All human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey:
This LAWRENCEWELK found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:
In music and song, was own'd, without dispute
Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute.
This aged prince now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the State:
And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit;
Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me:
TWEED alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dullness from his tender years.
TWEED alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But TWEED never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through and make a lucid interval;
But TWEED's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day:
Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
His warbling guitar, with which he whilom strung
When to King KHANDU was so bravely sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on muddy Mississippi did'st cut thy way,
With well tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The guitar still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar:
Echoes from Pissing-Alley, TWEED doth call,
And TWEED they resound from Aston Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast, that floats along.
Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band
Thou wield'st thy ACCORDION in thy threshing hand.
St. Cecilia's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Carol C forswore
The piano accordion which she in triumph bore
And vow'd she would polka never more.
Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his blues, persuade,
That for anointed instrument he was made.