Chapter I: OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,

That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules--for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose’s feather or exalt a straw;
Sets wheels on wheels in motion--such a clatter--
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!
_John Wolcott_ (_Peter Pindar_).

TO BOSWELL

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson midst his native north,
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!
Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;
Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple courtier to a king;
Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,
Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.
_John Wolcott_ (_Peter Pindar_).

THE HEN

WAS once a hen of wit not small
(In fact, ’twas not amazing),
And apt at laying eggs withal,
Who, when she’d done, would scream and bawl,
As if the house were blazing.
A turkey-cock, of age mature,
Felt thereat indignation;
’Twas quite improper, he was sure--
He would no more the thing endure;
So, after cogitation,
He to the lady straight repaired,
And thus his business he declared:
“Madam, pray, what’s the matter,
That always, when you’ve laid an egg,
You make so great a clatter?
I wish you’d do the thing in quiet.
Do be advised by me, and try it.”
“Advised by you!” the lady cried,
And tossed her head with proper pride;
“And what do you know, now I pray,
Of the fashion of the present day,
You creature ignorant and low?
However, if you want to know,
This is the reason why I do it:
I lay my egg, and then review it!”
_Matthew Claudius._

LET US ALL BE UNHAPPY TOGETHER

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know
Is a friend, for true friendship’s a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus, friendship’s a flimsy affair;
Thus, riches and health are a bubble;
Thus, there’s nothing delightful but care,
Nor anything pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal could point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honour are given.
But honour and truth are so rare,
And horns, when they’re cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I’d advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasure’s a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy;
That all those who laugh ought to cry;
That ’tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.
_Charles Dibdin._

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY