Francis Grose - A Burlesque Translation of Homer

Juno, like puppet, rolls her eyes,
And, meditating, thus replies:

Three boroughs have I got in Greece,
Most dearly lov'd in war and peace;
Mycenae, Argos, aye, and Sparta,
Destroy 'em all 6 6 Destroy 'em, &c. See the fury of an enraged woman! Rather than Troy should escape, how easily she gives up three dearly-beloved towns! But it is to be hoped, there are few such women alive now-a-days. , care I a f – t-a?
With the dry pox or thunder strike 'em;
'Tis fault enough for me to like 'em.
Must thy poor wife's good friends be drubb'd,
And she herself thus hourly snubb'd,
As if her family, Sir Cull,
Was not as good as yours to th' full?
I know I ought, were you well bred,
To share your power as well as bed;
But there I know, and so do you,
I'm robb'd of more than half my due.
Your dad 7 7 Saturn. was but a lead-refiner,
Or else a Derbyshire lead-miner;
Mine was refiner of the small
Assays, for years, at Goldsmiths'-Hall:
Then prithee don't, my dearest life,
Refuse due honour to your wife:
Alternately let's take the sway;
Each bear a bob both night and day;
And then the vulgar gods shall see
We mount by turns, now you, now me.
See trusty Pallas sneaking stands,
And waits your worship's dread commands:
She'll soon, if you unloose her tether,
Set Greece and Troy by th' ears together:
But bid her use her utmost care,
Troy's whoring sons begin the war;
Then, if they get the worst o' th' game,
They dare not say that we're to blame.

Of heaven and earth the whoring king
Swore that his wife had hit the thing:
Then go, my Pallas, in the nick,
And serve these Phrygian whelps a trick;
Make 'em, like Frenchmen, treaties break:
Away, and do not stay to speak.

Pleas'd she darts downward in a trice,
And smooth as younkers slide on ice;
Or when the upper regions vomit
A long-tail'd firebrand, call'd a comet,
Which robs old women of their wits,
And frights their daughters into fits;
Gives wond'ring loons the belly-ache,
And makes the valiant soldier quake:
With horrid whiz it falls from high,
And whisks its tail along the sky:
Just so this brimstone did appear,
As she shot downward through the air.
They guess'd, and paus'd, and guess'd again,
What this strange prodigy could mean:
At last agreed, that angry Fate
Was big with something mighty great.
'Twas war, or peace, or wind, or rain,
Or scarcity next year of grain.
Some cunning heads this reason hit,
That B – e would soon make room for P – tt;
But all the bold north-country rout
Swore that it would much better suit
His M – , to stick to B – te.

Whilst thus they jar and disagree,
Minerva lit behind a tree;
And lest her phiz should make 'em gape,
Borrow'd an honest mortal shape;
Laodocus, no snivelling dastard,
But great Antenor's nephew's bastard:
She quickly found Lycaon's son,
A rare strong chief for back and bone,
Whose troops from black Esopee came,
A place but little known to fame.
The arms his raggamuffins bore
Were broomsticks daub'd with blood all o'er.
To him she with a harmless look,
Like a mischievous brimstone, spoke:

Will you, friend Pand'rus, says she,
A little counsel take from me?
You know that every prudent man
Should pick up money when he can;
And now, if you could have the luck
To make a hole in Sparta's pluck,
Paris, as certain as I live,
Would any sum of money give.
Such a bold push must sure be crown'd
With ten, at least, or twenty pound:
Don't gape and stare, for now or never
You gain or lose the cash for ever:
But first, to th' Lycian archer pay
(By most he's call'd the god of day)
A ram; this same unerring spark
Can guide thy arrow to its mark:
'Tis highly necessary this,
Or two to one your aim you'll miss.

Like gunpowder, the thick-skull'd elf
Took fire, and up he blew himself:
Then fitting to his bow the string,
He swore, by Jove, he'd do the thing.
His trusty bow was made of horn
An old ram goat for years had worn.
This goat by Pandarus was shot,
And left upon the cliffs to rot:
The curling horns, that spread asunder
Two tailors' yards, became his plunder;
Which he took care to smooth, and so
Produc'd a very handsome bow:
The blacksmith fil'd a curious joint,
And Deard with tinsel tipp'd each point.
This bow of bows, without being seen
By any but his countrymen,
He bent; and, that he might be safe,
Took care to hide his better half
Behind the potlids of his band;
For those he always could command.
Before he aim'd, he squatted low
To fit an arrow to his bow;
One from a hundred out he picks,
To send the cuckold over Styx
(Sharp was the point of this same arrow,
Design'd to reach the Spartan's marrow);
Then to the god of day-light vows
To give a dozen bulls and cows.
Now hard he strains, with wondrous strength,
And draws the arrow all its length:
Swift through the air the weapon hies,
Whilst the string rattles as it flies.
Had then Atrides been forgot,
He certainly had gone to pot:
But Pallas, for his life afraid,
In pudding-time came to his aid,
And turn'd aside the furious dart,
That was intended for his heart,
Into a more ignoble part.
So careful mothers, when they please,
Their children guard from lice and fleas.
The first emotion that he felt,
Was a great thump upon his belt:
For there the arrow, Pallas knew,
Could only pierce a little through.
It did so; and the skin it rais'd:
The blood gush'd out: which so amaz'd
The cuckold, that he was half craz'd:
He felt within himself strange twitches;
'Twas thought by most he spoil'd his breeches.
As when you seek for stuff to grace
Some fine court lady's neck and face,
All o'er her muddy skin you spread
A load of paint, both white and red,
The diff'ring colours, sure enough,
Must help to set each other off,
Spite of the hue that glares within
The filthy, muddy, greasy skin:
Just so Atrides' blood you'd spy,
As it ran down his dirty thigh;
His knee, and leg, and ancle pass'd,
And reach'd his sweaty foot at last.
At this most dreadful, rueful sight,
Atrides' hair stood bolt upright,
And lifted, all the Grecians said,
His hat six inches from his head.
Nor less the honest cuckold quak'd;
His heart as well as belly ach'd;
Till looking at the place that bled,
He plainly saw the arrow's head
Stopp'd by his greasy belt: he then
Boldly took heart of grace again.
But the great chief, who thought the arrow
Had reach'd his brother's guts or marrow,
With bitter sobbing heav'd his chest,
And thus his heavy grief express'd;
Whilst all the Grecians, far and near,
Did nought but threaten, curse, and swear:

My dearest bro. for this did I
Desire a truce? Zounds! I could cry:
It proves a fatal truce to thee;
Nay, fatal both to thee and me.
Thou fought'st till all the fray did cease:
Now to be slain, in time of peace,
Is dev'lish hard: – with rueful phiz
He added? By my soul it is!
Those scoundrel Trojans all combine,
In hopes to ruin thee and thine;
They've stole thy goods, and kiss'd thy wife,
And now they want to take thy life:
With perjuries the rogues are cramm'd,
For which they will be double damn'd.
Now we good Grecians, when it meet is
To make with scoundrel neighbours treaties,
As Britons (but the Lord knows how)
With roguish Frenchmen often do,
We're strict and honest to our word;
So should each man that wears a sword.
What pity 'tis that rogues so base
Should thus bamboozle Jove's own race!
But let it be thy comfort, brother,
And with it thy resentment smother,
That Jove in flames such rogues will burnish;
Already he begins to furnish
With red-hot balls his mutton fist,
To singe and pepper whom he list.
Be sure, that when he once begins,
He'll smoke these scoundrels for their sins,
Make Priam's house of scurvy peers
Come tumbling down about their ears.
These Trojans, if they do not mend on't,
Will all be hang'd at least, depend on't:
For thee, my brother, who deserv'd
Much better fate than be so serv'd,
I trust thou wilt not die so sudden,
But still eat many a pound of pudding.
If aught but good should hap to thee,
God knows what must become of me.
When thou art gone, thy men of might
Will run, but rot me if they'll fight.
When once they've lost thy brave example,
They'll let the Trojan rascals trample
Their very guts out ere they'll budge;
They will, as sure as God's my judge.
Shall Helen then with Paris stay,
Whilst thy poor bones consume away;
And some sad dog, thy recent tomb,
Lug out his ware and piss upon?
Adding, that all Atrides got,
Was to come here to lie and rot;
Nor durst his bullying brother stay,
But very stoutly ran away.
Before this scandal on me peep,
May I be buried nine yards deep!