JEFFERY, OR, THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS[83] Lured by some corporal's smooth address, His scarlet coat and roguish face, One Half A Joe on drum head laid, A tavern treat--and reckoning paid; See yonder simple lad consigned To slavery of the meanest kind. With only skill to drive a plough A musquet he must handle now; Must twirl it here and twirl it there, Now on the ground, now in the air: Its every motion by some rule Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A] Must be directed--nicely true-- Or he be beaten black--and blue. [A] The Prussian manual exercise.--_Freneau's note._ A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes, May now this country lad abuse:-- On meagre fare grown poor and lean, He treats him like a mere machine, Directs his look, directs his step, And kicks him into decent shape, From aukward habits frees the clown, Erects his head--or knocks him down. Last Friday week to Battery-green The sergeant came with this Machine-- One motion of the firelock missed-- The Tutor thumped him with his fist: I saw him lift his hickory cane, I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!-- Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear; And thus goes on from year to year, 'Till desperate grown at such a lot, He drinks--deserts--and so is shot! [83] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition. TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84] In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round, And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear, A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound, Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear: In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said. Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch! 'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law, Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech: No soul had you to face the wintry blast, Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast. Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul, If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine: I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl, Nor from your poems filch'd a single line: When I do that--then publish from your caves, Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves! [84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition. TO A WRITER OF PANEGYRIC[85] Occasioned by certain fulsome Congratulatory Verses on the election of a High Constable Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely, Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly: There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath, "That merit is only determined by death." Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in-- Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan: The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log, And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A] [A] ANUBIS.--One of the tutelar deities of ancient Egypt.--_Freneau's note._