Hector, who was a wary chapAt pitch and chuck, or hustle-cap,An old Scotch bonnet quickly takes,In which he three brass farthings shakes.
Hector, who was a wary chapAt pitch and chuck, or hustle-cap,An old Scotch bonnet quickly takes,In which he three brass farthings shakes.
Hector, who was a wary chapAt pitch and chuck, or hustle-cap,An old Scotch bonnet quickly takes,In which he three brass farthings shakes:Then turn'd his head without deceit,To show them th he scorn'd to cheat;And cries aloud, Here goes, my boy,'Tis heads for Greece, and tails for Troy;Then turns the cap: Great Troy prevails,Two farthings out of three were tails,Paris now arms himself in haste,And ty'd his jacket round his waistWith a buff belt, and then with 'trapsAbout his legs some hay-bands wraps;To guard his heart he closely press'dA sheet of tin athwart his breast;His trusty sword across his breechWas hung, to be within his reach;A horse's tail, just like a mop,He stuck upon his scull-cap's top.Thus arm'd complete, with care and skill,He seem'd as stout as Bobadil:And Menelaus, you might see,Appear'd as stout and fierce as he.Ready for fight, they both look'd sour,And eyed each other o'er and o'er.Paris puts on a warlike phiz,And from his hand his staff goes whiz,Which lent the Grecian targe a thump,And then upon the ground fell plump.His broomstaff then, with aim as true,The cuckold at the Trojan threw;But ere he spent his ammunition,He sent to Jove a small petition:Mayst please my good design to help,And let me souse this lech'rous whelp;That men may cease to do amiss,And not in others' fish-ponds fish!Thus, like Old Noll, he coin'd a pray'r,Then sent his broomstick through the airWith such a vengeance did it fall,Through the tin-plates it bor'd a hole,And tore his doublet and his shirt;But to his guts did little hurt;Because the knave, by bending low,Escap'd the fury of the blow.Some think he daub'd his breeks that hit,But that remains a query yet.The Greek, who did not often judge ill,Pursu'd th' advantage with his cudgel,And laid about at such a rate,As if he meant to break his pate;But, as his jobber-noul he rapp'd,His stick in twenty pieces snapp'd.Vex'd to the guts, he lifts his eyes,And mutt'ring to himself, he cries:This rascal's jacket I had dusted,If Jupiter could have been trusted;But honest men he keeps at distance,And lends to whores and rogues assistance.Just when I had secur'd my prize,My lousy stick in pieces flies.This said, he gave a hasty snapAt the horse-tail upon his cap,And lugg'd most stoutly at his crown,In hopes to pull the varlet down:The more he lugg'd to end the farce,The more the Trojan hung an arse:Still he haul'd on with many a bob,And certainly had done his job,Because so firmly was his capTy'd with a tinsel'd leather strap,That though the knave began to cough,The de'il a bit would it come off:But watchful Venus came in season,Before the Greek had stopp'd his weasand;Her scissars from her side she whipp'd,And in a twink the stay-band snipp'd.The Greek, who thought he well had sped,And pull'd off both his cap and head,Was vex'd to find, instead of full cap,He'd only got an empty skull-cap:In grievous wrath, away he threw it.
But watchful Venus came in season,Before the Greek had stopp'd his weasand;Her scissars from her side she whipp'd,And in a twink the stay-band snipp'd.
But watchful Venus came in season,Before the Greek had stopp'd his weasand;Her scissars from her side she whipp'd,And in a twink the stay-band snipp'd.
Amongst his men, who flock'd to view it,Admir'd the glitt'ring band, and sworeThey'd never seen the like before.He then, with all his might and main,Let drive at Paris once again;With a fresh broomstick thought to smoke him,But Venus whipp'd him up, and took himIn her smock lap, and very soonNear his own dwelling set him down;From thence, with gentle touch, she ledThe younker home, and warm'd his bed.To take away perfumes not good,She burnt perfumes of spicy wood.No sooner was he seated well inHis garret, but she look'd for Helen:Amongst her chamber-maids she found her;The wenches all were standing round her.Quickly she chang'd her form, and whipp'd onThe nose and chin of Mother Shipton;Then on her tip-toes coming near,She whispers softly in her ear:My dearest jewel, Paris wantsTo ramble in the usual haunts;Upon a good flock-bed he lies,And longs to view your wicked eyes:The whoring rascal, safe and sound,Prepares to fire a double round.Helen began to make a dinAt this old woman's nose and chin,But as she star'd her through and through,Her old acquaintance soon she knewBy her fine alabaster bubbies,Her eyes of jet, and lips of rubies.The fright made all her teeth to chatter,And, 'faith, she scarce could hold her water:But soon a little courage took,And to the goddess silence broke(The reader in her speech will find,That, woman like, she spoke her mind):Could I believe that Venus wouldFor such a rascal turn a bawd?Don't think that Helen e'er will truckle,And with a beaten scoundrel buckle.If to your calling you bewitch her,For God's sake let a brave man switch her,Nor think that I can like a scrubThat any lousy rogue can drub.Now he is worsted in the fight,I am become another's right:I know your drift; it sha'n't take place;To send me homeward with disgrace,And make my husband quite uncivil:You a fine goddess! you a devil!If Paris cannot live withoutA tit bit, you yourself may do't;Be you his loving wench or wife,I'll go no more, upon my life:To me it will afford no sport,I am not in a humour for't;You're always ready for a bout,When I'd as lief be hang'd as do't:But know, that I'll no longer bearOf every saucy jade the sneer,Who cry, She's very handsome, sure,But yet the brim's an errant whore.Hey-day! quoth Venus, what's all this?On nettles sure you've been to piss:Yon will not that, or t'other do:Pray, who will first have cause to rue?If I forsake thee, every graceWill leave that pretty smirking face;Trojans won't give a fig to seeWhat once they view'd with so much glee;Nor will the wildest rake in townValue thy ware at half a crown,This eas'd poor Helen of her doubts,And put an end to all disputes;Rather than risk the loss of beauty,She'd be content with double duty;On which the gipsies tripp'd away,And soon arriv'd where Paris lay.The maids about like lightning flew,For they had fifty things to do:But Nell and Venus mount up stairs;They were to mind their own affairs.Soon as they reach'd the garret-door,The goddess tripp'd it in before;And, squatting down just by the fire,Made Helen on a stool sit by her:All o'er she look'd so very charming,That Paris found his liver warming;He seiz'd her, and began to playThe prelude toet cætera;Hoping a tune o' th' silent fluteWould keep the scolding baggage mute:Instead of which the vixen fellUpon the harmless rogue pell mell.After you've suffer'd such disgrace,How dare you look in Helen's face?What wench, now thou hast lost thine honour,Will let thee lay a leg upon her?Perhaps you think I'll suffer youTo toy, but split me if I do;Not I, by Jove. Are all thy brags,Of beating Menelaus to rags,Come off with this? Once more go tryThy strength—But what a fool am I!A stripling thou, a giant he;At single gulp he'd swallow thee.Then venture into scrapes no more;But, since thou'rt safe, e'en shut the door.Paris replies, Good dame, ha' done;We can't recall the setting sun:Though your old cuckold-pated whelp,By that damn'd brim Minerva's help,Did win this match, the next that's try'dI'll lay the odds I trim his hide.But haste, my girl, let's buckle to't,And mind the business we're about:I ne'er before had such desire;My heart and pluck are both on fire:Just now I've far more appetite,Than when with you, that merry night,In Cranse's isle, to work we buckled,And dubb'd your bluff-fac'd husband cuckold.This speech no sooner had he made,But up he jump'd upon the bed;Where Nelly soon resign'd her charms.And sunk into the varlet's arms:Around her waist he never caught her,But it in special temper brought her.Whilst thus they up and down engage,The Greek was in a bloody rage;He like a pointer rang'd about,To try to find the younker out,And peep'd in ev'ry hole and corner,In hopes to spy this Mr. Horner;(Nor would the Trojans, not to wrong 'em,Have screen'd him, had he been among 'em)But the bawd Venus took good careHe should not find him far or near.Then Agamemnon from his breechLifted himself, and made this speech:Ye Dardans and ye Trojans trusty,Whose swords we keep from being rusty,You plainly see the higher powersDetermine that the day is ours;For Menelaus sure has beat him,And may, for aught we know, have eat him,As not a man upon the spot,Can tell us where the rogue is got:If therefore Helen you'll restore,We'll take her, be she wife or whore,With all her clothes and other gear,Adding a sum for wear and tear:The wear, a female broker maySettle in less than half a day;But for the tear, no mortal elfCan judge so well as Mene's self.If Troy will pay a fine so just,And that they will, I firmly trust,We'll leave this curs'd unlucky shore,And swear to trouble you no more.With mighty shouts the Grecians eachVow 'tis a very noble speech;That every single word was right;And swore the Trojans should stand by't.
With solemn phiz, about the fateOf Troy the gods deliberate;And long dispute the matter, whetherTo joul their loggerheads together,Or make all farther scuffles cease,And let them drink and whore in peace.At last the gods agreenem. con.To let the rascals squabble on:Paris then jogs Lycaon's sonTo knock poor Menelaus down;And whilst the honest quack, Machaon,A plaster spread the wound to lay on,A dreadful noise of shouts and drummingForewarn'd the Greeks that Troy was coming.The gen'ral now, the troops to settle,And show himself a man of mettle,In a great splutter runs aboutTo call their trusty leaders out,Swaggers and bounces, kicks and cuffs,Some serjeants praises, others huffs;At last the roysters join in battle,And clubs, and staves, and potlids rattle.
Hebe prepar'd upon the spotA jug of purl made piping hot,Of which she gave each god a cup,Who sup and blow, and blow and sup.
Hebe prepar'd upon the spotA jug of purl made piping hot,Of which she gave each god a cup,Who sup and blow, and blow and sup.
The watchman op'd the gates of heaven,Just as the clock was striking seven;When all the gods, with yawning faces,To council came, and took their places.Hebe prepar'd upon the spotA jug of purl made piping hot,Of which she gave each god a cup,Who sup and blow, and blow and sup;And whilst their time they thus employ,Just slightly ask, What news from Troy?When thus unlucky Jove, for fun,To vex his ox-ey'd wife, begun:Two scolding brims of royal bloodAssist the Greeks—if not, they should;But, perch'd above, like daws they sit,Nor they to help their friends think fit;But, suff'ring Greece to go to ruin,Content themselves with mischief brewing;Whilst grateful Venus in the throng,To aid her lecher, scours along;With nimble bum, or nimbler wrist,She guides his weapon where she list;Knowing a touch of her soft hand,If fallen down, will make him stand.But, messmates, since we have begun,'Tis time to fix what must be done.The book of Fate then let us scan,And view what is ordain'd for man;That we about them may determine,To kill, or keep alive, the vermin:Say then, shall smiling peace ensue,Or dreadful broils, with face of rue?If now your godships think that NellyShould go and warm her husband's belly,And Paris pay for doing workWould glad the heart of Jew or Turk;Why then the borough may stand firmA thousand years, or any term;May back recall its old renown,And once more be a market-town.Whilst thus he preach'd, his angry queenWith Pallas whispering was seen;And as they jabber'd pate to pate,Against poor Troy express'd their hateThe boxing vixen, though in wrath,Yet holds her peace, and nothing saith;Nor would, had Jove preach'd e'er so long,For heavenly wisdom rul'd her tongue;She prudent acts; not so Jove's wife,Whose joy consists in noise and strife.Begun: Don't think your dunder-pateShall use your queen at such a rate:On whoring Troy I've made just war;Have rous'd my Grecians near and far;My post-chaise rattled many a mile,My peacocks sweating all the while;And all to bring destruction onThis perjur'd, lying, whoring[1]town.But spouse my cares and toils derides;Because they're rogues, he's on their sides;To punish rogues in grain refuses,And thus his loving wife abuses:Though, if the gods will take my side,In spite of Jove I'll trim their hide.At this same speech you cannot wonderThe thunder-driver look'd like thunder:He wav'd his locks, and fit to chokeWith rage, he to his vixen spoke:Why, how now, hussy! whence this hateTo Priam and the Trojan state?Can mortal scoundrels thee perplex,And the great brim of brimstones vex,That thou should'st make such woeful pother,And Troy's whole race desire to smother;Then level, out of female spite,Their spires, with weather-cocks so bright;And all because that rogue on IdaFancy'd your mouth an inch too wide-a?Pray how can I the varlet blame,Who fifty times have thought the same?[2]But for this once I'll give thee stringEnough, to let thy fury swing:Burn the whole town; blow up the walls;Destroy their shops and coblers' stalls:Murder old Priam on the place,And smother all his bastard race;With his boil'd beef and cabbage glutThe fury of thy greedy gut.Peace, then, perhaps I may enjoyWhen there shall be no more of Troy:But should I choose to be uncivil,And send your scoundrels to the devil,Don't think, good Mrs. Brim, that youShall hold my hand: remember howI suffer harmless Troy to tumble,To stop your everlasting grumble.I tell thee, brim, of all I knowIn heav'n above, or earth below,Bastards of mortal rogues or gods,I value Troy the most by odds:No men on earth deserve my favourLike Trojan boys, for good behaviour;Because, whene'er they pay their vows,They kill good store of bulls and cows;Nor do they ever grudge the least,To lend their daughters to the priest;From whence it cannot be deny'd,But true religion is their guide.Juno, like puppet, rolls her eyes,And, meditating, thus replies:Three boroughs have I got in Greece,Most dearly lov'd in war and peace;Mycenae, Argos, aye, and Sparta,Destroy 'em all[3], care I a f—-t-a?With the dry pox or thunder strike 'em;'Tis fault enough for me to like 'em.Must thy poor wife's good friends be drubb'd,And she herself thus hourly snubb'd,As if her family, Sir Cull,Was not as good as yours to th' full?I know I ought, were you well bred,To share your power as well as bed;But there I know, and so do you,I'm robb'd of more than half my due.Your dad[4]was but a lead-refiner,Or else a Derbyshire lead-miner;Mine was refiner of the smallAssays, for years, at Goldsmiths'-Hall:Then prithee don't, my dearest life,Refuse due honour to your wife:Alternately let's take the sway;Each bear a bob both night and day;And then the vulgar gods shall seeWe mount by turns, now you, now me.See trusty Pallas sneaking stands,And waits your worship's dread commands:She'll soon, if you unloose her tether,Set Greece and Troy by th' ears together:But bid her use her utmost care,Troy's whoring sons begin the war;Then, if they get the worst o' th' game,They dare not say that we're to blame.Of heaven and earth the whoring kingSwore that his wife had hit the thing:Then go, my Pallas, in the nick,And serve these Phrygian whelps a trick;Make 'em, like Frenchmen, treaties break:Away, and do not stay to speak.Pleas'd she darts downward in a trice,And smooth as younkers slide on ice;Or when the upper regions vomitA long-tail'd firebrand, call'd a comet,Which robs old women of their wits,And frights their daughters into fits;Gives wond'ring loons the belly-ache,And makes the valiant soldier quake:With horrid whiz it falls from high,And whisks its tail along the sky:Just so this brimstone did appear,As she shot downward through the air.They guess'd, and paus'd, and guess'd again,What this strange prodigy could mean:At last agreed, that angry FateWas big with something mighty great.'Twas war, or peace, or wind, or rain,Or scarcity next year of grain.Some cunning heads this reason hit,That B—e would soon make room for P—tt;But all the bold north-country routSwore that it would much better suitHis M——, to stick to B—te.Whilst thus they jar and disagree,Minerva lit behind a tree;And lest her phiz should make 'em gape,Borrow'd an honest mortal shape;Laodocus, no snivelling dastard,But great Antenor's nephew's bastard:She quickly found Lycaon's son,A rare strong chief for back and bone,Whose troops from black Esopee came,A place but little known to fame.The arms his raggamuffins boreWere broomsticks daub'd with blood all o'er.To him she with a harmless look,Like a mischievous brimstone, spoke:Will you, friend Pand'rus, says she,A little counsel take from me?You know that every prudent manShould pick up money when he can;And now, if you could have the luckTo make a hole in Sparta's pluck,Paris, as certain as I live,Would any sum of money give.Such a bold push must sure be crown'dWith ten, at least, or twenty pound:Don't gape and stare, for now or neverYou gain or lose the cash for ever:But first, to th' Lycian archer pay(By most he's call'd the god of day)A ram; this same unerring sparkCan guide thy arrow to its mark:'Tis highly necessary this,Or two to one your aim you'll miss.Like gunpowder, the thick-skull'd elfTook fire, and up he blew himself:Then fitting to his bow the string,He swore, by Jove, he'd do the thing.His trusty bow was made of hornAn old ram goat for years had worn.This goat by Pandarus was shot,And left upon the cliffs to rot:The curling horns, that spread asunderTwo tailors' yards, became his plunder;Which he took care to smooth, and soProduc'd a very handsome bow:The blacksmith fil'd a curious joint,And Deard with tinsel tipp'd each point.This bow of bows, without being seenBy any but his countrymen,He bent; and, that he might be safe,Took care to hide his better halfBehind the potlids of his band;For those he always could command.Before he aim'd, he squatted lowTo fit an arrow to his bow;One from a hundred out he picks,To send the cuckold over Styx(Sharp was the point of this same arrow,Design'd to reach the Spartan's marrow);Then to the god of day-light vowsTo give a dozen bulls and cows.Now hard he strains, with wondrous strength,And draws the arrow all its length:Swift through the air the weapon hies,Whilst the string rattles as it flies.Had then Atrides been forgot,He certainly had gone to pot:But Pallas, for his life afraid,In pudding-time came to his aid,And turn'd aside the furious dart,That was intended for his heart,Into a more ignoble part.So careful mothers, when they please,Their children guard from lice and fleas.The first emotion that he felt,Was a great thump upon his belt:For there the arrow, Pallas knew,Could only pierce a little through.It did so; and the skin it rais'd:The blood gush'd out: which so amaz'dThe cuckold, that he was half craz'd:He felt within himself strange twitches;'Twas thought by most he spoil'd his breeches.As when you seek for stuff to graceSome fine court lady's neck and face,All o'er her muddy skin you spreadA load of paint, both white and red,The diff'ring colours, sure enough,Must help to set each other off,Spite of the hue that glares withinThe filthy, muddy, greasy skin:Just so Atrides' blood you'd spy,As it ran down his dirty thigh;His knee, and leg, and ancle pass'd,And reach'd his sweaty foot at last.At this most dreadful, rueful sight,Atrides' hair stood bolt upright,And lifted, all the Grecians said,His hat six inches from his head.Nor less the honest cuckold quak'd;His heart as well as belly ach'd;Till looking at the place that bled,He plainly saw the arrow's headStopp'd by his greasy belt: he thenBoldly took heart of grace again.But the great chief, who thought the arrowHad reach'd his brother's guts or marrow,With bitter sobbing heav'd his chest,And thus his heavy grief express'd;Whilst all the Grecians, far and near,Did nought but threaten, curse, and swear:My dearest bro. for this did IDesire a truce? Zounds! I could cry:It proves a fatal truce to thee;Nay, fatal both to thee and me.Thou fought'st till all the fray did cease:Now to be slain, in time of peace,Is dev'lish hard:—with rueful phizHe added? By my soul it is!Those scoundrel Trojans all combine,In hopes to ruin thee and thine;They've stole thy goods, and kiss'd thy wife,And now they want to take thy life:With perjuries the rogues are cramm'd,For which they will be double damn'd.Now we good Grecians, when it meet isTo make with scoundrel neighbours treaties,As Britons (but the Lord knows how)With roguish Frenchmen often do,We're strict and honest to our word;So should each man that wears a sword.What pity 'tis that rogues so baseShould thus bamboozle Jove's own race!But let it be thy comfort, brother,And with it thy resentment smother,That Jove in flames such rogues will burnish;Already he begins to furnishWith red-hot balls his mutton fist,To singe and pepper whom he list.Be sure, that when he once begins,He'll smoke these scoundrels for their sins,Make Priam's house of scurvy peersCome tumbling down about their ears.These Trojans, if they do not mend on't,Will all be hang'd at least, depend on't:For thee, my brother, who deserv'dMuch better fate than be so serv'd,I trust thou wilt not die so sudden,But still eat many a pound of pudding.If aught but good should hap to thee,God knows what must become of me.When thou art gone, thy men of mightWill run, but rot me if they'll fight.When once they've lost thy brave example,They'll let the Trojan rascals trampleTheir very guts out ere they'll budge;They will, as sure as God's my judge.Shall Helen then with Paris stay,Whilst thy poor bones consume away;And some sad dog, thy recent tomb,Lug out his ware and piss upon?Adding, that all Atrides got,Was to come here to lie and rot;Nor durst his bullying brother stay,But very stoutly ran away.Before this scandal on me peep,May I be buried nine yards deep!He spoke; and sighing rubs his eyes,When Menelaus thus replies:Thy tears, my hero, prithee keep,Lest they should make our soldiers weep:'Tis but, at worst, a harmless scratch;I'll put upon't a lady's patch:Or, if you think 'twill mend you faster,I'll send for Borton's[5]sticking-plaster.But if a surgeon's help is meet,Dispatch a messenger to th' Fleet;There is a man, who well can doFor scratches, burns, and poxes too.The brother king, with gracious look,Once more resum'd the thread, and spokeMay all the gods thy life defend,And all thy wounds and scratches mend!Talthybius, fly, Machaon bidRun faster than he ever did;Let him await us in our tents,And bring his box of instruments;My brother's wounded with a dart,For aught I know, in mortal partWith such a haste Talthybius run,He knock'd two common troopers down;Then search'd through every file and rank,And found the surgeon in the flank.The king, Machaon, wants your help;You must not march, but run, you whelp;And, with your box of instruments,Attend the brothers in their tents:Make speed, the best leg foremost put;One brother's wounded in the gut;And for the other, 'tis not clearBut he has burst his guts for fear.The surgeon was a soldier good,And in his regimentals stood.Soon as he heard of what had pass'd,No surgeon ever ran so fast.Talthybius, who his speed did view,Swears to this day he thought he flew.Away he hied, with double speed,To help the king in time of need(A double motive surgeons brings,When they attend the wounds of kings;It happens oft, as I have heard,Besides their pay, they get preferr'd).Away puff'd Chiron on full drive,In hopes to see the king alive.Standing he found the man he sought,And cleaner than at first was thought.His comrades look'd a little blue,And so perhaps might I or you.He pluck'd the arrow with such speed,Close to the head he broke the reed;On which he for the buckles felt,And loos'd at once both head and belt:When kneeling down upon the ground,Like Edward's queen he suck'd the wound;Then to the place, to give it ease,Apply'd a salve of pitch and grease.But, while the surgeon was employ'd,The Grecians sorely were annoy'dBy Trojan boys that flew about,Resolv'd just then to box it out;Roaring they came like drunken sailors,Or idle combination tailors.The king durst hardly go or stay;But yet he scorn'd to run away:Though peace might make his head appearA little thick, in war 'twas clear.Though his own coach was by his side,Yet, like a man, he scorn'd to ride,Lest they should think him touch'd with pride,But ran on foot through all the host,As nimbly as a penny post:And cries, Attend, each mother's son!This battle must be lost or won.Remember now your ancient glory,What broken heads there are in storyRelated of your fathers stout;And you yourselves are talk'd about:A Trojan fighting one of you,Has odds against him three to two:The rascals rotten are as melons,And full of guilt as Newgate felons.We'll have 'em all in chains and cuffs,But till that time let's work their buffs.This speech was made for men of mettle;He next the cowards strives to settle:O shame to all your former trades,The ridicule of oyster jades!Do you intend to stand and seeYour lighters flaming in the sea?A special time to stare and quake,When more than all ye have's at stake!Like stags, who, whilst they stand at bay,Dare neither fight nor run away;Perhaps you think it worth the whileFor Jove to fight, and save you toil:But you will find, without a jest,He safest stands who boxes best.This said, like Brentford's mighty kingHe march'd, and strutted round the ring.Th' old Cretan gave him great content,To see him head his regiment;And to observe how void of fearThe bold Merion form'd the rear.The serjeant-majors, in their places,Advanc'd, with grim determin'd faces.The king, elated much with joy,Clasp'd in his arms the fine old boy:O Idomen! what thanks we oweTo men of such-like mould as you!Thy worth by far exceeds belief:When Jove from war shall give relief,Be thine the foremost cut o' th' beef:And when our pots of ale we quaff,Mix'd with small beer the better half,Thy share, depend, shall never failTo be a double pot, all ale.The Cretan had not learn'd to dance;Had ne'er from Dover skipp'd to France:For though 'tis plain he meant no evil,You'll say his answer was not civil:There needs no words to raise my courageSo save your wind to cool your porridge:I'll venture boldly though to say,I'll act what you command this day:Let but the trumpets sound to battle,I'll make the Trojans' doublets rattle.The king was rather pleas'd than vex'd,So travell'd onward to the next.Ajax he found among his blues;Ajax, says he, my boy, what news?Now this he said, because 'twas hardTo have for all a speech prepar'd:But yet he gladly feasts his eyesWith his new mode of exercise:He found 'twas Prussian every inch;Of mighty service at a pinch;He saw him close his files, then double(A trick, new learn'd, the foe to bubble);Next wheel'd to right and left about,And made 'em face both in and out;Then turn upon the centre quick,As easy as a juggler's trick;Whence soon they form'd into a square;Then back again just as they were.By this parade, Atrides knewThat phalanx might be trusted to.Now, all this while his plotting headHad conn'd a speech, and thus he said:To say I'm pleas'd, O gallant knight!Is barely doing what is right:Thy soldiers well may heroes be,When they such bright examples see.Would Jove but to the rest impartA piece of thy undaunted heart,Trojans would helter-skelter run,And their old walls come tumbling down.The next he found was ancient Nestor,Who, spite of age, was still a jester:For military art renown'd,As Bland's his knowledge was profoundBesides, when he thought fit, could speakIn any language—best in Greek.The king espy'd his men in ranks,And flew to give th' old firelock thanks;Observ'd how just he plac'd his forces,His footmen and his line of horses.The foot[6]were wisely rang'd in front,That they the first might bear the brunt.
The king espied his men in ranks,And flew to give th' old firelock thanks;Observ'd how just he plac'd his forces,His footmen and his line of horses.The foot were wisely rang'd in front,That they the first might bear the brunt.
The king espied his men in ranks,And flew to give th' old firelock thanks;Observ'd how just he plac'd his forces,His footmen and his line of horses.The foot were wisely rang'd in front,That they the first might bear the brunt.
The horse along the flanks he drew,To keep 'em ready to pursue.The rear made up of mod'rate men,Half hearts of cock, half hearts of hen.The very riff-raff rogues they ventureTo squeeze together in the centre.Thus fix'd, they kept a sharp look-out,And ready stood to buckle to't.A man with half an eye could seeA rare old Grecian this must be,Who in so small a space could keepHis knaves from jumbling in a heap;Then with a phiz as wise as graveThe following advice he gave:If you in battle chance to fall,Don't stay to rise, for that spoils all;To rise as some men do, I mean,Burn foremost, then your back is seen;But jump directly bolt upright,Ready prepar'd to run or fight.Advice like this our fathers took,And drove the world along like smoke.Thus spoke the queer old Grecian chief,And pleas'd the king beyond belief;Who cry'd, 'Tis cursed hard that ageShould drive such leaders off the stage:Whilst other bruisers die forgot,Eternal youth should be thy lot.When Nestor shook his hoary locks,And thus replies: Age, with a pox!Will come apace: could I, forsooth,Recall the strength I had in youth,When Ereuthalion I did thwack,Be sure I would that strength call back;But dear experience can't be gottenTill we're with tricks of youth half rotten:The young are fittest for the field,But to the old in council yield.Though now my fighting bears no price,Yet I can give you rare advice.Fight you and scuffle whilst you're young,My vigour centres in my tongue:I would do more to show my love,But can no other weapon move.With joy great Agamemnon heardThis doughty knight o' th' grizzle beard,He left him then, because he hadNo time to spare, things look'd but bad:When, lo! he found MenestheusIn a most lamentable fuss.His potlid he could not explore,Because 'twas hid behind the door:Searching about his tent all round him,The gen'ral left him where he found him.Next spy'd Ulysses at his stand;Th' old buffs were under his command:Idle they lay at distance far,Nor knew a word about the war:Atrides saw them playing pranks,And all disorder'd in their ranks;Which made him in a mighty passionThe poor Ulysses fall slap dash on:I thought you, Mr. Slight-of-Hand,Had known much better than to standPicking your fingers, whilst the restAre forc'd to box their very best,And make a marvellous resistanceTo keep these Trojan whelps at distance:In time of peace you're much respected,And never at our feasts neglected;You're first i' th' list when I invite,And therefore should be first in fight.The sage Ulysses, with a blush,Returns for answer, Hush, hush, hush:If you speak loud, the Trojans hear;Not that we care, what need we fear?But I'm persuaded you'll ere longWish you had kept that noisy tongueBetwixt your teeth, nor let it passTo tell us all you're half an ass;Why, can't you see we're ready booted,And I've just got my jacket clouted?Without your keeping such a coil.Ten minutes fits us for our broil;Give you the word, and we'll obey,At quarter-staff or cudgel play;When we begin, perhaps I'll doSuch wonders as may frighten you.Well said, Ulysses! cries the king(A little touch'd though with the stingOf this rum speech); I only fear'dTo catch my warrior off his guard;But am rejoic'd to find thee steady,For broils and wenching always ready.He said, and pass'd to Diomede,And caught him fast asleep in bed.Zoons! quoth the king, I thought Tydides,The man in whom my greatest pride is,Might absent been perhaps a-whoring,But little dreamt to catch him snoring:Dost thou not hear the Trojans rattle?Already they've begun the battle.Not so thy father—none could doubt him,He long ere this had laid about him;Had gi'n the Trojans such a drubbing,As would have say'd a twelvemonth's scrubbing:'Tis known he was a lad of wax,Letbellumbe the word,aut pax.He was, indeed, of stature small,But then in valour he was tall.I saw him once, 'twas when he stray'dTo Polynice's house for aid;Troopers he begg'd, and straight we gave 'em;But Jove sent word he should not have 'em:With long-tail'd comets made such rout,That we e'en let him go without.But after that, I know it fact,He fifty blust'ring bullies thwack'd:Nay, hold, I fib, 'twas forty-nine;For one he sav'd, a friend of mine,To witness that the tale was true,Else 'twould have been believ'd by few.Though two bold bruisers led them on,Meon and sturdy Lycophon,He trimm'd their jackets ev'ry one.But I must tell you in this case,And tell you flatly to your face,Since our affairs so ill you handle,You're hardly fit to hold his candle.With rage and grief Tydides stung,Scratch'd his rump raw, yet held his tongue;Provok'd by this abusive knightTo scratch the place that did not bite.Not so the son of Capaneus;He soon began to play the deuce:Good Mr. Chief, if you would tryTo speak the truth, you would not lye;Like other mortals though we rest,We'll box it with the very best.Though we, I say, and I'm no puffer,By the comparison can't suffer;Yet I insist it is not fair,The sons with fathers to compare.But pray, Sir, venture to be just;And, when you think, I'm sure you must,Spite of your wrath, be forc'd to sayWe know to fight as well as they:And give me leave, Sir, to assure ye,Our arm's as strong, though less our fury.Against proud Thebes our father fail'd;With half their force the sons prevail'd:Our fathers suffer'd in their shoes,And died like damn'd blaspheming Jews;But Jupiter himself stood by us,Because he found the sons more pious.Therefore, in spite of all your airs,Our broils have made more noise than theirs.To him Tydides: Cease, my 'squire,To wrangle thus; and curb thy fire.Thy betters know the anxious chiefIs almost starv'd for want of beef;No wonder then that he's so crusty,'Twould make or you or me ride resty:But we will fight if he leads on,And second him, my boy, ding dong.He spoke, and took a flying jump,And on the ground his breech came thump;But up he sprang, and with a rattle,His 'squire and he rush'd forth to battle;And, as they hurried to begin,Their buff-coats made a dreadful din:As when the scavengers you meet,Prepar'd with brooms to scour the street,With gentle pace at first they sweep,And a slow lazy motion keep.'Till wave on wave creates a floodOf cabbage leaves and kennel mud;But when the shovel plays its part,It mounts aloft, and fills the cart:So the Greek ragged bands move on,The hindmost drive the front along;No sound through all the ranks you hear,Except the general chance to swear:March and be d—d, the chief would say,And silent all the troops obey.Not so the Trojans' empty skulls,Their noise exceeded Basan's bulls;So many diff'rent shires, when squabblingLike Welch and Scotch, must make rare gabbling.To it they fall: a Heathen spriteHeartens each army to the fight.Mars backs the Trojans, Pallas seeksTo help her dear-beloved Greeks;Discord and Terror rage in fight,Attended by that spectre Flight.Discord, the curse of Christian nations,But most the bane of corporations;When born, though smaller than a fly,In half an hour she'll grow so highHer head will almost touch the sky.Too often at a lord mayor's feastShe comes, a most unwelcome guest;Too often drags both great and smallIn heat of blood to Wranglers' Hall[7];Where half their wealth is from 'em lugg'd,Before they find themselves humbugg'd:Affliction brings both sides to think;So down they friendly sit and drink.Vex'd they're drawn in to be employersOf thieves, solicitors, and lawyers,Now bloody blows by scores are struck,Yet not a man was seen to duck:A noise of shouts and grumbling spreads,From luckless knaves with broken heads:With blood of noble captains woundedTen million ants and grubs were drowned.As from a brewer's sink, a torrentComes with a most prodigious current,And roaring with amazing forceBears down in its resistless courseStale radishes, bruis'd mint, and fennel,Nor stops till it has reach'd the kennel;So these two crowds each other jostle,And 'twixt 'em make a dreadful bustle.The bloody fray is first begunBy chatt'ring Nestor's saucy son;Echepolus by chance was nigh,At whom he let his broomstick fly;Upon the nob it hit him full,Spoil'd his best hat, and crack'd his skull.Down on the ground he tumbled souse,Like tiles from Whitfield's meeting-house;Or like an ancient country steeple,That tumbling frights both priest and people;When Elpenor, a crack-brain'd fellow,Whose coat was red, and waistcoat yellow,A staring, gaping, hair-brain'd prig,Attempts to steal his hat and wig:But, as he ventur'd forth his handTo draw the plunder off the sand,Hugging himself at his rare luck,Agenor's broomshaft reach'd his pluck:His potlid left his side unguarded,And so the puppy got rewarded:He falls, and sprawls about in blood,And fills his mouth with dirt and mud.Now Greeks and Trojans round him flock;And lend each other many a knock;The sharpest weapon foremost put,And strive to rip each others gut.Simoisius, a lovely boyAs any you shall find in Troy:On Ida's side his mother boreThe bantling, near Simois' shore;And from that river, now so fam'd,Her darling Simoisius nam'd:Great Ajax took him for his mark,And quickly chaunch'd the luckless spark.For shame, you lubber! thus to catchA harmless boy not half your match!But honest Ajax ever thought,'Twas all the same, if he but fought:Let him but go, away he stalks,And strikes at reeds as well as oaks.Thus the unlucky younker fell,But how, he never yet could tell.Like a tall tree, that Farmer BatesCuts down to mend his rotten gates,With a huge squash its branches allGet sorely rumpled by the fall;So this poor boy, in tumbling down,Lost a good wig, and bruis'd his crown.At Ajax then Antiphus throwsHis staff; but how, he hardly knows:In such a hurry are some widgeons,They kill jack-daws instead of pigeons:Such a strange blund'ring fellow this is;He lam'd the fav'rite of Ulysses,Just as he stooping was to catchPoor Simmey's potlid and his watch,Ulysses was confounded mad,To see his fav'rite fare so bad:He swore a little, that's the truth,Look'd mighty big, and froth'd at mouth;Then sudden from the ranks steps out,Arm'd with a broomshaft firm and stout:He makes a feint to fetch a stroke,But first he turns with cautious look;Then cries, Have at your whoring gullets;I wish 'twas twenty ton of bullets.Away the massy broomstick goes,And carries dread to all the foes:It reach'd a huge fat-gutted fellow,For all the world like Punchinello:He was old Priam's jolly son,Too good a mark for sword or gun;For, as a treble place he fill'd,'Twas three to one he must be kill'd.Down tumbled he, with such a thwack,He made, with his amazing back,The earth just like a nutshell crack;And shook the globe to th' centre so,Old Pluto sent a sprite to knowThe reason why these sons of menDisturb'd him in his sooty den?For, nodding on his red-hot throne,They'd like to've brought him headlong down.The Trojans look'd a little black,And 'gan to show the Greeks their back;E'en Hector's self, with sullen pace,Retreats, bum foremost, from his place:The rest all tumble helter-skelter,And run just where they could for shelter;Whilst the victorious Greeks press on,And pick their pockets when they're down.When Phœbus saw them run this pace,He quick unmask'd his fiery face;And hollo'ing from the Trojan wall,As loud as ever he could bawl,Cries, Halt, ye whelps! and strive to saveThe little credit that you have:Turn back, and make the Grecians feelThey are not made of brass or steel:Achilles swears he'll fight no more,For Gen'ral Rogue, or Madam Whore;Then what the devil makes ye run,Unless to get well drubb'd for fun?What scurvy knave could thus amuse ye,When scarce a single soul pursues ye?Thus Phœbus, from the Trojan walls,Their almost fainting hearts recalls:Pallas hears all, and quickly starts up,To back the Greeks, and keep their hearts up.Diores next: the sun can't shineUpon a nobler than his line:A lord he was, or earl, or duke,But which, I have not time to look;Yet could not all his titles rareDefend him from the chance of war:One Pirus threw a ragged stone,Which sorely bruis'd his huckle-bone;Depriv'd of power to make resistance,He begs of all his peers assistance:But, amongst all the valiant rout,The de'il a man durst venture out;'Cause they were wanted at a pinch,No single soul would stir an inch.But whilst they wrangled which should go.My lord got pelted by the foe.Had he been driving all before him,As surely as his mother bore him,With eager haste these valiant soulsHad back'd his good success in shoals:But when they saw he could not stand,Not one would lend a helping hand:And ever since this rule is held'Mongst lords at court, though not i' th' field.Thoas beheld this Thracian chiefLooking as fierce as roast bull-beef:Thinks to himself, Young gentleman,A knock I'll fetch you, if I can.He then a well aim'd broomstick throws,Which bruis'd his breast, and broke his nose:With such a rattle was it thrown,It quickly brought the varlet down.The Thracian huffs, their leader tumbled,In a great passion fought and grumbled,And kept up such a woeful racket,That Thoas durst not steal his jacket;And though he cast a-squint his eyes,He trudg'd-away without his prize.Thus fell two knights[8], the one of Thrace,The other of some other place.By fate of war, most strangely jumbled,The conqu'rors with the conquer'd tumbled.Had you been hung up by a thread,But fifty yards above their head,Or plac'd behind a good strong wallIn which there was a little hole,The art of war you might have seen,And wiser than before have been.Thus fought the troops with might and main;Some fell, some stood to fight again.