Trinculo's trip to the Jubilee :: :: University of Virginia Library

Trinculo's trip to the Jubilee

Inscribed to John Stevenson Hall, Esq; By Mr. Thompson

Thompson, Edward (1738?-1786)

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TO JOHN HALL, Esq

TRINCULO'S TRIP TO THE JUBILEE.

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TO JOHN HALL, Esq

With me your humour still prevails,
Author of Wit, and Crazy-tales;
And tho' with Hall I am no crony,
Yet I admire his Makarony .
When Churchill liv'd, with you I walk'd,
As other Bards might do, and talk'd
Of common themes, and common things,
Of common Ministers, and Kings;
Ribbands, Petitions, Wilkes and Burk,
The Bill of Rights—the Men of York.—
But when he shot from this bright star,
And left poor Me, and sweet Miss ***;
Then; then I lost both him and you,
Forsook my Muse, forsook my Kew;
To Scotland fled to serve the state,
And liv'd among the clan I hate.—

A highland clan which I condemn,
The meanest, proudest, poorest men:
But yet I do not mean to wound,
The Worthies on the Lowland Ground:
For men there are of sense and spirit,
Men, of integrity and merit.
This panegyrick's truely due,
Great honour Saddle dwells in you;
As virtue in your lovely wife;
And heaven protect ye thro' the maze of life!
Keep me, ye Lords! to good beef-steaks,
Nor starve me in the Land of Cakes;
Where men and horses one food eat,
And oat bread's deem'd luxurious treat.
I envy not their freckled fair,
Their barren hills, and nipping air:
One thing I warmly wish indeed,
Some were restrain'd beyond the Tweed;
'Twould be a curse (cou'd they nor roam)
A curse, to keep them all at home.—
If exile is to be my curse,
Without a friend, without a purse;

iii

If I like Ovid am to quit,
The Girl of Love, the Man of Wit:
Maria kind on whom I doat,
Nor she more fair, of whom he wrote;
Nor any Nymph that Naso knew,
Though mighty Rome produc'd them too:
If my Corinna stays behind,
Than his, she'll not be less unkind:
But mine's so loving, and so good,
She'll follow o'er the briny stood:
And there will raise the fav'rite toast,
The Venus of a kinder coast.
If ev'ry ill I am to bear,
Without a sigh—or Kindred tear;
Inclement clouds, dark freezing sky,
Where toads but crawl, and bats but fly:
Of raiment strip'd, without a shed,
And thunders rolling o'er my head:
If ev'ry day like that shou'd spout,
When Gonril turn'd her father out:
Or shou'd an Aunt, or Sister prove,
As dead to nature, as to love;
Or hypocritick Brother come,
With new coin'd lies—to damn my doom:

Or bring that thing he calls a wife,
To stir up pestilence and strife;
All these attack—nay, thousands more.
In Lapland, or the Scottish shore:
'Tis immaterial when and where,
Maria's charms can smooth the brow of care.
E'en then we'll sing a madrigal,
To Love, to Friendship, and to Hall;
Give up with joy this motley scene,
Laugh to the last like Arrtin .

Now Bird of Freedom strain your throat,
Give Liberty your highest note!
Then Hall may turn his ear awhile to you,
The wildest Black-Bird in the Groves of Kew.

Fables so called.

Mr. Johnson, in his Dictionary, says, “Oats. A grain which, in England, is generally given to horses—but in Scotland supports the people”.

King Lear's Daughter.

He fell backwards in his chair, in a fit of laughter, and expired.

TRINCULO'S TRIP TO THE JUBILEE.

Silver fair the morning rose,
When I huddled on my cloaths;
Cloaths nor old, cloaths nor new,
Humble white, and humble blue:
When my cloak-back Joseph took,
Oh! I turn'd, gave such a look;
Who could Pollia quit and Kew,
Nor a sigh to Love and you.

Soon we roll'd in coach and four,
Davy Garrick had no more;
We were jollity and glee,
Swinging, singing, merrily,
Rolling to the Jubilee.
You'd have laugh'd indeed, like us,
To have seen each trav'ler's fuss;
In a buggy comes a Priest,
Next a coach, four Whores at least;
In a whisky Brim and Rogue,
Sort of trav'ling much in vogue;
Stages fill'd without, within,
Full of sweat, and full of sin;
All was hurry, heat and lust,
Full of nonsense, full of dust:
When we came to Oxford town,
Scarce a trencher left or gown;
For none can deny this poetical truth,
That in age there is folly, as well as in youth;
In the streets you might hear the poor country dame,
Crying, “Lord, Neighbour Swan, what a sin and a shame;

“That our spouses should go from the harvest to see,
“All these folks helter-skelter, and the Jumbilee.”—
The town being forlorn, we deserted it soon,
And trundled to Woodstock sometime after noon;
Where we only found three trades,
Carry'd on by pretty maids;
Lovely glovers.
Am'rous lovers,
Taking smiling, pleasing stitches,
Stitching gloves, and sewing breeches,
O! ye sweet bewitching Witches!
Tho' on our way to Shakespeare's hallow'd shrine,
We paus'd to rev'rence Chaucer the divine;
The boast of Woodstock , and the reading few,
The first great Bard that England ever knew.
Here Blenheim stands, which Ann to Churchill gave,
Who ever knew a Churchill was a slave?
From godlike Marlb'ro' down to modern days,
Hero and Bard deserv'd a nation's praise.
But B******, B******, how I grieve thy state,
Now despicably low, as whilom princely great;

Shall B******'s Duke thus speak on ev'ry wall,
“All come at three, or ye shan't come at all;”
And when we come shall we contribute too,
To pay the wages of the menial crew;
Blush, if a blush remains most docile D***,
And pay your Butler, Coachman, Footman, Cook!
Your lofty gates let curious strangers pass,
As well as beast, indulg'd to tread the grass!
Next to Shipston we came,
A town of no fame;
Where chaises came in upon coaches,
And coaches came in upon chaise;
The streets, and the inns, and the very highways,
Were nothing but chaises and coaches,
And nothing but coaches and chaise.
When we enter'd Warwickshire,
Each began to prick his ear;
Each a rumbling felt within,
To the cholick near a-kin;
'Twas not wind as some may think,
Upwards four, and downwards stink;
No, 'twas Poesy and Fancy,
Ent'ring in triumphal cars;

Sprights, which Phoebus only can see,
Blazing, brilliant, burning stars:
For such inspiration,
Is oft' a vexation;
It brought on a grumbling,
Which caused a rumbling,
And made us all to flounder, fick and fidge,
Until we came to stradling Stratford bridge,
Where, near silver Avon's side,
Stood the booth, sweet Pleasure's pride;
Like the ark contriv'd to take,
Beast of ev'ry shape and make:
But we pass'd it in full trot,
And the black, White Lion got.
Where we found the Lord, the Clown,
Running round and round the town,
Swearing for the Bard's renown,
Damning up and damning down.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Lord! what monsters came to see,
Shakespeare's house, and Shakespeare's tree,
Tweedle dum, and tweedle dee.

All was wrong within, without,
Master Peyton in the gout;
Stomach's sharp, and keen as wit,
Wits a flashing from the spit,
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Yards and streets were full of char'ots,
Women squalling out like parrots:
Some were hunting for a bed,
Some upon the stairs were spread:
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Some were throwing out reproach,
Some were snoring in a coach;
Some were drinking on the stairs,
Some had pockets prov'd their cares,
Doodle, doodle, doo.
What was fuller than the kitchen,
O! the sight was quite bewitching;
Pots and kettles, dishes, plates,
Clashing like the tools of states,
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Shakespeare's genius saw the riot,
Night he sent to make them quiet;

With the night he sent them rains,
To cool the boiling blood, within their boiling veins.

Aurora toss'd and tumbl'd all the night,
Desirous, anxious for th'approaching light;
She felt herself queer,
But cou'dn't tell where;
Howe'er the rosy wench arose;
But, in her hurry, quite forgot her cloaths;
She in her snow white smock appear'd with glee,
And sweetly smil'd on Shakespeare's Jubilee.
Up with her the vot'ries sprung,
Gay and dull, and old and young;
To the hall,
One and all,
Repair, repair, repair,
To sip merrily,
Their coffee and tea,
And banish all sorrow and care.
There the ear-piercing fise,
And the ear-piercing wife,

Were enough to destroy both the head and the lungs:
Such rustling of bums,
Such rattling of drums,
That Babel herself was out-done by our tongues.
“O! for a Muse of fire ,” and mettle,
Cries out Foot, to boil the kettle;
Curse your little squalling souls,
Bring us butter, bring us rolls;
Look at Caliban's wild picture,
O! how like the poet Victor!
The Irish Laureat hung his head,
Dead, dull; dull, dead;
Tea cups rattle, kettles hiss,
Victor! Victor! Foot is Victor,
Victor, do not mind the picture;
All, all, all,
Bawl, bawl, bawl,
Be friends again, and kiss!

They kiss'd, they kiss'd, 'twas all a sham;
It was a Judas' buss from Judas Sam,

Breakfast over, hurry-scurry,
Lady Rodney, Fanny Murray,
To the church repair;
Where music divine,
Inspir'd by the Nine,
Inchants the wond'ring earth, and floats along the air.

In a corner sat Foot,
Full of laughter, and smut,
To things holy and grave quite a stranger;
To the stone of the Bard ,
He paid no more regard,
Than he wou'd to the Bethlehem manger.

The blasphemous wag,
Did his wickedness brag,
What is truth, or religion to him;
At honour he'll laugh,
And friendship throw off,
As quick as he will his cork limb.

Th'Oratorio being done,
We scuddle and run,
To the Booth hamper-scamper to dinner;
Were, 'twas catch that catch can,
With the Maid and the Man,
With the good Man of God, and the Sinner.

Such thrusting and squeezing,
Such coughing and sneezing,
To pass through the delicate wicket;
The ladies all squalling,
The constables bawling,
Zounds! why don't ye shew each your ticket?

I rescued from death,
Girls panting for breath,
By snatching them up in my arms;
All I got for my care,
Was a delicate stare,
And a stare at their delicate charms.

Such plucking and snatching,
Such running and catching,
To filch for each favorite wench;
Some bawling, “who waits,”
Bring dishes and plates,
Here! this table too wants a bench.

When each was seated in his place,
And things grew rather calm;
Those to the jellies gave a grace,
Whom hunger gave a qualm.

Some on the gay Rotundo star'd,
Compos'd of wood and paper;
Grinning from ear to ear, declar'd,
They long'd to cut a caper.

The whole in full expectance sat,
At least above an hour;
Reflecting on the haunches fat,
And how they wou'd devour.

Some who had never turtle seen,
Their lips lick'd o'er with glee;
Others swore vengeance on the green,
The luscious Callopee.

It comes, it comes, the dinner comes,
Seize your weapons, seat your bums;
O! the Cook's a godlike man,
See the order, mind his plan!
Hark! the bawl,
Number one,
Pleasing call,
On, on, on.
See another, and another,
Cries out Wheeler to his mother,
See the dishes,
Quick as wishes;
Beef and mutton,
For each glutton!
Prithe silence, Booby, pish!
What of fowl, and what of fish;

Look for kickshaws, things of taste,
Handsome things made up of paste!
The joyless Jerry cou'd no longer bear,
To see such victuals pass, and feed on air;
Being top full of gambol,
And made for a scramble;
He sprung from his seat,
On a dish of roast meat.
Then the scene was chang'd to plunder,
Quick as lightning, loud as thunder,
All was anarchy and wonder;
Watching, snatching, scratching, catching:
Those who were inclin'd to eat,
Lost their victuals, lost their seat:
All were raving,
All were craving,
Well condition'd for the treat.
When Old Naso divided the mass of the world,
The earth into mountains, and hillocks he hurl'd;
He turn'd out the water, and spread out the air,
The fire it went always, the Devil knows where;

Yet, though great Jove did these create,
And these the Poet did translate;
This feast had vext the De'il;
The first formation all agree,
Was not so hash'd a jumbilee,
As this chaotic meal.

As soon as the music began,
Away from the tables they ran;
Such a thing as a drop of good wine was not got,
There were some paid their reck'nings, and some that did not.
In the scurry and the hurry,
Down went tables, forms and benches,
Hark! d'ye hear those horrid cracks!
Cracks and cries; cries and cracks:
No harm, no harm;
It was a false alarm;
Ten young men, and ten young wenches,
Only sprawling on their backs:
Now the catch, and now the glee,
To the Bard—and Mulb'ry tree:

But let it be carrol'd, and let it be said,
That the worst of all beds is a Warwickshire bed.

The dinner o'er, the sing-song done,
The whole to their apartments run,
To dress, the ball to grace;
Nature's sweet charms some try to mend,
Some red and white together blend,
And daub a batter'd face.

From this to ten 'twas hurry all,
Tea was neglected for the ball,
And in the vilest places,
The sweetest women stripp'd to dress,
And were, by Hebe, nothing less,
Than Venus and the Graces.

Foremost of these fair P****s stood,
Like Venus when she left the flood,
To bless the mortal race;
None fairer in the ball were seen;
One danc'd more like the Paphian queen,
For Garrick has her grace.

At four fatigu'd I took a chair,
Only a fifteen shillings fare;
Sick of such beau-monde whims.
Set down; I flounc'd upon my bed;
And dirty blue, and tawdry red,
Adorn'd my hallow'd limbs.

One guinea but for each night's sleep,
Neck-beef was never half so cheap,
No circumstance to fret on;
I thought myself prodigious snug,
Tho' coarse the sheets, and old the rug,
And not a chair to set on.

Of all the towns I ever slept in,
Of all the beds I ever crept in,
Where poverty could rot 'em:
The poorest these of all the nation;
A most poetic situation,
Garrets from top to bottom.

But these did never discompose,
My soft, poetic, pleasing doze,

On Avon's silver stream;
The Muse each night danc'd hand in hand,
With fairies on enchanted land,
In mid-summer night's dream.

As soon as Morning left her bed,
Enchanting sounds buzz'd round my head,
From Whight's ycliped waits,
First, tweedle dum, and tweedle dee,
Then, “Welcome to our Jubilee!”
I long'd to break their pates.

Music has charms, so Congreve wrote,
To make us bend; to hate, to doat,
Like dogs to fetch or carry;
At once to soften, and to sooth,
To burn a Church, or build a Booth,
To ravish, or to marry.

Indeed, these prov'd the Poet's strains,
For through my brains, my head, my veins,
Full gallop went each light air:
Oh! curse such mattin senerade,
Cat-cut run-mad in high parade,
Is likest to the night-mare.

But he, that has not musick in his soul,
Shou'd with the Jack-calls prowl and howl,
Upon the banks of Indus:
So up I jump'd, though in a sweat,
And dress'd in a most cursed pet,
To keep my place on Pindus.

I splash'd, and dash'd through mud and rain,
And in the town-hall shov'd again,
Each gaping country Put;
Got nothing for to drink or eat,
I paid a shilling for no seat,
To laugh at slip-slop Foot.

To the Rotundo next we scout,
The Ode, the Ode, was all the shout:
The Ode had all the merit;
Garrick superior stood alone,
His usual brightness he outshone,
Out-top'd his former spirit.

Immortal Garrick be thy name,
Entwin'd with thy own Shakespeare's fame!

Each was for th'other made;
His language beats the Latin, Greek,
Language, which Garrick can but speak,
Language, which ne'er shall fade.

The Gods which did impregnate him,
With fire, with fancy, rapture, whim,
Impregnated your mind;
To act, and write, was own'd by all,
Too great a part to one to fall,
For two they were design'd.

But how are we surpris'd again,
Hear, hear that sweet bewitching strain,
From that bewitching tongue;
'Twas wrote to prove the great regard,
He bore the most immortal Bard;
Sweet as the verse he sung.

Criticks no more your venom shew,
Shakespeare and Garrick still are two;
And hand in hand they move,
The first in genius, and in grace,
The glory of the British race,
Their envy, and their love.

Enraptur'd all retir'd again,
Full of the high melodious strain,
Which Garrick spoke and wrote;
The Ode it was so hellish good,
We did not mind or rain, or mud,
Or coach, or chair, or coat.

But why such cataracts from heaven,
From seven, ye Gods! unto eleven,
Was it the blue-sick commet?
For Angelo no sooner lit,
His fire-works, but it 'gan to spit,
And heavy pale-fulls vomit.

Some merry, laughing, little wagg,
I don't mean Harris, Leak, or Dagg,
Whisper'd a merry Miss,
“That Shakespeare hated such mock-sire,
“To put them out was Jove's desire,
“See Miss! the Bard's at p---!”

The only fires which I would chuse,
To please the sight, or warm the Muse,

Are those which blaze and glow,
In Beauty's eyes: then why this art!
Nothing can please so much the heart,
As your sweet Angelo.

When first that I heard of this Jubilee fun,
I was tiffing a stout cann of flip;
With a tarpaulin Jack, at the sign of the Gun,
And discoursing as how of our ship.

Says I, Beau, you know that I love to be merry,
And our pockets are yet very stout;
Zounds! why should we make then two bites of a cherry,
Shall we coach it within or without?

In the Hay-market once I had just such a rigg,
Master Denmark , he tip'd us the joy;
I wish you had seen him (for burn my old wig)
A tight, little top-gallant Boy.

But to fill and stand on, poor Jack drop'd a-stern,
So I e'en by myself steer'd my course;
For by Gin, there is nothing will give me concern,
But the church, and that better for worse.

As soon as arriv'd at the great cabbin door,
I threw out an excellent quid;
I tip'd half a guinea, which didn't look poor,
And pranc'd like a quarter-deck Mid.

When my old Master's figure appear'd to my view,
'Twas so like, that I tip'd him a hip!
That instant, I wish'd for our Carpenter's crew,
'Twas an excellent head for a ship.

The gobb, and the gabble I laid it about,
I gave them the man of war slack;
When the men 'gan to swear, and the lasses to pout,
I stood off and on on each tack.

Nor cou'd a dull Lad, brook a Tarpaulin's jaw!
So I gave 'em the double and round;
My cheek-musick beat e'en the men of the law,
Tho' Old Nick had them 'prentices bound.

The place it was brilliant, yet, will ye believe,
To starboard and port heel'd each post;
The vessel, by Neptune! too leak'd like a sieve,
Cast away on the Warwickshire coast.

The God of the stream was so pleas'd to behold
This company gallant and trim;
With joy he flow'd o'er, for his banks wou'dn't hold,
So amongst us he came in full swim.

This kind river Rogue, in high character came,
Not disguis'd in a masquerade whim,
The Bethsheba's smart had inspir'd such a flame,
That he kiss'd and baptiz'd every limb.

Thou rapturous river God, hear my last prayer,
'Tis Trinculo noisy and brown:
Have plenty of lemons, rum, sugar, d'ye hear!
And I'll drink in your stream 'till I drown.

But as for your waters, my dear gentle Boy,
For the Qual you may bottle 'em up;
But mix them and Bardolph, Jack-Falstaff and I,
Like toasts we will float, soak and sup.

The God he took notice of ev'ry suit,
Of some whimsical figures from Paris;
He thought little Colman, smart, pleasant, acute,
But he shook his dank locks at Young Harris.

The humid old Beau didn't tickle the Belles,
Though dress'd in his holiday guise;
The bones of the minnow, minutest of shells,
And the brightest of small fishes eyes.

The ladies began for to wish and to pish,
The scaly vile Monster was wash'd;
So I bawl'd—we were sick with his damn'd smell of fish,
And into the river he dash'd.

This Masquerade was on a perfect new plan,
The characters Nature had drawn;
There were some less of mortal than Dan Caliban,
Or had pop'd out their senses to pawn.

There were lords too who thought themselves snug, and in cog,
Because in a masquerade suit;
Though, they had some smell of the Irish bog,
And stunk of Oeconomy—Bute.

There were Mercuries there, both as leaden and dull,
As those 'fore a Citizen's Vill;
And tho' wings to the feet, to the hands and the skull,
They were fix'd to their pedestal's still.

Young Cyrus was there, not the Persian of old,
Whose glory the Gods did decree:
Our hero was grac'd with a brim, and a scold,
Which carry'd his helm all a Lee .

A harlequin here had inverted the plan,
He had wit and good sense in his head;
He was gallant and merry, a right little man,
But yet in his heels he had lead.

Here was one spirit too quite unfit for his part,
And yet he must hazard a Devil;
He might be the Fiend, tho' compleat in the heart,
Yet nothing appear'd good or evil.

Vain Boswell here stood like a Corsican drest,
Distributing lines which he writ;
'Twould have puzzled e'en Shakespeare, to say which were best,
His poesy, hist'ry, or wit.

Here were chatt'ring animals, monkies and curs,
Yates a Carter, without a je-hup;
Here were jockies that came without whips faith, or spurs,
To ride for the Jubilee Cup.

Here were Blacksmiths and Butchers, Cooks, Barbers and Taylors,
Horse Jockies, Huntsmen and Dealers:
A pretty collection of fresh-water Sailors,
Poets, Wool-combers, Dear-stealers.

There were faces without any masks at the ball,
And masks too without any faces;
Nay ev'ry thing too, and yet nothing at all,
As a Venus without any graces.

There were Floras forsooth, who had ne'er been in Rome,
O! of them I long'd for a nibble;
One masculine matron I hop'd to o'ercome,
A fancyful feminine fribble.

Such angels must move us, tho' ever so callous,
Who they were I don't know; but do you know?
I wish'd to beget a young Shakespeare on Pallas,
And tumble with Ceres and Juno.

There were Nymphs of the water, and Nymphs of the grove,
After whom I was always a prowling;
I long'd through the delicate snatch-block of love,
To reeve the fagg-end of a bowling.

Master Slender was there, but not slender in limb,
He was wond'rous thick 'bout the head;
His humour and wit were as slender as him,
And mum was the best that he said.

There were Witches so fair, they witch'd ev'ry soul,
And if prest into such a fair Crew;
I would sail in an egg-shell from Ind to the Pole,
Like a rat with a tail I wou'd do.

What wou'dn't I do! if the Witches were kind,
If I had e'en a Pain with a smile;
Or the sweet spicey breath of a Pembrook for wind,
To waft me to Paradise Isle.

The poets may talk of Dame Circe's damn'd tricks,
Of turning poor men into swine;
O give me a drink of old Lethe or Styx!
For they conquer the virtues of wine.

There was captain Ulysses, old, cunning, and wise,
Stop'd the ears of his crew up with wax;
Had we done the same, we had dy'd by their eyes,
As sure as by halter or axe.

I suppose on the Point these sweet Sirens hung out,
And his ship-mates may-hap went astray;
To board three such frigates I'd risk an odd joint,
And compound for a dozen a day.

When they went 'twas like sun-set, all nature look'd sad,
For they were the joy of the throng;
So to chear up their spirits, and make 'em all glad,
I tipp'd 'em this nautical song.

I

Do you know that I'm come from the Equinox Line,
To toss off a cann of good flip, or good wine,
And pay my respects to my old master's shrine.
With my up and down, up and down, high derry up and down, high derry down.

II

I suppose you don't know me, because you all stare,
You see I'm a sailor, as such I can swear,
But remember 'tis Trinculo, so have a care.
Of his up and down.

III

With Shakespeare I sail'd in a Tempest of yore,
We had land's-men on board of the quality corps,
And were shipwreck'd by Jove on a comical shore.
With his up and down.

IV

There was madam Miranda, a tight little girl,
The tears in her eyes were as precious as pearl,
She affected me so not a sail cou'd I furl.
With her up and down.

V

Such a smash I am sure my poor heart never felt,
To see with our crew how a conjuror dealt,
He pinch'd us, he flogg'd us, and made our bones melt.
With his up and down.

VI

There was Caliban too, a most monstruous ape,
No beast had before such a whimsical shape;
Yet was nearly being hang'd for attempting a rape.
With his up and down.

VII

But old captain Shakespeare, the best of all men,
For who in experience had half such a ken,
He cou'd raise up a tempest, and lay it again.
With his up and down.

VIII

Then here's to his health, the great Bard of my theme,
In poetical punch, made of sweet Avon's stream,
Which will dart thro' your dullness a magical gleam.
Of his up and down.

IX

Let this toast then be drank from old Dublin to Warwick,
Resounded again from dull Dover to Berwick,
To sweet Willy Shakespeare, and gay Davy Garrick.
With their up and down.

Being sleepy and tir'd,
From the Booth I retir'd,
Each step to the knees through the dirt;
I was fully possest,
All life was a jest,
And that comfort was in a dry shirt.

To sleep was a joke,
'Mongst poetical folk:
Before I had well got to bed,
I heard a damn'd noise,
And a shrill squeaking voice,
To the Horse-Race turn out my boy Ned!

Besides, all the Bards,
To shew their regards,
To Shakespeare, that excellent Poet;
They will try who can leap,
From the bridge the most deep,
For a cup: and they begg'd you might know it.

Out of bed I came plump,
Being determin'd to jump,
With any wool-comber in Warwick;
My lodgings I stump'd,
But my partner being mump'd,
His reck'ning he left to George Garrick.

When I came to the bridge,
I skipp'd on the ridge,
For the trial I felt my heart burn;
When a merry old man,
(Beighton chalk'd out the plan,)
Cry'd, you Minors must wait for your turn.

The first who came, he was a small man,
Gaily dress'd in gold and green,
Soon the Genii hail'd him Colman,
Terence both in air and mien.

He smirk'd, he smil'd, he curl'd his nose up,
Conscious of his prior claim;
Then he laugh'd, and briskly rose up,
Rais'd by his dramatic fame.

As the Genius just was going,
All cry'd out with pleasant glee,
Is not Bard your lodging owing?
Colman answer'd step and see!

Then he sprung, but 'twas so easy,
Sure the Muses bore him up;
When the folks cry'd out—pray seize ye,
Little George, the golden cup!

No, says Murphy, who came a'ter,
See he swims to yonder side!
He, nor made a hole i'th' water,
I will dash, and splash the tide.

Up he leap'd, and down he ventur'd,
Stretching art'ry, limb and vein;
In the mud the Poet center'd;
Murphy never rose again.

Foot, on two sticks next came grinning,
Zounds! my leaping days are o'er;
But, there still is hopes of winning,
Since poor Arthur is no more.

Well, I don't dislike the offer,
What's the prize, a golden cup?
If, not in the Town-clerk's coffer,
Let some play'r hold it up?

Now, farewel to Daddy and Mammy,
And the Satyr lim'd and leap'd;
Topsy-turvy went light Sammy,
On the stream a cork-Foot peep'd!

One so light, and one so leaden,
Stagger'd much the gentle Keith;
When, came St---ns on a sudden,
Plung'd the youth quite underneath.

Not friend Zack or Alexander,
No, 'twas master Des squeeze oh!
Compound true of goose and gander,
A dunce, a feather, and a beau.

Don't let him pollute the water!
Stone the heterogeneous thing;
He to Dullness dies a martyr,
That pollutes fair friendship's spring.

Gallant Thompson, next came laughing,
Clear the gang-way—man the side!
Neither flip, or punch, a quaffing,
Thus, Anacreon never dy'd.

Moisture wanting,—clay soon moulders,
Bacchus helps the poet's theme!
He drank:—then leap'd on Murphy's shoulders,
Laughing—still above the stream.

Murphy spoke, how can ye sway-so,
This, e'en Churchill wou'dn't dare!
If you are the gentle Naso,
Thou'rt a cursed weight to bear!

Next appear'd good-natur'd Kelly,
In a vest of burnish'd lace;
Hugging of his turtle belly,
Laughing at poor Naso's case.

Off he went, in such a racket,
All the folks were in a maze;
O! a kingdom for a jacket,
Give me cork, and damn the bays.

He sunk, he sunk. When old Paul Whitehead,
In his gay militia dress;
Look'd, and seem'd most cursed frighted,
At his brother Bard's distress.

Gentlemen, pray pause a moment,
'Till I strip my tory limbs;
Cloaths indeed might help to foment,
But they're bad for him that swims.

Naked Paul—to shew his cunning,
One hand hid his little all,
Off the hero went a running;
'Twas the last of poor, old Paul.

Bickerstaff, whom Nonsense courted,
In a go-cart always walks,
But if not wild youth supported,
Bicky neither writes or talks.

Conscious of his plagiarism,
Little Isaac tott'ring stood;
When he found we saw the schism,
Bicky bounc'd into the mud.

Johnson next, large commentator,
Pedagogue of verbose work;
Vow'd the membrane-pia-mater,
Wou'd not bear the rapid jerk.

But since he had Shakespeare wounded,
Not that Samuel car'd a pin,
Whether he was hang'd or drowned,
Leap'd, and pull'd poor Goldsmith in.

Next waddl'd up pragmatic J---o,
Squalling!—“you have read my Hill !”
Yes,—your pap,—poetick sago,
Quite a soporifick pill.

Zounds! it beats—your Steward's Ode, Sir!
Nay, I'll speech it too with Garrick;
'Tis not pap, pill, dose or load, Sir,
Ask my bright, wise, Lord of W---k!

There's a genius, beats your Shakespeare;
Shall Jack J---o, then turn fool!
I'll not plunge into your jakes here,
I'll not cram your ducking-stool .

Off with this dull second Kedgell!
And he seiz'd the rotten ridge:
Which gave way, and smother'd Edge-bill,
'Neath the rubbish of the bridge.

Burk advanc'd sublime and beautious ,
Bowing low to Shakespeare's shrine;
May he ever prove as dutious,
Glorious Wentworth unto thine!

Quick he flew, and scorn'd to cavil,
Felton's poignard in his hand;
Telling of the God-like Saville,
Knaves, shou'd feel it through the land.

Soon was heard a gibble-gabble,
Neither harmony or sense;
Wrangling with the ribble-rabble,
That to leap he had pretence.

'Twas not substance, nor a shadow,
But it gave me much concern;
Thus to see cat-cut run mad O!
And it look'd like Doctor Arne.

Off with such lean bleating cattle,
He, on Pindus has no place!
Squash he went, and made a rattle,
Like an empty fiddle-case.

Garrick step'd smart, gay and chearful,
With the medal , and the wand ;
He'd no reasons to be fearful,
Plaudits rung through all the strand.

Fortune, kind, blind, fickle strumpet,
Smil'd upon the left hand side;
On the right Fame blew her trumpet,
And the sound stole down the tide.

Garrick, Garrick; Garrick, Garrick,
Was repeated far and wide;
Much it touch'd my Lord of W---k,
Thus, to own him England's pride.

O'er his head Thalia smiling,
Fair Melpomene look'd grave;
Yet the Muse seem'd not reviling,
But, she wish'd her son to save.

On he came, and look'd so charming,
Grac'd with such attendants rare;
Yet to all it was alarming,
Britain's Roscius was their care.

Arguments were unavailing,
Much he smil'd on Avon's stream;
Where the Muses were prevailing,
Shakespeare's darlings of esteem.

Nature's mirrour, Wisdom's glory,
Gentle Shakespeare, gay and wild;
Is't Idolatry t'adore you,
Love and Fancy's sweetest child.

Hence! your lures—pray do not fib-on!
Hence! Anacreon's jovial cup!
He leap'd,—the bridge it catch'd his ribbon,
Or his Shakespeare held him up.

Soon the Muses wing'd to save him,
Praising high the Ode he writ;
Wou'd ye cruel Naiads lave-him!
To endanger so much Wit.

In her arms sweet Clio catch'd-him,
Davy, do not swag an hip!
T'other eight alternate snatch'd-him,
And they fled to Aganippe .

Guthrie stalk'd, tall, thin and pensive,
With silk stockings roll'd, nor new;
Hop'd he might not prove offensive,
From the Critical Review.

Wish'd the blunders in his Peerage,
Were forgiven and forgot;
There, indeed I made false steerage,
Much unlike the letter'd Scot.

Since, with Churchill it is over,
I have crawl'd once more to day;
He lies very snug at Dover;
With his—“one poor sprig of Bay .”

Scotland's Hist'ry now shall flourish,
While that Satyrist shall rot;
Fame will not a Poet nourish,
That could scratch the beggar-Scot.

Scots are poor, and Scots are haughty,
Zounds! bawl'd Hamilton, no more!
This Bucchanan long hath wrote ye!
Silence! or you'll run ashore.

Hamilton, cried O! thou Parrot,
All the fat is in the fire;
You shan't ride in my new chariot,
Thrust him, curse him, in the mire.

Like a plummet to the centre,
Guthrie reach'd, by dint of size;
All cry'd, he's the leaden Mentor,
Let him, let him, have the prize.

Hold! cries Stephens the Dissecter,
Now, they're in their muddy beds;
I will give ye all a lecture,
Upon all their muddy heads.

One call'd out, friend Alexander,
Won't you jump for this fine prize?
Was I more of goose or gander,
M'aps I might, the wag replies.

Then, pray say in your conceit, Sir,
Who has won the golden cup!
Like Bayses horse, each found their feet, Sir,
And through mighty mud sprung up.

Murphy rose elastick Poet,
From his shoulders Thompson dash'd,
He to th'shore could scarcely row it,
Being so mudded, splash'd and wash'd.

Guthrie bawl'd 'tis mine, 'tis mine, Sir,
I've the head I knew would do:
I'm high Priest of all the Nine, Sir,
And I div'd the deepest too.

Then, one sounded a crack'd trumpet,
To declare his right and claim;
A most ragged, common strumpet,
And from Billingsgate she came.

Quickly mounted Amarosa,
On a Rosinante Hack;
And behind the tall Tobosa,
Guthrie dangled back to back.

Where they went it is no matter,
Where they are I do not care;
All the time the rain did patter,
All the time the fools did stare.

Here, what various fools did come,
All the streets were buzz and hum;
Squeeking fife and rumbling drum,
Tweedle dee—and tweedle dum.

The birth-place of Chaucer.

Keeper of the inn.

Words under an allegorical transparent figure of Shakespeare, in the Breakfast Room.

A transparent picture of that whimsical Being.

Shakespeare's tomb.

King of Denmark's masquerade.

An elegant figure of Shakespeare stood in the Orchestra.

It is a bad vessel which carries a lee helm.

Alluding to Portsmouth Point, celebrated for its Sirens.

An unweeded Poem, called Edge-bill.

Used formerly for cooling of Scolds.

The Sublime and Beautiful—and elegant composition of that Gentleman's.

Marquis of Rockingham.

With the figure of Shakespeare upon it.

Made of that mulberry tree planted by Shakespeare.

Thalia and Melpomene—the two Muses which preside over Tragedy and Comedy.

A Fount sacred to Apollo and the Muses, at the foot of Mount Helicon.

See Candidate.

He wrote the History of Scotland—and some severe letters against the Scots—to be found in the Harleian Miscellany.

THE END.