A Burlesque Translation of Homer. Francis Grose

      Now, when the buxom wench was gone,

      What think you doth this lubber-loon,

      But, when he found no mortal near him,

      Roar so, 'twould do you good to hear him;

      And hanging his great jolter head

      O'er the salt sea, he sobb'd, and said:

      Oh, mother! since I'm to be shot,

      Or some way else must go to pot,

      I think great Jove, if he did right,

      Should scour my fame exceeding bright.

      'Tis quite reverse: yon brazen knave

      Has stole the plumpest wench I have;

      And in the face of all the throng

      Of constables has done me wrong.

      The goddess heard him under water,

      And ran as fast as she could patter:

      She saw he'd almost broke his heart,

      And, like good mother, took his part:

      My son, I'm vext to hear thee cry;

      Come, tell mamma the reason why.

      From th' bottom of his wame he sigh'd,

      And to his mammy thus reply'd:

      For what that rogue has made me cry,

      You know, I'm sure, as well as I:

      Yet since you bid me tell my story,

      I'll whip it over in a hurry.

      What think you that vile scoundrel's done,

      That Agamemnon, to your son?

      Because his pretty girl was gone,

      He must have mine, forsooth, or none.

      The Grecians gave to me this prize:

      He huffs the Greeks, and damns their eyes.

      We went to Thebes, and sack'd a village,

      And brought away a world of pillage:

      Amongst the plunder that was taken,

      Besides fat geese, and eggs, and bacon,

      We got some wenches plump and fair,

      Of which one fell to that rogue's share:

      But in the middle of our feast,

      There came a hobbling red-nos'd priest;

      In a great wallet that old dreamer

      Had brought some presents to redeem her,

      And made such humble supplication,

      Attended with a fine oration,

      That ev'ry Greek, except Atrides,

      On the old hobbling parson's side is.

      But he, of no one soul afraid,

      Swore blood-and-oons he'd keep the maid

      And, with an answer most uncivil,

      Damn'd the old fellow to the devil.

      The priest walk'd home in doleful dumps

      (Like Witherington upon his stumps):

      But, it is plain, he made a holla

      That reach'd his loving friend Apollo;

      For he in wrath, most furiously,

      Began to smite us hip and thigh;

      And had not I found out a prophet,

      That told us all the reason of it,

      Burn my old shoes, if e'er a sinner

      Had now been left to eat a dinner;

      But that, as sure as cits of London

      Oft leave their spouses' business undone,

      And trudge away to Russel-street

      Some little dirty whore to meet,

      Whilst the poor wife, to cure her dumps,

      Works her apprentice to the stumps;

      So sure this god, for rage or fun,

      Had pepper'd ev'ry mother's son.

      'Twas I, indeed, did first advise

      To cook him up a sacrifice,

      And then his pardon strive to gain

      By sending home the wench again;

      For which the damn'd confounded churl

      Swore he would have my bouncing girl:

      And I this minute, you must know,

      Like a great fool, have let her go:

      For which, no doubt, it will be said

      Your son has got a chuckle head.

      To Jove then go, and catch him by

      The hand, or foot, or knee, or thigh;

      Hold him but fast, and coax him well.

      And mind you that old story tell,

      How you of all the gods held out

      When they once rais'd a rebel rout,

      And brought a giant from Guildhall

      With face so grim he scar'd 'em all:

      When once you'd got him rais'd above,

      And plac'd him by the side of Jove,

      So fast with both his hands he thunder'd,

      The rebels swore he'd got a hundred,

      Threw down the ropes they'd brought to bind 'em,

      And, scamp'ring, never look'd behind 'em:

      Tell him, for this, to drive pell mell

      The Grecian sons of whores to hell,

      That Atreus' son, that stupid fool,

      May have no scoundrels left to rule;

      And then he'll hang himself for spite,

      He durst the boldest Grecian slight.

      His mother's heart was almost broke,

      To hear how dolefully he spoke:

      But having belch'd, she thus replies,

      The salt brine running from her eyes:

      O Killey, since the Fates do stint

      Thy precious life, the devil's in't

      That thou must likewise bear to boots

      This scurvy, mangey rascal's flouts:

      But take thy mammy's good advice,

      And his thee homeward in a trice;

      Or, if thou'd rather choose to stay,

      Don't help the dogs in any fray.

      Depend upon't, to Jove I'll go,

      And let him all the matter know:

      He junkets now with swarthy faces

      (For he, like men, has all his paces),

      And will continue at the feast

      Ten or eleven days at least:

      Taking, like our Jamaica planters,

      Their fill of what our vilest ranters

      Would