The Wiccamical Chaplet a selection of original poetry; comprising smaller poems, serious and comic; classical trifles; sonnets; inscriptions and epitaphs; songs and ballads; mock-heroics, epigrams, fragments, &c. &c. Edited by George Huddesford |
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 | MOCK-HEROICAL AND BURLESQUE PIECES, PARODIES, EPIGRAMS, &c. |
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 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
145
MOCK-HEROICAL AND BURLESQUE PIECES, PARODIES, EPIGRAMS, &c.
147
THE CONQUEST OF QUEBEC,
A MOCK-HEROIC.
Cedit Homero
Propter mille annos.
Propter mille annos.
Juv.
O Muse, the Conquest of Canadia tell—
Where General Wolfe and General Montcalm fell!
O tell how many gallant warriors died—
In climbing up that rugged mountain's side,
Ere they their post on Abraham's heights could gain!
And tell—how many of the French were slain!
The French on top resistance had prepar'd,
And block'd the passage with—a Captain's Guard:
Undauntedly the English forc'd the trench,
Undauntedly—and slow retir'd the French:
So Victors on the mountain's top we stood,
We bought our passage, and the price was Blood.
Where General Wolfe and General Montcalm fell!
O tell how many gallant warriors died—
In climbing up that rugged mountain's side,
Ere they their post on Abraham's heights could gain!
And tell—how many of the French were slain!
The French on top resistance had prepar'd,
And block'd the passage with—a Captain's Guard:
Undauntedly the English forc'd the trench,
Undauntedly—and slow retir'd the French:
So Victors on the mountain's top we stood,
We bought our passage, and the price was Blood.
There to the silent moon the British hosts
Pale gleam'd, and dreadful as the midnight ghosts:
Then form'd the General his van and rear—
Here the dragoon, and there the grenadier—
Told them how Johnson, and how Amherst, fought,
And gave each man a quartern of gin hot.
One single cannon in the front they bore,
One;—for the British army had no more:
Thus were the regiments rank'd in firm array,
And stood in order by the break of day.
Pale gleam'd, and dreadful as the midnight ghosts:
Then form'd the General his van and rear—
Here the dragoon, and there the grenadier—
Told them how Johnson, and how Amherst, fought,
And gave each man a quartern of gin hot.
148
One;—for the British army had no more:
Thus were the regiments rank'd in firm array,
And stood in order by the break of day.
Dark to the view a distant thicket rose,
Under the gloomy covert of whose boughs
Some ambuscade our prudent Leader fear'd,
Perhaps an Indian chief—or Indian bird;
Each bush, each leafy brake, he boldly swore,
His Aid-du-camp should carefully explore.
When lo! the standards of the French appear,
Streaming like meteors to the troubled air:
Regiments on regiment to the plain they bring,
Aloof grim Horror beats his iron wing.
Under the gloomy covert of whose boughs
Some ambuscade our prudent Leader fear'd,
Perhaps an Indian chief—or Indian bird;
Each bush, each leafy brake, he boldly swore,
His Aid-du-camp should carefully explore.
When lo! the standards of the French appear,
Streaming like meteors to the troubled air:
Regiments on regiment to the plain they bring,
Aloof grim Horror beats his iron wing.
Last, from a delve in flank, two Chiefs advance;
Potent allies of the Monarque of France:
One Atacullaculla, fam'd in war,
By Britons nam'd, the Little Carpenter;
T'other, of giant port and tawny hue,
Was call'd the Raven King of Toogaloo;
On his rough brow Deliberation sate,
And each slow word he spake seem'd fix'd as Fate .
Potent allies of the Monarque of France:
One Atacullaculla, fam'd in war,
By Britons nam'd, the Little Carpenter;
T'other, of giant port and tawny hue,
Was call'd the Raven King of Toogaloo;
On his rough brow Deliberation sate,
And each slow word he spake seem'd fix'd as Fate .
“Stern warrior, Atacullaculla brave,
Whose sword can conquer, and whose arm can save,
Say, 'mid the battle's fury shall we rush—
Or sit conceal'd behind this shady bush?
Here we might fight, secure of dire alarms,
Why should we run then into Danger's arms?
Yet think not, mighty chief, I mean to fly,
I laugh at danger—for I can but die;—
But never be that brutal bravery mine
To offer Prudence up at Valour's shrine;
Full well I know my country claims my life;—
So do my little children and my wife.”
Whose sword can conquer, and whose arm can save,
149
Or sit conceal'd behind this shady bush?
Here we might fight, secure of dire alarms,
Why should we run then into Danger's arms?
Yet think not, mighty chief, I mean to fly,
I laugh at danger—for I can but die;—
But never be that brutal bravery mine
To offer Prudence up at Valour's shrine;
Full well I know my country claims my life;—
So do my little children and my wife.”
The Chief no longer could his wrath resist,
But clench'd the brawny terrors of his fist:
“Degen'rate Prince,” he cried, “speak thus again
This arm shall stretch thee breathless on the plain.
Tempt me not, coward, in my strength to rise,
Nought will avail thee thy disdainful eyes,
Thy limbs in thunder cloth'd and more than mortal size.
Ye Gods! how idle doth appear your art,
So huge a case for such a little heart!
Why doth the oker stain thy bosom red,
Why nods the sable plumage o'er thy head?
Why, 'midst thy bold companions, dost thou boast
With loudest yell to animate the host?
Why do the hoary scalps adorn thy wall,
Frequent as fox-heads round the hunter's hall?
If thou dost tremble to behold the foe,
To send the poison'd arrow from the bow,
With red right-hand the tomahawk to wield,
To scalp the warriors gasping in the field?
Go, formidable giant, rouse thy might
To rage in forests, and with beasts to fight;
Go try thy prowess on the fearful hare;
Thou durst not combat in the walks of war.
Fly, prudent coward, save that worthless life,
Fly to thy little children and thy wife;
That wife shall groan beneath her husband's shame,
Those children blush to hear their father's name.”
But clench'd the brawny terrors of his fist:
“Degen'rate Prince,” he cried, “speak thus again
This arm shall stretch thee breathless on the plain.
Tempt me not, coward, in my strength to rise,
Nought will avail thee thy disdainful eyes,
Thy limbs in thunder cloth'd and more than mortal size.
Ye Gods! how idle doth appear your art,
So huge a case for such a little heart!
Why doth the oker stain thy bosom red,
Why nods the sable plumage o'er thy head?
Why, 'midst thy bold companions, dost thou boast
With loudest yell to animate the host?
Why do the hoary scalps adorn thy wall,
Frequent as fox-heads round the hunter's hall?
If thou dost tremble to behold the foe,
To send the poison'd arrow from the bow,
With red right-hand the tomahawk to wield,
To scalp the warriors gasping in the field?
150
To rage in forests, and with beasts to fight;
Go try thy prowess on the fearful hare;
Thou durst not combat in the walks of war.
Fly, prudent coward, save that worthless life,
Fly to thy little children and thy wife;
That wife shall groan beneath her husband's shame,
Those children blush to hear their father's name.”
“Imperious Chief,” the Raven King replied,
“I scorn thy menace as I hate thy pride.
'Tis not thine arm, with nervous valour strung,
No, nor the thunder of thy braver tongue,
Can shake the firm resolve that I pursue;
Here will I stand and fight—and so shall you.
Yet, Atacullaculla, wisely hear
The voice of Reason whisper in thine ear.
Say, should the fury of the whistling lead
From thy broad shoulders strike thy painted head,
What would it boot thee that, with ceaseless yell,
Thy friends shall howl around thy narrow cell;
Shall idly lay the wampum by thy side,
And ask, in solemn sadness, “Why you died?”
Is Fame thy passion? Fame is idle breath;—
For who can hear the praises of his death?
Say, if thou knowest, on what dreary coast
Shall stalk thy silent, melancholy ghost?
Thou dost not fondly trust what priests recount
Of a new world behind yon cloud-topt mount,
Where our forefathers still their sports pursue,
Urge the swift chace and guide the light canoe!
Nature and Reason cry, they judge amiss;
Yon mountain's other side must be like this.”
“I scorn thy menace as I hate thy pride.
'Tis not thine arm, with nervous valour strung,
No, nor the thunder of thy braver tongue,
Can shake the firm resolve that I pursue;
Here will I stand and fight—and so shall you.
Yet, Atacullaculla, wisely hear
The voice of Reason whisper in thine ear.
Say, should the fury of the whistling lead
From thy broad shoulders strike thy painted head,
What would it boot thee that, with ceaseless yell,
Thy friends shall howl around thy narrow cell;
Shall idly lay the wampum by thy side,
And ask, in solemn sadness, “Why you died?”
Is Fame thy passion? Fame is idle breath;—
For who can hear the praises of his death?
Say, if thou knowest, on what dreary coast
Shall stalk thy silent, melancholy ghost?
Thou dost not fondly trust what priests recount
Of a new world behind yon cloud-topt mount,
151
Urge the swift chace and guide the light canoe!
Nature and Reason cry, they judge amiss;
Yon mountain's other side must be like this.”
He scarce had ended parley, when on high
A musquet bullet sung along the sky;
O'er Atacullaculla's head it flew,
And smote the Raven King of Toogaloo;
Deep in his forehead sunk the fatal ball:
See the dire chance of being made too tall!
The giant prone, o'er fourscore inches spread,
Fell, and lay number'd with the mighty dead:
His fate unmov'd his bold compeer beheld,
Rush'd dreadful to the fight, and loudly yell'd.
A musquet bullet sung along the sky;
O'er Atacullaculla's head it flew,
And smote the Raven King of Toogaloo;
Deep in his forehead sunk the fatal ball:
See the dire chance of being made too tall!
The giant prone, o'er fourscore inches spread,
Fell, and lay number'd with the mighty dead:
His fate unmov'd his bold compeer beheld,
Rush'd dreadful to the fight, and loudly yell'd.
Then, then began a direful bloody battle,
Swords clash, drums beat, men shout, and cannons rattle.
To arms! to arms! see where the enemy sits!
Advance, present, fire; fix your bayonets!
How soon is quench'd the sun's immortal light!
Each army stands conceal'd from t'other's sight.
In sulphury clouds of all-involving smoke,
And darkness is around them as a cloke.
Behold, the murderous Fiends of Hell rejoice
At the dread thunder of the cannon's voice!
The trumpet's clang, the soldiers' piercing cries,
Rock the firm earth, and rend the echoing skies.
Charge! charge! the broken Gallic squadrons run,
Nor dare to face the sulphur-belching gun:
They fly, they fly, in wild disorder fly—
Huzza! the day's our own! St. George and Victory!
Swords clash, drums beat, men shout, and cannons rattle.
To arms! to arms! see where the enemy sits!
Advance, present, fire; fix your bayonets!
How soon is quench'd the sun's immortal light!
Each army stands conceal'd from t'other's sight.
In sulphury clouds of all-involving smoke,
And darkness is around them as a cloke.
Behold, the murderous Fiends of Hell rejoice
At the dread thunder of the cannon's voice!
The trumpet's clang, the soldiers' piercing cries,
Rock the firm earth, and rend the echoing skies.
Charge! charge! the broken Gallic squadrons run,
Nor dare to face the sulphur-belching gun:
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Huzza! the day's our own! St. George and Victory!
But, e'er I rein the Muse's furious force,
Soft let her weep o'er Wolfe's still bleeding corse,
In manhood's prime, alas! the Hero falls:
Who could withstand three whizzing musquet balls?
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless lead
Pierc'd his brave breast—and made your Hero bleed?
He long had boasted your peculiar care;
But ye were daunted at the din of war,
And trembling fled beneath your oozy caves,
Beneath old Lawrence' flood, and Montmorenci's waves!
For Thee the hardy Veteran wept, for Thee
Check'd the strong course of Joy for Victory.
Soft let her weep o'er Wolfe's still bleeding corse,
In manhood's prime, alas! the Hero falls:
Who could withstand three whizzing musquet balls?
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless lead
Pierc'd his brave breast—and made your Hero bleed?
He long had boasted your peculiar care;
But ye were daunted at the din of war,
And trembling fled beneath your oozy caves,
Beneath old Lawrence' flood, and Montmorenci's waves!
For Thee the hardy Veteran wept, for Thee
Check'd the strong course of Joy for Victory.
'Twas Fate (and who almighty Fate shall blame)
Took from his Life—and added to his Fame.
Unconquer'd he resign'd his glorious breath,
And Victory sooth'd him in the arms of Death.
Ill-fated Chief! his mighty valour gave
A Realm to Britain—to himself a Grave.
No more!—his fame Envy nor Time shall waste—
Tho' on his precious limbs the worms must feast.
Fresh shall his memory live to latest times,
Fresh and immortal as the Muse's Rhimes.
Took from his Life—and added to his Fame.
Unconquer'd he resign'd his glorious breath,
And Victory sooth'd him in the arms of Death.
Ill-fated Chief! his mighty valour gave
A Realm to Britain—to himself a Grave.
No more!—his fame Envy nor Time shall waste—
Tho' on his precious limbs the worms must feast.
Fresh shall his memory live to latest times,
Fresh and immortal as the Muse's Rhimes.
153
ON THE NEW GIBBET ON HOUNSLOW HEATH.
In former times, whene'er in chainsJudges hung rogues up, like Jack Hains,
Whose Gibbets, Hounslow-heath adorning,
To their old fellow-rogues gave warning,
'Twas thought the Gibbets did their duty
If they stood near enough to shew t'ye
Their tenants in a distant ken,
Far from the highway path of men.
So distant stood they, no offence
Was giv'n to any other sense.
But K------, or some Judge as wise,
Not satisfied to strike our eyes,
Now sets his gibbet at our noses;
And, forasmuch as he supposes
That folks may turn their heads or wink,
He makes examples by the stink.
154
THE LAUREATE's ODE, 1771.
At length the fleeting year is o'er,And we no longer are deceiv'd;
The wars and tumults are no more
That Fancy form'd and Fear believ'd:
Each distant object of distress,
Each phantom of uncertain guess
The busy mind of man could raise,
Has taught e'en Folly to beware:
At Fleets and Armies in the air
The wond'ring croud has ceas'd to gaze.
And shall the same dull cheats again
Revive in stale succession roll'd,
Shall sage Experience war in vain
Nor the New Year be wiser than the Old?
Forbid it, ye protecting Powers
Who guide the months, the days, the hours,
Which now advance on rapid wing!
May each new spectre of the night
Dissolve at their approaching light,
As fly the wintry damps the soft return of Spring!
155
THE PLAGIARISM OF THE POET-LAUREATE DETECTED;
OR An Ode discovered in a Collection of Poetry of the Age of Queen Elizabeth.
[_]
It is put in the Mouth of a Boar, who, in the original, addresses the Sow and Pigs in the same manner as the Laureate does the New Year 1771.
At length the harvest-time is o'er,
And we no longer are deceiv'd;
Of scanty crops we hear no more
Which Farmer told, and Pigs believ'd:
When of the barley-field he spoke,
And seem'd an object of distress,
E'en then I thought 'twas all a joke,
And that was no uncertain guess.
Shame on your head! at what d'ye stare?
D'ye think a Pig can see the air?
Can you see Fleets and Armies there?
Look down, look down, young Gruntling, mind your feed:
Let winds blow shrill and tempests roar,
Shall the young Pig be wiser than the Boar?
That were a pretty joke indeed!
Had you, like Scotchmen, second sight,
You might see the days and hours advance on rapid wing,
And you might see new spectres of the night,
And the wintry damps fly away from the Spring,
Just like a flock of pigeons from a kite.
And we no longer are deceiv'd;
Of scanty crops we hear no more
Which Farmer told, and Pigs believ'd:
When of the barley-field he spoke,
And seem'd an object of distress,
E'en then I thought 'twas all a joke,
And that was no uncertain guess.
Shame on your head! at what d'ye stare?
D'ye think a Pig can see the air?
Can you see Fleets and Armies there?
Look down, look down, young Gruntling, mind your feed:
Let winds blow shrill and tempests roar,
Shall the young Pig be wiser than the Boar?
That were a pretty joke indeed!
Had you, like Scotchmen, second sight,
You might see the days and hours advance on rapid wing,
And you might see new spectres of the night,
And the wintry damps fly away from the Spring,
Just like a flock of pigeons from a kite.
156
True to herself if Britain prove,
What foreign Foe has She to dread?
Her sacred laws, her Sovereign's love,
Her virtuous pride, by Freedom bred,
Secure at once domestic ease,
And awe th'aspiring nations into peace.
Did Rome e'er court a tyrant's smiles
Till Faction wrought the civil Frame's decay?
Did Greece submit to Philip's wiles
Till her own faithless sons prepar'd his way?
What foreign Foe has She to dread?
Her sacred laws, her Sovereign's love,
Her virtuous pride, by Freedom bred,
Secure at once domestic ease,
And awe th'aspiring nations into peace.
Did Rome e'er court a tyrant's smiles
Till Faction wrought the civil Frame's decay?
Did Greece submit to Philip's wiles
Till her own faithless sons prepar'd his way?
True to herself if Britain prove,
The warring World will league in vain:
Her sacred laws, her Sovereign's love,
Her empire, boundless as the main,
Will guard at once domestic ease,
And awe th'aspiring Nations into Peace.
The warring World will league in vain:
Her sacred laws, her Sovereign's love,
Her empire, boundless as the main,
Will guard at once domestic ease,
And awe th'aspiring Nations into Peace.
157
True to themselves if Pigs would prove,
Safe might they range from ground to ground;
We're sure of Farmer Quickset's love,
And he'll secure us from the pound.
God grant us plenty, health, and ease,
And change the neighbouring turnips into pease!
When have we fled before the hunt
Of boys and yelping puppies in the rear?
Who hath e'er felt the mastiff at his ear
But for some faithless Pig that saw them near,
And would not warn us in a grunt?
Safe might they range from ground to ground;
We're sure of Farmer Quickset's love,
And he'll secure us from the pound.
God grant us plenty, health, and ease,
And change the neighbouring turnips into pease!
When have we fled before the hunt
Of boys and yelping puppies in the rear?
Who hath e'er felt the mastiff at his ear
But for some faithless Pig that saw them near,
And would not warn us in a grunt?
True to themselves if Pigs would prove,
There's ne'er a Dog in all the Parish
Against a Pig would dare to move;
And then in every field we'd rove
As free as in the common Marish.
God grant us plenty, health, and ease,
And change the neighbouring turnips into pease!
There's ne'er a Dog in all the Parish
Against a Pig would dare to move;
And then in every field we'd rove
As free as in the common Marish.
God grant us plenty, health, and ease,
And change the neighbouring turnips into pease!
158
OLD WYSCHARD.
Volumes of historic lore
Read, and you'll find that heretofore
Flourish'd a brood of Strapping Dogs,
To whom this present race of men are frogs.
Ajax a rock in's arms could take
And hurl it at your pericrane,
Which half a dozen folks of modern make,
With force combin'd, would strive to lift in vain.
Read, and you'll find that heretofore
Flourish'd a brood of Strapping Dogs,
To whom this present race of men are frogs.
Ajax a rock in's arms could take
And hurl it at your pericrane,
Which half a dozen folks of modern make,
With force combin'd, would strive to lift in vain.
By gallant Guy of Warwick slain
Was Colbrand, that gigantic Dane;
Nor could this desp'rate champion daunt
A Dun Cow bigger than an elephant:
But he, to prove his courage sterling,
His whyniard in her blood imbrued;
He cut from her enormous side a sírloin,
And in his porridge-pot her brisket stew'd:
Then butcher'd a wild Boar and ate him barbecu'd.
Was Colbrand, that gigantic Dane;
Nor could this desp'rate champion daunt
A Dun Cow bigger than an elephant:
But he, to prove his courage sterling,
His whyniard in her blood imbrued;
He cut from her enormous side a sírloin,
And in his porridge-pot her brisket stew'd:
Then butcher'd a wild Boar and ate him barbecu'd.
When Pantagruel ate salt Pork
Six waiting-jacks were set at work
To shovel mustard into's chops.—
These you'll allow were men of mould,
And made on purpose for an age of gold;
But we, their progeny, are mere milk-sops:
They drank whole tuns at a sup to wet their throttles,
But we're a race of starv'lings—I'll be shot else—
Begotten with the rincings of the bottles.
Six waiting-jacks were set at work
To shovel mustard into's chops.—
These you'll allow were men of mould,
And made on purpose for an age of gold;
But we, their progeny, are mere milk-sops:
159
But we're a race of starv'lings—I'll be shot else—
Begotten with the rincings of the bottles.
'Twas so the sage Monboddo wrote:
And many a learned clod of note
You'll see come forward and advance
Positions every whit as wise:
And that they tell their friends no lies
I'll shew you by collateral circumstance.
And many a learned clod of note
You'll see come forward and advance
Positions every whit as wise:
And that they tell their friends no lies
I'll shew you by collateral circumstance.
There liv'd—tho' that is somewhat wide
O' the purpose—I should say, There died
A squire, and Wyschard was his name;
Pictish and Saxon ancestry
Illustrated his pedigree,
And many a noble imp of fame:
Yet these renowned ancestors,
As if they had been vulgar sons of whores,
Were long, long since by all the world forgot
Save by himself: he knew the very spot
Where they had each been coffin'd up to rot;
And in his will directions gave exact
Amongst those venerable dads to have his carcase pack'd.
O' the purpose—I should say, There died
A squire, and Wyschard was his name;
Pictish and Saxon ancestry
Illustrated his pedigree,
And many a noble imp of fame:
Yet these renowned ancestors,
As if they had been vulgar sons of whores,
Were long, long since by all the world forgot
Save by himself: he knew the very spot
Where they had each been coffin'd up to rot;
And in his will directions gave exact
Amongst those venerable dads to have his carcase pack'd.
Now deep the Sexton burrows to explore
The sepulchre that these old worthies hid;
Something at last that seem'd an huge barn-door,
But was no other than a coffin-lid,
Oppos'd his efforts; long it spread, and wide,
And near the upper end a crevice he espied.
Thence on his ear strange uncouth utterance broke,
As of some sullen slumb'rer half awoke,
Who, yawning, mutter'd inarticulate
And angry sounds: yet could not this abate
The courage of the clown: “Speak out!” quoth he—
“Raw head and bloody bones ne'er yet affrighted me.”
The sepulchre that these old worthies hid;
Something at last that seem'd an huge barn-door,
But was no other than a coffin-lid,
Oppos'd his efforts; long it spread, and wide,
And near the upper end a crevice he espied.
160
As of some sullen slumb'rer half awoke,
Who, yawning, mutter'd inarticulate
And angry sounds: yet could not this abate
The courage of the clown: “Speak out!” quoth he—
“Raw head and bloody bones ne'er yet affrighted me.”
A thund'ring voice replies, “What miscreant knave
“Dares break the sabbath of old Wyschard's grave?”
“No miscreant knave, worm-eaten sir, am I,
“But Hodge the sexton:—Knave! I scorn the word:
“I at my honest calling work, for why?
“Your Kinsman's just brought down to be interr'd.”
“Dares break the sabbath of old Wyschard's grave?”
“No miscreant knave, worm-eaten sir, am I,
“But Hodge the sexton:—Knave! I scorn the word:
“I at my honest calling work, for why?
“Your Kinsman's just brought down to be interr'd.”
“My kinsman's to be buried here?—Oh, ho!
“What year of our Lord is't, fellow, let me know.”—
“'Tis eighteen hundred, sir, and two.”—
“Ay, Goodman Sexton, say you so?
“Then Time on me a march hath stole;
“'Twas near sev'n hundred years ago
“That I became the tenant of this hole:
“Men like myself behind I left but few;
“Since then the world, I wot, is fangled all anew!
“What year of our Lord is't, fellow, let me know.”—
“'Tis eighteen hundred, sir, and two.”—
“Ay, Goodman Sexton, say you so?
“Then Time on me a march hath stole;
“'Twas near sev'n hundred years ago
“That I became the tenant of this hole:
“Men like myself behind I left but few;
“Since then the world, I wot, is fangled all anew!
“Tell me, in sooth, are other folks like thee?
“For, by thy voice, thou seem'st a tiny elf.”
“Tiny!” quoth Hodge: “Zooks, I am six feet three!
“There's no man in the hundred but myself
“Can say as much—thy name-sake that is dead,
“I'll warrant him, was shorter by the head.”—
“Thy words lack proof: I prithee, honest friend,
“Thrust thro' this chink thy little finger's end!
“Whence I may know if thou the truth dost state,
“And judge, by sample small, of thy dimensions great.”
“For, by thy voice, thou seem'st a tiny elf.”
“Tiny!” quoth Hodge: “Zooks, I am six feet three!
“There's no man in the hundred but myself
“Can say as much—thy name-sake that is dead,
“I'll warrant him, was shorter by the head.”—
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“Thrust thro' this chink thy little finger's end!
“Whence I may know if thou the truth dost state,
“And judge, by sample small, of thy dimensions great.”
Thought Hodge—“Altho' I little fear the dead,
“Fool-hardy mortals perils strange environ:”
His finger then withheld he, but, instead
Thrust in his pick-axe nozzle, sheath'd with iron:
And he was in the right,
For, at a single bite,
Old Wyschard snapt it off clean as a whistle.—
“Hence, lying Varlet, bear
“Your pigmy corpse elsewhere,
“'Twould Wyschard's grave disgrace!
“I' the stoutest of your race
“There's no more substance than a bit of gristle.”
“Fool-hardy mortals perils strange environ:”
His finger then withheld he, but, instead
Thrust in his pick-axe nozzle, sheath'd with iron:
And he was in the right,
For, at a single bite,
Old Wyschard snapt it off clean as a whistle.—
“Hence, lying Varlet, bear
“Your pigmy corpse elsewhere,
“'Twould Wyschard's grave disgrace!
“I' the stoutest of your race
“There's no more substance than a bit of gristle.”
162
ODE, In the Manner of Samuel J*ns*n.
Addressed to a Girl in the Temple, 1777.
While the calescent, sanguine flood,
By vile Vulgarity call'd Blood,
Pervades this mortal frame;
Amaz'd at your translucid charms,
You I solicit to these arms,
Tho' of procacious name!
By vile Vulgarity call'd Blood,
Pervades this mortal frame;
Amaz'd at your translucid charms,
You I solicit to these arms,
Tho' of procacious name!
When in your dim nocturnal rounds,
Erratic from the Temple's bounds
Thro' devious lanes you stray;
With friendly auscultation deign
To audit amatorial pain
Subvected in this lay.
Erratic from the Temple's bounds
Thro' devious lanes you stray;
With friendly auscultation deign
To audit amatorial pain
Subvected in this lay.
Satellite of the Paphian dame,
Whose rays, tho' darken'd by thy fame,
Illuminate my mind:
Desert the street, resume the plain,
Rejoin your derelicted swain—
Be prudent, as you're kind.
Whose rays, tho' darken'd by thy fame,
Illuminate my mind:
Desert the street, resume the plain,
Rejoin your derelicted swain—
Be prudent, as you're kind.
163
My brows, obumbrated with age,
Hang scowling o'er life's latter-page—
But you, like Lunar beam,
Thro' my nimbosity arise;
Dispensing, from your lucid eyes,
Refocillating gleam.
Hang scowling o'er life's latter-page—
But you, like Lunar beam,
Thro' my nimbosity arise;
Dispensing, from your lucid eyes,
Refocillating gleam.
RONDEAU.
[By two black eyes my heart was won]
By two black eyes my heart was won:Sure never wretch was more undone.
To Cælia with my suit I came;
But she, regardless of her prize,
Thought proper to reward my flame
By two black eyes.
164
ANOTHER ODE TO STELLA.
Whilom arthritic tyranny consign'd
My gout-invaded limbs to beds of pain,
Me doctors in polluted air confin'd,
Beneath the downward Season's iron reign.
My gout-invaded limbs to beds of pain,
Me doctors in polluted air confin'd,
Beneath the downward Season's iron reign.
By the Moon's lambent light no more I stray'd;
No more soft woes of wanton love confest:
No more met wandering Pleasure in the shade,
Nor play'd on smiling Nature's naked breast.
No more soft woes of wanton love confest:
No more met wandering Pleasure in the shade,
Nor play'd on smiling Nature's naked breast.
But, come now, Stella, to the conscious shades!
Come, while usurping Darkness shares the day!
While Beauty shines, and listening Rapture leads,
Where twittering Progne pours the melting lay.
Come, while usurping Darkness shares the day!
While Beauty shines, and listening Rapture leads,
Where twittering Progne pours the melting lay.
Tho' shivering in a blasted plain I dwell;
Tho' vigorous Rapture sadden to Despair;
Tho' flow'rs and fruits and flickering Phœbus fail—
Thou'st lighted up a Constellation there.
Tho' vigorous Rapture sadden to Despair;
Tho' flow'rs and fruits and flickering Phœbus fail—
Thou'st lighted up a Constellation there.
O then in strife corporeal let me taste
The soft concatenation of Delight;
And, sinking on the down of Stella's breast,
In murmurs bid the waking world good-night.
The soft concatenation of Delight;
And, sinking on the down of Stella's breast,
In murmurs bid the waking world good-night.
165
EPIGRAM,
To the Landlord of the Orkney Arms, at Maiden-head, near Bray.
I wonder, Friend March, you, who live so near Bray,
Should not set up the sign of the Vicar:
Tho' it might be an odd one, you cannot but say
It must needs be a sign of good liquor!
Should not set up the sign of the Vicar:
Tho' it might be an odd one, you cannot but say
It must needs be a sign of good liquor!
ANSWER.
Should I set up the sign of the Vicar, I doubtMy drift might be misunderstood:
Who'd believe that the Vicar would dangle without,
If within doors the liquor was good?
EPIGRAM,
On the Marriage of an Antient Maiden to a tall and athletic Clergyman.
Blest, says the Sacred Text, are thoseThat on the Prop of Faith rely:
Sabina heard this truth, and chose
A pillar of divinity.
166
ODE FOR WILLIAM PRESTON,
Author of an irregular Ode to the Moon, added to an Essay upon Lyric Poetry, and inserted in the 1st Volume of Philosophical Transactions, Dublin, 1787.
By strange effects “of Study's vauntive ken”One William Preston did espy
An untrod path of Poesy.
What then?
He got on Pegasus, and mounted soon
“Up to the pleni-lunar Hand o' the Moon,”
To meet with Madness:—she
Peopled his verse with dire Variety:
Dæmons, Harpies, Ghosts by myriads,
All and some,
See they come,
With Tritons, Screech-owls, Wolves and Nereids,
Leaving their “fretted Vaults of sculptur'd Foam.”—
Now, wherefore dost thou call?
Go, says he, go, tell Mason how I show'd
Another way to make an Ode
That's all
167
EPIGRAM,
To Him who put on the Hatchment “IN CŒLO QUIES.”
“In Cœlo quies!”—very well.But is the Old Man there, can'st tell?
'Tis modest tho'—In Cœlo quies:
You'll give me leave to guess how nigh he is.
Why did'st not write “Qui es in Cœlo,
If thou wast sure he's not gone bélow?
BY A YOUNG LADY,
With a Present of a Pair of Garters to an Old Gentleman.
Excuse your humble servant Rosey,
She knits, but cannot make a Poesy.
She knits, but cannot make a Poesy.
ANSWER.
As a Knitter thou art, my dear Girl, knit the KnotThat will last Thee for life; and good luck be thy lot!
May thy Choice not sit tight, nor too slack let him be,
But bind easy and soft, as thy Garters bind me.
'Tis true that my Verse both runs rough and comes hard,
Tho' the Subject invite e'en a crippled Old Bard:
Your wit and your work I admire, my dear Rosey,
Excuse me then Verse, I' excuse you your Posey,
And will love you and thank you in plain honest Prosey.
168
ELEGY ON A FAVOURITE BANTUM,
Who travelled more than three hundréd miles; and who, soon after his arrival at Churston , in Devonshire, was drowned in a Cistern near Torbay.
Written by John H---y, Esq. 1800.
Brave British seamen drop a tear,
Kindly bedew a stranger's bier:
A brother's sufferings pity claim,
And, like yourselves, I'm known to fame.
Kindly bedew a stranger's bier:
A brother's sufferings pity claim,
And, like yourselves, I'm known to fame.
Like you, the morning watch I keep,
Unfurl my sails, and shake off sleep;
Eager, like you, I meet my foe,
And when I conquer, then I crow!
Unfurl my sails, and shake off sleep;
Eager, like you, I meet my foe,
And when I conquer, then I crow!
But ah! in chrystal flood, I trace
A rival, meet him face to face;
I stoopt to conquer—vain the strife,
By one false step depriv'd of life.
A rival, meet him face to face;
I stoopt to conquer—vain the strife,
By one false step depriv'd of life.
A sprightly Bantum once was I,
Entomb'd in this sweet grove I lie;
Moor'd head and stern by seamen brave,
Who found, like me, a watry grave.
Entomb'd in this sweet grove I lie;
Moor'd head and stern by seamen brave,
Who found, like me, a watry grave.
169
PARODY,
Written on receiving a Copy of the foregoing Elegy, sent in the Name of the learned Inditer.
Poetic Bellmen, once a-year
Who gladly barter Verse for Beer,
Think what a Brother Bard endures
Whose Compositions rival yours!—
Who gladly barter Verse for Beer,
Think what a Brother Bard endures
Whose Compositions rival yours!—
Unlucky Boys your carols mock,
And, when I sing my Bantum Cock,
With squibs unlucky Critics pelt
Bantum no better sung than spelt.
And, when I sing my Bantum Cock,
With squibs unlucky Critics pelt
Bantum no better sung than spelt.
Ah, spare my Elegiac strain,
I'll turn Biographer again,
And, at some learned Chief's expence,
Write Lives, the death of Common Sense!
I'll turn Biographer again,
And, at some learned Chief's expence,
Write Lives, the death of Common Sense!
For, erst great Mansfield's Life wrote I;
And, underneath each Christmas pye,
Pent in the baker's glowing cave,
My pages find a greasy grave.
And, underneath each Christmas pye,
Pent in the baker's glowing cave,
My pages find a greasy grave.
Dead is my Prose, and damn'd my Verse;
So pack 'em with me in my hearse!
This Dirge on Cock-a-doodle-doo too
Besure dispatch with me to Pluto;
So pack 'em with me in my hearse!
This Dirge on Cock-a-doodle-doo too
Besure dispatch with me to Pluto;
170
For, let me tell you, dev'lish stuff
May charm the Devil, like enough;
And, if perchance 'tis kindly taken,
From singeing save my rusty bacon.
May charm the Devil, like enough;
And, if perchance 'tis kindly taken,
From singeing save my rusty bacon.
For Bantum's gone, and John must follow,
Tho' dubb'd thy Scrivener, Apollo!
So lightly Destiny regards
Both Bantum Cocks and Dunghill Bards.
Tho' dubb'd thy Scrivener, Apollo!
So lightly Destiny regards
Both Bantum Cocks and Dunghill Bards.
ROBIN-A-BOBIN,
AN HYMENEAL ODE;
OR Certain Astrological Notices respecting the Weather and Moon, for One Day in the Month of April.
By Merlin and Old Robin, Almanac-Makers.
When common Loves the genial season feel
From the tall steeple pours the thundering peal,
Perhaps o'er Hymen's robe the careless Muse
From the path side some common flow'ret strews.
From the tall steeple pours the thundering peal,
Perhaps o'er Hymen's robe the careless Muse
From the path side some common flow'ret strews.
171
But when Love binds a matchless Pair,
Of qualities so rich and rare,
So good, so honey-sweet and true—
All Nature's train pay court to you.
Of qualities so rich and rare,
So good, so honey-sweet and true—
All Nature's train pay court to you.
With smiles and tears in either eye
The chilly Morn came waywardly:
So smil'd, I ween, the fearful Bride,
Yet, smiling, dropt some tears aside.
The chilly Morn came waywardly:
So smil'd, I ween, the fearful Bride,
Yet, smiling, dropt some tears aside.
Hyperion, hasting down to bed,
Look'd bluff and full of lustyhed,
So marking, in his course above,
The vigorous Bridegroom's hasty love.
Look'd bluff and full of lustyhed,
So marking, in his course above,
The vigorous Bridegroom's hasty love.
Now sweetly rise, ye cooling Gales!
For busy Venus tends the nuptial Bow'r;
And Night the peering Stars o'ervails,
To make the darkness of a Lover's Hour.
For busy Venus tends the nuptial Bow'r;
And Night the peering Stars o'ervails,
To make the darkness of a Lover's Hour.
Sweetly the cooling Gales arise,
In breezes fresh and whisper'd sighs;
Repairing the love-labour'd Swain
With vigour for his toil again.
In breezes fresh and whisper'd sighs;
Repairing the love-labour'd Swain
With vigour for his toil again.
But, O, fair Luna, where art thou?
Shew, if thine emblematic brow
Has ought that cheers, or ought that warns?—
—Alas, alas! She comes with HORNS!
Shew, if thine emblematic brow
Has ought that cheers, or ought that warns?—
—Alas, alas! She comes with HORNS!
172
THE PEPPER-BOX.
On the Erection of a shabby Clock-house on the Roof of the spacious and venerable Cathedral of Winchester.
'Tis said, in some unchristian saw,
That Time, with most voracious maw,
Could all things swallow and devour,
From a poor pitchfork to a tower.
Thus many a learned antiquary
Finds Him a safe repositary,
Whence in due season bringing forth
Things long conceal'd of tenfold worth.
That Time, with most voracious maw,
Could all things swallow and devour,
From a poor pitchfork to a tower.
Thus many a learned antiquary
Finds Him a safe repositary,
Whence in due season bringing forth
Things long conceal'd of tenfold worth.
Beneath old Venta's antient hall,
Where that fam'd Table decks the wall
At which sat Arthur and his Knights
To celebrate promiscuous rites,
To hold stern council for the state,
Or, like our modern knights, to eat;
Lo! there th'unconscious labourer's spade
Did good King Arthur's hoard invade,
And, by a thousand ruthless knocks,
Produc'd to light a Pepper-box;
Not such as serves our pigmy age,
'Twas big as any parrot's cage,
Or might have been enlarg'd with ease
To hold an infant swarm of bees;
Or, with a little skill in vamping,
Might serve to place a chamber-lamp in:
For Arthur's Knights were hard and rough,
And made all over pepper-proof.
Soon as this treasure-trove was known
The Chapter claim'd it as their own,
Proving, by old records new found,
The Hall was built on hallow'd ground;
And, since that “Tempus null' occurrit
“Ecclesiæ,” it should make a Turret.
And now behold, Oh grievous grief!
The Box that season'd Arthur's Beef
Leaves its companions in the lurch,
And adds a Cypher to the Church!
Restor'd from dark Oblivion's bed,
Bedawb'd with white, and capp'd with lead,
Expos'd to laughter, stands on high,
That children for the Toy might cry;
And, least it should escape the sneer,
A tell-tale Clock cries, “Look, 'tis here.”
Where that fam'd Table decks the wall
At which sat Arthur and his Knights
To celebrate promiscuous rites,
To hold stern council for the state,
Or, like our modern knights, to eat;
Lo! there th'unconscious labourer's spade
Did good King Arthur's hoard invade,
And, by a thousand ruthless knocks,
Produc'd to light a Pepper-box;
Not such as serves our pigmy age,
'Twas big as any parrot's cage,
Or might have been enlarg'd with ease
To hold an infant swarm of bees;
173
Might serve to place a chamber-lamp in:
For Arthur's Knights were hard and rough,
And made all over pepper-proof.
Soon as this treasure-trove was known
The Chapter claim'd it as their own,
Proving, by old records new found,
The Hall was built on hallow'd ground;
And, since that “Tempus null' occurrit
“Ecclesiæ,” it should make a Turret.
And now behold, Oh grievous grief!
The Box that season'd Arthur's Beef
Leaves its companions in the lurch,
And adds a Cypher to the Church!
Restor'd from dark Oblivion's bed,
Bedawb'd with white, and capp'd with lead,
Expos'd to laughter, stands on high,
That children for the Toy might cry;
And, least it should escape the sneer,
A tell-tale Clock cries, “Look, 'tis here.”
'Tis but a type, ye scorners, know,
Of what shall come to pass below,
Where, from another sort of Box,
Pastors shall pepper off their flocks:
Evincing, vivâ voce, thence
That Sound has right to govern Sense.
Of what shall come to pass below,
Where, from another sort of Box,
Pastors shall pepper off their flocks:
Evincing, vivâ voce, thence
That Sound has right to govern Sense.
174
A NEW-YEAR'S ODE, 1777.
Being a loose and distant Imitation of the Laureate's.
Again imperial Winter's sway
Bids th'unwilling Muse obey:
I feel, I feel his icy hands;
Nathless I write, for he commands:
'Tis a vile task! Come, Dr. Boyce!
Bring Beard, Phil H---s and B-rn-y bring!
Bring all that have a violin or voice,
And join their pow'rs to fiddle and to sing!
Bids th'unwilling Muse obey:
I feel, I feel his icy hands;
Nathless I write, for he commands:
'Tis a vile task! Come, Dr. Boyce!
Bring Beard, Phil H---s and B-rn-y bring!
Bring all that have a violin or voice,
And join their pow'rs to fiddle and to sing!
First we heave a kindred Groan!
Sad Symphony to the sad Rhymes that follow:
Ah, Doctor, don't you wish 'twas done!
Or will your Music make them swallow
The ill-drest Fare of such a homely Verse!
Yet listening Peers, that stand around
To hear our Choir rehearse,
Know ye how hard it is to make an Ode?
Now, Doctor, let the Music sound!
But I'm asham'd, by ---.
Sad Symphony to the sad Rhymes that follow:
Ah, Doctor, don't you wish 'twas done!
Or will your Music make them swallow
The ill-drest Fare of such a homely Verse!
Yet listening Peers, that stand around
To hear our Choir rehearse,
Know ye how hard it is to make an Ode?
Now, Doctor, let the Music sound!
But I'm asham'd, by ---.
175
Harmonious Children of the tuneful Voice,
Whose Notes shall now approach the Throne,
I pity your misfortune and my own!
Alas? we neither sing nor write by choice!
For tho' we toil, to grace the Day,
With charms of Music and of Rhyme;
Our Memory soon shall pass away
Nor leave a trace in future time
Of all that I have writ, or you have sung:
Tho' Verse and Air united stood
With many a skilful hand and many a warbling tongue;
Yet, ere the Sun shall reach the western main,
Or ere your Fiddles are unstrung,
The Song, the Band, the Poet and the Strain
Shall all, for aye, lye buried in Oblivion's Flood.
Whose Notes shall now approach the Throne,
I pity your misfortune and my own!
Alas? we neither sing nor write by choice!
For tho' we toil, to grace the Day,
With charms of Music and of Rhyme;
Our Memory soon shall pass away
Nor leave a trace in future time
Of all that I have writ, or you have sung:
Tho' Verse and Air united stood
With many a skilful hand and many a warbling tongue;
Yet, ere the Sun shall reach the western main,
Or ere your Fiddles are unstrung,
The Song, the Band, the Poet and the Strain
Shall all, for aye, lye buried in Oblivion's Flood.
176
TIZZY;
OR JUDICIOUS PRECAUTION.
Col'nel Patrick O'Blarney, as honest a TeagueAs ever took snuff to repel pest or plague,
Having got a French Snuff-box of papier machée,
Which to open requir'd much pains, do you see,
Always kept a bent Sixpence at hand in his pocket,
And call'd it his Key by the which to unlock it:
As, by niggling and wedging it under the lid,
He came at his Rappee, which was under it hid.
But one day, when he wanted a pinch for a friend,
He search'd for his Tester, but all to no end,
Till at last 'twixt the pocket and lining he found it?
When in rage he cried, “Arrah, the Devil confound it;
“I'll engage you don't serve me the same trick again,
“For to make me be after thus hunting in vain—”
So op'ning the lid by the help of the Tizzy,
And feaking his nose till his noddle grew dizzy,
He chuck'd in the coin, and exclaim'd, with a shrugg,
While right went the rim down, “So there you lie snug!
“And, my hide-and-seek friend, I beg leave to remind ye,
“That the next time I want ye I'll know where to find ye.”
177
ON THE FUNERAL OF MR. ELWES
In a Hearse and Six, followed by a Mourning Coach and Four.
What, Elwes in a Hearse convey'd?
And Six brave Nags to draw the Dead?
'Tis ruin!—why 'tis more by five
Than e'er convey'd him when alive.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a Coach and Four!
And Six brave Nags to draw the Dead?
'Tis ruin!—why 'tis more by five
Than e'er convey'd him when alive.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a Coach and Four!
Such waste of what thou liv'dst to save
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the rogues advance,
Courting, as 'twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by't:
But give, to have Thee lie in state,
More than thou e'er paidst there for meat.
What else? their dead and worthless load
They carry on the Turnpike road,
Paying—but they care nothing, They.
How many Gates there be to pay.
Plague on the Gates! how thick they are!
Five Pounds will soon be squander'd here.
Another, and another yet!
And Half-a-crown for every Gate.
Those Gates which thou didst always shun,
To save thy Pence from every one.
Alas! this needless cost is more
Than all th'extravagance before!
To stop such charge, at least, arise—
And shew them—where the Bye-way lies!
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the rogues advance,
Courting, as 'twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by't:
But give, to have Thee lie in state,
More than thou e'er paidst there for meat.
What else? their dead and worthless load
They carry on the Turnpike road,
Paying—but they care nothing, They.
How many Gates there be to pay.
Plague on the Gates! how thick they are!
Five Pounds will soon be squander'd here.
Another, and another yet!
And Half-a-crown for every Gate.
Those Gates which thou didst always shun,
To save thy Pence from every one.
Alas! this needless cost is more
Than all th'extravagance before!
To stop such charge, at least, arise—
And shew them—where the Bye-way lies!
178
FRIENDLY COUNSEL.
When Foote to George Coleman his patent had sold,One morn he by chance up the Haymarket stroll'd,
Took a peep at his quondam Palæstrum, and there he
The new Manager found in a precious quandary.
“We're rehearsing,” says George, “the Uphost'rer today, Sir;
“And, of all your old troop, he who personates Razor
“(Who should gape till he sets in a roar all the House)
“Will not open a mouth fit to swallow a mouse:
“From morning to noon, and from ev'ning to dawn
“I've been at him, but, zounds! I can't make the dog yawn.”
Sam look'd grave as a judge—“Coly, give me your hand!
“I'm your friend.—You shall soon see his grinders expand:
“Go, read your New Comedy to him, d'ye hear?
“And I'll bet you ten pounds that he'll yawn for a year.”
A Farce much in request, the humour of which is chiefly confined to the character of Razor, a gossipping Barber, who entertains the audience with gaping and grimace.
179
ON Mrs. W---n,
Wearing a Diamond Crescent in her Hair in the Rooms at Bath.
Chaste Dian's Crescent on her front display'd,Behold the Wife proclaims herself a Maid!
Come fierce Taillárd, or fiercer Julius come,
On this fair subject urge the contest home.
Pluck honour from this emblematic Moon,
And solve the point that puzzles W---n.
This radiant emblem you may thence transpose,
And give the horned Crescent to the Spouse.
IMPROMPTU,
On being asked, “What is Love?”
Love's more than Language can express,Or Thought can reach, tho' Thought is free;
'Tis only felt;—'tis what I feel,
And hope my Cynthia feels for me.
180
SAMPLE
Of the Sublime, Luminous, and Profound, in Modern Poetry.
How I rejoic'd when the Sclavonian BatPopt from the Zenith in a slip-shod hat!
Then, while athwart my steed the ostler's haste
A Yorkshire pudding for a saddle plac'd,
On my pacific pair of boots I drew
That in the twilight of Gambadoes grew;
And ere yon squint-ey'd planet gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print,
Or ere Tantides would his task forego
To crop rheumatic Sprouts from Nestor's toe,
A Roman Coach drove o'er my logic nose,
And green Iniquity grew ripe in prose.—
'Twas then from Hypochondres' concave bounds
Up-flew this whirlwind of prophetic sounds:
“When Polyphemus shall a sempstress turn,
“And icicles like lighted flambeaux burn;
“When Broad Saint Giles's shall ascend the sky,
“And Grosv'nor-square be fill'd with apple-pye;
“When South-America shakes hands with Greece,
“When Castles in the Air are let on lease;
181
“When Rhadamanthus steeps his wig in suds;
“When Sir John Lade shall guide Apollo's Car,
“And Hamlet's Ghost get drunk with Doctor ------;
“When with red herrings teems the Grand Canal,
“When Neptune drives a gig along Pall-Mall,
“When the Sun's orb wants lustre, when the sky
“Wants stars, and Eldon wants Integrity;
“'Mongst the budge doctors of her rev'rend fold
“When wond'ring Lambeth sees Tom Paine enroll'd;
“When Billington shall warble heathen Greek,
“When Sheridan grows dull, and H---y meek;
“When pickled sturgeon from the stars shall drop,
“When Bonaparte keeps a chandler's shop;
“When Beaver broad humility denotes,
“When physic finds its way down Doctors' throats;
“When Epic Bays emblazon B---'s scull,
“When Mother Shipton shaves the Great Mogul;
“When Howard grows enamour'd of small-beer,
“And when Jack Ketch is made an Irish Peer;
“When sucking pigs shall sing in every grove,
“And Oysters fatten in a Rumford Stove;
“When Farthing Candles are for Toothpicks sold,
“And Gingerbread is worth its weight in Gold—
“Men shall be honest, Women hold their peace,
“Sin shut up shop, and Cuckold-making cease.”
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