 | A collection of plays and poems |  |
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THE RAM: A Tale.
Written about the time when the Ladies wore remarkably high head-dresses.
Butler thou dear facetious wight,Who know'st so well to paint a fight,
Whose Muse cou'd flow when battles rage,
Where bears, dogs, men, and all engage,
Who mad'st advance, or mad'st retreat
With ease the beating and the beat,
With equal caution, equal skill,
That none were killed, or could kill;
Oh lend thy pen, thou name divine,
To paint a battle fierce as thine:
A battle which the Grecian bard,
To celebrate would find too hard;
Altho' his mighty genius taught,
How gods with men together fought;
How frogs and mice engage in fray,
For honour they, as men for pay.
Ye tuneful Nine—but hush the pray'r,
The nymphs must not attend us here;
For in this battle, such our fate,
As truth demands, we must relate,
How ladies fight, how fierce they are,
When battling for a suit of hair.
The tale begins: but first, I trow,
Time, place, and all, you want to know:
But ladies' names, I hold it certain,
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I'll blab 'em forth as soon as men.
Two ladies at their toilet fat,
One talk'd of this, the other that—
But stop; the one I'll nickname Molly,
And for the rhyme, the other Dolly.
Molly.
Oh me! 'tis horrid, quite too low
(Her cheeks with rage began to glow.)
'Tis frightful, wants a pound of wool,
The maker surely was a fool.
Then Dolly look'd, and peevish said,
My pack's too low by half a head;
My hair's so thin, deuce take the pin,
I scarce with squeezing get it in.
'Twill never do: pray now look here.
Molly.
'Tis horrid shocking, child, I swear,
Dolly.
What's to be done?
Molly.
I do not know
But thus to church I'll never go.
Dolly.
Nor I. In pet she instant laid
Low down the honours of her head,
In other words, the pins, the curls,
The plaits, the woolpack, she unfurls.
Then Dolly springing from her chair,
(I dread to tell as you to hear)
Oh fatal, fatal, fatal Ire!
The pack was instant in the sire.
Molly.
Dear Dolly, child, for shame, for shame,
Impatient folks are much to blame;
The pack would yet have done, had you
But done as I intend to do.
I'll get some wool, and cram and stuft
My pack until it's full enough.
Let's go my girl; we'll shear a sheep,
Please God, I will, before I sleep.
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I'll go, dear Molly, and assist,
I'll have a pack two foot at least.
Their hats and mantles on they drew.
And instant to the meadow flew.
A vicious ram was there confin'd,
And kept apart from all his kind;
The ewes, and lambs, and other sheep,
Were brouzing on a mountain steep.
The hoary chief our heroines saw;
He gaz'd, he paus'd, was struck with awe.
When Molly spoke: What horns? what horns?
Dolly.
What charming wool his back adorns?
His horns you see are twisted 'round,
And quite unfit to give a wound.
I'll pen him up in yonder corner.
Molly.
I wish the creature may not horn her.
But I will join the grand design,
And half the glory shall be mine.
She nearer drew, as thus she said;
The ram, surpriz'd, turn'd tail, and fled;
And seem'd quite passive, 'til he found,
By thus retreating, he lost ground,
That still the foe came pressing on,
As cowards do when battle's won.
He fac'd about; the ladies flew,
As sometimes men of mettle do.
The ram to feeding went, and then
The rallied foe came on again.
Molly, the boldest of the two,
Would try what stratagem could do.
Let's drive him slowly: I'll get near;
And sudden charge him in the rear;
I'll seize behind, you charge before,
Grapple his horns, and then we're sure.
But I will join the grand design,
And half the glory shall be mine.
She nearer drew, as thus she said;
The ram, surpriz'd, turn'd tail, and fled;
And seem'd quite passive, 'til he found,
By thus retreating, he lost ground,
That still the foe came pressing on,
As cowards do when battle's won.
He fac'd about; the ladies flew,
As sometimes men of mettle do.
The ram to feeding went, and then
The rallied foe came on again.
Molly, the boldest of the two,
Would try what stratagem could do.
Let's drive him slowly: I'll get near;
And sudden charge him in the rear;
I'll seize behind, you charge before,
Grapple his horns, and then we're sure.
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Heroes may boast of battles won,
Of feats by mighty warriors done,
Of marches, counter-marches too,
And arts of war they never knew;
Of defiles, ambuscades, and stuff,
And skill not worth a pinch of snuff;
View Molly's generalship and plan,
Then beat it, heroes, if you can.
Molly, I say, mov'd slowly on,
To where the first attack begun.
The ram majestic march'd along,
As some proud puppy thro' a throng,
But soon the crafty foes he feels,
Attacking both at head and heels.
One seiz'd his horn, and one his wool;
Now, now, she cried, my pack is full.
Ah! bootless boast, ah! prospect vain!
What toils? what mischiefs yet remain?
Thus, while the shouts of conquest rise,
By random shot, the victor dies.
For soon the ram submission scorns,
With desp'rate jerks he loos'd his horns;
And turning 'round, disdaining fear,
Charg'd home the plund'rer of his rear.
Just then, poor Molly, at a pull,
Had strove to fill her hands with wool.
The thickest fleece in vain she wrench'd,
Tho' to the root, her fingers clench'd.
The ram began to kick and jump,
Miss Molly holding still his rump;
Her hands in wool entangled fast;
But from her gripe he broke at last,
Then fir'd with rage for injur'd honour,
He swore to wreak revenge upon her;
And rush'd to butt with desp'rate head:
Then Molly from his wrath had fled;
But 'ere she cou'd begin the race,
He fiercely struck her, in that place
Where scoundrels take their due desert,
And none but cowards will be hurt:
'Twas there he struck: Oh, fatal case!
Prone fell poor Molly on her face.
What beauties then the maid reveal'd?
What charms which envious dress conceal'd?
But not for me a heaven to paint;
My pencil's dull, my colouring faint.
Now, luckless chance! as thus she lay,
And call'd for help, in dire dismay,
The ram, his victory pursuing,
As if he meant to work her ruin,
With angry front her head attacks:
Off fell the heaps of wool and flax:
The powder flew, false hair and curls,
Demolish'd all, around he whirls.
But in the pack his horns were caught;
He toss'd, he rag'd, to clear them, thought
In vain: with hair he blinds his eyes,
And clouds of powder 'round him rise;
Such clouds as oft on festal night,
Clothe empty heads in radiant white.
Amaz'd, confus'd, perplex'd and vex'd,
Like preacher who forgets his text,
Now did he rub his head, now fling,
Mad as a bear around a ring.
But nought would do: around his horns
Safe lodg'd the pack, his fury scorns.
He thought the devil his foes had join'd,
The hopes of farther fame resign'd,
And waiting not to hear the drum beat,
In haste retreated from the combat.
Of feats by mighty warriors done,
Of marches, counter-marches too,
And arts of war they never knew;
Of defiles, ambuscades, and stuff,
And skill not worth a pinch of snuff;
View Molly's generalship and plan,
Then beat it, heroes, if you can.
Molly, I say, mov'd slowly on,
To where the first attack begun.
The ram majestic march'd along,
As some proud puppy thro' a throng,
But soon the crafty foes he feels,
Attacking both at head and heels.
One seiz'd his horn, and one his wool;
Now, now, she cried, my pack is full.
Ah! bootless boast, ah! prospect vain!
What toils? what mischiefs yet remain?
Thus, while the shouts of conquest rise,
By random shot, the victor dies.
For soon the ram submission scorns,
With desp'rate jerks he loos'd his horns;
And turning 'round, disdaining fear,
Charg'd home the plund'rer of his rear.
Just then, poor Molly, at a pull,
Had strove to fill her hands with wool.
The thickest fleece in vain she wrench'd,
Tho' to the root, her fingers clench'd.
The ram began to kick and jump,
Miss Molly holding still his rump;
Her hands in wool entangled fast;
But from her gripe he broke at last,
Then fir'd with rage for injur'd honour,
He swore to wreak revenge upon her;
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Then Molly from his wrath had fled;
But 'ere she cou'd begin the race,
He fiercely struck her, in that place
Where scoundrels take their due desert,
And none but cowards will be hurt:
'Twas there he struck: Oh, fatal case!
Prone fell poor Molly on her face.
What beauties then the maid reveal'd?
What charms which envious dress conceal'd?
But not for me a heaven to paint;
My pencil's dull, my colouring faint.
Now, luckless chance! as thus she lay,
And call'd for help, in dire dismay,
The ram, his victory pursuing,
As if he meant to work her ruin,
With angry front her head attacks:
Off fell the heaps of wool and flax:
The powder flew, false hair and curls,
Demolish'd all, around he whirls.
But in the pack his horns were caught;
He toss'd, he rag'd, to clear them, thought
In vain: with hair he blinds his eyes,
And clouds of powder 'round him rise;
Such clouds as oft on festal night,
Clothe empty heads in radiant white.
Amaz'd, confus'd, perplex'd and vex'd,
Like preacher who forgets his text,
Now did he rub his head, now fling,
Mad as a bear around a ring.
But nought would do: around his horns
Safe lodg'd the pack, his fury scorns.
He thought the devil his foes had join'd,
The hopes of farther fame resign'd,
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In haste retreated from the combat.
Dolly, who all the time, amaz'd,
Upon the dreadful battle gaz'd,
When now she saw the conqu'ror yield,
Bearing the trophies of the field,
To Molly ran, in haste; she cries,
The foe is gone, dear sister rise.
Then help me up, she groaning said,
May I be doom'd to die a maid
If 'ere I fight with rams again:
My curls are scatter'd o'er the plain,
Quite dirty all, my pack he bears,
And on his head triumphant wears.
The pack that's gone was quite too small;
How then will look, no pack at all?
Fashion in every thing prevails,
We all are lost, if fashion fails.
While others go with packs so large,
They seem their heads to overcharge;
And ladies' lofty tops aspire
As high as grenadiers or high'r;
Shall I, a little humble chit,
Appear no taller than five feet?
While others, powder'd, curl'd, and friz'd,
Their locks do furbelow and twist,
'Till like a quick-set hedge they shew,
Or bunch of briars cloth'd in snow;
Shall I be seen with plain comb'd hair?
A shame like that I must not bear.
Oh woeful chance! the church to enter
In such a garb, I cannot venture.
If people only went to pray'r,
Indeed, for dress I should not care.
But belles you know, there are, and beaux,
Who place their glory in their clothes,
Who go to church to shew their beauty;
Not humbly to perform their duty.
How should I in their eyes appear?
The end of this I ne'er should hear.
Then Dolly said, your grief restrain,
My dear, since now it is in vain,
And let us try to make the best on't;
Else they, indeed, may make a jest on't.
Shall yonder ram?—as thus she spoke,
The ram, at length, the pack had broke;
Before his horns the texture yields,
Pins, wool, and hair embrown the fields.
At once the conversation ceas'd,
Poor Dolly's courage quite decreas'd,
And Molly quak'd, who saw the foe
Prepar'd again for deadly blow.
They view his threat'ning horns with fear,
Nor did they dare to venture near.
'Till he in pity to their case,
Retir'd contemptuous from the place.
He left, with scorn, the tatter'd pack
Which he cou'd not, but they might lack.
For beasts the gewgaws vile disdain,
The want of which to man gives pain.
The scatter'd relics then they gather,
Here lay a curl, and there a feather,
And here the pack to pieces torn—
They pick them up, and o'er them mourn.
With heavy hearts they haste away;
Compell'd, that day, at home to stay.
There sad they sit, and mope, and pine;
Each thinks, what conquests had been mine
Of lover's hearts, at church to-day,
Could I have gone in fair array;
In fashion's airy pride adorn'd;
But now by all I shall be scorn'd.
Forgotten, is my fav'rite boast
To reign, an undisputed toast.
The joke will spread, full well I know.
That many a titt'ring belle and beau
Will laugh to hear our sad disaster.
Says Molly, had I but run faster,
The ram had never knock'd me down,
Nor had I spoil'd my Sunday gown.
Upon the dreadful battle gaz'd,
When now she saw the conqu'ror yield,
Bearing the trophies of the field,
To Molly ran, in haste; she cries,
The foe is gone, dear sister rise.
Then help me up, she groaning said,
May I be doom'd to die a maid
If 'ere I fight with rams again:
My curls are scatter'd o'er the plain,
Quite dirty all, my pack he bears,
And on his head triumphant wears.
The pack that's gone was quite too small;
How then will look, no pack at all?
Fashion in every thing prevails,
We all are lost, if fashion fails.
While others go with packs so large,
They seem their heads to overcharge;
And ladies' lofty tops aspire
As high as grenadiers or high'r;
Shall I, a little humble chit,
Appear no taller than five feet?
While others, powder'd, curl'd, and friz'd,
Their locks do furbelow and twist,
'Till like a quick-set hedge they shew,
Or bunch of briars cloth'd in snow;
Shall I be seen with plain comb'd hair?
A shame like that I must not bear.
Oh woeful chance! the church to enter
In such a garb, I cannot venture.
If people only went to pray'r,
Indeed, for dress I should not care.
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Who place their glory in their clothes,
Who go to church to shew their beauty;
Not humbly to perform their duty.
How should I in their eyes appear?
The end of this I ne'er should hear.
Then Dolly said, your grief restrain,
My dear, since now it is in vain,
And let us try to make the best on't;
Else they, indeed, may make a jest on't.
Shall yonder ram?—as thus she spoke,
The ram, at length, the pack had broke;
Before his horns the texture yields,
Pins, wool, and hair embrown the fields.
At once the conversation ceas'd,
Poor Dolly's courage quite decreas'd,
And Molly quak'd, who saw the foe
Prepar'd again for deadly blow.
They view his threat'ning horns with fear,
Nor did they dare to venture near.
'Till he in pity to their case,
Retir'd contemptuous from the place.
He left, with scorn, the tatter'd pack
Which he cou'd not, but they might lack.
For beasts the gewgaws vile disdain,
The want of which to man gives pain.
The scatter'd relics then they gather,
Here lay a curl, and there a feather,
And here the pack to pieces torn—
They pick them up, and o'er them mourn.
With heavy hearts they haste away;
Compell'd, that day, at home to stay.
There sad they sit, and mope, and pine;
Each thinks, what conquests had been mine
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Could I have gone in fair array;
In fashion's airy pride adorn'd;
But now by all I shall be scorn'd.
Forgotten, is my fav'rite boast
To reign, an undisputed toast.
The joke will spread, full well I know.
That many a titt'ring belle and beau
Will laugh to hear our sad disaster.
Says Molly, had I but run faster,
The ram had never knock'd me down,
Nor had I spoil'd my Sunday gown.
Thus ends our laughable narration,
Nor wants a moral application.
Ye fair ones, let your heads be full
Of sense, but load them not with wool.
Fight not with rams to gain their fleece;
Trust me, such aids can ne'er increase
Your native charms: it is not art,
But nature, which attracts the heart.
Your flowing locks which nature gave
O'er ivory necks in beauty wave:
These nets of love, our souls ensnare,
All unadorn'd with art or care;
While pride, and pomp's fastidious train,
Are parents of disgust and pain.
Nor wants a moral application.
Ye fair ones, let your heads be full
Of sense, but load them not with wool.
Fight not with rams to gain their fleece;
Trust me, such aids can ne'er increase
Your native charms: it is not art,
But nature, which attracts the heart.
Your flowing locks which nature gave
O'er ivory necks in beauty wave:
These nets of love, our souls ensnare,
All unadorn'd with art or care;
While pride, and pomp's fastidious train,
Are parents of disgust and pain.
194
A LETTER From the Devil to his Son.
My ever dear and fav'rite son,I've heard of late the deeds you've done.
Go on, my boy, keep true to me,
And I'll keep faith, depend, with thee.
For sure, I never yet did know,
In air above, or earth below,
A son so wedded to my will,
So lost to virtue, prone to ill;
So ev'ry way my son and heir,
Or fitter for promotion here.
Know then, that I, of special grace,
Willing to give my boy a place,
Late summon'd up my swarthy crew,
To know what seat best suited you.
All prick'd their ears, except a black,
Who ears had not; he shewed his back.
“No make him overfeer,” says he,
“For dat man, he been killey me;”
His back, his head, his meagre face,
Drew pity from the hellish race;
A murmur ran from shore to shore,
And hell was instant in a roar.
The clamour stay'd, a boy then cried,
“By him begot, by him I died.”
An aged matron crept along,
And feebly thus address'd the throng;
“A child I bore, a child I cherish'd,
“And by that child at last I perish'd.”
Willing to give my boy a place,
Late summon'd up my swarthy crew,
To know what seat best suited you.
All prick'd their ears, except a black,
Who ears had not; he shewed his back.
“No make him overfeer,” says he,
“For dat man, he been killey me;”
His back, his head, his meagre face,
Drew pity from the hellish race;
A murmur ran from shore to shore,
And hell was instant in a roar.
The clamour stay'd, a boy then cried,
“By him begot, by him I died.”
An aged matron crept along,
And feebly thus address'd the throng;
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“And by that child at last I perish'd.”
Such acts, my son, such deeds as these,
Methought th' infernal crew would please.
But all cried out, “'tis strange to tell,
“There's no place fit for him in hell,
“His acts so far surpass your own,
“They'd give him title to the throne.”
The truth is this, my son, they fear
Lest you should take the Imperial chair;
Should that, say they, be e'er the case,
Hell would be soon an empty space
The croud dismiss'd, a wily peer,
With wicked grin, malicious leer,
Advised to build another hell,
That you alone therein might dwell.
Now, if my son has no objection,Methought th' infernal crew would please.
But all cried out, “'tis strange to tell,
“There's no place fit for him in hell,
“His acts so far surpass your own,
“They'd give him title to the throne.”
The truth is this, my son, they fear
Lest you should take the Imperial chair;
Should that, say they, be e'er the case,
Hell would be soon an empty space
The croud dismiss'd, a wily peer,
With wicked grin, malicious leer,
Advised to build another hell,
That you alone therein might dwell.
It shall be built by his direction;
Nay more, to give you due content,
I'll send you negroes to torment;
An overseer, or two, besides,
To help you cut and flash their hides;
And if I did not know you well,
(Tho' seldom any come to hell)
Some women I might send; but then,
I'm sure you'd whip them back again.
Should an engrosser come this way.
Send me your answer, aye, or nay.—
Your loving Father,
SATAN.
196
ANOTHER LETTER
From the Same to the Same.
I wrote, my son, to let you know
The seat prepared for you below.
I write again, my child, to tell
The news that's passing now in hell.
A fellow's here, who sets about
A piece of news that makes a rout:
He says, that when he came away,
My dearest boy was heard to say
He would repent.—Of what, my son?
Of all the good you've ever done?
For, sure I am, you'll ne'er relent,
Nor of one wicked deed repent.
The seat prepared for you below.
I write again, my child, to tell
The news that's passing now in hell.
A fellow's here, who sets about
A piece of news that makes a rout:
He says, that when he came away,
My dearest boy was heard to say
He would repent.—Of what, my son?
Of all the good you've ever done?
For, sure I am, you'll ne'er relent,
Nor of one wicked deed repent.
I therefore laugh'd to hear the tale,
Tho' much it did with some prevail;
Nay more, and that is quite uncivil,
He says, you preach against the devil;
And talk of kindness, doing good,
And giving, to the hungry, food;
However, to remove all doubt,
I gave a little hand-bill out—
That all you did, or said, or thought,
By me was prompted, by me taught.
Tho' much it did with some prevail;
Nay more, and that is quite uncivil,
He says, you preach against the devil;
And talk of kindness, doing good,
And giving, to the hungry, food;
However, to remove all doubt,
I gave a little hand-bill out—
That all you did, or said, or thought,
By me was prompted, by me taught.
Take care when here, or you'll be baited,
For hypocrites in hell are hated.
Tho' us'd by us as dearest friends,
In t'other world to serve our ends.
For hypocrites in hell are hated.
Tho' us'd by us as dearest friends,
In t'other world to serve our ends.
Your Father,
SATAN.
197
LETTER To the Devil from his Son,
In answer to the foregoing.
My much rever'd and honour'd sire,Your letters came to hand,
I'm proud to do as you desire—
To act as you command.
I wonder much, dear sir, that you
Who know mankind so well,
Should be surpriz'd at what I do,
At aught I write or tell.
You know my skill has always laid
In hypocritic face,
And what I've ever done, or said,
Was nothing but grimace.
Don't mind, I pray, what blockheads say
About my turning good:
'Tis true I gave some wheat away,
But 'twas not fit for food.
I sold some pork, but then I knew
'Twould poison those who ate;
I meant it for the rebel crew;
Your foes I meant to cheat.
I preach'd, but you'd have laugh'd, I swear,
To hear me roar and rant,
With all my father's look and leer,
And hypocritic cant.
I look'd so good, so very mild,
So cunning, and so civil,
E'en you'd have thought your darling child
Did preach against the devil.
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More honour to myself;
And thus in private to obtain
Rich stores of worldly pelf.
Of all the fiends who serve thy laws,
With all their art and pains,
Not one advances so thy cause,
As he who virtue feigns.
Then blame me not; to wear disguise
Your son you tutor'd well:
Tho' men my sanctity may prize,
I'll join you all in hell.
I fell upon a scheme of late,
In which I top'd my part;
Cried I, this poor afflicted state,
My friends, affects my heart.
Your present leaders are all fools;
Your burgess is a dunce;
You are all slaves, you are but tools;
I'll set you right at once.
I then propos'd, to stop all trade,
I'd public agent be,
Advis'd what bargains might be made,
If they would trust to me.
I wanted much to cheat the state,
So swore, I would be true:
I've dropp'd all trade myself of late
And now I'll cheat for you.
These little arts but trifles are,
To those I'll practise soon;
So, dear Papa, you'll please prepare
The kingdom for your Son.
199
ANSWER TO THE WINTER PIECE.
Dear *** when last you wrote, remember well,
The charms of winter, you presum'd to tell;
I felt such shame (kind heaven the shame repay,)
As sense must feel at such a senseless lay;
Take no offence, for ev'ry foolish clown,
Since ***'s muse has come thus hobbling down,
May mount his Pegasus, and laugh at those
Who spur at rhymes, and stumble into prose.
Now, you will say, that view the scholars 'round,
Such wild eccentric wit may oft be found,
Wherefore the poets should receive the bays,
Who sometimes sing for laughter—not for praise,
Thus, while poor Pegasus is flogg'd along,
This hums in prose a dismal dirty song;
That poet's fancies claim a slacken'd rein,
And oft run rapid o'er the flow'ry plain,
Yet, as I may, permit me to make bold,
And ask thee, if thy muse or theme be cold?
I say that folly, spite of reason's voice,
Is now elected, and alas! thy choice;
And when poor reason, by some peasant thrown,
Shall lie neglected where he tumbled down;
No friend this sacred gift of heav'n to take,
Since e'en the learn'd, the pilgrim now forsake;
I here protest, whoe'er against declare
He should to *** and its lord repair,
That seat 'round which the muses oft have cried,
In doleful strains with reason on their side;
O gracious Pallas, goddess of delight,
Vouchsafe for once at *** to alight;
The air is temperate, serene, refin'd,
Not for a dirty, slactern muse designd;
Banish to Hottentot, the drunken whore,
And let her shackie prose with rhymes no more;
For nothing better from this muse we've had
Than dirty simile, and prose run mad.
The subject puts us in a gape, and sleep,
In spite of snuff, will o'er the senses creep;
From line to line the self-same dulness flows,
With not one sketch of wit to yield repose,
A perfect nuisance, which t' endure aright,
Another Argus only has the sleight.
In vain we hope this muse will cease her song
Till wisdom claps a padlock on her tongue;
Goddess of music; our petition hear,
And lend to *** a poetic ear.
Dear ***, reflect, whene'er the maggot bites,
And spite of fate the muse of *** writes,
Myriads of critics do upon her fall,
In vain for measure, or for rhyme they call;
Since common sense by her neglected lies,
While virtue slumbers, and religion dies.
Reflect on this, and own the consequence,
Thus to persist must argue want of sense.
The charms of winter, you presum'd to tell;
I felt such shame (kind heaven the shame repay,)
As sense must feel at such a senseless lay;
Take no offence, for ev'ry foolish clown,
Since ***'s muse has come thus hobbling down,
May mount his Pegasus, and laugh at those
Who spur at rhymes, and stumble into prose.
Now, you will say, that view the scholars 'round,
Such wild eccentric wit may oft be found,
Wherefore the poets should receive the bays,
Who sometimes sing for laughter—not for praise,
Thus, while poor Pegasus is flogg'd along,
This hums in prose a dismal dirty song;
That poet's fancies claim a slacken'd rein,
And oft run rapid o'er the flow'ry plain,
Yet, as I may, permit me to make bold,
And ask thee, if thy muse or theme be cold?
I say that folly, spite of reason's voice,
Is now elected, and alas! thy choice;
And when poor reason, by some peasant thrown,
Shall lie neglected where he tumbled down;
No friend this sacred gift of heav'n to take,
Since e'en the learn'd, the pilgrim now forsake;
I here protest, whoe'er against declare
He should to *** and its lord repair,
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In doleful strains with reason on their side;
O gracious Pallas, goddess of delight,
Vouchsafe for once at *** to alight;
The air is temperate, serene, refin'd,
Not for a dirty, slactern muse designd;
Banish to Hottentot, the drunken whore,
And let her shackie prose with rhymes no more;
For nothing better from this muse we've had
Than dirty simile, and prose run mad.
The subject puts us in a gape, and sleep,
In spite of snuff, will o'er the senses creep;
From line to line the self-same dulness flows,
With not one sketch of wit to yield repose,
A perfect nuisance, which t' endure aright,
Another Argus only has the sleight.
In vain we hope this muse will cease her song
Till wisdom claps a padlock on her tongue;
Goddess of music; our petition hear,
And lend to *** a poetic ear.
Dear ***, reflect, whene'er the maggot bites,
And spite of fate the muse of *** writes,
Myriads of critics do upon her fall,
In vain for measure, or for rhyme they call;
Since common sense by her neglected lies,
While virtue slumbers, and religion dies.
Reflect on this, and own the consequence,
Thus to persist must argue want of sense.
Oh, what repasts the stirling wits prepare?
We read with pleasure or with rapture hear;
Parnassian laurels deck the poets' brow,
And sages to the magic numbers bow
But verse like thine the modest face inflames,
And yet it tickles not the lovely dames;
The lovely fair, endearing sex, bestow'd
On man, to mitigate of life the load.
Who gainsay this, are frantic, I maintain,
Nor merit Hymen nor the silken chain,
And when indecent and immodest, sure
Deserve a gibbet, or a lock secure.—
See the fair charmers blushing as they read,
See virtue start, and decency recede,
Then own your heart of unrelenting stuff;
Or, say you've read too little,—wrote enough.
Oh sex, held sacred by the good and brave,
Which to the world the promis'd saviour gave!
Let love await thee, and let virtue prove
How much you merit, and how much we love;
Let saints salute thee with a song divine,
Fruition meet for souls attun'd as thine;
But why this flight?—kind heav'n avert the stroke,
Nor let religion droop at ***'s joke,
Tho' back'd by heathen Gods, or hell, he dare
To treat Redemption as a strange affair.—
Burke, Hewitt, Henley, Gwatkin, I esteem,
Their virtues, ***, are far above thy theme.
Should Cam, with spreading laurels on his head,
Like thee e'er write, or thee attempt to read,
To Tartarus the rev'rend chief should go,
Drink deep of Lethe, and forget below,
Of Helicon the sweet inspiring taste,
Which oft has charm'd us in his verses past;
He then might mount thy courser's back, and drop
A sprig of birch, triumphant, on the top
Of some rich dunghill, where thy muse oft strays
To cull a simile, or gather bays.—
Cervantes little thought his heroe's horse,
Would be the subject of a limping verse;
Nor could the Don, whose honest nature knew
To virtue's laws the sacred rev'rence due,
Whose friendly bosom beat the pulse of love
To all who in this giddy circle move,
E'er dream, tho' mad with tales of chivalry,
That Rozinante would a pack-horse be
To such a dirty, bastard muse; but hold
This faithful quadruped, tho' blind and old,
By instinct knew an ethic from a whore,
And threw her sprawling, where she'll rise no more.
We read with pleasure or with rapture hear;
Parnassian laurels deck the poets' brow,
And sages to the magic numbers bow
But verse like thine the modest face inflames,
And yet it tickles not the lovely dames;
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On man, to mitigate of life the load.
Who gainsay this, are frantic, I maintain,
Nor merit Hymen nor the silken chain,
And when indecent and immodest, sure
Deserve a gibbet, or a lock secure.—
See the fair charmers blushing as they read,
See virtue start, and decency recede,
Then own your heart of unrelenting stuff;
Or, say you've read too little,—wrote enough.
Oh sex, held sacred by the good and brave,
Which to the world the promis'd saviour gave!
Let love await thee, and let virtue prove
How much you merit, and how much we love;
Let saints salute thee with a song divine,
Fruition meet for souls attun'd as thine;
But why this flight?—kind heav'n avert the stroke,
Nor let religion droop at ***'s joke,
Tho' back'd by heathen Gods, or hell, he dare
To treat Redemption as a strange affair.—
Burke, Hewitt, Henley, Gwatkin, I esteem,
Their virtues, ***, are far above thy theme.
Should Cam, with spreading laurels on his head,
Like thee e'er write, or thee attempt to read,
To Tartarus the rev'rend chief should go,
Drink deep of Lethe, and forget below,
Of Helicon the sweet inspiring taste,
Which oft has charm'd us in his verses past;
He then might mount thy courser's back, and drop
A sprig of birch, triumphant, on the top
Of some rich dunghill, where thy muse oft strays
To cull a simile, or gather bays.—
Cervantes little thought his heroe's horse,
Would be the subject of a limping verse;
202
To virtue's laws the sacred rev'rence due,
Whose friendly bosom beat the pulse of love
To all who in this giddy circle move,
E'er dream, tho' mad with tales of chivalry,
That Rozinante would a pack-horse be
To such a dirty, bastard muse; but hold
This faithful quadruped, tho' blind and old,
By instinct knew an ethic from a whore,
And threw her sprawling, where she'll rise no more.
But stop, my muse, in travestying we're crost,
For here the sense, in Labyrinth, is lost,
The gaudy fly, that now sweet nectar sips,
From Nancy's cheek, or slumb'ring Chloe's lips,
Now flirts, in ecstacy, the candle round;
Now drops in toddy, and is quickly drown'd,
Pardon the simile, (I hate abuse,)
Is but an emblem of thy flirting muse.
Thy list of worthies, worthy we admit,
And wish them social, as we grant them wit.—
The hapless slave who toils, from day to day,
And heedless slumbers half his time away,
Is not an object to deserve a hiss—
But he who strives to write, and writes amiss.—
For here the sense, in Labyrinth, is lost,
The gaudy fly, that now sweet nectar sips,
From Nancy's cheek, or slumb'ring Chloe's lips,
Now flirts, in ecstacy, the candle round;
Now drops in toddy, and is quickly drown'd,
Pardon the simile, (I hate abuse,)
Is but an emblem of thy flirting muse.
Thy list of worthies, worthy we admit,
And wish them social, as we grant them wit.—
The hapless slave who toils, from day to day,
And heedless slumbers half his time away,
Is not an object to deserve a hiss—
But he who strives to write, and writes amiss.—
Thy list of heroes (save the infernal chief
Whose curse eternal, staggers thy belief)
Wise heroes all, but ***, I think 'twas wrong
T' insert their names in such a silly song,—
But honest nature (conscious as I am
There's none so blind, in reason none so lame,
But that he must the sting of satire feel,
Tho' arm'd his head with lead, his breast with steel)
Impels me in the loudest notes to raise,
Oh birch-deserving *** thy song of praise.
Whose curse eternal, staggers thy belief)
Wise heroes all, but ***, I think 'twas wrong
T' insert their names in such a silly song,—
But honest nature (conscious as I am
There's none so blind, in reason none so lame,
But that he must the sting of satire feel,
Tho' arm'd his head with lead, his breast with steel)
Impels me in the loudest notes to raise,
Oh birch-deserving *** thy song of praise.
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COLIN and CELIA:
A PASTORAL POEM.
Where slumb'ring streams in liquid silence flow,And fragrant beauties on their borders grow;
Where smiling nature greets th' approach of spring,
And warbling songsters soothing sonnets sing;
Where gentle gales their fanning wings display,
And whisper pleasures as they steal away;—
There Colin wand'ring, lost in dreams of love,
Saw Celia's form in clouded beauty move;
He beard her words in trembling accents break,
Then step'd aside, to listen, as she spake.
He vow'd to love, with sweet submission swore,
But hapless Celia ne'er may view him o'er.
Her moving words the balmy breezes bear,
And gently waft them to the shepherd's ear.
Each soothing found his deep attention caught,
But Celia's name enraptur'd ev'ry thought—
When smoothly gliding thro' the silent grove,
She saw her Colin melting into love,
“His soul thus utt'rance gave.”
Why dubious, Celia, of thy Colin's love,
And why lamenting to the silent grove?
In early youth your pleasing chains I bore,
And captive still, my lovely maid, adore.
Should Venus, circled in an orb of charms,
With sweet submission court me to her arms,
Her all-divine would ineffectual prove,
Nor cou'd her beauty make me change my love.
“She blush'd and smil'd.”
Then Colin's eyes with sparkling pleasure roll,
A torrent rapture rushing to his soul.
He smiling springs, in transport, views her charms,
And clasps her gently yielding in his arms.
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A DREAM.
I found my eye-lids sliding close,They softly touching lay,
When smoothly came the pleasing dose,
And stole my sight away
Then fancy plays in scenes of bliss,
Elysium's airy queen;
She wings the soul to taste and kiss
Of pleasures oft unseen.
Methought I heard the cooing dove,
In languid notes complain;
Methought I saw an angel move
Soft sliding o'er the plain.
Before mine eyes dissolving slew
A gently weeping cloud;
It's pensive bosom pond'rous grew
With wat'ry tempest proud.
Methought I walk'd in Eden's grove,
The air was soft and mild,
That all was beauty, all was love,
So sweetly nature smil'd.
The cooing dove was Celia's voice,
The angel Celia prov'd;
Her plaints that mask the pleasing noise,
Her form angelic mov'd.
The weeping cloud with tempest full,
Distilling drops of rain,
Was Celia's face, her eyes grown dull
With inward pensive pain.
But when she found her slumb'ring swain,
Her looks as Eden seem,
With eager joy, I clasp'd my love;
'Twas Celia, not a dream.
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A PATRIOTIC SONG.
Come on, my brave fellows, a fig for our lives
We'll fight for our country, our children and wives.
Determin'd we are to live happy and free;
Then join honest fellows in chorus with me.
Derry down, down, &c.
We'll fight for our country, our children and wives.
Determin'd we are to live happy and free;
Then join honest fellows in chorus with me.
Derry down, down, &c.
We'll drink our own liquor, our brandy from peaches,
A fig for the English, they may kiss all our breeches.
Those blood-sucking, beer-drinking puppies retreat;
But our peach-brandy fellows can never be beat.
Derry down, down, &c.
A fig for the English, they may kiss all our breeches.
Those blood-sucking, beer-drinking puppies retreat;
But our peach-brandy fellows can never be beat.
Derry down, down, &c.
A fig for the English, and Hessians to boot,
Who are sick half their time with eating of crout,
But bacon and greens, and Indian corn-bread,
Make a buck-skin jump up, tho' he seem to be dead.
Derry down, down, &c.
Who are sick half their time with eating of crout,
But bacon and greens, and Indian corn-bread,
Make a buck-skin jump up, tho' he seem to be dead.
Derry down, down, &c.
Come on, my brave fellows, &c.
FINIS.
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