The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | ||
Maryland Eclogues in Imitation of Virgil's
By Jonathan Spritly, Esqr. Formerly a Worthy Member of the Assembly Revis'd & Corrected by his Friend Sly Boots
SPLIT-TEXT
Eclogue 1st.
Argument
Crape, a Virginian Clergyman, being turn'd out of his Living for Misdemeanours, comes to the House of Split-text in Maryland, where Split-text's happy Situation & Crape's Misfortune naturally beget the following Dialogue.
Crape:
Beneath the Shade of these wide-spreading Trees,
Dear Split-text. You can smoke your Chunk at Ease;
I hapless Wretch! must bid such joys Adieu;
Strip't of my Credit, & my Income too;
Must leave my Glebe, which all my Bacon fed,
(Bacon, my rich repast so often made)
While you, while chearful, Plenty round you dwells,
Can talk with D---y, how Tobacco sells.
Split-text:
Yes, Brother Crape—a gen'rous Chief bestow'd
On me these Blessings—all to him I ow'd.
For which I'll ne'er forget, each Sabbath-Day,
With hearty Zeal for my good Lord to pray:
He made me Parson here; & bids me fill
My Pipe & Bowl, as often as I will.
Crape:
I envy not your Bliss, but wonder much
Their
The name of a Clergyman almost scandalous here; which proceeds from two Causes: the ill Conduct of some of them & the vast numbers of Roman Catholicks & Quakers, who, however wide in their Points of Belief & doctrine, both of them heartily join in aspersing the Teachers and Members Church of England.
Poor I am forc'd on this lank jade to ride,
Which often alate with hunger lik'd to 've died:
But yesterday she tumbled in the Dirt.
And 'gainst a white oak Stump my Forehead hurt,
But Man is conscious of his Faults too late;
My Vestry told me oft, they'd bear no more,
And now at length have turn'd me out of Door.
—But say how you have all this Favour got?
Non equidem invideo, miror magis; undique totis
Usque adeo turbamur agris
Protinus aeger ago; hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco
Hic inter densas corylos modo manque gamellos
Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit.
Saepe malum hoc nobis, Si mens non laeva fuisset,
De caelo tactas memini praedicere quercus.
Saepe sinistra cava praedixit ab ilice ornix
Sed tamen ille Deus qui sit, da, Tityre, nobis
Split-text:
Assurance & Good Luck:—what will they not?
A— by Birth, I came a School to teach;
But little thought (God knows) I e'er should preach;
I found the Parsons here such Clods of Clay,
That soon to my Ambition I gave Way:
Why might not I, I said, harangue as well
As W---n or Wh---r or D-11?
For we resemble those at Home no more,
Than Saints of Modern Days do Saints of yore.
Crape:
And pray, what made you to this Country come?
Split-text:
Faith! Poverty—I shou'd have starv'd at Home.
Soon as the Down 'gan on my Chin t'appear;
I quite grew weary of my country Fare.
Oatmeal & Water was too thin a Diet,
To keep my grumbling Guts in peace & Quiet;
So fear of Starving, Hope of living better,
Made me have Heart enough to cross the Water.
Crape:
I was surpris'd, that tho' you liv'd so well,
Your Carcase was so lank, you Phiz so pale;
The Cause is plain —your native, hungry Food
So gain'd th'Ascendant o'er your youthful Blood,
You look, as, if no meat cou'd do you good.
Split-text:
Twas Time then to some other place to roam,
And seek for better Fare than was at home;
The B[i]sh[o]p's Blessing, & my L[or]d's to gain
Soon both I got—I saw that noble P[ee]r,
For whom our Church puts up each week a Pray'r.
He bad me come, he bad me preach & pray,
And, if the Planters wou'd not, make 'em pay.
Crape:
O happy Brother; happy is Thy Plight;
Happy in all that can thy Soul delight;
Sure of the Forties, Whate'er Loss betide
The Planter's Toil; since they must be supply'd.
O happy Brother—By this purling Rill
These shady Locusts, & that pleasant Hill,
What dost thou not enjoy?—the fanning Breeze
Comes sweetly breathing on thee thru the trees;
That busy Swarm with lulling sound compose
Thy wearied Soul to gentle, soft Repose;
Thy Negros, chanting forth their rustick Loves,
The melancholy Musick of the Doves;
The feather'd Choir, which, while they skim along
The liquid Plain, regale thee with a Song;
Fortunate senex; hic inter flumina nota
Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.
Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite saepes
Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti;
Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro
canet frondator ad auras,
Nec tamen interea raucae Palumbes
Nec gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo
All, all conspire to heighten ev'ry Bliss,
And make theee taste sincerest Happiness.
Split-text:
Planters Tobacco shall forget to smoke,
Hogs to love Mast and Peaches, Frogs to croak,
The Indians range, where flows the princely Thames,
And Duchess live nigh Potomack's Streams,
'Ere from my Heart that smiling Mien I lose
With which the gen'rous Lord his Gifts bestows.
Crape:
But I alass! no more my Glebe must view,
But to my once-lov'd Dwelling bid Adieu,
Go preach the Gospel in some Indian's Ear,
Who'll mind my Preaching, like your Planters here?
And must a Stranger—Parson rule the roost,
And Glean the Harvest I so stupid lost?
What has my Guzzling & my Folly done?
No more shall I with you rant, drink & smoke;
Toast baudy Healths, or crack a smutty joak;
No more in Bumbo, or in Cyder swill;
Faith! all's o'er now—I may go where I will.
Split-text:
To night howe'er with me you'll foul a Plate;
A juicy fat Gammon & a Chick we'll get;
Wine I have none; Good Bumbo & small Beer,
Clean, tho' coarse Linnen, will be all your Fare.
This year of Cyder I but made one Stoup,
One Night the Planters came & drank it up,
Walk in—the Chimney's Smoke's more plainly seen;
And Giant Shadows cross the dewy Green;
In louder Musick sing the marshy Frogs;
—Sambo, go, pen the Turkies, feed the Hogs.
DAPHNE
Eclogue 2d.
Argument
Pompey, a Negro Slave, is in love with Daphne, a fellow Slave that has gained the good Graces of her Master—He therefore in this Eclogue complains of her Cruelty, says all he can in his own Favour, & importunes her to come & live with him; till at last perceiving the Vanity of her Pretensions, he acknowledges his Folly, & is resolv'd to Trouble himself no more about her.
In vain, She scorn'd to make him a Return;
The planter lov'd too well the coal-black Maid,
Joy of his Eyes, & Partner of his Bed:
The gloomy Woods were all the Slave's Relief,
His toil once o'er, he'd solace there his Grief;
To echoing hills wou'd tell his piteous Tale,
And grumble to the trees—without Avail.
Nor thou my Songs, my Cares, my Passion heed?
Our fleecy Flocks the breezy Cool enjoy;
Secure midst bushy Brakes the Lizards lie,
Kind Nell delicious Huomine prepares
For weary Cesar, & for lusty Mars.
But I, pursuing charming Thee in vain,
Constant with chirping Grashopper complain.
Was't not enough to bear—without redress?
True; she was yellow;—lovely black art thou;
Yet both coneur my Wonted Peace t'undo.
Trust not too much, my Tyrant, to thy Charms;
The whites are sometimes welcome to our Arms:
My Mistress oft invites me to her Bed,
And, if thou'rt cruel still, she'll sure succeed.
Nil nostri miserere; mori me denique coges:
Nunc etiam pecudes umbras & frigora captant,
Thestylis & rapido fessis messoribus aestu
Nunc viridis etiam occultant spineta lacertos,
Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentis.
At mecum raucis, tua dum vestigia lustro,
Sole sub ardenti resonant asbusta cicadis.
Nonne fuit satius tristes Amaryllidis iras
Atque superba puti fastidia?
Quamvis ille niger, quamvis tu candidus esses.
O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori,
Alba liqustra cadunt. Vaccinia nigra leguntur.
A thousand Things at your Command I'll do.
Fullrich am I in Poultry, Turkies, Geese;
Cotton I gather, white as any Fleece;
Potatoes sweet shall be thy Winter-Fare,
And most delicious Fruits thy Summer's Share.
I sing as well as ever Negro sung.
Nor Sambo has a Banjar better strung.
And view'd my shape in Choptank's Silver Flood
My Master's self, tho' we were judg'd by thee,
Can't boast a Body, Shape, or Limbs like me.
With me the Piggies to their Accorns drive.
Our haughty Lord, tho' now so wondrous great,
Once on Tobacco, & on Hogs did wait:
First toil'd like me, was next an Overseer;
So by Degrees grew what you've found him here.
Nor think it Scorn to use this gentle Hoe;
Once in his Life, twas more than he wou'd do.
Atque humilis habitare casas,
Haedorumq gregem viridi compellere hybisco.—
Mecum una in sylvis imitabere Pana canendo.
Pan primus calamos cera conjungere plures.
Instituit—
Nec te paeniteat calamo trivisse labellum
Haec eadem ut Sciret, quid non faciebat Amintas?
Two lovely Fawns, with White all Spotted round,
These have I kept for thee—Nell oft in vain
Has beg'd 'em of me; she'll her Suit obtain,
Since thou the Giver & the Gift disdain.
A Garland, mint of fairest Flow'rs shall weave,
For thee myself will Nuts & Peaches get,
And Apples sweeter than thou'st tasted yet,
The Cedars too, their fragrant Boughs shall lend,
Thee from the Summer's Heat, or Winter's Cold to fend.
Thy Lord with nobler Gifts her Love returns;
What wou'd I have?—how wretched is my Lot?
The Hogs into my Cotton Patch have got.
Surely our Huts you scorn'st not; lest you're mad;
Our Master's self at first no better had.
The Gentle Lamb the Glade with rapture views.
I follow thee, My Daphne; thee alone;
All follow that they want to make their own.
See my returning Mates—their Toil is done,
The Shadows now attend the setting Sun:
Yet I'm burnt up with Love—What yet could prove
Sufficient Guard against the Flames of Love.
And yet no Boughs support thy drooping Peas:
Why rather does thou not those Things prepare
Which both for thy wants & ease more needful are?
Another court, since thou must do without her;
Make no more Rant, nor vex thyself about her.
SHOAT
Ecloga 3
Argument
After a Squabble, as too usual among Convicts, Scape-Rope & Cutpurse challenge one another to sing, & make their Shipmate Shoat Judge of the Performance.— If the Poetry of this Eclogue seems in some Places worse than ordinary, you must consider how hard it is, to make such Persons Speak in Character.
Scape-Rope:
Ho! Cutpurse, say, whose starveling Kine are these?
Cutpurse:
My Master Foists;—They brousing on the Trees.
Scape-Rope:
Ay, so it seems, while any slut he'll court,
Who picks his Pocket, & laughs at him for't
You, Scoundrel as you are, his Corn destroy,
And the few Cows he has with Hunger die.
Cutpurse:
Good Words become you; or I'm much mistaken;
Who late was caught a filching Dobson's Bacon?
Scape-Rope:
Rascal! I did not kill my Neighbour's Trees;
They're Rogues like you, that play such Pranks as these.
Not you, be sure—poor Hodges best can tell;
'Cause he his Master pleas'd & serv'd him well;
A Jacket his Reward—You, envious Wight!
To Pieces tore it, purely out of Spite.
Scape-Rope:
Sirrah! I caught thee late—thou know'st, I did.
The Dog betray'd thee—in the Bushes hid;
And when I cried; Beward the Turkies, ho!
Aside the Rails you scamper'd—Is't not so?
Cutpurse:
The Turkey's mine; twas by a Song I won it;
And tho' he kept it from me, Bumpkin own'd it.
Scape-Rope:
Heigh! thou pretend to sing—sure never yet
Cou'd Voice like thine one Tart by singing get,
Tis true, thou scar'st the Wild-Cats by thy yell;
For thy shrill Roar's enough to frighten Hell.
Cutpurse:
Ha! darst thou try, which of us best can sing?
This Dog I prize 'bove any earthly Thing;
Better than ought of thine—yet this I'll lay—
Tis plain, thou dar'st not—dar'st thou, Scoundrel, ha!
Scape-Rope:
Dogs I have none; My Mistress well you know
To Dogs e'er since her Loss has been a Foe;
By them her hapless Lover was betray'd,
And thro' her Husband's Rage an Eunuch made;
And now she hates them with the utmost Spite,
And the least Howl still puts her in a Fright.
But since thou art resolv'd the Fool to play;
The only Thing I have, I'm free to lay:
This Knife, last Instance of that nimble Art,
This I have valued long—& yet I'll stake it,
And if thou win'st it from me, thou must take it.
Cutpurse:
And I've a Spoon too, Sukey to me gave,
That last sad Day we took our parting Leave;
O keep it for my Sake, she fondly cry'd,
While round her neck the Noose the Hangman tied,
Yet tho' I value't much, you see, I stake it,
And if you win it from me, you must take it.
Scape-Rope:
Agreed!—I'll make thee own thy Folly soon,
And to my Knife will add thy Sukey's Spoon
See Shoat, that grinning Knave does trudge this Way,
Let him be judge, who sings the better song.
Cutpurse:
Begin then Strait, thy very awkward Song;
I promise, not to be behind thee long.
Come neighbour Shoat, tis not of little Weight;
Mind which of us sings best; & judge aright.
Shoat:
Ay, ay, My Lads; begin; so cold's the Day,
No Danger that your Cows too far will stray;
Or if they do, they'll come to feed at night.
Come make a Fire, & let us all sit by't;
You, Cutpurse, first; then you, in answer sing;
And I'll soon tell which merits most the String.
Cutpurse:
Be Rum 'bove ev'ry Earthy Thing my Choice;
Rum makes me work & animates my Voice.
Scape-Rope:
To me good Cyder's the more welcome Draught;
If I've enough of that, I'm thankful for't.
'Tis me black Juno pats, the wanton Queen;
Then hides herself, & twitters to be seen.
Scape-Rope:
But Jenny oft aside with me has gone;
Myself not to my Cows am better known
Cutpurse:
Ribbons to Juno, fine Ones I design;
Ribbons I'll buy her, when the money's mine.
Scape-Rope:
Kerchiefs to Jenny I've already given;
Tho' yet she 'as had but three, I'll make 'em even.
Cutpurse:
O what kind Whispers from the Slut I've heard;
Tho! lest her Dame shou'd catch her, much afraid.
Scape-Rope:
When on poor Jenny's Hide the Lash I hear;
Her Smart's not less, tho' I the Torment Share.
Cutpurse:
Soon shall I have my Dues; ye Lasses, come
And Jovial Lads; I'll glut you all with Rum.
Scape-Rope:
I shall in Time be free—Arriv'd the Day;
Ye Lads & Lasses, we wll sing & play.
Cutpurse:
My Overseer I've oft a Cuckold made,
And his Wife tells me, I'm a clever Lad.
And dost thou brag of that; thou silly Elf;
My Master out, I kiss my Dame herself.
Cutpurse:
My Master loves to hear My Fecund Song,
For this I work with Pleasure all Day long.
Scape-Rope:
My Master sings himself; so glad's his Heart,
That in each drunken Catch he'll bear a Part.
Cutpurse:
Who loves the honest Planter, may he swill
In Bumbos & in Cyder, when he will.
Scape-Rope:
And he who likes the man that sings unwell;
Let him d[a]mn'd & Anthems chant in Hell.
Cutpurse:
Ha! Rascals, while you lurk to steal all Night
Take Care you do not get a Whipping by't.
Scape-Rope:
Forbear my Lads, in Time, & be not mad;
For I now suffer for the filching Trade.
Cutpurse:
Ho! Sambo, drive those oxen from the Spring;
Myself will Time enough their Fodder bring.
Scape-Rope:
Lads, feed the Cows; if they Shou'd once go dry;
Milk wou'd be wanting to our Huomini.
L-as! see yon butting Bull is wondrous lean;
Love makes the Herdsman & the Herds look thin.
Scape-Rope:
That's not the Cause the Yearlings are so poor;
They're sure bewitch'd by some old ugly Whore.
Cut-Purse:
Tell us the reason when we at home again,
We yet our itching Fingers can't restrain.
Tis been observed that even those Convicts that have Liv'd honestly here, & have prov'd good and faithful Servants to their masters, have, when they have gone Home, either been hang'd or return'd, in a short Time; & I myself have known two or three, who had a good character of their masters, & who have sold the dearest from that Character, a third Time brought into the Country.
Scape-Rope:
Say, when the Girls with eating Chalk are pale,
Say, what will make them ruddy fresh & hale.
Shoat:
You've both perform'd so ill, I can't say which
Doest most deserve the Honours of the Switch.
Might I advise, who first of you shall sing,
Shall make his Exit in a hempen String.
For shame! ha' done—I ne'er heard such before;
And Heav'n forefend, I e'er should hear you more.
THE M[ARYLAND]D-D[IVIN]E
Ecloga 4th
Argument
The Satyr here is on those of the Clery, who, after they have try'd in vain, to get a gentile Maintenance in another Profession, fly to the Church as their last Refuge, & are too apt (as Experience sadly shews) by their imprudent Behaviour to bring a Disgrace upon their Office.
Tho' meaner Themes delight the vulgar Throng,
Slaves, Convicts, scoundrel Subjects please not all;
Sublimer Minds for loftier Numbers call.
Such then I'll sing, wou'd Baldus lend an Ear,
As Baldus' self wou'd not disdain to hear.
Old Hoeus had foretold in tuneful Rhime.
Now M[arylan]d a Set of Priests can boast
To slavish Principles of Truth not lost:
Whose golden Tongues true Freedom shall restore
And make those cease to pray, who pray'd before.
And so the Doctrines of our Faith explain,
As serves make th' Observance of 'em vain.
Caress them, Baldus, great to them thy Debt;
For faith! thyself & they are nicely met.
To thy auspicious Rule all Bliss we owe,
And Epochas of Blessings wait us now.
Our Leader thou; if any Marks remain
Of blind Subjection to the Priestly Chain,
These deep Divines the Darkness shall remove,
In Freedom's Cause Hiberno's self shall prove;
Thomaso's Genius shall their Breasts inspire,
And fill them with his own persuasive Fire.
O happy Priest! Your Forties shall be paid,
And old Hybernio too, shall give his Aid,
Hybernio who at Parsons long has growl'd,
And rail'd at Bishops like an errant Scold.
And he without a Fee will plead you Cause.
To you the Fair in Clusters shall repair,
The glorious Doctrines that you teach to hear.
E'en all the Church & Parson shall entoll;
And why, 'cause now twill be no Church at all.
And Collins, Morgan, Whoolstan all believ'd,
Now sits great Sh[aftesbury] on each Heart enthron'd,
And Mandevil's with highest Honour's crown'd.
Some few Remains of Truth howe'er shall be,
Some stubborn Souls won't with these Schemes agree,
Will own a Saviour, & will think him God.
Of honest Faith will Still endure the Load:
Will think the Sacraments art awful Things,
And great the Transports true Religion brings.
In short, in Spite of all these Sons of Reason,
Will still be Godly, tho' tis out of Season.
Enough we have, that better know at Home.
No more the beardless Boy Damnation fears,
But at such Old Wive's Fables nobly sneers;
The tim'rous Girl that wont to fear an Oath,
And trembled at the Thought of Breach of Troth,
Now smiles at Perjuries—the Reason's plain
By Gospel-Laws who wou'd themselves restrain?
They socrn, with self-sufficient Wisdom fraught,
By Bibles or by Parsons to be taught.
Thus spoke they to each other; 'now's the Time,
‘Let's to the Honours of the Forties climb;
‘Tho 'tis a Trade, tis yet a gainful Trade;
‘Better help on the Cheat, than not have Bread,
‘Both Law & Physick Starves, too well we know,
‘And tho' we've hardly common sense, twill do.’
These glorious Wights shou'd be my Subject still;
Nor shou'd e'en L[ewi]s poor, unhappy Bard,
Be read with more Delight or more Regard.
L[ewi]s, on whom the Muse her Favours Shed
And yet to Want her Favourite betray'd.
Nay, M[arylan]d, Spite of herself, Shall own,
I'd paint them out, just in the Light I ought;
And shew the wondrous Lessons they have taught.
Harangue 'gainst sacred Doctrines ev'ry Hour;
With Love of Truth, with Love of Freedom fill'd,
To moral Systems bid the Bible yield;
So shall his fav'rite Priests great Baldus make ye;
And to his inmost Soul & Counsels take ye.
TOSS-POT
Eclogue the 5th
Argument
Love-Rum & Ever-Drunk, two planters, meeting together, to take a Morning's Draught, resolve to divert one another with a Song; But think none so proper, as what relates to their old Companion, Toss-pot, whose Worth, the Loss they receive by his Death, & his Admission into the happy Shades of honest Topers they merrily sing.
Love-Rum:
Since, Everdrunk, we're here so nicely met
Beneath these Trees let's take a Morning's Wet;
And as we're both old Dabsters at a Song,
A merry Catch won't make it seem too long.
Ever-Drunk:
Agreed—We two such bon Companions are,
If you once bid me sing, I can't forbear:
Say, shall we sit beneath these shady Boughs,
Or wou'd you rather walk into the House?
Love-Rum:
I think in all our Country there's but one,
Can sing with you, & that is Boozy John.
Ever-Drunk:
Why; e'en at church he makes so great a roar,
The Clerk declares he'll sing the Psalm no more.
Begin then First; No Love-song have you got
'Bout Nancy's Charms? the brave & valiant Scot,
Or bouncing Nell most woundily wou'd please—
—Cato, I see, is cropping round the Trees.—
Ever-Drunk:
I'll give you then a Song I lately made;
From Boozy John, a Better you ne'er had.
Love-Rum:
Pho! Man; he sing with you; I'd think as soon,
Twas lighter far at Midnight than at Noon;
Or that a Weevil's larger than a Mouse.
Ever-Drunk:
Enough, old Lad—Come, walk into the House—
—When Tosspot died, Lord! What a do we made;
The planters round lamented, he was dead:
While 'bout his Clay-cold cor[p]se poor Susy hung,
And sigh'd so deep, she cou'd not use her Tongue.
None now our Guts with Ham & Chicken fill;
Nor can we in our much-lov'd Bumbo swill;
Toss-pot, there's not an honest Lad alive,
But t' have thee here again, his Soul wou'd give.
Toss-pot wou'd make the wisest Man a Fool,
And give new Life, if we were e'er so dull;
Wou'd make us drink, till we cou'd drink no more,
But cover'd with our Carcases the Floor.
As of all Liquors Rum delights the best,
And 'midst all Food, good Ham excels the rest;
So 'mongst us Planters there was none became,
So well the Business, or deserv'd the name.
His Death of all our fud[d]ling Bouts bereft us,
Sober, we've gone to Bed, since he has left us.
Where wont the Silver Tankard to be brought,
With Nutmeg'd Cyder for a Morning's Draught,
Now can we scarce regale on thin small Beer,
And Ten to One! that's dead—& never clear.
For the full Bowl, Obedient to our Call,
Come, Brother Planters, dance we round his Grave;
Such Honours fit it is our Friend shou'd have;
Each bring his Song & Bowl & toss 'em off;
Our Value, our great Regard, we can't shew enough,
His Influence still shall warm us, when we meet,
And, tipsy, we shall think, we have him yet.
Love-Rum:
As, when confounded drunk, a Nap to take
Makes me quite gay and spritely when I wake;
As in the Morning—Drunkards then are dry—
Small-Beer does e'en a grateful Draught supply:
So does thy well-made Song delight me now;
Nor e'er a better have I heard, I vow.
But I must have my Song, as well as you,
And I've a good One—'Tis on Tosspot too—
The honest Fellow lov'd me, as his Life—
—I'm sure, much better than he did his Wife.
Ever-Drunk:
You can't oblige me more—Friend Rumps declar'd,
A feater Song than yours he never heard;
And well poor Toss-pot merited our Lay's,
Since 'Twas his continual care his Friends to please.
Love-Rum:
When Toss-pot's Spirit left his breathless Clay,
And to more solid Pleasures wing'd away;
Where he, with happy Topers, gone before,
Might swallow Nectar, & more nobly roar;
With joy ourselves & Mates all gather'd round
And all our sorrows in our Bumpers drown'd:
Our Negroes all their Hardships quite forgot,
Our Overseers the Seasons heeded not;
Toss-pot lov'd Ease & Indolence—So we
To go the Road he led us, all agree.
With Toss-pot's Name the neighbouring Woods resound,
And distant Mountains eccho back the Sound:
A Saint we've made him & his constant Task's
For which we'll yearly Honours to him pay,
For his sake drink our very souls away.
As oft as boozy thy old Friend shall be,
My Catches, Toss-pot, shall be all of Thee;
With soaking Tom, & toping Hodge I'll join,
And make thy mem'ry & thy Fame divine.
Yes while in Woods fell Wolves shall chuse to rove,
While Humming-Birds & Bees sweet Blossoms love,
Thy name, thy Praise, thy Honour shall remain,—
Gad! if they don't I'll ne'er get drunk again.
Ever-Drunk:
What does thy Song deserve? A North-West Wind
In Summer's Heat can't better Welcome find;
Not yon green Waves, that grumble 'gainst the Shore,
Nor that smooth murm'ring Stream, delight me more.
Love-Rum:
This, 'Baccostopper first do thou receive;
The same I thought t' our Parson once to give;
But faith! I think it better here bestow'd,
And I'll assure it made of stoutest Wood.
Ever-Drunk:
And here's a Gourd the neatest of the Sort,
Old jerom Crump bad me a Shilling for't,
Tho', being an Assembly-man his wound is great,
I'd rather you the Triffle wou'd accept.
CELSUS
Eclogue 6th
Argument
The great Progress of Infidelity gives rise to this Poem; & I can hardly call it even an Imitation of the Eclogue.
I cou'd wish there was no Occasion for the Satyr in it; & am sorry to say some very great men make the important Truths of our holy Religion the daily Subjects of the wanton Raillery! The Author will venture to affirm, That nothing is here suppos'd to be said by Celsus, but what he has actually heard often & vehemently maintained in common Conversation.Of Mary-Land to Speak in any Style;
Nor bless'd my Muse—a modest girl you'll say—
Her wondrous Sons to sing in rustick Lay—
Assembly Men, & Counsellors, & jars
In highflown Numbers thought I to rehearse;
No; she reply'd;—too ventrous are the Themes;
Nor dare you triffle with those glorious Names.
What Worth they have, deserving nobler Rhimes,
Some, tuneful Bard shall sing in blither Times.
Thy humbler Verse of Celsus' Worth shall tell,
Celsus, who is Himself's own Parallel;
Celsus, whose large capacious Soul's too great,
Things sacred with the least Regard to treat:
He keeps with W---n, M---n strict Alliance,
And holds Priests, Prophets, Gospels, at Defiance!
'Gainst Creeds with what persuasive Force he raves;
How scorns the Wretches Priestly, Pow'r enslaves?
Yet when, Himself his Rheth'rick flings about,
And gives 'gainst Heav'n & Ch[urch] his dictates out;
Whate'er he says, his Hearers must believe;
What he calls Truth implicitly receive.
Thus is the Wight the very Priest, he blames,
And the same Track pursues that he condemns.
Thoughtless & Rakely, Youths of equal Age,
Of like Invet'racy to Tyrant-Laws.
Oft had he promis'd to their longing Heart
A Schedule of his fav'rite, Scheme t' impart.
They now demand it—He with gracious Eyes
Benignly to their fond Request replies:
‘Children, I'll all your doubtings joyful clear;
‘just is the Boon you ask; attentive Hear.’
He said, & strait a Silence most profound,
Still as the Dead of night reign'd all around.
E'en Crab, his fav'rite Foist, was quite struck dumb,
Nor Puss has stir'd, tho' Mouse, had crost the Room.
As serious as Dan: Burgess did he look,
As grave as Nailor's were the Words he spoke.
Well does our Author sneer those two Enthusiasts, for to their followers is in great measure owing the Infidelity of the Marylanders; whom having too much sense to be Quakers & too much Pride to submit to the Establish'd Church, set up for Free Thinkers & drown what Sense they have in an arrogant Self-Conceit.
Once on a Time, was a huge Chaos all;
Till Chance, a mighty Pow'r, but who or what,
Was far beyond this Ken—that matter'd not—
Bad Order from Confusion to arise,
And thus form'd Lands & Seas, & liquid Skies.
Next, [God] he sung, but such a [God] as shew'd
He thought he very little to him ow'd;
Too great, too glorious, & too unconfin'd,
The paltry Bus'ness of our Earth to mind,
And therefore left poor Mortals to their Passions,
To do what suited best their Inclinations.
And wondrous wisely did he now declaim:
Adam & Eve Non-Entities were made;
No Serpent yet a Woman e'er betray'd;
Noah's a Blockhead, & Cham Serv'd him right,
T'expose, His Weakness to his Brother's Sight;
Abr'ham's great Faith was nothing but a name,
And Moses cheated Israel with a Sham:
Sampson's vast Strength deserves our Ridicule,
David's a Villain, Solomon a fool;
By childish whims were fill'd the Prophets all,
No more inspir'd by H[eave]n, than by Baal.
And the whole Bible's a notorious Cheat,
A Maintenance for lazy Priests to get.
And now he loudly Ch[rist] himself arraigns.
A pack of Sots is ev'ry Ch[ri]st[ia]n, Nation,
And gull'd the World had been, e'er since the Passion.
And they, who his Absurdities believe,
A just Pretence alone to Wisdom have.
—But hark! the Muse is shock'd —She bids me cease
These Outrages against the Prince of Peace:
And to those other glorious Tenets haste,
Which wondrous Celsus to the Youths exprest.
The Sacraments he made of equal Force
To save a Ch[ri]st[ia]n, as to save a Horse:
No sacrifice of Praise did H[ea]v[e]n require,
And fruitless, needless all were Forms of Pray'r.
By Consequence no Need there was of Teaching,
And P[a]r[s]ons shou'd be planting, instead of preaching.
In short, Religion was the Child of Pow'r,
To keep poor ign'rant Man from knowing more,
Than what their wise Forefathers knew before.
Hence then, this Inference he plainly drew,
Our Passions shou'd be all submitted to;
Pray why were they bestow'd if not employ'd,
And what are Blessings, that are not enjoy'd?
Come then, indulge where Humane Laws permit,
Hell, Devil defy, these School-boy Fears forget,
Dare any Act, but what may cause you swing:
Libel your G[od], your Country & your King;
Debauch a diff'rant Fair one ev'ry Night;
The Nuptial Tie's an Imposition quite.
With which old Dreamers frighten Children here
When Death invades, the Humane Frame's no more,
Than just the empty nought it was before.
Souls we've no more, than has a Bug, a Mite,
And all is wrapt in one eternal Night:
No Heav'n, no Hell will be hereafter seen,
But we shall be, as tho' we' had never been.
And grateful own'd what mighty Thanks they ow'd.
His fine Harangue, enraptur'd Hearts approv'd,
While Tray began to bark, & puss remov'd:
Away well-pleas'd with Blasphemy they went!
JEMIMA
[Eclogue 8th]
Argument
Jemima, forsaken by her Lover Crocus, goes to Granny, an old Midwife, famous among Planter's Wives & Daughters for her great Skill in Charms & Enchantments; where Jemima complains much of her Lover's Cruelty & Perfidiousness; & then Granny endeavours to get the disconsolate fair One another, tho' alas! for once she fails & loses her Labour.
And the kind of Comfort Granny strove to bring:
At which grave Puss, unmindful of her Prey,
Stood so aghast, the Vermin stole away.
Nay, e'en the Fire, (if all was said, is true)
Struck with sage Granny's magick Force, burnt blue.
Thou, Celia, deign to listen to the Theme,
Thou Glory of my Lays, from whence their Influence came.
By Crocus long Jemina had been woo'd,
At last he'ad gain'd the Point he'ad long persued.
Her kind Consent was one—the happy Night's
Appointed to begin Connubial Rites.
When, basely treach'rous to th'expecting Maid,
He left her, a more wealthy Fair to wed;
And now he revels in Dorinda's Charms,
Forgetful of Jemima's vacant Arms.
While the poor Girl pours forth her vain Complaints,
And 'gainst the perjur'd Wretch her Curses vents.
True;—oft she'ad thus been us'd by other Men;
But thought it wondrous hard, to be so us'd again.
Twas Night; the grateful Dew carest the Glade,
When to old Granny's Hut repairs the Maid;
Granny, fam'd matron, vers'd in midnight Lore;
O'er Ghosts & Stars & Devils great her Pow'r,
She wip'd her blubber'd Cheeks, & thus begun.
Jemima
While I with fruitless Love for Crocus burn:
Crocus, who soon my easy Heart deceiv'd;
Ye Pow'rs! ye know it, tho' ye've not reliev'd:
Witness you are of my Distress in vain:
Begin, my Heart, begin the Plaintive Strain.
What Lover now has Reason to despair,
Let Sc[o]ts & Buckskins now together join,
And cleanly Polecats mix with cleanlier Swine;
Dorinda go; the nuptial Candle light;
Perhaps one Candle he'll allow to Night;
Too great th' Expence for him t'indulge again,
Begin, my Heart, begin the Plaintive strain.
While thus you treat me with unjust Neglect;
While thus my Face once flatter'd you despise,
And view my Features with ill-natur'd Eyes,
You think the Gods to punish you disdain;
Begin, my Heart, begin the plaintive Strain.
Strait, strait I lov'd, you look'd so gay & trim:
Then were my years I think scarce twenty four;
Happy indeed, had I ne'er seen you more.
I saw, was lost, siez'd with the raging Pain;
Begin, my Heart, begin the plaintive Strain.
In some hard Highland Rock with Crows bred;
None of our Buckskin Blood runs in thy Veins;
Begin, my Heart, begin the plaintive strains.
The mother's Hands in her poor Infant's Blood;
Such Mothers sure must bear a cruel Heart:
Yet, Cupid! Thou by far more cruel art;
Begin, my Heart, begin the plaintive strain.
Produce the knotty Oak delicious Fruit;
With tuneful Mocking-Birds let Owls contend,
Their Lives let Planters thro' D-ll's Preaching mend,
And free from scandal let our Priests remain;
Begin, my Heart, begin the plaintive Strain.
My Sorrows soon shall in their Waves be drown'd,
My faulting Tongue no longer shall complain,
But, my Heart, cease at once the plaintive Strain.
And sooth'd with sof'ning words her great Distress;
Bad her be calm, nor for one Youth run mad,
If Charms cou'd do't another shou'd be had;
Jemima beg'd that she might have one soon;
The mumping Beldam grin'd, & thus begun.
Granny
With Greens & Ribbands be this Threshold burn'd,
Tho' I your former Lover can't restore,
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
How oft against her Will brought down the Moon?
E'en Snakes themselves I've stiffen'd many a Score;
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
And true Love Knots of various Fashion make;
Tie, tie 'em fast & Venus' Aid implore;
Court the desponding Maid, one shepherd more.
With Love of Thee some Youth shall yet expire;
Thou want'st a Husband—all thy Wants are o'er;
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
That Sows themselves not greater Longings prove,
When thro' the Woods they seek the foamy Boar;
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
Pledges of Love, tho' of that Love bereft,
Hide deep beneath the Threshold of the Door.
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
Mighty his knowledge in them, tho' a Slave,
Strange Things with them he'as done, strange Changes made,
As if all Hell itself came to his Aid.
With these the very Graves can I explore;
Court the desponding Maid, one Lover more.
And o'er thy Head into that Riv'let fling;
Look not behind; some shepherd thou shalt see,
If there is Truth or in my Charms or me:
Ha! Sure I am, I never fail'd before;
O Court the hapless Maid, one Lover more.
My sullen Sprites have all the Aid denied;
Ah! poor Jemima! all thy Hopes are o'er,
Die an old Maid, nor think of Lover more!
Gachradidow
Eclogue the 9th
Argument
Tachanoontia, & Gachradidow, two Indians, meeting together, bewail the common Loss of their Lands, usurp'd by the English; thence are led to celebrate the Worth of Shuncallamie, one of their Chiefs; & at last, Gachradidow sings in Praise of that Liberty which in the most severe Distresses they are still resolv'd to enjoy.
Tachanoontia:
Hoa, Gachradidow, whither art thou going?
Gachradidow:
To Town, to pay some Skins I've long been owing.
—O Tachanoontia, see our Wayward Fate;
Strangers how Lord it, where we liv'd alate,
‘Away, you Scoundrels, you've no Business here;’
Are Sounds which once we thought to hear.
Now driven far distant from our native Lands,
(So Heav'n ordains—that Heav'n, which all commands).
We live in Want, in Poverty, in Pain,
And part with all our Skins for little Gain.
Tachanoontia:
Surely I've heard—if what I've heard, is true—
That by our Indian Road a Line they drew,
Which Line by Treaty was the Barrier made,
For both, all future Wranglings to evade.
Gachradidow:
'Twas Truth;—But what will Treaties e'er avail
As wisely might you hope, the plaintive Dove
The hungry Eagle's empty Maw might move.
Soon they encroach'd upon us, kill'd our Deer
And, did they not our wild Resentment fear,
Of all our Lands we'ad quickly been depriv'd,
And must without our Venison have liv'd:
Your Gachradidow wou'd have wanted Pone,
And what wou'd great Shuncallamie ha' done?
Tachanoontia:
Shuncallamie? Wou'd he to Ills submit,
Whose stubborn Soul ne'er knew a Master yet?
Who then should teach our brawny youth to sling
The hissing Stone, or missive Shaft to wing?
Who bid 'em, with loud chearful Cries, advance
Against the hostile Fort, in Warlike Dance?
Who sing our Warriours in melodious Strains,
How they with Villain Blood have died the Plains;
How with Katawby
A nation of Indians ever in war with the Indians of the Six Nations; who are the Borderers on Mary Land, Penn. & New York. At the last Treaty between Virg & Mard with the S Nat, when the Virginians would have made Peace between them, our Indians said the Kat had so affronted them that they never wou'd, & had called them women & not men; whereas themselves were men & double men for they had two—.
And War unequal, tho' successful wag'd?
Gachradidow:
Or rather, who our Liberty shall sing,
Of all the joys we yet retain, the Spring?
That we have yet—& oh! while that we have,
Distresses, e'er so great; we'll nobly brave.
Tho' Swarms of Ch[ri]stian-Scoundrels round us roam,
Afraid, at least, asham'd, to stay at Home,
In strains as sweet as Mocking-bird's we'll shew,
Our gen'rous Hearts with Love of Freedom glow.
Tachanoontia:
So 'gainst hoary Winter's nipping Cold,
Mayst thou ne'er Match Coat want, thy Limbs t' enfold;
So from the Scorching Sun's impetuous Heat
Thy Feet conduct thee to some cool Retreat:
Begin—in Freedom's grateful Theme rejoice,—
I've my Song too—They say I have a Voice—
Tho' unharmonious to a skilful Ear,
Yet oft, when Red-Birds sing, the Raven's Croak you hear.
I will—nor shall my Song unworthy be
Of what we hold most dear, blest Liberty.
Here then, O Goddess, midst our Tribes remain;
With Us, thy faithful Race, for ever reign;
Poor as we are, our wide-extended Waste,
Our Christal Streams, which yield a cool Repast,
Our lofty Forests all shall witness be,
How much we love, how greatly honour thee.
Let vile Injustice & base Slav'ry sway
The Christian Plans—we neither will obey—
What Wonder that these Wretches seek our Shore,
Since Wealth, not Thee, O Freedom, they explore?
Nor wou'd they come, did not each fruitful Field
Large golden Crops of our Tobacco yield.—
—What will not Age—My Mem'ry once was strong,
And, when a Boy the live-long Day I sung;
Now I've my Lays forgot, my Voice I've lost;
—Surely my Eyes some Rattlesnake hath crost!
Tachanoontia:
Why do you rob me of Delight so soon?
You've Time enough—As yet tis scarcely Noon.
The town's not far—Besides, the Winds are still,
Without a Murmur glides this gentle Rill;
Shrill sounds you Voice along this gloomy Shade—
—Or if you're of yon low'ring Cloud, afraid,
Sing as we walk—less tedious is the Road—
Sing as we walk—I'll help to bear your Load.
Gachradidow:
No more—we see Shuncallamie to Night;
His Voice will give you more sincere Delight.
WORTHY
Ecloga the 10th
Argument
Worthy, a young Maryland Gentleman, had long courted Flavia, & was kindly receiv'd by her, so far, that he gain'd her consent, & only waited proper Time for the Ceremony. Being oblig'd the meanwhile to make a Voyage to England & a richer match offering, Flavia very prudently accepted of it & left poor Worthy to his fruitless complaints. This Poem was writ, it seems, at the very Time the affair was in agitation, Worthy being an Intimate Friend of the Authors.
To Worthy due, by Flavia hapless made;
Be such the Song, that she the Bard approve,
And listen to the honest Planter's Love.
To Worthy who their Measures can refuse?
The best in Maryland deserves the Muse.
So shall thy Bard acknowledge still thy Sway,
And when thou bid'st the Song, attune the Lay.
Begin—his gen'rous Passion let us sing,
While warbling Mock-Birds usher in the Spring
Nor think the cheerful, spritely Labour vain
The waving Woods will echo back the Strain!
When Worthy burns with Love, without Avail?
What tow'ring Hills such grateful Prospects shew,
Or what meandring Rills so sweetly flow,
Your unkind absence from the Youth t'excuse,
Not Woods themselves their gen'rous Plaints refuse;
E'en Mountains sympathize with him in Grief,
And stony Rocks can wish him kind Relief.
His faithful Overseer his Task forgets,
And every Slave at his misfortune frets:
Poor Brother Philip comes to sooth his Pains:
All kindly ask what Nymph his suit disdains.
Gives him a helping hand, & bravely cries;
‘Pho Man!’ why makst thou such a mighty Pother,
‘Scorn the false Jade, & briskly court another.’
Kind neighbor Twanhum, by his Tresses known,
To join his honest Grief with his rides down;
Good Parson Saygrace his lov'd Bumbo leaves,
Tho' he small Comfort to the Lover gives;
Saygrace whose fiery Phiz more brightly shines,
Than Lay'rs of Gold in rich Peruvian Mines.
‘Where will this end? he cries, too cruel Love,
‘No skill what'er can from our Hearts remove:
‘As well teach deists faith, & Lawyers Truth,
‘Give Sense to Coxcombs, & to old Maids Youth.’
He sorrowful returns—Yet, gentle Swains,
In doleful Ditties sing my am'rous Pains;
Some little Ease my harrass'd Soul may feel
My hapless Tale in Rhime to hear you tell.
O that an Overseer I'ad only been,
This cruel Creature I shou'd ne'er have seen;
Some Convict-Girl full well had serv'd my Turn,
Black Bess at least with equal Flame wou'd burn;
And what tho' black she is—The Crabs brave food,
Tho' it's Form's hideous, yet the meat is good:
O Flavia, by this Riv'let's purling stream,
These woods, these flow'ry Meads (thy Charms my Theme)
O blest with Thee, with that dear Shape & Face,
Be me disclaimed, Eternity might pass.
Now furious Love boils up my heated Blood,
And I cou'd revel in a purple Flood,
Cou'd feast on murders & in rapes delight,
And 'gainst my dearest Friend for madness fight.
Thou far from me the greatest Woes wou'dst dare,
Rather than live with me in safety here:
O Cruel! Still let not thy haughty Scorn
Bring on thy pitiless Soul a like Return:
Now, now, of Lover's fatal Woes I sing,
And Charms, of Sorrows like my own, the Spring.
Yes—in the Woods midst Bears & Wolves I'll roam,
And think no more of Flavia & of Home:
There shall the Trees my fatal Passion wear,
The Marks of my fond Love their Barks shall bear.
Wild as they are, quite good enough for me.
Or 'gainst the grizley Bear my Rage I'll vent,
To trace his Haunts in Freezing Cold content.
Now over Rocks & ecchoing Woods I fly,
The friendly Indians all my arms supply,
As if by this my Soul a Cure cou'd gain,
And Heav'n had taught me thus to ease my Pain.
Now neither Nymphs nor Songs can yield me Peace,
And all the Charms the woodland's gave me, cease;
Not all my Cares can change the Tirant-Boy;
My Summer's Thirst Patuxent may alloy;
Winter's most piercing Cold I might endure;
But Love still governs all, & will not know a Cure.
Due Thanks, ye Planters, to my Lays belong;
No more my Pipe with spritely Strains shall swell;
Go mind your Hogs & Crops,—& so farewel.
My friend here has finish'd, but has left out not imitated the seventh Eclogue of Virgil; What can be Reason; I'm at a Loss; But tis most likely that he died before he had finish'd his Design, for certainly had he liv'd longer, he would have imitated that & left these Poems, he has done, more perfect than they are.
The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | ||