Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 :: :: University of Virginia Library

Three or four thousand years ago, as may be roughly reckoned;
King Minos ruled the isle of Crete, of that great name the second.
Minos the first, for wisdom famed, his grandfather, you know,
Was dead, and Lord Chief Justice in—well, in the courts below.

The second Minos wasn't quite as wise as was the first,
But there is no dispute about his being much the worst;
And on such terms he forced the poor Athenians to treat,
The major part full often wished that he was Minus Crete.

In his garden was a labyrinth, according to report,
Much more intricate than the one you'll find at Hampton Court;

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Of its construction Dædalus has always had the credit,
And dead, alas! were speedily all who essayed to thread it.

For a most fearful monster was therein incarcerated,
Who to his Cretan majesty was distantly related.
If we may trust the poets, he was called the Minotaur,
And, half a bull and half a man, was quite an awful bore:

At least to the Athenians, for cruel Minos drove'em
To pay a yearly tribute to this “semi virumque bovem;”
Seven fine young men, seven sweet young maids—with rage it used to fire 'em—
Consigned per annum to the jaws of this “semi bovemque virum.”

But as it chanced, amongst the batch of bachelors one year,
A youth of royal parentage came out a volunteer—
Prince Theseus, who swore by all the Gods Olympian
That he would be an eaten-boy or slay that oxen-man.

Now Minos had a daughter, young, beautiful, romantic,
Who for this handsome foreigner conceived a passion frantic;

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At the first sight of him she felt she couldn't live without him,
Because, excepting his good looks, she nothing knew about him.

She instantly decided from the monster-man to save him—
A wondrous clue to guide him through the labyrinth she gave him;
And in return he pledged to her his royal word of honour
He'd marry her and settle all he had on earth upon her.

This portion of our ox-tale we propose quite short to cut;
Suffice it the young fellow cracked the ox-man's occiput,
Then by the clue escaping through its thousand winding ways,
Left no one in the labyrinth, but all folks in a-maze.

The happy pair to Naxos sped to pass their honeymoon,
But when it came to forking-out, the bridegroom ceased to spoon;
And early one fine morning, I'm quite ashamed to say,
He left poor Ariadne with the tavern-bill to pay.

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Remember this was in an age when such affairs were common;
No one in any rank of life now so deserts a woman.
Even the monstrous Minotaur—deny it those who can—
Was less a brute than Theseus, and more a gentleman.

She beat her breast, she tore her hair, which she'd a right to do,
For it was all her own, except, perhaps, a lock or two;
And would have died (herself, not hair), if Bacchus, half-seas o'er,
Hadn't stopped to bait his tigers at that very tavern door.

“Fair one!” he hiccupped, “though 'tis but the first time that you've seen us,
Of course you know the saying, `Sine Bacchus friget Venus.'
Come, dry your eyes; I whining hate, though god of wine I am;
And I'll drown your real pain, my dear, in bumpers of my cham.”

The jokes were old! but still they told, as old jokes often do,
Especially on those who're but accustomed to the new.

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She dried her eyes, accepted his too tempting invitation,
And took, as many since have done, to drink for consolation.

What finally became of her is not so very clear;
Some say she hanged herself when in a maudlin state of beer;
Others, that she reformed, became a model of sobriety,
And actually founded the first Temperance Society.

Whatever may be the fact, which thus remains in mystery,
Young ladies all, take warning from this most veracious history;
By handsome foreign strangers if you wouldn't be decoyed, it
Is plain you shouldn't fall in love, unless you can't avoid it.