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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OLD WYSCHARD. |
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 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
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.
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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.”
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