My Nose

WHILE people call'd Poets, in Blank Verse, or Rhime,
Pindarics or Epics compose,
And celebrate Heros in Sonnets sublime,
My subject is, simply,—my Nose.

The large Nose and long one, thereby hangs a Tale,
A Tail the old Scholiasts suppose;
Ex noscitur Naso—but Proverbs may fail,
I find it, in faith, by my Nose.

The boys of Conceit blushing Merit deride,
For Coxcombs are Modesty's foes;
I challenge the sons and the daughters of Pride
To move such a muscular Nose.

Prometheus, 'tis said, form'd our Animal Clay,
For quick'ning to Aether he rose;
I fear that some 'Prentice, when he was away,
A little aside shov'd my Nose.

I presume,—but perhaps, 'tis presumption to say,
I even presume to suppose,
I shou'd set myself up in the Song-singing Way,
When I ought to set down with my Nose.

My Song therefore ends, now a Toast with your leave—
May Wisdom our Councils compose,
May Britons be Friends, and forget and forgive,
And at Faction each turn up his Nose.