Classic Poem

Since bailiffs and mayors, to evade all objection,
By bribing old women obtain an election;
Since poets and cobblers their talents exert
And strive by translating for the term of expert;
Nay, even the Clergy (forgive the expression)
By merit or int'rest obtain a fair session.

Though frolicsome beaus who ensnare the whole city,
By Nature made fools, would conceit they're damned witty,
Yet the pride of the fair in abundance surpasses
Mayors, bailiffs and cobblers, wits, prelates and asses;
And scarce a spruce cook-maid puts on a silk gown,
But thinks she outshines all the nymphs of the town.

Some amorous prigs, who considered the cause,
Resolved to prevent such cabals by fixed laws;
So pitched on a judge, who well learned in grimace,
Could explain a defect in mind, body or face,
And published advice to the fair lovely creatures
To repair to the Green for a judgment of features.

When soft blooming May, in her luster displayed,
Had woven the trees to a cool verdant shade,
Judge Apollo advanced to the court of his duty,
To elect for the town a top mistress of beauty,
Where nymphs who were zealous for fame and renown
Sought to captivate fools or to purchase the crown.

A gay buxom widow, long stripped of her shame,
First sailed to Apollo and whispered her name,
When the young powdered god, with a formal protest,
Declared on his soul she deserved it the best;
But a fop standing by let the auditors know
Though bright Sol's in face, she's damned fusty below.

The widow thus passed, two sisters appeared
Whom the beaus like divinities worshipped and feared;
Apollo himself stood aghast in surprise
To behold the fierce glances that shot from their eyes;
Yet declared them both fools to expect such a station
Since C—t had gave them the applause of the nation.

The nymphs, who imagined so great a man's word
Could have raised a poor peasant as great as a lord,
Wheeled round in a huff and declared 'twas odd,
That so much ill manners should dwell in a god;
But Apollo to tickle the audience with sport
Swore a statesman's good word should pass only at court.

A young miss being next, at the front of the press,
In blushes and sighs, seemed to make her address;
Whilst a beau standing by proclaimed with a sneer,
“God's curse, it's hers, for her sire was a peer.”
But the damned toupee judge swore by God she had no right,
For the assembly complained of her shortness of sight.

Miss B—ly advanced, with the pretty Miss C—s,
The pride of each play and delight of the boxes;
Young T—h and M—C—l beseeched the divine
That the former beneath his bright garland might shine.
Apollo made answer, 'twixt smiling and passion,
“Her bubbies are white, but too small for the fashion.”

The others observing their friend so abused
Sheered off in a huff and were highly excused;
Whilst Monikee Gaul, midst a laughter rushed in
And cheered up the god with a smack o' the chin;
Who bid her stand off and go practise her tricks
Of attending the playhouse and groping for—.

A Capel Street beauty exalting her charms,
To encompass the crown extended her arms,
When a gaudy young beau strove to tarnish her fame
And swore her fine clothes had procured an ill name;
But Mon. much more apt at a scurvy lampoon,
Cried, “G-d D—n, her face looks as broad as the moon.”

After fifty young belles were despised by the god,
And sighing shrunk back at the frown of a nod,
The Quality pressed with the multitude's weight
Thought fit to draw off from a trampling fate,
Whilst a torrent of girls, of each calling and size
Thronged in on the fop, demanding the prize.

There chamber and kitchen-maids flocked in a cluster,
Who jostling for room, made a damnable bluster;
Whilst the citizen boys fought to bring in their doxies,
The beaus made a bustle at sight of their proxies;
And Apollo, to quiet the clamorous squabble,
Cursed, damned, drew and swore he'd destroy the whole rabble.

The storm being appeased, Miss H—s walking forth
Began to recount a long tale of her worth;
And Apollo declared by the wonderful Nelly
She should reign, were it not for her damned cockit-belly.
The dame sigh and answered, “Sir, what you think fit.”
“Pshaw! curse her,” says Mon. “She sets up for a wit.”

Jenny Griffith spoke next, with pipe like a lark,
Who swore she surpassed all the nymphs of the park,
Protesting no knave who maintained her by trade,
When in bed should her slumbering moments invade;
Which heroic lecture would doubtless prevail,
But Mon. cried, “G-d Damn her, her father sells ale.”

The objection on all sides was granted for just,
“For though,” says Apollo, “the best are but dust,
Yet were honors like these to encompass her lot,
Love-trials may change at the word of a sot.”
Then the crowd, who applauded a speech so polite,
Hissed poor Madam Fill-Pot quite out of his sight.

A painter and seamstress next fronted the crowd,
But the audience conjectured each minx was too proud;
She also declared by their languishing parts,
None less than esquires should vanquish their hearts;
But the prig told 'em both, were the charms the defence,
Each ought to have pleaded a dozen years since.

Miss W—l, Miss D—l, and Miss P—er,
In hopes of the wreath, flocked in all together;
Apollo confessed, that of all he had seen,
The first was best formed for a goddess or queen;
And fixing the garland, was raptured to find
A queen for the city shaped just to his mind.

Then echoing shouts swelled through the whole gang,
Whilst Apollo proclaimed, with a solemn harangue:
The Belle of Hibernia, to regulate all
That under the judgment of beauty can fall;
Demanding henceforward no swain shall dare pray
To Venus for aid, from those presents of May,
Whilst their queen keeps the charms of Et Cetera.