Where the Mob gathers, swiftly shoot along,
Of Pick-Pockets.
Nor idly mingle in the noisy Throng.
Lur’d by the Silver Hilt, amid the Swarm,
The subtle Artist will thy Side disarm.
Nor is thy Flaxen Wigg with Safety worn;
High on the Shoulder, in a Basket borne,
Lurks the sly Boy; whose Hand, to Rapine bred,
Plucks off the curling Honours of thy Head.
Here dives the skulkingskulking: sneaking, lurking. Thief, with practis’d Slight
And unfelt Fingers make thy Pocket light.
Where’s now thy Watch, with all its Trinkets, flown?
And thy late Snuff-BoxSnuff-Box: box to hold snuff, otherwise known as powdered tobacco. is no more thy own.
But, lo! his bolder Thefts some Tradesman spies,
Swift from his Prey the scuddingscudding: darting, lurcherLurcher: one who steals or pilfers. flies;
Dext’rous he ’scapes the Coach, with nimble Bounds,
Whilst ev’ry honest Tongue Stop Thief resounds.
So
So speeds the wily Fox, alarm’d by Fear,
Who lately filch’d the Turkey’s callow Care;
Hounds following Hounds, grow louder as he flies,
And injur’d Tenants joyn the Hunter’s Cries.
Breathless he stumbling falls: Ill-fated Boy!
Why did not honest Work thy Youth employ?
Seiz’d by rough Hands, he’s dragg’d amid the Rout,Rout: a “clamorous multitude; a rabble; a tumultuous croud” (Johnson).
And stretch’d beneath the Pump’s incessant Spout;
Or plung’d in miry Ponds, he gasping lies,
Mud chokes his Mouth, and plasters o’er his Eyes.
Of Ballad-Singers.
Let not the Ballad-Singer’s shrilling Strain,
Amid the swarm, thy list’ning Ear detain:
Guard well thy Pocket; for these Syrens stand,
To aid the labours of the diving hand;
Confed’rate in the Cheat, they draw the Throng,
And Cambrick HandkerchiefsCambrick Handkerchiefs: linen made in Cambray, a city in Flanders. This style of linen was often used to make women’s
sleeves.
reward the Song.
So