 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
106
THE VAPOUR'D INDIAN.
A patriot Indian, fam'd of old;
By some strange Boding was foretold,
That, shou'd He let his Urine go,
The Plains of Bisnagar wou'd flow.
What! drown my Country! cries the Sage;
May Heav'n avert such impious Rage!
Once, shou'd I let this Engine play,
Swains, Flocks, and Folds were swept away,
The Tow'rs of Bisnagar wou'd fall,
And one wide Ruin swallow all.
No Doctors, let me burst, He cries—
Then sigh'd, and closer squeez'd his Thighs.
By some strange Boding was foretold,
That, shou'd He let his Urine go,
The Plains of Bisnagar wou'd flow.
What! drown my Country! cries the Sage;
May Heav'n avert such impious Rage!
Once, shou'd I let this Engine play,
Swains, Flocks, and Folds were swept away,
The Tow'rs of Bisnagar wou'd fall,
And one wide Ruin swallow all.
No Doctors, let me burst, He cries—
Then sigh'd, and closer squeez'd his Thighs.
107
A long-wig'd Wight, who smok'd th' Affair,
Some honest Garth of Bisnagar,
By Night, half-naked, out of Breath,
Flew to his Chamber, pale as Death.
“Thou Patriot Spirit! truly brave!
“Now, now, thy falling Country save.
“Wide-wasting Flames, impetuous, roll,
“And spread their Rage from Pole to Pole.
“Behold 'em there — now, now let fly,
“And Play thy Fountain thro' the Sky.
“O great Ton Kan! my Country's Father,
“Reply'd the Man who strain'd his Bladder,
Turn'd up to Heav'n his Eyes devout;
Then p*****, and put the Candle out.
Now who, good Reader, knows but you
May be a vapour'd Indian too?
Some Sage, that weigh the Brittle Lots
Of Kingdoms, and of Coffee-Pots.
Who, while You state the mighty Matter,
Scratch your wise Pate, and hold your Water.
Some Bard, perhaps, in lonely Garret,
Whose whole Day's Mess is half a Carrot.
Who still tag on th' eternal Chime,
As if to live were but to rhyme;
And swell the Bladder of your Brain;
Like the poor Indian, plagu'd in vain.
Some honest Garth of Bisnagar,
By Night, half-naked, out of Breath,
Flew to his Chamber, pale as Death.
“Thou Patriot Spirit! truly brave!
“Now, now, thy falling Country save.
“Wide-wasting Flames, impetuous, roll,
“And spread their Rage from Pole to Pole.
“Behold 'em there — now, now let fly,
“And Play thy Fountain thro' the Sky.
“O great Ton Kan! my Country's Father,
“Reply'd the Man who strain'd his Bladder,
Turn'd up to Heav'n his Eyes devout;
Then p*****, and put the Candle out.
Now who, good Reader, knows but you
May be a vapour'd Indian too?
108
Of Kingdoms, and of Coffee-Pots.
Who, while You state the mighty Matter,
Scratch your wise Pate, and hold your Water.
Some Bard, perhaps, in lonely Garret,
Whose whole Day's Mess is half a Carrot.
Who still tag on th' eternal Chime,
As if to live were but to rhyme;
And swell the Bladder of your Brain;
Like the poor Indian, plagu'd in vain.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |