A Burlesque Translation of Homer
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THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAD
ARGUMENT
When all the gods to heav'n are gone.The Grecians make the Trojans run,Which, by the by, is demonstrationThe devil help'd the Grecian nation;For when no heav'nly guests are there,He plays the devil without fear.Helenus sets his brains a-brewing,How to prevent the Trojans' ruin;Then orders Hector to the town,To bid 'em pray to Pallas soon,That she'd remove such fighting cattleAs this Tydides from the battle.In the mean time, by hocus pocus,This bully Diomede and GlaucusFound that of both the great grandfatherHad drank some pots of ale together;So made a friendship, and, to tack it,Exchang'd each other's buff-skin jacket.Hector then gets the bus'ness doneThe conjuror had sent him on,Makes Paris fetch his broomshaft down,And join him at the end o' th' town;Bestows, ere he renews the strife,Some crumbs of comfort on his wife.HOMER'S ILIAD
BOOK VIThe squabbling gods the fight forsake.And leave mankind to brew and bakeJust as they please; then broomsticks flew,And smoking hot the squabble grew,Which made Scamander's little floodGet quickly trampled into mud:In Simois, our bard supposes,They came to wash their bloody noses,By which 'tis clearly understood,They fought to th' knees in blood and mud.Great Ajax first came blust'ring on,And mischief presently begun.One Acamas the bully found,And fell'd him flat, upon the ground;His broomstick lent him such a rap,As broke his pate and bruis'd his cap.Axylus next, an honest soul,Got a great knock o' th' jobbernoul:At home he always kept good cheer,And made folks welcome far and nearClose by the road his house did lie,Where men and horses passing byMight get a drink, if they were dry:Just at the side of Croydon Common,He kept the sign o' th' Silent Woman(A silent woman, Sir, you said!Pray, was she drawn without a head?Yes, Sir, she was: you never read onA silent woman with a head on).It happ'd that neither guest nor strangerCame by to warn him of his danger;But as he gap'd, expecting soonSome tradesmen, customers from town,Tydides came and knock'd him down.Then, at another stroke, this rapsterSettled Calisius, his tapster.Euryalus kick'd Dresus down,And next he crack'd Opheltius' crown;Not so content, with pairs begins,And smash'd two young and tender twins,Sons of Bucolion, who had madeA mistress of a hard-bum'd jade,Whom in his woods one morn he foundPicking dry sticks from off the ground.As on their backs the younkers lay,His rogueship stole their coats away.Just after that, one PolypætesDispatch'd Astyalus to greet hisOld friends in hell. Ulysses next,Because the rogues his soul had vex'd,Murder'd Pydites: then comes Teucer,And made poor Aretaon spew, Sir;When, in a rage, ran Nestor's lad,Chatt'ring just like his queer old dad;I'll make these Trojan rascals fear us,And straight demolish'd brave Ablerus;Which when great Agamemnon saw,He gave Elatus such a blow,As fell'd him down upon his crupper,And spoil'd the luckless Trojan's supper.Such a damn'd knock the Grecian gave him,That all his money could not save him.Eurypylus Melanthius slew,And Phylacus from Leitus flew,But could not 'scape him any how.Adrastus, by ill luck, came bumpUpon a cursed crab-tree stump;It smash'd his wheels, both nave and spoke,And all the cart to pieces broke.The horses flew where none could find 'em,And left their luckless load behind 'em,As he lay kicking on the sands,The cuckold o'er him threat'ning stands,Pilgarlick lifts his hands on high,And begs for life most lustily:May't please your honour let me live,A good round sum my dad will give:When he for my great loss has wept,And finds I'm but in limbo kept,Depend he then will give, for ransom,A purse with something very handsome.He spoke: the honest cuckold's pityWas touch'd by this half mournful ditty;But Agamemnon, in a fury,Just like an English thick-scull'd jury,Destroy'd all pity in a hurry.Quoth he, Th' old boy shall double damn me,Before I'll let a Trojan flam me!Christians give scoundrels good for evil;But let us smoke 'em to the devil.I live in hopes that Troy will fall,Their whores, and rogues, and brats, and all,That other whoring whelps, discerningTheir wicked exit, may take warning,Nor rove about from street to street,To cuckold every man they meet.This speech he made with dreadful ire,And set the cuckold's blood on fire,Who swore he would not grant the boon;So Agamemnon knock'd him down,And, spite of all the Trojan's tears,Batter'd his brains about his ears.Nestor, who saw this bus'ness done,Like an old harden'd rogue look'd on;Then cries, My lads, in this tough job,Don't stay to pick a single fob,But, after we have work'd their buff,We then shall all have chink enough.Now Greece had surely got the day,And Troy as surely run away,But wisely Helenus preparesTo mend their bitter bad affairs,And bring 'em (since they durst not stand)Out of this scrape by slight-of-hand.When thus to Hector and ÆneasHe tells his mind: Old friends, you see usSorely put to't; but yet 'tis true,The gods have left it all to youTo bring us off; for, at this pinch,The de'il a god will stir an inch,But now look on in expectationThat you yourself, on this occasion,Will try your utmost strength and cunning,To stop your ragged rogues from running.When you have cheer'd each heartless tup,Leave it to us to keep it up.Mean time, you Hector, go, I pray,To our old mother Hecuba;Tell her, she must forthwith employThe oldest maids we have in Troy,And bid 'em cease their lies and malice,To go and pray to Madam Pallas,Who is by fits as cross a jadeAs any wrinkled mortal maid;Then bid them lay upon her kneeThe richest satin negligeeMy mother has in all her store:If finely daub'd with tinsel o'er,'Twill stand the better chance to please her,And may, by great good luck, appease her.Then let 'em add, if more she choose,We'll send a dozen maiden cows.These things, unless the devil's in her,I'm pretty sure can't fail to win herTo spare our hen-peck'd cuckolds' lives,With all our brawling brats and wives,Nor longer suffer DiomedeTo make the Trojans' noses bleed.Such thumps he lends our soldiers, thatTo him Achilles seems a sprat.This speech bold Hector heard, and plumpFrom off his cart he took a jump;Ran where he found the varlets slack,And cheer'd them with a clap o' th' back.To such a pitch does he restore 'em,They drive the Grecian bloods before 'em.Two staves he brandish'd in the air,So thick they made the Grecians stare,Who thought the Trojans, to resist 'em,Had hir'd some goblin to assist 'em.Then Hector spoke as loud as thunder:Hear! all ye roaring sons of plunder,Ye Dardans of the nearer stations,And those who come from distant nations,Think on your valiant fathers' tasks!'Tis all, in troth, that Hector asks.Whilst I a little bus'ness doIn Troy, the squabble rests on you.I go to bid our grandames all,And old maids, on their kneppers fall:The pray'rs they mumble will, no doubt,Help us to thrash the Greeks this bout.He said no more, but took a stride,Miss P – s-us' hoop's not half so wide;Then threw his potlid o'er his back,And to the Trojan gates did pack.This mighty orb of brass and steelReach'd from his neck well nigh his heel,Which kicking as he walk'd along,Like an old postman's bell it rung.Now, Hector gone, both sides think fitTo take their wind a little bit;When Glaucus, and that Grecian spark,Tydides, did each other mark.Both in one mind, they bounce and kick,And each man flourishes his stick;When Diom., though no talking man,Was first to speak, and thus began:Your face I ne'er before did see,Pray, who the devil can you be,Who dares to beard that Diomede,That makes so many noses bleed?Those that meet me make small resistance,When Pallas lends me her assistance,And that she will do all this week:If therefore you're a god, pray speak;For, if you are, my staff can't fright you,But smite my liver if I'll fight you!I've had my share enough of evils,And box no more with gods and devils;For, happen as it may, i' th' end on't,They'll sit upon your skirts, depend on't.You know Lycurgus did not fear 'em,But, to his cost, he came too near 'em.He scar'd the god of wine for fun,And made his drunken messmates run.Their spears, with vines and ivy bound,Lay scatter'd all along the ground;And Bacchus too, to hide his head,Crept to his cousin Thetis' bed.But soon their angry godships sentThe devil of a punishment:For, whilst he slept, they, by surprise,Ran needles into both his eyes;Then drove him through the world so wideTo beg his bread without a guide,Nor would allow th' unlucky kingA dog to lead him in a string:By which he got so badly serv'd,In less than half a year he starv'd.I fight no gods; but, if a manThou art, I'll drub thee if I can.Some devil, sure, has made thee judge ill,To come so near my fatal cudgel.Glaucus replies: Great Sir, since youFrom whence I came desire to know,Attend, I'll tell a tale so rare,Were you stone blind 'twould make you stare.You know the gang of nine-pins, soonAs the bowl hits, come tumbling down;Then are set up, when that throw's o'er,To tumble as they did before.Just so a race that's always grumbling,The race of mortal rogues, keeps tumbling.This d'ye see's by way of text,And, if your patience won't be vext,My pedigree is coming next.Listen, and, if your ears don't fail,You'll hear an oddish kind of tale;But ev'ry syllable is true,Or slam me if I'd tell it you!Near Argos, fam'd for roguish coopers,And breeding horses fit for troopers,A city stands upon that coastWhere Sysiphus once rul'd the roast,Glaucus, this Sisyphus's son,Was father of Bellerophon,Who was, to tell the real truth,A very comely, hopeful youth.Because he topp'd all other fellowsIn beauty, Prestus would be jealous;And, being but a sort of Turk,He kept this younker hard at work.'Tis true Antea, or I miss her,Wanted Bellerophon to kiss her:Nay more, she plainly told him so;But he, like Joseph, answered, No!For which our beaux all think he wasAn animal they call an ass.Howe'er, the hussey told her spouse,He try'd to be about her house:And, though he scorn'd to come so nigh it,The brimstone swore he took her by it.No sooner was th' old fellow toldThis youth attack'd his copyhold,But he was bloody wroth, d'ye see,As any honest man might be;But, as the younker was his guest,He judg'd it would be for the best(To save the youth from being hurtWithin the liberties of court)To send him to some foreign shore,In hopes to hear of him no more.What could the bubbled king do betterThan cheat him with Uriah's letter?And thus, as if some good was meant him,The jealous rogue to Lycia sent him,To the old daddy of his wife,In hopes he there would lose his life;Not doubting but the whelp he'd slaughterFor off'ring to corrupt his daughter.Away then goes Bellerophon,Unknowing what he went upon;Enter'd the Lycian palace drestIn a full suit, his very best.The good old monarch did bestir him,And made nine days' bull-baitings for him;But the tenth morning took him out,And ask'd him what he came about?On which he fumbled in his jacket,And lugg'd him out the famous packet.This quickly made the errand knownThe harmless lad was sent upon.The good old Lycian, with surprise,First rubb'd, then read, then rubb'd his eyes;But, finding matters were no better,He e'en resolv'd t' obey the letter;So sent him out to fight Chimera,A mottled monster rough as bear-a.Her bum was dragon, body goat,A lion's neck, and head, and throat;No living mortal durst come nigh herShe farted smoke, and belch'd up fire.Bellerophon could read the sky,When the stars happen'd to be nigh;So cast a figure, as 'tis said,Then quickly knock'd this beast o' th' head.As he return'd, he next gave chase,And kill'd the Solymæan race,A pack of ranting roaring fellows,As ever grac'd a three-legg'd gallows.To them the Amazons succeed,A strange hermaphroditish breed:No mortal man these jades could match,'Cause they could scold, and bite, and scratch;But, by the help of cod and oysters,He quickly tam'd this crew of roysters:Soon as they felt his strokes and thwacks,The brims all fell upon their backs.Though here his troubles did not cease,Nor was he yet to live in peace.Under a farmer's old pigstyA dozen rogues conceal'd did lie;But, when he got them in his clutches,He qualify'd them all for crutches,Left 'em so bruis'd upon the plain,Not one could limp it home again.Zooks! said the king, I'll lay a groat,There's more in this than first I thought:This man can be no earth-born clod,But bastard to some whoring god.A fellow that can make such slaughter,And would have trimm'd my other daughter,Since he by some strange chance has mist her,I think I'll let him trim her sister;And, that the youth the girl may keep,I'll take him into partnership.My trade he'll learn, I do not fear,In far less time than half a year;'Tis but to kick, and cuff, and swear.I knew a good old monarch that,When angry, only kick'd his hat:Now, when I'm vex'd, both friends and foesHave felt the force of my square toes.Favours once got, they come none near you;But kick 'em, and they always fear you:And this I ever will maintainThe best and easiest way to reign.No sooner was it said than done,He made him partner of his throne;I mean the very morning afterHe'd done his best to please his daughter:For she, when ask'd of his behaviour,Had spoken greatly in his favour;And swore, like royal F – 's14 wife,She ne'er was thrum'd so in her life;On which the Lycians gave him stoneAnd ground to build a house upon,With a good orchard full of fruit,And a brave field of wheat to boot.Long did he reign in peace and plenty,Full nineteen years, though some say twenty.Two sons he had, and eke one daughter,So fair, she caus'd Jove's chaps to water,Who made no words, but whipp'd upon her,And got the brave Sarpedon on her.At last attack'd by falling fits,Which rather hurt his little wits,Alone o'er hills and dales he ran,And would not bear the sight of man.Whilst thus he roam'd amongst the cattle,His eldest son was slain in battle:And Mrs. Phœbe, one dark night,Shot his poor daughter out of spite;Fearing next time Jove got upon her,He hap might make a goddess on her.Hippolachus was left, and he,That same Hippolachus, got me:By his direction here I swagger,And value no man's sword or dagger.I always choose the first to standIn fight, as well as in command;And always am the first to tryTo storm a trench or mutton-pie:My father's fame in future storyShall fall far short of mine in glory.The Grecian, when he heard this tale,Jump'd up as brisk as bottled ale;Down went his broomshaft on the sands,And taking Glaucus by the hands,Whilst both his sweaty palms he press'd,He cries, You are my ancient guest;And therefore, as the matter stands,Let us without deceit shake hands.Your grandsire was my grand-dad's guestFor twenty days he did him feastWith mutton-chops, and tart, and custard,And humming beer as strong as mustard:Thy grandsire on the twentieth dayWas pleas'd to take himself away;Because he guess'd he very nighHad drank th' old fellow's cellars dry:But to his landlord first thought properTo give a can hoop'd round with copper;Who straight amidst his lumber felt,And fumbled out an old sword-belt,Which in return he then presented;And thus their friendship was cemented.Brimful of porter, when I'm able,This can is fill'd for my own table,'Tis from this can I learnt this story,Which I have laid so plain before you;For my poor dad, though stout and strong,Let slip his wind when I was young;Nor had th' old Grecian time to spare,To teach his lad a single prayer:I shame to tell the truth, but allThe prayers that I can say, I stole.But from this day let you and IAssist each other by the by:If ever I should travel more,Flux me if I will pass your door!And if my country you should see,Pray come and take pot-luck with me.Enough of Trojan pates there areFor me to break in this damn'd war;And there will be, I'm sure, no lackOf Grecian skulls for you to crack:So let what will befall the rout,Pray why should you and I fall out?To show each host we scorn to bubble it;Let me have yours, and here's my doublet.Though now-a-days so bold a pushWould make an honest Hebrew blush.Yet this queer varlet DiomedeDid most amazingly succeed;For his buff coat both greas'd and oldHe got a new one lac'd with gold.His mighty buff-skin coat of coats,When new, had cost him just nine groats;I think I speak the very most;But Glaucus's a hundred cost;Though his great princely soul was such,He did not value twice as much.Whilst Diomede this chief was tricking,Hector his brazen shield was kicking,And strode along at such a rate,He'd got within the Scæan Gate,Under a tree o'ergrown with moss,That serv'd 'em for a market-cross.Close by the whipping-post and stocks.Bold Hector met with sundry flocksOf soldiers' wives, and many others,Asking for husbands, sons, and brothers.So bad, says he, with us it fares,I'd have ye all go say your prayers.With hasty strides away he tramp'dTo Priam's palace, newly vamp'd,Near which was half a hundred boxes,For fifty sons and fifty doxies;And not far off a dozen housesFor Priam's daughters and their spouses,All finish'd nicely to a charm,And thatch'd with straw to keep 'em warm.Whilst Hector thought that no one ey'd him,The good old Hecuba espy'd him;That pretty wench LaodiceBore the old lady company.Hip, hip! she cry'd, to make him stand;Then came and shook him by the hand:What sudden call could bring my sonBefore the scuffle is half done?If 'tis the gripes, I have withinA stoop of special Holland's gin.But if thou'rt hither come to prayOur wooden gods to drive awayThose Grecian rogues, and clear our doorsFrom all such noisy sons of whores,Stay till I fetch our pewter cup;You know their godships like a sup:The priests won't tell the reason why;But 'tis, I think, 'twixt you and I,Because their rotten wood's so dry.After you've fill'd their bellies full,Then take yourself a hearty pull:Our Trojan stingo has the meritTo cheer the heart, and raise the spirit.Hector replies; Pray keep your beer,It only serves to make folks swear:To men it mischief brings, so spare it,But give it gods, their heads will bear it;Or, if they should get tipsy, theyHave nought to do but snore all day.But let some else perform that task,I am not fit a boon to ask:Whate'er I touch will have no luck,You see my hands all blood and muck.But you, old souls, without delay,Must to that brim Minerva pray:And mind you spread upon her kneeThe richest satin negligeeThat you have got in all your store;If finely daub'd with tinsel o'er,'Twill stand the better chance to please her,And may by great good luck appease her.When she has listen'd to your vows,We'll add a dozen virgin cows.If she don't like so good a dinner,As many devils must be in her,As, we are told by parson Diggs,Once popp'd into a drove of pigs.But mind you bargain in your prayer,That she'll our Trojan cuckolds spare,Nor longer suffer DiomedeTo make their pates and noses bleed.This task I leave to you, good mother,Whilst I go rouse my hopeful brother,And try if, deaf to honour's name,The whoring rogue has lost all shame.I wish the whelp was under ground,So deep he never could be found;Myself would, if it was not treason,Hang up a dog so lost to reason.This war, that threats us all with ruin,Is mischief of that rascal's brewing:We never had this mischief felt,Had he ten years ago been gelt.He spoke: his mother summon'd allThe good old women, short and tall.Away they to the wardrobe go,Which, open'd, made a tearing show,To find the very things they sought,That Paris from Sidonia brought;For Paris chose to touch at Sidon,To get some shoes and stockings try'd onFor his dear Nelly, who had scarceAn undam'd smicket to her a —When first they stole away from Greece;But that's no matter, such a pieceA man of any soul might brag on,Although her bum had ne'er a rag on.Old Hec.15 her spectacles lugg'd out,To help her eyes to peep about,And, looking sharp, she quickly seesAbove a dozen negligeesHung up on pegs; so pitch'd on oneThat had a deal of tinsel on.Then foll'wing old Antenor's spouse,They reach'd the door o' th' meeting-house.Theano carried in her pocketThe only key that would unlock it,Which out she lugg'd, and with a bangMade the old rusty lock cry twang.When they were all got in together,They roar'd like pigs in windy weather:The priestess spread the gown, and thenPray'd loud; th' old women bawl'd Amen!Once Troy's defence, O goddess stout!Only with patience hear us out:Let us this rogue Tydides humble,And make him either run or tumble.If this, O Pallas! you'll but do,Twelve rare fat heifers we'll bestowUpon you, if you hear our prayer,And all our Trojan cuckolds spare.Thus the old women pray and vow,And make a noise; but 'twould not do.Whilst they say prayers not worth a louse,Hector had travel'd to the houseWhere Paris dwelt along with Helen —A very pretty little dwelling,That join'd his father and his brother —So they were neighbours to each other:This little mansion Paris' selfContriv'd, both window, door, and shelf.The Trojan chief had got a strongOak sapling, eight or ten feet long,Hung with brass rings to make it rattle,And scare the enemy in battle:He knock'd, and scrap'd his shoes from dirt;Then ent'ring, found him in his shirtHe'd stripp'd himself, the better toPolish his skull-cap and his bow.In this condition Hector found him,With twenty broomsticks scatter'd round him.Helen was standing by his knee,Scolding her maids for drinking tea;For though for breakfast she ne'er grudg'd it,Yet in the afternoon they fudg'd it.When Hector saw him in this pickle,No wonder he began to stickle,And thus began: By this good light!You've nick'd the time to show your spiteAgainst poor Troy. Dost thou conspireWith Greece to set our barns on fire?For thee our bloods all fight and tumble,And kick and cuff, yet never grumble;Till nothing's left to guard the gates,But heaps of bruis'd and broken pates.You whoring rascal, come along,And bear a bob amidst the throng;Why can't you run the risk of scarsIn Mars' as well as Venus' wars,Ere flames attack our huts and tow'rs,And burn your dogship out of doors?Paris, who was a gentle youth,Says, Brother, this is all God's truth:Yet don't mistake me, mighty Sir;Nor on my honour cast a slur.I'm sorry you're so hard put to't,And think I dare not box it out:But say no more, no more let's prattle,Helen commands me out to battle.Who knows but Menelaus may,On this, or hap some other day,Get, though he makes such fuss and stir,A Rowland for his Oliver?One thing I'll promise, the next boutI'll boldly try if I can do't.But whilst I don my coat and cap,Do you sit still or take a nap;But if you go, you may be sureI'll follow you in half an hour.Nelly, who had, you need not doubt her,Like other wives, her wits about her,To hinder Hector from replyingBegan a sudden fit of crying.Hector, who thought his stick had hit her,Or else that Pug or Shock had bit her,Whipp'd round about to ask the matter,When thus the jade began to chatter:Now let me tell you, brother Hector,No living mortal can conjectureThe grief I suffer, 'cause I hide it,But I no longer will abide it;There's nothing else, I find, but speaking,Can keep a woman's heart from breaking:I wish they'd in a horse-pond duck'd me,To cool my courage, ere they tuck'd meUp in the bed where Paris – !I wish, before this cursed strife,By the small-pox I'd lost my life,Or that my nose was full of pimplesAs that old canting rogue D – l – 's:I wish to God we'd both been drown'dWhen first we cross'd the herring-pond!But I may wish and make a pother,Wish in one hand, and spit in t'other.My cursed luck I e'er shall rue,But most since Paris first I knew.Women the worst will always choose,Else I had got a better spouse;I only mean a better fighter,A buck that might have cudgell'd tighterFor other work, there's not a manCan do a third that Paris can:I scorn to speak but what is true;The devil ought to have his due.But sit you down, and rest a while,You've had a mortal deal of toil,Enough to make a man quite mad,For me and my faint-hearted lad.It can't be help'd, I know my doom,And judge by past of what's to come.Our woes will gain us future pity,And fill some lamentable ditty,Which hard-mouth'd raggamuffins will,From Charing-Cross to Ludgate-Hill,Roar with a voice as sweet and clear,As Tyburn dying-speeches are.Hector replies: Another dayI'll chat awhile, but now can't stay,Because our men are sore put to't,And want my fist to help 'em out:But I must beg you'll not be slackTo stroke your swain upon his back;No wench can do unless she tries,Your hand may make his – courage rise:When that is done, dispatch him soon,But do not take that courage down,Nor stay him with your coaxing prate,But let him meet me at the gate.I go to see my son and wife,The joy and comfort of my life:For who can tell if Hector mayHave luck to box another day?Some witch, that chooses to annoy him,May guide a broomstaff to destroy him.He said no more, but turn'd aboutTo go and find his helpmate out.When he came home she was not there,Nor could he find her far or near.She and her son, and maid, and all,Were got upon an orchard-wall;There saw the rabble bruise and cut,Until it almost grip'd her gut:Still she kept looking sharp aboutTo find her good-man Hector out,Whilst he through twenty alleys stumbledAnd all the while his gizzard grumbled;Then sought the postern, with intentTo ask the guard which way she went.Halloo, my lads, did any seeMy loving wife Andromache?Or did she land at Temple-stairs,To join th' old women in their prayers?Or, all this time that I have miss'd her,Think you she's gone to see her sister?She's not at church, replies the sentry,Clubbing her prayers with these old gentryNor is she gone to Priam's hall,But stands, d'ye see, on yonder wall.She heard how fast the Trojans ran,And sweated for her own good-man.I help'd her o'er this stile to get,And felt her hands; they both were wetAs muck, and in a clammy sweat:Her haste was such, that, I can say,She trotted ev'ry inch o' th' way:I'll answer for't, before she gotTo th' wall, her bum was smoking hot:And then, as fast as she could waddle,The nurse did with the bantling straddle.To this bold Hector did not sayA single word, but walk'd away,Not caring to lose time in prate,And met his wife at Cripplegate.His wife was always understoodTo be what moderns call good blood;Her mother had been lady mayoress,And she herself a vast rich heiress.Soon as she did her husband spy,She gave a spring a quarter high;The nurse then follow'd with the lad,That scratch'd, and roar'd, and kick'd, like mad.Great Hector often had been tryingTo cure the cross-grain'd brat from crying;But could not do't – so call'd his nameScamandrius, from a running stream:But thinking that queer name would gall him,Astyanax the Trojans call him.Hector was in his heart right gladTo see the sprawling scrambling lad;But with a very doleful lookHis partner seiz'd his fist and spoke,Whilst you might see within her eyeThe tears stood ready cock'd to cry:Why sure you cannot think, my life,To leave your only son and wife?How great, alas! must be my fall,Should you get drubb'd for good and all!I know, my duckling, though your laugh,You're too courageous by half:With single bullies you can pull,But many dogs will beat a bull;And ev'ry Grecian cur, I see,Will strive to get a bite at thee.If therefore my poor Hector mustBe drubb'd, and tumbled in the dust,God send, before that woeful day,That thy poor dearee safely may,Rather than hear their gibes and scoffing,Be nail'd up in a strong elm coffin!Where is the man, if thou should'st fail,Would buy thy wife a pot of ale?I've neither father left nor mother;Nor loving uncle, aunt, or brother.At Thebes Achilles burnt us out,And kill'd my fighting dad to boot:But when he had the good man slain,With pity he was overta'en,Made a most mighty fuss and racket,And burnt the body in its jacket;Then rais'd a mountain o'er his bones,Of mud and clay, and sand, and stones.It happen'd where some fairies haunted,And they the place with elm-trees planted.At the same time seven loving brothersThis damn'd infernal rascal smothers;Quite unawares the lads he snaps,As they for mice were setting traps:Then took my mother prisoner,And sent her to the Lord knows where;Though soon, because she was not handsome,He let her go, but kept the ransom.To her own house they'd hardly got her,Before that brim, Diana, shot her:But though I am of them bereft,I'd snuff the moon if thou art left;But if my bully-rock should fall,They're lost again, not one, but all.For sake of me and this brave boy,Keep snug within the walls of Troy:I'll tell thee where the whore's-birds makeTheir strongest push the town to take;Do but observe their ragged bandsAll muster where yond' fig-tree stands;There let thy trusty broomshaft fly,And smite the scoundrels hip and thigh.Not that alone, the chief reply'd,Shall be my care, there's more beside;I've many sturdy jobs to do,Which I shall buckle tightly to.Should I hang back, you'd quickly seeThe Trojans making game of me,And madams, with their sweeping tails,Seem much surpris'd what Hector ails.Then, at the next tea-table lecture,Cry, 'Bless us! what is come to Hector?He us'd to maul these Grecian scrubs,But now he's got the mullygrubs.'When broils begin I never fail:Fighting to me is cakes and ale.At school I practis'd ev'ry dayBoth quarter-staff and cudgel-play;And I'll be first, you may depend,Our beef and pudding to defend.And yet that cursed day will come,I know by th' pricking of my thumb,When Troy shall tumble in a ruinOf that damn'd brimstone Juno's brewing:Though all my loving cousins dyingWon't set me half so soon a crying,As what I inwardly foreseeWill happen to Andromache.They'll make my rib a water-heaver,Or put her 'prentice to a weaver;And then, for fear so great a tumbleShould fail to make her gizzard grumble,Some scoundrel Grecian, to deject her,Will whisper, That's the wife of Hector;As if they could not plague poor theeEnough, without rememb'ring me.But let them, if they plague thee long,Once feel the rough side of thy tongue:And if again they ever striveTo vex thee, I'll be flay'd alive!All that I wish is, that I mayBe six foot under ground that day,Where I shall neither, when I'm cold,Hear my wife sigh, or cry, or scold.This said, the bully-back of TroyStretch'd out his arms to take the boy;The lad hung back, and durst not touchHis brazen hat for e'er so much.Pleas'd, he laid down his glitt'ring hat,Which quieted the brawling brat;Then lifts him high into the air,And prays a special country prayer:O Jupiter! brimful of glory,Who dwells in heaven's upper story,Protect this lad, and grant that heThe wonder of the world may be;And at the sport in which I pridedMay break more heads than ever I did;That when he lays his twenties flat,And brings away the gold-lac'd hat,The people all may say, This ladAt cudgel-playing beats his dad:And when they shout and praise the boy.The mam. bep – herself for joy!He spoke, and smiling look'd upon her,Then laid the hopeful bantling on her.She hugg'd him closely to her breast,And sung him lullaby to rest:Though fear possess'd her soul so strong,She made a sort of crying song.This Hector view'd with feeling eye,(He hated much to see her cry)And though he seem'd to look more grum for't,He spoke these words to give her comfort:No man, unless it is his fateTo do't, can break thy Hector's pate;And this be sure, no mortal manCan live much longer than he can;When raw-bon'd Death once takes the field,He makes both mayors and sheriffs yield;And in the devil's lock securesYour reformation-rogues by scores,For plaguing wretched helpless whores:Then cease, my jewel, get you inTo knit, or darn, or stitch, or spin.For me, it ever is my lotTo be where broken pates are got:The man that's always first at eating,Should be the first to risk a beating.This said, he takes his skullcap up,With goose-quills shaded at the top:Homeward his dearee ply'd her stumps,And sat her down in doleful dumps;Where, as she made her grievous moan,The pigs return'd her grunt for groan,And both the cook and chambermaidBlubber'd as if their lord was dead.And now bold Paris sally'd out,Prepar'd to take the other bout;In a bright cap you see him tow'ring,The same that Hector caught him scouring.Thus when a Cheapside cockney's titFrom his long back has thrown the cit,Well pleas'd to leave his leaden load,He kicks and flings along the road,Splashes foot people as he goes,And daubs with mud their Sunday's clothes.Just so brisk Paris skipp'd about.Resolv'd to buckle tightly to't;Then joining Hector's jobbernoul,Away they trotted cheek-by-joul:When Paris first began to say,Brother, you must excuse my stay,I could not sooner get away.I stay'd, if I the truth must tell ye,To do a little job for Nelly,Which hinder'd me 'bout half an hour:It could not be a great deal more:But the poor honest loving heartWith dry lips always hates to part;I therefore think I'm bound in honourTo spend what I can spare upon her.Brother, says Hector, let what's pastBe quite forgot; you're come at last,And that's enough. Thou art in bloodMy brother, make that kinship good:In broils let's second one another,And then I'll own thee for a brother:That you dare fight was never doubted,Nor was your mettle e'er disputed;But Troy makes such a cursed roaringAbout your idleness and whoring,That, did you hear each prating elf,'Twould make you almost hang yourself.Some pains I'd therefore have you take;They've box'd it stoutly for your sake:'Twould please me much to hear 'em tellingYou sweat the Greeks as well as Helen,And are prepar'd to storm a trench,Or storm the quarters of a wench,Just as it suits – Such men as theseAre sure all sorts of folks to please.But cheer thee up; our toils shall ceaseWhen Pitt's employ'd to make a peace:Then Grecian rogues, with grief and shame,Shall trundle back from whence they came.