A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Atrides, as the story goes,

      Took parson Chrysis by the nose.

      Apollo, as the gods all do,

      Of Christian, Pagan, Turk, or Jew,

      On that occasion did not fail

      To back his parson tooth and nail.

      This caus'd a dev'lish quarrel 'tween

      Pelides and the king of men;

      Which ended to Achilles' cost,

      Because a buxom wench he lost.

      On which great Jove and's wife fell out,

      And made a damn'd confounded rout:

      And, had not honest Vulcan seen 'em

      Ready for blows, and stepp'd between 'em;

      'Tis two to one but their dispute

      Had ended in a scratching-bout.

      Juno at last was over-aw'd,

      Or Jove had been well clapper-claw'd.

      Good people, would you know the reason

      I write at this unlucky season,

      When all the nation is so poor

      That few can keep above one whore,

      Except the lawyers – (whose large fees

      Maintain as many as they please) —

      And Pope, with taste and judgement great,

      Has deign'd this author to translate —

      The reason's this: – He may not please

      The jocund tribe so well as these;

      For all capacities can't climb

      To comprehend the true sublime.

      Another reason I can tell,

      Though silence might do full as well;

      But being charg'd – discharge I must,

      For bladder, if too full, will burst.

      The writers of the merry class,

      E'er since the time of Hudibras,

      In this strange blunder all agree,

      To murder short-legg'd poetry.

      Words, though design'd to make ye smile,

      Why mayn't they run as smooth as oil?

      No poetaster can convince

      A man of any kind of sense,

      That verse can be the greater treasure,

      Because it wants both weight and measure

      Or can persuade, that false rough metre,

      Than true and smooth, by far is sweeter.

      This is the wherefore; and the why,

      Have patience, you'll see by-and-by.

      Come, Mrs. Muse, but, if a maid,

      Then come Miss Muse, and lend me aid!

      Ten thousand jingling verses bring,

      That I Achilles' wrath may sing,

      That I may chant in curious fashion

      This doughty hero's boiling passion,

      Which plagu'd the Greeks; and gave 'em double

      A Christian's share of toil and trouble,

      And, in a manner quite uncivil,

      Sent many a Broughton to the devil;

      Leaving their carcasses on rows,

      Food for great dogs and carrion crows.

      To this sad pass the bully's freaks

      Had brought his countryfolks the Greeks!

      But who the devil durst say no,

      Since surly Jove would have it so?

      Come tell us then, dear Miss, from whence

      The quarrel rose: who gave th' offence?

      Latona's son, with fiery locks,

      Amongst them sent both plague and pox.

      And prov'd most damnably obdurate,

      Because the king had vex'd his curate;

      For which offence the god annoy'd 'em,

      And by whole waggon-loads destroy'd 'em.

      The case was this: These sons of thunder

      Took a plump wench amongst their plunder.

      A red-nos'd priest came hobbling after,

      With presents to redeem his daughter;

      Like a poor supplicant did stand,

      With an old garland in his hand

      Filch'd from a May-pole, and to boot

      A constable's short staff lugg'd out.

      These things, he told the chief that kept her,

      Were his old master's crown and sceptre;

      Then to the captains made a speech,

      And to the brothers joint, and each:

      Ye Grecian constables so stout,

      May you all live to see Troy out;

      And when you've pull'd it to the ground,

      May you get home both safe and sound!

      Was Jove but half the friend that I am,

      You quickly should demolish Priam;

      But, since the town his godship spares,

      I'll help you all I can with pray'rs.

      For my part, if you'll but restore

      My daughter, I'll desire no more.

      You'll hardly guess the many shifts

      I made to raise you all these gifts.

      If presents can't for favour plead,

      Then let your pity take the lead.

      Should you refuse, Apollo swears,

      He'll come himself, and lug your ears.

      The Grecians by their shouts declare

      Th' old gentleman spoke very fair;

      They swore respect to him was due,

      And he should have his daughter too:

      For he had brought, to piece the quarrel,

      Of Yarmouth herrings half a barrel.

      No wonder then their mouths should water

      More for his herrings than his daughter.

      But Agamemnon, who with care

      Had well examin'd all her ware,

      And guess'd that neither Troy nor Greece

      Could furnish such another piece,

      Roars out: You make a cursed jargon!

      But take me with ye ere you bargain:

      My turn's to speak; and as for you, Sir,

      This journey you may chance to rue, Sir:

      Nor shall your cap and gilded stick

      Preserve your buttocks from a kick,

      Unless

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