A Soliloquy of the Full Moon, She Being in a Mad Passion

Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!

Wherever they can come

With clankum and blankum

'Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation,

With fun, jeering

Conjuring

Sky-staring,

Loungering,

And still to the tune of Transmogrification--

Those muttering

Spluttering

Ventriloquogusty

Poets

With no Hats

Or Hats that are rusty.

They're my Torment and Curse

And harass me worse

And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow

Than the Screech of the Owl

Or the witch-wolf's long howl,

Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog's inward Bow wow

For me they all spite--an unfortunate Wight.

And the very first moment that I came to Light

A Rascal call'd Voss the more to his scandal,

Turn'd me into a sickle with never a handle.

A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came,

The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name--

`Ho! What's in the wind?' 'Tis the voice of a Wizzard!

I saw him look at me most terribly blue !

He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard,

And soon as he'd found them made no more ado

But chang'd me at once to a little Canoe.

From this strange Enchantment uncharm'd by degrees

I began to take courage & hop'd for some Ease,

When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti

Past by--& intending no doubt to be witty,

Because I'd th' ill-fortune his taste to displease,

He turn'd up his nose,

And in pitiful Prose

Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese.

Well, a night or two past--it was wind, rain & hail--

And I ventur'd abroad in a thick Cloak & veil--

But the very first Evening he saw me again

The last mentioned Ruffian popp'd out of his Den--

I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle

I fancy the sight of me turn'd his Brains addle--

For what was I now?

A complete Barley-mow

And when I climb'd higher he made a long leg,

And chang'd me at once to an Ostrich's Egg--

But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon,

I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.

Yet my heart is still fluttering--

For I heard the Rogue muttering--

He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood

When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood

On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud

And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud

And wish'd from his heart nine Nine-pins to see

In brightness & size just proportion'd to me.

So I fear'd from my soul,

That he'd make me a Bowl,

But in spite of his spite

This was more than his might

And still Heaven be prais'd! in contempt of the Loon

I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.