Читать книгу A Burlesque Translation of Homer - Francis Grose - Страница 9

The watchman op'd the gates of heaven,

Just as the clock was striking seven;

When all the gods, with yawning faces,

To council came, and took their places.

Hebe prepar'd upon the spot

A jug of purl made piping hot,

Of which she gave each god a cup,

Who sup and blow, and blow and sup;

And whilst their time they thus employ,

Just slightly ask, What news from Troy?

When thus unlucky Jove, for fun,

To vex his ox-ey'd wife, begun:

Two scolding brims of royal blood

Assist the Greeks – if not, they should;

But, perch'd above, like daws they sit,

Nor they to help their friends think fit;

But, suff'ring Greece to go to ruin,

Content themselves with mischief brewing;

Whilst grateful Venus in the throng,

To aid her lecher, scours along;

With nimble bum, or nimbler wrist,

She guides his weapon where she list;

Knowing a touch of her soft hand,

If fallen down, will make him stand.

But, messmates, since we have begun,

'Tis time to fix what must be done.

The book of Fate then let us scan,

And view what is ordain'd for man;

That we about them may determine,

To kill, or keep alive, the vermin:

Say then, shall smiling peace ensue,

Or dreadful broils, with face of rue?

If now your godships think that Nelly

Should go and warm her husband's belly,

And Paris pay for doing work

Would glad the heart of Jew or Turk;

Why then the borough may stand firm

A thousand years, or any term;

May back recall its old renown,

And once more be a market-town.

Whilst thus he preach'd, his angry queen

With Pallas whispering was seen;

And as they jabber'd pate to pate,

Against poor Troy express'd their hate

The boxing vixen, though in wrath,

Yet holds her peace, and nothing saith;

Nor would, had Jove preach'd e'er so long,

For heavenly wisdom rul'd her tongue;

She prudent acts; not so Jove's wife,

Whose joy consists in noise and strife.

Begun: Don't think your dunder-pate

Shall use your queen at such a rate:

On whoring Troy I've made just war;

Have rous'd my Grecians near and far;

My post-chaise rattled many a mile,

My peacocks sweating all the while;

And all to bring destruction on

This perjur'd, lying, whoring4 town.

But spouse my cares and toils derides;

Because they're rogues, he's on their sides;

To punish rogues in grain refuses,

And thus his loving wife abuses:

Though, if the gods will take my side,

In spite of Jove I'll trim their hide.

At this same speech you cannot wonder

The thunder-driver look'd like thunder:

He wav'd his locks, and fit to choke

With rage, he to his vixen spoke:

Why, how now, hussy! whence this hate

To Priam and the Trojan state?

Can mortal scoundrels thee perplex,

And the great brim of brimstones vex,

That thou should'st make such woeful pother,

And Troy's whole race desire to smother;

Then level, out of female spite,

Their spires, with weather-cocks so bright;

And all because that rogue on Ida

Fancy'd your mouth an inch too wide-a?

Pray how can I the varlet blame,

Who fifty times have thought the same?5

But for this once I'll give thee string

Enough, to let thy fury swing:

Burn the whole town; blow up the walls;

Destroy their shops and coblers' stalls:

Murder old Priam on the place,

And smother all his bastard race;

With his boil'd beef and cabbage glut

The fury of thy greedy gut.

Peace, then, perhaps I may enjoy

When there shall be no more of Troy:

But should I choose to be uncivil,

And send your scoundrels to the devil,

Don't think, good Mrs. Brim, that you

Shall hold my hand: remember how

I suffer harmless Troy to tumble,

To stop your everlasting grumble.

I tell thee, brim, of all I know

In heav'n above, or earth below,

Bastards of mortal rogues or gods,

I value Troy the most by odds:

No men on earth deserve my favour

Like Trojan boys, for good behaviour;

Because, whene'er they pay their vows,

They kill good store of bulls and cows;

Nor do they ever grudge the least,

To lend their daughters to the priest;

From whence it cannot be deny'd,

But true religion is their guide.

Juno, like puppet, rolls her eyes,

And, meditating, thus replies:

Three boroughs have I got in Greece,

Most dearly lov'd in war and peace;

Mycenae, Argos, aye, and Sparta,

Destroy 'em all6, care I a f – t-a?

With the dry pox or thunder strike 'em;

'Tis fault enough for me to like 'em.

Must thy poor wife's good friends be drubb'd,

And she herself thus hourly snubb'd,

As if her family, Sir Cull,

Was not as good as yours to th' full?

I know I ought, were you well bred,

To share your power as well as bed;

But there I know, and so do you,

I'm robb'd of more than half my due.

Your dad7 was but a lead-refiner,

Or else a Derbyshire lead-miner;

Mine was refiner of the small

Assays, for years, at Goldsmiths'-Hall:

Then prithee don't, my dearest life,

Refuse due honour to your wife:

Alternately let's take the sway;

Each bear a bob both night and day;

And then the vulgar gods shall see

We mount by turns, now you, now me.

See trusty Pallas sneaking stands,

And waits your worship's dread commands:

She'll soon, if you unloose her tether,

Set Greece and Troy by th' ears together:

But bid her use her utmost care,

Troy's whoring sons begin the war;

Then, if they get the worst o' th' game,

They dare not say that we're to blame.

Of heaven and earth the whoring king

Swore that his wife had hit the thing:

Then go, my Pallas, in the nick,

And serve these Phrygian whelps a trick;

Make 'em, like Frenchmen, treaties break:

Away, and do not stay to speak.

Pleas'd she darts downward in a trice,

And smooth as younkers slide on ice;

Or when the upper regions vomit

A long-tail'd firebrand, call'd a comet,

Which robs old women of their wits,

And frights their daughters into fits;

Gives wond'ring loons the belly-ache,

And makes the valiant soldier quake:

With horrid whiz it falls from high,

And whisks its tail along the sky:

Just so this brimstone did appear,

As she shot downward through the air.

They guess'd, and paus'd, and guess'd again,

What this strange prodigy could mean:

At last agreed, that angry Fate

Was big with something mighty great.

'Twas war, or peace, or wind, or rain,

Or scarcity next year of grain.

Some cunning heads this reason hit,

That B – e would soon make room for P – tt;

But all the bold north-country rout

Swore that it would much better suit

His M – , to stick to B – te.

Whilst thus they jar and disagree,

Minerva lit behind a tree;

And lest her phiz should make 'em gape,

Borrow'd an honest mortal shape;

Laodocus, no snivelling dastard,

But great Antenor's nephew's bastard:

She quickly found Lycaon's son,

A rare strong chief for back and bone,

Whose troops from black Esopee came,

A place but little known to fame.

The arms his raggamuffins bore

Were broomsticks daub'd with blood all o'er.

To him she with a harmless look,

Like a mischievous brimstone, spoke:

Will you, friend Pand'rus, says she,

A little counsel take from me?

You know that every prudent man

Should pick up money when he can;

And now, if you could have the luck

To make a hole in Sparta's pluck,

Paris, as certain as I live,

Would any sum of money give.

Such a bold push must sure be crown'd

With ten, at least, or twenty pound:

Don't gape and stare, for now or never

You gain or lose the cash for ever:

But first, to th' Lycian archer pay

(By most he's call'd the god of day)

A ram; this same unerring spark

Can guide thy arrow to its mark:

'Tis highly necessary this,

Or two to one your aim you'll miss.

Like gunpowder, the thick-skull'd elf

Took fire, and up he blew himself:

Then fitting to his bow the string,

He swore, by Jove, he'd do the thing.

His trusty bow was made of horn

An old ram goat for years had worn.

This goat by Pandarus was shot,

And left upon the cliffs to rot:

The curling horns, that spread asunder

Two tailors' yards, became his plunder;

Which he took care to smooth, and so

Produc'd a very handsome bow:

The blacksmith fil'd a curious joint,

And Deard with tinsel tipp'd each point.

This bow of bows, without being seen

By any but his countrymen,

He bent; and, that he might be safe,

Took care to hide his better half

Behind the potlids of his band;

For those he always could command.

Before he aim'd, he squatted low

To fit an arrow to his bow;

One from a hundred out he picks,

To send the cuckold over Styx

(Sharp was the point of this same arrow,

Design'd to reach the Spartan's marrow);

Then to the god of day-light vows

To give a dozen bulls and cows.

Now hard he strains, with wondrous strength,

And draws the arrow all its length:

Swift through the air the weapon hies,

Whilst the string rattles as it flies.

Had then Atrides been forgot,

He certainly had gone to pot:

But Pallas, for his life afraid,

In pudding-time came to his aid,

And turn'd aside the furious dart,

That was intended for his heart,

Into a more ignoble part.

So careful mothers, when they please,

Their children guard from lice and fleas.

The first emotion that he felt,

Was a great thump upon his belt:

For there the arrow, Pallas knew,

Could only pierce a little through.

It did so; and the skin it rais'd:

The blood gush'd out: which so amaz'd

The cuckold, that he was half craz'd:

He felt within himself strange twitches;

'Twas thought by most he spoil'd his breeches.

As when you seek for stuff to grace

Some fine court lady's neck and face,

All o'er her muddy skin you spread

A load of paint, both white and red,

The diff'ring colours, sure enough,

Must help to set each other off,

Spite of the hue that glares within

The filthy, muddy, greasy skin:

Just so Atrides' blood you'd spy,

As it ran down his dirty thigh;

His knee, and leg, and ancle pass'd,

And reach'd his sweaty foot at last.

At this most dreadful, rueful sight,

Atrides' hair stood bolt upright,

And lifted, all the Grecians said,

His hat six inches from his head.

Nor less the honest cuckold quak'd;

His heart as well as belly ach'd;

Till looking at the place that bled,

He plainly saw the arrow's head

Stopp'd by his greasy belt: he then

Boldly took heart of grace again.

But the great chief, who thought the arrow

Had reach'd his brother's guts or marrow,

With bitter sobbing heav'd his chest,

And thus his heavy grief express'd;

Whilst all the Grecians, far and near,

Did nought but threaten, curse, and swear:

My dearest bro. for this did I

Desire a truce? Zounds! I could cry:

It proves a fatal truce to thee;

Nay, fatal both to thee and me.

Thou fought'st till all the fray did cease:

Now to be slain, in time of peace,

Is dev'lish hard: – with rueful phiz

He added? By my soul it is!

Those scoundrel Trojans all combine,

In hopes to ruin thee and thine;

They've stole thy goods, and kiss'd thy wife,

And now they want to take thy life:

With perjuries the rogues are cramm'd,

For which they will be double damn'd.

Now we good Grecians, when it meet is

To make with scoundrel neighbours treaties,

As Britons (but the Lord knows how)

With roguish Frenchmen often do,

We're strict and honest to our word;

So should each man that wears a sword.

What pity 'tis that rogues so base

Should thus bamboozle Jove's own race!

But let it be thy comfort, brother,

And with it thy resentment smother,

That Jove in flames such rogues will burnish;

Already he begins to furnish

With red-hot balls his mutton fist,

To singe and pepper whom he list.

Be sure, that when he once begins,

He'll smoke these scoundrels for their sins,

Make Priam's house of scurvy peers

Come tumbling down about their ears.

These Trojans, if they do not mend on't,

Will all be hang'd at least, depend on't:

For thee, my brother, who deserv'd

Much better fate than be so serv'd,

I trust thou wilt not die so sudden,

But still eat many a pound of pudding.

If aught but good should hap to thee,

God knows what must become of me.

When thou art gone, thy men of might

Will run, but rot me if they'll fight.

When once they've lost thy brave example,

They'll let the Trojan rascals trample

Their very guts out ere they'll budge;

They will, as sure as God's my judge.

Shall Helen then with Paris stay,

Whilst thy poor bones consume away;

And some sad dog, thy recent tomb,

Lug out his ware and piss upon?

Adding, that all Atrides got,

Was to come here to lie and rot;

Nor durst his bullying brother stay,

But very stoutly ran away.

Before this scandal on me peep,

May I be buried nine yards deep!

He spoke; and sighing rubs his eyes,

When Menelaus thus replies:

Thy tears, my hero, prithee keep,

Lest they should make our soldiers weep:

'Tis but, at worst, a harmless scratch;

I'll put upon't a lady's patch:

Or, if you think 'twill mend you faster,

I'll send for Borton's8 sticking-plaster.

But if a surgeon's help is meet,

Dispatch a messenger to th' Fleet;

There is a man, who well can do

For scratches, burns, and poxes too.

The brother king, with gracious look,

Once more resum'd the thread, and spoke

May all the gods thy life defend,

And all thy wounds and scratches mend!

Talthybius, fly, Machaon bid

Run faster than he ever did;

Let him await us in our tents,

And bring his box of instruments;

My brother's wounded with a dart,

For aught I know, in mortal part

With such a haste Talthybius run,

He knock'd two common troopers down;

Then search'd through every file and rank,

And found the surgeon in the flank.

The king, Machaon, wants your help;

You must not march, but run, you whelp;

And, with your box of instruments,

Attend the brothers in their tents:

Make speed, the best leg foremost put;

One brother's wounded in the gut;

And for the other, 'tis not clear

But he has burst his guts for fear.

The surgeon was a soldier good,

And in his regimentals stood.

Soon as he heard of what had pass'd,

No surgeon ever ran so fast.

Talthybius, who his speed did view,

Swears to this day he thought he flew.

Away he hied, with double speed,

To help the king in time of need

(A double motive surgeons brings,

When they attend the wounds of kings;

It happens oft, as I have heard,

Besides their pay, they get preferr'd).

Away puff'd Chiron on full drive,

In hopes to see the king alive.

Standing he found the man he sought,

And cleaner than at first was thought.

His comrades look'd a little blue,

And so perhaps might I or you.

He pluck'd the arrow with such speed,

Close to the head he broke the reed;

On which he for the buckles felt,

And loos'd at once both head and belt:

When kneeling down upon the ground,

Like Edward's queen he suck'd the wound;

Then to the place, to give it ease,

Apply'd a salve of pitch and grease.

But, while the surgeon was employ'd,

The Grecians sorely were annoy'd

By Trojan boys that flew about,

Resolv'd just then to box it out;

Roaring they came like drunken sailors,

Or idle combination tailors.

The king durst hardly go or stay;

But yet he scorn'd to run away:

Though peace might make his head appear

A little thick, in war 'twas clear.

Though his own coach was by his side,

Yet, like a man, he scorn'd to ride,

Lest they should think him touch'd with pride,

But ran on foot through all the host,

As nimbly as a penny post:

And cries, Attend, each mother's son!

This battle must be lost or won.

Remember now your ancient glory,

What broken heads there are in story

Related of your fathers stout;

And you yourselves are talk'd about:

A Trojan fighting one of you,

Has odds against him three to two:

The rascals rotten are as melons,

And full of guilt as Newgate felons.

We'll have 'em all in chains and cuffs,

But till that time let's work their buffs.

This speech was made for men of mettle;

He next the cowards strives to settle:

O shame to all your former trades,

The ridicule of oyster jades!

Do you intend to stand and see

Your lighters flaming in the sea?

A special time to stare and quake,

When more than all ye have's at stake!

Like stags, who, whilst they stand at bay,

Dare neither fight nor run away;

Perhaps you think it worth the while

For Jove to fight, and save you toil:

But you will find, without a jest,

He safest stands who boxes best.

This said, like Brentford's mighty king

He march'd, and strutted round the ring.

Th' old Cretan gave him great content,

To see him head his regiment;

And to observe how void of fear

The bold Merion form'd the rear.

The serjeant-majors, in their places,

Advanc'd, with grim determin'd faces.

The king, elated much with joy,

Clasp'd in his arms the fine old boy:

O Idomen! what thanks we owe

To men of such-like mould as you!

Thy worth by far exceeds belief:

When Jove from war shall give relief,

Be thine the foremost cut o' th' beef:

And when our pots of ale we quaff,

Mix'd with small beer the better half,

Thy share, depend, shall never fail

To be a double pot, all ale.

The Cretan had not learn'd to dance;

Had ne'er from Dover skipp'd to France:

For though 'tis plain he meant no evil,

You'll say his answer was not civil:

There needs no words to raise my courage

So save your wind to cool your porridge:

I'll venture boldly though to say,

I'll act what you command this day:

Let but the trumpets sound to battle,

I'll make the Trojans' doublets rattle.

The king was rather pleas'd than vex'd,

So travell'd onward to the next.

Ajax he found among his blues;

Ajax, says he, my boy, what news?

Now this he said, because 'twas hard

To have for all a speech prepar'd:

But yet he gladly feasts his eyes

With his new mode of exercise:

He found 'twas Prussian every inch;

Of mighty service at a pinch;

He saw him close his files, then double

(A trick, new learn'd, the foe to bubble);

Next wheel'd to right and left about,

And made 'em face both in and out;

Then turn upon the centre quick,

As easy as a juggler's trick;

Whence soon they form'd into a square;

Then back again just as they were.

By this parade, Atrides knew

That phalanx might be trusted to.

Now, all this while his plotting head

Had conn'd a speech, and thus he said:

To say I'm pleas'd, O gallant knight!

Is barely doing what is right:

Thy soldiers well may heroes be,

When they such bright examples see.

Would Jove but to the rest impart

A piece of thy undaunted heart,

Trojans would helter-skelter run,

And their old walls come tumbling down.

The next he found was ancient Nestor,

Who, spite of age, was still a jester:

For military art renown'd,

As Bland's his knowledge was profound

Besides, when he thought fit, could speak

In any language – best in Greek.

The king espy'd his men in ranks,

And flew to give th' old firelock thanks;

Observ'd how just he plac'd his forces,

His footmen and his line of horses.

The foot9 were wisely rang'd in front,

That they the first might bear the brunt.

The horse along the flanks he drew,

To keep 'em ready to pursue.

The rear made up of mod'rate men,

Half hearts of cock, half hearts of hen.

The very riff-raff rogues they venture

To squeeze together in the centre.

Thus fix'd, they kept a sharp look-out,

And ready stood to buckle to't.

A man with half an eye could see

A rare old Grecian this must be,

Who in so small a space could keep

His knaves from jumbling in a heap;

Then with a phiz as wise as grave

The following advice he gave:

If you in battle chance to fall,

Don't stay to rise, for that spoils all;

To rise as some men do, I mean,

Burn foremost, then your back is seen;

But jump directly bolt upright,

Ready prepar'd to run or fight.

Advice like this our fathers took,

And drove the world along like smoke.

Thus spoke the queer old Grecian chief,

And pleas'd the king beyond belief;

Who cry'd, 'Tis cursed hard that age

Should drive such leaders off the stage:

Whilst other bruisers die forgot,

Eternal youth should be thy lot.

When Nestor shook his hoary locks,

And thus replies: Age, with a pox!

Will come apace: could I, forsooth,

Recall the strength I had in youth,

When Ereuthalion I did thwack,

Be sure I would that strength call back;

But dear experience can't be gotten

Till we're with tricks of youth half rotten:

The young are fittest for the field,

But to the old in council yield.

Though now my fighting bears no price,

Yet I can give you rare advice.

Fight you and scuffle whilst you're young,

My vigour centres in my tongue:

I would do more to show my love,

But can no other weapon move.

With joy great Agamemnon heard

This doughty knight o' th' grizzle beard,

He left him then, because he had

No time to spare, things look'd but bad:

When, lo! he found Menestheus

In a most lamentable fuss.

His potlid he could not explore,

Because 'twas hid behind the door:

Searching about his tent all round him,

The gen'ral left him where he found him.

Next spy'd Ulysses at his stand;

Th' old buffs were under his command:

Idle they lay at distance far,

Nor knew a word about the war:

Atrides saw them playing pranks,

And all disorder'd in their ranks;

Which made him in a mighty passion

The poor Ulysses fall slap dash on:

I thought you, Mr. Slight-of-Hand,

Had known much better than to stand

Picking your fingers, whilst the rest

Are forc'd to box their very best,

And make a marvellous resistance

To keep these Trojan whelps at distance:

In time of peace you're much respected,

And never at our feasts neglected;

You're first i' th' list when I invite,

And therefore should be first in fight.

The sage Ulysses, with a blush,

Returns for answer, Hush, hush, hush:

If you speak loud, the Trojans hear;

Not that we care, what need we fear?

But I'm persuaded you'll ere long

Wish you had kept that noisy tongue

Betwixt your teeth, nor let it pass

To tell us all you're half an ass;

Why, can't you see we're ready booted,

And I've just got my jacket clouted?

Without your keeping such a coil.

Ten minutes fits us for our broil;

Give you the word, and we'll obey,

At quarter-staff or cudgel play;

When we begin, perhaps I'll do

Such wonders as may frighten you.

Well said, Ulysses! cries the king

(A little touch'd though with the sting

Of this rum speech); I only fear'd

To catch my warrior off his guard;

But am rejoic'd to find thee steady,

For broils and wenching always ready.

He said, and pass'd to Diomede,

And caught him fast asleep in bed.

Zoons! quoth the king, I thought Tydides,

The man in whom my greatest pride is,

Might absent been perhaps a-whoring,

But little dreamt to catch him snoring:

Dost thou not hear the Trojans rattle?

Already they've begun the battle.

Not so thy father – none could doubt him,

He long ere this had laid about him;

Had gi'n the Trojans such a drubbing,

As would have say'd a twelvemonth's scrubbing:

'Tis known he was a lad of wax,

Let bellum be the word, aut pax.

He was, indeed, of stature small,

But then in valour he was tall.

I saw him once, 'twas when he stray'd

To Polynice's house for aid;

Troopers he begg'd, and straight we gave 'em;

But Jove sent word he should not have 'em:

With long-tail'd comets made such rout,

That we e'en let him go without.

But after that, I know it fact,

He fifty blust'ring bullies thwack'd:

Nay, hold, I fib, 'twas forty-nine;

For one he sav'd, a friend of mine,

To witness that the tale was true,

Else 'twould have been believ'd by few.

Though two bold bruisers led them on,

Meon and sturdy Lycophon,

He trimm'd their jackets ev'ry one.

But I must tell you in this case,

And tell you flatly to your face,

Since our affairs so ill you handle,

You're hardly fit to hold his candle.

With rage and grief Tydides stung,

Scratch'd his rump raw, yet held his tongue;

Provok'd by this abusive knight

To scratch the place that did not bite.

Not so the son of Capaneus;

He soon began to play the deuce:

Good Mr. Chief, if you would try

To speak the truth, you would not lye;

Like other mortals though we rest,