Roman and Grecian authors, great and small, The author of the Lousiad beats you all.
What dire emotions shook the monarch's soul! Just like two billiard-balls his eyes 'gan roll. 'How, how—what, what?... what's that, what's that?' he cries With rapid accent and with staring eyes. 'Look there! look there!—what's got into my house? A louse, God bless us! Louse, louse, louse, louse, louse.' The Queen look'd down, and then exclaimed, 'Good la!' And with a smile the dappled stranger saw. Each Princess strain'd her lovely neck to see, And, with another smile, exclaimed, 'Good me!' 'Good la! good me!' 'Is that all you can say?' (Our gracious monarch cry'd, with huge dismay). 'What! what a silly, vacant smile takes place Upon your Majesty's and children's face, Whilst that vile louse (soon, soon to be unjointed!) Affronts the presence of the Lord's anointed!' Dash'd, as if tax'd with hell's most deadly sins, The Queen and Princesses drew in their chins, Look'd prim, and gave each exclamation o'er, And, prudent damsels, 'word spake never more.' Sweet maids! the beauteous boast of Britain's isle, Speak—were those peerless lips forbid to smile? Lips! that the soul of simple Nature moves— Form'd by the beauteous hands of all the Loves! Lips of delight! unstained by satire's gall! Lips! that I never kiss'd—and never shall. Now to each trembling page, a poor mute mouse, The pious monarch cry'd, 'Is this your louse?' 'Ah! Sire,' replied each page, with pig-like whine, 'An't please, your Majesty, it is not mine.' 'Not thine?' the hasty monarch cry'd again— 'What, what? Who's, who's, then? Who the devil's, then?'
'IS THIS YOUR LOUSE?'
Now at this sad event the sovereign, sore Unhappy, could not take a mouthful more; His wiser Queen, her gracious stomach studying, Stuck most devoutly to the beef and pudding; For Germans are a very hearty sort, Whether begot in hog-styes or a court, Who bear (which shows their hearts are not of stone) The ills of others better than their own. Grim terror seiz'd the souls of all the pages, Of different sizes and of different ages; Frighten'd about their pensions or their bones, They on each other gap'd, like Jacob's sons. Now to a page, but which we can't determine, The growling monarch gave the plate and vermin: 'Watch well that blackguard animal,' he cries, 'That, soon or late, to glut my vengeance, dies! Watch, like a cat, that vile marauding louse, Or George shall play the devil in the house. Some spirit whispers, that to cooks I owe The precious visitor that crawls below. Yes, yes! the whisp'ring spirit tells me true, And soon shall vengeance all their locks pursue. Cooks, scourers, scullions, too, with tails of pig, Shall lose their coxcomb curls, and wear a wig.' Thus roar'd the King—not Hercules so big; And all the palace echo'd, 'Wear a wig!' Fear, like an ague, struck the pale-nos'd cooks, And dash'd the beef and mutton from their looks, Whilst from each cheek the rose withdrew its red, And pity blubbered o'er each menac'd head. But, lo! the great cook-major comes! his eyes Fierce as the redd'ning flame that roasts and fries; His cheeks like bladders with high passion glowing, Or like a fat Dutch trumpeter's when blowing. A neat white apron his huge corpse embrac'd, Tied by two comely strings about his waist; An apron that he purchas'd with his riches, To guard from hostile grease his velvet breeches. 'Ye sons of dripping, on your major look! (In sounds of deep-ton'd thunder cry'd the cook), I swear this head disdains to lose its locks; And those that do not, tell them they are blocks. Whose head, my cooks, such vile disgrace endures? Will it be yours, or yours, or yours, or yours? Then may the charming perquisite of grease The mammon of your pocket ne'er increase; Grease! that so frequently hath brought you coin, From veal, pork, mutton, and the great sirloin. O brothers of the spit! be firm as rocks— Lo! to no King on earth I yield these locks. Few are my hairs behind, by age endear'd! But, few or many, they shall not be shear'd.
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Sooner shall ham from fowl and turkey part, And stuffing leave a calf's or bullock's heart: Sooner shall toasted cheese take leave of mustard, And from the codlin tart be torn the custard. Sooner these hands the glorious haunch shall spoil, And all our melted butter turn to oil: Sooner our pious King, with pious face, Sit down to dinner without saying grace; And every night salvation-pray'rs put forth For Portland, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, and North. Sooner shall fashion order frogs and snails, And dishclouts stick eternal to our tails! Let George view ministers with surly looks— Abuse 'em, kick 'em—but revere his cooks!' 'What! lose our locks!' reply'd the roasting crew, 'To barbers yield 'em?—Damme if we do! Be shav'd like foreign dogs, one daily meets, Naked and blue, and shiv'ring in the streets? And from the palace be asham'd to range, For fear the world should think we had the mange?' 'Rouse, Opposition!' roar'd a tipsy cook, With arms akimbo and bubonic look. 'Be shav'd!' a scullion loud began to bellow— Loud as a parish bull, or poor Othello. 'Be shav'd like pigs!' rejoin'd the scullion's mate, His dishclout shaking, and his pot-crown'd pate— 'What barber dares it, let him watch his nose And, curse me!—dread the rage of these ten foes.' 'Be shav'd!' an understrapper turnbroche cry'd, In all the foaming energy of pride— 'Zounds! let us take His Majesty in hand! The king shall find he lives at our command. Yes—let him know, with all his wond'rous state, His teeth and stomach on our wills shall wait. We rule the platters, we command the spit, And George shall have his mess when we think fit; Stay till ourselves shall condescend to eat, And then, if we think proper, have his meat.' 'Heav'ns!' cry'd a yeoman, with much learning grac'd, In books as well as meat a man of taste— 'However modern Kings may cooks despise, Warriors and Kings were cooks, or hist'ry lies. Patroclus broil'd beef-steaks to quell his hunger; The mighty Agamemnon potted conger! And Charles of Sweden, 'midst his guns and drums, Spread his own bread and butter with his thumbs. Be shav'd!—No! Sooner pill'ries, jails, the stocks Shall pinch this corpse, than barbers snatch my locks.'
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Around the table, all with sulky looks, Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks. At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes, The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose; With outstretch'd hands and energetic grace, He fearless thus harangues the roasting race: 'Cooks, scullions—hear me, every mother's son— Know that I relish not this royal fun. What's life,' the major said, 'my brethren, pray, If force must snatch our first delights away? Relentless, shall the royal mandate drag The hairs that long have grac'd this silken bag?— Hairs to a barber scarcely worth a fig— Too few to make a foretop for a wig! Hairs, look, my lads, so wonderfully thin Old Schwellenberg has more upon her chin!'