In the eighteenth century, the Author of the following Parody (not a Christ Church man) being at Oxford, saw, at a distance, twelve persous, running at full speed to Christ Church cloisters, which they entered: curiosity led him to follow them; when, looking through an opening in the door of a certain commoner, he saw twelve pale figures, resembling men; they were all employed about a youth; and, as they worked, they sung the following song; when they had finished, they put up their implements, and each taking his own, they scoured away, six to Pecks water, and six to the great quadrangle.
Now the sky begins to clear,
Haste! the powder-bag prepare;
Showers of sweets, and perfumes dear,
Hustle in the thicken'd air.
Blacken'd ivory is the comb,
With which thy dusky locks we strain ;
Working many a louse's doom,
KREEPER'S Woe, and KRAWLER's bane.
See the frosted texture grow-
"Tis of Mar'challe powder made;
And the tail that plays below,
Hangs from **** ****'s head.
White stitch'd shoes, ne'er dipt in dirt,
Scud the quadrangle along ;
String in bow-knot neatly girt
Keep the quarters close and strong.
Harris Tom, with unkempt head,
Charles the scout, in hurry see,
Join the beauteous work to aid-
"Tis the work of frippery!
Now the ruddy sun is set,
Chairs must shiver-students sing;
Cap with clattering cap shall meet-
Bottles crash, and glasses ring!
Gently spread the perfumed fat!
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where the youths expectant wait,
Us to powder, us to tie.
As the gravell'd path we tread,
Wading through the empuddled square, Parapluie of oil silk spread,
O'er the youthful beau's drest hair.
Swift Italia's perfumes throw!
Our's to plaister, ours to plat;
Spite of weather he shall go-
Gently spread the perfum'd fat.
Hairs that once, like bristles grim,
Greasy grew into his neck,
Soon shall stretch in order trim,
O'er the dark brown of his cheek.
* Two Persons well known at Christ Church,
Low the obdurate curl is laid,
By our irons straiten'd down;
Dress demands the finish'd head,
Soon the foretop shall be done.
Long shall Christ-Church smile with joy,
Such a head as this to see;
Long her strains in praise employ-
Strains of wit and repartee.
Millefleur covers all his pate!
Trickling streams of jas'mine run!
Wave the puff in silky state;
Brothers cease!-the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands,
Joy and triumph to our shop;
Joy to our barbaric hands;
Triumph o'er each blackguard crop.
Valet thou that tiest a tail,
Learn thy business from our song
Christ-Church, thro' each cloister pale,
Spread our fame and credit long!
Brothers, hence! your puffs lay down,
Each his powder-bag comprest;
Many a student in the town
Waits impatient to be drest.
MARTIAL, EPIGRAM XXXVI. B. X.
ON A WINE-MERCHANT.
THE vilest of compounds while Balderdash vends, And brews his dear poison for all his good friends, No wonder they never can get him to dine;
He's afraid they'd oblige him to drink his own wine.
Written under the full length Shade of Edward Gibbon, Esq. as exhibited in his posthumous Works, published by Lord Sheffield.
THOU puny statesman, thou historian bold,
Struck from kind Nature's most fantastic mould,
Queerest of shades! hail to thy wondrous sight,
Which sure the shades below did much affright;
By Sheffield's pious care, with noble clay
Thy carcase rots, and thou review'st the day.
Com'st thou to shew how much it does avail,
To write like Tacitus, and read like Bayle;
To float in faith 'twixt Mecca, Dort, and Rome;
To live like Horace, aud to die like Hume?
Com'st thou to see if Oxford's blear ey'd dons
Take council from her more enlighten'd sons?
Admire the fruit, who could not rear the tree,
And her dead Socrates behold in thee;
Give thee for thy bold censures bolder praise,
And from these lineaments thy statue raise?
Whate'er thine errand, welcome from the Styx!
Cease now thy wanderings; here thy station fix;
Thy darling quartos from the worms protect;
Enjoy the utmost heaven thou didst expect;
Feed on th' ethereal vapour of thy fame,
And be, what thou hast toil'd to be, a Name!
By Miss Shackleton, Daughter of the learned Quaker, Abraham Shackleton of Ballitore, in Ireland, the wellknown Tutor to the celebrated Mr. Burke.
To Britain's isle a long farewell!
Where plenty smiles and pleasures dwell;
Farewell, ye woods, all waving wide,
Ye vales attired in summer's pride,
Ye towers, which proudly rise in air,
Ye cots, so cleanly and so fair.
Now Cambria's rocky wilds appear,
Her mountains rude and vallies drear,
While solemn midnight rules the sky,
And darkness veils the dangers nigh,
Save when the sullen gleams display
The rocky steep beside our way;
While the full torrent's hollow roar
Sounds sadly on the sandy shore;
And fancy dreads in every shade,
The midnight robber's murdering blade.
And now we view the ocean wide,
And now the swelling surge we ride:-
Loud roars the wind, the billows heave,
Swift bounds the bark from wave to wave;
Oppressed with sickness, pale we lie,
And wish for land,—the land is nigh;
Hibernia's welcome isle appears,
Returning health our spirits cheers.
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