The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 33

"'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 ap.r.o.n 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 h.e.l.l:

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 s.h.i.+ne; Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere.

Sweet warbled on your s.m.u.tty 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 d.a.m.nation 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 coa.r.s.ely, "Zounds, I'd give this moment twenty pounds To see the jade in h.e.l.l."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant, Thou never company wouldst want To make thee downright mad; For, mind me, in their wis.h.i.+ng 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, Rus.h.i.+ng, 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!

Blus.h.i.+ng 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, coa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.s Yet often I discover A numerous band who daily make An easy bridge of thy poor back, And d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d 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 f.a.ggots 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 G.o.d 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 pincus.h.i.+on, 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 G.o.dlike ire, He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!