
 
 Which though with lustre falsely darting, 
 Is all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 When Strephon came to twenty-one, 
 And had the race of life to run, 
 
 With fifteen thousand pounds a year, 
 llis youth and fortune made it clear 
 One thing alone remained to do — 
 
 To choose the course he would pursue, 
 lie told me of his happiness, 
 
 And chid me that I felt it less 
 Than other friends and dear relations, 
 
 Who sent such warm congratulations. 
 
 1 answered frankly “ All the pleasures 
 That he could purchase with his treasures, 
 At first so seemingly inviting, 
 
 He soon would cease to take delight in — 
 
’TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 Believe my words” (I said at parting) 
 
 They’re all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 Well ! Strephon bought a splendid seat,— 
 Ilad every day choice things to eat, — 
 
 Had always many guests to dine, 
 
 Who ate his venison, praised his wine, 
 
 And whispered, “ when the Whigs were out, he 
 Was fit to represent the county.” 
 
 Of hounds he kept a goodly pack, 
 
 And rode to cover on his hack. 
 
 Old dowagers, who drink strong waters, 
 
 >1 ought out at balls their single daughters; 
 
 And every neighbour round would vie 
 In shewing friendly courtesy : 
 
 But still, whene’er the day was ended. 
 
 He thought that matters might be mended, 
 
 It, when twas wet or frosty weather, 
 
 mu u Were there to slee P together. 
 
 I he house a woman has no part in 
 Is all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 So, in the winter, up to Town 
 He goes; and stomacher and gown 
 He casts his eyes on, ’till he meets 
 In Celia concentrated sweets. 
 
 The lady had a pretty face, 
 
 Was scion of a noble race, 
 
 One season only had been out: 
 
 Though in her person ’twas a doubt, 
 
 Betwixt her bustle and her waist, 
 
 What share was nature’s, what was taste. 
 
 When courtship ends in matrimony, 
 
 Love answers for one moon of honey • 
 
 Of what may follow youth ne’er dreams, 
 l is all m all possession seems, 
 lit Strephon soon found out ’twas stupid 
 To put such confidenee’in. 0« p id_ ' 
 
 A little artful meddling elf, 
 
 And even younger than himself. 
 
 Boon as his passion’s gratified, 
 
 Ie, somehow, thinks his lovely bride 
 
 Is not so charming by a dea^ 
 
 As le was wont before to feel. 
 
AND BETTY MARTIN. 
 
 So plated goods at first display 
 A brightness use soon takes away ; 
 
 So ripened peaches wear a bloom, 
 
 Which plucked, they never reassume. 
 
 She, in her turn, has some misgiving ; 
 
 He alters in his mode of living ; 
 
 He slackens in attention to her ; 
 
 How different when he came to woo her ! 
 And then, if no one’s there to dine, 
 
 He gets so drowsy o’er his wine ; — 
 
 Passes the morning in his study ; — 
 
 Declines to walk, “ it is so muddy.” 
 
 And, if a word is said of riding, 
 
 He gets so cross, and takes to chiding, 
 
 “ He should be certainly to blame 
 To let her mount a horse that’s lame.” 
 
 Then his own horse wants something doing : 
 ’Tis physicking, or else ’tis shoeing : 
 
 “ He thought she meant to keep her room : 
 But shall he order round the brougham ?” 
 Or kindly adds “ the chariot’s there, 
 
 If she’s disposed to take the air.” 
 
 At length, when all disguise is over, 
 
 Though Strephon’s bed at first was clover, 
 Yet truth compelled him to confess 
 That half a woman’s charm was dress. 
 Decorum helped them on awhile : 
 
 The house was grand ; they lived in style : 
 But things, forbidden when we’re single : 
 Will soon or late in wedlock mingle. 
 
 Bashful at first and scarce at ease, 
 
 Restraint was banished by degrees. 
 
 Familiarity, exempt 
 
 From all restriction, breeds contempt, 
 
 A musty apothegm affirms, 
 
 At last they came to f % > % i g terms ; 
 But, when a couple gets to f * # * * # g, 
 Love’s all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 Tired of domestic life, the riches 
 Which filled the pockets of his breeches, 
 Were still too plenteous to lie idle ; 
 
 And passion, wanting reason’s bridle, 
 
4 
 
 ’TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 
 
 
 
 Urged him to seek for sugar-candy 
 Abroad, although at home so handy. 
 
 Alas ! for those who fornicate ! 
 
 Repentance comes, or soon or late, 
 
 The harlot’s meretricious lust 
 Is but the prelude to disgust. 
 
 Her mercenary smiles to please 
 Are paid with loathing and disease. 
 
 A Putrid Sea you have no chart in 
 Is all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 When war broke out, and men, excited, 
 In blood and battle-fields delighted, 
 
 With martial ardour in his breast, 
 
 Strephon could never be at rest. 
 
 Proud anecdotes of arms and glory 
 Turned inside out his upper story ; 
 
 Just as a washerwoman’s slop 
 Throws all the frothy suds at top ; 
 
 Or as a whirl-about at fairs, 
 
 With gilded pole and painted chairs, 
 
 Tempts boys and girls to quit the ground 
 Until their heads swim round and round. 
 
 His sobbing wife, his baby’s eyes, 
 
 His home, are now unheeded ties ; 
 
 The horrors of a long campaign 
 Are set before him — all in vain. 
 
 From the Militia to the Line 
 Exchanged, he hopes one day to shine ; 
 
 And, though Lord Hardinge may be partial. 
 Great deeds can make a man Field Marshal. 
 He reaches camp, and longs to try 
 A tussle with the enemy : 
 
 Nights in the trenches quite delight him : 
 
 Nor shells nor cannon-balk affright him. * 
 
 At last our noodle-chieftain s plan. 
 
 The storming of the Great Redan.— 
 lie rushes boldly to the breach: 
 
 Grape rattles ; heavy ordnance screech 
 Nor blood nor bayonet appals, 
 lill, like a hero, down he falls. 
 
 Borne on a stretcher to his tent, 
 
 He muses on the sad event. 
 
 “ I ve got a pepper-corn or two,” 
 
AND BETTY MARTIN. 
 
 5 
 
 lie cries, “ one in me, one quite through ; 
 
 “ Glory ! — oh ! how my wounds are smarting ! 
 Tis all my eye and Betty Martin.” 
 
 He lived — and, quitting fields to die on, 
 Went home, no Marshal, but a Lion : 
 
 There, o'er his claret, told his story, 
 
 And closed his fond career of glory ; 
 
 Ending his dream in salve and ointment. — 
 Yet, though thus doomed to disappointment, 
 He burned to signalize his name ; 
 
 So next ambition lights the flame. 
 
 His country's good, the people's cause, 
 
 Equal obedience to the laws, 
 
 Now quite engrossed his ardent soul ; 
 
 But still some doubtful questions stole 
 Across his mind, and left a void, 
 
 That all his energies destroyed. 
 
 He saw the writer sell his pen 
 To praise the acts of wicked men; 
 
 He saw the alms for paupers spent 
 By base trustees in merriment. 
 
 Loud patriots suddenly grew dumb, 
 
 And seats were bartered for a sum. 
 
 Peers of the realm felt no disgrace 
 In swopping principles for place. 
 
 Strephon, amazed, in time withdrew, 
 Disgusted with the vehal crew. 
 
 To pawn one’s honour such a mart in 
 Was all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 At last religion crossed his way, 
 
 And seemed to shine with brighter day, 
 
 With hope to cheer, with promised bliss, 
 
 All in a better world than this. 
 
 But, when he searched about for teachers, 
 And heard a score of godly preachers — 
 
 Of protestant and catholics — 
 
 Who use the holy crucifix, — 
 
 He doubted e’en his catechism, \ 
 
 And met at every turn a schism. 
 
 But, what seemed worse than all the rest, 
 Hypocrisy so much possessed 
 The people, that the outer show 
 Of duty would no further go 
 
 
 
f> 
 
 ’TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 Than radiant joy by virtue won — 
 
 The cheerful sense of duty done. 
 
 Fresh from a sermon, ladies stalked 
 Like Stygian ghosts ; and, as they walked, 
 Presented prayer-books to view 
 As highwaymen their pistols do ; — 
 
 Held their cocked Bibles in their hand 
 As who should say “ There ! miscreant, stand ! 
 
 Y ou have not been to church : and I 
 Scorn you for your impiety/’ 
 
 Zealots ! go, listen to the lark ; 
 
 The buttercup and poppy mark : 
 
 Yon flowery meads were never meant 
 To nourish gloom and discontent. 
 
 Look at the brightness of the sun : 
 
 Observe how gay the rivers run. 
 
 Where are the signs that our Creator 
 Intended a black parson’s gaiter 
 Should any holiness impart ? 
 lie never wished to chili the heart. 
 
 IIow little know our modern saints 
 That, gloomy sadness rarely taints 
 Virtue’s confiding cheerful eye, 
 
 ’Tis vice’s surest panoply. 
 
 Vice always takes a sombre basis ; 
 
 Clear consciences have lively faces. 
 
 Are scripture precepts all forgotten? 
 
 Are all God’s intimations rotten ? 
 
 44 Enter my presence with a song; 
 
 And serve with gladness all day long.” 
 
 Earth cannot shew an uglier sight 
 Than a white-neckclothed hypocrite; 
 
 And, in one word to say it all, 
 
 Than that arch-scoundrel, J D P . 
 
 Oh ! but (thought Strephon) folks like these 
 Are ignorant one plainly sees; 
 
 Led by the nose^to teachers humble. 
 
 They may, from misconception, stumble. 
 
 They have a livelihood to gain, 
 
 With little children to maintain : 
 
 To know what true religion is 
 Let’s enter bishop's ’palaces. 
 
AND BETTY MARTIN. 
 
 There prelates stored with learning dwell, 
 And nourish thoughts ineffable. 
 
 There, — lowly, as if soon to meet 
 Their maker on the judgement seat, 
 
 They minister, in Christian meekness, 
 
 The bread of life to sinners’ weakness ; — 
 Diffuse with lavish hand, by stealth, 
 
 Upon the poor their lordly wealth ; 
 
 Baths, hospitals, alms-houses, found ; 
 
 And die for charity renowned. 
 
 [TEere’s C J L keeps his bed : 
 
 They say he’s dying, if not dead. 
 
 He’s palsied, and his days are few : 
 
 He may survive a month or two, 
 
 A martyr to disease and pains. — 
 
 No doubt the time that yet remains 
 Is spent in passing in review 
 His course of life, as wise men do, 
 
 And making proper reparation, 
 
 As suits his piety and station. 
 
 Submissive there behold him wait, 
 
 Reflecting on a future state, 
 
 In Christian fortitude resigned, 
 
 And meek with penitential mind. 
 
 Thus, shaking off the earthly leaven, 
 
 That renders man unfit for heaven, 
 
 He hails the angels’ call to rise, 
 
 An<J takes his seat in Paradise. 
 
 Not he ! — he feels the tottering mitre 
 Is slipping off, and holds it tighter ; — 
 
 Clings with his latest breath to Mammon, 
 And tries his skill, how best to gammon 
 The shrewd dispensers of preferment, 
 
 Who calculate on his interment. 
 
 Cries he, “A poor man, like myself. 
 
 Who never thought of dirty pelf, 
 
 Has much to answer for, unless 
 He keeps his children from distress. 
 Supposing I should chance to die. 
 
 There’s nothing for my family. 
 
 My charities have been enormous : 
 
 I’ve giv^n away the wealth of Ormus 
 
 ^ 
 
8 
 
 TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 To help poor curates in their trouble, 
 
 And make their trilling pittance double. 
 Besides, providing for my wife 
 Compelled me to insure my life; 
 
 And with ten thousand pounds a year 
 I scarcely own a sixpence clear.” 
 
 To hear the bishop’s mournful tone, 
 
 A man must have a heart of stone, 
 
 Or else be moved by wicked malice, 
 
 Who would deprive him of his palace. 
 
 He only asks six thousand pounds 
 (Per annum) to keep up the grounds ; 
 Something to pay the doctor’s fees, 
 
 And just afford him bread and cheese. 
 
 Tis true, Cort’s daughters have much less — 
 What’s iron to a diocess ? 
 
 ’Tis true that priests in other days 
 Have aimed at apostolic praise. 
 
 When Berkeley held a bishopric, 
 
 And in the course of time fell sick, 
 
 So that he found he could no longer 
 fcerve mother Church, unless to wrong her ? 
 He sent at once his resignation, 
 
 And scorned a bargain for his station. 
 
 Strephon soon found his error out; 
 
 To confidence succeeded doubt, 
 
 But what he thought (of censure shy) 
 
 He uttered in soliloquy. 
 
 “ TV hat good are bishops, rich as Croesus, 
 With charitable schemes to fleece us ? 
 
 Who always beg, but never give ; 
 
 Who feed no flocks but on them live : 
 
 And deans, and canons, in their stall, 
 
 'ru Hat > g0 ° d are the ^’ t00 ’ after a11 ? 
 
 There’s Soapy Sam, the church Apollo, 
 
 Healing in phrases smooth and hollow, 
 ho, like a butcher, o’er the boulders, 
 
 I rots (apron on) and works his shoulders, 
 nearmg a taped-up shovel hat; 
 
 Whilst common people ask ‘ Who’s that.’ 
 bam m Ins club— the Athenamm— 
 
 (JNam ipse ego vidi eum) 
 
ANI) BETTY MARTIN. 
 
 Makes nothing of a flight of stairs, 
 
 And clears them, schoolboy-like, in pairs. 
 
 A jolly bishop may be pleasant, 
 
 Who takes his glass and shoots his pheasant, 
 Who plays a decent game at billiards, 
 
 And registers his weight by steelyards. 
 
 Who cracks a joke at visitations, 
 
 And livings gives to poor relations : 
 
 But, when his lordship goes to hector 
 Over a poor defenceless rector, 
 
 Think you religion is his heart in ? 
 
 Tis all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 ’Twas thus Sam’s father, 
 
 Mouthing, until his voice was hoarse — 
 
 Kept turning, twisting all about : 
 
 And yet his hearers were in doubt. 
 
 If in his speech they did n<jt spy 
 More cunning than philantropjjiy. 
 
 ’Tis thus a fountain, in a square, 
 
 Throws up its water high in air, 
 
 The wond’ring cockney gazes round, 
 
 And thinks pure springs are underground. 
 Which, bursting upwards, will not stay 
 Until they see the light of day. 
 
 Alas ! poor fool ; he ne’er surmises 
 From belching steam and soot it rises. 
 
 Ttfas thus Dick Martin capped his fame, 
 
 And from mock-feeling earned a name, 
 
 By saving donkeys from a cudgel. 
 
 Whilst those who knew him said ’twas fudge all. 
 Why was his anguish so acute 
 To see ill-treatment of a brute ? 
 
 And yet to never raise a cry 
 Against sea-captains’ cruelty, 
 
 W hose lashes tell upon a skin 
 That’s twice as tender, twice as thin. 
 
 Had Sammy lived when Mary reigned — 
 
 Mary with blood of martyrs stained — 
 
 Who sent recusants to the stake 
 Just as you send a pie to bake, 
 
 Then bloody Mary (curses on her ! ) 
 
 Had found in him another Bonner. 
 
10 
 
 TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 Bonner was smooth in cheek and tongue, 
 Had lips where sweetest accents hung ; 
 Yet from his bland and smiling look 
 Designing craft her weapons took. 
 
 But, should you ask me where to find 
 A churchman of a pious mind, 
 
 One who adorns the prelate’s dress, 
 
 One cheerful in his holiness ; 
 
 A mirror void of stain, wherein 
 Sinners might shudder at their sin ; 
 
 One who adds splendour to his throne, 
 And gains respect by good alone ; 
 
 Urbane, yet dignified ; well bred ; 
 
 In love profane and sacred read ; 
 
 Grave in his mien, yet free from cant ; — 
 That man is — just the man we want. 
 
 Reflecting thus as Strephon lay, 
 lie heard a voice that seemed to say, 
 
 “ Oh ! thou, who wastest thus thy youth 
 In vain researches after truth, 
 
 Perhaps thou thinkest that the goddess 
 Goes naked, without shift or bodice, 
 
 Just as the poets have portrayed her, 
 
 Who nude and simple always made her. 
 And so she was ; but people loathed her, 
 And, under false pretences clothed her 
 In various costumes, so that, now, 
 
 She goes about the Lord knows how : 
 
 And even those who most respect her 
 With difficulty recollect her. 
 
 Her friends had tried to make her sprucer, 
 And thought at Court to introduce her ; 
 But there they only called her ‘ fool,’ 
 
 And turned her into ridicule. 
 
 AV hen taken next to Lincoln’s Inn, 
 
 I he wigs received her with a grin : 
 
 The judges said she must withdraw; 
 
 Their business was not truth, but law. 
 
 At evening parties, where she went, 
 m ladies showed their discontent ; 
 
 1 hey talked of pads and crinolines, 
 iruth wondered what the jargon means. 
 
AND BETTY MARTIN. 
 
 Whatever article of dress 
 
 Gave maidens charms they don’t possess 
 
 She held as instruments of woe ; 
 
 For when with love their suitors glow, 
 
 The soft illusion melts away 
 As soon as marriage comes in play ! 
 
 For ardent passions generate, 
 
 When disappointed, mortal hate/’ 
 llow others served her need I tell? 
 
 Thus, by degrees, she lower fell. 
 
 Some rags the poor-house guardians give her, 
 And praise her worth and let her shiver. 
 Where then to find religious zeal 
 That does not motives base conceal ? 
 
 So difFrent creeds which men profess 
 Have for their symbol each a dress. 
 
 When Jupiter his thunders hurled 
 From high Olympus o’er the world, 
 
 In forms of worship then, as now, 
 
 The multitude were made to bow. 
 
 Old Chryses might have vestments worn — 
 Have had his crazy noddle shorn, 
 
 Just as a popish priest would pass 
 When going through his morning mass. 
 
 To Flamens Cardinals succeeded, 
 
 With superstitions ready kneaded. 
 
 When screaming heretics expire, 
 
 Burnt, as they say, at God’s desire, 
 
 Inquisitors a hundred fold 
 
 More pious seem in robes of gold. 
 
 Without a cassock what’s a parson ? 
 
 How could he keep the holy farce on ? 
 
 Yes, sanctity is all pretence ! 
 
 True piety’s the inward sense 
 Which rites and rubrics sets at naught, 
 
 And adoration is in thought. 
 
 Be this the moral of my verse, 
 
 God regulates the universe ; 
 
 Not all the prayers that e’er were writ 
 Can alter his decrees a bit. 
 
 Ask nothing— r ’tis but blindman’s buff : 
 
 Learn to be thankful — that’s enough ; 
 
T7 
 
 l!2 TIS ALL MY EYE 
 
 Praying, you pray (’tis ten to one) 
 
 For what would best be left undone. 
 
 Religion is, “ To others do 
 
 Whate’er you w r ish were done to you;” 
 
 With that, his thanks to God who pours 
 
 For all his mercies, and adores 
 
 The power that made the joyful earth, 
 
 And gave the sun and planets birth, 
 
 He will not, as was said at starting, 
 
 Find all my eye and Betty Martin. 
 
 TIIE END.