Classic Poem

Ingratum Odi.

Prince of the dark abodes! I ween
Your highness ne'er till now hath seen
Yourself in meter shine;
Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere,
Sweet warbled on your smutty 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 damnation 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 ingratitude 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 coarsely, " Zounds,
I 'd give this moment twenty pounds
To see the jade in hell "

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want
To make thee downright mad;
For, mind me, in their wishing 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,
Rushing, 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!

Blushing 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.

No, 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 't was 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 't was 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 baber dasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse 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 pass;
Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,
And damn 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 charm 'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God 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.