Chapter X: Part IV (4)

Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.--Diog, Laert,

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,-- Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?--Plat, de ira cohibenda.

I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.]

The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam: [Footnote: Ramble.] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting, [Footnote: Not vomiting.] Are not more solid nor more lasting, A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled, [Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.] Though in the darkest dumps* you view them, *[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.] Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection, [Footnote: Reflection of the sun.] And frequently produce infection: So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbor's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron* will confess, *[Footnote: Motherly woman.] That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colors are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,* *[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapors rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace. [Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail, *[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.] Our ears on every side assail. Clouds when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,* you see, *[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.] In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name, Let me proclaim* it then aloud, *[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.] That every woman is a cloud.

ON A LAPDOG.
JOHN GAY.

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more: Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore. Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair, Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care. Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd, And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair, Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow, And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast, No dread events upon this fate attend, Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state, And dying lions show the monarch's fate, Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? Fo when a lapdog falls, no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears, Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd: "Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd."

THE RAZOR SELLER.
PETER PINDAR.

A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow BE a knave, Provided that the razors SHAVE; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried-- All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore,
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of OPPOSITION stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't SHAVE."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would SHAVE." "Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to SELL."

THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS.
PETER PINDAR.

A great law Chief, whom God nor demon scares, Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers, The devil behind him pleased and grinning, Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder, Declaring naught was ever bolder, Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare, Which proves what blood game infidels can dare; Which to my memory brings a fact, Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given, For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven, Particularly in a storm, Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Their souls are in a miserable funk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, If in His goodness only once, once more, He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon
The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out,
Gave him a clawing to some tune--
This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried,
"And save your d---d young sinful soul."
He then the moral-mending cat applied,
And turned him like a badger from his hole

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him "Flog," cried the boy, "flog--curse me, flog away-- I'll go--but mind--G--d d--n me if I'll PRAY."

BIENSEANCE
PETER PINDAR.

There is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance, Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline,
In many cases;
To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces
When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity-- I deem it a most portable commodity, A sort of magic wand, Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand

For verily I've marveled times enow
To see an Englishman, the ninny,
Give people for their services a guinea,
Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity, But as they pay their court to people's vanity, Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go The souls and faces of mankind like dough! With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail To folly--see the under-written tale:

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL

At Paris some time since, a murdering man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap,
Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into Justice's strong trap

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, On which the dullest fibers learn to feel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more; Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant petit maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry-- "Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS.
PETER PINDAR

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see! So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; To start, to run, to leap, to fly, And gambol in the royal eye; And, if expectant of some high employ, How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose! How liquidly the oil of flattery flows! But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour, How altered instantly the courtier clan! How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In fancy holds her ever in his arms: In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances--slumber brings the dream-- Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown--but smile: Sublime are royal nods--most precious things!-- Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat--worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"--pointing to the shoulder--I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"-- Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As--"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.

Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear-- Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl.

PRAYING FOR RAIN.
PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind! One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, petition for a southern, utters. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?--I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain. The parson most devoutly prayed-- The powers of prayer were soon displayed; Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay: Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring. It happened too that Robin was from home; But when he heard the story, in a foam He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing! A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! What! pray for RAIN before I SAVED my hay! Oh! you re a cruel and ungrateful man! _I_ that forever help you all I can; Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay, Whenever we have something on the spit, Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, Whose bones you are so fond of picking; And often too a cag of brandy! YOU that were welcome to a treat, To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; Making my house so very handy!

"YOU, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies, With MY fine field of hay before your eyes! A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.-- Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!" "Dear Mister Jay!" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas! I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose-- Was not the field just underneath your NOSE? This is a very pretty losing job!"-- "Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer,"-- "Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only SPORT: What doth Cobb own that any rain can HURT?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can LARN, A few old houses only, and a barn; As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to HIM? Not Noah's flood could make HIS trumpery SWIM.

"Besides--why could you not for drizzle pray? Why force it down in BUCKETS on the hay? Would _I_ have played with YOUR hay such a freak? No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest, I acted solely for the best; I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. Your anger for this ONCE restrain, I'll never bring a drop again Till you and all the parish are AGREED."

APOLOGY FOR KINGS
PETER PINDAR

As want of candor really is not right, I own my satire too inclined to bite: On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup-- Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things From lofty folk, particularly kings? Look on their poverty of education! Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods, And by their awful frowns and nods, Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind! Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!
An instance take:--A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,
Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:
An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide;
Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side;
And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown,
And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,
Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:
Looking the frightened verger through and through,
And with his eye-glass--"Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir?--hey, sir?" deigned the king to say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king:
In this cathedral I do every thing;
Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."
"Hey? verger! verger!--you the verger?--hey?"
"Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE,"
The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear, "Hey, hey--what, what--fine fellow, 'pon my word: I'll knight him, knight him, knight him--hey, my lord?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.]

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain, He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried: "Sixpence would handsomely requite him." "Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him--no, won't knight him." Now to the lofty roof the king did raise His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise! For thus his marveling majesty did speak: "Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete; High--high and lofty too, and clean, and neat: What, verger, what? MOP, MOP it once a week?"

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops, The verger answered, "we have got no mops In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king-- "No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing; They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

MORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly show
That ignorance, a king too often lurches;
For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know
The natural history of mops and churches?

STORY THE SECOND.

From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand, Returned the mighty ruler of the land-- "My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king. "A few! beneath your royal notice, sir," Replied Lord Pembroke--"Sir, my lord, stir, stir; Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing,

"Who's this? who's this?--who's this fine fellow here? "Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer. "Sir Sostris, hey?--Sir Sostris?--'pon my word! Knight or a baronet, my lord?

One of my making?--what, my lord, my making?" This, with a vengeance, was mistaking?

"SE-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied--
"A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old."
"Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried,
"I need not that--I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?" "'Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer; "Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey? Cleaned stables!--cracked a lion like a flea; Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him-- The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him."

Our moral is not merely water-gruel-- It shows that curiosity's a jewel! It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell: It shows that subjects must not give opinions To people reigning over wide dominions, As information to great folk is hell:

It shows that decency may live with kings,
On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs;
And shows (for numerous are the naked things)
That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.

ODE TO THE DEVIL.
PETER PINDAR.

The devil is not so black as he is painted.

Ingratum Odi.

Prince of the dark abodes! I ween Your highness ne'er till now hath seen Yourself in meter shine; Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere. Sweet warbled on your smutty ear, Before this Ode of mine.

Perhaps the reason is too plain, Thou triest to starve the tuneful train, Of potent verse afraid! And yet I vow, in all my time, I've not beheld a single rhyme That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims-- John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns, That chant of heavenly riches. What have they done?--those heavenly strains, Devoutly squeezed from canting brains, But filled John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoe-black in the land, So humbly at the world's command, As thy old cloven foot; Like lightning dost thou fly, when called, And yet no pickpocket's so mauled As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin, With supplication call thee in, To aid them to pursue it; Yet, when detected, with a lie Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry, "The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made, By men through rouguish tricks in trade, Yet all to thee are owing-- And though we meet it every day, The sneaking rascals dare not say, This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure, No man can shun thee on that score; The very best is thine: With kings, queens, ministers of state, Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great, And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely grieved at times to find, The very instant thou art kind, Some people so uncivil, When aught offends, with face awry, With base ingratitude to cry, "I wish it to the Devil."

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife, To be the torment of his life, By one eternal yell-- The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds, I'd give this moment twenty pounds To see the jade in hell."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant, Thou never company wouldst want To make thee downright mad; For, mind me, in their wishing mood, They never offer thee what's good, But every thing that's bad.

My honest anger boils to view A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew, So much thy humble debtors, Rushing, on Sundays, one and all, With desperate prayers thy head to maul, And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week, On thee their black abuse to wreak, By whom their souls are fed Each minute of the other six, With every joy that heart can fix, Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart, And led my steps to joy-- The charms of beauty have been mine And let me call the merit thine, Who broughtst the lovely toy.

So, Satan--if I ask thy aid, To give my arms the blooming maid, I will not, though the nation all, Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp) A vile old good-for-nothing pimp, But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."

Since truth must out--I seldom knew What 'twas high pleasure to pursue, Till thou hadst won my heart-- So social were we both together, And beat the hoof in every weather, I never wished to part.

Yet when a child--good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got, With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout, With claws beyond comparing.

Taught to avoid the paths of evil, By day I used to dread the devil, And trembling when 'twas night, Methought I saw thy horns and ears, They sung or whistled to my fears, And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed, I sweated with a constant dread, And crept beneath the rug; There panting, thought that in my sleep Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep, And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine, With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine, To suit both man and maid: Thy wares they buy, with open eyes; How cruel then, with constant cries, To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath-- Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth, Without thy aid, old sweeper; So mawkish, few will put it down, Even from the cottage to the crown, Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer, Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear, Black, red, or blue, or yellow; Whatever hypocrites may say, They think thee (trust my honest lay) A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!) To praise the bridge o'er which we pass Yet often I discover A numerous band who daily make An easy bridge of thy poor back, And damn it when they 're over.

Why art thou, then, with cup in hand, Obsequious to a graceless band, Whose souls are scarce worth taking; O prince, pursue but my advice, I'll teach your highness in a trice To set them all a quaking.

Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy: Lock up each charming fille de joie; Give race-horses the glander-- The dice-box break, and burn each card-- Let virtue be its own reward, And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I'll lay my life, There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife, That will not glad agree, If thou will chaim'em as before, To show their nose at church no more, But quit their God for thee.

Tis now full time my ode should end: And now I tell thee like a friend, Howe'er the world may scout thee; Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning, And folks so very fond of sinning, They can not do without thee.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.
PETER PINDAR.

In seventeen hundred seventy-eight, The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain, Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite The peaceful natives of the western main, With faggots and the blood-delighting sword, To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!

For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling, Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling, Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further; For which most pious reason, hard to work, They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork, To charm the God of mercy with their murther!

I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed, In tapestry so rich, portrayed, A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle: Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried To fix his foot the palfry to bestride; In vain!--he could not o'er the palfry straddle!

Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained, And every effort of the King disdained, Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled, And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.

Prodigious was the struggle of the day, The horse attempted not to run away; At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin, And swore by every saint and holy martyr He would not yield the traitor quarter, Until he got possession of his skin.

Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight, Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight, And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts of hay.

Not with more energy and fury The beauteous street--walker of Drury Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade, Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile, Ah, me! her paramour beguile, And to her bed of healthy straw persuade; Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl, And snails with silver traces deck the wall.

And now a cane, and now a whip he used, And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised; Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick, Arid bore with Christian spirit whip and stick; And what excessively provoked this prince, The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.

Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow To shoot the rebel like a sparrow; And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force, Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!

Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar, With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore, Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast; Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel, Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell, Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast; Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his godlike ire, He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire! Showing his pages round, poor trembling things, How dangerous to resist the will of kings.

THE TENDER HUSBAND.
PETER PINDAR

Lo, to the cruel hand of fate, My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate, Resigns her tuneful breath-- Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale, And blue each harmless finger-nail, She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep, I scarce can think her but asleep-- How wonderfully tame! And yet her voice is really gone, And dim those eyes that lately shone With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight, To take it in his head to smite-- To lift his dart to hit her; For as she was so great a woman, And cared a single fig for no man, I thought he feared to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong, That many a sweet capriccio sung, And beat in sounds the spheres; No longer must those fingers play "Britons strike home," that many a day Hath soothed my ravished ears,

Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined To think how I may speak my mind, Nor hurt her dear repose; Nor think I now with rage she'd roar, Were I to put my fingers o'er, And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause- How wonderful are nature's laws, When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air, Like culinary fires,

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note, Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat, And loud instructive lungs; O Death, in her, though only one, Are lost a thousand charms unknown, At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh, And saw her gently-closing eye, How great was my surprise! Yet have I not, with impious breath, Accused the hard decrees of death, Nor blamed the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair, Since she'll be soon an angel fair? Ah! why my bosom smite? Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!-- But let me give such ravings o'er-- Whatever is, is right.

O doctor! you are come too late; No more of physic's virtues prate, That could not save my lamb: Not one more bolus shall be given-- You shall not ope her mouth by heaven, And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of boluses, poor heart, And pills, she took, to load a cart, Before she closed her eyes: But now my word is here a law, Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw, She shall not seek the skies.

Good sir, good doctor, go away; To hear my sighs you must not stay, For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill; When next you come, pray bring your bill I'll pay it; sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom. For God's sake gently tread the room, Nor call her from the blessed-- In softest silence drop the tear, In whispers breathe the fervent prayer, To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream; I can not bear a grief extreme-- Enough one little sigh-- Besides, the loud alarm of grief, In many a mind may start belief, Our noise is all a lie. Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care; Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare, Her mouth, ah! slowly close; Her mouth a magic tongue that held-- Whose softest tone, at times, compelled To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake, Of stoutest oak her coffin make-- I'd not be stingy, sure-- Procure of steel the strongest screws, For who could paltry pence refuse To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey, With caution tread the doleful way, Nor shake her precious head; Since Fame reports a coffin tossed, With careless swing against a post, Did once, disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost! Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost, That I again will woo-- By all our past delights, my dear, No more the marriage chain I'll wear, Deil take me if I do!

THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY.
PETER PINDAR.

A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel,
To parry from his soul the wrath Divine,
That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple,
Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine;
Who every day is gorgeously decked out,
In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small,
Just like a fine young lady for a rout,
A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball.
At first the Soldier at a distance kept,
Begging her vote and interest in heaven--
With seeming bitterness the sinner wept,
Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven:
Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery!
Declared what miracles the dame could do,
Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe,
And such like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner, Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her, The mouth of history doth not mention, And therefore I can't tell but by invention,

One day, as he was making love and praying, And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying, And sins so manifold confessing; He drew, as if to whisper, very near, And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear, Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

Then off he set, with nimble shanks, Nor once turned back to give her thanks: A hue and cry the thief pursued, Who, to his cost, soon understood That he was not beyond the claw Of that same long-armed giant, christened Law.

With horror did his judges quake--
As for the tender-conscienced jury,
They doomed him quickly to the stake,
Such was their devilish pious fury.

However, after calling him hard names,
They asked if aught he had in vindication,
To save his wretched body from the flames,
And sinful soul from terrible damnation.

The Soldier answered them with much sang froid, Which showed, of sin, a conscience void, That if they meant to kill him they might kill: As for the diamond which they found about him, He hoped they would by no means doubt him, That madam gave it him from pure good-will.

The answer turned both judge and jury pale;
The punishment was for a time deferred,
Until his Holiness should hear the tale,
And his infallibility be heard.

The Pope, to all his counselors, made known
This strange affair--to cardinals and friars,
Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known
To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars.
The question now was banded to and fro,
If Mary had the power to GIVE, or NO.

That Mary COULD NOT give it, was to say
The wonder-working lady wanted power--
This was the stumbling-block that stopped the way--
This made Pope, cardinals, and friars lower.

To save the Virgin's credit, And keep secure the diamonds that were left; They said, she MIGHT, indeed, the gem bestow, And consequently it might be no theft: But then they passed immediately an act, That every one discovered in the fact Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand, Or from the saints of any land, Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter, Flayed here, and fried eternally hereafter.

Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear To need poetical assistance; Which bids you not let men approach too near, But keep the saucy fellows at a distance; Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize Jewels from ladies, even upon their knees!

A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY
PETER PINDAR

A king of France upon a day,
With a fair lady of his court,
Was pleased at battledore to play
A very fashionable sport,

Into the bosom of this fair court dame, Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame, King Louis by odd mischance did knock The shuttlecock, Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves, To nestle with the pretty little loves! "Now, sire, pray take it out"--quoth she, With an arch smile,--But what did he? What? what to charming modesty belongs! Obedient to her soft command, He raised it--but not with his hand! No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs,

What a chaste thought in this good king! How clever! When shall we hear agen of such a thing? Lord! never, Nor were our princes to be prayed To such an act by some fair maid, I'll bet my life not one would mind it: But handy, without more ado, The youths would search the bosom through, Although it took a day to find it!

THE EGGS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE.
G. H. DEVEREUX.

Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that's of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled--they say-- Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried-- Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised-- Most happy thought I--and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette. "Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!" But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, "I have it now--ye're all a pack of louts!-- With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed." And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse, But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat: In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle, All had their day--the last was still the best But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill-- But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!"

Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

"On good and bad an equal value sets The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets, And never fails to praise," With vile pretense, The scurrilous author thus his trash excused. A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense, Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.

A Donkey's master said unto his beast, While doling out to him his lock of straw, "Here, take it--since such diet suits your taste, And much good may it do your vulgar maw!" Often the slighting speech the man repeated. The Ass--his quiet mood by insult heated--

Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take,
Master unjust! but not because I choose it.
Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make
The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it."
Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed
How your defaults by false excuse you cover!
Fed upon straw--straw it may eat, indeed;
Try it with generous fare--'t will scorn the other.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.
WILLIAM COWPER.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mohammed's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarred; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These chose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mohammedans eat up the hog. You laugh--'tis well--The tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. Renounce the world--the preacher cries. We do--a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed; Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he; With, sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. WILLIAM COWPER.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning;
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,
That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court--
Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one IF or BUT--
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [Footnote: Kennedy gives the following account of the origin of "Holy Willie's Prayer;"--Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Clerk of Ayr, the Poet's friend and benefactor was accosted one Sunday morning by a mendicant, who begged alms of him. Not recollecting that it was the Sabbath, Hamilton set the man to work in his garden, which lay on lay on the public road, and the poor fellow was discovered by the people on their way to the kirk, and they immediately stoned him from the ground. For this offense, Mr. Hamilton was not permitted to have a child christened, which his wife bore him soon afterward, until he applied to the synod. His most officious opponent was William Fisher, one of the elders of the church: and to revenge the insult to his friend, Burns made him the subject of this humorous ballad.] ROBERT BURNS.

O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony giud or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here, afore thy sight. For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me into hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' thy flock.

[O L--d, then kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singing there, and dancing here, Wi' great and sma'; For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a'.]

But yet, O L--d! confess I must, At times I 'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defll'd in sin.

* * * * *
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May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

L--d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O L--d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head.

L--d in the day of vengeance try him, L--d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

But, L--d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun--
Observe wha's standing wi him!

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance ye've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane!
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.
ROBERT BURNS.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"--
MILTON.

O Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far: An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' Tirl in the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summon To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quack-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings.