The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

To all things, that are, or have been, or shall be,
Of whatever materials, or form, or degree,
Belong, (if Logicians have told us no stories,)
Ten—here's a nice word for you!—ten Categories:
And to shew you at once the great depth of my knowledge,
I'll tell you what names people give them at College:
One, Substance; two, Quantity; Quality, three;
Relation makes four; five—five?—let me see—
Five, Action; six, Passion; seven, Where; and eight, When;
Then nine, Situation; and Habit, just ten:—
And this, I suppose, is the very first time,
That these same Categories, were stuck into rhyme.

176

Now if all things, to these have a title confest,
My Beetle may plead it, as well as the rest;
Nor would he his claim, (for why should he!) withhold,
Tho' the ten were augmented to ten times, tenfold.

First then as to Substance, he's body and bone,
In an hundred and fifty varieties known;
Yet all of one genus; and all of one kin;
And like other plain people, he lives in his skin.

He has Quantity too, tho' it differ in figure;
For in Europe 'tis less, in America, bigger:
But with bigger or less, I'll not trouble my head;
He's as large, as he need be,—and that's enough said.

As to Quality, he's a mere half-and-half-arian,
With one property here, and there a contrary one:
Now a reptile he creeps, now a volatile flies;
Now skulks from your sight; now comes bounce in your eyes;
He's drowsy by day; and if vigils he keep,
'Tis at night; when most animals else go to sleep:

177

If senses he has, they're imperfect at most;
He is more than half blind; and he cannot smell post;
He's stupid, and muzzy, and dull as a board;
And he hums such a base, as no snorer e'er snor'd.
Then a necklace of Beetles, so Pliny affirms,
(As I tell you my author, I speak in bold terms)
Will charm away mischief from children who bear it:—
Let who likes it, believe; who believes, let him wear it.

The extremes of his various Relations are odd:
By Egyptians of old he was held for a God;
But boys among us, in language uncivil,
Style him (saving your presence) “Coach-horse to the Devil.”

His Action and Passion, one fact will declare;
For when he comes buzzing along in mid-air,
(With so headlong a flight, and with eye-sight so dim)
If he hurts my hard head,—my hard head must hurt him.

As to Place, if in public he cannot be found,
You may meet him, half smother'd with dust under ground.

178

On the subject of Time, three short words will suffice,—
In spring he comes forth; and in winter he dies;
But die when he will, we've no reason to fear;
There'll be Beetles enough to succeed him, next year.

His whole Situation, as far as we see,
Is a sort-of-a-kind of a riddle-me-ree.
He's an I by itself I, that stands rank'd with no peers:
As nobody loves him, so nobody fears;
And it seems his chief aim, tho' he fly, or he creep,
Just to sleep out his life, and to live out his sleep.

His Habit (and please you) is ever coal-black;
And he carries two case-harden'd shells on his back,
Which cover his wings, and improve (we surmise)
The delectable music, he makes, when he flies.

And thus, in compliance with system and rules,
My theme I've defin'd, in the mode of the Schools;
If that mode be absurd, let the learned look to't;
For here ends my Logick, and ditty to boot.