Poems (1791) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hail to each ancient sacred shade
Of those, who gave the Muses aid,
Skill'd verse mysterious to unfold,
And set each brilliant thought in gold.
Hail Aristotle's honour'd shrine,
And great Longinius hail to thine;
Ye too, whose judgment ne'er cou'd fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.

Alas! by different steps and ways
Our modern critics aim at praise,

And rashly in the learned arts,
They judge by prejudice and parts;
For crampt by a contracted soul,
How shou'd they comprehend the whole?

I know of many a deep-learn'd brother,
Who weighs one science by another,
And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism,
Because he understands the prism;
Thinks in acuteness he surpasses,
From knowledge of the optic glasses.
There are some critics in the nation,
Profoundly vers'd in gravitation;
Who like the bulky and the great,
And judge by quantity and weight.
Some who're extremely skill'd in building,
Judge by proportion, form, and gilding,
And praise with a sagacious look
The architecture of a book.

Soon as the hops arriv'd from Kent,
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore
The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in;
Then with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.

Catchup so dextrous, droll, and dry,
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago, arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.
He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; fellow I admire thy fun,
“Thou most judiciously hast done,
“Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
“Does it not enter in thy crown,
“Some may be mouldy, some be brown;
“The vacancies with leaves supplied,
“And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?”
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,
(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said “what I've done is not absurd,
“I know my chap and take his word.—
“On thee, thou caviller at large,
“I here retort thy random charge;
“Who, in an hypercritic rage,
“Judgest ten volumes by a page;
“Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
“Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;

“With every thing you claim alliance,
“Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
“You mete out all things by one rule,
“And are an universal fool.
“Tho' swoln with vanity and pride,
“You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
“A prig—that proves himself by starts,
“As many dolts—as there are arts.

O, gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing if not critical.
Othello, Act. 2, scene 5.

The ENGLISH BULL DOG, DUTCH MASTIFF, and QUAIL.

FABLE II.

Are we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division?
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men—those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;

Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots of mankind.
Biggots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.

A snub-nos'd Dog to fat inclin'd.
Of the true hogan mogan kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
And whom have we got here, I beg,
Quoth he,—and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big bellied,
For they poor toads are Farrinellied.

Well of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has it's failing.

And who are you? reply'd Van Trump,
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction.
In all fair Europe, who but we,
For national œconomy;
For wealth and peace, that have more charms,
Than learned arts, or noisy arms.
You envy us our dancing hogs,
With all the music of the frogs;
Join'd to the Fretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting—now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoaking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.

'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise;
Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t'ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty.

Wrong are you both, rejoins a Quail,
Confin'd within it's wiry jail:
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd.
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;

Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.—
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to heav'n and Hartington,

FASHION AND NIGHT.

FABLE III.

Quam multa prava atque injusta fiunt moribus. Terent.

Fashion, a motley nymph of yore,
The Cyprian Queen to Porteus bore:
Various herself in various climes,
She moulds the manners of the times;

And turns in every age or nation,
The chequer'd wheel of variegation;
True female that ne'er knew her will,
Still changing, tho' immortal still.
One day as the inconstant maid
Was careless on her sofa laid,
Sick of the sun and tir'd with light,
She thus invok'd the gloomy night:
“Come—these malignant rays destroy,
“Thou skreen of shame, and rise of joy.
“Come from thy western ambuscade,
“Queen of the rout and masquerade:
“Nymph, without thee no cards advance,
“Without thee halts the loit'ring dance;
“Till thou approach, all, all's restraint,
“Nor is it safe to game or paint;
“The belles and beaux thy influence ask,
“Put on the universal mask.
“Let us invert, in thy disguise,
“That odious nature, we despise.”
She ceas'd—the sable mantled dame
With slow approach, and awful, came;
And frowning with sarcastic sneer,
Reproach'd the female rioteer:
“That nature you abuse, my fair,
“Was I created to repair.
“And contrast with a friendly shade,
“The pictures heaven's rich pencil made;

“And with my sleep alluring dose,
“To give laborious art repose;
“To make both noise and action cease,
“The queen of secresy and peace.
“But thou a rebel, vile, and vain,
“Usurp'st my lawful old domain;
“My scepter thou affect'st to sway,
“And all the various hours are day;
“With clamours of unreal joy,
“My sister silence you destroy;
“The blazing lamps unnatural light
“My eye balls weary and affright;
“But if I am allow'd one shade,
“Which no intrusive eyes invade,
“There all the atrocious imps of hell,
“Theft, murder, and pollution dwell:
“Thinks then how much, thou toy of chance,
“Thy praise is likely worth t'inhance;
“Blind thing that runst without a guide,
“Thou whirlpool in a rushing tide,
“No more my fame with praise pollute,
“But damn me into some repute.

WHERE'S THE POKER?

FABLE IV.

The Poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,
And all the rites of rage perform'd;

As scolding, crying, swearing, sweating,
Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.
“Nothing but villany, and thieving;
“Good heavens! what a world we live in?
“If I don't find it in the morning,
“I'll surely give my master warning.
“He'd better far shut up his doors,
“Than keep such good for nothing whores;
“For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,
“We vartuous bodies cannot thrive.”
Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;
Misfortunes never come alone,
But tread each other's heels in throngs,
For the next day she lost the tongs:
The salt box, cullender, and pot,
Soon shar'd the same untimely lot.
In vain she vails and wages spent
On new ones—for the new ones went.
There'd been, (she swore) some dev'l or witch in,
To rob or plunder all the kitchen.
One night she to her chamber crept,
(Where for a month she had not slept;
Her master being, to her seeming,
A better play fellow than dreaming.)
Curse on the author of these wrongs,
In her own bed she found the tongs,
(Hang Thomas for an idle joker!)
In her own bed she found the poker;

With salt box, pepper box, and kettle,
With all the culinary metal.—
Be warn'd, ye fair, by Susan's crosses,
Keep chaste, and guard yourselves from losses;
For if young girls delight in kissing,
No wonder, that the poker's missing.

The TEA-POT and SCRUBBING-BRUSH.

FABLE V.

A tawdry Tea-Pot, a-la-mode,
Where art her utmost skill bestow'd,
Was much esteem'd for being old,
And on its sides with red and gold
Strange beasts were drawn, in taste Chinese,
And frightful fish, and hump-back trees.

High in an elegant beaufet,
This pompous utensil was set,
And near it, on a marble slab,
Forsaken by some careless drab,
A veteran Scrubbing-Brush was plac'd,
And the rich furniture disgrac'd.
The Tea-Pot soon began to flout,
And thus its venom spouted out:
“Who from the scullery or yard,
“Brought in this low, this vile blackguard,

“And laid in insolent position,
“Among us people of condition?
“Back to the helper in the stable,
“Scour the close-stool, or wash-house table;
“Or cleanse some horsing block, or plank,
“Nor dare approach us folks of rank.
“Turn—brother coffee-pot, your spout,
“Observe the nasty stinking lout,
“Who seems to scorn my indignation,
“Nor pays due homage to my fashion;
“Take, silver sugar dish, a view,
“And cousin cream pot, pray do you.
“Pox on you all, replies old Scrub,
“Of coxcombs ye confederate club.
“Full of impertinence, and prate,
“Ye hate all things that are sedate.
“None but such ignorant infernals,
“Judge, by appearance, and externals:
“Train'd up in toil and useful knowledge,
“I'm fellow of the kitchen college,
“And with the mop, my old associate,
“The family affairs negociate.—
“Am foe to filth, and things obscene,
“Dirty by making others clean.—
“Not shining, yet I cause to shine,
“My roughness makes my neighbours fine;
“You're fair without, but foul within,
“With shame impregnated, and sin;

“To you each impious scandal's owing,
“You set each gossip's clack a going.—
“How Parson Tythe in secret sins,
“And how Miss Dainty brought forth twins:
“How dear delicious Polly Bloom,
“Owes all her sweetness to perfume;
“Tho' grave at church, at cards can bet,
“At once a prude and a coquette.—
“'Twas better for each British virgin,
“When on roast beef, strong beer, and sturgeon,
“Joyous to breakfast they set round,
“Nor were asham'd to eat a pound.
“These were the manners, these the ways,
“In good Queen Bess's golden days;
“Each damsel ow'd her bloom and glee,
“To wholesome elbow-grease, and me,
“But now they center all their joys
“In empty rattle traps and noise.
“Thus where the Fates send you, they send
“Flagitious times, which ne'er will mend,
“'Till some Philosopher can find,
“A Scrubbing-Brush to scour the mind.

The DUELLIST.

FABLE VI.

What's honour, did your Lordship say?
My Lord, I humbly crave a day.—
'Tis difficult, and in my mind,
Like substance, cannot be defin'd.
It deals in numerous externals,
And is a legion of infernals;
Sometimes in riot and in play,
'Tis breaking of the Sabbath day:
When 'tis consider'd as a passion,
I deem it lust and fornication.
We pay our debts in honour's cause,
Lost in the breaking of the laws:
'Tis for some selfish impious end,
To murder the sincerest friend;
But wou'd you alter all the clan,
Turn out an honourable man.
Why take a pistol from the shelf,
And fight a duel with yourself.—
'Twas on a time, the Lord knows when,
In Ely, or in Lincoln fen,
A Frog and Mouse had long disputes,
Held in the language of the brutes,
Who of a certain pool and pasture,
Shou'd be the sovereign and master.

Sir, says the Frog, and d---n'd his blood,
I hold that my pretension's good;
Nor can a Brute of reason doubt it,
For all that you can squeak about it.
The Mouse averse to be o'erpower'd,
Gave him the lie, and call'd him coward;
Too hard for any frog's digestion,
To have his froghood call'd in question!
A bargain instantly was made,
No mouse of honour could evade.
On the next morn, as soon as light,
With desperate bullrushes to fight;
The morning came—and man to man,
The grand monomachy began;
Need I recount how each bravado,
Shone in montant and in passado;
To what a height their ire they carry'd,
How oft they thrusted and they parry'd;
But as these champions kept dispensing,
Finesses in the art of fencing,
A furious vulture took upon her,
Quick to decide this point of honour,
And, lawyer like, to make an end on't,
Devour'd both plaintiff and defendant.
Thus, often in our British nation,
(I speak by way of application)
A lie direct to some hot youth,
The giving which perhaps was truth,

The treading on a scoundrel's toe,
Or dealing impudence a blow,
Disputes in politics and law,
About a feather and a straw;
A thousand trifles not worth naming,
In whoring, jockeying, and gaming,
Shall cause a challenge's inditing,
And set two loggerheads a fighting;
Meanwhile the father of despair,
The prince of vanity and air,
His querry, like an hawk discovering,
O'er their devoted heads hangs hovering,
Secure to get in his tuition,
These volunteers for black perdition.

The COUNTRY SQUIRE and the MANDRAKE.

FABLE VII.

The sun had rais'd above the mead,
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn;
The lively linnets hymn'd the morn,
And nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spread on ev'ry side;
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;

The faithful spaniel gave the word,
Trelooby at the signal stirr'd,
And with his gun, from wood to wood
The man of prey his course pursu'd;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
Th'uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies;
The lark, in transport, tow'ring high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Afflicted not Trelooby's mind—
For what is beauty to the blind?
Th'amorous voice of silvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the black-bird from his nest;
Whistling he leapt from leaf to leaf;
But what is music to the deaf?

At length while poring on the ground,
With monumental look profound,
A curious vegetable caught
His—something similar to thought:
Wond'ring, he ponder'd, stooping low,
(Trelooby always lov'd a show)
And on the Mandrake's vernal station,
Star'd with prodigious observation.
Th'affronted Mandrake with a frown,
Address'd in rage the wealthy clown.

“Proud member of the rambling race,
“That vegetate from place to place,
“Pursue the leveret at large,
“Nor near thy blunderbuss discharge.
“Disdainful tho' thou look'st on me,
“What art thou, or what can'st thou be?
“Nature, that mark'd thee as a fool,
“Gave no materials for the school.
“In what consists thy work and fame?
“The preservation of the Game.—
“For what? thou avaricious elf,
“But to destroy it all thyself;
“To lead a life of drink and feast,
“T'oppress the poor, and cheat the priest,
“Or triumph in a virgin lost,
“Is all the manhood thou canst boast.—
“Pretty, in nature's various plan,
“To see a weed that's like a man;
“But 'tis a grievous thing indeed.
“To see a man so like a weed.”

The BROCADED GOWN and LINEN RAG.

FABLE VIII.

From a fine lady to her maid,
A Gown descended of brocade.

French!—Yes, from Paris—that's enough,
That wou'd give dignity to fluff.
By accident or by design,
Or from some cause, I can't divine;
A Linen Rag, (sad source of wrangling!)
On a contiguous peg was dangling,
Vilely besmear'd—for late his master,
It serv'd in quality of plaister.
The Gown, contemptuous beholder,
Gave a French shrug from either shoulder,
And rustling with emotions furious,
Bespoke the Rag in terms injurious.
“Unfit for tinder, lint or fodder,
“Thou thing of filth, (and what is odder)
“Discarded from thy owner's back,
“Dar'st thou proceed, and gold attack?
“Instant away—or in this place,
“Begar me give you coup de grace.”

To this reply'd the honest Rag,
Who lik'd a jest, and was a wag;

“Tho' thy glib tongue without a halt run,
“Thou shabby second-hand subaltern,
“At once so antient and so easy,
“At once so gorgeous and so greasy,;
“I value not thy gasconading,
“Nor all thy alamode parading;
“But to abstain from words imperious,
“And to be sober, grave, and serious.

“Tho' says friend Horace, 'tis no treason,
“At once to giggle, and to reason,
“When me you lesson, friend, you dream,
“For know I am not what I seem;
“Soon by the mills refining motion,
“The sweetest daughter of the ocean,
“Fair Medway, shall with snowy hue,
“My virgin purity renew,
“And give me reinform'd existence,
“A good retention and subsistence.
“Then shall the sons of genius join,
“To make my second life divine.
“O Murray, let me then dispense,
“Some portion of thy eloquence;
“For Greek and Roman rhetoric shine,
“United and improved in thine.
“The spirit stirring sage alarms,
“And Ciceronian sweetness charms.
“Th'Athenian Akenside may deign
“To stamp me deathless with his pen.
“While flows approv'd by all the Nine
“Th'immortal soul of every line.
“Collins, perhaps, his aid may lend,
“Melpomene's selected friend.
“Perhaps our great Augustan Gray
“May grace me with a Doric lay;

“With sweet, with manly words of woe,
“That nervously pathetic flow,
“What, Mason, may I owe to you?
“Learning's first pride, and nature's too;
“On thee she cast her sweetest smile,
“And gave thee Art's correcting file;
“That file, which with assiduous pain,
“The viper Envy bites in vain.—
“Such glories my mean lot betide,
“Hear, tawdry fool, and check thy pride.—
“Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
“(If haply thou escape a burning)
“From gown to petticoat descending,
“And in a beggar's mantle ending,
“Shalt in a dunghill or a stye,
“'Midst filth and vermin rot and die.

Demosthenes.

MADAM and the MAGPIE.

FABLE IX.

Ye thunders roll, ye oceans roar,
And wake the rough resounding shore;
Ye guns in smoke and flames engage,
And shake the ramparts with your rage;
Boreas distend your chops and blow;
Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow;

Ye drums and rattles, rend the ears,
Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs;
Bellow ye bulls, and bawl ye bats,
Encore, encore, ye amorous cats;
In vain poor things ye squeak and squall,
Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all:
But here she comes—there's no relief,
She comes, and blessed are the deaf.
“A Magpie! why, you're mad, my dear,
“To bring a chattering Magpie here.
“A prating play thing, fit for boys—
“You know I can't endure a noise.—
“You brought this precious present sure,
“My headach and my cough to cure.
“Pray hand him in and let him stain
“Each curtain, and each counterpane;
“Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet,
“Or on my pillow—he can't spoil it:
“He'll only make me catch my death.—
“O heavens! for a little breath!—
“Thank God, I never knew resentment,
“But am all patience and contentment,
“Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd
“(As any other woman wou'd)
“Wring off his neck, and down your gullet
“Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.—
“Well, I must lock up all my rings,
“My jewels, and my curious things:

“My Chinese toys must go to pot;
“My dear, my pinchbecks—and what not?
“For all your Magpies are, like lawyers,
“At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.—
“You for a wife have search'd the globe,
“You've got a very female Job,
“Pattern of love, and peace and unity,
“Or how cou'd you expect impunity?
“O Lord! this nasty thing will bite,
“And scratch and clapper, claw and fight.
“O monstrous wretch, thus to devise,
“To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes.
“You're a fine Popish plot pursuing,
“By presents to affect my ruin;
“And thus for good are ill retorting
“To Me, who brought you such a fortune;
“To Me, you low-liv'd clown, to Me,
“Who came of such a family;
“Me, who for age to age possess'd
“A lion rampant on my crest;
“Me, who have fill'd your empty coffers,
“Me, who'd so many better offers;
“And is my merit thus regarded,
“Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded.
“O 'tis past sufferance—Mary—Mary,
“I faint—the citron, or the clary.

The poor man, who had bought the creature,
Out of pure conjugal good-nature,

Stood at this violent attack,
Like statutes made by Roubilliac,
Tho' form'd beyond all skill antique,
They can't their marble silence break;
They only breathe, and think, and start,
Astonish'd at their maker's art.
“Quoth Mag, fair Grizzle, I must grant,
“Your spouse a magpye cannot want:
“For troth (to give the dev'l his due)
“He keeps a rookery in you.
“Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady,
“Where there is din enough already,
“We never shou'd agree together,
“Although we're so much of a feather;
“You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it,
“Who make such wond'rous noise about it;
“And your tongue of immortal mould
“Proclaims in thunder you're no scold.
“Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue,
“And, like the king, can do no wrong;
“Justly your spouse restrains his voice,
“Nor vainly answers words with noise;
“This storm, which no soul can endure,
“Requires a very different cure;
“For such sour verjuice dispositions,
“Your crabsticks are the best physicians.

The BLOCKHEAD and BEEHIVE.

FABLE X.

The fragrance of the new-mown hay
Paid incense to the god of day;
Who issuing from his eastern gate,
Resplendent rode in all his state,
Rous'd by the light from soft repose,
Big with the Muse, a Bard arose,
And the fresh garden's still retreat
He measur'd with poetic feet.
The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade,
By the embracing branches made,
The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss,
Was check'd with intermingled moss,
Cowslips, like topazes that shine,
Close by the silver serpentine,
Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs,
Amidst the educated flow'rs.
The lime tree and sweet-scented bay,
(The sole reward of many a lay)
And all the poets of the wing,
Who sweetly without salary sing,
Attract at once his observation,
Peopling thy wilds, Imagination!
“Sweet nature, who this turf bedews,
“Sweet nature, who's the thrush's muse!

“How she each anxious thought beguiles,
“And meets me with ten thousand smiles!
“O infinite benignity!
“She smiles, but not alone on me;
“On hill, on dale, on lake, on lawn,
“Like Celia when her picture's drawn;
“Assuming countless charms and airs,
“'Till Hayman's matchless art despairs,
“Pausing like me he dreads to fall
“From the divine original.”

More had he said—but in there came
A lout—Squire Booby was his name.—
The bard, who at a distant view,
The busy prattling blockhead knew,
Retir'd into a secret nook,
And thence his observations took.
Vex'd he cou'd find no man to teize,
The squire 'gan chattering to the bees,
And pertly with officious mien,
He thus address'd their humming queen:
“Madam, be not in any terrors,
“I only come t'amend your errors;
“My friendship briefly to display,
“And put you in a better way.
“Cease, Madam, (if I may advise)
“To carry honey on your thighs,
“Employ ('tis better, I aver)
“Old Grub the fairies coach-maker;

“For he who has sufficient art
“To make a coach, may make a cart.
“To these you'll yoke some sixteen bees,
“Who will dispatch your work with ease;
“And come and go, and go and come,
“To bring your honey harvest home.—
“Ma'm, architecture you're not skill'd in,
“I don't approve your way of building;
“In this there's nothing like design,
“Pray learn the use of Gunter's line.
“I'll serve your Highness at a pinch,
“I am a scholar every inch,
“And know each author I lay fist on,
“From Archimedes down to Whiston.—
“Tho' honey making be your trade,
“In chemistry you want some aid.—
“Pleas'd with your work, altho' you sing,
“You're not quite right—'tis not the thing
“Myself wou'd gladly be an actor,
“To help the honey manufacture.—
“I hear for war you are preparing,
“Which I should like to have a share in;
“Yet tho' the enemy be landing,
“'Tis wrong to keep an army standing.—
“If you'll ensure me from the laws,
“I'll write a pamphlet in your cause.—
“I vow I am concern'd to see
“Your want of state—œconomy.

“Of nothing living I pronounce ill,
“But I don't like your privy-council.”
“There is, I know, a certain bee,
“(Wou'd he was from the ministry)
“Which certain bee, if rightly known,
“Wou'd prove no better than a drone;
“There are (but I shall name no names,
“I never love to kindle flames)
“A pack of rogues with crimes grown callous,
“Who greatly wou'd adorn the gallows,;
“That with the wasps, for paltry gold,
“A secret correspondence hold,
“Yet you'll be great—your subjects free,
“If the whole thing be left to me.—

Thus, like the waters of the ocean,
His tongue had run in ceaseless motion,
Had not the Queen ta'en up in wrath,
This thing of folly and of froth.

“Impertinent and witless medler,
“Thou smattering, empty, noisy pedlar!
“By vanity, thou bladder blown,
“To be the football of the town.
“O happy England, land of freedom,
“Replete with statesmen, if she need'em,
“Where war is wag'd by Sue or Nell,
“And Jobson is a Machiavel!—
“Tell Hard-wick that his judgment fails,
“Show Justice how to hold her scales.—

“To fire the soul at once, and please,
“Teach Murray and Demosthenes;
“Say Vane is not by goodness grac'd,
“And wants humanity and taste.—
“Tho' Pelham with Mæcenas vies,
“Tell Fame she's false, and Truth she lies;
“And then return, thou verbal Hector,
“And give the bees another lecture.”

This said, the portal she unbarr'd,
Calling the Bees upon their guard,
And set at once about his ears
Ten thousand of her granadiers.—
Some on his lips and palate hung,
And the offending member stung.
“Just (says the bard from out the grot)
“Just, tho' severe, is your sad lot,
“Who think, and talk, and live in vain.
“Of sweet society the bane.
“Business misplac'd is a mere jest,
“And active idleness at best.”

The CITIZEN and the RED LION of BRENTFORD.

FABLE XI.

I love my friend—but love my ease,
And claim a right myself to please;

To company however prone,
At times all men wou'd be alone.
Free from each interruption rude,
Or what is meant by solitude.
My villa lies within the bills,
So—like a theatre it fills:
To me my kind acquaintance stray,
And Sunday proves no Sabbath day;
Yet many a friend and near relation,
Make up a glorious congregation;
They croud by dozens and by dozens,
And bring me all their country cousins.
Tho' cringing landlords on the road,
Who find for man and horse abode;
Tho' gilded grapes to sign-post chain'd,
Invite them to be entertain'd,
And straddling cross his kilderkin,
Tho' jolly Bacchus calls them in;
Nay—tho' my landlady wou'd trust 'em,
Pilgarlick's sure of all the custom;
And his whole house is like a fair,
Unless he only treats with air.
What? shall each pert half witted wit,
That calls me Jack, or calls me Kit,
Prey on my time, or on my table?
No—but let's hasten to the Fable.

The eve advanc'd, the sun declin'd,
Ball to the booby-hutch was join'd,

A wealthy cockney drove away,
To celebrate Saint Saturday;
Wife, daughter, pug, all crouded in,
To meet at country house their kin.
Thro' Brentford, to fair Twickenham's bow'rs,
The ungreased grumbling axle scow'rs,
To pass in rural sweets a day,
But there's a Lion in the way:
This Lion a most furious elf,
Hung up to represent himself,
Redden'd with rage, and shook his mane,
And roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd again.
Wond'rous, tho' painted on a board,
He roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd.
“Fool! (says the majesty of beasts)
“At whose expence a legion feasts,
“Foe to yourself, you those pursue,
“Who're eating up your cakes and you;
“Walk in, walk in, so prudence votes)
“And give poor Ball a feed of oats,
“Look to yourself, and as for ma'm,
“Coax her to take a little dram;
“Let Miss and Pug with cakes be fed,
“Then honest man go back to bed;
“You're better, and you're cheaper there,
“Where are no hangers on to fear,
“Go buy friend Newbery's new Pantheon,
“And con the tale of poor Acteon,

“Horn'd by Diana, and o'erpower'd,
“And by the dogs he fed devour'd.
“What he receiv'd from charity,
“Lewdness perhaps may give to thee;
“And tho' your spouse my lecture scorns,
“Beware his fate, beware his horns.”

“Sir,” says the Cit, (who made a stand,
And strok'd his forehead with his hand)
“By your grim gravity and grace,
“You greatly wou'd become the mace.
“This kind advice I gladly take,—
“Draw'r, bring the dram, and bring a cake,
“With good brown beer that's brisk and humming.”
“A coming, Sir! a coming, coming!
The Cit then took a hearty draught,
And shook his jolly sides and laugh'd.
Then to the king of beasts he bow'd,
And thus his gratitude avow'd.—
“Sir, for your sapient oration,
“I owe the greatest obligation.
“You stand expos'd to sun and show'r,
“I know Jack Ellis of the Tow'r;
“By him you soon may gain renown,
“He'll show your Highness to the town;
“Or, if you chuse your station here,
“To call forth Britons to their beer,
“As painter of distinguish'd note,
“He'll send his man to clean your coat.”

The Lion thank'd him for his proffer,
And if a vacancy shou'd offer,
Declar'd he had too just a notion,
To be averse to such promotion.
The Citizen drove off with joy,
“For London—Ball—for London—hoy.”
Content to bed, he went his way,
And is no Bankrupt to this day.

The HERALD and HUSBAND-MAN.

FABLE XII.

—Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. Juvenal.

I with friend Juvenal agree,
Virtue's the true nobility;
Has of herself sufficient charms,
Altho' without a coat of arms.
Honestus does not know the rules,
Concerning Or and Fez, and Gules.
Yet sets the wond'ring eye to gaze on,
Such deeds no herald e'er could blaze on.
Tawdry atchievements out of place,
Do but augment a fool's disgrace;
A coward is a double jest,
Who has a lion for his crest;

And things are come to such a pass,
Two horses may support an ass;
And on a Gamester or Buffoon,
A moral motto's a lampoon.
An honest rustic having done
His master's work 'twixt sun and sun,
Retir'd to dress a little spot,
Adjoining to his homely cot,
Where pleas'd, in miniature, he found
His landlord's culinary ground,
Some herbs that feed, and some that heal,
The winter's medicine or meal.
The sage, which in his garden seen,
No man need ever die I ween;
The marjoram comely to behold,
With thyme, and ruddiest marygold,
And mint and penny-royal sweet,
To deck the cottage windows meet;
And baum, that yields a finer juice
Than all that China can produce;
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And leeks, Cadwallader's delight;
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye.
Thus, as intent, he did survey
His plot, a Herald came that way,

A man of great escutcheon'd knowledge,
And member of the motley college.
Heedless the peasant pass'd he by,
Indulging this soliloquy;
“Ye gods! what an enormous space,
“'Twixt man and man does nature place;
“While some by deeds of honour rise,
“To such a height, as far out-vies
“The visible diurnal sphere;
“While others, like this rustic here,
“Grope in the groveling ground content,
“Without or lineage or descent.
“Hail, Heraldry! mysterious art,
“Bright patroness of all desert,
“Mankind would on a level lie,
“And undistinguish'd live and die;
“Depriv'd of thy illustrious aid,
“Such! so momentous is our trade.

“Sir, says the clown, why sure you joke,
“(And kept on digging as he spoke)
“And prate not to extort conviction,
“But merrily by way of fiction.
“Say, do your manuscripts attest,
“What was old father Adam's crest;
“Did he a nobler Coat receive
“In right of marrying Mrs. Eve;
“Or had supporters when he kiss'd her,
“On dexter side, and side sinister;

“Or was his motto, prithee speak,
“English, French, Latin, Welch, or Greek;
“Or was he not, without a lye,
“Just such a nobleman as I?
“Virtue, which great defects can stifle,
“May beam distinction on a trifle;
“And honour, with her native charms,
“May beautify a coat of arms;
“Realities sometimes will thrive,
“E'en by appearance kept alive;
“But by themselves, Gules, Or, and Fez,
“Are cyphers, neither more or less:
“Keep both thy head and hands from crimes,
“Be honest in the worst of times:
“Health's on my countenance impress'd,
“And sweet content's my daily guest,
“My fame alone I build on this,
“And Garter King at Arms may kiss.”—

Cur moriatur Homo, cui salvia crescit in horto?

A STORY of a COCK and a BULL.

FABLE XIII.

Yes—we excell in arts and arms,
In learning's lore and beauty's charms.
The seas wide empire we engross,
All nations hail the British cross;

The land of liberty we tread,
And woe to his devoted head,
Who dares the contrary advance,
One Englishman's worth ten of France.
These these are truths, what man won't write for,
Won't swear, won't bully, or won't fight for;
Yet (tho' perhaps I speak thro' vanity)
Wou'd we'd a little more humanity;
Too far, I fear, I've drove the jest,
So leave to Cock and Bull the rest.

A Bull who'd listen'd to the vows
Of above fifteen hundred cows;
And serv'd his master fresh and fresh,
With hecatombs of special flesh,
Like to an hermit or a dervise,
(Grown old and feeble in the service)
Now left the meadow's green parade,
And sought a solitary shade.
The cows proclaim'd in mournful lowing,
The Bull's deficiency in wooing,
And to their disappointed master,
All told the terrible disaster.

“Is this the case (quoth Hodge) O rare!
“But hold, to-morrow is the fair.
“Thou to thy doom, old boy, art fated,
“To-morrow—and thou shalt be baited.”
The deed was done—curse on the wrong!
Bloody description, hold thy tongue.—

Victorious yet the Bull return'd,
And with stern silence inly mourn'd.

A vet'ran, brave, majestic Cock,
Who serv'd for hour glass, guard, and clock,
Who crow'd the mansion's first relief,
Alike from goblin and from thief;
Whose youth escap'd the Christmas skillet,
Whose vigour brav'd the Shrovetide billet,
Had just return'd in wounds and pain,
Triumphant from the barbarous train.—
By riv'let's brink, with trees o'er grown,
He heard his fellow sufferer's moan;
And greatly scorning wounds and smart,
Gave him three cheers with all his heart.

“Rise, neighbour, from that pensive attitude,
“Brave witness of vile man's ingratitude;
“And let us both with spur and horn,
“The cruel reasoning monster scorn.—
“Methinks at every dawn of day,
“When first I chant my blithsome lay,
“Methinks I hear from out the sky,
“All will be better by and by;
“When bloody, base, degenerate man,
“Who deviates from his maker's plan;
“Who nature and her works abuses,
“And thus his fellow servants uses,
“Shall greatly, and yet justly want,
“The mercy he refus'd to grant;

“And (while his heart his conscience purges)
“Shall wish to be the brute he scourges.”

The SNAKE, the GOOSE, and NIGHTINGALE.

Humbly addressed to the Hissers and Catcallers attending both Houses.

FABLE XIV.

When rul'd by truth and nature's ways,
When just to blame, yet fix'd to praise,
As votary of the Delphic God,
I reverence the critic's rod;
But when inflam'd with spite alone,
I hold all critics but as one;
For tho' they class themselves with art,
And each man takes a different part;
Yet whatsoe'er they praise and blame;
They in their motives are the same.

Forth as she waddled in the brake,
A grey Goose stumbled on a Snake,
And took th'occasion to abuse her,
And of rank plagiarism accuse her.
“'Twas I, quoth she, in every vale,
“First hiss'd the noisy Nightingale;
“And boldly cavill'd at each note,
“That twitter'd in the Woodlark's throat:

“I, who sublime and more than mortal,
“Must stoop to enter at the portal,
“Have ever been the first to show
“My hate to every thing that's low;
“While thou, mean mimic of my manner,
“(Without inlisting to my banner)
“Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation,
“To counterfeit my sibilation.”

The Snake enrag'd, reply'd, “Know, Madam,
“I date my charter down from Adam;
“Nor can I, since I bear the bell,
“E'er imitate where I excell.
“Had any other creature dar'd
“Once to aver, what you've aver'd,
“I might have been more fierce and fervent,
“But you're a Goose,—and so your servant.”
“Truce with your folly and your pride,”
The warbling Philomela cry'd;
“Since no more animals we find
“In nature, of the hissing kind,
“You should be friends with one another,
“Nay, kind as brother is to brother.
“For know, thou pattern of abuse,
“Thou Snake art but a crawling goose;
“And thou dull dabbler in each lake,
“Art nothing but a feather'd Snake.”

Mrs. ABIGAIL and the DUMB WAITER.

FABLE XV.

With frowning brow and aspect low'ring,
As Abigail one day was scow'ring,
From chair to chair she past along,
Without soliloquy or song;
Content, in humdrum mood, t'adjust
Her matters to disperse the dust.—
Thus plodded on the sullen fair,
'Till a Dumb-Waiter claim'd her care;
She then in rage, with shrill salute,
Bespoke the inoffensive mute:—
“Thou stupid tool of vapourish asses,
“With thy brown shelves for pots and glasses;
“Thou foreign whirligigg, for whom
“US honest folks must quit the room;
“And, like young misses at a christ'ning,
“Are forc'd to be content with list'ning;
“Tho' thou'rt a fav'rite of my masters,
“I'll set thee gadding on thy castors.”
This said—with many a rough attack,
She scrubb'd him 'till she made him crack;
Insulted stronger still and stronger,
The poor dumb thing, could hold no longer.—
“Thou drab, born mops and brooms to dandle,
“Thou haberdasher of small scandal,

“Factor of family abuse,
“Retailer of domestic news;
“My lord, as soon as I appear,
“Confines thee in thy proper sphere;
“Or else, at ev'ry place of call,
“The chandler's shop, or cobler's stall,
“Or ale-house, where (for petty tales,
“Gin, beer, and ale are constant vails)
“Each word at table that was spoke,
“Wou'd soon become the public joke,
“And chearful innocent converse,
“To scandal warp'd—or something worse.—
“Whene'er my master I attend,
“Freely his mind he can unbend;—
“But when such praters fill my place,
“Then nothing should be said—but grace.”

The BAG-WIG and the TOBACCO-PIPE.

FABLE XVI.

A bag-wig of a jauntee air,
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room:
Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
A black Tobacco-pipe was laid;

And with its vapours far and near,
Outstunk the essence of Monsieur;
At which it's rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare.

“Bak'd dirt! that with intrusion rude
“Breakst in upon my solitude,
“And whose offensive breath defiles
“The air for forty thousand miles—
“Avaunt—pollution's in thy touch—
“O barb'rous English! horrid Dutch!
“I cannot bear it—Here, Sue, Nan,
“Go call the maid to call the man,
“And bid him come without delay,
“To take this odious pipe away.
“Hideous! sure some one smoak'd thee, Friend,
“Reversely, at his t'other end.
“Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng
“Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
“A most unnatural combination,
“Enough to mar all perspiration—
“Monstrous! again—'twou'd vex a saint!
“Susan, the drops—or else I faint!”
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bole,
In smoke, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold.

“Why, what's the matter, Goodman Swagger,
“Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger?

“Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox)
“Ridiculous and heterodox.
“'Twas better for the English nation
“Before such scoundrels came in fashion,
“When none sought hair in realms unknown,
“But every blockhead bore his own.
“Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
“Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
“Who, with my cloud-compelling aid
“Help our plantations and our trade,
“And am, when sober and when mellow,
“An upright, downright, honest fellow.
“Tho' fools, like you, may think me rough,
“And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
“Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“'Tis all the fame that you can give:
“None finery or fopp'ry prize;
“But they who've something to disguise;
“For simple nature hates abuse,
“And Plainness is the dress of Use.”

CARE and GENEROSITY.

FABLE XVII.

Old Care with Industry and Art,
At length so well had play'd his part;

He heap'd up such an ample store,
That Av'rice cou'd not sigh for more:
Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold;
The land all round him was his own,
With corn his crowded granaries groan.
In short so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain:
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas her's the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide:
For th'hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.—
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd she blessings round the land:
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And numerous was th'accepting throng.
At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,

She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend.—
All curs'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before;
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.—
And cry'd, my dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well—you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with Wealth no more.—
Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part.—
The Bridal came—great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of Care and Glee,
They christen'd her Œconomy;
And styled her fair Discretion's Queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind;
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.

The PIG.

FABLE XVIII.

In every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession;
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.—
A certain Baron on a day,
Having a mind to shew away,
Invited all the Wits and Wags,
Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the Choice Spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a Genius who profess'd
To have a curious trick in store,
Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air,
And the whole house was like a fair;
But soon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
'Twas all expectance, all suspence,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig,
And with such truth took off a Pig,

All swore 'twas serious, and no joke,
For doubtless underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd some grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.
A search was made, no pig was found—
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With—O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,
Who yet knew something of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th'egregious grunter.
The morrow came—the croud was greater—
But prejudice and rank ill-nature
Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hiss, and break the benches.
The mimic took his usual station,
And squeak'd with general approbation.
Again, encore! encore! they cry—
'Twas quite the thing—'twas very high:
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real Pig beneath his jacket—
Then forth he came—and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd Pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.

All bellow'd out—'twas very sad!
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
That like a Pig!—each cry'd in scoff,
Pshaw! Nonsense! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house.—
“Soft ye, a word before I go,”
Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low
Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid, partial croud:
“Behold, and learn from this poor creature.
“How much you Critics know of Nature.”