A Quill-Boy’s Prayercomposed by one of their fraternity
That it may please thee to defend us,
From all the miseries that attend us,
And journeymen-weavers that threaten to mend us
with fighting.
From shoes without soles and never a heel,
From working on Saturday nights at the wheel,
From herrings and sprats for a Sundays meal,
or whitings.
From the curse of Scotland, itch and lice,
From a broken head, or a pair of black eyes,
From losing our wages at wheel-barrow dice,
for oranges.
From lying on straw without blanket or rugs,
From a kick on the arse, or a pull by the lugs,
From the doctrine of Sam.* the maker of mugs,
or porringers.
(*A porter’s ’prentice turn’d preacher in Spittle-fields.)
From chilblain’d feet that are bad as the gout,
From the French refugees, and the Irish rout,
That has done us more harm than the callico clout,
or chinces.
From a mistress that scolds, and a master that swears,
And offers to kick the poor Quill-Boy down stairs,
From the gardiner’s dog when we go to steal pears,
or quinces.
From the whip of a coachman, a lick behind,
From one that weaves faster than poor boys can wind,
And from working to one that is never inclin’d,
to skittles.
From the hands of a miser that worships a broad-piece
From an old pair of breeches that’s out at the codpiece
And from going to bed without eating a good piece
of victuals.
From a master as proud as a Knight of the Shire,
From a garret of thirty shillings a year;
From an half peck of coals, and chandler’s beer,
call’d ratgut.
From a pillory baker’s cheating fraud,
From a cursed bull’s pizzle, preserve us good Lord,
From a treddel, ropes-end, or a whip made of cord,
or catgut.
From the stink of garlick at Phoenix-street,
From a Whig and Tory when ever they meet,
And from cracking of nuts for another to eat
the curnels.
From Christmas without either boil’d or roast,
From a shirt of a groat a yard at the most,
And from making of rhimes for Half-Penny Post,
or Journals.
