Enigma The Third Poem by Robert Anderson

Reader, not in pompous verse I sing,
Nor with the Sons of Genius hope to vie;
Ne'er have I drank at the Castalian spring,
Yet oft to please a rustic groupe I try:
For this, my Muse beguiles the hours of leisure--
O may my light effusion yield thee pleasure!

In ev'ry state, throughout the globe, I'm found,
Where'er the steps of man imprint the ground;
Now seen with monarchs, side by side;
Now with the beggar, and his bride;
Oft I'm thought a welcome guest;
Oft with thorns I wound the breast,
And feel for no man;
To crush the noble mind,
Thro' all ranks of mankind,
Alas! is but too common!
From Ganges banks to Mississippi's shore,
Or where the icy streams of Tornè roar,
To man I've been a friend;
Proud to assist the high, the low,
I'm virtue's pride, am vice's foe,
And thus may I remain till time shall have an end.
The wretch bow'd down by care and toil,
Feels death approaching with a smile,
A ray of comfort oft derives from me;
Now numbers boldly me abuse,
And well they may, with fair excuse,
For thousands I've destroyed, by land and sea.
I'm nam'd in many a poet's page;
Dramatists force me on the stage;
Old Chaucer, Shak speare, Dryden, Cowper, Burns,
Have sung of me by turns;
And Scott, the adventurous chief of song,
Whose lays of chivalry, sweet and strong,
A captive bind the heart,
When of former days,
He the manners pourtrays,
Names me with a poet's art.
Historians, politicians, 'gainst me rage,
In scribbling fury;
I've been oppress'd by many a great law sage,
And eke the brainless jury.
Many there are who little think about me,
And if my deeds are nam'd they shrug and doubt me.
Reader, dost thou visit church,
Or leave the parson in the lurch?
Thou'rt fond, perchance, of play or ball;
Whether thou think'st retirement sweet,
Or lov'st to lounge the street,
I'm ever at thy call.
To no one colour can I be confin'd;
Eyes I have, but oft am blind;
As to size, I'm long, I'm short,
A giant, now a pigmy's sport;
Immoveable, now move at ease,
Oppress, delight, and many teaze:
Like some great men at court, too much I say
About myself; agreed: and now, I pray,
Dissect me, gentle reader, if you please.

You'll find a beast; a bird; a tree;
What's seen in Heaven, but not by you or me;
What cheers the seaman far at sea;
The sportsman's dear delight:
Part of the head; a wholesome liquor,
Priz'd by prelate and by vicar;
And what procures the beggar many a mite.
A part of the female dress,
Worn long ere the days of queen Bess;
A British bard oft nam'd;
A senator justly fam'd;
An Indian fruit;
An useful brute;
A prison, where the wildest oft are tam'd.
What caused in Scotia many a broil,
And oft disturb'd the Em'rald Isle;
A female name;
What calls forth shame;
What robs the beauteous face of many a smile.
What thousands dread;
What thousands tread;
What thousands yearly seek:
What thousands ruin daily;
What thousands mount on gaily;
What spreads a blush on many a lovely cheek.
What hurls destruction o'er the land and main,
And gives to millions pleasure, millions pain--
Leaving a houseless wretch the peaceful swain.
What's oft the poor man's food;
What gamesters love to hold;
What's giv'n for each man's good;
What's dearer far than gold:
What yields to multitudes delight;
What many a good man's ruin proves;
What's hateful to the villain's sight;
What woman dearly loves.
A town in France, which gave a tyrant birth;
A part much gaz'd at in the female shape:
An useful earth;
A well--known cape.
An English bishop's see;
What many cannot do;
What each one ought to be;
What's touch'd but by a few.
A Greek philosopher; Scottish duke;
A word much us'd in the sacred book;
A marshal of France, well known;
A dismal shout;
What few are without;
A botanist fam'd the world throughout;
A sportsman, best pleas'd, when alone.
A fish; what's mostly found in a street;
That which affords a nourishing sweet;
A river, the poet's theme;
A fruit that yields a delicious treat;
What oft'times contains an animal's meat;
A manure some useful deem.
What travels with speed;
What serves you in need
With liquors, the best and the worst;
What bears you on high;
What time's measur'd by;
A title of old
Giv'n by fame, we are told,
To heroes, but now to base sycophants sold,
Whose names are by nations accurs'd.

Enough, good--natur'd Muse, thy rambling cease,
Still at my cabin thou'rt a welcome guest:
Long may we virtuous pleasures try t'increase,
For man's a riddle, and this life's a jest!