A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Of heaven and earth the whoring king

      Swore that his wife had hit the thing:

      Then go, my Pallas, in the nick,

      And serve these Phrygian whelps a trick;

      Make 'em, like Frenchmen, treaties break:

      Away, and do not stay to speak.

      Pleas'd she darts downward in a trice,

      And smooth as younkers slide on ice;

      Or when the upper regions vomit

      A long-tail'd firebrand, call'd a comet,

      Which robs old women of their wits,

      And frights their daughters into fits;

      Gives wond'ring loons the belly-ache,

      And makes the valiant soldier quake:

      With horrid whiz it falls from high,

      And whisks its tail along the sky:

      Just so this brimstone did appear,

      As she shot downward through the air.

      They guess'd, and paus'd, and guess'd again,

      What this strange prodigy could mean:

      At last agreed, that angry Fate

      Was big with something mighty great.

      'Twas war, or peace, or wind, or rain,

      Or scarcity next year of grain.

      Some cunning heads this reason hit,

      That B – e would soon make room for P – tt;

      But all the bold north-country rout

      Swore that it would much better suit

      His M – , to stick to B – te.

      Whilst thus they jar and disagree,

      Minerva lit behind a tree;

      And lest her phiz should make 'em gape,

      Borrow'd an honest mortal shape;

      Laodocus, no snivelling dastard,

      But great Antenor's nephew's bastard:

      She quickly found Lycaon's son,

      A rare strong chief for back and bone,

      Whose troops from black Esopee came,

      A place but little known to fame.

      The arms his raggamuffins bore

      Were broomsticks daub'd with blood all o'er.

      To him she with a harmless look,

      Like a mischievous brimstone, spoke:

      Will you, friend Pand'rus, says she,

      A little counsel take from me?

      You know that every prudent man

      Should pick up money when he can;

      And now, if you could have the luck

      To make a hole in Sparta's pluck,

      Paris, as certain as I live,

      Would any sum of money give.

      Such a bold push must sure be crown'd

      With ten, at least, or twenty pound:

      Don't gape and stare, for now or never

      You gain or lose the cash for ever:

      But first, to th' Lycian archer pay

      (By most he's call'd the god of day)

      A ram; this same unerring spark

      Can guide thy arrow to its mark:

      'Tis highly necessary this,

      Or two to one your aim you'll miss.

      Like gunpowder, the thick-skull'd elf

      Took fire, and up he blew himself:

      Then fitting to his bow the string,

      He swore, by Jove, he'd do the thing.

      His trusty bow was made of horn

      An old ram goat for years had worn.

      This goat by Pandarus was shot,

      And left upon the cliffs to rot:

      The curling horns, that spread asunder

      Two tailors' yards, became his plunder;

      Which he took care to smooth, and so

      Produc'd a very handsome bow:

      The blacksmith fil'd a curious joint,

      And Deard with tinsel tipp'd each point.

      This bow of bows, without being seen

      By any but his countrymen,

      He bent; and, that he might be safe,

      Took care to hide his better half

      Behind the potlids of his band;

      For those he always could command.

      Before he aim'd, he squatted low

      To fit an arrow to his bow;

      One from a hundred out he picks,

      To send the cuckold over Styx

      (Sharp was the point of this same arrow,

      Design'd to reach the Spartan's marrow);

      Then to the god of day-light vows

      To give a dozen bulls and cows.

      Now hard he strains, with wondrous strength,

      And draws the arrow all its length:

      Swift through the air the weapon hies,

      Whilst the string rattles as it flies.

      Had then Atrides been forgot,

      He certainly had gone to pot:

      But Pallas, for his life afraid,

      In pudding-time came to his aid,

      And turn'd aside the furious dart,

      That was intended for his heart,

      Into a more ignoble part.

      So careful mothers, when they please,

      Their children guard from lice and fleas.

      The first emotion that he felt,

      Was a great thump upon his belt:

      For there the arrow, Pallas knew,

      Could only pierce a little through.

      It did so; and the skin it rais'd:

      The blood gush'd out: which so amaz'd

      The cuckold, that he was half craz'd:

      He felt within himself strange

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