The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
|
AN ODE TO
A GREAT MAN'S GREAT PORTER. |
|
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
295
AN ODE TO A GREAT MAN'S GREAT PORTER.
Sweet Cerberus, let dainty sonnets move
thee,
So may Apollo and the Muses love thee;
Crown thy proud front with wreaths so fine;
O! let a poor, lean, hungry Orpheus dine!
So may Apollo and the Muses love thee;
Crown thy proud front with wreaths so fine;
O! let a poor, lean, hungry Orpheus dine!
In vain—no modulations charm thy breast,
Harder than brass, or bookseller, or marble;
Thou long'st to crush the muses little nest,
Lo! thou wouldst castrate ev'ry bard,
Which usage is confounded hard,
To spoil their vigour, not to make them warble.—
Some critic, felon, gave thee form,
With nails corroded, and obstetic pain,
Th' impenetrable offspring of his brain,
While printer's devils bestrode the howling storm;
Yes, caitiff, thou hast vitriol suck'd, with aquafortis,
For murd'ring songsters thy infernal sport is!
Harder than brass, or bookseller, or marble;
Thou long'st to crush the muses little nest,
Lo! thou wouldst castrate ev'ry bard,
Which usage is confounded hard,
To spoil their vigour, not to make them warble.—
Some critic, felon, gave thee form,
With nails corroded, and obstetic pain,
Th' impenetrable offspring of his brain,
While printer's devils bestrode the howling storm;
Yes, caitiff, thou hast vitriol suck'd, with aquafortis,
For murd'ring songsters thy infernal sport is!
296
I have no golden branch, God help the while,
To make this fiend-like sybil smile;
This sybil, scatt'ring my fair leaves about,
This ghost of opposition, swift interring,
My still-born verses with an hideous shout,
And knocking genius dead as any herring.
Tygers and Russian bears would spare the darlings,
Yet thou, vile ox-cheeks, choak the pretty starlings;
The pretty starlings, wont of yore,
Amid the radiant blaze of morn to soar,
Swelling their tuneful throats, their small wings flutt'ring,
Still, Cyclops, thou'rt lewd curses mutt'ring;
Still like a hell-hound, barking loud and dread;
Good hell-hound, quick chop off my tuneful head,
Or, let me enter thy enchanted hall,
For either by thy teeth, or sharper want, I fall;
Sad luck, indeed, but not uncommon!
So damme, in I rush, despite of frowns,
And parte-colour'd, bluff-cheek'd clowns;
Assurance be my guide, I die a Roman!
To make this fiend-like sybil smile;
This sybil, scatt'ring my fair leaves about,
This ghost of opposition, swift interring,
My still-born verses with an hideous shout,
And knocking genius dead as any herring.
Tygers and Russian bears would spare the darlings,
Yet thou, vile ox-cheeks, choak the pretty starlings;
The pretty starlings, wont of yore,
Amid the radiant blaze of morn to soar,
Swelling their tuneful throats, their small wings flutt'ring,
Still, Cyclops, thou'rt lewd curses mutt'ring;
Still like a hell-hound, barking loud and dread;
Good hell-hound, quick chop off my tuneful head,
Or, let me enter thy enchanted hall,
For either by thy teeth, or sharper want, I fall;
Sad luck, indeed, but not uncommon!
So damme, in I rush, despite of frowns,
And parte-colour'd, bluff-cheek'd clowns;
Assurance be my guide, I die a Roman!
| The Harp of Erin | |