University of Virginia Library

Q. F. F. Q. S. CLOACINA'S COMPLAINT TO THE COLLEGE OF CLUTHA.

In other Temples, lo, the tapers' ray
Makes midnight almost emulate the day;
Ev'n private shrines the nightly lamp illumes,
And oily incense drowns mephitic fumes,—
Witness that sacred dome, so fine, where John,
Seated with breeches off, yea, And arse on,
Ponders and pores o'er many a learned Work,
Reads Thomas Paine, and tears poor Edmund Burke.
But to my theme—Soon as the wint'ry Sun,
His race nigh finish'd ere 'tis well begun,
Sinks down to rest amidst the Atlantic wave,
Here darkness drear as in Cimmerian cave
Prevails. And, tho' 'tis chief at morning hour
My vot'ries come their orisons to pour,
Yet hither too some pious souls repair
To join with bended knee in evening pray'r:
Then, ah! too oft the offerings, that are paid,
Not on my altar but my throne are laid.
Ev'n Porcus self, tho' provident he keeps
A lantern burning, even while he sleeps,
Not retro in his poop but in his rostrum,
Like Bardolph's,—or as if 'twere stung by œstrum,—
Ev'n he (for oft this lamp of his untrimm'd
Sheds “a religious light,” by snuff bedimm'd)
Ev'n Porcus self with many a grunt and sigh
Commits mistakes, and leaves my shrine a sly.
But 'tis not on my own account alone
That this most just complaint I here propone,
Nor is it with intention to bespatter
My honour'd, venerable Alma Mater,
But (Jove juvante) all to put a stop
To those mishaps, which they who hither grope,
Oft meet withal. For who can unconcern'd
Behold a youth, with gown and hose well darn'd,
(Festina lente quite forgotten in
His hurry) fall, and cut both hose and shin?—
Mistake his exercise for taylor's bill,—
Or 'stead of Homer tear his F---y H---ll,—
Or make Meanderings of Fancy kiss
His breech—instead of Casus Principis:
('Twas darkness thus made Jacob in idea
Kiss Rachel, while he kiss'd the blear'd eyed Leah.)
O then, may you, to whom the power pertains
Of hindering such mishaps, list to my strains;
A suppliant Deity, O view with pity,
Who asks—not tapers dipt in spermaceti,
Who asks no patent lamp, no waxen light,
But, or—such oil as Luss's thrifty Knight
In drops, like laud'num, on his sallad sprinkles,—
Or—farthing candle, such as dimly twinkles
In's bottle, never turn'd to other use,
Save when it holds the currant's vinous juice,
Juice which doth gripe his Knightship's guts full sore,
But other guts, not season'd to it, more,
Juice which, I pray, may be the mortal dose
Of all who these my just demands oppose.