That scarcely one per day arrives
At this our court.-It was not thus
When great Achilles made such fuss;
When Alexander, Cæsar, and a score
Of others sent me ample store
Of human victims, daily—duly,—
Those wholesale butchers whom I love so truly!
Nor was it thus when pious Mary,
Of dear subjects' lives ne'er chary,
Grilled heretics; and for my dinner
Served up full many a roasted sinner.
Oh! for some war-no matter what,
Profane or pious,—not a jot.
Murder is but a retail trade,
A petty, sneaking, smuggling game:
'Tis not by that my gains are made,
But war and glory, honour, fame!-
'Tis these who for me still prepare
A plenteous banquet worth my care,
But now-in truth 'tis very plain
That I must try some aid to gain."
He called; a numerous train appear
T' espouse his cause,-his mandates hear.
Mars first of course vowed to stand by him;
And swore he only need to try him.
"Go then; but take the fair disguise
Of Glory so we win the prize!
And cheat the world, and gain our ends,
And each our honest trade commends-
The fair-the coward-and the cruel.
War!-on my word, it is a jewel!
But you, fair lady-what can you
For Death, in these sad times, now do ?"
"Sir," cried the dame,-of winning mien,
For fairer sure, was never seen;
"Full many a good turn have I done ye,
And many a noble prize have won ye.
And though I scorn myself to praise
A stancher friend, in all your days,
Was never Mars, nor wanton Bacchus-
I like that jolly rogue Iacchus !—
Nor notwithstanding all their toils,
Have they e'er brought you richer spoils.
There's been some business, sir, between us—
You can't forget sure, your friend Venus?
And here's my comrade Mercury-
A trustier dog you ne'er shall see.
Also the worthy Esculapius:
A very pretty sort of knave he is,
Although he looks so meek and pious;
You know him well,-and he'll stand by us."
The leech now spoke, and said he'd pill all—
And drug, and undertake to kill all—"
Ills, he'd have said, had not a cough
Unlucky lopped the sentence off.
At hearing him of killing speak,
A ghastly smile o'erspread the cheek
Of Death, for very well he knew
He'd kill diseases and-the patients too:
"Go, Esculapius, then; be ready
To take the form of Doctor
Go then, and London's walls shall see
Your name, which there shall blazoned be."
One now advanced with a book,-
"Sir Death, your servant,—I'm a cook—
Have done some service-Here, sir, look-
Here are receipts and savoury dishes
That to your net will bring some fishes.
I, with friend Bacchus and Sir Gout,
Will never let your stock be out-
I warrant me, we'll suit your wishes.
Aye; quite as well as Famine, Pest,
Friend Mars-or any of the rest.
As for old Nature she is drowsy,
But we-you shan't complain-we'll rouse ye."
Honour stepped forth, and made his bow,
His pistols showed, and with a vow
Swore he would send him fools enow.
Death grinned a smile of approbation,
And thus addressed the convocation,
My best and worthiest friends, to you
All praise and thanks from me are due.
I know, Sir Mars, your noble spirit;
And Venus, well I prize your merit.
With Honour, Glory, Mars, and Bacchus―
Oh! who shall dare now to attack us!
With Venus, Doctor, Mercury-
Now the whole world I may defy;
Nor ought I too to overlook
The services of Master Cook,
Nor of Dame Fashion, who has sent
At times a pretty compliment,
A nice tid-bit, in gauzy drapery,
Just fit to put into my apery.
'Tis you, my stanch allies and friends,
On whom success so much depends.
Nature!—with her I ne'er had plenty :
Where she sends one, you send me twenty.
Were 't not for you, my noble peers,
I should be greatly in arrears.
More trusty friends I need not ask,
To you I delegate the task
To hunt me game-beneath
Your merits are so great, I vow,
To whom the preference to allow
Or where the palm I should bestow.
Which to prefer would much perplex,
Then let take place the fairer sex;
And Venus, Honour, Glory, ye
Shall my fair train of Graces be.
Ye look so bright, ye are so winning,
The world will ne'er desist from sinning.
Then stir up lust, and war, and hate,
And all the ministers of fate,
Riot, and luxury, and vice,—
Excuse my terms not over nice-
Thus mortals will my presence court,
And fancy Death to be but sport.
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