Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A PATHETIC APOLOGY FOR ALL LAUREATS, PAST, PRESENT, AND TO COME, by WILLIAM WHITEHEAD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A PATHETIC APOLOGY FOR ALL LAUREATS, PAST, PRESENT, AND TO COME, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ye silly dogs, whose half-year lays
Last Line: —ye silliest of all silly dogs.
Subject(s): Language; Poets Laureate; Words; Vocabulary


Ye silly dogs, whose half-year lays
Attend like satellites on Bays;
And still, with added lumber, load
Each birthday and each new year ode,
Why will ye strive to be severe?
In pity to yourselves forbear;
Nor let the sneering public see,
What numbers write far worse than he.

His muse, oblig'd by sack and pension,
Without a subject, or invention—
Must certain words in order set,
As innocent as a gazette;
Must some half-meaning half disguise,
And utter neither truth nor lies.
But why will you, ye volunteers
In nonsense, tease us with your jeers,
Who might with dulness and her crew
Securely slumber? Why will you
Sport your dim orbs amidst her fogs?
You're not oblig'd—ye silly dogs!

When Jove, as ancient fables sing,
Made of a senseless log a King,
The frogs at first, their doubts exprest;
But soon leap'd up, and smok'd the jest.
While every tadpole of the lake
Lay quiet, tho' they felt it quake,
They knew their nature's due degree,
Themselves scarce more alive than he;
They knew they could not croak like frogs.
—Why will you try?—ye silly dogs!

When the poor barber felt askance,
The thunder of a Quixote's lance,
For merely bearing on his head,
Th' expressive emblem of his trade,
The barber was a harmless log,
The hero was a silly dog—
What trivial things are cause of quarrel!
Mambrino's helmet, or the laurel,
Alike distract an idiot's brain,
'Unreal mockeries!' shadowy pain!

Each Laureat (if kind heav'n dispense
Some little gleam of common sense)
Blest with one hundred pounds per ann.
And that too taxed and but ill-paid,
With caution frames his frugal plan,
Nor apes his brethren of the trade.
He never will to garrets rise
For inspiration from the skies;
And pluck, as Hotspur would have done,
'Bright honour, from the pale-faced moon';
He never will to cellars venture,
To drag up glory from the centre;
But calmly steer his course between
Th' aerial and infernal scene;
—One hundred pounds! a golden mean!

Nor need he ask a printer's pains
To fix the type, and share the gains:
Each morning paper is so kind
To give his works to every wind.
Each evening post and magazine,
Gratis adopts the lay serene.
On their frail barks his praise or blame
Floats for an hour, and sinks with them;
Sure without envy you might see,
Such floundering immortality.
Why will ye then, amidst the bogs,
Thrust in your oar?—ye silly dogs!

He ne'er desires his stated loan,
(I honestly can speak for one)
Should meet in print the public eye;
Content with Boyce's harmony,
Who throws, on many a worthless lay,
His music and his powers away.

Are you not charm'd, when, at Vauxhall,
Or Marybone, the Syrens squall
Your oft-repeated madrigals,
Your Nancys of the hills or vales,
While tip-toe misses and their beaux
Catch the dear sounds in triple rows,
And whisper, as their happiness,
They know the author of the piece?
This vanity, my gentle brothers,
You feel; forgive it then in others,
At least in one you call a dunce,
The Laureat's odes are sung but once,
And then not heard—while your renown
For half a season stuns the town—
Nay, on brown paper, fairly spread,
With wooden print to grace its head,
Each barber pastes you on his wall;
Each cobbler chants you in his stall,
And Dolly, from her master's shop,
Encores you, as she twirls her mop.
Then 'ponder well, ye parents dear'
Of works, which live a whole half year;
And with a tender eye survey
The frailer offspring of a day,
Whose glories wither e'er they bloom,
Whose very cradle is their tomb:
Have ye no bowels, cruel men!
You who may grasp, or quit the pen,
May chuse your subject, nay, your time,
When genius prompts to sport in rhime;
Dependant on yourselves alone,
To be immortal, or unknown:
Does not compassion touch your breast
For brethren to the service prest?
To laureats is no pity due,
Incumber'd with a thousand clogs?
I'm very sure they pity you,
—Ye silliest of all silly dogs.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net