A Character[451:1]

A bird, who for his other sins Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins; Though like a kitten amid rats, Or callow tit in nest of bats, He much abhorr'd all democrats; Yet nathless stood in ill report Of wishing ill to Church and Court, Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting, And learnt to pipe God save the King; Tho' each day did new feathers bring, All swore he had a leathern wing; Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail, Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail; And tho'--his tongue devoid of gall-- He civilly assur'd them all:-- 'A bird am I of Phoebus' breed, And on the sunflower cling and feed; My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!' The bats would hail him Brother Cit, Or, at the furthest, cousin-german. At length the matter to determine, He publicly denounced the vermin; He spared the mouse, he praised the owl; But bats were neither flesh nor fowl. Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul, Came in full clatter from his throat, Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note To hireling, traitor, and turncoat,-- A base apostate who had sold His very teeth and claws for gold;-- And then his feathers!--sharp the jest-- No doubt he feather'd well his nest! 'A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat-- With place and title, brother Bat, We soon shall see how well he'll play Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay!' Alas, poor Bird! and ill-bestarr'd-- Or rather let us say, poor Bard! And henceforth quit the allegoric, With metaphor and simile, For simple facts and style historic:-- Alas, poor Bard! no gold had he; Behind another's team he stept, And plough'd and sow'd, while others reapt; The work was his, but theirs the glory, Sic vos non vobis, his whole story. Besides, whate'er he wrote or said Came from his heart as well as head; And though he never left in lurch His king, his country, or his church, 'Twas but to humour his own cynical Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical; To his own conscience only hearty, 'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party;-- The self-same things had said and writ, Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt; Content his own applause to win, Would never dash thro' thick and thin, And he can make, so say the wise, No claim who makes no sacrifice;-- And bard still less:--what claim had he, Who swore it vex'd his soul to see So grand a cause, so proud a realm, With Goose and Goody at the helm; Who long ago had fall'n asunder But for their rivals' baser blunder, The coward whine and Frenchified Slaver and slang of the other side?--

Thus, his own whim his only bribe, Our Bard pursued his old A. B. C. Contented if he could subscribe In fullest sense his name Ἔστησε; ('Tis Punic Greek for 'he hath stood!') Whate'er the men, the cause was good; And therefore with a right good will, Poor fool, he fights their battles still. Tush! squeak'd the Bats;--a mere bravado To whitewash that base renegado; 'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad, His conscience for the bays he barters;-- And true it is--as true as sad-- These circlets of green baize he had-- But then, alas! they were his garters! Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended, His lamp but glimmer'd in its socket; He lived unhonour'd and unfriended With scarce a penny in his pocket;-- Nay--tho' he hid it from the many-- With scarce a pocket for his penny!

1825.