The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 54

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID.

DEAN SWIFT

In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this unG.o.dly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pa.s.s the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'T was still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, "What ar't!"

Then softly turn'd aside, to view Whether the lights were burning blue The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: "Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd, While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower.

The flier, though it had leaden feet, Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side; The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat, which it can not turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less n.o.ble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter: And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most Philemon, having paused a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style; Then said, "My house is grown so fine, Methinks, I still would call it mine.

I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve; His waistcoat to a ca.s.sock grew, And both a.s.sumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust.

His talk was now of t.i.thes and dues: He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wish'd women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for "right divine;"

Found his head fill'd with many a system; But cla.s.sic authors--he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.

Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced with lace.

"Plain Goody" would no longer down, 'T was "Madam," in her grogram gown.

Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes.

Amazed to see her look so prim, And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amid their talk, To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- "Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks I feel it true, And really yours is budding too-- Nay--now I can not stir my foot; It feels as if 't were taking root."

Description would but tire my Muse, In short, they both were turn'd to yews.

Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which, 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted, So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER IN IMITATION OP VIRGIL'S GEORGICS.

DEAN SWIFT.

Careful, observers may foretell the hour, (By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower.

While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.

Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink.

If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage; Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; He d.a.m.ns the climate, and complains of spleen.

Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear.

Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the G.o.ds; then, turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.

Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.

Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade?

Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this DEVOTED town.

To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.

The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach.

Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.

The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.

Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.

Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.

Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within.

So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through), Laoc.o.o.n struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell.

They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit p.r.o.ne to Holborne bridge.

Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood; Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY; OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY.

PETER PINDAR.

Sic transit gloria mundi!--Old Sun Dials.

From House of Buckingham, in grand parade, To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.

THE ARGUMENT.--Peter's loyalty.--He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote: The Poet Laureate.] of joking.--Complimenteth the poet Laureate.-- Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.--Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.--Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.--King Charles the Second half d.a.m.ned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.--Peter praiseth himself.--Peter reproved by Mr.

Warton.--Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.--A fine simile.--Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.--Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.--Mr. Warton replieth.--Peter administereth bold advice.--Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.--Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.--Peter maketh a natural simile.--Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.--Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing.

THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.--His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.--His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.--Billy Ramus sent amba.s.sador to Chiswell street.--Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.--Mr.

Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.--Mr. Ramus's return from his emba.s.sy.--Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr.

Ramus.--The King's pleasure thereat.--Description of people of wors.h.i.+p.--Account of the Whitbread preparation.--The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street.--The arrival at the brewhouse.--Great joy of Mr.

Whitbread.--His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.--A West India simile.--The marvelings of the draymen described.--His Majesty peepeth into a pump.--Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.--The MINUTE curiosity of the King.--Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.--His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth wonder.--Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.--His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.--Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--King noteth NOTABLE things.--Profound questions proposed by Majesty.--As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.--Majesty in a mistake.--Corrected by the brewer.--A nose simile.--Majesty's admiration of the bell.--Good manners of the bell.--Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.--Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for answers.--Peter telleth the duty of Kings.-- Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.--Sublime sympathy of a water- spout and a king.--The great use of asking questions.--The habitation of truth.--The collation.--The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.--Majesty proposeth to take leave.--Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's objections.--The king runneth a rig on his host.--Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.--Miss Whitbread curtsieth.--The queen dippeth.--The Cavalcade departeth.

Peter triumpheth.--Admonisheth the Laureate.--Peter croweth over the Laureate.--Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who have lost their legs.--Peter reasoneth.--Vaunteth.--Even insulteth the Laureate.--Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.--Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings.