Classic Poem

In a spot were a bard or a readable book
Is as scarce as good food in famine
Five muck worms their own honest callings forsook
& must needs a new calling be a shamming
Theyd heard of famd parnuss its fountain & daughters
& ryhme turnd their brains topsy turvy
So they thought if they een got a dip in its waters
Twoud cure as the sea cures the scurvey.

Then off they went hooting their songs to parnassas
& 'cause pegasus startld & kickd at each guest
Each stole from a common a sizeable jackass
Who sung on the journey as brave as the best
Growing weary with travel they determind to call
At that castle that stands at the foot of the hill
So famous with fashion calld patronage hall
Were each mongrels welcome that handles a quill.

At length a fog rose & their courage forsook em
As they mournd their lost hopes to the muses in vain
Till two dark looking lasses in black over took em
Which set them all hooting & braying again
Each told his best tale & the ladys full civil
Invited them all to a palace hard bye
But wethert belongd to a muse or a d — — l
The fog fell so thick that they coudnt descry.

Poems coverd the floor like dead leaves nearly rotten
& vain twere to look by what names they were born
For the titles as well as the ryhmes were forgotten
& the place were each authors name glittered was torn

The maids then unveild all their charms in their fullness
That shone like the light thro oild paper by day
& calld up a sleepy fat doxy calld dulness
To hear what each ryhme stricken fool had to say
The first name she calld on was Strattons who smarting
Neath hopes expectation ran up in a bustle
Thinking the pass in his pocket was certain
To get him some favour when signd by Lord Russel.

If these are your poems friend ni[c]olas stratton
No more for the love of the muses be hitchin
They scoff you so set your bad rhymes on a slatterns
Never mind if she washes up things in the kitchen
Shell be kind & good naturd — & you M r Messing
Save your trouble the muses but treat you with scorn
& really your case is for certain distressing
For your poems all dyd on the day they were born.

" Village Wreath" by John Banton what a name — is it Bantum
Bantum fowls honest friend are too muffld to flye
Never let the proud muses once know that you want em
Theyll scout you & doom you that instant to dye
Your clerk of the parish your patrons the parson
Well all will not help you to heli[c]ons hill
Your frend may be good but hes made a sad farce on
His wisdom by putting his ink in your quill.

Go home & attend to his needs on a sunday
Sing amens without sleeping & seek to the pews
Sing psalms or get drunk as you please on Saint Monday
Do any thing friend but the courting the muse
& what have we here — " St John" a small poem
By Wilkinson — aye your all children of mine
So near take your books to parnassus to show 'em
They hate you tis true so be ruld & resign.

What another bard still why Im weary of reading
" The Early muse" fex & macpershon in rhyme
No matter by whom for yere all of my breeding
As heavy as lead & as dead as lost time
Give up the proud muses & we will attend you
Oblivion Obscurity & Dullness thats I
& if you dont like us let schoolboys befrend you
Make your books into kites friends & teach them to flye.

What both from the city of good peter boro
In deed thats a good naturd city to me
Fame never as yet cares to add to my sorrow
By making my subjects rebellio[u]s or free
In a large gothic pile no doubt ont you know 'em
Ive many a gown hidden kinsman & brother
Tell them I reccomend you & your poems
& the poets & patrons will be worthy each other.

Dont drop down your wishes love sick for the muses
Love me my good fellows Im your frend at your call
Ill stick in your praises never mind who abuses
& still youll have titles at patronage hall
No critics can hurt you while Im on your side
For a man in his coffin a foe never dreads
Ere your poems are born Ill a coffin provide
So make us some work boys & empty your heads.

She smild when she ceasd for she saw they respected
Her cou[n]sil — & her sisters rose up in delight
& shouted when instantly round them collected
All the owls & the bats from the bosom of night
When they all sung a dirge that may startle parnassus
To the praise of the bards that had joind them that day
Who listend wi rapture & mounted their asses
Repeating [the verses] the[y] had heard on their way.