O'erflowing gall has changed the crimson flood,
And turn'd to vinegar the wretch's blood.
Nightly on bend'd knees the musty put
Still saints the spigot, and adores the butt;
With fervent zeal the flowing liquor plies,
But damns the moderate bottle for its size.
His liquid vows cut swiftly through the air,
When glorious red has whetted him to prayer;
Thrifty of time, and frugal of his ways,
Tippling he rails, and as he rails he prays.
In the sage list, great Mooncalf is enroll'd,
Famed as the Delphic oracle of old.
Propitious dulness, and a senseless joy,
Shone at his birth, and blest the hopeful boy;
Who utters wonders without sense of pain,
And scorns the crabbed labour of his brain.
Fleeting as air, his words outstrip the wind,
Whilst the sage tardy meaning lags behind.
No saucy foresight dares his will control,
Or stop the impetuous motion of his soul;
His soul, which struggles in her dark abode,
Crush'd and o'erlay'd with the unwieldy load:
Prevailing dulness did his sense betray,
And cramp'd his reason to extend his clay;
His wit contracted to a narrow span,
A yard of idiot to an inch of man.
Hail, mighty dunce, thou largest of thy kind,
How well thy mien is suited to thy mind!
What if the Lords and Commons can't agree,
Thou dear, dull, happy thing, what is't to thee?
Sit down contented with thy present store,
Heaven ne'er designed thee to be wise and poor :
Trust to thy fate; whatever parties join,
Thy want of wit obstructs thy want of coin.
As when imperial Rome beheld her state
Grown faint, and struggling with impending fate;
When barbarous nations on her ruins trod,
And no kind Jove appear'd her guardian god,
A sacred goose could all her fears disperse,
And save the Mistress of the Universe:
Of equal fame the great example be,
Our church's safety we expect from thee:
In thee, great man, the saving brood remains,
Of equal piety, and equal brains;
In this we differ but in point of name:
Unlike the Romans we; but thou, our goose, the
And now with solemn grace the Council sat, And the third flask had raised a warm debate; When Faction, entering, walk'd the giddy maze, Sworn foe and noted enemy to peace;
And, taking Grimbeard's shape, the silence broke, And in shrill voice the eager fury spoke.
"Be witness, Heaven, how much I'm pleased to find
Such gallant friends, and of so brave a mind;
Souls fit to rule the world, and proudly sit
The noblest sons of piety and wit.
Uncommon vigour in your looks I
Resolved the utmost of your force to try;
Bravely to stickle for your church's laws,
And shed a generous influence on her cause.
See how with grief she hangs her pensive head,
Whilst trickling tears, upon her garments shed,
Mourn all her lustre and her beauty fled:
In hair dishevell'd, and with bosom bare,
With melancholy sounds she fills the air.
Would ye, my friends, the weighty business know,
And learn the cruel reason of her woe?
The cause she has to grieve, the world believes,
Is this-hem-hem-why, 'tis enough she grieves
What sons from tears their flinty souls can keep,
And with dry eyes behold their mother weep
Ah! stop the deluge of her watery store,
And let her taste those joys she felt before!
"When William (curse upon that hated name,
For ever blotted and unknown to fame !)
When William in imperial glory shone,
And, to our grief, possess'd Britannia's throne:
Mark with what malice he our church debased,
Her sons neglected, and her rights defaced:
To canting zeal design'd her form a slave,
And meant to ruin what he came to save.
What though the world be fill'd with his alarms,
And fainting Gallia trembled at his arms;
Yet still the doughty hero did no more
Than Julius once, and Ammon, did before.
Is this the idol of the people's love,
The poor mock-puppet of a ruling Jove?
Sorrel, we owe his hasty fate* to thee,
Thou lucky horse; oh! may thy memory be
Fragrant to all, as it is sweet to me!
Too far, I fear, the vile infection's spread,
Since Anna courts the party which he led,
And treads the hated footsteps of the dead.
If so, what now can we expect to hear,
But black effects of those damn'd ills we fear?
Your fat endowments shall be torn away,
And to Geneva zeal become an easy prey;
Cold element shall give your guts the gripes,
And, ah! no more you shall indulge in tripes.
No Sunday pudding shall adorn the board,
Or burn the chaps of its too eager lord:
No gentle Abigail shall caudles make,
Nor cook the jellies for the chaplain's back;
Long-winded schismatics shall rule the roast,
And Father Christmas mourn his revels lost.
* Sorrel was the name of the horse on which King William rode when he received his mortal injury by a fall.
Rouse then, my friends, and all your forces join,
And act with vigour in our great design:
What though our danger is not really great?
'Tis brave to oppose a government we hate.
Poison the nation with your jealous fears,
And set the fools together by the ears:
Whilst with malicious joy we calmly sit,
And smile to see the triumphs of our wit:
Sound well the College; and with nicest skill
Inflame the beardless boys, and bend them to your
will.
What though unmoved her learned sons have stood,
Nor sacrificed to spleen their country's good?
Yet search the tree, and sure there may be found
Some branches tainted, though the trunk be sound;
Shew them the lure which never fails to hit;
Approve their briskness, and admire their wit.
Youth against flattery has no defence,
Fools still are cheated with the bait of sense;
Glean e'en the schools from lechery and birch,
And teach the youngsters to defend the church.
'Tis fools we want, and of the largest size:
'Twould spoil our cause to practise on the wise:
The wise are eagles of the sharpest ken,
And calmly weigh the merits and the men;
Pierce through the cobweb veil of erring sense,
And know the truth of zeal from the pretence:
Whilst fools, like game-cocks, are the slaves of show,
And never ask a cause, but fly upon the foe:
Chance only guides them wandering in the night,
When in an age they stumble on the right:
God never gave a fool the gift of sight.'
He said with joy the pleased assembly rose; "Well moved!" they cried, and murmur'd their applause ;
When, lo, before the Board, confess'd in sight,
Stept forth a heavenly guest, serenely bright;
No mortal beauty could with hers compare,
Or poet's fancy form a maid so fair;
Around her head immortal glories shine,
And her mild air confess'd the nymph divine;
Whilst thus she spake :
"Ask not, my frighted sons, from whence I came, But mark me well; Religion is my name;
An angel once, but now a fury grown,
Too often talk'd of, but too little known:
Is it for me, my sons, that ye engage,
And spend the fury of your idle rage?
'Tis false; unmanly spleen your bosom warms,
And a pretended zeal your fancy charms.
Where have I taught you in the sacred page,
To construe moderation into rage;
To affront the power from whence your safety springs,
And poorly blast the memory of kings?
Branded with infamy, ye shun the light,
But court, like birds obscene, the covert of the night.
Is then unlawful riot fit to be
The great supporter of my church and me?
Think ye, weak men, she's of her foes afraid,
Or wants the assistance of your feeble aid?
When round her throne seraphic warriors stand,
And form upon her side a heavenly band:
When, fixt as fate, her deep foundation lies,
And spreads where'er my ANNA's glory flies.
Think on the intended ruins of the day,
When to proud Rome ye were design'd a prey :
With wonder read those fatal times again,
And call to mind the melancholy scene;
When down its rapid stream the torrent bore
Your country's laws, and safety was no more;
Torn from your altars, ye were forced to roam
In needy exile from your native home.
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