Classic Poem

THE SHEPHERDS .

Morals , as critics must allow,
Are almost out of fashion now;
And, if we credit Dodsley's word,
All applications are absurd.
What has the author to be vain in
Who knows his fable wants explaining,
And substitutes a second scene
To publish what the first should mean?
Besides, it saucily reflects
Upon the reader's intellects.
When, armed in metaphors and dashes,
The bard some noble villain lashes,
'Tis a direct affront, no doubt,
To think he cannot find it out.
The sing-song trifles of the stage,
The happy favourites of the age,
Without a meaning crawl along,
And, for a moral, give a song.
The tragic Muse, once pure and chaste,
Is turned a whore, debauched by taste:
Poor Juliet never claims the tear
Till borne triumphant on the bier;
And Ammon's son is never great
Till seated in his chair of state.
And yet the harlot scarce goes down,
She's been so long upon the town,
Her morals never can be seen.
Not rigid Johnson seems to mean,
A tittering epilogue contains
The cobweb of a poet's brains.
If what the Muse prepares to write
To entertain the public sight
Should in its characters be known,
The knowledge is the reader's own.
When villany and vices shine,
You won't find Sandwich in the line;
When little rascals rise to fame,
Sir Fletcher cannot read his name;
Nor will the Muse digressive run
To call the king his mother's son,
But, plodding on the beaten way,
With honest North prepares the lay:
And should the meaning figures please
The dull reviews of laughing ease,
No politician can dispute
My knowledge of the Earl of Bute.

A flock of sheep, no matter where,
Was all an aged shepherd's care;
His dogs were watchful, and he took
Upon himself the ruling crook:
His boys who wattled in the fold
Were never bought and never sold.
'Tis true, by strange affection led,
He visited a turnip-bed;
And, fearful of a winter storm,
Employed his wool to keep it warm;
But that, comparatively set
Against the present heavy debt,
Was but a trifling piece of state,
And hardly make a villain great.
The shepherd died — the dreadful toll
Entreated masses for his soul.
The pious bosom and the back
Shone in the farce of courtly black.
The weeping Laureate's ready pen
Lamented o'er the best of men;
And Oxford sent her load of rhyme
In all varieties of chime,
Administering due consolation,
Well seasoned with congratulation.
Cambridge her ancient lumber wrote,
And what could Cambridge do but quote?
All sung, though very few could read,
And none but mercers mourned indeed.
The younger shepherd caught the crook,
And was a monarch in his look.
The flock rejoiced, and could no less
Than pay their duty and address;
And Edinburgh was heard to sing,
" Now heaven be praised for such a king! "
All joined in joy and expectation,
And " Union! " echoed through the nation.
A council called — — * * *