The Whip, Or, A Touch At The Times. Sent To Miss D. Of Linsted, With A Whip Made Of A Rhinoceros's S Poem by Hector Macneill

Ere modest virtue lost her way
Among the profligate and gay,
Few modes were used for travel;
Unknown to whip, or spur, or boot,
Each hardy Briton trudg'd on foot,
Through mud, bog, dust and gravel.

'Twas then the fair, as story tells,
(Ah! how unlike our modern belles!)
Knew neither coach nor saddle;
No female Phaetonians then
Surpass'd the boldest of our men
In gesture, look, and straddle.

But form'd by nature's artless hand,
Blushes, 'tis said, at her command
Oft stole o'er beauty's features:
No wife then scorn'd domestic sweats;
No daughter Jehu! scour'd the streets;
Good lad! what simple creatures!

Emerg'd at length from gothic rules,
Our fair ones, train'd in happier schools,
For blushes, now give fashion;
Each modest virtue thrown aside,
Behold! like men, erect, astride!
They drive! they whip! they dash on!

O! may the glorious day arrive,
When each bold lass her nag shall drive
O'er hedges, gates, and ditches!
Despise the housewife's hateful lot,
And change the useless petticoat
For boots and buckskin breeches!

Yet heterogeneous as they are,
Half man - half woman - half centaur:
Some grave folks dread infection:
See! virtue trembling flies the land!
Alas! 'gainst furious four in hand
No common whip's protection!

Struck with the thought, I reason'd long,
Eliza, poor thing's far from strong,
And yet she loves a canter;
Some fierce virago, high in blood
May lay her sprawling in the mud,
Or in a hedge-row plant her!

What then remains the weak to shield?
Must freedom thus her charter yield?
Has beauty no defender?
Alas! no bosom swells with rage!
There's nought in this bold dashing age,
But flogging to befriend her!

Since lashing's then, the ton, the tip,
And vict'ry now turns on the Whip,
The toughtest whip should win;
And as we know in each hard bout,
The 'toughest hide holds longest out,'
I'll find - a whip of skin.'

Pleas'd with the fancy, swift I sped,
Mad with the project in my head,
I rang'd half India o'er;
But hides well beat, are seldom tough:
At last a bit of precious stuff
I found on Afric's shore.

There, by his streams and tangling groves,
The huge Rhinoceros careless roves,
Though growls each savage nigh:
Undaunted, arm'd with horn and hide,
To ball and dart he turns his side,
Unheeded as they fly.

But what's the arm'd, the bold, the strong!
(Again we moralize our song,)
If treachery aims the blow?
Ev'n Samson fell by female wit,
And see! in subtle treachery's pit
The mighty beast lies low.

Thus fall'n by cunning's sneaking plot,
With joy they strip his horny coat;
('Twas wondrous to behold!)
'By Heavens! I cried, 'at length I've found
A skin that's proof 'gainst mortal wound!
'Tis worth its weight in gold!'

Torn from the side it lately grac'd,
A slice I cut with eager haste;
A touch, tenacious slip!
And hurrying home to British land,
Gave it to Kelly in the Strand,
Who form'd it to a whip.

Thus arm'd, with virtue on your side,
Unconquer'd reign, undaunted ride,
Nor fear e'en Lade or Archer.
Some dame indeed may whoop and crack,
But let Rhinoceros touch her back,
It will both blue and starch her.

O, could its virtues but repair
The lungs of thy half-winded mare,
How great would be thy glory!
From Linsted town thy fame would trot
E'en to the house of Johnny Grot,
In many a marv'lous story.

Then should we hear in clam'rous boast,
How one young fair one rul'd the roast,
As Pitt now rules the nation;
Made female jockies bounce and skip,
And by the pow'r of one fam'd Whip,
Flogg'd vice from freedom's station!

But since, alas! no cure we know,
Since Phill must puff, or you move slow,

Yet should the man, of worth possest,
Fair candour glowing at his breast,
Confess thy power of charms;
List to his tale, be frank, be kind
Unfashion'd blush to love refin'd,
And whip - into his arms!