 | The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 |  |
42
A Dream on Bridecake
[_]
“The following [two] dreams were written at the wedding of Mr. Nelson and Miss Cary, and were produced for the entertainment of the company each morning when they assembled at breakfast: the ceremony of putting bridecake under the head at night having been previously observed by the whole company.”
Dear girls, since you the task impose
Of scribbling rhyme, or humbler prose,
Whene'er the bridecake fills the brain
With emblematic dreams of pain,
Or pleasure to be had hereafter,
Or, whatso'er can move your laughter,
The swain to you devoted ever
Will every try his best endeavor,
To tell you in his doggerel strain,
What fancies visited his brain.
Of scribbling rhyme, or humbler prose,
Whene'er the bridecake fills the brain
With emblematic dreams of pain,
Or pleasure to be had hereafter,
Or, whatso'er can move your laughter,
The swain to you devoted ever
Will every try his best endeavor,
To tell you in his doggerel strain,
What fancies visited his brain.
Brimful of claret wine and perry,
You know I went to bed quite merry,
But, as I soon grew wonderous sick,
I wished my carcass at Old Nick.
At length, I sunk into a nap,
With head reclined in fancy's lap;
She rubbed my temples, chaffed my brain,
And then displayed this scene of pain.
You know I went to bed quite merry,
But, as I soon grew wonderous sick,
I wished my carcass at Old Nick.
At length, I sunk into a nap,
With head reclined in fancy's lap;
She rubbed my temples, chaffed my brain,
And then displayed this scene of pain.
Methought, the claret I'd been drinking
So far from giving aid to thinking,
Had muddled my idea-box,
And clapped my body in the stocks.
Beneath a beach's spreading shade
At lubber's length my limbs were laid;
My tongue alone had power to move,
To rest in vain might wish to rove:
Just then, my Flora passing by
This pretty object chanced to spy;
The wanton saw my hapless case,
And clapped me in a warm embrace;
Her balmy lips to mine she pressed,
And leaned her bosom on my breast,
Her fingers everywhere were gadding,
And set my soul a madding;
Whilst I, in vain, resistance made,
Still on my back supinely laid.
She whispered something in my ear
Which I could not distinctly hear:
Then cried, “Pray when will you be sober?”
“My dear,” said I, “not till October.
“My nerves I find are all unstrung
“Except the one that rules my tongue;
“Their wonted tones so wholly lost
“I shan't recover till a frost.”
Away the wanton baggage flew
Laughing like any one of you
And left me in that sordid plight,
To mourn the follies of the night.
So far from giving aid to thinking,
Had muddled my idea-box,
And clapped my body in the stocks.
Beneath a beach's spreading shade
At lubber's length my limbs were laid;
My tongue alone had power to move,
To rest in vain might wish to rove:
Just then, my Flora passing by
This pretty object chanced to spy;
The wanton saw my hapless case,
And clapped me in a warm embrace;
43
And leaned her bosom on my breast,
Her fingers everywhere were gadding,
And set my soul a madding;
Whilst I, in vain, resistance made,
Still on my back supinely laid.
She whispered something in my ear
Which I could not distinctly hear:
Then cried, “Pray when will you be sober?”
“My dear,” said I, “not till October.
“My nerves I find are all unstrung
“Except the one that rules my tongue;
“Their wonted tones so wholly lost
“I shan't recover till a frost.”
Away the wanton baggage flew
Laughing like any one of you
And left me in that sordid plight,
To mourn the follies of the night.
Sept. 19, 1777
| The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 | |