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George Huddesford’s Warley: A Satire

Welcome to S. P. Cooper’s electronic edition of George Huddesford’s Warley: A Satire
Last updated: 5 April, 2014


Preface
This electronic edition was created as a doctoral-level graduate project for Dr. Lisa Maruca’s seminar in Eighteenth-Century Literature at Wayne State University. I am graciously indebted to Prof. Maruca for all of her suggestions and for her course itself, which gave me a chance to meet and learn from academics who are currently working on their own scholarly editions. In addition, I am thankful for the opportunity to try my own hand at creating an edition. All errors found herein are my own; please feel free to contact me through WordPress to let me know of any corrections which should be made.

S. P. Cooper
Wayne State University
December 2013


Introduction
WHEN George Huddesford published Warley: A Satire anonymously in two parts in October and November of 1778, it is unlikely that he realised that the primary reason that the work would be remembered was not its scathing satire of Royal and Aristocratic conduct, Military exercises, and attitudes and personages of the day, but rather because of a single line, and Huddesford’s appended footnote to that line, together which read:

Or gain approbation from dear little Burney*?
[* The Authoress of Evelina.]

Frances Burney

Frances Burney

This line, which comes near the end of the second part of Warley, was not the first piece of information to unmask Frances Burney as ‘The Authoress of Evelina.’ Indeed, Burney’s circle of friends knew her to be the author of Evelina, and they had, for some time, praised the work. Nor were these friends in any way uncritical, for amongst them were the influential critic Samuel Johnson and the painting master Sir Joshua Reynolds. However, Huddesford’s mention of Burney in Warley was the first time that Burney’s authorship of Evelina had been publicly exposed––a matter which could have severe repercussions in society for a woman of the late eighteenth century. Indeed, it was for this reason that Burney took such extensive precautions with secrecy, visiting several publishers, constructing fake identities, and even employing her brother to disguise himself and travel in the dead of night to sign a contract with the publisher, when it was less likely he should be recognised. These precautions, which took months, were undone with the stroke of Huddesford’s pen, though it is unlikely he knew anything of the measures which Burney had undertaken to protect her identity.

In fact, it is entirely possible that Huddesford, who likely got his information from the eminently agreeable (but not always very discrete) Reynolds. And, as Lars Troide notes, it was almost certainly Reynolds who, having heard it from Dr. Johnson himself, told Huddesford that ‘Dear Little Burney’ was the affectionate, personal nickname which Dr. Johnson used for Burney. Huddesford could well have written his lines in ignorance of the breach of confidence that was taking place in using the information which Reynolds had passed along. However, Burney certainly thought Huddesford knew what he was doing, for she wrote at the time a damning, laconic reference to Warley merely as a “vile poem” in her letters. Perhaps she was unwilling to grant the benefit of the doubt, for her anxiety was immense: in a letter to Madam D’Arblay, Burney wrote how she was ‘frightened’ by the mere mention of Warley and Huddesford in her presence.

And, but for the letters of Frances Burney, and despite the positive reviews which it received from contemporaries, Huddesford’s satire might well have been forgotten to time. As a work which critiques a more-or-less deprecated event (the military review), and which is situated largely in a framework of meaning which has been lost to us (the names and personages of the moment, whose importance are now mostly forgotten), the work has not been seen to offer much to students of literature––it is too difficult, no longer pertinent, and occasionally not-very-good on purely aesthetic grounds, besides. “Why,”––then, we ought ask–“read Warley?”

Oliver Goldsmith

Oliver Goldsmith

A fair question. But one might well ask why we ought read Pope’s Dunciad (1728, rev. 1743), which is even more complex and difficult a work. Or, perhaps more pertinently, one might ask why read Oliver Goldsmith’s The Deserted Village (1770), since it is that work which Warley strangely, and improbably, represents. For, despite its satirical, occasionally bawdy, and sometimes obscene content––and despite its inconstancy of aesthetic application in metre, rhyme, and diction (as the author’s first published work)––Warley nevertheless returns again and again to the Goldsmithian sentiment of loss which is both impending and-at-once happening. In Goldsmith’s Deserted Village, the anxieties of mechanisation and automation are expressed in a nostalgic pastoral scene whose charms, rooted not merely in the landscape but in the people, depart along with the workers streaming to increasingly industrialised urban centres, such as Manchester. But, as in Warley, Goldsmith’s centres of aristocratic wealth and power are actually the badges of underlying corruption:

If to the city sped––What waits him there?
To see Profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin’d
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow creature’s woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here, richly deck’d, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e’er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?––Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shiv’ring female lies.
(ll. 309-326)

And, importantly, for Goldsmith these choices do not occur in a vacuum, motivated solely by self-interest––rather, they are driven by an aristocracy which, through excessive displays, entice others to chase after the goal of wealth (Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade: / A breath can make them, as a breath has made)––a goal which has supplanted a simpler, more basic, natural existence, which glorifies “cheerful murmurs”, “calm desires”, and “ignorance of wealth” (ll. 53-54, 62, 70, 126).

Little Warley Common

Little Warley Common

Goldsmith’s 1770 concerns about deserted villages and the destructive effects of beckoning wealth had not magically resolved by the time that Huddesford published Warley only twenty-eight years later in 1778. Indeed, Warley can be read as voicing the same concerns using the language of satire and the lens of the Royal Reviews of the military on Warley common–itself described in the same pastoral language which Goldsmith had used for his rural villages of England’s bygone, happy past. Huddesford, too, addresses Warley: “Thine hillocks, wild Warley,” and “Little Warley, at large on thy green hillock” (Pt. I St. 2, Pt. II St. 17). Yet, in Huddesford’s own depiction of wealth and aristocratic power as destroyer, he inverts the progress which Goldsmith had observed in The Deserted Village. For, in Warley, it is wealth and power which come to the pastoral setting, rather than the pastoral guardians who leave in search of wealth and power. The urban invades the rural, and the effects are disastrous––an abominable defacing, described in the strongest possible terms:

Have you never beheld on a sun-shiny day
Old Thames a dead ass to the ocean convey,
While on ev’ry side swarm from his entrails obscene
The sons of corruption, grey, scarlet, and green,
Flies, Reptiles of monstrous proportion and limb,
That people the green wave, and stink as they swim.
The numbers surrounding his Majesty’s stand,
Such a prospect as this is afford you by land;
A Reptile Assembly of similar form,
Little Warley, at large on thy green hillock swarm;
On all sides in reeking abundance they pour,
And the vitals of Britain that bred them devour.
(Pt. II St. 17)

Here, Warley is the ‘vitals of Britain’ which are devoured by the aristocrats, generals, and camp-followers who swarm over the green hillock of the common. The peasantry in Warley are a peasantry which suffers at the hands of a rapacious and glory-seeking mob of middle-class up-and-comers and aristocrats. In the scene where the Grand Army “with courage undaunted a Pigstye subdued,” it is clear on whom the favour of nature rests (Pt. II St. 10). The dispossessed swain first defeats the Leader of Men, whose Army promptly flees at the sight of their leader fallen. When the Lord May’r of Romford calls upon the men to assail the swine-herd, rustic simplicity triumphs over the flash and show of uniforms and titles which bespeak no natural, real power in their possessors:

But the Swine-herd disdaining his numerous foes,
Assails my Lord May’r, disarranges his nose;
And extends horizontal, in regular order,
Tom-turdman, Attorney, Shrieve, Clerk and Recorder;
(Pt. II St. 10)

Hogarth's March of the Guards to Finchley

Hogarth’s March of the Guards to Finchley

It is only when the army returns and overwhelms the swine-herd through sheer force of numbers that he is once again dispossessed of his property, which is promptly consumed by the voracious and gluttonous troops: “His Potatoes they eat, and his Porkers they salted” (Pt. II St. 10). Just as in Goldsmith it is wealth which beckons to, and thus consumes, the human resources of the rural village, so in Huddesford wealth descends upon a rurality and consumes all that lies within it; and, that which cannot be consumed is destroyed. The result is a waste–both in the sense of a deserted and desolate expanse, but also in the sense of lavish misuse and a squandering without thought for value or sustainability. For in both The Deserted Village and in Warley, the destruction is ever-impending and occurring. With each harvest, more people leave the village for the city; and the Royal Review at Warley is similarly recurrent. There is no way for either pastoral setting to recover, for the depredations they suffer are on-going: the new normal.

Huddesford’s Warley offers a largely-unstudied window into an eighteenth-century anxiety about rural desolation and urban exultation––an anxiety which manifested itself not only in pastoral laments about the desertion of villages but in satirical broadsides against the excesses of Royal Reviews in Essex. Warley allows us to grasp a new language for discussing this anxiety and for thinking about the ways in which popular cultural movements (towards the glorification of trade and finance, military accomplishment, and a developing upper middle-class and those who aspired to it) help to shape, frame, and are co-opted into a proxy discussion of that anxiety. And, most promisingly, if Warley can help us to uncover that language of anxiety, it may help us to perceive a discussion of that anxiety in other contemporary works––works, which, like Warley, are simply waiting to be uncovered.

S. P. Cooper
Wayne State University


About the Author

A self-portrait of George Huddesford

George Huddesford, Self-Portrait

George Huddesford
(b. Oxford, 1749 (bap. 7 Dec.), d. London, 1809)

The Reverend George Huddesford was born in Oxford near the end of 1749, and was baptised on 7 December of the same year at St. Mary Magdalen Church in Oxford. The son of the president of Trinity College, Oxford, Huddesford attended Winchester College and then Trinity College, Oxford. He graduated BA in 1779 and MA in 1780 from New College Oxford. Awarded a fellowship in 1771, he abandoned the position just over a year later (the list of members of the college lists his marriage as the reason for his departure, citing his juvenile amore–youthful passion–as having led him to marry in haste).

After his departure from New College, Huddesford studied painting under the English master Sir Joshua Reynolds, and his pictures were shown at Royal Academy exhibitions. Reynolds painted Mrs. Huddesford in 1778, and then undertook a commission from Huddesford to paint Huddesford and his friend John Bampfylde. In October of the same year, Huddesford had anonymously published the first volume of Warley: A Satire, with the second volume following a month later. Huddesford dedicated both volumes of Warley to Sir Joshua Reynolds, and it was read by Reynolds’ circle of friends, of which Huddesford was a member.

George Huddesford and John Bampfylde by Sir Joshua Reynolds

Huddesford (L.) and Bampfylde (R.) by Sir Joshua Reynolds

Not all of Huddesford’s contemporaries were pleased with having been mentioned in his anonymously-published satire: indeed, it is for this reason that Warley is remembered at all, for it was in Warley that Frances Burney’s anonymous authorship of Evelina was revealed (near the end of Part II), as was Dr. Johnson’s nickname for her–“Dear Little Burney”. In response to this perceived breach of confidence, Burney named Warley a “vile poem”. However, as Lars Troide’s note implies (p. 224), it is not clear whether or not Huddesford knew that the matter was meant to be so secretly kept, given that the information was likely related to him through Reynolds.

Huddesford continued to publish poetry into the early 19th century (even though he had become the Vicar of Loxley in 1803) including Salmagundi, Topsy Turvy, Bubble and Squeak, and Crambe repetitia amongst others. A number of collections of his own poetry were produced, and he was responsible for editing a collection of poetry written by his Winchester contemporaries, which was published in 1804. His last work was likely Imperial Mushrooms in 1805. Four years later, Huddesford died in London in November of 1809.

Sources
Courtney, W. P. “Huddesford, George (bap. 1749, d. 1809).” Edited by S. C. Bushell. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Online edition. Oxford University Press, 2004. http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/14024.
Huddesford, George. Warley: A Satire, Part the First. London: D. Brown, 1778.
______. Warley: A Satire, Part the Second. London: D. Brown, 1778.
Troide, Lars E. and Stewart Cooke, eds. The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Volume III: The Streatham Years: Part I, 1778-1779. London: Oxford University Press, 1994. (see pp. 193, 210, 218-219, 221, 224.)


How to Cite This Text
Huddesford, George. Warley: A Satire. Edited by S. P. Cooper, January 2014. Electronic edition. https://akademician.com/works/warley/


A Note on the Text
Every reasonable effort has been made to preserve the original presentation of Huddesford’s text, with but few exceptions. These editorial decisions were:

– The Long s (ſ) has been rendered as ‘s’ in every instance, as these symbols are identical in their meaning and pronunciation.

– Punctuation spacing has been modernised. Punctuation now precedes or follows letters without spacing, unlike in the original where punctuation was often separated from letters by the addition of an extra space (i.e. sight ! becomes sight!)

– The font (Palatino, or Times New Roman on computers without Palatino) is very similar to the Baskerville font which was used at the time of original publication. However, Baskerville has not been used in this edition for purposes of readability and clarity.

– Italics, small capitals, long dashes, and short separated dashes have all been preserved.

– Pagination has been abolished. Line numbers have not yet been added (though their future implementation is planned). This solves the incorrect page numbering in the original edition. For citation, it is suggested the readers cite by Part and Stanza number (i.e. Pt. II St. 17).

– As a result of the move to a single document, footnotes are now printed at the end of the stanzas in which they occur. To differentiate footnotes from the text of the poem, footnotes are enclosed in square brackets ([ ]), but the square brackets are not present in the original. The reference symbols originally used are duplicated herein, as are their locations.

– Kerning and spacing has been approximated with an eye to accuracy. The relative size of fonts, the spacing between letters, and the spacing of text in relation to other text has been preserved. In addition, single and double lines in the text have been similarly preserved.

– The triplet brackets in the right margin, indicating rhyming triplets (as opposed to couplets), have also been preserved.

– Huddesford’s Errata corrections to Part I have been implemented without comment.


———————————————————————————————

W A R L E Y:

A    S A T I R E.

FOR THEE, whom Minerva, St. Luke and Apelles,
Have shewn what in heav’n and in earth, and in hell is;
Whose Pencil inherits the fire of Promethëus,
And saves from the lake of oblivious Lethe us;
And each drawing-room graces for fair ready rhino,
With a bare a–––– young Jove, or a starv’d Ugolino:
And, like Hunter, gives birth to, with fingers so lissom,
Girls, that start from the canvas, and ask us to kiss ‘em.
Oh REYNOLDS! for Thee, shall the militant muse
Depicture the scene of our Royal Reviews.

    In the county of Essex, from whence none away go,
Who have not encounter’d a Calf or an Ague;
A few miles to the north of the fam’d town of Romford,
Which to lanthorn-jaw’d buttocks administers comfort;
Near neighbour to Brentwood, and close on the right,
Thine hillocks, wild Warley, astonish the sight!
Thine hillocks, abounding with banners and flags,
Where the rich shew their taste, and the beggars their rags;
Where tag-rag and bob-tail, of various degrees,
Full of wonder resort, and return full of fleas.

    Ten thousand brave fellows here fatten in clover,
On Three-pence a day, and a Half-penny over;
Ten Thousand old Women, as many young Flirts,
To curry and wash’em, and mend their old shirts;
And a regiment of Barbers, who never yet fear’d
The Chevaux de frize of an outlandish beard;
Cooks, Sutlers, Bawds, Methodist Preachers in shoals,
To take Christian care of their bodies and souls.
His numbers their gallant Commander surveys,
While great as Old Xerxes his truncheon he sways;
Thus Moses of Israel, Commander, and Bishop,
Offended with Egypt, could call at his wish up
An Army of Locusts, with Stomachs rapacious,
To devour their provisions, and all things herbaceous.
Thus, Essex, thine Oxen and Fatlings are slain,
Nor of all thy green herbs does one cabbage remain.

    But lo! the fierce heroes are forming the lines,
What carnage awaits the fat turkies and chines!
Sure some mighty event all these clamours announce,
For the old women swear, and the big cannons bounce!
What firing and blasting of muskets and tongues!
What waste and consumption of powder and lungs!
In vain sue for pity the frogs in the marshes,
The weasels despairing must fain turn their a––––!
Hares, rabbits, and rats in a terrible taking,
Their mansions so snug in a trice have forsaken,
And alarm’d at the noise even dormice are waking.
But take my advice you poor blundering moles,
As you value your eye-sight keep snug in your holes,
If once they come near you, expect not to thrive,
For they’ll certainly kill you––or eat you alive.
Each heroe, more fierce than the offspring of Thetis,
Enflam’d with such vengeance and valorous heat is,
That they storm ev’ry fuz brush that grows on the plains,
And as for the cow-t––––s––they blow out their brains.
With fruitless entreaty the farmer alledges,
That they sap his strong fences, and burn all his hedges;
That ’tis very well known they have march’d many miles,
To pepper his gates, and be-devil his stiles;
They hear his complaint, and to finish the strife,
He broaches his beer, and surrenders his wife.

    But the muse all begrim’d with smoak, brimstone, and powder,
On a sudden is flown where the tumult grows louder.
Who comes yonder on horseback? his warlike appearance,
And Three-corner’d Hat, I shall think of this year hence;
So comely and proper, “God bless his sweet face!
(The good wives exclaim) “’tis his Majesty’s Grace,”
While the musical instruments make the woods ring,
With Roast Beef, Jolly Roger, and God save the king!
Each his drawn sword in hand, see his guards how they scamper,
French Foutres, avaunt! or he’ll give you a damper.
Obsequious around him his Nobles are waiting,
Their Ladies of Red Coats and lap-dogs debating;

    (Great *Master who feedest on purslain and cellery,
Methinks I am ranging thy populous gallery,
Where Iris presents all her beautiful hues,
Like a Silk Mercer’s ‘prentic to please Lady Muse,
The sole manufacture of beauty refin’d,
That paints the rich tints of the face and the mind;
Where glows Nature’s fire, which all other shops darken,
And exist all the graces that fail’d Noah’s ark in:)
I protest, my dear Lord, says the Countess of Squindor.
‘Tis a shame a fine Lady should e’er stay within door;
Don’t you see little Comfit, my housekeeper’s daughter,
Gallanting about with Lieutenant Mac Slaughter?
Shall dirty pert Trollops enjoy the fresh air,
And a Woman of Fashion sit still in her chair;
When ev’ry spruce Beau is her most humble servant,
And like Shock of her lips, looks, and gestures observant;
Let me rather be call’d an extravagant jilt,
Than while so much powder and essence is spilt;
Sit at home, like Penelope, weaving a quilt;
Should my husband enforce it in absolute spight,
The task of the day I’d undo in the night.
    [* Alluding to Protogenes of Greece, who is said to have lived solely on Vegetables whilst painting his celebrated Picture, JALISUS.]

    Lady Bab, I was told, you had sprain’d your fore-finger,–
Pray, Baron Mustach, have you heard the new Singer?
Sir Simon Sham-shudle has had a mishap,
His little Green Monkey was caught in a trap;
The dear little fellow is terribly maul’d,
‘Twas shocking to hear how he chatter’d and squall’d;
The physicians have met and advise amputation,
But he cannot survive such a dire operation;
And I’m certain, (should all other remedies fail,)
My Lady will die, if they cut off his tail.
One is so incommoded with people that tramp it,
I’m delighted to see you my dear Mrs. Lambet;
The Col’nel declares there’s good news i’the wind,
How does my Lord Bishop? He’s coming behind:
Parson Wallop and Jerry have thrust in their noses,
And attend on his Lordship, and Brigadier Moses.
A Review is a thing that I take great delight in,
But, Major, I hope she shall have some bush fighting:
His Grace of the terrible cannon afraid is,
But they can’t be too loud for myself or the Ladies;
Nay, as for my own part, I’m only in doubt,
Of which is most noisy, the camp or a rout;
And I’m sure, that in both there’s a charming confusion.
Says my Lady Lonehand, “What a happy allusion!
As I live, all these Officers, Soldiers, and Guards,
Appear, to my thinking, one great pack of cards:
See the Gen’ral advance with drums, trumpets, and flutes,
Why ’tis only the dear King o’Di’monds in boots;
And sly Col’nel Rammer, sharp-visag’d and grace,
Is so like, that a blind-man would think him the Knave:
Says the Major G–––– d–––– me I think I shall split,
For ne’er in my life did I hear so much wit;
Your satire so brilliant exceeds all compare,
But why should not you, Ladies, come in for your share?
Since you say that our Leaders so gallant and fine,
Like the Di’mond belac’d in their uniform shine,
By her Gait Amazonian and large Pair o’B––––.,
I aver Lady Antlet the fair Queen of’Clubb is,
And all who excell in politeness and parts
Swear Allegiance to Granby, the Sov’reign of Hearts!
But let us, Dear Ladies, one moment look back,
And make our remarks on the rest of the Pack:
On demireps, dowagers, black-legs, and jades,
A mixture of court-cards, clubs, di’monds, and spades:
See the Scotchman’s fair daughter, with gallants all round her,
Who never yet shrank from a midnight encounter;
His high rank and estate her lost husband adorns,
Whose fair spreading laurels keep pace with his horns.
Note that Usurer’s countenance, callous and grum,
Tis Pope–––– of all scoundrels, the cream and the scum,
Who had rather by half, for the national good,
See a Baronet hang’d, than an army review’d:
How the Gamblers look up to their friend Sir John Ladle,
Who mounted the Car when he quitted the Cradle;
I wish you could see him an inn-yard drive into,
And shake hands with his whore at the dining-room window;
For to no one more homage is paid, let me tell ye,
By waiters, bawds, ostlers, and Captain O’Kelly.
The rash youth, who hath reach’d that extravagant height,
Where the son of old Dædalus took his made flight;
Like period awaits, and he soon shall behold,
How frail his reliance on plumage of gold.
That handsome gilt chariot just now broken down,
Encloses a Patriot of mickle renown;
In abject confusion he trembles and reels,
And avers that the state has demolished his wheels;
But the King may his right loyal city explore,
And cry as Old Harry exlaim’d heretofore,
God be thank’d I’ve ten thousand such patriots more.
Like a herd of struck deer gay Sir Watkin aghast is,
Who together have graz’d, and together make pasties,
While they fain would lay hold on the Antlers of others,
Who this maxim imbibe with the milk of their mothers,
In distress to turn tail on Republican Brothers.
Then to Guildhall he hies him, and starts for the Chair,
“Oh Gentlemen, make me your worthy Lord Mayor*!
“By a gang of respectable varlets this day
“I was call’d on in truth, and they told me to say,
“That the city of London, both great and important,
“Had need to look sharp, that’s the long and the short on’t;
“Since two mighty pow’rs are engaging the nation,
“And your savory selves in a rank situation,
“Like Portugal Onions move tears of compassion;
“My own things and my Lady’s grow every day worse,
“I have emptied my noddle, my bowels, and purse,
“So my friends in your choice you must be very cautious.”
Thus ended Sir Knight his oration so nauseous,
But these swaggering blades to his eloquence dumb,
Unanimous voted for Alderman Plumb,
Who replenish’d the throne with his worshipful Bum.
Ah stretch not Sir Knight thine invincible face,
Thou may’st yet be permitted to carry the Mace.
Great Wilkes sees his Vassals lie sprawling below,
And tears like the tears of Old Lucifer flow,
For Old Lucifer wept, as John Milton can tell,
When he took a survey of the Devils in Hell.
Oh Chieftain! the first who shook off thine allegiance,
Wag’d war against Rulers and honest obedience:
The first who the flag of contention unfurl’d,
And in open rebellion enlisted the world;
Thou Cardinal Evil, and Scourge of the Nations,
Behold in their wane thine accurst Exhalations.
Oh Caitiff! no longer the sunbeams refulgent,
To thee and thy miscreant legions indulgent,
Shall cheer the dark path which thy footsteps have trod,
To dishonour thy Country, thy King, and thy God:
    [* Vide Verbatim, from the Daily Advertiser, September 29, 1778.]

    But amongst all this throng we shall find, to be sure,
The extravagant daughter of old Sir J–– M––––;
‘Tis yon skittish filly, in want of a Rider,
So fond of the Leveret squatting beside her.
You’re mistaken, my dear, that’s Viscountess Rantandrum,
With the Bishop of Soap-suds, and Lord Caleandrum;
And, Major, what ails you? why sure you must know,
That Sir Charles has been done up these six weeks ago;
And her Ladyship drain’d of her money and wits, Sirs,
Is to Coventry gone, or the land of the Switzers.
How yon hot-headed Senator drives all before him!
Like him who dismounted old Ahab and Joram:
The Courtiers give way, for his very looks fright’em,
You may swear ’tis the generous Landlord of Whiteham:
Of the Ministers see he is making strange work,
And applies his own Birch to the Flogger of York;
The eyes of the Court he bespatters with mud,
And whatever he swears to, will seal with his blood;
He damns all the Spencers illustrious family,
Though they sweated our foes at the battle of Ramillie:
Protests against Counsellors, Measures, and Taxes,
And for ev’ry State Noddle is whetting his axes;
In his country’s dear cause his last drop he would spill,
And wear out his horse-whip, his purse, and his quill.
Oh blind to thine honours, thy rank, and estate!
Who canst bet with the tenant that bows at thy gate;
Oh thou to whom fate with indulgence uncommon,
Has entrusted the best and the loveliest of women!
With horror reflect on the day that ensues,
When a prey to Thieves, Gamblers, Pimps, Jockies, and Jews,
Thy rich acres devolve, and thy mansion so fair
And the scum of creation thy royalties wear;
Thy children dispers’d on the face of the earth
Shall curse the dire planet that reign’d at their birth;
Thy first-born for bread at a levee shall bow,
And pawn the bright wreath that encircles his brow.

    But take notice, Dear Bab, on the right of the camp is
Lady Rottenjaw flirting with Admiral Grampus.
With her odious red hand she is patting his cheek,
While he savours and looks just as fresh as a Leek.
There is no need to prove from old musty sentences,
That great people make little use of their senses.
My lady, indeed, wears a decent Proboscis.
Yet some folks there are cannot smell with their Noses;
And the Gentry of Westminster, when they get by’t,
Cannot see with their eyes to discern black from white.
How many fair dames with the help of a candle
Cou’d scarce ascertain ev’ry strange thing they handle!
To deny folks have legs you might fancy strange talk,
Yet many who have, never use them to walk;
And I’m sure if you heard their fantastical notes,
There’s not Ten in Ten Thousand who speak thro’ their throats.
That their Makers are like’em in Scripture ’tis writ,
Their hair-dressers, milliners, taylors to wit:
And by the same Scriptures we’re credibly told,
That their idols are nothing but silver and gold.
Says General Twadgel, and curl’d his left jaw,
“You put me in mind of a drollish old saw;
“But you’re all of you Ladies, I’d almost forgot,––––
“I was going to tell you––the Devil knows what.”
Dear Twadgel, let’s have it.”––”Good Ma’am, ’tis indecent”––
We’ll pinch him to death but we’ll all have a peice on’t:––––
“‘Zounds, Ladies, I’d rather be drill’d or bombarded.”––
Then tell us––––”I will, but don’t gripe me so hard yet––
“The dog that is hungry will eat up a rank cake,
“And a t–––– to a sow is as good as a pancake.
“But, Major Kian, we are call’d for––––Allons.”
Oh the terrible wretches! I’m glad they are gone.
What the General said, pray let none of us blab;
No not to our husbands, my dear Lady Bab.
To my batter’d old Fribble! O pray never fear.
And now we are talking of husbands, my dear,
The woman that marries, I call her a goose,
For husbands are fixtures grown quite out of use:
When they once get in years, the poor Tatter-de-mallions,
Should be turn’d out a grazing with worn out old stallions;
And to speak like a lass of the turf and the ton,
I drive on who has neither blood, spirit, or bone;
Nay a Gelding would serve me as well as my own.
Dear my lady, your case makes my bowels to yearn––––
And, Madam, I think ’tis a common concern––––
Mrs. Fuzzledom swears that my Lady speaks reason,
Yes, I’d plague the Old Wretch ’till he cut his curst weazon.
But, Ladies, (you know I abominate scandal)
Sir David Coranto has damag’d his handle;
His nose, I beg Pardon, I meant to have said,
Mrs. Roundabout kick’d the poor soul out of bed.
Sir David, you know, weighs a tun and a half;
‘Tis a fact, but don’t tell it, ’twill make people laugh:
And the Knight is so sore, so courageous and bloody,
If laugh’d at, he’d run his own wife thro the body.

    See that mirrour of Knighthood, who up the hill clambers.
It can be no other than Sir W––––––m C––––––!
Sir William! The same who the world over went all,
As appears by his treatise on Taste Oriental;
The Architect famous, who gave to our view,
The fine house in the Strand, that is spick-and-span new.
And a Barn and a Lanthorn has built on its roof,
Of our art and his own to exhibit a proof§.
At the top of the front you may see the Town Lasses,
Survey the Stone Beadles, and laugh at their fasces;
“Had Bridewell such Beadles, they never would hurt us.”
Stone Beadles, my Lord!––they’re the Cardinal Virtues.
It never can be––sure they came, by their forehead,
From Newgate, the dry nurse of visages horrid‡;
Yet Geniusses often have comical whimsies,
And the house is a good one––but damn his Brick Chimnies.
    [§ Above the Royal Arms, which completely finish the front of the building, the Architect has erected a cumbrous Exhibition Room for the Royal Academy.
                                    ‡ ––––––––Leonum
                                    Arida nutrix.                 HOR.]

    Take notice of Sir O Hara Mac Daniel,
One leg in the grave, and the other in flannel;
And Ensign Cold Streamer, so closely acquainted
With my Lady, be-plaster’d, be-piss’d and be-painted.
See yon portly Stew’rd, does your Ladyship ken him?
Lord W––––––, attending his Master of Blenheim;
While Madam looks down on the rabble with scorn,
Oh –––– ––––, full high she exalteth thine horn;
And her delicate fingers, we all must allow,
Look as if they had never been milking a cow.
But a few years ago you was humble and civil,
Set a beggar on horseback, she’ll ride to the devil.

    Observe those fine cattle that gallop before,
Bold Mac Stony-batter, and Lady ––––––;
Who ‘scap’d from Bumbailiffs, by pushing a face, has
Full possession obtain’d of my Lady’s good graces;
An impudent Fellow, ne’er at a loss known was,
And carries a Lady, as well as a stone-horse.

    With full as much Brass in his countenance wroth,
Comes Parson Cross-buttock, Disgrace to his cloth!
For abuse the brave Parson had always a handle,
He sat out at first with retailing of scandal:
To America, honours and wealth he translated,
And King, Lords, and Commons incessantly baited,
When the Great to avoid Defamation, they say,
Made this Clerical Scavenger Vicar of Bray;
And you cannot imagine how alter’d the farce is,
The Court he extolls both in Prose and in Verses;
And the Rebels he swears have not rags to their ––––.
He now with profound veneration can squint on
The wonderful prowess of General Clinton,
And safe home to Mamma counter-march Master H––––
With a Thicket of Laurels that bloom round his brow;
While Washington’s ragged retainers he’d poison,
For enriching the ocean with Congo and Hyson.
Such charms has vile gold for the abject and mean,
And so justly hath *Flaccus enthron’d her a Queen,
For the system of Midas our Black Coat has learn’d,
Who melted to Guineas the Butter he churn’d.
    [* Et Decus & Formam Regina Pecuna donat.        HOR.]

    Yon steeds all bedeck with gay trappings and new bitts,
Bear a matron whose head measures forty full cubits;
Confess’d by her gait and her furbelow’d gown,
Mrs. Alderman Drawbridge from London’s fine town.
Mrs. Alderman, Sir, by her Mane I should swear
That herself or her husband at least was the May’r.
See fierce Count Orourko, whose broad shoulders bore him
Slap-dash thro’ the world like his Cousin before him;
Yet Orourko, tho’ frequently kick’d, as heart whole is,
And a Captain as brave as Will Shakespeare’s Parolles.

    Take notice of yonder fanatical rout
Encircling their Methodist Preacher about;
Who turn up their eyes with devotion and wonder,
Like Muscovy Ducks in a loud Clap of Thunder;
While in Thunder their Teacher delivers his sermon,
White-washing their Souls with the pure Dew of Hermon;
For so soul were they worn that their Owners no hopes had,
Save in Wash-Tub of Grace and New-Covenant Soul-sud.
If you’d dabble in Lather of Regeneration,
Read on to your Comfort and Edification:

A  M E T H O D I S T  S E R M O N.

        OH accursed Miscreants bound in
                Chains of gross iniquity,
        All the Fiends of Hell surrounding!
                Porkers fat in carnal Stye.

        Pull your hats off, learn Good Manners
                All that to this Grace-Shop come;
        Here Damnation waves his Banners,
                While the Devil beats his Drum.

        Leave your Fathers and your Mothers,
                Leave your wives and Children dear,
        I’m your Shepherd––––Damn all others!
                I can save you––never fear.

        See the fleecy clouds are rending,
                Down from Heav’n a Post-boy trots,
        All in radiant White descending,
                Come to soak up inky blots.

        Inky Blots of Sin and Satan’s
                Filthy Rags and running Sores;
        Rotten Tongues that hate their Matins,
                Sutlers, Captains, Rogues, and Whores.

        See the Devil intercepting,
                Tries to knock him off his Steed;
        Honest Paul in time has stepp’d in,
                Here’s old Hell to pay indeed!

        Two to One is Odds at Foot-Ball,
                The foul Fiend is pressed sore;
        Kick his heart out Branch and Root *Ball,
                Hark! yourselves may hear him roar!
    [* Ball, the Name of the Celestial Post-Boy’s Horse.]

        Now pull Devil, Paul, and Baker,
                Devil to the Spittle goes;
        Five to Four the Brimstone Raker,
                Dares not shew his naked Nose.

        Lucifer, thou Morning Star, Oh
                Dost thou leave us in the lurch;
        Gone where *Noll, Pope Joan, and Pharaoh,
                Sting their Bums with burning Birch.
    [* Oliver Cromwell.]

        Messenger of Joy eternal,
                Open Revelation Mail;
        Types of Grace adorn the Journal,
                Sent in Thunder, Storm, and Hail.

        Read, oh read the Crumbs of Comfort!
                Sion’s Morning Post recites,
        Rib your Bums at heav’nly Romford,
                Shrivell’d sore with baleful Blights.

        Lo! I advertise by auction,
                Apozem for sinful Chops,
        Saving Love’s divine Decoction
                Shedding sweet its ghostly drops.

        For each Bunter, Brim, and Trollop,
                Full of Worldly Itch and Pox,
        Pills of right Salvation Jalop,
                Two-pence purchases a Box.

        Maudlin Souls who swallow Satan,
                In your Midriff likes the rogue,
        There he shall no longer fatten,
                This will make you disembogue.

        I’m your Father and Physician,
                Wretches drunk with worldly Gin,
        Wrapt in sweet emetic Vision,
                Cast away your Slough of Sin.

        Bring, oh bring your filthy Riches,
                Treasure get that never dies;
        Forg’d for true Believer’s Breeches,
                New Jerus’lem Hooks and Eyes.
    [* “Hooks and Eyes, for Believers Breeches,” the Title of a fanatical Treatise.]

        Little callow Chicken blessed
                Who no longer wish to stray,
        ‘Neath my Corm’rant Wings caressed,
                Lo, the Path to Realms of Day!

        Foricus of Faith exploring,
                Golden hope you there shall find,
        When the latter blast is roaring,
                Sin absterging from behind.

        All the twilight Banners waving,
                Round the luscious Feast of Love,
        Ranting Cherubs, Seraphs braving
                Buttock bare with ghostly shove.§
    [§ Vide Baxter’s Spiritual Shove to a heavy-ars’d Christian.]

END OF THE FIRST PART.


———————————————————————————————

W A R L E Y:

A

S A T I R E.

P A R T  T H E  S E C O N D.

THINE Aid, mighty Master! again I invoke,
Amidst the dire scene of confusion and smoke;
Thou canst paint what e’en Phœbus might faulter to sing.
The nymph of old Bladud’s salubrious spring,
Whom the Gods have permitted to mix with the throng,
And chear the sad world with seraphical song:
Be thine to depicture fair Sheridan’s worth,
Since the Nine and Dame Venus all smil’d at her birth;
With charms more than mortal her features imprest,
And Olympus, forsaken, reside in her breast.
Left pluck’d by rude fingers this blossom should fade,
One and all to brave Richard consign’d the dear maid;
To crown his desert one and all shall conspire,
And scandal abash’d dread the sound of his Lyre.

    View yon Weavers of dull Philosophical Prose,
Led by club-footed Hermes from Sal’sbury Close;
No longer at Sarum Old Stevens shall roar,
For this Sophist of Greece votes the Organ a Bore;
But ye Goths, Huns, and Vandals! your murmurs forbear,
A greater Cecilia now graces the chair;
Whose Melody soft as Ilissus shall flow,
For the Muses and Graces his bellows shall blow,
Who scorning the limits of service monastic,
Bestrides the lone loft charg’d with Jalop so drastic;
Chaste attic Effluvia, dispersing around,
Our senses regales with the smell and the sound:
Ave Mary’s exploding, cries Sternhold, avaunt!
Heaves the Organ of Plato, and f––––ts us a chaunt.

    Fair Ladies and Gentlemen, I must have at your
Pretensions, who cram us with fine literature.
Lady Miller, who sobb’d and shed tears like a sow,
When the bright civic wreath would not fit her own brow.
Ye Sylphs and ye Sylphids! Oh, catch the rich dew,
And bottle it up in the firmament blue,
Find out Leo and Virgo, and stick it up thereby,
A Beacon for all leaky vessels to steer by.
A Pilot to guide those adventurous lasses,
Who their Dowlas extend for the Strait of Parnassus.
To enlighten Apollo thy numerous daughters,
Who scatter about them their Helicon Waters,
Which drizzling in humid abundance o’erflow
The wigs and the beards of the learned below,
Who indignant exclaim that ’tis past all enduring
To be wet to the skin with Pierian Urine.
But Gentles make way for this rabblement beastly,
Led by grim visag’d Price, Malegride, and Priestly.
For none but brute beasts can such tenets avow
That God’s image possesses the soul of a sow.
Sworn foes to the state can their Sov’reign disrobe,
And scatter sedition o’er half the wide globe.
See Doctor Dun Scotus bestride his soft saddle,
With Miss Messaline her stone horse a-straddle,
With pert Billy Bowles and Moll Rosin between ’em
In Newberry Chaise from the Castle of Speenham;
Ah, little thought they, in those moments so rampant,
That the grum bitch of Farnham wou’d e’er throw a damp on’t.
But Old Wilson, full gallop, shall beat up their quarters,
Hand and glove with the Don and his Highness of Chartres.

    You’ll quickly distinguish the Great from the Vulgar,
Don Marquis La Rossa and Mynheer Count Mulgare,
Introduc’d by the Dutch and the Spanish Ambassador,
Who features exhibit which not very placid are,
For the Dons and the Dutch, tho’ they love the Parisians,
Have no great esteem for our Naval Physicians;
No great cordiality ever avow,
For Sangrado-Keppel, or bluff Doctor Howe;
Who, like other Empirics, of thousands make slaughter,
By Tincture of Steel, letting Blood, and Sea Water;
And no wonder they cannot away with such odd fish,
Who serve them and their friends as old Quin did a codfish.

    Like Falstaff in battle, Earl Twitcher approaches,
Who as dry as a keck, and as drunk as a roach is,
What effect could it have, tho’ you purged him with hyssop,
On one lewd as King David, and ugly as Æsop?
Corruption, like thine, calls aloud for the Rope,
Then patch up thine old flesh, nor continue to grope,
In the twilight of age, for one faint Ray of hope.

    In the rear of this Naval Dictator, who’s that
Comes simpering behind, like a tame Cheshire Cat?
‘Tis the Post-Boy, who carries his Sovereign’s pleasure,
Court Manners retailing with Winchester measure;
In whose ignoble stye both their Majesties pigg’d,
And pot-luck partook with this Blockhead bewhigg’d;
Whose fine jacket and trowsers astonish the rout,
Belarded with gold both within and without.

    Earl Pembroke comes next, who his Ox roasted whole,
And pledg’d his good King in a full-flowing bowl;
Retainers in ancient magnificence wait,
To broach the stout casks that environ his gate;
And round his full board, like King Arthur’s of yore,
Loud Laughter, and Old Hospitality roar!
May the King, who has tasted his pudding and beef,
Ordain him of Horses his Master in Chief!
Nor bestow such a post on Great Pembroke’s inferiors,
But on Scottish Poltroons turn his Royal Posteriors.

    But the Marchioness never has heard, I presume,
Of the trick that was put upon old Lady ––––.
Her Ladyship’s maid with the footman was fled,
And none to undress her and put her to bed,
When young Harry Lash’em, demure as a Dervise,
Putts a Petticoat on him, and offers his service;
His demeanour was modest, and smooth was his chin,
And the old Lady leer’d at his lily white skin;
The housekeeper’s favour was quickly acquir’d,
The wages propos’d, Mrs. Lash’em was hir’d;
Dark midnight came on, and as heavy as lead,
This righteous old Dowager flounc’d into bed;
When, dreadful to tell––half a gallon of tea,
Thro’ her crazy old carcase was making its way;
Her innocent Chambermaid fain hold the urn would,
While my Lady repeated a portion of Sternhold;
For the toothless old Jade so religious was grown,
She could piddle and pray––kill two birds with one stone;
But when her Male-Maid at advantage had caught her,
He spread his large palm, and betwixt wind and water,
He bestow’d such a slap on her jolly broad bum,
That it eccho’d again like an old kettle drum;
Then vanish’d at once, and was heard of no more––––
The old woman frantic, fell down on the floor;
Her Chaplain rush’d in––when my Lady begins:
“Old Satan permitted to punish my sins,
“Full of malice and mischief, has enter’d my door,
“And flogg’d me to death, in the shape of a whore;
“If your Reverence cannot restore me, I’m dead;
“Do but see if he’s left any hair on my head.”
The rosy Divine, with profound admiration,
Survey’d the Low Countries, and made observation:
“Alas! on your head but few ringlets prevail,
“For the Fiend has transplanted them all to your tail.”
But this was no season for preaching or whining,
He quickly discover’d a Rent in her Lining;
But an orthodox Parson has nothing to fear,
He look round about him––the coast it was clear,
The good man did his best, and of nothing afraid,
Without bell, book, or candle, the Spectre was laid.

    Many thanks for her tale, Lady Bridges receives,
While each lovely bosom with merriment heaves;
For nothing they ever had heard of, or seen
Was so nicely adapted to banish the spleen,
Yet from Shaadry so free, and ideas obscene;
For they could not endure an immodest relation,
That might wound the chaste ears of a woman of fashion.

    Mean time the GRAND ARMY had enter’d the wood,
And with courage undaunted a Pigstye subdued,
But what render’d the victory surer and shorter,
The Pigs ran away, tho’ they offer’d ’em quarter;
Notwithstanding all methods were us’d to trepan some,
They wou’d not be prevail’d on to fight it out handsome:
Oh how they rejoiced, when the Pigstye surrender’d ,
Yet their triumph was short, and must mischief engender’d.
The Swine-herd alights from his Jack-Ass’s crupper,
With a barrel of grains for his grunting boys’ supper;
But when their sad scattered condition he ey’d,
To the gods his full measure he lifted and cry’d:
“Oh Jove! if I ever have made it my care,
“To litter my Pigs, when their a––––s were bare;
“If urg’d by compassion I pierc’d the thick wood,
“And forsaking my own, went in quest of their food;
“If oft I their guts conscientiously cramm’d,
“When hard hearted folks bid ’em starve and be damn’d,
“Oh give me to fate my unfortunate swine,
“With vengeance, Great Jove! and a porker by then!
To grant half this pray’r, mighty Jove is inclin’d,
But disperses the rest with a blast from behind;
When his barrel of grains he embraces again,
And discharges it full on the Leader of Men:
The Leader of Men, with the force of the grains,
Panick struck from his steed, quits indignant the reins;
For he thought (tho’ he had none) they’d dash’d out his brains
Then grov’ling cries, “Fight on my merry men all,”
But his merry men fled when they saw their chief fall.
And the Army had surely been put to the rout,
When the Lord May’r of Romford strait facing about,
Cries, “Courage, my Hearts, to the charge let us run,
“Since we are ten thousand––the Foe-man but one;
“Shall it ever at Romford or Brentwood be said,
“That Ten Thousand Men of One Man were afraid;
“If such damnable cowards our comrades report us,
“When our Bottoms wear out they’ll no new ones afford us.
“Tho’ honour’s a scutcheon that gives but cold comfort,
“I’ll flourish or fall like a Lord May’r of Romford.”
But the Swine-herd disdaining his numerous foes,
Assails my Lord May’r, disarranges his nose;
And extends horizontal, in regular order,
Tom-turdman, Attorney, Shrieve, Clerk and Recorder;
But the Muse cannot picture, and I cannot wish ye,
To know how he treated the –––––– Militia;
‘Till by numbers oppress’d, and resign’d to his fate he’s
Made prisoner of war with his Pigs and Potatoes;
When the hungry Commanders immediately halted,
His Potatoes they eat, and his Porkers they salted.

    With equal eclat the Artill’ry Boys come off,
They discharg’d the loud cannon and blow’d a man’s thumb off;
And that no great exploit may unnotic’d away go
They fear’d to the devil an old woman’s ague.

    At this wond’rous recital old Homer looks blue, Sir,
Tho’ he sang Agamemnon, Achilles and Teucer
Can Chartres fam’d Duke, could St. George and the Dragon
Make half so good use of the musket or flaggon?
Nor shall Oliver Cromwell, or old John o’Gaunt,
Presume any more of their courage to vaunt;
Nay bring us the Macedon Rogue who did once shine,
And once more we’ll make him stand out of the sunshine.

    But Titan has pass’d his Meridian Turnpike,
Sing Old Rose, Roast the Bellows, singe Banner and burn Pike!
All explosion explode, cease ye Drummers to drub hard,
For their Majesties sovereign bellies cry, Cupboard.
In Pidgeon-house roosted, as mild as a Dove,
See the Queen of Great Britain has pull’d off her glove;
Approach all ye Prelates, Deans, Deacons, and Clerks,
More proud than Old Nick, more voracious than sharks;
Ye Coxcombs in Scarlet, ye Coxcombs in Black,
Ye Coxcombs, without any Shirt to your Back;
Petit Maitres, who shrug at the sound of a gun,
Insipid and soft as a White Conduit Bun;
Ye Mercantile Grampusses, rowling in riches,
Militia Commanders, with hearts in your breeches;
Brave Soldiers, without any blood in your veins,
The Judge, whose decision base bribery stains,
With Beef in his belly, and Guts in his brains;
Ye Quacks, who with Med’cine or Chancer bilk men!
Ambassadors, Catholics, Sheriffs, and Silk-men;
Ye Custard-Cornuto’s at home to a hole,
Privy Counsellors, Gold Finders, Grooms of the Stole,
With affected grimace that would make a dog spew,
Like Dowager W––––––ve, in Ramilie Queu;
Come smooth your mustachios, and stroke down your bands,
Like the Horse-leeches Daughters, cry Da, and kiss hands.
    Base herd, for Decorum they care not a farthing,
But jostle their betters, and handsome Carmarthen;
Ld. Washball, Count Corkleg, Charles Fox, Rigby jolly Dick,
Old Br———kl———fby, Quack to the states Body politic;
Sam Candlemas, fish-eating Son of Perdition,
Profound as the fat-headed beast in the vision.

    True Genius subsides at this desperate crisis,
The Philistines prevail o’er the TRIUMPH OF ISIS;
From the regions of Dulness uprisen again is,
The inveterate Ghost of Col. Cibber or Dennis;
The whole tribe of fools, who the Dunciad compose,
Breath vengeance again in poor Percival’s prose;
Poor Percival Stockdale! who (dreadful to think on,)
In Styx drench’d his goose quill instead of an inkhorn;
With the fumes of the lake his mad brain over laid,
Like Curl with the Cates of Corinna bewray’d;
With critical Jaundice envelop’d his mind,
And sightless himself, swears that Warton is blind.

    Compounded of every ingredient accurst,
Which from baleful Pandora’s dire treasury burst,
The plausible Serpent of Hagley behold,
Black as deep Pandemonium’s fell Chieftain of old,
Well attended he comes––––––By the side of his wheels
Crawls unsatisfied Lust, mad Intemperance reels,
Dishonour inclining his Brow to the Ground,
Fraud, revolving her Schemes of destruction profound,
Sordid Av’rice and Self-Love condensing the soul,
And consummate Hypocrisy shrouding the whole.
Fell Canker, how long shall thy poisonous Breath
Blast each lovely Flow’ret in beauty’s bright wreath?
Sheds the primrose for thee its delicious perfume,
For thee swells the Peach her ambrosial bloom?
Cease Recreant! expanding her horrible shears,
Fate threatens thy life, and the pill’ry thine ears;
Vengeance gleams in thy goblets libidinous Lazar,
As of old in the vessels of vile Belteshazzar.
Avaunt! fly the splendor of Warley’s bright field,
Nor look on those arms thou wouldst tremble to weild;
Or drum’d out, for the last time, thy carcase shall go
A Leper uncleans’d to the regions below.”

    Fair honour gives place to the rabble profane,
Lo Taste her own Dorset withdraws from the plain.
A crucible thus with vile Dross shall o’er flow,
While the precious Ore veils its refulgence below;
Let Russel his ample possessions extend,
Fair Devonshire’s wealth dissipation befriend;
When the fame and renown of the opulent fail,
Thee, Patron of Arts, British annals shall hail;
When o’er Alnwick’s proud castle no crescent shall wave,
And magnificent Percy lie cold in his grave;
When our rulers grow blind, and the populace lead ’em,
And no greedy Manchester raves to succeed ’em;
When Camden’s faint meteor that led us astray,
Shall vanish absorb’d in his dam’s milky way;
When Franklin’s French Policy, rotten and rank is,
And Bute’s put to bed with old Numa and Ancus,
Noble Dorset, o’er thine and thy Reynold’s Urn,
The pure flame of gratitude brightly shall burn;
Who reviv’d in a land of abundance and peace,
The games of old Rome and the pencil of Greece.

    See from each manufacture of Bolus and Pill,
Of Quacks no small number ascending the hill;
With scarce so much speed and importance of face,
When their aid is invok’d in some desperate case.
They run loaded with nostrums, and quite out of breath,
To go snacks with Disease and come in at the Death;
As hither they stalk with keen stomachs, and weapons,
That reek from the slaughter of custards and capons;
With their Chief I’ll begin, whose fair portly abdomen,
Commands admiration from cooks and old women:
Doctor Olla-Podrida; his features declare,
Who never objects to good fees or good fare;
As he clambers the mount, at each stride that he takes,
The haunch on the spit, how it trembles and quakes!
The sheep bleat aloud at the sight of the glutton,
And precipitate fly the destroyer of mutton;
From the neighbouring stye, the hogs grunt out their curses,
While his aspect alarms all the mothers and nurses,
Left their dear little babies for sucking pigs taken,
Should be roasted and swallow’d for juvenile bacon.
Observe next in order antique Doctor Æther,
Case harden’d, advancing without loss of leather;
For such leather as his will all damage with-stand,
Whose carcase is dry, and his hide ready tann’d;
Yet his sallow complexions he takes as much pride in,
As Quixote his lank Rosinante bestriding;
And tho’ from his meagre appearance you’d swear,
That the potions he vends were the whole of his fare;
Yet believe me, Friend Æther no physick will swallow,
Nor, ailing himself, his own regimen follow;
His miserly visage would check our profuseness,
His looks so begriped would give one a looseness;
At composing a purge or a bolus no novice,
He would build for the Gods a complete House of Office;
And as mad as Old Lucian, or honest Will Wimble,
Would give Jove and Juno a Whirrigonimble;
With gait consequential, and countenance callous,
Advances behind him renown’d Doctor Gallus;
In Tumbril new painted, and linen much cleaner,
A round pudding visage, and courteous demeanour;
Assist me, dear Muse, with a strain of the best,
To tell how this Calf’s Head is garnish’d and drest;
For I would not a single embellishment lose,
From the horns on his head to the soles of his shoes;
Sublime on his forehead a gold bandage blazon’d,
Strikes Ostlers and Chambermaids blind with the rays on’t,
And oppos’d to the Beaver’s funereal colour,
Gives a Je ne scai quoi to his broad Kevenhuller.
But of Helicon stream I must take a fresh swig,
E’er I soar to the arduous height of his wig,
And to bring this grand canopy safe into harbour,
Tis expedient, good folks, that I mention the barber,
O Chin-slicing Wight, who this perriwig dresses,
Which waves like a comet in its terrible tresses,
Where there’s full room to roost for abundance of fowl,
Where Pallas inshrined sits guarding her Owl,
Within the round ribs of whose puffing machine
Dwell exhaustless effluvias of wisdom I ween,
Which a touch of thine hand to the cranium conveys,
And Phœbus admiring, adorns with his Bays,
While the rest of the Gods, and a Protestant Mob,
With derision look down upon pigtail and bob.
‘Mongst these bold sons of Mars, whilst our General levies us,
Like the Hell-Hound, who kindled the Temple of Ephesus,
Some cursed Matross, smit with envy and wonder,
May thine Edifice gorgeous envelope with thunder
And lightning discharg’d from a forty-two pounder;
And if we may credit our ancestors journals,
The Grim Visag’d Fellow, who rules the infernals,
Whom Proserpine charm’d with the ringlets she show’d,
May steal it to wear in his Stygian abode;
And his passion for perukes he loudly might crack on,
Who at once stood possest of a white and a black one.
Since the principal part of the portrait is drawn,
What remains is exprest by a collar of brawn,
Which wrappers of different colours adorn,
A compound of red and white swine’s flesh and horn.
These rogues above-mention’d and thousands beside,
Of Warwick-Lane, Moorfields, and Drury the pride;
Who ‘scape watry Death to be hang’d upon dry land,
The garlick-fed tenants of fam’d Porridge-island;
Come galloping, roaring, caballing, and raving,
Commission, court favour and benefice craving.
Have you never beheld on a sun-shiny day
Old Thames a dead ass to the ocean convey,
While on ev’ry side swarm from his entrails obscene
The sons of corruption, grey, scarlet, and green,
Flies, Reptiles of monstrous proportion and limb,
That people the green wave, and stink as they swim.
The numbers surrounding his Majesty’s stand,
Such a prospect as this is afford you by land;
A Reptile Assembly of similar form,
Little Warley, at large on thy green hillock swarm;
On all sides in reeking abundance they pour,
And the vitals of Britain that bred them devour.

    Oh Reynolds, afford to thy Poet some soup,
Who for thine entertainment has painted this Groupe!
A drudge to the Muse she has made me look thinner,
Send a card, my good Sir, and invite me to dinner;
I’m quite disengaged––you’ll not find one in ten,
Such a Dabster at cutting and coming again;
Few can beat me, or else I am strangely mistaken,
At Westphalia Ham, or fat Gammon of Bacon;
Durham Men I excel at your boil’d Beef and Mustard,
And with wond’rous address let the light thro’ a Custard;
Your red Salmon Troutling, when nicely in season,
In streams of Madeira shall swim down my weazon;
Ven’son Pasty shall shrink at my appetite staunch,
And you’ll find me no very bad stick at a Haunch;
My spacious Red Lane will afford a smooth passage,
To a sav’ry Bologna, or a spic’d Oxford Sausage.
I’m the dread of John Dories, as erst was old Quin,
And exceed him at least by the length of a fin.
Farinelli and Handel, who grew, at our cost, rich,
With the notes of a Thrush, and the guts of an Ostrich,
If alive, would acknowledge I twist to some tune;
And so should Old Nick———give me but a long spoon.
For my Grandmother Eve, whom you’ll find in the Bible,
When, of old, a ripe Codlin attracted her eye-ball,
Fell foul of the Tree, in a gluttonous frolick,
And entail’d on her Children a damnable Cholic;
Lost her blessed Estate, for the sake of good Vittal,
And sous’d, unconcern’d, all the world in the spittal;
But of continence Eve never boasted the gift,
(Nor on Woman in twenty, without e’er a Shift;)
And tho’ black-letter’d authors have left it in doubt
Whether Hollands, or Green Usquebaugh, was found out,
‘Tis as plain as a pike-staff, from worshipful writ,
That my good Lady long’d for a relishing Bit;
And the craft old Snake got his Ends, I can tell ye,
Full as well, with nice Timber prepar’d for the Belly.

    Yet of old English Stomach how fruitless the boast,
When the memory of old English Dinners is lost!
Since from Britain away Hospitality stole,
Macarony takes place of a Toad in the Hole;
Indignant Sir Loin to the sideboard retires,
Ah much better fed, better taught were our Sires!
For whose generous Cheer hungry Moderns shall mourn,
And sigh for those meals that shall never return.

    Know, Sir Knight, that mine appetite borrows its keen edge,
From Beef-eating Worthies, and worshipful Lineage;
To feast my Fore-fathers whole hecatombs bled,
With Neville, the stout Earl of Warwick they fed.
In the field, on the trencher, renowned of yore,
They drank of his Bowl, and his Banner they bore:
British Kings their ambition and hunger supplied,
On their bounty they fatten’d and fought by their side.
But it little availeth your Bard to repeat,
At whose charges his valiant progenitors eat;
Whose keen stomachs alone their Descendant is heir to,
Since their Manors have travell’d the Devil knows where to;
And no steaks of old Neville’s fat Oxen remain here,
The cravings to quell of Apollo’s Retainer;
Whom dark fate has doom’d, for his sins expiation,
To the spare modern meals of a Frenchified Nation;
Where the Children have banish’d their Fore fathers fare,
Who their Dinners were dressing while we dress our Hair.

    An old Earls trophied hall entertain’d a whole country,
Knights and Peasants partook of his beef and his bounty;
Bright glitter’d the brim of his Grace-Cup profound,
Bays and Rosemary bourgeon’d his Boar’s head around;
French Cooks and French Kickshaws he treated with scorn,
And eat beef in the land where his Fathers were born.
Modern Nobles the Muses have nothing to say for,
Whose outlandish Dinners their poor tradesmen pay for,
Whose Grace is from Stanhope’s Morality drawn,
The reverend Cup that should hold it, in pawn,
And whose conduct deserves neither Bay-leaf nor Brawn.
Who ne’er drink Success to their Sov’reign and Church,
Who scout Beef and eat Cheesecakes with Horton and Birch.

    Lament, brother Poets, lament all ye Nine!
Flow plenteous my tears for dishonour’d Sir Loin!
Flow plenteous my tears—since confind to the band,
Plum-pudding of old so respected and grand,
Alma-Mater detains e’er she leaveth the land.

    But I see you methinks with abundance of Choler,
In my thread-bare Accoutrements picking a hole here,
Arrest my poor Pegasus ambling from Warley,
Cock your worshipful Beaver, and call me to parley.

    “Thou Bye-blow of Phœbus, whose Forehead of Brass is,
Who hast glean’d from its summit the scum of Parnassus;
Who thy savory Hodge-podge of Dog’rel hast hash’d up,
In the P-ss-pot of Pindus, or Helicon Wash-tub;
To whom crazy Lucian Jove’s Privy unlocks,
Whom the Muses have lap’d in the tails of their smocks;
Whom Reviewers shall growl at, and Critics shall censure;
No such pennyless Varlets with me foul a Trencher.
I would have you to know, Sir, I dine with your betters,
And feast at my board the Republic of Letters;
Though Horace observes, ’tis a beggarly table
Which holds not enough for ones self and the rabble;
That the Mansion is scanty, which cannot provide
For its Lord, and a few Ragamuffins beside;
To his trite observations I’ll give no support,
Far exceed his Falernian my Claret and Port;
But the Devil a drop shall run trickling your throat down,
Let them flow for a Bard with a Christian-like coat on:
Duke Humphrey will find you in excellent fare,
Such Cameleon Poets should live upon air.
Better treatment you’ll find if to Weston you’ll go,
The *Cape Hunt will a Dinner or Blanket bestow.
Can you quid like Sir Nab, or a bawdy song roar?
D’ye know how to unkennel a Hound or a Whore?
If that way lies your Fort, you’ll find those that will fit ye,
And a Brother commence of Charles Stuart his Committee;
If the ‡Cape of his Coat, or his Lash can divert ye,
You’ll be welcom’d or horsewhipp’d by bold Captain B––––e.
Run your Pegasus blind at his Honour’s desire,
Catch a sore throat, or damn’d stinking Fox in the mire;
Then return to the Mess———drink a quart at one swig,
And shake hands with Jack W———, Gibbert Ch———, and Tw——.
                        [* A Club of respectable Fox-Hunters.
    ‡ Alluding to a mystical Engraving upon a Button worn under the
Cape of their Coat by each Member of the Club, as an Ensign of
their Order.]

    But hope not (tho’ Sportsmen your cause should espouse,
To batten where two of the Graces keep house,
Poetasters I hold it a sin to encourage,
Let a pump or a horse pond supply them with porridge.
Will your scurrilous dogg’rel a dinner ensure ye,
Or the fee-simple pay of your Manor of Drury?
Will your metre a Council engage or Attorney,
Or gain approbation from dear little Burney*?
Will the Doctor receive it instead of gold sterling?
Will a Billingsgate Beauty exchange it for her ling?
Though the honey of Hybla should liquor your tongue,
Like the §Bard of the Snipe tho’ you savour’d and sung,
Would such strains at the Ginshop your reckoning wipe out,
Or pay for the vapour exhal’d from your pipe out?
Your cravat worn out, will the Muse set a stitch in,
Or darn the dire chasm in your hose or your breeching?
Pray who’ll give you credit, of sense if a grain he has,
For a meal of Sheep’s head in Hotel Subterraneous*?
Or defray, Mr. Poet, the charges extraor’nary,
For washing your shirt at Three-halfpenny Or’nary?”
    [* The Authoress of Evelina.
    § Dr. Bacon, the ingenious Author of THE SNIPE, a Ballad.
                        * Alas a Night Cellar.]

———————————————————————————————

    Thou Knight of no bowels! whose Conscience hot iron
Hath fear’d, and whose Easel the Furies environ;
Who, like Bacchanal Jade without commiseration,
Would’st tear me piece-meal, in my proper vocation;
I have done; yet peruse these Prophetical Verses,
And shake both thine ears at a poor Poet’s curses.

    May the Produce of Reynold’s Pencil divine,
Be forgotten when Phœbus no longer shall shine!
May the Last Trump his Colours blow quite out of fashion,
And his Oil be consum’d in the Grand Conflagration;
Of his Fire may Dame Nature extinguish the sparks,
When the Firmament falls down for boys to catch larks!
Of his Name and his Stile may be lose ev’ry letter,
When Heav’n gives us an Artist whose Hand can do better!
May win, brandy, and beer, be his constant potation,
‘Till, like Cæsar, exciting the world’s admiration,
Too great for a country of Prejudice grown,
Some Cassius supplants him or––Conjuror Hone.

E N D  O F  T H E  S A T I R E.


THE

Swashing Blades of Warley:

A BALLAD.

                                            I.
        I sing the Jovial Swashers,
        Encamp’d on Warley Common,
                Who stoutly swear,
                They’ll thrash Monsieur,
        And care a Fig for no man.

                                            II.
        At day break, from their straw beds,
        To crawl out they begin, Sir,
                Each drinks his pot,
                Of purl red hot,
        All Silver-lac’d with Gin, Sir.

                                            III.
        O then the thundering Drummers
        Stir up their Martial Ardour;
                They call the Roll
                And cheek by jowl,
        Set on to storm the Larder.

                                            IV.
        Then comes the rosy Chaplain,
        And kneels upon his hassock;
                He prays alone,
                For a Smock each one
        Loves better than a Cassock.

                                            V.
        The Col’nel in the rear-guard,
        A knotty point untrusses,
                And Guards a score,
                Defend the door,
        While he bombards the rushes.

                                            VI.
        These Swashing Blades in Scarlet,
        Turn out and form the lines, Sir;
                Loud Trumpets tell,
                What fate befell,
        Ducks, Turkies, Hams, and Chine, Sir.

                                            VII.
        Their Chargers fierce bestriding,
        Oh how they storm the trenches!
                The Boys they scare,
                Make the Old Wives swear,
        And ravish all the Wenches.

                                            VIII.
        As the Churls of Chevy Chase, Sir,
        Their backsides guarded safe O;
                On a soft Bear’s hide,
                The Chieftains ride,
        That their bottoms may not chafe O.

                                            IX.
        But the Muse a dismal tale, Sir,
        Produces from her budget,
                Nine Taylors fell,
                Red hot from Hell*,
        To dun these Swashers trudge it.
    [* Hell, the name usually given to a Taylor’s work-shop.]

                                            X.
        Against the Royal Lincoln,
        They rous’d up Wrath and Valour;
                But our bold Vanguards,
                They sing’d their beards,
        And quell’d each roaring Taylor.

                                            XI.
        To drive these Cabbage-grinders,
        TOM WHLLY had the bent O,
                Sir NARBOROUGH DEATH,
                Did his sword unsheath,
        And their spears to Shivers sent O.

                                            XII.
        The King of France at dinner,
        These doleful tidings hearing,
                His bowels yearn’d
                And up he turn’d,
        Each sav’ry pickled herring.

                                            XIII.
        His Confessor domestic,
        And eke his grave Physician,
                They told the King,
                ‘Twas a Monstrous Thing,
        Such a day, to swallow fish in.

                                            XIV
        So we’ll leave him in a fright, Sir,
        Wasting his wordly riches,
                While Duke Nivernois
                Gets a crown a day,
        For cleaning of his Breeches.

F I N I S.

 

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