State Tracts Containing Many Necessary Observations and Reflections on the State of our Affairs at Home and Abroad; With some Secret Memoirs. By the Author of the Examiner [i.e. William Oldisworth] |
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THE Singing-Birds Address TO THE EAGLE,
For Relief against the Tyranny of the Birds of Prey:
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THE Singing-Birds Address TO THE EAGLE, For Relief against the Tyranny of the Birds of Prey:
A POEM.
------ Minora Canamus
Parva nec Invideas.
Parva nec Invideas.
Somewhere about the Sun, as I have read,
There is a Government of Birds, 'tis said,
Where they, like us, are rul'd by Queens and Kings,
And God knows how many such fine things:
That Liberty and Property's in vogue
As much among them as here Whore and Rogue;
And they have Laws, some good ones, tho' they're made,
As in most other Countries now, a Trade,
To punish those they meet with as severe
As Turkey Slaves, or we do Horses here.
Those who're in Office rais'd above the rest
Fancy each Bird they ride to be their Beast;
So whip and spur till they're flown to their Height,
Then down they fall at last with their own weight.
There is a Government of Birds, 'tis said,
Where they, like us, are rul'd by Queens and Kings,
And God knows how many such fine things:
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As much among them as here Whore and Rogue;
And they have Laws, some good ones, tho' they're made,
As in most other Countries now, a Trade,
To punish those they meet with as severe
As Turkey Slaves, or we do Horses here.
Those who're in Office rais'd above the rest
Fancy each Bird they ride to be their Beast;
So whip and spur till they're flown to their Height,
Then down they fall at last with their own weight.
The Eagle there, is Sov'reign of the Place,
A Bird of Courage, and of wond'rous Grace
To all the merry chirping Feather'd kind,
Who Safety under her Protection find,
Which makes them in delightful Accents sing
Their Thanks each Morn with a God bless the Queen.
But what is strange to the domestick Fowls,
The Ministers of State are there the Owls;
Kites are the Magistrates that j---ge the Laws,
And Crows and Rooks must plead in ev'ry Cause,
With Noise obstrep'rous to disturb the Court,
And make the suff'ring Singing-Birds their Sport;
While Cuckoes Jaylors, Tipstaffs, Bailiffs are,
That suck their Eggs, poor Birds, when they appear.
A Bird of Courage, and of wond'rous Grace
To all the merry chirping Feather'd kind,
Who Safety under her Protection find,
Which makes them in delightful Accents sing
Their Thanks each Morn with a God bless the Queen.
But what is strange to the domestick Fowls,
The Ministers of State are there the Owls;
Kites are the Magistrates that j---ge the Laws,
And Crows and Rooks must plead in ev'ry Cause,
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And make the suff'ring Singing-Birds their Sport;
While Cuckoes Jaylors, Tipstaffs, Bailiffs are,
That suck their Eggs, poor Birds, when they appear.
It happen'd out, hard Fate! upon a time,
A Nightingale was whistling merrily in Rhime,
And chanc'd to jumble, as it were, together
Some Birds, who prov'd to be of the same Feather;
Howe'er, she was extolling their fine Parts
Better than, as it's said, was their Deserts,
Then plac'd 'em all upon the Raven's Back,
Which wou'd not hit his Colour, being black.
The Raven there is great, has the first Place
In Rank, of all the Crows and Rookish Race,
And therefore took 't in dudgeon to be nam'd,
Or by the Nightingale's poor Song defam'd,
Tho' all the Birds for whom she'd strain'd her Throat
Were of the finest Feathers there, of Note.
A Nightingale was whistling merrily in Rhime,
And chanc'd to jumble, as it were, together
Some Birds, who prov'd to be of the same Feather;
Howe'er, she was extolling their fine Parts
Better than, as it's said, was their Deserts,
Then plac'd 'em all upon the Raven's Back,
Which wou'd not hit his Colour, being black.
The Raven there is great, has the first Place
In Rank, of all the Crows and Rookish Race,
And therefore took 't in dudgeon to be nam'd,
Or by the Nightingale's poor Song defam'd,
Tho' all the Birds for whom she'd strain'd her Throat
Were of the finest Feathers there, of Note.
The stam'ring Jay, she said, sung sweet and clear
As any Bird inhabiting the Air;
His squalling Voice was Musick for a King,
Beside the Blue Distinction on his Wing.
As any Bird inhabiting the Air;
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Beside the Blue Distinction on his Wing.
The Nightingale did next extol the Dove
For Courage, which he shew'd in making Love:
Said, Wrens were Birds facetious, brisk, and gay,
While chirping Sparrows nothing had to say,
But mourn'd their solitary Hours away.
Then of the Peacock made the following Strain:
His Tail, tho' great, was but a modest Train,
For Juno's Bird had humbly laid aside
The thoughts of Grandeur, and the plague of Pride.
Much of the chattering Magpye too she sung,
For Readiness and Eloquence of Tongue,
For Stratagem and politick Design,
That he does often with the Jackdaw joyn,
A Bird that cunningly takes care to build
Where he may have the Church still for his Shield.
For Courage, which he shew'd in making Love:
Said, Wrens were Birds facetious, brisk, and gay,
While chirping Sparrows nothing had to say,
But mourn'd their solitary Hours away.
Then of the Peacock made the following Strain:
His Tail, tho' great, was but a modest Train,
For Juno's Bird had humbly laid aside
The thoughts of Grandeur, and the plague of Pride.
Much of the chattering Magpye too she sung,
For Readiness and Eloquence of Tongue,
For Stratagem and politick Design,
That he does often with the Jackdaw joyn,
A Bird that cunningly takes care to build
Where he may have the Church still for his Shield.
The Crane was next this warbling Songster's Praise,
Admir'd for Piety in those blest Days
When neither Flesh nor Fish were once forbid,
But what the Birds desir'd, ev'n that they did.
The Hawk was then extoll'd, and call'd a Saint,
For he cou'd with the best among 'em cant,
And preach o'er any thing but good strong Liquor,
Which those rapacious Fowls drank down the quicker.
Admir'd for Piety in those blest Days
When neither Flesh nor Fish were once forbid,
But what the Birds desir'd, ev'n that they did.
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For he cou'd with the best among 'em cant,
And preach o'er any thing but good strong Liquor,
Which those rapacious Fowls drank down the quicker.
Again soft Philomel advanc'd her Voice,
And of her Song the Pheasant made the choice,
Prais'd him indeed where it was not his due,
But yet said nought but what shou'd have been true:
Then to the Hoby gave the Faulcon's Praise,
Which did a foolish Emulation raise,
And caus'd the Turky-cock to strut about,
Because poor Philomel had left him out
To introduce a Starling, who had flown
The nearest to the Royal Eagle's Throne:
Then prais'd the Cock, at least his double Comb,
That only crows on his own Dunghill, Home.
Nay, she commended in her Song Tom-Titt,
And innocently said he was a Wit;
And that poor Robin was no Bird of Prey,
But Batts made ev'ry Night a Holy-day.
In short, That Swallows sung melodious Strains,
And no Birds had, more than the Woodcock, Brains.
And of her Song the Pheasant made the choice,
Prais'd him indeed where it was not his due,
But yet said nought but what shou'd have been true:
Then to the Hoby gave the Faulcon's Praise,
Which did a foolish Emulation raise,
And caus'd the Turky-cock to strut about,
Because poor Philomel had left him out
To introduce a Starling, who had flown
The nearest to the Royal Eagle's Throne:
Then prais'd the Cock, at least his double Comb,
That only crows on his own Dunghill, Home.
Nay, she commended in her Song Tom-Titt,
And innocently said he was a Wit;
And that poor Robin was no Bird of Prey,
But Batts made ev'ry Night a Holy-day.
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And no Birds had, more than the Woodcock, Brains.
This was the Charge laid to the Nightingale
By Sir John Rook, Att---y Gen---l;
Who said, it was a Crime ev'n but to name
Those Birds, for they were Birds of Fame,
Many of whom the Eagle did imploy
To serve the State, tho' not the Birds destroy.
But as't befel the Singing Choir, hard Fate!
The peevish Owl ow'd all these Birds a Hate;
She first oblig'd the Thrush and Lark to Bail,
And hated mortally the Nightingale:
Nor spar'd he a choice Linnet once he kept,
That us'd to warble sweetly when he slept,
But punish'd her with more than usual Rage,
Because, poor Bird! she had defil'd his Cage:
Tho' this was natural to every Bird,
The purblind Owl snuff'd mainly at the T---d,
And so long turn'd the matter o'er and o'er,
The more he stirr'd in't, still it stunk the more.
By Sir John Rook, Att---y Gen---l;
Who said, it was a Crime ev'n but to name
Those Birds, for they were Birds of Fame,
Many of whom the Eagle did imploy
To serve the State, tho' not the Birds destroy.
But as't befel the Singing Choir, hard Fate!
The peevish Owl ow'd all these Birds a Hate;
She first oblig'd the Thrush and Lark to Bail,
And hated mortally the Nightingale:
Nor spar'd he a choice Linnet once he kept,
That us'd to warble sweetly when he slept,
But punish'd her with more than usual Rage,
Because, poor Bird! she had defil'd his Cage:
Tho' this was natural to every Bird,
The purblind Owl snuff'd mainly at the T---d,
And so long turn'd the matter o'er and o'er,
The more he stirr'd in't, still it stunk the more.
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This caus'd much Mirth among the other Fowl,
Who laugh'd at this Resentment of the Owl,
Which so enrag'd his Honour, that he swore
The Singing-birds should pay the Piper's Score,
Tho' all the Cry lay at the Eagle's Door.
With that he sent the Cuckoe's round about
In search to find the little Songsters out,
Who in the dead of Night surpriz'd a Thrush
Sitting alone upon a Haw-thorn Bush;
And strait they hurried him before the Owl,
Who look'd with Indignation in his Soul:
You scoundrel Bird, said he, how dare you face
One you have wrong'd of my Majestick Race?
Know you who I am, that you thus boldly dare
Profane my Name? Use it not, ev'n in Pray'r;
For by Jove's Bird, whose Minister I am,
I'll make you paultry Songsters dread my Name:
You, that sing Ballads thus on ev'ry Bush,
And value not us State-Birds of a Rush,
Shall know we rule at will the Feather'd Laws,
And can command whene'er we please our Cause.
Who laugh'd at this Resentment of the Owl,
Which so enrag'd his Honour, that he swore
The Singing-birds should pay the Piper's Score,
Tho' all the Cry lay at the Eagle's Door.
With that he sent the Cuckoe's round about
In search to find the little Songsters out,
Who in the dead of Night surpriz'd a Thrush
Sitting alone upon a Haw-thorn Bush;
And strait they hurried him before the Owl,
Who look'd with Indignation in his Soul:
You scoundrel Bird, said he, how dare you face
One you have wrong'd of my Majestick Race?
Know you who I am, that you thus boldly dare
Profane my Name? Use it not, ev'n in Pray'r;
For by Jove's Bird, whose Minister I am,
I'll make you paultry Songsters dread my Name:
You, that sing Ballads thus on ev'ry Bush,
And value not us State-Birds of a Rush,
Shall know we rule at will the Feather'd Laws,
And can command whene'er we please our Cause.
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This struck on heap the trembling Whistler strait,
To hear pronounc'd such arbitrary Fate.
Right Honourable Owl, said he, you seem
By the great Post you bear, of some Esteem;
But for my part, excuse me, I don't know
I'm guilty of a Crime in what I do;
And therefore thank you for your kind Advice,
That I may home, and learn to be more wise.
“And is this all, said th'Owl, that you've to say?
“If so, Sir, I shall send you another way.
With that he call'd a Cuckoe waiting nigh,
And bid him mind the Traytor did not fly,
But pluck his Feathers first, or clip a Wing,
Then let him try how he could fly or sing.
The Thrush, confounded at this sudden Rage,
Durst not attempt his Anger to asswage,
But, with the Cuckoe, silently retir'd,
And at his Owlship's Passion much admir'd.
To hear pronounc'd such arbitrary Fate.
Right Honourable Owl, said he, you seem
By the great Post you bear, of some Esteem;
But for my part, excuse me, I don't know
I'm guilty of a Crime in what I do;
And therefore thank you for your kind Advice,
That I may home, and learn to be more wise.
“And is this all, said th'Owl, that you've to say?
“If so, Sir, I shall send you another way.
With that he call'd a Cuckoe waiting nigh,
And bid him mind the Traytor did not fly,
But pluck his Feathers first, or clip a Wing,
Then let him try how he could fly or sing.
The Thrush, confounded at this sudden Rage,
Durst not attempt his Anger to asswage,
But, with the Cuckoe, silently retir'd,
And at his Owlship's Passion much admir'd.
The next they apprehended was a Lark,
One that was always a High-flying Spark,
But that was guilty of no other Crime
Than singing in the Stile they call Sublime;
Yet notwithstanding this, vex'd to the Soul,
The croaking Raven, and the screeching Owl,
Who swore most bitterly that soaring Bird
Should be brought down, upon their Honour's word.
The Lark still cheerfully maintain'd his Note,
And seem'd not to regard their Threats one Groat.
Messieurs, said he, I am a merry Blade,
As you may see, and Singing is my Trade:
I mean no Hurt, without 'tis an Offence
By whistling of a Song to get me Pence,
And chaffer for't with my small stock of Sence.
I'd have you think I don't imploy my Head
To study Mischief, but to get my Bread:
My Father did, before that I was born,
Sing in the Fields all day for a poor Blade of Corn:
And you, who're rais'd above us, to be great
And govern wisely all the Feather'd State,
Shou'd now consider what we Songsters are,
Poor Birds, that shou'd be your great Wisdom's Care,
Not by your Pow'r drove to a mean Dispair.
One that was always a High-flying Spark,
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Than singing in the Stile they call Sublime;
Yet notwithstanding this, vex'd to the Soul,
The croaking Raven, and the screeching Owl,
Who swore most bitterly that soaring Bird
Should be brought down, upon their Honour's word.
The Lark still cheerfully maintain'd his Note,
And seem'd not to regard their Threats one Groat.
Messieurs, said he, I am a merry Blade,
As you may see, and Singing is my Trade:
I mean no Hurt, without 'tis an Offence
By whistling of a Song to get me Pence,
And chaffer for't with my small stock of Sence.
I'd have you think I don't imploy my Head
To study Mischief, but to get my Bread:
My Father did, before that I was born,
Sing in the Fields all day for a poor Blade of Corn:
And you, who're rais'd above us, to be great
And govern wisely all the Feather'd State,
Shou'd now consider what we Songsters are,
Poor Birds, that shou'd be your great Wisdom's Care,
Not by your Pow'r drove to a mean Dispair.
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This sensible Discourse made 'em both look
Upon each other, as if Thunder-struck.
My Lord, said th'Owl, your Lordship knows
These Birds of late look big, set up for Beaux,
And strut about in their new Suits of Cloaths,
Meet us in ev'ry place where'er we go,
And scarcely will (as 'tis their Duty) bow.
For my part, I think they shou'd be all stript,
And when they are unplum'd, severely whipt:
This will correct their Self-conceit and Pride,
And humble their too stubborn Hearts beside.
This may be dangerous, the Raven made Reply,
Take heed of overmuch Severity;
For I remember once, how by surprize
Some Singing-birds pick'd out a Raven's Eyes:
Nay, who knows but the Eagle too may blame
The Owl one day, if he abuse her Name?
For these same injur'd Birds will go and sing
Their melancholy Dittys to the Queen:
Therefore commit them over to the Crows,
Then you are quit of them, under the Rose;
Those hungry Birds will soon strip off their Cloaths.
Upon each other, as if Thunder-struck.
My Lord, said th'Owl, your Lordship knows
These Birds of late look big, set up for Beaux,
And strut about in their new Suits of Cloaths,
Meet us in ev'ry place where'er we go,
And scarcely will (as 'tis their Duty) bow.
For my part, I think they shou'd be all stript,
And when they are unplum'd, severely whipt:
This will correct their Self-conceit and Pride,
And humble their too stubborn Hearts beside.
This may be dangerous, the Raven made Reply,
Take heed of overmuch Severity;
For I remember once, how by surprize
Some Singing-birds pick'd out a Raven's Eyes:
Nay, who knows but the Eagle too may blame
The Owl one day, if he abuse her Name?
For these same injur'd Birds will go and sing
Their melancholy Dittys to the Queen:
Therefore commit them over to the Crows,
Then you are quit of them, under the Rose;
Those hungry Birds will soon strip off their Cloaths.
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Accordingly the Owl took this Advice,
And 'mong the Crows dispatch'd him in a trice.
The Lark, who was a Bird of Wit, now saw
His Case much worse committed to the Law,
Where they wou'd not regard him of a Straw.
For Crows were Birds of a rapacious kind,
And valu'd not th'Acquirement of the Mind;
Nay, were averse almost to every thing
But what would Profit to their clutches bring:
So that the Lark had nothing left to hope
For now but Want, except it was a Rope.
The Cuckoe constantly, from his scabb'd Throat,
Was plaguing him with the same tiresome Note;
And endless Repetitions made them worse
Than all the Plagues of Egypt were, a Curse.
And 'mong the Crows dispatch'd him in a trice.
The Lark, who was a Bird of Wit, now saw
His Case much worse committed to the Law,
Where they wou'd not regard him of a Straw.
For Crows were Birds of a rapacious kind,
And valu'd not th'Acquirement of the Mind;
Nay, were averse almost to every thing
But what would Profit to their clutches bring:
So that the Lark had nothing left to hope
For now but Want, except it was a Rope.
The Cuckoe constantly, from his scabb'd Throat,
Was plaguing him with the same tiresome Note;
And endless Repetitions made them worse
Than all the Plagues of Egypt were, a Curse.
But let's return to the poor Nightingale,
On whom their Plagues showr'd down as thick as Hail.
The Owl, incens'd with all the Marks of Rage,
Confines her close in a strong Iron Cage,
Where Philomel attempted to complain
Of her hard Usage, but 'twas all in vain;
The Owl refus'd to hear her Nightly Song
And warbling Notes, whereby she sung her Wrong.
At last the Kites she su'd to for Redress,
Who were oblig'd to hear her sad Distress,
Tho' they as cruel were, and merciless;
Told her, she should have kept out of the Laws,
And not concern'd herself with Birds of Claws;
Who now assur'd her she should be their Prey,
And that was all the Kites had then to say.
This was poor Comfort for a Bird like her,
Who was not arm'd with Talons for a War;
Yet she was brisk, and chirping merry still,
And was resolv'd once more to try her Skill,
Being unsatisfied that by her Song
Those Noble Birds had suffer'd any Wrong,
But that the hasty Owl had been to blame
In putting Philomel to so much Shame.
On whom their Plagues showr'd down as thick as Hail.
The Owl, incens'd with all the Marks of Rage,
Confines her close in a strong Iron Cage,
Where Philomel attempted to complain
Of her hard Usage, but 'twas all in vain;
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And warbling Notes, whereby she sung her Wrong.
At last the Kites she su'd to for Redress,
Who were oblig'd to hear her sad Distress,
Tho' they as cruel were, and merciless;
Told her, she should have kept out of the Laws,
And not concern'd herself with Birds of Claws;
Who now assur'd her she should be their Prey,
And that was all the Kites had then to say.
This was poor Comfort for a Bird like her,
Who was not arm'd with Talons for a War;
Yet she was brisk, and chirping merry still,
And was resolv'd once more to try her Skill,
Being unsatisfied that by her Song
Those Noble Birds had suffer'd any Wrong,
But that the hasty Owl had been to blame
In putting Philomel to so much Shame.
Early next Morning, e're 'twas Day, she 'rose,
And to the Owl a Ballad did compose:
She strain'd her Voice, and louder much did roar
Than she was wont; before his Honour's Door
Whistled in Notes that were well understood
By all the feather'd Dwellers in the Wood:
Nay, was not pleas'd with what she here could do,
But went and sung 't before the Raven too.
Soft were her Notes, tho' she had rais'd her Voice,
As made by hard Necessity her Choice,
Knowing her Thoughts were free from Evil still,
And so had been the Products of her Quill:
Assur'd of this, bold she was to a fault,
That made her singing Race not worth a Groat.
Here she repeated her first Song again,
So fond she seem'd of ev'ry moving Strain,
That she did all the secret Notes explain,
And prais'd those Birds to such a high degree,
The Kites and Crows constru'd it Blasphemy,
Tho' they, and all the feather'd Choir beside,
Were from their Hearts entirely satisfy'd
'Twas not the Talent of the Nightingale
Against those kind of colour'd Birds to rail:
Her Malice had been spent against the Crows,
Who always she profess'd her open Foes:
But for the Dove, the Pheasant, and the Wren,
They'd ever been the Subject of her Pen;
Their Fame, she said, was mounted on her Wing,
And she must daily their just Praises sing.
As for the Raven, she had often shown
A Veneration 'above the rest of's Gown,
Because he did appear to have a Soul
Greater than any of the Carniv'rous Fowl,
For he dislik'd the Malice of the Owl,
Who mean time Mischief pensively revolv'd,
And Vengeance 'gainst the Nightingale resolv'd;
So sent the Cuckoes ev'ry where in search,
Who found her out at last upon her Perch,
From whence they pluck'd her with unusual spight,
And carried her before the Owl that Night;
Where he no sooner saw the Nightingale,
But his fierce angry Visage turn'd quite pale;
Malice and Rage did o'er his Face so spread,
Enough to've struck the little Songster dead,
But that her Resolution had o'ercome
The utmost Rigour of her threatned Doom.
At last the Owl thus from his Passion broke,
To vent his Spleen, these furious Words he spoke:
Audacious Bird! how durst thou thus appear
'Fore me, or sing again in open Air?
After I had forbid thee by my Pow'r,
Thou insolently sung before my Door:
Nay, thou upbraidst me with what I'ad done,
And said I durst not, since that, face the Sun.
Thou little Hedge-bird, of obscurer Note,
I'll lose my Feathers but I'll stop thy Throat,
Whistling eternally some odious Praise
Of chattering Magpies, and of sensless Jays,
But I've discover'd thy Hypocrisie,
Thou Trifler, insignificant to me.
How dost thou know but that the Owl can sing
As well as any Bird of that short Wing?
But thou, because a Songster, make'st pretence
To understand both Politicks and Sense,
When 'tis not in thy Sphere, poor Fool, to know
What Owls that are great S---y's do.
And to the Owl a Ballad did compose:
She strain'd her Voice, and louder much did roar
Than she was wont; before his Honour's Door
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By all the feather'd Dwellers in the Wood:
Nay, was not pleas'd with what she here could do,
But went and sung 't before the Raven too.
Soft were her Notes, tho' she had rais'd her Voice,
As made by hard Necessity her Choice,
Knowing her Thoughts were free from Evil still,
And so had been the Products of her Quill:
Assur'd of this, bold she was to a fault,
That made her singing Race not worth a Groat.
Here she repeated her first Song again,
So fond she seem'd of ev'ry moving Strain,
That she did all the secret Notes explain,
And prais'd those Birds to such a high degree,
The Kites and Crows constru'd it Blasphemy,
Tho' they, and all the feather'd Choir beside,
Were from their Hearts entirely satisfy'd
'Twas not the Talent of the Nightingale
Against those kind of colour'd Birds to rail:
Her Malice had been spent against the Crows,
Who always she profess'd her open Foes:
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They'd ever been the Subject of her Pen;
Their Fame, she said, was mounted on her Wing,
And she must daily their just Praises sing.
As for the Raven, she had often shown
A Veneration 'above the rest of's Gown,
Because he did appear to have a Soul
Greater than any of the Carniv'rous Fowl,
For he dislik'd the Malice of the Owl,
Who mean time Mischief pensively revolv'd,
And Vengeance 'gainst the Nightingale resolv'd;
So sent the Cuckoes ev'ry where in search,
Who found her out at last upon her Perch,
From whence they pluck'd her with unusual spight,
And carried her before the Owl that Night;
Where he no sooner saw the Nightingale,
But his fierce angry Visage turn'd quite pale;
Malice and Rage did o'er his Face so spread,
Enough to've struck the little Songster dead,
But that her Resolution had o'ercome
The utmost Rigour of her threatned Doom.
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To vent his Spleen, these furious Words he spoke:
Audacious Bird! how durst thou thus appear
'Fore me, or sing again in open Air?
After I had forbid thee by my Pow'r,
Thou insolently sung before my Door:
Nay, thou upbraidst me with what I'ad done,
And said I durst not, since that, face the Sun.
Thou little Hedge-bird, of obscurer Note,
I'll lose my Feathers but I'll stop thy Throat,
Whistling eternally some odious Praise
Of chattering Magpies, and of sensless Jays,
But I've discover'd thy Hypocrisie,
Thou Trifler, insignificant to me.
How dost thou know but that the Owl can sing
As well as any Bird of that short Wing?
But thou, because a Songster, make'st pretence
To understand both Politicks and Sense,
When 'tis not in thy Sphere, poor Fool, to know
What Owls that are great S---y's do.
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But Philomel reply'd with equal Scorn,
That Nightingales, as well as Owls, were born:
Tho' he the Post of Honour first obtain'd,
He cou'd not say 'twas by his Merit gain'd.
For Nightingales had merited much more
Than Owls like him cou'd claim on any score;
Therefore she humbly hop'd it no Disgrace
To tell his Honour so, tho' to his Face;
For Singing-birds had always had a Name,
Long before Owls great Ministers became,
Much more e're they pretended to such Fame.
That Nightingales, as well as Owls, were born:
Tho' he the Post of Honour first obtain'd,
He cou'd not say 'twas by his Merit gain'd.
For Nightingales had merited much more
Than Owls like him cou'd claim on any score;
Therefore she humbly hop'd it no Disgrace
To tell his Honour so, tho' to his Face;
For Singing-birds had always had a Name,
Long before Owls great Ministers became,
Much more e're they pretended to such Fame.
The Owl, amaz'd at such a bold Reply,
Call'd to a servile Cuckoe waiting nigh:
Here, take your Pris'ner, said he, let her feel
The worst Resentments of your crooked Will;
Then to the Crows deliver her a Prey,
Let's see if she' as more Impudence than they.
I wish with these damn'd Singing-birds I'd done,
Who boast themselves Descendents of the Sun;
For I've a Thought strangely awakes my Fears,
That sometime this may reach the Eagle's Ears:
I'll satiate my Revenge for once howe'er,
And for the future let the Birds take care:
This Nightingale shall their Example be;
For Fear they shall, tho' they don't value me.
If Jove will suffer what I have design'd,
And aid the Projects of my lab'ring Mind,
These Singing-birds shall be the Mark of Fate,
And perish by my Pow'r, or by my Hate.
Call'd to a servile Cuckoe waiting nigh:
Here, take your Pris'ner, said he, let her feel
The worst Resentments of your crooked Will;
Then to the Crows deliver her a Prey,
Let's see if she' as more Impudence than they.
I wish with these damn'd Singing-birds I'd done,
Who boast themselves Descendents of the Sun;
For I've a Thought strangely awakes my Fears,
That sometime this may reach the Eagle's Ears:
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And for the future let the Birds take care:
This Nightingale shall their Example be;
For Fear they shall, tho' they don't value me.
If Jove will suffer what I have design'd,
And aid the Projects of my lab'ring Mind,
These Singing-birds shall be the Mark of Fate,
And perish by my Pow'r, or by my Hate.
Then strait away they carried Philomel,
To tell in vain her melancholy Tale,
Which with the Crows they knew would not prevail:
So they brought her before the Kites again,
To undergo fresh Misery and Pain.
And now the Rook's repeated to the Court
Her former Song, made for Disgrace and Sport,
Said, 'twas a Crime against the Eagle's Rights,
And which requir'd the Judgment of the Kites,
Who to the Birds of old had Justice shown,
But in these Cases had regarded none;
For th'Rooks no sooner had declar'd their Plea
But they ne'er minded what she had to say:
For urging, that she was a Bird born free,
And boldly challeng'd Native Liberty;
That Singing was a Gift the Gods bestow'd,
And therefore ought by them to be allow'd,
A furious Kite did sternly thus reply,
That he would that free Gift himself deny;
That if she did continue on to bawl,
Henceforth no Nightingale should sing at all.
This was a Sentence struck the Songster mute,
To hear a Bird cou'd e'er be such a Brute;
Till by another she was satisfied
The Kites, with Rooks and Crows, were all ally'd;
That she must now contentedly submit
To such a Punishment as Kites thought fit.
Accordingly they judg'd her by the Throat,
To hang one Day, till she shou'd change her Note.
But Philomel continued still the same,
Knowing her Innocence was not to blame,
She sung her Song again in the old Strain.
To tell in vain her melancholy Tale,
Which with the Crows they knew would not prevail:
So they brought her before the Kites again,
To undergo fresh Misery and Pain.
And now the Rook's repeated to the Court
Her former Song, made for Disgrace and Sport,
Said, 'twas a Crime against the Eagle's Rights,
And which requir'd the Judgment of the Kites,
Who to the Birds of old had Justice shown,
But in these Cases had regarded none;
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But they ne'er minded what she had to say:
For urging, that she was a Bird born free,
And boldly challeng'd Native Liberty;
That Singing was a Gift the Gods bestow'd,
And therefore ought by them to be allow'd,
A furious Kite did sternly thus reply,
That he would that free Gift himself deny;
That if she did continue on to bawl,
Henceforth no Nightingale should sing at all.
This was a Sentence struck the Songster mute,
To hear a Bird cou'd e'er be such a Brute;
Till by another she was satisfied
The Kites, with Rooks and Crows, were all ally'd;
That she must now contentedly submit
To such a Punishment as Kites thought fit.
Accordingly they judg'd her by the Throat,
To hang one Day, till she shou'd change her Note.
But Philomel continued still the same,
Knowing her Innocence was not to blame,
She sung her Song again in the old Strain.
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The Singing-birds perceiving now their Doom
Must be the same to which the Nightingale had come,
Resolv'd with one Consent that a Complaint
Should to the Eagle instantly be sent;
Therefore that 't might be done with all the speed
Requir'd, they to the following Form agreed.
Must be the same to which the Nightingale had come,
Resolv'd with one Consent that a Complaint
Should to the Eagle instantly be sent;
Therefore that 't might be done with all the speed
Requir'd, they to the following Form agreed.
Most Excellent and Gracious Eagle hear
From all your feather'd Choir this humble Pray'r:
Hear our Complaint, as Birds that are distrest,
By Owls and Kites and Rooks and Crows opprest.
Regard, dread Sov'reign, once a moving Tale,
Let it be said we Songsters did prevail,
The Lark, the Linnet, and the Nightingale.
Such Scenes of Woes distract our waking Hours,
Owls haunt our Roosts, and Cuckoes watch our Doors:
Tim'rous we fly, as runs the hunted Hare,
That ev'ry one's for driving to Despair,
That we had better dream our Lives away
Than live thus miserably, brisk and gay,
To curse each Night, and ev'ry coming Day.
With Rage implacable the Owl's our Foe,
And hunts us out where'er we fly or go:
Such is his Malice to our Free-born Trade,
He will not let us earn our Daily Bread.
Tho' we were wont on ev'ry Bush to sing,
And boast the ancient Freedom of our Wing,
We must not now declare we have a Soul,
For fear of being brought before the Owl.
From all your feather'd Choir this humble Pray'r:
Hear our Complaint, as Birds that are distrest,
By Owls and Kites and Rooks and Crows opprest.
Regard, dread Sov'reign, once a moving Tale,
Let it be said we Songsters did prevail,
The Lark, the Linnet, and the Nightingale.
Such Scenes of Woes distract our waking Hours,
Owls haunt our Roosts, and Cuckoes watch our Doors:
Tim'rous we fly, as runs the hunted Hare,
That ev'ry one's for driving to Despair,
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Than live thus miserably, brisk and gay,
To curse each Night, and ev'ry coming Day.
With Rage implacable the Owl's our Foe,
And hunts us out where'er we fly or go:
Such is his Malice to our Free-born Trade,
He will not let us earn our Daily Bread.
Tho' we were wont on ev'ry Bush to sing,
And boast the ancient Freedom of our Wing,
We must not now declare we have a Soul,
For fear of being brought before the Owl.
Nor are the Kites less tyrannous than he,
Tho' they shou'd mild, and just, and gen'rous be;
Plac'd by the royal Eagle's special Care
To hear the injur'd Birds complaining Pray'r.
Tho' they shou'd mild, and just, and gen'rous be;
Plac'd by the royal Eagle's special Care
To hear the injur'd Birds complaining Pray'r.
And now, dread Sov'reign, such is our hard Fate
That Kites and Crows pursue us with like Hate;
Tell us, we are unruly noisie Birds,
Frighting our feeble Race with threatning Words,
Enough to strike us little Songsters dead,
Who to such Language ne'er were born or bred.
We want Compassion, and not Punishment,
That we may barely live, and be content.
That Kites and Crows pursue us with like Hate;
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Frighting our feeble Race with threatning Words,
Enough to strike us little Songsters dead,
Who to such Language ne'er were born or bred.
We want Compassion, and not Punishment,
That we may barely live, and be content.
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