 | Young Arthur |  |
VARIATION IV.
Apology for Piracy and other Pleasantries.
There was a man once, called Paul Jones,
In seventeen hundred eighty-six,
Or thereabouts; who sail'd the zones,
Playing strange free and easy tricks;
Sir Gorman like, a pirate he,
A sort of highwayman at sea.
His mother, who from Scotia came,
Was told her son was much to blame;
She snuff'd and answered “troth mon, how?
“The chield's in honest track I trow;
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
“The bairn mun get a wee bit bread.”
This is the reason often given
Why many a roguery has thriven:
Hence minor authors pirate major;
The smuggler hence out-wits the gauger;
For this the sophist steals our senses
By tricksy truths and pert pretences;
For this the soi-disant reformer
Becomes of sacred holds a stormer;
For this, too, many a canting wretch
Fabricates, with trick and fetch,
A code of laws, and calls 'em God's,
'Gainst which might Mah'met lay the odds;
For this, too, fiends, like great Voltaire —
(Great little man! of pride's worst lair;
In genius shining 'bove his peers,
In grace decrepid as in years;
Who damn'd the pow'rs by God's grace given
By, Titan-like, attacking heaven;
And yet not Titan-like, declining
Open attack for undermining;
His Helicon mad Folly's Fountain —
A mite would undermine a mountain!—)
For this, like Voltaire, many a fool
Has called in question Christian rule;
Assum'd a why for every wherefore,
With blind “because,” and stumbling “therefore;”
All plainly proving, while they flout it,
They know no single thing about it;
And ask you why these cheats and drones
Are suffered?—Answer, Mrs. Jones:
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
The bairns mun get a wee bit bread;”
Tho' in the stale, but shrew'd retort,
“I really see no reason for't.”
Why did I write? it may be said;
I only plead — “a wee bit bread;”
And if “no reason for't” you see,
Why should that reason prove to me?
But much I fear our mincing taste
May argue elegance disgrac'd
By this rude metre; pardon, pray!
My Pegasus, with ears distended,
Haply from Balaam's is descended;
And native asinine note's bray.
Still if to fine ears there's offence in't,
There's some degree of common sense in't —
Not in my verse — I mean in braying,
Which is, tho' coarse, pure nature's saying;
And Nature, unsophisticated
Reason yet never under-rated.
Taste, who contemns it is — a brute —
Refinement, who its worth dispute
Scout 'em — yet glossy is not grac'd;
Nor is fastidiousness fine taste:
The spreading oak and poplar spare
Show what we are, and what we were.
See, by some stream, a graceful show
Of towering poplars; to and fro
Waving, like birth day plumes of pride,
Bowing discreetly to the tide,
Their flatt'ring mirror; while there plac'd
The stream they, by absorption, waste;
And by their blighting pow'r confound
The soul of vegetation round;
Mere weed and water, soon they drop,
And, turn'd, augment the toyman's shop.
In seventeen hundred eighty-six,
Or thereabouts; who sail'd the zones,
Playing strange free and easy tricks;
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A sort of highwayman at sea.
His mother, who from Scotia came,
Was told her son was much to blame;
She snuff'd and answered “troth mon, how?
“The chield's in honest track I trow;
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
“The bairn mun get a wee bit bread.”
This is the reason often given
Why many a roguery has thriven:
Hence minor authors pirate major;
The smuggler hence out-wits the gauger;
For this the sophist steals our senses
By tricksy truths and pert pretences;
For this the soi-disant reformer
Becomes of sacred holds a stormer;
For this, too, many a canting wretch
Fabricates, with trick and fetch,
94
'Gainst which might Mah'met lay the odds;
For this, too, fiends, like great Voltaire —
(Great little man! of pride's worst lair;
In genius shining 'bove his peers,
In grace decrepid as in years;
Who damn'd the pow'rs by God's grace given
By, Titan-like, attacking heaven;
And yet not Titan-like, declining
Open attack for undermining;
His Helicon mad Folly's Fountain —
A mite would undermine a mountain!—)
For this, like Voltaire, many a fool
Has called in question Christian rule;
Assum'd a why for every wherefore,
With blind “because,” and stumbling “therefore;”
All plainly proving, while they flout it,
They know no single thing about it;
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Are suffered?—Answer, Mrs. Jones:
“Aw's clishmaclaver may be said,
The bairns mun get a wee bit bread;”
Tho' in the stale, but shrew'd retort,
“I really see no reason for't.”
Why did I write? it may be said;
I only plead — “a wee bit bread;”
And if “no reason for't” you see,
Why should that reason prove to me?
But much I fear our mincing taste
May argue elegance disgrac'd
By this rude metre; pardon, pray!
My Pegasus, with ears distended,
Haply from Balaam's is descended;
And native asinine note's bray.
Still if to fine ears there's offence in't,
There's some degree of common sense in't —
Not in my verse — I mean in braying,
Which is, tho' coarse, pure nature's saying;
And Nature, unsophisticated
Reason yet never under-rated.
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Refinement, who its worth dispute
Scout 'em — yet glossy is not grac'd;
Nor is fastidiousness fine taste:
The spreading oak and poplar spare
Show what we are, and what we were.
See, by some stream, a graceful show
Of towering poplars; to and fro
Waving, like birth day plumes of pride,
Bowing discreetly to the tide,
Their flatt'ring mirror; while there plac'd
The stream they, by absorption, waste;
And by their blighting pow'r confound
The soul of vegetation round;
Mere weed and water, soon they drop,
And, turn'd, augment the toyman's shop.
The native oak, like freedom's form,
Stands ever struggling with the storm;
No evil spreads, yet shows the eye
The picturesque of dignity;
Its clustering boughs a shelter spread,
And awful honour crowns its head;
Friend through a life which ages
boasts,
When fell'd, the bulwark of our coasts.
Stands ever struggling with the storm;
No evil spreads, yet shows the eye
The picturesque of dignity;
Its clustering boughs a shelter spread,
And awful honour crowns its head;
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When fell'd, the bulwark of our coasts.
But of our tale if more you'd learn,
On — to the God-send we return.
On — to the God-send we return.
Paul Jones was a celebrated naval adventurer in the time of the American war: he was a most brave and daring man, an excellent seaman, and a good officer; he was born at Selkirk in Scotland; but, proving a traitor to his country, fought under the Ameriean flag, and committed many depredations. He died at Paris in 1792. I have rather taken a liberty in calling him a pirate; though he was generally considered so at the time of his numerous and remarkable exploits. The anecdote related of his mother I met with in an old newspaper.
| Young Arthur | |