XV.-ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND. THE SECOND PART WAS written by John Grubb, M. A., of Christ Church, Oxford. The occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows:-A set of gentlemen of the University had formed themselves into a club, all the members of which were to be of the name of George; their anniversary feast was to be held on St. George's day. Our author solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately John, this disqualification was dispensed with only upon this condition, that he would compose a song in honour of their patron saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. This gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries. THE story of king Arthur old He had a sword, both broad and Y-cleped Caliburn, Would cut a flint more easily Than pen-knife cuts a corn; From noddle down to nock. And whetstone thro' the middle. And flower of all the Welsh: But George he did the dragon fell, And gave him a plaguy squelsh. St. George he was for England; St. Pendragon, like his father Jove, And like him made a noble shield Of she-goat's shaggy coat: Did wear a crest of leeks; And onions' heads, whose dreadful nod Itch and Welsh blood did make him And very prone to ire; H' was ting'd with brimstone, like a And would as soon take fire. When scurf gave him occasion, But was for adverse drubbing, His sword would serve for battle, or 'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese. But George he made the dragon an St. George he was for England; St. Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. Brave Warwick Guy, at dinner time, Challeng'd a gyant savage; And streight came out the unweildy lout And was full thick i' th' middle; And paunch of squire Beadle.* A dreadful dun, and horned too, The fervent dog-days made her mad, As bull-dogs did her father: E'er of her frolick hindred; John Dosset † she'd knock down as flat, As John knocks down her kindred: Her heels would lay ye all along, And kick into a swoon; Frewin's cow-heels keep up your corpse, But hers would beat you down. She vanquisht many a sturdy wight, And proud was of the honour; Was pufft by mauling butchers so, As if themselves had blown her. At once she kickt, and pusht at Guy, But all that would not fright him; Who wav'd his winyard o'er sir-loyn, As if he'd gone to knight him. He let her blood, frenzy to cure, And eke he did her gall rip; His trenchant blade, like cook's long spit, Ran thro' the monster's bald-rib: * Men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at Oxford. † A butcher that then served the college. A cook, who on fast nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe. He rear'd up the vast crooked rib, Instead of arch triumphal : But George hit th' dragon such a pelt, Tamerlain, with Tartarian bow, sent Grand-Visiers to old Nick: Much turbants, and much Pagan pates On spear, as on a sign-post: Did sheath his blade so trenchant But George he swing'd the dragon's a. And cut off every inch on't. St. George he was for England; Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.. The amazon Thalestris was Both beautiful and bold; She sear'd her breasts with iron hot, And bang'd her foes with cold. Her hand was like the tool, wherewith Jove keeps proud mortals under : It shone just like his lightning, And batter'd like his thunder. In its corporeal scabbard. As timorous larks amazed are With light, and with a low-bell: As Pallas had her scrich-owl. St. George he was for England; St. Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. Stout Hercules was offspring of Is quencht in blacksmith's shop. And out of horse-dung he rais'd fame, Alpheus was under-groom; Being tired with that long work, As spinster, could take pains; His club would sometimes spin ye flax, And sometimes knock out brains: H' was forc'd to spin his miss a shift By Juno's wrath and hér-spite; The drum. + Who kept Paradise Gardens at Oxford. Fair Omphale whipt him to his wheel, He'd pound a giant, till the blood, Tapt a fresh monster once a month, As wrestlers give in Cornwall: St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. The Gemini, sprung from an egg, Their brains with knocks and bottledale, Were often-times full addle: And, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him, That hurls the bolt trisulcate, Did tustle with red-ey'd pole-cat. When he was in a passion By way of adoration: This fist, as sure as French disease, * A noted drawer at the Mermaid tavern in Oxford. † Lord Lovelace broke down the bridges about Oxford at the beginning of the Revolution. See on this subject a ballad in Smith's Poems, p. 102. London, 1713. Castor the flame of fiery steed, With well-spur'd boots took down ; His famous horse, that liv'd on oats, This shelly brood on none but knaves Much blood they did effund: Their yolks thro' gaping wound : Then both were cleans'd from blood and dust To make a heavenly sign; The lads were, like their armour, scowr'd, And then hung up to shine; Such were the heavenly double-Dicks, The sons of Jove and Tyndar: But George he cut the dragon up, As he had bin duck or windar. St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. Gorgon a twisted adder wore For knot upon her shoulder: She kemb'd her hissing periwig, And curling snakes did powder. These snakes they made stiff changelings Of all the folks they hist on; They turned barbars into hones, And masons into free-stone: Sworded magnetic Amazon Her shield to load-stone changes; It has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time: "Not carted Bawd, or Dan de Foe, In wooden Ruff ere bluster'd so." Smith's Poems, p. 117, Then amorous sword by magic belt Clung fast unto her haunches. This shield long village did protect, And kept the army from-town, And chang'd the bullies into rocks, That came t' invade Long-Compton." She post-diluvian stores unmans, And Pyrrha's work unravels; And noddles into bricks : Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense. By boar-spear Meleager got An everlasting name, And out of haunch of basted swine, And rudely shew'd his bare-breech, Prickt but the wem, and out there came Heroic guts and garbadge. Legs were secur'd by iron boots No more than peas by peascods: Brass helmets, with inclosed sculls, Wou'd crackle in's mouth like chesnuts. His tawny hairs erected were By rage, that was resistless; Nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um : It made them vent both their last blood, And their last album-grecum. But the knight gor'd him with his spear, To make of him a tame one, And arrows thick, instead of cloves, He stuck in monster's gammon. * See the account of Rolricht Stones, in Dr. Plott's History of Oxfordshire |