Classic Poem

I now solicit not the Muses nine,
Terpsichore jig-dancing, Clio famed
For bold romance in history, or thee,
Goddess land-measuring, Thalia called:
Nor thee, Euterpe! do I supplicate,
Flute-am'rous virgin, or that other maid,
Erato hight, renowned for wanton tale
Risiferous, or lively song jocose.
Urania too I leave, star-gazing fair,
And dear Calliope, who first produced
Harmonious bag-pipe, causing ev'ry child
In Scotland's dreary region to rejoice;
And thee, Melpomene! with blubbered face,
I quit disdainful; neither will I pay,
Hymn-singing methodist, of phiz demure,
Oh Polyhymnia! one salute to thee!
Sooner I'd kneel unto the modern nine
Alike perfectioned, though a virgin's name
They cannot boast — to hornpipe-loving Moll,
Nymph of the blackest eyes where all are black,
Born in some visto leading to the street
Expansive of Saint Giles — or unto thee
I'd rather bend, Oh ballad-learned quean,
Amber-haired Susan! thee, whose twanging voice
Hath often stopped the drayman and his dray.
Or sooner would I seek relief from Nell,
Town-tramping, oyster-laden — or from thee,
Soap-lathering Bess, the chief of all thy train,
Great mistress of the washing-tub, well-skilled
In friction ambidextrous. Ye, my fair!
Ye first should have my vows, green-vendent Peg!
(Than whom none sooner decks the verdant stall
With fruit cucumerous) and shrimp-crowned Doll,
In alehouse well-agnized, with brawny Jane,
Who constant plies the market, basket-armed.
Nor less doth deep-mouthed, piscatory Kate
(Whose voice is melody through all the realm
Of Billingsgate, admired for flow of words
And well-timed oratory, far beyond
Whate'er St. Stephen's clamant sons can boast),
Or brick-dust Nan attract my due regard.
But these I not invoke — for at thy shrine
Alone, Oh Genius ! do I kneel devout
With galligaskins pure, that never yet
Needed the aid of dust-expelling brush.
Whate'er in future I presume to write
Adventurous — or grand majestic ode
Of import lofty, or the tender song
Dulci-sonant — or whether on the plain
Of panegyric smooth, with daisies pied,
My lays I frame, or tread the thorny road
That leads to where rough satire lifts her rod
Thrice dipped in brine — be ready to my aid,
Thou great original! — in each attempt
Do thou legitimate each bastard thought!
Teach me the bellows of thy forge to blow
With skill superior, and redoubled force
Super-vulcanian — so the mounting sparks
Of fire-eyed Fancy shall prevent their charms,
And on thine anvil shall I hammer out
The thought chaotic to prefulgid form.