Mac-Dermot or the Irish Fortune-Hunter. A poem. In Six Canto's. By the Author of the Art of Dress [i.e. J. D. Breval] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
Canto III.
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Mac-Dermot |  |
17
Canto III.
Hail Queen of Cities, hail thou other Troy,
Seat of the Graces, and th'Idalian Boy,
Where Mirth, and Love, their endless Empires hold,
Aw'd by no Power, and by no Law controul'd;
I see the Youth, his tedious Travels past,
Within thy glorious Verge arriv'd at last.
Seat of the Graces, and th'Idalian Boy,
Where Mirth, and Love, their endless Empires hold,
Aw'd by no Power, and by no Law controul'd;
I see the Youth, his tedious Travels past,
Within thy glorious Verge arriv'd at last.
As when some Songster of the Feather'd Kind,
From Prison freed, where long he liv'd confin'd,
On feeble Wings has reach'd a Wood remote,
With Joy he almost rends his little Throat;
Hopping from Branch to Branch, and full of Glee,
He roves at Will, and visits ev'ry Tree;
So pleas'd was Mac, as thro' the Town he stray'd,
And the fine Fabricks, and the Folks survey'd;
Now here, now there, his curious Eyes he rolls,
Gapes at the Monument, and stares at Paul's;
But nothing so delights his ravish'd Mind,
As the fair Wonders of the Female Kind;
A Thousand beauteous Nymphs he daily sees,
A Thousand Angel Forms of all Degrees;
A Dutchess there in all her Pride he meets,
And here a common Drab, that walks the Streets;
Allur'd by ev'ry charming Face, and Shape,
For Velvet now he burns, and now for Crape:
But each fair Object fills his Heart with Woe,
For ah! he finds his Pence sunk wondrous low;
His Purse exhausted, and his Threadbare Clothes,
Controul his Passion, and his Flames oppose.
In vain, the susceptible Sex to warm,
In publick he displays his Manly Form;
His brawny Shoulders, his Athletick Make,
And well knit Sinews which no Toil can break;
In vain! unmindful, Chloe passes by,
Nor Celia deigns his Way to cast her Eye:
What should he do? thus slighted by the Fair;
Mac rag'd and swore; 'twould make a Parson Swear.
From Prison freed, where long he liv'd confin'd,
On feeble Wings has reach'd a Wood remote,
With Joy he almost rends his little Throat;
18
He roves at Will, and visits ev'ry Tree;
So pleas'd was Mac, as thro' the Town he stray'd,
And the fine Fabricks, and the Folks survey'd;
Now here, now there, his curious Eyes he rolls,
Gapes at the Monument, and stares at Paul's;
But nothing so delights his ravish'd Mind,
As the fair Wonders of the Female Kind;
A Thousand beauteous Nymphs he daily sees,
A Thousand Angel Forms of all Degrees;
A Dutchess there in all her Pride he meets,
And here a common Drab, that walks the Streets;
Allur'd by ev'ry charming Face, and Shape,
For Velvet now he burns, and now for Crape:
But each fair Object fills his Heart with Woe,
For ah! he finds his Pence sunk wondrous low;
His Purse exhausted, and his Threadbare Clothes,
Controul his Passion, and his Flames oppose.
19
In publick he displays his Manly Form;
His brawny Shoulders, his Athletick Make,
And well knit Sinews which no Toil can break;
In vain! unmindful, Chloe passes by,
Nor Celia deigns his Way to cast her Eye:
What should he do? thus slighted by the Fair;
Mac rag'd and swore; 'twould make a Parson Swear.
Now round the Park he stroles the live-long Day,
Sad as a Gamester that's undone by Play;
Nor till late Night repairs to Garret high,
Nearer than Grubstreet-Poet's to the Sky.
Sad as a Gamester that's undone by Play;
Nor till late Night repairs to Garret high,
Nearer than Grubstreet-Poet's to the Sky.
One Ev'ning as he took his usual Tour,
Mutt'ring at Fortune, and exceeding poor,
A good old Trot, that chanc'd the Youth to spy,
Survey'd his Person with a wistful Eye.
Six Times at least had she seen Winters Ten,
And from her Youth great Judgment had in Men;
His Face and Stature fill'd her with delight,
But his firm Calves, and Fillets charm'd her quite;
For well she knew such Vigour to employ,
Tho' past her self, long since, the luscious Joy:
No Time she lost, but made up tow'rds the Swain,
And with such Words as these asswag'd his Pain.
Mutt'ring at Fortune, and exceeding poor,
A good old Trot, that chanc'd the Youth to spy,
Survey'd his Person with a wistful Eye.
20
And from her Youth great Judgment had in Men;
His Face and Stature fill'd her with delight,
But his firm Calves, and Fillets charm'd her quite;
For well she knew such Vigour to employ,
Tho' past her self, long since, the luscious Joy:
No Time she lost, but made up tow'rds the Swain,
And with such Words as these asswag'd his Pain.
Hail lovely Irishman, if right I guess,
Thy Features, Air, and Shape, that Land confess;
They all proclaim thee of Hibernian Race;
Thy Back how strong! how brazen is thy Face!
Long have I seen Thee musing here alone,
Observ'd thy down-cast Look, and heard Thee Groan;
Vile is thy Habit, and uncomb'd thy Locks,
And Sighs from one so form'd might soften Rocks.
My Name is Wyburn, from all Parts repair,
To my fam'd Roof the discontented Fair;
Rich City Wives, and some not far from Court,
Who loath their Husbands, and who love the Sport;
Brides match'd with Impotence, that want an Heir,
And Nymphs that fear to let their Joys take Air;
Numbers of these I succour ev'ry Day,
Who keep their able Stallions well in Pay;
If then, thou dar'st be my adopted Son,
And in that Crowd of happy Youths make one,
In Drury-Lane, before the Clock strikes Eight,
Find out this Night, my Hospitable Gate;
There, if thou answer'st Expectation well,
(As by some sure Prognosticks I foretel)
The Pow'rs of Love with Fortune shall combine,
To make a rich young Widow's Jointure thine.
Thy Features, Air, and Shape, that Land confess;
They all proclaim thee of Hibernian Race;
Thy Back how strong! how brazen is thy Face!
Long have I seen Thee musing here alone,
Observ'd thy down-cast Look, and heard Thee Groan;
Vile is thy Habit, and uncomb'd thy Locks,
And Sighs from one so form'd might soften Rocks.
21
To my fam'd Roof the discontented Fair;
Rich City Wives, and some not far from Court,
Who loath their Husbands, and who love the Sport;
Brides match'd with Impotence, that want an Heir,
And Nymphs that fear to let their Joys take Air;
Numbers of these I succour ev'ry Day,
Who keep their able Stallions well in Pay;
If then, thou dar'st be my adopted Son,
And in that Crowd of happy Youths make one,
In Drury-Lane, before the Clock strikes Eight,
Find out this Night, my Hospitable Gate;
There, if thou answer'st Expectation well,
(As by some sure Prognosticks I foretel)
The Pow'rs of Love with Fortune shall combine,
To make a rich young Widow's Jointure thine.
22
The Matron said, th'astonish'd Youth replies,
With grateful Transport in his ardent Eyes;
O best, and kindest, of thy Female Race,
The Terms thou proffer'st I with Joy embrace:
Nor, should you search the Town and Suburbs round,
Can there a Youth like me for Am'rous Feats be found.
But ah! shall Mac (and here he dropt a Tear)
Before the Fair in such vile Weeds appear?
Or boldly dare, a poor unpolish'd Swain,
With his rude Touch their sacred Charms profane?
The Matron smil'd; and of the purest Gold,
From leathern Purse Ten shining Pieces told;
Take this, said she, 'twill serve my gentle Teague,
To rig thy Person for this Nights Intrigue;
Remember at th'appointed Time to come,
And thou shalt have, perhaps, ten times the Sum.
She spoke these Words, and sudden took her leave,
Pleas'd like her Sire when he had tempted Eve;
Mac stood surpriz'd; and tho' bereft of Speech,
With Eyes persu'd her, far as Eyes could reach;
He look'd, and various Doubts his Mind assail'd,
Till she quite vanish'd, and his Optics fail'd;
For he had heard old Wives of Munster say,
That Fiends assuming Forms of mortal Clay,
Full often range the Globe, and hunt about for Prey.
With grateful Transport in his ardent Eyes;
O best, and kindest, of thy Female Race,
The Terms thou proffer'st I with Joy embrace:
Nor, should you search the Town and Suburbs round,
Can there a Youth like me for Am'rous Feats be found.
But ah! shall Mac (and here he dropt a Tear)
Before the Fair in such vile Weeds appear?
Or boldly dare, a poor unpolish'd Swain,
With his rude Touch their sacred Charms profane?
The Matron smil'd; and of the purest Gold,
From leathern Purse Ten shining Pieces told;
Take this, said she, 'twill serve my gentle Teague,
To rig thy Person for this Nights Intrigue;
Remember at th'appointed Time to come,
And thou shalt have, perhaps, ten times the Sum.
23
Pleas'd like her Sire when he had tempted Eve;
Mac stood surpriz'd; and tho' bereft of Speech,
With Eyes persu'd her, far as Eyes could reach;
He look'd, and various Doubts his Mind assail'd,
Till she quite vanish'd, and his Optics fail'd;
For he had heard old Wives of Munster say,
That Fiends assuming Forms of mortal Clay,
Full often range the Globe, and hunt about for Prey.
And now, his Joy unable to contain,
He cut three Capers on the gravell'd Plain,
And cry'd, farewell all Thoughts of Troubles pass'd;
Of Fortune's Frowns I now have seen the last;
Farewell ye lonesome Trees, ye Swans, ye Ducks,
And Thou proud Palace of his Grace of Bucks;
Objects on which I us'd to feast my Eye,
Whilst Need oppress'd, and Famine wore me dry.
No more at Dinner-Time I'll range the Mall,
Or tread the Margin of yon smooth Canal;
Nor from the Rising, to the Setting Sun,
Among Duke Humphry's famish'd Guests make one;
No more.—Henceforth I make Three Meals a Day,
And to Pontack's or Brawn's shall find the way.
So spoke the joyful Youth, and swift he flew,
To purchase Clothes, but not purchase New;
For who of all the Vermin-killing Race
Could rig Mac-Dermot in so short a space?
He cut three Capers on the gravell'd Plain,
And cry'd, farewell all Thoughts of Troubles pass'd;
Of Fortune's Frowns I now have seen the last;
Farewell ye lonesome Trees, ye Swans, ye Ducks,
And Thou proud Palace of his Grace of Bucks;
Objects on which I us'd to feast my Eye,
Whilst Need oppress'd, and Famine wore me dry.
24
Or tread the Margin of yon smooth Canal;
Nor from the Rising, to the Setting Sun,
Among Duke Humphry's famish'd Guests make one;
No more.—Henceforth I make Three Meals a Day,
And to Pontack's or Brawn's shall find the way.
So spoke the joyful Youth, and swift he flew,
To purchase Clothes, but not purchase New;
For who of all the Vermin-killing Race
Could rig Mac-Dermot in so short a space?
A Street there is, through Britain's Isle renown'd,
(Not far from Holbourn, and St. Giles's Pound,)
To which unhappy Monmouth gave his Name,
The Darling once of Victory and Fame;
Ten Thousand Habits here attract the Eyes,
And Clothes of ev'ry Colour, Sort, and Size,
The Rags of Peasants, and the Spoils of Beaus,
Mix'd with Hoop-Petticoats, and Furbeloes.
Here Damon's Birth-Night Suit, to view display'd,
Fills with new Grief the Taylor, yet unpay'd;
There Chloe's Mantua hangs, of Winds the Sport,
In which ten Winters since, she grac'd the Court.
Here on one Hook I oftentimes have seen,
The Warrior's Scarlet, and the Footman's Green;
And near a broken Gamester's old Roqu'laure,
The tatter'd Pawn of some ill fated Whore;
Hats, Hoods, and Scarves, (sad Arguments of Woe)
With Nithsdale's and Beav'roy's, make up the Show.
(Not far from Holbourn, and St. Giles's Pound,)
To which unhappy Monmouth gave his Name,
The Darling once of Victory and Fame;
Ten Thousand Habits here attract the Eyes,
And Clothes of ev'ry Colour, Sort, and Size,
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Mix'd with Hoop-Petticoats, and Furbeloes.
Here Damon's Birth-Night Suit, to view display'd,
Fills with new Grief the Taylor, yet unpay'd;
There Chloe's Mantua hangs, of Winds the Sport,
In which ten Winters since, she grac'd the Court.
Here on one Hook I oftentimes have seen,
The Warrior's Scarlet, and the Footman's Green;
And near a broken Gamester's old Roqu'laure,
The tatter'd Pawn of some ill fated Whore;
Hats, Hoods, and Scarves, (sad Arguments of Woe)
With Nithsdale's and Beav'roy's, make up the Show.
So, if great Things may be compar'd with small,
Th'impartial Hand of Fate which mows down all,
Confounds alike, in one promiscuous Grave,
The Poor, the Rich, the Coward, and the Brave.
Th'impartial Hand of Fate which mows down all,
Confounds alike, in one promiscuous Grave,
The Poor, the Rich, the Coward, and the Brave.
26
A while, my Muse, O leave Mac-Dermot there,
Each Brokers Wardrobe to survey with Care;
To cast his vile, disgraceful Weeds away,
And quite new-vamp his Tenement of Clay;
And till thy Heroe be compleatly dress'd,
Lay by th' o'er labour'd Harp, and take thy rest.
Each Brokers Wardrobe to survey with Care;
To cast his vile, disgraceful Weeds away,
And quite new-vamp his Tenement of Clay;
And till thy Heroe be compleatly dress'd,
Lay by th' o'er labour'd Harp, and take thy rest.
| Mac-Dermot | |