FOOTNOTES:[435]This probably alludes to "An Ancient Order of Knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, king of Spain, ... to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth," &c. See AmesTypog.p. 327.[436]Alluding to the fabulous exploits attributed to this king in the old romances. See the dissertation affixed to this volume.
[435]This probably alludes to "An Ancient Order of Knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, king of Spain, ... to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth," &c. See AmesTypog.p. 327.
[435]This probably alludes to "An Ancient Order of Knighthood, called the Order of the Band, instituted by Don Alphonsus, king of Spain, ... to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth," &c. See AmesTypog.p. 327.
[436]Alluding to the fabulous exploits attributed to this king in the old romances. See the dissertation affixed to this volume.
[436]Alluding to the fabulous exploits attributed to this king in the old romances. See the dissertation affixed to this volume.
The Second Part.
Waswritten byJohn Grubb, M.A. of Christ Church, Oxford. The occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows. A set of gentlemen of the university had formed themselves into a club, all the members of which were to be of the name ofGeorge: Their anniversary feast was to be held onSt. George'sday. Our author solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunatelyJohn, this disqualification was dispensed with only upon this condition, that he would compose a song in honour of their Patron Saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. This gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries.[437]
This diverting poem was long handed about in manuscript, at length a friend ofGrubb'sundertook to get it printed, who, not keeping pace with the impatience of his friends, was addressed in the following whimsical macaronic lines, which, in such a collection as this, may not improperly accompany the poem itself.
Expostulatiuncula, siveQuerimoniunculaadAntonium[Atherton] ob PoemaJohannis Grubb, Viri του πανυ ingeniosissimi in lucem nondum editi.
Toni!Tune sines divina poemata GrubbiIntomb'd in secret thus still to remain any longer,Τουνομα σου shall last, Ω Γρυββε διαμπερες αει,Grubbe tuum nomen vivet dum nobilis ale-aEfficit heroas, dignamque heroe puellam.Est genus heroum, quos nobilis efficit alea-aQui pro niperkin clamant, quaternque liquorisQuem vocitant Homines Brandy, Superi Cherry-brandy,Sæpe illi longcut, vel small-cut flare TobaccoSunt soliti pipos. Ast si generosior herba(Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum)Mundungus desit, tum non funcare recusantBrown-paper tostâ, vel quod fit arundine bed-mat.Hic labor, hoc opus est heroum ascendere sedes!Ast ego quo rapiar! quo me feret entheus ardorGrubbe, tui memorem? Divinum expande poema.Quæ mora? quæ ratio est, quin Grubbi protinus anserVirgilii, Flaccique simul canat inter olores?
Toni!Tune sines divina poemata GrubbiIntomb'd in secret thus still to remain any longer,Τουνομα σου shall last, Ω Γρυββε διαμπερες αει,Grubbe tuum nomen vivet dum nobilis ale-aEfficit heroas, dignamque heroe puellam.Est genus heroum, quos nobilis efficit alea-aQui pro niperkin clamant, quaternque liquorisQuem vocitant Homines Brandy, Superi Cherry-brandy,Sæpe illi longcut, vel small-cut flare TobaccoSunt soliti pipos. Ast si generosior herba(Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum)Mundungus desit, tum non funcare recusantBrown-paper tostâ, vel quod fit arundine bed-mat.Hic labor, hoc opus est heroum ascendere sedes!Ast ego quo rapiar! quo me feret entheus ardorGrubbe, tui memorem? Divinum expande poema.Quæ mora? quæ ratio est, quin Grubbi protinus anserVirgilii, Flaccique simul canat inter olores?
At length the importunity of his friends prevailed, and Mr. Grubb's song was published at Oxford, under the following title:
The British Heroes.A New Poem in honour of St. George,By Mr.John Grubb,School-master of Christ-Church,Oxon.1688.
Favete linguis: carmina non priusAudita, musarum sucerdosCanto.—
Favete linguis: carmina non priusAudita, musarum sucerdosCanto.—
Hor.
Sold by Henry Clements. Oxon.
The story of king Arthur oldIs very memorable,The number of his valiant knights,And roundness of his table:The knights around his table in5A circle sate d'ye see:And altogether made up oneLarge hoop of chivalry.He had a sword, both broad and sharp,Y-clepd Caliburn,10Would cut a flint more easily,Than pen-knife cuts a corn;As case-knife does a capon carve,So would it carve a rock,And split a man at single slash,15From noddle down to nock.As Roman Augur's steel of yoreDissected Tarquin's riddle,So this would cut both conjurerAnd whetstone thro' the middle.20He was the cream of Brecknock,And flower of all the Welsh:But George he did the dragon fell,And gave him a plaguy squelsh.[438]St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;25Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Pendragon, like his father Jove,Was fed with milk of goat;And like him made a noble shieldOf she-goat's shaggy coat:30On top of burnisht helmet heDid wear a crest of leeks;And onions' heads, whose dreadful nodDrew tears down hostile cheeks.Itch, and Welsh blood did make him hot,35And very prone to ire;H' was ting'd with brimstone, like a match,And would as soon take fire.As brimstone he took inwardlyWhen scurf gave him occasion,40His postern puff of wind was aSulphureous exhalation.The Briton never tergivers'd,But was for adverse drubbing,And never turn'd his back to aught,45But to a post for scrubbing.His sword would serve for battle, orFor dinner, if you please;When it had slain a Cheshire man,'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese.50He wounded, and, in their own bloodDid anabaptize Pagans:But George he made the dragon anExample to all dragons.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;55Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time,Challeng'd a gyant savage;And streight came out the unweildy loutBrim-full of wrath and cabbage:60He had a phiz of latitude,And was full thick i' th' middle;The chekes of puffed trumpeter,And paunch of squire Beadle.[439]But the knight fell'd him, like an oak,65And did upon his back tread;The valiant knight his weazon cut,And Atropos his packthread.Besides he fought with a dun cow,As say the poets witty,70A dreadful dun, and horned too,Like dun of Oxford city:The fervent dog-days made her mad,By causing heat of weather,Syrius and Procyon baited her,75As bull-dogs did her father:Grafiers, nor butchers this fell beast,E'er of her frolick hindered;John Dosset[440]she'd knock down as flat,As John knocks down her kindred:80Her heels would lay ye all along,And kick into a swoon;Frewin's[441]cow-heels keep up your corpse,But hers would beat you down.She vanquisht many a sturdy wight,85And proud was of the honour;Was pufft by mauling butchers so,As if themselves had blown her.At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy,But all that would not fright him;90Who wav'd his winyard o'er sir-loyn,As if he'd gone to knight him.He let her blood, frenzy to cure,And eke he did her gall rip;His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit,95Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib:He rear'd up the vast crooked rib,Instead of arch triumphal:But George hit th' dragon such a pelt,As made him on his bum fall.100St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow,The Turkish squadrons slew;And fetch'd the pagan crescent down,105With half-moon made of yew:His trusty bow proud Turks did gall,With showers of arrows thick,And bow-strings, without strangling, sentGrand Viziers to old Nick:110Much turbants, and much Pagan patesHe made to humble in dust;And heads of Saracens he fixtOn spear, as on a sign-post:He coop'd in cage Bajazet the prop115Of Mahomet's religion,As if't been the whispering bird,That prompted him; the pigeon.In Turkey leather scabbard, heDid sheathe his blade so trenchant:120But George he swinged the dragon's tail,And cut off every inch on't.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.The amazon Thalestris was125Both beautiful, and bold;She sear'd her breasts with iron hot,And bang'd her foes with cold.Her hand was like the tool, wherewithJove keeps proud mortals under:130It shone just like his lightning,And batter'd like his thunder.Her eye darts lightning, that would blastThe proudest he that swagger'd,And melt the rapier of his soul,135In its corporeal scabbard.Her beauty, and her drum to foesDid cause amazement double;As timorous larks amazed areWith light, and with a low-bell:140With beauty, and that lapland-charm,[442]Poor men she did bewitch all;Still a blind whining lover had,As Pallas had her scrich-owl.She kept the chastness of a nun145In armour, as in cloyster:But George undid the dragon justAs you'd undo an oister.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.150Stout Hercules, was offspring ofGreat Jove, and fair Alcmene:One part of him celestial was,One part of him terrene.To scale the hero's cradle walls155Two fiery snakes combin'd,And, curling into swaddling cloaths,About the infant twin'd:But he put out these dragons' fires,And did their hissing stop;160As red-hot iron with hissing noiseIs quencht in blacksmith's shop.He cleans'd a stable, and rubb'd downThe horses of new-comers;And out of horse-dung he rais'd fame,165As Tom Wrench[443]does cucumbers.He made a river help him through;Alpheus was under-groom;The stream, disgust at office mean,Ran murmuring thro' the room:170This liquid ostler to preventBeing tired with that long work,His father Neptune's trident took,Instead of three-tooth'd dung-fork.This Hercules, as soldier, and175As spinster, could take pains;His club would sometimes spin ye flax,And sometimes knock out brains:H' was forc'd to spin his miss a shiftBy Juno's wrath and hér-spite;180Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel,As cook whips barking turn-spit.From man, or churn he well knew howTo get him lasting fame:He'd pound a giant, till the blood,185And milk till butter came.Often he fought with huge battoon,And oftentimes he boxed;Tapt a fresh monster once a month,As Hervey[444]doth fresh hogshead.190He gave Anteus such a hug,As wrestlers give in Cornwall:But George he did the dragon kill,As dead as any door-nail.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;195Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.The Gemini, sprung from an egg,Were put into a cradle:Their brains with knocks and bottled ale,Were often-times full addle:200And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him,That hurls the bolt trisulcate,With helmet-shell on tender head,Did tustle with red-ey'd pole-cat.Castor a horseman, Pollux tho'205A boxer was, I wist:The one was fam'd for iron heel;Th' other for leaden fist.Pollux to shew he was god,When he was in a passion210With fist made noses fall down flatBy way of adoration:This fist, as sure as French disease,Demolish'd noses' ridges:He like a certain lord[445]was famd'215For breaking down of bridges.Castor the flame of fiery steed,With well-spur'd boots took down;As men, with leathern buckets, quenchA fire in country town.220His famous horse, that liv'd on oats,Is sung on oaten quill;By bards' immortal provenderThe nag surviveth still.This shelly brood on none but knaves225Employ'd their brisk artillery:And flew as naturally at rogues,As eggs at thief in pillory.[446]Much sweat they spent in furious fight,Much blood they did effund:230Their whites they vented thro' the pores;Their yolks thro' gaping wound:Then both were cleans'd from blood and dustTo make a heavenly sign;The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd,235And then hung up to shine;Such were the heavenly double-Dicks,The sons of Jove and Tyndar:But George he cut the dragon up,As he had bin duck or windar.[447]240St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Gorgon a twisted adder woreFor knot upon her shoulder:She kemb'd her hissing periwig,245And curling snakes did powder.These snakes they made stiff changelingsOf all the folks they hist on;They turned barbars into hones,And masons into free-stone:250Sworded magnetic AmazonHer shield to load-stone changes;Then amorous sword by magic beltClung fast unto her haunches.This shield long village did protect,255And kept the army from-town,And chang'd the bullies into rocks,That came t' invade Long-Compton.[448]She post-diluvian stores unmans,And Pyrrha's work unravels;260And stares Deucalion's hardy boysInto their primitive pebbles.Red noses she to rubies turns,And noddles into bricks:But George made dragon laxative;265And gave him a bloody flix.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.By boar-spear Meleager got,An everlasting name,270And out of haunch of basted swine,He hew'd eternal fame.This beast each hero's trouzers ript,And rudely shew'd his bare-breech,Prickt but the wem, and out there came275Heroic guts and garbadge.Legs were secur'd by iron bootsNo more, than peas by peascods:Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls,Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chestnuts.280His tawny hairs erected wereBy rage, that was resistless;And wrath, instead of cobler's wax,Did stiffen his rising bristles.His tusk lay'd dogs so dead asleep,285Nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um:It made them vent both their last blood,And their last album-grecum.But the knight gor'd him with his spear,To make of him a tame one,290And arrows thick, instead of cloves,He stuck in monster's gammon.For monumental pillar, thatHis victory might be known,He rais'd up, in cylindric form,295A collar of the brawn.He sent his shade to shades below,In Stygian mud to wallow:And eke the stout St. George eftsoon,He made the dragon follow.300St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Achilles of old Chiron learntThe great horse for to ride;H' was taught by th' Centaur's rational part,305The hinnible to bestride.Bright silver feet, and shining faceHad that stout hero's mother;As rapier's silver'd at one end,And wounds you at the other.310Her feet were bright, his feet were swift,As hawk pursuing sparrow:Her's had the metal, his the speedOf Braburn's[449]silver arrow.Thetis to double pedagogue315Commits her dearest boy;Who bred him from a slender twigTo be the scourge of Troy:But ere he lash't the Trojans, h' wasIn Stygian waters steept;320As birch is soaked first in piss,When boys are to be whipt.With skin exceeding hard, he roseFrom lake, so black and muddy,As lobsters from the ocean rise,325With shell about their body:And, as from lobster's broken claw,Pick out the fish you might:So might you from one unshell'd heelDig pieces of the knight.330His myrmidons robb'd Priam's barnsAnd hen-roosts, says the song;Carried away both corn and eggs,Like ants from whence they sprung.Himself tore Hector's pantaloons,335And sent him down bare-breech'dTo pedant Radamanthus, inA posture to be switch'd.But George he made the dragon look,As if he had been bewitch'd.340St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.Full fatal to the Romans wasThe Carthaginian Hanni-bal; him I mean, who gave them such345A devilish thump at Cannæ:Moors thick, as goats on Penmenmure,Stood on the Alpes's front:Their one-eyed guide,[450]like blinking mole,Bor'd thro' the hindring mount:350Who, baffled by the massy rock,Took vinegar for relief;Like plowmen, when they hew their wayThro' stubborn rump of beef.As dancing louts from humid toes355Cast atoms of ill favourTo blinking Hyatt,[451]when on vile crowdHe merriment does endeavour,And saws from suffering timber outSome wretched tune to quiver:360So Romans slunk and squeak'd at sightOf Affrican carnivor.The tawny surface of his phizDid serve instead of vizzard:But George he made the dragon have365A grumbling in his gizzard.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.The valour of Domitian,It must not be forgotten;370Who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies,Protected veal and mutton.A squadron of flies errant,Against the foe appears;With regiments of buzzing knights,375And swarms of volunteers:The warlike wasp encourag'd 'em,With animating hum;And the loud brazen hornet next,He was their kettle-drum:380The Spanish don CantharidoDid him most sorely pester,And rais'd on skin of vent'rous knightFull many a plaguy blister.A bee whipt thro' his button hole,385As thro' key hole a witch,And stabb'd him with her little tuckDrawn out of scabbard breech:But the undaunted knight lifts upAn arm both big and brawny,390And slasht her so, that here lay head,And there lay bag and honey:Then 'mongst the rout he flew as swift,As weapon made by Cyclops,And bravely quell'd seditious buz,395By dint of massy fly-flops.Surviving flies do curses breathe,And maggots too at Cæsar:But George he shav'd the dragon's beard,And Askelon[452]was his razor.400St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The story of king Arthur oldIs very memorable,The number of his valiant knights,And roundness of his table:The knights around his table in5A circle sate d'ye see:And altogether made up oneLarge hoop of chivalry.He had a sword, both broad and sharp,Y-clepd Caliburn,10Would cut a flint more easily,Than pen-knife cuts a corn;As case-knife does a capon carve,So would it carve a rock,And split a man at single slash,15From noddle down to nock.As Roman Augur's steel of yoreDissected Tarquin's riddle,So this would cut both conjurerAnd whetstone thro' the middle.20He was the cream of Brecknock,And flower of all the Welsh:But George he did the dragon fell,And gave him a plaguy squelsh.[438]St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;25Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Pendragon, like his father Jove,Was fed with milk of goat;And like him made a noble shieldOf she-goat's shaggy coat:30On top of burnisht helmet heDid wear a crest of leeks;And onions' heads, whose dreadful nodDrew tears down hostile cheeks.Itch, and Welsh blood did make him hot,35And very prone to ire;H' was ting'd with brimstone, like a match,And would as soon take fire.As brimstone he took inwardlyWhen scurf gave him occasion,40His postern puff of wind was aSulphureous exhalation.The Briton never tergivers'd,But was for adverse drubbing,And never turn'd his back to aught,45But to a post for scrubbing.His sword would serve for battle, orFor dinner, if you please;When it had slain a Cheshire man,'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese.50He wounded, and, in their own bloodDid anabaptize Pagans:But George he made the dragon anExample to all dragons.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;55Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time,Challeng'd a gyant savage;And streight came out the unweildy loutBrim-full of wrath and cabbage:60He had a phiz of latitude,And was full thick i' th' middle;The chekes of puffed trumpeter,And paunch of squire Beadle.[439]But the knight fell'd him, like an oak,65And did upon his back tread;The valiant knight his weazon cut,And Atropos his packthread.Besides he fought with a dun cow,As say the poets witty,70A dreadful dun, and horned too,Like dun of Oxford city:The fervent dog-days made her mad,By causing heat of weather,Syrius and Procyon baited her,75As bull-dogs did her father:Grafiers, nor butchers this fell beast,E'er of her frolick hindered;John Dosset[440]she'd knock down as flat,As John knocks down her kindred:80Her heels would lay ye all along,And kick into a swoon;Frewin's[441]cow-heels keep up your corpse,But hers would beat you down.She vanquisht many a sturdy wight,85And proud was of the honour;Was pufft by mauling butchers so,As if themselves had blown her.At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy,But all that would not fright him;90Who wav'd his winyard o'er sir-loyn,As if he'd gone to knight him.He let her blood, frenzy to cure,And eke he did her gall rip;His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit,95Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib:He rear'd up the vast crooked rib,Instead of arch triumphal:But George hit th' dragon such a pelt,As made him on his bum fall.100St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow,The Turkish squadrons slew;And fetch'd the pagan crescent down,105With half-moon made of yew:His trusty bow proud Turks did gall,With showers of arrows thick,And bow-strings, without strangling, sentGrand Viziers to old Nick:110Much turbants, and much Pagan patesHe made to humble in dust;And heads of Saracens he fixtOn spear, as on a sign-post:He coop'd in cage Bajazet the prop115Of Mahomet's religion,As if't been the whispering bird,That prompted him; the pigeon.In Turkey leather scabbard, heDid sheathe his blade so trenchant:120But George he swinged the dragon's tail,And cut off every inch on't.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The amazon Thalestris was125Both beautiful, and bold;She sear'd her breasts with iron hot,And bang'd her foes with cold.Her hand was like the tool, wherewithJove keeps proud mortals under:130It shone just like his lightning,And batter'd like his thunder.Her eye darts lightning, that would blastThe proudest he that swagger'd,And melt the rapier of his soul,135In its corporeal scabbard.Her beauty, and her drum to foesDid cause amazement double;As timorous larks amazed areWith light, and with a low-bell:140
With beauty, and that lapland-charm,[442]Poor men she did bewitch all;Still a blind whining lover had,As Pallas had her scrich-owl.She kept the chastness of a nun145In armour, as in cloyster:But George undid the dragon justAs you'd undo an oister.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.150
Stout Hercules, was offspring ofGreat Jove, and fair Alcmene:One part of him celestial was,One part of him terrene.To scale the hero's cradle walls155Two fiery snakes combin'd,And, curling into swaddling cloaths,About the infant twin'd:But he put out these dragons' fires,And did their hissing stop;160As red-hot iron with hissing noiseIs quencht in blacksmith's shop.He cleans'd a stable, and rubb'd downThe horses of new-comers;And out of horse-dung he rais'd fame,165As Tom Wrench[443]does cucumbers.He made a river help him through;Alpheus was under-groom;The stream, disgust at office mean,Ran murmuring thro' the room:170This liquid ostler to preventBeing tired with that long work,His father Neptune's trident took,Instead of three-tooth'd dung-fork.This Hercules, as soldier, and175As spinster, could take pains;His club would sometimes spin ye flax,And sometimes knock out brains:H' was forc'd to spin his miss a shiftBy Juno's wrath and hér-spite;180Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel,As cook whips barking turn-spit.From man, or churn he well knew howTo get him lasting fame:He'd pound a giant, till the blood,185And milk till butter came.Often he fought with huge battoon,And oftentimes he boxed;Tapt a fresh monster once a month,As Hervey[444]doth fresh hogshead.190He gave Anteus such a hug,As wrestlers give in Cornwall:But George he did the dragon kill,As dead as any door-nail.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;195Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The Gemini, sprung from an egg,Were put into a cradle:Their brains with knocks and bottled ale,Were often-times full addle:200And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him,That hurls the bolt trisulcate,With helmet-shell on tender head,Did tustle with red-ey'd pole-cat.Castor a horseman, Pollux tho'205A boxer was, I wist:The one was fam'd for iron heel;Th' other for leaden fist.Pollux to shew he was god,When he was in a passion210With fist made noses fall down flatBy way of adoration:
This fist, as sure as French disease,Demolish'd noses' ridges:He like a certain lord[445]was famd'215For breaking down of bridges.Castor the flame of fiery steed,With well-spur'd boots took down;As men, with leathern buckets, quenchA fire in country town.220His famous horse, that liv'd on oats,Is sung on oaten quill;By bards' immortal provenderThe nag surviveth still.This shelly brood on none but knaves225Employ'd their brisk artillery:And flew as naturally at rogues,As eggs at thief in pillory.[446]Much sweat they spent in furious fight,Much blood they did effund:230Their whites they vented thro' the pores;Their yolks thro' gaping wound:Then both were cleans'd from blood and dustTo make a heavenly sign;The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd,235And then hung up to shine;Such were the heavenly double-Dicks,The sons of Jove and Tyndar:But George he cut the dragon up,As he had bin duck or windar.[447]240St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Gorgon a twisted adder woreFor knot upon her shoulder:She kemb'd her hissing periwig,245And curling snakes did powder.These snakes they made stiff changelingsOf all the folks they hist on;They turned barbars into hones,And masons into free-stone:250Sworded magnetic AmazonHer shield to load-stone changes;Then amorous sword by magic beltClung fast unto her haunches.This shield long village did protect,255And kept the army from-town,And chang'd the bullies into rocks,That came t' invade Long-Compton.[448]She post-diluvian stores unmans,And Pyrrha's work unravels;260And stares Deucalion's hardy boysInto their primitive pebbles.Red noses she to rubies turns,And noddles into bricks:But George made dragon laxative;265And gave him a bloody flix.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
By boar-spear Meleager got,An everlasting name,270And out of haunch of basted swine,He hew'd eternal fame.This beast each hero's trouzers ript,And rudely shew'd his bare-breech,Prickt but the wem, and out there came275Heroic guts and garbadge.Legs were secur'd by iron bootsNo more, than peas by peascods:Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls,Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chestnuts.280His tawny hairs erected wereBy rage, that was resistless;And wrath, instead of cobler's wax,Did stiffen his rising bristles.His tusk lay'd dogs so dead asleep,285Nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um:It made them vent both their last blood,And their last album-grecum.But the knight gor'd him with his spear,To make of him a tame one,290And arrows thick, instead of cloves,He stuck in monster's gammon.For monumental pillar, thatHis victory might be known,He rais'd up, in cylindric form,295A collar of the brawn.
He sent his shade to shades below,In Stygian mud to wallow:And eke the stout St. George eftsoon,He made the dragon follow.300St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Achilles of old Chiron learntThe great horse for to ride;H' was taught by th' Centaur's rational part,305The hinnible to bestride.Bright silver feet, and shining faceHad that stout hero's mother;As rapier's silver'd at one end,And wounds you at the other.310Her feet were bright, his feet were swift,As hawk pursuing sparrow:Her's had the metal, his the speedOf Braburn's[449]silver arrow.Thetis to double pedagogue315Commits her dearest boy;Who bred him from a slender twigTo be the scourge of Troy:But ere he lash't the Trojans, h' wasIn Stygian waters steept;320As birch is soaked first in piss,When boys are to be whipt.With skin exceeding hard, he roseFrom lake, so black and muddy,As lobsters from the ocean rise,325With shell about their body:And, as from lobster's broken claw,Pick out the fish you might:So might you from one unshell'd heelDig pieces of the knight.330His myrmidons robb'd Priam's barnsAnd hen-roosts, says the song;Carried away both corn and eggs,Like ants from whence they sprung.Himself tore Hector's pantaloons,335And sent him down bare-breech'dTo pedant Radamanthus, inA posture to be switch'd.But George he made the dragon look,As if he had been bewitch'd.340St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Full fatal to the Romans wasThe Carthaginian Hanni-bal; him I mean, who gave them such345A devilish thump at Cannæ:Moors thick, as goats on Penmenmure,Stood on the Alpes's front:Their one-eyed guide,[450]like blinking mole,Bor'd thro' the hindring mount:350Who, baffled by the massy rock,Took vinegar for relief;Like plowmen, when they hew their wayThro' stubborn rump of beef.As dancing louts from humid toes355Cast atoms of ill favourTo blinking Hyatt,[451]when on vile crowdHe merriment does endeavour,And saws from suffering timber outSome wretched tune to quiver:360So Romans slunk and squeak'd at sightOf Affrican carnivor.The tawny surface of his phizDid serve instead of vizzard:But George he made the dragon have365A grumbling in his gizzard.St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
The valour of Domitian,It must not be forgotten;370Who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies,Protected veal and mutton.A squadron of flies errant,Against the foe appears;With regiments of buzzing knights,375And swarms of volunteers:The warlike wasp encourag'd 'em,With animating hum;And the loud brazen hornet next,He was their kettle-drum:380The Spanish don CantharidoDid him most sorely pester,And rais'd on skin of vent'rous knightFull many a plaguy blister.A bee whipt thro' his button hole,385As thro' key hole a witch,And stabb'd him with her little tuckDrawn out of scabbard breech:But the undaunted knight lifts upAn arm both big and brawny,390And slasht her so, that here lay head,And there lay bag and honey:
Then 'mongst the rout he flew as swift,As weapon made by Cyclops,And bravely quell'd seditious buz,395By dint of massy fly-flops.Surviving flies do curses breathe,And maggots too at Cæsar:But George he shav'd the dragon's beard,And Askelon[452]was his razor.400St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France;Sing,Honi soit qui mal y pense.
John Grubb, the facetious writer of the foregoing song, makes a distinguished figure among the Oxford wits so humorously enumerated in the following distich:
Alma novem genuit célebres Rhedycina poetasBub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trap, Young, Carey, Tickel, Evans.
Alma novem genuit célebres Rhedycina poetasBub, Stubb, Grubb, Crabb, Trap, Young, Carey, Tickel, Evans.
These were Bub Dodington (the late lord Melcombe), Dr. Stubbes, our poetGrubb, Mr. Crabb, Dr. Trapp the poetry-professor, Dr. Edw. Young, the author of Night-Thoughts, Walter Carey, Thomas Tickel, Esq., and Dr. Evans the epigrammatist.
As for our poetGrubb, all that we can learn further of him is contained in a few extracts from the University Register, and from his epitaph. It appears from the former that he was matriculated in 1667, being the son of John Grubb, "de Acton Burnel incomitatu Salop. pauperis." He took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, June 28, 1671: and became Master of Arts, June 28, 1675. He was appointed Head Master of the Grammar School at Christ Church: and afterwards chosen into the same employment at Gloucester, where he died in 1697, as appears from his monument in the church of St. Mary de Crypt in Gloucester, which is inscribed with the following epitaph:—
H. S. E.Johannes Grubb, A. M.Natus apud Acton Burnel in agro SalopiensiAnno Dom. 1645.Cujus variam in linguis notitiam,et felicem erudiendis pueris industriam,gratâ adhuc memoriâ testatur Oxonium:Ibi enim Ædi Christi initiatus,artes excoluit;Pueros ad easdem mox excolendasaccuratè formavit:Huc demumunanimi omnium consensu accitus,eandem suscepit provinciam,quam feliciter adeo absolvit,ut nihil optandum sitnisi ut diutius nobis interfuisset:Fuit enimpropter festivam ingenij suavitatem,simplicem morum candorem, etpræcipuam erga cognatos benevolentiam,omnibus desideratissimus.Obiit 2do die Aprilis, Anno Dni. 1697.Ætatis suæ 51.
FOOTNOTES:[437]To this circumstance it is owing that the editor has never met with two copies, in which the stanzas are arranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what appeared the most natural order. The verses are properly long Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them: they are here printed with many improvements.[438][blow.][439]Men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at Oxford.[440]A butcher that then served the college.[441]A cook, who on fast nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe.[442]The drum.[443]Who kept Paradise gardens at Oxford.[444]A noted drawer at the Mermaid tavern in Oxford.[445]Lord Lovelace broke down the bridges about Oxford, at the beginning of the Revolution. See on this subject a Ballad in Smith's Poems, p. 102. London, 1713.[446]It has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time:—Not carted bawd, or Dan de Foe,In wooden ruff ere bluster'd so.Smith's Poems, p. 117[447][perhaps a contraction of windhover, a kind of hawk.][448]See the account of Rolricht Stones, in Dr. Plott'sHist. ofOxfordshire.[449]Braburn, a gentleman commoner of Lincoln college, gave a silver arrow to be shot for by the archers of the university of Oxford.[450]Hannibal had but one eye.[451]A one-eyed fellow, who pretended to make fiddles, as well as play on them; well known at that time in Oxford.[452]The name of St. George's sword.
[437]To this circumstance it is owing that the editor has never met with two copies, in which the stanzas are arranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what appeared the most natural order. The verses are properly long Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them: they are here printed with many improvements.
[437]To this circumstance it is owing that the editor has never met with two copies, in which the stanzas are arranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what appeared the most natural order. The verses are properly long Alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them: they are here printed with many improvements.
[438][blow.]
[438][blow.]
[439]Men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at Oxford.
[439]Men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at Oxford.
[440]A butcher that then served the college.
[440]A butcher that then served the college.
[441]A cook, who on fast nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe.
[441]A cook, who on fast nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe.
[442]The drum.
[442]The drum.
[443]Who kept Paradise gardens at Oxford.
[443]Who kept Paradise gardens at Oxford.
[444]A noted drawer at the Mermaid tavern in Oxford.
[444]A noted drawer at the Mermaid tavern in Oxford.
[445]Lord Lovelace broke down the bridges about Oxford, at the beginning of the Revolution. See on this subject a Ballad in Smith's Poems, p. 102. London, 1713.
[445]Lord Lovelace broke down the bridges about Oxford, at the beginning of the Revolution. See on this subject a Ballad in Smith's Poems, p. 102. London, 1713.
[446]It has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time:—Not carted bawd, or Dan de Foe,In wooden ruff ere bluster'd so.Smith's Poems, p. 117
[446]It has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time:—
Not carted bawd, or Dan de Foe,In wooden ruff ere bluster'd so.
Not carted bawd, or Dan de Foe,In wooden ruff ere bluster'd so.
Smith's Poems, p. 117
[447][perhaps a contraction of windhover, a kind of hawk.]
[447][perhaps a contraction of windhover, a kind of hawk.]
[448]See the account of Rolricht Stones, in Dr. Plott'sHist. ofOxfordshire.
[448]See the account of Rolricht Stones, in Dr. Plott'sHist. ofOxfordshire.
[449]Braburn, a gentleman commoner of Lincoln college, gave a silver arrow to be shot for by the archers of the university of Oxford.
[449]Braburn, a gentleman commoner of Lincoln college, gave a silver arrow to be shot for by the archers of the university of Oxford.
[450]Hannibal had but one eye.
[450]Hannibal had but one eye.
[451]A one-eyed fellow, who pretended to make fiddles, as well as play on them; well known at that time in Oxford.
[451]A one-eyed fellow, who pretended to make fiddles, as well as play on them; well known at that time in Oxford.
[452]The name of St. George's sword.
[452]The name of St. George's sword.
Thisballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year 1724, came from the pen of David Mallet, Esq. who in the edition of his poems, 3 vols. 1759, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in page124, which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost.
"These lines, says he, naked of ornament and simple, as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago."
The two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz.
"When all was wrapt in dark midnight,And all were fast asleep," &c.
"When all was wrapt in dark midnight,And all were fast asleep," &c.
In a late publication, intitled,The Friends, &c. Lond. 1773, 2 vols. 12mo. (in the first volume, p. 71) is inserted a copy ofthe foregoing ballad, with very great variations, which the editor of that work contends was the original; and that Mallet adopted it for his own and altered it, as here given.—But the superior beauty and simplicity of the present copy, gives it so much more the air of an original, that it will rather be believed that some transcriber altered it from Mallet's, and adapted the lines to his own taste; than which nothing is more common in popular songs and ballads.
[This ballad, more generally known asWilliam and Margaret, is supposed to have been printed for the first time in Aaron Hill'sPlain Dealer(No. 36, July 24, 1724), when the author was a very young man. Hill introduced it to the reader as the work of an old poet, and wrote, "I am sorry I am not able to acquaint my readers with his name to whom we owe this melancholy piece of finished poetry under the humble title of a ballad." In the following month the editor announced that "he had discovered the author to be still alive." The verses were probably written in 1723, in the August of which year Mallet left Scotland, for Allan Ramsay, in hisStanzas to Mr. David Mallock on his departure fromScotland, alludes to them:—
[This ballad, more generally known asWilliam and Margaret, is supposed to have been printed for the first time in Aaron Hill'sPlain Dealer(No. 36, July 24, 1724), when the author was a very young man. Hill introduced it to the reader as the work of an old poet, and wrote, "I am sorry I am not able to acquaint my readers with his name to whom we owe this melancholy piece of finished poetry under the humble title of a ballad." In the following month the editor announced that "he had discovered the author to be still alive." The verses were probably written in 1723, in the August of which year Mallet left Scotland, for Allan Ramsay, in hisStanzas to Mr. David Mallock on his departure fromScotland, alludes to them:—
"But he that could, in tender strains,Raise Margaret's plaining shade,And paints distress that chills the veins,While William's crimes are red."
"But he that could, in tender strains,Raise Margaret's plaining shade,And paints distress that chills the veins,While William's crimes are red."
The ballad at once became popular, and was printed in several collections, undergoing many alterations for the worse by the way. Sundry attempts were made to rob Mallet of the credit of his song. Besides the one mentioned above by Percy, Captain Thompson, the editor of Andrew Marvell's Works, claimed it for Marvell, but this claim was even more ridiculous than those he set up against Addison and Watts. Although Mallet doubtless knew the balladsFair Margaret and Sweet William(book ii. No. 4) andSweet William's Ghost(No. 6), he is said to have founded his own upon a true story which came under his observation. A daughter of Professor James Gregory of St. Andrews, and afterwards of Edinburgh, was seduced by a son of Sir William Sharp of Strathyrum, who had promised to marry her, but heartlessly deserted her.The ballad has been extravagantly praised: Ritson observes, "It may be questioned whether any English writer has produced so fine a ballad asWilliam and Margaret." Percy describes it as one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language; and Allan Ramsay writes, "I know not where to seek a finer mixture of pathos and terror in the whole range of Gothic romance." Scott, on the other hand, was of opinion that "Theballad, though the best of Mallet's writing, is certainly inferior to the original, which I presume to be the very fine and terrific old Scottish tale, beginning
The ballad at once became popular, and was printed in several collections, undergoing many alterations for the worse by the way. Sundry attempts were made to rob Mallet of the credit of his song. Besides the one mentioned above by Percy, Captain Thompson, the editor of Andrew Marvell's Works, claimed it for Marvell, but this claim was even more ridiculous than those he set up against Addison and Watts. Although Mallet doubtless knew the balladsFair Margaret and Sweet William(book ii. No. 4) andSweet William's Ghost(No. 6), he is said to have founded his own upon a true story which came under his observation. A daughter of Professor James Gregory of St. Andrews, and afterwards of Edinburgh, was seduced by a son of Sir William Sharp of Strathyrum, who had promised to marry her, but heartlessly deserted her.
The ballad has been extravagantly praised: Ritson observes, "It may be questioned whether any English writer has produced so fine a ballad asWilliam and Margaret." Percy describes it as one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language; and Allan Ramsay writes, "I know not where to seek a finer mixture of pathos and terror in the whole range of Gothic romance." Scott, on the other hand, was of opinion that "Theballad, though the best of Mallet's writing, is certainly inferior to the original, which I presume to be the very fine and terrific old Scottish tale, beginning