Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

In bright, hereditary line,
Th' immortal race of Huck-mucks shine.
My antient pedigree I hold,
From fam'd Diogenes of old;
Only this difference is observ'd,
I thrive, and fatten, where he starv'd.
The Cynic snarl'd in empty cell,
While I in plenteous moisture dwell;
And revel oft' from morn to night,
Like Bacchus in distended plight.

Secur'd by right divine, I reign
O'er every tributary grain:
Millions of subjects round me throng,
And pay me tribute, right, or wrong.
And tho' they oft' rebel, and jar,
Fermenting with intestine war,
Yet soon with spunging power I quell
All insurrections in my cell;
And drain my subjects vital sap,
At my old custom-house, the tap.
The juice which slakes a monarch's thirst,
Is thro' my vessels filter'd first.
Round me in daily sacrifice,
Sweet clouds of smoaking incense rise;
While from my fountain-head below,
Rich tides of fragrant liquor flow.

321

Of portly, and majestic size,
Thy taper structure I despise.
Shall such a mean, Plebeian scrub,
Reign in the palace of my tub?
Vile offspring thou, of bending broom,
Or humble heath, shalt thou presume
T' invade my old paternal throne,
Who hast no title of thy own?
While I from loftier trees high-born,
Regard thy reptile race with scorn.
No more my awful sceptre brave,
Fit implement of every slave;
Thy servile drudgery I disdain,
Go sweep the kitchen which I stain.

Thus from his throne the Huck-muck spoke,
And next the Beesom silence broke.

The Beesom's Reply.

Proud haughty Huck-muck! boast no more,
Of Ancestors, a numerous score.
Thou bloated, pamper'd son of pride,
Thy empty lineage I deride.
I value not thy royal line,
Nor thy pretended right divine;

322

What boots high blood, and antient state?
Mine is as good, tho' not so great.
By genealogy of old,
A birchen sceptre too I hold;
And oft' the blood of monarchs stains
With purple ornament my veins;
In every hall and every school,
I often bear the sovereign rule.

No longer shalt thou strut and swell,
In thy dominion of the cell.
For while thou govern'st with oppression,
I value not thy high succession.
A right divine, to govern wrong,
Can to no potentate belong.
Kings are but fathers of the state,
And if not virtuous, can't be great.
When subjects feel the servile chain,
The tyrant has no right to reign.
Dominion's but an empty thing,
The people constitute the king:
A scepter'd creature made at will,
And is himself a subject still;
Subject to laws far more divine,
Than Cyrus' race, or Cæsar's line.

Thy people long opprest complain,
Of thy unjust, tyrannic reign.

323

My subjects own my gentler sway,
Nor feel the tribute which they pay.

But after all our long debate,
Let no new jars disturb the state;
Tho', 'twixt your majesty and me,
In certain points we disagree,
Yet in one scheme we both comply,
To drain our subjects mighty dry.
While every tributary grain,
Curses our arbitrary reign,
And murmurs thro' the tub in vain.
Let us unite a safer way,
And govern with alternate sway,
Then if the sturdy slaves rebel,
And raise new ferments in our cell,
We'll both agree at next election,
To keep the vassals in subjection.

Pleas'd with the Beesom's smooth deceit,
The Huck-muck left his royal seat;
The Beesom took the throne and charter,
But never wou'd resign it after.
Whilst vext to loose his ancient sway,
For grief the Huck-muck pin'd away.
This world, good reader, where we dwell,
Is but a larger brewing cell:

324

A cell where many Huck-mucks reign,
And monarchs bustle for a grain:
A vessel floating here and there,
In seas of circumambient air,
Where pious princes wars are brewing,
And meditate each other's ruin.
While injur'd subjects groan in vain,
And change their master, not their chain.
'Tis the same game, look where we will,
The Beesom, and the Huck-muck still.
Happy the man who calm and wise,
Smiles at the storms which round him rise.
Who can in some still harbour dwell,
And make a palace of a cell.

The Strainer us'd in Brewing.