Classic Poem

— Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
Auri sacra fames?

Fair ones! To you who hearts command
And gently sway, with fan in hand,
Your fav'rite, Punch, a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls.
He humbly calls and begs you'd stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh' invades without pretence or right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land — and treats our kings
Like paltry, idle, wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And called our chastest virgins whores.
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus or the Devil;
E'en me he hurried with fell rage
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage.
And faith, our fright was very great
To see a minister of state
Armed with power and fury come
To force us from our little home.
We feared, as I am sure we'd reason,
An accusation of high treason.

Till starting up, says Bannameer,
" Treason, my friends, we need not fear;
For 'gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the Chancellor.
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochfort on Westmeath election,
Nor did we sing. " — " " MacHugh," he means;
The villain, I'll dash out his brains.
'Tis no affair of state that brings
Me here, nor business of the king's;
I'm come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound to me's laid down. "

" Fifty! " quoth I, " a dev'lish sum,
But stay till the new half-pence come;
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
" Though now we cannot furnish gold. "

Quoth he, " Thou lovest, Punch, to prate
And could'st forever hold debate,
But think'st thou I have nought to do
But thus fuer le temps with you;
Or dost thou think that I am come
To carry naught but farthings home?
Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves;
Farthings were made for Irish slaves.
No brass for me; it must be gold,
Or fifty pound in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train. "

" Votre tres humble serviteur,
I'm not in jest, " said I, " I'm sure;
But from the bottom of my belly
In sober sadness I must tell ye,
I think it is good reasoning
That we fictitious men should bring
Brass counters made by William Wood,
Which may as well be understood
Right sterling — as we, flesh and blood.
And since we are but mimic men,
Pray let us pay in mimic coin.
Add too, 'tis said that you and I
Are of the selfsame family;
And, faith, I'm apt to think so too,
For who is liker me than you?
Just the same grave and awkward grace
Shows forth itself in either face,
And each of us with labor struts
Behind a flasket huge with guts.
We tally well in these respects,
But best of all in intellects;
For, when you took the diff'rence learned
'Twixt the words " sorry" and " concerned,"
And when upon a grave affair
Amazed you gazed behind a chair,
Then cried, " Lord, how like Punchinello
Is that same soft, beef-witted fellow!"
Then, pretty cousin, let us buss,
And cease to treat your kindred thus. "

Quoth he, " Thou vile misshapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest?
Now not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor Merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay th' aforesaid sum. "

Then marching off with solemn pace
To write dispatches for his Grace,
The Revel-Master left the room,
And us condemned to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if I e'er found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your int'rest with the Sec
(They say he's at the ladies' beck);
And, though he thirsts as much for gold
As ever Midas did of old,
Your charms I'm sure can never fail;
Your eyes must influence, must prevail.
At your command he'll set us free;
Let us to you owe liberty.
Get us a licence now to play,
And as in duty bound we'll pray, &c.