 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
283
The LARK and MAGPIES:
(On hearing a Friend decry'd by some Wou'd-be's.)
Among the Brilliants of Mankind,
How many Wou'd-be Wits we find!
Pert dull and loud, to Censure prone,
With no Ideas of their own?
Without a Smile who Sterne read o'er,
At Miller's Jests yet loudly roar;
Unfeeling of true Attic Glee,
Who think all Sociability,
Consists in Noise and Ribaldry.
How many Wou'd-be Wits we find!
Pert dull and loud, to Censure prone,
With no Ideas of their own?
Without a Smile who Sterne read o'er,
At Miller's Jests yet loudly roar;
Unfeeling of true Attic Glee,
Who think all Sociability,
Consists in Noise and Ribaldry.
A Lark whose Trillings were inspir'd,
By ev'ry Bird of Taste admir'd,
Who oft his Visits to Parnass
Upwing'd, a pleasing Hour to pass,
And where in Hippocrene's Rill,
He sometimes dipt his little Bill,
And then in sweet Arcadian Strains,
Warbled of Hills, Dales, Groves and Plains;
Was by the Million little known,
Because retir'd he liv'd alone.
By ev'ry Bird of Taste admir'd,
Who oft his Visits to Parnass
Upwing'd, a pleasing Hour to pass,
And where in Hippocrene's Rill,
He sometimes dipt his little Bill,
And then in sweet Arcadian Strains,
Warbled of Hills, Dales, Groves and Plains;
Was by the Million little known,
Because retir'd he liv'd alone.
A Corps of Magpies who had plac'd
Themselves upon the Throne of Taste,
Sent Seignior Lark an Invitation,
Just to partake a slight Collation,
Where none but Magpies blythe and hearty,
They told him—were to grace the Party.
Themselves upon the Throne of Taste,
Sent Seignior Lark an Invitation,
Just to partake a slight Collation,
Where none but Magpies blythe and hearty,
They told him—were to grace the Party.
284
He came—he hail'd the Wou'd-be Crew,
Around the Room loud Nonsense flew;
At their own Jests they dully laugh,
The wittiest he who most can quaff;
The Lark, a modest well-bred Bird,
Cou'd scarce thrust in a single Word;
Whene'er he spoke, no Ear inclin'd,
His Wit was rather too refin'd;
The choicest Spirit he, who most
Cou'd lie, or give the lewdest Toast,
And murd'ring Female Reputation,
Seem'd their most fav'rite Recreation;
Some, Gossip Tales made wond'rous long,
Some, bellow'd out a witless Song,
While some their Prowess loud resound,
And wield their airy Fauchions round,
Thus bully Cravens bear, 'tis said,
The largest Cock's-Combs on their Head.
Around the Room loud Nonsense flew;
At their own Jests they dully laugh,
The wittiest he who most can quaff;
The Lark, a modest well-bred Bird,
Cou'd scarce thrust in a single Word;
Whene'er he spoke, no Ear inclin'd,
His Wit was rather too refin'd;
The choicest Spirit he, who most
Cou'd lie, or give the lewdest Toast,
And murd'ring Female Reputation,
Seem'd their most fav'rite Recreation;
Some, Gossip Tales made wond'rous long,
Some, bellow'd out a witless Song,
While some their Prowess loud resound,
And wield their airy Fauchions round,
Thus bully Cravens bear, 'tis said,
The largest Cock's-Combs on their Head.
In Critical Detachments some
Get into Corners of the Room;
As Arbiters of Sense and Song,
They analys'd the feather'd Throng;—
With Them, “the Linnet's Note's too low,
“The Finch, a fribblish, tuneless Beau,
“The Thrush, a downright noisy Screamer,
“The Red-breast, a dull sleepy Dreamer,
“The Nightingale, a Bird whose Lay
“Wou'd pass unnotic'd in the Day;
“In short, no Fowl that wings the Air,”
They said, “with Magpies cou'd compare;”—
They drank, disputed, chatter'd, swore,
And brainless Folly kept the Door.
Get into Corners of the Room;
As Arbiters of Sense and Song,
They analys'd the feather'd Throng;—
With Them, “the Linnet's Note's too low,
“The Finch, a fribblish, tuneless Beau,
“The Thrush, a downright noisy Screamer,
“The Red-breast, a dull sleepy Dreamer,
“The Nightingale, a Bird whose Lay
“Wou'd pass unnotic'd in the Day;
“In short, no Fowl that wings the Air,”
They said, “with Magpies cou'd compare;”—
They drank, disputed, chatter'd, swore,
And brainless Folly kept the Door.
285
The Lark, with Indignation fir'd,
Soon made his Congé, and retir'd.
Soon made his Congé, and retir'd.
With Critic Shrug and scornful Eye,
When gone, the Mags their Guest decry;
“What this a Songster!—Ev'n the Owl,
“Seems not a more insipid Fowl;
“Amid our Humor, Mirth and Wit,
“Did ye not mark him humdrum sit?
“To Cradle since I bad Adieu,
“So dull a Bird I never knew;
“Nay, what compleatly mark'd him Dunce,
“He pass'd the Bottle more than once;
“And then for Music!—may I die
“If there's one Note of Melody;
“He makes a furious Noise, tis true,
“So does the Thrush and Blackbird too:—
“Critics I hate, who Cur-like bark,
“But—Heav'n be prais'd! I'm not a Lark.”
When gone, the Mags their Guest decry;
“What this a Songster!—Ev'n the Owl,
“Seems not a more insipid Fowl;
“Amid our Humor, Mirth and Wit,
“Did ye not mark him humdrum sit?
“To Cradle since I bad Adieu,
“So dull a Bird I never knew;
“Nay, what compleatly mark'd him Dunce,
“He pass'd the Bottle more than once;
“And then for Music!—may I die
“If there's one Note of Melody;
“He makes a furious Noise, tis true,
“So does the Thrush and Blackbird too:—
“Critics I hate, who Cur-like bark,
“But—Heav'n be prais'd! I'm not a Lark.”
A Wit 'mong Fools will ever pass
(Fools still are purblind) for an Ass.
(Fools still are purblind) for an Ass.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |