Classic Poem

To thee fair creature, Sally Horne,
And sure a fairer ne'er was born;
A grave biographer I send,
By Newberry in the churchyard penn'd;
(Or, if to truth my phrase I stinted,
By Newberry in the churchyard printed;)
Hight Mother Bunch — a worthier sage,
Ne'er fill'd, I ween, th' historic page;
For she, of kings and queens can prate,
As fast as patriotic Kate;
Nor vents like her, her idle spleen,
Merely because 'tis king or queen.
Kate, who each subject makes a slave,
Would make each potentate a knave;
Though Britons can the converse prove,
A king who reigns and rules by love.
While Mother Bunch's honest story,
Unaw'd by Whig unwarp'd by Tory;
Paints sovereigns with impartial pen,
Some good, some bad, like other men.
Oh, there are few such books as these,
Which only mean to teach or please;
Read Mother Bunch, then, charming Sally,
Her writings, with your taste, will tally.
No pride of learning she displays,
Nor reads one word on hundred ways;
To please the young she lays before 'em
A simple tale, sans variorum:
With notes and margins unperplext,
And comments which confuse the text.
No double senses interfere
To puzzle what before was clear.
Here no mistaken dates deceive ye,
Which oft occur from Hume to Livy.
Her dates, more safe and more sublime,
Seize the broad phrase — " Once on a time . "
Then Mother Bunch is no misleader
In citing authors who precede her;
Unlike our modern wits of note,
Who purposely, and oft misquote;
Who injure history, or intend it,
As much as Kennicott to mend it;
And seek no less the truth to mangle,
Than he to clear and disentangle.
These short digressions we apply
Our author's fame to magnify;
She seeks not to bewilder youth,
But all is true she gives for truth:
And, till to analyze you're able,
Fable is safe while given as fable;
As mere invention you receive it,
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it;
While that bad chemistry which brings
And mixes up incongruous things,
With genuine fact invention blending,
As if true history wanted mending;
Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth,
Mere fable with a dash of truth;
In all these heterogeneous tales
The injudicious project fails;
Of truth you do not get your measure,
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure.
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts,
A sounder taste her work imparts.
Then if for prosperous turns you look,
There's no such other history book.
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em,
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em;
And all we learn of ancient times
Are human woes and human crimes,
They tell us nought but dismal tales,
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails;
And all their labours but declare
The miseries of the good and fair:
How one brave captive in a quarrel
Was tumbled down-hill in a barrel!
In fiery flames how some did fry,
Only because they dar'd not lie!
How female victims meet their doom,
At Aulis one, and more at Rome!
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd,
How Capun lost what Cannoe gain'd!
How he , whom long success attends,
Is kill'd at home among his friends!
How Athens, him who serv'd so well,
Rewarded with an oyster shell!
Rewarded with an oyster shell!
How Nero stabb'd a mother's breast!
Ah, barbarous Clio, spare the rest;
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able,
If these be truth, oh give me fable!
Till real deeds are fit to mention,
Regale my feelings with invention.
But Mother Bunch's morals tell
How blest all were who acted well!
How the good little girl's regarded,
And boy who learns his book rewarded!
How loss of favour follows rudeness,
While sugar-plums repay all goodness!
How she who learns to read or write,
Will get a coach or chariot by 't;
And not a fagot-maker's daughter
But has it at her christening taught her,
By some invited fairy guest,
That she shall wed a prince at least;
And through the whole this truth's pursued,
That to be happy's to be good.
If these to life be contradictions,
Mark the morality of fictions;
Axioms more popular they teach,
That to be good is to be rich!
For all the misses marry kings,
And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Oh, this is profitable learning,
Past cold historians' dull discerning;
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark;
Thalestris was a mere home-keeper,
And swift Camilla but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a giant's moated castle;
Where draw-bridges do open fly
If virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of virgin's little finger.
Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges,
Which history makes the work of ages,
Are here, by means of fairy power,
Achiev'd with case in half an hour.
Tucties! they prove there's nothing in it,
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute:
They never hear of ten years' jars,
(For Troy's the average length of wars.)
And diplomatic form and rule
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school,
How rapidly are state intrigues
Convey'd with hoots of seven long leagues.
Here farther too, our great commanders
Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flanders,
From Mother Bunch's Tales might hear
Some secrets worth a general's ear;
How armies need not stop to bait,
And heroes never drink or eat;
Wrapt in sublimer occupation
They scorn such vulgar renovation.
Your British generals cannot keep
Themselves or followers half so cheap:
For men and horses, out of books,
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks;
And dull historic nags must stay
For provender of oats and hay:
While there bold heroes wing their flight
Through twenty kingdoms in a night;
Of silvery dew they snatch a cup,
Or on a slice of moonshine sup;
And while they fly to meet their queen,
With half the convex world between,
Their milk-white palfreys scorning grass,
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.
Then Mother Bunch's morals strike,
By praising friend and foe alike.
What virtue to the world is lost,
Because on thy ill-fated coast,
O Carthage! sung alone by foes,
The sun of history never rose!
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own
The muse that makes those heroes known;
Then had the bright reverse appear'd,
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd:
On Punic faith, so long reviled,
The wily African had smiled;
And, possibly, not much had err'd,
If we of Roman fraud had heard.
Then leave your Robertsons and Bryants
For John the murderer of giants;
Since all mythology profane
Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though Bryant, learned friend of youth,
His fable consecrates to truth:
And Robertson with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great Raleigh knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true;
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago;
When he no just account could get
Of quarrel in th' adjacent street?
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.
But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deeds we blame.
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek,
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak;
His commentaries read again
Who led the troops and held the pen;
The way to conquest best he show'd
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him , for lofty periods fam'd,
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd;
Rend Clarendon, unaw'd, unbrib'd,
Who ruled th' events his pen describ'd;
Who law, and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.
Yet, lovely Sally, he not frighten'd,
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd;
Admire with me the fair alliance
Which mirth, at Maudlin, makes with science;
How humour may with learning dwell,
Go ask Papa — for he can tell.