A Burlesque Translation of Homer

May drive you scoundrels to the devil.
Your muddy-pated, hot-brain'd chief,
(Whose folly far exceeds belief)
When he has got a broken pate,
Will find himself an ass too late.
Mean time the bold Patroclus bears
The red-hair'd wench all drown'd in tears;
Who, with a woful heavy heart,
(As loth from his strong back to part)
Whilst with the porters twain she went,
Kept squinting backward to his tent.

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,