The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe

by Unknown

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES

WINE. JOHN GAY.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus. HOR.

Of happiness terrestrial, and the source
Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse!
Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape,
Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul,
Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature,
And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age,
A kindly warmth diffusing;—youthful fires
Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative to mortal man,
With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd!

Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing,
By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air.
When fumy vapors clog our loaded brows
With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes,
The external symptoms of remorse within,
Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps,
With head incumbent on expanded palm,
Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd;
Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd
The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot
Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd;
Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din,
Who fails not to exalt him to the stars,
And fix him there among the branched crew
(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,
The greatest monsters of the Zodiac),
Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf,
Or Delia's scornful slights, and cold disdain,
Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse,
The worst events that mortals can befall;
By cares depress'd, in pensive hippish mood,
With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll,
Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust,
New life incites, and warms our chilly blood.
Straight with pert looks we raise our drooping fronts,
And pour in crystal pure thy purer juice;—
With cheerful countenance and steady hand
Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim
To the expecting mouth:—with grateful taste
The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue;
The circling blood with quicker motion flies:
Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight
Dispell'st those clouds that, lowering dark, eclips'd
The whilom glories of the gladsome face;—
While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling rolling eyes,
Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim.
So mists and exhalations that arise
From "hills or steamy lake, dusky or gray,"
Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays,
And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold;
Unable to resist, the foggy damps,
That vail'd the surface of the verdant fields,
At the god's penetrating beams disperse!
The earth again in former beauty smiles,
In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets repulse,
Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood
Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours,
Till reinforc'd by thy most potent aid
He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort.

To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing,
The British seaman quits his native shore,
And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss,
Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak,
"With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;"
Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls
In dangers imminent, till she arrives
At those blest climes thou favor'st with thy presence.
Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast,
Or lofty Teneriffe, Palma, Ferro,
Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores,
With gazing pleasure and astonishment,
At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire)
He thinks himself arrived: the purple grapes,
In largest clusters pendent, grace the vines
Innumerous: in fields grotesque and wild,
They with implicit curls the oak entwine,
And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs:
Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought,
Or of left native isle, or absent friends,
Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe,
His kindly treacherous memory now presents;
The jovial god has left no room for cares.

Celestial Liquor! thou that didst inspire
Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard,
With lofty numbers, and heroic strains
Unparallel'd, with eloquence profound,
And arguments convictive, didst enforce
Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd;
Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain
Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet
To jaded Muse, and oft with vain attempt,
Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull,
With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low,
His unrecruited Muse could never reach
The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount
Of bright Lenaean sire, her barren drought
He quench'd, and with inspiring nectarous juice
Her drooping spirits cheer'd:—aloft she towers,
Borne on stiff pennons, and of war's alarms,
And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings.
'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts,
And resolution bold, and ardor brave,
Excit'st: thou check'st inglorious lolling ease,
And sluggish minds with generous fires inflam'st.
O thou! that first my quickened soul didst warm,
Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise,
Thy universal sway o'er all the world,
In everlasting numbers, like the theme,
I may record, and sing thy matchless worth.

Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd,
His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height;
Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd
Aerial; now in Ariconian bogs
She lies inglorious, floundering, like her theme,
Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd
In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest joy from noisy town,
At rural seat, Lucretius retir'd:
Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares,
Where the white poplar and the lofty pine
Join neighboring boughs, sweet hospitable shade,
Creating, from Phoebean rays secure,
A cool retreat, with few well-chosen friends,
On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours
In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse!
With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths,
Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods!
Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls,
And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight,
Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine!
Whether from Formian grape depressed, Falern,
Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine,
Lesbian, or Coecuban, the cheering bowl
Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heighten'd wit
To sing Mecaena's praise, their patron kind.

But we not as our pristine sires repair
To umbrageous grot or vale; but when the sun
Faintly from western skies his rays oblique
Darts sloping, and to Thetis' wat'ry lap
Hastens in prone career, with friends select
Swiftly we hie to Devil,* young or old,
*[Footnote: The Devil's Tavern, Temple Bar.]
Jocund and boon; where at the entrance stands
A stripling, who with scrapes and humil cringe
Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland:
With lightest bound, and safe unerring step,
He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs.
Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue,
And wagging tail, gambols and frisks before
His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd,
Whether in shady wood or pasture green,
And waits his coming at the well-known gate.
Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port,
Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce
Command and sovereignty: with haughty air,
And studied mien, in semicircular throne
Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands;
Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd,
Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine:
Attendant slaves with eager strides advance,
And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud
Words unintelligible, noise confus'd:
She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes,
In characters mysterious, words obscure:
More legible are algebraic signs,
Or mystic figures by magicians drawn,
When they invoke the infernal spirit's aid.

Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance
Of savage Thracians and Croatian boors;
The loud Centaurian broils with Lapithae
Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean god;
Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence
(Amid their cups whose innate temper's shown),
In clumsy fist wielding scymetrian knife,
Who slash each other's eyes, and blubber'd face,
Profaning Bacchanalian solemn rites:
Music's harmonious numbers better suit
His festivals, from instruments or voice,
Or Gasperani's hand the trembling string
Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames,
Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue,
Sweet symphonies should flow: the Delian god
For airy Bacchus is associate meet.
The stair's ascent now gain'd, our guide unbars
The door of spacious room, and creaking chairs
(To ear offensive) round the table sets.
We sit; when thus his florid speech begins:
"Name, sirs! the wine that most invites your taste;
Champaign, or Burgundy, or Florence pure,
Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old,
Bourdeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant."
For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous
Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers).
He quits the room alert, but soon returns,
One hand capacious glistering vessels bears
Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure,
A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught
With goodly wine. He, with extended hand
Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice,
O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon:
We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs:
Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!)
And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best,
Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name
The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile:
With hearty zeal and wish unanimous,
Her health we drink, and in her health our own.

A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat
We improve the interval, and joyous mirth
Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee,
Or witty joke, our airy senses moves
To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room
With universal peals and shouts resounds.

The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen,
Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss
In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame,
And mutual endearments, all her joys,
Like to the kind turtle's pure untainted love,
Center in him, who shares the grateful hearts
Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen;
For by his prudent care united shores
Were sav'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire.

The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits
Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new
We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field.

Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race
Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul
Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd,
That shone in his most worthy ancestors;
For then distinct in separate breasts were seen
Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal
Frugal, but free and generous of his own.
Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland,
And Halifax, the Muses' darling son,
In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine
The surest judgment and the brightest wit,
Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too;
And all the worthies of the British realm,
In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge
The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.

Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye
He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell,
Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes
Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid!—
Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours;
Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye;
All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights
Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records,
Now most we seem'd—such is the power of Wine.

Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth
And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night
Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad
Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise
Of coach, or cant, or smoky link-boy's call,
Is heard—but universal silence reigns;
When we in merry plight, airy and gay,
Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly,
With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord,
Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod:
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs
Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies
His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel
Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our wills;
When we with liberal hand the score discharge,
And homeward each his course with steady step
Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.

ODE ON SCIENCE. DEAN SWIFT.

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells
If fairer science ever dwells
Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave.

For, Melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientific light
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales
Though wrapt from mortal sight

Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magic rites and heathen lore
Obstructed and depress'd;
Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
Untaught, not uninspired, to shine
By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught
To moralize the human thought
Of mad opinion's maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws,
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause,
That blends congenial rays.

Bid bright Astraea gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
To hecatomb the year;
Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng;
Bring sweet philosophy along,
In metaphysic dreams:
While raptured bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
In Heliconian streams.

Drive thraldom with malignant hand,
To curse some other destined land.
By Folly led astray:
Ierne bear on azure wing;
Energic let her soar, and sing
Thy universal sway.

So when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,
Behold the mad'ning throng,
In wonder and oblivion drowned,
To sculpture turned by magic sound,
And petrifying song.

A LOVE SONG, IN THE MODERN TASTE. DEAN SWIFT.

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart:
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourned Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre:
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID. DEAN SWIFT

In ancient time, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what was wonderful) they found
'T was still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry, "What ar't!"
Then softly turn'd aside, to view
Whether the lights were burning blue
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand:
"Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd,
While you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower.
The flier, though it had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't;
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat, which it can not turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter:
And, high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most
Philemon, having paused a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style;
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smoked his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for "right divine;"
Found his head fill'd with many a system;
But classic authors—he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of homespun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edged with colberteen;
Her petticoat transform'd apace,
Became black satin, flounced with lace.
"Plain Goody" would no longer down,
'T was "Madam," in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes.
Amazed to see her look so prim,
And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life,
Were several years this man and wife:
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amid their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cried out,
"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"—
"Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous!
But yet, methinks I feel it true,
And really yours is budding too—
Nay—now I can not stir my foot;
It feels as if 't were taking root."

Description would but tire my Muse,
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays, after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew,
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER IN IMITATION OP VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. DEAN SWIFT.

Careful, observers may foretell the hour,
(By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then, go not far to dine:
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage;
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear.
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this DEVOTED town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach.
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through),
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell
What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course,
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborne bridge.
Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood;
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY; OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY. PETER PINDAR.

Sic transit gloria mundi!—Old Sun Dials.

From House of Buckingham, in grand parade,
To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.

THE ARGUMENT.—Peter's loyalty.—He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote: The Poet Laureate.] of joking.—Complimenteth the poet Laureate.— Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.—Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.—Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.—King Charles the Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.—Peter praiseth himself.—Peter reproved by Mr. Warton.—Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.—A fine simile.—Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.—Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.—Mr. Warton replieth.—Peter administereth bold advice.—Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.—Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.—Peter maketh a natural simile.—Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.—Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing.

THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.—His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.—His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.—Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell street.—Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.—Mr. Ramus's return from his embassy.—Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr. Ramus.—The King's pleasure thereat.—Description of people of worship.—Account of the Whitbread preparation.—The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street.—The arrival at the brewhouse.—Great joy of Mr. Whitbread.—His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.—A West India simile.—The marvelings of the draymen described.—His Majesty peepeth into a pump.—Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.—The MINUTE curiosity of the King.—Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.—His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth wonder.—Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.—His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.—Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—King noteth NOTABLE things.—Profound questions proposed by Majesty.—As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.—Majesty in a mistake.—Corrected by the brewer.—A nose simile.—Majesty's admiration of the bell.—Good manners of the bell.—Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.—Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for answers.—Peter telleth the duty of Kings.— Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.—Sublime sympathy of a water- spout and a king.—The great use of asking questions.—The habitation of truth.—The collation.—The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.—Majesty proposeth to take leave.—Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's objections.—The king runneth a rig on his host.—Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.—Miss Whitbread curtsieth.—The queen dippeth.—The Cavalcade departeth.

Peter triumpheth.—Admonisheth the Laureate.—Peter croweth over the Laureate.—Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who have lost their legs.—Peter reasoneth.—Vaunteth.—Even insulteth the Laureate.—Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.—Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings.

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre,
Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire,
To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk
Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine,
Say, may we venture to believe a line?
You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught;
Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought,
I think, must put a dog into a laugh:
Edward and Harry were much braver men
Than this new-christened hero of thy pen.
Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain,
George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain;
Sees swords and bayonets without a dread,
Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest,
And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest,
Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster;
Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming,
And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine,
With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess:
His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless
With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality,
Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche
As that old queen, though often called old b—ch,
In fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles—that king
Indeed was never any mighty thing;
He merited few honors from the pen:
And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow,
Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow,
And mind—kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms,
Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms,
Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight—
Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids,
Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades:
Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover;
In short, I'm candor's self all over;
Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe;
Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised,
And humble Merit from the ground be raised:
What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king,
Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing;
That king has virtues that should make thee stare."
Is it so?—Then the sin's in me—
'Tis my vile optics that can't see;
Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne,
So distant, O ye gods! from every one,
The royal virtues are like many a star,
From this our pigmy system rather far:
Whose light, though flying ever since creation,
Has not yet pitched upon our nation.
[Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer,
Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored—
And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming,
I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word
The instant I behold it coming.
But, Thomas Warton, without joking,
Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare,
That George the Third
With Cressy's Edward can compare,
Or Harry?—'Tis too bad, upon my word:
George is a clever king, I needs must own,
And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray
What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom:
Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying,
His gracious eyes and ears was edifying,
By abbey company and kettle drum:
Leaving that son to death and the physician,
Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition;
Two poachers, who make man their game,
And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son,
He kept aloof through fatherly affection;
Determined nothing should be done,
To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection.
For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs?
Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes;
And what are sighs and tears but wind and water,
That show the leakiness of feeble nature?

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel;
Like air and any sort of drink,
Whizzing and oozing through each chink,
That proves the weakness of the barrel.

Say—for the prince, when wet was every eye,
And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout;
Say how a King, unable to dissemble,
Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout:

Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear!
Denied till then a thimble full of beer;
For which they've thanked the author of this meter,
Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter
Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim,
And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say—but I'll teach thee how to make an ode;
Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode,
In company with my immortal lay;
And look, Tom—thus I fire away—

BIRTH-DAY ODE.

This day, this very day, gave birth,
Not to the brightest monarch upon earth,
Because there are some brighter and as big;
Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven,
George loves them also, when they're given
To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.*
Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation
Prove what a charming thing is education.
*[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable
part of the royal amusement.]

Full of the art of brewing beer,
The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame:
Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear,
Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name;
Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew—
Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew:
Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!"
Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage,
To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page,
To say that majesty proposed to view,
With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed,
His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed,
And learn the noble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honor proud,
Meet reverently the brewer bowed;
So humbly (so the humble story goes,)
He touched even terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus,
"Happy are we that our great king should name us,
As worthy unto majesty to show,
How we poor Chiswell people brew."

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought,
To majesty tha welcome tidings brought,
How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake,
And trembled—then the civil things he said—
On which the king did smile and nod his head:
For monarchs like to see their subjects quake:

Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are,
Proclaiming reverence and humility:
High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare
Of kingly grandeur and great capability!

People of worship, wealth, and birth,
Look on the humbler sons of earth,
Indeed in a most humble light, God knows!
High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs,
Where ships below appear like little skiffs,
While people walking on the strand like crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made;
Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid
He should not charm enough his guests divine:
He gave his maids new aprons, gowns and smocks;
And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,
To make the apprentices and draymen fine:

Busy as horses in a field of clover,
Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over,
Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation,
To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,
To visit the first brewer in the land;
Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street;
But oftener charmed with fashionable air,
Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO,
His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE.
With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show,
And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes:
For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,
Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod
To smiling Whitbread, who, had God
Come with his angels to behold his beer,
With more respect he never could have met—
Indeed the man was in a sweat,
So much the brewer did the king revere.

Her majesty contrived to make a dip:
Light as a feather then the king did skip,
And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh,
Before poor Whitbread comprehended half.

Reader, my Ode should have a simile—
Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree,
Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews,
I've seen—such noise the feathered imps did make,
As made my very pericranium ache—
Asking and telling parrot news:

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise,
Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys,
Devoured the questions that the king did ask:
In different parties were they staring seen,
Wondering to think they saw a king and queen!
Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon)
Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon;
And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye,
To view, and be assured what sort of things
Were princesses, and queens, and kings,
For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!
And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan,
Few were the mouths that had not got a man!
Now majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:
Examining with care each wondrous matter
That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,
A chattering bird we often meet,
A bird for curiosity well known;
With head awry,
And cunning eye,
Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop
To count the nails on every hoop;
And, lo! no single thing came in his way,
That, full of deep research, he did not say,
"What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?"
So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak,
As if each syllable would break his neck.

Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl,
Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL;
Thus microscopic genuises explore
Things that too oft provoke the public scorn,
Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,
By finding systems in a pepper-corn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare,
To make the majesty of England stare,
That he had butts enough, he knew,
Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew:
On which the king with wonder swiftly cried,
"What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side,
What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?"
To whom with knitted, calculating brow,
The man of beer most solemnly did vow,
Almost to Windsor that they would extend;
On which the king, with wondering mien,
Repeated it unto the wondering queen:
On which, quick turning round his haltered head,
The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed;
The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder,
Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire,
For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire
And, after talking of these different beers,
Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling, disagreeing question;
Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion:
A kind of question to the man of cask,
That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum-book,
With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write—

MEMORANDUM.
A charming place beneath the grates
For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM.
'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer—
Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUOERE.
Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM.
To try it soon on our small beer—
'Twill save us several pound a year.

MEM.
To remember to forget to ask
Old Whitbread to my house one day

MEM.
Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offered me, away.

Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin,
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say,
"Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!"
"Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes,
The brewer answered—"also, sir, of oats:
Another thing my horses too maintains,
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."

"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops? Grains, grains?—that comes from hops—yes, hops, hops? hops?"

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault—
"Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave
Your sacred majesty to undeceive;
Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."

"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile:
"From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while."
"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
"An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure."
"Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply,
"I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."

Now this was wise in Whitbread—here we find
A very pretty knowledge of mankind;
As monarchs never must be in the wrong,
'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue,
To tell a little fib, or some such thing,
To save the sinking credit of a king.
Some brewers, in a rage of information,
Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation,
Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever!
Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain!
The man had cut his consequence in twain;
The king had hated the WISE fool forever!

Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose
That bright with many a ruby glows,
That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear,
Is nursed on something better than small-beer.

Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise,
Or natural history holding lofty station,
Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes,
Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine:
On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye,
Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style,
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs:
On which the observant man, who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Tears and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal,
Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine!
Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?"
To which the king assented with a nod;
On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!"
Then winked significant on Miss;
Significant of wonder and of bliss;
Who, bridling in her chin divine,
Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,
And then her lowest courtesy made
For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say
To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way,
"Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then?
Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?
Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid?
What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!—hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old—
You'll be lord mayor—lord mayor one day—
Yes, yes, I've heard so—yes, yes, so I'm told:
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay?
I'll prick you every year, man, I declare:
Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.

"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?
Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best
You put your liveries on the draymen-hee?
Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock?
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed
If I know what to answer first;"
Then searched his brains with ruminating eye:
But e'er the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong-
From curiosity doth wisdom flow:
For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long,
The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout?
'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No."
Well then! he makes a most infernal rout;
Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below,
With huge proboscis reaching from the sky,
As if he meant to drink the ocean dry:
At length so full he can't hold one drop more-.
He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar
On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship,
And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep:
Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews,
Suck from the tribe of officers the news,
Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter,
And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions;
For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge:
Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions,
Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college;
Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges,
Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell,
Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well,
Questions are then the windlass and the rope
That pull the grave old gentlewoman up:
Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions,
Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs
On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs,
The king and Co. sat down to a collation
Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation.
Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork,
That merciless fell like tomahawks to work,
And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle,
While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath
Amidst the regiments of death,
Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round,
And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer
"Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear,
You're of an ancient family—renowned—
What? what? I'm told that you're a limb
Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:
What Whitbread, is it true what people say?
Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae?
I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes—
A snuffling round-headed society—
Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats—
Bunyans, and Practices of Piety:
Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare—
Rather see cash—yes, yes—than books of prayer.
Thirtieth of January don't you FEED?
Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish,
Whole hosts o'erturned—and seized on all supplies;
The royal visitors expressed a wish
To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite,
Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT.
Unwilling in the list to be enrolled,
Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg,
Then to his generous sovereign made a leg,
And said, "He was afraid he was too old.
He thanked however his most gracious king,
For offering to make him SUCH A THING."
But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear!
It was not age that bade the man of beer
The proffered honor of the monarch shun:
The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright,
Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight,
A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed,
Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:—
A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye;
And though a Presbyterian, can not think
Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink)
Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Caesarean air
Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow,
When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair,
Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow.
Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops,
Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops;
Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips
That never hurt the royal knees and hips;
For hips and knees of queens are sacred things,
That only bend on gala days
Before the best of kings,
When odes of triumph sound his praise.—

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard—P. P.]

Such, Thomas, is the way to write!
Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite;
Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky:
No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings—
Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS;
I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme
Call every king a character sublime;
For conscience will not suffer me to wander
So very widely from the paths of candor.
I know full well SOME kings are to be seen,
To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen,
Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS
I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed—
They MAY have been with such a present blessed,
And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows,
That men who with their legs have parted,
Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES,
And often at the twinges started;
They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!
Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned,
Can fancy those same toes at times returned;
So kings, in matters of intelligences,
May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.
Yes, Tom—mine is the way of writing ode—
Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read;
And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry,
"Is this an action, Peter, this a deed
To raise a monarch to the sky?
Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng,
Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels
On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels—
Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife,
But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact—
Thy Caesar never did an act
More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings,
Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house:
And may they never do more foolish things
Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

While at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is you can not doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe:
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles—in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove as
To think those greater who're above us;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story;
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of ARLINGTON.

Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This too doth in my favor speak;
YOUR levee is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance,
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance
Familiar you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in INDO,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended;
For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever PLACE you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters
Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop:
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French are in my head,
LATIN I write, and GREEK—I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least.
What fittest for?—You know, I'm sure;
I'm fittest for—a SINE-CURE.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER. [Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:]

ANTI-JACOBIN. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. [Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, assumed.]

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order—
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!"

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHIOS

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell:
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her.
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer,
"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish."

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and
"'Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man
tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of
compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up, for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish—
Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first—
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]