Classic Poem

I Meant to sing, intent on Praise,
Some lofty Theme in lofty Lays;
Some Hero, God or Nymph Divine,
Where one might strut, parade and shine;
Walk in the Clouds, look big and bluster — —
These gain a Bard th' excelling Lustre;
Small Hopes to win th' immortal Bay,
This flat, dry, awkard, Ethic way.

Thus, while, with Emulation vain,
I urg'd to Wrath the tuneful Train ,
Thoughtless of Castigation near,
An angry Sister twitch'd my Ear,
And Marks of Rage did deeply fix in,
Ah! by her Nails, I warr'nt a Vixen,
Soon quell'd my high poetic Itching,
And made me Turn-Spit of her Kitchen.

Yet hence the Lays may Fame acquire,
My Theme affords me Point and Fire ;
Great Names have fill'd a Sphere as low,
Strip'd of their rhiming, tinsel Show.
Amymone , whom Poets make
Employ'd each Morn at Lerna 's Lake,
And sam'd King Belus ' fisty Daughters,
Whose crack-flaw'd Urns leak'd out their Waters,
In spite of paultry Paint, and Trimming,
Were nought, but plain old Washer-Women.
That Youth, from Phaebus ' Coach-Box hurl'd,
(How Bards will lie!) who fir'd the World,
I warr'nt (more Shame on the Contriver)
Was but some drunken Stage-Coach Driver.
And Ganymede , and Hebe wanton,
(Whom some so lavishly descant on,)
Tho' Gods, in Homer 's lying Book, made,
Were but a Foot-Boy, and a Cook-Maid,
Jove 's self, Olympus ' thund'ring King,
Of whom such bouncing Feats they sing,
What has he at the best to boast,
But that, like me, he rules the Roast ?
I could fetch Parallels enough in,
But hang such pride-like Airs and Puffing,
In my low Sphere, I'll find Enjoyment,
And moralize on my Employment.
Attend, each vain, elated Scoffer,
While these grave Meditations offer.

Wou'd some new Sphynx her Riddle bring,
A Spit 's an Enigmatic Thing ,
Hack-Horse, on which no Flesh wou'd straddle,
And yet a King might eat its Saddle;
Trav'ling all Times with nimble Pace,
Yet rarely moving from its Pace;
To Man a wise, tho' silent Teacher,
A sort of emblematic Preacher ;
Still labouring to make others fatter,
And fill'd with choice of savoury Matter.
When charg'd at once with numerous Cates,
Resembler of united States,
Where Beasts of Kind, with Birds of Feather,
Stick close, and socially together.
Fair Sketch of Virtue seldom seen,
Where fat Joints drip, to baste the lean;
Image of fickle Wealth, and Power,
Full Flesh'd, and bare Bon'd in an Hour.
Like Gamester plump — then rook'd, and whipt bare,
Or Poet — — cloath'd (at times) — — and stript bare.

But hold, with a Satiric Sneer,
Methinks you cry, What Themes are here?
Treat grave learn'd Heads with Spits and Pokers?
Bard! fit for Scullion-Boys, and Stokers.
With leave — the Learn'd themselves impart
Whole Volumes on the Cookery Art,
Recipes, Dict'naries expressing,
The Terms, and various Modes of Dressing;
By just Deduction we reply hence,
Our Subject is a Branch of Science.

Those Axes, (if you please) or Poles,
On which we feign each Planet rolls,
Are Names devis'd by crazy Wits;
In fact they only turn on Spits
Round to the Sun, (or Fame's a Lyar)
Like Capons at our Kitchen Fire.

The Steel that arms the Warrior's Side,
That Badge of State and royal Pride,
Worn by each Squire, and Knight at Court,
Is but a Spit of better sort.
A Sworded Man's a Phrase ill fitted,
We say in proper Speech, one spitted .

But lest (this Situation plac'd in)
You think I'm dry , and need a basting,
And finding, as by Proverb told,
My Argument too hot to bold ,
Thus, humbly stooping to your Mercy,
I slip the Chain of Controversy,
Or here, at Disadvantage posted,
Good sooth! I shall be rotten-roasted .