A Burlesque Translation of Homer

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.