I have thought this a very proper subject for an heroic poem; and endeavoured to be as smooth in my verse, and as inoffensive in my characters, as was possible. It is my case with Lucretiu, that I write upon a subject not treated of by the ancients. But, "the greater labour, the greater glory."

Virgil had a Homer to imitate; but I stand upon my own legs, without any support from abroad. I therefore shall have more occasion for the reader's favour, who, from the kind acceptance of this, may expect the description of other furmetaries about this city, from his most humble servant,

AND PER SE AND.

PREFACE.

THE author of the following poem may be thought to write for fame, and the applause of the town: but he wholly disowns it; for he writes only for the public good, the benefit of his country, and the manufacture of England. It is well known, that grave senators have often, at the Palace-yard, refreshed themselves with barley-broth in a morning, which has had a very solid influence on their counsels; it is therefore hoped, that other persons may use it with the like success. No man can be ignorant, how of late years coffee and tea in a morning has prevailed; nay, cold waters have obtained their commendation; and wells are sprung up from Acton to Islington, and cross the water to Lambeth. These liquors have several eminent champions of all professions. But there have not been wanting persons, in all ages, that have shown a true love for their country, and the proper diet of it, as water-gruel, milk-porridge, rice-milk, and especially furmetry both with plums and without. To this end, several worthy persons have encouraged the eating such wholesome diet in the morning; and, that the poor may be provided, they have desired several matrons to stand at Smithfield-bars, Leadenhall-market, Stocksmarket, and divers other noted places in the city, especially at Fleet-ditch; there to dispense farmetry to labouring people, and the poor, at reasonable rates, at three-half-pence and two-pence a dish, which is not dear, the plums being considered.

The places are generally styled furmetaries, because that food has got the general esteem; but that at Fleet-ditch I take to be one of the most remarkable, and therefore I have styled it, The Furmetary; and could easily have had a certificate of the usefulness of this furmetary, signed by several eminent carmen, gardeners, journeymentailors, and basket-women, who have promised to contribute to the maintenance of the same, the coffee-houses should proceed to oppose it.

in case

Written to please a gentleman who thought nothing smooth or lofty could be written upon a mean subject; but had no intent of making any reflection upon The Dispensary, which has deservedly gained a lasting reputation, KING.

CANTO I.

No sooner did the grey-ey'd morning peep,
And yawning mortals stretch themselves from
sleep;

Finders of gold were now but newly past,
And basket-women did to market haste;
The watchmen were but just returning home,
To give the thieves more liberty to roam;
When from a hill, by growing beams of light,
A stately pile was offer'd to the sight;
Three spacious doors let passengers go through,
And distant stones did terminate their view:
Just here, as ancient poets sing, there stood
The noble palace of the valiant Lud;
His image now appears in Portland stone,
Each side supported by a god-like son':
But, underneath, all the three heroes shine,
In living colours, drawn upon a sign,
Which shows the way to ale, but not to wine.

Near is a place enclos'd with iron-bars,
Where many mortals curse their cruel stars,
When brought by usurers into distress,
For having little still must live on less:
Stern Avarice there keeps the relentless door,
And bids each wretch eternally be poor.
Hence Hunger rises, dismally he stalks,
And takes each single prisoner in his walks:

2 As Dr. King's description of Ludgate, though familiar to the present age, will be less intelligible to the rising generation, it may not be improper to observe, that its name, which Geoffry of Monmouth has ascribed to king Lud, was with greater propriety derived from its situation near the rivulet Flud, or Fleet, which ran near it. So early as 1373, Ludgate was constituted a prison for poor debtors who were free of the city; and was greatly enlarged in 1454, by sir Stephen Forster, who, after having been himself confined there, became lord mayor of Loudon, and established several benevolent regulations for its government.-The old gate becoming ruinous, an elegant building, as above described by Dr. King, was erected in 1586, with the statue of queen Elizabeth on the west front, and those of the pretended king Lud and his two sons on the east. This was pulled down in 1760, and the statue of Elizabeth placed against the church of St. Dunstan in the West. Since that time, the city debtors have been confined in a part of the London workhouse in Bishopsgate-street. N.

This duty done, the meagre monster stares,
Holds up his bones, and thus begins his prayers:
"Thou, goddess Famine, that canst send us
blights,

With parching heat by day, and storm by nights,
Assist me now: so may all lands be thine,
And shoals of orphans at thy altars pine!
Long may thy rain continue on each shore,
Where-ever peace and plenty reign'd before!
1 must confess, that to thy gracious hand
I widows owe, that are at my command;
I joy to hear their numerous children's cries;
And bless thy power, to find they've no supplies.
I thank thee for those martyrs, who would flee
From superstitious rites and tyranny,
And find their fullness of reward in me.
But 'tis with much humility I own,
That generous favour you have lately shown,
When men, that bravely have their country serv'd,
Receiv'd the just reward that they deserv'd,
And are preferr'd to me, and shall be starv'd.
I can, but with regret, 1 can despise
Innumerable of the London cries,

When pease, and mackarel, with their harsher sound,

The tender organs of my ears confound;
But that which makes my projects all miscarry,
Is this inhuman, fatal Furmetary.

"Not far from hence, just by the Bridge of Fleet,
With spoons and porringers, and napkin neat,
A faithless syren does entice the sense,
By fumes of viands, which she does dispense
To mortal stomachs, for rewarding pence;
Whilst each man's earliest thoughts would banish
Who have no other oracle but thee."

CANTO II.

[me,

WHILST such-like prayers keen Hunger would advance,

Fainting and weakness threw him in a trance:
Famine took pity on her careful slave,
And kindly to him this assistance gave.
She took the figure of a thin parch'd maid,
Who many years had for a husband staid;
And, coming near to Hunger, thus she said:

This said, she quickly vanish'd in a wind Had long within her body been confin'd. Thus Hercules, when he his mistress found, Soon knew her by her scent, and by her sound.

CANTO III.

HUNGER rejoic'd to hear the blest command,
That Furmetary should no longer stand;
With speed he to Coffedro's mansion flies,
And bids the pale-fac'd mortal quickly rise.
"Arise, my friend; for upon thee do wait
Dismal events and prodigies of Fate!
'Tis break of day, thy sooty broth prepare,
And all thy other liquors for a war:
Rouse up Tobacco, whose delicious sight,
Illuminated round with beams of light,
To my impatient mind will cause delight.
How will he conquer nostrils that presume
To stand th' attack of his impetuous fume!
Let handsome Teedrums too be call'd to arms,
For he has courage in the midst of charms:
Sagoe with counsel fills his wakeful brains,
But then his wisdom countervails his pains;
'Tis he shall be your guide, he shall effect
That glorious conquest which we all expect:
The brave Hectorvus shall command this force;
He'll meet Tubcarrio's foot, or, which is worse,
Oppose the fury of Carmanniel's horse.
For his reward, this he shall have each day,
Drink coffee, then strut out and never pay.”

It was not long ere the grandees were met,
And round newspapers in full order set.
Then Sagoe, rising, said, "I hope you hear
Hunger's advice with an obedient ear;
Our great design admits of no delay,
Famine commands, and we must all obey:
That syren which does Furmetary keep
Long since is risen from the bands of sleep;
Her spoons and porringers, with art display'd,
Many of Hunger's subjects have betray'd."

"To arms," Hectorvus cried: "Coffedro stout, Issue forth liquor from thy scalding spout!"

Great One-and-all-i gives the first alarms;
Then each man snatches up offensive arms.
To Ditch of Fleet courageously they run,
Quicker than thought; the battle is begun :
Hectorvus first Tubcarrio does attack,
And by surprise soon lays him on his back;
Thirsto and Drowtho then, approaching near,
Soon overthrow two magazines of beer.

The innocent Syrena little thought
That all these arms against herself were brought;

Nor that in her defence the drink was spilt:
How could she fear, that never yet knew guilt?
Her fragrant juice, and her delicious plums,
She does dispense (with gold upon her thumbs):
Virgins and youths around her stood; she sate,
Environ'd with a woon-chair of state.

In the mean time, Tobacco strives to vex
A numerous squadron of the tender sex;
What with strong smoke, and with his stronger
breath,

He funks Basketia and her son to death.

Coffedro then, with Teedrums, and the band Who carried scalding liquors in their hand, Throw watery ammunition in their eyes; On which Syrena's party frighten'd flies: Carmannio straight drives up a bulwark strong, And horse opposes to Coffedro's throng. Coledrivio stands for bright Syrena's guard, And all her rallied forces are prepar'd; Carmannio then to Teedrums' squadron makes, And the lean mortal by the buttons takes; Not Teedrums' arts Carmannio could beseech, But his rough valour throws him in the ditch. Syrena, though surpris'd, resolv'd to be The great bonduca of her Furmetry: Before her throne courageously she stands, Managing ladles-full with both her hands. The numerous plums like hail-shot flew about, And Plenty soon dispers'd the meagre rout.

So have I seen, at fair that's nam'd from Horn, Many a ladle's blow by prentice borne ; In vain he strives their passions to assuage, With threats would frighten, with soft words engage; Until, through milky gauntlet soundly beat, His prudent heels secure a quick retreat.

Jamque opus exègi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis,

Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas!

MULLY OF MOUNTOWN'.

FIRST PRINTED BY THE AUTHOR IN 1704. MOUNTOWN 2! thou sweet retreat from Dublin Be famous for thy apples and thy pears; [cares, For turnips, carrots, lettuce, beans, and pease; For Peggy's butter, and for Peggy's cheese. May clouds of pigeons round about thee fly! But condescend sometimes to make a pie. May fat geese gaggle with melodious voice, And ne'er want gooseberries or apple-sauce! Ducks in thy ponds, and chicken in thy pens, And be thy turkeys numerous as thy hens! May thy black pigs lie warm in little sty, And have no thought to grieve them till they die! Mountown! the Muses' most delicious theme; Oh! may thy codlins ever swim in cream! Thy rasp-and straw-berries in Bourdeaux drown, To add a redder tincture to their own!

'It was taken for a state poem, and to have many mysteries in it; though it was only made, as well as Orpheus and Eurydice, for country diversion. KING.

A pleasant villa to the south of Dublin, near the sea.

Thy white-wine, sugar, milk, together club,
To make that gentle viand syllabub.
Thy tarts to tarts, cheese-cakes to cheese-cakes
To spoil the relish of the flowing wine. [join,
But to the fading palate bring relief,
By thy Westphalian ham, or Belgic beef;
And, to complete thy blessings, in a word,
May still thy soil be generous as its lord3!

Oh! Peggy, Peggy, when thou goest to brew, Consider well what you're about to do; Be very wise, very sedately think That what you're going now to make is drink; Consider who must drink that drink; and then, What 'tis to have the praise of honest men: For surely, Peggy, while that drink does last, 'Tis Peggy will be toasted or disgrac'd. Then, if thy ale in glass thou would'st confine, To make its sparkling rays in beauty shine, Let thy clean bottle be entirely dry, Lest a white substance to the surface fly, And, floating there, disturb the curious eye. But this great maxim must be understood, "Be sure, nay very sure, thy cork be good!" Then future ages shall of Peggy tell,

That nymph that brew'd and bottled ale so well.

How fleet is air! how many things have breath,
Which in a moment they resign to death;
Depriv'd of light, and all their happiest state,
Not by their fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
Although fair flowers, that justly might invite,
Are cropt, nay torn away, for man's delight;
Yet still those flowers, alas! can make no moan,
Nor has Narcissus now a power to groan!
But all those things which breathe in different
frame,

By tie of common breath, man's pity claim.
A gentle lamb has rhetoric to plead,
And, when she sees the butcher's knife decreed,
Her voice entreats him not to make her bleed:
But cruel gain, and luxury of taste,
With pride, still lays man's fellow-mortals waste:
What earth and waters breed, or air inspires,
Man for his palate fits by torturing fires.

Mully, a cow, sprung from a beauteous race, With spreading front, did Mountown's pastures grace.

Gentle she was, and, with a gentle stream,
Each morn and night gave milk that equal'd cream.
Offending none, of none she stood in dread,
Much less of persons which she daily fed:
"But Innocence cannot itself defend
'Gainst treacherous arts, veil'd with the name of
friend."

Robin of Derbyshire, whose temper shocks
The constitution of his native rocks;
Born in a place, which, if it once be nam'd,
Would make a blushing modesty asham'd:
He with indulgence kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar care;
But inwardly this sullen churlish thief
Had all his mind plac'd upon Mully's beef;
His fancy fed on her; and thus he'd cry,
"Mully, as sure as I'm alive, you die!

'Tis a brave cow. O, sirs, when Christmas comès, These shins shall make the porridge grac'd with plums;

Then, 'midst our cups, whilst we profusely dine, This blade shall enter deep in Mully's chine. What ribs, what rumps, what bak'd, boil'd, stew'd, and roast!

There shan't one single tripe of her be lost!" When Peggy, nymph of Mountown, heard these sounds,

She griev'd to hear of Mully's future wounds. "What crime," said she, "has gentle Mully done? Witness the rising and the setting Sun,

That knows what milk she constantly would give! Let that quench Robin's rage, and Mully live."

Daniel, a sprightly swain, that us'd to slash The vigorous steeds that drew his lord's calash, To Peggy's side inclin'd; for 'twas well known How well he lov'd those cattle of his own.

Then Terence spoke, oraculous and sly, He'd neither grant the question nor deny; Pleading for milk, his thoughts were on mincepie:

But all his arguments so dubious were,
That Mully thence had neither hopes nor fear.
"You've spoke," says Robin; "but now, let
me tell ye,

'Tis not fair spoken words that fill the belly:
Pudding and beef I love; and cannot stoop
To recommend your bonny-clapper soup.
You say she's innocent: but what of that?
"Tis more than crime sufficient that she's fat!
And that which is prevailing in this case
Is, there's another cow to fill her place.
And, granting Mully to have milk in store,
Yet still this other cow will give us more.

She dies."-Stop here, my Muse: forbear the rest:
A veil that grief which cannot be exprest!

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

FIRST PRINTED BY THE AUTHOR IN 1704.

As poets say, one Orpheus went
To Hell upon an odd intent.
First tell the story, then let's know,
If any one will do so now.

This Orpheus was a jolly boy,
Born long before the siege of Troy;
His parents found the lad was sharp,
And taught him on the Irish harp;
And, when grown fit for marriage-life,
Gave him Eurydice for wife;
And they, as soon as match was made,
Set up the ballad-singing trade.

The cunning varlet could devise,
For country folks, ten thousand lies;
Affirming all those monstrous things
Were done by force of harp and strings ;
Could make a tiger in a trice
Tame as a cat, and catch your mice;
Could make a lion's courage flag,
And straight could animate a stag,
And, by the help of pleasing ditties,

Make mill-stones run, and build up cities;
Each had the use of fluent tongue,
If Dicé scolded, Orpheus sung.
And so, by discord without strife,
Compos'd one harmony of life;

And thus, as all their matters stood,
They got an honest livelihood.

Happy were mortals, could they be
From any sudden danger free!
Happy were poets, could their song
The feeble thread of life prolong!

But, as these two went strolling on,
Poor Dicé's scene of life was done :
Away her fleeting breath must fly,
Yet no one knows wherefore, or why.

This caus'd the general lamentation,
To all that knew her in her station;
How brisk she was still to advance
The harper's gain, and lead the dance,
In every tune observe her thrill,
Sing on, yet change the money still.

Orpheus best knew what loss he had,
And, thinking on't, fell almost mad,
And in despair to Linus ran,
Who was esteem'd a cunning-man;
Cried, "He again must Dicé have,
Or else be buried in her grave."

2uoth Linus, "Soft, refrain your sorrow:
What fails today, may speed tomorrow,
Thank you the gods for whate'er happens,
But don't fall out with your fat capons.
'Tis many an honest man's petition,
That he may be in your condition.
If such a blessing might be had,
To change a living wife for dead,
I'd be your chapman; nay, I'd do't,
Though I gave forty pounds to boot.
Consider first, you save her diet;
Consider next, you keep her quiet:
For, pray, what was she all along,
Except the burthen of your song?
What, though your Dicé's under ground;
Yet many a woman may be found,
Who, in your gains if she may part take,
Trust me, will quickly make your heart ach:
Then, rest content, as widowers should-
The gods best know what's for our good!"

Orpheus no longer could endure
Such wounds, where he expected cure.
"Is't possible!" cried he: " and can
That noble creature, married man,
In such a cause be so profane?
I'll fly thee far as I would Death,
Who from my Dicé took her breath."
Which said, he soon outstript the wind,
Whilst puffing Boreas lagg'd behind;
And to Urganda's cave he came,
A lady of prodigious fame,
Whose hollow eyes and hopper breech
Made common people call her witch;
Down at her feet he prostrate lies,
With trembling heart and blubber'd eyes.

"Tell me," said he, "for sure you know
The powers above, and those below,
Where does Eurydice remain?
How shall I fetch her back again?"

She smilingly replied, "I'll tell
This easily without a spell:
The wife you look for's gone to Hell-
Nay, never start, man, for 'tis so;
Except one ill-bred wife or two,
The fashion is, for all to go.
Not that she will be damn'd; ne'er fear'
But she may get preferment there.
Indeed, she might be fried in pitch,
If she had been a bitter bitch;