Classic Poem

If to Parnassus I shou'd roam,
There's not a Muse now left at home;
For duns of late have so beset 'em,
Not one in fifty now can get 'em;
Nor can Apollo show his head,
But quick some poet, “sir, your aid.”
Confussion's help I then implore,
This scene of bustle to explore.

When from his bed bright Phœbus springs,
And day expands her rosy wings;
Straight from the cabins comes to view
A tribe as strange, and motly too,
As at Guildhall oft times appears,
Elate with hope, or chill'd with fears;
Disease the blank of life supplies,
And sprightly health the welcome prize.

Some on their crutches trembling stand,
Whilst others frisk it o'er the strand.
Here old age tott'ring to the grave,
There a brisk beauty stems the wave,
Who screams with well dissembl'd fear,
In hopes her lover's eye is near,
To see her on the water flounce,
Or o'er the pebbles nimbly bounce,
Here some for health do oft repair,
But more to meet th'appointed fair.
The squire says pangs and aches aggrieve him,
But Mahon's air wou'd soon relieve him.
Young miss herself can sham an halt,
But love's device is no great fault;
Nor shou'd we blame a mutual flame,
Perhaps we too have felt the same.
So much for love, now to my tale
Of clacking tongues which never fail.

Now home to breakfast all repair,
To seast on scandal's dainty fare;
Here envious tongues make twice more racket,
Than did Jack Churchill at Malplaquet.
Miss says, that “Patty's morning dress,
“Was quite indecent to excess.”
“A forward jade,” the mother cries,
And with Miss Pert in scandal vies;
“Her petty-coats were shorter far
“Than wretches wear at Templebar;
“Her fash so high upon her back,
“You'd swear her head peep'd thro' a sack.”
“No mother, like an hedge-hog's snout,
“Just from the bristles popping out.”
“Cou'd I but give young ladies warning,
“They'd ne'er approach you in the morning;
“I hate to see such misses paint,
“Moll Rouge had almost made me faint;
“Fresh from the water she's a fright,
“No white wash'd wall is half so white.”
Thus flies this jargon round the table,
Which well may vie with ancient Babel.

Next comes the dinner, dreadful strife!
When many a chicken yields its life;
When Molly's hands all stain'd with gore,
Proclaim the turkeys are no more.
Tom scouts away for rum to town,
Whilst Biddy runs the pullets down.
Plung'd deep in paste the mistress stands,
And issues round confus'd commands.
“Go Molly—call the butcher—run,
“See if that mutton-pie is done;
“Why don't you go?—reach me that dish;
“Confound the drummer and his fish!
“I'll by that rogue be disappointed,
“So let the loin be quickly jointed;
“If he shou'd come no mischief done,
“'T will serve for chops when we're alone;
“Go fetch Tom Terry's largest pot,
“See if that griddle yet be hot.
“Go Jack, and call that idle jade;
“No—let the table first be lay'd:
“Curse on this work! I hate such routing.”
Thus here we'll leave the mistress pouting.

The host to ev'ry house sends round,
Whilst jugs or glasses can be found.
More petty states here lend a hand,
Than sail'd of old to Priam's strand.
Here some the table-cloths supply,
And one a dish to bake a pie;
That lends a tea-pot and a jug,
And this a flesh-fork and a mug.
Of chairs and tables what a gleaning!
The owners on their half-doors leaning;
Impatient for that pleasing sign,
When they may sit as well as dine.
The signal made that dinner's done,
And all who're bidden now may run;
Quick from their hives they sally forth
As thick as herrings from the North.
What damn'd confusion up and down,
Like wren-boys scamp'ring thro' a town;
Each scouting fast to gain a seat,
For they must stand who come in late,

Here on a three-leg'd stool you see
One used to fit on taffaty.
An oaken chair without a back,
A can that doth its handle lack,
Support a board which long withstood
The buffets of the azure flood;
And on it plac'd with nicest care,
Now sit the Mahon's naiades fair;
As nought with force can long contend,
And all at beauty's shrine must bend,
This board o'er-charged is here lay'd low
What wou'd not strike to such a blow!
Sly Cupid surely lent his aid,
Fresh bloom to add to ev'ry maid;
That each fond youth might, with a grace,
Assist his fav'rite to replace.
A rushy couch above appears,
To pay respect to hoary years.

And yet tho' homely these appear,
The social virtues flourish here;
Congenial mirth expands the soul,
And cordial friendship fills the bowl;
The circling glass elates the heart,
All seem unwilling to depart,
'Till Somnus knocks, and tells the hour,
When mirth must yield to nature's pow'r.

Next morning brings a plaguy rout,
For all to find their own things out.
From house to house a servant runs,
And for her own her neighbour duns;
That swears she surely lent a kettle,
And this a sauce-pan made of metal;
Joan claims the tea-things in all haste;
And Poll the pin that roll'd the paste;
Moll vows she lent a dozen plates,
And thus the cook-maid mildly treats;
“Why blast your eyes! you saucy quean
“These dishes mine! how neat and clean;
“Here take these back, for mine were new,
“And 'stead of grease, were edg'd with blue.”
In comes another piping hot,
To claim her master's coffee pot,
Says, for it he is breakfast waiting,
Yet lolls an hour or more in prating.
Next Susan comes in mighty flutter,
To bawl aloud for borrow'd butter.
Such bustle oftimes, in a grove,
I've seen, when rooks begin to love,
Each tearing, from another's nest,
A twig with which her own she drest.

When pinching frosts, and rains appear,
And tell approaching winter near,
All hurry off in mighty haste,
To revel in the city feast.
Of trunks, and boxes what a packing,
You'd think some petty town was sacking;
Or that a show-man mov'd his gear,
To juggle at some neighb'ring fair.
A band-box, and a chicken coop,
Are snug pack'd in a barrel hoop;
An empty cask, and broken fiddle,
Are mounted on a sooty griddle,
On beds above the children settle,
And pendent swings the well-stuff'd kettle.

We'll now suppose them all departed,
Some thumping pillions, others carted,
What mighty changes now begin,
When Hodge and wife both enter in.
The swine first nuzzels to its birth,
And ragged brats surround the hearth;
Where miss her face bedeck'd with patches,
Now Nora comfortably scratches;
Where, sighing lovers made fine speeches,
Now yelps a brat without a breeches;
Where, lavish'd plenty smil'd before,
These now enjoy their labour'd store:
Tho' poor with honest hearts they give;
And ev'ry stranger would relieve.
May sweet content their cottage cheer,
'Till you revisit them next year.

Sure none will think offence I meant,
Faith! frolick was my whole intent.
Dear neighbours, then farewell! adieu!
'Twill fit myself as well as you.