Anacreontic To A Plumassier.

Fine and feathery artisan,     Best of Plumists (if you can     With your art so far presume)     Make for me a Prince's Plume--     Feathers soft and feathers rare,     Such as suits a Prince to wear.         First thou downiest of men,     Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;     Such a Hen, so tall and grand,     As by Juno's side might stand,     If there were no cocks at hand.     Seek her feathers, soft as down,     Fit to shine on Prince's crown;     If thou canst not find them, stupid!     Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.     Ranging these in order due,     Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;     Emblem of the happy fates     Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.     Pluck him well--be sure you do--     Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,     Thus to have his plumage blest,     Beaming on a Royal crest?         Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird     Shall we find for Plume the third?     You must get a learned Owl,     Bleakest of black-letter fowl--     Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]     Foe to all that's fair and bright.     Seize his quills, (so formed to pen     Books[2] that shun the search of men;     Books that, far from every eye,     In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)     Stick them in between the two,     Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.     Now you have the triple feather,     Bind the kindred stems together     With a silken tie whose hue     Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;     Sullied now--alas, how much!     Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.         There--enough--thy task is done;     Present, worthy George's Son;     Now, beneath, in letters neat,     Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.