But what can hide the Poet's shame,—
No one can tell from whence he came—
The son of Lord-knows-who!
Virgil, who sang of war and farming,
His case is nearly as alarming,
Though Cesar spoke him well:
Much did the thoughtless Muse mistake her,
Who chose the issue of a baker
Such wond'rous tales to tell.
Alas! who into hist'ry pushes
Will find perpetual cause for blushes—
There's Athens—shocking place!
Demosthenes declaim'd with pith,
But he was gotten by a smith,
To Attica's disgrace.
I'm really puzzled to proceed;—
To write what 'tis n't fit to read
All decent pens refuse:
There's Socrates, so wise and pure,
Was born of an old accoucheur,—
I should say accoucheuse.
So with the ancients let's have done,
Who, every man and mother's son,
Were but of yesterday;
One more—that Esop—was there ever!—
A slave write fables—I shall never!—
'Tis now high time to stay!
But with the moderns shall we gain?
Faith, that's a case that's not quite plain;
Piron's papa sold drugs;
A mere upholsterer got Moliere,
And Rollin was a cutler's heir,
And What's-his-name made jugs.
Rousseau—(not Jacques, but Jean Baptiste)
Whose odes to read are quite a feast—
His ancestor made shoes;
