The Nightingale, the Owl, and the Cuckow: A Fable

Critics, who like the scarecrows stand
Upon the poet's common land,
And with severity of sense,
Drive all imagination thence,
Say that in truth lies all sublime,
Whether you write in prose or rhyme.
And yet the truth may lose its grace,
If blurted to a person's face;
Especially, if what you speak
Shou'd crimson o'er the glowing cheek:
For when you throw that slaver o'er him,
And tumble out your praise before him,
However just the application,
It looks a-squint at adulation.

I would be honest and sincere,
But not a flatterer, or severe.
Need I be surly, rough, uncouth,
That folks may think I love the Truth?
And She, good dame, with Beauty's Queen,
Was not at all times naked seen:
For every boy, with Prior, knows,
By accident she lost her cloaths,
When Falshood stole them to disguise
Her misbegotten brood of lies.
Why shou'd the prudish Goddess dwell
Down at the bottom of a well,
But that she is in piteous fright,
Lest, rising up to mortal sight,
The modest world shou'd fleer and flout her,
With not a rag of cloaths about her?
Yet she might wear a proper dress
And keep her essence ne'ertheless.
So Delia's bosom still will rise,
And fascinate her lover's eyes,
Tho' round her ivory neck she draws,
The decent shade of specious gauze.

I hear it buzz'd about the table,
What can this lead to?—Sirs,

When Birds allow'd the Eagle's sway,
E'er Eagles turn'd to fowls of prey,
His Royal Majesty of Air
Took Music underneath his care;
And, for his queen and court's delight,
Commanded Concerts ev'ry night.
Here every Bird of Parts might enter,
The Nightingale was made Praecentor;
Under whose care and just direction,
Merit was sure to meet protection.
The Lark, the Blackbird, and the Robin
This concert always bore a bob in:
The best performers all were in it,
The Thrush, Canary-bird, and Linnet.

But Birds, alas! are apt to aim
At things, to which they've smallest claim.
The staring Owl, with hideous hoot,
Offer'd his service for a flute.
The Cuckow needs would join the band;
"The Thrush is but a paultry hand:
"And I can best supply that place,
"For I've a shake, a swell, a grace."

The Manager their suit preferr'd:
Both tun'd their pipes, and both were heard;
Yet each their several praises miss'd,
For both were heard, and both were hiss'd.

The Cuckow hence, with rancour stirr'd,
(A kind of periodic bird,
Of nasty hue, and body scabby,
No would-be play-wright half so shabby)
Reviles, abuses, and defames,
Screams from a branch, and calls hard names,
And strikes at Nightingale or Lark,
Like Lisbon russians, in the dark.

The Owl harangues the gaping throng
On Pow'rs, and excellence of song.
"The Blackbird's note has lost its force;
"The Nightingale is downright hoarse;
"The Linnet's harsh; the Robin shrill;
"—The Sparrow has prodigious skill!"

At length they had what they desir'd:
The skilfull Nightingale retir'd.
When Folly came, with wild Uproar,
And Harmony was heard no more.