The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe
by unknown · English · Gutenberg #6652 · 987,126 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe
Editor: James Parton
Release date: October 1, 2004 [eBook #6652]
Most recently updated: December 29, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6652
Credits: Rose Koven, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUMOROUS POETRY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE; FROM CHAUCER TO SAXE ***
Rose Koven, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
THE HUMOROUS POETRY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, FROM CHAUCER TO SAXE.
Narratives, Satires, Enigmas, Burlesques, Parodies, Travesties,
Epigrams, Epitaphs, Translations, Including the Most Celebrated Comic
Poems of the Anti-Jacobin, Rejected Addresses, the Ingoldsby Legends,
Blackwood's Magazine, Bentley's Miscellany, and Punch.
With More Than Two Hundred Epigrams, and the Choicest Humorous Poetry
of Wolcott, Cowper, Lamb, Thackeray, Praed, Swift, Scott, Holmes,
Aytoun, Gay, Burns, Southey, Saxe, Hood, Prior, Coleridge, Byron,
Moore, Lowell, Etc.
WITH
NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND BIOGRAPHICAL,
BY JAMES PARTON.
PREFACE.
The design of the projector of this volume was, that it should
contain the Best of the shorter humorous poems in the literatures
of England and the United States, except:
Poems so local or cotemporary in subject or allusion, as not to be
readily understood by the modern American reader;
Poems which, from the freedom of expression allowed in the healthy
ages, can not now be read aloud in a company of men and women;
Poems that have become perfectly familiar to every body, from their
incessant reproduction in school-books and newspapers; and
Poems by living American authors, who have collected their humorous
pieces from the periodicals in which most of them originally appeared,
and given them to the world in their own names.
Holmes, Saxe, and Lowell are, therefore, only REPRESENTED in this
collection. To have done more than fairly represent them, had been to
infringe rights which are doubly sacred, because they are not
protected by law. To have done less would have deprived the reader of
a most convenient means of observing that, in a kind of composition
confessed to be among the most difficult, our native wits are not
excelled by foreign.
The editor expected to be embarrassed with a profusion of material for
his purpose. But, on a survey of the poetical literature of the two
countries, it was discovered that, of really excellent humorous
poetry, of the kinds universally interesting, untainted by obscenity,
not marred by coarseness of language, nor obscured by remote allusion,
the quantity in existence is not great. It is thought that this volume
contains a very large proportion of the best pieces that haveappeared.
An unexpected feature of the book is, that there is not a line in it
by a female hand. The alleged foibles of the Fair have given occasion
to libraries of comic verse; yet, with diligent search, no humorous
poems by women have been found which are of merit sufficient to give
them claim to a place in a collection like this. That lively wit and
graceful gayety, that quick perception of the absurd, which ladies are
continually displaying in their conversation and correspondence,
never, it seems, suggest the successful epigram, or inspire happy
satirical verse.
The reader will not be annoyed by an impertinent superfluity of notes.
At the end of the volume may be found a list of the sources from which
its contents have been taken. For the convenience of those who live
remote from biographical dictionaries, a few dates and other
particulars have been added to the mention of each name. For valuable
contributions to this portion of the volume, and for much
well-directed work upon other parts of it, the reader is indebted to
Mr. T. BUTLER GUNN, of this city.
There is, certainly, nothing more delightful than the fun of a man of
genius. Humor, as Mr. Thackeray observes, is charming, and poetry is
charming, but the blending of the two in the same composition is
irresistible. There is much nonsense in this book, and some folly, and
a little ill-nature; but there is more wisdom than either. They who
possess it may congratulate themselves upon having the largest
collection ever made of the sportive effusions of genius.
INDEX.
MISCELLANEOUS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR.
To my Empty Purse Chaucer
To Chloe Peter Pindar
To a Fly Peter Pindar
Man may be Happy Peter Pindar
Address to the Toothache Burns
The Pig Southey
Snuff Southey
Farewell to Tobacco Lamb
Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos Byron
The Lisbon Packet Byron
To Fanny Moore
Young Jessie Moore
Rings and Seals Moore
Nets and Cages Moore
Salad Sydney Smith
My Letters Barham
The Poplar Barham
Spring Hood
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy Hood
Schools and School-fellows Praed
The Vicar Praed
The Bachelor's Cane-bottomed Chair Thackeray
Stanzas to Pale Ale Punch
Children must be paid for Punch
The Musquito Bryant
To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons Willis
Come out, Love Willis
The White Chip Hat Willis
You know if it was you Willis
The Declaration Willis
Love in a Cottage Willis
To Helen in a Huff Willis
The Height of the Ridiculous O. W. Holmes
The Briefless Barrister J. G. Saxe
Sonnet to a Clam J. G. Saxe
Venus of the Needle Allingham
NARRATIVE.
Take thy Old Cloak about thee Percy Reliques
King John and the Abbot Percy Reliques
The Baffled Knight, or Lady's Policy Percy Reliques
Truth and Falsehood Prior
Flattery Williams (Sir C. H.)
The Pig and Magpie Peter Pindar
Advice to Young Women Peter Pindar
Economy Peter Pindar
The Country Lasses Peter Pindar
The Pilgrims and Peas Peter Pindar
On the Death of a Favorite Cat Gray
The Retired Cat Cowper
Saying, not Meaning Wake
Julia Coleridge
A Cock and Hen Story Southey
The Search after Happiness Scott (Sir W.)
The Donkey and his Panniers Moore
Misadventure at Margate Barham
The Ghost Barham
A Lay of St. Gengulphus Barham
Sir Rupert the Fearless Barham
Look at the Clock Barham
The Bagman's Dog Barham
Dame Fredegonde W. Aytoun
The King of Brentford's Testament Thackeray
Titmarsh's Carmen Lillienses Thackeray
Shadows Lantern
The Retort G. P. Morris
SATIRICAL.
The Rabble, or Who Pays? S. Butler
The Chameleon Prior
The Merry Andrew Prior
Jack and Joan Prior
The Progress of Poetry Swift
Twelve Articles Swift
The Beast's Confession Swift
A New Simile for the Ladies Sheridan (Dr. T.)
On a Lap-dog Gay
The Razor Seller Peter Pindar
The Sailor Boy at Prayers Peter Pindar
Bienseance Peter Pindar
Kings and Courtiers Peter Pindar
Praying for Rain Peter Pindar
Apology for Kings Peter Pindar
Ode to the Devil Peter Pindar
The King of Spain and the Horse Peter Pindar
The Tender Husband Peter Pindar
The Soldier and the Virgin Mary Peter Pindar
A King of France and the Fair Lady Peter Pindar
The Eggs Yriarte
The Ass and his Master Yriarte
The Love of the World Reproved, or Hypocrisy Detected Cowper
Report of an Adjudged Case Cowper
Holy Willie's Prayer Burns
Epitaph on Holy Willie Burns
Address to the Deil Burns
The Devil's Walk on Earth Southey
Church and State Moore
Lying Moore
The Millennium Moore
The Little Grand Lama Moore
Eternal London Moore
On Factotum Ned Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), First Letter Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), Second Letter Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), Third Letter Moore
The Literary Lady Sheridan (R. B.)
Netley Abbey Barham
Family Poetry Barham
The Sunday Question Hood
Ode to Rae Wilson, Esquire Hood
Death's Ramble Hood
The Bachelor's Dream Hood
On Samuel Rogers Byron
My Partner Praed
The Belle of the Ball Praed
Sorrows of Werther Thackeray
The Yankee Volunteer Thackeray
Courtship and Matrimony Thackeray
Concerning Sisters-in-law Punch
The Lobsters Punch
To Song Birds on a Sunday Punch
The First Sensible Valentine Punch
A Scene on the Austrian Frontier Punch
Ode to the Great Sea Serpent Punch
The Feast of Vegetables and the Flow of Water Punch
Kindred Quacks Punch
The Railway Traveler's Farewell to his Family Punch
A Letter and an Answer Punch
Papa to his Heir Punch
Selling off at the Opera-house Punch
Wonders of the Victorian Age Punch
To the Portrait of a Gentleman Holmes
My Aunt Holmes
Comic Miseries Saxe
Idees Napoleoniennes Aytoun
The Lay of the Lover's Friend Aytoun
PARODIES AND BURLESQUES
Wine Gay
Ode on Science Swift
A Love Song Swift
Baucis and Philemon Swift
A Description of a City Shower Swift
The Progress of Curiosity Pindar
The Author and the Statesman Fielding
The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder Anti-Jacobin
Inscription Anti-Jacobin
Song Canning
The Amatory Sonnets of Abel Shufflebottom Southey
1. Delia at Play
2. The Poet proves the existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia
3. The Poet expresses his feelings respecting a Portrait in Delia's
Parlor
The Love Elegies of Abel Shufflebottom Southey
1. The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's Pocket-handkerchief
2. The Poet expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair
3. The Poet relates how he stole a lock of Delia's Hair, and her
anger
The Baby's Debut James Smith
Playhouse Musings James Smith
A Tale of Drury Lane Horace Smith
Drury's Dirge Horace Smith
What is Life? Blackwood
The Confession Blackwood
The Milling Match between Entellus and Darcs Moore
Not a Sous had he Got Barham
Raising the Devil Barham
The London University Barham
Domestic Poems Hood
1. Good-night
2. A Parental Ode to my Son
3. A Serenade
Ode to Perry Hood
A Theatrical Curiosity Cruikshank's Om
The Secret Sorrow Punch
Song for Punch-drinkers Punch
The Song of the Humbugged Husband Punch
Temperance Song Punch
Lines Punch
Madness Punch
The Bandit's Fate Punch
Lines written after a Battle Punch
The Phrenologist to his Mistress Punch
The Chemist to his Love Punch
A Ballad of Bedlam Punch
Stanzas to an Egg Punch
A Fragment Punch
Eating Soup Punch
The Sick Child Punch
The Imaginative Crisis Punch
Lines to Bessy Punch
Monody on the Death of an Only Client Punch
Love on the Ocean Punch
"Oh! wilt thou Sew my Buttons on? etc." Punch
The Paid Bill. Punch
Parody for a Reformed Parliament Punch
The Waiter Punch
The Last Appendix to Yankee Doodle Punch
Lines for Music Punch
Drama for Every Day Life Punch
Proclivior Punch
Jones at the Barber's Shop Punch
The Sated One Punch
Sapphics of the Cab-stand Punch
Justice to Scotland Punch
The Poetical Cookery-book. Punch
The Steak
Roasted Sucking Pig
Beignet de Pomme
Cherry Pie
Deviled Biscuit
Red Herrings
Irish Stew
Barley Broth
Calf's Heart
The Christmas Pudding
Apple Pie
Lobster Salad
Stewed Steak
Green Pea Soup
Trifle
Mutton Chops
Barley Water
Boiled Chicken
Stewed Duck and Peas
Curry
The Railway Gilpin Punch
Elegy Punch
The Boa and the Blanket Punch
The Dilly and the D's Punch
A Book in a Bustle Punch
Stanzas for the Sentimental. Punch
1. On a Tear which Angelina observed trickling down my nose at
Dinner-time
2. On my refusing Angelina a kiss under the Mistletoe
3. On my finding Angelina stop suddenly in a rapid
after-supper-polka at Mrs. Tompkins' Ball
Soliloquy on a Cab-stand Punch
The Song of Hiawatha Punch
Comfort in Affliction Aytoun
The Husband's Petition Aytoun
The Biter Bit Aytoun
A Midnight Meditation Aytoun
The Dirge of the Drinker Aytoun
Francesca da Rimini Aytoun
Louis Napoleon's Address to his Army Aytoun
The Battle of the Boulevard Aytoun
Puffs Poetical. Aytoun
1. Paris and Helen
2. Tarquin and the Augur
Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian Holmes
Evening, by a Tailor Holmes
Phaethon Saxe
The School-house Lowell
EPIGRAMMATIC.
Epigrams of Ben Jonson.
To Fine Grand
" Brainhardy
" Doctor Empiric
" Sir Samuel Fuller
On Banks, the Usurer
" Chevril the Lawyer
Epigrammatic Verses by Samuel Butler
Opinion
Critics
Hypocrisy
Polish
The Godly
Piety
Poets
Puffing
Politicians
Fear
The Law
" "
" "
Confession
Smatterers
Bad Writers
The Opinionative
Language of the Learned
Good Writing
Courtiers
Inventions
Logicians
Laborious Writers
On a Club of Sots
Holland
Women
Epigrams of Edmund Waller
On a Painted Lady
On the Marriage of the Dwarfs
Epigrams of Matthew Prior
A Simile
The Flies
Phillis's Age
To the Duke de Noailles
On Bishop Atterbury
Forma Bonum Fragile
Earning a Dinner
Bibo and Charon
The Pedant
Epigrams of Joseph Addison
The Countess of Manchester
To an Ill-favored Lady
To a Capricious Friend
To a Rogue
Epigrams of Alexander Pope
On Mrs. Tofts
To a Blockhead
The Fool and the Poet
Epigrams of Dean Swift
On Burning a Dull Poem
To a Lady
The Cudgeled Husband
On seeing Verses written upon Windows at Inns
On seeing the Busts of Newton, Looke, etc.
On the Church's Danger
On one Delacourt, etc.
On a Usurer
To Mrs. Biddy Floyd
The Reverse
The Place of the Damned
The Day of Judgment
Paulus the Lawyer Lindsay
Epigrams by Thomas Sheridan.
On a Caricature
On Dean Swift's Proposed Hospital, etc.,
To a Dublin Publisher
Which is Which Byron
On some Lines of Lopez de Vega Dr. Johnson
On a Full-length Portrait of Beau Nash, etc., Chesterfield
On Scotland Cleveland
Epigrams of Peter Pindar
Edmund Burke's Attack on Warren Hastings
On an Artist
On the Conclusion of his Odes
The Lex Talionis upon Benjamin West
Barry's Attack upon Sir Joshua Reynolds
On the Death of Mr. Hone
On George the Third's Patronage of Benjamin West
Another on the Same
Epitaph on Peter Staggs
Tray's Epitaph
On a Stone thrown at a very great Man, etc.
A Consolatory StanzaEpigrams by Robert Burns.
The Poet's Choice
On a celebrated Ruling Elder
On John Dove
On Andrew Turner
On a Scotch Coxcomb
On Grizzel Grim
On a Wag in Mauchline
Epitaph on W---
On a Suicide
Epigrams from the German of Lessing.
Niger
A Nice Point
True Nobility
To a Liar Mendax
The Bad Wife
The Dead Miser
The Bad Orator
The Wise Child
Specimen of the Laconic
Cupid and Mercury
Fritz
On Dorilis
To a Slow Walker, etc.
On Two Beautiful One-eyed Sisters
The Per Contra, or Matrimonial Balance
Epigrams of S. T. Coleridge.
An Expectoration
Expectoration the Second
To a Lady
Avaro
Beelzebub and Job
Sentimental
An Eternal Poem
Bad Poets
To Mr. Alexandre, the Ventriloquist Scott
The Swallows R. B. Sheridan
French and English Erskine
Epigrams by Thomas Moore.
To Sir Hudson Lowe
Dialogue
To Miss ---
To ---
On being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party, etc.
What my Thought's like?
From the French
A Joke Versified
The Surprise
On ---
On a Squinting Poetess
On a Tuft-hunter
The Kiss
Epitaph on Southey
Written in a Young Lady's Common-place Book
The Rabbinical Origin of Women
Anacreontique
On Butler's Monument Wesley
On the Disappointment of the Whig Associates
of the Prince Regent, etc Lamb
To Professor Airey Sydney Smith
On Lord Dudley and Ward Rogers
Epigrams of Lord Byron.
To the Author of a Sonnet, etc.
Windsor Poetics
On a Carrier, etc.
Epigrams of R. H. Barham.
On the Windows of King's College, etc.
New-made Honor
Eheu Fugaces
Anonymous Epigrams.
On a Pale Lady, etc.
Upon Pope's Translation of Homer
Recipe for a Modern Bonnet
My Wife and I
On Two Gentlemen, etc.
Wellington's Nose
The Smoker
An Essay on the Understanding
To a Living Author
Epigrams by Thomas Hood.
On the Art Unions
The Superiority of Machinery
Epigrams by W. Savage Landor.
On Observing a Vulgar Name on the Plinth of a Statue
Lying in State
Epigrams from Punch.
The Cause
Irish Particular
One Good Turn deserves Another
Sticky
The Poet Foiled
Black and White
Inquest--not Extraordinary
Domestic Economy
On Seeing an Execution
A Voice, and Nothing Else
The Amende Honorable
The Czar
Bas-Bleu
To a Rich Young Widow
The Railway of Life
A Conjugal Conundrum
Numbers Altered
Grammar for the Court of Berlin
The Empty Bottle
Aytoun
The Death of Doctor Morrison
Bentley's Miscellany
Epigrams by John G. Saxe.
On a Recent Classic Controversy
Another
On an ill-read Lawyer
On an Ugly Person Sitting for a Daguerreotype
Woman's Will
Family Quarrels
A Revolutionary Hero Lowell
Epigrams of Halpin.
The Last Resort
Feminine Arithmetic
The Mushroom Hunt
Jupiter Amans London Leader
The Orator's Epitaph Lord Brougham
ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT.
The Jovial Priest's Confession Leigh Hunt
Tonis ad Resto Mare Anonymous
Die Dean Swift
Moll Dean Swift
To My Mistress Dean Swift
A Love Song Dean Swift
A Gentle Echo on Woman Dean Swift
To my Nose Anonymous
Roger and Dolly Blackwood
The Irishman Blackwood
A Catalectic Monody Cruikshank's Om.
A New Song Gay
Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist Hood
Faithless Nelly Gray Hood
No! Hood
Jacob Omnium's Hoss Thackeray
The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown Thackeray
The Ballad of Eliza Davis Thackeray
Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent Thackeray
The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of Shoreditch Thackeray
The Crystal Palace Thackeray
The Speculators Thackeray
A Letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow, etc. Lowell
A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency Lowell
The Candidate's Creed Lowell
The Courtin' Lowell
A Song for a Catarrh Punch
Epitaph on a Candle Punch
Poetry on an Improved Principle Punch
On a Rejected Nosegay Punch
A Serenade Punch
Railroad Nursery Rhyme Punch
An Invitation to the Zoological Gardens Punch
To the Leading Periodical Punch
The People and their Palace Punch
A Swell's Homage to Mrs. Stowe Punch
The Exclusive's Broken Idol Punch
The Last Kick of Fop's Alley Punch
The Mad Cabman's Song of Sixpence Punch
Alarming Prospect Punch
Epitaph on a Locomotive Punch
The Ticket of Leave Punch
A Polka Lyric Barclay Phillips
A Sunnit to the Big Ox Anonymous
ENIGMATIC.
Riddles by Matthew Prior. Two Riddles
Enigma
Another
Riddles by Dean Swift and his friends.
A Maypole
On the Moon
On Ink
On a Circle
On a Pen
A Fan
On a Cannon
On the Five Senses
On Snow
On a Candle
On a Corkscrew
On the Same
An Echo
On the Vowels
On a Pair of Dice
On a Shadow in a Glass
On Time
LIST OF SOURCES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
JAMES PARTON
BRYANT
BURNS
LAMB
BYRON
POPE
CHAUCER
WILLIS
HOLMES
LOWELL
LANDOR
THACKERAY
MISCELLANEOUS.
TO MY EMPTY PURSE.
CHAUCER.
To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am sorry now that ye be light,
For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere;
Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere,
For which unto your mercy thus I crie,
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.
Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,
That I of you the blissful sowne may here,
Or see your color like the sunne bright,
That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes
stere,
Queen of comfort and of good companie,
Be heavy again, or else mote I die.
Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,
And saviour, as downe in this world here,
Out of this towne helpe me by your might,
Sith that you will not be my treasure,
For I am slave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your curtesie,
Be heavy again, or els mote I die.
TO CHLOE.
AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.
PETER PINDAR.
Chloe, we must not always be in heaven,
For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing;
The joys for which I thousands would have given,
Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.
Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves;
Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;
Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves;
Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression,
That beauty fadeth by too much possession.
Economy in love is peace to nature,
Much like economy in worldly matter;
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will not, can not, always last.
Lovers are really spendthrifts--'tis a shame--
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame,
Till penury stares them in the face;
And when they find an empty purse,
Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse,
And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!
Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung,
Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.
Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose--
Smell twenty times--and then, my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.
Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the little god retire--
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.
TO A FLY,
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
PETER PINDAR.
Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul--
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize--
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.
Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother.
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."
And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt--
Now turnest--on the table making rings,
Now crawling, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford--
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm--
While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,
Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
MAN MAY BE HAPPY.
PETER PINDAR.
"Man may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;
Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.
But here's the mischief--man's an ass, I say;
Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!
Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud--
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!
Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?
The God of Nature?--No such thing;
Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,
"Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:--
In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.
"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet mind me--if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."
Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed--
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing forever for a gin
To catch their happiness by the legs.
Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands, and well dressed:
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they can not make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!
I hate to drop the discontented jaw!
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
And pick even pleasure from a straw.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.
ROBERT BURNS.
My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee--thou hell o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!
A down my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick;--
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's Toothache!
THE PIG.
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,
Were perfect in our kind!..And why despise
The sow-born grunter?..He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. ...Now I pray you
Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;
We must not take them as unheeding hands
Receive base money at the current worth
But with a just suspicion try their sound,
And in the even balance weigh them well
See now to what this obstinacy comes:
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man,...born to be brawn'd
And baconized: that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defense, the general privilege;
Perhaps,...hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of Pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
His face, ...nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair
To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the peacock's pride,
Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss
When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;...
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!
All alteration man could think, would mar
His pig-perfection.
The last charge,...he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honorable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt?...Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter,...why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep!
And there! the breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
SNUFF.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze
The full-collected pleasure bursts at last!
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this
The only Christopher in my calendar.
Why, but for thee the uses of the nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse,
Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space,
That half the year the nostrils would keep lent,
But that the kind tobacconist admits
No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps
His wheels roll on, and still administer
A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.
What are Peru and those Golcondan mines
To thee, Virginia? miserable realms,
The produce of inhuman toil, they send
Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain.
But thine are COMMON comforts!...To omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,
Think what a general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced, for when he sees
The thumb and finger of authority
Stuffed up the nostrils: when hat, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust,
From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse
Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds,
And part on the magistral table lights,
Part on the open book, soon blown away,
Full surely soon shall then the brow severe
Relax; and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that MUST be laughed at shall proceed.
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
CHARLES LAMB.
May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,
Or a language to my mind,
(Still the phrase is wide or scant)
To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
Or in any terms relate
Half my love, or half my hate:
For I hate, yet love thee, so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death,
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes can not find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born.
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of THEE meant only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain;
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking'st of the stinking land,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite---
Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe--
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.
Or, as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
For thy sake; TOBACCO, I
Would do any thing but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any title of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys.
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy holders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.
BYRON.
If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont,
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream broad Hellespont!
If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For ME, degenerate, modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo--and--Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labor, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague
THE LISBON PACKET.
BYRON.
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favorable breezes blowing
Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearched amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient--push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm sick--O Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.--
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reached her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kid, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapped in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why, 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in--
Who the deuce can harbor there?"
"Who, sir? plenty--
Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill."--
"Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still;
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship Lisbon Packet."
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretched along the decks like logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth--and damns our souls.
"Here's a stanza
On Braganza--
Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup
Of warm water--"
"What's the matter?"
"Zounds! my liver's coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing--
Who the devil cares for more?--
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Even on board the Lisbon Packet?
TO FANNY.
THOMAS MOORE
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,
The lip that's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.
Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!
Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemned but to read of enjoyments,
Which wiser Corinna had felt.
But for YOU to be buried in books--
Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages;
Who could not in ONE of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages!
Astronomy finds in your eye
Better light than she studies above,
And music must borrow your sigh
As the melody dearest to love.
In Ethics--'tis you that can check,
In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels
Oh! show but that mole on your neck,
And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.
Your Arithmetic only can trip
When to kiss and to count you endeavor;
But eloquence glows on your lip
When you swear that you'll love me forever
Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you--
A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through!
And, oh!--if a fellow like me
May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts!
YOUNG JESSICA.
THOMAS MOORE.
Young Jessica sat all the day,
In love-dreams languishingly pining,
Her needle bright neglected lay,
Like truant genius idly shining.
Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
A child who with a magnet play'd,
And knew its winning ways so wily,
The magnet near the needle laid,
And laughing, said, "We'll steal it slily."
The needle, having naught to do,
Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle,
Till closer still the tempter drew,
And off, at length, eloped the needle.
Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,
Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction.
Girls would you keep tranquil hearts,
Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
RINGS AND SEALS.
THOMAS MOORE.
"Go!" said the angry weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once betray'd,
Oh! never can my heart rely
On word or look, on oath or sigh.
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,
With promis'd faith and vows to heaven;
That little ring, which, night and morn,
With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
That seal which oft, in moments blest,
Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
And sworn its dewy spring should be
A fountain seal'd for only thee!
Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
All sullied, lost, and hateful, now!"
I took the ring--the seal I took,
While oh! her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled!
Gently I whisper'd, "FANNY, dear!
Not half thy lover's gifts are here:
Say, where are all the seals he gave
To every ringlet's jetty wave,
And where is every one he printed
Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted--
Seals of the purest gem of bliss,
Oh! richer, softer, far than this!
"And then the ring--my love! recall
How many rings, delicious all,
His arms around that neck hath twisted,
Twining warmer far than this did!
Where are they all, so sweet, so many?
Oh! dearest, give back all, if any!"
While thus I murmur'd, trembling too
Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise
'Mid the moist azure of her eyes.
Like day-light o'er a sea of blue,
While yet the air is dim with dew!
She let her cheek repose on mine,
She let my arms around her twine--
Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels
In thus exchanging rings and seals!
NETS AND CAGES.
THOMAS MOORE.
Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.
Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
Ere caught so much small game:
While gentle Sue, less given to roam,
When Cloe's nets were taking
These flights of birds, sat still at home,
One small, neat Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break through them.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,
One love with golden pinions caught,
And caged him there forever;
Instructing thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
'Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply--
May all who hear, like Susan smile,
Ah! not like Cloe sigh!
SALAD.
SYDNEY SMITH.
To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!
MY LETTERS.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.
"Litera scripta manet."--Old Saw.
Another mizzling, drizzling day!
Of clearing up there's no appearance;
So I'll sit down without delay,
And here, at least, I'll make a clearance!
Oh ne'er "on such a day as this,"
Would Dido with her woes oppressed
Have woo'd AEneas back to bliss,
Or Trolius gone to hunt for Cressid!
No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,
And popp'd their toes upon the fender,
And drank a quiet cup of tea:
On days like this one can't be tender.
So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
And put my desk upon the table--
Bring that portfolio--stir the fire--
Now off as fast as you are able!
First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,
"A ball!"--she knows that I'm no dancer--
That woman's ask'd me fifty times,
And yet I never send an answer.
"DEAR JACK,--
Just lend me twenty pounds,
Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
Yours truly,
HENRY GIBBS."
Why Z--ds!
I've seen the man but twice--here, burn it.
One from my cousin Sophy Daw--
Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;
"The cat has kitten'd 'in the DRAW,'
And ruin'd two bran-new silk dresses."
From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,"--nay
Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;
"Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"--Ay,
"For King read Mob!" Brougham's old erratum.
From Seraphina Price--"At two"--
"Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"
Two more because I did not go,
Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!
"Dear Sir,--
"This morning Mrs. P---
Who's doing quite as well as may be,
Presented me at half past three
Precisely, with another baby.
"Well name it John, and know with pleasure
You'll stand"--Five guineas more, confound it!--
I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,
Or thrown it in the Thames and drown'd it.
What have we next? A civil dun:
"John Brown would take it as a favor"--
Another, and a surlier one,
"I can't put up with SICH behavior."
"Bill so long standing,"--"quite tired out,"--
"Must sit down to insist on payment,"
"Called ten times,"--Here's a fuss about
A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment.
For once I'll send an answer, and in-
form Mr. Snip he needn't "call" so;
But when his bill's as "tired of standing"
As he is, beg't will "sit down also."
This from my rich old Uncle Ned,
Thanking me for my annual present;
And saying he last Tuesday wed
His cook-maid, Molly--vastly pleasant!
An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,
Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;
Another from that precious fool,
Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.
"D'ye give it up?" Indeed I do!
Confound those antiquated minxes:
I won't play "Billy Black" to a "Blue,"
Or OEdipus to such old sphinxes.
A note sent up from Kent to show me,
Left with my bailiff, Peter King;
"I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me!
"Yours most sincerely,
"CAPTAIN SWING."
Four begging letters with petitions,
One from my sister Jane, to pray
I'll execute a few commissions
In Bond-street, "when I go that way."
"And buy at Pearsall's in the city
Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:
Color no matter, so it's pretty;--
Two hundred pons"--two hundred curses!
From Mistress Jones: "My little Billy
Goes up his schooling to begin,
Will you just step to Piccadilly,
And meet him when the coach comes in?
"And then, perhaps, you will as well, see
The poor dear fellow safe to school
At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea!"
Heaven send he flog the little fool!
From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know
You promised me last week a Rebus;
A something smart and apropos,
For my new Album?"--Aid me, Phoebus!
"My first is follow'd by my second;
Yet should my first my second see,
A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,
And sadly shock'd my first would be.
"Were I but what my whole implies,
And pass'd by chance across your portal
You'd cry 'Can I believe my eyes?
I never saw so queer a mortal!'
"For then my head would not be on,
My arms their shoulders must abandon;
My very body would be gone,
I should not have a leg to stand on."
Come that's dispatch'd--what follows?--Stay
"Reform demanded by the nation;
Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay,
By Jove a blessed REFORMATION!
Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose--
Or no!--the filly--she's the fleeter;
The devil take the rain--here goes,
I'm off--a plumper for Sir Peter!
THE POPLAR.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.
Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind--'twas a little one then--
We carved HER initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov'd patronymic--ah! can it be so?
Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing;
A D?--we'll be DEED if it isn't an O!
Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
That thus on our labors stern CHRONOS should frown
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
SPRING.
A NEW VERSION.
THOMAS HOOD.
"HAM. The air bites shrewdly--it is very cold.
HOR. It is a nipping and eager air."--HAMLET.
Come, GENTLE Spring! ethereal MILDNESS, come!
O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,
How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?
There's no such season.
The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name!
For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter!
And suffer from her BLOWS as if they came
From Spring the Fighter.
Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing,
And be her tuneful laureates and upholders,
Who do not feel as if they had a SPRING
Poured down their shoulders!
Let others eulogize her floral shows;
From me they can not win a single stanza.
I know her blooms are in full blow--and so's
The Influenza.
Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale,
Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at,
Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale,
Are things I sneeze at!
Fair is the vernal quarter of the year!
And fair its early buddings and its blowings--
But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear
With other sowings!
For me, I find, when eastern winds are high,
A frigid, not a genial inspiration;
Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy
An inflammation.
Smitten by breezes from the land of plague,
To me all vernal luxuries are fables,
O! where's the SPRING in a rheumatic leg,
Stiff as a table's?
I limp in agony--I wheeze and cough;
And quake with Ague, that great Agitator,
Nor dream, before July, of leaving off
My Respirator.
What wonder if in May itself I lack
A peg for laudatory verse to hang on?--
Spring, mild and gentle!--yes, a Spring-heeled Jack
To those he sprang on.
In short, whatever panegyrics lie
In fulsome odes too many to be cited,
The tenderness of Spring is all my eye,
And that is blighted!
ODE.
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
THOMAS HOOD.
Ah me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turned our table-beer!
There I was birched! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!--
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!--
Most fruitful leaves to me!
The summoned class!--the awful bow!--
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S * * *?--Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the palor) yet
Some favored two or three--
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize--bohea?
Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read!--
Who sits there NOW, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?
Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?
Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase!
Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?
Alack! they're gone--a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perished young!--
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the WAYNE of life;
And blithe Carew--is hung!
Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To Savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms!--
All are gone--the olden breed!--
New crops of mushroom boys succeeds,
"And push us from our FORMS!"
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have played!
Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!
Lo there what mixed conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favored care--
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path--
The nabob's pampered heir!
Some brightly starred--some evil born--
For honor some, and some for scorn--
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indifferent--none they lack!
Look, here's a white, and there's a black!
And there's a creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish THEIR frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;--
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at FIVES! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow-cob about,
Would I were in his STEED!
Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van--
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou can be a horse at school
To wish to be a man!
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown--to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth?--O, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when----PLAYS,
And see how FORCED our fun!
Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!--
OUR tops are spun with coils of care,
Our DUMPS are no delight!--
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Toward that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast--
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
A sorry BREAKING UP!
SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.
Twelve years ago I made a mock
Of filthy trades and traffics:
I wondered what they meant by stock;
I wrote delightful sapphics:
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supped with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy at Drury's.
Twelve years ago!--how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures,
Those whispered syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.
The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks
Of old familiar faces.
Where are my friends?--I am alone,
No playmate shares my beaker--
Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,
And some before the Speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.
Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.
Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
Does Dr. Martext's duty;
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a beauty;
And Darrel studies, week by week,
His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.
And I am eight-and-twenty now--
The world's cold chain has bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:
In Parliament I fill my seat,
With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Germyn-street,
And sip my hock at Doodle's.
But often when the cares of life,
Have set my temples aching,
When visions haunt me of a wife,
When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,
Or Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beauheu spoils a curry:
For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk--
Or shiver in the lobby;
I wish that I could run away
From House, and court, and levee,
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys, grown heavy;
That I could bask in childhood's sun,
And dance o'er childhood's roses;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit and broken noses;
And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,
And call the milk-maids Houris;
That I could be a boy again--
A happy boy at Drury's!
THE VICAR.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED
Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the Green,
And guided to the Parson's Wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;
Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveler up the path,
Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho,
Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
"Our master knows you; you're expected!"
Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady lay her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:--
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,--
Good sooth the traveler was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns:
It passed from Mohammed to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermons never said or showed
That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius;
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The hand and head that penned and planned them,
For all who understood, admired,
And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises and smaller verses;
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild,
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of Fever smiled
The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Caesar or of Venus:
From him I learned the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus;
I used to singe his powdered wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustin.
Alack the change! in vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before:
You reach it by a carriage entry:
It holds three hundred people more:
And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?--look down,
And construe on the slab before you,
HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN,
VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.
THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.
W. M. THACKERAY
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when FANNY sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.
If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms!
I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair;
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone--
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair--
My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.
STANZAS TO PALE ALE.
PUNCH.
Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever
Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!
I held thee still to be divine.
For me thy color hath a charm,
Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
As late I've been--so high the scale
Of FAHRENHEIT--and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!
How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,
It is, in every point of view,
Must be allow'd by every one.
Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,
Like stout and porter--fattening slops!
"CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR."
PUNCH.
Sweet is the sound of infant voice;
Young innocence is full of charms:
There's not a pleasure half so choice,
As tossing up a child in arms.
Babyhood is a blessed state,
Felicity expressly made for;
But still, on earth it is our fate,
That even "Children must be paid for."
If in an omnibus we ride,
It is a beauteous sight to see,
When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee.
But in the dog-days' scorching heat,
When a slight breath of air is pray'd for,
Half suffocated in our seat,
We feel that "Children must be paid for."
There is about the sports of youth
A charm that reaches every heart,
Marbles or tops are games of truth,
The bat plays no deceiver's part.
But if we hear a sudden crash,
No explanation need be stay'd for,
We know there's something gone to smash;
We feel that "Children must be paid for."
How exquisite the infant's grace,
When, clambering upon the knee,
The cherub, smiling, takes his place
Upon his mother's lap at tea;
Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair--Once more
We feel that "Children must be paid for."
Presiding at the festive board,
With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored
While mirth and jollity abound:
We see our table amply spread
With knives and forks a dozen laid for,
Then pause to think--"How are they fed?"
Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"
[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant]
THE MUSQUITO.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,
In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.
Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,
Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint,
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.
I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth--
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.
Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,
And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong,
Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,
Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;
The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.
At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway---
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist;
And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.
Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being--well--come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.
What say'st thou, slanderer!--rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?
Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime--
But shun the sacrilege another time.
That bloom was made to look at--not to touch;
To worship--not approach--that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired--
Murmured thy admiration, and retired.
Thou 'rt welcome to the town--but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.
Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet;
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.
There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.
TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.
N. P. WILLIS.
I know not who thou art, thou lovely one,
Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me,
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!--ah, me!--
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill--a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after--we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now,
Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain;
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell--
Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea--
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye,
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,
Not knowing thy papa.
Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth--
Nay--may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount--yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending--
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown--
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of "good society" the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel--
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain--
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
COME OUT, LOVE.
N. P. WILLIS.
Argument.--The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his
sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for
more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man
and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same
innocent refreshment.
Come out, love--the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting--
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
And love is no better for chilling--
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us--
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm--
When--pest!--that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)--
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
*[Footnote: Query--Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?--Printer's
Devil.]
THE WHITE CHIP HAT.
N. P. WILLIS.
I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter--
I think near the corner of Murray--
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a duchess's doing--
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing--
Lovely thing!
Surprising!--one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious--
Chip hat without flower or feather--
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily--
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly--
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in tearing one's tether--
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as YOU know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney--
But I said a bad word--for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney--
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd--
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses--
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!--
Not the thing!
YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU
N. P. WILLIS.
As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair--
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair--
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less--
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars--
Lo I--a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love--
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That vail of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window--lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringed vail,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringed window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
THE DECLARATION.
N. P. WILLIS.
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the uushutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden--and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me--SHE HAD BEEN ASLEEP!
LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
N. P. WILLIS.
They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine--
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier--
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Four love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies--
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease--
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
TO HELEN IN A HUFF.
N. P. WILLIS
Nay, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this--
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
I wrote some lines, once on a time,
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!
"These to the printer," I exclaimed.
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER.
A BALLAD.
JOHN G. SAXE.
An Attorney was taking a turn,
In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.
His breeches had suffered a breach,
His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half-a-crown in his purse.
And thus as he wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself:
"Unfortunate man that I am!
I've never a client but grief;
The case is, I've no case at all,
And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!
"I've waited and waited in vain,
Expecting an 'opening' to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
Some reward for the toil of his mind.
"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
While I have to plead for a case.
"O, how can a modest young man
E'er hope for the smallest progression--
The profession's already so full
Of lawyers so full of profession!"
While thus he was strolling around,
His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,
And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"
To curb his emotions, he sat
On the curb-stone the space of a minute,
Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!"
And in less than a jiffy was in it!
Next morning twelve citizens came
('Twas the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined
How the man had determined his end!
"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"
Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse;
"A lawyer? Alas!" said another,
"Undoubtedly he died of remorse!"
A third said, "He knew the deceased,
An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,
'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."
The jury decided at length,
After solemnly weighing the matter,
"That the lawyer was drownDed, because
He could not keep his head above water!"
SONNET TO A CLAM.
JOHN G. SAXE
Dum tacent CLAMant
Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil--
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
O Maryanne, you pretty girl,
Intent on silky labor,
Of sempstresses the pink and pearl,
Excuse a peeping neighbor!
Those eyes, forever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,--
For once unvail them fairly.
Hast thou not lent that flounce enough
Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more "penetrable stuff,"
To which thou never turnest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble!
O might I wind their skeins of thread,
Or but pick up their thimble!
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!
Who'll steal some morning to her side
To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure.
Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown,
Well conscious that it IS hers,
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors.
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious--
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Maryanne, my precious!
I almost wish it were my trust
To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,
To quit this tempting lattice.
Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,
Across a street so narrow;
A thread of silk to string his bow,
A needle for his arrow!
NARRATIVE
TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE
[OLD BALLAD, QUOTED BY SHAKSPEARE, IN OTHELLO.]
PERCY RELIQUES
This winters weather itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell, my wiffe, who loves noe strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.
HE.
O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?
Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:
Itt is soe bare and overworne
A cricke he theron cannot renn:
Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,
For once Ile new appareld bee,
To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.
Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
She has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow
And other things shee will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine,
Good husband councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE.
My cloake it was a very good cloake
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat;
I have had it four and forty yeere;
Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,
'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see.
It will neither hold out winde nor raine;
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.
It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men;
In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyselfe misken?
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE.
O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute!
Now is nowe, and then was then:
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
Soe far above their owne degree:
Once in my life Ile doe as they,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.
SHE.
King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere;
Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe,
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
HE.
"Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man;"
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
Unlesse he first gave oer the plea:
As wee began wee now will leave,
And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT.
[AN OLD ENGLISH BALLAD--LONG VERY POPULAR.]
PERCY RELIQUES
An ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
Por except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about,
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.
O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold:
How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home,
What newes do you bring us from good King John?
Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give:
That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head.
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth.
To within one penny of what he is worth.
The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.
Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.
Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say,
'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
For thirty pence our Saivour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
I did not think I had been worth so littel!
--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.
You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
I did not think it could be gone so soone!
--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.
Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee:
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY
[A VERY FAVORITE ANCIENT BALLAD.]
PERCY RELIQUES
There was a knight was drunk with wine,
A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.
Shall you and I, O lady faire,
Among the grass lye down-a:
And I will have a special care,
Of rumpling of your gowne-a.
Upon the grass there is a dewe,
Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:
My gowne and kirtle they are newe,
And cost me many a crowne, sir.
I have a cloak of scarlet red,
Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;
We'll play, and none shall knowe it.
O yonder stands my steed so free
Among the cocks of hay, sir,
And if the pinner should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir.
Upon my finger I have a ring,
Its made of finest gold-a,
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.
O go with me to my father's hall;
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.
He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.
To her father's hall they arrived strait;
'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate,
And lockt the knight without-a.
Here is a silver penny to spend,
And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
To wait on you back again, sir.
He from his scabbard drew his brand,
And wiped it upon his sleeve-a!
And cursed, he said, be every man,
That will a maid believe-a!
She drew a bodkin from her haire,
And wip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curs'd be every maiden faire,
That will with men lye down-a!
A herb there is, that lowly grows,
And some do call it rue, sir:
The smallest dunghill cock that
Would make a capon of you, sir.
A flower there is, that shineth bright,
Some call it mary-gold-a:
He that wold not when he might,
He shall not when he wold-a.
The knight was riding another day,
With cloak, and hat, and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river.
Now, lady faire, I've met with you,
You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
You falsely did intrap me.
He from his saddle down did light,
In all his riche attyer;
And cryed, As I'm a noble knight,
I do thy charms admyer.
He took the lady by the hand,
Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand:
She had a plot invented.
Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,
Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover.
On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
Past by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.
O'er head and ears he plunged in,
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!
Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
You see what conies of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.
Ere many days, in her fathers park,
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.
False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.
I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.
A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd,
To tumble me in and leave me!
What if I had in the river dy'd?--
That fetch will not deceive me.
Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But thou prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.
Well then, if I must grant your suit,
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir.
He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance.
Then pulling off his boots half-way;
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.
The knight, when she had served him soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.
Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.
This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.
All night in grievous rage he lay,
Roiling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.
Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.
I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.
He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.
Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour:
This water shall your fury 'swage,
Or else it shall burn for ever.
Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.
My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore across the water come,
And I am all your own, sir.
False maid, thou canst no more deceive;
I scorn the treacherous bait-a;
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.
The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir;
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way, and easier.
Over the moate I've laid a plank
Full seventeen feet in measure,
Then step across to the other bank,
And there we'll take our pleasure.
These words she had no sooner spoke,
But straight he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,
And sous'd the unhappy lover.
TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
A TALE.
MATTHEW PRIOR.
Once on a time, in sunshine weather,
Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighboring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do.
Through many a blooming mead they passed,
And at a brook arriv'd at last.
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid,
To rest a while beneath the shade.
Under a spreading beach they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth
(For so she call'd her from her youth),
What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?
With all my heart, the nymph replied,
And threw her snowy robes aside,
Stript herself naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falsehood more leisurely undrest,
And, laying by her tawdry vest,
Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,
And 'cross the meadows tript away.
From this curst hour, the fraudful dame
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And, with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near, to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain pretended fears;
In visits, still appears most wise,
And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks;
When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd,
The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd.
But on she will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,
Reviling every one she knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue, so voluble and kind,
It always runs before her mind;
As times do serve, she slyly pleads,
And copious tears still show her needs.
With promises as thick as weeds--
Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil,
To-day a saint, to-morrow devil.
Poor Truth she stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely maid,
Who, scorning from her cause to wince,
Has gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever naked will appear,
Belov'd by all who Truth revere.
FLATTERY.
A FABLE.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
Fanny, beware of flattery,
Your sex's much-lov'd enemy;
For other foes we are prepar'd,
And Nature puts us on our guard:
In that alone such charms are found,
We court the dart, we nurse the hand;
And this, my child, an Aesop's Fable
Will prove much better than I'm able.
A young vain female Crow,
Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough,
And sitting there at ease,
Was going to indulge her taste,
In a most delicious feast,
Consisting of a slice of cheese.
A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature)
Pass'd by that way
In search of prey;
When to his nose the smell of cheese,
Came in a gentle western breeze;
No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better:
He bless'd th' auspicious wind,
And strait look'd round to find,
What might his hungry stomach fill,
And quickly spied the Crow,
Upon a lofty bough,
Holding the tempting prize within her bill.
But she was perch'd too high,
And Reynard could not fly:
She chose the tallest tree in all the wood,
What then could bring her down?
Or make the prize his own?
Nothing but flatt'ry could.
He soon the silence broke,
And thus ingenious hunger spoke:
"Oh, lovely bird,
Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd
The envy of the grove;
Thy form was Nature's pleasing care,
So bright a bloom, so soft an air,
All that behold must love.
But, if to suit a form like thine,
Thy voice be as divine;
If both in these together meet,
The feather'd race must own
Of all their tribe there's none,
Of form so fair, of voice so sweet.
Who'll then regard the linnet's note,
Or heed the lark's melodious throat?
What pensive lovers then shall dwell
With raptures on their Philomel?
The goldfinch shall his plumage hide,
The swan abate her stately pride,
And Juno's bird no more display
His various glories to the sunny day:
Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer,
And bless my longing ear
With notes that I would die to hear!"
Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'd
The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd;
In haste to show her want of skill,
She open'd wide her bill:
She scream'd as if the de'el was in her
Her vanity became so strong
That, wrapt in her own frightful song,
She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner,
The morsel fell quick by the place
Where Reynard lay,
Who seized the prey
And eat it without saying grace.
He sneezimg cried "The day's my own,
My ends obtain'd
The prize is gain'd,
And now I'll change my note.
Vain, foolish, cheated Glow,
Lend your attention now,
A truth or two I'll tell you!
For, since I've fill'd my belly,
Of course my flattry's done:
Think you I took such pains,
And spoke so well only to hear you croak?
No, 'twas the luscious bait,
And a keen appetite to eat,
That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat
'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter,
Flatterers must live by those they flatter;
But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mine
Might turn an abler head than thine;
And though reflection may displease,
If wisely you apply your thought,
To learn the lesson I have taught,
Experience, sure, is cheaply bought,
And richly worth a slice of cheese."
THE PIG AND MAGPIE.
PETER PINDAR.
Cocking his tail, a saucy prig,
A Magpie hopped upon a Pig,
To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;
And with such ease began the hair attack,
As thinking the fee simple of the back
Was by himself, and not the Pig, possessed.
The Boar looked up as thunder black to Mag,
Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag,
Informed Mynheer some bristles must be torn.
Then briskly went to work, not nicely culling:
Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling,
And flew, without a "Thank ye" to his thorn.
The Pig set up a dismal yelling:
Followed the robber to his dwelling,
Who like a fool had built it 'midst a bramble.
In manfully he sallied, full of might,
Determined to obtain his right,
And 'midst the bushes now began to scramble.
He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags,
And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags:
But ere he from the brambles came, alack!
His ears and eyes were miserably torn,
His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,
He could not count ten hairs upon his back.
ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN,
OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY.
PETER PINDAR
Young women! don't be fond of killing,
Too well I know your hearts unwilling
To hide beneath the vail a charm--
Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll,
And with a neck to thrill the soul
Of every swain with love's alarm.
Yet, yet, if prudence be not near
Its snow may melt into a tear.
The dimple smile, and pouting lip,
Where little Cupids nectar sip,
Are very pretty lures I own:
But, ah! if prudence be not nigh,
Those lips where all the Cupids lie,
May give a passage to a groan.
A Rose, in all the pride of bloom,
Flinging around her rich perfume
Her form to public notice pushing,
Amid the summer's golden glow
Peeped on a Strawberry below,
Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.
"Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose,
"What's beauty that no mortal knows?
What is a charm, if never seen?
You really are a pretty creature:
Then wherefore hide each blooming feature?
Come up, and show your modest mien."
"Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied,
"I never did possess a pride
That wished to dash the public eye:
Indeed, I own that I'm afraid--
I think there's safety in the shade,
Ambition causes many a sigh."
"Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined,
"See how I wanton in the wind:
I feel no danger's dread alarms:
And then observe the god of day,
How amorous with his golden ray,
To pay his visits to my charms!"
No sooner said, but with a scream
She started from her favorite theme--
A clown had on her fixed his pat.
In vain she screeched--Hob did but smile;
Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile,
Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.
ECONOMY.
PETER PINDAR.
Economy's a very useful broom;
Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room
To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb:
Too oft Economy's an iron vice,
That squeezes even the little guts of mice,
That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.
Proper Economy's a comely thing--
Good in a subject--better in a king;
Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling--
Most easily inclined to make folks mean;
Inclines them too, to villainy to lean,
To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.
Even when the heart should only think of grief
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,
And swallows up th' affections all so mild--Witness the Jewess, and her
only child:--
THE JEWESS AND HER SON
Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
In imitation of th' ambitious great,
High from the gallery, ere the play begun,
He fell all plump into the pit,
Dead in a minute as a nit:
In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;
Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!
The mother was distracted, raving, wild--
Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child--
Afflicted every heart with grief around:
Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,
She cast about her eyes in thought profound
And being with a saving knowledge blessed,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed:
"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet mishfartin here so bad--
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf not see de show."
But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of every evil:
The cancer of the heart--the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flower of virtue near it lives:
Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills.
In every soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.
The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread,
So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;
And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,
Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avowed,
Might not be readily allowed.
THE COUNTBY LASSES.
PETER PINDAR.
Peter lasheth the Ladies.--He turneth Story-teller.--Peter grieveth.
Although the ladies with such beauty blaze,
They very frequently my passion raise--
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE.
Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,
I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.
"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet!
He shall paint ME--I am determin'd on it--
Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!
What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze!
What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!
Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"
"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true--
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!
There's a complexion beats the ROUGE of Warren!
See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice!--
Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.
"Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, COZ?
But we 'll be painted FIRST that POZ."
Such was the very PRETTY conversation
That pass'd between the PRETTY misses,
While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation,
Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces
Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone--
Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.
Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye
What lately happen'd--therefore a true story:--
A STORY.
Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand
Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.
"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do?
Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye."
"Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you;
We're just to London come--well, pray how be ye?
"We're just a going, while 'tis light,
To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark.
Lord! come, for once, be so polite,
And condescend to be our spark."
"With all my heart, my angels."--On we walk'd,
And much of London--much of Cornwall talk'd.
Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious structure would surprise,
How from its awful grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!
As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
St. Paul's just opening on our view;
Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,
Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,
As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.
After well fright'ning people with their cries,
And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,
They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
And clattering all together, thus begun:--
"Swinge! here are colors then, to please!
Delightful things, I vow to heav'n!
Why! not to see such things as these,
We never should have been forgiv'n.
"Here, here, are clever things--good Lord!
And, sister, here, upon my word--
Here, here!--look! here are beauties to delight:
Why! how a body's heels might dance
Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!"
"Come, ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I--"I fear.
Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near"--
"Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul!
Sure! you're a most INCURIOUS soul--
Why--we can see the church another day;
Don't be afraid--St. Paul's can't RUN AWAY."
Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought SUBLIME,
Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
PETER PINDAR.
Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection
--He telleth a miraculous Story.
There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labor can not to perfection bring:
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:
A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,
And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,
And never be a whit the wiser
Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't,
Never to be superior to a, hint--
The genius of each man, with keenness view--
A spark from this, or t'other, caught,
May kindle, quick as thought,
A glorious bonfire up in you.
A question of you let me beg--
Of fam'd Columbus and his egg.
Pray, have you heard? "Yes."--O, then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A TRUE STORY.
A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:
But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon--peccavi cried--
Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way--
Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees;
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke
"You lazy lubber! 'Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke--
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as any blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear--
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.
"But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain:
What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for YOUR toes:
While _I_, just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is't that YOU can like a greyhound go,
Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?"
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,
That just before I ventur'd on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil MY peas.'"
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,
DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.
THOMAS GRAY.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize;
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent,
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard:
A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived,
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glistens gold.
THE RETIRED CAT.
WILLIAM COWPER.
A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick;
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Appareled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton in her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use;
A drawer, impending o'er the rest,
Half open, in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock (cried puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet
Oh what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come, and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before;
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom.
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.
That night, by chance, the poet, watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said--"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The next in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well know to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:
MORAL.
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
SAYING NOT MEANING.
WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
When opening his toothpick-case, one said,
"It was not until lately that I knew
That anchovies on terra firma grew.
"Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed,
Like other fish, but not upon the land;
You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
Or in the Strand!"
"Why, sir," returned the irritated other,
"My brother,
When at Calcutta
Beheld them bona fide growing;
He wouldn't utter
A lie for love or money, sir; so in
This matter you are thoroughly mistaken."
"Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
To the assertion--none e'er saw or read it;
Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."
"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
Perverse--in short--"
"Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar,
And then his port--
"If you will say impossibles are true,
You may affirm just any thing you please--
That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
Only you must not, FORCE me to believe
What's propagated merely to deceive."
"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"
Return'd the bragger.
Language like this no man can suffer cool:
It made the listener stagger;
So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
"The traveler LIED
Who had the impudence to tell it you;"
"Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face
That anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?"
"I DO!"
Disputants often after hot debates
Leave the contention as they found it--bone,
And take to duelling or thumping tetes;
Thinking by strength of artery to atone
For strength of argument; and he who winces
From force of words, with force of arms convinces!
With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
(Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show
It might be better they shook hands--but no;
When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right
Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!
And they DID fight: from six full measured paces
The unbeliever pulled his trigger first;
And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces,
The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst,
Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear
(His ire evanishing like morning vapors),
Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear,
Who in a manner sudden and uncouth,
Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth;
For while the surgeon was applying lint,
He, wriggling, cried--"The deuce is in't--Sir! I MEANT--CAPERS!"
JULIA.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
--medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid.--Lucret.
Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.
Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain.
Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came,
And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;
The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,
The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.
Naught now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant--
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:--
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?
The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes,
Gives a melancholy howl, and--dies!
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first,
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled:--he woos a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;--
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacs the day be cross'd!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!
A COCK AND HEN STORY.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
PART I.
Once on a time three Pilgrims true,
Being Father and Mother and Son,
For pure devotion to the Saint,
A pilgrimage begun.
Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say,
In none of my books can I find;
But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre,
What the parents were called, never mind.
From France they came, in which fair land
They were people of good renown;
And they took up their lodging one night on the way
In La Calzada town.
Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,
And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn,
My good little women and men,
Why then you never would have heard,
This tale of the Cock and the Hen.
For the Innkeepers they had a daughter,
Sad to say, who was just such another
As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been
If she followed the ways of her mother.
This wicked woman to our Pierre
Behaved like Potiphar's wife;
And because she failed to win his love,
She resolved to take his life.
So she packed up a silver cup
In his wallet privily;
And then, as soon as they were gone,
She raised a hue and cry.
The Pilgrims were overtaken,
The people gathered round,
Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre's
The silver cup was found.
They dragged him before the Alcayde;
A hasty Judge was he,
"The theft," he said, "was plain and proved,
And hang'd the thief must be."
So to the gallows our poor Pierre
Was hurried instantly.
If I should now relate
The piteous lamentation,
Which for their son these parents made,
My little friends, I am afraid
You'd weep at the relation.
But Pierre in Santiago still
His constant faith profess'd;
When to the gallows he was led,
"'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said,
"Though not the pleasantest."
And from their pilgrimage he charged
His parents not to cease,
Saying that unless they promised this,
He could not be hanged in peace.
They promised it with heavy hearts;
Pierre then, therewith content,
Was hang'd: and they upon their way
To Compostella went.
PART II.
Four weeks they travel'd painfully,
They paid their vows, and then
To La Calzada's fatal town
Did they come back again.
The Mother would not be withheld,
But go she must to see
Where her poor Pierre was left to hang
Upon the gallows tree.
Oh tale most marvelous to hear,
Most marvelous to tell!
Eight weeks had he been hanging there,
And yet was alive and well!
"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd,
It is time I should now be released:
Though I can not complain that I'm tired,
And my neck does not ache in the least.
"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day,
The Moon has not chilled me by night;
And the winds have but helped me to swing,
As if in a dream of delight.
"Go you to the Alcayde,
That hasty Judge unjust,
Tell him Santiago has saved me,
And take me down he must!"
Now, you must know the Alcayde,
Not thinking himself a great sinner,
Just then at table had sate down,
About to begin his dinner.
His knife was raised to carve
The dish before him then;
Two roasted fowls were laid therein,
That very morning they had been
A Cock and his faithful Hen.
In came the Mother, wild with joy:
"A miracle!" she cried;
But that most hasty Judge unjust
Repell'd her in his pride.
"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this
That I should give belief!
Santiago never would bestow
His miracles, full well I know,
On a Frenchman and a thief."
And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which
He held his ready knife,
"As easily might I believe
These birds should come to life!"
The good Saint would not let him thus
The Mother's true tale withstand;
So up rose the Fowls in the dish,
And down dropt the knife from his hand.
The Cock would have crow'd if he could:
To cackle the Hen had a wish;
And they both slipt about in the gravy
Before they got out of the dish.
And when each would have open'd its eyes,
For the purpose of looking about them,
They saw they had no eyes to open,
And that there was no seeing without them.
All this was to them a great wonder,
They stagger'd and reel'd on the table;
And either to guess where they were,
Or what was their plight, or how they came there,
Alas! they were wholly unable:
Because, you must know, that that morning,
A thing which they thought very hard,
The Cook had cut off their heads,
And thrown them away in the yard.
The Hen would have pranked up her feathers,
But plucking had sadly deform'd her;
And for want of them she would have shiver'd with cold,
If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.
And the Cock felt exceedingly queer;
He thought it a very odd thing
That his head and his voice were he did not know where,
And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.
The gizzard got into its place,
But how Santiago knows best:
And so, by the help of the Saint,
Did the liver and all the rest.
The heads saw their way to the bodies,
In they came from the yard without check,
And each took its own proper station,
To the very great joy of the neck.
And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower,
For they all became white on the way;
And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged,
And then who so happy as they!
Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then,
The Cock his clarion blew,
Full glad was he to hear again
His own cock-a-doo-del-doo!
PART III.
"A miracle! a miracle!"
The people shouted, as they might well,
When the news went through the town
And every child and woman and man
Took up the cry, and away they ran
To see Pierre taken down.
They made a famous procession
My good little women and men,
Such a sight was never seen before
And I think will never again.
Santiago's Image, large as life,
Went first with banners and drum and fife;
And next, as was most meet,
The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne
Along the thronging street.
Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high,
They were raised in sight of the crowd;
And when the people set up a cry,
The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy,
And the Cock he crow'd aloud.
And because they very well knew for why
They were carried in such solemnity,
And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em
They behaved with the greatest propriety,
And most correct decorum.
The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn,
Still red with their innocent blood, was borne,
The scullion boy he carried it;
And the Skewers also made part of the show,
With which they were truss'd for the spit.
The Cook in triumph bore that Spit
As high as he was able;
And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid
When they had been served at table.
With eager faith the crowd prest round;
There was a scramble of women and men
For who should dip a finger-tip
In the blessed Gravy then.
Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast,
Crying aloud like a man distrest,
And amazed at the loss of his dinner,
"Santiago, Santiago!
Have mercy on me a sinner!"
And lifting oftentimes his hands
Toward the Cock and Hen,
"Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried,
And as devoutly the people replied,
Whenever he said it, "Amen!"
The Father and Mother were last in the train;
Rejoicingly they came,
And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude,
Santiago's glorious name.
So, with all honors that might be,
They gently unhang'd Pierre;
No hurt or harm had he sustain'd,
But, to make the wonder clear,
A deep biack halter-mark remain'd
Just under his left ear.
PART IV.
And now, my little listening dears
With open mouths and open ears,
Like a rhymer whose only art is
That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale,
To let you know I must not fail,
What became of all the parties.
Pierre went on to Compostella
To finish his pilgrimage,
His parents went back with him joyfully,
After which they returned to their own country,
And there, I believe, that all the three
Lived to a good old age.
For the gallows on which Pierre
So happily had swung,
It was resolved that never more
On it should man be hung.
To the Church it was transplanted,
As ancient books declare.
And the people in commotion,
With an uproar of devotion,
Set it up for a relic there.
What became of the halter I know not,
Because the old books show not,
But we may suppose and hope,
That the city presented Pierre
With that interesting rope.
For in his family, and this
The Corporation knew,
It rightly would be valued more
Than any cordon bleu.
The Innkeeper's wicked daughter
Confess'd what she had done,
So they put her in a Convent,
And she was made a Nun.
The Alcayde had been so frighten'd
That he never ate fowls again;
And he always pulled off his hat
When he saw a Cock and Hen.
Wherever he sat at table
Not an egg might there be placed;
And he never even muster'd courage for a custard,
Though garlic tempted him to taste
Of an omelet now and then.
But always after such a transgression
He hastened away to make confession;
And not till he had confess'd,
And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel
His conscience and stomach at rest.
The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church
As by miracle consecrated,
Were given, and there unto the Saint
They were publicly dedicated.
At their dedication the Corporation
A fund for their keep supplied;
And after following the Saint and his banners,
This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,
That the Priests were edified.
Gentle as any turtle-dove,
Saint Cock became all meekness and love;
Most dutiful of wives,
Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
So they led happy lives.
The ways of ordinary fowls
You must know they had clean forsaken;
And if every Cock and Hen in Spain
Had their example taken,
Why then--the Spaniards would have had
No eggs to eat with bacon.
These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,
In the odor of sanctity died:
They were carefully pluck'd and then
They were buried, side by side.
And lest the fact should be forgotten
(Which would have been a pity),
'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth,
That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth,
In the arms of that ancient City.
Two eggs Saint Hen had laid--no more--
The chickens were her delight;
A Cock and Hen they proved,
And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.
The last act of the Holy Hen
Was to rear this precious brood; and when
Saint Cock and she were dead,
This couple, as the lawful heirs,
Succeeded in their stead.
They also lived seven years,
And they laid eggs but two,
From which two milk-white chickens
To Cock and Henhood grew;
And always their posterity
The self-same course pursue.
Not one of these eggs ever addled,
(With wonder be it spoken!)
Not one of them ever was lost,
Not one of them ever was broken.
Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat,
Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them:
And woe to the irreverent wretch
Who should even dream of poaching them!
Thus then is this great miracle
Continued to this day;
And to their Church all Pilgrims go,
When they are on the way;
And some of the feathers are given them;
For which they always pay.
No price is set upon them,
And this leaves all persons at ease;
The Poor give as much as they can,
The Rich as much as they please.
But that the more they give the better,
Is very well understood;
Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,
Is for their own souls' good;
For Santiago will always
Befriend his true believers;
And the money is for him, the Priests
Being only his receivers.
To make the miracle the more,
Of these feathers there is always store,
And all are genuine too;
All of the original Cock and Hen,
Which the Priests will swear is true.
Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,
And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,
They would still find some to buy;
For however great were the demand,
So great would be the supply.
And if any of you, my small friends,
Should visit those parts, I dare say
You will bring away some of the feathers,
And think of old Robin Gray.
[Illustration with caption: BURNS]
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;
OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,
When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!--
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
Given by the natives of that land canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,
We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.
In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"
All have their tastes--this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic joys--
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay--
Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit,
But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway--
And where's Serendib? may some critic say--
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map--
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter--
The last edition see, by Long and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.
Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction--
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction--
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
--Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter--
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not--but the Sultaun never laugh'd,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.
Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed,
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,
And then in solemn accent spoke their doom,
"His majesty is very far from well."
Then each to work with his specific fell;
The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily,
Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily.
More and yet more in deep array appear,
And some the front assail, and some the rear;
Their remedies to reinforce and vary,
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary;
Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary,
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor,
Some hint about a bowstring or a saber.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.
Then was the council call'd--by their advice
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders)
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament
Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders--
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;--
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong--
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.
The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war--
"The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death,
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day,
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons--
And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons!"
The Riots who attended in their places
(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot)
Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,
From this oration auguring much disquiet,
Double assessment, forage, and free quarters;
And fearing these as China-men the Tartars,
Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers,
Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.
And next came forth the reverend Convocation,
Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green,
Imaum and Mollah there of every station,
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.
Their votes were various--some advised a Mosque
With fitting revenues should be erected,
With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque,
To create a band of priests selected;
Others opined that through the realms a dole
Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit,
More closely touch'd the point;--"Thy studious mood,"
Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,
And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure;
From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee,
And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."
These counsels sage availed not a whit,
And so the patient (as is not uncommon
Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)
Resolved to take advice of an old woman;
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,
And still was called so by each subject duteous.
Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest,
Or only made believe, I can not say--
But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,
By dint of magic amulet or lay;
And, when all other skill in vain was shown,
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.
"Sympathia magica hath wonders done"
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),
"It works upon the fibers and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.--Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man:
I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."
Such was the counsel from his mother came;--
I know not if she had some under-game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)
That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.
All are on board--the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.
The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"
They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince,
"Was call'd The Happy many ages since--
For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither.
But not in Araby, with all her balm,
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of Happiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.
"Enough of turbans," said the weary King.
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.--
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled,
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
"While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,
Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic--the buck,
Poffaredio! still has all the luck;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag--
And then--a perfect walking money-bag."
Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France--it lay upon the road.
Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him,
Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding,
Gave indication of a recent hiding.
Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless,
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless
To ask, if at that moment he was happy.
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a
Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!"
Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?"
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question--
"Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?"
The query seem'd of difficult digestion,
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,
And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.
Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,
And bade the vail of modesty be drawn),
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,
"Jean Bool!--I vas not know him--yes, I vas--
I vas remember dat, von year or two,
I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo--
Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman--m'entendez-vous?
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,
Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington."
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.
John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John;
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way,
"Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much."
Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,
That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,
Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte!
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd--
"And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d--d?"
'A stranger come to see the happiest man--
So, signior, all avouch--in Frangistan.'--
"Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand;
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broadcloths--
Happy?---why, cursed war and racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."--
"In that case, signior, I may take my leave;
I came to ask a favor--but I grieve."--
"Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,
"It's my belief you came to break the yard!--
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner--
Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."--
With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;
But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,
"Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;
A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine.
Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"--
"Kiss and be d--d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"
Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg
When the blithe bagpipe blew--but, soberer now,
She DOUCELY span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a month her house was partly swept,
And once a week a plenteous board she kept.
And, whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws
And teeth of yore, on slender provocation.
She now was grown amenable to laws,
A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon.
And was d--d close in making of a bargain.
The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum courtesy'd sister Peg;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do).
She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook;
Ask'd him "About the news from Eastern parts:
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts!
If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper,
And if the NITMUGS were grown ONY cheaper;--
Were there nae SPEERINGS of our Mungo Park--
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."
Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle
In search of goods her customer to nail,
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle
And hallo'd--"Ma'am, that is not what I ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"--
"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."--
"What say you to the present?"--"Meal's sae dear,
To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."--
"The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun,
"I think my quest will end as it began.--
Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"--
"Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg.
Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, with words of thunder
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middle men two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potato, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.
The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day;
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.
"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun,
"That ragged fellow is our very man!
Rush in and seize him--do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his SHIRT."
Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack;
They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him--Alack
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not--a shirt to his back!!!
And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.
THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.
THOMAS MOORE.
A donkey whose talent for burden was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That--down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.
His owners and drivers stood round in amaze--
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy
So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,
For every description of job-work so ready!
One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother")
Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other--
When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.
But, how to upraise him?--one shouts, T'OTHER whistles,
While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production" of thistles--
(Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall.
Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes--
"There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease,
The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
And this is his mode of 'TRANSITION TO PEACE'"
Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone--
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
(The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."
But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,
Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"--
And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the METALLIC,
They'd shoe their OWN donkeys with papier mache."
Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan,
And, what was still dolefuler--lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.
At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd--
"Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
B. HARRIS BABHAM.
MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur).
I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said "What make you here?--
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;"
Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"
He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy--he deem'd I meant to scoff--
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;"
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,--
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking nine," I said,
"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh fie!--
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb'd with agony--he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!--
"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'BROWN' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.
"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;)
"And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said.
You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!
"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up--
There's roast potatoes on the fire,--enough for me and you--
Come home,--you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."
I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy"
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,--
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delft
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"
I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb--
I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")--
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child--
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"
When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair--
I could not see my little friend--because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too--
I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"
I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
--I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear!
I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.
I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen!
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;
My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,--
My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!
I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
"--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?--ain't this a pretty go?
--That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,
--He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you
right!!"
* * * * * *
Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"
I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.
That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me; what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with
green.
He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"
--It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer--
And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
--It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.
I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, "someWHERES" about the Nore.
A landsman said, "I TWIG the chap--he's been upon the Mill--
And 'cause he GAMMONS so the FLATS, ve calls him Veeping Bill!"
He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely STOW'D the SWAG."
--That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.
I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?"
I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about."
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."
His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,
But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."
He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"
My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ;
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL.
Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell,
"BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!"
Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"
Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well!
THE GHOST.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.
There stands a City,--neither large nor small,
Its air and situation sweet and pretty;
It matters very little--if at all--
Whether its denizens are dull or witty,
Whether the ladies there are short or tall,
Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!--
Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute
That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.
A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,
And kings and heroes lie entombed within her;
There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose,
Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner;
There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose
Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner;
And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,
--Till four assassins came from France to crack it.
The Castle was a huge and antique mound,
Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,
Ere those abominable guns were found,
To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver
It stands upon a gently rising ground,
Sloping down gradually to the river,
Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese--but taller.
The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately,
And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous,
In martial panoply so grand and stately,
Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows,
And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly,
With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows
In short, so great a change has come to pass,
Tis now a manufactory of Gas.
But to my tale.--Before this profanation,
And ere its ancient glories were out short all,
A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station
In a small house, just opposite the portal;
His birth, his parentage, and education,
I know but little of--a strange, odd mortal;
His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason--he'd been christened Nicholas.
Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,
And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion;
But, spite of all her piety, her arm
She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion;
And, being of a temper somewhat warm,
Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,
A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie,
And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.
No matter;--'tis a thing that's not uncommon,
'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,--
I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman,
Such as I own I entertain a dread of,
--And so did Nick,--whom sometimes there would come on
A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,
Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,
She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."
"There's time and place for all things," said a sage
(King Solomon, I think), and this I can say,
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY,
When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;
--'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:--
To get well mill'd by any one's an evil,
But by a lady--'tis the very Devil.
And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble
(At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity;
For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble,
His senses lost in a sublime immensity
Of cogitation--then he couldn't cobble--
And then his wife would often try the density
Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,
As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.
Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,
Of this same striking had a morbid dread,
He hated it like poison--or his wife--
A vast antipathy!--but so he said--
And very often, for a quiet life,
On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed,
Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door
He heard his lady--he'd pretend to snore.
One night, then, ever partial to society,
Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow),
Went to a Club--I should have said Society--
At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello"
A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I
Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow;
There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather,
And change of ministers and change of weather.
In short, it was a kind of British Forum,
Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly,
Only they managed things with more decorum,
And the Orations were not QUITE so silly;
Far different questions, too, would come before 'em
Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye,
Their London prototypes were always willing,
To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of--for a shilling.
It more resembled one of later date,
And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street,
Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate,
And, though there are who deem that same a low street
Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate
And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street,
When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes
To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."
Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults,
And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper,
Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,
How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor.
Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts,
And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper,--
This night the subject of their disquisitions
Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.
One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man,"
Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"--
His well-read friend, who next to speak began,
Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;"
A third, of more extensive learning, ran
To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal;
Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath,
And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."
Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard
The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it,
How frequently some murder'd man appear'd,
To tell his wife and children who had done it;
Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard,
And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,
Wander'd about to watch his buried money!
When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One--he
Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture
Impended from his fond and faithful She;
Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,
For he had promised to "be home to tea;"
But having luckily the key o' the back door,
He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he
Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,
And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.
Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel
At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,
He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;
Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,
When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,--
But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,
--Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.
Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread;
She heard the key slow creaking in the door,
Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed
Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before;
When, bang, she threw a something at his head,
And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor;
While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,--
"How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"
Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,
Especially the length of her oration,--
Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,
Roused by the bump into a good set passion,
So great, that more than once he execrated,
Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion;
--The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say,
He duck'd below the clothes--and there he lay:
'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead,
And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite
Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed,
Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise,
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.
Not so our Nicholas, his meditations
Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,
The same dread subject of the dark narrations,
Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard;
Lost in his own horrific contemplations,
He pondered o'er each well-remembered word;
When at the bed's foot, close beside the post,
He verily believed he saw--a Ghost!
Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite
To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew;
Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height,
Of more than mortal seeming to the view,
And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew
A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;--
The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,
Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!
And now those matted locks, which never yet
Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,
Their long-contracted amity forget,
And spring asunder with elastic force;
Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,
Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet,
Uprose in agony--the Gorgon's head
Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.
From every pore distill'd a clammy dew.
Quaked every limb,--the candle too no doubt,
En regle, WOULD have burnt extremely blue,
But Nick unluckily had put it out;
And he, though naturally bold and stout,
In short, was in a most tremendous stew;--
The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell,
But where that came from Mason could not tell.
All motionless the Specter stood,--and now
Its reverend form more clearly shone confest,
From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow
Descended o'er its venerable breast;
The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow,
Told of years long gone by.--An awful guest
It stood, and with an action of command,
Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.
"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?"
Nick MIGHT have cried, could he have found a tongue,
But his distended jaws could only gape,
And not a sound upon the welkin rung,
His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung
Forth from their sockets,--like a frightened Ape
He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright,
And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.
And still the shadowy finger, long and lean,
Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door;
And many an ireful glance, and frown, between,
The angry visage of the Phantom wore,
As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more
Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?"
Because, as we are told,--a sad old joke too,--
Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."
Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.
And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on,
Each mazy turning of the humble shed
Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
As though the domicile had been his own,
Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
Had almost broke his nose against the mop.
Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
The door upon its hinges open flew;
And forth the Spirit issued,--yet around
It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew,
And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.
Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade,
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
The Phantom held its way,--and though afraid
Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.
Within the moldering fabric's deep recess
At length they reach a court obscure and lone;
It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness,
The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown;
The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress,
Disturb'd upon her solitary throne,
As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, should venture there!
--The Apparition paused, and would have spoke
Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke,
And loudly 'gan his early matins sing
And then "it started like a guilty thing,"
As that shrill clarion the silence broke.
--We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew
The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!"
The vision was no more--and Nick alone--
"His streamer's waving" in the midnight wind,
Which through the ruins ceased not to groan;
--His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,--
And, worst of all, he knew not where to find
The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan--
The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door,
'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.
"What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay
Here in the dark without a single clew--
Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray!
'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do."
(Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too--
I'll mark the spot, and come again by day.
What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall--
The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!"
Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
A loud, a long-protracted note of woe,
Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
And o'er the side the masts in thunder go;
While on the deck resistless billows break,
And drag their victims to the gulfs below;--
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.
Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry,
Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream--
For dream it was;--and all his visions high,
Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream--
And still he listens, with averted eye,
When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme
While ever from that hour they all declare
That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!
A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
R. HARRIS BARHAM
Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.
This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd, and they ate, and they drank of the best
And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.
They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people call Ennui.
* * * * * *
Now the festive board with viands is stored,
Savory dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbacued pig,
And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.
There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail--
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on naught they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!
"You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,"
Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares."
A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."
Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.
Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!
She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast,
In spite of his "great, long, frizzly beard."
Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;
She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad,
And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid,
And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."
Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.
"Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."
She "never could eat one morsel of meat,
For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."
She "really did think she had not slept a wink
Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long,"
Here he shook his head,--right little he said,
But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."
Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles
Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy,
Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.
Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.
Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
And his night-cap into his mouth they cram;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.
* * * * *
And now they tried the deed to hide;
For a little bird whisper'd "Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case, with a sad swell'd face,
And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"
So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife,
And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea;
With the edges and points they sever'd the joints
At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.
Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him
So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"
As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.
When they cut off his head, entertaining a dread
Lest the folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.
But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd,
And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.
They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack,
Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back,
As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.
But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
And that in a manner the least expected!
Who could surmise a man ever could rise
Who'd been thus carbonado'd, out up, and dissected?
No doubt 't would surprise the pupils at Guy's;
I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me--
But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.
You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or
A Jew or a Turk, but it's rather guess work
When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.
* * * * *
By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
Sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.
At a quarter past five they are all alive,
At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in,
And to every guest his card had express'd
"Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."
Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
With the choicest Rhine wine in his Highness's stock
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
Requested some water to mix with his Hock.
The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's a good girl!"
Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
In her bucket;--with fright she was ready to drop:--
Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran,
With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"
She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board
Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.
Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring his legs,
As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.
Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement
Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
Behind,--for the left leg was troubled with corns.
Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng;
While two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist,
The said shoulders in bearing the body along.
They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.
I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
With a dead body placed in the center between.
Yes, they stared--well they might at so novel a sight
No one utter'd a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.
The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said "They put him in mind of a Council of Trente
Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."
But what should they do?--Oh! nobody knew
What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
In vain, for his book could not furnish a precedent.
The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer,
Which his double capacity hit to a nicety;
His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
His Episcopal moiety said "Benedicite!"
The Coroner sat on the body that night,
And the jury agreed,--not a doubt could they harbor,--
"That the chin of the corpse--the sole thing brought to light--
Had been recently shav'd by a very bad barber."
They sent out Van Taunsend, Von Burnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through chalets and chateaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.
"MURDER!!
"WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet,
Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown
In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;
"And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect
That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
Aforethought, have kill'd, and begun to dissect
The said Gentleman, not far from this palace.
"THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE!--Whoever shall seize;
And such person or persons, to justice surrender,
Shall receive--such REWARD--as his Highness shall please,
On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.
"And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further,
Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
To all such as have NOT been concern'd in the murther.
"Done this day, at onr palace,--July twenty-five--
By command,
(Signed)
Johann Von Russell,
N.B.
Deceased rather in years--had a squint when alive;
And smells slightly of gin--linen marked with a G."
The Newspapers, too, made no little ado,
Though a different version each managed to dish up;
Some said "The Prince Bishop had run a man through,"
Others said "an assassin had kill'd the Prince Bishop."
The "Ghent Herald" fell foul of the "Bruxelles Gazette,"
The "Bruxelles Gazette," with much sneering ironical,
Scorn'd to remain in the "Ghent Herald's" debt,
And the "Amsterdam Times" quizz'd the "Nuremberg Chronicle."
In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
Spite of "politics," "bias," or "party collision;"
Viz.: to "give," when they'd "further accounts" of the deed,
"Full particulars" soon, in "a later Edition."
But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
To think it high time to "astonish the natives."
First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.
By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose,
Meagrims, headache, and vapors were put to the rout;
And one single touch of his precious Great Toes
Was a certain specific for chillblains and gout.
Rheumatics,--sciatica,--tic-douloureux!
Apply to his shin-bones--not one of them lingers--
All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,
If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.
Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs:
When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing.
Sea-sickness, and colic; or, rubb'd on the gums,
Were "A blessing to Mothers," for infants in teething.
Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
Where the mark remain'd visible still of the knife,
Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
Was safe from sore-throat for the rest of his life.
Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
Giving way, proved an influence clearly Divine,
They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,
So they lock'd him up, body and bones, in a shrine.
Through country and town his new Saintship's renown
As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,
Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
It seem'd as if "Wonders had never DONE CEASING,"
The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
A sad falling off in their offerings to find,
His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,--
In every sense of the word, was-behind.
For the German Police were beginning to cease
From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
Unravell'd the whole by the help of--his beard!
If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris,
When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor,
Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee,
Or double-arm'd chair, to keep the thing quieter.
It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
Itself in its place when the limbs join'd together;
Perhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
And constructed of good, strong, maroon-color'd leather
Or what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose,
For saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,
It should rest there, to aid some particular views,
Produced by his very peculiar position,
Be that as it may, on the very first day
That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
What occur'd almost frightened her senses away,
Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty,
They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons;
And especially how, as regards invalids,
His miraculous cures far outrival'd Von Morison's.
"The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away,
And people born blind now can easily see us!"
But she (we presume, a disciple of Hume)
Shook her head, and said angrily, "'Credat Judaeus!'
"Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on.
He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you
Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!"
The Chair--at that word--it seems really absurd,
But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins
Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place
Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!
For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
Which she utter'd, of what was beneath her forgetful
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful,
That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether,
Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within,
And the maids cried--"Good gracious! how very tenacious!"
--They as well might endeavor to pull off her skin!--
She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,--
The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last
She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle"!
And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death
Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;"
So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts.
With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
As to what his fate was; but I can not imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be
Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine:
For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see, if you'll look in a rather scarce book,
"God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds.
MORAL.
Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
Like Ulysses of old (vide Homer and Naso),
Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
And when you are coming home, just write and say so!
And you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam,
Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum,
Don't visit a house when the master's from home!
Shun drinking,--and study the "Vilce Sanctorum!"
Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
But remember Gengulphus's wife!--and reflect
On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
R. HARRIS BARHAM
Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight,
Was equally ready to tipple or fight,
Crack a crown, or a bottle,
Cut sirloin, or throttle;
In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle,"
Unstain'd by dishonor, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier.
Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental;
Besides, 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one;
Being rather unthinking,
He'd scarce sleep a wink in
A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking;
And what moralists say,
Is as naughty--to play,
To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarte;
Till these, and a few less defensible fancies
Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.
When at length through his boozing,
And tenants refusing
Their rents, swearing "tunes were so bad they were losing,"
His steward said, "O, sir,
It's some time ago, sir,
Since aught through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer,
And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers."
Sir Rupert the brave thus address'd his retainers:
"My friends, since the stock
Of my father's old hock
Is out, with the Kurchwasser, Barsae, Moselle,
And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,
I presume to suggest,
We shall all find it best
For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,
Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose;
As to me, I opine,
Left sans money or wine,
My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,
Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over,
Though he lived a roue, yet he died a philosopher."
The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely.
Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,
By the light of whose beam,
He soon spied on the stream
A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream,
Pretty pink silken hose
Cover'd ankles and toes,
In other respects she was scanty of clothes;
For, so says tradition, both written and oral,
Her ONE garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.
Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,
With silver chords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar,
And she smiled on the Knight,
Who, amazed at the sight,
Soon found his astonishment merged in delight;
But the stream by degrees
Now rose up to her knees,
Till at length it invaded her very chemise,
While the heavenly strain, as the wave seem'd to swallow her
And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower;
--Jumping up in his boat
And discarding his coat,
"Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6652