Classic Poem

Were I some fifteen years younger, or twenty,
Master Gandolfo, I'd unbaptize myself,
On purpose not to be called John. I never
Can do a single thing in the way of business,
Nor set out fast enough from my own door,
But half-a-dozen people are calling after me;
Though, when I turn, it isn't me; such crowds
Are issuing forth, named John at the same moment.

'Tis downright insult; a mere public scandal.
Clergymen, lawyers, pedants, — not a soul,
But his name's John. You shall not see a face,
Looking like what it is, a simpleton's —
Barber's, porkman's, or tooth-drawer's, — but the fellow
Seems by his look to be a John, — and is one!
I verily think, that the first man who cried
Boiled apples or maccaroni, was a John;
And so was he who found out roasted chestnuts,
And how to eat cucumbers, and new cheese.
By heavens! I'd rather be a German; nay,
I'd almost said a Frenchman; nay, a Jew,
And be called Matthew, or Bartholomew,
Or some such beast, — or Simon. Really people
Who christen people, ought to pause a little,
And think what they're about — O you who love me,
Don't call me John, for God's sake; or at least,
If you must call me so, call it me softly;
For as to mentioning the name out loud,
You might as well call after one like a dog, —
Whistle, and snap your fingers, and cry " Here, boy."

Think of the name of John upon a title-page!
It damns the book at once; and reasonably:
People no sooner see it, than they conclude
They've read the work before. — Oh I must say
My father made a pretty business of it,
Calling me John! me , 'faith — his eldest son!
Heir to his — poverty! Why there 's not a writ,
But nine times out of ten, is served on John,
And what still more annoys me, not a bill:
Your promiser to pay is always John.

Some people fondly make the word a compound,
And get some other name to stand its friend,
Christening the hapless devil John-Antony,
John-Peter or John-Baptist, or John-Charles;
There's even John-Barnard, and John-Martin! — Oh,
See if the other name likes his society!

It never does, humour it as you will.
Change it, diminish it, call it Johnny, or Jacky,
Or Jack, 'tis always a sore point, — a wound; —
Shocking, if left alone, — and worse, if touched.