In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided
As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes;
In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided,
To keep on his docquet a long string of suits.
Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean,
The matter contested, a pig or a hen;
But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen
To have for his pleading just one pound ten.
With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased,
Each day he had business from wranglesome men,
But all to the‘ squire was a holiday feast
While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten.
A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall
Which cautioned the reader to read and attend,
That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl,
Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend.
Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed
He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw;
From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited
Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law.
Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich
Fed high, and swilled wine‘ till the dropsy began
To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch,
You would hardly have known him to be the same man.
At last he departed, and when he had died,
His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den;
How much is the entrance ( demanded the guide?—)
Old Devil made answer,‘ Tis One Pound Ten.