WRITTEN BY SATIRICUS TERTULIBUS, POET LAUREAT TO HUMPHA GRUMPHA, DEY OF ALGIERS.
Translated by Geofrey Bellwedder, Esq. X. G. Y. S. Q.
HERE bleach the bones of AKEL Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree:
His carcase was food for the carrion crows,
And ne'er may a grave such a being enclose!
He was sent as a curse to St. Mary's Knowe,
For at midnight he milk'd ev'ry neighbour's cow;
Gold, pigs, cloth, sheep, geese, ducks, and meal,
All things (save the clouds o'er his head) he cou'd steal.
Fools say, just to keep all around him in awe,
He daily wou'd steal what he ne'er once saw;
That had he been size to have reach'd the moon,
By the horns he wou'd quickly have pull'd her down;
That imps swore, he never with them shou'd dwell,
Lest soon he might steal their old master from Hell;
That he stole a calf from a heifer's womb;
And whistl'd a corpse from the silent tomb:
That timber he stole long ere it
The last must be false. Give the Devil his due!
Such a liar ne'er liv'd, for he swore in youth, No law shou'd e'er bind him to tell the truth; Such a coxcomb in rags, ne'er strutted on earth, He ne'er had a friend from the day of his birth, For nature then vow'd, he wore a thief's eye; And who dare say nature e'er yet did lie?
A Poet he was, spite of all common sense,
But had twelve times his share of foul impudence;
A fine Musician, his family say,
For his tooting oft frighten'd the cows from hay:
A Painter, too, he made some suppose,
Tho' he never cou'd sketch his own trumpet nose.
That so long he liv'd many swore was a shame; Justice trembl'd whenever she heard his name: But his name will live while the world goes round, For a wretch so notorious never trod ground. Mark well the bleach'd bones of AKEL BULBEE, Such a thief ne'er hung on a gallows tree: His equal, 'tis said, can only be known,
When rivers flow upwards, and trees grow down!
WRITTEN ON THE AUTHOR'S BIRTH-DAY, FEBRUARY 1st, 1800.
WITH joy, how oft I hail'd my natal morn,
When sportive youth enjoy'd his fairy reign;
And long'd to mark each infant year's return,
Eager to launch into life's troublous main.
Ah! happy period, when with heart elate,
And partial eye the busy world I view'd;
Nor dreamt, while pleasure seem'd on me to wait,
My path with sorrow's night-shade would be strew'd!
Henceforth, farewell to pleasure's giddy crowd;
Ye day-dreams vain, delusive hopes, adieu;
By madd'ning passions fir'd, too long I've bow'd
A willing slave to vanity and you:
For while remembrance pauses on the past,
I tremble, lest this day should be my last.
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