Classic Poem

Resolved my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day;
Furnished with papers, pen, and ink,
I gravely sat me down to think:
I bit my nails, and scratched my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or, if with more than usual pain,
A thought came slowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long-thinking made my fancy worse.

Forsaken by the inspiring nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine;
I told him what the world would say
If Stella were unsung today;
How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer;
How Sheridan the rogue would sneer:
And swear it does not always follow,
That 'Semel'n anno ridet Apollo.'
I have assured them twenty times,
That Phoebus helped me in my rhymes;
Phoebus inspired me from above,
And he and I were hand in glove.
But finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetic licence:
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little,
Returned this answer to a tittle.

'Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em,
You yearly sing as she grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But to say truth, such dullness reigns
Through the whole set of Irish deans;
I'm daily stunned with such a medley,
Dean White, Dean Daniel, and Dean Smedley;
That, let what dean soever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And if your voice had not been loud,
You must have passed among the crowd.

'But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs Brent,
For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of Earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:
A spade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould:
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

'Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus, for the poet's use,
Poured in a strong inspiring juice:
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sovereign medicine for the brains.

'You'll find it soon if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs Brents,
Ten thousand Archies armed with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

'From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the muse:
(But first let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees)
The muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.'