ODE XXI.
TO MYSELF.
The exalted Peter wisheth to make the gaping
World acquainted with the Place of his Nativity;
but before he can get an Answer from himself,
he most sublimely bursteth forth into an Address
to Mevagizzy and Mousehole, two Fishing
towns in Cornwall—the first celebrated for Pilchards,
the last for giving Birth to Dolly Pentreath
—The Poet praiseth the Honourable
Daines Barrington and Pilchards—Forgetteth
the Place of his Nativity; and, like his great Ancestor
of Thebes, leaveth his Readers in the dark.
O thou! whose daring works sublime
Defy the rudest rage of Time,
Say!—for the world is with conjecture dizzy,
Did Mousehole give thee birth, or Mevagizzy?
HAIL, Mevagizzy! with such wonders fraught!
Where boats, and men, and stinks, and trade, are stirring;
Where pilchards come in myriads to be caught!
Pilchards! a thousand times as good as herring.
Pilchard! the idol of the Popish nation!
Hail, little instrument of vast salvation!
Pilchard, I ween, a most soul-saving fish,
On which the Catholics in Lent are cramm'd;
Who, had they not, poor souls, this lucky dish,
Would flesh eat, and be consequently damn'd.
Pilchards! whose bodies yield the fragrant oil,
And make the London lamps at midnight smile;
Which lamps, wide spreading salutary light,
Beam on the wandering beauties of the night,
And show each gentle youth their cheeks' deep roses,
And tell him whether they have eyes and noses.
Hail, Mousehole! birth-place of old Doll Pentreath
,
The last who jabber'd Cornish—so says Daines,
Who, bat-like, haunted ruins, lane, and heath,
With Will-o'-wisp, to brighten up his brains.
Daines! who a thousand miles, unwearied, trots
For bones, brass farthings, ashes, and old pots,
To prove that folks of old, like us, were made
With heads, eyes, hands, and toes, to drive a trade.
