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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The New Knight Errant


OF Gyants and Knights, & their wonderful fights,
We have stories enough in Romances;
But I'll tell you one new, that is strange and yet true,
Though t' other are nothing but fancies.


A Knight lately made of the Governing trade,
Whose name he'l not have to be known;
Has been trucking with fame, to purchase a name;
For 'tis said he had none of his own.


He by Fortunes design, should have been a Divine,
And a pillar no doubt of the Church;
Whom a Sexton (God wot) in the belfry begot,
And his Mother did pig in the porch.


And next for his breeding, 'twas learned hog-feeding,
With which he so long did converse,
That his manners and feature, was so like their nature,
You'ld scarce know his sweetness from theirs.


But observe the device of this Noblemans rise,
How he hurried from trade to trade;
For the grains he'd aspire to the yest; & then higher,
Till at length he a Dray-man was made.


Then his dray-horse and he, in the streets we did see,
With his hanger, his sling, and his jacket;
Long time he did watch, to meet with his match;
For he'd ever a mind to the placket.


At length he did find, out a Trull to his mind,
And Ursula was her name;
O Ursly quoth he, and O Tom then quoth she,
And so they began their game.


But as soon as they met, O such babes they did get,
And bloud-royal in 'um did place:
From a swine-herd they came, a she-bear was their Dam;
They were suckled as Romulus was.


At last when the rout, with their head did fall out,
And the wars thereupon did fall in,
He went to the field, with a sword, but no shield,
Strong drink was his buckler within:


But when he did spy, how they dropt down and die,
And did hear the bullets to sing;
His arms he flung down, and run fairly to town,
And exchang'd his sword for his sling:


Yet he claimed his share, in such honours as were
Belonging to nobler spirits;
That ventur'd their lives, while this Buffon survives,
To receive the reward of their merits.


When the wars were all done, he his fighting begun,
And would needs shew his valour in peace;
Then his fury he flings, at poor conquer'd things,
And frets like a hog in his grease;


For his first feat of all, on a Wit he did fall,
A wit as some say, and some not;
Because he'd an art, to rhithm on the quart,
But never did care for the pot;


And next on the cocks, he fell like an Ox,
And took them and their Masters together;
But the combs and the spurs, kept himself & his Sirs,
Who are to have both or neither.


The cause of his spite, was because they would fight,
And, because he durst not, he did take-on;
And said they were fit, for the pot, not the pit,
And would serve to be eaten with bacon.


But flesh'd with these spoyles, the next of his toyles,
Was to fall with wild-beasts by the ears,
To the Bear-ward he goeth, & then opened his mouth;
And said, oh! are you there with your bears.


Our stories are dull, of a cock and a bull,
But such was his valour and care:
Since he bears the bell, the tales that we tell,
Must be of a cock and a bare.


The crime of the bares was, they were Caveliers,
And had formerly fought for the King;
And pull'd by the Burrs, the round-headed Currs,
That they made both their ears to ring.


Our successour of Kings, like blind fortune, flings
Upon him both honour and store:
Who has as much right, to make Tom a Knight,
As Tom has desert, and no more.


But Fortune that whore, still attended this Brewer,
And did all his atchievements reward;
And blindly did fling, on this lubberly thing,
More honour, and made him a Lord.


Now he walks with his spurs, and a couple of curs
At his heels, which he calls Squires:
So when honour is thrown on the head of a clown;
'Tis by Parasites held up, and Lyars.


The rest of his pranks, will merit new thanks,
With his death, if we did but know it;
But we'l leave him and it, to a time and place fit,
And Greg. shall be funeral Poet.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Cavalier
  2. The Prodigal
  3. The Reformation
  4. The Hard Heart
  5. The Libertine

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