The Modern Dunciad Virgil in London and Other Poems [by George Daniel] |
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 | VIRGIL IN LONDON;
OR,
TOWN ECLOGUES.
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
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 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
123
VIRGIL IN LONDON; OR, TOWN ECLOGUES.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED, IMITATIONS OF HORACE.
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INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE.
LADY --- AND AUTHOR.
Lady.What! Virgil in London?—'twill never go down—
He'll meet but a sorry reception in town;
His manners are coarse, and his language, you know
(As Dryden translates), is exceedingly low;
An old fashion'd poet, whose obsolete rhymes
Will ne'er suit the taste of these whimsical times;
Unlike Thomas Little, all pathos and passion,
A Bard, that, I'm sure, will be always in fashion!
But what hieroglyphics are these that I see?—
Lord F---with a dash, and the Countess of D---,
No scandal, I hope.—
Author.
Not a stroke of ill-nature,
All sober hilarity, good-humour'd satire;
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Will, I hope, prove a nymph to your Ladyship's taste.
Lady.
But why thus confine your poetical rage?
Give scope to your talents, and write for the stage;
'Tis a second-hand task o'er the classics to pore,
And Virgil has had his translators before.
Author.
The Stage!—'twere in vain for your poet to try,
No half-witted melo-dramatist am I.
Lady.
Write a poem in Erse—
Author.
And provoke the Reviews!
What! rival the chaste Caledonian Muse?
Lady.
Then conjure up Spirits, and boldly advance
A champion for fame in the field of Romance;
Try Politics—they 've been the fashion of late!—
Turn critic—but ne'er condescend to translate.
Author.
Though pedants may rail, though the learned may frown,
Still Virgil shall make his appearance in town.
A masquerade, pic-nic, a grand city ball,
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The play-house, the park, and occasional news,
Shall furnish right popular themes for his Muse.
How like you the thought?
Lady.
Why, the subject is witty,
'Tis a novel idea, and exceedingly pretty!
For Virgil to sing, when he travels from home,
The fashions of London as well as of Rome.—
The grave with the gay, you must skilfully blend;
If dull, you will tire; if severe, you'll offend;
Be cautious, and take the advice of a friend.
Author.
Ye Critics! before whose tribunal severe,
As a dutiful bard, I am bound to appear;
To a poet be merciful once in your lives,
And spare him the smarts of your critical knives!
If sometimes, a truant from classical rules,
His muse take a license unknown to the schools,
Reflect, Alma-mater is nothing to him,
A laughing disciple of frolic and whim;
Nor scalp a poor author for trifles like these,
Who strives to amuse, and whose aim is to please.
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ECLOGUE I. THE RETIRED CITIZEN TO HIS FRIEND IN TOWN.
Fortunate Senex, hic inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum.
VIRGIL, ECLOGA I.
Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum.
VIRGIL, ECLOGA I.
While you, M---, fond of noise and strife,
Endure the bustle of a city life,
Content with Mopsa, your enamour'd bride,
To breathe the smoky vapours of Cheapside;
I, far remov'd from busy scenes like these,
Enjoy the morning sun, the evening breeze,
To rural prospects unrepining go,
While life has yet some pleasures to bestow.
Endure the bustle of a city life,
Content with Mopsa, your enamour'd bride,
To breathe the smoky vapours of Cheapside;
I, far remov'd from busy scenes like these,
Enjoy the morning sun, the evening breeze,
To rural prospects unrepining go,
While life has yet some pleasures to bestow.
Let sordid misers ev'ry art employ
In heaping gold for others to enjoy;
Let sober cits, resolv'd to take a trip,
Give once a year their customers the slip,
And rashly dare (anticipating joy)
The ten-fold horrors of a Margate hoy;
Let them, good folks! forsake the town in droves,
And idly stray through Dandelion's groves,
Or, proud to show a daughter's clumsy air,
Half-stifled in a ball-room, strut and stare;
Let them, in shuffling cards and throwing dice,
Expend a twelvemonth's profits in a trice,
And, cursing inwardly their journey down,
With empty pockets travel back to town;—
Beneath a shade I take my cheerful glass,
Nor let the precious moments idly pass;
Those blissful moments, which, in age we learn
Too swiftly vanish'd, never to return.
In heaping gold for others to enjoy;
Let sober cits, resolv'd to take a trip,
Give once a year their customers the slip,
And rashly dare (anticipating joy)
The ten-fold horrors of a Margate hoy;
Let them, good folks! forsake the town in droves,
And idly stray through Dandelion's groves,
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Half-stifled in a ball-room, strut and stare;
Let them, in shuffling cards and throwing dice,
Expend a twelvemonth's profits in a trice,
And, cursing inwardly their journey down,
With empty pockets travel back to town;—
Beneath a shade I take my cheerful glass,
Nor let the precious moments idly pass;
Those blissful moments, which, in age we learn
Too swiftly vanish'd, never to return.
For wealth, the most desir'd of earthly things,
Is only useful for the joys it brings;
And let me never tauntingly be told
I simply barter'd happiness for gold.
Let me, ere gouty ills, a direful train,
Disturb my rest, and rack my joints with pain,
Or cough consumptive, when I mount the stairs,
With hollow sound, delight my greedy heirs,
Improve by mirth this remnant of my span,
And gaily cut a caper while I can;
For age is not a time for roguish tricks,
And few can dance a reel at sixty-six.
Our neighbour Gripus left his shop and till,
To breathe the purer air of Greenwich-hill,
To taste the soft delights of rural bow'rs,
But not till age had frozen all his pow'rs:
Scarce to these scenes of pleasure did he go,
Ere gout, relentless, fasten'd on his toe;
Although, to shorten his declining life,
He lack'd no better torment than his wife.
Old Discount, who, in forty years' retreat,
Had snuff'd the wholesome air of Lombard-street,
First felt his sudden passion to retire,
When Farmer Gubbins, o'er a Christmas fire,
Declar'd what sterling joy the country yields,
And prais'd his dogs, his horses, and his fields.
To leave the town, and rusticate dispos'd,
His books are balanc'd, his accounts are clos'd;
In landed sureties he invests his gains,
And not one debt unsatisfied remains:
He builds, he plants, and counts his future years,
When Death, a ruthless creditor, appears:
Enough, that Discount did his life employ
In hoarding riches—let his heirs enjoy.
Is only useful for the joys it brings;
And let me never tauntingly be told
I simply barter'd happiness for gold.
Let me, ere gouty ills, a direful train,
Disturb my rest, and rack my joints with pain,
Or cough consumptive, when I mount the stairs,
With hollow sound, delight my greedy heirs,
Improve by mirth this remnant of my span,
And gaily cut a caper while I can;
For age is not a time for roguish tricks,
And few can dance a reel at sixty-six.
Our neighbour Gripus left his shop and till,
To breathe the purer air of Greenwich-hill,
To taste the soft delights of rural bow'rs,
But not till age had frozen all his pow'rs:
130
Ere gout, relentless, fasten'd on his toe;
Although, to shorten his declining life,
He lack'd no better torment than his wife.
Old Discount, who, in forty years' retreat,
Had snuff'd the wholesome air of Lombard-street,
First felt his sudden passion to retire,
When Farmer Gubbins, o'er a Christmas fire,
Declar'd what sterling joy the country yields,
And prais'd his dogs, his horses, and his fields.
To leave the town, and rusticate dispos'd,
His books are balanc'd, his accounts are clos'd;
In landed sureties he invests his gains,
And not one debt unsatisfied remains:
He builds, he plants, and counts his future years,
When Death, a ruthless creditor, appears:
Enough, that Discount did his life employ
In hoarding riches—let his heirs enjoy.
While yet my limbs are sound, and health remains,
While yet the blood runs freely through my veins,
Ere watchful Time, with slow and silent pace,
Engraves a thousand wrinkles on my face;
Ere yet my eyes grow dim, my hearing fail,
I'll climb the hill, and wander through the vale;
Hear the sweet Lark salute the rising day,
And Philomela pour her evening lay;
Or with some chosen friend, in woodbine bow'r,
In social converse pass the cheerful hour,
Talk of our youthful days in merry vein,
And act our sports and gambols o'er again;
For many a sport had I, at many a time,
In youth's gay spring, when life was in its prime!
While yet the blood runs freely through my veins,
Ere watchful Time, with slow and silent pace,
Engraves a thousand wrinkles on my face;
Ere yet my eyes grow dim, my hearing fail,
I'll climb the hill, and wander through the vale;
Hear the sweet Lark salute the rising day,
And Philomela pour her evening lay;
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In social converse pass the cheerful hour,
Talk of our youthful days in merry vein,
And act our sports and gambols o'er again;
For many a sport had I, at many a time,
In youth's gay spring, when life was in its prime!
On Sabbath-days some visitor comes down,
And brings me all the latest news from town;
How many Frenchmen we have put to flight,
And who is made a bankrupt, who a knight.
Proud of my snug retirement, ere we dine
I show my guest my cattle and my kine,
My well-stor'd greenhouse, warm and trimly neat,
Where social plants from ev'ry climate meet;
My young plantation, full of vernal shoots,
My summer blossoms and autumnal fruits.
Happy old Man! my house and grounds my own,
I envy not the monarch on his throne.
What though the dust in summer blind my eyes,
And bleak and cold the wint'ry tempests rise,
No noisy fish-wife bellows me to death,
No rank unwholesome vapours stop my breath.
Happy old Man! here, in my country box,
And fruitful fields, I learn the price of stocks,
As from my woodbine arbour, green and gay,
(The Hampstead stages passing twice a-day,)
My only daughter, zealous to amuse
My fond impatience, reads the weekly news!
And brings me all the latest news from town;
How many Frenchmen we have put to flight,
And who is made a bankrupt, who a knight.
Proud of my snug retirement, ere we dine
I show my guest my cattle and my kine,
My well-stor'd greenhouse, warm and trimly neat,
Where social plants from ev'ry climate meet;
My young plantation, full of vernal shoots,
My summer blossoms and autumnal fruits.
Happy old Man! my house and grounds my own,
I envy not the monarch on his throne.
What though the dust in summer blind my eyes,
And bleak and cold the wint'ry tempests rise,
No noisy fish-wife bellows me to death,
No rank unwholesome vapours stop my breath.
Happy old Man! here, in my country box,
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As from my woodbine arbour, green and gay,
(The Hampstead stages passing twice a-day,)
My only daughter, zealous to amuse
My fond impatience, reads the weekly news!
Then come, my friend! 'tis nature's self invites;
Leave London's toilsome days and anxious nights;
Indulgent Heav'n has multiplied thy store,
Enough for thee, and canst thou wish for more?
To rival patriots leave the sinking state,
Nor hope to show thy talent for debate.—
Here, in the midst of exercise and health,
Thy mind shall learn the real use of wealth;
In stepping wide from Mammon's sordid elves,
And doing good to others, and ourselves.
Leave London's toilsome days and anxious nights;
Indulgent Heav'n has multiplied thy store,
Enough for thee, and canst thou wish for more?
To rival patriots leave the sinking state,
Nor hope to show thy talent for debate.—
Here, in the midst of exercise and health,
Thy mind shall learn the real use of wealth;
In stepping wide from Mammon's sordid elves,
And doing good to others, and ourselves.
133
ECLOGUE II. ALEXIS.
Beneath a shade, near Inner-Temple Lane,
Sat fond Alexis, a despairing swain;
A lawyer he, whom cruel love in sport
Had driv'n, relentless, from the Inns of Court:
Who, since he bow'd to little Cupid's yoke,
Had thought no more of Lyttelton and Coke,
But tun'd his plaintive harp to grief alone,
And Gray's-Inn gardens answer'd to his moan.
Sat fond Alexis, a despairing swain;
A lawyer he, whom cruel love in sport
Had driv'n, relentless, from the Inns of Court:
Who, since he bow'd to little Cupid's yoke,
Had thought no more of Lyttelton and Coke,
But tun'd his plaintive harp to grief alone,
And Gray's-Inn gardens answer'd to his moan.
“Ah! Easter Monday! Day for ever dear!
Thou blithesome herald of the vernal year;
To me, alone, thou prov'st a galling smart,
For on thy luckless day I lost my heart.
Fair shone the rosy morn, at six I rose,
And view'd with eager eyes my Sunday clothes;
Th' embroider'd vest, the pantaloons so trim;
The high-crown'd modish hat with narrow brim;
The hessian boot, the coat with taper skirt,
The stiff-starch'd cravat, and the ruffled shirt!
Thus nattily equipp'd, a London spark!
I march'd with hasty step to Greenwich Park;
Through clouds of dust I bent my joyous way,
With song and whistle, for my heart was gay;
But little thinking I should find, ere night,
My heart so heavy, and my purse so light.
Ye Muses of Apollo's sacred hill,
Whom once I woo'd, (and let me woo ye still!)
When, warm with passion and the rural scene,
I sung the blue-ey'd Maid of Stepney Green,
Teach me once more to sing my am'rous pains,
And Blouzelinda's charms in equal strains.
A gipsy hat her auburn hair confin'd,
Save some stray locks that sported in the wind;
And nature, bounteous nature, bade disclose
Her neck the lily, and her cheek the rose.
Thou blithesome herald of the vernal year;
To me, alone, thou prov'st a galling smart,
For on thy luckless day I lost my heart.
Fair shone the rosy morn, at six I rose,
And view'd with eager eyes my Sunday clothes;
Th' embroider'd vest, the pantaloons so trim;
The high-crown'd modish hat with narrow brim;
The hessian boot, the coat with taper skirt,
The stiff-starch'd cravat, and the ruffled shirt!
Thus nattily equipp'd, a London spark!
I march'd with hasty step to Greenwich Park;
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With song and whistle, for my heart was gay;
But little thinking I should find, ere night,
My heart so heavy, and my purse so light.
Ye Muses of Apollo's sacred hill,
Whom once I woo'd, (and let me woo ye still!)
When, warm with passion and the rural scene,
I sung the blue-ey'd Maid of Stepney Green,
Teach me once more to sing my am'rous pains,
And Blouzelinda's charms in equal strains.
A gipsy hat her auburn hair confin'd,
Save some stray locks that sported in the wind;
And nature, bounteous nature, bade disclose
Her neck the lily, and her cheek the rose.
Long has the maid my youthful bosom fir'd,
Her beauty long my simple lay inspir'd;
I saw her charms unfolding ev'ry hour,
Fair was the bud, but fairer is the flower!
Her beauty long my simple lay inspir'd;
I saw her charms unfolding ev'ry hour,
Fair was the bud, but fairer is the flower!
As lately at the river's brink I stood,
In meditation deep, at Hornsey Wood,
I, while the sun delay'd his parting beam,
Beheld my face reflected in the stream;
My eyes look'd bright, with diffidence I speak,
And youthful blushes glow'd upon my cheek;
I mark'd my form, to Vestris no disgrace,
Where just proportion vied with manly grace:
But, since these beauties charm my love no more,
I shun the fountains that I sought before;
From billiards, rackets, quoits, and cricket flee;—
And taw and skittles have no charms for me.
In meditation deep, at Hornsey Wood,
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Beheld my face reflected in the stream;
My eyes look'd bright, with diffidence I speak,
And youthful blushes glow'd upon my cheek;
I mark'd my form, to Vestris no disgrace,
Where just proportion vied with manly grace:
But, since these beauties charm my love no more,
I shun the fountains that I sought before;
From billiards, rackets, quoits, and cricket flee;—
And taw and skittles have no charms for me.
Canst thou forget, when, warm with love and ale,
I whisper'd in thine ear my tender tale?
How didst thou blush at Cupid's soft command,
(The glass of negus trembling in thy hand!)
And sighing, promise everlasting truth,
If I would take thee but to Saunders' booth,
To see the tailor, in equestrian pride,
With crupper, whip, and spur, to Brentford ride?
Did I not show thee ev'ry kind of fun;—
Cows with two heads, that never had but one;
Sage necromancers, who, to conjuring prone,
Tell ev'ry body's fortunes but their own;
And Lady Morgan short, and Patrick tall?
No Yorkshire club was ours—I paid for all.
Yes, cruel maid! and no reward I seek,
Though that day's flourish made me fast a week;
Bear witness to my vows, ye pow'rs above!
I ask no other payment, but thy love;
No fonder pledge I crave, my lovely girl,
Than that thou gav'st me o'er a pint of purl!
I whisper'd in thine ear my tender tale?
How didst thou blush at Cupid's soft command,
(The glass of negus trembling in thy hand!)
And sighing, promise everlasting truth,
If I would take thee but to Saunders' booth,
To see the tailor, in equestrian pride,
With crupper, whip, and spur, to Brentford ride?
Did I not show thee ev'ry kind of fun;—
Cows with two heads, that never had but one;
Sage necromancers, who, to conjuring prone,
Tell ev'ry body's fortunes but their own;
And Lady Morgan short, and Patrick tall?
No Yorkshire club was ours—I paid for all.
Yes, cruel maid! and no reward I seek,
Though that day's flourish made me fast a week;
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I ask no other payment, but thy love;
No fonder pledge I crave, my lovely girl,
Than that thou gav'st me o'er a pint of purl!
Come to my longing arms, my lovely care!
And take the presents which the gods prepare!
The macaroni cake, the Chelsea bun,
And almonds crisp, and raisins of the sun:
But what avails it that I yield my store?
The purse-proud Daphnis still will offer more,
And Blouzelinda has too sweet a tooth,
To scorn his gifts, and wed the poorest youth.
In splendid courts, let haughty princes reign,
The shepherd loves the forest and the plain:—
The prowling dun the hungry bard pursues,
The politician travels after news,
The unpaid tailor dogs the London spark,
The curious hunt the Cossack through the park—
Each has his diff'rent hobby:—by this rule,
Sir Claudius plays the courtier, Coates the fool,
My Lord the jockey, Skeffington the beau,
And Love's my hobby, wheresoe'er I go.
And take the presents which the gods prepare!
The macaroni cake, the Chelsea bun,
And almonds crisp, and raisins of the sun:
But what avails it that I yield my store?
The purse-proud Daphnis still will offer more,
And Blouzelinda has too sweet a tooth,
To scorn his gifts, and wed the poorest youth.
In splendid courts, let haughty princes reign,
The shepherd loves the forest and the plain:—
The prowling dun the hungry bard pursues,
The politician travels after news,
The unpaid tailor dogs the London spark,
137
Each has his diff'rent hobby:—by this rule,
Sir Claudius plays the courtier, Coates the fool,
My Lord the jockey, Skeffington the beau,
And Love's my hobby, wheresoe'er I go.
Resound, ye hills! resound my mournful strain,
Of perjur'd Blouzelinda I complain!—
The doctor tries his Esculapian skill,
He draws the lancet, and prescribes the pill,
And lays for Cupid many an artful lure;
But love's a pang that physic cannot cure;
A ruthless dun, devoted to his prey,
By night tormenting, as he plagues by day.
Of perjur'd Blouzelinda I complain!—
The doctor tries his Esculapian skill,
He draws the lancet, and prescribes the pill,
And lays for Cupid many an artful lure;
But love's a pang that physic cannot cure;
A ruthless dun, devoted to his prey,
By night tormenting, as he plagues by day.
But see, the night emits unwholesome damps,
And nimble link-boys run to light their lamps;
Now strolls the painted Cyprian in the dark,
I'll to the Basin, in St. James's Park:—
Farewell! the lawyer's quirk, the pleader's bawl;
The Temple, Lincoln's-Inn, and Justice-Hall!
Farewell! the park, the play-house, and Pall-Mall!
Blouzy, adieu!—and all the world, farewell!
And nimble link-boys run to light their lamps;
Now strolls the painted Cyprian in the dark,
I'll to the Basin, in St. James's Park:—
Farewell! the lawyer's quirk, the pleader's bawl;
The Temple, Lincoln's-Inn, and Justice-Hall!
Farewell! the park, the play-house, and Pall-Mall!
Blouzy, adieu!—and all the world, farewell!
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ECLOGUE III. THE DISCARDED MINISTER.
Amicus.Ho! Georgius, whither on thy way so fast,
From good St. Stephen's?
Georgius.
Ah! my friend; at last,
(Would I had never liv'd, this day to see,
Strange revolution for the state and me!)
His Highness, who has ow'd me long a grudge,
Exclaims, “You cringing ragamuffin, budge!
A fellow, that to serve his private ends,
Gives ev'ry place of profit to his friends!
No more I'll have a herd of Scotch petitioners,
Clerks of the crown, or Navy-board commissioners.”
Ami.
But what will now become of your colleagues,
Their ways and means, their councils, their intrigues?
What other leader will they choose?
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Heav'n knows!
I weep to think of leaving Treasurer Rose;
Methinks I hear him cry, distracted, vext,
“Forebodings tell me that my turn comes next!”
And then the honest man dissolves in tears,
To lose the place he's held for twenty years.
Ami.
And Vansittart, will royalty reject him?
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Ah! no: impassive Dulness shall protect him:
He has no dang'rous particle of sense,
But all is solid—shillings, pounds, and pence,
'Tis not in pious Nicholas to think;
Suffice it, that he uses pens and ink,
To calculate with nicety the sum
Of new imposts and taxes yet to come.
Ami.
What will they do with Ryder, let me ask?
“An oracle within an empty cask!”
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And shakes the powder'd honours of his wig;
He speaks;—a mute attention fills the House,
The mountain is deliver'd of its mouse.
Geo.
He, p'rhaps may prove of service to the state,
In matters of small consequence and weight;
To make an act to walk the parish bounds,
And see that sleepy watchmen go their rounds;
Or, with a face most ludicrously stern,
To move—the yawning house do now adjourn.
Ami.
But hast thou (pray excuse the thing I mention,)
No small reversion, sinecure, or pension,
No secret bribe to make retirement sweet?—
Come, say how much might purchase thy retreat?
Geo.
For neither pension, sinecure, nor bribe,
Am I indebted to the courtly tribe.
Was it for this I brav'd the party-storm,
And silenc'd the loud Demon of Reform,
That fierce assail'd me with its thousand tongues,
And brazen forehead, and stentorian lungs?
Was it for this, I made a glorious stand,
And gave corruption both my heart and hand?
142
To hiss a hoary vet'ran off the stage.
Ami.
Mourn not, my Friend, thy public life is o'er,
There's nothing left behind thee to deplore;
For what is pow'r, but trouble, care, and pain?
Hard to acquire, uneasy to retain.
O! fly from court, to nature's rural scenes,
To patient drudges leave the ways and means;
There health is borne on ev'ry breeze that blows,
There murm'ring streams shall lull thee to repose.
Geo.
What fancied scenes of happiness you trace,
Strange comfort for a statesman out of place!
Who, by no oaths political confin'd,
Dare, (mirabile dictu!) speak his mind.
Are hills, and dales, and valleys, half so gay
As bright St. James's on a Levee day?
What fierce extatic transports fill my soul,
To hear the drivers swear, the coaches roll;
The courtiers compliment, the ladies clack,
The satins rustle, and the whalebones crack!
What! shall a fallen Minister regale
On slices of brown bread, and homebrew'd ale?—
Lay his opinion open to rebuke,
And please a Boor—when he might charm a Duke?
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Shall squire and vicar shake him by the hand,
Or bellowing huntsman, follow'd by his pack,
With hearty thump salute him on the back?—
No, let me rather live to see the day,
That joins me to the politics of Grey,—
Adopt mad schemes by restless Tierney plann'd,
Or, all unnotic'd, at a Levee stand.—
Let me the words of blust'ring Fuller quote,
Or to that puppy Holland give my vote
To calculate the ex-officio fibs
Of my old worthy friend, Sir Vicary Gibbs!
Or, once for all, in winding up the sum
Of evils present, past, and yet to come,
O, let me be proclaim'd, by Hawkers loud,
Political Jack-Pudding of the crowd.
Ami.
Since you're resolv'd, I have no more to say,
But banish care and sorrow for a day;
Some disappointment cross'd the Regent's mind,
The Queen look'd grave, or Hertford prov'd unkind;
But let the worst arrive; now, pray consider,
You can but truckle to the highest bidder.
144
ECLOGUE IV. CRAMBO.
'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.
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.
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.
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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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.—
“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.”
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.—
146
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.”
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;
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.
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;
147
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.
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.
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.—
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.
Rare pastime for the ragamuffin clan!
Who welcome with the crowing of a cock,
This hero of the buskin and the sock.—
148
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.
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.
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.
149
ECLOGUE V. THE FIELD PREACHER.
Damon.What ho! my Peter, tell me, I beseech,
Your eager haste to town?
Peter.
My haste! to preach:—
To lead my flock from error's thorny way,
My silly, wandering sheep who idly stray,
In spite of all I do, and all I say!
No arguments of mine can rouse their fears,
I preach to iron hearts, and leathern ears.
Da.
I've often wonder'd that thy flock had patience,
To listen to such tedious, dull orations;
And much, alas! their folly did I grieve,
To think the stupid blockheads should believe:
For, gentle Peter, I must say in sooth,
Thou art not over nice about the truth;
And not one swain who knows thee, will deny,
That, Peter, thou canst preach,—and thou canst lie.
Pet.
Methinks, thou'rt strangely pert, good Master Damon,
150
To vent thy bitter spleen, and impious wrath,
Against the sober brethren of our cloth;
Who, since the plotting Sidmouth lost his bill,
(As much I hope such graceless Nobles will,)
The Gospel are at liberty to dish up,
And shake their heads at Vicar, Dean, and Bishop.
Da.
Unhappy sheep, ah! who shall set them free
From such a shepherd, such a guide as thee?
Didst thou not, cunning Varlet! when of late
Thy hearers put their money in the plate,
With sacrilegious hands the whole secure,
And of their lawful right defraud the poor?
Pet.
An honest man may freely take his own;
The cash was mine, by preaching fairly won:
Go, ask my clerk; if he the fact deny,
This tongue shall give the perjur'd rogue the lie.
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Good words, old rev'rend sinner! for I trow
Thy clerk's a sorry knave,—and so art thou.
Pet.
Egad! a libel, or the deuce is in't!
Da.
No libel, by my Fay! unless in print.
Pet.
Let Collyer boast his soft bewitching note,
And crack-ton'd Wilks, the wonders of his throat;
My breast nor rival fears, nor envy knows,
I speak the truth,—and speak it through my nose.
Da.
Boast not thy fancied skill, thy false renown,
Thou hypocrite! thou scarecrow of the town!
Dunce at the best! in Chapels scarce allow'd
To tease an empty, groaning, yawning crowd.
Pet.
Ah! little heed I what my Damon saith,
He is not yet converted to the faith.
Still, peradventure, though he idly mock
The priest, the guide, the shepherd of the flock,
A lambkin, he may turn his wand'ring feet;
And with a contrite heart repentance bleat.
Da.
You've touched me, Peter! yes you have, I fear,
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My pulse beats high, my blood and bowels yearn,
I melt with love, with ecstacy I burn!
Indulge me, Peter, in this pious qualm,
And quicken my conversion with a psalm.
Pet.
Such soft sensations do the saints inherit,
Who feel the inward workings of the spirit;
O! would our Sisters Tabitha and Ruth,
With all the crop-ear'd brethren of the truth,
Assembled hither for their soul's diversion,
Could see thy sudden, wonderful conversion.
Da.
O, name not Tabby! debonnaire and sleek,
I tremble at the roses in her cheek!
And Ruth is buxom, though devout and shy,
A righteous heart, but yet a wicked eye!
Pet.
Now hear me, brother Damon; hear, I pr'ythee,
My late conversion—and the Lord be wi' thee!
Some forty years ago, or nearly that,
I was a forward, pert, and graceless brat,
My tongue was bold, and saucy were my looks,
I lov'd my play much better than my books.
On Sabbath-days, with Thomas Stokes and Green-field
153
At playhouse riots I was quite the thing,
When Ben, or Buckhorse fought, I kept the ring.
My father would have given pounds by twenties,
To bind me to some honest trade apprentice,
To crush my vicious habits in their growth,
But this I spurn'd, and answer'd with an oath;
For, ere the down appear'd upon my chin,
I was, though young in years, mature in sin.
But fate, in spite of all my follies past,
Resolv'd to turn my stubborn heart at last:
Stokes was transported in his tender years,
And Greenfield died with “Cotton in his ears;”
I just escap'd the same untimely check,
And turn'd King's Evidence, to save my neck!
I grew devout, apply'd myself to trade,
And groan'd, and sang, and prophesy'd, and pray'd,
Repriev'd, affronted, coax'd:—to sum up all
In simple language—I receiv'd a call.
To crown the whole, I took a second wife,
The Son of David lov'd the married life;
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And eke four hundred concubines to boot:
Allowing half the story to be true,
Peter might surely venture upon two!
Grown old at last, unmindful of reproach,
I feast, grow fat, kiss wife, and keep my coach;
No care have I about my latter end,
But live secure, while Satan is my friend.
Da.
Right deftly hast thou tun'd thy reed, my Peter,
And told thy tale in mighty pleasant metre;
But time is on the wing, I must be gone,
What says your watch? for mine is gone to pawn.
Pet.
A mighty lucky thought—as sure as Heaven,
It only wants ten minutes to eleven!
Collection Sunday to begin so late!
Do thou, good Damon, come and hold the plate;
But first, since thus our foolish quarrel ends,
Let's drink a pot of porter, and be friends.
155
ECLOGUE VI. LORD MAYOR'S DAY.
------Quod optanti divûm promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro.
VIRG. EN.
Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro.
VIRG. EN.
Scarce had Aurora chas'd the shades of night,
And ting'd the mountains with returning light,
Blythe Chanticleer proclaim'd the rising morn,
And woodlands echo'd to the winding horn;
Scarce had the dextrous housemaid twirl'd her mop,
Or slip-shod 'prentice swept his master's shop;
Or nymphs and shepherds left their dark retreats
To scream their various cries thro' London streets;
When lo! a City dame, Belinda hight,
Whom pleasing thoughts kept wakeful half the night,
Rose from her downy pillow, blythe and gay,
With anxious heart, impatient for the day.
Already was the toilet's task begun,
And eagerly she watch'd the ling'ring sun.
For now the time had come, so long desir'd,
When fair Belinda, gorgeously attir'd,
In ostrich feather, wig, and diamond brooch,
Should take her station in the City Coach;
For Goddess Chance, to make the people stare,
Had pitch'd upon her husband for a May'r.
And ting'd the mountains with returning light,
Blythe Chanticleer proclaim'd the rising morn,
And woodlands echo'd to the winding horn;
Scarce had the dextrous housemaid twirl'd her mop,
Or slip-shod 'prentice swept his master's shop;
Or nymphs and shepherds left their dark retreats
To scream their various cries thro' London streets;
When lo! a City dame, Belinda hight,
Whom pleasing thoughts kept wakeful half the night,
Rose from her downy pillow, blythe and gay,
With anxious heart, impatient for the day.
Already was the toilet's task begun,
And eagerly she watch'd the ling'ring sun.
For now the time had come, so long desir'd,
When fair Belinda, gorgeously attir'd,
In ostrich feather, wig, and diamond brooch,
Should take her station in the City Coach;
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Had pitch'd upon her husband for a May'r.
In ancient times, when Britain's laurels grew,
The rival City had her Poet too;
Then Laureat Settle, in harmonious lays,
Immortaliz'd her feasts and public days;
Her grand parades majestic roll'd along,
Supreme in ode, and mock-heroic song;
And while King Charles's praise was Dryden's care,
He found as many virtues in the May'r.
The rival City had her Poet too;
Then Laureat Settle, in harmonious lays,
Immortaliz'd her feasts and public days;
Her grand parades majestic roll'd along,
Supreme in ode, and mock-heroic song;
And while King Charles's praise was Dryden's care,
He found as many virtues in the May'r.
But times are chang'd; and many a tuneful strain
The civic bounty courts, but courts in vain—
E'en Virgil, who in British cap and gown,
Now humbly asks the favour of the town,
Shall find, perhaps, no market for his rhymes,
That pleas'd Mæcenas, in Augustan times;
And, forc'd by Dulness to his native home,
Without a patron travel back to Rome.
The civic bounty courts, but courts in vain—
E'en Virgil, who in British cap and gown,
Now humbly asks the favour of the town,
Shall find, perhaps, no market for his rhymes,
That pleas'd Mæcenas, in Augustan times;
And, forc'd by Dulness to his native home,
Without a patron travel back to Rome.
Now walk'd Belinda forth, superbly sheen,
“She look'd a goddess, and she mov'd a queen!”
To make her blooming, Art its colours lent,
And nought she lack'd that Fashion could invent.
Rare articles for show, and few for use,
Hat à-la-mode, and mantle à-la-russe;
Scarfs, furbelows, for routs and public days,
Racamian ringlets, and Parisian stays:
Ere yet, in gaudy pride, she join'd the Show,
While loudly rang the merry bells of Bow,
And eager crowds in gath'ring numbers press'd,
To Betty thus her feelings she express'd:
Aid me, Apollo, while I touch the string!
For what Belinda said—the Muse shall sing.
“She look'd a goddess, and she mov'd a queen!”
To make her blooming, Art its colours lent,
And nought she lack'd that Fashion could invent.
Rare articles for show, and few for use,
Hat à-la-mode, and mantle à-la-russe;
157
Racamian ringlets, and Parisian stays:
Ere yet, in gaudy pride, she join'd the Show,
While loudly rang the merry bells of Bow,
And eager crowds in gath'ring numbers press'd,
To Betty thus her feelings she express'd:
Aid me, Apollo, while I touch the string!
For what Belinda said—the Muse shall sing.
“Let noble dames our pageants hold in sport,
And boast the soft refinements of a court,
Look down with pity on the sons of earth,
Who claim no title to superior birth;
Be theirs the joys of fashionable strife,
Be mine the pleasures of a City life!
What pleasing visions swim before my sight,
By day the dinner, and the dance by night!
A thousand glitt'ring tapers gild the Hall,
And lo! a young Adonis, straight and tall,
Perchance just landed from some foreign tour,
Asks me to dance a minuet-de-la-cour.
Methinks I hear th' admiring gazers cry,
‘Some Goddess has descended from on high,
To raise our wonder, and to charm our sight,
For sure no mortal ever stepp'd so light!’—
Then how 'twill give my enemies the vapours,
To see it mention'd in the public papers:—
—‘Last night my Lady danc'd with such an air,
Terpsichore had blush'd had she been there;
Her eyes discharg'd so many killing darts,
That half the common council lost their hearts!’—
A crown, or ten-and-sixpence at the most,
Will get a puff inserted in the Post.
And boast the soft refinements of a court,
Look down with pity on the sons of earth,
Who claim no title to superior birth;
Be theirs the joys of fashionable strife,
Be mine the pleasures of a City life!
What pleasing visions swim before my sight,
By day the dinner, and the dance by night!
A thousand glitt'ring tapers gild the Hall,
And lo! a young Adonis, straight and tall,
Perchance just landed from some foreign tour,
Asks me to dance a minuet-de-la-cour.
Methinks I hear th' admiring gazers cry,
‘Some Goddess has descended from on high,
To raise our wonder, and to charm our sight,
For sure no mortal ever stepp'd so light!’—
Then how 'twill give my enemies the vapours,
To see it mention'd in the public papers:—
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Terpsichore had blush'd had she been there;
Her eyes discharg'd so many killing darts,
That half the common council lost their hearts!’—
A crown, or ten-and-sixpence at the most,
Will get a puff inserted in the Post.
“It was my passion, I remember well,
My early pride and glory, to excel;
For when at school,—the governess confess'd
I sung, danc'd, play'd, far better than the rest.
In riper years I still retain'd my pride,
When rival Lovers woo'd me for their bride.—
My Father would have chosen for his heir,
A Buck of Fashion from St. James's Square;
But I, although no conjurer, could see
He lov'd himself too well, to die for me.
The Country Squire's politeness knew no bounds,
He swore he lov'd me better than his hounds,
Spoke his regard with emphasis and force,
And bid me dread no rival—but his Horse.—
The spruce Attorney, apeing Cupid's brogue,
Could hardly, in the lover, sink the rogue;
But he, too eager, overplay'd his cards,
I trick'd him—with a Captain in the Guards,
Whose pockets, while they strove my heart to win,
Had too much gold outside, t' have much within!
My early pride and glory, to excel;
For when at school,—the governess confess'd
I sung, danc'd, play'd, far better than the rest.
In riper years I still retain'd my pride,
When rival Lovers woo'd me for their bride.—
My Father would have chosen for his heir,
A Buck of Fashion from St. James's Square;
But I, although no conjurer, could see
He lov'd himself too well, to die for me.
The Country Squire's politeness knew no bounds,
He swore he lov'd me better than his hounds,
Spoke his regard with emphasis and force,
And bid me dread no rival—but his Horse.—
The spruce Attorney, apeing Cupid's brogue,
Could hardly, in the lover, sink the rogue;
But he, too eager, overplay'd his cards,
I trick'd him—with a Captain in the Guards,
Whose pockets, while they strove my heart to win,
Had too much gold outside, t' have much within!
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“How sweet to hear, when, as the barge we board,
The folks exclaim,—‘My Lady! and my Lord!’—
They shout!—and gladly welcome our approach!
And see! they drag the horses from our coach!
For free-born Britons love these low pursuits,
To show how well they imitate the brutes.
The folks exclaim,—‘My Lady! and my Lord!’—
They shout!—and gladly welcome our approach!
And see! they drag the horses from our coach!
For free-born Britons love these low pursuits,
To show how well they imitate the brutes.
“And, should the Regent in his grace (God bless him!)
When next the Court of Aldermen address him,
Think fit, (the thought transports me with delight!)
To dub my Spouse, by making him a Knight;
How will the glorious news, the tidings rare,
Make all our wond'ring City neighbours stare!
What busy scandal will their tongues employ,
They'll almost die with envy—I with joy!
When next the Court of Aldermen address him,
Think fit, (the thought transports me with delight!)
To dub my Spouse, by making him a Knight;
How will the glorious news, the tidings rare,
Make all our wond'ring City neighbours stare!
What busy scandal will their tongues employ,
They'll almost die with envy—I with joy!
“But hark! the trumpets and the horns below!—
The carriage waits!—I'm summon'd to the Show!—
O patience! what a flurry I am in!—
Here, Betty, put this patch upon my chin!—
A glass of water! I shall surely faint!—
Run, Betty!—you had nigh forgot the paint!—
My case is trying, and my nerves are weak;
Oh, shocking! here's a pimple on my cheek!
This sudden greatness overcomes me quite,
Heav'n keep me in my proper wits to-night!”
The carriage waits!—I'm summon'd to the Show!—
O patience! what a flurry I am in!—
Here, Betty, put this patch upon my chin!—
A glass of water! I shall surely faint!—
Run, Betty!—you had nigh forgot the paint!—
My case is trying, and my nerves are weak;
Oh, shocking! here's a pimple on my cheek!
This sudden greatness overcomes me quite,
Heav'n keep me in my proper wits to-night!”
160
ECLOGUE VII. THE TRIAL.
Cives.Stop, Curio, what disaster prompts thy flight?
No storm is nigh, no bailiff is in sight!
Not Buonaparte flies faster when he wheels,
With twenty thousand Cossacks at his heels!
What, has thy wife (I tremble to inquire)
Once more elop'd, and set thy house on fire?
Curio.
I have no time for parley,—once for all—
I go to hear a trial at Guildhall:
A case of libel, but I really doubt,
If Garrow's quibbling tongue can make it out:
Defendant's counsel promises the court
Much private information, deal of sport;
Come, let your bus'ness prove to-morrow's care,
Why all the world will be assembled there;
Great Garble threatens, for he owes a grudge,—
Civ.
Hush! recollect that Garble is a judge!
More potent than a bashaw with three tails,
So have a care of penalties and jails;
His quick resentment reason never stems,
161
Cur.
'Tis hard that vice should lord it—
Civ.
Hard indeed!
I like your errand, and commend your speed.—
Cur.
Then come, and bear me company;—
Civ.
Agreed.
They reach'd the Hall, where, in familiar chat
And confab close, a tribe of lawyers sat.
There Garrow spouted with undaunted face,
And grave Sir Thomas Plomer put his case;
There Topping told the causes he had won,
And Best was all antithesis and pun;
There Clifford (who, through Covent Garden porch
From last night's revel sail'd behind a torch,)
Bawl'd rudely, as when reeling through the town,
He bilks a fare, or knocks a watchman down,
Or pleads, as he is wont, for half-a-crown!
When lo! (a signal that the time was come,)
My Lord Chief Justice Garble gave a hum!
His gown he folded with repeated twirls;
And shook like Jove his long ambrosial curls:
Prevailing Dulness in his features dawn'd,
And thrice he bit his thumbs, and thrice he yawn'd!
When, after num'rous shrugs, and inward throes,
Great Garble's pupil, Serjeant Splitbrain, rose!
Renown'd for gross vulgarity of speech,
And legal impudence that few could reach:
Such was the quibbling lawyer, such the man
Who, hemming thrice,—look'd big—and thus began.
And confab close, a tribe of lawyers sat.
There Garrow spouted with undaunted face,
And grave Sir Thomas Plomer put his case;
There Topping told the causes he had won,
And Best was all antithesis and pun;
There Clifford (who, through Covent Garden porch
From last night's revel sail'd behind a torch,)
Bawl'd rudely, as when reeling through the town,
He bilks a fare, or knocks a watchman down,
Or pleads, as he is wont, for half-a-crown!
When lo! (a signal that the time was come,)
My Lord Chief Justice Garble gave a hum!
His gown he folded with repeated twirls;
And shook like Jove his long ambrosial curls:
Prevailing Dulness in his features dawn'd,
And thrice he bit his thumbs, and thrice he yawn'd!
When, after num'rous shrugs, and inward throes,
Great Garble's pupil, Serjeant Splitbrain, rose!
Renown'd for gross vulgarity of speech,
162
Such was the quibbling lawyer, such the man
Who, hemming thrice,—look'd big—and thus began.
Splitbrain.
My Lord, and Jurors, in this land of freedom,
With honest laws and lawyers, when we need'em;
This case must make all loyal subjects wince
Who hate a libel, and who love their Prince.
What's Satire?—Why the very worst of crimes,
A drawback on the vices of the times;
A glass that brings the villain forth to view,
And leaves our friends, the Clergy, nought to do!
Who, though, poor souls! they lecture night and day,
Can hardly keep old Lucifer at bay.
Suppose a Peer of fashionable life,
In some odd whim seduce his neighbour's wife,
His youth or noble blood must plead his cause,
And shield him from the vengeance of the laws!
Nay, grant him crippled, old, with rev'rend hairs,
Pray might not passion seize him unawares?
If he betray'd his friend, what can be said for't?
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All men have had their frailties since the flood,
And, “Homo sum,” my Lord—we're flesh and blood!
The Satirist I deem a canting rogue
Who darts his quill at any vice in vogue:
His wit is dull, his morals out of date,
If aim'd against the follies of the great.
But grant that Vice, for decency at least,
Requires some gentle chiding from the priest,
There's Parson D—“At Home” in time of need,
With his well-bred accommodating creed,
To put Court folly instantly to flight
In language most respectful and polite.
Not wishing now to state the case at large,
I leave it to his Lordship in the charge;
Your Verdict must find guilty the Defendant,
And pack him off to Jail—so there's an end on't.
Verax.
On upright British Jurors, British Laws,
I boldly rest the merits of my cause.—
Too long has vice been sanction'd by the great,
And sapp'd the strong foundations of the state;
Too long have subtle pimps and flatt'rers—
Garble.
Hold!—
This mode of pleading, Sir! must be controll'd:
This strange recrimination sets aloof
All due decorum:—
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But, my Lord, I've proof,
Plain downright proof, I hold it in my hand;—
Why ev'ry honest Jury in the land
Know H---d---t, H---t---d (barring all lampoons),
To be sad gamesters, flatt'rers, and buffoons.
This never can be libellous I trust,
When all the world allows it to be just.
Gar.
Yes, grossly libellous, you know it well,
And Scandalum magnatum—false as Hell!—
Your client is an universal pest,
The rogue has libell'd Me among the rest;
He says I'm hot, and irritated soon,—
Yes—when some blockhead puts me out of tune!
That rage for ever flushes in my cheek:
The villain fibs!—no barrister so meek.
That guttling Epicurus in his stye,
Ne'er gormandiz'd more greedily than I,
Which (curse his base assurance!) is a lie.
A twelvemonth spent in Newgate, dark and still,
Will cure his scribbling vein—or nothing will.
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The man is studious, well-inform'd, though young,
No Harpy's smile has he, no flatt'rer's tongue;
Untutor'd in the manners of a Court,
He cannot yet hold decency in sport.
To vice he's neither bending nor polite,
But drags the grey impostor forth to sight,
Whate'er his rank or station, high or low;
He courts no titled friend, he dreads no foe.
Split.
Henceforth no sprightly Peer can drink and wench,
No Justice fall asleep upon the bench,
No Col'nel pimp, no Priest disgrace his gown,
But he shall be placarded through the town!
E'en you, my Lord, so eloquent and grave,
May chance to grow immortal in a stave,
While ev'ry minstrel of the Grub Street Choir
Unaw'd, unshackled, can command the lyre.
Gar.
As Brother Splitbrain argues—black is white—
And Truth's a lie, and wrong (in Law!) is right.
May this bold-fronted libeller of Kings,
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This Fanatic, of principles so nice!
Be taught to know the dignity of vice,
When veil'd beneath the splendor of a crown,
A Lordling's ermine, or a Statesman's gown.
Come, Jurymen, dispatch—nay, prithee, pox,
Don't sit a twelvemonth quibbling in the Box!
I'm (Deuce confound your stupid souls, in Styx!)
Engag'd to dine at Carlton House at six.
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ECLOGUE VIII. THE PARTING.
“------Multi
Committunt eadem diverso crimina fato;
Ille crucem pretium sceleris tulit, hic diadema.”
JUV.
Committunt eadem diverso crimina fato;
Ille crucem pretium sceleris tulit, hic diadema.”
JUV.
Close in those walls, which Frank's mistaken zeal,
To please a rabble, christen'd the Bastile,
Whose lofty turrets overlook the plains,
Where laughter-loving nymphs and jocund swains
In motley numbers, once a year repair
To hold the ancient rites of Gooseb'ry Fair!
Close in those walls, which ne'er a rival knew
Till Peter's noisy Rostrum rose to view,
(For Peter, to give Lucifer a rub,
The Sons of Bridewell lectures from his tub):
Two faithful Lovers to a cell retir'd,
Both young alike, and by the Muse inspir'd;
The red-hair'd Thyrsis, and the downcast Ruth,
To whisper vows of constancy and truth:
For now the Transport was equipp'd to sail,
And only waited for a prosp'rous gale,
To bear young Thyrsis from his Ruth away,
On a septennial trip to Bot'ny Bay:
And thus the couple, full of am'rous pains,
Rehears'd their sorrows in alternate strains.
Ruth.
To please a rabble, christen'd the Bastile,
Whose lofty turrets overlook the plains,
Where laughter-loving nymphs and jocund swains
In motley numbers, once a year repair
To hold the ancient rites of Gooseb'ry Fair!
Close in those walls, which ne'er a rival knew
Till Peter's noisy Rostrum rose to view,
(For Peter, to give Lucifer a rub,
The Sons of Bridewell lectures from his tub):
Two faithful Lovers to a cell retir'd,
Both young alike, and by the Muse inspir'd;
The red-hair'd Thyrsis, and the downcast Ruth,
To whisper vows of constancy and truth:
For now the Transport was equipp'd to sail,
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To bear young Thyrsis from his Ruth away,
On a septennial trip to Bot'ny Bay:
And thus the couple, full of am'rous pains,
Rehears'd their sorrows in alternate strains.
Since cruel fate ordains that we should part,
Oh! Thyrsis, hear the feelings of my heart—
May I become as odious in thy sight
As painted Hags at Drawing-rooms by night—
Such, and so monstrous, let thy Ruth appear,
If e'er her conduct give thee cause for fear.
Hence with thy doubts, for shame! for surely she
Deserves reproach from none,—but least from thee.
Thyrsis.
Unhappy is the lesser villain's doom,
Cut off in fortune's pride, in manhood's bloom!
The crafty statesman, favour'd by his King,
Obtains a ribbon—but deserves a string;
And, thinking it the duty of his station
To cheat the public, and to starve the nation,
Leaves Bridewell, Bot'ny Bay, and Tyburn tree,
To friendless unprotected rogues like me!
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I busy was with reading Little's muse,
When Cousin Bridget brought the dreadful news:
“A pretty joke (she cry'd), your Sweetheart Thyrsis,
Who left an honest trade to scribble verses,”
(And looking fiercely with her arms a-kimbo,)
“Has (thank his roguery for it!) got in limbo.”
The words she utter'd fill'd me with despair,
I beat my bosom, and I tore my hair,
My face I scarify'd—behold the scars!
And wept aloud, and curs'd my evil stars:
My mother thought me in hysteric fits,
The Doctor said that I had lost my wits;
And cry'd (while to his mouth he did present his
Long amber-headed cane) “Non compos mentis.”
Thyr.
But I must travel far, to climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing Zone;
Condemn'd, alas! by Law's unjust decree,
My home, my friends, my love! no more to see:—
We all must reap the harvest that we sow,
Good Heav'n! what ills from deeds dishonest flow.
Ruth.
Now hear me, Thyrsis, hear the vow I make,
To die a faithful virgin for thy sake.
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And court me like Penelope of old,
I'll show the rogues, the lady of Ulysses
Had not a heart more true to love, than this is.
Thyr.
I know thee, Love! thou surely wert the son
Of some hard judge, or shoulder-tapping dun,
The ruthless pupil of Old Bailey Juries,
Nurs'd by the fiends, and suckled by the furies.
Ruth.
O, dread not storms! my sighs shall waft thee o'er—
Though tempests should arise, and billows roar,
Thy bark shall lightly skim the wat'ry realm;
The God of Love, presiding at the helm,
Shall night and day his watchful vigils keep,
And be thy trusty pilot o'er the deep.
Thyr.
As to the City 'Prentice, whey and curds,
So to me, gentle maiden! are thy words.
As to the longing school-boy, Christmas cheer;
To cattle, pastures green and rivers clear;
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To hungry lawyers, briefs and double fees;
To sick enamorato, Lady's glove;—
So are thy sweet assurances of love
To this fond heart, which, may I now be curst,
Is not at thought of parting like to burst.
Ruth.
This night, my Thyrsis, let us banish care,
Cutlets and bottled ale shall be our fare;
Thy head shall find a pillow on my breast,
My voice shall hush thy sorrows all to rest:
For hark! the gaoler shakes his bunch of keys,
And ev'ning Zephyrs die along the trees.
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