 | The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 |  |
Ode VII
To the Well-born
Under the type of the heathen gods Jonathan rehearseth the virtues of aristocracy.
Paree, precor, stimulis.
Ovid.
Ovid.
Sons of Olympus, all! I kiss your hands,
A stately company, as I'm a sinner!
My little godlings! what are your commands?
I hope you do not mean to stay to dinner.
A stately company, as I'm a sinner!
My little godlings! what are your commands?
I hope you do not mean to stay to dinner.
We've no ambrosia here—plain beef and mutton
Your Godships' stomachs will most surely turn;
Not for our whiskey would you give a button;
Such home-brewed nectar you will spurn.
Your Godships' stomachs will most surely turn;
Not for our whiskey would you give a button;
Such home-brewed nectar you will spurn.
We have no Ganymedes—no wanton Venus,
Nor ugly cuckold Vulcan, for a buff;
No pimping Mercury to go between us,
Or pick our pockets, or our purses cut.
Nor ugly cuckold Vulcan, for a buff;
No pimping Mercury to go between us,
Or pick our pockets, or our purses cut.
95
We have no Jupiter, with lust unbounded,
Our fair Alcmenes to seduce,
No drunken Bacchus with his tuns surrounded;
No Mars, God wot! can we produce.
Our fair Alcmenes to seduce,
No drunken Bacchus with his tuns surrounded;
No Mars, God wot! can we produce.
We have no Proteus changing every hour,
As with his whim or interest stands,
No greedy Saturn to devour
His children in the midwife's hands.
As with his whim or interest stands,
No greedy Saturn to devour
His children in the midwife's hands.
We for your playmates have no little Cupid
To shoot at people when they're off their guard:
We mortals, truly, are so stupid
To think such treatment were a little hard.
To shoot at people when they're off their guard:
We mortals, truly, are so stupid
To think such treatment were a little hard.
Such fit companions you'll not find I swear;
Then why the devil should you tarry here?
Then why the devil should you tarry here?
Each embryo Romulus and Alexander,
So eager now to fill Fame's hundred trumpets,
Would deem it neither crime nor slander
To prove their virtuous mothers strumpets;
If bastards they will be reputed
Of gods that had their dads cornuted.
So eager now to fill Fame's hundred trumpets,
Would deem it neither crime nor slander
To prove their virtuous mothers strumpets;
If bastards they will be reputed
Of gods that had their dads cornuted.
Ye would-be Phaetons, now so intent
To mount, and set us in a blaze,
Or drive us to the devil and all;
Trust me, you'd better be content,
For, ere you've tried it many days,
By G--- you'll get a fall.
To mount, and set us in a blaze,
Or drive us to the devil and all;
Trust me, you'd better be content,
For, ere you've tried it many days,
By G--- you'll get a fall.
July 3, 1793
| The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 | |