BALLAD. (Be it known to all those whosoe'er…)

Be it known to all those whosoe'er it regards, That we singers of ballads were always call'd bards; And from Ida to Grub-street the muses who follow Are each mother's son the true spawn of Apollo;

Thus recording great men, or a flea, or a star, Or the spheres, or a jew's-harp, we're all on a par; Nor in this do I tell you a word of a lie, For Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Don't you know what the ancients were?—great things they talk'd, How they rode upon Pegasus—that's to say, walk'd; That near kindred gods they drove Phoebus's chariot, The English of which is—they liv'd in a garret:

And thus they went forward, Diogenes quaff'd, Heraclitus cried, and Democritus laugh'd, Menander made multitudes both laugh and cry, But Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Thus did they strange whimsical notions pursue, Some argued on one leg, and some upon two; To which last my pretensions are not hypothetic, For 'tis certainly clear I'm a parapatetic:

Lycurgus and Solon 'bout laws made a pother, Which went in at one ear, and then out at t'other, Old songs such as mine are will nobody buy Come, Homer sung ballads and so do I.

Historic was Pliny, and Plato divine, Ovid wrote about love, and Anacreon wine, Great Cicero argued to every man's palate, And when he was out—'twas a hole in the ballad:

Thus to great men of old, who have made such a rout, My claim to call cousin I've fairly made out, And if any hereafter my right should deny, Tell 'em Homer sung ballads, and so do I.