“Authority, authority!” they
shout
Whose minds, not large enough to hold
a doubt,
Some chance opinion ever entertain,
By dogma billeted upon their brain.
“Ha!” they exclaim with choreatic
glee,
“Here’s Dabster if you won’t
give in to me—
Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men
look
With reverence!” The fellow wrote
a book.
It matters not that many another wight
Has thought more deeply, could more wisely
write
On t’ other side—that
you yourself possess
Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly
guess.
God help you if ambitious to persuade
The fools who take opinion ready-made
And “recognize authorities.”
Be sure
No tittle of their folly they’ll
abjure
For all that you can say. But write
it down,
Publish and die and get a great renown—
Faith! how they’ll snap it up, misread,
misquote,
Swear that they had a hand in all you
wrote,
And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat!
THE PSORIAD.
The King of Scotland, years and years
ago,
Convened his courtiers in a gallant row
And thus addressed them:
“Gentle
sirs, from you
Abundant counsel I have had, and true:
What laws to make to serve the public
weal;
What laws of Nature’s making to
repeal;
What old religion is the only true one,
And what the greater merit of some new
one;
What friends of yours my favor have forgot;
Which of your enemies against me plot.
In harvests ample to augment my treasures,
Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures!
The punctual planets, to their periods
just,
Attest your wisdom and approve my trust.
Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring:
The grateful placemen bless their useful
king!
But while you quaff the nectar of my favor
I mean somewhat to modify its flavor
By just infusing a peculiar dash
Of tonic bitter in the calabash.
And should you, too abstemious, disdain
it,
Egad! I’ll hold your noses
till you drain it!
“You know, you dogs, your master
long has felt
A keen distemper in the royal pelt—
A testy, superficial irritation,
Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign
nation.
For this a thousand simples you’ve
prescribed—
Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed.
You’ve plundered Scotland of its
plants, the seas
You’ve ravished, and despoiled the
Hebrides,
To brew me remedies which, in probation,
Were sovereign only in their application.
In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied
Your flattering unctions to my soul and
hide:
Physic and hope have been my daily food—
I’ve swallowed treacle by the holy
rood!
“Your wisdom, which sufficed to
guide the year
And tame the seasons in their mad career,
When set to higher purposes has failed
me
And added anguish to the ills that ailed
me.
Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech
His rivals’ skill has labored to
impeach
By hints equivocal in secret speech.
For years, to conquer our respective broils,
We’ve plied each other with pacific
oils.
In vain: your turbulence is unallayed,
My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed;
My life so wretched from your strife to
save it
That death were welcome did I dare to
brave it.
With zeal inspired by your intemperate
pranks,
My subjects muster in contending ranks.
Those fling their banners to the startled
breeze
To champion some royal ointment; these
The standard of some royal purge display
And ’neath that ensign wage a wasteful
fray!
Brave tongues are thundering from sea
to sea,
Torrents of sweat roll reeking o’er
the lea!
My people perish in their martial fear,
And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!
“Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this
very hour
Your injured sovereign shall assert his
power!
Behold this lotion, carefully compound
Of all the poisons you for me have found—
Of biting washes such as tan the skin,
And drastic drinks to vex the parts within.
What aggravates an ailment will produce—
I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice!
Divided counsels you no more shall hatch—
At last you shall unanimously scratch.
Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your
shirts—God bless us!
They’ll seem, when you resume them,
robes of Nessus!”
The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what
he spoke,
From Arthur’s Seat1 confirming
thunders broke.
The conscious culprits, to their fate
resigned,
Sank to their knees, all piously inclined.
This act, from high Ben Lomond where she
floats,
The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes.
Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts
Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts,
Tears off each plaid and all their shirts
discloses,
Removes each shirt and their broad backs
exposes.
The king advanced—then cursing
fled amain
Dashing the phial to the stony plain
(Where’t straight became a fountain
brimming o’er,
Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid
store)
For lo! already on each back sans
stitch
The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch!
[Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking
Edinburgh.]
