Nelson & His World

A Sea Chaplain's Petition to the Lieutenants in the Ward-room, for the Use of the Quarter Gallery.
In the Manner of Swift.

You that can grant or can refuse the pow'r,
Low from the stern to drop the golden show'r,
When nature prompts, O patient deign to hear,
If not a parson's - yet a poet's pray'r!
E'er taught the diff'rence, to commissions due,
Presumptuous I aspir'd to mess with you :
But since the diff’rence known twixt sea & shore,
That mighty happiness I urge no more,
An humble boon, and of a diff’rent kind,
(Grant heav'n a diff’rent answer it may find)
Attends you now - excuse the rhyme I write,
And tho' I mess not with you - let me sh-te.

When in old bards, Arion tunes his song,
The ravish'd dolphins round the vessel throng,
Versesooth'd of old the monsters of the sea,
Let then what sav'd Arion, plead for me :
and, if my muse can aught of truth divine,
The boon the muse petitions shall be mine ;
For sure this answer would be monst'rous odd,
Sh--te with the common tars, thou man of God !

Of those more vulgar tubes that downward peep,
Near where the lion awes the raging deep,
The waggish youths, I tell what I am told,
Oft smear the sides with excremental gold,
Say then when pease within the belly pent,
Roar at the port and struggle for a vent,
Say - shall I plunge on dung remissly down,
And with unseemly ordure stain the gown ?
Or shall I (terrible to think) displode,
Against the unbutton'd plush the smoaky load ?
The laugh of swabbers heav'n avert the jest !
And from th' impending storm preserve your priest!
But grant that Cloacina, gracious queen !
Shou'd keep her od'rous shrine forever clean,
Yet frequent must I feel the offensive spray,
When the toss'd vessel ploughs the swelling sea ;
And, as I sit, incessant must I bear,
The language of the nauseous galley near,
Where blockheads by the list'ning priest unaw'd,
Tho' uncommission'd, dare blaspheme their God!

Happy the man admitted oft to ride
within the ward-room, where his tools abide,
The man of leather - he when nature calls,
Can for the needful space repose his awls,
And, while I squeeze o'er some ignoble seat,
Can disembogue his vile burgoo in state ;
While peeping Nereides smoke the Christian jest,
The honour'd cobler and neglected priest,
And swear by Styx, and all the pow'rs below,
In good old heathen days 'twas never so.

Ah ! what avails it, that in days of yore,
The instructive lashes of the birch I bore !
For four long years with logick stuff'd my head,
And feeding thought went supperless to bed,
Since you with whom my lot afloat is thrown,
(Of elegance of taste to land unknown)
Superiour rev'rence to the man refuse,
Who mends your morals, than who mends your shoes.

But Crispin saves your purse, you answer - true,
Nor does your priest without his offerings sue :
Whene'er compell'd to use the fragrant hole,
In some bye nook I'll leave a moral scroll;
The moral scroll who next succeeds may reach,
And to his brains apply it, or his br--h,
Thus shall your fingers find a just excuse,
And one sea chaplain boast, his works of use.

And as yourselves from time to time repair,
To drop the reliques of digestion here,
Still may your pork an easy exit gain,
Nor make you form one ugly face in vain.
Still may your flip, refin'd to amber flow,
In streams salubrious, to the brine below;
Nor ever in too hot a current hiss,
But may all holes prove innocent like this ;
Thus grant my suit, (as grant unhurt you may.)
Your chaplain then without your groats will pray.