A Satire Anthology

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

GOOD people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous shortIt cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a manOf whom the world might sayThat still a godly race he ranWhene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends,But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his witsTo bite so good a man.The wound it seemed both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show’d the rogues they lied:The man recover’d of the bite,The dog it was that died.Oliver Goldsmith.

ON SMOLLETT

WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?What had I done that angry Heaven should sendThe bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.Who ever read “The Regicide” but sworeThe author wrote as man ne’er wrote before?Others for plots and under-plots may call;Here’s the right method – have no plot at all!Charles Churchill.

THE UNCERTAIN MAN

DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man —Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.He would not with a peremptory toneAssert the nose upon his face his own;With hesitation admirably slow,He humbly hopes – presumes – it may be so.His evidence, if he were called by lawTo swear to some enormity he saw,For want of prominence and just belief,Would hang an honest man and save a thief.Through constant dread of giving truth offence,He ties up all his hearers in suspense;Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;What he remembers, seems to have forgot;His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,Centring at last in having none at all.William Cowper.

A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY

THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, showEvery five minutes how the minutes go.Each individual, suffering a constraint —Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint —As if in close committee on the sky,Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,And finds a changing clime a happy sourceOf wise reflection and well-timed discourse.We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,Like conservators of the public health,Of epidemic throats, if such there areOf coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,Filled up at last with interesting news:Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,But fear to call a more important cause,As if ’twere treason against English laws.The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,As from a seven years’ transportation, homeAnd there resume an unembarrassed brow,Recovering what we lost we know not how,The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,Expression, and the privilege of thought.William Cowper.

ON JOHNSON

I  OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;Casts of manure a wagon-load around,To raise a simple daisy from the ground;Uplifts the club of Hercules – for what?To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to drawA goose’s feather or exalt a straw;Sets wheels on wheels in motion – such a clatter —To force up one poor nipperkin of water;Bids ocean labour with tremendous roarTo heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;Alike in every theme his pompous art,Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).

TO BOSWELL

O  Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forthTo eat Macpherson midst his native north,To frighten grave professors with his roar,And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,All hail!Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,The pilot of our literary whale;Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,Close as a supple courtier to a king;Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).

THE HEN

WAS once a hen of wit not small(In fact, ’twas not amazing),And apt at laying eggs withal,Who, when she’d done, would scream and bawl,As if the house were blazing.A turkey-cock, of age mature,Felt thereat indignation;’Twas quite improper, he was sure —He would no more the thing endure;So, after cogitation,He to the lady straight repaired,And thus his business he declared:“Madam, pray, what’s the matter,That always, when you’ve laid an egg,You make so great a clatter?I wish you’d do the thing in quiet.Do be advised by me, and try it.”“Advised by you!” the lady cried,And tossed her head with proper pride;“And what do you know, now I pray,Of the fashion of the present day,You creature ignorant and low?However, if you want to know,This is the reason why I do it:I lay my egg, and then review it!”Matthew Claudius.

LET US ALL BE UNHAPPY TOGETHER

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,Alas! are the children of sorrow;And, though brisk and merry to-day,We may all be unhappy to-morrow.For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,Lest pleasure should only bring pain,Let us all be unhappy together.I grant the best blessing we knowIs a friend, for true friendship’s a treasure;And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.Thus, friendship’s a flimsy affair;Thus, riches and health are a bubble;Thus, there’s nothing delightful but care,Nor anything pleasing but trouble.If a mortal could point out that lifeWhich on earth could be nearest to heaven,Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wifeTo whom truth and honour are given.But honour and truth are so rare,And horns, when they’re cutting, so tingle,That, with all my respect to the fair,I’d advise him to sigh, and live single.It appears from these premises plain,That wisdom is nothing but folly;That pleasure’s a term that means pain,And that joy is your true melancholy;That all those who laugh ought to cry;That ’tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;And that, since we must all of us die,We should taste no enjoyment while living.Charles Dibdin.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

I  AM a friar of orders gray,And down in the valleys I take my way;I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;Good store of venison fills my scrip;My long bead-roll I merrily chant;Where’er I walk no money I want;And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:Who leads a good life is sure to live well.What baron or squire,Or knight of the shire,Lives half so well as a holy friar?After supper, of heaven I dream,But that is a pullet and clouted cream;Myself by denial I mortify —With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin —With old sack wine I’m lined within;A chirping cup is my matin song,And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.What baron or squire,Or knight of the shire,Lives half so well as a holy friar?John O’Keefe.

THE COUNTRY SQUIRE

A  COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit(For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d itIn splendid style.“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, thoughThe rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,You lack a library, dear sir, for show,If not for use.”“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will beThe very thing.“I’ll have it fitted up without delayWith shelves and presses of the newest mode.And rarest wood, befitting every wayA squire’s abode.“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatchMy coachman – a most knowing fellow – down,To buy me, by admeasurement, a batchOf books in town.”But ere the library was half suppliedWith all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,The booby squire repented him, and criedUnto himself:“This room is much more roomy than I thought;Ten thousand volumes hardly would sufficeTo fill it, and would cost, however bought,A plaguy price.“Now, as I only want them for their looks,It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,And cost me next to nothing, if the booksWere made of wood.“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven dealA coat of paint – a colourable dress,To look like calf or vellum, and concealIts nakedness.And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,Whatever is most excellent and rareShall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),Assembled there.“The work was done; the simulated hoardsOf wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,Were all of wood.From bulky folios down to slender twelves,The choicest tomes in many an even row,Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,A goodly show.With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’dThe best collection ever form’d in Spain,What wonder if the owner grew at lastSupremely vain?What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,Despite his ignorance, to think himselfA learned man?Let every amateur, who merely looksTo backs and bindings, take the hint, and sellHis costly library; for painted booksWould serve as well.Tomas Yriarte.

THE EGGS

BEYOND the sunny PhilippinesAn island lies, whose name I do not know;But that’s of little consequence, if soYou understand that there they had no hens,Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,After a while, carried some poultry there.Fast they increased as anyone could wish,Until fresh eggs became the common dish.But all the natives ate them boiled, they say,Because the stranger taught no other way.At last th’ experiment by one was tried —Sagacious man! – of having his eggs fried.And oh, what boundless honours, for his pains,His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!Another, now, to have them baked devised —Most happy thought! and still another, spiced.Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!Next, someone gave his friends an omelette:“Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!”But scarce a year went by, an artist shouts,“I have it now! ye’re all a pack of louts!With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.”And the whole island thought the mode so good,That they would so have cooked them to this day,But that a stranger, wandering out that way,Another dish the gaping natives taught,And showed them eggs cooked à la Huguenot.Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse,But how shall I be able to rehearseAll of the new, delicious condimentsThat luxury from time to time invents?Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet,And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat;In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickleTheir palates fanciful with eggs in pickle.All had their day – the last was still the best.But a grave senior thus one day addressedThe epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will,These countless prodigies of gastric skill,But blessings on the man who brought the hens!”Beyond the sunny PhilippinesOur crowd of modern authors need not goNew-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.Tomas Yriarte.

THE LITERARY LADY

WHAT motley cares Corilla’s mind perplex,Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!In studious dishabille behold her sit,A letter’d gossip and a household wit:At once invoking, though for different views,Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.Round her strew’d room a frippery chaos lies,A checker’d wreck of notable and wise,Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;Unfinish’d here an epigram is laid,And there a mantua-maker’s bill unpaid.There new-born plays foretaste the town’s applause,There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.A moral essay now is all her care,A satire next, and then a bill of fare.A scene she now projects, and now a dish;Here Act the First, and here Remove with Fish.Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,That soberly casts up a bill for coals;Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

SLY LAWYERS

LO, that small office! there th’ incautious guestGoes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;There in his web th’ observant spider lies,And peers about for fat, intruding flies;Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,And feels them flutt’ring as they nearer come;They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they treadOn the strong birdlime of the utmost thread;But when they’re once entangled by the gin,With what an eager clasp he draws them in!Nor shall they ’scape till after long delay,And all that sweetens life is drawn away.George Crabbe.

REPORTERS

FIRST, from each brother’s hoard a part they draw,A mutual theft that never feared a law;Whate’er they gain, to each man’s portion fall,And read it once, you read it through them all.For this their runners ramble day and night,To drag each lurking deep to open light;For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie.Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring —Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;Home to their several cells they bear the store,Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.George Crabbe.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

OH, ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,Sae pious an’ sae holy,Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tellYour neibour’s fauts an’ folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supplied wi’ store o’ water,The heapéd happer’s ebbing still,An’ still the clap plays clatter.Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortals,That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,For glaiket Folly’s portals:I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences,Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings an’ mischances.Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,An’ shudder at the niffer,But cast a moment’s fair regard,What mak’s the mighty differ?Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in,An’ (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)Your better art o’ hiding.Think, when your castigated pulseGi’es now an’ then a wallop,What ragings must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop.Wi’ wind an’ tide fair i’ your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,It makes an unco lee-way.See social life an’ glee sit down,All joyous an’ unthinking,Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grownDebauchery an’ drinking:Oh, would they stay to calculateTh’ eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,Damnation of expenses!Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Tied up in godly laces,Before ye gi’e poor frailty names,Suppose a change o’ cases;A dear loved lad, convenience snug,A treacherous inclination —But, let me whisper i’ your lug,Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,To step aside is human.One point must still be greatly dark,The moving why they do it;An’ just as lamely can ye markHow far, perhaps, they rue itWho made the heart, ’tis He aloneDecidedly can try us;He knows each chord – its various tone,Each spring – its various bias;Then at the balance let’s be mute —We never can adjust it;What’s done we partly may compute,But know not what’s resisted.Robert Burns.

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER

O  THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,A’ for Thy glory,And no for ony guid or illThey’ve done before Thee!I bless and praise Thy matchless might,When thousands Thou hast left in night,That I am here, before Thy sight,For gifts an’ grace,A burnin’ an’ a shinin’ lightTo a’ this place.What was I, or my generation,That I should get sic exaltation!I, wha deserv’d most just damnation,For broken lawsSax thousand years ere my creation,Thro’ Adam’s cause.When frae my mither’s womb I fell,Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell,To gnash my gooms, to weep and wailIn burnin’ lakes,Whare damnéd devils roar and yell,Chain’d to their stakes.Yet I am here, a chosen sample,To show Thy grace is great and ample;I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,Strong as a rock,A guide, a buckler, an exampleTo a’ Thy flock!But yet, O Lord! confess I must,At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust,Vile self gets in;But Thou remembers we are dust,Defil’d wi’ sin.May be Thou lets this fleshly thornBeset Thy servant e’en and morn,Lest he owre proud and high should turnThat he’s sae gifted:If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borneUntil Thou lift it.Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,For here Thou hast a chosen race:But God confound their stubborn face,An’ blast their name,Wha bring Thy elders to disgraceAn’ open shame!Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts;He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at carts,Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,Wi’ great and sma’,Frae God’s ain priests the people’s heartsHe steals awa.An’ when we chasten’d him therefor,Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,As set the warld in a roarO’ laughin’ at us;Curse Thou his basket and his store,Kail an’ potatoes!Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’rAgainst the Presbyt’ry of Ayr!Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bareUpo’ their heads!Lord, visit them, an’ dinna spare,For their misdeeds!O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu’d Aiken,My vera heart and saul are quakin’,To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’,An’ pish’d wi’ dread,While he wi’ hingin’ lip an’ snakin,Held up his head.Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him!Lord, visit them wha did employ him,And pass not in Thy mercy by them,Nor hear their pray’r;But for Thy people’s sake destroy them,An’ dinna spare!But, Lord, remember me and mine,Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,That I for grace and gear may shine,Excell’d by nane,An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine,Amen, Amen!Robert Burns.

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.“Oh, what shall I do now? ’twas looking at you, now!Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again;’Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney M’Cleary,You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”I sat down beside her, and gently did chide herThat such a misfortune should give her such pain;A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her,She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.’Twas hay-making season – I can’t tell the reason —Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;For very soon after poor Kitty’s disasterThe devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.Edward Lysaght.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER

FRIEND OF HUMANITY“NEEDY Knife-grinder, whither are you going?Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in’t,So have your breeches!“Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones,Who in their coaches roll along the turnpikeRoad, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives andScissors to grind O!’“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?Did some rich man tyrannically use you?Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?Or the attorney?“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? orCovetous parson, for his tithes distraining?Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your littleAll in a lawsuit?“(Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,Ready to fall, as soon as you have told yourPitiful story.”KNIFE-GRINDER“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, wereTorn in a scuffle.“Constables came up, for to take me intoCustody; they took me before the justice;Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish —Stocks for a vagrant.“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health inA pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;But for my part, I never love to meddleWith politics, sir.”FRIEND OF HUMANITY“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first —Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance —Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,Spiritless outcast!”

(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

George Canning.

NORA’S VOW

HEAR what Highland Nora said:“The Earlie’s son I will not wed,Should all the race of Nature die,And none be left but he and I.For all the gold, for all the gear,And all the lands both far and near,That ever valour lost and won,I would not wed the Earlie’s son.”“A maiden’s vows,” old Callum spoke,“Are lightly made and lightly broke.The heather on the mountain’s heightBegins to bloom in purple light;The frost-wind soon shall sweep awayThat lustre deep from glen and brae;Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.”“The swan,” she said, “the lake’s clear breastMay barter for the eagle’s nest;The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn,Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;Our kilted clans, when blood is high,Before their foes may turn and fly;But I, were all these marvels done,Would never wed the Earlie’s son.”Still in the water-lily’s shadeHer wonted nest the wild swan made,Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river;To shun the clash of foeman’s steel,No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel;But Nora’s heart is lost and won —She’s wedded to the Earlie’s son!Sir Walter Scott.

JOB

SLY Beelzebub took all occasionsTo try Job’s constancy and patience.He took his honour, took his health;He took his children, took his wealth,His servants, horses, oxen, cows —But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,And loves to disappoint the devil,Had predetermined to restoreTwofold all he had before;His servants, horses, oxen, cows —Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!Samuel T. Coleridge.

COLOGNE

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,And pavements fanged with murderous stones,And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,I counted two-and-seventy stenches,All well defined, and separate stinks!Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,The river Rhine, it is well known,Doth wash your city of Cologne;But tell me, nymphs, what power divineShall henceforth wash the river Rhine?Samuel T. Coleridge.

GILES’ HOPE

“WHAT! rise again with all one’s bones?”Quoth Giles. “I hope you fib.I trusted, when I went to heaven,To go without my rib.”Samuel T. Coleridge.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

IT was a summer’s evening;Old Casper’s work was done,And he before his cottage-doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,That he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Casper took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh,“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,“Who fell in the great victory.“I find them in the garden, forThere’s many here about;And often, when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men,” said he,“Were slain in the great victory.”“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks up,With wonder-waiting eyes:“Now tell us all about the war,And what they kill’d each other for.”“It was the English,” Casper cried,“That put the French to rout;But what they kill’d each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,” quoth he,“That ’twas a famous victory.“My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.“With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born infant died.But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.“They say it was a shocking sight,After the field was won,For many a thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun.But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,And our good Prince Eugene.”“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”Said little Wilhelmine.“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,“It was a famous victory;“And everybody praised the duke,Who such a fight did win.”“But what good came of it at last?”Quoth little Peterkin.“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;“But ’twas a famous victory.”Robert Southey.