HOG-LAND: / Or, a / Description of Hampshire. / A / Mock Heroic / POEM / In Answer to / Mr. HOLDSWORTH'S Muscipula. / By Mr. RICHARDS of Jesus Coll. Oxon. / Swine, Smite your Snouts, and Snort the Poet's Praise. / Eleg. Poet. / LONDON: / Printed in the YEAR, M.DCC.XX.VIII.

['Choirochorographia'? in greek letters] / SIVE, / HOGLANDIAE DESCRIPTIO. / [picture of a hog, and caption:-] TURX TRUYE BEVIS O HAMIUN / Plaudite Porcelli Porcorum pigra Propago. Eleg. Poet. / LONDINI: / Impensis M. CURLL, M.DCC.XXVIII. / Pretium 1s.

The ARGUMENT

The Poem opens with a Description of Hampshire. Its Inhabitants condemned to Swine, and why. The Gods being enraged at these People, send a huge wild Boar into their Fields. A Description of the Beast, and his Devastations. The Hinds of Hampshire assembled in Council. A Sow-Gelder's Horn described. Porcius, a certain Hampshire Gentleman, his Speech. Bevis, the Hero of their Country, his great Skill in Swine, his Invention of a Hog-Ring, his shrewd Cunning in deceiving the wild Boar, his Armour, and his Victory related. A Publick Rejoicing of the Hampshireites upon that Occasion. Their Banquets, and various Delicacies. The Original of Black-Puddings. From whence proceed the many Stories of Bevis of Southampton.

I Sing the Man whose warlike Force subdu'd

The Boar, dire Monster, of rapacious Brood,

Who crush'd the lawless Terrors of his Night,

And gain'd a bloodless Conquest from the Fight.

The various Kinds of Bacon I relate,

And Smoak-ory'd Hams, delicious relish'd Meat!

From whence Black-Puddings first arose, I sing.

Thy sacred Aid, Paternal Phoebus, bring.

O Phoebus! Thou who sed'st Admetus' Swine,

Propitious hear, and prosper the Design.

Thou too, O Holdsworth! in thy low Retreat,

Or hammers Verses, or do'st Bacon eat:

Attend, while I thy great Fore-fathers trace,

Their Wars, their Kingdoms, and their Princely Race:

Assist, while I thy native Country sing.

And tune its Praises on no vulgar String.

Southward of Berks, there runs a Tract of Ground,

Where Portsmouth warlike heretofore was found:

This spot, while Arthur peerless King did reign,

Stretch'd its huge Fortress to the angry Main,

And deck'd with stately Monuments of War,

It look'd a matchless Citadel from far;

But now, no more remains its Pristine State,

And scarce does seem, that e'er it once was great:

This Seat, which heretofore, all Foes withstood,

Now yields submissive to a Savage Brood:

Now all Labours of the British Race,

Alas! To Ruin, and to Boars give Place:

Those verdant Fields to Saxon Swine-herds bow,

And passive own a bristled Monarch now.

Thou Isle of Wight, how happy is't for thee,

That thou'rt encompass'd by the friendly Sea;

Who liv'st secure from these contagious Harms,

Nor know'st these fell these direful Alarms.

Now say, my Muse, what angry God decreed

These Plagues to Hampshire: O my Muse proceed,

Why here alone the nauseous Hog-sties smell?

O, say my Muse, for only thou can'st tell.

When Norman William the proud Danes o'er-threw

His Laurels sprouted where he Harold slew:

When now secure of Empire and Command,

And Regal Pomp adorn'd his Princely Hand;

With well-mouth'd Dogs he hunted o'er the Plain,

And rul'd o'er Beasts in his despotick Reign;

With winged Arrows he the Stag assail'd,

And practis'd Art, where Strength and Valour fail'd,

But then too much on Rapine bent, and Spoil,

He dar'd the Altars of the Gods defile,

And levell'd all their Temples with the Ground,

While Fire, and Sword promiscuous went round,

Thus furious all, with One Consent, wage War,

And threat the Gods with Menaces severe.

From far they bellow, and aloud proclaim

Celestial war, with Blasphemy Profane.

Twice Fifteen holy Mansions they destroy'd,

And Thirty holy Images beside,

Where prostrate laid a Sacrifice to Pride.

The painted Altars are to Ashes turn'd,

And Gods reclin'd behold their houses burn'd.

The Jove Almighty thunder'd from the Sky,

And vengeful bid his forked Light'nings fly.

The Kingly Race he doom'd to Death's Command,

And sent wild Boars to vex the Hampshire land:

To Stinks offensive he each Place assign'd;

For Gods were ever of a vengefull Kind.

From hence the Nation fully is engag'd

To heal the Breaches where these Monsters rag'd;

To cleanse the vile Pollutions of their Lands,

Their Art employs, and sacrilegious Hands.

Nor are the Gods yet satisfy'd with rage,

A Boar is sent: O terrible Presage!

A dreadful Boar, the messenger of Heaven,

For Spoil, for Havock, and Destruction's given.

High o'er his Back the bristly Forest stands,

Whose hostile Shafts a general Fear commands:

With Ivory Tusks his Jaws are thick beset,

Which foaming churn with Anger and Regret:

His Eyes with Monstrous Flames of Vengeance glare,

He breathes a Cloud of Sulphur thro' the Air.

Long uncontroll'd o'er Hampshire Lands he pass's

And rooting laid their fertile Vallies waste.

The fallow Grounds became his Savage spoil,

And Fields abortive, mock'd the Farmer's Toil.

In vain he hedges in his bearded Care,

And Toils expos'd to piercing Blasts of Air.

The Foe in vain to screen his well till'd Space:

Opposing Ranks in vain attempt his Stay,

Thro' brittle Folds he dauntless storms his Way,

And loudly grunting, meditates his Prey.

Thus o'er Arcadia ravag'd heretofore

A wild destructive Caledonian Boar,

Who spoil'd the Vineyards, and the Corn destroy'd,

Who render'd future promis'd Harvests void,

The Sylvan Terror, Meleager's Pride.

Horrid! The Nation swells with keenest Ire,

And vow'd Revenge, renews the Lambent Fire.

Then rose an Elder venerably wise,

With Grief and Anguish sparkling in his Eyes;

Whose Fields the Savage Tyrant had laid Waste;

Whose Acorns fell the Victims of his Taste:

Fretting he fumes, impatient of his Wrong,

And thus foretold the Monster with his Tongue.

'Thy Life, O Brute, the Forfeiture shall pay

'For Mischief done, thou wicked Beast of Prey:

'Nor shall the Gods protect Thee in thy Sway.

When strait an awful Synod does convene,

Of Friends and Kindred, free-born Hampshire Men.

Within Southampton's spacious walls they met,

And told their bitter Hardship with regret.

When now the awful Herald had obtain'd

The steepy Swine-stye, and its Height had gain'd,

From off his shoulder twitch'd a bended Horn,

For private Use and publick Notice worn;

Which narrows downwards, by Degrees, grows wide,

With Arms of Lead encompass'd on each Side,

Which upwards in an ambient Circle bends,

And border'd round with Brass it artful ends.

This, as the Passage of his Mouth did reach,

His empty Paunch dilated, seem'd to stretch;

With equal Blasts his hollow Cheeks arose,

And opening wide, a roofed Convex shows.

But now the Winds imprison'd loudly roar,

Half mounting upwards into Belches soar,

Half of their issue at the Postern Door.

Three times he shrilly sounded an Alarm,

And thrice his Guts their Accents did perform:

In vain, alas, his labour'd Organs swell,

The Elders hear, but none the cause can tell:

They hear, but know not what his Purport means,

Altho' he burst with Wind and airy Pains.

But now the practick Scheme more easy grows,

And stamps a new Invention on his Brows.

With frequent Strokes the Pail resounds from far

To summon forth Heroic Sons to war:

The sounding Hogsheads rouze each Sect of Swine,

Which headlong run: it being Time to dine,

Confus'dly all with such Disorder throng,

They seem the Friends of sage Laertes' Son,

Who felt the Magick of the Scythian Queen;

Transform'd to Swine, they crowd th' Ionian Green,

And Monsters seem, no more abandon'd Men,

The drowzy Elders at the Sounds awake,

And mix'd with Common an Assembly make.

First rose old Porcius in the sweaty Crew,

Upon whose Head erected Bristles grew;

His Body fortify'd with Dirt around,

Contemns the Cold, nor fears an Icy Wound:

When thus accosting the assembled Clan,

He loos'd his Tongue, and gravely thus began.

'Fathers and Friends, no single Hardships call

'Our summon'd Council to this stately hall;

'But common Hardships common Aid demands,

'And bids us arm, with one Consent, our Bands

'For see, great Sirs, how fierce this Boar invades

'Our fertile Valleys, and our flow'ry Meads.

'See how he ranges Lordly o'er our Isle,

'He mocks our Harvests, and deludes our Toil.

'Our Beans and Turnips fall beneath his Jaws,

'And Garlick trampled lies beneath his Paws:

'O shamefull Grief! O constant Woe of Woes.

'O Garlick! How do I thy Fall regret:

'Garlick! The only Herb for Pottage fit.

'Those dire Mishaps, my Countrymen, ye see,

'And bear this Load of Infamy with me:

'Can ye behold, and tamely thus look on,

'To see your Children and your selves undone?

'Run, run, my Friends, to stand your Country's Guard,

'And latest Times your Labours shall reward.

Thus spoke old Porcius, venerable Sire,

Whose Wounds unusual Ardour did inspire,

And fill'd each Breast with emulating Fire.

Now spurr'd with Rage, the Belgic Tribe combine,

Vowing Destruction to the Tyrant Swine:

One singly stands, prepar'd to tempt the Foe,

And threatens Death at each impending Blow.

More wary, one with Strategems and Guile,

Prepares to conquer by some crafty Wile.

A Third resolving, animates the Throng,

With hardy deeds to vindicate their Wrong.

Thus various Thoughts perplex their warlike Souls,

This burns with Passion, Reason, that controls;

When started forth another active Blade,

High Bevis, and Sow-gelding was his Trade:

Renown'd for Cunning, and for Parts renown'd,

His like, throughout all Hampshire, was not found.

Bevis! his Country's Glory, and their Boast,

That Factions strive who shall applaud him most.

He knew the Strangles, and the Mange he knew;

And by Prescription heal'd the bristly Crew:

He knew each various Planet of the Sky,

Could count their Motions, and Events descry.

Knew when to geld his Cattle; when forbear,

By secret Influence of the ruling Star,

And also knew to far the Swineherd's Care.

So vers'd in Secrets of the Bestial Crew,

That no Arcana lurk'd beneath his View

Thus great in Arts, Southampton's Hero stands

First wipes his Mouth, and displays his Hands;

Then thus th' ambiguous Senate he Harangues.

''Tis not, methinks, O Fathers, safe to dare

'This fierce Assailant to the Toils of War:

'Nor are we safe on Terms of Death to go,

'Lest injur'd Heav'n should now protect the Foe,

'And add fresh Torments to our Fields of Woe.

'Boldness is Folly when the brave we storm,

'And Valour vanquish'd wears the Coward's Form:

'Advis'd by me, my Friends, we still are safe;

'Again, Hoglandia's fruitful Fields shall laugh,

'Shall smile in Plenty and luxurious Ease,

'Nor know again such hapless Days as these:

'The Boar, from hence, shall harmless range our Lands,

'And only reap his Tribute from our Hands:

'For bounteous Heav'n has now this Gift bestow'd

'On me propitious, for my Country's Good.

'When now the Mole my Garden had o'erthrown,

'And rooted up the Seeds I scarce had sown,

'When now he wander'd thro' my flow'ry Space,

'In crook'd Meanders shamefully did pass;

'My Leeks and Onions from their Roots he rent,

'Dealing Destruction to each Herb and Plant:

'My costly Table groan'd beneath his Rage,

'Devoid of Onions and bereft of Sage.

'But soon defensive Armour I prepar'd,

'And all his delving Passages ensnar'd;

'I measur'd o'er each Step the Foe had trod,

'And laid my wily Springes in his Road:

'Soon in my Noose I caught th' intangl'd Brute,

'I bor'd his Nostrils with by bearded Blade,

'Which, thro' his Snout, its twofold Passage made,

'And, hot with Gore, within the Wound it stay'd.

''Twas thus I treated this intruding Foe,

'And then with Leave I bid the Robber go

'Strait his old Haunts, and for Paths repeats,

'His wonted Caverns, and his known Retreats;

'Nor yet transgressing does he rudely dare

'To spoil my Gardens, or my Sallads tear.

'These Arts again in Practice might prevail,

'Which tam'd the Mole; they now can never fail.

'This Mole, my Friends, has Health and safety show'd,

'Reveal'd the Paths, and pointed out the Road;

'And joyful, All, confess the Publick Good.

Thus Bevis spoke, while the assembled Clan,

In loud Huzzas, proclaim'd the God-like Man:

Joyous they skip to think their Danger's gone,

And future Safety their past Ills atone;

Pleas'd they behold, or fancy they behold,

The Tyrant vanquish'd, and his Rage controul'd.

Mean while, great Bevis he provokes his Speed,

Toils in his Thought, and hammers out the Deed.

Now sweating, turns within the Lambent Flame

The ruder Mass, the undigested Frame

Of supple Steel, by fiery Force made tame.

He wields the Hammer with a threatening Blow,

Now brandish'd high, and now depending low.

Thus at the Anvil is he lab'ring show'd,

While all his Sinews stretch beneath his Load.

So toil'd the Cyclops in the darksome Cell,

When Giant Sons still dar'd with Pride rebel;

Forging hot Vengeance for the Wrath of Jove,

To quell Usurpers, and their Crimes reprove.

Thus drown'd in Sweat, the trickling Drops descend,

And thus the Anvil sounds beneath his Hand.

But now, at length, the rare Machine is brought

New from the Furnace, and without a Fault;

The Bane of all the future bristly race,

The Artist's Glory, and the Founder's Praise.

Careful, O Reader, let us now survey,

This artful Engine, and its Use display.

Arched the ductile Steel depending grows,

Whose sharpen'd Points Two bearded Darts compose,

Whose Body larger in the midst increase;

Descending down, by slow Degrees grows less:

Its final Parts Two forked Heads disclose,

Lest rooting forwards should forsake the Nose;

With Iron Plates the Midst encompass'd stands,

Which cross the Nostrils all the Front commands,

Which twisted round, a slender Orb declares,

And stands protected round with iron Bars.

Thus forth the Labours of the Anvil shines

In sweaty Triumph; but there still combines

The Rack of Thought, and deep contriving Art,

To render this compleat in every Part.

This asks, great Bevis, thy maturest Aid,

To end with skill what thou by Force hast made.

Now, lost in Thought, the pondering Hero strives,

Loading his Thought, while yet his Brain contrives

Some Way the wakeful Tyrant to surprise:

But all in vain, for Nature still denies.

What now avails this useless Engine wrought,

These bearded Darts, and all my by-gone Thought?

He says, 'If forceful Arms, nor crafty Guile

'Can here prevail, in vain my well-wrought Toil,

'And see the Foe he triumphs in the Spoil.

'To Fate ill omen'd cast thy forward Eye,

'Far hence be gone, far hence my Presence fly:

He threw the poor Machine neglectelly.

And now the Sons of Hampshire half ordain

This new Invention, form'd with Art in vain,

To suffer Darkness in eternal Night,

And sculking lie, for ever hid from Sight.

Well nigh, O Bevis! was thy Cunning fled,

Had not immediate Slumbers seiz'd thy Head;

Which bid thee, dreaming, cast away thy Care,

And thus advis'd, this Compound did prepare.

Of Syder Lees he brought One flowing Pail,

And also One of Stout October Ale,

With Dregs of Wine, by Time and Age grown stale:

These all commixt with Poppy's lulling Aid,

Which Calms the Thought, and gives the Mind a Shade.

Dissembled Acorns from his Fancy grew,

In artfull Pills, deceiving vulgar View,

Moist with the Draught, and wet with somnous Dew.

Thus lay conceal'd the lureing Wiles of Fate

While Slumbrs lurk'd beneath his Acorn Bait.

With these prepar'd, Dame Fortune bids him try

Uncertain Chance, and trust another Sky

Bids him defensive Armours strait put on:

For who, indeed, dares venture here alone,

Naked, unarm'd, when such a Foe we dare?

For Prudence always is the Strength of War.

Quick, at Command, the Summons he obey'd,

And call'd the Bacon Flitches to his Aid.

Which Ten Years season'd in the Chimney hung,

Harden'd with Smoak, with Age compleatly strong:

Ponderous his weighty Mass of Armour shows,

A Seven-fold Shield, while Orbs on Orbs he sows,

So Telamonian Ajax, in the Field,

Oppos'd the Trojans with an equal Shield.

If this the Absence of Bull Hides it mourns,

That wanting Bristles, the Complaint returns.

His mouldy Buskins he prepares in Haste.

And tucks his Leathern Girdle round his Waste.

He sticks his rusty Sword across his Side,

And o'er his Breast a threefold skin is ty'd,

In ghastly Terror, and Heroick Pride.

Thus clad he stands, confess'd, to mortal Eyes,

An o'ergrown Hedge-Hog, of enormous Size:

No pluming Helmet nodded o'er his Brows,

For Nature, conscious of succeeding Woes,

Securer Armour aptly she ordains,

And for the Helmet gives him strength of Brains.

Arm'd Cap-a-pee, this Hero sallies forth,

And stalks a Knight of Dignity and Worth:

Proud in the Triumphs of Atchievements won,

He meets the Foe, with Valour scarce his own;

Partly relying on his trusty Steed,

Whose winged Feet may help in Time of Need;

And partly trusting to his compound Dose,

Headlong he rushes, and undaunted goes;

Unknown to Fear, he scorns a Host of Foes.

The Boar resenting his too rude Assault,

Turn'd to the Hero, to rebuke his Fault:

Backward the Hero drove with frightful Speed,

Starting he turn'd, and as he turn'd he fled.

Close to his faithful Steed he clings with Fear,

And forward spurs with Haste, and wild Career

Then eas'd his Satchel of its wonted Load,

And scatter'd Pills like Acorns in his Road.

Thro' e'ery Lane his soft Enchantment's sown,

And bound in sleepy Chains the Brute lies down.

This Bevis sees with Pleasure and Surprize,

And, quick as Thought, reanimated flies,

To seize the Captive, and fulfil his Joys.

No more remains this abject Thing call'd Fear

Which Sons of Mars have ever scorn'd to wear.

Elated now he springs an active Bound,

Dismounts his Steed, and leaps upon the Ground:

He strides the Boar, extended on the Sand,

And waves the Victor Ensigns in his Hand;

Then sings triumphant in a jocund Strain,

And laughs to see his Foe impress the Plain.

The joyful Vallies echoed to his Voice,

And distant Squadrons send a shouting Noise.

Now all arriv'd, the sleeping Brute invade,

Molest his Slumbers, and protract his Shade:

With Iron Chains he curbs his bristly Head,

And girds his Feet with twisted Lines of Thread;

He rears the State, ordain'd by Fate alone,

And close to Earth he tyes the Monster down.

When now the Captive thus begirt he lay,

And Fear ignoble wing'd her darksome Way,

The Hogland Hero, to perform the Deed,

Applies his Courage, and provokes his Speed:

The forked Steel he whets with artful Ease,

And smears the Points with Dregs of Bacon Grease.

Then rising, sternly, with a huffing Mien,

Quite thro' his Snout he drives the new Machine,

Which to the Hilts well nigh has glibly run,

But, stopp'd by th' Snout, could press no further down.

Thro' either Nostril peeps a bearded Dart,

Which backwards cannot, nor yet forwards part

From the Hold, prefix'd by Rules of Art.

Scarce the great Work was finish'd, when the Boar,

Loos'd from the Bonds of Sleep, began to roar;

Tortur'd with Chains, he yell'd a dismal Voice,

That distant Shores re-ecchoed to the Noise:

Thro' distant Woods his Shreiks incessant ran

O'er Hills, o'er Desarts, and the angry Main:

All hear, and know, the welcome Sound attend,

And joy to find their Labours at an End.

From far they travail a confused Throng,

And triumph o'er the past ill-fated Wrong.

One of the Tribe was Winton's Weaver known,

Pressing the Crowd, impatient hurry'd on;

Leaving his Loom and naked Walls alone.

The next great Man, a Hogland Poet was,

Whipping and spurring on his bob-tail'd Ass.

Around this chief Muscipularians wait,

Sworn Foes to Mice, portending ranc'rous Hate,

Loaded with Mouse-Traps, threaten War and Fate.

Soon a grave Owl, with rage poetick sir'd,

Beheld the Gang, with Harmony inspir'd;

Hooting she sat within an aged Oak,

And more than once presaging Dirges spoke.

Hemm'd in the Crowd, Southampton's Fidler stood,

Vexing his Strings, and torturing his Wood.

The poaching Cobler runs with Might and Main,

Forsakes smooth Avon, and the rural Plain:

In ev'ry Harbour Groans on Groans rebound,

And ev'ry Sea attentive heard the Sound:

The Mayor of Newport did the Call obey,

And o'er the rapid Tide he forc'd his Way

Leaving his Grandeur, and his Isle behind,

He floats on Canvas Wings before the Wind.

Astonish'd all, the God-like Man approve,

His Deeds of Virtue, and his Acts of Love:

Pleas'd they behold, while wondering they see

The Monster bound in Chains and Infamy,

Then praise the Hand that set their Country free,

By whose Contrivance, and whose Skill divine,

Form'd a Machine, which evermore shall shine

The Praise and Honour of that Belgian Line.

Mean while, luxurious Banquets they demand,

In strict Observance of the rescued Land

From off their loaded racks, are handed down,

To Smoak familiar, and the Chimney known,

Twice Fifty Chines of various Size and Sort,

To crown the Feast in bright Array resort;

With costly Pride they heap their crowded Boards

And every Chine a Hetacomb affords:

For One Usurper, Hundreds yield to fate,

And fall Atonements to an injur'd State:

With Victor Palms, their annual Rites they pay,

To eternize they Glories of this Day;

That Deeds like this might ever grow in fame,

They ev'ry Year record the Hero's Name.

From hence the Cook, as Fame reports, reveal'd

Mysterious Dainties, 'till that Time conceal'd.

He mix'd Hogs-Guts with Liver and with Fat,

And shred in Bits the half concocted Meat:

He temper'd Sweet-Meats in the Purple Flood,

With Time and Sage, portending wholesome Food:

Sweet melted Fat he pours along the whole;

And lastly blends his Mixture in a Bowl.

Then o'er the Flames, in boiling Streams shut down

Black-Puddings march the second Course to crown.

As these approach, their Broth insipid grows,

And tainted Hamms offend the dainty Nose;

Their wonted Food seems nauseous by Degrees,

Black-Puddings now alone their Stomachs please.

O Hampshire! Thou eternal Feasts shall know,

And Cole-Black-Puddings on your Boards shall grow.

O God-like Banquets! and O Lovely Feasts!

Worthy the Hunger of the wide-mouth'd Priests

On Food like this, the Gods might gladly dine,

And own the Cheer both luscious and divine:

From hence Black-Puddings prove the Parson's Due;

A Diet worthy the Parochial Crew.

Bevis farewell, to thee Farewell I send,

Thy Country's Parent, Guardian and Friend,

While hurtful Moles our Gardens shall annoy,

While rooting Pigs our Fields of Corn destroy;

Or while Black-Puddings shall adorn our Feast,

So long thy Honour Name and Praise shall last.

Strangers from far to Thee shall Homage own,

And England vaunt itself in thy Renown:

While grateful Nations seek to laud thy Name,

Exalted Bevis! Thou surmount'st their Fame

All own; while Deeds Heroick they persue

You like Alcides, or Alcides You.

From hence, 'tis said, great Bevis overthrew

Lions and Bears, and almost Kingdoms too.

From hence the Learned firmly still maintain

He strew'd the Ground with Mountains of his Slain;

That Heaps of Giants fell beneath his Ire,

A Thousand Monsters, and Chimaeras dire.