The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston ::

Sermo oritur, non de villis, domibusve alienis:
Nec male, necne lepos saltet: sed quod magis ad nos
Pertinet, & nescire malum est, agitamus: utrumne
Divitiis homines, an sunt virtute beati;
Quidve ad amicitias, usus, rectumne, trahat nos;
Et quæ sit natura boni, summumque quid ejus.
Cervius hæc inter vicinus garrit aniles
Ex re fabellas ------
Hor Lib. 2. Sat. 6.

TO THE Most Conspicuous, most Serene, and most Illustrious Prince and Potentate, The Man in the Moon.

Great Sir,

Before your sacred Majesty I bow,
And dedicate what follows here to you.

THE PUBLISHER, TO THE Candid Reader.

As those who write in rhyme, still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For, one for sense, and one for rhyme,
They think sufficient at one time;
But writing without rhyme or reason,
Is, 'gainst the state of learning, treason;
So here you'll find our good old Mother,
For one tale's sake oft makes another;
In holding forth, it no abuse is
To make the preachment for the uses,
And no geometer miscarries,
In proving truths for corollaries.
We know that what is first intended,
Is always last in being ended.
No man of candour will abuse her,
And this to criticks will excuse her,
Whether you hate her tales, or love them,
Condemn them rashly, or approve them,

Yea, whether they shall sink or swim,
'Tis much the same to Mother Grim.
The carlin now is at her rest,
Beyond the reach of taunt or jest:
She bid me (when alive) assure you,
It was to please, not to injure you,
These tales were told; and well she knew,
When first she told them, they were true,
And now concern no man alive,
Or may (said Grim) I never thrive;
The persons all are dead and gone,
But what has been may still be done,
There's nothing new beneath the sun.

INTRODUCTION.

Upon a time liv'd Goody Grim,
The great grandchild of Father Him;
And Him, so all accounts agree,
Was great grandchild to Father He.
This He, as all our authors tell us,
Kept company with the best of fellows,
Of heath'nish Gods, and Whigs, and Tories,
And learned many witty stories,
Which, handed down from He to Him,
Came all, at last, to Goody Grim;

Who, when she was sixscore years old,
And never touch'd with cough nor cold,
At warm fireside, o'er pot of ale,
Would spin out many a witty tale
Full of instruction and delight,
And as long as the winter's night.

But when old Grim by death was worried,
And laid into her grave, and buried,
Bedaub' d with soot, and snush and bubblings,
Her grandchild found these following scribblings,
With fifty merks, no more nor less,
To put her writings to the press.

TALE I.

A GRECIAN TALE.

------ Erupit venæ pejoris in ævum
Omne nefas ------

There liv'd, quoth Grim, a King and Queen,
As many in the world have been;
And this good King was call'd Saturnus,
'Tis true, or you have leave to burn us,
Or rather drown me in a ditch;
For tho' I'm old, I am no witch.
In his reign was the age of gold,
As by the poets we are told;

Who, tho' they be romancing fellows,
Yet of this age all that they tell us
Is true in every jot and tittle;
Instead of much, they say too little.
Then justice, peace, and truth, and plenty,
And good things, more than ten times twenty,
Prevailed among our towns and tribes;
No pensions then, nor posts, nor bribes,
Confer'd on members, to support
A corrupt ministry and court;
The subjects paid no pounds nor pence.
To pamper a luxurious prince.

Good men, by nat'ral procreation,
Have had bad sons in every nation,
For grace goes not by generation.
The first sons of a human creature,
When two, were of a different nature;
The one was godly, good and civil,
The other an incarnate devil,
Who griev'd his father and his mother,
By murdering his godly brother.

So Saturn had a graceless son,
Who long'd to mount his father's throne.
This youth (who was bred up in Crete,
And taught full well to lie and cheat,
A viperish imp, or hellish rather
To persecute so good a father),
Rigg'd out a very potent fleet,
In his own native country Crete,
Well mann'd with godless lying Cretians,
And dregs of all the other nations,
With pagan priests and Ganymedes,
Who had practis'd their hellish trades,
And fled to Crete themselves to shelter
From what they well deserv'd, a halter.

With this rare menzie coming o'er,
He reached peaceful Saturn's shore,
And, like a godless graceless son,
Expell'd his father from his throne,
Seiz'd all his goods and his palatium,
And drove him thence to lurk in Latium.

To tell you the sad desolation,
The doleful dumps and devastation,
The barr'ness of th'accursed soil,
Which mock'd the painful tiller's toil,
And painted famine in each face,
Religion treated with disgrace,
Decrease of trade, increase of taxes,
And honest men debar'd all access
To posts of honour, power, or trust,
Decay of wealth, and growth of lust,
Intestine frauds, and feuds, and jars,
And useless bloody foreign wars,
And all the ills that did ensue
The coming of this crafty crew,
The burdens under which men groan'd,
By few regarded, none bemoan'd,
And all the other desolations,
Wrought by that cursed crew of Cretians,
Would be a melancholy tale;
The thought e'en makes my spirits fail.

With grief old Grim was so opprest,
She fainted, thratch'd, and groan'd the rest
Of this sad dismal, doleful tale,
And made a sign to fetch her ale.
The poets strangely do amuse us
With invocations of the Muses;
And make us think, which very odd is,
Each of the Nine a powerful Goddess,

Who, by their skill, can soon inspire us
And with proetick fury fire us;
So have thy cramm'd our heads with stories,
And mask'd plain truth with allegories.
These Nine, in truth, were merry lasses,
Who sold good liquors in Parnassus,
Which oftimes set mens heads on rhyming,
On fiddling, whistling, piping, chiming,
And made their tongues glib in romancing,
Or set their agile feet a-dancing;
For all the poets inspiration
Proceeded from a good collation,
As by the sequel will appear,
When Goody Grim, instead of beer,
Had got a glass of forty-nine,
It made her wit and stile to shine
Beyond the power of muddy ale,
Which you'll see by the following tale.

TALE II.

Tarquin and Tullia. A ROMAN TALE.

Vivitur ex rapto, non hospes ab hospite tutus,
Non socer a genero.

In times when Princes cancell'd nature's law,
And declarations which themselves did draw;
When children us'd their parents to dethrone,
And gnaw their way, like vipers, to a crown,
Tarquin, a savage, proud, ambitious prince,
Prompt to expel, yet thoughtless of defence,

The envy'd sceptre did from Tullus snatch,
The Roman King, and father by the match.

To form his party, histories report,
A sanctuary was open'd in his court,
Where glad offenders safely might resort,
Great was the crowd, and wondrous the success,
(For these were fruitful times of wickedness),
And all that liv'd obnoxious to the laws
Fled to Prince Tarquin, and embrac'd his cause.
'Mongst these a pagan priest for refuge fled,
A prophet deep in holy faction bred;
A suppliant, who knew the modish way
To cant and plot, to flatter and betray,
To whin and sin, to scribble and recant,
A shameless author, and a lustful saint;
To serve all times he could distinctions coin,
And with great ease flat contradictions join;
A traitor now, once loyal in extreme,
And then obedience was his only theme;
He sung in temples the most passive lays,
And wearied Monarchs with repeated praise,
But manag'd aukwardly that lawful part,
For to vent lies and treason was his art,
And pointed libels at crown'd heads to dart.

This priest, with others learned to defame,
First murder'd injur'd Tullus in his name;
With blackest calumnies their sovereign load,
A poison'd brother, and dark league abroad;
A son unjustly top'd upon the throne,
Who since has prov'd undoubtedly his own,
Tho', as the law was then, 'twas his behoof,
Who dispossess'd the heir, to bring the proof.
This hellish charge they back'd with dismal frights,
The use of property and sacred rites,

And freedom, words which all false patriots use
The surest way the Romans to abuse,
Jealous of Kings, and always malcontent,
Forward to change, and certain to repent.

Whilst thus the plotters needless fears create,
Tarquin with open force invades the state;
Lewd nobles join him with their feeble might,
And atheists (fools) for dear religion fight;
The priests their boasted principles disown,
And level their harangues against the throne,
Vain promises the people's minds allure;
Slight were the Ills, but desperate the cure.
'Tis hard for Kings to steer an equal course;
But they who banish one oft get a worse.
These heav'nly bodies we admire above,
Do every day irregularly move;
Yet Tullus is decreed to lose his crown.
For faults that were his council's, not his own.
In vain he now commands ev'n those he paid,
By darling troops deserted and betray'd,
And creatures which his genial warmth had made.

'Mongst these a Captain of his guards was worst
Whose memory to this day stands accurst;
This rogue, advanc'd to military trust
By his own whoredom and his sister's lust,
Forsook his master, after dreadful vows,
And plotted to betray him to his foes;
The kindest master to the vilest slave,
Ready to give, as he was sure to crave.

His haughty female, who, as books declare,
Did always toss wide nostrils in the air,
Was to the younger Tullia governess,
And did assist her, when, in borrow'd dress,
She fled, by night, from Tullus in distress.

This wretch, by letters, did invite his foes,
And us'd all means her father to despose;
A father always generously bent,
So kind that he her wishes did prevent.

'Twas now high time for Tullus to retreat,
When his own daughters hasten'd his defeat,
When faith and duty vanish'd, and no more
The power of father, nor of King he bore;
A King whose right his foes could ne'er dispute,
So good, that mercy was his attribute;
Affable and kind, and easy of access,
Swift to relieve, unwilling to oppress;
Rich without taxes, yet in payment just,
So honest that he hardly could distrust;
His active soul did ne'er from labour cease,
Valiant in war, and sedulous in peace;
Studious with traffick to enrich the land,
Stout to protect, and skilful to command;
Lib'ral and splendid, yet without excess;
Loath to vevenge, and willing to caress:
In fine, how god-like must his nature be,
Whose only fault was too much piety?

This King remov'd, th'assembled states thought fit,
That Tarquin in the vacant throne should sit,
Voted him regent in the senate house,
And with an empty name endow'd his spouse,
The elder Tullia, who, some authors feign,
Drove o'er her father's corps a trembling wain:
But she, more guilty, numerous wains did drive,
To crush her father and her King alive;
In glad remembrance of his hasten'd fall,
Did institute a solemn weekly ball;
The jolly glutton grew in bulk in chin,
Feasted in rapine, and enjoy'd her sin;

With luxury she did weak reason force,
Debauch'd good nature, and cramm'd down remorse;
Yet when she drank cold tea in lib'ral sups,
The sobbing dame was Magd'len in her cups.

But brutal Tarquin never did relent,
Too hard to melt, too wicked to repent;
Cruel in deeds, more merciless in will,
Blest with a natural delight in ill.
From a wise guardian he receiv'd his doom,
To walk th'exchange, and not to govern Rome.
His native honours he did once disown,
And did by perjury ascend the throne.
Ah! had these oaths his swelling pride represt,
Rome then had been with peace and plenty blest;
But Tarquin, guided by destructive fate,
Wasted the country, and embroll'd the state;
To Roman foes transported Roman pelf,
That by their ruin he might save himself.
Innumerable woes possest the land,
Flowing in rivers from th'usurper's hand!
So just was heav'n, that it was hard to tell,
Whether their guilt or losses did excell.

They who renounc'd their God for dearer trade,
Are now the guardians of religion made;
Rebels were sainted, foreigners did reign,
Outlaws return'd preferment to attain,
With frogs, and toads, and all the croaking train.
No native knew their features or their birth,
They seem'd the greasy offspring of the earth.
The trade was sunk, the fleet and army spent,
Devouring taxes swallow'd lesser rent;

Taxes imposed by no authority,
Each lewd collection was a robbery.
Bold, self-creating men did statutes draw,
Skill'd to establish villainy by law,
Fanatick drivers, whose unjust careers
Produc'd new ills, exceeding former fears:
But authors here except that faithful band,
Which the prevailing faction did withstand,
And some who bravely stood in the defence
Of baffl'd justice, and their injur'd Prince;
These shine to after times; each sacred name
Stands deep recorded in the books of fame.

TALE III.

------ nobilis est ira leonis,
Parcere subjectis & debellare superbos.

The gen'rous Lion long the sceptre sway'd,
And all the beasts must cheerfully obey'd;
No crafty fox, nor any hard-skull'd brute,
Their rightful sovereign's title durst dispute;
His rage made stubborn haughty rebels bow,
And gen'rously he pardon'd them when low.
The flock secure in fertile pastures fed,
By careful guides to pleasant meadows led,
Where christal streams allay'd their heat and thirst,
Cool shades and groves affording room for rest,
To all the flock, with peace and plenty blest.

If fault he had, (for who from fault is free!)
'Twas too much goodness, too much clemency.
At last a factious crew of grunting hogs,
With hissing serpents, and with croaking frogs,

Conspir'd their lawful Liege-lord to dethrone,
And to set up a Monarch of their own.
From foreign shores an ugly beast they bring,
This they anoint, and then proclaim it King;
Half hog, half frog, amphibious and odd,
Some viper's spawn, none of the works of God.
This monster, after he had got the crown,
Did tyrannize in country and in town,
Attended with a crew of vermin vile,
Which ate the fruits, and razed the very soil;
The lab'ring ox no grass nor fodder had,
The harmless sheep were fleec'd, yea, almost flea'd;
The streams condemn'd, the springs were all lock'd up,
Of which the beasts were scarce allow'd one cup;
Such desolation did attend his reign,
As brought a scarcity of every thing.

At last a horse did kick him from the throne,
And by the fall he broke his collar bone;
The subjects then he summon'd to appear,
That they his last and best advice might hear.
Take care, said he, when I am dead and gone,
No Lion ever sit upon the throne;
Now promise this, and then, to make it sure,
The Lion's race straight you must all abjure.
It grieves me that one Lionness remains;
But shou'd I live I'd drive her from these plains:
Yet sure I am the serpents soon will kill
This Lionness, with poison, sting, or pill.
Men easily may prophesy and know
What they have plotted and resolv'd to do.

Are not the bulls the glory of the field?
Why shou'd the bulls then to the Lion yeild?
Or thick-skull'd beasts be subject to the laws
Establish'd by a tawny Lion's paws?

Behold, in yonder field, a stately bull,
Two mighty horns do fortify his skull!
How big his neck appears! how thick his skin!
How large a dewlap hangs below his chin!

Among the horned animals there's none
That greater feats hath with his head-piece done.
A neighbouring bull his heifer did attack,
Before his face, and got upon her back;
The heifer lov'd the other bull the more,
Because oft times he'd done the same before;
Inspir'd with rage and jealousy, he push'd
His rival, and his bones in pieces crush'd,
And drove the frighted heifer from the plain,
To which she never would return again.
For which rare feat, it clearly does appear,
That he deserves a diadem to wear.

With him there comes along a calf of note,
It matters not by whom he was begot;
Just such a thing as, in the days of yore,
Poor foolish man did for a God adore;
For still when men do make them Gods or Kings,
Then out come calves, or some such brutish things;
If calves by men for Gods have been ador'd,
Why should not beasts have such a sovereign lord?
He said, the list'ning croud, all in a ring,
Cry'd with one voice, Long live our new horn'd King!
The frogs and toads with hoarser voice did croak;
The grunting hogs submitted to his yoke,
And all the vipers with their hissing tone,
Congratulate his access to the throne.

The bull-dogs were a very trusty crew,
Who to their lawful Liege-lord still prov'd true;
They lov'd the Lion, and his gen'rous race,
For which they all were treated which disgrace;

Expell'd the court, and driven from the throne,
And forc'd, for want of food, to gnaw a bone;
Which very much rous'd their antipathy
Against the bulls, and all their progeny;
And made them long to have a merry meeting,
And fairly once to try a sound bull-biating.

TALE IV.

Præstat sero sapere quam nunquam.

The preaching Monarch, the sweet singer's son,
The peaceful King of Jewry fill'd the throne,
When two pretending mothers did contend,
And for a living child a suit intend;
The doubtful plea before the throne they bring,
To be decided by the wisest King;
Both claim a right, and both their claims assert,
The last by nature taught, the first by art:
The prudent judge observ'd the artful tale,
And well he knew that nature wou'd prevail;
Reach me, said he, a sword, I'll soon decide
The cause, and 'twixt you both the child divide.
The righful mother, cry'd, Oh! rather spare
The living child, and I will yield my share,
With pity mov'd, Oh! spare the child, she cry'd:
Not so, said the pretender, but divide.
The rightful parent is for mercy still,
The base pretender cries, divide and kill.

Scarce can a nat'ral parent's tender eye,
Look on and see unnat'ral children die;

He'll suffer rather, and with measures mild
Reclaim a son, than kill a rebel child.
Stepfathers by their cruelty are known,
Because they know the child is not their own;
They whip the guiltless infant, whom they hate,
To death, and then they seize on the estate.
The brutish pagans, fill'd with slavish fear,
To ugly demons beastly altars rear;
Devouter minds adore the powers above,
Because they are all clemency and love.

A prudent maid may easily discover
A false pretender, and a real lover:
The one consults her honour, and her health;
The other covets nothing but her wealth:
The one practises nought but melting charms,
To gain her heart, and draw her to his arms;
He'd rather chuse to languish and to dy,
Then offer her the least indignity.

The other swells with lustful rage and pride,
And tries by tricks and bribes to gain the bride:
His merit's small, to that he dares not trust;
'Tis force, or fraud, must satisfy his lust;
Unhappy maid! shou'dst thou thyself surrender
A prostitute to such a vile pretender,
Thy liberty and happiness is lost,
And honour, which, of all, thou valuest most;
His black designs, if once the rogue attain,
Thy wealth he'll seize, thy person he'll disdain;
Of which possess'd, away from thee he wanders,
And wastes the same on whores, and pimps and pandars,
Who, when they've spent so much of thy good gear,
Roaring and whoring nine months of the year,
Then he returns, kisses, and calls thee honey,
Sweet-heart and dear, to get more of thy money;

All which he spends on bullies, pimps, and whores,
Whilst thou must starve and languish within doors,
By all thy neighbours slighted and neglected,
By few regarded, and by none respected;
Thy self and conduct, justly they despise,
And bid thee boast and glory in thy choice.

Forsake the beast, thy self and rights recover,
Return again to thy true faithful lover;
He'll not upbraid thee with thy former folly,
One smile from thee will make him blyth and jolly.
Return, return! he'll love thee more and more,
Forgetting all that thou hast done before;
Whores, rogues, and bullies, he will soon expel,
In peace and plenty making thee to dwell.

TALE V.

The Cobler. An IRISH TALE.

------ est genus unum
Stultitiæ, nihilum metuenda timentis.
Hor.

Sages and moralists can show
Many misfortunes here below,
A truth which nor one ever miss'd,
Tho' neither sage nor moralist;

Yet all the troubles, notwithstanding,
Which fate or fortune has a hand in,
Fools to themselves will more create,
In spight of fortune and of fate.
Thus oft are dreaming wretches seen,
Tortur'd with vapours and with spleen,
Transform'd (at least in their own eyes)
To glass, or china, or goose-pyes:
Others will to themselves appear
Stone-dead as Will the conqueror;
And all the world in vain might strive,
To force them t'own that they're alive;
Unlucky males with child will groan,
And sorely dread their lying down,
As fearing, that, to ease their pain,
May puzzle Doctor Chamberlain.
Imaginary evils flow,
Meerly for want of real woe,
And when prevailing whimsies rise,
As monstrous wild absurdities,
Are ev'ry hour, and ev'ry minute,
Found without bedlam, as within it;
Which, if you farther wou'd have shown,
And leisure have to read—read on.

There liv'd a gentleman, possest
Of all that mortals reckon best;
A seat well chosen, wholsome air,
With gardens and with prospects fair;
His land from debt and jointure free,
His money never in south-sea;
His health of body firm and good,
Tho' past the hay-day in his blood:
His consort fair, and good, and kind,
His children rising to his mind:
His friends ingenuous and sincere,
His honour, nay his conscience, clear:

He wanted nought of human bliss,
But pow'r to taste his happiness.
Too near, alas! this great man's hall,
A merry cobler had a stall,
An arch old wag as e'er you knew,
With breeches red, and jerkin blue;
Cheerful at working, as at play,
He sung and whistled life away;
When rising morning glads the sky,
Clear as the merry lark, and high,
When evening-shades the landskips vail,
Late warbling as the nigtingale;
Tho' pence came slow, and trade was ill,
Yet still he sung, and whistled still;
Tho' patch'd his garb, and coarse his fare,
He laugh'd and cast away old care.

The rich man view'd, with discontent,
His tatter'd neighbour's merriment;
With envy grudg'd and pin'd, to see
A beggar pleasanter than he;
And by degrees, to hate began
Th'intollerable happy man,
Who haunted him like any sp'rit,
From morn to eve, by day and night.

It chanc'd as once in bed he lay,
When dreams are true, at break of day,
He heard the cobler at his sport,
And, on a sudden, to cut short,
Whether his morning draught he took,
Or warming whiff of wonted smoke,
The squire suspected, being shrewd,
This silence boded him no good;
And, 'cause he nothing saw, nor heard,
A Machiavelian plot he fear'd;

Strait circumstances crowded plain,
To vex and plague his jealous brain;
Trembling in pannick dread he lies,
With gaping mouth, and staring eyes,
And straining, lustful, both his ears,
He soon persuades himself he hears
One skip and caper up the stairs:
Sees the door open quick, and knew
His dreaded foe in red and blue,
Who, with a running jump, he thought
Leapt plumb directly down his throat,
Laden with tackle of his stall,
Last, ends and hammer, strap and awl;
No sooner down, than, with a jerk,
He fell to musick, and to work;
If much he griev'd our Don before,
When but o'th' outside of the door,
How sorely must he now molest,
When got o'th' inside of his breast!
The waking dreamer groans and swells,
And pangs imaginary feels;
Catches and scrapes of tunes he hears,
For ever ringing in his ears;
Ill-savour'd smells his nose displease,
Mundungus strong, and rotten cheese;
He feels him, when he draws his breath,
Or tugs the leather with his teeth;
Or beats the soal, or else extends
His arm to th'utmost of his ends;
Enough to crack, when stretch'd so wide,
The ribs of any mortal side.
Is there no method, then, to fly
This vile intestine enemy?
What can be done in this condition,
But sending instant for physician?

The doctor having heard the case,
Burst into laughter in his face,
Told him, he need no more than rise,
Open his windows and his eyes,
Whistling and stitching there to see
The Cobler, as he us'd to be.

Sir, quoth the patient, your pretences
Shall ne'er persuade me from my senses;
How shou'd I rise? The heavy brute
Will hardly let me wag a foot;
Tho' seeing for belief may go,
Yet feeling is the truth, you know:
I feel him in my sides, I tell ye;
Had you a cobler in your belly,
You scarce cou'd stir as now you do,
I doubt your guts would grumble too:
Still do you laugh? I tell you, Sir,
I'd kick you soundly could I stir;
Thou quack, that never had'st degree
In either university,
Thou mere licentiate, without knowledge,
The shame and scandal of the college;
I'll call my servants, if you stay,
So, doctor, scamper while you may.

One thus dispatch'd, a second came,
Of equal skill and greater fame,
Who swore him mad as a March hare,
(For doctors, when provok'd, will swear,)
To drive such whimsies from his pat,
He drag'd him to the window strait.
But jilting fortune can devise,
To baffle and outwit the wise;
The Cobler, 'ere expos'd to view,
Had just pull'd off his jerkin blue,

100

Not dreaming 'twould his neighbour hurt,
To sit in fresco in his shirt:
O! quoth the patient, with a sigh,
You know him not so well as I;
The man who down my throat is run,
Has got a true-blue jerkin on:
In vain the doctor rav'd and tore,
Argu'd and fretted, stamp'd and swore,
Told him he might believe as well
The giant of Pantagruel,
Did oft, to break his fast and sup,
For potch'd eggs, swallow wind-mills up;
Or that the Holland dame could bear
A child for every day o'th' year.
The vapour'd dottard, grave and sly,
Mistook, for truth, each rapping lie;
And drew conclusions, such as these,
Resistless, from the premisses;
I hope, my friends, you'll grant me all,
A wind-mill's bigger than a stall,
And since the lady brought alive
Children three hundred sixty-five,
Why should you think there is not room,
For one poor Cobler in my womb?
Thus every thing his friends could say,
The more confirm'd him in his way,
Farther convinc'd, by what they tell,
'Twas certain, tho' impossible.

Now worse and worse his piteous state
Was grown, and almost desperate;
Yet still, the utmost bent to try,
Without more help he would not die:
An old physician, sly and shrewd,
With management of face endu'd,
Heard all his tale, and ask'd, with care,
How long the Cobler had been there?

101

Noted distinctly what was said,
Lift up his eyes, and shook his head,
And grave accosts him on this fashion,
After mature deliberation,
With serious and important face,
Sir, your's is an uncommon case;
Tho' I've read Galen's Latin o'er,
I never met with it before;
Nor have I found the like disease
In stories of Hippocrates.
Then, after a convenient stay,
Sir, if prescripion you'll obey,
My life for yours, I'll set you free
From this same two-legg'd tympany;
'Tis true, you're gone beyond the cure
Of fam'd worm-powder of John Moor;
Besides, if downwards he be sent,
I fear he'll split your nether vent:
But then your throat, you know, is wide,
And scarcely clos'd since it was try'd,
The same way he got in, 'tis plain,
There's room to fetch him back again;
I'll bring the forked worm away
Without a dysenteria;
Emeticks strong will do the feat,
If taken quantum sufficit;
I'll see myself the proper dose,
And go hypnoticks to compose.

The wretch, tho' languishing and weak,
Reviv'd already by the Greek,
Cries, what so learn'd a man as you
Prescribes, dear doctor, I shall do.

The vomit speedily was got,
The cobler sent for to the spot,

102

And taught to manage the deceit,
And not his doublet to forget.
But first, the operator wise
Over his sight a bandage ties,
For vomits always strain the eyes.
Courage! I'll make you disembogue,
Spite of his teeth, th'unlucky rogue;
I'll drench the rascal, never fear,
And bring him up, or drown him there.
Warm water down he makes him pour,
Till his stretch'd guts could hold no more,
Which, doubly swoln, as you may think,
Both with the cobler and the drink,
What they receiv'd against the grain,
Soon paid with int'rest back again.
Here comes his tools, he can't be long
Without his hammer and his thong.
The cobler humour'd what was spoke,
And gravely carried on the joke;
As he heard name each single matter,
He chuck'd it souse into the water,
And, then, not to be seen as yet,
Behind the door made his retreat.
The sick man now takes breath a while,
Strength to recruit for further toil;
Unblinded, he, with joyful eyes,
The tackle floating there espies,
Fully convinc'd within his mind,
The cobler could not stay behind,
Who to the ale-house still would go,
When e'er he wanted work to do;
Nor could he like his present place,
He ne'er lov'd water in his days
At length he takes a second bout,
Enough to turn him inside out;

103

With vehemence so sore he strains
As would have split another's brains.
Ah! here the cobler comes, I swear,
(And truth it was; for he was there),
And like a rude, ill-manner'd clown,
Kick'd with his foot the vomit down.
The patient now grown wond'rous light,
Whip'd off the napkin from his sight,
Briskly lift up his head, and knew
The breeches and the jerkin's hue,
And smil'd to hear him grumbling say,
As down the stairs he ran away,
He'd ne'er set foot within his door,
And jump down open throats no more;
No, while he liv'd he'd ne'er again,
Run, like a fox, down the red lane.
Our patient thus, his inmate gone,
Cur'd of the crotchets in his crown,
Joyful, his gratitude expresses,
With thousand thanks, and hundred pieces;
And thus, with much of pains and cost,
Regain'd the health he never lost.

MORAL.

“Taught by long miseries, we find,
‘Repose is seated in the mind;
‘And most men, soon or late, have found.
‘Tis there, or no where, to be found.
‘This real wisdom timely knows,
‘Without experience of the woes;
‘Nor need instructive smart to see,
‘That all below is vanity:
‘Loss, disappointment, passion, strife,
‘Whate'er torments, or troubles life,
‘Tho' groundless, grievous in its stay,
‘Twill shake our tenements of clay,

104

‘When past, as nothing we esteem;
‘And pain like pleasure's but a dream.”

TALE VI.

A DUTCH TALE.

Ridiculum acri,
Fortius & melius, magnas plerumque secat res.

When Goody Grim this tale had ended,
To which the list'ning crowd attended
Quoth the goodman, a preaching nobler
Than what you have made on a cobler,
I'm sure is no where to be seen,
Although the text was very mean;
Yet our Mas John, who knows each letter
Of Greek, I think, could scarce do better;
Nor any preacher in our nation,
Make a more proper application.
Goodwife, bring here the brandy bottle,
For now I swear by Aristotle,
That Goody Grim deserves a dram.
As soon as said, the bottle came;
The dram is fill'd; old Goody drank it,
And then her host and hostess thanked.
Ingratitude I always hated,
Tho' by a clerk it was debated,
And prov'd, quoth Grim, no beastly fault;
Beasts grateful are when men do halt:
In this great point, which must be wonder'd,
For one such person harms a hundred.

105

Good folks, since you have been so kind,
As poor old Goody Grim to mind,
And for a tale to give a dram,
Here, take another of the same.

There liv'd a gentleman, possest
Of every thing could give him rest,
Full satisfaction and content,
Large were his lands, great was his rent,
And all from debt and jointures free,
None of his stock sunk in south-sea;
Fine were his houies, great his trade,
Of all things else great store he had,
Choice parks and prospects, forests fair,
Fine gardens, walks, and wholesome air,
Great flocks and herds, fine ponds and fishes,
And every thing that mortal wishes;
His neighbours friendly and sincere,
Save only one, as you shall hear;
And to compleat his ease and rest,
Was with a faithful Steward blest,
Who knew his business exactly,
Of wool could tell where every plack lay;
What in the year he could make of it,
And best improve the same to profit;
What store of beef, and pork, and tallow,
Could serve himself, what he could allow
To be expos'd to publick sale,
What casks of cyder, beer, and ale,
Butter and cheese, were in his cellars,
What cash brought in by money-tellers;
What bales of broad cloth in his ware-house,
Of all things else how great his share was;
Careful of all, no man can doubt it,
As well within door as without it.

106

The Steward finding that Nick Frog,
A cunning, crafty, cheating rogue,
Who liv'd hard by him in a bog,
Upon his trade was still incroaching,
New schemes and projects daily broaching,
To rob his fish-ponds and his spices,
By black and murdering devices,
Resolv'd to make him count and reckon,
For what he had unjustly taken;
And doce down, for his fair fiddling,
His frauds, and vicious intermeddling.

This straight made Nick to look about him,
And plot to ruin and to rout him.
His wits he racks, and his invention,
How to accomplish this intention.
Men never need to raise the devil,
To help them out in any evil
Design; he's still at hand, and watching,
To help them when mischief they're hatching:
Away runs Frog to good John Bull,
With whims and maggots fills his skull,
(This was his name; full well I knew him,
Before Nick Frog did first undo him;)
Buzzes and whispers in his ears,
Strange bugbears, lies, and groundless fears,
To make him dread his trusty Steward.
Tho' never man had a more true heart,
To Bull, nor more his int'rest minded,
Till by this rogue he was quite blinded,
As afterwards he came to find it.

Who would believe what strange bugbears
Mankind create itself, of fears
That spring like fern, that insect weed,
Equivocally, without seed,

107

And have no possible foundation,
But merely in th'imagination,
And yet will do more dreadful tricks,
Then witches riding on broom-sticks;
Make men bewitch and haunt themselves,
And raise hobgoblins, imps and elves:
This is observ'd in Hudibras,
And in John Bull came all to pass;
Who, by his fears, was so much haunted,
And by this cunning rogue enchanted,
He dream'd of pious frauds and tricks,
Of bells, and books, and candlesticks,
And in his vap'rish fits would clatter,
Strange things of beads and holy water;
Fancy'd his steward slyly came,
His paunch with horned heads to cram,
And glibly make him swallow down,
A strange beast with a triple crown;
Instead of flesh, make him to dine
On bread, without one drop of wine.

With these strange fancies so possest,
That night nor day he could not rest,
What does John Bull, in this condition,
But writes to Frog for a physican!
'Tis true, a scorpion's oil is said
To cure the wounds the viper made;
The adder's skin some ease may bring
To pains occasion'd by the sting;
The eating of a mad dog's liver
From dang'rous bite may men deliver;
And weapons, dress'd with salves, restore
And heal the hurts they gave before;
But whether Nick such magic had,
As salve apply'd to bloody blade,
Or virtue in him, as the vermin,
Those who have try'd him can determine.

108

The doctor comes, an arrant quack,
Who gravely first his head did shake,
Feeling his pulse; then made a face,
And swore his was a dang'rous case;
Full well, he said, he understood it,
And that he must be purg'd and blooded,
Take laudanum to make him sleep,
And leave his shop to Frog to keep;
Nor could these symptoms bad evanish,
Till first his Steward he did banish;
All thoughts of trade he must give over,
If he expected to recover;
And then, since exercise is good
To rectify and cleanse the blood,
To ease the head, and fully clear it
Of vapours, and to chear the spirit,
To help the stomach and digestion,
(The truth of which no man needs question),
He must no more loll like a fool,
But get him to a fencing-school;
To play at back-sword, cudgel, fleuret,
Would ease his pain, or fully cure it.
You have, quoth quack, a dang'rous neighbour,
Who lives not very far from the door;
A hect'ring, rambling, blust'ring bully,
Who minds to treat you like a cully;
Unless ye beat him back and belly,
And tame his huffing, I can tell ye,
He'll bring your Steward back to vex you,
And with more fears and cares perplex you;
Up then, and stoutly lay about you,
This rogue just now begins to doubt you;
Be sure he cannot long resist you,
Nick Frog is ready to assist you,
And help you out of all your lurches,
Providing he gets all the purchase;

109

Old father Hocus ready stands,
And esquire South, with heart and hands,
To help you, Sir, to beat and bang them,
Or, if you please, to head or hang them,
You have a strong confede—racy
To tame the rogue, who is grown saucy,
And make him eat his meat in order,
And keep himself within his border.
What will not evil council do!
This many instances can shew;
And then it clearly did appear,
When't made a man stick his own mare.

The Steward is a-packing sent,
And all things topsy turvy went;
The shop's lock'd up, the pond's neglected,
None but the doctor is respected,
By whom good Bull was so much blinded,
Nothing but boxing now he minded,
Back-sword and quarter-staff, and dagger,
With which he then began to swagger,
Like errant Knight, in quest of dangers,
To quarrel and fall out with Strangers;
And then, to find some new adventures,
His Neighbours Grounds he boldly enters,
Pretending he came to defend 'em,
To view their Marches, and to mend 'em,
And had, by Scale and Compass, found,
(He said) in measuring their Ground,
And all their Marches, they were such,
Some had too little, some too much;
But that it should be so no longer,
He'd help the weak against the stronger,
And stoutest of them all would challenge,
To bring things to a better Balance.

110

When this new trade he was practising,
And riding a-Don Quixotizing,
Oft times, e'en take my word upon it,
They claw'd the stople of his bonnet,
And made him, in some sad disasters,
To call for surgeons, and for plaisters.
When any thing he had made of it,
Frog came and swept away the profit.
Meantime, by blooding, and by blist'ring,
By purging, vomiting, and clyst'ring,
By toiling much, and little eating,
By want of sleep, and frequent sweating,
His blood and spirits all were gone,
He look'd e'en like a skeleton:
His wealth all spent on fencing masters,
And paying drugs, and pills, and plaisters;
His thrift and trade was all neglected,
And sums of debt immense contracted;
And yet his maggots never left him,
But of all common sense bereft him,
And made him now grow so delirious,
(For strength he had not to be furious),
To send for German mountebanks,
On him to play their knavish pranks.

As ravens never fail to flock
About a dying horse, and croak,
Expecting richly there to feed,
How soon the poor old beast is dead,
Yea, frequently, you'll see them strive
To tear and eat the flesh alive;
So men, when in their worst conditions,
Are haunted by these mock physicians.
The mountebank, who had no skill
To cure, but came his purse to fill,
First, gravely twisting up his whiskers,
With a grimace began his discourse,

111

Which, that he might make just as brief as
Was possible, had no word of preface,
Pretending well to know the matter,
Cry'd, plunge the patient in salt water;
No remedy, in sober sadness,
But this, can cure him of his madness.
From bed they haul him, where they found him,
And duck'd him so, they almost drown'd him,
Which brought him to a worse condition.
Then, quoth another fine physician,
One cure remains, and I will try it,
To bring him to a meagre diet;
He must be fed on froth and bubbles,
(Strong meat will still increase his troubles),
And nothing drink but water-gruel,
Wine to his fever would add fuel;
But first we must apply loch-leeches,
To a certain place within his breeches,
I think 'tis call'd, by great Cardanus,
Or some good Latinist, the anus;
Blooding the hemorhoidal veins
Will clear his head of vap'rish pains,
And these brought from the German coast,
Will longest stick, and suck the most;
Lest any harm befal his body,
He must be kept in safe custo—dy,
And have strong men to watch and ward him,
Nor can he grudge well to reward 'em.
His neighbours must be brib'd and taught their
Lesson, to forbear from laughter;
For should he find that they did mock him,
Most heinously it would provoke him—

Multa desunt, supplend a tamen cum postulat usus.

112

TALE VII.

A Vision.

Constitit ante oculos caræ genetricis image.

At dead of night, after an evening ball,
In her own father's lodging at Whitehall,
As youthful Tullia unregarded lay
By a dull lump of Netherlandish clay,
Whose frozen veins not all her charms could move;
The hero was incapable of love;
Thanks to a secret grip received when young;
That family had rid the states too long.

Neglected thus, the longing, wishing queen
Contemplates all the gallants she had seen,
Whose brisk ideas feed her warm desire,
And fancy adds more fuel to her fire.
When, lo! the scene all on a sudden turns,
Her blood grows chill, the taper dully burns,
A trembling seizes all her limbs with fear,
And a majestick shade, which did appear,
Draws wide the curtains, and approaches near;
Then thus, like oracle from hollow oak,
With awful tone the sacred spectre spoke.

Most impious wretch! behold thy mother's ghost,
By fate's permission from the Stygian coast,

113

To warn thee of the vengeance heav'n provides,
To punish unrepenting parricides.
Can quiet slumbers ever close thine eyes?
Or is thy conscience sunk, and cannot rise?
From this same place was not thy aged sire
Compell'd, by midnight summons, to retire?
When, with a baiting, fulsom trick of state,
The world was banter'd with an abdicate.
Had he been murder'd, it had mercy shown;
('Tis less to kill a King, than to dethrone.)
The miserable in their graves find rest,
But his afflictions cannot be exprest.
So great a Monarch to be brought so low,
And his own children strike the fatal blow!
Where are the crimes of which he is accus'd?
How are the nations gull'd, and he abus'd?
How boldly did some villains tax the King,
Engaging, the next Sanhedrim, to bring
Substantial proof of warming-pan intrigue,
Of horrid murder, and a Teaguish league?
Senates have met, and, after many years,
No proof is made, no witness yet appears;
The bold defamers now are hush'd and still,
For want of evidence, not want of will.
These bless'd reformers have our King dethron'd,
(Under such pharisees Judea groan'd);
And, with our native force, a foreign aid
Of vermin, who ne'er monarchy obey'd,
But by rebellion did themselves create,
Of provinces distress'd, a Hogan state:
Can any thing that's good from Frog-land come,
The very jakes and sink of Christendom?
A Dutchman is a rogue, whate'er he seems;
(No muddy fountain can yield chrystal streams.)
Awake, Britannia, guard thy tott'ring crown,
Which by republicans is pulling down:

114

Ambitious Orange serves but for a tool,
They set him up that they themselves may rule.
If one usurper's title is thought good,
The right lies in possession, not in blood;
Nor is't confin'd to any certain line,
Possession makes all governments divine.
Good pagan doctrine, brought to serve a time;
Success will justify the basest crime!
In former times, when England's Kings did err,
The fault was punish'd in the counseller,
But now the King is into exile sent,
And not one statesman brought to punishment,
The priests and advocates have wond'rous skill,
To qualify the same thing good or ill,
And can adduce, from scripture and the laws,
Arguments pro and con, for any cause.

Night's watchful centinel now blows the horn,
A certain sign of the approaching morn,
Which warns all wandring spirits to retire
To shades below, or to more dreadful fire.
I must be gone, the ghost said, then farewel,
What thou hast seen and heard, thy sister tell:
Repent, repent, before it be too late,
By restitution shun impending fate.
Thus having said, the vision disappears,
Leaving the drunken princess drown'd in tears.

115

TALE VIII.

A LOCHABER TALE.

Sunt quos curriculo pulverem olympicum
Collegisse juvat; metaque fervidis
Evitata rotis, palmaque nobilis
Terrarum dominos evehit ad Deos.

Who can believe, how small affairs
Will sometimes set friends by the ears?
And then, how small an incident,
Will loss of limb and life prevent?
Which, if you only please to hear,
Will by the following tale appear.

Upon a time, no matter where,
Some Glunimies met at a fair,
As deft and tight as ever wore
A durk, a targe, and a claymore,
Short hose, and belted plaid, or trews,
In Uist, Lochaber, Sky, or Lewis,
Or cover'd hard head with a bonnet,
(Had you but known them, you would own it:)
But sitting too long by the barrel,
MacBane and Donald Dow did quarrel,
And in a culleshangee landed.
The dispute, you must understand it,
Was, which of them had the best blood,
When both, 'tis granted, had as good
As ever yet stuff'd a black-pudding;
So out came broad swords on a sudden,
Keen to decide the controversy,
And would have shed blood without mercy,

116

Had not a crafty Highland Demon,
MacGilliwrae, play'd the Palemon;
Who lighted on a pleasant fancy
To end the strife, and no man can say,
But that the plot shew'd his invention,
His pious purpose and intention.
Hold, hold! quoth he, I'll make your vermin
This paultry quarrel soon determine;
Come each of you reach me a louse,
For she that's found to be most crouse,
Without dispute, has had the best food,
As so her master has the best blood.
Both listened to this fine orison,
Which, if you'll mark it, was a wise one;
Their swords they sheath'd by this advice,
And fell to work to hunt for lice;
And very easily found twenty,
For of these cattle they had plenty,
Which from their bosom they did pull out
Of which Palemon two did cull out,
In shape and size that were most egal,
To make the louse-race fair and legal;
MacBane's was marked on the back,
From head to tail, with strip of black,
By which she was from Donald's known;
So every master knew his own.

Habbie, for he was at the sport,
On bagpipe play'd the horseman's sport,
While wise Palemon try'd a trick,
To spur them up with fiery stick
Such running yet was never seen,
On Leith sands, or Strathbogie green,
At Coupar, Perth, and other places,
Which men frequent to see horse races;
In fine MacBane's louse wan the race,
Who still of Donald takes the place.

117

Now, should the wisdom of the nation,
Take this into consideration,
And ratify it by a law,
That no man sword nor durk should draw,
But leave it to their proper vermin,
Their paultry quarrels to determine,
As well the greater as the small ones,
Of Christian blood it might save gallons,
And give diversion by such races,
In country fairs and market places;
And better shew their zeal and skill,
Than hunting out more blood to spill.
If any rogue deserv'd a banging,
Or, for attrocious crimes, a hanging,
And justly is sentenc'd to die;
But who shall hang him? You, or I?
If, in this point, we are divided,
A louse race fairly might decide it,
Without expence of time or trouble,
About a thing not worth a bubble.

Yea, who can tell, as things improve,
But this, at last, might princes move,
Such races for their crowns to run,
If once the practice was begun;
For so to get a crown's no worse,
Than by the neighing of a horse,
Or by the flying of the crows;
And yet my gentle reader knows,
Darius could no title bring,
But that, to make him Persia's king;
And Romulus, the story's famous,
By this means got the pas of Remus.

Our foreign mails might bring advice
Of races run by foreign lice;
The German, Dutch, the Saxon, Russian,
The French, the Spanish, and the Prussian;

118

The Cossack, Calmuck, and the Tartars,
Who run with neither hose nor garters;
The Persian, and the Janizaries,
Which gains the race, and which miscarries;
In Italy who gain'd the races,
Who on the Rhine, and other places;
At Philipsburg tell how they ran,
Who had the rear, and who the van;
How Eugene, by his art and cunning,
Could train the German lice to running,
And such accomplish'd racers make them,
The French could never overtake them;
How Russian vermin could advance,
Against the mighty powers of France,
And slowly into Dantzick crept,
When French lice either dreamt or slept;
Who gain'd the race at Sheriff-muir,
Where both sides ran right well, 'tis sure:
How Highland lice could play a prankie,
And win the race at Killycrankie:
Then we might see recruiters trudging,
And their recruits in bosom lodging.

Well might this project free all nations
From great expences and taxations;
One million'th part might raise lice forces
Of what is spent on men and horses.

119

TALE IX.

PHAETON burlesqu'd.

[From Ovid's Metamorphosis, Lib. II. Fab. I.]

------ Ingreditur dubitati tecta parentis.

Sol's manor was a pretty good house,
But meaner far than Holy-rood-house:
The walls rear'd up of lath and plaister;
'Tis good gear that contents the master.
On the ceil'd roof one Mulciber,
A cripple common sign-post dauber,
Or if you please to call him painter,
Had made some odd draughts at a venture.
The various seasons of the year,
Rank'd in due order, did appear,
And all the beasts, and fowls, and fishes,
Which ilk month made the nicest dishes;
When beef or mutton, lamb or veal,
Salmond or Herring, trout or eel;
When hen and capon, leeks and cabbage,
And all the other kitchen baggage,
Were at their best; here, with one look,
You'd find without the help of book.
In every month, when they are best,
Their various figures are exprest:
In January you'd see haddocks,
In March was painted store of paddocks:
In every other month what nice is;
I must say these were fine devices,
Where one could draw a bill of fare,
Suiting the season of the year;

120

Know when to eat his oysters raw,
When crabs are best, & cætera.
This house at night did lodge the God;
You know all day he's still abroad.
When Phaeton came to the door,
Doubting his mother was a whore,
He chap'd, and then put in his head,
Pull'd off his cap, and said, God speed.
And having made a homely jook,
Spy'd Phoebus sitting in the nook,
With purple gown, in armed chair,
Contriving how to guide the year.
A minute-watch hang at his back,
And in his hand an almanack;
And round about him, in a ring,
Sand-glasses did in plenty hing:
The names of months, you may believe, he,
From March to March, had inclusive;
The summer, harvest, winter, spring,
About the walls on boards did hing;
And, to prevent all foul mistakes,
Of kalendars and almanacks,
Great store in every corner lay,
Which serv'd to guide him on his way.

------ Intravit dubitati tecta parentis.

------ A dextra lævaque dies, & mensis, & annus,
Seculaque, & positæ spatiis æqualibus horæ.

Sol chancing to lift up his eye,
From's journal-book, did quickly spy
The stripling, who stood half-amaz'd,
While on these raree-shows he gaz'd
“My son, quoth he, what brought thee hither?”
Sir, if I may but call you father,

121

Said Phaeton,” “and if my mother
“Ne'er play'd the whore with any other,
‘Give me some proof to know it by,
‘That I may frankly give the lye
‘To any, be he great or small,
‘Who me a son of whore shall call:
‘For, faith, Sir, I must here confess,
‘I never yet, in market-place,
‘Durst throw a stone, but I did dread,
‘That I might break my father's head.”

Nec falsa Clymene culpam sub imagine celat.

Here stopt the youth, and claw'd his pate;
But Phoebus pulling off his hat,
Said, “By my saul, believe't who list,
‘A better wench yet never pist,
‘Than was thy mother, nor more true
‘To me; I'll give the devil his due.
‘Or if she did; for who can fix
‘A woman's heart, with others mix,
‘Thy carrot-pow can testify
‘That none thy father is but I.
‘That I may put thee out of doubt,
‘Now, Phaeton, look round about,
‘Ask any thing; for, as I live,
‘Thou cannot ask what I'll not give.
‘ May Phoebus never see, I pray,
‘The morning of another day,
‘But in a halter may I hing,
‘If I deny thee any thing.”

------ promissi testis adeslo,
Dis juranda palus, oculis incognita nostris.

Quoth Phaeton, “I love to ride,
‘Then, father, only let me guide

122

‘Your hackney-jades, and until night
‘About the world drive day-light.”
At this old Phoebus shook his head,
And, clawing where there was no need,
He spat, and fidging twice or thrice,
Said, “Phaeton, my son, be wise:
‘I promised, but did suppose,
‘That thou didst see before thy nose,
‘And was not such an arrant sheep,
‘As not to look before thou leap.
‘ Would God I had a toleration
‘To swear with mental reservation;
‘This only suit I would deny;
‘Pox on the sin of perjury.
‘I may dissuade, since thy desires
‘Above thy age and strength aspires;
‘And since so feeble hands, as these are,
‘Unable are to guide the day-star.
‘Except myself, none of the train,
‘Of Gods can guide my fiery wain:
‘ Whatever they may vainly boast,
‘None of them can rule such a roast.
‘Let Jove himself, the great Mogul
‘Of Heav'n, vapour as he will,
‘And wild-fire, like a juggler, spit,
‘To fright poor mortals out of wit,
‘He cannot guide my steeds, mark that,
‘ And who with Jove can bell the cat?

Concutiens illustre caput ------

------ Utinam promissa liceret
Non dare.

------ Placeat sibi quisque licebit.

------ Et quid Jove majus habetur?

123

“ The way at first is rough and steep,
‘Through which my steeds can scarcely creep,
‘Tho' they be fresh; for every morn,
‘Before we yoke, they get their corn.

Ardua prima via est, &c.

“The middle then is very high,
‘Whence looking down (I will not lie)
‘On sea and land, it makes me quake
‘For fear, and all my bones to shake:
‘ Thence turning down, should I mistake
‘One step, I'd surely break my neck.

Ultima prona via est.

“ Besides all this, the Heavens high go
‘Still whirling round in a vertigo,
‘Which all the stars about do swing,
‘And make them dance it in a ring.

Adde quod assidua rapitur vertigine cœlum.

“Now I, who have the year to guide,
‘Directly forward still must ride.
‘I dare not stop, nor turn my back,
‘For marring of the almanack;
‘My restless wheels must still be jogging,
‘Nor dare I halt to take a noggan.
“The rapid motion of the sphere
‘Would carry thee the Lord knows where.
“ Perhaps thou vainly dream'st the Gods
‘Have manor-houses on these roads:
‘Or thou may foolishly be thinking
‘Of inns and taverns there, for drinking,
‘Unless thou eat a heavenly sign,
‘On all the road thou cannot dine:

124

‘The crab, the lobster, or the piscis,
‘Or some such paultry stuff as this is.
‘And then, to wash thy pickled throat,
‘Thou must drink of a water-pot.”

Forsitan & lucos illic, urbesque Deorum
Concipias animo ------

“Nor could the best of thy endeavours
‘Rightly manage my head-strong avers:
‘When they begin to spurn and kick,
‘As oft they use this vicious trick,
‘They make myself, who am more able
‘Than thou, seek all the seats i'th' saddle.’

Nec tibi quadrupedes ------
In promptu regere est.

“For God's sake, then, be wise, and think on't,
‘ And say not, Would to God I had done't?
‘Thy mischief now must be prevented,
‘Or afterwards thou wilt repent it.’

------ Dum resque sinit, tua corrige vota.

“Thou asks a gift, and would be glad,
‘To know if Phoebus be thy dad:
‘This is a thing I never doubted,
‘I took thy mother's word about it;
‘And had thou wit as thou hast years,
‘ Thou might perceive it by my fears.
‘Consider only, if Apollo,
‘The God of wit, would be so shallow,
‘So great a blockhead, or so dull,
‘To vex his head, or rack his scull,
‘With needless fears or cares, and that
‘For any common strumpet's brat;
‘If I did so, (as proverb tells),
‘I well deserved hood and bells.
‘Judge ye how such a dress would fit
‘The noddle of the God of wit.

Et potrio pater esse metu probor ------

125

“Through all my house look up and down,
‘ Except but this, ask any boon,
‘By all that's sacred, here I vow
‘I'll give it, were it worth a cow.”

Deprecor hoc unum ------

“Fond thing, why hangs thou by my sleeve,
‘Since I have sworn, I must give
‘Whate'er thou asks; but pray be wise,
‘ And yet make a discreeter choice.”

------ Sed tu sapientius opta.

This said, he hodged up his breeches,
And finished his learned speeches.
But Phaeton, a wilful lad,
Whom all his wit could not dissuade,
Stood stiffly to his purpose, and
Still press'd to have his first demand.
Now Phoebus, finding that the day
Was dawning, durst no longer stay,
For fear some morning-men should think
That he had got too large a drink;
And lest he should sun-dials mar,
He leads the boy unto the car.

------ Dictis tamen ille repugnat;
Propositumque premit ------

At pater, ut terras mundumque rubescere vidit.

This coach, I'd have you understand,
Old Brookie made with his own hand;
For Phoebus, who must still be peeping,
And spying faults when some are sleeping,
Through hole in door, as is reported,
Perceived that Mars with Venus sported,
And seeing Vulcan was in his shop,
He thus accosts his worthy messship.

------ Vulcania munera—

126

“Gossip, while ye on iron pelt here,
‘A rogue, who well deserves a halter,
‘A captain too, forsooth, hath laid
‘A close siege to your worship's bed:
‘And that he may the more succeed,
‘Plac'd horned-works upon your head.”
Brookie, at this, threw by his hammer,
And thinking on his wife, cry'd, damn her;
Clench'd out of doors; but, being lame,
Before he came Mars plaid his game.
Yet notwithstanding this, he judged,
In gratitude he was obliged
To Phoebus, therefore did provide him
A trusty coach for him to ride in:
And, without brag, ne'er hackney hurl'd
On better wheels in the wide world.

While Phaeton stood gazing on it,
Rubbing the stopple of his bonnet,
Transported with surprize and joy,
Like a blate fondling country boy,
Who'd never seen a coach before,

Aurora peep'd in at the door.
This was a pretty ruddy maid,
Who waited close on Phoebus bed,
And oft, when he was sleeping sound,
Would rouse him up to ride his round:
And pinching him with thumb and finger,
Would tell him, 'twas no time to linger,

When all the glimmering lamps of night,
For want of oil, had lost their light.
For this, and other service too,
Which neither of them dares avow,

127

And which at present shall be nameless,
Perform'd by wanton mistress shameless,
The sun had cloth'd this pretty harlot
With gown and petticoat of scarlet;
When both of them, tho' I'm to speak loath,
Deserv'd to wear a gown of sackcloath.
And, I must say, 'tis a great pity,
That they live not in our good city,
For our kirk-treasurer would trace them,
And on repentance-stool disgrace them,
Or make old Phoebus, for his cunny,
To doce down good ready money.
A reader of our kirk's profession,
I hope, will pardon this digression
About our discipline, and lo,
No more of this, now a propos.

Dumque ea magnanimus Phaeton miratur ------

------ rutilo patefecit ab ortu ------
Purpureas aurora fores ------

------ Diffugiunt stellæ.

Now Phoebus seeing madam Moon
Look as pale as a horn-spoon,
And all the stars quite disappear,
Ev'n Lucifer who guards the rear;
Straight he calls out a leash of lackeys,
Some call them Gods, which their mistake is,
At most they're but plebeian powers,

And we, poor mortals, call them hours.
These nimble boys, then, were not idle,
Each quickly snatching up a bridle,
Led forth the steeds, well fed with hay,
From stables where all night they lay.
Then Phoebus taking out a flask
Of oil, for why, he wears no mask,
All o'er, from lug to lug, besmear'd
His face, his whiskers, and his beard:

128

And this forsooth he did assure him,

'Gainst all sun-burning would secure him;
And on his head, to make him trig,
He put a powder'd periwig.
But calling into mind the tallow
Wherewith their dying friends some hallow,
(A practice once, they say, was common)
He thought it was no pleasant omen,
He sigh'd untill his guts did tumble,
Then out these following words did mumble,
“My son, observe what I'm to tell you,
‘And if you don't, then dool will fell you:
‘ And first, keep a good bridle-hand;
‘But seldom use the spur or wand.
‘My steeds their own jog-trot will keep,
‘Scarce will they leave't for spur or whip.
‘You must not drive too high nor low,
‘The safest way is 'twixt the two.
‘For if you chance to drive too high,
‘You'll burn the sign-posts of the sky.
‘Astrologers will be undone,
‘When not one house in heav'n is known;
‘And who, without a sign, can tell
‘Where heavenly constellations dwell?
‘And if too low (which a disgrace is),
‘You will tawn all the ladies faces.
‘Now, more directions were but needless;
‘I hope you will not be so heedless,
‘But you'll observe and closely follow
‘ The coach-wheel tract, you'll find it hollow;
‘And this will guide you to a minute,
‘Or else I'm sure the Devil's in it.

129

‘And so to fortune I must leave ye,
‘I wish she play not you a shavie.
‘And now comes on the firie-farie,
‘Time calls us, and we must not tarry;
‘Then take the reins, or if, as yet,
‘You'll show less fondness and more wit,
‘Let me alone to guide the chariot,
‘'Tis ten to one but you will mar it;
‘Stay you at home, and sport and play,
‘And suffer me to guide the day:
‘Here you may safely dance and caper,
‘And see me drive the blazing taper.”

Cornuaque extremæ velut evanescere lunæ;

Jungere equos Titan velocibus imperat horis.

------ Et rapidæ fecit patientia flammæ.

Parce, puer, stimulis, & fortius utero loris.

------ Manifesta rotæ vestigia cernes.

But all this good advice was lost,
The stripling quickly took his post.
And, O! but he was wondrous fain,
With eager hand to snatch the rein;
Then to his father made a bow,
First said, gramercie, then adieu.
“Poor Phaeton you are demented,
“Quoth Sol, e'er sun-set you'll repent it.”
Mean time the steeds began to neigh,
The coach-man clack'd his whip, cry'd jee.
With this the hackney-jades first started,
And then, well fed with corn, they farted.
Then up the path they trot and hobble:
But Phaeton, like a young noble,
Now seated in his father car,
Look'd ev'n as big as Muscow's Czar:

As ships, that bear him sail then ballast,
Slinger before the very smallest
Unequal blast, so is he driven,
Jolting and jumbling up to heaven:
Nor was his father half so wise,
As his light-headed son to poise,

130

Which in horse-races is the practice,
Where still the rider's weight exact is;
And if but one of all the number
Of riders is too light, with lumber,
Or baggs of sand, this is corrected;
But this by Phoebus was neglected.
Nor need you much at this to wonder,
The best of wits will sometimes blunder.
The coach, near empty, swiftly reels,
And glides away on easy wheels.
The steeds perceiv'd it moving light,
And wanting of its usual weight,
Which made them first begin to amble,
And then through thick and thin to ramble;
O'er hedge and ditch with speed they fly,

And quit forsake the King's high way.
And now, our poor young charioteer
Was seized with a panick fear;
At once confounded and amaz'd,
He sweat, he trembled, star'd and gaz'd;
He knew not where the way did ly,
Nor would the vicious jades obey:
O'er crags and cliffs his coach-wheels rattle,
Which scar'd and scorch'd the heavenly cattle.
The bull truss'd up his tail on rig,
Prick'd, and ran round like whirlegig.
The lion soon began to roar;

With heat the great and little boar,
To find some cooler shade, or hole,
Ran even to the artick pole.
The dog, stark mad, began to snarle

At poor Bootes, an old carle,

131

Who ran away with his wheel-barrow,
So fast, he almost sweat his marrow.
The serpent, in this hurly-burly,
Benum'd with cold before, look'd surly.
The fishes swam away with speed,
I cannot say but they had need,
Nor could Aquarius relieve them,
His boiling water more did grieve them;
Parboil'd they lay now in the gutter,
They'd made good sauce, had there been butter.

Utque labant cuyvæ justo sine pondere naves.

------ Tritumque relinquunt
Quadrijugi spatium.

------ Gelidi caluere triones.

Te quoque turbatum memorant fugisse, Boote,
Quamvis tardus eras, & te tua plaustra tenebant.

How soon the boy, from Heaven's rigging,
Had cast his eye on earth's low bigging,
He trembl'd, and, which was a token
Of a dirt-fear, look'd dun as docken;
Down from his eyes the tears did trickle,
O, but he was in a sad pickle!
Ne'er was young lad in bader plight,
His eyes turn'd dim, he lost his sight:
In this perplexing firie-farie,
And inexpressible quandarie,
Had he possess'd an hundred pound
He'd giv'n it all for soal o'ground.
Oft did he wish he'd had a pox,
When sirk he mounted the coach-box:
Were he on earth again, he'd rather
Content himself with any father,
Or chuse out one by odds or even,
Rather than gallop thus through Heaven,
To prove his genealogy
By dangerous astrology.
Curgloft, confounded and bumbaz'd,
On east and west, by turns, he gaz'd;
As ship that's tost with stormy weather,
Drives on, the pilot knows not whither,

132

At mercy of the winds and tides,
Just so our hackney coach-man rides.
The more the coach-wheels reel'd and tumbl'd,
The more his judgment still was jumbl'd.
The slacken'd reins he held not fast,
Nor dropt them quite, but all agast,
And at his wits end, like a sot,
His horses names he had forgot.
Much tost with jolting and with hobblings,
And terrify'd with strange hobgoblins,
Which, up and down, dispersed lye
Through the wild regions of the sky,
At last his fingers dropt the reins;
The steeds perceiv'd them on their manes,
Rambling and ranging, out they fly

Through dens and desarts of the sky,
With lawless force and divelish din,
They drive the coach through thick and thin:
Their fury all before them mars,
They dash the sun against the stars:
And now they turn their tails, and down
They drive the sun below the moon.
Quoth Luna, in a great surprize,
‘Can I believe now my own eyes?
‘Yes, 'tis my brother, that is clear,
‘But then, what does he riding here?
‘I know not what to say; sure this is
‘A thing portends no good, (God bless us.)
‘All nature topsy turvie turns,
‘The clouds he into ashes burns,
‘Which sends us up such stinking smoke,
‘God help me, I am like to choak.”

133

And now the earth begins to fry,
The rivers, great and small, run dry;

The woods and heaths do make but one fire,
And every mountain is a bonfire.
The frozen zone begins to thaw,
And all the corn-fields do glow,
Small loss of woods, of fields and hills,
When they're compar'd with greater ills:
Whole cities and whole peopl'd nations
Make but continu'd conflagrations:

Nilus, to fly the scorching sun,
With all his speed did backward run,
And hide his head so under ground,
To this good day it is not found.
The solid ground even splits asunder,
The sun-beams fill all with hell with wonder.

Old Nick, and his goodwife, benighted,
Till they were with the flash affrighted.
With heat the ocean boils and bubbles,
Neptune was in a peck of troubles:
Thrice 'bove the floods his head he rear'd,
The flame thrice sing'd his grisly beard.

Suntque oculis tenebræ per tantum lumen obortæ.

Prospicit occasus, interdum respicit ortus.

------ Nulloque inhibente per auras
Ignotæ regionis eunt—

Inferiusque suis fraternos currere Lane
Admiratur equos.

------ Silvæ cum montibus ardent.

Nilus in extremum fugit perterritus orbem.

------ Infernum territ cum conjuge regem.

Old mother earth, in this sad case,
Lift up her scorch'd and wrinkled face,

And, seiz'd with a convulsion fit,
(Tho' too much heat occasion'd it),
She thratches, trembles, and she groans,
And falls down on her hurkle-bones,

134

Claps both her hands upon her eyes,
And thus she simpers, whines and cries.
“Alas! to what hand shall I turn me?
‘This flame, alive, is like to burn me.
‘Don Jove! what means this rage and fury,
‘To scorch me thus without a jury?
‘My crimes could ne'er deserve so much,
‘As thus to fry me like a witch.
‘What mean ye, Sir, to play such pranks?
‘ I can say I deserv'd more thanks;
‘For, Sir, you know, and your own butchers,
‘Should you deny't, would be my vouchers;
‘Well can they tell, would they but speak,
‘How oft I've made your kitchen reek
‘With good fat beasts of my own feeding:
‘You might have had some better breeding,
‘And not with flames have thus consum'd me,
‘For many a time I have perfum'd ye.
‘But then, suppose you'd guilty make me
‘Of some black crime, (tho' devil me
‘If I know wherein I've offended,
‘And if I knew, I would amend it:)
‘Pray, Hogan Mogan, (now I'd coax you),
‘Would you but tell me what provokes you
‘'Gainst Neptune, who was never sparing
‘With cabelow and good Lewes herring,
‘Well dress'd, to please your dainty palate,
‘While I provided you with sallad?
‘But if you're such a stingy fellow,
‘As neither him nor me to value,
‘Yet humbly, Sir, I would desire,
‘Now when your neighbour's house takes fire,
‘You'd mind your own; know this is fit,
‘Had you one ounce of mother-wit,
‘(And this, you know, is always found
‘To be of clergy worth a pound),

135

‘Or else this flame will reach the spheres,
‘ And burn your house about your ears.”
This said, her head within her shell
She drew, and in a swoon she fell.

------ Magnoque tremore
Omnia concutiens.

Hosne mihi fructus, &c.

Atria vestra ruent ------

The old goodman, in his high seat,
Began to feel the sultry heat;
Then from his chair he starts, and looks
On earth all in a flame; “Godzooks!
‘Said Jupiter, what means the matter?
‘Go ring the fire-bells, and bring water.”
With Mercury, for loitering, quarrels,

But fiend a drop was in his barrels.
Then up the fire-fork he did snatch,
And ties to it a fiery match;
“Mad coach-man now, quoth he, have at you,
‘ I hope the father who begat you
‘Will pardon me, if to the devil
‘I send you, to prevent this evil.”
The bolt he levels with his eye,
And shoots it point-blank through the sky,
Which, whizzing through the air, flies down,
And knocks the coach-boy on the crown,
And drives him lifeless from the car,
Down tumbling like a shooting star.

The steeds, affrighted with the crack,
And flash of lightning, started back,
And pull'd their necks out of the yoke,
The harness and coach-wheels they broke;
The beam lies broke, the coach all shatter'd,
The harness here and there was scatter'd;

136

So here's an end of this fine story,
Judge ye if Phoebus was not sorry.

So have we seen, with armed heel,
A wight bestride a commonweal,
To drive, with fury, a carreer
Like Jehu, without wit or fear,
Spurring and switching, whip in hand,
O'er head in ears in quagmire land.

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis;
Ne spissæ risum tollant impune coronæ.

------ Nec quos cœlo demitteret imbres.

------ Superos testatus, & ipsum
Qui dederat currus, &c.

Consternantur equi—

TALE X.

The Man and his Mare. A TRUE ENGLISH TALE.

------ Ridentem dicere verum,
Quid vetat?

One story, as my great grandmother
Was wont to say, brings in another;
So, gentle folks, before I leave you,
One story more I mean to give you,
Which I shall very soon discuss;
Then hearken, Sirs, it follow thus;

An honest Man once had a Mare,
Right well equipp'd with riding gear,
Well fed, and sleek like any plum
The fiend a lirk was in her bum,
The master, when he did bestride her,
Was careful softly still to ride her.
Much pampering is oft pernicious;
So prov'd it here, the jade turn'd vicious.
Now she begins to play her tricks,
And farting full, she spurns and kicks;
But too well fed, and kept too idle,
Turns restive, and resists the bridle;

137

And waxing wild she quite disdains
Her master's government and reins,
And off she gallops from the manger:
By comes a little sneaking Stranger,
And jumps into the empty saddle,
Which he had long'd for from the cradle.

He was a trooper to his trade,
But fiend a groat by it he made;
And tho' most desperately stout,
He seldom miss'd to get a clout,
In every fray came off with loss,
And still return'd by weeping-cross.
When he had gallop'd thro' the town
And country too, this mad dragoon,
Well graithed in his martial gear,
And mounted on his stolen mare,
Like errant knight away he wanders,
To push his fortune into Flanders.
To tell you how the knight was maul'd,
And how the mare was all spur-gall'd,
And jaded, till she turn'd so thin,
The bones appeared thro' her skin,
Would be a melancholly story.
The knight still rode to find the glory
Which he had lost the year before,
Till the poor mare could ride no more:
But after many battles fought,
Where, save some blows, the knight gain'd nought,
No, not so much in many a year,
As would have once well corn'd the mare,
Or greas'd his boots, or soal'd his hose,
Or bought a plaister to his nose;
There's one thing I must not neglect
To tell you, that he broke his neck.

And then it was a certain lady,
Mounted the mare, which to her daddy

138

Belong'd, and after him none other
Had right to ride her but her brother.

Then after her, a hum-drum clown,
Adorn'd with Capricornus' crown,
And with a Scaramouch's phiz,
Pretends, forsooth, the mare was his,
(Because the rogue, who caught her straying,
Bequeath'd the mare, when he was dying,
Knowing he had no heir to bruik her,
To Mynheer Corniger, who took her
As his just right; for why, said he,
Accepi hanc, non rapui;
'Tis true, but each good man believes,
Resets to be as bad as thieves);
And tumbling gets into the saddle,
But then, his head-piece being addle,
With laughter you would split your sides,
To see how aukwardly he rides;
If she but trot, then he must gabble,
Make a grimace, and cry, Diuble.
Up comes a servant, takes the reins,
And thus accosts Don Rattlebrains,
Allow me, Sir, the mare to lead,
Smoke you your pipe, ne'er fash your head
About the reins, leave that to me,
I'll manage them. Says he, Ouy.
There is a proverb. I have heard it,
“A fidging mare should be well girded.”
Mynheer, then know you how to guide her:
Je ne scai pas, replies the rider.
I'll whistle in her ear a song,
Will make her calm. Quoth Quixotte, Bon;
We'll toil her hard, and keep her lean.
Quoth he, I know, Sir, what you mean;
Tho' she be skittish this will tame her.
Ouy, quoth he, for I pray, damn her.

His Wife had brought him forth a son,
Just such a thing as Phaeton,

139

A strange fantastick Gilligapous,
Begot by Seignior Priapus;
A knight well known by his large balop,
Much long'd this spark the mare to gallop:
But old Don Quixotte took great care,
Because he was apparent heir,
That he should never once bestride her,
Or learn the method how to ride her.
When he went to his country farm,
To ease himself of any harm,
That might befal him by much riding,
The mare he trusted to the guiding
Of grooms, who did both spur and switch her;
Young Addle-head durst never touch her.

There he, like a coarse country boor,
Would drink his bottle, take his whore:
For you must know some little strife,
Fell out betwixt him and his wife,
Which made him turn his back upon her,
By which her son had no great honour.
He'd plant potatoes, and sow turnip,
He'd geld his swine, or shear his sheep;
Sometimes at blindman's buff he'd play,
And he excell'd in making hay;
He'd sell his barley, oats and pease,
His hens and capons, butter, cheese,
And all his other country gear,
Then drink a mug of Brunswick beer,
And smoke his pipe, and crack full crouse,
And from his bosom pull a louse;
For those who labour'd in his farm,
'Gainst buggs and lice could find no charm,
The carle swell'd, and look'd as big
As bull-beef, or triumphant Whig;
Or as a Scots kirk's Moderator,
Or if you please to call't Dictator,
Because he'd got a beast to ride on,
Made up of bones, with little hide on,

140

A skeleton, a Rosinante,
Strigosa valde, non ut ante;
When fat she flang like old Jeshurim,
(Were she so now she'd ne'er endure him),
A straying mare; for, be it known
To all men, she was not his own;
And therefore he took little care,
If he was well, how she did fare.

For hire to any man he'd lend her,
And many an idle errand send her;
Great burdens on her back he'd lay,
But gave her neither corn nor hay;
He'd make her draw a cart or wain,
Toil night and day to bring him gain,
And what she purchas'd by her labours,
Was given to his trusty neighbours,
Who set him first upon her back,
And were obliged, by a contract,
In saddle fix'd to keep his dowp,
When he was like to catch a cowp;
And closely by his houghs to hing,
Whene'er the mare began to fling;
Providing still that, for this task,
He gave them what they pleas'd to ask:
When they desir'd, then the poor mare
Must sweat and toil to gain the gear,
And all their errands she must post,
Poor beast, upon their proper cost;
She durst not hang an arse, nor grudge,
When they desir'd her toil and trudge;
Or, if she did, she got a lick
With whip, and was spurr'd in the quick.
Oft would Don Quixotte go a-gadding
On's mare, and try a trick at padding;
But then he never ventur'd out,
Because he was not over stout,

141

Without a trusty guard du corps
Of padders, who went still before,
With grisly whiskers on their lips,
And in the purchase still went snips.
If any honest man did meet him,
(All such he hated) he would greet him
In this strange manner, Will you swear
I'm lawful owner of the mare?
No, God forbid, should he reply,
That I should swear an arrant lie,
Sans more ado he cuts his throat,
And takes his money every groat.

He made the mare great burdens carry,
And troopers o'er the water ferry;
With riding up and down opprest her,
In serving a dull thing her master,
From whence she never got a bait,
Tho' she toil'd for him ear and late.
His neighbours he allow'd to dock her,
Then in a muck-cart he did yoke her,
And there she suffer'd meikle harm
By drawing dung to his poor farm.

A gentleman, who ne'er had wrong'd him,
Nor meddled with what did belong t'him,
From whose rich meadows, every year,
Much corn and hay came to the mare,
Was cultivating his own ground,
And thinking all was safe and sound;
While he's intent upon his tillage,
And carefully repair'd his village,
And fenc'd his parks, like a good shifty
Landlord, that's honest, wise and thrifty,
Up comes Don Quixotte on his mare,
Gives him a box behind the ear;
And you must know this trick he play'd,
At the same time when he had said,

142

Dear Sir, I am your very sure,
And faithful friend, de tout mon cœur,
Which proves, let him say what he can,
He did not like an honest man;
One day, perhaps, he will repent it,
For soon or late 'twill be resented.
Mean time the mare gain'd nothing by it,
She quickly found a change of diet,
As having neither corn nor straw,
Nor hay, to fill his hungry maw.

He gave himself fantastic airs,
As if he'd been above the spheres,
Of Nimrod, Pharaoh, Cham, or Cæsar,
The great Mogul, or Neb'hadnezar;
And true it is, in many a thing,
He much resembled Babel's king.
Strutting like a romantick hero,
As stout as Xerxes, mild as Nero,
He thought the neighbourhood ador'd him,
Whereas they mock'd him, and abhor'd him;
Fancy'd his will to be a law,
To keep his neighbours all in awe,
And force them into any measure
That suited his capricious pleasure;
Whether to box, when he thought fit,
Or wrestle, without fear or wit;
Or when he pleas'd to say, pax vobis,
Leave off your strife, parete nobis,
He thought his neighbours would obey him,
And ne'er a mortal would gainsay him;
Yet after all this noise and clutter,
His friends lay oft-times in the gutter.
His talent lay not in plain dealing,
Nor was he shap'd for reconciling,
And his pretended son and wife,
Know if he's good at ending strife.

143

Religion for a mask he used,
By which the vulgar are amused:
For still, when rogues would cloak their knav'ry,
And draw men into fear and slav'ry,
Religion then must be pretended,
Or something in it to be mended;
Yet no religion he practised,
And never will with this be pleased,
Quid tibi fieri non vis,
Tu alteri ne feceris.
He was a chagrin'd dull curmudgeon,
Who still took every thing in dudgeon;
A braggadocio, and a bully,
And every part he acted dully;
A blust'ring huffy raggamuffin,
Whose head-piece had but little stuff-in;
Tho' fortified without the cells,
Within contain'd mere bagatelles;
And tho' a stranger to good sense,
He had a stock of impudence.
He could put on a brazen face,
And tell you with a sloven grace,
A false, unlikely, flim-flam story,
That he had wrought great wonders for ye.

A maggot had possess'd his head,
(For rotten stuff will maggots breed),
Tho' some affirm it bred not there,
But only crept in at his ear,
And finding empty room to lodge in,
Fix'd there, and after rais'd great dudgeon:
But how it bred, or in what noddle,
Or when, it matters not a boddle,
Since it is sure his head it seiz'd,
And him with strange chimeras pleas'd,

144

First he resolved the Mare to feed
(which now was starv'd, and almost dead)
With dilse and tangles, which in store grow
In South-sea, tho' no man the shore knew,
And were fetch'd home, some ten times as far,
As Cape Good Hope, or Madagascar.
From regions of Utopia,
And ter' australis incognita,
In ships that floated thro' the air,
Whether the wind was cross or fair,
Without the help of masts or sails,
Or oars, or helm fixt to their tails,
To which the rudder of the rump is
In place of log-line, helm and compass;
Yet steer'd their course as right and quick,
As if the pilot were Old Nick.
The Line they'd cut, the Cape they'd double,
Floating upon an airy bubble,
And one day's space would bring a gally
From Ne'er-found-land, to Exchange-alley,
Where she expos'd this South-sea gear,
(Fine fodder for a starving Mare!)
Yet the poor hungry meagre jade,
Ate up this trash, as she'd been mad,
Which made her swell, and look as round
As if she'd been both full and sound.
But chancing to let fly behind,
A blast of something more than wind,
The rider she did all bespatter
With dung and stinking South-sea water.
At this he stood bumbaz'd and troubled,
And scrub'd and rub'd to clean his doublet.

The smallest Scots copper coin.

If any person had the courage,
To tell him to get better forage,
And of the Mare to take more care,
Quoth he, c'en n'est pas mon affair.

145

Have you observ'd a bubble swell,
Which children blow up in a shell,
Of soap and spittle, how it flies,
And dazzles their attending eyes,
But when it fills them most with wonder,
The seeming something bursts asunder,
And what look'd pretty, full and fair
But erst, evanishes in air?
So, when the wind, that had been pent
Within her guts, had got a vent,
And forc'd its passage by the rump,
The Mare, who look'd both fat and plump,
And had no lirk in all her leather,
More than what's in a full blown bladder,
No sooner had the vapour past
Through postern, with a blustring blast,
Which circumambient air perfum'd,
As may be very well presum'd,
With scent that was not aromatick,
And which turn'd many heads lunatick,
And made them, in this sad conundrum,
To hang an arse, and look right humdrum,
With surly, sour, and odd grimaces,
You'd know them by their gloomy faces;
The Mare, I say, when wind got vent,
Look'd lean like butchers dogs in lent;
The South-sea ware had purg'd her so,
That she could neither stand nor go.
This backward blast and tempest, Nota
Bene, wreck'd all the South-sea Flota;
Rent all their rigging, crack'd their keels,
And kick'd up all the sailors heels,
Who, tumbling, lay in great dejection,
Without hopes of a resurrection.
The Mare was in a peck of troubles,
As having nought but dilse and bubbles

146

To fill her paunch; for from her mangers
The hay was carried off by strangers;
Her strength was spent, her substance gone,
And nought remain'd but skin and bone;
To make her misery complete,
Tho' she had nothing now to eat,
More loads were heap'd upon her back,
Which made the poor beast's bones to crack.
When she was in this woful plight,
It was a mortifying sight,
To see the poor beast toss and tumble,
Bow down her head, and groan and grumble;
It would have broke a heart of stone
To hear her make her ruthful moan;
For you must know Balaam's ass
Was never in so bad a pass;
If forward she advanc'd one pace,
Destruction star'd her in the face;
If backward she essay'd to go,
It would not do, he spurr'd her so;
Nor could she turn to either hand,
Nor had she strength enough to stand;
Nor could an angel loose her tongue,
The beast was lifeless, dumb and clung;
So down she tumbled on the ground,
And, fainting, fell into a swoon:
Then heav'd her head, and gave a groan,
And seem'd to say, Ohon! ohon!
I who liv'd once at rack and manger,
'Ere I was mounted by a stranger,
Am now reduc'd to this sad pickle,
Because I foolish was and fickle,
And left my good and careful master,
I justly suffer this disaster;
Then down again she droop'd her head,
And when she seem'd to be near dead,

147

And fiend a thing was in her belly,
He had the confidence to tell ye,
And that indeed with a notandum,
(Tho' most men thought he spoke at random),
Observe, quoth he, I say, the Mare
Is fatter than she was last year.
Mean time Don Quixotte, on a sudden,
Expir'd by eating too much pudding,
Ev'n in the fields, without one tear,
But many curses of the Mare;
And so the death of this old Hocus,
Made way for Jubernol Jodocus;
Whom Quixotte meant to disinherit,
Because he wanted blood and merit;
He never lov'd, nor thought him his son,
For which his mother died in prison.
But Gilligapous grip'd the Mare,
And all Don Quixotte's ill-gain'd gear;
When Rosinante he had mounted,
A doughty knight he was accounted
By some, tho' never man rode worse,
Or young child on a hobby horse;
Like hen-peck'd husband, riding the stang
He by the mane, and tail, and knees hang,
Attended with a mighty noise
Of whores, and knaves, and fools and boys;
And never being bred to riding,
Lighting, he left her to the guiding
Of Jockey Bob, a hackney rider,
And then much sorrow did betide her.
Bob was amongst the gypsies bred,
And taught the canting lying trade;
Most nicely could he pick a pocket,
Break up a door, or else unlock it,
And then would raise the hue and cry
Against some neighbour passing by.

148

He drove this trade of pocket-picking,
Of juggling, lying, shamming, tricking,
To make himself his master's crony,
Who thirsted greedily for money,
To whom he dar'd not to deny it,
Whatever way he did come by it;
And when he rob'd, he kept on pay
A tribe to give a reason why,
Which oft-times prov'd, you need not doubt it,
A reason with a rag about it.
The poor beast was depriv'd of hay,
And for her draff must toil and pay;
Thus was the Mare both toil'd and starv'd,
And treated as she well deserv'd,
And worse and worse must still betide her,
Till her own rightful master ride her.
Long since a certain proverb-maker,
Who, you will grant, was no wiseaker,
'Mong many other pretty tales,
Has told us one which never fails,
‘A good man (and this is no jest)
‘Is merciful to his own beast.’
What follows must not be neglected,
‘The tender mercies of the wicked
‘Are cruel.’ Reader, now, adieu,
I know you'll grant all this is true.
I wish the Man his Mare again,
My tale is done, say you, Amen.

END of the First Decade.

University of Virginia Library

OLD Mother GRIM's TALES,

Found in an old Manuscript, dated 1527. Now published complete. Decade I.