A Satire Anthology
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A Satire Anthology
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
GOOD people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous shortIt cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a manOf whom the world might sayThat still a godly race he ranWhene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends,But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his witsTo bite so good a man.The wound it seemed both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show’d the rogues they lied:The man recover’d of the bite,The dog it was that died.Oliver Goldsmith.ON SMOLLETT
WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?What had I done that angry Heaven should sendThe bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.Who ever read “The Regicide” but sworeThe author wrote as man ne’er wrote before?Others for plots and under-plots may call;Here’s the right method – have no plot at all!Charles Churchill.THE UNCERTAIN MAN
DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man —Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.He would not with a peremptory toneAssert the nose upon his face his own;With hesitation admirably slow,He humbly hopes – presumes – it may be so.His evidence, if he were called by lawTo swear to some enormity he saw,For want of prominence and just belief,Would hang an honest man and save a thief.Through constant dread of giving truth offence,He ties up all his hearers in suspense;Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;What he remembers, seems to have forgot;His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,Centring at last in having none at all.William Cowper.A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY
THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, showEvery five minutes how the minutes go.Each individual, suffering a constraint —Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint —As if in close committee on the sky,Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,And finds a changing clime a happy sourceOf wise reflection and well-timed discourse.We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,Like conservators of the public health,Of epidemic throats, if such there areOf coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,Filled up at last with interesting news:Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,But fear to call a more important cause,As if ’twere treason against English laws.The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,As from a seven years’ transportation, homeAnd there resume an unembarrassed brow,Recovering what we lost we know not how,The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,Expression, and the privilege of thought.William Cowper.ON JOHNSON
I OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;Casts of manure a wagon-load around,To raise a simple daisy from the ground;Uplifts the club of Hercules – for what?To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to drawA goose’s feather or exalt a straw;Sets wheels on wheels in motion – such a clatter —To force up one poor nipperkin of water;Bids ocean labour with tremendous roarTo heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;Alike in every theme his pompous art,Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).TO BOSWELL
O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forthTo eat Macpherson midst his native north,To frighten grave professors with his roar,And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,All hail!Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,The pilot of our literary whale;Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,Close as a supple courtier to a king;Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).THE HEN
WAS once a hen of wit not small(In fact, ’twas not amazing),And apt at laying eggs withal,Who, when she’d done, would scream and bawl,As if the house were blazing.A turkey-cock, of age mature,Felt thereat indignation;’Twas quite improper, he was sure —He would no more the thing endure;So, after cogitation,He to the lady straight repaired,And thus his business he declared:“Madam, pray, what’s the matter,That always, when you’ve laid an egg,You make so great a clatter?I wish you’d do the thing in quiet.Do be advised by me, and try it.”“Advised by you!” the lady cried,And tossed her head with proper pride;“And what do you know, now I pray,Of the fashion of the present day,You creature ignorant and low?However, if you want to know,This is the reason why I do it:I lay my egg, and then review it!”Matthew Claudius.LET US ALL BE UNHAPPY TOGETHER
WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,Alas! are the children of sorrow;And, though brisk and merry to-day,We may all be unhappy to-morrow.For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,Lest pleasure should only bring pain,Let us all be unhappy together.I grant the best blessing we knowIs a friend, for true friendship’s a treasure;And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.Thus, friendship’s a flimsy affair;Thus, riches and health are a bubble;Thus, there’s nothing delightful but care,Nor anything pleasing but trouble.If a mortal could point out that lifeWhich on earth could be nearest to heaven,Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wifeTo whom truth and honour are given.But honour and truth are so rare,And horns, when they’re cutting, so tingle,That, with all my respect to the fair,I’d advise him to sigh, and live single.It appears from these premises plain,That wisdom is nothing but folly;That pleasure’s a term that means pain,And that joy is your true melancholy;That all those who laugh ought to cry;That ’tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;And that, since we must all of us die,We should taste no enjoyment while living.Charles Dibdin.THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
I AM a friar of orders gray,And down in the valleys I take my way;I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;Good store of venison fills my scrip;My long bead-roll I merrily chant;Where’er I walk no money I want;And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:Who leads a good life is sure to live well.What baron or squire,Or knight of the shire,Lives half so well as a holy friar?After supper, of heaven I dream,But that is a pullet and clouted cream;Myself by denial I mortify —With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin —With old sack wine I’m lined within;A chirping cup is my matin song,And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.What baron or squire,Or knight of the shire,Lives half so well as a holy friar?John O’Keefe.THE COUNTRY SQUIRE
A COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit(For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d itIn splendid style.“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, thoughThe rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,You lack a library, dear sir, for show,If not for use.”“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will beThe very thing.“I’ll have it fitted up without delayWith shelves and presses of the newest mode.And rarest wood, befitting every wayA squire’s abode.“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatchMy coachman – a most knowing fellow – down,To buy me, by admeasurement, a batchOf books in town.”But ere the library was half suppliedWith all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,The booby squire repented him, and criedUnto himself:“This room is much more roomy than I thought;Ten thousand volumes hardly would sufficeTo fill it, and would cost, however bought,A plaguy price.“Now, as I only want them for their looks,It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,And cost me next to nothing, if the booksWere made of wood.“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven dealA coat of paint – a colourable dress,To look like calf or vellum, and concealIts nakedness.And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,Whatever is most excellent and rareShall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),Assembled there.“The work was done; the simulated hoardsOf wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,Were all of wood.From bulky folios down to slender twelves,The choicest tomes in many an even row,Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,A goodly show.With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’dThe best collection ever form’d in Spain,What wonder if the owner grew at lastSupremely vain?What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,Despite his ignorance, to think himselfA learned man?Let every amateur, who merely looksTo backs and bindings, take the hint, and sellHis costly library; for painted booksWould serve as well.Tomas Yriarte.THE EGGS
BEYOND the sunny PhilippinesAn island lies, whose name I do not know;But that’s of little consequence, if soYou understand that there they had no hens,Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,After a while, carried some poultry there.Fast they increased as anyone could wish,Until fresh eggs became the common dish.Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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