A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Both parties hear, and hope, at last

      Their broils and broken pates are past;

      Nor staid they to be bidden twice,

      But stripp'd their jackets in a trice:

      Their cudgels, all the circle round

      As quick as thought threw on the ground.

      Two beadles Hector sent to town,

      In haste to fetch his daddy down;

      And bid 'em tell old limberhams,

      Not to forget to bring two lambs.

      The running footman of the fleet

      (Talthybius call'd, with nimble feet)

      With all his speed his stumps did stir

      To fetch a lamb for Jupiter.

      I' th' int'rim, fond of mischief-telling,

      The rainbow goddess flies to Helen:

      (Most modern farts, I ever knew,

      When set on fire, burn only blue,

      Or simple red; but when behind

      This nimble goddess lets out wind,

      It leaves a track along the skies

      Compos'd of fifty different dyes.)

      She seem'd like old Antenor's daughter,

      That Helen might not know she sought her.

      The housewife at her task she found,

      With all her wenches seated round:

      For, as she work'd in Priam's hall,

      She chose to have them within call:

      Where, like a brazen, saucy jade,

      She wrought her tale in light and shade:

      How, for her sake, the Greeks employ

      Their utmost force to pull down Troy;

      And wove the story in her loom,

      Of horns, her former husband's doom:

      Adding withal, to keep her going,

      What for nine years they had been doing:

      The necessary names wrote under,

      Lest lookers-on should make a blunder;

      Lest they should make a wrong conjecture:

      This is brisk Paris – that is Hector;

      This is Ulysses – that the beast

      Thersites – so of all the rest.

      Helen, says Iris, pray come out

      And see what work they're all about.

      Their clubs thrown down; their staves they prick

      Fast in the ground, and there they stick.

      They fight no more; for this good day

      Paris and Menelaus say

      They'll have one bout at cudgel play.

      These happy rogues appear in view

      To box their very best for you;

      And which soever of 'em win,

      With kissing he will soon begin.

      This put the light-heel'd dame in mind

      Of people she had left behind

      In her own country: not these two

      (She'd try'd the best that they could do);

      But she had left behind some dozens

      Of uncles, aunts, and loving cousins.

      She gulp'd, and swallow'd down her spittle,

      But yet was seen to weep a little;

      Then left her work, and on her wait

      Two wenches to the Scean gate,

      Where some old square-toes, grave and try'd,

      Were chatting close to Priam's side:

      I think they were in number seven;

      It matters not, or odd or even.

      The name of each I would rehearse,

      But it would edge your teeth in verse.

      Like grasshoppers they sat i' th' sun,

      Telling strange tales of ancient fun;

      And, in a feeble hollow tone,

      Repeated what great feats they'd done;

      How they had thrum'd the maids of Troy,

      When Adam was a little boy:

      At Helen's shapes they shook their wings;

      What could they more? they had no stings.

      No wonder, 'faith, they cry, that Greece

      Should fight for such a tempting piece;

      The man that Helen's ringlets touzes,

      Can never grudge a thousand bruises;

      But since 'tis o'er with us long since,

      'Tis best to send the brimstone hence:

      If she stays here, Troy tumbles down;

      But pack her off, we save the town.

      Whilst thus the gipsy's praise they squeak,

      The Trojan king began to speak:

      Come hither, girl, I take a pride

      To have thee chatter by my side.

      Behold your friends, my dearest honey,

      And take a view of your old crony.

      'Tis not your fault: you're not the cause

      Of half our bruises, kicks, and blows.

      The gods, they say, are in a pet;

      And when they're once on mischief set

      The devil cannot keep 'em down,

      Till they've demolish'd some old town;

      And for nine years, I plainly see,

      They have been grumbling hard at me.

      But tell us, who's that swinging fellow

      That struts so fierce? he's drest in yellow,

      And cocks his hat with such a pinch,

      He looks a soldier ev'ry inch.

      Helen replies, Although, good Priam,

      No woman's better kiss'd than I am,

      Yet I could wish I had been hang'd,

      Or at a whipping-post well bang'd,

      Ere I away with Paris ran,

      And