 | The Poems of John Byrom |  |
74
THE POETASTER.
I
When a Poet, as Poetry goes now-a-days,Takes it into his Head to put in for the Bays,
With an old Book of Rimes and a Half-pint of Claret
To cherish his Brains, mounted up to his Garret,
Down he sits with his Pen, Ink and Paper before him,
And labours as hard as his Mother that bore him.
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II
Thus plac'd, on the Candle he fixes his Eyes,And upon the bright Flame on't looks wonderful wise;
Then, snuffing it close, he takes hold of his Pen,
And, the Subject not starting, he snuffs it again;
Till perceiving at last that not one single Thought,
For all his wise Looks, will come forth as it ought,
With a Bumper of Wine he emboldens his Blood,
And prepares to receive it, whenever it should.
III
Videlicet: first, he invokes the nine Muses,Or some one of their Tribe for his Patroness chooses;
The Girl, to be sure, that of all the long Nomine
Best suits with his Rime, as for instance, Melpomene.
And what signifies then this old Bard-beaten Whim?
What's he to the Muses, or th' Muses to him?
Why, the Bus'ness is this: the poor Man, lack-a-day,
At first setting out, don't know well what to say.
IV
Then he thinks of Parnassus and Helicon Streams,And of old musty Bards mumbles over the Names;
Talks much to himself of one Phœbus Apollo,
And a Parcel of Folk that in's Retinue follow;
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Of Mountains, and Nymphs, and a hundred fine Things:
Tho' with Mountains and Streams, and his Nymphs of Parnáss,
The Man, after all, is but just where he was.
| The Poems of John Byrom | |