Classic Poem

In days of yore, the golden days of Rhyme,
The mighty Monarch to his Minstrel bow'd;
But what is now the character sublime?
A blind old Ballad-singer and his crowd.

Kings too were Poets: David to his Lyre
Sung sweetest elegy; and David's Son
Sung to the Harp with all his Father's fire,
And all the Virgins of Judea won.

And thou, Isaiah, too didst deal in Song;
Born, let me say, a gentleman, and bred:
In satire, let me tell thee, rather strong;
That broke the Babylonian Monarch's head.

Had I said half as bad of George the Third,
As thou of Babylon's imperious King,
My fate had been far different, take my word;
My just reward, the pillory or the string.

The Organ-grinding Girl, whose discords kill,
Is beckon'd by our Dames of highest Quality:
And grist she gaineth to her screaming mill;
And, curtseying, thanks them for their hospitality.

To me no Lover of the Muses cries,
" Out with thy wallet, let us hear thy Odes;
Then George's image shall delight thine eyes:
Behold, a sixpence for the Song of Gods."

No Nymph of Quality on Peter calls;
No Lesbia, fond of sparrows and the dove;
And bid me make them melting Madrigals;
And say, " Sweet Peter, sing us songs of love."

The Man who carries Punch about the streets,
His scolding Wife, the Baker, and the Devil;
With fair rewards from all spectators meets,
And to his poverty each purse is civil.

The Man who leads his Camel up and down,
Where sports a grinning Monkey on his hump;
Dines princely, such the favour of the Town;
And never mourns, like me, in doleful dump.

The Men who lead about a Dancing Bear,
Or Dancing Dogs, good living never lack;
While I , who lead the Muses, (fate severe!)
Can neither treat my belly nor my back.

The Clowns of thirty pounds a year (no more),
Laugh at the Sons of Song, and scornful pass us:
" One little rood of dirty land," they roar,
" Is worth a thousand acres of Parnassus."