t t t N + + + M + + + M q;- 0 'k41 0 "A. + + + N + + N 4i + + 4~Tj Os -T T ~~~~~T M N + + M + + N M + + N + + M N + + THE WORKS OF * I THOMAS HOOD. IN SIX VOLUMES. VOL. I NEW YORK: DERBY AND JACKSON. M DCCC LXI. THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS op THOMAS HOOD. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. IL NEW YORK. DERBY AND JACKSON. M DCCC LXI. Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1855, by EPEES ARGEN~T, In the Clerkc's Offco. of the District Cousrt of the District ot Masmachiuaetts. I'BEFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. IN preparing, about a year since, an edition of the Poems of THOMAS HOOD, we thought that a single volume would include all of his writings in verse that fell within the plan of our series. That volume embraced all the poems contained in the Moxon collections of the author's sentimental and humorous verse, with several additions from other sources. It was the most complete collection that had been made at the time of its appearance. We soon ascertained, however, that it would not entirely satisfy the demand for HooD's productions. We received more than one letter suggesting that some favorite of the writer's was omitted, which had originally appeared, perhaps, in a magazine or annual, and had not been inserted in any collection of the author's Poems. This deficiency, to its full extent, we have hardly been able to supply even by a second volume. vi INTRODUCTION. The materials of the present volume have been chiefly drawn from the collections of his humorous pieces, published by the author under the title of Hood's Own, Whimsicalities, and Whims and Oddities. To these we have added a few poems from the London Magazine and the New Monthly Magazine, that appeared in those periodicals during HOOD's editorial relations with them, and are unquestionably from his pen. In one or two instances verses rather of a sentimental than an humorous character have found their way among the Miscellaneous Poems, but we trust they will not be considered as unwelcome intruders. We have reserved the first poems of HOOD for the last place in the book; assigning them to a quasi-appendix, for reasons that will obviously occur to the reader. It is many years since the Odes and Addresses to Great People have been reprinted, and some of the allusions in them are to subjects of local and temporary notoriety, which require the few annotations that we have annexed. To us these very clever jeux d'esprit seem to merit the high commendation that they received from COLERIDGE on their first appearance. His letter to LAMB on their authorship we have inserted among the Notes at the end of the volume. This work was the joint production of HOOD and the literary friend and connection to whom he afterward dedicated the poem of Lycus. In LORD BYRON'S Journal, under date of February 20, 1814, an entry is made of his having acknowledged the receipt of young REYNOLDS'S INTRODUCTION. vii poem, entitled Safie. "The lad is clever," his lordship writes, "but much of his thoughts are borrowed-whence the reviewers may find out. I hate discouraging a young one; and I think-though wild and more oriental than he would be, had he seen the scenes where he has placed nis tale-that he has much talent, and, certainly, fire enough." This "clever lad" we next hear of among the crack contributors of the London Magazine-for we presume that the author of Safie is the same JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS described by TALFOURD as one of that remarkable corps, and as "lighting up the wildest eccentricities and most striking features of many-colored life with vivid fancy." In the Reminiscences of HooD there is a lively sketch of one of the dinners that occasionally brought together the contributors to the Magazine, which serves him to introduce some of the principal characters of the literary " London in the Olden Time." After describing Elia, and Barry Cornwall, and the Opium Eater, and sundry others of hardly less note, HooD writes-" That smart, active person opposite, with a game-cock-looking head, and the hair combed smooth, fighter fashion, over his foreheadwith one finger hooked round a glass of Champagne-not that he requires it to inspirit him, for his wit bubbles up of itself-is our Edward Herbert, the author of that true piece of biography, the Life of Peter Corcoran. He is 'good with both hands,' like that Nonpareil Randall, at a comic verse or a serious stanza-smart at a repartee viii *a~ Vlls INTRODUCTION. sharp at a retort-and not averse to a bit of mischief. 'T was he who gave the runaway ring at Wordsworth's Peter Bell. Generally, his jests, set off by a happy manner, are only ticklesome, but now and then they are sharpflavored-like the sharpness of the pine-apple. Would I could give a sample." The allusions in the above paragraph enable us to follow REYNOLDS into some of his Protean pseudonymes. We know that he was the author of the poems published as the Remains of Peter Corcoran, by Taylor and Hessey, who afterwards became the publishers of the London Magazine, and this identifies him with the Edward Herbert whom HOOD describes. The reference to the Nonpareil Randall is explained by the following sonnet, which is found among Corcoran's Remains: SONNET ON THE NONPAREIL. With marble-colored shoulders,-and keen eyes, Protected by a forehead broad and white, And hair cut close lest it impede the sight, And clenched hands, firm and of punishing size, Steadily held, or motioned wary-wise, To hit or stop-and kerchief too drawn tight O'er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight The inconstant wind, that all too often flies,The Nonpareil stands!-Fame, whose bright eyes run o'er With joy to see a Chicken of her own, Dips her rich pen in claret, and writes down Under the letter R, first on the score, "Randall-John-Irish parents, age not knownGood with both hands, and only ten stone fourl" INTRODUCTION. ix In 1821 a volume was published in London with the title of The Garden of Florence, and other Poems, by John Hamilton. This was also the work of REYNOLDS. He was the familiar friend and correspondent of the poet KEATS, and they had undertaken, in a sort of literary copartnership, to versify some of the tales of Boccaccio. The accomplishment of this plan was prevented for a time by other engagements, and finally frustrated by death. The Pot of Basil was the only story completed by KEATS, " and that is to me now," says his literary partner, "the most pathetic story in existence." Two stories were translated by REYNOLDS, and were printed in the last-named volume. They possess a merit which induces us to regret that he did not persevere in the enterprise. His literary labors, however, seem to have been mere diversions. HooD speaks of him as having abandoned the Muses for engrossing. He probably subsided from a very promising poet into a highly respectable special-pleader or conveyancer; perhaps into a barrister of local eminence. He does not seem, like his co-contributor Barry Cornwall, to have maintained two separate existences-a professional and a poetical entity-but to have suffered the latter to be absorbed in the former, or only to appear abroad in a mask. We do not know where to trace him after the suspension of the London Magazine, and publication of the Odes and Addresses, to which it is quite time that we should return. We must first, however, present our readers with a specimen of Mr. Peter Corcoran's sentimental X INTRODUCTION. verse, which may explain the indifference of Mr. REYNOLDS to his poetical reputation: SONNET. I once had thought to have embalmed my name With Poesy:-to have served the gentle Muses With high sincerity: —but Fate refuses, And I am now become most strangely tame, And careless what becomes of Glory's gameWho strives-who wins the wondrous prize-who losesl Not that the heavy world my spirit bruises; But I have not the heart to rush at Fame. Magnificent and mental images Have visited me oftentimes, and given My mind to proud delights;-but now it sees Those visions going like the lights of even: All intellectual grandeur dimly fleesAnd I am quiet as the stars of heaven I We are not quite certain that we could, in every case, refer the compositions of the copartnership to their respective authors, though, in our judgment, most of them can be correctly assigned by internal evidence. The one that we most hesitate about is the Address to Mr. Dymoke. There is a letter of Edward Herbert's in the London Magazine giving an account of the Coronation, and mentioning the circumstances which are alluded to in the address, and in the first study of it that may be found in the Notes; but we are in doubt whether.the verses are to be ascribed to HOOD or REYNOLDS. We may better leave this question for every reader to decide for himself, without seeking to anticipate his judgment. Perhaps no one will find much difficulty in coming to a correct deci INTRODUCTION. xi sion, for there is nothing more remarkable in HOOD'S verse than its entire originality. His imagination is singularly fertile. His invention is marvellous. Hence it is that though he sometimes copies himself, he never mimics another; and though you can not always say that a poem is not HOOD'S, a poem that is really his you would hardly attribute to any one else. Since the first edition of this volume was published, we have been furnished, from a source on which we rely, with the following assignment of the Odes and Addresses to their respective authors: Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut,. Ode to Mr. M'Adam...... A Friendly Address to Mr. Fry, in Newgate, Ode to Richard Martin, Esq., M. P. for Galway, Ode to the Great Unknown,... Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England, Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior.... Address to Sylvanus Urban, Esq., An Address to the Steam Washing Company, Ode to Captain Parry,.... Address to W. R. Elliston, Esq., the Great Lessee,...... Hood...... Reynolds....... Hood........Hood....... Hood...... Reynolds.......... Hood...... Reynolds...............Hood....... Hood...... Reynolds. Address to Maria Darlington on her return to the Stage, Hood and Reynolds. Ode to W. Kitchener, M. D.,............. Hood. An Address to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster,.... Reynolds. Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq., Secretary to the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity,.................. Hood I CONTENTS. PAGE LOVE AND LUNACY,............... 17 BAILEY BALLADS,.......................... 47 Lines to Mary....................... 51 No. II. "Love with a Witness,"................ 53 No. III. " I 'd be a Parody,"................. 53 POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN,.............. 55 Stanzas written under the Fear of Bailiffs,............ 59 Sonnet written in a Workhouse,................ 59 Sonnet-A Somnambulist,...................60 Fugitive Lines on Pawning my Watch,............. 60 DOMESTIC DIDACTICS,.................. 63 The Broken Dish,.................... 67 Ode to Peace,......................67 A Few Lines on completing Forty-seven,............ 69 To Mary Housemaid,.................... T BALLADS, SERIOUS, VERY SERIOUS, AND PATHETIC,..... 71 The Poacher....................... 73 The Supper Superstition,................... 75 A Waterloo Ballad,.................... 77 The Duel,........................ 81 The Ghost........................ 864 Sally Simpkin's Lament,............. 86 John Day.................. 88 Poripey's Ghost,..................... 90 ODES TO DIVERS PERSONS AND FOR SUNDRY OCCASIONS,.. 95 To Mr. Brunel,......................97 To the Advocates for the Removal of Smithfield Market,...... 99 To the Camelopard,................... 102 To Dr. Hahnemann,....................104 For St. Cecilia's Eve,.................... 109 To Madame Hengler,................... 115 To Mr. Malthus,.................. 118 To St. Swithin,...................... 122 For the Ninth of November,................. 25 xiv CONTENTS. NOTES,......................... TALES AND LEGENDS,................... The Stag-Eyed Lady.................... A Legend of Navarre,.......... The Mermaid of Margate,................ Our Lady's Chapel,.......... The Knight and the Dragon,.......... MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF WIT AND IIUMOR,........ Stanzas on Coming of Age,.................. The Lost Heir,.......... A Singular Exhibition at Somerset House,............ I'm Going to Bombay,....... Sonnet to a Decayed Seaman,........ A Blow-Up,..................... A True Story,...................... There's No Romance in That!......... The Schoolmaster's Motto,.................. Huggins and Duggins,................. A Storm at Hastings, and the Little Unknown,.... Lines to a Lady on her Departure for India,..... Sonnet,................ December and May,.................... Moral Reflections on the Cross of St. Paul's,.......... A Valentine,...................... Sonnet on Steam,..................... A Recipe for Civilization,.................. Lines to a friend at Cobham,............... ~ A Good Direction,.................. Sonnet,......................... To * * * *, with a Flask of Rhine Water............ Sonnet to Lord Wharncliffe on his Game Bill,.... A True Story,................... Epigrams composed on Reading a Diary lately Published,.. The Monkey-Martyr,................ Craniology,.................... A Parthian Glance,....... "Don't you smell Fire".......... The Widow,....................... Rhyme and Reason,.................... The Double Knock,................... The Devil's Album,................... Epigram on a late Cattle Show in Smithfield,........ A Report from Below,.................. Epigram on the Depreciated Money,.............. An Ancient Concert,................... The Drowning Ducks,................... The Fall,........................ The Steam Service........... PAGE. 131. 139 141 147.153. 158.162. 173. 175. 180.185. 188. 191. 192.197.200. 204.206.209. 217. 218.219.220. 221.223.224. 229. 230 ~ 231 281.282 288.240 ~ 241. 246. 249. 52.254.258. 259. 260.261. 262.265.266.269. 27. 274 CONTENTS. A Lay of Real Life,.................... The Angler's Farewell,................... Sea Song. After Dibdin,........ The Apparition,................. Little O. P.-An African Fact,........... Conveyancing,...................... The Burning of the Love Letter,.............. Poem.-From the Polish,........ French and English,.................... Our Village,...................... A Valentine,....................... To Fanny,........................ The Boy at the Nore,................... Shooting Pains,............... Paired not Matched,................... The Compass, with Variations,....... "Please to Ring the Belle,".......... The Lament of Toby, the Learned Pig,......... My Son and Heir,..................... The Fox and the Hen.-A Fable,............. The Comet.-An Astronomical Anecdote,........... I cannot Bear a Gun,................... Trimmer's Exercise for the Use of Children,........... To a Bad Rider,..................... Symptoms of Ossification,................ Those Evening Bells,.................... Rondeau,...................... Dog-grel Verses, by a Poor Blind,............... The Kangaroo.-A Fable,................ Sonnet,........... The Sub-Marine,........... The Sweep's Complaint,.................. Cockle vs. Cackle,.................... On a Native Singer,..................... The Undying One,..................... A Custom-House Breeze,............... Pain in a Pleasure-Boat,................... Quaker Sonnet,............ Literary and Literal,.................... I'm not a Single Man,................... To C. Dickens, Esq., on his Departure for America,........ A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme,........... A Nocturnal Sketch,.................. Up the Rhine,...................... Love Language of a MerryYoung Soldier,........... Anacreontic, for the New Year,................ More Hullahbaloo,............... Ode to the Printer's Devil,.................. XV PAGU. 78. 280.288.284.286.288. 289. 292.294.299.800.809.804. 807.809. 815.816.819. 822.825.828. 882.888.884.885.886.887. 841.848. 844.847.852.856 857. 859.861. 864.86.869 878 874. 875.877 879.880.881.888 XVi CONTENTS. PAGE ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE,....... Preface,............ 392-395 Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut,............. 397 Ode to Mr. M'Adam,................... 405 A Friendly Address to Mrs. Fry, in Newgate,...........410 Ode to Richard Martin, Esq., M.P. for Galway,..........416 Ode to the Great Unknown,.................419 Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England......... 428 Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior,................ 431 Address to Sylvanus Urban, Esq., Editor of" The Gentleman's Magazine," 436 An Address to the Steam Washing Company,...........439 Ode to Captain Parry,................... 448 Address to R. W. Elliston, Esq., the Great Lessee,.........455 Address to Maria Darlington, on her return to the Stage,..... 459 Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D.,................ 462 An Address to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster,...... 469 Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq., Secretary to the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity,...................474 NOTES,......................... 47C LOVE AND LUNACYO LOVE AND LUNACY. THE Moon-who does not love the silver moon, In all her fantasies and all her phases? Whether full-orbed in the nocturnal noon, Shining in all the dewdrops on the daisies, To light the tripping Fairies in their mazes, While stars are winking at the pranks of Puck; Or huge and red, as on brown sheaves she gazes; Or new and thin when coin is turned for luck;Who will not say that Dian is a Duck? But, oh! how tender, beautiful and sweet, When in her silent round, serene, and clear, By assignation loving fancies meet, To recompense the pangs of absence drear! So Ellen, dreaming of Lorenzo, dear, But distant from the city mapped by Mogg, Still saw his image in that silver sphere, Plain as the Man with lantern, bush, and dog, That used to set our ancestors a-gog. And so she told him in a pretty letter, That came to hand exactly as Saint Meg's Was striking ten-eleven had been better; For then he might have eaten six more eggs, And both of the bedevilled turkey-legs, 20 LOVE AND LUNACY. With relishes from East, West, North, and South, Draining, beside, the teapot to the dregs. Whereas a man whose heart is in his mouth, Is rather spoilt for hunger and for drouth. And so the kidneys, broiling hot, were wasted; The brawn-it never entered in his thought; The grated Parmesan remained untasted; The potted shrimps were left as they were bought, The capelings stood as merely good for naught, The German sausage did not tempt him better, Whilst Juno, licking her poor lips was taught There's neither bone nor skin about a letter, Gristle, nor scalp, that one can give a setter. Heaven bless the man who first devised a mail! Heaven bless that public pile which stands concealing The Goldsmiths' front with such a solid veil! Heaven bless the Master, and Sir Francis Freeling, The drags, the nags, the leading or the wheeling, The whips, the guards, the horns, the coats of scarlet, The boxes, bags, those evening bells a-pealing! Heaven bless, in short, each posting thing, and varlet, That helps a Werter to a sigh from Charlotte. So felt Lorenzo as he oped the sheet, Where, first, the darling signature he kissed And then, recurring to its contents sweet With thirsty eyes, a phrase I must enlist, He gulped the words, to hasten to their gist; In mortal ecstasy his soul was boundWhen, lo! with features all at once a-twist, He gave a whistle, wild enough in sound To summon Faustus's Infernal Hound I LOVE AND LUNACY. 21 Alas! what little miffs and tiffs in love, A snubbish word, or pouting look mistaken, Will loosen screws with sweethearts hand and glove, Oh! love, rock firm when chimney-pots were shaken, A pettish breath will into huffs awaken, To spit like hump-backed cats, and snarling Towzers! Till hearts are wrecked and foundered, and forsaken, As ships go to Old Davy, Lord knows how, sirs, While heaven is blue enough for Dutchmen's trowsers! " The moon's at full, love, and I think of you"Who would have thought that such a kind P.S. Could make a man turn white, then red, then blue, Then black, and knit his eyebrows and compress His teeth, as if about to effervesce Like certain people when they lose at whist! So looked the chafed Lorenzo, ne'ertheless, And, in a trice, the paper he had kissed Was crumpled like a snowball in his fist! Ah! had he been less versed in scientificsMore ignorant, in short, of what is whatHe ne'er had flared up in such calorifics; But he would seek societies, and trot To Clubs-Mechanics' Institutes-and got With Birkbeck-Bartley-Combe-George Robins-Rennie, And other lecturing men. And had he not That work, of weekly parts, which sells so many, The Copper-bottomed Magazine-or "Penny?" But, of all learned pools whereon, or in, Men dive like dabchicks, or like swallows skim, Some hardly damped, some wetted to the skin, Some drowned like pigs when they attempt to swim, 22 LOVE AND LUNACY. Astronomy was most Lorenzo's whim, ('Tis studied by a Prince among the Burmans); He loved those heavenly bodies which, the Hymn Of Addison declares, preach solemn sermons, While waltzing on their pivots like young Germans. Night after night, with telescope in hand, Supposing that the night was fair and clear, Aloft, on the house-top, he took his stand, Till he obtained to know each twinkling sphere Better, I doubt, than Milton's " Starry Vere;" Thus, reading through poor Ellen's fond epistle, He soon espied the flaw-the lapse so sheer That made him raise his hair in such a bristle, And like the Boatswain of the Storm-Ship, whistle. " The moon 's at full, love, and I think of thee,"" Indeed! I'm very much her humble debtor, But not the moon-calf she would have me be, Zounds! does she fancy that I know no better?" Herewith, at either corner of the letter He gave a most ferocious, rending, pull;" 0 woman! woman! that no vows can fetter, A moon to stay for three weeks at the full! By Jove; a very pretty cock-and-bull! " The moon at full! 't was very finely reckoned! Why so she wrote me word upon the first, The twelfth, and now upon the twenty-secondFull!-yes-it must be full enough to burst! But let her go-of all vile jilts the worst"Here with his thumbs he gave contemptuous snaps, Anon he blubbered like a child that's nursed, And then he hit the table frightful raps, And stamped till he had broken both his straps. LOVE AND LUNACY. 28 " The moon 's at full-and I am in her thoughtNo doubt: I do believe it in my soul!" Here he threw up his head and gave a snort Like a young horse first harnessed to a pole; " The moon is full-ay, so is this d-d bowl!" And, grinning like the sourest of curmudgeons, Globe-water-fishes-he dashed down the whole, Strewing the carpet with the gasping gudgeons; Men do the strangest things in such love-dudgeons. "I fill her thoughts-her memory's vice gerent? No, no-some paltry puppy-three weeks oldAnd round as Norval's shield"-thus incoherent His fancies grew as he went on to scold; So stormy waves are into breakers rolled, Worked up at last to mere chaotic wrothThis-that-heads-tails —thoughtsjumbled uncontrolled As onions, turnips, meat, in boiling broth, By turns bob up, and splutter in the froth. "Fool that I was to let a baby faceA full one-like a hunter's-round and redAss that I am, to give her more a place Within this heart"-and here he struck his head. " 'Sdeath are the almanac-compilers dead? But no-'tis all an artifice-a trick, Some newer face-some dandy underbredWell-be it so-of all the sex I'm sick!" Here Juno wondered why she got a kick. "'The moon is full'-where 's her infernal scrawl? 'And you are in my thought: that silver ray Will ever your dear image thus recall'My image? Mine! She'd barter it away 24 LOVE AND LUNACY. For Pretty Poll's on an Italian's tray! Three weeks, full weeks-it is too plain-too badToo gross and palpable! Oh cursed day! My senses have not crazed-but if they hadSuch moons would worry a Mad Doctor mad! " Oh Nature! wherefore did you frame a lip So fair for falsehood? Wherefore have you dressed Deceit so angel-like?" With sudden rip He tore six new buff buttons from his vest, And groped with hand impetuous at his breast, As if some flea from Juno's fleecy curls Had skipped to batten on a human chest, But no-the hand comes forth, and down it hurls A lady's miniature beset with pearls. Yet long upon the floor it did not tarry, Before another outrage could be planned: Poor Juno, who had learned to fetch and carry, Picked up and brought it to her master's hand, Who seized it, and the mimic features scanned; Yet not with the old loving ardent drouth, He only saw in that fair face, so bland, Look how he would at it, East, West, North, South, A moon, a full one, with eyes, nose, and mouth. "I'll go to her,"-herewith his hat he touched, And gave his arm a most heroic brandish; " But no-I'll write"-and here a spoon he clutched, And rammed it with such fury in the standish, A sable flood, like Niger the outlandish, Came rushing forth-Oh Antics and Buffoons! Ye never danced a caper so ran-tan-dish; He jumped, thumped-tore-swore, more than ten dragoons At all nights, noons, moons, spoons, and pantaloons! LOVE AND LUNACY. 25 But soon ashamed, or weary, of such dancing, Without a Collinet's or Weippert's band, His rampant arms and legs left off their prancing, And down he sat again, with pen in hand, Not fiddle-headed, or King's pattern grand, But one of Bramah's patent Caligraphics; And many a sheet it spoiled before he planned A likely letter. Used to pure seraphics, Philippics sounded strangely after Sapphics. Long while he rocked like Yankee in his chair, Staring as he would stare the wainscot through, And then he thrust his fingers in his hair, And set his crest up like a cockatoo; And trampled with his hoofs, a mere Yahoo: At last, with many a tragic frown and start, He penned a billet, very far from doux, 'T was sour, severe-but think of a man's smart Writing with lunar caustic on his heart! The letter done and closed, he lit his taper, And sealing, as it were, his other mocks, He stamped a grave device upon the paper, No Cupid toying with his Psyche's locks, But some stern head of the old Stoic stocksThen, fiercely striding through the staring streets, He dropped the bitter missive in a box, Beneath the cakes, and tarts, and sugared treats, In Mrs. Smclling's window-full of sweets. Soon sped the letter-thanks to modern plans, Our English mails run little in the style Of those great German wild-beast caravans, Eil-wagens-though they do not " go like ile," — 3 26 LOVE AND LUNACY. But take a good twelve minutes to the mileOn Monday morning, just at ten o'clock, As Ellen hummed "The Young May Moon" the while, Her ear was startled by that double knock Which thrills the nerves like an electric shock! Her right hand instantly forgot its cunning, And down into the street it dropped, or flung, Right on the hat and wig of Mr. Gunning, The jug that o'er her ten-week-stocks had hung; Then down the stairs by two3 and threes she sprung, And through the passage like a burglar darted. Alas! how sanguine are the fond and youngShe little thought, when with the coin she parted, She paid a sixpence to be broken-hearted! Too dear at any price-had she but paid Nothing and taken discount, it was dear; Yet, worthless as it was, the sweet-lipped maid Oft kissed the letter in her brief career Between the lower and the upper sphere, Where, seated in a study bistre-brown, She tried to pierce a mystery as clear As that I once saw puzzling a young clown"Reading Made Easy," but turned upside down. Yet Ellen, like most misses in the land, Had sipped sky blue, through certain of her teens, At one of those establishments which stand In highways, byways, squares, and village greens; 'T was called " The Grove,"-a name that always means Two poplars stand like sentries at the gateEach window had its close Venetian screens And Holland blind, to keep in a cool state The twenty-four Young Ladies of Miss Bate. LOVE AND LUNACY. 27 But when the screens were left unclosed by chance, The blinds not down, as if Miss B. were dead, Each upper window to a passing glance Revealed a little dimity white bed; Each lower one a cropped or curly head; And thrice a week, for soul's and health's economies, Along the road the twenty-four were led, Like coupled hounds, whipped in by two she-dominies With faces rather graver than Melpomene's. And thus their studies they pursued:-On Sunday, Beef, collects, batter, texts from Dr. Price; Mutton, French, pancakes, grammar-of a Monday; Tuesday-hard dumplings, globes, Chapone's Advice; Wednesday-fancy-work, rice-milk (no spice); Thursday-pork, dancing, currant-bolsters, reading; Friday-beef, Mr. Butler, and plain rice; Saturday-scraps, short lessons and short feeding, Stocks, back-boards, hash, steel-collars, and good breeding. From this repertory of female learning Came Ellen once a quarter, always fatter! To gratify the eyes of parents yearning. 'T was evident in bolsters, beef, and batter, Iard dumplings, and rice-milk, she did not smatter, But heartily, as Jenkins says, "demollidge;" But as for any learning, not to flatter, As often happens when girls leave their college, She had done nothing but grow out of knowledge. At Long Division sums she had no chance, And History was quite as bad a balk; Her French it was too small for Petty France, And Priscian suffered in her English talk: 28 LOVE AND LUNACY. Her drawing might be done with cheese or chalk; As for the globes-the use of the terrestrial She knew when she went out to take a walk, Or take a ride; but, touching the celestial, Her knowledge hardly soared above the bestial. Nothing she learned of Juno, Pallas, Mars; Georgium, for what she knew, might stand for Burgo, Sidus, for Master: then, for northern stars, The Bear she fancied did in sable fur go, The Bull was Farmer Giles's bull, and, ergo, The Ram the same that butted at her brother; As for the Twins, she only guessed that Virgo, From coming after them, must be their mother; The Scales weighed soap, tea, figs, like any other. As ignorant as donkeys in Gallicia, She thought that Saturn, with his Belt, was but A private, may be, in the Kent Militia; That Charles's Wain would stick in a deep rut, That Venus was a real West End slutOh, gods and goddesses of Greek Theogony! That Berenice's Hair would curl and cut, That Cassiop6ia's Chair was good Mahogany, Nicely French-polished-such was her cosmogony! Judge, then, how puzzled by the scientifics Lorenzo's letter came now to dispense; A lizard, crawling over hieroglyphics, Knows quite as much of their Egyptian sense; A sort of London fog, opaque and dense, Hung over verbs, nouns, genitives, and datives. In vain she pored and pored, with eyes intenco, As well is known to oyster-operatives, Mere looking at the shells won't open natives. LOVE AND LUNACY. 29 Yet mixed with the hard words, so called, she found Some easy ones that gave her heart the staggers; Words giving tongue against her, like a hound At picking out a fault-words speaking daggers. The very letters seemed, in hostile swaggers, To lash their tails, but not as horses do, Nor like the tails of spaniels, gentle waggers, But like a lion's, ere he tears in two A black, to see if he is black all through. With open mouth, and eyeballs at full stretch, She gazed upon the paper sad and sorry, No sound-no stir-quite petrified, poor vretch! As when Apollo, in old allegory, Down-stooping like a falcon, made his quarry Of Niobe, just turned to Purbeck stone; In fact, since Cupid got into a worry, Judge if a suing lover, let alone A lawyer, ever wrote in such a tone. "Ellen, I will no longer call you mine, That time is past, and ne'er can come again; However other lights undimmed may shine, And undiminishing, one truth is plain, Which I, alas! have learned-that love can wane. The dream is passed away, the veil is rent, Your heart was not intended for my reign; A sphere so full, I feel, was never meant With one poor man in it to be content. "It must, no doubt, be pleasant beyond measure, To wander underneath the whispering bough With Dian, a perpetual round of pleasure. Nay, fear not-I absolve of every vow- - 30 LOVE AND LUNACY. Use-use your own celestial pleasure now, Your apogee and perigee arrange. Herschel might aptly stare and wonder how, To me that constant disk has nothing strange — A counterfeit is someting hard to change. " Oh Ellen! I once little thought to write Such words unto you, with so hard a pen; Yet outraged love will change its nature quite, And turn like tiger hunted to its denHow Falsehood trips in her deceits on men! And stands abashed, discovered, and forlorn! Had it been only cusped-but gibbous-then It had gone down-but Faith drew back in scorn, And would not swallow it-without a horn! "I am in occultation-that is plain: My culmination's past-that's quite as clear. But think not I will suffer your disdain To hang a lunar rainbow on a tear. Whate'er my pangs, they shall be buried here; No murmur-not a sigh-shall thence exhale: Smile on-and for your own peculiar sphere Choose some eccentric path-you can not fail, And pray stick on a most portentous tail! "Farewell! I hope you are in health and gay; For me, I never felt so well and merryAs for the bran-new idol of the day, Monkey or man, I am indifferent-very! Nor even will ask who is the Happy Jerry; My jealousy is dead, or gone to sleep, But let me hint that you will want a wherry, Three weeks spring-tide, and not a chance of neap, Your parlors will be flooded six feet deep! LOVE AND LUNACY. 81 "Oh Ellen! how delicious was that light Wherein our plighted shadows used to blend, Meanwhile the melancholy bird of nightNo more of that-the lover's at an end. Yet if I may advise you, as a friend, Before you next pen sentiments so fond, Study your cycles-I would recommend Our Airy-and let South be duly conned, And take a dip, I beg, in the great Pond. "Farewell again! it is farewell for ever! Before your lamp of night be lit up thrice, I shall be sailing, haply, for Swan River, Jamaica, or the Indian land of rice, Or Boothia Felix-happy clime of ice! For Trebizond, or distant Scanderoon, Ceylon, or Java redolent of spice, Or settling, neighbor of the Cape baboon, Or roaming o'er-The Mountains of the Moon! "What matters where? my world no longer owns That dear meridian spot from which I dated Degrees of distance, hemispheres, and zones, A globe all blank and barren and belated. What matters where my future life be fated? With Lapland hordes, or Koords or Afric peasant, A squatter in the western woods located, What matters where? My bias, at the present, Leans to the country that reveres the Crescent I "Farewell! and if for ever, fare thee well! As wrote another of my fellow-martyrs: I ask no sexton for his passing-bell, I do not ask your tear-drops to be starters, 82 LOVE AND LUNACY. However I may die, transfixed by Tartars, By Cobras poisoned, by Constrictors strangled, By shark or cayman snapt above the garters, By royal tiger or Cape lion mangled, Or starved to death in the wild woods entangled, "Or tortured slowly at an Indian stake, Or smothered in the sandy hot simoon, Or crushed in Chili by earth's awful quake, Or baked in lava, a Vesuvian tomb, Or dirged by syrens and the billows' boom, Or stiffened to a stock mid Alpine snows, Or stricken by the plague with sudden doom, Or sucked by Vampyres to a last repose, Or self-destroyed, impatient of my woes. "Still fare you well, however I may fare, A fare perchance to the Lethean shore, Caught up by rushing whirlwinds in the air, Or dashed down cataracts with dreadful roar: Nay, this warm heart, once yours unto the core, This hand you should have claimed in church or minster, Some cannibal may gnaw"-she read no moreProne on the carpet fell the senseless spinster, Losing herself, as 'twere, in Kidderminster! Of course of such a fall the shock was great, In rushed the father, panting from the shop, In rushed the mother, without cap or tcte, Pursued by Betty Housemaid with her mop; The cook to change her apron did not stop, The charwoman next scrambled up the stairAll help to lift, to haul, to seat, to prop, And then they stand and smother round the chair, Exclaiming in a chorus, " Give her air!" LOVE AND LUNACY. 83,. One sears her nostrils with a burning feather, Another rams a phial up her nose; A third crooks all her finger-joints together, A fourth rips up her laces and her bows, While all by turns keep trampling on her toes, And, when she gasps for breath, they pour in plump, A sudden drench that down her thorax goes, As if in fetching her-some wits so jumpShe must be fetched with water like a pump! No wonder that thus drenched, and wrenched, and galled, As soon as possible, from syncope's fetter Her senses had the sense to be recalled, "I'm better-that will do-indeed I 'm better," She cried to each importunate besetter; Meanwhile escaping from the stir and smother, The prudent parent seized the lover's letter, (Daughters should have no secrets with a Mother,) And read it through from one end to the other. From first to last, she never skipped a wordFor young Lorenzo of all youths was one So wise, so good, so moral she averred, So clever, quite above the common runShe made him sit by her, and called him son, No matrimonial suit, e'en Duke's or Earl's, So flattered her maternal feelings-none! For mothers always think young men are pearls Who come and throw themselves before their girls. And now, at warning signal from her finger, The servants most reluctantly withdrew, But listening on the stairs contrived to linger; For Ellen, gazing round with eyes of blue, 34 LOVE AND LUNACY. At last the features of her parent knew, And, summoning her breath and vocal powers, " Oh, mother!" she exclaimed-" Oh, is it trueOur dear Lorenzo"-the dear name drew showers"Ours," cried the mother, "pray don't call him ours! "I never liked him, never, in my days!" [" Oh yes-you did"-said Ellen with a sob,] "There always was a something in his ways[" So sweet-so kind," said Ellen, with a throb,] " His very face was what I call a snob, And, spite of West End coats and pantaloons, He had a sort of air of the swell mob; I'm sure when he has come of afternoons To tea, I 'e often thought-I '11 watch my spoons t" "The spoons!" cried Ellen, almost with a scream, " Oh cruel-false as cruel-and unjust! He that once stood so high in your esteem!" "He!" -cried the dame, grimacing her disgust, "I like him?-yes-as any body must An infidel that scoffs at God and Devil: Didn't he bring you Bonaparty's bust? Lord! when he calls I hardly can be civilMy favorite was always Mr. Neville. "Lorenzo?-I should like, of earthly things, To see him hanging forty cubits high; Does n't he write like Captain Rocks and Swings? Nay, in this very letter bid you try To make yourself particular, and tie A tail on-a prodigious tail!-Oh, daughter! And don't he ask you down his area-fie! And recommend to cut your being shorter, With brick-bats round your neck in ponds of water?" LOVE AND LUNACY. 35 Alas! to think how readers thus may vary A writer's sense!-What mortal would have thought Lorenzo's hints about Professor Airy And Pond to such a likeness could be brought! Who would have dreamed the simple way he taught To make a comet of poor Ellen's moon, Could furnish forth an image so distraught, As Ellen, walking Regent Street at noon, Tailed-like a fat Cape sheep, or a raccoon! And yet, whate'er absurdity the brains May hatch, it ne'er wants wet-nurses to suckle it; Or dry ones, like a hen, to take the pains To lead the nudity abroad, and chuckle it; No whim so stupid but some fool will buckle it To jingle bell-like on his empty head, No mental mud-but some will knead and knuckle it, And fancy they are making fancy-bread;No ass has written, but some ass has read. No dolts could lead if others did not follow 'em. No Hahnemann could give decillionth drops If any man could not be got to swallow 'em; But folly never comes to such full stops. As soon, then, as the Mother made such swaps Of all Lorenzo's meanings, heads and tails, The Father seized upon her malaprops" My girl down areas-of a night! 'Ods nails! I'11 stick the scoundrel on his area-rails! "I will!-as sure as I was christened John! A girl-well born-and bred-and schooled at DittonAccomplished-handsome-with a tail stuck on! 9 And chucked-Zounds!-chucked in horseponds like a kitten; 36 LOVE AND LUNACY. I wish I had been by when that was written!"And doubling to a fist each ample hand, The empty air he boxed with, a la Britton, As if in training for a fight, long planned, With Nobody-for love-at No Man's Land! "I '11 pond-I '11 tail him!" In a voice of thunder He recommenced his fury and his fuss, Loud, open-mouthed, and wedded to his blunder, Like one of those great guns that end in buss. "I '11 teach him to write ponds and tails to us!" But while so menacing this-that-and-t'others, His wife broke in with certain truths, as thus: "Men are not women-fathers can't be mothersFemales are females"-and a few such others. So saying, with rough nudges, willy-nilly, She hustled him outside the chamber-door, Looking, it must be owned, a little silly; And then she did as the Carinthian boor Serves (Goldsmith says) the traveller that's poor: Id est, she shut him in the outer space, With just as much apology-no moreAs Boreas would present in such a case, For slamming the street door right in your face. And now the secrets of the sex thus kept, What passed in that important tete-a-tete 'Twixt dam and daughter, nobody except Paul Pry, or his Twin Brother, could narrateSo turn we to Lorenzo, left of late In front of Mrs. Snelling's sugared snacks, In such a very waspish stinging stateBut now at the Old Dragon, stretched on racks, Fretting, and biting down his nails to tacks; LOVE AND LUNACY. 87 Because that new fast four-inside-the Comet, Instead of keeping its appointed time, But deviated some few minutes from it, A thing with all astronomers a crime, And he had studied in that lore sublime; Nor did his heat get any less or shorter For pouring upon passion's unslacked lime A well-grown glass of Cogniac and water, Mixed stiff as starch by the Old Dragon's daughter. At length, "Fair Ellen" sounding with a flourish, The Comet came all bright, bran new, and smart: Meanwhile the melody conspired to nourish The hasty spirit in Lorenzo's heart, And soon upon the roof he " topped his part," Which never had a more impatient man on, Wishing devoutly that the steeds would start Like lightning greased-or, as at Ballyshannon Sublimed, "greased lightning shot out of a cannon!" For, ever since the letter left his hand, His mind had been in vascillating motion, Dodge-dodging like a flustered crab on land, That can not ask its way, and has no notion If right or left leads to the German OceanHatred and Love by turns enjoyed monopolies, Till, like a Doctor following his own potion, Before a learned pig could spell Acropolis, He went and booked himself for our metropolis. "Oh, for a horse," or rather four-" with wings!" For so he put his wish into the pluralNo relish he retained for country things, He could not join felicity with rural, 88 LOVE AND LUNACY. His thoughts were all with London and the mural. Where architects-not paupers-heap and pile stones: Or with the horses' muscles, called the crural, How fast they could macadamize the milestones Which passed as tediously as gall or bile stones. Blind to the picturesque, he ne'er perceived In Nature one artistical fine stroke; For instance, how that purple hill relieved The beggar-woman in the gipsy-poke, And how the red cow carried off her cloak; Or how the aged horse, so gaunt and grey, Threw off a noble mass of beech and oak! Or, how the tinker's ass, beside the way, Came boldly out from a white cloud-to bray! Such things have no delight for worried men, That travel full of care and anxious smart: Coachmen and horses are your artists then; Just try a team of draughtsmen with the Dart, Take Shee, for instance, Etty, Jones, and Hart, Let every neck be put into its noose, Then tip 'em on the flank to make 'em start, And see how they will draw!-Four screws let loose Would make a difference-or I'm a goose! Nor cared he more about the promised crops, If oats were looking up, or wheat was laid, For flies in turnips, or a blight in hops, Or how the barley prospered or decayed; In short, no items of the farming trade, Peas, beans, tares, 'taters, could his mind beguile; Nor did he answer to the servant maid. That always asked at every other mile, "Where do we change, sir?" with her sweetest smile. LOVE AND LUNACY. 89 Nor more he listened to the Politician, Who lectured on his left, a formal prig, Of Belgium's, Greece's, Turkey's sad condition, Not worth a cheese, an olive, or a fig; Nor yet unto the critic, fierce and big, Who, holding forth, all lonely, in his glory, Called one a sad bad Poet-and a Whig, And one, a first-rate proser-and a Tory; So critics judge, now, of a song or story. Nay, when the coachman spoke about the 'Leger, Of Popsy, Mopsy, Bergamotte, and Civet, Of breeder, trainer, owner, backer, hedger, And nags as right, or righter than a trivet, The theme his cracked attention could not rivet; Though leaning forward to the man of whips, He seemed to give an ear-but did not give it, For Ellen's moon (that saddest of her slips) Would not be hidden by a " new Eclipse." If any thought e'er flitted in his head Belonging to the sphere of Bland and Crocky, It was to wish the team all thorough-bred, And every buckle on their backs a jockey: When spinning down a steep descent, or rocky, He never watched the wheel, and longed to lock it, He liked the bolters that set off so cocky Nor did it shake a single nerve or shock it, Because the Comet raced against the Rocket. Thanks to which rivalry, at last the journey Finished an hour and a quarter under time, Without a case for surgeon or attorney, Just as St. James's rang its seventh chime, 40 LOVE AND LUNACY. And now, descending from his seat sublime, Behold Lorenzo, weariest of wights, In' that great core of brick, and stone, and lime, Called England's Heart-but which, as seen of nights, Has rather more the appearance of its lights. Away he s'cudded-elbowing, perforce, Through,cads, and Ads, and many a Hebrew worrier, With fruit, kLives, pencils-all dirt cheap, of course, Coachmen, aol.d hawkers, of the Globe and "Currier;" Away! the cookmaid is not such a skurrier, When, fit to split her gingham as she goes, With six just striking on the clock to hurry her, She strides along with one of her three beaux, To get well placed at " Ashley's" —now Ducrow's. "I wonder if her moon is full to-night!" He muttered, jealous as a Spanish Don, When, lo! to aggravate that inward spite, In glancing at a board he spied thereon A play-bill for dramatic folks to con, In letters such as those may read, who run, " 'KING JOHN'-oh yes-I recollect King John! 'My Lord, they say five moons'-five moons! well done! I wonder Ellen was content with one! "Five moons-all full! and all at once in heaven! She should have lived in that prolific reign!" Here he arrived in front of number seven, The abode of all his joy and all his pain; A sudden tremor shot through every vein, He wished he'd come up by the heavy wagon, And felt an impulse to turn back again, Oh, that he ne'er had quitted the Old Dragon! Then came a sort of longing for a flagon. LOVE AND LUNACY. 41 His tongue and palate seemed so parched with drouthThe very knocker filled his soul with dread, As if it had a living lion's mouth, With teeth so terrible, and tongue so red, In which he had engaged to put his head. The bell-pull turned his courage into vapor, As though 't would cause a shower-bath to shed Its thousand shocks, to make him sigh and caperHe looked askance, and did not like the scraper. "What business have I here? (he thought) a dunce A hopeless passion thus to fan and foster, Instead of putting out its wick at once; She's gone-it's very evident I 've lost herAnd to the wanton wind I should have tossed herPish! I will leave her with her moon, at ease, To toast and eat it, like a single Gloster, Or cram some fool with it, as good green cheese, Or make a honey-moon, if so she please. "Yes-here I leave her," and as thus he spoke, He plied the knocker with such needless force, It almost split the pannel of sound oak; And then he went as wildly through a course Of ringing, till he made abrupt divorce Between the bell and its dumbfounded handle; While up ran Betty, out of breath and hoarse, And thrust into his face her blown-out candle, To recognize the author of such scandal. Who, presto! cloak, and carpet-bag to boot, Went stumbling, rumbling, up the dark one pair, With other noise than his whose " very foot Had music in't as he came up the stair:" 42 LOVE AND LUNACY. And then with no more manners than a bear, His lat upon his head, no matter how, No modest tap his presence to declare, He bolted in a room, without a bow, And there sat Ellen, with a marble brow! Like fond Medora, watching at her window, Yet not of any Corsair bark in searchThe jutting lodging-house of Mrs. Lindo, "The Cheapest House in Town" of Todd and Sturch, The private house of Reverend Doctor Birch, The public-house, closed nightly at eleven, And then that house of prayer, the parish church, Some roofs and chimneys, and a glimpse of heaven, Made up the whole look-out of Number Seven. Yet something in the prospect so absorbed her, She seemed quite drowned and dozing in a dream; As if her own beloved full moon still orbed her, Lulling her fancy in some lunar scheme, With lost Lorenzo, may be, for its themeYet when Lorenzo touched her on the shoulder, She started up with an abortive scream, As if some midnight ghost, from regions colder, Had come within his bony arms to fold her. "Lorenzo!"-" Ellen!"-then came " Sir!" and "Madam! They tried to speak, but hammered at each word, As if it were a flint for great MacAdam; Such broken English never else was heard, For like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirred, A chilly tremor thrilled them through and through, Their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd, They shook like jellies made without a due And proper share of common joiner's glue. LOVE AND LUNACY. 48 "Ellen! I'm come-to bid you-fare-farewell" They thus began to fight their verbal duel; "Since some more hap-hap-happy man must dwell-" " Alas-Loren-Lorenzo!-cru —cru-cruel!" For so they split their words like grits for gruel. At last the Lover, as he long had planned, Drew out that once inestimable jewel, Her portrait, which was erst so fondly scanned, And thrust poor Ellen's face into her hand. "There-take it, Madam-take it back I crave, The face of one-but I must now forget her, Bestow it on whatever hapless slave Your art has last enticed into your fetterAnd there are your epistles-there! each letter! I wish no record of your vow's infractions, Send them to South-or Children-you had betterThey will be novelties-rare benefactions To shine in Philosophical Transactions! "Take them-pray take them-I resign them quite! And there's the glove you gave me leave to stealAnd there's the handkerchief, so pure and white Once sanctified by tears, when Miss O'NeillBut no-you did not-cannot-do not feel A Juliet's faith, that time could only harden! Fool that I was, in my mistaken zeal! I should have led you-by your leave and pardonTo Bartley's Orrery, not Covent Garden! "And here's the birth-day ring-nor man nor devil Should once have torn it from my living hand, Perchance 't will look as well on Mr. Neville; And that-and that is all-and now I stand 44 LOVE AND LUNACY. Absolved of each dissevered tie and bandAnd so farewell, till Time's eternal sickle Shall reap our lives; in this, or foreign land Some other may be found for truth to stickle Almost as fair-and not so false and fickle!" And there he ceased: as truly it was time, For of the various themes that left his mouth, On.e half surpassed her intellectual climb: She knew no more than the old Hill of Howth About that " Children of a larger growth," Who notes proceedings of the F. R. S.'s; Kit North, was just as strange to her as South, Except the South the weathercock expresses, Nay, Bartley's Orrery defied her guesses. Howbeit some notion of his jealous drift She gathered from the simple outward fact.That her own lap contained each slighted gift; Though quite unconsious of his cause to act So like Othello, with his face unblacked; "Alas!" she sobbed, "your cruel course I see These faded charms no longer can attract; Your fancy palls, and you would wander free, And lay your own apostacy on me! "I, false!-unjust Lorenzo!-and to you! Oh, all ye holy gospels that incline The soul to truth, bear witness I am true! By all that lives, of earthly or divineSo long as this poor throbbing heart is mineI false!-the world shall change its course as soon True as the streamlet to the stars that shineTrue as the dial to the sun at noon, True as the tide to 'yonder blessed moon'!" LOVE AND LUNACY. 45 And as she spoke, she pointed through the window, Somewhere above the houses' distant tops, Betwixt the chimney-pots of Mrs. Lindo, And Todd and Sturch's cheapest of all shops For ribbons, laces, muslins, silks, and fops; Meanwhile, as she upraised her face so Grecian, And eyes suffused with scintillating drops, Lorenzo looked, too, o'er the blinds Venetian, To see the sphere so troubled with repletion. "The Moon!" he cried, and an electric spasm Seemed all at once his features to distort, And fixed his mouth, a dumb and gaping chasmHis faculties benumbed and all amortAt last his voice came, of most shrilly sort, Just like a sea-gull's wheeling round a rock" Speak!-Ellen!-is your sight indeed so short! The Moon!-Brute! savage that I am, and block I The Moon! (0, ye Romantics v;:at a shock!) Why that's the new Illuminated Clock!" I BAILEY BALLADS, I BAILEY BALLADS. To anticipate mistake, the above title refers not to Thomas Haynes-or F. W. N.-or even to any Publishers -but the original Old Bailey. It belongs to a set of Songs composed during the courtly leisure of what is technically called a Juryman in Waiting-that is, one of a corps de reserve, held in readiness to fill up the gaps which extraordinary mental exertion-or sedentary habits-or starvation, may make in the Council of Twelve. This wrong box it was once my fortune to get into. On the 5th of November, at the 6th hour, leaving my bed and the luxurious perusal of Taylor on Early Rising-I walked from a yellow fog into a black one, in my unwilling way to the New Court, which sweet herbs even could not sweeten, for the sole purpose of making criminals uncomfortable. A neighbor, a retired sea Captain with a wooden leg, now literally a jury-mast, limped with me from Highbury Terrace on the same hanging errand-a personified.Halter. Our legal drill Corporal was Serjeant Arabin, and when our muster-roll without butter was over, before breakfast, the uninitiated can form no idea of the ludicrousness of the excuses of the would-be Non-jurors-aggravated by the solemnity of a previous oath, the delivery from a witness-box like a pulpit, 3 50 BAILEY BALLADS. and the professional gravity of the Court. One weakly old gentleman had been ordered by his physician to eat little, but often, and apprehended even fatal consequences from being locked up with an obstinate eleven; another conscientious demurrer desired time to make himself master of his duties, by consulting Jonathan Wild, Vidocq, Hardy Vaux, and Lazarillo de Tormes. But the number of deaf men who objected the hardness of their hearing criminal cases was beyond belief. Tfhe Publishers of " Curtis on the Ear" and " Wright on the Ear"-(two popular surgical works, though rather suggestive of Pugilism)-ought to have stentorian agents in that Court. Defective on one side myself, I was literally ashamed to strike up singly in such a chorus of muffled double drums, and tacitly suffered my ears to be boxed with a common Jury. I heard, on the right hand, a Judge's charge-an arraignment and evidence to match, with great dexterity, but failing to catch the defence from the left hand, refused naturally to concur in any sinister verdict. The learned Serjeant, I presume, as I was only half deaf only half discharged me-committing me to the relay-box, as a juror in Waiting-and from which I was relieved only by his successor, Sir Thomas Denman, and to justify my dullness, I made even his stupendous voice to repeat my dismissal twice over! It was during this compelled attendance that the project struck me of a Series of Lays of Larceny, combining Sin and Sentiment in that melo-dramatic mixture which is so congenial to the cholera morbid sensibility of the present age and stage. The following are merely specimens, but a hint from the Powers that be-in the Strand-will promptly produce a handsome volume of the remainder, with a grateful dedication to the learned Serjeant. BAILEY BALLADS. 51 LINES TO MARY. (AT NO. 1, NEWGATE, FAVORED BY MR. WONTNE.) O MARY, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knewThat you were taken up for thieving! Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported! But then to gaze on that fair faceIt would have been an unfair feeling, To dream that you had pilfered laceAnd Flints had suffered from your stealing! Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammered out a word, How could I dream you'd heard a sentence! Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction! How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand-where I have looked and lingered, Altho' it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered! 52 BAILEY BALLADS. In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delightedAlas! the lay, I thought was new, Spoke only what had been indicted! Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too. You said you picked me from the world, My vanity it now must shock itAnd down at once my pride is hurled, You've picked me-and you've picked a pocket! Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Dr. Daly, Who asked if there was any barWhy did not some one shout " Old Bailey?" But when you robed your' flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with Darbies? And when the parson came to say, My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honor and obey, Who could have thought-" 0 Bay of Botany." But, oh-the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discoverThat down in Deptford's prison-ships, Oh, Mary! you've a hulking lover! BAILEY BALLADS. 58 No. IL "Love, with a witness " HE has shaved off his whiskers and blackened his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hairBut it's him-Oh it's him!-we've exchanged lovers' vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square. He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, And his voice was as soft as a fluteLike a Lord or a Marquis he looked, when he came, To make love in his master's best suit. If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told; How he loved me beyond the rich women of earth, With their jewels and silver and gold! When he kissed me and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons, Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye To my Missis's tea-pot and spoons! No. IIL "I'd be a Parody." —BAILY. WE met-'t was in a mob-and I thought he had done meI felt-I could not feel-for no watch was upon me; He ran-the night was cold-and his pace was unaltered, I too longed much to pelt-but my small-boned legs faltered, I wore my bran new boots-and unrivalled their brightness, They fit me to a hair-how I hated their tightness! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether Oh thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! 54 BAILEY BALLADS. And once again we met-and an old pal was near him, He swore a something low-but 't was no use to fear him; I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept-aa he deserved —o cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried-but I shall ne'er receive her, The watch that vent too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay —heart and feet ache together, Oh thou-hat been the cause of this anguish, my leather. POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. I I POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. There, in a lonely room, from balliffs snug, The Muse found Scroggins stretched beneath a rug. GOLDSMITH. POETRY and poverty begin with the same letter, and, in more respects than one, are " as like each other as two P's." Nine tailors are the making of a man, but not so the nine Muses. Their votaries are notoriously only water-drinkers, eating mutton cold, and dwelling in attics. Look at the miserable lives and deaths recorded of the poets. " Butler," says Mr. D'Israeli, " lived in a cellar, and Goldsmith in a Deserted Village. Savage ran wild-Chatterton was carried on St. Augustine's Back like a young gipsy; and his half-starved Rowley always said heigho, when he heard of gammon and spinach. Gray's days were ode-ious, and Gay's gaiety was fabulous. Falconer was shipwrecked. Homer was a blind beggar, and Pope raised a subscription for him, and went snacks. Crabbe found himself in the poor-house, Spenser could n't afford a great-coat, and Milton was led up and down by his daughters, to save the expense of a dog." It seems all but impossible to be a poet, in easy circumstances. Pope has shown how verses are written by Ladies of Quality-and what execrable rhymes Sir Richard Blackmore composed in his chariot. In a hay-cart he might have sung like a Burns. 3* 68 POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. As the editors of magazines and annuals (save one) well know, the truly poetical contributions which can be inserted, are not those which come post free, in rose-colored tinted paper, scented with musk, and sealed with fancy wax. The real article arrives by post unpaid, sealed with rosin, or possibly with a dab of pitch or cobbler's wax, bearing the impression of a halfpenny, or more frequently of a buttenthe paper is dingy and scant-the hand-writing has evidently come to the author by nature-there are trips in the spelling, and Priscian is a little scratched or so-but a rill of the true Castalian runs through the whole composition, though its fountain-head was a broken tea-cup, instead of a silver standish. A few years ago I used to be favored with numerous poems for insertion, which bore the signature of Fitz-Norman; the crest on the seal had probably descended from the Conquest, and the packets were invariably delivered by a Patagonian footman in green and gold. The author was evidently rich, and the verses were as palpably poor; they were declined, with the usual answer to correspondents who do not answer, and the communications ceased -as I thought forever, but I was deceived; a few days back one of the dirtiest and raggedest of street urchins delivered a soiled whity brown packet, closed with a wafer, which bore the impress of a thimble. The paper had more the odor of tobacco than of rose leaves, and the writing appeared to have been perpetrated with a skewer dipped in coffee-grounds; but the old signature of Fitz-Norman had the honor to be my " very humble servant" at the foot of the letter. It was too certain that he had fallen fromh affluence to indigence, but the adversity which had wrought such a change upon the writing implements, had, as usual, improved his poetry. The neat crowquill never traced on the superfine Bath paper any thing so unaffected as the following: POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. 59 STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFF Alas! of all the noxious things That wait upon the poor, Most cruel is that Felon-Fear That haunts the " Debtor's Door!" Saint Sepulchre's begins to toll, The Sheriffs seek the cell: So I expect their officers, And tremble at the bell! I look for beer, and yet I quake With fright at every tap; And dread a double-knock, for oh! I 've not a single rap! SONNET WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE. OH, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask: The overseer is gone-that vandal elfAnd hemp, unpicked, may go and hang itself, While I, untasked, except with Cowper's Task, In blessed literary leisure bask, And lose the workhouse, saving in the works Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes; Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask; The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spense, The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair 60 POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. Unlearn6d toil, unlettered labors hence! But, hark! I hear the master on the stair And Thomson's Castle, that of Indolence, Must be to me a castle in the air. SONNET.-A SOMNAMBULIST. " A change came o'er the spirit of my dream." —Bmoo. METHOUGHT-for Fancy is the strangest gadder When sleep all homely mundane ties hath rivenMethought that I ascended Jacob's ladder, With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven: Some bell, I know not whence, was sounding seven When I set foot upon that long one-pair; And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven, Nor yet of landing-place became aware; Step after step in endless flight seemed there; But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still, To gain that blessed haven from all care, Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill, When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stairTramp-tramp-tramp-tramp-upon the Brixton ivliil. FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH. "Aurum pot-a-bie."-Gold biles the pot.-FREE TRANSLATION. FAREWELL then, my golden repeater, We're come to my Uncle's old shop; And hunger won't be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop. POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. 61 To quit thee, my comrade diurnal, My feelings will certainly scotch; But oh! there 's a riot internal, And Famine calls out for the Watch! Oh! hunger's a terrible trial, I really must have a reliefSo here goes the plates of your dial To fetch me some Williams's beef! As famished as any lost seaman, I 've fasted for many a dawn, And now must play chess with the Demon, And give it a check with a pawn. I've fasted, since dining at Buncle's, Two days with true Perceval zealAnd now must make up at my Uncle's, By getting a duplicate meal. No Peachum it is, or young Lockit, That rifles my fob with a snatch; Alas! I must pick my own pocket, A& n make gravv-souD of my watch! So long I have wandered a starver, I'm getting as keen as a hawk; Time's long hand must take up a carver, His short hand lay hold of a fork. Right heavy and sad the event is, But oh! it is Poverty's crime; I 've been such a Brownrigg's Apprentice, I thus must be "out of my Time." 62 POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN. Folks talk about dressing for dinner, But I have for dinner undrest; Since Christmas, as I am a sinner, I 've eaten a suit of my best. I haven't a rag or a mummock To fetch me a chop or a steak; I wish that the coats of my stomach Were such as my Uncle would take! When dishqs were ready with garnish My watch used to warn with a chimeBut now my repeater must furnish The dinner in lieu of the time! My craving will have no denials, I can't fob it off, if you stay, So go-and the old Seven Dials Must tell me the time of the day. Your chimes I shall never more hear 'em, To part is a Tic Douloureux! But Tempus has his edax rerum, And I have my Feeding-Time too! Farewell then, my golden repeater, We're come to my Uncle's old shopAnd Hunger won't be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop! Alas! when in Brook Street the upper In comfort I lived between walls, I 've gone to a dance for my supper;But now I must go to Three Balls! N DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. I I DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. BY AN OLD SERVANT. IT is not often when the Nine descend that they go so low as into areas; it is certain, nevertheless, that they were in the habit of visiting John Humphreys, in the kitchen of No. 189, Portland-Place, disguised, no doubt, from mortal eye, as seamstresses or charwomen-at all events, as Winifred Jenkins says, " they were never ketch'd in the fact." Perhaps it was the rule of the house to allow no followers, and they were obliged to come by stealth, and to go in the same manner; indeed, from the fragmental nature of John's verses, they appear to have often left him very abruptly. Other pieces bear witness of the severe distraction he suffered between his domestic duty to the Umphravilles, twelve in family, with their guests, and his own secret visitors from Helicon. It must have been provoking, when seeking for a simile, to be sent in search of a salt-cellar; or when hunting for a rhyme, to have to look for a missing teaspoon. By a whimsical peculiarity, the causes of these lets and hindrances are recorded in his verses, by way of parenthesis; and though John's poetry was of a decidedly serious and moralising turn, these little insertions give it so whimsical a character, as to make it an appropriate offering in the present work. Poor John! the grave has put a period to his di 66 DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. dactics, and the publication of his lays in " Hood's Own," therefore, cannot give him pain, as it certainly would have done otherwise, for the MSS. were left by last will and testament "to his very worthy master, Joshua Umphraville, Esq., to be printed in Elegant Extracts, or Flowers of English Poetry." The Editor is indebted to the kindness of that gentleman for a selection from the papers; which he has been unable to arrange chronologically, as John always wrote in too great a hurry to put dates. Whether he ever sent any pieces to the periodicals is unknown, for he kept his authorship as secret as Junius's, till his death discovered his propensity for poetry, and happily cleared up some points in John's character, which had appeared to his disadvantage. Thus when his eye was " in fine frenzy rolling," bemused only with Castalian water, he had been suspected of being "bemused with beer;" and when he was supposed to indulge in a morning sluggishness, he was really rising with the sun, at least with Apollo. He was accused occasionally of shamming deafness, whereas it was doubtless nothing but the natural difficulty of hearing more than Nine at once. Above all, he was reckoned almost wilfully unfortunate in his breakage; but it appears that when deductions for damage were made from his wages, the poetry ought to have been stopped, and not the money. The truth is, John's master was a classical scholar, and so accustomed to read of Pegasus, and to associate a Poet with a horseman, that he never dreamed of one as a Footman. The Editor is too diffident to volunteer an elaborate criticism of the merits of Humphreys as a Bard-but he presumes to say thus much, that there are several Authors, of the present day, whom John ought not to walk behind. DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. 67 THE BROKEN DISH. WHAT'S life but full of care and doubt, With all its fine humanities, With parasols we walk about, Long pigtails and such vanities. We plant pomegranite trees and things, And go in gardens sporting, With toys and fans of peacock's wings, To painted ladies courting. We gather flowers of every hue, And fish in boats for fishes, Build summer-houses painted blueBut life's as frail as dishes. Walking about their groves of trees, Blue bridges and blue rivers, How little thought them two Chinese, They'd both be smashed to shivers. ODE TO PEACE. WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT OH Peace! oh come with me and dwellBut stop, for there's the bell. Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches, On Wednesday, when there's very few In loft or pewAnother ring, the tarts are come from Birch's. Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriageHush! there's a carriage. 68 DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goodsThe five Miss Woods. Oh Peace! thou art the Goddess I adoreThere come some more. Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quietThat's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot. Oh Peace! Knocks will not cease. Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plannedThat's Weippert's band. Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approachesI hear the sound of coaches. Oh Peace! oh Peace!-another carriage stopsIt's early for the Blenkinsops. Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander, But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander, And now I 've seen her up the stair, Oh Peace!-but here comes Captain Hare, Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind, Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbrokenIf that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken, Alderman Gobble won't be far behind; Oh Peace! serene in worldly shynessMake way there for his Serene Highness! Oh Peace! if you do not disdain To dwell amongst the menial train,. have a silent place, and lone, That you and I may call our own; Where tumult never makes an entrySusan, what business have you in my pantry? DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. 69 Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk, At variance with his wife-Oh Peace! And that great German, Vander Trunk, And that great talker, Miss Apreece; Oh Peace! so dear to poets' quillsThey're just beginning their quadrillesOh Peace! our greatest renovator;I wonder where I put my waiterOh Peace!-but here my Ode I '11 cease; I have no peace to write of Peace. A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN. WHEN I reflect with serious sense, While years and years roll on, How soon I may be summoned henceThere's cook a-calling John. Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We're hourly standing at Death's doorThere's some one double-knocks. All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the wormsThey 're come to lunch of course. And when my body's turned to clay, And dear friends hear my knell, O let them give a sigh and sayI hear the upstairs bell. 70 DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY. MARY, you know I 've no love-nonsense, And, though I pen on such a day, I don't mean flirting, on my conscience, Or writing in the courting way. Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, It saves you, p'rhaps, from being vain, And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain. Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty; But, doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty. Let Susan flourish her fair arms And at your odd legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of. -.1M~ BALLADS: SERIOUS, VERY SERIOUS, AND PATHETIC. I BALLADS. THE POACHER. A SERIOUS BALLAD. But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied. GOLDSMIT. BILL BLOSSOM was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egged him on to poach. They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare. Each " shiny night" the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could. Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demeritGive him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret. 4 74 THE POACHER. At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden-Hall. He did not fear to take a deer From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently tofawn. Folks who had hares discovered snaresHis course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop. To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keeper's nerves; They swore he never seemed to have Jam satis of preserves. The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the covers made Of silver, plate, or tin. In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The Manors about Sutton. No county from his tricks was safe; In each he tried his lucks, But when the keepers were in Beds, He often was at Bucks. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 75 And when he went to Bucks, alas! They always came to Herts; And even Oxon used to wish That he had his deserts. But going to his usual Hants, Old Cheshire laid his plots; He got entrapped by legal Berks, And lost his life in Notts. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. A PATHETIC BALLAD. "Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou flshified 1"-M-IERCIuo. 'T WAS twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim. Said he, " Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup,"When, whiter than the table-cloth, A GHOST came rising up! O, father dear, 0, mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother JimYou know when some one went to seaDon't cry-but I am him! "You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I 'm never coming back! 76 THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. " From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs! " The Ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops. " Just give a look in Norey's chart, The very place it tells; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells. "Well there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all. "But oh, my spirit cannot rest, In Davy Jones's sod, Till I 've appeared to you and saidDon't sup on that 'ere Cod! "You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M. That Cod was picking me! " Those oysters too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one. A WATERLOO BALLAD. 77 " 0, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave, They sucked my blood like imps! " Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They '11 know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!" The Spirit fled-they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack! At last up started brother Jim, "Let's try if Jack was Jack!" They called the Dog, they called the Cat, And little Kitten too, And down they put the Cod and sauce, To see what brutes would do. Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod-and little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps! The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts! 0, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts! A WATERLOO BALLAD. To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan; Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter' Stone. 78 A WATERLOO BALLAD. "0 prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I'm come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear! "Into our town a serjeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap-alas; His bow enlisted mine! " They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March! "A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep'No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step. " prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabout he lies? I want a corse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes." Her sorrow on the sentinel Appeared to deeply strike;"Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like." And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattrass was a horse. A WATERLOO BALLAD. " 0 Peter Stone, 0 Peter Stone, Lord here has been a scrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?" "0 Patty Head, 0 Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing! "Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks. "This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;Instead of opening a ball, A ball has opened me. "Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;I wish mine had n't come so straight,. But been a 'crooked billet.' "And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;He had no pity in his heart, For he had steeled his breast. " Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thru3t away; I called for quarter, but, alas! It was not Quarter-day. 80 A WATERLOO BALLAD. "He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint;0 Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point. "With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women doBut soon'by charging over me, The Coldstream brought me to. "With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I'm quite convinced the field of Mars Is not a field of clover! " Q why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph? I might have been a butcher, and In business for myself! "0 why did I the bounty take (And here he gasped for breath) My shilling's worth of 'list is nailed Upon the door of death! Without a coffin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not ev'n a shell-my only chance Of being made a Kernel! "0 Patty dear, our wedding bells Will never ring at Chester! Here I must lie in Honor's bed, That isn't worth a tester! THE DUEL. 81 "Farewell, my regimental mates, With whom I used to dress! My corps is changed, and I am now, In quite another mess. "Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except, when I am dead, you '11 go And see th' Illuminations." THE DUEL. A SERIOUS BALLAD. "Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one noMegy." IN Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mr. Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mr. Clay. To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allowed, Such fair outsides are seldom seen, Such Angels on a Cloud. Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell, but there your court No thoroughfare shall be. Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love; I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove. 4* 82 THE DUEL. So pray before you woo her more, Consider what you do; If you pop aught to Lucy BellI '11 pop it into you. Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, Your threats I quite explode; One who has been a volunteer, Knows how to prime and load. And so I say to you unless Your passion quiet keeps, I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, May chance to hit a sheep's. Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead. But first they sought a friend a-piece, This pleasant thought to giveWhen they were dead, they thus should haye Two seconds still to live. To measure out the ground not long The seconds then forbore, And having taken one rash step They took a dozen more. They next prepared each pistol-pan Against the deadly strife, By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life. THE DUEL. 88 Now all was ready for the foes, But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so they found They both were shaking hands. Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., Here one of us may fall, And like St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball. I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name; If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same? Said Mr. B., I do agreeBut think of Honor's Courts! If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports. But look, the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun; Why can't we aim above, as if We had called out the sun? So up into the harmless air, Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end! 84 THE GHOST. THE GHOST. A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD. "I'll be your second."-LIwTox. IN Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town. But Brown and stout will both wear out, One Friday he died hard, And left a widowed wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard. Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax, And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To manumit her blacks. With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing thus came about: She asked him in at home, and then At church he asked her out! Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand. One dreary night the angry sprite, Appeared before our view; It came a little after one, But she was after two! THE GHOST. 85 "Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame To burn your widow's weeds? "It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My Memory-like Rogers's, Should still be bound in green! "Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubtI'm like an old Forget-Me-Not With all the leaves torn out! " To think that on that finger joint Another pledge should cling; Oh Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring.' "A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, Ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in my urn! "Remember, oh! remember, how The marriage rite did runIf ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now-when I have none! " And you, sir-once a bosom friendOf perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider you are kicked. 86 SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT. "A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up!-you marry Ma'am, And I'11 come up again." More he had said, but chanticleer The sprightly shade did shock With sudden crow, and off he went, Like fowling-piece at cock! SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT; OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE. "He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee." BaYAN AND PERENNE. ' OH! what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist. "It is not painted to the life, For where's the trowsers blue? Oh Jones, my dear!-Oh dear! my Jones, What is become of you?" "Oh! Sally dear, it is too trueThe half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark! "Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do! A bite in one place seems enough, But I 've been bit in two. SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT. You know I once was all your own But now a shark must share! But let that pass-for now to you I 'm neither here nor there. "Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me! "Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights To haunt, as people say; My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs Are many leagues away! "Lord! think when I am swimming round And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half, Without 'a quarter's notice.' "One half is here, the other half, Is near Columbia placed; Oh! Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist. "But now, adieu-a long adieu! I 've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle!" 88 JOHN DAY. JOHN DAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. "A Day after the Fairr' —OLD PBOvUB. JOHN DAY he was the biggest man Of all the coachman-kind, With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind. The very horses knew his weight When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas-box To come but once a year. Alas! against the shafts of love, What armor can avail? Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail. The bar-maid of the Crown he loved From whom he never ranged, For tho' he changed his horses there, His love he never changed. He thought her fairest of all fares, So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers. One day as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pumpHe came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump. JOHN DAY. 89 Said she, my taste will never lean To like so huge a man, So I must beg you will come here As little as you can. But still he stoutly urged his suit, With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, although He drove the Dart for years. In vain he wooed, in vain he sued; The maid was cold and proud, And sent him off to Coventry, While on his way to Stroud. He fretted all the way to Stroud, And thence all back to town, The course of love was never smooth, So his went up and down. At last her coldness made him pine To merely bones and skin; But still he loved like one resolved To love through thick and thin. Oh Mary, view my wasted back, And see my dwindled calf; Tho' I have never had a wife, I 've lost my better half. Alas, in vain he still assailed, Her heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone He could not move a flint. 90 POMPEY'S GHOST. Worn out, at last he made a vow To break his being's link; For he was so reduced in size At nothing he could shrink. Now some will talk in water's praise,\ And waste a deal of breath, But John, though he drank nothing elseHe drank himself to death. The cruel maid that caused his love, Found out the fatal close, For looking in the butt, she saw, The butt-end of his woes. Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, But that is only talkFor after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk. POMPEY'S GHOST. A PATHETIC BALLAD. "Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same." Cowl za. 'TWAS twelve o'clock, not twelve at night But twelve o'clock at noon; Because the sun was shining bright And not the silver moon. A proper time for friends to call, Or Pots, or Penny Post; When, lo! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's Ghost! POMPEY'S GHOST. 91 Now when a female has a call From people that are dead; Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visiters in bed. But Pompey's spirit would not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And would n't show at night! But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream To prove the seaman's text; That after black appearances, White squalls will follow next. "Oh, Phoebe dear! oh, Phoebe dear! Don't go to scream or faint; You think because I 'm black I am The Devil, but I ain't! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walked while I had breath; But that is past, and I am now A-walking after Death! "No murder, though, I come to tell By base and bloody crime; So Phoebe dear, put off your fits To some more fitting time. No Coroner, like a boatswain's mate, My body need attack, With his round dozen to find out Why I have died so black. 92 POMPEY'S GHOST. "One Sunday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn As if I had in my inside A heater, like the urn. Delirious in the night I grew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gathered all the wool You see upon my head. " His Lordship for his Doctor sent, My treatment to begin;I wish that he had called him out, Before he called him in! For though to physic he was bred, And passed at Surgeon's Hall, To make his post a sinecure He never cured at all! " The Doctor looked about my breast And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said 'Your case looks very black.' And first he sent me hot cayenne And then gamboge to swallow, But still my fever would not turn To Scarlet or to Yellow! "With madder and with turmeric, He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed, One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost! POMPEY'S GHOST. "Oh, Phoebe, dear, what pain it was To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die. And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth, It's lying in a bed of mould, Along with Mother Earth. "Alas; some happy, happy day, In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match, My fate untimely clashes, For now, like Pompe-double-i, I'm sleeping in my ashes! "And now farewell! a last farewell ' I'm wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I goIn mourning crape and bombazine Ne'er spend your precious pelfDon't go in black for me-for I Can do it for myself. "Henceforth within my grave T. rest, But Death who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come, You seemed so out of spirits: But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color, turn The color of a ghost! 94 POMPEY'S GHOST. Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue." From black to gray, from gray to nought, The shape began to fadeAnd, like an egg, though not so white, The Ghost was newly laid! O D E S TO DIVEliS PERSONS AN{D FOR SUNDRY OCCASIONS. 0 I ODES. ODE TO M. BRUNEL.' " Wil said, old Mole I canst work i' the dark so fast f a worthy pioneer I-HAm. WELL! - Monsieur Brunel, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends Of Rotherhithe, and WappingNever be stopping, But poking, groping, in the dark keep making An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons, For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons To cross the water in inverse proportion, Walk under steam-boats under the keel's ridge, To keep down all extortion, And without sculls to diddle London Bridge! In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry, Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow, Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey, To give us the " View hollow." In short it was thy aim, right north and south, To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth; Alas! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof, 5 98 ODE TO M. BRUNEL. Came, like " a tide in the affairs of men;" And with a mighty stormy kind of roar, Reproachful of thy wrong, Burst out in that old song Of Incledon's, beginning " Cease, rude Bore" — Sad is it, worthy of one's tears, Just when one seems the most successful, To find one's self o'er head and ears In difficulties most distressful! Other great speculations have been nursed Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf; But thy concern was at the worst When it began to liquidate itself! But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, And languishes thy Tunnel-so to paintUnder a slow, incurable complaint, Bed-ridden! Why, when thus Thames-bed-bothered-why repine! Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine! Yet let none think thee dazed, or crazed, or stupid; And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft; Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft! I'11 tell thee with thy tunnel what to do; Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two, The wine does better than such water trades; Stick up a sign-the sign of the Bore's Head; I 've drawn it ready for thee in black lead, And make thy cellar subterrane-Thy Shades! ODE FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. 99 ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARJKT,' "Sweeping our flocks and herds&-DouLAs.a 0 PHILANTHROPIC men!For this address I need not make apologyWho aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile ZoologyPermit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology! Be not dismayed, although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!-you shall upon their horn-works burst, And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram-parts. Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds! As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers, Off with them all!-those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cowed-like I —by the cattle! Fancy-when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its topYour ladies-ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on I Or, in St. Martin's Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky veinFancy the terror of your timid daughters, While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it-Slaughter's!.; ',,;. 100 ODE FOR THE REMOVAL OF Or fancy this:Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden! Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross! Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop-and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate! Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows"'Tis well for you that live apart-unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our firesides are troubled with their bellows." " Folks that too freely sup Must e'en put up With their own troubles if they can't digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That others' victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep your food should start and jump us! We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity's sake!.W, dci'Y, waTnt oxen at our doors to rump-us!,:..'o. SMITHFIELD MARKET. 101 If we do doze-it really is too bad! We constantly are roared awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!" Such are the woes of sleepers-now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake! Oh think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these "Bulls of Basan" far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones! Think of the Show woman " what shows a Dwarf," Seeing a red Cow come To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forced with broom of birch to keep her off! Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum! Or, in the midst of murder and remorses, Just when the Ghost is certain, A great rent in the curtain, And enter two tall skeletons-of Horses! Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics! Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication! Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right, And to each show and sight 102 ODE TO THE CAMELOPARD. Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude, To Richardson's Stage Dramas, Dio-and Cosmo-ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows-a Show of Gratitude! ODE TO THE CAMELOPARD. WELCOME to Freedom's birthplace-and a den! Great Anti-climax, hail! So very lofty in thy front-but then So dwindling at the tail!In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs! Has one pair gallopped, whilst the other trotted, Along with other brethren, leopard-spotted, O'er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs? Sure thou wert caught in some hard up-hill chase, Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check! And yet thou seem'st prepared in any case, Tho' they had lost the race, To win it by a neck! That lengthy neck-how like a crane's it looks! Art thou the overseer of all the brutes? Or dost thou browse on tip-top leaves or fruitsOr go a-birdnesting among the rooks? How kindly nature caters for all wants; Thus giving unto thee a neck that stretches, And high food fetchesTo some a long nose, like the elephant's! ODE TO THE CAMELOPARD. 103~ Oh! hadst thou any organ to thy bellows, To turn thy breath to speech in human style, What secrets thou mightst tell us, Where now our scientific guesses fail; For instance, of the Nile, Whether those Seven Mouths have any tailMayhap thy luck too, From that high head, as from a lofty hill, Has let thee see the marvellous TimbuctooOr drink of Niger at its infant rill; What were the travels of our Major Denham, Or Clapperton to thine In that same line, If thou couldst only squat thee down and pen 'em! Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlooked, With eyes held ever in such vantage-stations! Hast seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cooked, And then made free of negro corporations! Poor wretches saved from cast-away three-deckersBy sooty wreckersFrom hungry waves to have a loss still drearier, To far exceed the utmost aim of Park! And find themselves, alas! beyond the mark, In the insides of Africa's Interior! Live on, Giraffe! genteelest of raff kind! Admired by noble, and by royal tongues! May no pernicious wind, Or English fog, blight thy exotic lungs! Live on in happy peace, altho' a rarity, Nor envy thy poor cousin's more outrageous Parisian popularity;Whose very leopard-rash is grown contagious, 104 ODE TO DR. IIAHNEMANN. And worn on gloves and ribbons all about, Alas! they '11 wear him out!So thou shalt take thy sweet diurnal feeds — When he is stuffed with undigested straw, Sad food that never visited his jaw! And staring round him with a brace of beads! ODE TO DR. HAHNEMANN, THE IOM(EOPATHIST WELL, Doctor, Great concoctor Of medicines to help in man's distress; Diluting down the strong to meek, And making ev'n the weak more weak, "' Fine by degrees, and beautifully less"Founder of a new system economic, To druggists any thing but comic; Framed the whole race of Ollapods to fret, At profits, like thy doses, very small; To put all Doctors' Boys in evil case, Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of placeAnd show us old Apothecaries' Hall " To Let." How fare thy Patients? are they dead or living, Or, well as can expected be, with such A style of practice, liberally giving " A sum of more to that which had too much?" Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it? Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not? Do fevers yield to any thing that's hot? Or hearty dinners neutralize a surfeit? ODE TO DR. HAHNEMANN. 105 Is't good advice for gastronomic ills, When Indigestion's face with pain is crumpling, To cry, " Discard those Peristaltic Pills, Take a hard dumpling?" Tell me, thou German Cousin, And tell me honestly without a diddle, Does an attenuated dose of rosin Act as a tonic on the old Scotch iddle? Tell me, when Anhalt-Coethen babies wriggle, Like eels just caught by sniggle, Martyrs to some acidity internal, That gives them pangs infernal, Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges; Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm, Thanks to that soothing homoeopathic balm, The half of half, of half, a drop of "varges?" Suppose, for instance, upon Leipzig's plain, A soldier pillowed on a heap of slain, In urgent want both of a priest and proctor; When lo! there comes a man in green and red, A featherless cocked-hat adorns his head, In short, a Saxon military doctorWould he, indeed, on the right treatment fix, To cure a horrid gaping wound, Made by a ball that weighed a pound, If he well peppered it with number six? Suppose a felon doomed to swing Within a rope, Might friends not hope To cure him with a string? 106. ODE TO DR. IAHNEMANN. Suppose his breath arrived at a full stop, The shades of death in a black cloud before him, WQuld a quintillionth dose of the New Drop Restore him? Fancy a man gone rabid from a bite, Snapping to left and right, And giving tongue like one of Sebright's hounds, Terrific sounds, The pallid neighborhood with horror cowing, To hit the proper homoeopathic mark; Now, might not " the last taste in life" of bark, Stop his bow-wow-ing? Nay, with a well-known remedy to fit him, Would he not mend, if, with all proper care, He took "a hair Of the dog that bit him?" Picture a man-we 'll say a Dutch MeinheerIn evident emotion, Bent o'er the bulwark of the Batavier, Owning those symptoms queerSome feel in a Sick Transit o'er the ocean, Can any thing in life be more pathetic Than when he turns to us his wretched face?But would it mend his case To be decillionth-dosed With something like the ghost Of an emetic? Lo! now a darkened room! Look through the dreary gloom, And see that coverlet of wildest form, Tost like the billows in a storm, ODE TO DR. HAHNEMANN. 107 Where ever and anon, with groans, emerges A ghastly head! While two impatient arms still beat the bed, Like a strong swimmer's struggling with the surges; There Life and Death are on their battle-plain, With many a mortal ecstasy of painWhat shall support the body in its trial, Cool the hot blood, wild dream, and parching skin, And tame the raging Malady withinA sniff of Next-to-Nothing in a phial? Oh! Doctor Hahnemann, if here I laugh And cry together, half and half, Excuse me, 'tis a mood the subject brings, To think, whilst I have crowed like chanticleer, Perchance, from some dull eye the hopeless tear Hath gushed with my light levity at schism, To mourn some Martyr of Empiricism: Perchance, upon thy system, I have given A pang, superfluous,to the pains of Sorrow, 'Who weeps with Memory from morn till even; Where comfort there is none to lend or borrow, Sighing to one sad strain, " She will not come again, To-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow!" Doctor, forgive me, if I dare prescribe A rule for thee thyself, and all thy tribe, Inserting a few serious words by stealth; Above all price of wealth The Body's Jewel-not for minds profane, Or hands, to tamper with in practice vainLike to a Woman's Virtue is Man's Health. 108 ODE TO DR.. HAHNEMANN. A heavenly gift within a holy shrine! To be approached and touched with serious fear, By hands made pure, and hearts offaith severe, Ev'n as the Priesthood of the ONE divine! But, zounds! each fellow with a suit of black, And, strange to fame, With a diploma'd name, That carries two more letters pick-a-back, With cane, and snuffbox, powdered wig, and block, Invents his dose, as if it were a chrism, And dares to treat our wondrous mechanism Familiar as the works of old Dutch clock; Yet, how would common sense esteem the man, Oh how, my unrelated German cousin, Who having some such time-keeper on trial, And finding it too fast, enforced the dial, To strike upon the Homoeopathic plan Of fourteen to the dozen? Take my advice, 'tis given without a fee, Drown, drown your book ten thousand fathoms deep, Like Prospero's, beneath the briny sea, For spells of magic have all gone to sleep! Leave no decillionth fragment of your works To help the interest of quacking Burkes; Aid not in murdering even widows' mitesAnd now forgive me for my candid zeal, I had not said so much, but that I feel Should you take ill what here my Muse indites, An Ode-ling more will set you all to rights. ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 109 ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE.' "Look out for squall&."-Tnu PILOT. 0 COME, dear Barney Isaacs, come, Punch for one night can spare his drum As well as pipes of Pan! Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon, Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon As you can leave the Van; Blind Billy, bring your violin; Miss Crow, you're great in Cherry Ripe! And Chubb, your viol must drop in Its bass to Soger Tommy's pipe. Ye butchers, bring your bones: An organ would not be amiss; If grinding Jim has spouted his, Lend your's, good Mister Jones. Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny-do Keep sober for an hour or two, Music's charms to help to paint And, Sandy Gray, if you should not Your bagpipes bring-O tuneful Scot! Conceive the feelings of the Saint! Miss Strummel issues an invite, For music, and turn-out to night In honor of Cecilia's session; But ere you go, one moment stop, And with all kindness let me drop A hint to you and your profession. Imprimis then: Pray keep within The bounds to which your skill was born; 110 ODE FOR ST. CECILIA S EVE. Let the one-handed let alone Trombone, Don't-Rheumatiz! seize the violin, Or Ashmy snatch the horn! Don't ever to such rows give birth, As if you had no end on earth Except to " wake the lyre;" Don't "strike the harp," pray never do, Till others long to strike it too, Perpetual harping's apt to tire; Oh I have heard such flat-and-sharpers, I 've blest the head Of good King Ned, For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers! Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing, Take a prodigious deal of wooing; And then sit down to thrum the strain, As if you'd never rise againThe least Cecilia-like of things; Remember that the Saint has wings. I've known Miss Strummel pause an hour, Ere she could " Pluck the Fairest Flower," Yet without hesitation, she Plunged next into the " Deep, Deep Sea," And when on the keys she does begin, Such awful torments soon you share, She really seems like Milton's " Sin," Holding the keys of-you know where! Never tweak people's ears so toughly, That urchin-like they can't help saying" 0 dear! 0 dear-you call this playing, But oh, it's playing very roughly!" Oft, in the ccstacy of pain, ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 111' I 've cursed all instrumental workmen, Wished Broadwood Thurtelled in a lane, And Kirke White's fate to every KirkmanI really once delighted spied "Clementi Collard" in Cheapside. Another word-don't be surprised, Revered and ragged street Musicians, You have been only half-baptised, And each name proper, or improper, Is not the value of a copper, Till it has had the due additions, Husky, Rusky, Ninny, Tinny, Hummel, Bummel, Bowski, Wowski, All these are very good selectables; But none of your plain pudding-and-tamesFolks that are called the hardest names Are music's most respectables. Ev'ry woman, ev'ry man, Look as foreign as you can, Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin, Make ugly faces and begin. Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears, And now to show they understand it! Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears, And all the rest prepare to band it. Each scraper ripe for concertante, Rozins the hair of Rozinante: Then all sound A, if they know which, That they may join like birds in June: Jack Tar alone neglects to tune, For he's all over concert-pitch. 112 ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. A little prelude goes before, Like a knock and ring at music's door, Each instrument gives in its name; Then sitting in They all begin To play a musical round game. Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand, Leads a first fiddle to the band, A second follows suit; Anon the ace of Horns comes plump On the two fiddles with a trump; Puffindorf plays a flute. This sort of musical revoke, The grave bassoon begins to smoke, And in rather grumpy kind Of tone begins to speak its mind*; The double drum is next to mix, Playing the Devil on Two SticksClamor, clamor, Hammer, hammer, While now and then a pipe is heard, Insisting to put in a word With all his shrilly best; So to allow the little minion Time to deliver his opinion, They take a few bars rest. Well, little Pipe begins-with sole And small voice going thro' the hole, Beseeching, Preaching, Squealing, Appealing, ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 118 Now as high as he can go, Now in language rather low, And having done-begins once more, Verbatim what he said before. This twiddling-twaddling sets on fire All the old instrumental ire, And fiddles, for explosion ripe, Put out the little squeaker's pipe; This wakes bass viol-and viol for that Seizing on innocent little B flat, Shakes it like terrier shaking a ratThey all seem miching'malico! To judge from a rumble unawares, The drum has had a pitch down stairs; And the trumpet rash, By a violent crash, Seems splitting somebody's calico! The viol too groans in deep distress, As if he suddenly grew sick; And one rapid fiddle sets off expressHurrying, Scurrying, Spattering, Clattering, To fetch him a Doctor of Music. This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying Beyond the Piano's pacifying, The cymbal Gets nimble, Triangle Must wrangle, The band is becoming most martial of bands, 114 ODE TO ST. CECILIA'S EVE. When just in the middle, A quakerly fiddle, Proposes a general shaking of hands! Quaking, Shaking, Quivering, Shivering, Long bow-short bow-each bow drawing: Some like filing-some like sawing; At last these agitations cease, And they all get The flageolet, - To breathe " a piping time of peace." Ah, too deceitful charm, Like lightning before death, For Scrapenberg to rest his arm, And Puffindorf get breath! Again without remorse or pity, They play " The Storming of a City," Miss S. herself composed and planned itWhen lo! at this renewed attack, Up jumps a little man in black"The very Devil cannot stand it!" And with that, Snatching hat, (Not his own,) Off is flown, Thro' the door, In his black, To come back, Never, never, never, more ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 115 Oh Music! praises thou hast had, From Dryden and from Pope, For thy good notes, yet none I hope, But I, e'er praised the bad, Yet are not saint and sinner even? Miss Strummel on Cecilia's level? One drew an angel down from heaven! The other scared away the Devil! ODE TO MADAME HENGLER, FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL. OH, Mrs. Hengler!-Madame-I beg pardon, Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden! Accept an Ode not meant as any scoffThe Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz, Whose squibs are far more popular than his; Whose works are much more certain to go off. Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame; With many a bang the public ear it courts; And yet thy arrogance we never blame, But take thy merits from thy own reports. Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers, We make no doubting, misbelieving comments, Even in thy most bounceable of moments; But lend our cars implicit to thy crackers!Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing, Thy Rockets raise thee, And Serpents praise thee, As none beside are ever praised-by hissing! 116 ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. Mistress of Hydropyrics, Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, Professor of a Fiery Necromancy, Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts With midnight sports, Partaking very much of flash and fancy! What thoughts had shaken all In olden time at thy nocturnal revelsEach brimstone ball They would have deemed an eyeball of the Devil's! But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright; A modern Hubert to the royal ear, Might whisper without fear, " My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night!" Nor would it raise one superstitious notion To hear the whole description fairly out:" One fixed-which t'other four whirled round about With wond'rous motion." Such are the very sights Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven, Between the hours of midnight and eleven, Turning our English to Arabian Nights, With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons, Blue stars and white, And blood-red light, And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters' wagons. Thrice lucky woman! doing things that be With other folks past benefit of parson; For burning, no Burn's Justice falls on thee, Altho' night after night the public see Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson! ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 117 Sure thou wast never born Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head, Nor lectured night and morn Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread, Allowed by a prophetic dam and sire To play with fire. O didst thou never, in those days gone by, Go carrying about-no schoolboy prouderInstead of waxen doll a little Guy; Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein, Up the parental pigtail lay a train, To let off all his powder! Full of the wildfire of thy youth, Did'st never in plain truth, Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother's pots, Turning the garden into powder plots? Or give the cook, to fright her, Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre? Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping A lighted cracker by thy sister's Dear, So that she could not hear The question he was popping? Go on, Madame! Go on-be bright and busy While hoaxed Astronomers look up and stare From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy, To see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair! A Serpent wriggling into Charles's Wain! A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear! A Rocket tangled in Diana's train, And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair! 118 ODE TO MR. MALTHUS. There is a King of Fire-Thou shouldst be Queen! Methinks a good connection might come from it; Could'st thou not make him, in the garden scene, Set out per Rocket and return per Comet; Then give him a hot treat Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup, Lord! how the world would throng to see him eat, He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up! One solitary night-true is the story, Watching those forms that Fancy will create Within the bright confusion of the grate, I saw a dazzling countenance of glory! Oh Dei gratias! That fiery facias 'T was thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove; And ever since that night, In dark and bright, Thy face is registered within my stove! Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays May no untimely blow its doom forestall; But when old age prepares the friendly pall, When the last spark of all thy sparks decays, Then die lamented by good people all, Like Goldsmith's Madani Blaize! ODE TO MR. MALTHUS.' MY dear, do pull the bell, And pull it well, And send those noisy children all up stairs, Now playing here like bears ODE TO MR. MALTHUS. 119 You George, and William, go into the grounds, Charles, James, and Bob are there-and take your string, Drive horses, or fly kites, or any thing, You 're quite enough to play at hare and houndsYou little May, and Caroline, and Poll, Take each your doll, And go, my dears, into the two-back pair, Your sister Margaret's thereHarriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school, At far off Ponty PoolI want to read, but really can't go onLet the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, Go-to their nursery-go-I never can Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan! Oh Mr. Malthus, I agree In every thing I read with thee! The world's too full, there is no doubt, And wants a deal of thinning outIt's plain-as plain as Harrow's SteepleAnd I agree with some thus far, Who say the Queen's too popular, That is-she has too many people, There are too many of all trades, Too many bakers, Too many every-thing makers, But not too many undertakers- - Too many boysToo many hobby-de-hoysT'io many girls, men, widows, wives, and maidsThere is a dreadful surplus to demolish, And yet some Wrongheads, With thick not long heads, 120 ODE TO MIL MALTHUS. Poor metaphysicians! Sign petitions Capital punishment to abolish; And in the face of censuses, such vast ones, New hospitals contrive, For keeping life alive, Laying first stones, the dolts! instead of last ones!Others, again, in the same contrariety, Deem that of all Humane Society They really deserve thanks, Because the two banks of the Serpentine, By their design, Are Saving Banks. Oh! were it given but to me to weed The human breed, And root out here and there some cumbering elf, I think I could go through it, And really do it With profit to the world and to myselfFor instance, the unkind among the Editors, My debtors, those I mean to say Who cannot or who will not pay, And all my creditors, These, for my own sake, I'd destroy; But for the world's, and every one's, I 'd hoe up Mrs. G-'s two sons, And Mrs. B-'s big little boy, Called only by herself an " only joy." As Mr. Irving's chapel's not too full, Himself alone I'd pullBut for the peace of years that have to run, I'd make the Lord Mayor's a perpetual station, And put a period to rotation, ODE TO MR. MALTHUS. 121 By rooting up all Aldermen but oneThese are but hints what good might thus be done I But ah! I fear the public good Is little by the public understoodFor instance-if with flint, and steel, and tinder, Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man, Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan, No doubt some busy fool would hinder His burning all the Foundling to a cinder. Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, That wine and bun-day, Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats, Before they died by bit or sup, Some meddling Marplot would blow up, Just at the moment critical, The economy political Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats. Equally 't would be undone, Suppose the Bishop of London, On that great day In June or May, When all the large small family of charity, Brown, black, or carrotty, Walk in their dusty parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, To sing together till they scare the walls Of old St. Paul's, Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white, Some say a gratifying sight, Tho' I think sad-but that 's a schismTo witness so much pauperismc 122 ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make In this poor overcrowded world more room, Proposed to shake Down that immense extinguisher, the domeSome humane Martin in the charity Gal-way I fear would come and interfere, Save beadle, brat, and overseer, To walk back in their parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, Islington-Wapping-or Pall Mall way! Thus, people hatched from goose's egg, Foolishly think a pest a plague, And in its face their doors all shut, On hinges oiled with cajeputDrugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags At hoisting up of yellow flags, While you and I are crying " Orange Boven!" Why should we let precautions so absorb us, Or trouble shipping with a quarantineWhen if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to import the Cholera Morbus! ODE TO ST. SWITHIN.6 "The rain it raineth every day." THE Dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, On ev'ry window-frame hang beaded damps Like rows of small illumination lamps, To celebrate the Jubilee of Showers! ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. 128 A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves, The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers, And from the Houses' eaves Tumble eaves-droppers. The hundred clerks that live along the street, Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers, With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet, Go paddling, paddling through the wet, like steamers, Each hurrying to earn the daily stipendUmbrellas pass of every shade of green, And now and then a crimson one is seen, Like an Umbrella ripened. Over the way a wagon Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking, While in the George and Dragon The man is keeping himself dry-and drinking! The Butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray, Hats shine-shoes don't-and down droop collars, And one blue Parasol cries all the way To school, in company with four small scholars! Unhappy is the man to-day who rides, Making his journey sloppier, not shorter; Ay, there they go, a dozen of outsides, Performing on "a Stage with real water!" A dripping Pauper crawls along the way, The only real willing out-of-doorer, And says, or seems to say, "Well, I am poor enough-but here's a pourer!" The scene in water colors thus I paint, Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint! 124 ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. Mother of all the Family of Rainers! Saint of the Soakers! Making all people croakers, Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers! And why you mizzle forty days together, Giving the earth your water-soup to sup, I marvel-Why such wet, mysterious weather? I wish you'd clear it up! Why cast such cruel dampers On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers, And volunteer, unasked, to wash the dishes? Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot, To cling like lady-birds around a treeWhy spoil a Gipsy party at their tea, By throwing your cold water upon hot? Cannot a rural maiden, or a man, Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping Their green with Pan, But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping! Why upon snow-white table-cloths and sheets, That do not wait or want a second washing, Come squashing? Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets, As if there were no Water-Cart contractors, No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy Spooning out puddles muddy, Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors! A Queen you are, raining in your own right, Yet oh I how little flattered by report! Even by those that seek the Court, Pelted with every term of spleen and spite. ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 125 Folks rail and swear at you in every place; They say you are a creature of no bowel; They say you're always washing Nature's face, And that you then supply her With nothing drier Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel! The whole town wants you ducked, just as you duck it, They wish you on your own mud porridge suppered, They hope that you may kick your own big bucket, Or in your water-butt go souse! heels up'ard! They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle, They'd spill the water in your veins to stop itBe warned! You are too partial to a mizzlePray drop it! ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. LUD! 0 Lud! 0 Lud! I mean, of course, that venerable town Mentioned in stories of renown, Built formerly of mud;O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er Invent the office of a Mayor, An office that no useful purpose crowns, But to set Aldermen against each other, That should be Brother unto BrotherSisters at least, by virtue of their gowns? But still if one must have a Mayor To fill the Civic chair, O Lud, I say, Was there no better day 126 ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. To fix on, than November Ninth so shivery And dull for showing off the Livery's livery? Dimming, alas! The Brazier's brass, Soiling th' Embroiderers and all the Saddlers, Sopping the Furriers, Draggling the Curriers, And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers; Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin, Making the crusty Vintner chiller, And turning the Distiller To cold without instead of warm within;Spoiling the bran-new beavers Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers, Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers, Hearty November-cursersAnd sliowing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers; Making the Grocer's company not fit For company a bit; Dying the Dyers with a dingy flood, Daubing incorporated Bakers, And leading the Patten-makers, Over their very pattens in the mudOLud! O Lud! 0 Lud! " This is a sorry sight," To quote Macbeth-but oh, it grieve3 me quite, To see your Wives and Daughters in their plumesWhite plumes not whiteSitting at open windows catching rheums, Not " Angels ever bright and fair," But angels ever brown and sallow, ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 127 With eyes-you cannot see above one pair, For city clouds of black and yellowAnd artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud, Such sable lilies And grim daffodilies Drooping, but not for drought, O Lud! 0 Lud! I may as well, while I'm inclined, Just go through all the faults I find: Oh Lud! then, with a better air, say June, Could'st thou not find a better tune To sound with trumpets, and with drums, Than " See the Conquering Hero comes," When he who comes ne'er dealt in blood? Thy May'r is not a War Horse, Lud, That ever charged on Turk or Tartar, And yet upon a march you strike That treats him likeA little French if I may martyrLewis Cart-Horse or Henry Carter! O Lud! I say Do change your day To some time when your Show can really show; When silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow. Look at your Sweepers, how they shine in May! Have it when there's a sun to gild the coach, And sparkle in tiara-bracelet-broochDiamond-or paste-of sister, mother, daughter; When grandeur really may be grandBut if thy Pageant's thus obscured by landO Lud! it 's ten times worse upon the water! Suppose, 0 Lud, to show its plan, I call, like Blue Beard's wife, to sister Anne, 128 ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. Who's gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt, To see what she can see-and what she can't; Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud, To keep the fog out of a tender lung, While perched in a verandah nicely hung Over a margin of thy own black mud, O Lud! Now Sister Anne, I call to thee, Look out and see: Of course about the bridge you view them rally And sally, With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter; The Fishmongers' grand boat, but not for butter, The Goldsmiths' glorious galleyOf course you see the Lord Mayor's coach aquatic, With silken banners that the breezes fan, In gold all glowing, And men in scarlet rowing, Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic; Of course you see all this, O Sister Anne? "No, I see no such thing! I only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf, With two coal lighters fastened to a ring; And, dim as ghosts, Two little boys are jumping over posts; And something, farther off, That's rather like the shadow of a dog, And all beyond is fog. If there be any thing so fine and bright, To see it I must see by second sight. Call this a Show? It is not worth a pin! I see no barges row, No banners blow; ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 129 The Show is merely a gallanty-show, Without a lamp or any candle in." But sister Anne, my dear, Although you cannot see, you still may hear? Of course you hear, I'm very sure of that, The " Water parted from the Sea" in C, Or " Where the Bee sucks," set in B; Or Huntsman's chorus from the Freyschutz frightful, Or Handel's Water Music in A flat. Oh music from the water comes delightful! It sounds as no where else it can: You hear it first In some rich burst, Then faintly sighing, Tenderly dying, Away upon the breezes, Sister Anne. " There is no breeze to die on; And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps, Could never cut their way with ev'n thrte sharps Through such a fog as this, you may rely on. I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum, Like a very muffled double drum, And then a something faintly shrill, Like Bartlemy Fair's old buz at Pentonville. And now and then hear a pop, As if from Pedley's Soda Water shop. I 'm almost ill with the strong scent of mud, And, not to mention sneezing, My cough is, more than usual, teasing; I really fear that I have chilled my blood, O Lud! 0 Lud! O Lud! 0 Lud! O Lud!" 6* I 'S a ION 0 NOTES. (1.) ODE TO M. BRUNEL. MR. BRUNEL was an engineer who had been very successful in contriving the machinery for the manufacture of blocks for the Royal Navy, at Portsmouth; and in the bubble-time of 1825, or thereabouts, got up a company for tunnelling the Thames. The plan was ingeniously devised, and in the course of some ten years was executed. It was a very expensive operation, however, and as a speculation an entire failure. At one time during the progress of the work, the water found its way through an unexpected breach in the bottom of the river, when Brunel the younger (now an eminent engineer) barely escaped with his life. He owed his safety entirely to his great skill in swimming. (2.) ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. Smithfield was made the seat of the sole cattle market for the city of London by Edward III. in the year 1327, and has remained such till the present day. The market is an open area, in the form of an irregular polygon; containing only about three and a half acres, for the accommodation of the largest city in the world, in its supplies of sheep, horses, cattle and hay. An attempt was made some years ago to remove it to the outskirts of London, but it cost the opulent projector an hundred thousand pounds, and failed. The city itself was foiled in two efforts to make the removal-one of which probably inspired the ode above entitled. The annual cattle show of the Smithfield Club is still held, and the horse market still enjoys the same reputation as in Shakspeare's time, and for centuries before. Smithfield is famous in history for its jousts, tournaments, executions Vf 134 NOTES. aud burnings. Here Wallace and Mortimer were executed, and Wat Tyler was slain. Smithfield was the seat of the long-famous Bartholomew Fair, which was proclaimed by the Lord Mayor annually on the 3d of September, unless the 3d fell on Sunday, and continued for three days, exclusive of the day of proclamation. In Ben Jonson's celebrated play of that name, there is a picture of what Bartholomew Fair was in 1614; and in Hone's Every-Day Book we have a very detailed report of the editor's personal observation of the same scene in 1825. It had its origin in a grant of King Henry II. to the Priory of St. Bartholomew, which had been founded in Smithfield, in connection with a church and hospital, about the year 1102, by one Rahere, a minstrel of the King, and a "pleasant-witted gentleman," who was the first Prior of his monastery. The royal privilege extended to three days at the Bartholomew-tide for a fair, " to the which," says Stow, " the clothiers of England and the drapers of London repaired, and had their booths and standings within the churchyard of this priory, closed in with walls and gates locked every night, and watched for safety of men's goods and wares; a Court of Piepowders was daily during the fair holden for debts and contracts." This was the origin of this famous fair, over which the charter of Henry II. gave the Mayor and Aldermen criminal jurisdiction during its continuance. All sorts of cheap shows and entertainments, dramatic, pictorial and zoological-dwarfs, fat boys and giants-learned pigs and horses-lions and elephants-feats of skill, strength and dexterity-jugglers and music-grinders-Punch and Judy-mermaids and wild Indians-beautiful dolphins and cannibal chiefis-harlequins and circus-riders-have for hundreds of years entertained our Anglo-Saxon brethren at Bartholomew Fair. Before the commencement of the last century it had become, however, a nuisance, and of late years it is described as a mere scene of annual debauchery. (3.) ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE (NOV. 22). Saint Cecilia is in the Church of England calendar and in the almanacs. She is a saint of the Romish Church, and a patroness of church music. Butler gives her life, from which we learn that she was married to a nobleman named Valerian, whom, with her brother Tibertius, she converted, and with them she was martyred. Various legends and NOTES. 185 pictures represent her as engaged in music, or listening to it from celestial performers. Hence the conclusion of the celebrated ode of Dryden (who was a Catholic)" She drew an Angel down." The legend is that her husband, allured by the harmonious sounds, entered a room where she was sitting, and found a young man playing on the organ. Cecilia introduced the visitor as an angel, and from that time she received " angels' visits." (4.) ODE TO MR. MALTHUS. Mr. Malthus was distinguished for the development of two new discoveries in Political Economy, those relating to population and rent. He published his Essay on Population in 1803, and his Principles of Political Economy in 1820. His favorite theory on population is expressed in the formula that the prudential restraint upon marriage, from the fear of a family, is the most powerful check which in modern Europe " keeps down the population to the level of the means of subsistence." In other words, it is thus expressed by the Edinburgh Review-" A man has no more right to set up a wife, unless he can afford it, than to set up a coach." (5.) ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. Swithin is still retained in the English almanacs, and his day (July 15) at some public offices is a holiday. The saint was of noble parentage, and became a monk in the old monastery at Winchester, of which he was afterwards priest and provost, and finally bishop, by the favor of his sometime pupil, King Ethelwolf, in 852. It was through his influence that tithes were established in England. He died in 862. An hundred years afterwards marvellous cures were wrought by his relics. There is an old adage —" If it rain on St. Swithin's day, there will be rain the next forty days afterwards." The tradition is, that the bishop desired to be buried in the open churchyard, and not in the chancel of the minster, and his request was complied with; but the monks, on his being canonized by the Pope, thought it would not answer for a saint to lie in the open air, and resolved to remove the body into the choir, which was to have been done on the 15th of July. It rained so hard, however, on that day, and for forty days succeeding, that they abandoned their design as heretical, and erected a chapel over his grave. 136 NOTES. Rain on St. Swithin's day is noticed in some places by the saying"St. Swithin is christening the apples." Ben Jonson, Gay, Churchill, and other English poets, allude to the popular tradition connected with St. Swithin. In Poor Robin's Almanac for 1697, the saying and one of the miracles ascribed to the saint are thus alluded to: " In this month is St. Swithin's day; On which, if that it rain, they say Full forty days after it will, Or more or less, some rain distil. This Swithin was a saint, I trow, And Winchester's bishop also; Who in his time did many a feat, As Popish legends do repeat: A woman having broke her eggs, By stumbling at another's legs, For which she made a woful cry; St. Swithin chanced for to come by, Who made them all as sound, or more, Than that they ever were before. But whether they were so or no, 'Tis more than you or I do know. Better it is to rise betime, And to make hay while the sun doth shine, Than to believe in tales and lies, Which idle monks and friars devise." (6.) ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER-LORD MAYOR'S DAY. On this day there is a procession of the Mayor and Aldermen elect of London, from Guildhall to Westminster, to be sworn, and thence back to Guildhall to dinner. In old times it was an occasion of great splendor and pageantry. On Sir Thomas Middleton's mayoralty, in 1613, the solemnity is described as unparalleled for the art and magnificence of its pageantry and shows. The printed descriptions of these London Pageants, or Triumphs of the old time, are now extremely rare, and are sold at the rate of two or three guineas for a single leaf. In 1575, William Smythe, citizen and haberdasher of London, wrote a " breffe description" of that royal city, which gives us an account of the ceremonies on the Lord Mayor's day in early times. " The day of St. Simon and St. Jude," he says, " the Mayor enters into his state and office. The next day he goes by water to Westminster in most triumphant-like manner, his barge being garnished with the arms of the city; and near it a ship-boat of the Queen's Majesty, being trimmed up and NOTES. 187 rigged like a ship of war, with divers pieces of ordnance, standards, pennons, and targets of the proper arms of the said Mayor, of his company, and of the merchants' adventurers, or of the staple, or of the company of the new trades; next before him goeth the barge of the livery of his own company, decked with their own proper arms; then the bachelors' barge; and so all the companies in London, in order, every one having their own proper barge, with the arms of their company. And so passing along the Thames he landeth at Westminster, where he taketh his oath in the Exchequer before the Judge there; which done, he returneth by water as aforesaid, and landeth at Paul's wharf, where he and the rest of the Aldermen take their horses, and in great pomp pass through..... the city to the Guildhall, where they dine that day to the number of 1,000, persons, all at the charge of the Mayor and the two Sheriffs. The feast costeth ~400, whereof the Mayor payeth ~200, and each of the Sheriffs ~100." In the procession were some sixty or seventy poor men marching two and two, in blue gowns, with red sleeves and caps, every one bearing a pike and target, on which were painted the arms of all them that had been Mayors of the same company that the new Mayor was of. " Immediately after dinner they go to St. Paul's Church, every one of the aforesaid poor men bearing staff, torches and targets, which torches are lighted when it is late, before they come from evening prayer." In 1655, the city pageants, after a discontinuance of about fifteen years, were revived; and Edward Gayton, the author of the description for that year, says, that " our metropolis for these planetary pageants was as famous and renowned in foreign nations as for faith, wealth, and valor." On Lord Mayor's day, 1671, the King, Queen, Duke of York, and most of the nobility, being present, there were " sundry shows, shapes, scenes, speeches, and songs in parts;" and the like in 1672 and 1673, when the King again " graced the triumphs." Again, the great persons of the realm were present in 1674, when there were " emblematical figures, artful pieces of architecture, and rural dancing, with pieces spoken in each pageant." The speeches in the pageants were usually composed by the official city poet, who also provided a printed programme for the members of the corporation. Settle was the last corporation poet, and wrote the last programme, intended for the show of 1708, which was prevented by the death of the Prince of Denmark. 138 NOTES. The modern exhibitions on Lord Mayor's day do not vie with those of the olden time. All that remains of the antique show is in the first part of the procession, where the poor men of the company to which the Lord Mayor belongs, or persons hired to represent them, are habited in long gowns and close caps of the company's color, and bear painted shields on their arms, but without javelins. So many of these head the show as there are years in the Lord Mayor's age. " Their obsolete costume and hobbling walk," says the author of the Every-Day Book, "are sport for the unsedate, who, from improper tradition, year after year, are accustomed to call them 'old bachelors'-tongues less polite call them 'oldfogeys.' The numerous band of gentlemen-ushers, in velvet coats, wearing chains of gold, and bearing white staves, is reduced to half a dozen full-dressed footmen, carrying umbrellas in their hands." TALES AND LEGENDS, I I I TALES AND LEGENDS. THE STAG-EYED LADY. A MOORISH TALE. Scheherazado immediately began the following story. ALI BEN ALI (did you never read His wondrous acts that chronicles relateHow there was one in pity might exceed The sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate Upon the throne of greatness-great indeed, For those that he had under him were greatThe horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, Was a Bashaw-Bashaws have horses' tails. Ali was cruel-a most cruel one! 'Tis rumored he had strangled his own motherHowbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too-but happily that none Did live within harm's length of one another, Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night, and shortened the Moon's days. Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, And makes a bad man-absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked-to a fault:-'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had 142 THE STAG-EYED LADY. No curb upon his will-no, not a bitWherefore he did not reign well-and full glad His slaves had been to hang him-but they faltered, And let him live unhanged-and still unaltered. Until he got a sage bush of a beard, Wherein an Attic owl might roost-a trail Of bristly hair-that, honored and unsheared Grew downward like old women and cow's tail: Being a sign of age-some gray appeared, Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale; But yet not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime. Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex His royal bosom that he had no son, No living child of the more noble sex, To stand in his Morocco shoes-not one To make a negro-pollard-or tread necks When he was gone-doomed, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name. Therefore he chose a lady for his love, Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear; So called, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear; Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drummed with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear, Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit. Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame: THE STAG-EYED LADY. 143 Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, Boyed up his hopes, and even chose a name Of mighty hero that his child should bear; He made so certain ere his chicken came: But oh! all worldly wit is little worth, Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth. To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun A little daughter to this world of sins; Miss-fortunes never come alone-so one Brought on another, like a pair of twins: Twins! female twins!-it was enough to stun Their little wits and scare them from their skins, To hear their father stamp, and curse and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir. Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down.This his paternal rage, and thus addrest: Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of thy royal chest? Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love to gaze on!-Pr'ythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin! But not her words, or e'en her tears, could slack The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew: He called his slaves to bring an ample sack Wherein a woman might be poked-a few Dark grimly men felt pity and looked black At this sad order; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the " head and front of their offending." 144 THE STAG-EYED LADY. For Ali had a sword, much like himself, A crooked blade, guilty of human goreThe trophies it had lopped from many an elf Were stuck at his head-quarters by the scoreNor yet in peace he laid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) He often did his dozen butts a week. Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears, Came with the sack the lady to enclose; In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose;" In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears; Though there were some felt willing to oppose, Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it. And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her To a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for she Was doomed to have a winding sheet of water. Then farewell, earth-farewell to the green treeFarewell, the sun-the moon-each little daughter! She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like a bag of Wall's End from a coalman's back. The waters oped, and the wide sack full-filled All that the waters oped, as down it fell; Then closed the wave, and then the surface rilled A ring above her, like a water-knell; A moment more, and all its face was stilled, And not a guilty heave was left to tell That underneath its calm and blue transparence A dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence. THE STAG-EYED LADY. 145 But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore, The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, Like Desdemona smothered by the Moor; The lady's natal star with pale affright Fainted and fell-and what were stars before Turned comets as the tale was brought to light; And all looked downward on the fatal wave, And made their own reflections on her grave. Next night, a head-a little lady head, Pushed through the waters a most glassy face, With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Combed by 'live ivory, to show the space Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace Over their sleepy lids-and so she raised Her aqualine nose above the stream, and gazed. She oped her lips-lips of a gentle blush, So pale it seemed near drowned to a whiteShe oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush Of music bubbling through the surface light; The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air-and through the night There came these words of a most plaintive ditty, Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity: THE WATER PERI'S SONG. Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter, The child that she wet-nursed is lapped in the wave The Musidlman coming to fish in this water, Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 146 THE STAG-EYED LADY. This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This grayish bath cloak is her funeral pall, And, stranger, 0 stranger! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all! Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter-the last of her raceShe's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.' A LEGEND OF NAVARRE: 'T WAS in the reign of Lewis, called the Great, As one may read on his triumphal arches, The thing befell I'm going to relate, In course of one of those " pomposo" marches He loved to make, like any gorgeous Persian, Partly for war, and partly for diversion. Some wag had put it in the royal brain To drop a visit at an old chateau, Quite unexpected, with his courtly train; The monarch liked it-but it happened so, That Death had got before them by a post, And they were "reckoning without their host." Who died exactly as a child should die, Without one groan or a convulsive breath, Closing without one pang his quiet eye, Sliding composedly from sleep-to death; A corpse so placid ne'er adorned a bed, He seemed not quite-but only rather dead. All night the widowed Baroness contrived To shed a widow's tears; but on the morrow Some news of such unusual sort arrived, There came strange alteration in her sorrow; From mouth to mouth it passed, one common humming Throughout the house-the King! the King is coming! 148 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. The Baroness, with all her soul and heart, A loyal woman (now called ultra royal), Soon thrust all funeral concerns apart, And only thought about a banquet loyal; In short, by aid of earnest preparation, The. visit quite dismissed the visitation. And, spite of all her grief for the ex-mate, There was a secret hope she could not smother, That some one, early, might replace " the late"It was too soon to think about another; Yet let her minutes of despair be reckoned Against her hope, which was but for a second. She almost' thought that being thus bereft Just then, was one of time's propitious touches; A thread in such a nick so nicked, it left Free opportunity to be a duchess; Thus all her care was only to look pleasant, But as for tears-she dropped them —for the present. Her household, as good servants ought to try, Looked like their lady-any thing but sad, And giggled even that they might not cry, To damp fine company; in truth they had No time to mourn, through choking turkeys' throttles, Scouring old laces, and reviewing bottles. Oh what a hubbub for the house of wo! All, resolute to one irresolution, Kept tearing, swearing, plunging to and fro, Just like another French mob-revolution. There lay the corpse that could not stir a muscle, But all the rest seemed Chaos in a bustle. A LEGEND OF NAVARRB. 149 The Monarch came: oh! who could ever guess The Baroness had been so late a weeper! The kingly grace and more than graciousness, Buried the poor defunct some fathoms deeperCould he have had a glance-alas, poor Being! Seeing would certainly have led to D-ing. For casting round about her eyes to find Some one to whom her chattels to endorse, The comfortable dame at last inclined To choose the cheerful Master of the Horse; He was so gay-so tender-the complete Nice man-the sweetest of the monarch's suite. He saw at once and entered in the listsGlance unto glance made amorous replies; They talked together like two egotists, In conversation all made up of eyes: No couple ever got so right consort-ish Within two hours-a courtship rather shortish. At last, some sleepy, some by wine opprest, The courtly company began "nid noddin;" The King first sought his chamber, and the rest Instanter followed by the course he trod in. I shall not please the scandalous by showing The order, or disorder of their going. The old Chateau, before that night, had never Held half so many underneath its roof; It tasked the Baroness's best endeavor, And put her best contrivance to the proof, To give them chambers up and down the stairs In twos and threes, by singles, and by pairs. 150 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. She had just lodging for the whole-yet barely; And some, that were both broad of back and tall, Lay on spare beds that served them very sparely; However, there were beds enough for all; But living bodies occupied so many, She could not let the dead one take up any! The act was, certainly, not over decent: Some small respect, e'en after death, she owed him, Considering his death had been so recent; However, by command, her servants stowed him, (I am ashamed to think how he was slubbered,) Stuck bolt upright within a corner cupboard! And there he slept as soundly as a post, With no more pillow than an oaken shelf; Just like a kind accommodating host, Taking all inconvenience on himself; None else slept in that room, except a stranger, A decent man, a sort of Forest Ranger. Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed, Or dreamt himself into an appetite, Howbeit, he took a longing to be fed, About the hungry middle of the night; So getting forth, he sought some scrap to eat, Hopeful of some stray pastry, or cold meat. The casual glances of the midnight moon, Brightening some antique ornaments of brass, Guided his gropings to that corner soon, Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas! He tried the door-then shook it-and in course Of time it opened to a little farce. A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 151 He put one hand in, and began to grope; The place was very deep, and quite as dark as The middle night;-when lo! beyond his hope, He felt a something cold-in fact, the carcase; Right overjoyed, he laughed and blest his luck At finding, as he thought, this haunch of buck! Then striding back for his couteau de chasse, Determined on a little midnight lunching, He came again and probed about the mass, As if to find the fattest bit for munching; Not meaning wastefully to cut it all up, But only to abstract a little collop. But just as he had struck one greedy stroke, His hand fell down quite powerless and weak; For when he cut the haunch it plainly spoke As haunch of ven'son never ought to speak; No wonder that his hand could go no furtherWhose could!-to carve cold meat that bellowed "' murther!" Down came the Body with a bounce, and down The Ranger sprang, a staircase at a spring, And bawled enough to waken up a town; Some thought that they were murdered, some, the King, And, like Macduff, did nothing for a season, But stand upon the spot and bellow, " Treason!" A hundred nightcaps gathered in a mob, Torches drew torches, swords brought swords together, It seemed so dark and perilous a job; The Baroness came trembling like a feather Just in the rear, as pallid as a corse, Leaning against the Master of the Horse. 152 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. A dozen of the bravest up the stair, Well lighted and well watched, began to clamber; They sought the door-they found it-they were there, A dozen heads went poking in the chamber; And lo! with one hand planted on his hurt, There stood the Body bleeding thro' his shirt,No passive corse-but like a duellist Just smarting from a scratch-in fierce position, One hand advanced, and ready to resist; In fact, the Baron doffed the apparition, Swearing those oaths the French delight in most, And for the second time "gave up the ghost?" A living miracle!-for why?-the knife That cuts so many off from grave gray hairs, Had only carved him kindly into life: How soon it changed the posture of affairs! The difference one person more or less Will make in families, is past all guess. There stood the Baroness-no widow yet: Here stood the Baron —" in the body" still: There stood the Horses' Master in a pet, Choking with disappointment's bitter pill, To see the hope of his reversion fail, Like that of riding on a donkey's tail. The Baron lived-'t was nothing but a trance: The lady died-'t was nothing but a death: The cupboard-cut served only to enhance This postscript to the old Baronial breath: - He soon forgave, for the revival's sake, A little chop intended for a steak! THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. "Alas what perils do environ That man who meddles with a siren I __ HurD1s. ON Margate beach, where the sick one roams, And the sentimental reads; Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comesLike the ocean-to cast her weeds;Where urchins wander to pick up shells, And the Cit to spy at the shipsLike the water gala at Sadler's WellsAnd the Chandler for watery dips;There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, As lovely and fair as sin! But woe, deep water and woe to him, That she snareth like Peter Fin! Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares, And her locks are golden and loose: And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs, To stand, of course, in her shoes! And, all day long, she combeth them well, With a sea-shark's prickly jaw; And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell, The fairest that man e'er saw! 154 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be, Hath planted his seat by her side; " Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea, To make thee so watch the tide?" She turned about with her pearly brows, And clasped him by the hand; " Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house On the golden Goodwin Sand." And then she gave him a siren kiss, No honeycomb e'er was sweeter; Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this That Peter should be salt-Peter: And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, Not walking, as damsels do, With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, But she hopt like a Kangaroo; One plunge, and then the victim was blind, Whilst they galloped across the tide; At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, And the beauty was by his side. One half on the sand, and half in the sea, But his hair all began to stiffen; For when he looked where her feet should be, She had no more feet than Miss Biffen! But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, In the dabbling brine did soak; At last she opened her pearly mouth, Like an oyster, and thus she spoke: THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 155 " You crimpt my father, who was a skate;And my sister you sold-a maid; So here remain for a fish'ry fate, For lost you are, and betrayed!" And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream, And a splash of her saucy tail; In a moment he lost the silvery gleam That shone on her splendid mail! The sun went down with a blood-red flame, And the sky grew cloudy and black, And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came, Each over the other's back! Ah, me! it had been a beautiful scene, With the safe terra-firma round; But the green water hillocks all seemed to him, Like those in a churchyard ground; And Christians love in the turf to lie, Not in watery graves to be; Nay, the very fishes will sooner die On the land than in the sea. And whilst he stood, the watery strife Encroached on every hand, And the ground decreased-his moments of life Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand; And still the waters foamed in, like ale, In front, and on either flank, He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, There was such a run on the bank. 156 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. A little more, and a little more, The surges came tumbling in; He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, And thought of every sin! Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, As cold as his marble slab; And he thought he felt in every part, The pincers of scalded crab. The squealing lobsters that he had boiled, And the little potted shrimps, All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled, Gnawed into his soul, like imps! And the billows were wandering to and fro, And the glorious sun was sunk, And Day, getting black in the face, as though Of the nightshade she had drunk! Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, One tub, or keg, to be seen; It might have given his spirits a lift, Or an anker where Hope might lean! But there was not a box or a beam afloat, To raft him from that sad place; Not a skiff, nor a yawl, or a mackerel boat, Nor a smack upon Neptune's face. At last, his lingering hopes to buoy, He saw a sail and a mast, And called' "Ahoy!"-but it was not a hoy, And so the vessel went past. ~?,,. I THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 157 And with saucy wing that flapped in his face, The wild bird about him flew With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, " Why, thou art a sea-gull too!" And lo! the tide was over his feet; O! his heart began to freeze, And slowly to pulse:-in another beat The wave was up to his knees! He was deafened amidst the mountain tops, And the salt spray blinded his eyes, And washed away the other salt drops That grief had caused to arise:But just as his body was all afloat, And the surges above him broke, He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat Of Deal-(but builded of oak). The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skin; And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin! '.I '. Of, _,',,''s,','L"7 e OUR LADY'S CHAPEL. A LEGEND OF COBLENTZ. WHOE'ER has crossed the Mosel Bridge, And mounted by the fort of Kaiser Franz, Has seen, perchance, Just on the summit of St. Peter's ridge, A little open chapel to the right, Wherein the tapers aye are burning bright; So popular, indeed, this holy shrine, At least among the femaje population, By night, or at high noon, you see it shine, A very Missal for illumination! Yet, when you please, at morn or eve, go by All other Chapels, standing in the fields, Whose mouldy, wifeless husbandry but yields Beans, peas, potatoes, mangel-wurzel, rye, And lo! the Virgin, lonely, dark, and hush, Without the glimmer of a farthing rush! But on Saint Peter's Hill The lights are burning, burning, burning still. In fact, it is a pretty retail trade To furnish forth the candles ready made; OUR LADY'S CHAPEL. 159 And close beside the chapel and the way, A chandler, at her stall, sits day by day, And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers, Smartened with tinsel-foil and tinted papers. To give of the mysterious truth an inkling, Those who in this bright chapel breathe a prayer To " Unser Frow," and burn a taper there, Are said to get a husband in a twinkling: Just as she-glow-worms, if it be not scandal, Catch partners with their matrimonial candle. How kind of blessed saints in heavenWhere none in marriage, we are told, are given ---To interfere below in making matches, And help old maidens to connubial catches! The truth is, that instead of looking smugly (At least, so whisper wags satirical) The votaries are all so old and ugly, No man could fall in love but by a miracle. However, that such waxen gifts and vows Are sometimes for the purpose efficacious In helping to a spouse, Is vouched for by a story most veracious. A certain Woman, though in name a wife, Yet doomed to lonely life, Her truant husband having been away Nine years, two months, a week, and half a dayWithout remembrances by words or deedsBegan to think she had sufficient handle To talk of widowhood and burn her weeds, Of course with a wax-candle. 160 OUR LADYES CHAPEL. Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple, Weary of solitude, and spleen, and vapors, Away she hurried to Our Lady's Chapel, Full-handed with two tapersXnd prayed, as she had never prayed before, To be a bona fide wife once more. " Oh Holy Virgin! listen to my prayer! And for sweet mercy, and thy sex's sake, Accept the vows and offerings I makeOthers set up one light, but here's a pair!" Her prayer, it seemed, was heard; For in three little weeks, exactly reckoned, As blithe as any bird, She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second; — A fact that made her gratitude so hearty, To " Unser Frow," and her propitious shrine, She sent two waxen candles superfine, Long enough for a Lapland evening party! Rich was the Wedding Feast and rareWhat sausages were there! Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut: With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug Bier, And wine so sharp that every one was cut. Rare was the feast-but rarer was the quality Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toastWhen just in all the middle of their jollityWith bumpers filled to Hostess and to Host, And all the unborn branches of their house, Unwelcome and unasked, like Banquo's Ghost, In walked the long-lost Spouse! OUR LADY'S CHAPEL. ' 161 What pen could ever paint The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted! The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint; The bridesmen stared-some whistled, and some grunted: Fierce Hans the First looked like a boar that 's hunted, Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf: Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle, The two-fold bride sobbed out, with tears hysterical, "Oh Holy Virgin, you're too good-by half!" MORAL. Ye C6blentz maids, take warning by the rhyme, And as our Christian laws forbid polygamy For fear of bigamy, Only light up one taper at a time. THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. IN the famous old times, (Famed for chivalrous crimes,) As the legends of Rhineland deliver, Once there flourished a Knight, Who Sir Otto was hight, On the banks of the rapid green river! On the Drachenfels' crest He had built a stone nest, From which he pounced down like a vulture, And with talons of steel Out of every man's meal Took a very extortionate multure. Yet he lived in good fame, With a nobleman's name, As "Your High-and-Well-Born" addressed dailyTho' Judge Park in his wig Would have deemed him a prig, Or a craksman, if tried at th' Old Bailey. It is strange-very strange! How opinions will change!How Antiquity blazons and hallows THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. 163 Both the man and the crime That a less lapse of time Would commend to the hulks or the gallows! Thus enthralled by Romance, In a mystified trance, E'en a young, mild, and merciful Woman Will recall with delight The wild Keep, and its Knight, Who was quite as much Tiger as Human! Now it chanced on a day In the sweet month of May, From his casement Sir Otto was gazing, With his sword in the sheath, At that prospect beneath, Which our Tourists declare so amazing! Yes-he gazed on the Rhine, And its banks, so divine; Yet with no admiration or wonder, But the gout of a thief, As a more modern Chief Looked on London, and cried " What a plunder!" From that river so fast, From that champaign so vast, He collected rare tribute and presents; Water-rates from ships' loads, Highway-rates on the roads, And hard Poor-rates from all the poor Peasants! When behold! round the base Of his strong dwelling-place, Only gained by most toilsome progression, 164 THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. He perceived a full score Of the rustics, or more, Winding up in a sort of procession! " Keep them out!" the Knight cried To the Warders outsideBut the Hound at his feet gave a grumble! And in scrambled the knaves, Like Feudality's slaves, With all forms that are servile and humbl " Now for boorish complaints! Grant me patience, ye Saints!" Cried the Knight, turning red as a mullet; When the baldest old man Thus his story began, With a guttural croak in his gullet! " Lord Supreme of our lives, Of our daughters, our wives, Our she-cousins, our sons, and their spouses, Of our sisters and aunts, Of the babies God grants, Of the handmaids that dwell in our houses! " Mighty master of all We possess, great or small, Of our cattle, our sows, and their farrows Of our mares and their colts, Of our crofts, and our holts, Of our ploughs, of our wains, and our harrows I " Noble Lord of the soil, Of its corn and its oil, Of its wine, only fit for such gentles I THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. 165 Of our carp and sauer-kraut, Of our carp and our trout, Our black bread, and black puddings, and lentils I " Sovran Lord of our cheese, And whatever you pleaseOf our bacon, our eggs, and our butter, Of our backs and our polls, Of our bodies and soulsO give ear to the woes that we utter I " We are truly perplexed, We are frighted and vexed, Till the strings of our heart are all twisted; We are ruined and curst, By the fiercest and worst Of all Robbers that ever existed 1" " Now by Heaven and this light I" In a rage cried the Knight, " For this speech all your bodies shall stiffenI What! by Peasants miscalled I" Quoth the man that was bald, "Not your honor we mean, but a Griffin. "For our herds and our flocks He lays wait in the rocks, And jumps forth without giving us warning; Two poor wethers, right fat, And four lambs after that, Did he swallow this very May morning!" Then the High-and-Well-Born Gave a laugh as in scorn, " Is the Griffin indeed such a glutton? 166 THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. Let him eat up the rams, And the lambs, and their damsIf I hate any meat it is mutton 1" " Nay, your Worship," said then The most bald of old men, " For a sheep we would hardly thus cavil, If the merciless Beast Did not oftentimes feast On the Pilgrims, and people that travel." " Feast on what?" cried the Knight, While his eye glistened bright With the most diabolical flashes" Does the Beast dare to prey On the road and highway? With our proper diversion that clashes 1" "Yea, 'tis so, and far worse," Said the Clown, " to our curse; For by way of a snack or a tiffin, Every week in the year Sure as Sundays appear, A young Virgin is thrown to the Griffin I" "Ha Saint Peter! Saint Mark I" Roar'd the Knight, frowning dark, With an oath that was awful and bitter: " A young maid to his dish I Why, what more could he wish, If the Beast were High-Born and a Ritter I " Now by this our good brand, And by this our right hand, By the badge that is borne on our banners, THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. 167 If we can but once meet With the Monster's retreat, We will teach him to poach on our Manors I" Quite content with this vow, With a scrape and a bow The glad Peasants went home to their flagons, Where they tippled so deep, That each clown in his sleep Dreamt of killing a legion of Dragons I Thus engaged, the bold Knight Soon prepared for the fight With the wily and scaly marauder; But ere battle began, Like a good Christian man, First he put all his household in order. " Double bolted and barred Let each gate have a guard"(Thus his rugged Lieutenant was bidden) " And be sure, without fault, No one enters the vault Where the Church's gold vessels are hidden, 1" In the dark Oubliette, Let yon Merchant forget That he e'er had a bark richly ladenAnd that desperate youth, Our own rival, forsooth! Just indulge with a Kiss of the Maiden! " Crush the thumbs of the Jew With the vice and the screw, Till he tells where he buried his treasure; 168 THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. And deliver our word To yon sullen caged Bird, That to-night she must sing for our pleasure I" Thereupon, cap-a-pee, As a Champion should be, With the bald-headed Peasant to guide him, On his War-horse he bounds, And then, whistling his hounds, Prances off to what fate may betide him I Nor too long do they seek Ere a horrible reek, Like the fumes from some villanous tavern, Sets the dogs on the snuff, For they scent well enough The foul Monster coiled up in his cavern! Then alighting with speed From his terrified steed, Which he ties to a tree for the present, With his sword ready drawn, Strides the Ritter High-born, And along with him drags the scared peasant I "0 Sir Knight, good Sir Knight I I am near enough quiteI have shown you the Beast and his grotto;" But before he can reach Any farther in speech, He is stricken stone-dead by Sir Otto! Who, withdrawing himself To a high rocky shelf, Sees the Monster his tail disentangle THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. 169 From each tortuous coil, With a sudden turmoil, And rush forth the dead Peasant to mangle. With his terrible claws, And his horrible jaws, He soon moulds the warm corse to a jelly; Which he quickly sucks in To his own wicked skin And then sinks at full stretch on his belly. Then the Knight softly goes, On the tips of his toes, To the greedy and slumbering Savage, And with one hearty stroke Of his sword, and a poke, Kills the Beast that had made such a ravage. So, extended at length, Without motion or strength, That gorged Serpent they call the Constrictor, After dinner, while deep In lethargical sleep, Falls a prey to his Hottentot victor. "'Twas too easy by halfI" Said the Knight, with a laugh; " But as nobody witnessed the slaughter, I will swear, knock and knock, By Saint Winifred's clock, We were at it three hours and a quarter!" Then he chopt off the head Of the Monster so dread, Which he tied to his horse as a trophy; "I 170 THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. And, with Hounds, by the same Ragged path that he came, Home he jogged proud as Sultan or Sophy! Blessed Saints! what a rout When the news flew about, And the carcase was fetched in a wagon; What an outcry rose wild From man, woman, and child"Live Sir Otto, who vanquished the Dragon I" All that night the thick walls Of the Knight's feudal halls Rang with shouts for the wine-cup and flagon; Whilst the Vassals stood by, And repeated the cry" Live Sir Otto, who vanquished the Dragon I" The next night, and the next, Still the fight was the text, 'T was a theme for the Minstrels to brag on! And the Vassals' hoarse throats Still re-echoed the notes"Live Sir Otto who vanquished the Dragon!" There was never such work Since the days of King Stork, When he lived with the Frogs at free quarters I Not to name the invites That were sent down of nights, To the villagers' wives and their daughters! It was feast upon feast, For good cheer never ceased, And a foray replenished the flagon: THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON. 171 8 And the Vasals stood by, But more weak was the cry"Live Sir Otto, who vanquished the dragon 1" Down again sank the sun, Nor were revels yet doneBut as if every mouth had a gag on, Tho' the Vassals stood round, Deuce a word or a sound Of " Sir Otto who vanquished the Dragon I" There was feasting aloft, But, thro' pillage so oft Down below there was wailing and hunger; And affection ran cold, And the food of the old, It was wolfishly snatched by the younger I Mad with troubles so vast, Where's the wonder at last If the Peasants quite altered their motto?And with one loud accord Cried out " Would to the Lord That the Dragon had vanquished Sir Otto 1" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOR. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE. "Twiddle'em, Twaddle'em, Twenty-one." Nurse. 0 woe! 0 woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day! most woeful day! That ever, ever, I did yet behold! 0 day O0 day! 0 day! 0 hateful dayl Never was seen so black a day as this! O woeful day! O woeful day! * * * * * Musician. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. ROMEO AND JULIET. TO-DAY it is my natal day, Three 'prenticeships have past away, A part in work, a part in play, Since I was bound to life! This first of May I come of age, A man, I enter on the stage Where human passions fret and rage, To mingle in the strife. It ought to be a happy date, My friends, they all congratulate That I am come to " Man's Estate," To some, a grand event; 176 STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE. But ah! to me descent allots No acres, no maternal spots In Beds, Bucks, Herts, Wilts, Essex, Notts, Hants, Oxon, Berks, or Kent. From John o'Groat's to Land's End search, I have not one rod, pole, or perch, To pay my rent, or tithe to church, That I can call my own. Not common-right for goose or ass; Then what is Man's Estate? Alas! Six feet by two of mould and grass When I am dust and bone. Reserve the feast! The board forsake! Ne'er tap the wine-don't cut the cake, No toasts or foolish speeches make, At which my reason spurns. Before this happy term you praise, And prate about returns and days, Just o'er my vacant rent-roll gaze, And sum up my returns. I know where great estates descend That here is Boyhood's legal end, And easily can comprehend How " Manors make the Man." But as for me, I was not born To quit-rent of a peppercorn, And gain no ground this blessed morn From Beersheba to Dan. No barrels broach-no bonfires make! To roast a bullock for my sake, STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE. 177 Who in the country have no stake, Would be too like a quiz; No banners hoist-let off no gunPitch no marquee-devise no funBut think when man is Twenty-One What new delights are his! What is the moral legal factOf age to-day, I 'm free to act For self —free, namely, to contract Engagements, bonds, and debts; I'm free to give my I 0 U, Sign, draw, accept, as majors do; And free to lose my freedom too For want of due assets. t am of age to ask Miss Ball, Or that great heiress, Miss Duval, To go to church, hump, squint, and all, And be my own for life. But put such reasons on their shelves, To tell the truth between ourselves, I'm one of those contented elves Who do not want a wife. What else belongs to Manhood still? I 'm old enough to make my will With valid clause and codicil Before in turf I lie. But I have nothing to bequeath In earth, or waters underneath, And in all candor let me breathe, I do not want to die. 8* -178 STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE. Away! if this be Manhood's forte, Put by the sherry and the portNo ring of bells-no rustic sportNo dance-no merry pipes! No flowery garlands-no bouquetNo Birthday Ode to sing or sayTo me it seems this is a day For bread and cheese and swipes. To justify the festive cup What horrors here are conjured up! What things of bitter bite and sup, Poor wretched Twenty-One's! No landed lumps, but frumps and humps, (Discretion's Days are far from trumps,) Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps, Death, dockets, debts, and duns! If you must drink, oh drink " the King," Reform-the Church-the Press-the Ring, Drink Aldgate Pump-or anything, Before a toast like this! Nay, tell me, coming thus of age, And turning o'er this sorry page, Was young Nineteen so far from sage? Or young Eighteen from bliss? Till this dull, cold, wet, happy mornNo sign of May about the thornWere Love and Bacchus both unborn? Had Beauty not a shape? Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty! Make answer, lads of Trinity? Who sipped with me Divinity, And quaffed the ruby grape! STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE. 179 No flummery then from flowery lips, No three times three and hip-hip-hips, Because I'm ripe and full of pips — I like a little green. To put me on my solemn oath, If sweep-like I could stop my growth I would remain, and nothing loth, A boy-about nineteen. My friends, excuse me these rebukes! Were I a monarch's son, or duke's, Go to the Vatican of Meux And broach his biggest barrelsImpale whole elephants on spitsRing Tom of Lincoln till he splits, And dance into St. Vitus's fits, And break your winds with carols I But ah! too well you know my lot, Ancestral acres greet me not, My freehold's in a garden-pot, And barely worth a pin. Away then with all festive stuff! Let Robins advertise and puff My " Man's Estate," I'm sure enough I shall not buy it in. 180 THE LOST HEIR. THE LOST HEIR. "Oh where, and oh where Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OL SoNG. ONE day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry That chill'd my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaubed with grease and mud. She turned her East, she turned her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with manHer right hand held a frying-pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seemed to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone, almost a screech, As wild as ocean birds, Or female Ranter moved to preach, She gave her " sorrow words." " O Lord 0 dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild I Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? THE LOST HEIR. 181 Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which wayA Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab I You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, He '11 be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done I La bless you, good folks, mind your own concarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; 0 Serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid I but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the priggs; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myseh for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patched, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair. 182 THE LOST HEIR His shirt, it 's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you '11 know by that if it's him. Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan Had borrowed the child to go a begging with; but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin I Do, good people, move on; such a rabble of boys! I'11 break every bone of 'em I come near; Go home-you're spilling the porter-go home-Tommy Jones, go along with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: O my Billy-my head will turn right round-if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians They '11 make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions. Billy-where are you, Billy? —I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folks darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley, THE LOST HEIR. 188 And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a'n't no Billy there I I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only knowed where to run; Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny-bunThe Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey. For though I say it as ought n't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t' other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it has n't been washed for a week;.s for hair, tho' its red, its the most nicest hair when I 've time to just show it the comb; I '11 owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways-but 0 I never never shall se him no more! 184.THE LOST HEIR. O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door! Only, the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.It's no use to send the Cryer to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face. For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you '11 see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him! Lak! I never knew what a precious he was-but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin! A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE. 185 A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOU "Our Crummie is a dainty cow."-SaoToC BONG. ON that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R. A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, In short, what's called the private view, Amongst the guests-the deuce knows how She got in there without a rowThere came a large and vulgar dame With arms deep red, and face the same, Showing in temper not a Saint; No one could guess for why she came, Unless perchance to " scour the Paint." From wall to wall she forced her way, Elbowed Lord Durham-poked Lord GreyStamped Staflord's toes to make him move, And Devonshire's Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honor, budge, And gave a pinch to Park the Judge. As for the ladies, in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her. From number one and number two, She searched the pictures through and through, On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to scan the shy ones. And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, i86 A SINGULAR EXHIBITION Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, " Really an ardent love of art!" Alas, amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil, But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton. The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last thus stammered out "How now? Woman-where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to let you through our wicket?" Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?" Said Mr. H - with expedition, There 's no Cow in the Exhibition. "No Cow!"-but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity"No Cow! there an't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity Hang you and the R. A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee! No cow-but hold your tongue, for you needn't talk to meYou can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to beI have n't seen a picture high or low, or any how, Or in any of the rooms to be compared with David's Cow? You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and your Wards, Why hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords AT SOMERSET HOUSE. 187 They're only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street doors, David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue BoarsWhy Morland was a fool to him, at a little pig or sowIt's really hard it an't hung up-I could cry about the Cow! But I know well what it is, and why-they're jealous of David's fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame. Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now? David has made a party up to come and see his Cow. If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners, Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's? Or do you think from Mr. Etty, you need apprehend a row? If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow? I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature, Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature; It must be hung-and shall be hung, for Mr. H —, I vow, I dare n't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow! As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a-coming up the stair. Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand, Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand 188 I 'M GOING TO BOMBAY. Or maybe Bailey's Charity the favor would allow, It would really be a charity to hang up David's cow. We have n't no where else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water-Color place allows no oilman to appearAnd the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerrard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do-it's not a Suffolk Cow: I wish you'd see him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels; His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all, or helped to nurse the babby. And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it any how, Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his CowAnd if it's unconvenient and drawn too big by halfDavid shan't send next year except a very little calf. I'M GOING TO BOMBAY. "Nothing venture, nothing have."-OLD PROVERB. "Every Indiaman has at least two mates."FALCONER'S MARIN: GUDE. MY hair is brown, my eyes are blue, And reckoned rather bright; I 'm shapely, if they tell me true, And just the proper height; I 'M GOING TO BOMBAY. 189 My skin has been admired in verse, And called as fair as dayIf I am fair, so much the worse, I'm going to Bombay! At school I passed with some eclat; I learned my French in France; De Wint gave lessons how to draw, And D'Egville how to danceCrevelli taught me how to sing, And Cramer how to playIt really is the strangest thingI 'm going to Bombay! I 've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells, But not their springs to sipTo Ramsgate-not to pick up shellsTo Brighton-not to dip, I've toured the Lakes, and scoured the coast From Scarboro' to TorquayBut tho' of time I've made the most, I'm going to Bombay! By Pa and Ma I 'm daily told To marry now's my time, For though I'm very far from old, I 'm rather in my prime. They say while we have any sun We ought to make our hayAnd India has so hot an one, I'm going to Bombay! My cousin writes from Hyderapot, My only chance to snatch, 190 I'M GOING TO BOMBAY. And says the climate is so hot, It's sure to light a matchShe's married to a son of Mars With very handsome pay, And swears I ought to thank my stars I'm going to Bombay I She says that I shall much delight To taste their Indian treats, But what she likes may turn me quite, Their strange outlandish meats-. If I can eat rupees, who knows? Or dine, the Indian way, On doolies and on bungalowsI'm going to Bombay I She says that I shall much enjoy — I don't know what she meansTo take the air and buy some toy In my own palankeensI like to drive my pony-chair, Or ride our dapple grayBut elephants are horses thereI'm going to Bombay I Farewell, farewell, my parents dear, My friends, farewell to them And oh, what costs a sadder tear Good-bye, to Mr. M. IIf I should find an Indian vault, Or fall a tiger's prey, Or steep in salt, it's all his fault, I'm going to Bombay! SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN. 191 That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox, A. 1.-Commander Bird, Now lying in the London Docks, Will sail on May the Third; Apply for passage or for freight, To Nichol, Scott, and GrayPa has applied and sealed my fateI 'm going to Bombay I My heart is full-my trunks as well; My mind and caps made up, My corsets, shaped by Mrs. Bell, Are promised ere I sup; With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best, And Dresses by Duce, And a special license in my chestI 'm going to Bombay! SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN. HAIL! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop Unless I'm much mistaken in my notion, Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop Became so fatal to thy locomotion;Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean, Thou readest still to men a lesson good, To King and Country showing thy devotion By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood! Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol; Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-eggMethinks-thou Naval History in one Vol.A virtue shines, e'en in that timber leg, For unlike others that desert their Poll, Thou walkest ever with thy " Constant Peg I" / 192 A BLOW-UP. A BLOW-UP. Here we go up, up, up."-THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTBEL NEAR Battle, Mr. Peter Baker Was Powder-maker, Not Alderman Flower's flour-the white that puffs And primes and loads heads bald, or grey, or chowder, Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby-Crowder, Not vile apothecary's pounded stuffs, But something blacker, bloodier and louderGun-powder This stuff, as people know, is semper Eadem; very hasty in its temperLike Honor that resents the gentlest taps, Mere semblances of blows, however slight; So powder fires, although you only p'rhaps Strike light. To make it, therefore, is a ticklish business, And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizziness, For as all human flash and fancy minders, Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know, There seldom is a mill without a blow Sometimes upon the grinders. But then-the melancholy phrase to soften, Mr. B.'s mill transpired so very often! And advertised-then all Price Currents louder, " Fragments look up-there is a rise in Powder," So frequently, it caused the neighbors' wonderAnd certain people had the inhumanity To lay it all to Mr. Baker's vanity, That he might have to say-" That was my thunder t" A BLOW-UP. 198 One day-so goes the tale, Whether, with iron hoof Not sparkle-proof, Some ninny-hammer struck.upon a nailWhether some glow-worm of the Guy Faux stamp, Crept in the building, with Unsafety LampOne day this mill that had by water ground, Became a sort of windmill and blew round. With bounce that went in sound as far as Dover, it Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky; Besides some visitors who gained thereby What they had asked-permission " to go over it!" Of course it was a very hard and high blow, And somewhat differed from what's called a flyblow. At Cowes' Regatta, as I once observed, A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start; If such a sound could terrify oak's heart, Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved. In fact, it was a very awful thingAs people know that have been used to battle, In springing either mine or mill, you spring A precious rattle! The dunniest heard it-poor old Mr. F. Doubted for once if he was ever deaf; Through Tunbridge town it caused most strange alarms, Mr. and Mrs. Fogg, Who lived like cat and dog, Were shocked for once into each other's arms. Miss M. the milliner, her fright so strong, Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long; The veriest quakers quaked against their wish: The " Best of Sons" was taken unawares, And kicked the " Best of Parents" down the stairs: 9 194 A BLOW-UP. The steadiest servant dropped the China dish; A thousand started, though there was but one Fated to win, and that was Mister Dunn, Who struck convulsively, and hooked a fish I Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork, Tossed it just like a hay-maker at work; Her sister not in any better case, For taking wine, With nervous Mr. Pyne, He jerked his glass of Sherry in her face. Poor Mistress Davy, Bobbed off her bran-new turban in the gravy; While Mr. Davy at the lower end, Preparing for a Goose a carver's labor, Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbor, As if for once he meant to help a friend. The nurse-maid telling little " Jack-a-Norey," " Bo-peep" and " Blue-cap" at the house's top, Screamed, and let Master Jeremiah drop From a fourth story! Nor yet did matters any better go With Cook and Housemaid in the realms below; As for the Laundress, timid Martha Gunning, Expressing faintness and her fear by fits And starts-she came at last but to her wits By falling in the ale that John left running. Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind, Struck all at once, deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind, Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse, Then coming to his mind, Was shocked to find A BLOW-UP. 195 Only a pair ot shafts without a horse. Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy's I From Prospect House, for urchins small and big, Hearing the awful noise, Out rushed a flood of boys, Floating a man in black, without a wig;Some carried out one treasure, some anotherSome caught their tops and taws up in a hurry, Same saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley MurrayBut little Tiddy carried his big brother I Sick of such terrors, The Tunbridge folks resolved that truth should dwell No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well, But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors; Accordingly, to bring the point to pass, They called a meeting of the broken glass, The shattered chimney-pots, and scattered tiles, The damage of each part, And packed it in a cart Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles; While Doctor Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector, And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex, And some few more, whose names would only vex, Went as a deputation to the ExPowder-proprietor and Mill-director. Now Mr. Baker's dwelling-house had pleased Along with mill-materials to roam, And for a time the deputies were teased To find the noisy gentleman at home; At last they found him with undamaged skin, Safe at the Tunbridge Arms-not out-but Inn. 196 A BLOW-UP. The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal, Soon put his spoke in for the common wealA grave old gentlemanly kind of UrbanThe piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded, And then unfolded, By way of climax, Mrs. Davy's turban; He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding Knocked down a lot without a biddingHow Mr. Miles, in a fright, had given his mare The whip she would n't bearAt Prospect House, how Doctor Oates, not Titus, Danced like St. Vitus And Mr. Beak, thro' Powder's misbehaving, Cut off his nose whilst shaving;When suddenly, with words that seemed like swearing, Beyond a Licenser's belief or bearingBroke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage-. Who is to pay us, Sir-he argued thus, "For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cusCus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-dam-damage?" Now many a person had been fairly puzzled By such assailants, and completely muzzled; Baker, however, was not dashed with easeBut proved he practised after their own system, And with small ceremony soon dismissed 'em, Putting these words into their ears like fleas; "If I do have a blow, well, where's the oddity? I merely do as other tradesmen do, You, Sir-and you-and you I I 'm only puffing off my own commodity I" A TRUE STORY. 197 A TRUE STORY. WHOE'ER has seen upon the human face The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black, May form a notion of old Colonel Case With nigger Pompey waiting at his back. Case-as the case is, many times with folks From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay, Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say, And showed two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks. Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block, In hue was like his master's stiff cravat, And might indeed have claimed akin to that, Coming, as he did, of an old black stock. Case wore the liver's livery that such Must wear, their past excesses to denote, Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much, And then do penance in a yellow coat. Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye, A stain of nature's staining —one of those We call fast colors-merely, I suppose, Because such colors never go or fly. Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow. The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner, From a long Indian rubber rose a winner, With plenty of pagodas in his pocket, And homeward turning his Hibernian thought, Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought To harbor one whose wick was in the socket. 198 A TRUE STORY. Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet, Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot, A fact recorded in each day's diurnals, Things Case was not accustomed to peruse, Careless of news; But Pompey always read these bloody journals, Full of Killmany and of Killmore work, The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly, Of mornings frays by some O'Brien Burke, Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly; How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle, Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it, And if he found an infant in the cradle, Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it;In fact, he read of burner and of killer, And Irish ravage, day after day, Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say That "Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pillar." Judge then the horror of the nigger's face To find-with such impressions of that dire landThat Case-his master-was a packing case For Ireland I He saw, in fearful reveries arise, Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men Whose fame associate with Irish plots is, Fitzgeralds-Tones-O'Connors-Hares-and then " Those Emmets," not so " little in his eyes" As Doctor Watts's I He felt himself piked, roasted-carved and hacked, His big black burly body seemed in fact A pincushion for Terror's pins and needlesOh, how he wished himself beneath the sun A TRUE STORY. 199 Of Afric-or in far Barbadoes-one Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles. Full of his fright, With broken peace and broken English choking, As black as any raven, and as croaking, Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight, Plumped on his knees, and clasped his sable digits, Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets"0 Massa!-Massa!-Colonel!-Massa Case:Not go to Ireland I-Ireland dam bad place; Dem take our bloods-dem Irish-every drop- Oh why for Massa go so far a distance To have him life?"- Here Pompey made a stop Putting an awful period to existence. " Not go to Ireland-not to Ireland, fellow, And murdered-why should I be murdered, Sirrah?" Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow-; Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan,"Well, what has that to do-quick-speak outright, boy?" "0 Massa"-(so the explanation ran) "Massa be killed-'cause Massa Orange Man, And Pompey killed-'cause Pompey not a White Boy!" 200 THERE 'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 0 THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT! "So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir. -here is the picture 1"-LYDIA LANGUISH. 0 DAYS of old, 0 days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balked and valor stalked On high heroic stiltsWhere are ye gone?-adventures cease, The world gets tame and flatWe've nothing now but New PoliceThere's no Romance in that! I wish I ne'er had learned to read, Or Radcliffe how to write; That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloistered quite! Would I had never drank so deep Of dear Miss Porter's vat; I only turn to life, and weepThere's no Romance in that! No Bandits lurk-no turbaned Turk To Tunis bears me offI hear no noises in the night Except my mother's coughNo Bleeding Spectre haunts the house, No shape-but owl or bat, Come flitting after moth or mouseThere's no Romance in that! THERE '8 NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 201 I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman's press; Instead of looking thin and pale, I 'm growing red and fat, As if I lived on beef and ale There's no Romance in that! It's very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court, But nothing ever comes to me That's worth a pen's report: It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, I vowed, and railed, and came home safeThere's no Romance in that I The only time I had a chance At Brighton one fine day, My chestnut mare began to prance, Took fright, and ran away; Alas! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat; A Butcher caught the rein at lengthThere's no Romance in that! Love-even love-goes smoothly on A railway sort of trackNo flinty sire, no jealous Don! No hearts upon the rack; No Polydore, no TheodoreHis ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing moren There's no Romance in that! 9* 202 THERE 'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. He is not dark, he is not tallHis forehead's rather low, He is not pensive-not at all, But smiles his teeth to show; He comes from Wales and yet in size Is really but a sprat; With sandy hair and greyish eyes — There's no Romance in that! He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks, Or long sword hanging down; He dresses much like other folks, And commonly in brown; His collar he will not discard, Or give up his cravat, Lord Byron-like-he's not a BardThere's no Romance in that! He's rather bald, his sight is weak, He's deaf in either drum; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then-he 's worth a plum. He talks of stocks and three per cents, By way of private chat, Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rentsThere's no Romance in that! I sing-no matter what I sing, Di Tanti-or Crudel, Tom Bowling, or God save the King, Di piacer-All's well; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnatAnd as to Music " has no choice" There's no Romance in that! THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 208 Of light guitar I cannot boast, He never serenades; He writes, and sends it by the post, He does n't bribe the maids: No stealth, no hempen ladder-no I He comes with loud rat-tat That startles half of Bedford RowThere's no Romance in that! He comes at nine in time to choose His coffee-just two cups, And talks with Pa about the news, Repeats debates, and sups. John helps him with his coat aright, And Jenkins hands his hat; My lover bows and says good nightThere's no Romance in that I I 've long had Pa's and Ma's consent, My aunt she quite approves, My Brother wishes joy from Kent, None try to thwart our loves; On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace Will make me Mrs. Pratt, Of Number Twenty, Sussex PlaceThere '.s no Romance in that." 204 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO. THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOITO. "The Admiral compelled them all to strlke."-LFB oF NELsON. HUSH! silence In School-not a noise! You shall soon see there 's nothing to jeer at, Master Marsh, most audacious of boys! Come!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat!" So this morn, in the midst of the Psalm, The Miss Siffkins's school you must leer at, You 're complained of-Sir! hold out your palm — There!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat!" You wilful young rebel, and dunce I This offence all your sins shall appear at, You shall have a good caning at onceThere!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat!" You are backward, you know, in each verb, And your pronouns you are not more clear at, But you're forward enough to disturbThere!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat!" You said Master Twigg stole the plums, When the orchard he never was near at, I '11 not punish wrong fingers or thumbsThere!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat!" You make Master Taylor your butt, And this morning his face you threw beer at, And you struck him-do you like a cut? There!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat I" THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO. 205 Little Biddle you likewise distress, You are always his hair, or his ear atHe's my Opt, Sir, and you are my Pess: There!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat I" Then you had a pitcht fight with young Rous, An offence I am always severe at! You discredit to Cicero-House! There!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat l" You have made, too, a plot in the night To run off from the school that you rear at I Come, your other hand, now, Sir-the right, There! —" Palmam qui meruit ferat 1" I '11 teach you to draw, you young dog I Such pictures as I'm looking here at I "Old Mounseer making soup of a frog," There! —" Palmam qui meruit ferat 1" You have run up a bill at a shop That in paying you '11 be a whole year atYou've but twopence a week, Sir, to stop I There 1-r" Palmam qui meruit ferat I" Then at dinner you 're quite cock-a-hoop, And the soup you are certain to sneer atI have sipped it-it's very good soupThere!-" Palmam qui meruit ferat I" T' other day, when I fell o'er the form, Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at? Well for you that my temper's not warmThere 1-" Palmam qui meruit ferat 1" 206 HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. Why, you rascal I you insolent brat I All my talking you don't shed a tear at, There-take that, Sir I and that! that and that There I-" Palmam qui meruit ferat I" HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. A PASTORAL AFTER POPE. Two swains or clowns-but call them swainsWhile keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains, For all that tend on sheep as drovers Are turned to songsters, or to lovers, Each of the lass he called his dear Began to carol loud and clear. First Huggins sang, and Duggins then, In the way of ancient shepherd men; Who thus alternate hitched in song, "All things by turns, and nothing long." HUGGINS. Of all the girls about our place, There's one beats all in form and face; Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead, You '11 only find one Peggy Plumstead. DUGGINS. To groves and streams I tell my flame, I make the cliffs repeat her name: When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins! HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. 207 HUGGINS. When I am walking in the grove, I think of Peggy as I rove. I 'd carve her name on every tree, But I don't know my A, B, C. DUGGINS. Whether I walk in hill or valley, I think of nothing else but Sally. I'd sing her praise, but I can sing No song, except " God save the King." HUGGINS. My Peggy does all nymphs excel, And all confess she bears the bell;Where'er she goes swains flock together, Like sheep that follow the bellwether. DUGGINS. Sally is tall and not too straightThose very poplar shapes I hate; But something twisted like an SA crook becomes a shepherdess. HUGGINS. When Peggy's dog her arms emprison, I often wish my lot was hisn; How often I should stand and turn, To get a pat from hands like hem. DUGGINS. I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be, To stand about and stare at she; But when I look, she turns and shies, And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes I 208 HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. HUGGINS. Love goes with Peggy where she goesBeneath her smile the garden grows; Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts I DUGGINS. Where Sally goes it's always Spring, Her presence brightens every thing; The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, It makes brass farthings look like guineas. HUGGINS. For Peggy I can have no joy, She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, As comfortless as sheep with ticks. DUGGINS. Sally is ripe as June or May, And yet as cold as Christmas day; For when she's asked to change her lot, Lamb's wool-but Sally, she wool not. HUGGINS. Only with Peggy and with health, I'd never wish for state or wealth; Talking of having health and more pence, I'd drink her health if I had fourpence. DUGGINS. Oh, how that day would seem to shine, If Sally's banns were read with mine; She cries, when such a wish I carry, " Marry come up I" but will not marry. A STORM AT HASTINGS, AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN. 'T WAS August-Hastings every day was fillingHastings, that " greenest spot on memory's waste!' With crowds of idlers willing or unwilling To be bedipped-be noticed-or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling. Meanwhile, from window and from door, in haste " Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding "the world of letters" in that town. Each day poured in new coach-fulls of new cits, Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits, And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying. Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, And quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim. And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami-dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned-neither fat nor lean, 210 A STORM AT HASTINGS. His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seenAll thought him charming at the first beginningAlas, ere long they found him far too winning! He seemed in love with chance-and chance repaid His ardent passion with her fondest smile, The sunshine of good luck, without a shade, He staked and won-and won and staked-the bile It stirred of many a man and many a maid, To see at every venture how that vile Small gambler snatched-and how he won them tooA living Pam, omnipotent at loo Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box, 'T was handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass, And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks Of needles, silks, and cottons-but alas! She lost it wide awake.-We thought Miss Cox Was lucky-but she saw three caddies pass To that small imp;-no living luck could loo him! Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him! And so he climbed-and rode, and won-and walked The wondrous topic of the curious swarm That haunted the Parade. Many were balked Of notoriety by that small form Pacing it up and down:-some even talked Of ducking him-when lo! a dismal storm Stepped in-one Friday, at the close of dayAnd every head was turned another wayWatching the grander guest. It seemed to rise Bulky and slow upon the southern brink A STORM AT HASTINGS. 211 Of the horizon-fanned by sultry sighsSe black and threatening, I cannot think Of any simile, except the skies Miss Wiggins sometime shades in Indian inkMiss-shapen blotches of such heavy vapor, They seem a deal more solid than her paper. As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave, And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on The stony-hearted beach;-some bards would have It always rampant, in that idle fashionWhereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave, Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion, Who meekly settle in and take their places, With a very quiet awe on all their faces. Some love to draw the ocean with a head, Like troubled table-beer-and make it bounce, And froth, and roar, and fling-but this, I 've said, Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce:But then, a grander contrast thus it bred With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce Something more awful in the serious ear, As one would whisper that a lion's nearWho just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder Growled long-but low-a prelude note of death, As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under; But still it muttered to the sea beneath Such a continued peal, as made us wonder It did not pause more oft to take its breath, Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather, And hardly cared to wed twb words together, 212 A STORM AT HASTINGS. But watched the surly advent of the storm, Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm:Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas, Right on our coast;-a dismal, coal-black form;Many proud gaits were quelled-and all bravadoes Of folly ceased-and sundry idle jokers Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers. So fierce the lightning flashed.-In all their days The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing, And they are used to many a pretty blaze, To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays:And truly one could think, without much lashing The fancy, that those coasting clouds so awful And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful. The gay Parade grew thin-all the fair crowd Vanished-as if they knew their own attractionsFor now the lightning through a near hand cloud Began to make some very crooked fractionsOnly some few remained that were not cowed, A few rough sailors, who had been in actions, And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's, Lest it should blow-were pulling up the Rose: (No flower, but a boat)-some more hauling The Regent by the head:-another crew With that same cry peculiar to their callingWere heaving up the Hope:-and as they knew The very gods themselves oft get a mauling In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew The Neptune rather higher on the beach, That he might lie beyond his billows' reach. A STORM AT HASTINGS. 213 And now the storm, with its despotic power, Had all usurped the azure of the skies, Making our daylight darker by an hour, And some few drops-of an unusual sizeFew and distinct-scarce twenty to the shower, Fell like huge tear-drops from a Giant's eyesBut then this sprinkle thickened in a trice And rained much harder-in good solid ice. Oh! for a very storm of words to show How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us I Handel would make the gusty organs blow Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us;But even his music seemed composed and low When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus; Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound, And frozen comfits rolled along the groundAs big as bullets:-Lord! how they did batter Our crazy tiles:-And now the lightning flashed Alternate with the dark, until the latter Was rarest of the two:-the gust too dashed So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter Some panes-and so it did-and first it smashed The very square where I had chose my station To watch the general illumination. Another, and another, still came in, And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, Making transparent holes that let me win Some samples of the storm:-Oh! it way sweet To think I had a shelter for my skin, Culling them through these " loopholes of retreat"Which in a little we began to glazeChiefly with a jacktowel and some baize! 214 A STORM AT HASTINGS. By which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap, like a birth, from chaos, into light, And then relapse into the gloomy nightAs parcel of the cloud:-the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves, That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting.We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose-and that we felt the sound They made in falling to the startled ground. And so the tempest scowled away-and soon Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, We saw the rim of the pacific moon, Like a bright fish entangled in a net, Flashing its silver sides-how sweet a boon Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seasPeace in the sky-and coolness in the breeze! Meantime the hail had ceased:-and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;At every window, there were maids who stood Lamenting o'er the glass's small remainsOr with coarse linens made the fractions good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panesOr, holding candles to the panes, in doubt: The wind resolved-blowing the candles out. A STORM AT HASTINGS. 215 No house was whole that had a southern frontNo green-house but the same mishap befell;Bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the bruntNo sex in glass was spared! - For those who dwell On each hill-side, you might have swam a punt In any of their parlors;-Mrs. Snell Was slopped out of her seat; and Mr. Hitchin Had a flower-garden washed into a Kitchen. But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed The recent violence.-Each after each The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, Tapping, like Woodpeckers, the hollow beach. Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aimed Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning-and when morning broke There was a gale-" quite equal to bespoke." Before high water-(it were better far To christen it not water then, but waiter, For then the tide is serving at the bar) Rose such a swell-I never saw one greater I Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged, roaring bears against the baiter, With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stout poured out with a fine beachy head. No open boat was open to a fare, Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips, No bathing-woman waded-none would dare A dipping in the wave-but waived their dips, No sea-gull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships; For two lea shores upon the river Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea. 216 A STORM AT HASTINGS. Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burlyA boiling ocean of mixed black and green, A sky of copper-color, grim and surlyWhen lo, in that vast hollow scooped between Two rolling Alps of water-white and curly! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, Much like a first or last attempt at swimming Sometimes a hand-sometimes a little shoe Sometimes a skirt-sometimes a hank of hair Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view; Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bareAt last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Any one could swear The lad was dead-without a chance of perjury, And battered by the surge beyond all surgery! However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, Then Curiosity began with her fit; And lo! the features of the Small Unknown! 'Twas he that qf the surf had had this surfeit!And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies, We found a contract signed Mephistophiles I A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion, Providing in this world he was to have A lordship over luck, by whose exertion He might control the course of cards, and brave All throws of dice-but on a sea excursion The juggling Demon, in his usual vein, Seized the last cast-and Nicked him in the main! LINES. 217 LINES. TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA. Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me I Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juiceA wine more praised than it deserves to be I Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me I Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth, Making a midnight meal of he and she; Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth, And think of me! Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Or lies along at full length like a tree, Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me I Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free, And like a woman, all she can revealeth, And think of me! Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me! 10 I 218 SONNET. Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos-may none bamboozle thee! Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles, And think of me! Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the pepper'd palate like a pea, Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier, And think of me! Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me! Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me! SONNET. ALONG the Woodford road there comes a noise Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat postchaise Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays, With Rev. Mr. Crow and six small Boys; Who ever and anon declare their joys, With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas, At going home to spend their Christmas days, At changing Learning's pains for Pleasure's toys. Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way, A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls, But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray; The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls, And little Boys walk in as dull and mum.As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb.;j'.':::::''.;~~~~~~~~~~~ DECEMBER AND MAY. 219 DECEMBER AND MAY. "Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together." 8HAKSPBARE. SAID Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, "Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away? You ought to be more fortified;"-" Ah, brute, be quiet, do, I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you! " Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, You'd die for me, you swore, and I-I took you at your word. I was a tradesman's widow then-a pretty change I've made; To live, and die the wife of one, a widower by trade!" " Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth, You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth; Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you huff." "Why, yes," she said, " and so I do-but you 're not old enough!" "Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet hive; I '11 be the best of men-I mean-I '11 be the best alive! Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core.""I thank ye, sir, for telling me-for now I'11 grieve the more!" 220 MORAL REFLECTIONS. MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S. THE man that pays his pence, and goes Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul, Looks over London's naked nose, Women and men: The world is all beneath his ken, He sits above the Ball. He seems on Mount Olympus' top, Among the Gods, by Jupiter! and lets drop His eyes from the empyreal clouds On mortal crowds. Seen from these skies, How small those emmets in our eyes! Some carry little sticks-and one His eggs-to warm them in the sun: Dear! what a hustle, And bustle! And there's my aunt. I know her by her waist, So long and thin, And so pinched in, Just in the pismire taste. Oh! what are men?-Beings so small, That, should I fall Upon their little heads, I must Crush them by hundreds into dust! And what is life? and all its agesThere's seven stages! Turnham Green! Chelsea! Putney! Fulham Brentford I and Kew! And Tooting, too! And oh! what very little nags to pull 'em. A VALENTINE. 221 Yet each would seem a horse indeed, If here at Paul's tip-top we 'd got 'em; Although, like Cinderella's breed, They're mice at bottom. Then let me not despise a horse, Though he looks small from Paul's high-cross! Since he would be-as near the skyFourteen hands high. What is this world with London in its lap? Mogg's Map. The Thames, that ebbs and flows in its broad channel? A tidy kennel. The bridges stretching from its banks? Stone planks. Oh me! hence could I read an admonition To mad Ambition! But that he would not listen to my call, Though I should stand upon the cross, and ball! A VALENTINE. OH! cruel heart I ere these posthumous papers Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath; Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers, Have only lighted me the way to death. Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapors, When I am gone, and green grass covereth Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vainIt will not bring the vital spark again. Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burned so blue, It seemed an omen that we must expect The sprites of lovers: and it boded true, For I am half a sprite-a ghost elect; 222 A VALENTINE. Wherefore 1 write to thee this last adieu, With my last pen-before that I effect My exit from the stage; just stopped before The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door. Full soon these living eyes, now liquid bright, Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save They shed a dreary and inhuman light, Illumed within by glow-worms of the grave; These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, Must bid farewell, a long farewell to flesh! Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee, As broken victuals to the worms will go; And all the world will dine again but meFor I shall have no stomach;-and I know, When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be As now thou art: but will not tears of woe Water thy spirits with remorse adjunct, When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct? And when thy soul is buried in a sleep, In midnight solitude, and little dreaming Of such a spectre-what, if I should creep, Within thy presence in such dismal seeming? Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep, And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming And pray with mingled penitence and dread That I were less alive-or not so dead. Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove This wilful homicide which thou hast done: - N SONNET ON STEAM. 223 And the sad epitaph of so much love Will eat into my heart, as if in stone: And all the lovers that around thee move, Will read my fate and tremble for their own; And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, " Man, born of woman, must of woman die!" Mine eyes grow dropsical-I can no moreAnd what is written thou may'st scorn to read, Shutting thy tearless eyes.-'Tis done-'tis o'erMy hand is destined for another deed. But one last word wrung from its aching core, And my lone heart in silentness will bleed; Alas! it ought to take a life to tell That one last word-that fare-fare-fare thee well! SONNET ON STEAM. BY AN UNDER-OSTLER. I WISH I livd a Thowsen year Ago Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers But Now by meens of Powers of Steem forces A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits! 224 A RECIPE —FOR CIVILIZATION. A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION. The following Poem-is from the pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER I-the most heterogeneous of authors, but at the same time-in the Sporting Latin of Mr. Egan-a real Homo-gendus, or a Genius of a Man In the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual-boils over I and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle)-with the Spit in one hand I-and the Frying Pan in the other-while in the style of the rhymes it is IIudibrastic-as if in the ingredients of Versification he had been assisted by his BUTLER! As a Head Cook, Optician-Physician, Music Master-Domestic Economist and Death-bed Attorney I-I have celebrated The Author elsewhere with approbation;and cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet-without st 11 being his LAUDER, a phrase which those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on the Immortal Bard of Avon!-will find easy to understand. SURELY, those sages err who teach That man is known from brutes by speech, Which hardly severs man from woman, But not th' inhuman from the humanOr else might parrots claim affinity, And dogs be doctors by latinityNot t' insist (as might be shown) That beasts have gibberish of their own, Which once was no dead tongue, tho' we Since Esop's days have lost the key; Nor yet to hint dumb men-and, still, not Beasts that could gossip though they will not, But play at dummy like the monkeys, For fear mankind should make them flunkies. Neither can man be known by feature Or form, because so like a creature, That some grave men could never shape Which is the aped and which the ape, Nor by his gait, nor by his height,, Nor yet because he's black or white, But rational-for so we call The only COOKING ANIMAL! A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION. 225 The only one who brings his bit Of dinner to the pot or spit; For where's the lion e'er was hasty To put his ven'son in a pasty? Ergo, by logic, we repute That he who cooks is not a bruteBut Equus brutum est, which means, If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans, Nay, no one but a horse would forage On naked oats instead of porridge, Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary, The difference is culinary. Further, as man is known by feeding From brutes-so men from men, in breeding Are still distinguished as they eat, And raw in manners, raw in meatLook at the polished nations, hight The civilized-the most polite Is that which bears the praise of nations For dressing eggs two hundred fashions, Whereas, at savage feeders lookThe less refined the less they cook' From Tartar grooms that merely straddle Across a steak and warm their saddle, Down to the Abyssinian squaw That bolts her chops and collops raw, And, like a wild beast, cares as little To dress her person as her victualFor gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets, Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets, And not by shamble bodies put on, But those who roast and boil their mutton; So Eve and Adam wore no dresses 10* 226 A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION. Because they lived on water cresses, And till they learned to cook their crudities, Went blind as beetles to their nudities. For niceness comes from th' inner side, (As an ox is drest before his hide,) And when the entrail loathes vulgarity The outward man will soon cull rarity, For 'tis th' effect of what we eat To make a man look like his meat, As insects show their food's complexions; Thus fopling clothes are like confections. But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb, Would have an Abyssinian ox come? Or serve a dish of fricassees, To clodpoles in a coat of frize? Whereas a black would call for buffalo Alive-and, no doubt, eat the offal too. Now (this premised), it follows then That certain culinary men Should first go forth with pans and spits To bring the heathens to their wits, (For all wise Scotchmen of our century Know that first steps are alimentary; And, as we have proved, flesh pots and saucepans Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans;) But Bunyan erred to think the near gate To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate, When reason should have worked her course As men of war do-when their force Can't take a town by open courage, They steal an entry with its forage. What reverend bishop, for example, Could preach horned Apis from his temple? A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION. 227 Whereas a cook would soon unseat him, And make his own churchwardens eat him. Not Irving could convert those vermin Th' Anthropophages, by a sermon; Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice, Would "take a shin of beef and spice,"And raise them such a savory smother, No negro would devour his brother, But turn his stomach round as loth As Persians, to the old black brothFor knowledge oftenest makes an entry, As well as true love, thro' the pantry, Where beaux that came at first for feeding Grow gallant men and get good breeding; — Exempli gratia-in the West, Ship-traders say there swims a nest Lined with black natives, like a rookery, But coarse as carrion crows at cookery.This race, though now called O. Y. E. men, (To show they are more than A. B. C. men,) Was once so ignorant of our knacks They laid their mats upon their backs, And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon On trees that baked them in the sunshine. As for their bodies, they were coated, (For painted things are so denoted;) But, the naked truth is stark primevals, That said their prayers to timber devils, Allowed polygamy-dwelt in wig-wamsAnd, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.And why?-because their savage nook * Cook to the late Sir John Banks 228 A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION. Had ne'er been visited by CookAnd so they fared till our great chief, Brought them, not Methodists, but beef In tubs-and taught them how to live, Knowing it was too soon to give, Just then, a homily on their sins, (For cooking ends ere grace begins,) Or hand his tracts to the untractable Till they could keep a more exact tableFor nature has her proper courses, And wild men must be backed like horses, Which, jockeys know, are never fit For riding till they've had a bit I' the mouth; but then, with proper tackle, You may trot them to a tabernacle, Ergo (I say) he first made changes In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges, And taught the king's cook, by convincing Process, that chewing was not mincing, And in her black fist thrust a bundle Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell, Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits, She saw the spareness of her habits, And round her loins put on a striped Towel, where fingers might be wiped, And then her breast clothed like her ribs, (For aprons lead of course to bibs,) And, by the time she had got a meatScreen, veiled her back, too, from the heatAs for her gravies and her sauces, (Tho' they reformed the royal fauces,) Her forcemeats and ragouts-I praise not, Because the legend further says not, LINES. 229 Except, she kept each Christian high-day, And once upon a fat good Fry-day Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan, That turned the spit, to chop up Dagon!LINES TO A FRIEND AT COBHAM. 'TIS pleasant, when we've absent friends, Sometimes to hob and nob 'em With Memory's glass-at such a pass Remember me at Cobham! Have pigs you will, and sometimes kill, But if you sigh and sob 'em, And cannot eat your home-grown meat, Remember me at Cobham! Of hen and cock, you '11 have a stock, And death will oft unthrob 'emA country chick is good to pickRemember me at Cobham! Some orchard trees of course you '11 lease, And boys will sometimes rob 'em, A friend (you know) before a foeRemember me at Cobham I You'11 sometimes have wax-lighted rooms, And friends of course to mob 'em, Should you be short of such a sort, Remember me at Cobham! 280 A GOOD DIRECTION. A GOOD DIRECTION. A CERTAIN gentleman, whose yellow cheek Proclaimed he had not been in living quite An AnchoriteIndeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day; At last, by friends' advice, was led to seek A surgeon of great note-named Aberfeldie. A very famous Author upon Diet, Who, better starred than Alchemists of old, By dint of turning mercury to gold, Had settled at his country house in quiet. Our Patient, after some impatient rambles Thro' Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles, At last, to make inquiry had the nous"Here, my good man, Just tell me if you can, Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie's house?" The man thus stopped-perusing for a while The yellow visage of the man of bile, At last made answer, with a broadish grin: "Why, turn to right-and left-and right agin, The road's direct-you cannot fail to go it." " But stop! my worthy fellow!-one word moreFrom other houses how am I to know it!" 'How 1-why you '11 see blue pillars at the door!" TO * * ** * 281 SONNET. Allegory-A moral vehicle.-DIOroONABY. I HAD a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure, Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt, He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure; Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant. I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment, With yellow body, and the wheels of red, Because 't was only used for one employment, Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led. I had a wife, her nickname was Delight; A son called Frolic, who was never still: Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright? Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill, Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite, And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine's Hill! TO * * * * WITH A FLASK OF RHINE WATER. THE old Catholic City was still In the Minster the vespers were sung, And, re-echoed in cadences shrill, The last call of the trumpet had rung; While across the broad stream of the Rhine, The full Moon cast a silvery zone; And, methought, as I gazed on its shine, " Surely, that is the Eau de Cologne." 282 SONNET. I inquired the place of its source, If it ran to the east or the west; But my heart took a note of its course, That it flowed towards Her I love bestThat it flowed towards Her I love best, Like those wandering thoughts of my own, And the fancy such sweetness possessed, That the Rhine seemed all Eau de Cologne! SONNET. TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL, I 'M fond of partridges, I'm fond of snipes, I'm fond of black cocks, for they're very good cocksI'm fond of wild ducks, and I'm fond of woodcocks, And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes. I'm fond of pheasants with their splendid stripesI'm fond of hares, whether from Whig or ToryI'm fond of capercailzies in their gloryTeal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types: All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer, And when you next address your Lordly Babel, Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear, With due and fit provision to enable A man that holds all kinds of game so dear To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table. A TRUE STORY. 288 A TRUE STORY. OF all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But let its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victuals there is little anger, 'Tis so like coming to the rack, As well as going to the manger. Old Hunks-it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding waysPossessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago, Save some old stumps, with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot; If he drank any chilly liquor They made it quite a point to throb; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker. One tooth-I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youthOne tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as many pangs, 234 A TRUE STORY. It had an universal sting; One touch of that extatic stump Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track, By adding achers still to achers! One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last; So Hunks went on from week to week, And kept his torment in his cheek; Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw-gnaw-gnaw, His moans and groans were truly shocking And loud-altho' he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum, And tooth, but still it would not come, Tho' tied by string to some firm thing, He could not draw it, do his best, By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest. At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, A TRUE STORY. 285 Like his, to have their troubles out. And sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men, And out again the victim rushed, While eyes and mouth together gushed; At last arrived our hero's turn, Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn. How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets. Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties; One chord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes; " Bone of his bone," he felt of course, As husbands do in such divorce; At last the fangs gave way a little, Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And lo! the cause of all this work, Went-where it used to send his victual I The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numb'd his miser wit, But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; 236 A TRUE STORY. So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, " Let's finish, if you please." "How finish? why it's out!"-" Oh! noI'm none of your beforehand tippers, 'Tis you are out, to argue so; My tooth is in my head no doubt, But as you say you pulled it out, Of course it's there-between your nippers." " Zounds I sir, d' ye think I'd sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it." But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum! he had not drawn it. His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favor of his wit, How well a dentist had been bit By one old stump, and that a loose one! The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth: Alas! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke, And hangs a weeper on the cuff! Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against a stile, There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney. A vagrant reaper, Irish-born, That helped to reap our miser's corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly; His whistle all at once was quelled, A TRUE STORY. 238 And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly. Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchetThey live hard-and they die to match it. Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking; However, Mike began to stickle In word before he used the sickle; But mercy was not long attendant: From words at last he took to blows And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose; That made it what some folks are notA member very independent. Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a trampcr That came in danger's very nick, To put Mahoney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, "Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they, According to the poet's lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter! Away ran Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place 288 A, TRUE STORY. It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician-surgeon-drug-decoctor; Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta'en his tooth before. His mere name made the learned man hot" What I Hunks again within my door! I'll pull his nose;" quoth Hunks, " You cannot." The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. " 0 1 hum-ha-yes-I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair. The opening of a surgeon's jobHis tools, a chestful or a drawerfulAre always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box, His fury seemed above controling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: " Now, swindling wretch, I '11 show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; A TRUE STORY. 289 Oh I sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose-it's now My turn-and I will turn it up." Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy; He uttered pray'rs, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all reverses! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upward like a pitcher's spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it. And was there then no argument To change the doctor's vile intent, And move his pity?-yes, in truth, And that was-paying for the tooth. " ZoundsI pay for such a stump I I 'd rather-" But here the menace went no farther, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser's love of snuff, A recollection strong enough To cause a very serious flinching; In short, he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature; For tho' by this 't was cold to handle, (No corpse's could have felt more horrid,) And white just like an end of candle. 240 EPIGRAMS. The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead; So, fixed by dint of rag and lint, The part was bandaged up and muffled. The chair unfastened, Hunks arose, And shuffled out, for once unshuffled; And as he went these words he snuffled"Well, this is 'paying through the nose."' EPIGRAMS COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED. THAT flesh is grass is now as clear as day, To any but the merest purblind pup, Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay, My Lady B- comes and rakes it up. THE LAST WISH. WHEN I resign this world so briary, To have across the Styx my ferrying, 0, may I die without a DIARY! And be interred without a BuRY-ing! THE poor dear dead have been laid out in vain, Turned into cash, they are laid out again I THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 241 THE MONKEY-MARTR. A FABLE. "God help thee, said I, but I'1l let thee out, cost what it will: so I turned about the cage to get to the door." —STaN. 'TIs strane, what awkward figures and odd capers Folks cut, who seek their doctrine from the papers; But there are many shallow politicians Who take their bias from bewildered journalsTurn state-physicians, And make themselves fools'-cap of the diurnals. One of this kind, not human, but a monkey, Had read himself at last to this sour creedThat he was nothing but Oppression's flunkey, And man a tyrant over all his breed. He could not read Of niggers whipt, or over-trampled weavers, But he applied their wrongs to his own seed, And nourished thoughts that threw him into fevers. His very dreams were full of martial beavers, And drilling Pugs, for liberty pugnacious, To sever chains vexatious: In fact, he thought that all his injured line Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'eim Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrineUnless perchance the turnpike men should stop 'em. Full of this rancor, Pacing one day beside St. Clement Danes, It came into his brains To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor; 11 242' 2 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. Where certain solemn sages of the nation Were at that moment in deliberation How to relieve the wide world of its chains, Pluck despots down, And thereby crown Whitee- as well as blackee-man-cipation. Pug heard the speeches with great approbation, And gazed with pride upon the Liberators; To see mere coal-heavers Such perfect BolivarsWaiters of inns sublimed to innovators, And slaters dignified as legislatorsSmall publicans demanding (such their high sense Of liberty) an universal licenseAnd pattern-makers easing Freedom's clogsThe whole thing seemed So fine, he deemed The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, Walked out at last, and turned into the Strand, To the left hand, Conning some portion of the previous twaddle, And striding with a step that seemed designed To represent the mighty March of Mind, Instead of that slow waddle Of thought, to which our ancestors inclinedNo wonder, then, that he should quickly find He stood in front of that intrusive pile, Where Cross keeps many a kind Of bird confined, And free-born animal, in durance vileA thought that stirred up all the monkey-bile THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 248 The window stood ajarIt was not far, Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climbThe hour was verging on the supper-time, And many a growl was sent through many a bar. Meanwhile Pug scrambled upward like a tar, And soon crept in, Unnoticed in the din Of tuneless throats, that made the attics ring With all the harshest notes that they could bring; For like the Jews, Wild beasts refuse In midst of their captivity-to sing. Lord I how it made him chafe, Full of his new emancipating zeal, To look around upon this brute-bastille, And see the king of creatures in-a safe I The desert's denizen in one small den, Swallowing slavery's most bitter pillsA bear in bars unbearable. And then The fretful porcupine, with all its quills, Imprisoned in a pen I A tiger limited to four feet ten; And, still worse lot, A leopard to one spot, An elephant enlarged, But not discharged - (It was before the elephant was shot;) A doleful wanderow, that wandered not; An ounce much disproportioned to his pound. Pug's wrath waxed hot To gaze upon these captive creatures round; 244 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. Whose claws-all scratching-gave him full assurance They found their durance vile of vile endurance. He went above-a solitary mounter Up gloomy stairs-and saw a pensive group Of hapless fowlsCranes, vultures, owls, In fact, it was a sort of Poultry-Compter, Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop: Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop, Not from the skies, but his impending roof; And there aloof, A pining ostrich, moping in a coop; With other samples of the bird creation, All caged against their powers and their wills, And cramped in such a space, the longest bills Were plainly bills of least accommodation. In truth, it was a very ugly scene To fall to any liberator's share, To see those winged fowls, that once had been Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air. His temper little mended, Pug from this Bird-cage Walk at last descended Unto the lion and the elephant, His bosom in a pant To see all nature's Free List thus suspended, And beasts deprived of what she had intended. They could not even prey In their own way; A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. Thus he revolvedAnd soon resolved To give them freedom, civil and religious. THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 245 That night, there were no country cousins, raw From Wales to view the lion and his kin: The keeper's eyes were fixed upon a saw; The saw was fixed upon a bullock's shin: Meanwhile with stealthy paw, Pug hastened to withdraw The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. Now, monarch of the forest! thou shalt win Precious enfranchisement-thy bolts are undone; Thou art no longer a degraded creature, But loose to roam with liberty and nature; And free of all the jungles about LondonAll Hampstead's healthy desert lies before thee! Methinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark, Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee, And turn a ranger Of Hounslow Forest, and the Regent's ParkThin Rhodes's cows-the mail-coach steeds endangerAnd gobble parish watchmen after dark:Methinks I see thee, with the early lark, Stealing to Merlin's cave-(thy cave)-Alas, That such bright visions should not come to pass I Alas for freedom, and for freedom's hero I Alas, for liberty of life and limb I. For Pug had only half unbolted Nero, When Nero bolted hinr! 246 ORANIOLOGY. CRANIOLOGY. 'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man-with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of PhrenologyA science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little pole-hills, The faculties throw up like mole-hills;A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For tho' he knew his skull had grinders, Still there turned up no organ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled, And no man's head came in his headNot even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater. At last great Dr. Gall bestirs himI don't know but it might be SpurzheimTho' native of a dull and slow land, And makes partition of our Poll-land; At our Acquisitiveness guesses, And all those necessary nesses Indicative of human habits, All burrowing in the head like rabbits. Thus Veneration he made known, Had got a lodging at the Crown: And Music (see Deville's example) A set of chambers in the Temple: That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, CRANIOLOGY. 247 Close by his neighbor Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration. The science thus-to speak in fit Terms-having struggled from its nit, Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen, Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip And wallop in all doctorship, Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water; These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science: For of all learned themes whatever That schools and colleges deliver, There's none they love so near the bodies, As analyzing their own noddles, Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head, And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers', And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls; For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin; Down to the very lowest gullion, And oiliest scull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they did do, They begged his cranium of his widow: 248 CRANIOLOGY. No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster; For thereon they could show depending " The head and front of his offending," How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail; And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestionWhereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils, Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister. Each bias in some master node is: What takes M'Adam where a road is, To hammer little pebbles less? His organ of Destructiveness. What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate? a lumping lump of Number: Or Malthus rail at babies so? The smallness of his PhiloproWhat severs man and wife? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple: Or makes weak women go astray? Their bumps are more in fault than they. These facts being found and set in order By grave M.D.'s beyond the Border. A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 249 To make them for some few months eternal, Were entered monthly in a journal, That many a northern sage still writes in, And throws his little Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A great deal more than I or he knows. How Music suffers, par exemple, By wearing tight hats round the temple; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear: And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porter's occupation: Whether shillelahs in reality May deaden Individuality: Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in the Amative: If falls from scaffolds make us less Inclined to all Constructiveness: With more such matters, all applying To heads-and therefore headifying. A PARTHIAN GLANCE. "Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." Roome. COME, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail. 11* 250 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. Ay, come, let us turn our attention behind, Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they can not keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise I And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, Like the emmets, " how little we are in our eyes I" What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, On a dimity lap of true nursery make! I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pinWhilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in! Infant sorrows are strong-infant pleasures as weakBut no grief was allowed to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small " bubble and squeak," Thro' the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat? Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? Oh! I can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce " Head or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game! Then an urchin-I see myself urchin, indeed, With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?-I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday-night. A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 261 Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? Have you ever felt huckaback softened with sand? Had you ever your nose towelled up to a snub, And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand? Then a school-boy-my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degreesBut how well I remember that "pepper and salt" That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees! What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke! With a lanky right leg duly planted before; Whilst I told of the chief that was killed by my stroke, And extended my arms as " the arms that he wore 1" Next a Lover-Oh! say, were you ever in love? With a lady too cold-and your bosom too hot? Have you bowed to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove? Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot? With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, Did you walk up the aisle-the genteelest of men? When I think of that beautiful vision anew, Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then I I am withered and worn by a premature care, And my wrinkles confess the decline of my days; Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, And I 'm seeking to hide it-by writing for bays! 252 " DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?" "DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE " RUN!-run for St. Clement's engine! For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, And the pledges are frying and singingOh! how the poor pawners will craze.! Now where can the turncock be drinking? Was there ever so thirsty an elf?But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking' That the plugs are as dry as himself. The engines!-I hear them come rumbling; There's the Phoenix I the Globe! and the Sun! What a row there will be, and a grumbling, When the water don't start for a run! See I there they come racing and tearing, All the street with loud voices is filled; Oh it's only the firemen a-swearing At a man they 've run over and killed I How sweetly the sparks fly away now, And twinkle like stars in the sky; It's a wonder the engines don't play now, But I never saw water so shy! Why there is n't enough for a snipe, And the fire it is fiercer, alas I Oh instead of the New River Pipe, They have gone-that they have-to the gas. Only look at the poor little P 's On the roof-is there any thing sadder? My dears, keep fast hold, if you please, And they won't be an hour with the ladder! " DONT YOU SMELL FIRE? " 258 But if any one's hot in their feet, And in very great haste to be saved, Here's a nice easy bit in the street, That M'Adam has lately unpaved! There is some one-I see a dark shape At that window, the hottest of allMy good woman, why don't you escape? Never think of your bonnet and shawl: If your dress is n't perfect, what is it For once in a way to your hurt? When your husband is paying a visit There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt I Only see how she throws out her chaney! Her basins, and tea-pots, and all The most brittle of her goods-or any, But they all break in breaking their fall: Such things are not surely the best From a two-story window to throwShe might save a good iron-bound chest, For there 's plenty of people below I O dear I what a beautiful flash! How it shone thro' the window and door; We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, When the woman falls thro' with the floor! There! there! what a volley of flame, And then suddenly all is obscured!Well-I 'm glad in my heart that I came;But I hope the poor man is insured! 254 THE WIDOW. THE WIDOW. ONE widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh I If two should meet on such a job, They'11 have a gossip by and by. If three should come together-why, Three widows are good company I If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a triceBut five will up and have a dance I Poor Mrs. C — (why should I not Declare her name?-her name was Cross) Was one of those the " common lot" Had left to weep " no common loss:"For she had lately buried then A man, the " very best of men," A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men " are at the worst." To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deepI mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did not weep; In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect " veil of tears." Though ever since she lost "her prop And stay"-alas! he would n't stayShe never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop, From Passion's eye, as Moore would say; THE WIDOW. 255 Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spiteHe died upon a washing-day I Still Widow Cross went twice a week, As if " to wet a widow's cheek," And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy'T was nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy; And yet she often seemed to raise A cambric kerchief to her eyeA duster ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry. The springs were locked that ought to flowIn England or in widow-womanAs those that watch the weather know, Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon. But why did Widow Cross take pains, To call upon the " dear remains"Remains that could not tell a jot, Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses? Oh I my black ink turns red for shameBut still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in " Anna's Urn," At the next grave to Mr. Cross's I For there an angel's virtues slept, "Too soon did Heaven assert its claim I" But still her painted face he kept, " Encompassed in an angel's frame." 256 THE WIDOW. He looked quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band; He looked so lone and so unwived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even that band; And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out through sorrow's sluicesTear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped againNo leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main! Whoe'er has watched the window-paneI mean to say in showery weatherHas seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain, At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together: So fared it with that couple's weeping, The principle was quite as activeTear unto tear Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive. To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting tete-a-tete — Two cups-hot muffins on a plateWith "' Anna's Urn" to hold hot water I The brazen vessel for a while Had lectured in an easy song, Like Abernethy-on the bileThe scalded herb was getting strong; All seemed as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cosy cup of tea; Alas! how often human sippers THE WIDOW. 257 With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers! The Widow Cross, I should have told, Had seen three husbands to the mould; She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves, But with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with " three removes:" Thus, when with any tender words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed, Mr. Cross, Came in for nothing but his thirds; For, as all widows love too well, She liked upon the list to dwell, And oft ripped up the old disastersShe might, indeed, have been supposed A great ship-owner, for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters I Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned What had beep left her by her first, And by her last, and by her second. Alas 1 not all her annual rents Could then entice the little GermanNot Mr. Cross's Three Per Cents, Or Consols, ever make him her man; He liked her cash, he liked her houses, But not that dismal bit of land She always settled on her spouses. So taking up his hat and band, 258 RHYME AND REASON. Said he, "You '11 think my conduct oddBut here my hopes no more may linger; I thought you had a wedding-finger, But oh!-it is a curtain-rod I" RHYME AND REASON. TO THE EDITOR OF THE COMIC ANNUAL: — SIR.-In one of your Annuals you have given insertion to "A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme;" but as I have seen no regular long poem constructed on its principles, I suppose the scheme did not take with the literary world. Under these circumstances I feel encouragedto bring forward a novelty of my own, and I can only regret that such poets as Chaucer and Cottle, Spenser and Hayley, Milton and Pratt, Pope and Pye, Byron and Batterbee, should have died before it was invented. The great difficulty in verse is avowedly the rhyme. Dean Swift says somewhere in his letters, " that a rhyme is as hard to find with him as a guinea," —and we all know that guineas are proverbially scarce among poets. The merest versifier that ever attempted a Valentine must have met with this Orson, some untameable savage syllable that refused to chime in with society. For instance, what poetical Foxhunter-a contributor to the Sporting Magazinehas not drawn all the covers of Beynard, Ceynard, Deynard, Feynard, Geynard, Heynard, Keynard, Leynard, Meynard, Neynard, Peynard, Queynard, to find a rhyme for Reynard? The spirit of the times is decidedly against Tithe; and I know of no tithe more oppressive than that poetical one, in heroic measure, which requires that every tenth syllable shall pay a sound in kind. How often the Poet goes up a line, only to be stopped at the end by an impracticable rhyme, like a bull in a blind alley! I have an ingenious THE DOUBLE KNOCK. 259 medical friend, who might have been an eminent poet by this time, but the first line he wrote ended in ipecacuana, and with all his physical and mental power, he has never yet been able to find a rhyme for it. The plan I propose aims to obviate this hardship. My system is, to take the bull by the horns; in short, to try at first what words will chime, before you go further and fare worse. To say nothing of other advantages, it will at least have one good effect-and that is, to correct the erroneous notion of the would-be poets and poetesses of the present day, that the great end of poetry is rhyme. I beg leave to present a specimen of verse, which proves quite the reverse, and am, Sir, Your most obedient servant,. JOHN DRYDEN GRUBB. THE DOUBLE KNOCK. RAT-TAT it went upon the lion's chin, "That hat, I know it!" cried the joyful girl; "Summer's it is, I know him by his knock, Comers like him are welcome as the day! Lizzy! go down and open the street-door, Busy I am to any one but him. Know him you must-he has been often here; Show him up stairs, and tell him I'm alone." Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair; Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat; " Sure he has brought me tickets for the playDrury-or Covent Garden-darling man!Kemble will play-or Kean who makes the soul Tremble; in Richard or the frenzied MoorFarren, the stay and prop of many a farce Barren beside-or Listen, Laughter's ChildKelly the natural, to witness whom 260 THE DEVIL'S ALBUM. Jelly is nothing in the public's jamCooper, the sensible-and Walter Knowles Super, in William Tell-now rightly told. Better-perchance, from Andrews, brings a box, Letter of boxes for the Italian stageBrocard I Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul! No card-thank heaven-engages me to-night! Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toqueWeather 's against it, but I'11 go in curls. Dearly I dote on white-my satin dress, Merely one night-it won't be much the worseCupid-the New Ballet I long to seeStupid I why don't she go and ope the door I" Glistened her eye as the impatient girl Listened, low bending o'er the topmost stair. Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends, Plainly she hears this question and reply: "Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d' ye want?" "Taxes," says he, "and shall not call again!" THE DEVIL'S ALBUM. IT will seem an odd whim For a Spirit so grim As the Devil to take a delight in; But by common renown He has come up to town With an Album for people to write in t On a handsomer book Mortal never did look, Of a flame-color silk is the binding, EPIGRAM. 261 With a border superb, Where, through floweret and herb, The old Serpent goes brilliantly winding I By gilded grotesques, And embossed arabesques, The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded; But, alas I in a taste That betrays they were traced At the will of a Spirit degraded I As for paper-the best, But extremely hot-pressed, Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it, And against every blank There's a note on the Bank, As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet. Who will care to appear In the Fiend's Souvenir, Is a question to morals most vital; But the very first leaf, It's the public belief, Will be filled by a Lady of Title! EPIGRAM ON A LATE CATTLE-SHOW IN SMITHFIELD. OLD Farmer Bull is taken sick, Yet not with any sudden trick Of fever, or his old dyspepsy; But having seen the foreign stock, It gave his system such a shock He's had a fit of cattle-epsy! 262 A REPORT FROM BELOW. A REPORT FROM BELOW. "Blow high, blow low." —EA SONG. As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hotThey heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shotFor Memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by nightBefore one eye appeared a Patch In t' other eye a Blight I To be belabored out of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse moved both man and dame. He seized the tongs-she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then-as white as my cravatPoor Mary May, the servant I Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, " Speak I Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?" A REPORT FROM BELOW. 268 Till Mary getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death: "We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house, Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, ' I say'-and there she stops for coughin,' 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin' very often, But please the pigs,'-for that's her way of swearing in a passion, 'I'11 blow it up, and not be set a coughin' in this fashion!' Well, down she takes my master's horn-I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper. I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You '11 powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over-' Teach your grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she-Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; 264 A REPORT FROM BELOW. I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees. So in it goes, and Bounce-O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather. But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she '11 wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t' other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it s well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin'; EPIGRAM. 265 Here lays a leg, and there a leg-I mean, you know, a stockingBodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off. and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em-none but-nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered-' Why, where is the powder blew?'" EPIGRAM ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY. THEY may talk of the plugging and sweating Of our coinage that's minted of gold, But to me it produces no fretting Of its shortness of weight to be told: All the sov'reigns I'm able to levy As to lightness can never be wrong, But must surely be some of them heavy, For I never can carry them long. 12 266 AN ANCIENT CONCERT. AN ANCIENT CONCERT. BY A VENERABLE DIRECTOR. "Give me old music-let me hear The songs of days gone by 1"-H-. F. CHOELm. 01 COME, all ye who love to hear An ancient song in ancient taste, To whom all bygone Music's dear As verdant spots in Memory's waste! Its name "The Ancient Concert" wrongs, And has not hit the proper clef, To wit, Old Folks to sing Old Songs, To Old Subscribers rather deaf. Away, then, Hawes! with all your band Ye beardless boys, this room desert One youthful voice, or youthful hand, Our concert-pitch would disconcert! No Bird must join our " vocal throng," The present age beheld at font: Away, then, all ye " Sons of Song," Your Fathers are the men we want! Away, Miss Birch, you're in your prime r Miss Romer, seek some other door I Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time, You count you're nearly fifty-four! Go, Miss Novello, sadly young! Go, thou composing Chevalier, And roam the county towns among, No Newcome will be welcome here! AN ANCIENT CONCERT. 267 Our Concert aims to give at night The music that has had its day! So, Rooke, for us you can not write Till time has made you Raven grey. Your score may charm a modern ear, Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old, But in this Ancient atmosphere, Fresh airs like yours would give us cold! Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat go! Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls; And Master Coward ought to know This is no place for boys and girls! No Massons here we wish to see; Nor is it Mrs. Seguin's sphere, And Mrs. B- I Oh! Mrs. B, Such Bishops are not reverend here! What I Grisi, bright and beaming thus! To sing the songs gone grey with age! No, Grisi, no-but come to us And welcome, when you leave the stage I Off, Ivanhoff!-till weak and harsh!Rubini, hence I with all the clan! But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache A little shrivelled thin old man. Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please! Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch; You 'd run us out of breath with Glees, And Catches that we could not catch. Away, ye Leaders all, who lead With violins, quite moder things; To guide our Ancient band we need Old fiddles out of leading strings 268 AN ANCIENT CONCERT. But come, ye Songsters, over-ripe, That into " childish trebles break I" And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe That can not sing without a shake! Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin A slender thread of ancient voice, Old notes that almost seem called in; At such as you we shall rejoice I No thundering Thalbergs here shall baulk, Or ride your pet D-cadence o'er, But fingers with a little chalk Shall, moderato, keep the score I No Broadwoods here, so full of tone, But Harpsichords assist the strain: No Lincoln's pipes, we have our own Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain. And welcome I St. Cecilians, now Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows, Who will strike up, no matter how, With organs that survive their bellows I And bring, 0 bring, your ancient styles In which our elders loved to roam, Those flourishes that strayed for miles, Till some good fiddle led them home! O come, ye ancient London Cries, When Christmas Carols erst were sung! Come, Nurse, who droned the lullabies, "When Music, heavenly Maid, was young I" No matter how the critics treat, What modern sins and faults detect, The Copy-Book shall still repeat, These Concerts must " Command respect!" THE DROWNING DUCKS. 269 TIIE DROWNING DUCKS. AMONGST the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, Were little ducklings in a pond, Swimming about beside their mothersSmall things like living water lilies, But yellow as the daffo-dillies. "It's very hard," she used to moan, " That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters-mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings." For why!-each little yellow navy Went down-all downy-to old Davy! She had a lake-a pond I meanIts wave was rather thick than pearlyShe had two ducks, their napes were greenShe had a drake, his tail was curlyYet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond The birds were both the best of mothersThe nests had eggs-the eggs had luckThe infant D.'s came forth like othersBut there, alas! the matter stuck! They might as well have all died addle As die when they began to paddle I For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, 270 THE DROWNING DUCKS. They sank ere long right under water, Like any over-loaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be I No peccant humor in a gander Brought havoc on her little folksNo poaching cooks-a frying pander To appetite-destroyed their yolksBeneath her very eyes, Od' rot 'em! They went, like plummets, to the bottom, The thing was strange-a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works! For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson it bewildered him! To hear of ducks that could not swim. Poor Mrs. Bond I what could she do But change the breed-and she tried divers Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e'er survivorsLike those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking! In vain their downy coats were shorn; They floundered still!-Batch after batch went I The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchmentl Whene'er they launched-O sight of wonder! Like fires the water "got them under!" No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; THE DROWNING DUCKS. 271 At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up, and desponded; For Death among the water-lilies, Cried " Due ad me" to all her dillies I But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddleAlas! 't was darker than before! At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did I The thirsty Sirius, dog-like drank So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger I I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; But when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of her face, In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie! The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly, The tenants of that Eely Place Had found the way to Pick a dilly, And so by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks' abduction. 272 THE FALL. THE FALL. "Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." —CoNT FATHOM. WHO does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow'without Hope; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss; One-only one-hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might: On-on-still on-direct for doom, the river rushed in force, And fearfully' the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed-I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as thio igh transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore; THE FALL. 278 Plainly-but with no prophet sense-I heard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice-and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. O agony! 0 life! My home I and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag-in speechless pain-from midnight deep to deep; I did not die-but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind; And through my brain there thrilled a cry-a cry as shrill as birds' Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: " It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and night-gown, I declares I He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs 1" 12* THE STEAM SERVICE "Life is but a kittMe cast."-BrNes. THE time is not yet come-but come it will-when the masts of our Royal Navy shall be unshipped, and huge unsightly chimneys be erected in their place. The trident will be taken out of the hand of Neptune, and replaced by the effigy of a red-hot poker; the Union Jack will look like a smoke-jack; and Lambtons, Russels, and Adairs will be made Admirals of the Black; the forecastle will be called the Newcastle, and the cock-pit will be termed the coal-pit; a man-of-war's tender will be nothing but a Shields' collier; first-lieutenants will have to attend lectures on the steam-engine, and mid-shipmen must take lessons as climbing-boys in the art of sweeping flues. In short, the good old tune of " Rule Britannia" will give way to "Polly put the Kettle on;" while the Victory, the Majestic, and the Thunderer of Great Britain will "paddle in the burn," like the Harlequin, the Dart, and the Magnet of Margate. It will be well for our song-writers to bear a wary eye to the Fleet, if they would prosper as Marine Poets. Some sea Gurney may get a seat at the Admiralty Board, and then farewell, a long farewell, to the old ocean imagery: marine metaphor will require a new figure-head. Flowing THE STEAM SERVICE. 275 sheets, snowy wings, and the old comparison of a ship to a bird, will become obsolete and out of date I Poetical topsails will be taken aback, and all such things as reefs and double-reefs will be shaken out of song. For my own part, I cannot be sufficiently thankful that I have not sought a Helicon of salt water; or canvassed the Nine Muses as a writer for their Marine Library; or made Pegasus a seahorse, when sea-horses as well as land-horses are equally likely to be superseded by steam. After such a consummation, when the sea service, like the tea service, will depend chiefly on boiling water, it is very doubtful whether the Fleet will be worthy of any thing but plain prose. I have tried to adapt some of our popular blue ballads to the boiler, and Dibdin certainly does not steam quite so well as a potatoe. However, if his Sea Songs are to be in immortal use, they will have to be revised and corrected in future editions thus:I steamed from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib how she smoked through the breeze. She 's a vessel as tight to my fancy As ever boiled through the salt seas. When up the flue the sailor goes And ventures on the pot, The landsman, he no better knows, But thinks hard is his lot. Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets, Weighs anchor, lights the log; Trims up the fire, picks out the slates, And drinks his can of grog. * * * * * 276 THE STEAM SERVICE. Go patter to lubbers and swabs do you see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall's-end give me; And it ain't to a little I '11 strike. Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite, And shiver each bundle of wood; Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow every thing tight, And boiling a gallop we'll scud. I have cooked Stevens's, or rather Incledon's Storm in the same way; but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing. Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling, By shovel, tongs, and poker, stand; Down the scuttle quick be hauling, Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand. Now it freshens-blow like blazes; Now unto the coal-hole go; Stir, boys, stir, don't mind black faces, Up your ashes nimbly throw. Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys, See the valve is clear, of course; Let the paddles spin, don't mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft a proper draft get, Oil the engines, see all clear; Hands up, each a sack of coal get, Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer. Now the dreadful thunder's roaring, Peal on peal contending clash; THE STEAM SERVICE. 277 On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, In our eyes the paddles splash. One wide water all around us, All above one smoke-black sky: Different deaths at once surround us; Hark I what means that dreadful cry? The funnel's gone! cries ev'ry tongue out, The engineer's washed off the deck; A leak beneath the coal-hole 's sprung out, Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces; Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; Plumb the boiler, speed decreases, Four feet water getting cold. While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, We for wives or children mourn; Alas! from hence there 's no retreating; Alas! to them there 's no return. The fire is out-we 've burst the bellows, The tinder-box is swamped below; Heaven have mercy on poor fellows, For only that can serve us now! Devoutly do I hope that the kettle, though a great vocalist, will never thus appropriate the old Sea Songs of England. In the words of an old Greenwich pensioner" Steaming and biling does very well for Urn Bay, and the likes;" but the craft does not look regular and shipshape to the eye of a tar who has sailed with Duncan, Howe, and Jarvis-and who would rather even go without port than have it through a funnel. 278 A LAY OF REAL LIFE. A LAY OF REAL LIFE. "Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle."-GoLDs.rrH. " Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones."-BSLVERSMITH. WHO ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather. Who said my mother was no nurse, And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother. Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer? My Father. Who let me starve to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me " ugly little sin?" My Mother. Who said my mother was a Turk And took me home-and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt. Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle. A LAY OF REAL LIFE. 279 Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin. Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother. Who marred my stealthy urchin joys, And when I played cried " What a noise "Girls always hector over boysMy Sister. Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother. Who stroked my head, and said " Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had;" But at the stall the coin was bad? My Godfather. Who, gratis, shared my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass Referred me to the pump? Alas I My Friend. Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy-my sole relief? Myself. 280 THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. "Resigned, I kissed the rod." WELL I I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions! I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my gentle they will not play simple! Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish! Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With attention I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on! At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the " Council of Nice," And rejected their "Diet of Worms," now? V I " THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. 281 In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good rope that was used to Jack-ketching! Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite, And at roost-time have never a Perch then I No Roach can I meet with-no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not "Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now. Oh! there is not a one pound prize To be got in this fresh-water lottery! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis-like St. Mary's-Ottery For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showingBut a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing I I have tried all the water for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting And hungry and faintLet the Fancy just paint What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting! 282 SEA SONG. And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far-bellSo, wet to the skin, I'11 e'en back to my Inn, Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell! SEA SONG. AFTER DIBDIN. PURE water it plays a good part in The swabbing the decks and all thatAnd it finds its own level for sartinFor it sartinly drinks very flat:For my part a drop of the creatur I never could think was a fault, For if Tars should swig water by natur, The sea would have never been salt!Then off with it into a jorum And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I 've any sense of decorum It never was meant to be neat!One day when I was but half soberHalf measures I always disdainI walked into a shop that sold Soda, And ax'd for some Water Champagne:Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys. Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more, And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys, Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!Then off with it into a jorum, And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if I 've any sense of decorum, It never was meant to be neat. THE APPARITION. 283 THE APPARITION. IN the dead of the night, when from beds that are turfy, The spirits rise up on old cronies to call, Came a shade from the Shades on a visit to Murphy, Who had not foreseen such a visit at all. "Don't shiver and shake," said the mild Apparition, " I'm come to your bed with no evil design; I 'm the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician, Once great like yourself in the Almanack line. "Like you I was once a great prophet on weather, And deemed to possess a more prescient knack Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together, The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack. "With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion, I saw my old mantle lugged out from the shelf, Turned, trimmed, and brushed up, and again brought in fashion, I seemed to be almost reviving myself! " But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantleAs too many cooks make a mull of the brothTo find that two Prophets were under my mantle, And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth. "Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble, Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps; Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble, The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps 1 284 LITTLE O'P.-AN AFRICAN FACT. "But think how the people would worship and wonder, To find you ' hail fellows, well met,' in your hail, In one tune with your rain, and your wind, and your thunder, "Fore God,' they would cry, 'they are both in a tale'!" LITTLE O'P.-AN AFRICAN FACT. IT was July the First, and the great hill of Howth Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south, And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork, Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork. Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name, And little O'Patrick was mate of the same; For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope, They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope. Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast, Only little O'P. made a swim to the coast; And when he revived from a sort of a trance, He saw a big Black with a very long lance. Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue " Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gomborry bung!" Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf, And down came a hundred as black as himself. They brought with them guattul, and pieces of klam, The first was like beef, and the second like lamb; "Don't I know," said O'P., " what the wretches are at? "They 're intending to eat me as soon as I 'm fat!" In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot, His rations of jarbul he suffered to rot; He would not touch purry or doolberry-lik, But kept himself growing as thin as a stick. LITTLE O'P.-AN AFRICAN FACT. 285 Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth, He would not let chobbery enter his mouth, But kicked down the krug shell, tho' sweetened with watt"I an't to be pisoned the likes of a rat!" At last the great Joddry got quite in a rage, And cried, " 0 mi pitticum dambally nage! The chobbery take, and put back on the shelf, Or give me the krug shell, I '11 drink it myself! The doolberry-lik is the best to be had, And the purry (I chewed it myself) is not bad; The jarbul is fresh, for I saw it cut out, And the Bok that it came from is grazing about. My jumbo! but run off to Billery Nang, And tell her to put on her jigger and tang, And go with the Bloss to the man of the sea, And say that she comes as his Wulwul from me." Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep, With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep, And the moment he spied her, said little O'P., "Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow's at me 1" But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms, She came to accept him for life in her arms, And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love, A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove, With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss, Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss; At last fairly foiled, she gave up the attack, And Jeddry began to look blacker than black; " By Mumbo! by Jumbo — why here is a man, That won't be made happy do all that I can; He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed, Let the Rham take his shangwang and chop off his head!" 286 CONVEYANCING. CONVEYANCING. O, LONDON is the place for all In love with loco-motion! Still to and fro the people go Like billows of the ocean; Machine or man, or caravan, Can all be had for paying, When great estates, or heavy weights, Or bodies want conveying. There's always hacks about in packs, Wherein you may be shaken, And Jarvis is not always drunk, Tho' always overtaken; In racing tricks he'll never mix, His nags are in their last days, And slow to go, altho' they show As if they had their fast days! Then if you like a single horse, This age is quite a cab-age, A car not quite so small and light As those of our Queen Mab age; The horses have been broken well, All danger is rescinded, For some have broken both their knees And some are broken winded. If you 'e a friend at Chelsea end, The stages are worth knowingThere is a sort, we call 'em short, Although the longest going CONVEYANCING.. 287 For some will stop at Hatchett's shop, Till you grow faint and sicky, Perched up behind, at last to find, Your dinner is all dickey! Long stages run from every yard; But if you 're wise and frugal, You '11 never go with any Guard That plays upon the bugle, " Ye banks and braes," and other lays And ditties everlasting, Like miners going all your way, With boring and with blasting. Instead ofjourneys, people now May go upon a Gurney, With steam to do the horses' work, By powers of attorney; Tho' with a load it may explode, And you may all be un-done! And find you're going up to Heaven, Instead of up to London! To speak of every kind of coach It is not my intention; But there is still one vehicle Deserves a little mention; The world a sage has called a stage, With all its living lumber, And Malthus swears it always bears Above the proper number. The law will transfer house or land For ever and a day hence, 288 THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER. For lighter things, watch,brooches, rings, You '11 never want conveyance; Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief! It is no sight for laughterAway it goes, and leaves my noseTo join in running after! THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER. "Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery Ordeal."HISTORY oP ENGLAND. No morning ever seemed so long!I tried to read with all my might! In my left hand "My Landlord's Tales," And threepence ready in my right. 'T was twelve at last-my heart beat high!The Postman rattled at the door! And just upon her road to church, I dropt the " Bride of Lammermoor!" I seized the note-I flew up stairsFlung-to the door, and locked me inWith panting haste I tore the sealAnd kissed the B in Benjamin! 'T was full of love-to rhyme with doveAnd all that tender sort of thingOf sweet and meet-and heart and dartBut not a word about a ring!In doubt I cast it in the flame, And stood to watch the latest sparkAnd saw the love all end in smokeWithout a Parson aAd a Clerk! POEM-FROM THE POLISH. 289 POEM-FROM THE POLISH. Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of the sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two succeeded in thawing out the following verses: FROM seventy-two North latitude, Dear Kitty, I indite; But first I'd have you understand How hard it is to write. Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn, My Kitty, do not thinkBefore I wrote these very lines, I had to melt my ink. Of mutual flames and lover's warmth, You must not be too nice; The sheet that I am writing on Was once a sheet of ice I The Polar cold is sharp enough To freeze with icy gloss The genial current of the soul, E'en in a " Man of Ross." Pope says that letters waft a sigh From Indus to the Pole; But here I really wish the post Would only "post the coal." So chilly is the Northern blast, It blows me through and through; A ton of Wallsend in a note Would be a billet-do x! 13 290 POEM-FROM THE POLISH. In such a frigid latitude It scarce can be a sin, Should Passion cool a little, where A Fury was iced in. I'm rather tired of endless snow, And long for coals again; And would give up a Sea of Ice, For some of Lambton's Main. I 'm sick of dazzling ice and snow, The sun itself I hate; So very bright, so very cold, Just like a summer grate. For opodeldoc I would kneel, * My chilblains to anoint; O Kate, the needle of the north Has got a freezing point. Our food is solids-ere we put Our meat into.our crops, We take sledge-hammers to our steaks And hatchets to our chops. So very bitter is the blast, So cutting is the air, I never have been warm but once, When hugging with a bear. One thing I know you'll like to hear, Th' effect of Polar snows, I've left off snuff-one pinching dayFrom leaving off my nose. POEM-FROM THE POLISH. 291 I have no ear for music now; My ears both left together; And as for dancing, I have cut My toes-it's cutting weather. I 've said that you should have my hand, Some happy day to come; But, Kate, you only now can wed A finger and a thumb. Don't fear that any Esquimaux Can wean me from my own; The Girdle of the Queen of Love Is not the Frozen Zone. At wives with large estates of snow My fancy does not bite; I like to see a Bride-but not In such a deal of white. Give me for home a house of brick, The Kate I love at Kew I A hand unchopped-a merry eye, And not a nose, of blue! To think upon the Bridge of Kew, To me a bridge of sighs; Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles Are standing in my eyes I God knows if I shall e'er return, In comfort to be lulled; But if I do get back to port, Pray let me have it mulled. 292 FRENCH AND ENGLISH. FRENCH AND ENGLISH. "Good heaven! Why even the little children in France speak French!" ADDISmN. NEVER go to France Unless you know the lingo, If you do, like me, You will repent by jingo. Staring like a fool, And silent as a mummy, There I stood alone, A nation with a dummy: Chaises stand for chairs, They christen letters Billies, They call their mothers mares, And all their daughters fillies; Strange it was to hear, I'11 tell you what 's a good 'un, They call their leather queer, And half their shoes are wooden. Signs I had to make, For every little notion, Limbs all going like A telegraph in motion, For wine I reeled about, To show my meaning fully And made a pair of horns, To ask for " beef and bully." Moo! I cried for milk; I got my sweet things-snugger, FRENCH AND ENGLISH. 298 When I kissed Jeannette, 'T was understood for sugar. If I wanted bread, My jaws I set a-going, And asked for new-laid eggs, By clapping hands and crowing 1 If I wished a ride, I'll tell you how I got it; On my stick astride, I made believe to trot it; Then their cash was strange, It bored me every minute, Now here's a hog to change, How many sows are in it I Never go to France, Unless you know the lingo; If you do, like me, You will repent, by jingo; Staring like a fool, And silent as a mummy, There I stood alone, A nation with a dummy I OUR VILLAGE. "Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain."-GoLDsMTm. I HAVE a great anxiety to become a topographer, and I do not know that I can make an easier commencement of the character, than by attempting a description of our village. It will be found, as my friend the landlord over the way says, that " things are drawn mild." I live opposite the Green Man. I know that to be the sign, in spite of the picture, because I am told of the fact in large gilt letters, in three several places. The wholelength portrait of" I'homme verd" is rather imposing. He stands plump before you, in a sort of wrestling attitude, the legs standing distinctly apart, in a brace of decided boots, with dun tops, joined to a pair of creole-colored leather breeches. The rest of his dress is peculiar; the coat, a two-flapper, green and brown, or, as they say at the tap, half-and-half; a cocked hat on the half cock; a short belt crossing the breast like a flat gas-pipe. The one hand stuck on the greeny-brown hip of my friend, in the other a gun with a barrel like an entire butt, and the butt like a brewer's whole stock. On one side, looking up at the vanished vision of his master, is all that remains of a liver-and-white pointer-seeming now to be some old dog from India, for his white complexion is turned yellow, and his liver is more than half gone! OUR VILLAGE. 295 The inn is really a very quiet, cozy, comfortable inn, though the landlord announces a fact in larger letters, methinks, than his information warrants, viz., that he is "Licensed to deal in Foreign Wines and Spirits." All innkeepers, I trust, are so licensed; there is no occasion to make so brazen a brag of this sinecure permit. I had written thus far, when the tarnished gold letters of the Green Man seemed to be suddenly re-gilt; and on looking upwards, I perceived that a sort of sky-light had been opened in the clouds, giving entrance to a bright gleam of sunshine, which glowed with remarkable effect on a yellow post-chaise in the stable-yard, and brought the ducks out beautifully white from the black horse-pond. Tempted by the appearance of the weather, I put down my pen, and strolled out for a quarter of an hour before dinner to inhale that air, without which, like the chameleon, I cannot feed. On my return, I found, with some surprise, that my papers were a good deal discomposed; but, before I had time for much wonder, my landlady entered with one of her most obliging curtesys, and observed that she had seen me writing in the morning, and it had occurred to her by chance, that I might by possibility have been writing a description of the village. I told her that I had actually been engaged on that very subject. "If that is the case, of course, sir, you would begin, no doubt, about the Green Man, being so close by; and I dare say, you would say something about the sign, and the Green Man with his top boots, and his gun, and his Indian liver-and-white pointer, though his white to be sure is turned yellow, and his liver is more than half gone." " You are perfectly right, Mrs. Ledger," I replied, "and in one part of the description, I think I have used almost your own very.words." " Well that is curious, 296 OUR VILLAGE. sir," exclaimed Mrs. L., and physically, not arithmetically, casting up all her hands and eyes. "Moreover, what I mean to say, is this; and I only say that to save trouble. There's a young man lodges at the Green Grocer's over the way, who has writ an account of the village already to your hand. The people about the place call him the Poet, but, anyhow, he studies a good deal, and writes beautiful; and, as I said before, has made the whole village out of his own head. Now, it might save trouble, sir, if you was to write it out, and I am sure I have a copy, that, as far as the loan goes, is at your service, sir." My curiosity induced me to take the offer; and as the poem really forestalled what I had to say of the Hamlet, I took my landlady's advice and transcribed it-and here it is: OUR VILLAGE.-BY A VILLAGER. OUR village, that's to say not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle, there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village-boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. OUR VILLAGE. 297 There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-styes, and poultry-huts, and such like sheds; With plenty of public houses-two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackled " neat post-chaise." There's one parish-church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease; And close by the church-yard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any thing else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of. them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there, it's ten to one she's out of every thing you ask. 13* 298 OUR VILLAGE. You'11 know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyhocks at the cottage-doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the tailor's front garden grow two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards-Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chiefWith two pear-trees that don't bear; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby; A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby. There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's.a barber's, once a-week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small green-grocer's, and a baker, A VALENTINE. 299 But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there's a sexton that's a coal-merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, batts, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops. And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I 've gone through all the village-ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I have n't come to that-and I hope I never shall-and that's the Village Poor-House I A VALENTINE. THE WEATHER. To P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S. These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action. DEAR Murphy, to improve her charms, Your servant humbly begs; She thanks you for her leash of arms, But wants a brace of legs. Moreover, as you promise folks, On certain days a drizzle; She thinks, in case she cannot rain, She should have means to mizzle. Some lightning too may just fall due, When woods begin to moult; And if she cannot " fork it out," She '11 wish to make a bolt! SCO TO FANNY. TO FANNY. "Gay being, born to flutter I"-SALE'S GLEL Is this your faith, then, Fanny? What, to chat with every Dun! I 'm the one, then, but of many, Not of many, but the One! Last night you smiled on all, Ma'am, That appeared in scarlet dress; And your Regimental Ball, Ma'am, Looked a little like a Mess. I thought that of the Sogers (As the Scotch say) one might do, And that I, slight Ensign Rogers, Was the chosen man and true. But 'Sblood! your eye was busy With that ragamuffin mob;Colonel Buddell-Colonel DizzyAnd Lieutenant-Colonel Cobb. General Joblin, General Jodkin, Colonels-Kelly, Felly, with Majors-Sturgeon, Truffle, Bodkin, And the Quarter-master Smith. Major Powderum-Major DowdrumMajor Chowdrum-Major ByeCaptain Tawney-Captain Fawney, Captain Any-one-but I! TO FANNY. 801 Deuce take it I when the regiment You so praised, I only thought That you loved it in abridgment, But I now am better taught I I went, as loving man goes, To admire thee in quadrilles; But Fan, you dance fandangoes With just any fop that wills I I went with notes before us, On the lay of Love to touch; But with all the Corps in chorus, Oh! it is indeed too much! You once-ere you contracted For the Army-seemed my own: But now you laugh with all the Staff, And I may sigh alone!I know not how it chances, When my passion ever dares, But the warmer my advances, Then the cooler are your airs. I am, I don't conceal it, But I am a little hurt; You're a Fan, and I must feel it, Fit for nothing but a Flirt! I dreamt thy smiles of beauty On myself alone did fall; But alas! "i Cosi Fan Tutti I" It is thus, Fan, thus with all I 802 THE BOY AT THE NORE. You have taken quite a mob in Of new military flames;They would make a fine Round Robin If I gave you all their names! THE BOY AT THE NORE. " Alone I did it I-Boy I"-CORIOLANmB. I SAY, little Boy at the Nore, Do you come from the small Isle of Man? Why, your history a mystery must beCome tell us as much as you can, Little Boy at the Nore I You live it seems wholly on water, Which your Gambler calls living in clover;But how comes it, if that is the case, You 're eternally half seas overLittle boy at the Nore? While you ride-while you dance-while you floatNever mind your imperfect orthography;But give us as well as you can, Your watery auto-biography, Little Boy at the Nore I LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR. I 'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, In a sort of sea negus I dwells; Half and half 'twixt salt-water and Port, I 'm reckoned the first of the swellsI'm the Boy at the Nore THE BOY AT THE NORE. 803 I lives with my toes to the flounders, And watches through long days and nights; Yet, cruelly eager, men lookTo catch the first glimpse of my lightsI'm the Boy at the Nore. I never gets cold in the head, So my life on salt water is sweetI think I owes much of my health, To being well used to wet feetAs the Boy at the Nore. There's one thing, I'm never in debt: Nay!-I liquidates more than I oughter;* So the man to beat Cits as goes by, In keeping the head above water, Is the Boy at the Nore. I've seen a good deal of distress Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette; They should do as I do-rise o'er all; Ay, a good floating capital get, Like the Boy at the Nore I 'm a'ter the sailor's own heart, And cheers him, in deep water rolling; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore I Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off For a week to make love to my wheedles; If the tight little Boy at the Nore Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, We 'd have two at the Nore I * A word caught from some American Trader in passing. 804 SHOOTING PAINS. They thinks little of sizes on water, On big waves the tiny one skulksWhile the river has Men of War on itYes-the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks, And the Boy's at the Nore I But I 've done-for the water is heaving Round my body, as though it would sink it I And I've been so long pitching and tossing, That sea-sick-you 'd hardly now think itIs the Boy at the Nore I SHOOTING PAINS. "The charge is prepared."-MAcHEATH. IF I shoot any more I'11 be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have marched the whole day With a gun-for no payZounds, I'd better have been in the army I What matters Sir Christopher's leave; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet With confidence fraught, My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet I And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they'd cry " Walker!" SHOOTING PAINS. 806 Not Hawker could find out a flawMy appointments are modern and Mantony, And I 've brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can't find a mark for my Antony I The partridges-where can they lie? I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me-I 'm getting quite nervous! To the pheasants-how well they're preserved I My sport 's not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send " silver pheasants and golden." I have tried ev'ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze, that could shroud her, With toil unrelaxed, Till my patience is taxed, But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder, I 've been roaming for hours in three flats In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for " setting my cap at!" A woodcock-this month is the timeRight and left I 've made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for I 806 SHOOTING PAINS. A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly, This day's the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y. For a mallard I 've waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake-oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, 0 Duck, Or to doom thee, 0 Drake, like a Draco I For a field-fare I 've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird I I am angry, I 'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded. As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have searched round and round All the Baronet's ground, But Sir Christopher has n't a wren there! Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for mghtcaps they set me desiring, And it's really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder, renowned for " quick firing." PAIRED NOT MATCHED. 807 If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense, And there still remains one More mischance on my gun"Fined for shooting without any license." PAIRED NOT MATCHED. OF wedded bliss Bards sing amiss, I cannot make a song of it; For I am small, My wife is tall, And that's the short and long of it; When we debate It is my fate To always have the wrong of it; For I am small And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! And when I speak My voice is weak, But hers-she makes a gong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it; She has, in brief, Command in Chief, And I'm but Aide-de-camp of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that 's the short and long of it! 308 PAIRED NOT MATCHED. She gives to me The weakest tea, And takes the whole Souchong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it; She 'll sometimes grip My buggy whip, And make me feel the thong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! Against my life She'll take a knife, Or fork, and dart the prong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it I I sometimes think I'11 take to drink, And hector when I'm strong of it For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! O, if the bell Would ring her knell, I 'd make a gay ding-dong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 309 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. "The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."-PIoTrua or ISLs or Wxier ONE close of day-'t was in the bay Of Naples, bay of glory! While light was hanging crowns of gold On mountains high and hoary, A gallant bark got under way, And with her sails my story. For Leghorn she was bound direct, With wine and oil for cargo, Her crew of men some nine or ten, The captain's name was Iago; A good and gallant bark she was, La Donna (called) del Lago. Bronzed mariners were her's to view, With brown cheeks, clear or muddy, Dark, shining eyes, and coal-black hair, Meet heads for painter's study; But 'midst their tan there stood one man, Whose cheek was fair and ruddy; His brow was high, a loftier brow Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, His hair a little scant, and when He doffed his cap or bonnet, One saw that Grey had gone beyond A premiership upon it l His eye-a passenger was he, The cabin he had hired it 810 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. His eye was grey, and when he looked Around, the prospect fired itA fine poetic light, as if The Apple-Nine inspired it. His frame was stout, in height about Six feet-well made and portly; Of dress and manner just to give A sketch, but very shortly, His order seemed a composite Of rustic with the courtly. He ate and quaffed, and joked and laughed. And chatted with the seamen, And often tasked their skill and asked " What weather is 't to be, man?" No demonstration there appeared That he was any demon. No sort of sign there was that he Could raise a stormy rumpus, Like Prospero make breezes blow, And rocks and billows thump usBut little we supposed what he Could with the needle compass I Soon came a storm-the sea at first Seemed lying almost fallowWhen lo I full crash, with billowy dash, From clouds of black and yellow, Came such a gale, as blows but once A cent'ry, like the aloe I Our stomachs we had just prepared To vest a small amount in; THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 811 When, gush I a flood of brine came down The skylight-quite a fountain, And right on end the table reared, Just like the Table Mountain. Down rushed the soup, down gushed the wine, Each roll, its role repeating, Rolled down-the round of beef declared For parting-not for meating! Off flew the fowls, and all the game Was " too far gone for eating I" Down knife and fork-down went the pork, The lamb too broke its tether; Down mustard went-each condimentSalt-pepper-all together! Down every thing, like craft that seek The Downs in stormy weather. Down plunged the Lady of the Lake, Her timbers seemed to sever; Down, down, a dreary derry down, Such lurch she had gone never; She almost seemed about to take A bed of down forever! Down dropped the captain's nether jaw, Thus robbed of all its uses, He thought he saw the Evil One Beside Vesuvian sluices, Playing at dice for soul and ship, And throwing Sink and Deuces. Down fell the steward on his face, To all the Saints commending; 812 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. And candles to the Virgin vowed, As save-alls 'gainst his ending. Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, Check-mate, was close impending! Down fell the cook-the cabin boy, Their beads with fervor telling, While alps of serge, with snowy verge, Above the yards came yelling. Down fell the crew, and on their knees Shuddered at each white swelling! Down sunk the sun of bloody hue, His crimson light a cleaver To each red rover of a wave: To eye of fancy-weaver, Neptune, the God, seemed tossing in A raging scarlet fever! Sore, sore afraid, each papist prayed To Saint and Virgin Mary; But one there was that stood composed Amid the waves' vagary; As staunch as rock, a true game-cock 'Mid chicks of Mother Cary! His ruddy cheek retained its streak, No danger seemed to shrink him; His step still bold-of mortal mould The crew could hardly think him: The Lady of the Lake, he seemed To know, could never sink him. Relaxed at last the furious gale Quite out of breath with racing; THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 818 The boiling flood in milder mood, With gentler billows chasing; From stem to stern, with frequent turn, The Stranger took to pacing. And as he walked to self he talked, Some ancient ditty thrumming, In under tone, as not aloneNow whistling, and now humming"You 're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes, "Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming." Down went the wind, down went the wave, Fear quitted the most finical; The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot, And Hope was at the pinnacle: When rose on high, a frightful cry"The Devil's in the binnacle 1" "The Saints be near," the helmsman cried, His voice with quite a falter" Steady's my helm, but every look The needle seems to alter; God only knows where China lies, Jamaica, or Gibraltar!'' The captain stared aghast at mate, The pilot at th' apprentice; No fancy of the German Sea Of Fiction the event is: But when they at the compass looked, It seemed non compass mentis. Now north, now south, now east, now west, The wavering point was shaken, 14 814 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 'T was past the whole philosophy Of Newton, or of Bacon; Never by compass, till that hour Such latitudes were taken! With fearful speech, each after each Took turns in the inspection; They found no gun-no iron —none To vary its direction; It seemed a new magnetic case Of Poles in Insurrection I Farewell to wives, farewell their lives, And all their household riches; Oh! while they thought of girl or boy, And dear domestic niches, All down the side which holds the heart, That needle gave them stitches. With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed To see them so white-livered: And walked abaft the binnacle, To know at what they shivered; But when he stood beside the card, St. Josef! how it quivered! No fancy-motion, brain-begot, In eye of timid dreamerThe nervous finger of a sot Ne'er showed a plainer tremor; To every brain it seemed too plain, There stood th' Infernal Schemer! Mixed brown and blue each visage grew, Just like a pullet's gizzard; " PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." 815 Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit, From tacking like an izzard, Bore down in this plain course at last, "It's Michael Scott-the Wizard!" A smile past o'er the ruddy face, " To see the poles so falter I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you, For with no fiends I palter; Michael I'm not-although a ScottMy Christian name is Walter." Like oil it fell, that name, a spell On all the fearful faction; The captain's head (for he had read) Confessed the Needle's action, And bowed to HIM in whom the North Has lodged its main attraction 1 "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." I '11 tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door: So he called upon Lucy-'t was just ten o'clockLike a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat: So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more Had questioned the stranger and answered the door. The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe: For the moment will come when such comers must go; So she kissed him, and whispered-poor innocent thing"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 316 THE LAMENT OF TOBY. THE LAMENT OF TOBY, THE LEARNED PIG. "A little learning is a dangerous thing." —PoP. 0 HEAVY day! oh day of woe! To misery a poster, Why was I ever farrowed-why Not spitted for a roaster? In this world, pigs, as well as men, Must dance to fortune's fiddlings, But must I give the classics up, For barley-meal and middlings? Of what avail that I could spell And read, just like my betters, If I must come to this at last, To litters, not to letters? 0, why are pigs made scholars of? It baffles my discerning, What griskins, fry, and chitterlings, Can have to do with learning. Alas! my learning once drew cash, But public fame's unstable, So I must turn a pig again, And fatten for the table. To leave my literary line My eyes get red and leaky; But Giblett does n't want me blue, But red and white, and streaky. THE LAMENT OF TOBY. 817 Old Mullins used to cultivate My learning like a gard'ner; But Giblett only thinks of lard, And not of Dr. Lardner! He does not care about my brain The value of two coppers, All that he thinks about my head Is, how I'm off for choppers. Of all my literary kin A farewell must be taken, Good-bye to the poetic Hogg The philosophic Bacon! Day after day my lessons fade, My intellect gets muddy; A trough I have, and not a desk, A sty-and not a study! Another little month, and then My progress ends, like Bunyan's; The seven sages that I loved Will be chopped up with onions I Then over head and ears in brine They'll souse me, like a salmon, My mathematics turned to brawn, My logic into gammon. My Hebrew will all retrograde, Now I'm put up to fatten; My Greek, it will all go to grease; The Dogs will have my Latin! a18 THE LAMENT OF TOBY. Farewell to Oxford!-and to Bliss I To Milman, Crowe, and GlossopI now must be content with chats, Instead of learned gossip! Farewell to " Town I" farewell to "Gown!" I 've quite outgrown the latterInstead of Trencher-cap my head Will soon be in a platter I O why did I at Brazen-Nose Rout up the roots of knowledge? A butcher that can't read will kill A pig that 's been to college I For sorrow I could stick myself, But conscience is a casher; A thing that would be rash in man,. In me would be a rasher I One thing I ask-when I am dead And past the Stygian ditchesAnd that is, let my schoolmaster Have one of my two flitches: 'T was he who taught my letters so I ne'er mistook or missed 'em; Simply by ringing at the nose, According to Bells system. MY SON AND HBIEB 819 MY SON AND HEIR. MY mother bids me bind my heir, But not the trade where I should bind; To place a boy-the how and whereIt is the plague of parent-kind! She does not hint the slightest plan, Nor what indentures to indorse; Whether to bind him to a manOr, like Mazeppa, to a horse. What line to choose of likely rise, To something in the Stocks at last — "Fast bind, fast find," the proverb cries I find I cannot bind so fast! A Statesman James can never be; A Tailor?-there I only learn His chief concern is cloth, and he Is always cutting his concern. A Seedsman?-I 'd not have him so; A Grocer's plum might disappoint; A Butcher?-no, not that-although I hear " the times are out of joint I" Too many of all trades there be, Like Pedlars, each has such a pack; A merchant selling coals?-we see The buyer send to cellar back. 820 MY SON AND'HEIR. A Hardware dealer?-that might please, But if his trade's foundation leans On spikes and nails, he won't have ease When he retires upon his means. *A Soldier?-there he has not nerves, A Sailor seldom lays up pelf: A Baker?-no, a baker serves His customer before himself. Dresser of hair?-that's not the sort; A joiner jars with his desireA Churchman?-James is very short, And cannot to a church aspire. A Lawyer?-that 's a hardish term! A Publisher might give him ease, If he could into Longman's firm, Just plunge at once " in medias Rees." A shop for pot, and pan, and cup, Such brittle Stock I can't advise; A Builder running houses up, Their gains are stories-may be lies A Coppersmith I can't endureNor petty Usher A, B, C-ing; A Publican no father sure, Would be the author of his being! A Paper-maker?-come he must To rags before he sells a sheetA Miller?-all his toil is just To make a meal-he does not eat. MY SON AND HEIR. 821 A Currier?-that by favor goesA Chandler gives me great misgivingAn Undertaker?-one of those That do not hope to get their living I Three Golden Balls?-I like them not; An Auctioneer I never didThe victim of a slavish lot, Obliged to do as he is bid I A Broker watching fall and rise Of Stock?-I 'd rather deal in stoneA Printer?-there his toils comprise Another's work beside his own. A Cooper?-neither I nor Jem Have any taste or turn for thatA Fish retailer?-but with him One part of trade is always flat. A Painter?-long he would not liveAn Artist's a precarious craftIn trade Apothecaries give, But very seldom take, a draught. A Glazier?-what if he should smash I A Crispin he shall not be madeA Grazier may be losing cash, Although he drives "a roaring trade." Well, something must be done to look On all my little works aroundJames is too big a boy, like book, To leave upon the shelf unbound. 14* 822 THE FOX AND THE HEN. But what to do?-my temples ache From evening's dew till morning's pearl, What course to take my boy to makeOh could I make my boy-a girl! THE FOX AND THE HEN. A FABLE. Speaking within eormpass, as to fabulousness I prefer Southoote to Northcote. PIGROGROMITUS. ONE day, or night, no matter where or when, Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad Right on the body of a speckled Hen, Determined upon taking all she had; And like a very bibber at his bottle, Began to draw the claret from her throttle; Of course it put her in a pretty pucker, And with a scream as high As she could cry, She called for help-she had enough of sucker. Dame Partlet's scream Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream, And, with a savage growl In answer to the fowl, He bounded forth against the prowling sinner, And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner. Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom, Thought, self-deceived, He should not be perceived, Hiding his brush within a neighboring broom; But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare, THE FOX AND THE HEN. 828 And caught in copper noose, And looking like a goose, Found that his fate had " hung upon a hare;" His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him, And, worst of all, he saw old surly Tray Coming to play Tray-Deuce with him. Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable, Under his Master, a most special constable, Instead of killing Reynard in a fury, Seized him for legal trial by a Jury; But Juries-_Esop was a sheriff thenConsisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men. But first the Elephant sat on the bodyI mean the Hen-and proved that she was dead, To the veriest fool's head Of the Booby and the Noddy. Acordingly, the Stork brought in a bill Quite true enough to kill; And then the Owl was called-for, mark, The Owl can witness in the dark. To make the evidence more plain, The Lynx connected all the chain. In short there was no quirk or quibble At which a legal Rat could nibble; The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds As if the Jury had been packed-of hounds, Reynard, however, at the utmost nick, Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick; l 324 THE FOX AND THE HEN. Accordingly our cunning Fox, Through certain influence, obscurely channeled, A friendly Camel got into the box, When 'gainst his life the Jury was impaneled. Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law, If Jurors should withdraw, They are to have no eating and no drinking Till all are starved into one way of thinking. Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree, Were locked up strictly, without bit or mummock, Till every Beast that only had one stomach, Bent to the Camel, who was blest with three. To do them justice, they debated From four till ten, while dinner waited, When thirst and hunger got the upper, And each inclined to mercy, and hot supper: "Not guilty" was the word, and Master Fox Was freed to murder other hens and cocks. MORAL. What moral greets us by this tale's assistance But that the Solon is a sorry Solon, Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence Depend upon a Colon? THE COMET. 825 THE COMET. AN ASTRONOMICAL ANECDOTE. I cannot fill up a blank better than with a short history of this self-same Storling." STERNE's SENNTIMINAL JOUrBNY. AMONGST professors of astronomy, Adepts in the celestial economy, The name of H****** 's very often cited, And justly so, for he is hand and glove With every bright intelligence above; Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars upon the house's top, That once upon a time he got be-knighted. In his observatory thus coquetting With Venus-or with Juno gone astray, All sublunary matters quite forgetting In his flirtations with the winking stars, Acting the spy-it might be upon MarsA new Andre; Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping At Dian sleeping; Or ogling thro' his glass Some heavenly lass Tripping with pails along the Milky Way; Or looking at that Wain of Charles the Martyr's:Thus he was sitting, watchman of the sky, When lo! a something with a tail of flame Made him exclaim, "My stars!"-he always puts that stress on my" My stars and garters!" 826 THE COMET. "A comet, sure as I'm alive I A noble one as I should wish to view; It can't be Halley's though, that is not due Till eighteen thirty-five: Magnificent!-how fine his fiery trail! Zounds! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsoughtUnasked-unreckoned-in no human thoughtHe ought-he ought-he ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon his tail! ' I looked no more for it, I do declare, Than the Great Bear! As sure as Tycho-Brahe is dead, It really entered in my head No more than Berenice's Hair!" Thus musing, Heaven's Grand Inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor Till John, the serving-man, came to the upper Regions, with " Please your Honor, come to supper." "' Supper! good John, to-night I shall not sup Except on that phenomenon-look up I" "Not sup 1" cried John, thinking with consternation That supping on a star must be starvation, Or ev'n to batten On Ignes Fatui would never fatten. His visage seemed to say-that very odd isBut still his master the same tune ran on, " I can't come down-go to the parlor, John, And say I 'm supping with the heavenly bodies. " The heavenly bodies!" echoed John, " Ahem I" His mind still full of famishing alarms, THE COMET. 827 " 'Zooks, if your Honor sups with them, In helping, somebody must make long arms I" He thought his master's stomach was in danger, But still in the same tone replied the Knight, " Go down, John, go, I have no appetite, Say I 'm engaged with a celestial stranger."Quoth John, not much au fait in such afiairs, " Would n't the stranger take a bit down stairs?" " No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder, At such a blunder, " The stranger is not quite the thing you think, He wants no meat or drink, And one may doubt quite reasonably whether He has a mouth, Seeing his head and tail are joined together, Behold him-there he is, John, in the South." John looked up with his portentous eyes, Each rolling like a marble in its socket, At last the fiery tad-pole spies, And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, "A rare good rocket!" "A what? A rocket, John I Far from it! What you behold, John, is a comet; One of those most eccentric things That in all ages Have puzzled sages And frightened kings; With fear of change that flaming meteor, John, Perplexes sovereigns, throughout its range""Do he?" cried John; "Well, let him flare on, I have n't got no sovereigns to change 1" 328 I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. "Timidity is generally reckoned an essential attribute of the fair sex, and this absurd notion gives rise to more false starts than a race for the Leger. Hence screams at mice, fits at spiders, faces at toads, jumps at lizards, flights from daddy longlegs, panics at wasps, sawve qui peut at the sight of a gun. Surely, when the military exercise is made a branch of education at so many ladies' academies, the use of the musket would only be a judicious step further in the march of mind. I should not despair, in a month's practice, of making the most timid British female fond of small-arms." HINTS BY A COBPOBAL IT can't be minced, I'm quite convinced All girls are full of flam, Their feelings fine and feminine Are nothing else but sham. On all their tricks I need not fix, I '11 only mention one, How many a Miss will tell you this, "I cannot bear a gun!" There 's cousin Bell can't 'bide the smell Of powder-horrid stuff! A single pop will make her drop, She shudders at a puff. My Manton near, with aspen fear Will make her scream and run; "It's always so, you brute, you know I cannot bear a gun!" About my flask I must not ask, I must not wear a belt, I must not take a punch to make My pellets, card or felt; And if I just allude to dust, Or speak of number one, "I beg you '11 not-don't talk of shot, I cannot bear a gun I" I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. 329 Percussion cap I dare riot snap, I may not mention Hall, Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce, His wadding to recall; At Hawker's book I must not look, All shooting I must shun, Or else-" It's hard, you've no regard, I cannot bear a gun!" The very dress I wear no less Must suit her timid mind, A blue or black must clothe my back, With swallow-tails behind; By fustian, jean, or velveteen, Her nerves are overdone; "Oh do not, John, put gaiters on, I cannot bear a gun 1" Even little James she snubs, and blames His Lilliputian train, Two inches each from mouth to breech, And charged with half a grainHis crackers stopped, his squibbing dropped, He has no fiery fun, And all thro' her " How dare you, sir? I cannot bear a gun 1" Yet Major Flint-the Devil's in 't! May talk from morn to night, Of springing mines, and twelves and nines, And volleys left and right, Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs, And bullets by the ton: She never dies of fright, or cries " I cannot bear a gun I" 880 I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. It stirs my bile to see her smile At all his bang and whiz, But if I talk of morning walk, And shots as good as his, I must not name the fallen game: As soon as I've begun, She 's in her pout, and crying out, " I cannot bear a gun 1" Yet, underneath the rose, her teeth Are false, to match her tongue: Grouse, partridge, hares, she never spares, Or pheasants, old or youngOn widgeon, teal, she makes a meal, And yet objects to none; " What have I got, it's full of shot! I cannot bear a gun!" At pigeon-pie she is not shy, Her taste it never shocks, Though they should be from Battersea, So famous for blue rocks; Yet when I bring the very thing My marksmanship has won, She cries "Lock up that horrid cup, I cannot bear a gun!" Like fool and dunce I got her once A box at Drury Lane, And by her side I felt a pride I ne'er shall feel again; To read the bill it made her ill, And this excuse she spun, " Der Freyschiitz, oh, seven shots! you know, I cannot bear a gun!" I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. 881 Yet at a hint from Major Flint, Her very hands she rubs, And quickly drest in all her best, Is off to Wormwood Scrubbs. The whole review she sits it through, With noise enough to stun, And never winks, or even thinks, " I cannot bear a gun!" She thus may blind the Major's mind In mock-heroic strife, But let a bout at war break out, And where's the soldier's wife, To take his kit and march a bit Beneath a broiling sun? Or will she cry, "My dear, good-bye, I cannot bear a gun 1" If thus she doats on army coats, And regimental cuffs, The yeomanry might surely be Secure from her rebuffs; But when I don my trappings on, To follow Captain Dunn, My carbine's gleam provokes a scream, "I cannot bear a gun. " It can't be minced, I 'm quite convinced, All girls are full of flam, Their feelings fine, and feminine, Are nothing else but sham; On all their tricks I need not fix, I '11 only mention one, How many a Miss will tell you this, "I cannot bear a gun!" 332 TRIMMER'S EXERCISE. TRIMMER'S EXERCISE, FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN. HERE, come, Master Timothy Todd, Before we have done you'11 look grimmer; You 've been spelling some time for the rod, And your jacket shall know I'm a Trimmer. You don't know your A from your B, So backward you are in your Primer: Don't kneel-you shall go on my knee, For I'11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. This morning you hindered the cook, By melting your dumps in the skimmer; Instead of attending your bookBut I'11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. To-day, too, you went to the pond, And bathed, though you are not a swimmer; And with parents so doting and fondBut I 'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer. After dinner you went to the wine, And helped yourself-yes, to a brimmer; You could n't walk straight in a line, But I'11 make you to know I 'm a Trimmer. You kick little Tomkins about, Because he is slighter and slimmer; Are the weak to be thumped by the stout? But I '11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. TO A BAD RIDER. 333 Then you have a sly pilfering trick, Your school-fellows call you the nimmerI will cut to the bone if you kick! For I'11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. To-day you made game at my back: You think that my eyes are grown dimmer, But I watched you, I 've got a sly knack I And I'11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. Don't think thatmy temper is hot, It's never beyond a slow simmer; I '11 teach you to call me Dame Trot, But I '11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Chapone, Might melt to behold your tears glimmer; Mrs. Barbauld would let you alone, But I '11 have you to know I'm a Trimmer. TO A BAD RIDER. WHY, Mr. Rider, why Your nag so ill endorse, man? To make observers cry, You 're mounted, but no horseman? With elbows out so far This thought you can't debar meThough no Dragoon-HussarYou're surely of the army! I hope to turn M.P. You have not any notion, How awkward you would be At " seconding a motion 1" 3834 SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION. SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION. "An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to Boneyparte."-Life of Napoeon. TIME was, I always had a drop For any tale or sigh of sorrow; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow; I don't know how it is, but now My eyelids seldom want a drying; The doctors, p'rhaps, could tell me howI fear my heart is ossifying! O'er Goethe how I used to weep, With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet, When Werter put himself to sleep With pistols kissed and cleaned by Charlotte; Self-murder is an awful sin, No joke there is in bullets flying, But now at such a tale I grinI fear my heart is ossifying! The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerves, and set my tears a stealing, The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. Haller's crying; 'Tis odd, so great a change of styleI fear my heart is ossifying! That heart was such-some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it, THOSE EVENING BELLS. 88W And in his hat I used to throw The quarter's savings of my pocket: I never wish-as I did then! The means from my own purse supplying, To turn them all to gentlemenI fear my heart is ossifying! We 'e had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow, New melo-drames, of tragic fate, And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow; Miss Zouch's case, our eyes to melt, And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing; But Lord!-so little have I felt, I 'm sure my heart is ossifying I THOSE EVENING BELLS. "I'D BE A PARODY." THOSE Evening Bells, those Evening Bells, How many a tale their music tells, Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, And letters only just in time!The Muffin-boy has passed away, The Postman gone-and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells. And so 't will be when she is gone, That tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells. 886 RONDEAU. RONDEAU. [EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOWN ANNUAL] 0 CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne'er Behold a worshipful Lord May'r Seated in his great civic chair So dear? Then cast thy longing eyes this way, It is the ninth November day, And in his new-born state survey One here I To rise from little into great Is pleasant: but to sink in state From high to lowly is a fate Severe. Too soon his shine is overcast, Chilled by the next November blast; His blushing honors only last One year! He casts his fur and sheds his chains, And moults till not a plume remainsThe next impending May'r distrains His gear. He slips like water through a sieveAh, could his little splendor live Another twelvemonth-he would give One ear! DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. 887 DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. "Hark hark the dogs do bark, The beggars are coming..."-OLD BALAD. OH what shall I do for a dog? Of sight I have not got a particle, Globe, Standard, or Sun, Times, Chronicle-none Can give me a good leading article. A Mastiff once led me about, But people appeared so to fear himI might have got pence Without his defence, But Charity would not come near him. A Blood-hound was not much amiss, But instinct at last got the upper; And tracking Bill Soames, And thieves to their homes, I never could get home to supper. A Fox-hound once served me as guide, I A good one at hill and at valley; j But day after day He led me astray, To follow a milk-woman's tally. A turnspit once did me good turns At going and crossing, and stopping;. 111 one day his breed at off at full speed, 'To stiAt a great fire in Wapping. 19 15 W.1 8. *r -sr 888 DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. A Pointer once pointed my way, But did not turn out quite so pleasant, Each hour I'd a stop At a Poulterer's shop To point at a very high pheasant. A Pug did not suit me at all, The feature unluckily rose up; And folks took offence When offering pence, Because of his turning his nose up.. Butcher once gave me a dog, That turned out the worse one of any A Bull dog's own pup, I got a toss up Before he had brought me a penny. My next was a Westminster Dog, From Aistrop the regular cadger; But, sightless, I saw He never would draw A blind man so well as a badger. A greyhound I got by a swop, But, Lord! we soon came to divorces: He treated my strip Of cord like a slip, And left me to go my own courses. A poodle once towed me along, But always we came to one harbor: To keep his curls smart, And shave his hind part, He constantly called on a barber. DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. 389 My next was a Newfoundland brute, As big as a calf fit for slaughter; But my old cataract So truly he backed, I always fell into the water. I once had a sheep-dog for guide, His worth did not value a button; I found it no go, A Smithfield Ducrow, To stand on four saddles of mutton. My next was an Esquimaux dog, A dog that my bones ached to talk on, For picking his ways On cold frosty days He picked out the slides for a walk on. Bijou was a lady-like dog, But vexed me at night not a little, When tea-time was come She would not go home, Her tail had once trailed a tin kettle. I once had a sort of a Shock, And kissed a street post like a brother, And lost every tooth In learning this truthOne blind cannot well lead another. A terrier was far from a trump, He had one defect, and a thorough, I never could stir, 'Od rabbit the cur! Without going into the Borough. ~ 4 340 DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. My next was Dalmatian, the dog I And led me in danger, oh crikey! By chasing horse heels, Between carriage wheels, Till I came upon boards that were spiky. The next that I had was from Cross, And once was a favorite spaniel With Nero, now dead, And so I was led Right up to his den like a Daniel. A mongrel I tried, and he did, As far as the profit and lossing, Except that the kind Endangers the blind, The breed is so fond of a crossing. A setter was quite to my taste, In alleys or streets broad or narrow, Till one day I met A very dead set, At a very dead horse in a barrow. I once had a dog that went mad, And sorry I was that I got him; It came to a run, And a man with a gun Peppered me when he ought to have shot him. My profits have gone to the dogs, My trade has been such a deceiver, I fear that my aim Is a mere losing game, Unless I can find a Retriever. THE KANGAROOS. 841 THE KANGAROOS. A FABLE. A PAIR of married kangaroos (The case is oft a human one too) Were greatly puzzled once to choose A trade to put their eldest son to: A little brisk and busy chap, As all the little K.'s just then areAbout some two months off the lapThey're not so long in arms as men are. A twist in each parental muzzle Betrayed the hardship of the puzzleSo much the flavor of life's cup Is framed by early wrong or right, And Kangaroos we know are quite Dependent on their " rearing up.:' The question, with its ins and outs, Is intricate and full of doubts; And yet they had no squeamish carings For trades unfit or fit for gentry, Such notion never had an entry, For they had no armorial bearings. Howbeit they're not the last on earth That might indulge in pride of birth; Whoe'er has seen their infant young Bob in and out their mother's pokes, Would own, with very ready tongue, They are not born like common folks. Well, thus the serious subject stood, It kept the old pair watchful nightlv 842 THE KANGAROOS. Debating for young hopeful's good, That he might earn his livelihood, And go through life (like them) uprightly. Arms would not do at all; no, marry, In that line all his race miscarry; And agriculture was not proper, Uniless they meant the lad to tarry For ever as a mere clod-hopper. He was not well cut out for preaching, At least in any striking style: And as for being mercantileHe was not formed for over-reaching. The law-why there still fate ill-starred him, And plainly from the bar debarred him: A doctor-who would ever fee him? In music he could scarce engage, And as for going on the stage In tragic socks I think I see him! He would not make a rigging-mounter; A haberdasher had some merit, But there the counter still ran counter, For just suppose A lady chose To ask him for a yard of ferret! A gardener digging up his beds, The puzzled parents shook their heads. " A tailor would not do because-" They paused and glanced upon his paws. Some parish post-though fate should place it Before him, how could he embrace it? SONNET.48 In short, each anxious Kangaroo Discussed the matter through and through; By day they seemed to get no nearer, 'Twas posing quiteAnd in the night Of course they saw their way no clearer I At last thus musing on their kneesOr hinder elbows if you pleaseIt came-no thought was ever brighter In weighing every why and whether, They jumped upon it both together" Let's make the imp a short-hand writer!" MORAL. I wish all human parents so Would argue what their sons are fit for; Some would-be critics that I know Would be in trades they have more wit for. SONNET. THE sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet;A cry of fire! resounds from door to door; And westward still the thronging people pour;The turncock hastens to F. P. 6 feet, And quick unlocks the fountains of the street; While rumbling engines, with increasing roar, Thunder along to luckless Number Four, Where Mr. Dough makes bread for folks to eat. And now through blazing frames, and fiery beams, The Globe, the Sun, the Phoenix, and what not, With gushing pipes throw up abundant streams, On burning bricks, and twists, on rolls-too hotAnd scorching loaves-as if there were no shorter And cheaper way of making toast-and-water! 844 THE SUB-MARINE. THE SUB-MARINE. IT was a brave and jolly wight, His cheek was baked and brown, For he had been in many climes With captains of renown, And fought with those who fought so well At Nile and Camperdown. His coat it was a soldier coat, Of red with yellow faced, But (merman-like) he looked marine All downward from the waist; His trowsers were so wide and blue, And quite in sailor taste! He put the rummer to his lips, And drank a jolly draught; He raised the rummer many timesAnd ever as he quaffed, The more he drank, the more the ship Seemed pitching fore and aft! The ship seemed pitching fore and aft, As in a heavy squall; It gave a lurch and down he went, Head-foremost in his fall! Three times he did not rise, alas I He never rose at all! But down he went, right down at once, Like any stone he dived, THE SUB-MARINE. 846 He could not see, or hear, or feelOf senses all deprived! At last he gave a look around To see where he arrived! And all that he could see was green, Sea-green on every hand I And then he tried to sound beneath, And all he felt was sand I There he was fain to lie, for he Could neither sit nor stand! And lo! above his head there bent A strange and staring lass! One hand was in her yellow hair, The other held a glass; A mermaid she must surely be, If ever mermaid was! Her fish-like mouth was opened wide, Her eyes were blue and pale, Her dress was of the ocean green, When ruffled by the gale; Thought he " beneath that petticoat She hides a salmon-tail!" She looked as siren ought to look, A sharp and bitter shrew, To sing deceiving lullabies For mariners to rueBut when he saw her lips apart, It chilled him through and through! With either hand he stopped his ears Against her evil cry; 15* 846 THE SUB-MARINE. Alas, alas, for all his care, His doom it seemed to die, Her voice went ringing through his head It was so sharp and high! He thrust his fingers farther in At each unwilling ear, But still, in very spite of all, The words were plain and clear; "I can't stand here the whole day long To hold your glass of beer!" With opened mouth and opened eyes, Up rose the Sub-marine, And gave a stare to find the sands And deeps where he had been: There was no siren with her glass! No waters ocean-green! The wet deception from his eyes Kept fading more and more, He only saw the bar-maid stand With pouting lips beforeThe small green parlor of The Ship, And little sanded floor! THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. 347 THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. "I like to meet a sweep-such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow." -EssAYs or ELIA. "A voice cried Sweep no more I Macbeth hath murdered sweep." —SHAXsPaBA. ONE morning ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job, His laboring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betrayed internal woe. To cry the cry he had by rote He yearned, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped-but not a crow I I watched him, and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patched With red, as if the soot had catched 848 THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I the cause he will betrayAnd thus at last he did. Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging! But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum. But they can't undo natur-as sure as ever the morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots that say Cheep I For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us I tho' I suppose we must n't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we 've sut-on too, don't sympathise with us As a Speaker whatdon't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. 349 God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings? I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing. Greens ought n't to be cried no more than blacks-to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses, Why is n't the mouths of the muffin-men compelled to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, 850 THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heart-breaking Father and Mother. They have n't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I 'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeared, don't venture up the flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I an't to be a Cryer? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows? THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. 351 Do we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive 0!" in the middle of a funeral sermon? But the fish won't keep, not the mackarel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Every thing, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves! Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we could n't resist the chimbley. 352 COCKLE VS. CACKLE. COCKLE vs. CACKLE. THOSE who much read advertisements and bills Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills, Called Anti-biliousWhich some Physicians sneer at, supercilious, But which we are assured, if timely taken, May save your liver and bacon; Whether or not they really give one ease, I, who have never tried, Will not decide; But no two things in union go like theseViz.-Quacks and Pills-save Ducks and Peas Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow, Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow, And friends portended was preparing for A human Pate Pcrigord; She was, indeed, so very far from well, Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks, And-tho' upon the ear it strangely knocksTo save her by a Cockle from a shell! But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth, Who very vehemently bids us " throw Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so, It seemed to share " the bitterness of Death: Rhubarb-Magnesia-Jalap, and the kindSenna-Steel-Assafoetida, and SquillsPowder or Draught-but least her throat inclined To give a course to Boluses pr Pills; No-not to save her life, in lung or lobe, COCKLE VS. CACKLE. 368 For all her lights's or all her liver's sake, Would her convulsive thorax undertake, Only one little uncelestial globe! 'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, If she put by the pill-box in a place For linen rather than for drugs intendedYet for the credit of the pills let's say After they thus were stowed away, Some of the linen mended; But Mrs. W. by disease's dint, Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, When lo! her second son, like elder brother, Marking the hue on the parental gills, Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills, To bleach the jaundiced visage of his MotherWho took them-in her cupboard-like the other. " Deeper and deeper, still," of course, The fatal color daily grew in force; Till daughter W., newly come from Rome, Acting the self-same filial, pilial, part, To cure Mama, another dose brought home Of Cockles;-not the Cockles of her heart! These going where the others went before, Of course she had a very pretty store; And then-some hue of health her cheek adorning, The Medicine so good must be, They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morning." Till wanting room at last, for other stocks, Out of the window one fine day she pitched The pillage of each box, and quite enriched The feed of Mr. Burrell's hens and cocks .54 COCKLE VS. CACKLE. A little Barber of a by-gone day, Over the way, Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble-that is, John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, And twenty little Bantam fowls-with crops. Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings, To find the very things So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet I But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles, Each pecked itself into a peck of troubles, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet. They might as well have addled been, or ratted, For long before the night-ah, woe betide The Pills I-each suicidal Bantam died Unfatted I Think of poor Burrel's shock, Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, And laid in death as Everlasting Layers, With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock. In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle! To see as stiff as stone his unlive stock, It really was enough to move his block. Down on the floor he dashed, with horror big, Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig; And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, Burst out with natural emphasis enough, And voice that grief made tremble, Into that very speech of sad Macduff COCKLE VS. CACKLE. 355 "What!-all my pretty chickens and their dam, At one fell swoop!Just when I'd bought a coop To see the poor lamented creatures cram!" After a little of this mood, And brooding over the departed brood, With razor he began to ope each craw, Already turning black, as black as coals; When lo! the undigested cause he saw"Pisoned by goles I" To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction; And by short course of circumstantial labor, He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbor;Lord! how he railed at her: declaring now, He 'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, Then, in another moment, swore a vow, He 'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory! She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt,.yard-arm or arm-yard, Lapped in a paradise of tea and cream; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream"Here 's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm-yard 1" Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barber Can harbor; To dress the head and front of her offending, The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking; In short, he made her pay him altogether, In hard cash, very hard, for ev'ry feather, Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking; Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple, 356 ON A NATIVE SINGER. So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, Had nothing left but to sit hands across, And see her poultry " going down ten couple." Now birds by poison slain, As venomed dart from Indian's hollow cane, Are edible; and Mrs. W.'s thriftShe had a thrifty veinDestined one pair for supper to make shiftSupper as usual at the hour of ten: But ten o'clock arrived and quickly passed, Eleven-twelve-and one o'clock at last, Without a sign of supper even then! At length, the speed of cookery to quicken, Betty was called, and with reluctant feet, Came up at a white heat"Well, never I see chicken like them chicken! My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in 'em! Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat Those Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in 'em!" ON A NATIVE SINGER. AFTER HEARING MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. As sweet as the Bird that by calm Bendemeer, Pours such rich modulations of toneAs potent, as tender, as brilliant, as clearStill her voice has a charm of its own. For lo like the skylark, when after its song It drops down to its nest from above, She reminds us her home and her music belong To the very same soil that we love. THE UNDYING ONE. 357 THE UNDYING ONE. "He shall not die."-UNcLE TOBY. OF all the verses, grave or gay, That ever wiled an hour, I never knew a mingled lay At once so sweet and sour As that by Ladye Norton spun, And christened "The Undying One." I'm very certain that she drew A portrait, when she penned That picture of a perfect Jew, Whose days will never end: I'm sure it means my Uncle Lunn, For he is an Undying One. These twenty'years he's been the same And may be twenty more; But Memory's Pleasures only claim His features for a score; Yet in that time the change is noneThe image of th' Undying One 1 They say our climate's damp and cold, And lungs are tender things; My uncle's much abroad and old, But when "King Cole" he sings, A Stentor's voice, enough to stun, Declares him an Undying One. Others have died from needle-pricks, And very slender blows; 358 THE UNDYING ONE. From accidental slips or kicks, Or bleeding at the nose; Or choked by grape-stone, or a bunBut he is the Undying One! A soldier once, he once endured A bullet in the breastIt might have killed-but only cured An asthma in the chest; He was not to be slain with gun, For he is the Undying One. In water once too long he dived, And all supposed him beat, He seemed so cold-but he revived To have another heat, Just when we thought his race was run, And came in fresh-th' Undying One! To look at Meux's once he went, And tumbled in the vatAnd greater Jobs their lives have spent In lesser boils than thatHe left the beer quite underdone, No bier to the Undying One! He's been from strangulation black, From bile, of yellow hue, Scarlet from fever's hot attack, From cholera morbus blue; Yet with these dyes-to use a punHe still is the Undying One. He rolls in wealth, yet has no wife His Three per Cents. to share; A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. 859 He never married in his life, Or flirted with the fair; The sex he made a point to shun, For beauty an Undying One. To judge him by the present signs, The future by the past, So quick he lives, so slow declines, The Last Man won't be last, But buried underneath a ton Of mould by the Undying One! Next Friday week, his birth-day boast, His ninetieth year he spends, And I shall have his health to toast Amongst expectant friends, And wish-it really sounds like funLong life to the Undying One! A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. ONE day-no matter for the month or year, A Calais packet, just come over, And safely moored within her pier, Began to land her passengers at Dover; All glad to end a voyage long and rough, And during which Through roll and pitch, The Ocean-King had sickophants enough I Away, as fast as they could walk or run, Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals, With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels, Away the passengers all went, but one, 860 A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. A female, who from some mysterious check, Still lingered on the steamer's deck, As if she did not care for land a tittle, For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victualOr nervously afraid to put Her foot Into an Isle described as "tight and little." In vain commissioner and touter, Porter and waiter thronged about her; Boring, as such officials only boreIn spite of rope and barrow, knot, and truck, Of plank and ladder, there she stuck, She could n't, no she would n't go on shore. "But, ma'am," the steward interfered, "The wessel must be cleared. You musn't stay aboard, ma'am, no one don't! It's quite agin the orders so to doAnd all the passengers is gone but you." Says she, ' I can not go ashore, and won't!" "You ought to!" " But I can't!" "You must!" I shan't!" At last, attracted by the racket 'Twixt gown and jacket, The captain came himself, and, cap in hand, Begged very civilly to understand Wherefore the lady could not leave the packet. " Why then," the lady whispered with a shiver, That made the accents quiver, PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. 861 I 've got some foreign silks about me pinned, In short so many things, all contraband, To tell the truth I am afraid to land, In such a searching wind!" PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. A SEA ECLOGUE. "I apprehend you 1"-SCHooL OF REFORM. BOATMAN. SHOVE off there!-ship the rudder, Bill-cast off-she's under weigh! MRS. F. She 's under what?-I hope she's not! good gracious, what a spray! BOATMAN. Run out the jib, and rig the boom! keep clear of those two brigs! MRS. F. I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs! BOATMAN. Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft-she 's rather out of trim! MRS. F. Great bags of stones! they 're pretty things to help a boat to swim! BOATMAN. The wind is fresh-if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault I MRS. F. Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt! 16 362 PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. BOATMAN. That Schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts! MRS. F. If seas have roads, they 'r very rough-I never felt such ruts! BOATMAN. It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and could n't pass the bar. MRS. F. The bar I what! roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are I BOATMAN. HoI brigh ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lubber cannot steer! MRS. F. Yes, yes-hard up upon a rock! I know some danger's near I Lord, there's a wave! it's coming in! and roaring like a bull! BOATMAN. Nothing, Ma'am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full! MRS. F. What, keep her fullI what daring work I when full, she must do down! BOATMAN. Why, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit-it 's coming off the town! Steady your helm! we'll clear the Pint! lay right for yonder pink! MRS. F. TBe steady-well, I hope they can I but they 'e got a pint of drink! PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. 863 BOATMAN. Bill, give that sheet another haul-she '11 fetch it up this reach. MRS. F. I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech! I wonder what it is, now, but-I never felt so queer! BOATMAN. Bill, mind your luff-why Bill, I say, she 's yawing-keep her near I MRS. F. Keep near! we're going further off; the land's behind our backs. BOATMAN. Be easy, Ma'am, it's all correct, that's only 'cause we,tacks: We shall have to beat about a bit-Bill, keep her out to sea. MRS. F. Beat who about? keep who at sea?-how black they look at me! BOATMAN. It's veering round-I knew it would I off with her head I stand by! MRS. F. Off with her head! whose? where? with what -an axe I seem to spy! BOATMAN. She can't not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in! MRS. F. They '11 drown me, and take all I have! my life 's not worth a pin 364 QUAKER SONNET BOATMAN. Look out, you know, be ready, Bill-just when she takes the sand! MRS. F. The sand-O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is planned! BOATMAN. The handspike, Bill-quick, bear a hand! now Ma'am, just step ashore! MRS. F. What I an't I going to be killed-and weltered in my gore? Well, Heaven be praised! but I'11 not go a sailing any more! QUAKER SONNET. A GENUINE BROWN STUDY AFTER NATURE, BY R. M. How sweet thus clad, in Autumn's mellow Tone, With serious Eye, the russet Scene to view I No Verdure decks the Forest, save alone The sad green Holly, and the olive Yew. The Skies, no longer of a garish Blue, Subdued to Dove-like Tints, and soft as Wool, Reflected show their slaty Shades anew In the drab Waters of the clayey Pool. Meanwhile yon Cottage Maiden wends to School, In Garb of Chocolate so neatly drest, And Bonnet puce, fit object for the Tool, And chastened Pigments, of our Brother West; Yea, all is silent, sober, calm, and cool, Save gaudy Robin with his crimson Breast. LITERARY AND LITERAL. 865 LITERARY AND LITERAL. THE March of Mind upon its mighty stilts, (A spirit by no means to fasten mocks on,) In travelling through Berks, Beds, Notts, and Wilts, Hants-Bucks, Herts, Oxon, Got up a thing our ancestors ne'er thought on, A thing that, only in our proper youth, We should have chuckled at-in sober truth, A Conversazione at Hog's Norton! A place whose native dialect, somehow, Has always by an adage been affronted, And that it is all gutturals, is now Taken for grunted. Conceive the snoring of a greedy swine, The slobbering of a hungry Ursine SlothIf you have ever heard such creature dineAnd-for Hog's Norton, make a mix of both!0 shades of Shakspeare! Chaucer! Spenser! Milton! Pope! Gray I Warton I 0 Coleman! Kenny! Planche! Poole! Peake Pocock! Reynolds! Morton! 0 Grey! Peel! Sadler! Wilberforce! Burdett! Hlme! Wilmot! Horton Think of your prose and verse, and worse-delivered in Hog's Norton!The founder of Hog's Norton Athenaeum Framed her society With some variety From Mr. Roscoe's Liverpool museum; 866 LITERARY AND LITERAL. Not a mere pic-nic for the mind's repast, But tempting to the solid knife-and-forker, 'It held its sessions in a house that last Had killed a porker. It chanced one Friday, One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, A perfect Gog or Magog of a pig-hog, Which made of course a literary high dayNot that our Farmer was a man to go With literary tastes-so far from suiting 'em, When he heard mention of Professor Crowe, Or Lalla-Rookh, he always was for shooting 'em! In fact in letters he was quite a log, With him great Bacon Was literally taken, And Hogg-the Poet-nothing but a Hog! As to all others on the list of Fame, Although they were discussed and mentioned daily, He only recognized one classic name, And thought that she had hung herself-Miss Baillie! To balance this, our Farmer's only daughter Had a great taste for the Castalian waterA Wordsworth worshipper-a Southey wooer(Though men that deal in water-color cakes May disbelieve the fact-yet nothing 's truer) She got the bluer The more she dipped and dabbled in the Lakes. The secret truth is, Hope, the old deceiver, At future Authorship was apt to hint, Producing what some call the Type-us Fever, Which means a burning to be seen in print. LITERARY AND LITERAL.3 367 Of learning's laurels-Miss Joanna BaillieOf Mrs. Hemans-Mrs. Wilson-daily Dreamt Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley; And Fancy hinting that she had the better Of L.E.L. by one initial letter, She thought the world would quite enraptured see LOVE LAYS AND LYRICS BY A. P. I. G." Accordingly, with very great propriety, She joined the H. N. B., and double S., That is-Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society; And saving when her Pa his pigs prohibited, Contributed Her pork and poetry towards the mess. This feast, we said, one Friday was the case, When Farmer Grayley-from Macbeth to quoteScrewing his courage to the " sticking-place," Stuck a large knife into a grunter's throat:A kind of murder that the law's rebuke Seldom condemns by shake of its peruke, Showing the little sympathy of big-wigs With pig-wigs! The swine-poor wretch!-with nobody to speak for it, And beg its life, resolved to have a squeak for it; So-like the fabled swan-died singing out, And, thus, there issued from the farmer's yard A note that notified without a card, An invitation to the evening rout. 368 LITERARY AND LITERAL. And when the time came duly-" At the close of The day," as Beattie has it, " when the ham-" Bacon, and pork were ready to dispose of, And pettitoes and chit'lings too, to cramWalked in the H. N. B. and double S.'s, All in appropriate and swinish dresses, For lo! it is a fact, and not a joke, Although the Muse might fairly jest upon it, They came-each " Pig-faced Lady," in that bonnet We call a poke. The Members all assembled thus, a rare woman At pork and poetry was chosen chairwoman;In fact, the bluest of the Blues, Miss Ikey, Whose whole pronunciation was so piggy, She always named the authoress of " Psyche"As Mrs. Tiggey! And now arose a question of some momentWhat author for a lecture was the richer, Bacon or Hogg? there were no votes for Beaumont, But some for Flitcher; While others, with a more sagacious reasoning, Proposed another work, And thought their pork Would prove more relishing from Thomson's Season-ing! But, practised in Shakspearian readings dailyO! Miss Macaulay! Shakspeare at Hog's Norton!Miss Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley Selected him that evening to snort on. In short, to make our story not a big tale, Just fancy her exerting Her talents, and converting The Winter's Tale to something like a pig-tale! I 'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 869 Her sister auditory, All sitting round, with grave and learned faces, Were very plauditory, Of course, and clapped her at the proper places; Till fanned at once by fortune and the Muse, She thought herself the blessedest of Blues. But Happiness, alas! has blights of ill, And Pleasure's bubbles in the air explode;There is no travelling through life but still The heart will meet with breakers on the road! With that peculiar voice Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and noses, Miss G., with Perdita, was making choice Of buds and blossoms for her summer posies, When coming to that line, where Proserpine Lets fall her flowers from the wain of Dis; Imagine thisUp rose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, Grunting this question for the club's digestion, "Do Dis's Wagon go from the Ould Baaley?" I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. "Double, single, and the rub."-HoYLm. " This, this is Solitude."-BYRoN. WELL, I confess, I did not guess A simple marriage vow Would make me find all womenkind Such unkind women now! They need not, sure, as distant be As Java or JapanYet every Miss reminds me thisI'm not a single man! 16* 870 I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. Once they made choice of my bass voice To share in each duett; So well I danced, I somehow chanced To stand in every set: They now declare I cannot sing, And dance on Bruin's plan; Me draw!-me paint!-me anything!I 'm not a single man! Once I was asked advice, and tasked What works to buy or not, And "would I read that passage out I so admired in Scott?" They then could bear to hear one read; But if I now began, How they would snub, "IMy pretty page," I 'm not a single man! One used to stitch a collar then, Another hemmed a frill; I had more purses netted then Than I could hope to fill. I once could get a button on, But now I never canMy buttons then were Bachelor'sI 'm not a single man! Oh how they hated politics Thrust on me by papa: But now my chat —they all leave that To entertain mama. Mama, who praises her own self, Instead of Jane or Ann, And lays "her girls" upon the shelfI 'm not a single man! I M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 871 Ah me, how strange it is the change, In parlor and in hall, They treat me so, if I but go To make a morning call. If they had hair in papers once, Bolt up the stairs they ran; They now sit still in dishabilleI 'm not a single man! Miss Mary Bond was once so fond Of Romans and of Greeks; She daily sought my cabinet To study my antiques. Well, now she does n't care a dump For ancient pot or pan, Her taste at once is modernizedI 'm not a single man! My spouse is fond of homely life, And all that sort of thing; I go to balls without my wife, And never wear a ring: And yet each Miss to whom I come, As strange as Genghis Khan, Knows by some sign, I can't divineI 'm not a single man! Go where I will, I but intrude, I 'm left in crowded rooms, Like Zimmerman on Solitude, Or Hervey at his Tombs. From head to heel, they make me feel, Of quite another clan.; Compelled to own, though left alone, I'm not a single man! 372 I 'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast A nose of Roman line, Will turn up even that in scorn Of compliments of mine: She should have seen that I have been Her sex's partisan, And really married all I couldI'm not a single man! 'Tis hard to see how others fare, Whilst I rejected standWill no one take my arm because They cannot have my hand? Miss Parry, that for some would go A trip to Hindostan, With me don't care to mount a stairI 'm not a single man! Some change, of course, should be in force, But, surely, not so muchThere may be hands I may not squeeze, But must I never touch?Must I forbear to hand a chair, And not pick up a fan? But I have been myself picked upI 'm not a single man! Others may hint a lady's tint Is purest red and whiteMay say her eyes are like the skies, So very blue and brightI must not say that she has eyes, Or if I so began, I have my fears about my earsI 'm not a single man! TO C. DICKENS, ESQ. I must confess I did not guess A simple marriage vow, Would make me find all womenkind Such unkind women now;I might be hashed to death, or smashed, By Mr. Pickford's van, Without, I fear, a single tearI'm not a single man I TO C. DICKENS, ESQ., ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA. PSHAW! away with leaf and berry, And the sober-sided cup! Bring a goblet, and bright sherry, And a bumper fill me up! Though a pledge I had to shiver, And the longest ever was I Ere his vessel leaves our river, I would drink a health to Boz I Here 's success to all his antics, Since it pleases him to roam, And to paddle o'er Atlantics, After such a sale at home! May he shun all rocks whatever, And each shallow sand that lurks, And his passage be as clever As the best among his works. 878 374 BLANK VERSE IN RHYME. A PLAN FOR WRITING BLANK VERSE IN RHYME. IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR. RESPECTED SIR,-In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and motives-the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of Meux's dray-horses-there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph: " Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall, emaciated being, in a brown coat, indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the raggedness of which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligence to his countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor.. It was evident, from his preliminary bow, that he had made some discoveries in the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordship, but the Lord Mayor perceiving by his accent that he had already submitted his project to several of the leading Publishers, referred him back to the same jurisdiction, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses withdrew, declaring by another bow, that he should offer his plan to the Editor of the Comic Annual." The unfortunate above referred to, Sir, is myself, and with regard to the Muses, indeed a votary, though not a ~10 one, if the qualification depends on my pocket-but for the idea of addressing myself to the editor of the Comic Annual, I am indebted solely to the assumption of the gentlemen of the Press. That I have made a discovery is true, in common with Hervey, and Herschell, and Galileo, and Roger Bacon, or rather, I should say, with Columbus-my BLANK VERSE IN RHYME. 875 invention concerning a whole hemisphere, as it were, in the world of poetry-in short, the whole continent of blank verse. To an immense number of readers this literary land has been hitherto a complete terra incognita, and from one sole reason-the want of that harmony which makes the close of one line chime with the end of another. They have no relish for numbers that turn up blank, and wonder accordingly at the epithet of " Prize" prefixed to Poems of the kind which emanate in-I was going to say from-the University of Oxford. Thus many very worthy members of society are unable to appreciate the Paradise Lost, the Task, the Chase, or the Seasons-the Winter especially-without rhyme. Others, again, can read the Poems in question, but with a limited enjoyment; as certain persons can admire the architectural beauties of Salisbury steeple, but would like it better with a ring of bells. For either of these tastes my discovery will provide, without affronting the palate of any other; for although the lover of rhyme will find in it a prodigality hitherto unknown, the heroic character of blank verse will not suffer in the least, but each line will " do as it likes with its own," and sound as independently of the next as, "milk-maid," and "water-carrier." I have the honor to subjoin a specimen-and if, through your publicity, Mr. Murray should be induced to make me an offer for an Edition of Paradise Lost on this principle, for the Family Library, it will be an eternal obligation on, Respected Sir, your most obliged, and humble servant, A NOCTURNAL SKETCH. Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun —one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain 376 BLANK VERSE IN RHYME. Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout outOr Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic Pitt, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mal Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, " No go!" Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble —' Drat that cat 1" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears-what faith is man's-Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes I UP THE RHINE. 877 UP THE RHINE. WHAT MR. GRUNDY SAYS OF THE NATIVES. YE Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine, Provided with passport, that requisite docket, First listen to one little whisper of mineTake care of your pocket — take care of your pocket! Don't wash or be shaved-go like hairy wild men, Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it, But if you speak English, or look it, why then Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket I You '11 sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket, With thirty per cent. as a tax on your heads, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! You '11 see old Cologne-not the sweetest of townsWherever you follow your nose you will shock it; And you '11 pay your three dollars to look at three crowns, Take care of your pocket! —take care of your pocket! You '11 count seven Mountains, and see Roland's Eck, Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett; But oh! to the tone of romance what a check, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! Old Castles you '11 see on the vine-covered hillFine ruins to rivet the eye in its socketOnce haunts of Baronial Banditti-and still Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket. 378 UP THE RHINE. You '11 stop at Coblentz, with its beautiful views, But make no long stay with your money to stock it, Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! A Fortress you '11 see, which, as people report, Can never be captured, save famine should block itAscend Ehrenbreitstein-but that's not theirforte, Take care of your pocket I-take care of your pocket! You '11 see an old man who '11 let off an old gun, And Lurley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it; But think that the words of the echo thus run, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! You '11 gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the Vine! Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock itP'raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wineTake care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! Perchance you will take a frisk off to the BathsWhere some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it; But still mind the warning, wherever your paths, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! And Friendships you '11 swear most eternal of pacts, Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket; But still, in the most sentimental of acts, Take care of your pocket!-take care of your pocket! In short, if you visit that stream or its shore, Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it, And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore, Take care of your pocket I-take care of your pocket! LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER. 379 LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER. FROM THE GERMAN. "Ach, Gretchen, mein tiiubchen." 0 GRETEL, my Dove, my heart's Trumpet, My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket, 0 hear me, my mild little Dove, In your still little room. Your portrait, my Gretel, is always on guard, Is always attentive to Love's parole and watchword; Your picture is always going the rounds, My Gretel, I call at every hour! My heart's Knapsack is always full of you; My looks, they are quartered with you; And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge, Then I think that I give you a kiss. You alone are my Word of Command and orders, Yea, my Right-face, Left-face, Brown Tommy, and wine, And at the word of command " Shoulder Arms!" Then I think you say " Take me in your arms." Your eyes sparkle like a Battery, Yea, they wound like Bombs and Grenades; As black as Gunpowder is your hair, Your hand as white Parading breeches! Yes, you are the Match and I am the Cannon; Have pity, my love, and give quarter, And give the word of command " Wheel round Into my heart's Barrack Yard." 380 ANACREONTIC. ANACREONTIC, FOR THE NEW YEAR. COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass Found a proper excuse or fit season, For toasts to be honored, or pledges to pass, Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason: For, hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased, And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen, Had finished the months, like the flasks at a feast, Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen! Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom The past Year has been pleasant and sunny; Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honeyDays ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears, Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousinThen fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen! Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bowed to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently passed, Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury — Still, fill to the future I and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout, in hopes of a kindlier dozen! Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! MORE HULLAHBALOO. 381 MORE HULLAHBALOO. "Loud as from numbers without number."-MILTON. " You may do it extempore, for it's nothing but roaring."-QusINao AMONGST the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpasses, Is one-just now the rageCalled " Singing for all Classes"That is, for all the British millions, And billions, And quadrillions, Not to name Quintilians, That now, alas! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June, In time and tune, Correct as clocks,and musical as glasses I In fact, a sort of plan, Including gentleman as well as yokel, Public or private man, To call out a militia-only Vocal, Instead of Local, And not designed for military follies, But keeping still within the civil border To form with mouths in open order, And sing in volleys. Whether this grand Harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory, Maybe no, and maybe yes, Is more than I pretend to guessHowever, here's my story. 382 MORE HULLAHBALOO. In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But Law, Joint Companies, and Life Assurance, Find past enduranceIn one of those back streets, to Peace so dear, The other day, a ragged wight, Began to sing with all his might, "I have a silent sorrow here!" The place was lonely, not a creature stirred, Except some little dingy bird; Or vagrant cur that sniffed along, Indifferent to the Son of Song; No truant errand-boy, or doctor's lad, No idle Filch, or lounging cad, No pots encumbered with diurnal beer, No printer's devil with an author's proof,. Or housemaid on an errand far aloof, Lingered the tattered Melodist to hearWho yet, confound him! bawled as loud As if he had to charm a London crowd, Singing beside the public way, Accompanied-instead of violin, Flute, or piano, chiming inBy rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray, A van with iron bars to play staccato, Or engine obligatoIn short, without one instrument vehicular (Not even a truck, to be particular), There stood the rogue and roared, Unasked and unencored, Enough to split the organs called auricular! MORE HULLAHBALOO. 883 Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling I To seek a fitting simile and spin it, Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache's body in it; But oh! the scientific tone it lacked, And was in fact, Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling! 'T was said, indeed, for want of vocal nous, The stage had banished him, when he attempted it, For tho' his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stood Vociferous-a ragged don! And with his iron pipes laid on A row to all the neighborhood. In vain were sashes closed, And doors against the persevering Stentor, Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed, Th' intruding voice would enter, Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum; Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools, Ladies, and masters who attended schools, Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em-_ How it did bore 'em! Louder, and louder still The fellow sang with horrible goodwill, 384 MORE HULLAHBALOO. Curses both loud and deep, his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered making many a flaw, In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting ledgers, making up accounts To large amounts, Or casting up annuitiesStunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse, Against whose overwhelming force No invoice stood a chance, of course! The Actuary 'pshawed and "pished," And knit his calculating brows, and wished The singer " a bad life"-a mental murther! The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunder, Wished the musician further, Poles distant-and no wonder! For Law and Harmony tend far asunderThe lady could not keep her temper calm, Because the sinner did not sing a psalmThe Fiddler in the very same position As Hogarth's chafed musician (Such prints require but cursory reminders) Came and made faces at the wretch beneath, And wishing for his foe between his teeth, (Like all impatient elves That spite themselves) Ground his own grinders. But still with unrelenting note, Though not a copper came of it, in verity, The horrid fellow with the ragged coat, And iron throat, MORE HULLAHBALOO. 885 Heedless of present honor and prosperity, Sang like a Poet singing for posterity, In penniless relianceAnd, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme Never set Time More thoroughly at defiance! From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four, The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door"Peace, monster, peace! Where is the New Police? I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Don't stand there bawling, fellow, don't! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do-there's a dear good man-do, go away." Says he, " I won't!" The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d-n, For so some moral people, strickly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a doorpost vent a banging oathIn fact, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace Than in a given face A very bad exJ)ression. However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's Clerk at Number Ten; 17 386 MORE HULLAHBALOO. Who, throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: " Come, come, I say old fellow, stop your chant! I cannot write a sentence-no one can't! So just pack up your trumps, And stir your stumps-" Says he, " I shan't!" Down went the sash As if devoted to " eternal smash" (Another illustration Of acted imprecation), While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, "I have a silent sorrow here." The thing was' hard to stand! The Music-master could not stand itBut rushed forth with fiddle-stick in hand, As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences beganBut playing first a prelude of grimaces, Twisting his features to the strangest shapes, So that to guess his subject from his faces, He meant to give a lecture upon apes. "Com-com-I say! You go away! Into two parts my head you splitMy fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play MORE HULLAHBALOO. You have no bis'ness in a place so still! Can you not come another day?" Says he-" I will." "No-no-you scream and bawl! You must not come at all! You have no rights, by rights, to begYou have not one off legYou ought to work-you have not some complaint-. You are not cripple in your back or bonesYour voice is strong enough to break some stones-" Says he-" It ain't." "I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor! And discompose his music with a noise, More worse than twenty boysLook what a street it is for quiet! No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postilion, If you will sing, I say, it is not just To sing so loud."-Says he, "I MUST! I'm SINGING FOR THE MILLION I" 888 ODE TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL. ODE TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL WHO BROUGHT ME A PROOF TO BE CORRECTED, AND WHO FELL ASLEEP WHILE IT WAS UNDERGOING CORRECTION: BEING AN ODE FOUNDED ON FACTI " Fallen Cherub I"-MILTON's PARADISB LOST. OH bright and blessed hour;The Devil's asleep!-I see his little lashes Lying in sable o'er his sable cheek; Closed are his wicked little window sashes, And tranced is Evil's power I The world seems hushed and dreaming out-a-doors, Spirits but speak; And the heart echoes, while the Devil snores. Sleep, Baby of the damned! Sleep, when no press of trouble standeth by! Black wanderer amid the wandering, How quiet is thine eye! Strange are thy very small pernicious dreamsWith shades of printers crammed, And pica, double pica, on the wing! Or in cold sheets thy sprite perchance is flying The world aboutDying-and yet, not like the Devil dyingDele,-the Evil out! Before sweet sleep drew down The blinds upon thy Day 4c Martin eyes. ODE TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL. 889 Thou did'st let slip thy slip of mischief on me, With weary, weary sighs; And then, outworn with demoning o'er town, Oblivion won thee! Best of compositors! thou didst compose Thy decent little wicked self, and go A Devil-cruiser round the shores of sleepI hear thee fathom many a slumber-deep, In the waves of woe; Dropping thy lids of lead To sound the dead! Heaven forgive me I Have wicked schemes about thee, wicked one; And in my scheming, sigh And stagger under a gigantic thought; " What if I run my pen into thine eye, And put thee out? Killing the Devil will be a noble deed, A deed to snatch perdition from mankindTo make the Methodist's a stingless creedTo root out terror from the Brewer's mindAnd break the bondage which the Printer pressesTo change the fate of LawyersConfirm the Parson's holy sinecureMake worthless sin's approachesTo justify the bringing up addresses To me, in hackney coaches, From operative Sawyers I" "To murder thee"Methinks-" will never harm my precious head"For what can chance me, when the Devil i dead? 390 ODE TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL. But when I look on thy serene repose, Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose, My thoughts become less dangerous and more deep; I can but wish thee everlasting sleep! Sleep free from dreams Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ballSleep free from all That would make shadowy, devilish slumber darker, Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker! Oh! fare thee well! Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell, Tiny remembrancer of a Printer's Hell! Young thing of darkness, seeming A small, poor type of wickedness set up! Full is thy little cup Of misery in the waking world I So dreaming Perchance may now undemonize thy fate And bear thee, Black-boy, to a whiter state! Yet mortal evil is, than thine, more high;Thou art upright in sleep; men sleep-and lie! And from thy lids to me a moral peeps, For I correct my errors —whle the Devil sleeps! ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. "CATCHING ALL THE ODDITIES, THE WHIMSIES, THE ABSURDITIES, AND THt LITTLENESSES OF CONSCIOUS GREATNESS BY THE WAY " Camn Qft Wored. ADDRESS. THE present being the first appearance of this little Work, some sort of Address seems to be called for from the Author, Editor, and Compiler; and we come forward in prose, totally overcome, like a flurried manager in his every-day clothes, to solicit public indulgence-protest an indelible feeling of reverence-bow, beseech, promise-and "all that." To the persons addressed in the Poems nothing need be said, as it would be only swelling the book (a custom which we detest), to recapitulate in prose what we have said in verse. To those unaddressed an apology is due, and to them it is very respectfully offered. Mr. Hunt, for his Permanent Ink, deserves to have his name recorded in his own compositionMr. Colman, the amiable King's Jester, and Oath-blaster of the modern stage, merits a line-Mr. Accum, whose fame is potted-Mr. Bridgman, the maker of Patent Safety Coffins —Mr. Kean, the great Luster of the Boxes-Sir Humphry Davy, the great Lamplighter of the Pits-Sir William Congreve, one of the proprietors of the Portsmouth Rocket-yea, several others call for the Muse's approbation;-but our little volume, like the Adelphi Theater, is easily filled, and those who are disappointed of places now are requested to wait until the next performance. Having said these few words to the unitiated, we leave our Odes and Addresses, like Gentlemen of the Green Isle, to hunt their own fortunes; and, by a modest assurance, to make their way to the hearts of those to whom they are desirous of addressing themselves. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. A SECOND Edition being called for, the Author takes the opportunity of expressing his grateful thanks to his Readers and Reviewers for the kind way in which they have generally received his little book. Many of those who have been be- Oded in the following pages have taken the verse-offerings in good part; and the Author has been given to understand that certain "Great People," who have been kept "out of situations," have, like Bob Acres, looked upon themselves as very ill-used Gentlemen. It is rather hard that there should not be room for all the great; but this little conveyance-a sort of light coach to Fame-like other coveyances, while it has only four in, labors under the disadvantage of having twelve out. The Proprietor apprehends he must meet the wants of the Public by starting an extra coach; in which case Mr. Colman, (an anxious Licenser,) and Mr. Hunt, (the best maker of speeches and blacking in the City and Liberty of Westminster,) shall certainly be booked for places. To the latter Gentleman the Author gratefully acknowledges the compliment of a bottle of his permanent ink: it will be, indeed, pleasant to write an Address to Mr. Wilberforce in the liquid of a beautiful jet black, which the author now meditates doing. Odes, written in permanent ink, will doubtless stand a chance of running a good race with Gray's. A few objections have been made to the present Volume, which the Author regrets he can not attend to without serious damage to the;whole production. The Address to Maria Darlington is said by several ingenious and judicious persons to be namby-pamby. This is a sad disappointment to the writer, as he was in hopes he had accomplished a bit of the right Shenstonian. The verses to the Champion of England are declared irreverent, and those to Dr. Ireland and his Partners in the Stone Trade are 394 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. held out as an improper interference with sacred things; these Addresses are certainly calumniated: the one was really written as an affectionate inquiry after a great and reverend Warrior, now in rural retirement, and the other was intended as a kindly advertisement of an exhibition, which, although cheaper than the Tower, and nearly as cheap as Mrs. Salmon's Wax-work, the modesty of the proprietors will not permit them sufficiently to puff. To the universal objection that the Book is overrun with puns, the author can only say he has searched every page without being able to detect a thing of the kind. He can only promise, therefore, that if any respectable Reviewer will point the vermin out, they shall be carefully trapped and thankfully destroyed. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. FROM the kindness with which this little volume has been received, the Authors have determined upon presenting to the Public "more last Baxterish words;" and the Reader will be pleased therefore to consider this rather as a Preface or Advertisement to the volume to come, than a third Address in prose, explanatory or recommendatory of the present portion of the Work It is against etiquette to introduce one gentleman to another thrice; and it must be confessed, that if these few sentences were to be billeted upon the first volume, the Public might overlook the Odes, but would have great reason to complain of the Addresses. So many Great Men stand over, like the correspondents to a periodical, that they must be "continued m our next." These are certainly bad times for paying debts; but all persons having any claims upon the Authors, may rest assured, that they will ultimately be paid in full. No material alterations have been made in this third Edition-with the exception of the introduction of a few new commas, which the lovers of punctuation will immediately detect and duly appreciate -'and the omission of the three puns, which, in the opinion of all friends and reviewers, were detrimental to the correct humor of the publication. f.11 I ODES AND ADDRESSES.' ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. THE AERONAUT. "Up with me l-up with me into the sky 1" WoBDeworru-on a Lark I DEAR Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view!A few more whiffs of my segar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies: How oft this fragrant smoke upcurled Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies!Away!-away!-the bubble fillsFarewell to earth and all its hills!We seem to cut the wind!So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind! 398 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. Ah me! my brain begins to swim!The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the treesMy wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!The Dollond, if you please I Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, Lord I what a Lilliput it is, That little world of Mogg's!Are those the London Docks?-that channel, The mighty Thames?-a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs!What is that seeming tea-urn there? That fairy dome, St. Paul's!-I swear, Wren must have been a Wren I And that small stripe?-it cannot be The City Road!-Good lack I to see The little ways of men I Little, indeed!-my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike.-I must take Their tolls upon my trust IAnd where is mortal labor gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone Mac Adamized to dust Look at the horses!-less than flies - Oh, what a waste it was of sighs To wish to be a Mayor! What is the honor?-none at all, One's honor must be very small For such a civic chair! ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 399 And there 's Guildhall!-'tis far aloofMethinks, I fancy through the roof Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls-a tiny show!Well-I must say they're ruled below By very little logs!Oh I Graham, how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; One of our silken flags Would cover London all aboutNay, then-let's even empty out Another brace of bags! Now for a glass of bright Champagne Above the clouds!-Come, let us drain A bumper as we go!But hold!-for God's sake do not cant The cork away-unless you want To brain your friends below. Think! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken, Like mites upon a cheese!Pshaw — how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious thoughts!-can there be Dukes Of Gloster such as these IOh! what is glory?-what is fame? Hark to the little mob's acclaim, 'T is nothing but a hum!A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd That has so far to come I 400 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. Well-they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear, To organs ages hence!Ah me! how distance touches all; It makes the true look rather small, But murders poor pretence. "The world recedes!-it disappears Heaven opens on my eyes-my ears With buzzing noises ring!"A fig for Southey's Laureat lore!What's Rogers here?-Who cares for Moore That hears the Angels sing!A fig for earth, and all its minions!We are above the world's opinions, Graham! we 'll have our own!Look what a vantage height we've gotNow do you think Sir Walter Scott Is such a Great Unknown? Speak up I-or hath he hid his name To crawl thro' "subways" unto fame, Like Williams of Cornhill?Speak up, my lad!-when men run small We 'll show what's little in them all, Receive it how they will!Think now of Irving -shall he preach The princes down-shall he impeach The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts-and I Not moralize at two miles high The true didactic pitch! ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 401 Come:-what d' ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver In Lilliput's Review, That like Colossus he should stride Certain small brazen inches wide For poets to pass through? Look down! the world is but a spot. Now say-Is Blackwood's low or not, For all the Scottish tone? It shall not weigh us here-not where The sandy burden's lost in airOur lading-where is't flown? Now-like you Croly's verse indeedIn heaven-where one cannot read The " Warren" on a wall? What think you here of that man's fame? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, To me 'tis very small! And, truly, is there such a spell In those three letters, L. E. L., To witch a world with song? On clouds the Byron did not sit, Yet dared on Shakspeare's head to spit, And say the world was wrong! And shall not we? Let's think aloud! Thus being couched upon a cloud, Graham, we '1l have our eyes! We felt the great when we were less, But we '11 retort on littleness Now we are in the skies. 402 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. O Graham, Graham! how I blame The bastard blush-the petty shame That used to fret me quiteThe little sores I covered then, No sores on earth, nor sorrows when The world is out of sight I My name is Tims.-I am the man That North's unseen, diminished clan So scurvily abused! I am the very P. A. Z. The London Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused I Campbell-(you cannot see him here)Hath scorned my lays:-do his appear Such great eggs from the sky?And Longman, and his lengthy Co. Long, only, in a little Row, Have thrust my poems by 1 What else?-I 'm poor, and much beset With damned small duns-that is-in debt Some grains of golden dust! But only worth, above, is worth.What's all the credit of the earth I An inch of cloth on trust! What 's Rothschild here, that wealthy man I Nay, worlds of wealth?-Oh, if you can Spy out-the Golden Ball! Sure as we rose, all money sank: What's gold or silver now?-the Bank Is gone-the 'Change and all! ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 408 What's all the ground-rent of the globe?Oh, Graham, it would worry Job To hear its landlords prate! But after this survey, I think I'11 ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink From men of large estate I And less, still less, will I submit To poor mean acres' worth of witI that have heaven's spanI that like Shakspeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds, and seem An Universal Man! Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds I Like Birds of Paradise the clouds Are winging on the wind! But what is grander than their range? More lovely than their sun-set change?The free creative mind I Well! the Adults' School's in the air I The greatest men are lessoned there As well as the Lessee I Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small Behold the greatest stage of all, How humbled they would be! "Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em," 'T would much abate their fuss I If they could think that from the skies They are as little in our eyes As they can think of us I 404 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. Of us? are we gone out of sight? Lessened! diminished! vanished quite I Lost to the tiny town I Beyond the Eagle's ken-the grope Of Dolland's longest telescope! Graham! we're going down I Ah me! I 've touched a string that opes The airy valve!-the gas elopesDown goes our bright Balloon!Farewell the skies! the clouds I I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon I The earth is close I the City nearsLike a burnt paper it appears, Studded with tiny sparks! Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all aboutWe 're close above the Parks! I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets. Lord 1 what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light! Well-there's the finish of our flight I I 've smoked my last segar I ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.' "Let us take to the road 1"-BOABa' OPXRA. M'ADAM, hail! Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land I Oh universal Leveler! all hail! To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, The kindest one, and yet the flintiest goingTo thee-how much for thy commodious plan, Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing! The Bristol mail Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deemed invincible, When carrying Patriots now shall never fail Those of the most " unshaken public principle." Hail to thee, Scot of Scots! Thou northern light, amid those heavy men I Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside, Thou scatterest flints and favors far and wide, From palaces to cots;Dispenser of coagulated good! Distributor of granite and of food! Long may thy fame its even path march on E'en when thy sons are dead I Best benefactor I though thou giv'st a stone To those who ask for bread 406 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. Thy first great trial in this mighty town Was, if I rightly recollect, upon That gentle hill which goeth Down from " the County" to the Palace gate, And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural SocietyThe chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, Where ladies play high shawl and satin gamesA little Hell of lace! And past the Athenaeum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Waterloo Place, Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac I and shaved the road From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode So well, that paviors threw their rammers by, Let down their tucked shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh Prepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die! Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beatPreventing though the rattling in the street, Yet kicking up a row Upon the stones-ah! truly watchman-like, Encouraging thy victims all to strike, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey f And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coachHast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers. ODE TO MR. MADAM. 407 Who shall dispute thy name I Insculpt in stone in every street, We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame I Where'er we take, even at this time, our way, Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare;And with a patient care Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old-that rare old manProphetically followed, Mac! thy plan:For he, we know, (History says so,) Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak The smoothest Greek I It is " impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Besides the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity, O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only; mighty Mac I And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack, Thou hast observed the highways in the sky I Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, And " hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep The noiseless tenor of their way? (see Gray.) What line of road should poets take to bring Themselves unto those waters, loved the first!Those waters which can wet a man to sing I Which, like thy fame, " from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" * 408 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. That thou 'rt a proser, even thy birth-place might Vouchsafe;-and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blotCadell's a wayward wight I Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the townAnd published, like a Lilliput Unknown! "Highways and Byeways," is thy book, no doubt, (One whole edition's out,) And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em:"Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair"(Blair is a Scottish name,) What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam? 0 indefatigable laborer In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 't will be A mark of thy surpassing industry, That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone, Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!Of a right ancient line thou comest-through Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue, Until we see thy sire before our eyesRolling his gravel walks in Paradise! But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne'er Have our walks since been fair! Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, For ever varying, through his varying range, Time maketh all things even! In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven! ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 409 He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived(How are Time's wonders hived!) In pity to mankind and to befriend 'em(Time is above all praise) That he, who first did make our evil ways, Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em I 18 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE.3 "Sermons in stones"-As You LImE IT. "Out out I damned spot l"-MaOBBn. I LIKE you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name! It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flameI like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing Good Mrs. Fry I I like the placid claim You make to Christianity-professing Love, and good works-of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young fry's booksellers, Friend Darton! I like good Mrs. Fry, your brethren muteThose serious, solemn gentlemen that sportI should have said, that wear, the sober suit Shaped like a court dress-but for heaven's court. I like your sisters too-sweet Rachel's fruitProtestant nuns! I like their stiff support Of virtue-and I like to see them clad With such a difference-just like good from bad! I like the sober colors-not the west; Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. 411 Green, orange, crimson, purple, violetIn which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, goThe others are a chaste, severer set, In which the good, the pious, and the plain, goThey're moral standards, to know Christians byIn short, they are your colors, Mrs. Fry! As for the naughty tinges of the prismCrimson's the cruel uniform of warBlue-hue of brimstone! minds no catechism; And green is young and gay-not noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, Till it is saddened down to tea-green, or Olive-and purple 's given to wine, I guess; And yellow is a convict by its dress I They're all the devil's liveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sinBut how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in The Evil presence! You and I know, then How all the party colors will begin To part-the Pittite hues will sadden there, Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair I Witness their goodly labors one by one! Russet makes garments for the needy poor — Dove-color preaches love to all-and dun Calls every day at Charity's street-doorBrown studies Scripture, and bids women shun All gaudy furnishing-olive doth pour Oil into wounds: and drab and slate supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry! 412 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. Well I Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor! When all persuasions in your praises blendThe Methodist's creed and cry are, Fry forever I No-I will be your friend-and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect-Nay, never Start at that word! But I must ask you why You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry? Too well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for her schooling: but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thievePay down a crime for " entrance" to your " quarters?' Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters I Oh, tho' it cost you rent-(and rooms run high) Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! O save the vulgar soul before it's spoiled I Set up your mounted sign without the gateAnd there inform the mind before 'tis soiled! 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate! Nay, if you would not have your labors foiled, Take it inclining towards a virtuous state, Not prostrate and laid flat-else, woman meek! The upright pencil will but hop and shriek I Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys inTo bring sobriety to life again, Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisinTo wash Black Betty when her black's ingrainTo stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her; To tame the wild-fowl ways of Jenny Diver! A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. 418 Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of strawTo make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners-to write heaven's own law On hearts of granite.-Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory's-to draw The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry I In vain you teach them baby-work within: 'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sinCome out yourself, and stitch up souls in timeIt is too late for scouring to begin When virtue's ravelled out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains; You 'll fret the fabric out before the stains I I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry I I like your cookery in every way; I like your shrove-tide service and supply; I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play; I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye; I like your carriage, and your silken gray, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; But I don't like your Newgatory teaching. Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. 0, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's To dress them in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry! 414 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. Put on your decent bonnet, and come out! Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools In jail-but at the Porch! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before 't was whipt by law.-O come about, Good Mrs. Fry I and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street, But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat! Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor; Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other color; Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar; Teach her that " flooring Charleys" is a game Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. O tome and teach our children-that ar'n't oursThat heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time-or rather they both prey On youth together-meanwhile Newgate low'rs Even like a black cloud at the close of day, To shut them out from any more blue sky: Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry You are not nice-go into their retreats, And make them Quakers, if you will.-'T were best They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats; That they had hats with brims-that they were drest In garbs without lappels-than shame the streets With so much raggedness.-You may invest Much cash this way-but it will cost its price, To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice 1 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. 415 In brief-Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not in the way from which 't will not departBut out-out-out! Oh, bid it walk remote! And if the skies are closed against the smart, Even let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.Do what you will, his every want supply, Keep him-but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE, M.P. FOR GALWAY.4 M' arttn, in this, has proved himself a very good Man!"-BoxIAnA. How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jarsThe butcheries of men! The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill! Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Pyebald and dapple grey, Chestnut and bayNo poet's eulogy thy name adorns IBut oxen, from the fens, Sheep-in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes I Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ. 417 And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee, Asses, I mean-that have as many stripes! Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environStaying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear Oxide of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summoned oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the courser of the twoWhilst Swift smiled down aloft!0 worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds-(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)-when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrows nest, to grab itHe shall not harm the MARTINS and the Swifts! Ah when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanced The horse!-and humbled biped man like Plato I But now he's dead, the charger is mischancedGone backward in the world-and not advancedRemember Catol Swift was the horse's champion-not the King's Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus-would he were thrown I He '11 wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!-let it debar men From wonted rowelling and whip's abuseLook at the ancients' Muse Look at their Carmen! 18* 418 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ. 0, Martin! how thine eyeThat one would think had put aside its lashesThat can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter-laneFor there's a nag the crows have picked for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody veinGods I is there no Horse-spital! That such raw shows must sicken the humane I Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his pane! O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses I 0 wipe away the national reproachAnd find a decent Vulture for their corses 1 And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach I Steeds that confess " the luxury of wo i" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee-sore with kick and blow And bloody gash-it is the Indian knack(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)Banting shall weep too in his sable scarfThe biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their griefs met in a common Centaur! ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. "0 breathe not his name P'-Moos. THOU Great Unknown I do not mean Eternity, nor Death, That vast incog I For I suppose thou hast a living breath, Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, Thou man of fog 1 Parent of many children-child of none Nobody's son I Nobody's daughter-but a parent still Still but an ostrich parent of a batch Of orphan eggs-left to the world to hatch. Superlative Nil I A vox and nothing more-yet not Vauxhall; A head in papers, yet without a curl I Not the Invisible Girl I No hand-but a hand-writing on a wallA popular nonentity, Still called the same-without identity I A lark, heard out of sightA nothing shined upon-invisibly bright, " Dark with excess of light 1" 420 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Constable's literary John-a-nokesThe real Scottish wizard-and not which, Nobody-in a niche; Every one's hoax! Maybe Sir Walter ScottPerhaps not! Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks? Thou-whom the second-sighted never saw, The Master Fiction of fictitious history! Chief Nong tong paw! No mister in the world-and yet all mystery! The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock LaneA novel Junius puzzling the world's brainA man of Magic-yet no talisman! A man of clair obscure-not he o' the moon! A star-at noon. A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private-of no corps-a northern light In a dark lantern-Bogie in a crapeA figure-but no shape; A vizor-and no knight; The real abstract hero of the age; The staple.Stranger of the stage; A Some One made in every man's presumption, Frankenstein's monster-but instinct with gumption; Another strange state captive in the north, Constable-guarded in an iron maskStill let me ask, Hast thou no silver-platter, No door-plate, or no card-or some such matter, To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth? ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 421 Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Of Curiosity with airy gammon! Thou mystery-monger, Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, This people buy and can't make head or tail of it; (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;) Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, That lay their proper bodies on the shelfKeeping thyself so truly to thyself, Thou Zimmerman made practical! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, That, like the Nile, Hideth its source wherever it is bred, But still keeps disemboguing (Not disembroguing) Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head! Thou disembodied author-not yet deadThe whole world's literary Absentee I Ah I wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo-wise to a degree, Anonymous L. L. D. I Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do-and inquests cannot say who did it! Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang? Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch-or hid it? Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! I should be very loth to see thee hang! I hope thou hast an alibi well planned, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. Tho' thou hast newly turned thy private bolt on The curiosity of all invadersI hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, 422 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Who knows a little of the Holy Land, Writing thy next new novel-The Crusaders 1 Perhaps thou wert even born To be Unknown.-Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, Pinned to a ticket That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being.Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town-and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuationTo keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation. I liked thy Waverley-first of thy breeding; I liked its modest " sixty years ago," As if it was not meant for ages' reading. I don't like Ivanhoe, Tho' Dymoke does-it makes him think of chattering In iron overalls before the king, Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ringOh better far than all that anvil clang It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan! I like Guy Mannering-but not that sham son Of Brown.-I like that literary Sampson, \ ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 123 Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson That slew the Guager; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doomed thy fame. She was the Witch; I take it, To tell a great man's fortune-or to make it I I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, Who has-or had-within his garden wall, A miniature Stone Henge, so very small The sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly I I like thy Barber-him that fired the BeaconBut that's a tender subject now to speak on I I like long-armed Rob Roy.-His very charms Fashioned him for renown!-In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity! Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity, Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! But Roys can never die-why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with " Vive le Roy!" Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di 424 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Vernon, of course, shall often live againWhilst there 's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? There be Old Bailey Jarvys on the stand! I like thy Landlord's Tales!-I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor-the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade, And then pulled up with such a bloody bridal! Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunchesI like the family (not silver) branches That hold the tapers To light the serious legend of Montrose.I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapors, As if he could not walk or talk alone, Without the Devil-or the Great UnknownDalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows! I like St. Leonard's Lily-drenched with dew! I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. I like the battle lost and won; The hurly burly's bravely done, The warlike gallops and the warlike canters! I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, With one eye on his sword, And one upon the WordHow he would cram the Caledonian Chapel! I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple His raven steed with blood of many a corseI like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 425 Her texts of Scripture on a trotting horseShe is so like Rae Wilson when he travels! I like thy Kenilworth-but I'm not going To take a Retrospective Re-Review Of all thy dainty novels-merely showing The old familiar faces of a few, The question to renew, How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, Forego the unclaimed dividends of fame, Forego the smiles of literary hourisMid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, And all the Carse of Gowrie's, When thou might'st have thy statue in CromartyOr see thy image on Italian trays, Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonapart6. Be painted by the Titian of R. A.'s, Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Guelph! P'rhaps have thy bustset cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself To other Englands with Australian roamersMayhap, in Literary Owhyhee Displace the native wooden gods, or be The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf I It is not modesty that bids thee hideShe never wastes her blushes out of sight: It is not to invite The world's decision, for thy fame is triedAnd thy fair deeds are scattered far and wide, Even royal heads are with thy readers reckonedFrom men in trencher caps to trencher scholars In crimson collars, 426 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. And learned serjeants in the Forty-Second! Whither by land or sea art thou not beckoned? Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, Defying distance and its dim control; Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckoned worth A brace of Miltons for capacious soulPerhaps studied in the whalers, further north. And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole! Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command, For ever at thy stamp, To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, Tho' princes sought her, And lead her in procession hymeneal, Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal! Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, Enveloped in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs? Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft, Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuffed, Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs? What in this masking age Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy? What but the critic's page? One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye; Another hath a wen-he won't show where; A third has sandy hair, A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, Things for a vile reviewer to espy! Another has a mangel-wurzel nose ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 427 Finally, this is dimpled, Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled, Things for a monthly critic to exposeNay, what is thy own case-that being small, Thou choosest to be nobody at all! Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bonesE'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, That shadowy revelation of thyselfTo build thee a small hut of haunted stonesFor certainly the first pernicious man That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee In some vile literary caravanShown for a shilling Would be thy killing, Think of Crachami's miserable span! No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in Than there it fell inBut when she felt herself a show, she tried To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died I 0 since it was thy fortune to be born A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, Still with thy small crow pen Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlornStill Scottish story daintily adorn, Be still a shade-and when this age is fled, When we poor sons and daughters of reality Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, And Time destroys our mottoes of moralityThe lithographic hand of Old Mortality Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, A featureless death's head, And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown I ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE,6 THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. "-Arma Virumque cano "-VIBGIL. MR. DYMOKE! Sir Knight I if I may be so bold(I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,) Is your armor put by, like the sheep in a fold?Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung down? Are you-who that day rode so mailed and admired, Now sitting at ease in a library chair? Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired, With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare? What 's become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker? say? Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun I Oh! three golden balls have n't lured you to play Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one? How defunct is the show that was chivalry's mimic I The breast-plate-the feathers-the gallant array I So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke! The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say I Perchance in some village remote, with a cot, And a cow, and a pig, and a barn-door, and all;You show to the parish that peace is your lot, And plenty-tho' absent from Westminster Hall! ODE TO MR. DYMOKE. 424 And of course you turn every accoutrement now To its separate use, that your wants may be well met;You toss in your breast-plate your pancakes, and grow A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet. And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight, Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque I How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas, With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched, And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas, And drenched the King's Bench-if the glove had been touched! If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions, Had snatched your "best doe,"-he 'd have flooded the floor;Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions, " Life Preservers," have floated him out of his gore! Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there! The man and his backer-to win a great fight! Though the trumpet was loud-you 'd an undisturbed air I And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray sans affright Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;For though his departure was at the front door, Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall. He went-and 't would puzzle historians to say, When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mailWhether caution or courage inspired him that day, For, though he retreated, he never turned tail. 430 ODE TO MR. DYMOKE. By my life, he's a wonderful charger I-The best! Though not for a Parthian corps I —yet for you! Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast, What a Horse for a grand Retrospective Review! What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof!What a tail-piece for Bewick!-or pyebald for Poole, To bear him in safety from Elliston's hoof! Well; hail to Old Cato I the hero of scenes! May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge;Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans, Well " pent up in Utica" over the Bridge! And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best I And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep, May you lie " like a warrior taking his rest I" ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR." "This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit" TwsLrm NIGom JOSEPH I they say thou 'st left the stage, To toddle down the hill of life, And taste the flannelled ease of age, Apart from pantomimic strife"Retired-(for Young would call it so)The world shut out"-in Pleasant Row I And hast thou really washed at last From each white cheek the red half moon! And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the private Pantaloon? All youth-all ages-yet to be Shall have a heavy miss of thee! Thou didst not preach to make us wiseThou hadst no finger in our schoolingThou didst not "lure us to the skies"Thy simple, simple trade was-Fooling I And yet, Heaven knows I we could-we can Much "better spare a better man I" 432 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. Oh, had it pleased the gout to take The reverend Croly from the stage, Or Southey, for our quiet's sake, Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, Or, damme namby pamby PooleOr any other clown or fool! Go, Dibdin-all that bear the name, Go Byway Highway man! go! go 1 Go, Skeffy-man of painted fame, But leave thy partner, painted Joe I I could bear Kirby on the wane, Or Signor Paulo with a sprain I Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made His gray hairs.scarce in private peaceHad Waithman sought a rural shadeOr Cobbett ta'en a turnpike leaseOr Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam HillI think I could be cheerful still! Had Medwin left off, to his praise, Dead lion kicking, like-a friend!Had long, long Irving gone his ways, To muse on death at Ponder's EndOr Lady Morgan taken leave Of Letters-still I might not grieve! But, Joseph-every body's Jo!Is gone-and grieve I will and must I As Hamlet did for Yorick, so Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,) And talk as he did when he missed The kissing-crust that he had kissed! ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 483 Ah, where is now thy rolling head! Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes, (As old Catullus would have said,) Thy oven-mouth, that swallowed pies — Enormous hunger-monstrous drouth I Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth! Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffed IThy funny, flapping, filching hands!Thy partridge body, always stuffed With waifs, and strays, and contrabands IThy foot-like Berkeley's Foote-for why? 'T was often made to wipe an eye! Ah, where thy legs-that witty pair For "great wits jump"- and so did they. Lord! how they leaped in lamp-light air! Capered-and bounced-and strode away!That years should tame the legs-alack! I've.seen spring thro' an Almanack! But bounds will have their bound-the shocks Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes; And those that frisked in silken clocks May look to limp in fleecy hoseOne only-(Champion of the ring) Could ever make his Winter-Spring I And gout, that owns no odds between The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, Will visit —but I did not mean To moralize, though I am grown Thus sad-Thy going seemed to beat A muffled drum for Fun's retreat! 19 4 434 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. And, may be-'tis no time to smother A sigh, when two prime wags of London, Are gone-thou, Joseph, one-the other A Joe!-" sic transit gloria Munden!" A third departure some insist onStage-apoplexy threatens Liston!Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep With ancient "Dozey" to the dregsLet Mother Goose wear mourning deep, And put a hatchment o'er her eggs! Let Farley weep-for Magic's man Is gone-his Christmas Caliban! Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, As tho' they walked behind thy bierFor since thou wilt not play again, What matters-if in heaven or here! Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!There's Quick, might just as well be dead i Oh, how will thy departure cloud The lamp-light of the little breast! The Christmas child will grieve aloud To miss his broadest friend and bestPoor urchin I what avails to him The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimmw. For who like thee could ever stride Some dozen paces to the mile!The motley, medley coach provideOr like Joe Frankenstein compile The vegetable man complete!A proper Covent Garden feat I ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 435 Oh, who like thee could ever drink, Or eat-swill-swallow-bolt-and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup-sneeze and wink?Thy very yawn was quite a joke! Tho' Joseph Junior acts not ill, "There's no Fool like the old Fool" still 1 Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe I We met with mirth-we part in pain! For many a long, long year must go, Ere Fun can see thy like againFor Nature does not keep great stores Of perfect Clowns-that are not Boors! ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE,7 EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. "Dost thou not suspect my years?" MUCH Ao A BOUT NOTHING. OH! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch A sober age made serious drunk by thee; Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, And nurse thy little bald Biography. Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine! And what a page attends thee! Long may I Hang in demure confusion o'er each line That asks thy little questions with a sigh! Old tottering years have nodded to their falls, Like pensioners that creep about and die;But thou, Old Parr of periodicals, Livest in monthly immortality! XHow sweet I-as Byron of his infant said" Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace; To see the mild no-meanings of thy head, Taking a quiet nap upon thy face! How dear through thy Obituary to roam, And not a name of any name to catch! To meet thy Criticism walking home, Averse from rows, and never calling "Watch!" ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. 487 Rich is thy page in soporific thingsComposing compositions-lulling menFaded old posies of unburied ringsConfessions dozing from an opiate pen:Lives of Right Reverends that have never livedDeaths of good people that have really diedParishioners-hatched-husbanded-and wived, Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side! The sacred query-the remote responseThe march of serious minds, extremely slowThe graver's cut at some right aged sconce, Famous for nothing many years ago I B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write "Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;And C., next month, an answer doth indite, Informing B. that Mr. Milton did I X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea, Caught upon Martin Luther years agone; And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, Long dead, that gathered honey for King John. There is no end of thee-there is no end, Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits! Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend, And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets I Go on, Sylvanus!-Bear a wary eye, The churches cannot yet be quite run out! Some parishes must yet have been passed byThere 's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt I 438 ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. Go on-and close the eyes of distant ages 1 Nourish the names of the undoubted dead! So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages, Heavy and lively, though but seldom red. Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows! Bottling up dullness in an ancient binn! Still live I still prose! continue still to tell us Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in I AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.8 " Archer. How many are there, Scrub? Scrub. Five and forty, BSr."-BEAux STRATAGEM. "For shame-let the linen alone 1" —MmBY WIVES OF WINDBOi MR. SCRUB-Mr. Slop-or whoever you be The Cock of Steam Laundries-the head Patentee Of Associate Cleansers-Chief founder and prime Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grimeCo-partners and dealers, in linen's proprietyThat make washing public-and wash in society0 lend me your ear! if that ear can forego, For a moment, the music that bubbles belowFrom your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hotThat soft " simmer's sang" so endeared to the ScotIf your hands may stand still, or your steam without dangerIf your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger, Both to you and to washing, may put in a rubO wipe out your Amazon arms from the tubAnd lend me your ear-Let me modestly plead For a race that your labors may soon supersedeFor a race that, now washing no living affordsLike Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, Not with bread in the funds-or investments of cheese 440 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. But to droop like sad willows that lived by a stream, Which the sun has sucked up into vapor and steam. Ah, look at the Laundress, before you begrudge Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudgeWhen chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, And beginneth her toil while the morn is still gray, As if she was washing the night into dayNot with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora Beginneth to scatter the dew-drops before her; Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, Looked down on the foam with a forehead more pearlyHer head is involved in an aerial mist, And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist; Her visage glows warm with the ardor of duty; She 's Industry's moral-she 's all moral beauty I Growing brighter and brighter at every rubWould any man ruin her?-No, Mr. Scrub! No man that is manly would work her mishapNo man that is manly would covet her capNor her apron-her hose-nor her gown made of stuffNor her gin-nor her tea-nor her wet pinch of snuff I Alas! so she thought-but that slippery hope Has betrayed her —as tho' she had trod on her soap! And she-whose support-like the fishes that fly, Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her skyShe whose living it was, and a part of her fare, To be damped once a day, like the great white sea bear, With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mopQuite a living absorbent that revelled in slopShe that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land I ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 441 Lo, then, the poor Laundress, all wretched she stands, Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands! All haggard and pinched, going down in life's vale, With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale I No smoke from her flue-and no steam from her pane, There once she watched heaven, fearing God and the rainOr gazed o'er her bleach-field so fairly engrossed, Till the lines wandered idle from pillar to post I Ah, where are the playful young pinners-ah, where The harlequin quilts that cut capers in airThe brisk waltzing stockings-the white and the black, That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slackThe light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinned, That blew into shape, and embodied the wind! There was white on the grass-there was white on the sprayHer garden-it looked like a garden of May! But now all is dark-not a shirt's on a shrubYou've ruined her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub! You've ruined her custom-now families drop herFrom her silver reduced-nay, reduced from her copper! The last of her washing is done at her eye, One poor little kerchief that never gets dry! From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth, And boils neither barley nor alkaline brothBut her children come round her as victuals grow scant, And recal, with foul faces, the source of their wantWhen she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, And even its pearlashes laid in the graveWhilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave, And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tubNeed you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub? 19* 442 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread, If she prays that the evil may visit your headNay, scald all the heads of your Washing CommitteeIf she wishes you all the soot blacks of the cityIn short, not to mention all plagues without number, If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber! Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drouth and despair, When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rareWhen the sum of her suds might be summed in a bowl, And the rusty cold iron quite entered her soulWhen, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye Had caught " the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by, Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, In a lather of passion that frothed as it rose, Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, On her sheet-if a sheet were still left her-to write, Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the lightLETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMI0TEE. It's a shame, so it is-men can't Let alone Jobs as is Woman's right to do-and go about there OwnTheirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up-and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals-for upsetting of the Sudds ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 443 When the world wagged well enuff-and Wommen washed your old dirty duds, I 'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steem Indians, that 's FlatBut I warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all thatI suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem-But that was a joke I For I never see none come of it-that 's out of it-but only sum SmoakAnd for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs-and hang you, you know that's true! And for All your fine Perspectuses-howsomever you bewhich 'em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to DoIt ant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birdshigh view! But Thats your look out-I 've not much to do with thatBut pleas God to hold up fine, Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can-and Ill say it behind your faceBut when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you to SpeakAs kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak I 444 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. Thinks I, when I heard it-Well, there's a pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larned to spel-and That ant your Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has LarnedFor if it warnt for Washing-and whare Bills is concarned What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays-fit for any Cityation. Well, what'I says is This-when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with-but not to hurt human kind Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, Thof a X Sherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff-wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot ballsBut thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap-and eating other Peple's grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 445 And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steem has ruined (G-d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go atThey won't do for Angell's-nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work-for that 's all BespokeFor the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk Do their own of Themselves-even the bettermost of emaye, and evn them of middling degreesWhy Lauk help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese I Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers-like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamberses-and that's what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have sucked us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washingYou ant, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jeared At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by your next door nayborsLawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They '11 scruntch your Bones some day-I '11 be bound And no more nor be a gudgement-for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing-nor not fit It should, 446 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the CreationAnd cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubsBut I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's BacksAnd let your neighbors oxin an Asses aloneAnd every Thing thats hern-and give every one their Hone I Well, its God for us Al, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis you Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins-and leave the washing to we That nose what 's what-Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some DayWhen the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all, And Cris mass cum-and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm-ChareBesides Miss-Matching Lamed Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew With a vast more like That-and all along of Steem Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeamBut thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 447 For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn-aye, and Moor to your Prays You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways-that's what you might, Or bete Carpets-or get into Parleamint-or drive Crabrolays from morning to night, Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste! (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say-and a very hard pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares, Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt I Yourn with Anymocity, BRIDGET JONE. ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY.' By the North Pole, I do challenge thee 1" LOVx's LABOR'S LOT. PARRY, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the peg On which the world is spun? Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare Writ by the hand of Nature there Where man has never run I Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown Of channels in the Frozen Zone, Or held at Icy Bay, Hast thou still missed the proper track For homeward Indian men that lack A bracing by the way? Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble Of geographic scholar? Or found new ways for ships to shape, Instead of winding round the Cape, A short cut thro' the collar! Hast found the way that sighs were sent to * The Pole-tho' God knows whom they went to! * '; And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole." Eloisa to Abelard. ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 449 That track revealed to PopeOr if the Arctic waters sally, Or terminate in some blind alley, A chilly path to grope? Alas I tho' Ross, in love with snows, Has painted them couleur de rose, It is a dismal doom, As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, "In regions of thick-ribbed ice"All bright-and yet all gloom! 'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit Before the fire and worship it With pecks of Wallsend coals, With feet upon the fender's front, Roasting their corns-like Mr. HuntTo speculate on poles. 'Tis easy for our Naval Board'Tis easy for our Civic Lord Of London and of ease, That lies in ninety feet of down, With fur on his nocturnal gown, To talk of Frozen Seas! 'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit, And babble of Cook's trackHe'd roast the leather off his toes, Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows, To plant a British Jack! Oh, not the proud licentious great, That travel on a carpet skate, 450 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. Can value toils like thine I What 'tis to take a Hecla range, Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, And alpine lumps of brine! But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, Can tell how hard it is to climb The lofty slippery steep. Ah I there are more Snow Hills than that Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, Upon its forehead keep. Perchance thou 'rt now-while I am writingFeeling a bear's wet grinder biting About thy frozen spine! Or thou thyself art eating whale, Oily, and underdone, and stale, That, haply, crossed thy line! But I '11 not dream such dreams of illRather will I believe thee still Safe cellared in the snowReciting many a gallant story, Of British kings and British glory, To crony EsquimauxCheering that dismal game where Night Makes one slow move from black to white Thro' all the tedious yearOr smitten by some fond frost fair, That combed out crystals from her hair, Wooing a seal-skin Dear! So much a long communion tends, As Byron says, to make us friends ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 451' With what we daily viewGod knows the daintiest taste may come To love a nose that's like a plum In marble, cold and blue I To dote on hair, an oily fleece! As tho' it hung from Helen o' GreeceThey say that love prevails Ev'n in the veriest polar landAnd surely she may steal thy hand That used to steal thy nails! But ah, ere thou art fixt to marry, And take a polar Mrs. Parry, Think of a six months' gloomThink of the wintry waste, and hers, Each furnished with a dozen furs, Think of thine icy dome! Think of the children born to blubber! Ah me! hast thou an Indian rubber Inside!-to hold a meal For months-about a stone and half Of whale, and part of a sea calfA fillet of salt veal!Some walrus ham-no trifle but A decent steak-a solid cut Of seal-no wafer slice! A reindeer's tongue and drink beside! Gallons of Sperm-not rectified I And pails of water-ice! Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus? Still come away, and teach to us 452 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. Those blessed alternationsTo-day to run our dinners fine, To feed on air and then to dine With Civic CorporationsTo save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, And then to take a half year's filling In P. N.'s pious RowWhen asked to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, Thro' something we have worn our pens on For Longman and his Co. 0 come and tell us what the Pole isWhether it singular and sole isOr straight, or crooked bentIf very thick or very thinMade of what wood-and if akin To those there be in Kent. There's Combe, there 's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talked of poles-yet, after all, What has the public learned? And Hunt's account must still deferHe sought the poll at WestminsterAnd is not yet returned! Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, Is played in snow-storms near the Pole, And how the fur-man deals? And Eldon doubts if it be true, That icy Chancellors really do Exist upon the seals! Barrow, by well-fed office grates, Talks of his own bechristened Straits, ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 458 And longs that he were there; And Croker, in his cabriolet, Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, And pants to cross the mer! O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light On questions such as these:Whether, when this drowned world was lost, The surflux waves were locked in frost, And turned to Icy Seas! Is Trsa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack Their neighbors-and what for? Whether they ever play at cufs, And then, if they take off their muffs In pugilistic war? Tell us, is Winter champion there, As in our milder fighting air? Say, what are Chilly loans? What cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts gets ossified From eating bread of bones? Whether they are such dwarfs-the quicker To circulate the vital liquorAnd then, from head to heelHow short the Methodists must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose Their toes in spite of zeal? Whether 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a climate 454 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls-or that old function Of seals-with the extreme of unctionBespeaks them for the Pope? Whether the lamps will e'er be " learned" Where six months' " midnight oil" is burned, Or Letters must defer With people that have never conned An A, B, C, but live beyond The Sound of Lancaster! O come away at any rateWell hast thou earned a downier stateWith all thy hardy peersGood lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock, After such frosty years. Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast passed, However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that Brest Harbor, Woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more. ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE, THE GREAT LESSEE I ' Do you know, you villain, that I am at this moment the greatest man living?" WILD OA% OH! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane I Macready's master I Westminster's high Dane i (As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls I) Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring! Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring! Drury's Aladdin! Whipper-in of Actors! Kicker of rebel-preface-malefactors! Glass-blowers' corrector 1 King of the cheque-taker I At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker I Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and Cakes I In silken hose the most reformed of Rakes! Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear! (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) While I, in little slips of prose, not verse, Thy splendid course, as pattern-worker, rehearse! Bright was thy youth-thy manhood brighter stillThe greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill 456 ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. Lightest comedian of the pleasant day, When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play! When fair Thalia held a merry reign, And Wit was at her Court in Drury Lane! Before the day when Authors wrote, of course, The " Entertainment not for Man but Horse." Yet these, though happy, were but subject times, And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbsFar from my wish it is to stifle down The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown I Tho' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields, Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields. Dibdin was Premier-and a golden age For a short time enriched the subject stage. Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty; Ours but one Bench could boast, whilst thou hadst twenty; But the times changed-and Booth-acting no more Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery-door. Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, Repentant, like thy neighbor Magdalens! Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat Practised, the most bewitching in Wych Street. Rochester there in dirty ways again Revelled-and lived once more in Drury Lane: But thou, R. W.! kept'st thy moral ways, Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays, A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys That soiled the benches and that made a noise:Rebuking-Half a Robert, Half a CharlesThe well-billed Man that called for promised Caries; " Sir!-Have you yet to know! Hush-hear me out! A Man-pray silence!-may be down with gout, ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 457 Or want-or Sir-aw l-listen!-may be fated, Being in debt, to be incarcerated I You-in the back!-can scarcely hear a line I Down from those benches-butchers-they are mine!" Lastly-and thou wert built for it by nature ICrowned was thy head in Drury Lane Theatre I Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, And Renters clucked around thee in a brood. King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean I Of many a lady and of many a Quean I With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begunBut now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun, Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out I Oh, worthy of the house I the King's commission I Is n't thy condition "a most blessed condition?" Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all, The very lofty and the very smallShowest the plumbless Bunn the way to kickKeepest a Williams for thy veriest stickSeest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, Without the danger of newspaper commentsTellest Macready, as none dared before, Thine open mind from the half-open door!(Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown, To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know, And callest to them, to a moment-" Go!" Teachest the sapient Sapio how to singHangest a cat most oddly by the wing20 458 ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. (To prove, no doubt, the endless free list ended, And all, except the public press, suspended) Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot-and kissed The pearly whiteness of a Stephens' wristKissing and pitying-tender and humane! " By Heaven she loves me I Oh, it is too plain I" A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips, Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips! Go on, Lessee I Go on, and prosper well! Fear not, though forty Glass-blowers should rebelShow them how thou hast long befriended them, And teach Dubois their treason to condemn! Go on I addressing pits in prose and worse I Be long, be slow, be any thing but terseKiss to the gallery the hand that's glovedMake Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved, Ask the two shilling Gods for leave to dun With words the cheaper Deities in the One! Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene, Cane Williams still, and stick to Mr. Kean, Warn from the benches all the rabble rout; Say, those are mine —' In parliament, or out!" Swing cats-for in thy house there's surely spaceOh Beasley, for such pastime, planned the place I Do any thing!-Thy fame, thy fortune, nourish I Laugh and grow fat I be eloquent, and flourish! Go on-and but in this reverse the thing, Walk backward with wax lights before the KingGo on I Spring ever in thine eye! Go on! Hope's favorite child! ethereal Elliston I ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON,1 ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE. "It was Maria IAnd better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbidShe had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Pe ter's once-and returned back-" See the whole Story, in euSne and te iTew8paper& THOU art come back again to the stage, Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it; And 'tis well for this fortunate age That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it! It is pleasant to see thee againRight pleasant to see thee, by Hercle, Unmolested by pea-colored Hayne! And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley I Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light (Not my Foote-I speak by correction) As the snow on some mountain at night, Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. The pit is in raptures to free thee, The Boxes impatient to greet thee, The Galleries quite clam'rous to see thee, And thy scenic relations to meet thee! 460 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. Ah, where was thy sacred retreat? Maria! ah, where hast thou been, With thy two little wandering Feet, Far away from all peace and pea-green I Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold, Far away from himself and his lot! I envy the place thou hast strolled, If a stroller thou art-which thou 'rt not! Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, Methinks, at the close of the dayWhen thy Billy had just slipped his string, And thy little dog quite gone astrayHe bade thee to sorrow no moreHe wished thee to lull thy distress In his bosom-he could n't do more, And a Christian could hardly do less! Ah, me! for thy small plaintive pipe, I fear we must look at thine eyeI would it were my task to wipe That hazel orb thoroughly dry I Oh sure 'tis a barbarous deed To give pain to the feminine mindBut the wooer that left thee to bleed Was a creature more killing than kind i The man that could tread on a worm Were a brute —and inhuman to boot; But he merits a much harsher term That can wantonly tread on a Foote! Soft mercy and gentleness blend To make up a Quaker-but he That spurned thee could scarce be a Friend, Tho' he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee! -4 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 461 They that loved thee, Maria, have flown I The friends of the midsummer hour I But those friends now in anguish atone, And mourn o'er thy desolate bower. Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out, Yea, utterly out of his bias; And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt, Is counting his Ave Marias I Ah, where wert thou driven away, To feast on thy desolate woe? We have witnessed thy weeping in play, But none saw the earnest tears flowPerchance thou wert truly forlornTho' none but the fairies could mark Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn, Or the thistles in Burderop Park I Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow Has silvered the crown of Hayne's nobFor even the greenest will grow As hoary as " Whiteheaded Bob"He '11 wish, in the days of his prime, He had been rather kinder to one He hath left to the malice of TimeA woman-so weak and undone! ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D." AUTHOR OF THE COOK'S ORACLE-OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC —THB ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE-PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES-THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER-AND THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL. "I rule the roast, as Milton says '" —CALB QuOTaM. OH I multifarious man 1 Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton I Born to enlighten The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, CookingMaster of the Piano-and the PanAs busy with the kitchen as the skies! Now looking At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyesOr boiling eggs-timed to a metronomeAs much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglassIn the art of frying brown —as a digression On music and poetical expressionWhereas, how few of all our cooks, alas! Could tell Calliope from " Calliopec I" How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, However cook's synonymous with Kater!* 0 Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor. ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 468 Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving knife beside the tuning-fork, Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work! Oh, to behold thy features in thy book! Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, How it would look! With one raised eye watching the dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast downThy chops-done nicely brownThe garnished brow-with " a few leaves of bay"The hair-" done Wiggy's way I" And still one studious finger near thy brains, As if thou wert just come From editing some New soup-or hashing Dibdin's cold remains! Or, Orpheus-like-fresh from thy dying strains Of music-Epping luxuries of sound, As Milton says, in many a bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out," Whilst all thy tame stuffed leopards listened round I Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune-on the jack-thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye 1) Scanning our kitchen and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fryNay, so it is-hear how Miss Paton's throat Makes " fritters" of a note I And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn 464 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit Receptacles for wit? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minced brains into a Tart? Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram herReceipts to be devoured, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbreadThe Kitchen's Eaten Grammar! Oh, very pleasant is thy motley pageAy, very pleasant in its chatty veinSo-in a kitchen-would have talked Montaigne, That merry Gascon-humorist, and sage! Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal PopeOr Haydon on perpetual Haydon- or Hume on "Twice three make four," Or Lovelass upon Wills-Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson I Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuffed with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans-old Songs-Pills-Spectacles-and Spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range! Thy grasp a miracle!-till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy varietyThou art, of course, th' Epitome of all That spying-frying-singing-mixed Society ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 465 Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welch Rabbits-and thyself-in Warren Street Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed-and fed? There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian deadAnd gentle Poki-and that Royal Pair, Of whom thou didst declare"Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever readThey were-what Sandwiches should be-half bred!" There famed M'Adam from his manual toil Relaxed-and freely owned he took thy hints On "making Broth with Flints"There Parry came, and showed thee polar oil For melted butter-Combe with his medullary Notions about the Skullery, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broilThere witty Rogers came, that punning elf Who used to swear thy book Would really look A Delphic " Oracle," if laid on Def — There, once a month, came Campbell and discussed His own-and thy own-" Magazine of Taste"There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he traced Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, That "do not break their yolks,"Which huffed him home, in grave disgust and haste! There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy Patties-thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who called thee " Kitchen Addison"-for why? 20* 466 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, " Teaching its how to live and how to die!" There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. FryThere Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on His sine Quay nonThere Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and deathAnswered by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre" And yet (as thou would'st add), the French have seen A Marshal Tureen!" Great was thy Evening Cluster I-often graced With Dollond-Burgess-and Sir Humphry Davy! 'T was there M'Dermot first inclined to TasteThere Colburn learned the art of making paste For puffs-and Accum analyzed a gravy, Colman-the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said Came there-and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)-Kater, too, the Moon's Crony-and Graham, lofty on balloonsThere Croly stalked with holy humor heated, Who wrote a light horse play, which Yates completedAnd Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoonsMadame Valbreque thrice honored thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddleThe Dibdins-Tom, Charles, Frognall-came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns ' And even Irving spared a night from fame 467 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. And talked-till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round Tewah-diddle! * Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! So let them:-thou thyself art still a Host! Dibdin-Cornaro-Newton-Mrs. Fry Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec I-Lovelass-and Weber, Matthews in Quot'em-Moore's fire-worshipping GheberThrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engrossed! Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarlingAnd ease the bosom pangs of indigestion I Thou art, sans question, The Corporation's love-its Doctor Darling! Look at the Civic Palate-nay, the Bed Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying "Illustrations of Lying!" Ninety square feet of down from heel to head It measured, and I dread Was haunted by that terrible night Mare, A monstrous burthen on the corporation!Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score-Oxen by droves, Geese, turkeys, by the flock-fishes and loaves Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration I Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast(His honor seemed to rest!-) And what is thy reward?-Hath London given * The Doctor's composition for a night-cap. 468 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!Yet could I speak as Orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council, (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week, Richly engrossed on vellum:-Reason urges That he who rules our cookery —that he Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess! AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND JOHN IRELAND, D. D OHARTL FYNES CLINTON, LILD. WM. H. EDWARD BENTINC, M.A. THOMAS CAIUTON, D.D. JAMES WEBBEB, B.D. HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, MA. WILLIAM SHORT, D.D JOSEPH ALLEN, M.A. JAMES TOURNAY, D.D. LORD HENRY FITZROY, M.A. ANDREW BELL, D.D. THE BISHOP OF EXETR. GEORGE HOLOOMBE, D.D. THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER." "Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough." CITIZEN OF THr WOBLN, OH, very reverend Dean and Chapter, Exhibitors of giant men, Hail to each surplice-backed Adapter Of England's dead, in her Stone den! Ye teach us properly to prize Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, And, to throw light upon our eyes, Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles. Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file, Call in your shillings, two and two; March with them up the middle aisle, And cloister them from public view. Yours surely are the dusty dead, Gladly ye look from bust to bust, Setting a price on each great head, To make it come, down with the dust. 470 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER Oh, as I see you walk along In ample sleeves and ample back A pursy and well-ordered throng, Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black I In vain I strive me to be dumbYou keep each bard like fatted kid, Grind bones for bread like Fee faw fum I And drink from sculls as Byron did I The profitable Abbey is A sacred 'Change for stony stock, Not that a speculation 'tisThe profit's founded on a rock. Death, Dean, and Doctors, in each nave Bony investments have inurnedI And hard 't would be to find a grave From which " no money is returned 1" Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought By reverence for those learned bones, Shall often come and walk your short Two-shilling* fare upon the stones.Ye have.that talisman of Wealth, Which puddling chemists sought of old, Till ruined out of hope and health;The Tomb 's the stone that turns to gold I Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat Your dinners from your own dead race, Think Gray, preserved, a " funeral meat," And Dryden, deviled, after grace, * Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland. and those in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English People to know, that while butchers' meat is rising, tombs are falling. OF WESTMINSTER. 471 A relish;-and you take your meal From Rare Ben Jonson underdone, Or, whet your holy knives on Steele, To cut away at Addison I Oh say, of all this famous age, Whose learned bones your hopes expect, Oh have ye numbered Rydal's sage, Or Moore among your Ghosts elect? Lord Byron was not doomed to make You richer by his final sleepWhy don't ye warn the Great to take Their ashes to no other heap? Southey's reversion have ye got? With Coleridge, for his body, made A bargain?-has Sir Walter Scott, Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade? Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold His features for your marble shows, Or Campbell bartered, ere he's cold, All interest in his " bone repose?" Rare is your show, ye righteous men! Priestly Politos-rare, I ween But should ye not outside the Den Paint up what in it may be seen? A long green Shakspeare, with a deer Grasped in the many folds it died inA Butler stuffed from ear to ear, Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dry-den I Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap, A Giant of some inches high; 472 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER Paint Handel up, that organ chap, With you, as grinders, in his eye; Depict some plaintive antique thing, And say th' original may be seen;Blind Milton with a dog and string May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green I Put up in Poet's Corner, near The little door, a platform small; Get there a monkey-never fear, You '11 catch the gapers one and all! Stand each of ye a Body Guard, A Trumpet under either fin, And yell away in Palace Yard "AlldeadI Alldead! Walk in! Walk lil" (But when the people are inside, Their money paid-I pray you, bid The keepers not to mount and ride A race around each coffin lid.Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought last year, That it was hard-the woman clacksTo have so little in her earAnd be so hurried through the Wax!-) " Walk in! two shillings only I come! Be not by country grumblers funked!Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb! The Cheapest House for the defunct!" Write up, 't will breed some just reflection, And every rude surmise 't will stopWrite up, that you have no connexion (In large)-with any other shop I OF WESTMINSTER 473 And still, to catch the Clowns the more, With samples of your shows in Wax, Set some old Harry near the door To answer queries with his axe.Put up some general begging-trunkSince the last broke by some mishap, You've all a bit of General Monk, From the respect you bore his Cap I ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ.," SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDICITY. "This is your charge-you shall comprehend all vagrom men."MuoH ADO ABOrT NOTHING. HAIL, King of Shreds and Patches, hail, Disperser of the Poor! Thou Dog in office, set to bark All beggars from the door I Great overseer of overseers, And Dealer in old rags I Thy public duty never fails, Thy ardor never flags! Oh, when I take my walks abroad, How many Poor I miss! Had Doctor Watts walked now-a-days He would have written this! So well thy Vagrant catchers prowl, So clear thy caution keeps The path-0, Bodkin, sure thou hast The eye that never sleeps! ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. No Belisarius pleads for alms, No Benbow lacketh legs; The pious man in black is now The only man that begs I Street-Handels are disorganized, Disbanded every band 1 -The silent scraper at the door Is scarce allowed to stand I The Sweeper brushes with his broom, The Carstairs with his chalk Retires-the Cripple leaves his stand, But cannot sell his walk. The old Wall-blind resigns the wall, The Camels hide their humps, The Witherington without a leg May n't beg upon his stumps! Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff His battered tattered hat, And show his dangling sleeve, alas I There seemed no arm in that I Oh I it was such a sin to air His true blue naval rags, Glory's own trophy, like St. Paul, Hung round with holy flags! Thou knowest best. I meditate, My Bodkin, no offence! Let us, henceforth, but guard our pounds, Thou dost protect our pence! 475 476 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. Well art thou pointed 'gainst the Poor, For, when the Beggar Crew Bring their petitions, thou art paid, Of course, to " run them through." Doubtless thou art what Hamlet meant To wretches the last friend: What ills can mortals have, they can't " With a bare Bodkin" end? I NOTE S4 90 A NOTES. (1.) ODES AND ADDRESSES. HOOD tells us, in his Literary Reminiscences, that on the publication of the Odes and Addresses, presentation copies were sent to Mr. Canning and Sir Walter Scott. " The minister," he adds, "took no notice of the little volume; but the novelist did, in his usual kind manner. An eccentric friend, in writing to me, once made a number of colons, semi. colons, &c., at the bottom of the paper, adding: 'And these are my points that I place at the foot That you may put stops that I can't stop to put.' It will surprise no one to observe that the author of Waverley had as little leisure for punctuation." " SIR WALTER SCOTT has to make thankful acknowledgments for the copy of the Odes to Great People with which he was favored and more particularly for the amusement he has received from the perusal. He wishes the unknown author good health good fortune and whatever Other good things can best support and encourage his lively vein of inoffensive and humorous satire "Abbotsford Melroae 4th May" COLERIDGE also was favorably impressed with the Odes, and of his second meeting with Hood at Colebrooke, the following anecdote is related. The author of Ch-istabel was attended by one of his sons, and made some remark which drew from the lad (who had not been introduced to Hood) the remark-" Ah I that's just like your crying up those foolish Odes and Addresses!" " Coleridge" (Hood adds) "was highly amused with this mal-dpropos, and without explaining, looked slyly 480 NOTES. around at me with the sort of suppressed laugh one may suppose to belong to the Bey of Tittery. The truth was, he felt naturally partial to a book he had attributed in the first instance to the dearest of his friends, as appears from the following letter to Lamb." " MY DEAR CHARLES:-This afternoon, a little, thin, mean-looking sort of a foolscap, sub-octavo of poems, printed on very dingy outsides, lay on the table, which the cover informed me was circulating in our book-club, so very Grub Streetish in all its appearance, internal as well as external, that I cannot explain by what accident of impulse (assuredly there was no motive in play) I came to look into it. Least of all, the title, Odes and Addresses to Great Men, which connected itself in my head with Rejected Addresses, and all the Smith and Theodore Hook squad. But, my dear Charles, it was certainly written by you, or under you, or una cum you. I know none of your frequent visitors capacious and assimilative enough of your converse to have reproduced you so honestly, supposing you had left yourself in pledge in his lock-up house. Gillman, to whom I read the spirited parody on the introduction to Peter Bell, the Ode to the Great Unknown, and to Mrs. Fry; he speaks doubtfully of Reynolds and Hood. But here come Irving and Basil Montagu. "Thursday night, 10 o'clock.-No! Charles, it is you. I have read them over again, and I understand why you have anon'd the book. The puns are nine in ten good-many excellent-the Newgatory transcendent. And then the exemplum sine exemplo of a volume of personalities and contemporaneities, without a single line that could inflict the infinitesimal of an unpleasance on any man in his senses; saving and except perhaps in the envy-addled brain of the despiser of your Lays. If not a triumph over him, it is at least an ovation. Then, moreover, and besides, to speak with becoming modesty, excepting my own self, who is there but you who could write the musical lines and stanzas that are intermixed? " Here Gillman, come up to my garret, and driven back by the guardian spirits of four huge flower-holders of omnigenous roses and honeysuckles-(Lord have mercy on his hysterical olfactories! what will he do in Paradise? I must have a pair or two of nostril-plugs, or nosegoggles, laid in his coffin)-stands at the door, reading that to M'Adam, and the washerwoman's letter, and he admits the facts. You are found in the manner, as the lawyers say I so, Mr. Charles! hang yourself up, NOTES. 481 and send me a line, by way of token and acknowledgment. My dear love to Mary. God bless you and your Unshamabramizer, S. T. COLERIDGE." It may be mentioned here, that instead of feeling " the infinitesimal of an unpleasance" at being Addressed in the Odes the once celebrated Mr. Hunt presented to the Authors a bottle of his best " Permanent Ink," and the eccentric Doctor Kitchener sent an invitation to dinner. (2.) ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. Mr. M'Adam was the inventor of a new mode of paving streets, which caused in its day more newspaper discussion than the Russ pavement in ours. We copy an amusing paragraph on this subject from the John Bull: " We perceive a strong disposition in certain quarters to run down the system of Macadamization; and we think when its demerits are pro perly pointed out and enumerated, there will be no opinion but one on the matter. In the first place, it appears quite clear that Macadamized streets will not keep dry in wet weather; this is a fact for which we were hardly prepared. In the second place, if incessant rain for nearly three months pours down in torrents upon the coat before the substratum has time to settle, it seems the materials subsequently deposited upon that substratum will not bind-but on the contrary, form a disagreeable mud, unlike in its color and appearance that beautiful black mud in which the paved streets of London are so happily fertile. But in the third place, we discover that those streets which ' never dry' will (when they do) become so dusty as to powder the heads of lounging dandies, cover the furniture of adjacent houses, and not only put out the eyes of the passengers, but absolutely ruin Lundy Foot's trade in Irish snuff, by filling the noses of the cockneys gratis, with a mixture strongly resembling that popular article in color, flavor, and pungency. " With respect to the quietude, some of the wags in the city say that Mr. M'Adam has falsified his own name in the process of producing it. ( For how,' says Mr. Alderman Thorpe,' can this man call himself LOUDEN Macadam, when his object avowedly is to do away a noise?"' For these reasons and others equally cogent, the John Bull declares that it had quitted the MACADAMITES and joined the PREADAMITES, " who richly deserve the name, for their rigid adherence to primeval notions and obsolete doctrines upon this particular subject." This mode of constructing roads has not been adopted to much extent 482 NOTES. in the United States, but still prevails in England. A recent traveller says that Lord Street and some of the finest thoroughfares of Liverpool, are splendid specimens of Macadamization, and that during a fortnight's time he had not seen dust or mud on any of them. (3.) ODE TO MRS. FRY. The address to Mrs. Fry is happily conceived, and justly exposes the folly of compelling persons to qualify themselves for the Refuge for the Destitute, and similar charities, by being committed to prison for crime. The ode advocates prevention as superior to cure in its advantages.John Bull. (4.) ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE. Mr. Martin distinguished himself by his exertions in Parliament for the passage of a billto prevent cruelty to animals. Hook said that the only persons dissenting from the general approbation he met with were bullock-drivers, hackney coachmen, bull-baiters, dog-fighters, and Gentlemen of the Opposition. Lord Erskine was the originator of the measure, which was merely revived by the kind-hearted member for Galway. (5.) ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE, the Champion of England. The following extract from a description of the Coronation of George IV., from the London Magazine for August, 1821, will serve as an explanation of this Address: 1' At the end of this course the gates of the Hall were again thrown open, and a noble flourish of trumpets announced to all eager hearts that the CHIMPION was about to enter. He advanced under the gateway, on a fine piebald charger (an ill color), and clad in complete steel. The plumes on his head were tri-colored, and extremely magnificent; and he bore in his hand the loose steel gauntlet, ready for the challenge. The Duke of Wellington was on his right hand, the Marquis of Anglesea on his left. When he had come within the limits of the Hall, he was about to throw down his glove at once, so eager was he for the fray, but the Herald distinctly said,' Wait till I have read the challenge,' and read it accordingly, the Champion husbanding his valor for a few minutes: "' If any person, of what degree soever, high or low, shall deny or gainsay our Sovereign Lord King George the Fourth of the United NOTES. 4E6 Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, son and next heir to our Sovereign Lord King George the Third, the last King deceased, to be right heir to the Imperial crown of the United Kingdom, or that he ought not to enjoy the same, here is his Champion who saith that he lieth, and is a false traitor; being ready in person to combat with him, and in this quarrel will adventure his life against him on what day soever he shall be appointed.' " At the conclusion of this awful challenge, the Champion hurled down his gauntlet, which fell with a solemn clash upon the floor. It rang in most hearts! He then stuck his wrist against his steeled side, as though to show how indifferent he was to the consequence of his challenge. This certainly had a very pleasing and gallant effect. The Herald, in a few seconds, took up the glove, delivered it to the squire, who kissed it and handed it to the Champion. In the middle of the Hall the same ceremony was performed; and at the foot of the royal platform, it was a third time gone through. The King then drank his health, and methinks with real pleasure, for the Champion had right gallantly conducted himself. His Majesty then sent the cup to him; and he, taking it, drank to the King, but in so low a tone that I could only catch the meaning by the tumultuous shouts of the people. The noise seemed to awaken the courage of his horse, but he mastered his steed admirably. The ceremony of backing out of the Hall was then again performed, and successfully, with the exception of the Marquis of Anglesea's Arabian, whose doubts were not yet satisfied, and he was literally shown out by the pages." In Hall's Account of the Coronation of Henry VIII. and Katherine of Arragon, it is mentioned that Sir Henry Dimmoke appeared as "Champion of the King by tenour of his inheritance." The office seems to have remained in the Dimmoke family till the time of our author. The germ of this address is in an ode which we find in the London Magazine of September, 1821, and which is worth preserving. THE CHAMPION'S FAREWELL. Otium cum Dignitate. Here! bring me my breeches, my armor is over; Farewell for some time to my tin pantaloons; Double-milled kerseymere is a kind of leg clover, Good luck to broad cloth for a score or two moons I 484 lNOTES. Here! hang up my helmet, and reach me my beaver, This avoirdupois weight of glory must fall; I think on my life that again I shall never Take my head in a sauce-pan to Westminster Hall. Oh, why was my family born to be martial? 'Tis a mercy this grand show-off-fight-day is up! I do not think Cato was much over-partial To back through the dishes, with me and my cup. By the blood of the Dymokes, I'll sit in my lodgings, And the gauntlet resign for " neat gentleman's doe;" If I ride I will ride, and no longer be dodging My horse's own tail 'twixt Duke, Marquis & Co. No more at my horsemanship folks shall make merry, For I'll ship man and horse, and " show off" not on shore; No funnies for me! I will ride in a wherry; They feathered my skull, but I'll feather my oar. So, Thomas, take Cato and put on his halter, And give him some beans, since I now am at peace; If a Champion is wanted, pray go to Sir Walter, And he'll let you out Marmions at sovereigns apiece. The ladies admired the piebald nag vastly, And clapped his old sober-sides into the street; Here's a cheque upon Child, so, my man, go to Astley, Pay the charge of a charger. and take a receipt. (6.) ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. Grimaldi, the King of Clowns, resigned the sovereignty of panto mime in July, 1828, and took leave of the public at Drury Lane. Illness, induced by over-exertion in his fun, was the cause of his retreat. He was only in his 48th year. The house was crowded to the roof. A gentleman who was present on the occasion informs us that after having gone through some of the most surprising feats of agility ever witnessed, when Grimaldi appeared in citizen's dress before the curtain, to make his acknowledgments, he was so exhausted and enfeebled as to be hardly able to stand. In a prose sketch, Hood has given an account of his last interview with Grimaldi. NOTES. 485 Quick, " one of the old actors," says a foot-note to the author's edition, " is still a performer (but in private) of Old Rapid," (1826.) As Macklin, when he was eighty years of age, played Iago, it may well be that this performer in private of Old Rapid, in 1826, was the same Quick who more than half a century before played the Post Boy in Goldsmith's comedy of the Good-Natured Man, and Tony Lumpkin in She Stoops to Conquer, on its first night. Goldsmith was so much pleased with his success in the latter character, that he adapted a farce from the French, and permitted it to be played with his name for Quick's benefit before the season closed. (7.) ODE TO SYLVANUS URBAN. The Ode to Sylvanus Urban contains more humor and less quibbling than any other portion of the book, and surprises us that a man able to write as the following quaint verses are written, should let his fancy run riot, and have recourse to the worst of all apologies for wit —punning. Even in this, the fatal propensity here and there appears, but much subdued; we presume by the seriousness of the subject.-John Bull. (8.) ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. The Patent Steam Washing Company, established at Phipps' Bridge, Merton, Surrey, proved, by "actual experiment," at the Company's works, that " nothing less powerful than action by steam will extract from linen all its impurities." Further experiment, we believe, has demonstrated that " washing by hand " will answer all practical purposes, or washerwomen would long since have been abolished. (9.) ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. Captain W. E. Parry sailed from London in the Hecla, accompanied by the Fury, on his third voyage of discovery to the North Pole, on the 9th of May, 1824. It was the least successful of his strenuous and meritorious efforts to effect a northwest passage from the Atlantic to' the Pacific, and left it precisely where it was at the conclusion of his first voyage. The British Government had offered a reward of five thousand pounds sterling to the first vessel that should approach within one degree of the North Pole; but no one yet has " stood on the pivot on which this globe of ours turns, and hoisted the British flag on the most remarkable point on the earth's surface." This has been a favorite enterprise of bold navigators from the time of Sir Martin Frobisher, who replied to his friend, when seeking to dissuade him from the at 486 NOTES. tempt-" It is the only thing in the world that is left yet undone, whereby a notable mind might be made famous and fortunate." (10.) ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. The allusions in this Address may be explained, by stating that in December, 1824, an action was brought by Miss Foote, the celebrated actress, against Mr. Hayne, a gentleman of fortune, for a breach of promise of marriage. Distinguished counsel were employed on both sides; among others, the Attorney-General for the plaintiff, and Brougham and Scarlett for the defendant. It was proved on the trial that she had lived for five years under the protection of Colonel Berkeley, who had seduced her under a promise of marriage, and by whom she had two children. It was also proved that the Colonel communicated these facts to Mr. Hayne, and that the proposed marriage was broken off in consequence. Subsequently, however, Mr. Hayne renewed his attentions and his promise of marriage, which he refused to fulfil. A verdict was found for the plaintiff. Damages, ~3,000. Miss Foote in April, 1831, became the Countess of Harrington. (11.) ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. In the London Magazine for October, 1821, is a review of the Cook's Oracle, which was doubtless from Hood's pen. In the November number of the same work is the first conception of the Ode in the text. ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. Ye Muses nine inspire, And stir up my poetic fire; Teach my burning soul to speak With a bubble and a squeak! Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing, Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring. O culinary Sage! (I do not mean the herb in use, That always goes along with goose,) How have I feasted on thy page! "When like a lobster boiled the morn From black to red began to turn," Till midnight, when I went to bed, And clapped my tewah-diddle* on my head. * The Doctor's composition for a night-cap. NOTES. 487 Who is there cannot tell Thou lead'st a life of living well? "What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy Fryer?" In doing well thou must be reckon'd The first, and Mrs. Fry the second; And twice a Job-for in thy feverish toils, Thou wast all over roasts, as well as boils. Thou wast indeed no dunce, To treat thy subjects and thyself at once. Many a hungry poet eats His brains like thee, But few there be Could live so long on their receipts. What living soul or sinner Would slight thy invitation to a dinner, Ought with the Danaides to dwell, Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear For ever in his ear The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell. Immortal Kitchener I thy fame Shall keep itself when Time makes game Of other men's. Yea, it shall keep all weathers, And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen-feathers. Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly, Thy name shall perish never, But be magnified for ever, By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly I Yea, till the world is done To a turn, and Time puts out the Sun, Shall live the endless echo of thy name. But as for thy more fleshy frame, Oh, Death's carnivorous teeth will tittle Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold victual But still thy fame shall be among the nations Preserved to the last course of generations. 488 NOTES. Ah, me! my soul is touched with sorrow To think how flesh must pass away; So mutton that is warm to-day Is cold and turned to hashes on the morrow! Farewell! I would say more, but I.Have other fish to fry. (12.) ADDRESS TO THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. The " very reverend " managers of Westminster Abbey have grown but little more liberal in their notions since this address was written, though they have " reduced the fares." The ashes of CAMPBELL were deposited in the centre of the Poet's Corner in 1844, but many years elapsed before his friends were able to meet the demands of the Dean and Chapter for the admission of his statue. On May-day evening, in 1855, it was erected in the presence of William C. Marshall, the sculptor, and Dr. Beattie, Campbell's biographer and friend. In mentioning this fact, on the authority of a letter of Dr. Beattie, Mr. Willis adds, in a paragraph in the Home Journal: " It will be recollected that not long since we mentioned the delay and difficulty of procuring the admission of this statue to the ' Poet's Corner,' the Dean of Westminster refusing the formal authorization till his sacerdotal fee (of two hundred pounds) was first paid. Dr. Beattie finally saw this fat churchman satisfied, and the statue (the subscriptions for the carving and placing of which Dr. B. had also procured) was then admitted to this sanctuary of England's immortals." (13.) ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. Mr. Bodkin became notorious by an action against the Times newspaper, for a libel touching his relations to the Mendicity Society. Scarlett, for the defence, contended that the Society was mainly promoted by the interference and assiduity of Mr. B., and was kept before the public eye by means of pamphlets, puffs, and anniversary dinners. He compared him to the servant of Don Manuel Dordona, immortalized by Gil Blas, who throve on his master's reputation for charity, by collecting money to be distributed by him among the poor, and putting it in his own pocket. Bodkin collected money from all quarters for the support of the Society, and received ~500 a year for his own services. The jury found a verdict for the plaintiff-30s. damages, and 40s. costs THE END. M N 0. VI THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN DATE DUE %^O - - - - MAY 0,6 1983 a —, lowla 14V J cl I A &IV 1 + 10iTY OP 4~~~~,~~~TY ~ e O,c 4 M YOZS$,' V'ek LjNIVERSITV Of MICHIGAN 3v 905I0911609 +c Nq + + #AV40t 4;;,"', LI, q , llt 0 f + ~ 2 'qj I I& i I I 4'6. I J, Wt1. v I J. p I r t C I. I 41 -1 DO NOT REMOVE OR MUTILATE CARD 'I + V o 4