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Or Natural—for aught that we can know
As where there’s talent, it must surely show.
Why, slavish parasites make such a fuss
’Bout pseudo garden of Alcinous?———
Self only dwells in this Cimmerian Bay.
Where, (if ’tis true what meddling tabbies say)
This Polyphemus doth with Polly play,
And snakes and adders usher in the day.
What Cerberus bloodhounds closely guard the gates
Where solitary gourmand vegetates,
Prates of past turtle steaks and “codger” whales
Such spicy food and racy wit prevails,
And as the Persian pig of former day
Boasts all he has eaten he can take away—
Could he but see himself as others do
His consequence would drop a peg or two———
Christendom’s eighth Champion;—’tis to you
This ladies album epigram is due
Which Barkers flunkey picked up at your gate,
And gave Miss ———; for a perquisite—
“Not steeped in gore Religion’s flag, when woman was
the cause
Of deadly feud, of nations fall, of devastating wars
Now Superstition drains the blood—not woman’s stolen
kiss
Still beauty lurks in maiden’s smile, yet all that’s wrong's
a miss.”
Ho, Cavalier servente to the dame,
Of feather flirting, and Shakspearian fame,
Whose little deaf uxorious husband whines,
As passing years increase the antler’s tynes———
Here are rehearsed the joys of senile bliss,
Conned from the mysteries of Eleusis
And Lupercalia, here the game outvies
Of Dives doating o’er love’s tragedies———
’T were well, that at that memorable play
The dark avengers were so far away,
Or else that ugly scull were bare to-day
As the poor Islander’s, (Ben Boyd’s they say)
