Classic Poem

Eclogue 1st.

Crape, Split-text

Crape:

Beneath the Shade of these wide-spreading Trees,
Dear Split-text. You can smoke your Chunk at Ease;
I hapless Wretch! must bid such joys Adieu;
Strip't of my Credit, & my Income too;
Must leave my Glebe, which all my Bacon fed,
(Bacon, my rich repast so often made)
While you, while chearful, Plenty round you dwells,
Can talk with D — — y, how Tobacco sells.

Split-text:

Yes, Brother Crape — a gen'rous Chief bestow'd
On me these Blessings — all to him I ow'd.
For which I'll ne'er forget, each Sabbath-Day,
With hearty Zeal for my good Lord to pray:
He made me Parson here; & bids me fill
My Pipe & Bowl, as often as I will.

Crape:

I envy not your Bliss, but wonder much
Their Hate for Pray'rs & Parsons here is such!
Poor I am forc'd on this lank jade to ride,
Which often a late with hunger lik'd to 've died:
But yesterday she tumbled in the Dirt,
And 'gainst a white oak Stump my Forehead hurt,
Fool! that I was! — I might have known my Fate;
But Man is conscious of his Faults too late;
My Vestry told me oft, they'd bear no more,
And now at length have turn'd me out of Door.
— But say how you have all this Favour got?

Split-text:

Assurance & Good Luck: — what will they not?
A — by Birth, I came a School to teach;
But little thought (God knows) I e'er should preach;
I found the Parsons here such Clods of Clay,
That soon to my Ambition I gave Way:
Why might not I, I said, harangue as well
As W — n or Wh — r or D-ll?
For we resemble those at Home no more,
Than Saints of Modern Days do Saints of yore.

Crape:

And pray, what made you to this Country come?

Split-text:

Faith! Poverty — I shou'd have starv'd at Home.
Soon as the Down 'gan on my Chin t'appear;
I quite grew weary of my country Fare.
Oatmeal & Water was too thin a Diet,
To keep my grumbling Guts in peace & Quiet;
So Fear of Starving, Hope of living better,
Made me have Heart enough to cross the Water.

Crape:

I was surpris'd, that tho' you liv'd so well,
Your Carcase was so lank, you Phiz so pale;
The Cause is plain — your native, hungry Food
So gain'd th'Ascendant o'er your youthful Blood,
You look, as, if no meat cou'd do you good.

Split-text:

Twas Time then to some other place to roam,
And seek for better Fare than was at home;
Here then I came — but soon went back again,
The B[i]sh[o]p's Blessing, & my L[or]d's to gain
Soon both I got — I saw that noble P[ee]r,
For whom our Church puts up each week a Pray'r.
He bad me come, he bad me preach & pray,
And, if the Planters wou'd not, make 'em pay.

Crape:

O happy Brother; happy is Thy Plight;
Happy in all that can thy Soul delight;
Sure of the Forties, Whate'er Loss betide
The Planter's Toil; since they must be supply'd.
O happy Brother — By this purling Rill
These shady Locusts, & that pleasant Hill,
What dost thou not enjoy? — the fanning Breeze
Comes sweetly breathing on thee thru the trees;
That busy Swarm with lulling sound compose
Thy wearied Soul to gentle, soft Repose;
Thy Negros, chanting forth their rustick loves,
The melancholy Musick of the Doves;
The feather'd Choir, which, while they skim along
The liquid Plain, regale thee with a Song;
All, all conspire to heighten ev'ry Bliss,
And make thee taste sincerest Happiness.

Split-text:

Planters Tobacco shall forget to smoke,
Hogs to love Mast and Peaches, Frogs to croak,
The Indians range, where flows the princely Thames,
And Duchess live nigh Potomack's Streams,
'Ere from my Heart that smiling Mien I lose
With which the gen'rous Lord his Gifts bestows.

Crape:

But I alass! no more my Glebe must view,
But to my once-lov'd Dwelling bid Adieu,
Go preach the Gospel in some Indian's Ear,
Who'll mind my Preaching, like your Planters here?
And must a Stranger — Parson rule the roost,
And Glean the Harvest I so stupid lost?
What has my Guzzling & my Folly done?
Go, Planters, go, your quondam Parson shun;
No more shall I with you rant, drink & smoke;
Toast baudy Healths, or crack a smutty joak;
No more in Bumbo, or in Cyder swill;
Faith! all's o'er now — I may go where I will.

Split-text:

To night howe'er with me you'll foul a Plate;
A juicy fat Gammon & a Chick we'll get;
Wine I have none; Good Bumbo & small Beer,
Clean, tho' coarse Linnen, will be all your Fare.
This year of Cyder I but made one Stoup,
One Night the Planters came & drank it up,
Walk in — the Chimney's Smoke's more plainly seen;
And Giant Shadows cross the dewy Green;
In louder Musick sing the marshy Frogs;
— Sambo, go, pen the Turkies, feed the Hogs.