Mirth and Metre :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Fox fell in a shallow well one day,
But much too deep for him to gain the top;
A Goat, upon a journey, went that way,
And down the well his noddle chanc'd to pop,
As if his bearded worship sought to drink.
Reynard, transported, saw him at the brink—
“Ho do you do? my dearest friend!” cries Ren;
“I hav'nt seen you since—the Lord knows when!
“I am so glad, to find you've grown so fat;
“Do help me out, that we may have some chat.”—
“How,” inquires t'other, “shall I get you out?”
Rejoins the Fox—“We'll manage it, no doubt.
“Do just step down; and on your hinder rest,
“With your fore legs against the well's side prest;
“Then to your horns I up your back can climb,
“And gain the margin in a moment's time;
“Then by your horns—for strength I do not lack—
“I'll pull you after, Billy, in a crack.”
Well-pleas'd with Renny, Goaty, all so grave,
Simply stepp'd down; and Reynard, in a minute,
Popp'd from his prison; when the shabby knave,
Scarcely for laughter making shift to cry—
“God bless your charity! Good bye! Good bye!”
Skipp'd from the well, and left his dear friend in it!

Now, having, like some orators of note,
Prefac'd away so learnedly and long,
That my theme's object almost I'd forgot,
'Tis time some certainty should fix my song.

I sing a Cradle; Peter sung a Louse:
The Critics prais'd; what theme shall hence be mean?
I sing a Cradle, that contracted house,
Which ne'er encloses Envy, Hate, nor Spleen;

Where Avarice ne'er with apprehension quakes,
Nor proud Ambition still to anguish wakes;
Where Fraud ne'er ruminates, Remorse ne'er weeps;
But cherub Innocence, with dimpled smiles,
Reclining there, the careless hour beguiles;
And, spite of fear, the pretty Heartease sleeps.

I sing a Cradle; yet, with more propriety,
The Cradle's Charge: a charge of royal mould;
The Infant's Nurse, a damsel of thick blood;
Give to the noble Guardian counsel good;
And touch on divers things, of just variety;
Some worth, I ween full well, their weight in gold.

The Cambrian Chief, from Bruno's royal lass,
Has, in quaint phrase, receiv'd a pledge of Love;
A chubby Girl! Ye Cambrian Bards, rejoice!
Hark! how the cannon's garagantuan voice
Proclaims the birth; the merry steeples prance
With peals of information; while the mass,
Some shout, some sing, some fiddle, and some dance:
While some of joy or grief no single muscle move;
While others shrug their shoulders, scratch their rumps,
In full monotony of doleful dumps;
Snapping at all who of the matter axes;
“Why, i'n't the Princess brought-a-bed? you oaf!
“And now, when bread is fifteen-pence a loaf,
“We shall be saddled with some more damn'd taxes!”

Now many a rib in Fashion's corps enroll'd—
Such sway imperious Fashion here doth hold—
With all her soul out Hubby's eyes could claw,
Because she's not with Caroline i' the straw.

O, dapper Underwood! thou modern Slop!
Thy happy progress with green-bag parade,
Should no confounded Obadiah stop,
Thy fortune, yes, thou lucky dog! is made.

Who at the length of fee disdains to stick,
Will hail you, eastward, westward, southward, nor'ward—
Brush up your wig, and set your best foot forward.

A Branch has issued from great Cambria's stem,
And all St. James's is stark mad for joy;
Coach upon coach in crouds each other hem,
Well cramm'd with guests—all Carlton House a-hoy!
Wales, apropos; while all the modish nation,
Come brimful of sincere congratulation;
List to a tale 'bout compliments and money;
Told of arch Killigrew, and Charles the funny.

It happen'd Charles had set apart a day,
When all his courtiers their respects should pay;
And Killigrew was order'd to prepare
A coat for Charles upon that day to wear.
The garment made, the King confess'd 'twas grand—
“But, Kil,” says he, “I don't much understand
“The pockets of this coat! Odsfish, man! fye on't!
“Compar'd, they're like a pigmy and a giant:
“One takes compleatly half the coat; how is't;
“The other scarcely will admit my fist!”—
“Sire,” said the wag, “the great one, by your leave,
“Is meant to hold professions you'll receive!”
“The least,” says Charles, “but where of that's the “sense?”—
“That, please your Ma jesty, will hold the pence.”

To Cambrius, lo! an Heiress!—Dashwood, thou,
So Cambrius wills, the nursling must attend;
Relief to all its little cravings lend;
Sing it with lullabies full meet to slumber;
And manage little matters without number;
All which, I trow, to order you know how.
But, noble Nurse, reflect! your charge is great;
Its weal or woe much interests the state:

Then mind, dear Dashwood, how you rock the cradle;
Don't rock it once too little—if you do,
Caprice, and spleen, and sickness, will ensue:
If once too much, its brains, you know, will addle.
Then, with a prudence vigilant as keen,
Bless the sweet bantling by a golden mean.
You know our food the humours will affect;
Be careful, then, the purest to collect.
Enquire those mothers eminent for deeds
Of various virtue, and endearing mood;
Save those her mother owns (that soul exceeds
Humanity endow'd with every good)
A little milk from these—if suckling—crave;
The boon with pleasure, daily, they'll bestow;
These, with the mother's mingled, boil; and throw
The scum away; no single atom save:
That scum's ill qualities, from each express'd;
For wicked particles alloy the best!

With this pure beverage mix unleaven'd bread,
Made from fresh wheat, sown in the newest moon,
By some blest Agent of Benevolence, to shed
Relief on Poverty with ample boon;
And sheer'd by Industry's most happy band,
While larks sing sweetest in the morning's youth;
The loaf well-kneaded by the lovely hand
Of some sweet maid of most unblemish'd truth.
Be this her viands—Dashwood! this is food,
Could Angels eat, would do e'en Angels good!

Of swathing, dressing, Lady, and the rest,
You own more knowledge far than I can teach you;
But I have more remaining of behest;
Then pay it good attention, I beseech you.
Attend my subject's spirit, well as letter;
Nor think yourself aggrieved, or degraded,
Because by me with useful counsel aided—
“Two Heads, you know, than one were always better.”

In early morn; that's by and bye, when Time
Has knit her nerves to face the honest Air,
Who treats no kindlier the Prince than Peasant;
Except, when Eolus, who makes forge bellows,
Should be abroad, or any of his fellows;
Who rudely off your cap or hat will tear;
Or blunt Aquarius, who waters roads and streets—
And splashes every living soul he meets—
Or, in plain terms, as we would say in prose,
Sweet Lady, when it rudely rains or blows,
But when the sun-beams make the morning pleasant;
Take her abroad; neglect would be a crime;
'Till brace her so as wholly to dispel
The seeds in which that quality disease,
Ennui by fine French Dictionary Drapers,
But by vile English Boors call'd Wapers,
That long-legg'd Polypus delights to dwell.
At early morn; but not the morn of Quality.
The Peasant's latest noon; when home he hies,
Already having toil'd a short day's length,
To eat the bread of chearfulness and strength;
When half-unwholesome Quality just rise,
With eyes of owl, complexion like a candle,
To drink their chocolate with spleen and scandal.
I mean, fair Lady, morning in reality,
When rosy Health the milk maid trips along,
As light of heart as foot, trolling her song,
Of merriment and peace; e'en long before,
The yawning shopman ope's his master's door,
The publick, in plebeian phrase, to gammon,
By tricks of trade, of the unrighteous Mammon.

Thy charge, fair Lady, by and bye, will talk,
And teach her then to say her pray'rs;
Her parents may; but 'tis not in the walk,
I ween, of Lords and Ladies to say theirs.
And when she grows up big, if you attend her,
Tell her, if you can do't and not offend her—

We may'nt tell truth at all times to great Folk—
That Princes and Princesses, Queens and Kings,
Do sometimes die, as well as meanest things;
That some have thought the Bible not a joke;
That if it i'n't; the great as well as small,
Who do not treat it in a manner civil,
Perhaps, may stand some little chance to fall;
Into that German's claws, yclep'd the Devil!
Inform her Modesty makes young maids pretty,
And tints their faces with the loveliest bloom;
That sweet Goodnature is the best perfume;
And that 'tis better to be good than witty;
For wit in women's oft a dangerous dowry,
A stream of venom, with a margin flowery.
Teach her to speak the Truth; a shame 'tis crying,
Your noble Folk such dabsters are at lying;
Tell her a Proverb too, that alway hack'd is,
By great Folk sometimes tho' not put in practice,
That “Honesty, in fallacy's despite,
“Of soundest logic is the limb most right.”
Tell her Religion is a comely sort
Of kindly chearful-hearted Dame, good Nurse!
That she scarce ever had “a friend at Court;”
And if she had, 'twould not be much the worse;
And say that Fashion is a motley fool,
And of her votaries that few are better!
That Mrs. Reason has for dress a rule,
Which if she likes to see the dame will let her.
A plain old woman 'tis lives out of town;
And ne'er was known to play at cards on Sunday;
Nor dance, nor sing, nor fiddle, and so on;
And thinks that out of seven, on one day,
There i'n't much wickedness in going to worship;
And that there's odds 'twixt Protestant and Pagan;
Tho' modern pious Christians, troth to say,
Seem to think not; they adoration pay,
Led on by many a learn'd and noble Curship,
Alternately to David's God and Dagon.

Tell her—But, hold! less trouble to be taking,
I'll give you, Lady, such a pretty tale!
To shew it her I'm sure you will not fail;
I'm sure she'll take it all in kindliest part,
And if she likes it, get it off by heart!
Should I in those days tread this vale of cares—
The thing I neither should be glad nor sorry at—
And Pye or his Successor kick the bucket;
And she be advertis'd it was my making;
Under her arm, from gratitude she'd tuck it;
And fly to Court, and with incessant prayers,
Worry the King to make me Poet Laureat!

And if he did—oh Folly! thou should'st quake;
Thy empire, Vice! I'd to the centre shake;
I'd whack those courtier imps of adulation,
Who for a sinecure would sell the Nation!
And steep in brine, my authoritative rod,
To make those Bishops own it was a biter,
Who not alone their Country, but their God—
Barter for lucre of Lawn Sleeves and Mitre!!

My pruning plan, I warrant, I'd pursue,
Till every criminal own'd who was who;
The Laureat's thunder should burst forth in tropes,
In pith and pertinence to shame the Pope's;
'Till not a vice was left to lay my lash on;
And Virtue, summon'd from her far resort,
And introduc'd by me at Court,
Wou'd of necessity become the Fashion!
But, Zeal, i'fag's! you're carrying all before you;
And I, fair Lady, had forgot my story.

A STORY.

An Eagle once, harangued his brood—
“Ye progeny, of Royal Blood,
“A Father's awful words attend;
“And with your souls his precepts blend;

“This world, the work of Love's own hand,
“Jove on a social compact plann'd;
“Whence he decreed all private zeal
“Should centre in the public Weal.
“Hence various orders were ordain'd;
“Just systems must be so sustain'd—
“Now each of office thus possess'd,
“Is but a Steward to the rest;
“And who of trust has greatest share,
“Indebted stands for greatest care.
“A King, supreme of elevation;
“Is but High-Steward to the Nation;
“And to ensure faith in the Throne
“The Nation make its wants their own:
“Shall not the welfare of the Nation,
“Be then a King's whole contemplation?
“Shall he not, then, if need should call,
“Chearful, for them, resign his all?
“My children, yes! a King's whole cares,
“Himself, and all his Race, are theirs.
“Then, mark! thro' life, whate'er you do,
“Keep this most piously in view;
“Kings”—Deem it, by the bye no libel
On sense, birds quoting from the Bible;
Though 'tis beneath our wise regard,
Their tastes to please mayn't be so hard;
And of their talking while agreed,
We surely may conclude they read—
“Kings my dear offspring, and their race,
“Are lights expos'd on highest place;
“From whose resplendence all should know
“The way in which they ought to go;
“Then if by fogs the guide's surrounded,
“The charge may likely be confounded.
“Before the mass then let your light
“Shine so invariably bright,
“That henceforth none may have to say,
“Thro' you they ever went astray;

“And in the highest ranks reflect,
“We always errors first detect.
“Ten thousand stars the thickest cloud,
“And, unobserv'd by all, may shroud;
“But 'tis the tale of every one,
“If slightest shade should veil the Sun!”