Behind moth-eaten curtain, 'stead of press,
Hung up the tattered relics of his dress:
A threadbare coat, at elbows quite worn out,
Buttonless waistcoat with an old surtout;
Breeches with pockets gone, for the abuse
Of master's wit had made them of no use;
A hat some ten times dressed, much on the rust,
Was laid in box, to keep it from the dust;
On wooden peg hung piss-burned periwig,
A little out of curl, but very big;
In days of yore it had a noble master,
And given to set up the poetaster,
For pride has oftentimes appeared in tatters,
And strives to make us imitate our betters:
It gave him airs to strut about the town,
Flattering my lord, and railing at the Gown,
With brazen-hilted bilbo to attack
All those who dare call names behind his back;
Though certain 'tis, a poet's only weapon
Should be his pen, when people are mistaken.
But some, alas! have to their sorrow found
His passion, not his reason, kept its ground:
He thought it hard he should a scene run through
Of beggary, and be insulted too.
His dress and person thus described, I come
To say a word or two on lodging-room,
The height of which already has been said:
Furniture next comes in, and first the bed,
On which coarse, dirty linen might be seen,
With store of those dear creatures (bugs) between;
A shaggy rug, as useful as his meat,
It kept out winter's cold, and summer's heat:
Beside, that everything might live at ease,
He laid it on as refuge for the fleas.
On closet dark stood what is often useful,
Which decency forbids to call a——,
From whence effluvia rose, which could allay
Vapours in wits, like asafoetida.
In corner of the unswept room there lay
A heap of blunted pens, as who should say,
‘Behold the fate of all things in this world:
When we have done our best, away we're hurled;
And if our pains but little profit brought,
Our guider, not ourselves, was in the fault!’
In table-drawer whole quires most neatly writ
Lay useless by, and now for nothing fit,
Unless minced pies, or some such use inferior,
As lighting pipes, or clapping to posterior.
Two dedications he with sighs laid by,
Because his patrons did his suit deny,
Nor would with his necessities comply.
On chimney-piece, instead of china set,
A standish, razor, and old penknife met,
Tobacco-box, two dirty pipes, with sticks
Of scented wax, and wafers there did mix.
For want of window-curtains in his room,
Two lordly cobwebs from the spider's loom
Spread them all o'er with care, lest too much light
Should spoil the student's eyes, when set to write.
Two chairs there were, one of them had no back,
The other, like his verse, a foot did lack.
Thus poetry and poverty were joined,
And left the marks of both their plagues behind.
If any knocks, away in haste he runs,
Having a strange antipathy to duns;
Nor does he any see, lest they should prove
The only thing on earth he cannot love.
The kind, good-natured mice would often come
To make him visits in his empty room;
Like modern visitors, made short their stay,
And like them too, untreated went away;
Because our bard's provision was but scant,
The mice and he did oft their dinners want.
And now, dear readers, if this cannot win ye
Straight to turn poets, sure the devil's in ye.
Hung up the tattered relics of his dress:
A threadbare coat, at elbows quite worn out,
Buttonless waistcoat with an old surtout;
Breeches with pockets gone, for the abuse
Of master's wit had made them of no use;
A hat some ten times dressed, much on the rust,
Was laid in box, to keep it from the dust;
On wooden peg hung piss-burned periwig,
A little out of curl, but very big;
In days of yore it had a noble master,
And given to set up the poetaster,
For pride has oftentimes appeared in tatters,
And strives to make us imitate our betters:
It gave him airs to strut about the town,
Flattering my lord, and railing at the Gown,
With brazen-hilted bilbo to attack
All those who dare call names behind his back;
Though certain 'tis, a poet's only weapon
Should be his pen, when people are mistaken.
But some, alas! have to their sorrow found
His passion, not his reason, kept its ground:
He thought it hard he should a scene run through
Of beggary, and be insulted too.
His dress and person thus described, I come
To say a word or two on lodging-room,
The height of which already has been said:
Furniture next comes in, and first the bed,
On which coarse, dirty linen might be seen,
With store of those dear creatures (bugs) between;
A shaggy rug, as useful as his meat,
It kept out winter's cold, and summer's heat:
Beside, that everything might live at ease,
He laid it on as refuge for the fleas.
On closet dark stood what is often useful,
Which decency forbids to call a——,
From whence effluvia rose, which could allay
Vapours in wits, like asafoetida.
In corner of the unswept room there lay
A heap of blunted pens, as who should say,
‘Behold the fate of all things in this world:
When we have done our best, away we're hurled;
And if our pains but little profit brought,
Our guider, not ourselves, was in the fault!’
In table-drawer whole quires most neatly writ
Lay useless by, and now for nothing fit,
Unless minced pies, or some such use inferior,
As lighting pipes, or clapping to posterior.
Two dedications he with sighs laid by,
Because his patrons did his suit deny,
Nor would with his necessities comply.
On chimney-piece, instead of china set,
A standish, razor, and old penknife met,
Tobacco-box, two dirty pipes, with sticks
Of scented wax, and wafers there did mix.
For want of window-curtains in his room,
Two lordly cobwebs from the spider's loom
Spread them all o'er with care, lest too much light
Should spoil the student's eyes, when set to write.
Two chairs there were, one of them had no back,
The other, like his verse, a foot did lack.
Thus poetry and poverty were joined,
And left the marks of both their plagues behind.
If any knocks, away in haste he runs,
Having a strange antipathy to duns;
Nor does he any see, lest they should prove
The only thing on earth he cannot love.
The kind, good-natured mice would often come
To make him visits in his empty room;
Like modern visitors, made short their stay,
And like them too, untreated went away;
Because our bard's provision was but scant,
The mice and he did oft their dinners want.
And now, dear readers, if this cannot win ye
Straight to turn poets, sure the devil's in ye.