The Tallow Chandler Poem by Charles Robert Forrester

Oh! sadly sing my weeping Muse
'Till Echo mourn again;
An honest Tallow-Chandler's dirge,
Should be a melting strain.
Although no hero, Dicky Dip,
And living, aye, in peace,
His deeds would not disgrace the pen
Of Homer—Bard of Greece.

If Southey, in chaste elegance,
His life to write should chuse;
'Twould be but neighbourly—as Dick
Lived near the Royal Mews.
Or blandest Moore in jewel-verse,
His eulogy might pour;—
For Dick who read a—Little once,
Now wished to study—Moore.
For other's woes, his neighbours know,
Poor Dicky keenly felt,—
The wants of fellow-creatures made
The Tallow-Chandler melt!
His money-bags were full of gold,
And pity on his lip,
And all the poor that came to buy,
He let them have—a dip!
Tho' damsels short he lov'd right well,
He better lov'd long nights,
For he thought not of his heart so much
As he thought of—his lights.

And he preferred a slender form
In maidens fair and chaste;
Yet, being saving, he was grieved
To see a taper waste!
Tho' he was far from all his friends,
And relatives most dear,
Whene'er they wanted aid of him,
They always found him—near.
Quoth he: 'Trade is an ocean wide;
'I must provide for gales;
'For like unto a sailor, I
'Depend upon my sales!'
All dogs Dick lov'd as guardians true
Of property from knaves;
Yet (oh! 'twas strange!) most gladly he
Provided them with graves.
In hot disputes, or quarrels fierce,
Where blows were like to fall,
He proved himself a man of wax,
By running—from them all.

The Widow Coles sought Dicky once,
And fat and rich was she,
But she lov'd drops, so he declined,
To make her—Mrs. D---.
She had a thousand pounds or more,
Or Rumor told some flams—
Her pounds with Dick had weight, but then
He'd a scruple 'gainst her drams!
And so he single liv'd, and look'd
As lean as any rat,
And all declared his trade would fail,
Unless that he got—fat!
His eyes grew dim—his limbs grew weak,
He sad began to turn,
He found that, like a candle-wick,
Life would not longer burn.
A winding-sheet a warning gave
His life would quickly slip;
And in his mould, original,
Did Death cast Dicky Dip!

Ah! little did he think his goods
Strange hands would so soon handle;—
For he was buried by torch-light,
His stock sold—by the candle!