Francis Grose - A Burlesque Translation of Homer

If you in battle chance to fall,
Don't stay to rise, for that spoils all;
To rise as some men do, I mean,
Burn foremost, then your back is seen;
But jump directly bolt upright,
Ready prepar'd to run or fight.
Advice like this our fathers took,
And drove the world along like smoke.

Thus spoke the queer old Grecian chief,
And pleas'd the king beyond belief;
Who cry'd, 'Tis cursed hard that age
Should drive such leaders off the stage:
Whilst other bruisers die forgot,
Eternal youth should be thy lot.

When Nestor shook his hoary locks,
And thus replies: Age, with a pox!
Will come apace: could I, forsooth,
Recall the strength I had in youth,
When Ereuthalion I did thwack,
Be sure I would that strength call back;
But dear experience can't be gotten
Till we're with tricks of youth half rotten:
The young are fittest for the field,
But to the old in council yield.
Though now my fighting bears no price,
Yet I can give you rare advice.
Fight you and scuffle whilst you're young,
My vigour centres in my tongue:
I would do more to show my love,
But can no other weapon move.
With joy great Agamemnon heard
This doughty knight o' th' grizzle beard,

He left him then, because he had
No time to spare, things look'd but bad:
When, lo! he found Menestheus
In a most lamentable fuss.
His potlid he could not explore,
Because 'twas hid behind the door:
Searching about his tent all round him,
The gen'ral left him where he found him.

Next spy'd Ulysses at his stand;
Th' old buffs were under his command:
Idle they lay at distance far,
Nor knew a word about the war:
Atrides saw them playing pranks,
And all disorder'd in their ranks;
Which made him in a mighty passion
The poor Ulysses fall slap dash on:

I thought you, Mr. Slight-of-Hand,
Had known much better than to stand
Picking your fingers, whilst the rest
Are forc'd to box their very best,
And make a marvellous resistance
To keep these Trojan whelps at distance:
In time of peace you're much respected,
And never at our feasts neglected;
You're first i' th' list when I invite,
And therefore should be first in fight.

The sage Ulysses, with a blush,
Returns for answer, Hush, hush, hush:
If you speak loud, the Trojans hear;
Not that we care, what need we fear?
But I'm persuaded you'll ere long
Wish you had kept that noisy tongue
Betwixt your teeth, nor let it pass
To tell us all you're half an ass;
Why, can't you see we're ready booted,
And I've just got my jacket clouted?
Without your keeping such a coil.
Ten minutes fits us for our broil;
Give you the word, and we'll obey,
At quarter-staff or cudgel play;
When we begin, perhaps I'll do
Such wonders as may frighten you.

Well said, Ulysses! cries the king
(A little touch'd though with the sting
Of this rum speech); I only fear'd
To catch my warrior off his guard;
But am rejoic'd to find thee steady,
For broils and wenching always ready.

He said, and pass'd to Diomede,
And caught him fast asleep in bed.
Zoons! quoth the king, I thought Tydides,
The man in whom my greatest pride is,
Might absent been perhaps a-whoring,
But little dreamt to catch him snoring:
Dost thou not hear the Trojans rattle?
Already they've begun the battle.
Not so thy father – none could doubt him,
He long ere this had laid about him;
Had gi'n the Trojans such a drubbing,
As would have say'd a twelvemonth's scrubbing:
'Tis known he was a lad of wax,
Let bellum be the word, aut pax .
He was, indeed, of stature small,
But then in valour he was tall.
I saw him once, 'twas when he stray'd
To Polynice's house for aid;
Troopers he begg'd, and straight we gave 'em;
But Jove sent word he should not have 'em:
With long-tail'd comets made such rout,
That we e'en let him go without.
But after that, I know it fact,
He fifty blust'ring bullies thwack'd:
Nay, hold, I fib, 'twas forty-nine;
For one he sav'd, a friend of mine,
To witness that the tale was true,
Else 'twould have been believ'd by few.
Though two bold bruisers led them on,
Meon and sturdy Lycophon,
He trimm'd their jackets ev'ry one.
But I must tell you in this case,
And tell you flatly to your face,
Since our affairs so ill you handle,
You're hardly fit to hold his candle.

With rage and grief Tydides stung,
Scratch'd his rump raw, yet held his tongue;
Provok'd by this abusive knight
To scratch the place that did not bite.
Not so the son of Capaneus;
He soon began to play the deuce:

Good Mr. Chief, if you would try
To speak the truth, you would not lye;
Like other mortals though we rest,