For what is understood by fame,
Beside the getting of a name?
But, e'er since men invented guns,
A different way their fancy runs:
To paint a hero, we inquire
For something that will conquer fire.
Would you describe Turenne or Trump?
Think of a bucket or a pump.
Are these too low? — then find out grander,
Call my lord Cutts a Salamander.
'Tis well; — but, since we live among
Detractors with an evil tongue,
Who may object against the term,
Pliny shall prove, what we affirm:
Pliny shall prove and we'll apply,
And I'll be judg'd by standers by.
First, then, our author has defin'd
This reptile of the serpent kind,
With gaudy coat and shining train;
But loathsome spots his body stain:
Out from some hole obscure he flies,
When rains descend, and tempests rise,
Till the sun clears the air; and then
Crawls back neglected to his den.
So, when the war has rais'd a storm,
I've seen a snake in human form,
All stain'd with infamy and vice,
Leap from the dunghill in a trice,
Burnish, and make a gaudy show,
Become a general, peer, and beau,
Till peace has made the sky serene;
Then shrink into its hole again.
"All this we grant — why then look yonder.
Sure that must be a salamander!"
