PEISTHETAERUS To the Hestia-bird of the household shrine, And the Kite that watches her feasts divine, And to all the Olympian birds and birdesses,
PRIEST O Sunium-hawking, King of the Sea—mew, hail!
PRIEST And to the holy Swan, the Pythian and Delian one, And to thee too, Quail-guide Leto, And to Artemis the Thistle-finch,
PEISTHETAERUS Aye, Thistle-finch; no more Cólaenis now!
PRIEST And to Sabazius the Phrygian linnet; and then To Rhea the Great Mother of Gods and men;
PEISTHETAERUS Aye, Ostrich-queen, Cleocritus’s Mother!
PRIEST That they may grant health and salvation To the whole Cloudcuckooburian nation, For themselves and the Chians,
PEISTHETAERUS I like the Chians everywhere tacked on.
PRIEST And to the hero-birds and sons of heroes, And to the Porphyrion rail; And to the pelican white, and pelican grey; And to the eagle, and to the capercaillie; And to the peacock, and to the sedgewarbler; And to the teal, and to the skua; And to the heron, and to the gannet; And to the blackcap, and to the titmouse;—
PEISTHETAERUS Stop, stop your calling, hang you. O, look here. To what a victim, idiot, are you calling Ospreys and vultures? Don’t you see that one One single kite could carry off the whole?
PEISTHETAERUS Get away hence, you and your garlands too! Myself alone will sacrifice this victim.
CHORUS ONCE MORE as the laver they’re bringing, Once more I my hymns must be singing, Hymns holy and pious, the Gods to invite— One alone, only one,—to our festival rite. Your feast for two, I am sure won’t do. For what you are going to offer there Is nothing at all but horns and hair.
PEISTHETAERUS Let us pray, Offering our victim to the feathery gods.
POET (Singing) Cloudcuckoobury With praise and glory crown, Singing, O Muse, Of the new and happy town!
PEISTHETAERUS Whatever’s this? Why, who in the world are you?
POET O I’m a warbler, carolling sweet lays, An eager meagre servant of the Muses, As Homer says.
PEISTHETAERUS What! you a slave and wear your hair so long?
POET No, but all we who teach sweet choral lays Are eager meagre servants of the Muses, As Homer says.
PEISTHETAERUS That’s why your cloke so meagre seems, no doubt.
PEISTHETAERUS Poet, what ill wind has blown you hither?
POET Oh I’ve been making, making lovely songs, Simonideans, virgin songs, and sweet Dithyrambic songs, on your Cloudcuckooburies.
PEISTHETAERUS When did you first begin these lovely songs?
POET Long, long ago, O yes! Long, long ago!
PEISTHETAERUS Why is not this the City’s Tenth-day feast? I’ve just this instant given the child its name.
POET But fleet, as the merry many-twinkling horses’ feet, The airy fairy Rumour of the Muses. Aetna’s Founder, father mine,
POET Whose name is the same as the holy altar flame, Give to me what thy bounty chooses To give me willingly of thine.
PEISTHETAERUS He’ll cause us trouble now, unless we give him Something, and so get off. Hallo, you priest, Why, you’ve a jerkin and a tunic too; Strip, give the jerkin to this clever poet. Take it; upon my word you do seem cold.
POET This little kindly gift the Muse Accepts with willing condescension; But let me to an apt remark Of Pindar call my lord’s attention.
PEISTHETAERUS The fellow does not seem inclined to leave us.
POET Out among the Scythians yonder
POET See poor Straton wander, wander, Poor poor Straton, not possessed of a whirly-woven vest. All inglorious comes, I trow, leather jerkin, if below No soft tunic it can show. Conceive my drift, I pray.
PEISTHETAERUS Aye, I conceive you want the tunic too. Off with it, you. Needs must assist a POET. There, take it, and depart.
POET Yes, I’ll depart, And make to the city pretty songs like this; O Thou of the golden throne, Sing Her, the quivering, shivering; I came to the plains many-sown, I came to the snowy, the blowy. Alalae!
PEISTHETAERUS Well, well, but now you surely have escaped From all those shiverings, with that nice warm vest. This is, by Zeus, a plague I never dreamed of That he should find our city out so soon. Boy, take the laver and walk round once more. Now hush!
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