 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
31
The City Poet
Let such on custards and fine cakes be fed
And we, plain country Bards, eat barley bread.
And we, plain country Bards, eat barley bread.
You court the favours of the town,
You carry verses up and down,
You scribble for the stage—
Who would pursue so poor a trade,
Such debts of honor, badly paid
For many a labored prize?
You carry verses up and down,
You scribble for the stage—
Who would pursue so poor a trade,
Such debts of honor, badly paid
For many a labored prize?
To steer a boat, or drive a cart,
To practice some mechanic art,
Yields something for your pain;
But poems are in no demand,
Few read them, fewer understand
The visions of your brain.
To practice some mechanic art,
Yields something for your pain;
But poems are in no demand,
Few read them, fewer understand
The visions of your brain.
Let Poets choose some gainful trade,
And not depend on Clio's aid—
With all the muse's skill,
With all the drama in his scull
Shakespeare was bred to combing wool,
And Plautus turned a mill.
And not depend on Clio's aid—
With all the muse's skill,
With all the drama in his scull
Shakespeare was bred to combing wool,
And Plautus turned a mill.
Of all the Poets dead and gone,
I cannot recollect but ONE
That throve by writing rhyme—
If Pope from Homer gained rewards,
Remember, statesmen, kings and lords
Were poets, in his time.
I cannot recollect but ONE
That throve by writing rhyme—
If Pope from Homer gained rewards,
Remember, statesmen, kings and lords
Were poets, in his time.
A poet where there is no king,
Is but a disregarded thing
An atom on the wheel;
A second Iliad could he write
His pockets would be very light,
And beggarly his meal.
Is but a disregarded thing
32
A second Iliad could he write
His pockets would be very light,
And beggarly his meal.
The SHERIFF only deals in prose,
And prisons have a hundred woes;—
With debts, you have no dues—
You have no thousands in the Bank,
You float upon a rotten plank—
—Go home, and mend your shoes.
And prisons have a hundred woes;—
With debts, you have no dues—
You have no thousands in the Bank,
You float upon a rotten plank—
—Go home, and mend your shoes.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |