A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Pallas obeys, and down the slope

      Slides, like a sailor on a rope.

      Upon the barren shore she found

      Ulysses lost in thoughts profound:

      His head with care so very full,

      He look'd as solemn as an owl;

      Was sorely grip'd, nor at this pinch

      Would launch his boats a single inch.

      And is it thus, she says, my king,

      The Greeks their hogs to market bring?

      See how they skip on board each hoy,

      Ready to break their necks for joy!

      Shall Priam's lecherous son, that thrives

      By kissing honest tradesmen's wives,

      Be left that heaven of bliss to dwell in,

      The matchless arms of beauteous Helen?

      O, no; the very thought, by Gad,

      Makes Wisdom's goddess almost mad!

      Though, by thy help, I think 'tis hard.

      But yet I singe the rascal's beard.

      Then fly, Ulysses, stop 'em all;

      The captains must their troops recall.

      Thou hast the gift o' th' gab, I know;

      Be quick and use it, prithee do:

      From Pallas thou shalt have assistance,

      Should any scoundrel make resistance.

      Ulysses ken'd her voice so shrill,

      And mov'd to execute her will;

      Then pull'd his breeches up in haste,

      Which being far too wide i' th' waist,

      Had left his buttocks almost bare —

      He guess'd what made the goddess stare;

      Next try'd his coat of buff to doff,

      But could not quickly get it off,

      So fast upon his arms it stuck,

      Till Pallas kindly lent a pluck.

      Off then it came, when, like a man,

      He took him to his heels and ran.

      The first that in his race he met

      Was Agamemnon in a pet,

      Striving, for breakfast, with his truncheon

      To bruise a mouldy brown-bread luncheon.

      Ulysses tells him, with a laugh,

      I've better bus'ness for that staff,

      And must request you'll lend it me

      To keep up my authority.

      Which having got, he look'd as big

      As J-n-n's coronation wig;

      Then flew, like wild-fire, through the ranks?

      'Twas wond'rous how he ply'd his shanks.

      Each captain by his name he calls;

      I'm here, each noble captain bawls.

      Then thus: O knights of courage stout,

      Pray, what the devil makes this rout?

      You that exalted are for samples,

      Should set your soldiers good examples:

      Instead of that, I pray, why strove ye

      To run as if the devil drove ye?

      You knew full well, or I belie ye,

      Our general only spoke to try ye:

      All that he meant by't was to know,

      Whether we'd rather stay or go?

      And is more vext to find us willing

      To run, than if he'd lost a shilling;

      Because at council-board, this day,

      Quite different things you heard him say.

      But if he met a common man,

      That dar'd to contradict his plan;

      Or, if the scoundrel durst but grumble;

      Nay, if he did but seem to mumble;

      He, with his truncheon of command,

      First knock'd him down, then bid him stand

      By this good management they stopp'd;

      But not till eight or ten were dropp'd.

      From launching boats, with one accord,

      They trudg'd away to th' council-board.

      The hubbub then began to cease:

      The noise was hush'd, and all was peace.

      Only one noisy ill-tongu'd whelp,

      Thersites call'd, was heard to yelp:

      The rogue had neither shame nor manners;

      His hide was only fit for tanners:

      With downright malice to defame

      Good honest cocks, was all his aim:

      All sorts of folks hard names he'd call,

      But aldermen the worst of all.

      Grotesque his figure was and vile,

      Much in the Hudibrastic style:

      One shoulder 'gainst his head did rest,

      The other dropp'd below his breast;

      His lank lean limbs in growth were stinted,

      And nine times worse than Wilkes he squinted:

      His pate was neither round nor flat,

      But shap'd like Mother Shipton's hat.

      You'd think, when this baboon was speaking,

      You heard some damn'd blind fiddler squeaking.

      Now this sad dog by dirty joking

      Was every day the chief provoking:

      The Greeks despis'd the rogue, and yet

      To hear his vile harangues they'd sit

      Silent as though he'd been a Pitt.

      His screech-owl's voice he rais'd with might

      And vented thus his froth and spite:

      Thersites from the matter wide is,

      Or