  M.P. FOR GALWAY. I. How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars— The butcheries of men! The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill! II. Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Piebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay— No poet's eulogy thy name adorns! But oxen, from the fens, Sheep—in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes! Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee, Asses, I mean—that have as many stripes! III. Hast thou not taught the drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,— Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear Oxide of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the courser of the two— Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!— O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds—(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)—when the clown uplifts His hand against the sparrow's nest, to grab it,— He shall not harm the Martins and the Swifts! IV. Ah! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanc'd The horse!—and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd— Gone backward in the world—and not advanc'd,— Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion—not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus—would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!—let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse— Look at the ancients' Muse! Look at their Carmen! V. O, Martin! how thine eye— That one would think had put aside its lashes,— That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter Lane,— For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein— Gods! is there no Horse-spital! That such raw shows must sicken the humane! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his pane! VI. O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! O wipe away the national reproach— And find a decent Vulture for their corses! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Steeds that confess "the luxury of wo!" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,—sore with kick and blow And bloody gash—it is the Indian knack— (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)— Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf— The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their grief's met in a common Centaur! |
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