A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Achilles quickly broke the thread

      Of this fine speech; and thus he said:

      Now, smite me, but I well deserv'd

      To be so us'd, when first I serv'd

      So great a rogue as you; but damn me

      If you another day shall flam me:

      Seize my Briseis, if you list,

      I've pass'd my word I won't resist;

      Safely then do it, for no more,

      For any woman, wife or whore,

      Achilles boxes; but take care

      Your scoundrels steal no other ware:

      No more Achilles dare t'affront,

      Lest he should call thee to account,

      And the next scurvy squabble close,

      By wringing off thy snotty nose.

      This Billingsgate affair being o'er,

      Sullen they turn'd 'em to the door.

      Achilles in a hurry went,

      And sat down sulky in his tent:

      Patroclus, as a friend should do,

      Both grumbled and look'd sulky too.

      Mean time Atrides fitted out

      From Puddle Dock a smuggling-boat.

      On deck Miss Chryseis took her stand;

      Ulysses had the chief command.

      The off'rings in the hold they stuff'd,

      Then, all sails set, away they luff'd.

      The chol'ric chief doth next essay

      The soldiers' filth to wash away;

      A cart and horse to every tent,

      He with a noisy bellman sent:

      The bell did signify, You must

      Without delay bring out your dust:

      Then made 'em stand upon the shore,

      And wash their dirty limbs all o'er:

      Next, by advice of Doctor Grimstone,

      He rubb'd their mangey joints with brimstone,

      Because, when first they sally'd forth,

      Some mercenaries from the north

      Had brought a queer distemper, which

      The learned doctors call'd the itch.

      He next begins to cut the throats

      Of bulls, and sheep, and lambs, and goats;

      The legs and loins in order laid,

      To Phœbus all his share is paid:

      Apollo, as the smoke arose,

      Snuff'd ev'ry atom up his nose;

      And, rather than they would provoke him,

      They sent him smoke enough to choke him.

      Still in the midst of all this coil,

      Atrides felt his ewer boil:

      Talthybius and Euribates,

      Two ticket porters, did await his

      Dread will, to carry goods and chattels,

      Or run with messages in battles:

      To these he speaks: – Ye scoundrels two,

      What I command observe ye do;

      Run to Achilles' tent, take heed,

      And bring away his wench with speed;

      Tell him you're order'd to attend her,

      And I expect he'll quickly send her;

      Else with a file of musqueteers

      I'll beat his tent about his ears.

      They hung an arse, what could they do?

      They'd rather not, but yet must go:

      Pensive they trod the barren sand,

      On this side sea, on that side land,

      And look'd extreme disconsolate,

      Fearing at least a broken pate.

      The hero in his tent they found,

      His day-lights fix'd upon the ground:

      They relish'd not his surly look,

      So out of fear their distance took:

      Quickly he guess'd they were in trouble,

      And scorn'd to make their burden double

      But with his finger, or his thumb,

      Beckon'd the tardy knaves to come.

      Ye trusty messengers, draw near,

      And don't bedaub yourselves for fear,

      Though you smell strong; but if 'tis so,

      Pray clean yourselves before ye go;

      Your master, if my thoughts prove true,

      Will soon smell stronger far than you.

      I partly guess for what you came;

      Poor rogues, like you, should bear no blame.

      Compell'd, you hither bent your way;

      And servants always should obey.

      Patroclus, fetch this square-stern'd jade,

      Let her be to his tent convey'd:

      But hark, ye messengers declare,

      What I by Gog and Magog swear,

      That though in blood all Greece shall wallow,

      With fretting I'll consume no tallow,

      But coolly let, and so I tell ye,

      The Trojans beat your bones to jelly;

      And if to me they are but civil,

      May drive you scoundrels to the devil.

      Your muddy-pated, hot-brain'd chief,

      (Whose