A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      You would have sworn this mortal twitch

      Had given old Peleus' son the itch,

      So hard he scratch'd; at last found vent,

      And back to him this answer sent:

      Thou wretch, to all true hearts a stain,

      Thou damn'd infernal rogue in grain!

      Thou greater hypocrite than G-ml-y,

      Thou dirtier dog than Jeremy L – y!

      Whose deeds, like thine, will ever be

      A scandal to nobility;

      From this good day I hope no chief

      Will fight thy broils, or eat thy beef.

      How canst thou hope thy men will stand,

      When under such a rogue's command?

      What bus'ness I to fight thy battle?

      The Trojans never stole my cattle.

      My farm, secur'd by rocks and sands,

      Was safe from all their thieving bands.

      My steeds fed safe, both grey and dapple;

      Nor could they steal a single apple

      From any orchard did belong

      To me, my fences were so strong.

      I kept off all such sons of bitches

      With quick-set hedges fac'd with ditches.

      Our farm can all good things supply,

      Our men can box, and so can I.

      Hither we came, 'tis shame I'm sure,

      To fight, for what? an arrant whore!

      A pretty story this to tell.

      Instead of being treated well,

      As a reward for all our blows,

      We're kick'd about by your dog's nose.

      And dar'st thou think to seize my plunder,

      For which I made the battle thunder,

      And men and horses truckle under?

      No! since it was the Grecians' gift,

      To keep it I shall make a shift.

      What wouldst thou have? thou hadst the best

      Of every thing; nay, 'tis no jest:

      But you take care to leave, I see,

      The fighting trade to fools like me.

      In this you show the statesman's skill,

      To let fools fight whilst you sit still.

      First I'm humbugg'd with some poor toy,

      Then clapp'd o' th' back, and call'd brave boy.

      This shall no more hold water, friend:

      My 'prenticeship this day shall end.

      When I go, and my men to boots,

      I leave thee then a king of clouts.

      The general gave him tit for tat,

      And answer'd, cocking first his hat:

      Go, and be hang'd, you blust'ring whelp,

      Pray who the murrain wants your help?

      When you are gone, I know there are

      Col'nels sufficient for the war,

      Militia bucks that know no fears,

      Brave fishmongers and auctioneers.

      Besides, great Jove will fight for us,

      What need we then this mighty fuss?

      Thou lov'st to quarrel, fratch, and jangle,

      To scold and swear, and fight and wrangle.

      Great strength thou hast, and pray what then?

      Art thou so stupid, canst not ken,

      The gods, that ev'ry thing can see,

      Give strength to bears as well as thee?

      Of all Jove's sons, a bastard host,

      For reasons good, I hate thee most.

      Prithee be packing; thou'rt not fit,

      Or here to stand, or there to sit:

      In your own parish kick your scrubs,

      They're taught to bear such kind of rubs;

      But, for my part, I scorn the help

      Of such a noisy, bullying whelp:

      Go therefore, friend, and learn at school,

      First to obey, and then to rule.

      The gods they say for Chryseis send,

      And to restore her I intend;

      But look what follows, Mr. Bully!

      See if I don't convince thee fully,

      That thy bluff wench with sandy hair

      The loss I suffer shall repair:

      I'll let thee feel what 'tis to be

      A rival to a chief like me;

      That thou and all these folks may know,

      Great men are only subject to

      The gods, or right or wrong they do.

      Had you but seen Achilles fret it,

      I think you never could forget it;

      A sight so dreadful ne'er was seen,

      He sweat for very rage and spleen:

      Long was he balanc'd at both ends;

      When reason mounted, rage descends;

      The last commanded sword lug out;

      The first advis'd him not to do't.

      With half-drawn weapon fierce he stood,

      Eager to let the general blood;

      When Pallas, swift descending down,

      Lent him a knock upon the crown;

      Then roar'd as loud as she could yelp,

      Lugging his ears, 'Tis I, you whelp!

      Now Mrs. Juno, 'cause they both

      Were fav'rites, was exceeding loth

      To have 'em quarrel; so she sent

      This wench all mischief to prevent,

      And, to obstruct her being seen,

      Lent her a cloud to make a screen.

      Pelides wonder'd who could be

      So bold, and turn'd about to see:

      He knew the twinkling of her eyes,

      And loud as he could bawl, he cries,

      Goddess of Wisdom! pray what weather

      Has blown your goatskin doublet hither?

      Howe'er, thou com'st quite