The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
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 | HUMOROUS PIECES. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
163
HUMOROUS PIECES.
165
NEWMARKET,
A SATIRE.
(Published in 1751.)
Πουλυπονος ιππεια
Ως εμολες αιανη
Ταδε γα.
Sophocl. Elect. 508.
Ως εμολες αιανη
Ταδε γα.
Sophocl. Elect. 508.
His country's hope, when now the blooming Heir
Has lost the Parent's or the Guardian's care;
Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,
Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?
Of each rash frolic what the source and end,
His sole and first ambition what?—to spend.
Has lost the Parent's or the Guardian's care;
Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,
Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?
Of each rash frolic what the source and end,
His sole and first ambition what?—to spend.
Some 'Squires, to Gallia's cooks devoted dupes,
Whole manors melt in sauce, or drown in soups:
Another doats on fiddlers, till he sees
His hills no longer crown'd with tow'ring trees;
Convinc'd too late that modern strains can move,
Like those of ancient Greece, th' obedient grove:
In headless statues rich, and useless urns,
Marmoreo from the classic tour returns.—
But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving 'Squires,
How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;
How soonest soar to fashionable shame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
Whole manors melt in sauce, or drown in soups:
166
His hills no longer crown'd with tow'ring trees;
Convinc'd too late that modern strains can move,
Like those of ancient Greece, th' obedient grove:
In headless statues rich, and useless urns,
Marmoreo from the classic tour returns.—
But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving 'Squires,
How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;
How soonest soar to fashionable shame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
What dreams of conquest flush'd Hilario's breast,
When the good Knight at last retir'd to rest!
Behold the Youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleasing prospect of the spacious park:
That park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,
Those beauties less the work of art than age;
In simple state where genuine nature wears
Her venerable dress of ancient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet
The rude, the gay, the graceful, and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
And form dark groves, which Druids might adore;
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
Here various trees compose a chequer'd scene,
Glowing in gay diversities of green:
There the full stream thro' intermingling glades
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades.
Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with sun or shade the bounding fawn.
When the good Knight at last retir'd to rest!
Behold the Youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleasing prospect of the spacious park:
That park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,
Those beauties less the work of art than age;
In simple state where genuine nature wears
Her venerable dress of ancient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet
The rude, the gay, the graceful, and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
167
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
168
Glowing in gay diversities of green:
There the full stream thro' intermingling glades
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades.
Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with sun or shade the bounding fawn.
And see the good old seat, whose Gothic tow'rs
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bow'rs;
Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,
And dealt to age and want their daily bread;
Where crested Knights with peerless Damsels join'd,
At high and solemn festivals have din'd;
Presenting oft fair Virtue's shining task,
In mystic pageantries, and moral mask.
But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt and a prosp'rous heir,
Hilario bets,—park, house, dissolve in air,
With antique armour hung, his trophied rooms
Descend to Gamesters, Prostitutes, and Grooms.
He sees his steel-clad Sires, and Mothers mild,
Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,
All the fair series of the whisker'd race,
Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace;
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.
The parish wonders at the unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan, no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,
And all the social scene in silence lies.
Himself, the loss politely to repair,
Turns Atheist, Fiddler, Highwayman, or Play'r:
At length, the scorn, the shame of man and God,
Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bow'rs;
Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,
And dealt to age and want their daily bread;
Where crested Knights with peerless Damsels join'd,
At high and solemn festivals have din'd;
Presenting oft fair Virtue's shining task,
169
But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt and a prosp'rous heir,
Hilario bets,—park, house, dissolve in air,
With antique armour hung, his trophied rooms
Descend to Gamesters, Prostitutes, and Grooms.
He sees his steel-clad Sires, and Mothers mild,
Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,
All the fair series of the whisker'd race,
Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace;
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.
The parish wonders at the unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan, no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,
And all the social scene in silence lies.
Himself, the loss politely to repair,
Turns Atheist, Fiddler, Highwayman, or Play'r:
At length, the scorn, the shame of man and God,
Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.
Ye rival youths, your golden hopes how vain,
Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain!
Not more fantastic Sancho's airy course,
When madly mounted on the magic horse,
He pierc'd heav'n's opening spheres with dazzled eyes,
And seem'd to soar in visionary skies.
Nor less, I ween, precarious is the meed
Of young adventurers on the Muse's steed;
For Poets have, like you, their destin'd round,
And ours is but a race on classic ground.
Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain!
170
When madly mounted on the magic horse,
He pierc'd heav'n's opening spheres with dazzled eyes,
And seem'd to soar in visionary skies.
Nor less, I ween, precarious is the meed
Of young adventurers on the Muse's steed;
For Poets have, like you, their destin'd round,
And ours is but a race on classic ground.
Long time, the child of patrimonial ease,
Hippolitus had carv'd sirloins in peace;
Had quaff'd secure, unvex'd by toil or wife,
The mild October of a private life:
Long liv'd with calm domestic conquests crown'd,
And kill'd his game on safe paternal ground:
And, deaf to Honour's or Ambition's call,
With rural spoils adorn'd his hoary hall.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His bosom kindles with sublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaffe, thy palms, Portmore!
Tempt him to stake his lands and treasur'd store.
Like a new bruiser on Broughtonic sand,
Amid the lists our Hero takes his stand;
Suck'd by the sharper, to the Peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes, that witness huge dismay;
When lo! the chance of one inglorious heat
Strips him of genial cheer and snug retreat.
How awkward now he bears disgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's last refuge, to be pert!—
The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,
At once with dulness and with hunger curst.
And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires?
And dwells such mighty rage in graver 'Squires?
Hippolitus had carv'd sirloins in peace;
Had quaff'd secure, unvex'd by toil or wife,
The mild October of a private life:
Long liv'd with calm domestic conquests crown'd,
And kill'd his game on safe paternal ground:
And, deaf to Honour's or Ambition's call,
With rural spoils adorn'd his hoary hall.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His bosom kindles with sublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaffe, thy palms, Portmore!
Tempt him to stake his lands and treasur'd store.
171
Amid the lists our Hero takes his stand;
Suck'd by the sharper, to the Peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes, that witness huge dismay;
When lo! the chance of one inglorious heat
Strips him of genial cheer and snug retreat.
How awkward now he bears disgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's last refuge, to be pert!—
The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,
At once with dulness and with hunger curst.
And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires?
And dwells such mighty rage in graver 'Squires?
In all attempts, but for their country, bold,
Britain, thy conscript Counsellors behold;
(For some, perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, from a lucky bet,)
Smit with the love of the laconic boot,
The cap, and wig succinct, the silken suit,
Mere modern Phaetons, usurp the rein,
And scour in rival race the tempting plain.
See, side by side, his Jockey and Sir John
Discuss th' important point—of six to one.
For oh! the boasted privilege how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!—
See, like a routed host, with headlong pace,
Thy members pour amid the mingling race!
All ask, what crouds the tumult could produce—
Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke loose?
Their way nor reason guides, nor caution checks,
Proud on a high-bred thing to risque their necks.—
Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring croud,
Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud:
With critic skill o'er dubious bets preside,
The low dispute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wisdom, and judicious prate,
Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate:
And with paternal care unwearied watch
O'er the nice conduct of a daring match.
Britain, thy conscript Counsellors behold;
(For some, perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, from a lucky bet,)
172
The cap, and wig succinct, the silken suit,
Mere modern Phaetons, usurp the rein,
And scour in rival race the tempting plain.
See, side by side, his Jockey and Sir John
Discuss th' important point—of six to one.
For oh! the boasted privilege how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!—
See, like a routed host, with headlong pace,
Thy members pour amid the mingling race!
All ask, what crouds the tumult could produce—
Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke loose?
Their way nor reason guides, nor caution checks,
Proud on a high-bred thing to risque their necks.—
Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring croud,
Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud:
With critic skill o'er dubious bets preside,
The low dispute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wisdom, and judicious prate,
Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate:
And with paternal care unwearied watch
O'er the nice conduct of a daring match.
173
Meantime, no more the mimic patriots rise,
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wise:
No more in senates dare assert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in Freedom's cause:
Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,
And know no rostrum, but Newmarket's stand.
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wise:
No more in senates dare assert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in Freedom's cause:
Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,
And know no rostrum, but Newmarket's stand.
Is this the band of civil Chiefs design'd
On England's weal to fix the pondering mind?
Who, while their country's rights are set to sale,
Quit Europe's balance for the Jockey's scale.
O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,
Or when a nation or a match is lost?
Who Dams and Sires with more exactness trace,
Than of their country's Kings the sacred race:
Think London journeys are the worst of ills;
Subscribe to articles, instead of bills:
Strangers to all our annalists relate,
Theirs are the memoirs of the equestrian state:
Who, lost to Albion's past and present views,
Heber, thy chronicles alone peruse.
On England's weal to fix the pondering mind?
Who, while their country's rights are set to sale,
Quit Europe's balance for the Jockey's scale.
O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,
Or when a nation or a match is lost?
Who Dams and Sires with more exactness trace,
Than of their country's Kings the sacred race:
Think London journeys are the worst of ills;
Subscribe to articles, instead of bills:
Strangers to all our annalists relate,
Theirs are the memoirs of the equestrian state:
Who, lost to Albion's past and present views,
Heber, thy chronicles alone peruse.
Go on, brave youths, till in some future age
Whips shall become the senatorial badge;
Till England see her thronging senators
Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;
See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, not taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide with equal reins a steed or state.
Whips shall become the senatorial badge;
174
Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;
See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, not taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide with equal reins a steed or state.
How would a virtuous Houhnhym neigh disdain,
To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear slavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoke thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road;
And, robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Sustain each sordid toil of servile life.
Yet oh! what rage would touch his generous mind,
To see his sons of more than human kind;
A kind, with each exalted virtue blest,
Each gentler feeling of the liberal breast,
Afford diversion to that monster base,
That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;
In whom pride, avarice, ignorance, conspire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo 'Squire.
To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
175
Smoke thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road;
And, robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Sustain each sordid toil of servile life.
Yet oh! what rage would touch his generous mind,
To see his sons of more than human kind;
A kind, with each exalted virtue blest,
Each gentler feeling of the liberal breast,
Afford diversion to that monster base,
That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;
In whom pride, avarice, ignorance, conspire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo 'Squire.
How are the Therons of these modern days
Chang'd from those Chiefs who toil'd for Grecian bays;
Who, fir'd with genuine glory's sacred lust,
Whirl'd the swift axle through the Pythian dust!
Theirs was the Pisan olive's blooming spray,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording lay.
What though the Grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds?
They won no bets,—but then they soar'd to Gods;
And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.
Chang'd from those Chiefs who toil'd for Grecian bays;
Who, fir'd with genuine glory's sacred lust,
Whirl'd the swift axle through the Pythian dust!
Theirs was the Pisan olive's blooming spray,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording lay.
What though the Grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds?
They won no bets,—but then they soar'd to Gods;
176
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.
Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name,
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame.
Thy scenes sublime and awful visions rise
In ancient pride before my musing eyes.
Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang,
While just Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hosts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her fated Hero's flashing spear.
Here hung with many a lyre of silver string,
The laureate alleys of Ilissus spring;
And lo, where rapt in beauty's heavenly dream
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame.
Thy scenes sublime and awful visions rise
In ancient pride before my musing eyes.
Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang,
While just Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hosts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her fated Hero's flashing spear.
Here hung with many a lyre of silver string,
The laureate alleys of Ilissus spring;
And lo, where rapt in beauty's heavenly dream
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—
177
Yet ah! no more the land of arts and arms
Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms.
Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Vandal rage,
Has blasted all the wreaths of ancient age:
No more her groves by Fancy's feet are trod,
Each Attic grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleasing bane
Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain.
Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms.
Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Vandal rage,
Has blasted all the wreaths of ancient age:
No more her groves by Fancy's feet are trod,
Each Attic grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleasing bane
Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain.
Britannia, watch! O trim thy withering bays,
Remember thou hast rivall'd Græcia's praise,
Great Nurse of works divine! Yet oh! beware
Lest thou the fate of Greece, my country, share.
Recall thy wonted worth with conscious pride,
Thou too hast seen a Solon in a Hyde;
Hast bade thine Edwards and thine Henries rear
With Spartan fortitude the British spear;
Alike hast seen thy sons deserve the meed
Or of the moral or the martial deed.
Remember thou hast rivall'd Græcia's praise,
Great Nurse of works divine! Yet oh! beware
Lest thou the fate of Greece, my country, share.
178
Thou too hast seen a Solon in a Hyde;
Hast bade thine Edwards and thine Henries rear
With Spartan fortitude the British spear;
Alike hast seen thy sons deserve the meed
Or of the moral or the martial deed.
179
PROLOGUE ON THE OLD WINCHESTER PLAYHOUSE,
OVER THE BUTCHER'S SHAMBLES.
Whoe'er our stage examines, must excuseThe wondrous shifts of the dramatic Muse;
Then kindly listen, while the Prologue rambles
From wit to beef, from Shakespeare to the shambles!
Divided only by one flight of stairs,
The Monarch swaggers, and the Butcher swears!
Quick the transition when the curtain drops,
From meek Monimia's moans to mutton-chops!
While for Lothario's loss Lavinia cries,
Old Women scold, and Dealers d---n your eyes!
Here Juliet listens to the gentle lark,
There in harsh chorus hungry bull-dogs bark.
Cleavers and scymitars give blow for blow,
And Heroes bleed above, and Sheep below!
While tragic thunders shake the pit and box,
Rebellows to the roar the staggering ox.
Cow-horns and trumpets mix their martial tones,
Kidneys and Kings, mouthing and marrow-bones.
180
And form a tragi-comedy around.
With weeping lovers, dying calves complain,
Confusion reigns—chaos is come again!
Hither your steelyards, Butchers, bring, to weigh
The pound of flesh, Anthonio's bond must pay!
Hither your knives, ye Christians, clad in blue,
Bring to be whetted by the ruthless Jew!
Hard is our lot, who, seldom doom'd to eat,
Cast a sheep's-eye on this forbidden meat—
Gaze on sirloins, which, ah! we cannot carve,
And in the midst of legs of mutton—starve!
But would you to our house in crouds repair,
Ye gen'rous Captains, and ye blooming Fair,
The fate of Tantalus we should not fear,
Nor pine for a repast that is so near.
Monarchs no more would supperless remain,
Nor pregnant Queens for cutlets long in vain.
181
A PANEGYRIC ON OXFORD ALE.
------ Mea nec Falernæ
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Pocula colles.
Hor.
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Pocula colles.
Hor.
(Written in 1748. Published in 1750.)
Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail, Juice benignant! O'er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;
My sober evening let the tankard bless,
With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,
While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soul
A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod
Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight's gleam
Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing Ale
Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
Hail, Juice benignant! O'er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
182
My sober evening let the tankard bless,
With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,
While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soul
A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod
Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight's gleam
Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing Ale
Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
183
Meantime, not mindless of the daily task
Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;
While Ale inspires, and lends its kindred aid,
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To Pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where, Ale, thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak and antique mould,
That long has stood the rage of conquering years
Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair
Smokes rosy Justice, when th' important cause,
Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch he tries)
Studious of ease, and provident, I place
My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round
Returns replenish'd the successive cup,
And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:
While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hours
In innocent delight, amusive Putt
On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play
The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.
Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs,
Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear;
While on the wonted door, expressive mark,
The frequent penny stands describ'd to view,
In snowy characters and graceful row.—
Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;
While Ale inspires, and lends its kindred aid,
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To Pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where, Ale, thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak and antique mould,
That long has stood the rage of conquering years
Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair
Smokes rosy Justice, when th' important cause,
Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch he tries)
Studious of ease, and provident, I place
My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round
Returns replenish'd the successive cup,
184
While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hours
In innocent delight, amusive Putt
On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play
The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.
Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs,
Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear;
While on the wonted door, expressive mark,
The frequent penny stands describ'd to view,
In snowy characters and graceful row.—
Hail, Ticking! surest guardian of distress!
Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff
The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart
New oysters cry'd;—tho' much the Poet's friend,
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,
Accept this tribute of poetic praise!
Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff
185
New oysters cry'd;—tho' much the Poet's friend,
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,
Accept this tribute of poetic praise!
Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of Pot-house snug to visit: wiser he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house
Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath
Of loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale:
In vain—the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;
Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of Pot-house snug to visit: wiser he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house
Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath
Of loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler Ale:
In vain—the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;
Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!
Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,
All-pow'rful Ale! whose sorrow-soothing sweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand
Not unexperienc'd; while the tedious toil
Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undissembled, to repair
To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust
And foaming Ale to banquet unrestrain'd,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days
Our ancestors robust with liberal cups
Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons
Of modern times: nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,
With British Ale improving British worth.
All-pow'rful Ale! whose sorrow-soothing sweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand
Not unexperienc'd; while the tedious toil
186
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undissembled, to repair
To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust
And foaming Ale to banquet unrestrain'd,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days
Our ancestors robust with liberal cups
Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons
Of modern times: nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,
With British Ale improving British worth.
With Ale irriguous, undismay'd I hear
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of Laundress shrill awake my startled ear;
Or Barber spruce with supple look intrude;
Or Taylor with obsequious bow advance;
Or Groom invade me with defying front
And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds
(Whene'er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,
Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel.
In vain they plead or threat: all-pow'rful Ale
Excuses new supplies, and each descends
With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:
E'en Spacey with indignant brow retires,
Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of Laundress shrill awake my startled ear;
Or Barber spruce with supple look intrude;
Or Taylor with obsequious bow advance;
Or Groom invade me with defying front
And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds
(Whene'er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,
Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel.
In vain they plead or threat: all-pow'rful Ale
Excuses new supplies, and each descends
187
E'en Spacey with indignant brow retires,
Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.
Why did the Gods such various blessings pour
On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?—
Thus while, improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroll'd,
And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing hand
Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly Pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;
Nor Sheppard, barbarous matron, longer gives
The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more.
On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?—
Thus while, improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroll'd,
And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing hand
Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly Pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;
Nor Sheppard, barbarous matron, longer gives
The wonted trust, and Winter ticks no more.
Thus Adam, exil'd from the beauteous scenes
Of Eden, griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'r
On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
The Splendid Shilling's praise, in nightly gloom
Of lonesome garret, pin'd for cheerful Ale;
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower: like him with honest love
Of Ale divine inspir'd, and love of song.
But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care
Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding steps at distance to pursue,
And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.
Of Eden, griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'r
On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
188
Of lonesome garret, pin'd for cheerful Ale;
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower: like him with honest love
Of Ale divine inspir'd, and love of song.
But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care
Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding steps at distance to pursue,
And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.
189
EPISTLE, FROM THOMAS HEARN, Antiquary,
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE COMPANION TO THE OXFORD GUIDE, &c.
Friend of the moss-grown spire and crumbling arch,
Who wont'st at eve to pace the long-lost bounds
Of lonesome Oseney! What malignant fiend
Thy cloister-loving mind from ancient lore
Hath base seduc'd? urg'd thy apostate pen
To trench deep wounds on Antiquaries sage,
And drag the venerable fathers forth,
Victims to laughter? Cruel as the mandate
Of mitred priests, who Baskett late enjoin'd
To throw aside the reverend letters black,
And print fast-prayers in modern type!—At this
Leland, and Willis, Dugdale, Tanner, Wood,
Illustrious names! with Camden, Aubrey, Lloyd,
Scald their old cheeks with tears! For once they hop'd
To seal thee for their own! and fondly deem'd
The Muses, at thy call, would crouding come
To deck Antiquity with flow'rets gay.
Who wont'st at eve to pace the long-lost bounds
Of lonesome Oseney! What malignant fiend
Thy cloister-loving mind from ancient lore
190
To trench deep wounds on Antiquaries sage,
And drag the venerable fathers forth,
Victims to laughter? Cruel as the mandate
Of mitred priests, who Baskett late enjoin'd
To throw aside the reverend letters black,
And print fast-prayers in modern type!—At this
Leland, and Willis, Dugdale, Tanner, Wood,
Illustrious names! with Camden, Aubrey, Lloyd,
Scald their old cheeks with tears! For once they hop'd
To seal thee for their own! and fondly deem'd
The Muses, at thy call, would crouding come
To deck Antiquity with flow'rets gay.
191
But now may curses every search attend
That seems inviting! May'st thou pore in vain
For dubious door-ways! May revengeful moths
Thy ledgers eat! May chronologic spouts
Retain no cypher legible! May crypts
Lurk undiscern'd! Nor may'st thou spell the names
Of saints in storied windows! Nor the dates
Of bells discover! Nor the genuine site
Of Abbots' pantries! And may Godstowe veil,
Deep from thy eyes profane, her Gothic charms!
That seems inviting! May'st thou pore in vain
For dubious door-ways! May revengeful moths
Thy ledgers eat! May chronologic spouts
Retain no cypher legible! May crypts
Lurk undiscern'd! Nor may'st thou spell the names
Of saints in storied windows! Nor the dates
Of bells discover! Nor the genuine site
Of Abbots' pantries! And may Godstowe veil,
Deep from thy eyes profane, her Gothic charms!
192
THE PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
(Written at Oxford in the year 1746.)
When now mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to college,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred—in Anna's reign,
And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor:
“Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
“And this my eldest son of nine;
“My wife's ambition and my own
“Was that this child should wear a gown:
“I'll warrant that his good behaviour
“Will justify your future favour;
“And, for his parts, to tell the truth,
“My son's a very forward youth;
“Has Horace all by heart—you'd wonder—
“And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.
“If you'd examine—and admit him,
“A scholarship would nicely fit him;
“That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;
“Your vote and interest, Sir!”—'Tis done.
The joyful youth is sent to college,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred—in Anna's reign,
And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor:
“Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
“And this my eldest son of nine;
“My wife's ambition and my own
“Was that this child should wear a gown:
“I'll warrant that his good behaviour
“Will justify your future favour;
193
“My son's a very forward youth;
“Has Horace all by heart—you'd wonder—
“And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.
“If you'd examine—and admit him,
“A scholarship would nicely fit him;
“That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;
“Your vote and interest, Sir!”—'Tis done.
Our pupil's hopes, tho' twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship completed:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college-rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now, intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship—and fines.
Are with a scholarship completed:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college-rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now, intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship—and fines.
When nine full tedious winters past,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last:
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:
“These fellowships are pretty things,
“We live indeed like petty kings:
“But who can bear to waste his whole age
“Amid the dulness of a college,
“Debarr'd the common joys of life,
“And that prime bliss—a loving wife!
“O! what's a table richly spread,
“Without a woman at its head!
“Would some snug benefice but fall,
“Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
“To offices I'd bid adieu,
“Of Dean, Vice Præs.—of Bursar too;
“Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
“Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!”
That utmost wish is crown'd at last:
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:
194
“We live indeed like petty kings:
“But who can bear to waste his whole age
“Amid the dulness of a college,
“Debarr'd the common joys of life,
“And that prime bliss—a loving wife!
“O! what's a table richly spread,
“Without a woman at its head!
“Would some snug benefice but fall,
“Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
“To offices I'd bid adieu,
“Of Dean, Vice Præs.—of Bursar too;
“Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
“Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!”
Too fond of freedom and of ease
A Patron's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail Incumbent's doubtful health;
At length, and in his fortieth year,
A living drops—two hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat—
“What a convenient house! how neat!
“For fuel here's sufficient wood:
“Pray God the cellars may be good!
“The garden—that must be new plann'd—
“Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?
“O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
“The flow'ry shrub of thousand dies:—
“Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
“Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:
“While thick beneath its aspect warm
“O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
“From which, ere long, of golden gleam
“Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
“This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy,
“We'll alter to a modern privy:
“Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
“An avenue so cool and dim
“Shall to an harbour, at the end,
“In spite of gout, entice a friend.
“My predecessor lov'd devotion—
“But of a garden had no notion.”
A Patron's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail Incumbent's doubtful health;
At length, and in his fortieth year,
A living drops—two hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat—
“What a convenient house! how neat!
“For fuel here's sufficient wood:
195
“The garden—that must be new plann'd—
“Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?
“O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
“The flow'ry shrub of thousand dies:—
“Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
“Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:
“While thick beneath its aspect warm
“O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
“From which, ere long, of golden gleam
“Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
“This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy,
“We'll alter to a modern privy:
“Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
“An avenue so cool and dim
“Shall to an harbour, at the end,
“In spite of gout, entice a friend.
“My predecessor lov'd devotion—
“But of a garden had no notion.”
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds—a Cousin of the 'Squire;
Not over weighty in the purse,
But many Doctors have done worse:
And tho' she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch wine.
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds—a Cousin of the 'Squire;
Not over weighty in the purse,
But many Doctors have done worse:
196
Yet she can carve and make birch wine.
Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;
Finds his Church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tythes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And—but on Sundays—hears no bells;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot;
Plants colliflow'rs, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;
Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.—
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;
Finds his Church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tythes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And—but on Sundays—hears no bells;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot;
Plants colliflow'rs, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;
197
And stores the pond with carp and tench.—
But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest;
And a third Butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin:
For children fresh expences yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
“Why did I sell my college life
“(He cries) for benefice and wife?
“Return, ye days, when endless pleasure
“I found in reading, or in leisure!
“When calm around the common room
“I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume!
“Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
“At annual bottlings, corks selected:
“And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
“The portrait of our pious Founder!
“When impositions were supply'd
“To light my pipe—or sooth my pride—
“No cares were then for forward peas,
“A yearly-longing wife to please;
“My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost,
“No children cry'd for butter'd toast;
“And ev'ry night I went to bed,
“Without a Modus in my head!”
By cares domestic is opprest;
And a third Butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin:
For children fresh expences yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
“Why did I sell my college life
“(He cries) for benefice and wife?
“Return, ye days, when endless pleasure
“I found in reading, or in leisure!
“When calm around the common room
“I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume!
“Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
“At annual bottlings, corks selected:
“And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
“The portrait of our pious Founder!
“When impositions were supply'd
“To light my pipe—or sooth my pride—
“No cares were then for forward peas,
“A yearly-longing wife to please;
“My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost,
“No children cry'd for butter'd toast;
“And ev'ry night I went to bed,
“Without a Modus in my head!”
198
Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart!
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;
A dupe to follies yet untry'd,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd!
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;
A dupe to follies yet untry'd,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd!
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.
199
THE PHAETON, AND THE ONE-HORSE CHAIR.
At Blagrave's once upon a time,
There stood a Phaeton sublime:
Unsullied by the dusty road
Its wheels with recent crimson glow'd;
Its sides display'd a dazzling hue,
Its harness tight, its lining new:
No scheme-enamour'd youth, I ween,
Survey'd the gaily-deck'd machine,
But fondly long'd to seize the reins,
And whirl o'er Campsfield's tempting plains.
Meantime it chanc'd, that hard at hand
A One-Horse Chair had took its stand:
When thus our vehicle begun
To sneer the luckless Chaise and One.
There stood a Phaeton sublime:
Unsullied by the dusty road
Its wheels with recent crimson glow'd;
Its sides display'd a dazzling hue,
Its harness tight, its lining new:
No scheme-enamour'd youth, I ween,
Survey'd the gaily-deck'd machine,
But fondly long'd to seize the reins,
And whirl o'er Campsfield's tempting plains.
Meantime it chanc'd, that hard at hand
A One-Horse Chair had took its stand:
When thus our vehicle begun
To sneer the luckless Chaise and One.
200
“How could my Master place me here
“Within thy vulgar atmosphere?
“From classic ground pray shift thy station,
“Thou scorn of Oxford education!—
“Your homely make, believe me, man,
“Is quite upon the Gothic plan;
“And you, and all your clumsy kind,
“For lowest purposes design'd:
“Fit only, with a one-ey'd mare,
“To drag, for benefit of air,
“The country parson's pregnant wife,
“Thou friend of dull domestic life!
“Or, with his maid and aunt, to school
“To carry Dicky on a stool:
“Or, haply, to some christening gay
“A brace of godmothers convey.—
“Or, when blest Saturday prepares
“For London tradesmen rest from cares,
“'Tis thine to make them happy one day,
“Companion of their genial Sunday!
“'Tis thine, o'er turnpikes newly made,
“When timely show'rs the dust have laid,
“To bear some alderman serene
“To fragrant Hampstead's sylvan scene.
“Nor higher scarce thy merit rises
“Among the polish'd sons of Isis.
“Hir'd for a solitary crown,
“Canst thou to schemes invite the gown?
“Go, tempt some prig, pretending taste,
“With hat new cock'd, and newly lac'd,
“O'er mutton-chops, and scanty wine,
“At humble Dorchester to dine!
“Meantime remember, lifeless drone!
“I carry Bucks and Bloods alone.
“And oh! whene'er the weather's friendly,
“What inn at Abingdon or Henley,
“But still my vast importance feels,
“And gladly greets my entering wheels!
“And think, obedient to the thong,
“How yon gay street we smoke along:
“While all with envious wonder view
“The corner turn'd so quick and true.”
“Within thy vulgar atmosphere?
“From classic ground pray shift thy station,
“Thou scorn of Oxford education!—
“Your homely make, believe me, man,
“Is quite upon the Gothic plan;
“And you, and all your clumsy kind,
“For lowest purposes design'd:
“Fit only, with a one-ey'd mare,
“To drag, for benefit of air,
“The country parson's pregnant wife,
“Thou friend of dull domestic life!
“Or, with his maid and aunt, to school
“To carry Dicky on a stool:
“Or, haply, to some christening gay
“A brace of godmothers convey.—
“Or, when blest Saturday prepares
“For London tradesmen rest from cares,
“'Tis thine to make them happy one day,
“Companion of their genial Sunday!
“'Tis thine, o'er turnpikes newly made,
“When timely show'rs the dust have laid,
“To bear some alderman serene
“To fragrant Hampstead's sylvan scene.
“Nor higher scarce thy merit rises
“Among the polish'd sons of Isis.
“Hir'd for a solitary crown,
201
“Go, tempt some prig, pretending taste,
“With hat new cock'd, and newly lac'd,
“O'er mutton-chops, and scanty wine,
“At humble Dorchester to dine!
“Meantime remember, lifeless drone!
“I carry Bucks and Bloods alone.
“And oh! whene'er the weather's friendly,
“What inn at Abingdon or Henley,
“But still my vast importance feels,
“And gladly greets my entering wheels!
“And think, obedient to the thong,
“How yon gay street we smoke along:
“While all with envious wonder view
“The corner turn'd so quick and true.”
To check an upstart's empty pride,
Thus sage the One-Horse Chair reply'd.
Thus sage the One-Horse Chair reply'd.
“Pray, when the consequence is weigh'd,
“What's all your spirit and parade?
“From mirth to grief what sad transitions,
“To broken bones and impositions!
“Or if no bones are broke, what's worse,
“Your schemes make work for Glass and Nourse.—
“On us pray spare your keen reproaches,
“From One-Horse Chairs men rise to Coaches;
“If calm Discretion's steadfast hand
“With cautious skill the reins command.
“From me fair Health's fresh fountain springs,
“O'er me soft Snugness spreads her wings:
“And Innocence reflects her ray
“To gild my calm sequester'd way:
“E'en kings might quit their state to share
“Contentment and a One-Horse Chair.—
“What though, o'er yonder echoing street
“Your rapid wheels resound so sweet;
“Shall Isis' sons thus vainly prize
“A Rattle of a larger size?”
“What's all your spirit and parade?
“From mirth to grief what sad transitions,
“To broken bones and impositions!
“Or if no bones are broke, what's worse,
“Your schemes make work for Glass and Nourse.—
202
“From One-Horse Chairs men rise to Coaches;
“If calm Discretion's steadfast hand
“With cautious skill the reins command.
“From me fair Health's fresh fountain springs,
“O'er me soft Snugness spreads her wings:
“And Innocence reflects her ray
“To gild my calm sequester'd way:
“E'en kings might quit their state to share
“Contentment and a One-Horse Chair.—
“What though, o'er yonder echoing street
“Your rapid wheels resound so sweet;
“Shall Isis' sons thus vainly prize
“A Rattle of a larger size?”
Blagrave, who during the dispute
Stood in a corner, snug and mute,
Surpris'd, no doubt, in lofty verse
To hear his Carriages converse,
With solemn face, o'er Oxford ale,
To me disclos'd this wondrous tale:
I strait dispatch'd it to the Muse,
Who brush'd it up for Jackson's news,
And, what has oft been penn'd in prose,
Added this moral at the close.
Stood in a corner, snug and mute,
Surpris'd, no doubt, in lofty verse
To hear his Carriages converse,
With solemn face, o'er Oxford ale,
To me disclos'd this wondrous tale:
I strait dispatch'd it to the Muse,
Who brush'd it up for Jackson's news,
And, what has oft been penn'd in prose,
Added this moral at the close.
“Things may be useful, tho' obscure;
“The pace that's slow is often sure:
“When empty pageantries we prize,
“We raise but dust to blind our eyes.
“The golden mean can best bestow
“Safety for unsubstantial show.”
203
“When empty pageantries we prize,
“We raise but dust to blind our eyes.
“The golden mean can best bestow
“Safety for unsubstantial show.”
204
ODE TO A GRIZZLE WIG.
By a Gentleman who had just left off his Bob.
All hail, ye Curls, that, rang'd in reverend row,
With snowy pomp my conscious shoulders hide!
That fall beneath in venerable flow,
And crown my brows above with feathery pride!
With snowy pomp my conscious shoulders hide!
That fall beneath in venerable flow,
And crown my brows above with feathery pride!
High on your summit, Wisdom's mimick'd air
Sits thron'd, with Pedantry her solemn sire,
And in her net of awe-diffusing hair
Entangles fools, and bids the croud admire.
Sits thron'd, with Pedantry her solemn sire,
And in her net of awe-diffusing hair
Entangles fools, and bids the croud admire.
O'er every lock, that floats in full display,
Sage Ignorance her gloom scholastic throws;
And stamps o'er all my visage, once so gay,
Unmeaning Gravity's serene repose.
Sage Ignorance her gloom scholastic throws;
And stamps o'er all my visage, once so gay,
Unmeaning Gravity's serene repose.
Can thus large Wigs our reverence engage?
Have Barbers thus the pow'r to blind our eyes?
Is science thus conferr'd on every sage,
By Bayliss, Blenkinsop, and lofty Wise?
Have Barbers thus the pow'r to blind our eyes?
205
By Bayliss, Blenkinsop, and lofty Wise?
But thou, farewell, my Bob! whose thin-wove thatch
Was stor'd with quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
That love to live within the one-curl'd Scratch,
With fun, and all the family of smiles.
Was stor'd with quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
That love to live within the one-curl'd Scratch,
With fun, and all the family of smiles.
Safe in thy privilege, near Isis' brook,
Whole afternoons at Wolvercote I quaff'd;
At eve my careless round in High-street took,
And call'd at Jolly's for the casual draught.
Whole afternoons at Wolvercote I quaff'd;
At eve my careless round in High-street took,
And call'd at Jolly's for the casual draught.
No more the wherry feels my stroke so true;
At skittles, in a Grizzle, can I play?
Woodstock, farewell! and Wallingford, adieu!
Where many a scheme reliev'd the lingering day.
At skittles, in a Grizzle, can I play?
Woodstock, farewell! and Wallingford, adieu!
Where many a scheme reliev'd the lingering day.
Such were the joys that once Hilario crown'd,
Ere grave Preferment came my peace to rob:
Such are the less ambitious pleasures found
Beneath the Liceat of an humble Bob.
Ere grave Preferment came my peace to rob:
Such are the less ambitious pleasures found
Beneath the Liceat of an humble Bob.
206
THE CASTLE BARBER's SOLILOQUY.
WRITTEN IN THE LATE WAR.
I who with such success—alas! till
The war came on—have shav'd the Castle;
Who by the nose, with hand unshaken,
The boldest heroes oft have taken;
In humble strain am doom'd to mourn
My fortune chang'd, and state forlorn!
My soap scarce ventures into froth,
My razors rust in idle sloth!
Wisdom! to you my verse appeals;
You share the griefs your Barber feels:
Scarce comes a student once a whole age,
To stock your desolated college.
Our trade how ill an army suits!
This comes of picking up recruits.
Lost is the Robber's occupation;
No robbing thrives—but of the nation:
For hardy necks no rope is twisted,
And e'en the hangman's self is listed.—
Thy Publishers, O mighty Jackson!
With scarce a scanty coat their backs on,
Warning to youth no longer teach,
Nor live upon a dying speech.
In cassock clad, for want of breeches,
No more the Castle-Chaplain preaches.
Oh! were our troops but safely landed,
And every regiment disbanded!
They'd make, I trust, a new campaign
On Henley's hill, or Campsfield's plain:
Destin'd at home, in peaceful state,
By me fresh-shav'd, to meet their fate!
The war came on—have shav'd the Castle;
Who by the nose, with hand unshaken,
The boldest heroes oft have taken;
In humble strain am doom'd to mourn
My fortune chang'd, and state forlorn!
My soap scarce ventures into froth,
My razors rust in idle sloth!
Wisdom! to you my verse appeals;
You share the griefs your Barber feels:
Scarce comes a student once a whole age,
To stock your desolated college.
207
This comes of picking up recruits.
Lost is the Robber's occupation;
No robbing thrives—but of the nation:
For hardy necks no rope is twisted,
And e'en the hangman's self is listed.—
Thy Publishers, O mighty Jackson!
With scarce a scanty coat their backs on,
Warning to youth no longer teach,
Nor live upon a dying speech.
In cassock clad, for want of breeches,
No more the Castle-Chaplain preaches.
Oh! were our troops but safely landed,
And every regiment disbanded!
They'd make, I trust, a new campaign
On Henley's hill, or Campsfield's plain:
Destin'd at home, in peaceful state,
By me fresh-shav'd, to meet their fate!
Regard, ye Justices of Peace!
The Castle-Barber's piteous case:
And kindly make some snug addition,
To better his distrest condition.
Not that I mean, by such expressions,
To shave your Worships at the sessions;
Or would, with vain presumption big,
Aspire to comb the Judge's wig:—
Far less ambitious thoughts are mine,
Far humbler hopes my views confine.—
Then think not that I ask amiss;
My small request is only this,
That I, by leave of Leigh or Pardo,
May, with the Castle—shave Bocardo.
The Castle-Barber's piteous case:
And kindly make some snug addition,
To better his distrest condition.
Not that I mean, by such expressions,
To shave your Worships at the sessions;
Or would, with vain presumption big,
Aspire to comb the Judge's wig:—
208
Far humbler hopes my views confine.—
Then think not that I ask amiss;
My small request is only this,
That I, by leave of Leigh or Pardo,
May, with the Castle—shave Bocardo.
Thus, as at Jesus oft I've heard,
Rough servitors in Wales preferr'd,
The Joneses, Morgans, and Ap-Rices,
Keep fiddles with their Benefices.
Rough servitors in Wales preferr'd,
The Joneses, Morgans, and Ap-Rices,
Keep fiddles with their Benefices.
209
THE OXFORD NEWSMAN's VERSES.
FOR THE YEAR 1760.
Think of the Palms, my Masters dear!
That crown this memorable year!
Come fill the glass, my hearts of gold,
To Britain's Heroes brisk and bold;
While into rhyme I strive to turn all
The fam'd events of many a Journal.
That crown this memorable year!
Come fill the glass, my hearts of gold,
To Britain's Heroes brisk and bold;
While into rhyme I strive to turn all
The fam'd events of many a Journal.
France feeds her sons on meagre soup,
'Twas hence they lost their Guadaloup:
What tho' they dress so fine and ja'nty?
They could not keep Marigalante.
Their forts in Afric could not repel
The thunder of undaunted Keppel:
Brave Commodore! how we adore ye
For giving us success at Goree.
Ticonderago, and Niagara,
Make each true Briton sing O rare a!
I trust the taking of Crown-Point
Has put French courage out of joint.
Can we forget the timely check
Wolfe gave the scoundrels at Quebec?—
That name has stopp'd my glad career,—
Your faithful Newsman drops a tear!—
'Twas hence they lost their Guadaloup:
What tho' they dress so fine and ja'nty?
They could not keep Marigalante.
Their forts in Afric could not repel
The thunder of undaunted Keppel:
Brave Commodore! how we adore ye
For giving us success at Goree.
Ticonderago, and Niagara,
Make each true Briton sing O rare a!
I trust the taking of Crown-Point
Has put French courage out of joint.
210
Wolfe gave the scoundrels at Quebec?—
That name has stopp'd my glad career,—
Your faithful Newsman drops a tear!—
But other triumphs still remain,
And rouse to glee my rhymes again.
And rouse to glee my rhymes again.
On Minden's plains, ye meek Mounseers!
Remember Kingsley's grenadiers.
You vainly thought to ballarag us
With your fine squadron off Cape Lagos;
But when Boscawen came, La Clue
Sheer'd off, and look'd confounded blue.
Conflans, all cowardice and puff,
Hop'd to demolish hardy Duff;
But soon unlook'd-for guns o'eraw'd him,
Hawke darted sorth, and nobly claw'd him.
And now their vaunted Formidable
Lies captive to a British cable.
Would you demand the glorious cause
Whence Britain every trophy draws?
You need not puzzle long your wit;—
Fame, from her trumpet, answers—Pitt.
Remember Kingsley's grenadiers.
You vainly thought to ballarag us
With your fine squadron off Cape Lagos;
But when Boscawen came, La Clue
Sheer'd off, and look'd confounded blue.
Conflans, all cowardice and puff,
Hop'd to demolish hardy Duff;
But soon unlook'd-for guns o'eraw'd him,
Hawke darted sorth, and nobly claw'd him.
And now their vaunted Formidable
Lies captive to a British cable.
Would you demand the glorious cause
Whence Britain every trophy draws?
211
Fame, from her trumpet, answers—Pitt.
FOR THE YEAR 1767.
Dismal the news, which Jackson's yearly Bard
Each circling Christmas brings,—“The times are hard!”
There was a time when Granby's grenadiers
Trimm'd the lac'd jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produc'd some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procur'd—a pot.
Abroad, we conquer'd France, and humbled Spain;
At home, rich harvests crown'd the laughing plain.
Then ran in numbers free the Newsman's verses,
Blithe were our hearts, and full our leathern purses.
But now, no more the stream of plenty flows,
No more new conquests warm the Newsman's nose.
Our shatter'd cottages admit the rain,
Our infants stretch their hands for bread in vain.
All hope is fled, our families are undone;
Provisions all are carry'd up to London;
Our copious granaries Distillers thin,
Who raise our bread—but do not cheapen gin.
Th' effects of exportation still we rue;
I wish th' Exporters were exported too!
In every Pot-house is unpaid our score;
And generous Captain Jolly ticks no more!
Each circling Christmas brings,—“The times are hard!”
There was a time when Granby's grenadiers
Trimm'd the lac'd jackets of the French Mounseers;
When every week produc'd some lucky hit,
And all our paragraphs were plann'd by Pitt.
We Newsmen drank—as England's Heroes fought,
While every victory procur'd—a pot.
Abroad, we conquer'd France, and humbled Spain;
At home, rich harvests crown'd the laughing plain.
Then ran in numbers free the Newsman's verses,
Blithe were our hearts, and full our leathern purses.
But now, no more the stream of plenty flows,
No more new conquests warm the Newsman's nose.
Our shatter'd cottages admit the rain,
Our infants stretch their hands for bread in vain.
212
Provisions all are carry'd up to London;
Our copious granaries Distillers thin,
Who raise our bread—but do not cheapen gin.
Th' effects of exportation still we rue;
I wish th' Exporters were exported too!
In every Pot-house is unpaid our score;
And generous Captain Jolly ticks no more!
Yet still in store some happiness remains,
Some triumphs that may grace these annual strains.
Misfortunes past no longer I repeat—
George has declar'd—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Willhelminy, spite of wind and tide,
Of Denmark's monarch shines the blooming bride:
She's gone! but there's another in her stead,
For of a Princess Charlotte's brought to bed:—
Oh, cou'd I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's candle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming Girl,
So here's her health in half a pint of Purl.
But much I fear, this rhyme-exhausted song
Has kept you from your Christmas cheer too long.
Our poor endeavours view with gracious eye,
And bake these lines beneath a Christmas-Pie!
Some triumphs that may grace these annual strains.
Misfortunes past no longer I repeat—
George has declar'd—that we again shall eat.
Sweet Willhelminy, spite of wind and tide,
Of Denmark's monarch shines the blooming bride:
She's gone! but there's another in her stead,
For of a Princess Charlotte's brought to bed:—
Oh, cou'd I but have had one single sup,
One single sniff, at Charlotte's candle-cup!—
I hear—God bless it—'tis a charming Girl,
So here's her health in half a pint of Purl.
But much I fear, this rhyme-exhausted song
Has kept you from your Christmas cheer too long.
Our poor endeavours view with gracious eye,
And bake these lines beneath a Christmas-Pie!
213
FOR THE YEAR 1768.
Still shall the Newsman's annual rhymes
Complain of taxes and the times?
Each year our Copies shall we make on
The price of butter, bread, and bacon?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs of verse!
A happier subject I rehearse.
Farewell distress, and gloomy cares!
A merrier theme my Muse prepares.
For lo! to save us, on a sudden,
In shape of porter, beef, and pudding,
Though late, Electioneering comes!—
Strike up, ye trumpets, and ye drums!
At length we change our wonted note,
And feast, all winter, on a vote.
Sure, canvassing was never hotter!
But whether Harcourt, Nares, or Cotter,
At this grand crisis will succeed,
We Freemen have not yet decreed.—
Methinks, with mirth your sides are shaking,
To hear us talk of Member-making!
Yet know, that we direct the state;
On us depends the nation's fate.—
What though some Doctor's cast-off wig
O'ershades my pate, not worth a fig;
My whole apparel in decay;
My beard unshav'd—on New-Year's day;
In me behold (the land's Protector)
A Freeman, Newsman, and Elector!
Though cold, and all unshod, my toes;—
My breast for Britain's freedom glows:—
Though turn'd, by poverty, my coat,
It ne'er was turn'd to give a vote.
Complain of taxes and the times?
Each year our Copies shall we make on
The price of butter, bread, and bacon?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs of verse!
A happier subject I rehearse.
Farewell distress, and gloomy cares!
A merrier theme my Muse prepares.
For lo! to save us, on a sudden,
In shape of porter, beef, and pudding,
Though late, Electioneering comes!—
Strike up, ye trumpets, and ye drums!
At length we change our wonted note,
And feast, all winter, on a vote.
Sure, canvassing was never hotter!
But whether Harcourt, Nares, or Cotter,
At this grand crisis will succeed,
We Freemen have not yet decreed.—
Methinks, with mirth your sides are shaking,
To hear us talk of Member-making!
Yet know, that we direct the state;
On us depends the nation's fate.—
214
O'ershades my pate, not worth a fig;
My whole apparel in decay;
My beard unshav'd—on New-Year's day;
In me behold (the land's Protector)
A Freeman, Newsman, and Elector!
Though cold, and all unshod, my toes;—
My breast for Britain's freedom glows:—
Though turn'd, by poverty, my coat,
It ne'er was turn'd to give a vote.
Meantime, howe'er improv'd our fate is
By jovial cups, each evening, gratis;
Forget not, 'midst your Christmas cheer,
The customs of the coming year:—
In answer to this short Epistle,
Your tankard send, to wet our whistle!
By jovial cups, each evening, gratis;
Forget not, 'midst your Christmas cheer,
The customs of the coming year:—
In answer to this short Epistle,
Your tankard send, to wet our whistle!
FOR THE YEAR 1770.
As now petitions are in fashion
With the first patriots of the nation;
In spirit high, in pocket low,
We patriots of the Butcher-Row,
Thus, like our Betters, ask redress
For high and mighty grievances,
Real, tho' penn'd in rhyme, as those
Which oft our Journal gives in prose:—
With the first patriots of the nation;
In spirit high, in pocket low,
We patriots of the Butcher-Row,
Thus, like our Betters, ask redress
For high and mighty grievances,
215
Which oft our Journal gives in prose:—
“Ye rural 'Squires, so plumb and sleek,
“Who study—Jackson, once a week;
“While now your hospitable board
“With cold sirloin is amply stor'd,
“And old October, nutmeg'd nice,
“Send us a tankard and a slice!
“Ye country Parsons, stand our friends,
“While now the driving sleet descends!
“Give us your antiquated canes,
“To help us through the miry lanes;
“Or with a rusty grizzle wig
“This Christmas deign our pates to rig.
“Ye noble gem'men of the Gown,
“View not our verses with a frown!
“But, in return for quick dispatches,
“Invite us to your buttery-hatches!
“Ye too, whose houses are so handy,
“For coffee, tea, rum, wine, and brandy;
“Pride of fair Oxford's gawdy streets,
“You too our strain submissive greets!
“Hear Horseman, Spindlow, King, and Harper!
“The weather sure was never sharper:—
“Matron of Matrons, Martha Baggs!
“Dram your poor Newsman clad in rags!
“Dire mischiefs folks above are brewing,
“The Nation's—and the Newsman's ruin;—
“'Tis yours our sorrows to remove;
“And if thus generous ye prove,
“For friends so good we're bound to pray
“Till—next returns a New-year's Day!”
“Giv'n at our melancholy cavern,
“The cellar of the Sheep's-Head Tavern.”
“Who study—Jackson, once a week;
“While now your hospitable board
“With cold sirloin is amply stor'd,
“And old October, nutmeg'd nice,
“Send us a tankard and a slice!
“Ye country Parsons, stand our friends,
“While now the driving sleet descends!
“Give us your antiquated canes,
“To help us through the miry lanes;
“Or with a rusty grizzle wig
“This Christmas deign our pates to rig.
“Ye noble gem'men of the Gown,
“View not our verses with a frown!
“But, in return for quick dispatches,
“Invite us to your buttery-hatches!
“Ye too, whose houses are so handy,
“For coffee, tea, rum, wine, and brandy;
“Pride of fair Oxford's gawdy streets,
“You too our strain submissive greets!
“Hear Horseman, Spindlow, King, and Harper!
“The weather sure was never sharper:—
216
“Dram your poor Newsman clad in rags!
“Dire mischiefs folks above are brewing,
“The Nation's—and the Newsman's ruin;—
“'Tis yours our sorrows to remove;
“And if thus generous ye prove,
“For friends so good we're bound to pray
“Till—next returns a New-year's Day!”
“Giv'n at our melancholy cavern,
“The cellar of the Sheep's-Head Tavern.”
FOR THE YEAR 1771.
Delicious news—a war with Spain!
New rapture fires our Christmas strain.
Behold, to strike each Briton's eyes,
What bright victorious scenes arise!
What paragraphs of English glory
Will Master Jackson set before ye!
The Governor of Buenos Ayres
Shall dearly pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham,
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galloons—Havannah—Porto Bello,—
Ere long, will make the nation mellow:—
Our late trite themes we view with scorn,
Bellas the bold, and Parson Horne:
Nor more, through many a tedious winter,
The triumphs of the patriot Squinter,
The Ins and Outs, with cant eternal,
Shall croud each column of our Journal.—
After a dreary season past,
Our turn to live is come at last:
Gen'rals, and Admirals, and Jews,
Contractors, Printers, Men of News,
All thrive by war, and line their pockets,
And leave the works of peace to blockheads.
New rapture fires our Christmas strain.
Behold, to strike each Briton's eyes,
What bright victorious scenes arise!
What paragraphs of English glory
Will Master Jackson set before ye!
The Governor of Buenos Ayres
Shall dearly pay for his vagaries;
For whether North, or whether Chatham,
Shall rule the roast, we must have-at-'em:
Galloons—Havannah—Porto Bello,—
Ere long, will make the nation mellow:—
217
Bellas the bold, and Parson Horne:
Nor more, through many a tedious winter,
The triumphs of the patriot Squinter,
The Ins and Outs, with cant eternal,
Shall croud each column of our Journal.—
After a dreary season past,
Our turn to live is come at last:
Gen'rals, and Admirals, and Jews,
Contractors, Printers, Men of News,
All thrive by war, and line their pockets,
And leave the works of peace to blockheads.
But stay, my Muse, this hasty fit—
The war is not declar'd as yet:
And we, though now so blithe we sing,
May all be press'd to serve the King!
Therefore, meantime, our Masters dear,
Produce your hospitable cheer:—
While we, with much sincere delight,
(Whether we publish news—or fight)
Like England's undegenerate sons,
Will drink—confusion to the Dons!
The war is not declar'd as yet:
And we, though now so blithe we sing,
May all be press'd to serve the King!
Therefore, meantime, our Masters dear,
Produce your hospitable cheer:—
While we, with much sincere delight,
(Whether we publish news—or fight)
Like England's undegenerate sons,
Will drink—confusion to the Dons!
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |