Grand history on curious subjects, both entertaining and pleasant/On the Troublesomeness of Beards Shaving

On the troublesomeness of Beards Shaving.

BLEST is the man who wants a beard,
⁠Tho he should never be a laird,
His chin is always smooth and short,
No filthy razor needs be bought;
His face is always a-la-mode,
May ay be seen among the crowd;
No greasy soap besmears his face,
It constant shines with nature’s grace,
Unrub'd with brush, unscrap’t with razor,
Its nature hue is white with azure;
It still continues brisk and gay,
And constant shines so every day.
To want a beard makes man look young,
Apollo’s praise has oft been sung,
Who unshorn his hair upon his beard,
He was as bluff as a Fife laird.
A beard is but a hedge-hog’s skin,
A haunt for vermin to lodge in;
A source of many woes and troubles,
A hold for snuff; a haunt for bubbles,
A meadow water’d by the nose,
Where snotters in meanders flows;
A beard makes man look like a goat,
If give him but a white kelt coat:
So now a beard costs very dear,
It costs two hundred pence a year;
There’s no religion in a beard,
More than is in a moulder’d t—rd;
Three beards 'tis true will make a quorum,
Of old they grac’d philosophorum.
It ill becomes a modern beau,
Thro’ musty heard his smiles to shew,
He who does praise a beard does scoff,
The barber's paid to cut it off;
A beard no manly face adorns,
Nor son of man a cuckold’s horns.
A bristley beard produceth horns,
A lady hates a beard of thorns;
A beard’s a brush to wear the cravat,
Such ornament befits a cat.
Man’s honour is to be like women,
Their chins should both be smooth in common.
Why have not women beards you’ll say,
Why is not midnight turn’d to day?
A beard would overcast their charms,
The moon is hid among the storms;
If women, either old or young,
Till shaven, could they hold their tongue.
Nature deny’d them beard and horn,
Gave those the masc’line head t’adorn:
Deliver me from horn and beard,
I yield them glad to lord or laird;
A beard will cause the women hate,
And horns will make me claw my pate.
A beard is brush-wood on the face,
A crop luxuriant of disgrace:
A downy beard betokens youth,
A grey one age, such is the truth;
To be too young or yet too old,
I fear would make my Missie cold;
I am freed from my beard you’ll say,
That we ne’er meet again, I pray.