Classic Poem

Lately when humble comedy was play'd,
And our best woman was my lady's maid,
When feign'd old age bow'd down our youthful backs,
And liveries shew'd us to be saucy jacks,
When e'en the first no higher could aspire,
Than to a city rake, or country squire,
How hardly then could we attention gain?
In pain we acted what was heard with pain.
But now the humour of the fair we see,
Pomp and fine cloaths can gather company.
On the faint image of a theatre,
A king can make a glorious court appear.
There's secret magic in a man of arms,
And we all know a red lac'd coat has charms,
Trumpets and drums can call you from afar,
And British ladies can with courage hear
The rattling thunder of a mimic war.
For customary now it is become,
To hear of battles fought o'er tea at home.
Your winter ev'ning talk is now of mines,
Of pushing enemies and forcing lines.
Bastions, redoubts, the counterscarp and fort,
Soften into the language of the court.
The sluggard loiterers the fair disdain,
And smile on none that make not a campaign.
Hence the gay, brave for dusty honour fly,
To stare at death, and snatch at victory.