The Modern Dunciad :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas in that glorious season of the year,
When leaves are green, and op'ning buds appear,
When tuneful songsters ply the feather'd wing,
And Nature welcomes the return of Spring;
'Twas in that month, when urchins, loos'd from school,
Make (fond of mischief,) many an April Fool,
And to some crabbed dame, demurely cry—
“Your stocking's down, your cap is pinn'd awry!”
'Twas in that season, when the God of Day
Once more resumes his renovating sway,
When soft the rivers glide, the zephyrs blow,
And farmers see their future harvests grow.

Two prowling Bailiffs, hunting after prey,
Thro' ancient Grub Street sped their cautious way,
When, just at dawn, with joyful hearts they found
The tuneful Crambo prostrate on the ground.

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That Crambo, whom, with wondrous toil and pain,
Three tedious days they sought, but sought in vain;
That Crambo, who, though tipsy and in tatters,
Was crown'd the very prince of Odes and Satires;
That Crambo, who defied a groaning pit,
And still was thought a poet and a wit,
And, ne'er repining at his fate severe,
Was damn'd at Covent-Garden twice a-year.

Now, with a piece of cord, both long and hard,
The wary bailiffs bound the sleeping bard;
His pockets next they rummag'd, but the duns
Found nought but scraps of epigrams and puns,
Flat, fulsome, panegyrics, stiff in stays,
Remnants of farce, and fragments of new plays;
An ode to riches, an address to dawn,
With duplicates of sundry things in pawn;
Proposals for a volume in the press,
Letters to friends complaining of distress,
Beseeching they would all with open hands come;
And lott'ry puffs for Bish and Lady Branscomb.
Much more they found of literary trash,
But not one single halfpenny in cash.
Cursing with disappointment verse and prose,
The bailiffs tweak'd poor Crambo by the nose,
Who starting from his trance, and mad with pain,
Strove to get free, and bellow'd out amain.—

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“Loose me,” he cry'd, “'twas dangerous to bind
A sleeping Bard; as you shall quickly find;
When my Lord Ellenb'rough once knows the matter, he
Declares you guilty of assault and battery.
But if you let me go, (rejoin'd the wit,)
You of this daring outrage I acquit;
And if you'll grant your company so long,
We'll seal the mutual bargain with a song.”

“Agreed,” the Bailiffs cry'd, “no more our slave;
Come, tune your pipes, and let us have the stave.”

He rais'd his voice; and soon, a motley throng
Of gaping hearers crowded to the song.
Not more applause, when puppets dance on wire,
Or some arch Merry-Andrew swallows fire;
Not more applause, when Kemble, full of death,
Stalks forth with bloody daggers in Macbeth;
Not more applause, when Catalani's throat
Pours forth a soft, mellifluous, pleasing note,
Which seems to us the music of the spheres;

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Ere fill'd the air, or deafen'd human ears;
Streets, lanes, and alleys heard the mingled jar,
And scar'd pedestrians gap'd at Temple Bar.

He sung the constitution's secret springs,
And all the arts of ministers and kings;
The party squabbles of the ins and outs;
Blue-stocking clubs, and fashionable routs;
And how, the gallant Regent to amuse,
Some reg'ments play at soldiers, at reviews,
Sham-fighting, and exchanging martial rubs
At Wimbledon, Hyde Park, or Wormwood Scrubs.

He sung in notes so musical and clear,
The giant-slaying Cossack and his spear,
Who (Zemlenutin surely would'nt lie!)
Kill'd nine and thirty Frenchmen and the Fry!—
Then, suddenly he borrow'd Croker's strain,
And sung the wars of Portugal and Spain;
And, next assuming all the minstrel's power,
With Grenville, sung the lions in the Tower.

Of Coates's fooleries his song began,
Rare pastime for the ragamuffin clan!
Who welcome with the crowing of a cock,
This hero of the buskin and the sock.—

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Then rose his verse against those wicked imps,
Call'd Flatterers, Spies, Court-parasites and pimps,
Who plant their poison in a princely breast,
And H---d---t's name was mention'd with the rest.

He sung the course the foggy Adm'ral steer'd,
And Yarmouth's whiskers, and Van Butchell's beard;
Of pious roastings, Spanish inquisitions,
Of penal codes, and Catholic petitions;
Of birth-day odes by tuneful Laureats furnish'd,
With all the dull encomiums newly burnish'd;
Of Bond-street macaronies, City fops,
Assemblies, Easter-balls, and Smithfield hops.

He sung in rumbling strains, to shake the soul,
The genealogy of Well'sley Pole;
And, Britain's fond credulity to cram,
Th' adventures of the whisker-fac'd Geramb;
That dauntless chief! of whom there is a tale,
He travell'd on the body of a whale,
And, (or some folks miraculously feign it,)
Spitted one hundred Frenchmen with his bay'net.
More had he sung, and rival'd ancient fables,
But Night, a sober widow clad in sables,
Bade this Apollo of the tuneful throng
Suspend awhile his yet unfinish'd song.