WITH reverence to your worships, 'tis our fate To have a testy, cross-grain'd, bilious, sour Old fellow for our master; one much giv'n To a bean-diet; somewhat hard of hearing: Demos his name, sirs, of the parish Pnyx here. Some three weeks back or so, this lord of ours Brought home a lusty slave from Paphlagonia, Fresh from the tan-yard, tight and yare, and with As nimble fingers and as foul a mouth As ever yet paid tribute to the gallows. This tanner-Paphlagonian (for the fellow Wanted not penetration) bow'd and scraped, And fawn'd and wagg'd his ears and tail, dog-fashion: And thus soon slipp'd into the old man's graces. Occasional douceurs of leather-parings, With speeches to this tune, made all his own. 'Good sir, the court is up, -- you've judg'd one cause, 'Tis time to take the bath: allow me, sir, -- This cake is excellent -- pray sup this broth -- This soup will not offend you, tho' cropfull -- You love an obolus: pray take these three -- Honour me, sir, with your commands for supper.' Sad times meanwhile for us! -- with prying looks, Round comes my man of hides, and if he finds us Cooking a little something for our master, Incontinently lays his paw upon it, And modestly in his own name presents it! It was but t'other day these hands had mixt A Spartan pudding for him: there -- at Pylos: Slily and craftily the knave stole on me, Ravish'd the feast and to my master bore it. Then none but he, forsooth, must wait at table: (We dare not come in sight) but there he stands All supper-time, and with a leathern fly-lap Whisks off the advocates: anon the knave Chants out his oracles, and when he sees The old man plung'd in mysteries to the ears, And scared from his few senses, marks his time, And enters on his tricks. False accusations Now come in troops; and at their heels the whip. Meanwhile the rascal shuffles in among us, And begs of one, -- browbeats another, -- cheats A third, and frightens all. 'My honest friends, These cords cut deep, you'll find it -- I say nothing, -- Judge you between your purses and your backs: I could perhaps' -- We take the gentle hint, And give him all: if not, the old man's foot Plays such a tune upon our hinder parts, That flogging is a jest to't, a mere flea-bite. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE EPITAPH UPON A CHILD THAT DIED by ROBERT HERRICK LOOKING FORWARD by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ON FEATHER BEDS by JOHN ARMSTRONG THE MAD SCULPTOR by WILLIAM ROSE BENET IF THE WORLD WERE RIGHT by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON ON H---- THE PICK THANK by WILLIAM BLAKE THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: TARAFA by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |