Classic Poem

A Chaplain once most tender-hearted ,
When a good Q — n from earth departed,
Being to mount at court the rostrum,
To get preferment form'd a nostrum:
Many, say he, on this occasion,
Have artfully condol'd the nation,
That loss of such a Q — n as she,
To be repair'd can never be;
Have in their pulpits mobb'd old Death,
For boldly stopping royal breath;
I'll do as they have done before,
And think I can do something more;
Of thriving now as strong the scent is,
If I can addere inventis :
I think, says he, I can't miscary,
Nor long for great promotion tarry,
As opiates make the restless sleep,
I'll use some art to make me weep.
Says Roger , it is wisely said,
But you've no fountains in your head?
And how your tears will trickle down,
To me, such art, is quite unknown.
Then whispering low, 'twill do, says he,
Betty the cook did so by me;
And when I saw her grief and tears,
I thought she lov'd me, tho' in years.
I jump, good Sir, in your opinion,
Then fetch me, Hodge, says he, an onion.
Strait to a green-stall Roger trudges,
Nor sixpence for an onion grudges;
This, says the chaplain, is the thing,
Which will its strong effluvia bring,
And soon as it bestows its juices,
Open kind nature's tender sluices:
Thus of his weeping charm possest,
Up-mounted now this cunning priest,
Slowly he climbs the pulpit stair,
And blubbers something like a prayer.
With onion then he wipes his eyes,
Which favour'd well his sly disguise.
And thus begins his sad oration,
" Fain would I on this great occasion,
" This cause for E — — d's lamentation;
" Of my dear mistress something say,
" Of royal virtue turn'd to clay,
" But flowing tears will force their way.
Then stoops his head and disappears,
To wipe and force his artful tears.
The onion well performs its part,
And you'd have thought them from his heart ;
Till sobbing out her royal graces,
And straining hard to wet all faces,
The onion from its cloathing pops,
And down the stairs most nimbly hops:
From step to step it makes its way,
And the poor chaplain did betray;
As it jump'd down the verger smiled,
Surely, says he, the man is wild;
Immediately he pick'd it up,
And then ascended to the top,
And gave it to the flattering minion
With these expressions — Sir, your onion ,
Thus was the knave and fool expos'd,
And thus, good Sirs, my tale is clos'd.