Porkopolis

A Pindaricque, On the Grunting of a Hog

• 1.
• Freeborn Pindaric never does refuse,
• Either a lofty, or a humble Muse:
• Now in proud Sophoclaeligan Buskins Sings,
• Of Hero's, and of Kings,
• Mighty Numbers, mighty Things;
• Now out of sight she flys,
• Rowing with gaudy Wings
• A-cross the stormy Skys,
• Then down again,
• Her self she Flings,
• Without uneasiness, or Pain
• To Lice, and Dogs,
• To Cows, and Hogs,
• And follows their melodious grunting o're the Plain.
•  
• 2.
• Harmonious Hog draw near!
• No bloody Butchers here,
• Thou need'st not fear,
• Harmonious Hog draw near, and from thy beauteous Snowt
• Whilst we attend with Ear,
• Like thine prick't up devou't;
• To taste thy Sugry voice, which here, and there,
• With wanton Curls, vibrates around the circling Air,
• Harmonious Hog! warble some Anthem out!
• As sweet as those which quiv'ring Monks in days of Y'ore,
• With us did roar;
• When they alas,
• That the hard'hearted Abbot such a Coyl should keep,
• And cheat 'em of their first, their sweetest Sleep;
• When they were ferretted up to Midnight Mass:
• Why should not other Piggs on Organs play,
• As well as They.
•  
• 3.
• Dear Hog! thou King of Meat!
• So near thy Lord Mankind,
• The nicest Taste can scarce a difference find!
• No more may I thy glorious Gammons eat!
• No more,
• Partake of the Free Farmers Christmass store,
• Black Puddings which with Fat would make your Mouths run o're:
• If I, tho' I should ne're so long before the Sentence stay,
• And in my large Ears scale, the thing ne're so discreetly weigh,
• If I can find a difference in the Notes,
• Belcht from the applauded Throats
• Of Rotten Play house Songsters-All-Divine,
• If any difference I can find between their Notes, and Thine:
• A Noise they keep with Tune, and out of Tune,
• And Round, and Flat,
• High, Low, and This, and That,
• That Algebra, or Thou, or I might understand as soon.
•  
• 4.
• Like the confounding Lutes innumerable Strings,
• One of them Sings;
• Thy easier Musick's ten times more divine;
• More like the one string'd, deep, Majestick Trump-Marine:
• Prythee strike up, and cheer this drooping Heart of Mine!
• Not the sweet Harp that's claim'd by Jews,
• Nor that which to the far more Ancient Welch belongs,
• Nor that which the Wild Irish use,
• Frighting even their own Wolves with loud Hubbubbaboos.
• Nor Indian Dance, with Indian Songs, Nor yet,
• (Which how should I so long forget?)
• The Crown of all the rest,
• The very Cream o'th' Jest:
• Amptuous Noble Lyre-the Tongs;
• Nor, tho' Poetick Jordan bite his Thumbs,
• At the bold word, my Lord Mayors Flutes, and Kettle-Drums;
• Not all this Instrumental dare,
• With thy soft, ravishing, vocal Musick ever to compare.