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On “ BLEST AS TH'IMMORTAL GODS IS HE."
By the Hon. HENRY ERSKINE.
DRUNK as a dragon sure is he,
’T was this first made me love my dose,
I found the claret and champagne,
I felt my gorge and sickness rise;
TO EIGHT CATS, BELONGING TO ISRAEL
MENDEZ, A JEW,
SCENE, the Street.
The Time, Midnight---the Poet at his Chamber Window.
SINGERS of Israel! Oh, ye singers sweet !
Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear, Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,
And to the sleepless wretch the night endear:
Lo! in my shirt, on you these eyes I fix, Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks; Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much
approve: Your spittings, pawings, high-rais’d rumps, Swell’d tails, and Merry-Andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.
Flow sweetly roll your gooseb’rry eyes,
And, loving, scratch each other black and blue ! No boys, in wantonness, now bang your backs; No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax, [you.
But all the moon-light world seems made for
Singers of Israel ! You no parsons want
To tie the matrimonial cord;
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix-
You want no furniture, alas ! • Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, or ladle; . : No iron, pewter, copper, tin, or brass ;
Nor nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle, Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins, To rock the staring offspring of your loins.
Nor of the lawyers you have need,
Ye males, before you seek your bed, To settle pin-money on Madam: : No fears of cuckoldom, -Heav'n bless ye!
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye,
No schools you want for fine behaving,
No powdering, painting, washing, shaving, No night-caps snug, no trouble in undressing,
Before you seek your strawy nest,
Pleas’d in each other's arms to rest,
Good Gods ! Ye sweet love-chanting rams!
How nimble are you with your hams 'To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And, peeping down the chimney's hole,
Pour, in a tuneful cry, th’empassion'd soul, Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up.
Who, sweet obliging female, far from coy,
And scorning ʼmidst the ashes more to mope,
Without th' assistance of a rope,
Dear mousing tribe, my limbs are waxing cold
Singers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu! I do suppose you need not now be told,
How much I wish that I was one of you,