Classic Poem

'Twas sometime in the days of yore,
When th' infancy of Tongue was o'er;
She walked without the hold of nurse,
Of Go-Cart or of Hobby-Horse,
But trod as firm and had the power
To run as fast as at this hour.

From top of all Olympus steep,
Great Jove unto the earth does peep
To see how squares go here below,
And whether all are right or no;
Which having found in every part,
The god was pleased to th' very heart.

Then to the hole he lays his ear,
That he might mortal language hear,
Know what improvement it had made
Since last time he the world surveyed,
Which proves so great he almost fears
Whether or no to trust his ears.
He found the tongue the thoughts could tell,
Could make the bargains, buy and sell,
Had got the terms of " rogue " and " whore, "
Of " bitch " and " jade " and twenty more;
And everything said well enough
Excepting such as make one laugh:
It had not learned in all this while
One single word would make you smile.

Jove plainly did perceive this want,
And to himself cries, " Fie upon't,
I now can see into my folly;
These folk are quite too melancholy.
But I'll engage that for hereafter
I'll make 'em split their sides with laughter,
Though still I'm in a little doubt
How best to bring this thing about. "

Thus said, he scratched his head awhile,
Then thus proceeded with a smile:
" I have it now. The thing is done;
'Tis only teaching them to pun.
And now some of our godships ample
Must make and send one for a sample.
Here, Vulcan, let this job be done;
Go make me quickly up a pun. "

The heav'nly smith to Lemnos hies,
And to his work himself applies,
Tries every metal in his shop,
From bottom to the very top;
Yet for his heart he could not find
Among so many one to's mind.
Gold was by much too solid stuff,
Not having vacuum half enough;
He could not make electrum glister,
Though polished till his fingers blister;
His hopes depended most on lead,
And yet it stood him in no stead.
For when he thought upon its weight,
Quoth he, " I must have something light. "
He then bethought him where there lay
A grain or two of froth of sea,
Which Venus gave to him a fee as,
When arms he made for great Aeneas.
" If this, " quoth he, " won't make it up,
There's nothing will in all my shop. "
Then on the fire the god did lie
The froth, which 'gan to spit and fry;
But soon as e'er he gave one puft,
[Line cropped.]
Quitting both Vulcan and his shop,
It all flew out at chimney top.

At this poor Vulcan in despair
Does back again to Jove repair;
Where falling on his knees, he cried,
" Dread Sir, my utmost art I've tried,
Done all that ever can be done,
Yet can't I make this cursed pun;
I've nothing fit to make it on. "

Jove only said, " Who would have thought it? "
And straightway fell himself about it;
So fine a pun he quickly made,
As if he'd served his time to th' trade;
To earth he bids it take its flight,
That mortals might make others by't.
To earth the pun no sooner glides,
Than mortals like t' have cracked their sides;
So well it pleased the little elves,
They fell to making puns themselves;
And though their clumsy work was rough,
It never failed to make 'em laugh.
From hence began the date of puns,
Being handed down from sires to sons;
Sometimes the art did grow and thrive,
And sometimes scarce was kept alive,
Till mortals found it to their cost
That quite and clear the art was lost.
And many a day, I do not doubt it,
The world was forced to be without it,
Till taught its value by its want,
Great wits were all resolved upon't,
To use their very utmost cunning
To find again the Art of Punning.
Brave souls. You each deserve a rhyme for't,
But I protest I have not time for't.
So I must pass the Scythians o'er,
The Vandals, Goths and many more;
And trudge away with all my speed
To Scotia's hills and banks of Tweed;
'Twas here the art first up did peep
After't had lain so long asleep.
They spied her out by second sight,
And catched her e'er she took her flight;
Nay, marry, some o' th' learn'd declare
'Twas napping like as Moss caught's mare.
Here many a pretty pun they made,
And bartered 'em by way of trade;
They often tied 'em up in packs
And sent 'em out on pedlar's backs.
When James was King of England made,
So much did he promote the trade,
That he for honor of his nation
Was Master of the Corporation.
Encouraged thus, the Scots came o'er
In shoals to Anglia's fertile shore,
And brought their puns themselves t' enrich,
As surely as they brought the Itch.
Nor did they on their hands e'er stick;
The best would buy a bishopric;
The very worst of all their pack
Would pay for scratching of their back,
From whence our modern custom's hatched,
That for a pun you're always scratched.

But when alas! Great James was dead,
And punning would not get one bread,
The art again was knocked o' th' head,
Though sev'ral sages tried in vain,
If it could be restored again.

At length Tom Pun-sibi arises
(Great Tom who all the world surprises),
And soon as up his head he pops,
He made the puns as thick as hops,
And does the art so well restore,
The like was never known before.
For he by either hook or crook
At Jove's own pun did get a look,
And made another by't so well,
You could not one from t' other tell;
Though Jove's was made of flesh and blood,
'Twas thought that Tom's was e'en as good.
For Tom, as he was very cunning,
So viewed Jove's archetype of punning,
That he did luckily espy
Where th' knack of all the art did lie,
And found that all the mighty trouble
Was how to split and how to double.

Tom then begins as it was fitting,
And falls a-doubling and a-splitting,
Till every single word he brings
To signify at least two things,
So that whatever Tummas spoke
Might be or serious or a joke,
Might signify or cheese or chalk
According as you took his talk:
Like mug with ear on either side,
To this or that, as th' hand's applied,
In this or that way hauled with ease
According to the ear you seize;
To right or left, as you shall tug,
Obedient goes the willing mug.
So valiant Ralpho's basket-hilt,
By this end taken it would tilt;
By t' other, it was to your wish,
A ladle or a porridge dish.

So here you see lies all the cunning,
The soul, the blood and guts of punning.
Now can he e'er be thought a wit
Whose meaning is not always split?
Or has he to't the least pretence
Whose words won't bear a double sense?
Alas now, if you'll but observe't,
How dry, insipid and how starved,
How blunt and dull's our conversation,
How tedious and how out of fashion,
For taste and relish how unfitting
Without this wondrous art of splitting?
So oysters have nor taste nor relish,
Until such times as split the shell is.

I think by all men is confessed
The worth of what we call dry jest;
Then pray now what can be more fitting
To make it dry than this same splitting?
So Peg to make her haddock dryer
Does split it e'er she hang't by th' fire.

The pleasant'st jokes that are a-stirring
Must needs be those of Pickle-herring,
Which makes many ye a man to tickle
To get himself once thought a pickle.
And nought's so good for his invention
As this same splitting Tom does mention.
But if you'd have this made more plain,
Think of Peg's haddock once again:
As thus for drying Peg does fit it,
'Tis thus for pickle still she'll split it.

Divines by splitting of the text
Make clear what was before perplexed;
And lawyers splitting of their cases
Make 'em as plain as nose on face is.
In short to say no more about it,
There's nothing to be done without it.

What thanks to Tom shall be presented,
Who this same splitting first invented?
Come hawkers, with your throats so shrill,
Blackguards and shoe-boys from Cork Hill.
What e'er you do, let Tom's great praise
Be still the subject of your lays;
Each shoe you wipe his worth proclaim,
And on the bottom carve his name.
And you with your deep-mouthed sweep,
Do often break poor Echo's sleep,
Make all your pipes and whistles clear,
And split your mouths from ear to ear,
To praise great Tom in numbers fit —
That Tom to whom you owe your wit,
That Tom who teaches you to talk,
As subtilly as other folk,
And gives you rules whereby for certain
Your company will be diverting,
As much admired by great and small,
As th' learndest doctor of 'em all.

This art requires so little trouble
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And then you're sure applause to win,
Though neither meaning's worth a pin.

Thus cobbler when he finds his leather
Too thin, he claps his soles together.
You go and cheapen at his stall:
" Pray, Sir, observe this double sole " —
So Cerdon finds by this device
The worse his wares, the better price.

But had I lump a dozen pair
By Nature thrown me to my share,
Had I a face of brass, a tongue
As nimble as mill-clapper slung,
Or double like to chineown — Pun,
Dear Tom, as certain as a gun
Thy art of punning, doubling, splitting
I ne'er should praise as it is fitting.

But since you'd gladly have me tell ye,
How much your puns and you we value,
Your Art of Splitting gives a hint
(Which seems to have a good deal in't),
That if we'd give you praises due
Then we must split as well as you,
And show how much we prize and rate ye,
Like Priapus diffissa nate.