Prince of the dark abodes! I ween
Your highness ne'er till now hath seen
Yourself in meter shine;
Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere.
Sweet warbled on your smutty ear,
Before this Ode of mine.
Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,
Of potent verse afraid!
And yet I vow, in all my time,
I've not beheld a single rhyme
That ever spoiled thy trade.
I've often read those pious whims—
John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns,
That chant of heavenly riches.
What have they done?—those heavenly strains,
Devoutly squeezed from canting brains,
But filled John's earthly breeches?
There's not a shoe-black in the land,
So humbly at the world's command,
As thy old cloven foot;
Like lightning dost thou fly, when called,
And yet no pickpocket's so mauled
As thou, O Prince of Soot!
What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,
To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,
"The Devil made me do it."
Behold the fortunes that are made,
By men through rouguish tricks in trade,
Yet all to thee are owing—
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,
This is the Devil's doing.
As to thy company, I'm sure,
No man can shun thee on that score;
The very best is thine:
With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,
And many a grave divine.
I'm sorely grieved at times to find,
The very instant thou art kind,
Some people so uncivil,
When aught offends, with face awry,
With base ingratitude to cry,
"I wish it to the Devil."
Hath some poor blockhead got a wife,
To be the torment of his life,
By one eternal yell—
The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds,
I'd give this moment twenty pounds
To see the jade in hell."
Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want
To make thee downright mad;
For, mind me, in their wishing mood,
They never offer thee what's good,
But every thing that's bad.