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A Soliloquy of the Full Moon, She Being in a Mad Passion
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they`re the Pests of the Nation!
Wherever they can come
With clankum and blankum
`Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation,
With fun, jeering
Conjuring
Sky-staring,
Loungering,
And still to the tune of Transmogrification--
Those muttering
Spluttering
Ventriloquogusty
Poets
With no Hats
Or Hats that are rusty.
They`re my Torment and Curse
And harass me worse
And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow
Than the Screech of the Owl
Or the witch-wolf`s long howl,
Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog`s inward Bow wow
For me they all spite--an unfortunate Wight.
And the very first moment that I came to Light
A Rascal call`d Voss the more to his scandal,
Turn`d me into a sickle with never a handle.
A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came,
The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name--
`Ho! What`s in the wind?` `Tis the voice of a Wizzard!
I saw him look at me most terribly blue !
He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard,
And soon as he`d found them made no more ado
But chang`d me at once to a little Canoe.
From this strange Enchantment uncharm`d by degrees
I began to take courage & hop`d for some Ease,
When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti
Past by--& intending no doubt to be witty,
Because I`d th` ill-fortune his taste to displease, He turn`d up his nose,
And in pitiful Prose Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese.
Well, a night or two past--it was wind, rain & hail--
And I ventur`d abroad in a thick Cloak & veil--
But the very first Evening he saw me again
The last mentioned Ruffian popp`d out of his Den--
I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle
I fancy the sight of me turn`d his Brains addle-- For what was I now?
A complete Barley-mow And when I climb`d higher he made a long leg,
And chang`d me at once to an Ostrich`s Egg--
But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon,
I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon. Yet my heart is still fluttering--
For I heard the Rogue muttering-- He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood
When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood
On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud
And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud
And wish`d from his heart nine Nine-pins to see
In brightness & size just proportion`d to me.
So I fear`d from my soul,
That he`d make me a Bowl, But in spite of his spite
This was more than his might And still Heaven be prais`d! in contempt of the Loon
I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.
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