Classic Poem

The Argument

Michy, the Hero of my Rhyme
Sent to the Golden World, to trade,
All spent and gone, Returns in time,
With a Bald Eagle, to his Dad.
The Neighbo'rs big wth expectation,
In shoals attend the Rareeshow.

All You of the West, No'th, Eastward, or South,
Who Gape, for a Ballad, at eye ear and mouth,
Open all, to a tale told a thousand times o'er,
But never adorn'd with gay Dogrel before.

In Southwark, renown'd for those eminent Schools
Of faith and good pay the Kingsbench and the Rules,
A darksome old Shed, now on crutches for Age
Held the reverend head of Peltander the Sage.
Long time this old Sire in the liberal Arts
Of scraping and saving exerted his parts
And each night in good straw, threw himself and his care
On the fleabitten breast of Membrana the Fair.
With tumbling together and heaven knows what,
A thing on two legs, call'd a Son, was begot.
So taper and small that some Authors protest
He wrigled his way from his Mother's right breast
But whether 'twas so, or the commoner way
Or, as one, from Ear, it beho'ves not to say
For us 'tis enough that the day he came out
He dress'd leather, told money, got drunk and what not
As indeed was it fit that one born to such feats
Shou'd ignobly be swath'd or lose time at the teats?
Besides it agrees not with what we're adoing
To suffer our Hero be too long agrowing.
This Worthy hight Michy, a name so compleat
So fit, so fullmouth'd, so Heroick, and great,
That Pyrgopolinices, Bombardomachides
Orgoglio Pantagruel Roland Alcides
With all the tall Huffers that ever were written
To Michy compared are but names for a kitten
I'm amaz'd the dull writers neglected so long
A Name so well turn'd for Heroical Song;
But blest be the Muses it so was forgot,
And blest o'er and o'er that it falls to my lot;
Inspired, I scarce bear its impetuous sway,
And a Writer so help'd, what cannot he say.
And oh! had You seen, at a pun or a jeer
How he darted his tongue with an amorous leer,
Stretch'd his cheeks to a Cubit, and twinkled his eyes,
With me, you'd pronounce him as lovely, as Wise. —

Now so it fell out, by I know not what shifts
That Mich' gave his Daddy such hopes of his gifts
That all the gay gold he cou'd e'er rap or rend
With Michy to Sea for a venture he'll send
And having himself, with nineteen of his kin
To raise twenty good pounds pawn'd all to the skin;
And, withal, taken up, at unspeakable charge,
A Hopsellers coat of a sadcolourd serge,
With a gay Calimanco, the best you may swear
That Norwich cou'd boast, for 'twas made by the Mayor,
For a holyday vest; a special gray felt,
And ratling new breeks of an old weathers pelt,
A groat for the fob, woolen hose, russet shoen.
And dropping some tears for his gold, or his Son:
Brave Michy's cal'd in, he appear's, is made fine,
Scrapes a leg, goes abo'rd, and away for the Line, —

He's gone; he's return'd (for his errand is not,
Or at least, the most part, any part of the Plot)
He's ashoar, nobly mounted on that very beast
He bought by the pound; a notable jeast!
They that ask, may be told it some leagues to the West.
But Michy draws near, and now 'ery Friend
May expect his approach at Southwark townsend:
The Streets are all lined with the Bands, as 'tis said,
Not those of the City, the Orange, or Red;
But those of the Rules, the Mint, the Kingsbench,
Kent-Street, Pickle-herring; the devil a Wench
That cry's my fresh Oysters, brooms, matches, or dill,
But see jolly Mich had a hearty good will.
Away then, in shoals — when lo! as they wish'd,
He enters in pomp, with a Bird on his fist.
Ah Sirs! if you're Wise, take example this day,
Fit out the Young Urchins, and pack 'em to Sea:
See there what comes on't. Why Michy! why Sirrah!
I knew You the dirtiest rogue in the Burrough;
Oh [ ] how his Voyage has [ ]
How the Young Knave is chang'd? why H'as got a clean shirt
My Watty for farthings must trudge with a link,
Had I sent him to Sea — I know what I think;
Here! Michy returns so rich and so fat,
'Tis like he's too proud to take notice of Wat.
Who'd ha' thought twenty shillings so much cou'd ha' done?
Had I known't, I shou'd e'en ha' kept mine for my Son.
But bles'd be the loins that so richly were stow'd,
And happy the tripe that once held the dear load!
With joy my heart swels (like the Mother's) to think, —
When the bags are turn'd up, how the money will chink.
Oh Lud! what a glittering heap We shall see!
Alass my dear Watty! is none of't for thee?
Then the Bird, ay the bird, what a stately choice thing!
To be sure tis for no less a man than the King. —
But thereby hangs a tale — for that bird is the glory,
The flow'r, and the cream, and the Gem of my story;
Not hatch'd from an Egg, but in fashion so strange
That not Ovid himself hath so wondrous a change.
Then, while the Young Knight's by the Rabble's adored,
Let's withdraw from his joy's, and inquire of the Bird. —

Now Mich was arrived at Antigua, Jamaica
Barbado's, Bermude, or the Lands of Tobaco,
And had frugaly laid his twenty good pounds
In the best Oroonoke on American grounds;
His market soon made, and about to turn home,
He wash'd down his cares in all-sovereign Rum.
Night came, and 'twas time to retire to his lodging,
When lo! as Young Michy was thitherward trudg'ing
A Minion of Venus presents in his way,
And Michy was frail, and consented to stray;
But time and the place and the sum were agreed,
And my Gallant had all his affections cou'd need;
But his Mistress (poor heart) for demanding her pay,
Was dismis'd, with a kick, and my Spark slunk away. —
Enraged with her wrongs, and dissolving in tears;
To Venus her Goddes, she offered these prayr's. —

Oh thou! that from Cyprian Idalium, or Paphos,
Art charm'd by our sorrows, and haste: thee to save us!
Oh thou! to whose great and mysterious Rites
We devote all our thoughts our days, and our nights,
Thou! from whom thy inspired learn that speech of the Eye
That appoints where and when, tho' the husband be by;
To talk love upon fingers, to tread without noise,
Bribe hinges and locks that they blab not our joys;
In vain do'st thou teach, in vain do we serve,
Thy bounties are scorn'd, and thy Preistesses starve.
Young Michy tho' wanton voluptuous and strong, —
— But what need of telling a Goddes my wrong?
Thou knows't all my griefs, oh some succour dispense!
And teach the bold Atheist to know his offence. —
So may thy realms flourish, new votaries rise,
And thy Altars stil glow with the last Sacrifice. —
She said, she was heard — and the Goddess exprest
In Oracular wise how she lik'd her request:
A fierce Bird of prey shall the preyer chastise.
But hast thou to his store, understand, and rejoyce. —

Away, as comanded, my Damsel do's speed,
And finds Michy at work on a hogshead of Weed,
When, behold! he turn'd pale, and the Nymph drawing near,
To inquire of the cause of so sudden a fear,
What he pack'd for Tobaco, oh wondrous to speak!
Was converted to talons, plumes, quills, and a beak;
The Leaves, flesh and entrails and feathers were grown,
The stems and the fibres, beak talon and bone;
These scattering parts reunite in one frame,
And what, now, was a weed, a Bald Eagle became:
The like wonder was wrought in the hogshead unseen,
Which sprung up in a Cloud and left nothing within. —

No sooner 'twas done, but the birds took their flight;
Save that one staid behind to give som'thing to write.
For this was the Bird that we left long before,
Perch'd, on Michy's right hand, at his Daddy's own door;
Where, we now shou'd go on to relate what was done,
But You'l guess how a Miser, receiv'd such a Son.
Besides, we've perform'd what we first did intend,
The tale of the Eagle; which now's at an end.
Other times we shall tread in our Knights other paces,
And sing how he won a fair Widows good graces:
But sure we deserve many thanks, the mean time,
Who've enrich'd a dull Story with delicate Rhyme.