The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas at the wedding-feast, for Celia won,
By Cymon's coxcomb son!
Aloft in dwarfish state
The foplike bridegroom sat,
And made a deal of fun!
His gallant peers around were plac'd,
Their hair all curl'd and dress'd in newest taste:
(Of powder what prodigious waste!)
The simp'ring Celia by his side,
His lace and gewgaws fondly ey'd,
And swell'd her little heart with pride.
Proper, proper, proper pair!
None but a rake,
None but a rake
Such pains would take to gain a fickle fair.

II.

Mungo was there, and did well,
And led the cap'ring choir;
With fumbling fingers twang'd the fiddle:
The notes awake the am'rous fire,
And drinking joys inspire.
The song began of beaux,
And whence the order rose;
(Such wond'rous things a fiddler knows)
A monkey's grinning form in utmost vigour,
Bely'd a macaroni's noble figure;
When he to fair Coquetta prest,
A while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a coxcomb of the world.
A present fop! they shot around;
A present fop! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears,
The fopling hears;
Assumes the shape,
Looks like an ape,
And grins, and laughs, and sneers.

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III.

The praise of Bacchus then the thirsty fiddler sung;
Of Bacchus, ever plump and ever young:
The jolly god to wedding comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple nose,
His pimpled face he shows.
Now give the boy a dram. He comes, he comes!
Bacchus! plump and merry younker,
Makes the wedding-folks get drunker;
Bacchus taught to toast the lasses;
Tippling ev'ry joy surpasses,
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
After drinking to break glasses.

IV.

Sooth'd with the sound, the fop grew vain,
Talk'd all his courtship o'er again,
And thrice he kiss'd the girls all round, and thrice they fled amain.
The fiddler saw the mischief rise,
His yawning mouth, his maudlin eyes;
And while he sense and song defied,
Chang'd his hand, and strok'd the bride.
He chose a doleful ditty,
To work him up to pity:
He sung poor Damon's cruel wrongs,
By too severe a fate,
Banish'd, banish'd, banish'd, banish'd,
Banish'd for his small estate,
And writing mournful songs:
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By all Apollo's tuneful breed;
On an old feather-bed he lies,
Nor dullness self will close his eyes:
With stupid stare the joyless fopling sat,
Revolving in his alter'd soul,
The various turns of fate and fun;
And now and then a drink he stole,
And streams began to run.

V.

The mighty fiddler smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree:
To touch that string was little labour,
For love to pity is next neighbour.

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Softly sweet he tun'd his fiddle,
Soon it sounded, tiddle, diddle.
Trade, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Money but an empty bubble;
Constant hurry, still beginning,
Constant cheating, never ending;
If a fortune's worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth thy spending!
Lovely Celia sits beside thee;
Drink about, and luck betide thee.
The many rend the bowls with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but liquor won the cause.
The fop, grown addled in his noddle,
Gaz'd on his bride,
And then his bottle,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and look'd and sigh'd.
At length for love, and drinking more unable,
The tipsy bridegroom fell beneath the table.

VI.

Now tug the wooden lyre again:
A harder yet, and yet a harder strain.
Let scolding break his sleep asunder,
And start him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, Xantippe's fable
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And he peeps out from under the table.
Revenge, revenge, dark Mungo cries,
See the cuckolds arise!
See the horns that they rear,
How they look in their hair,
And the tears that roll down from their eyes!
Behold the hen-peck'd band,
In ghostly terrors stand!
These are husbands whose couches have met with a stain;
Whose wives still remain,
Unconcern'd with their pain:
Give the vengeance due,
To the cuckold crew.
Behold how they toss their foreheads up higher,
How they point to the bed-rooms around,
And warn ev'ry pair to retire:
The cronies applaud with a Bacchanal sound:

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And each in a rapture laid hold on his Helen:
The way fair Celia led,
To light the bucks to bed;
The rest is scarce worth telling.

VII.

Thus long ago,
Ere younger Cymon's horns began to grow,
While Celia's tongue lay still,
Dark Mungo show'd prodigious skill,
Both as a singer,
And when he touch'd his lyre with heavy thumb and finger.
But when the shrill-voic'd Celia came,
And tun'd to rage her vocal frame;
The gifted scold from her unborrow'd store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to jarring sounds
With nature's mother-wit, and screams unknown before.
Let Mungo, if he's able,
Do more—or yield the wreath—
He stretch'd a fop beneath the table,
She scolded him to death.