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Translated by M. C. Llewelyn
A MAN, like others, formed by God, | |
| On Sunday morning last I trod | |
| The streets of Flint; an ill-built maze,— | |
| I wish the whole were in a blaze! | |
| An English marriage-feast was there, | 5 |
| Which, like all English feasts, was spare. | |
| Naught there revealed our mountain land, | |
| The generous heart, the liberal hand,— | |
| No hirlas there was passed around | |
| With richly foaming mead high crowned. | 10 |
| The reason why I thither came | |
| Was something for my art to claim,— | |
| An art that oft from prince and lord | |
| Had won its just, its due reward. | |
| With lips inspired I then began | 15 |
| To sing an ode to this mean clan: | |
| Rudely they mocked my song and me, | |
| And loathed my oft-praised minstrelsy. | |
| Alas! that through my cherished art | |
| Boors should distress and wound my heart. | 20 |
| Fool that I was to think the muse | |
| Could charm corn-dealers, knavish Jews; | |
| My polished ode forsooth they hissed, | |
| And I midst laughter was dismissed. | |
| For William Beisir’s bag they bawl, | 25 |
| “Largess for him” they loudly squall; | |
| Each roared with throat at widest stretch | |
| For Will the piper,—low-born wretch! | |
| Will forward steps as best he can, | |
| Unlike a free ennobled man; | 30 |
| A pliant bag ’tween arm and chest, | |
| While limping on, he tightly prest. | |
| He stares,—he strives the bag to sound; | |
| He swells his maw, and ogles round; | |
| He twists and turns himself about, | 35 |
| With fetid breath his cheeks swell out. | |
| What savage boors! his hideous claws | |
| And glutton’s skin win their applause! | |
| With shuffling hand and clumsy mien | |
| To doff his cloak he next is seen; | 40 |
| He snorted; bridled in his face, | |
| And bent it down with much grimace; | |
| Like to a kite he seemed that day,— | |
| A kite when feathering of his prey! | |
| The churl did blow a grating shriek, | 45 |
| The bag did swell, and harshly squeak, | |
| As does a goose from nightmare crying, | |
| Or dog crushed by a chest when dying; | |
| This whistling box’s changeless note | |
| Is forced from turgid veins and throat; | 50 |
| Its sound is like a crane’s harsh moan, | |
| Or like a gosling’s latest groan; | |
| Just such a noise a wounded goat | |
| Sends from her hoarse and gurgling throat. | |
| His unattractive screeching lay | 55 |
| Being ended, William sought for pay; | |
| Some fees he had from this mean band, | |
| But largess from no noble hand; | |
| Some pence were offered by a few, | |
| Others gave little halfpence too. | 60 |
| Unheeded by this shabby band, | |
| I left their feast with empty hand. | |
| A dire mischance I wish indeed | |
| On slavish Flint and its mean breed; | |
| O, may its furnace be the place | 65 |
| Which they and piper Will may grace! | |
| For their ill luck my prayer be told, | |
| My curses on them, young and old! | |
| I ne’er again will venture there; | |
| May death all further visits spare! | 70 |
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