Classic Poem

You, friend, who whilom tossed the ball,
Or made th' erected nine-pin fall,
Who at the shuffleboard were busy,
Or ran a race with little Lucy,
Are now observant of the rules
And learnèd precepts of the Schools,
Grown perfect master in dispute,
Propound, discuss, prove or confute;
In terms of art can make appear
('Gainst reasons strong that interfere)
A foppish coxcomb's no baboon,
Nor yet a hog a Highland loon,
Though all your logic you must use
To prove a matter so abstruse.

Sometimes, your harrassed mind t' unbend,
You chat an hour with Whiggish friend,
In pensive mood steal out unspied,
To fetch a walk by pleasant Clyde;
Or throw off your scholastic air
T' amuse yourself among the fair,
Where, for one Moggy you distinguish,
You vow you'd all the sex relinquish.

Sometimes you see a Highland beau
Come trading down to land called Low:
His dirk laid by, the brawny younker
By dint of argument would conquer.
By time he'll learn to make fine speeches,
To read and write—and put on breeches.

But now, methinks, I hear you say,
‘Melissa still is wond'rous gay!’—
I strive with patience to endure
The evils which I cannot cure.
I live secluded from the town,
I know but few, by few am known;
I seldom go to park or play,
And once a fortnight drink my tea;
Needle or book 'twixt thumb and finger,
Till tuneful voice of ballad-singer
Will sometimes make me throw it by,
And to the window swiftly fly.
From thence I hear the tattered dame,
To dirty mob, extol the fame
‘Of glorious Charles of Swedeland!’ …

With girls and maids on evening fair
In Tuttle-fields I take the air;
Or sometimes to the Mill-bank go:
From thence I hear embroidered beau,
And belle in garden-satin dressed,
With gallantry exchange a jest,
In language as polite and neat
As e'er was used in Billingsgate.
Methinks my case you now deplore:
‘No lady-vis'tants as of yore;
No cheerful, inoffensive chat
Of books, and wit, of this and that!
What an insipid life you lead:
'Twere better you in Wales had stayed.’

I hate, dear Coz, to waste the day
In prating scandal, sipping tea:
The ancient custom I would choose,
When two good meals was all in use,
Not toper-like, from morn till night,
Indulge my sloth and appetite.
Once (and but once) your scribbling friend
On highflown lady did attend;
Some of the modish class soon came
To pay their visits to the dame;
With scandal, treason, coffee, tea,
The time passed merrily away.
Such was their malice, such their pride,
They Carolina's self decried!
Then masquerade, intrigue and dress,
And all the trifling, gay excess
Of equipage, rich jewels, rings,
Expensive toys, and gew-gaw things,
Were next th' elaborate themes on which,
With much redundancy of speech,
The dames harangued; till, tired at last,
I to my dearer jewels haste,
Dearer to me than costly gem
Or laced gallant can be to them.

When gloomy thoughts possess my head,
I pay my visits to the dead:
Naught like the Abbey pleases then,
And monuments of famous men.
This head with victor-laurel crowned,
Those brows poetic bays have bound;
The glorious warrior and the wit
Must both to death's dire stroke submit,
But here, I frankly must confess,
The hero does affect me less
Than sacred bard: one gains a name,
But 'tis the other stamps his fame.
E'en Marlborough, whose renown excels
The tales which ancient story tells
Of demi-gods, his name would die,
And deeds in dark oblivion lie,
But that an Addison conveys
Immortal verse to future days,
In which his acts will be read o'er,
Till this vast globe shall be no more.
That monument of wond'rous frame,
Raised by an emperor to his fame,
Devouring Time can waste away:
But sacred Verse will ne'er decay.