I hate your Sterne, though still at times,
When for a lighter half-hour yearning,
I toss aside unfinish'd rhymes
For Uncle Toby's warlike learning;
Or sit within the bowling green,
And slip into his soldier's fancies.
And be field-marshal of the scene,
And note down how the siege advances.
I watch him as with quiet smile
He looks on honest Trim parading,
Who scowls defiance all the while
He sets himself for cannonading;
Then, when the mimic storms begin,
And all such military raptures,
Along with Toby I rush in,
And fight, and make a thousand captures.
All this stirs up my bosom's fire,
But when I count myself the winner,
Behind, with fingers on the wire,
I see that sentimental sinner,
Cold, stiff, and harsh, and sneering still,
At all my little touch of feeling,
And chuckling o'er his studied skill,
That hides his flimsy double-dealing.
Then all at once, in utter wrath,
I leap up from my seat, and striding,
Dismount the cannons in my path,
Nor heed my Uncle Toby's chiding,
Nor look on Trim, who at such hap
Turns slowly round in formal fashion,
Then doffs in doubt his favourite cap,
And wonders at my sudden passion.
Then dries the tear about to come
To grace the ****'s piteous story,
And all my fine resolves grow dumb
Though looking at the captive hoary.
I hear the starling's 'Can't get out,'
Nor feel one single muscle quiver,
But curse his noise, and turn about,
And walk away as cool as ever.
I seldom now affect such hue,
Even in my moments most poetic;
And still I think a time or two
Before I make myself pathetic.
This comes of Sterne. And he who may
Still yearn for all his gilded bubble,
May fling his heart and purse away,
And make that hollow 'Journey' double.