Wesley, Samuel, Sr.

A Pindaricque, On the Grunting of a Hog

1. 1.
2. Freeborn Pindaric never does refuse,
3. Either a lofty, or a humble Muse:
4. Now in proud Sophoclaeligan Buskins Sings,
5. Of Hero’s, and of Kings,
6. Mighty Numbers, mighty Things;
7. Now out of sight she flys,
8. Rowing with gaudy Wings
9. A-cross the stormy Skys,
10. Then down again,
11. Her self she Flings,
12. Without uneasiness, or Pain
13. To Lice, and Dogs,
14. To Cows, and Hogs,
15. And follows their melodious grunting o’re the Plain.
16.  
17. 2.
18. Harmonious Hog draw near!
19. No bloody Butchers here,
20. Thou need’st not fear,
21. Harmonious Hog draw near, and from thy beauteous Snowt
22. Whilst we attend with Ear,
23. Like thine prick’t up devou’t;
24. To taste thy Sugry voice, which here, and there,
25. With wanton Curls, vibrates around the circling Air,
26. Harmonious Hog! warble some Anthem out!
27. As sweet as those which quiv’ring Monks in days of Y’ore,
28. With us did roar;
29. When they alas,
30. That the hard’hearted Abbot such a Coyl should keep,
31. And cheat ’em of their first, their sweetest Sleep;
32. When they were ferretted up to Midnight Mass:
33. Why should not other Piggs on Organs play,
34. As well as They.
35.  
36. 3.
37. Dear Hog! thou King of Meat!
38. So near thy Lord Mankind,
39. The nicest Taste can scarce a difference find!
40. No more may I thy glorious Gammons eat!
41. No more,
42. Partake of the Free Farmers Christmas store,
43. Black Puddings which with Fat would make your Mouths run o’re:
44. If I, tho’ I should ne’re so long before the Sentence stay,
45. And in my large Ears scale, the thing ne’re so discreetly weigh,
46. If I can find a difference in the Notes,
47. Belcht from the applauded Throats
48. Of Rotten Play house Songsters-All-Divine,
49. If any difference I can find between their Notes, and Thine:
50. A Noise they keep with Tune, and out of Tune,
51. And Round, and Flat,
52. High, Low, and This, and That,
53. That Algebra, or Thou, or I might understand as soon.
54.  
55. 4.
56. Like the confounding Lutes innumerable Strings,
57. One of them Sings;
58. Thy easier Musick’s ten times more divine;
59. More like the one string’d, deep, Majestick Trump-Marine:
60. Prythee strike up, and cheer this drooping Heart of Mine!
61. Not the sweet Harp that’s claim’d by Jews,
62. Nor that which to the far more Ancient Welch belongs,
63. Nor that which the Wild Irish use,
64. Frighting even their own Wolves with loud Hubbubbaboos.
65. Nor Indian Dance, with Indian Songs, Nor yet,
66. (Which how should I so long forget?)
67. The Crown of all the rest,
68. The very Cream o’th’ Jest:
69. Amptuous Noble Lyre-the Tongs;
70. Nor, tho’ Poetick Jordan bite his Thumbs,
71. At the bold word, my Lord Mayors Flutes, and Kettle-Drums;
72. Not all this Instrumental dare,
73. With thy soft, ravishing, vocal Musick ever to compare.