11979	----	Proofreading Team The Diverting History of John Gilpin One of R. Caldecott's Picture Books 1878 [Illustration: The Diverting History of John Gilpin] [Illustration] ==THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN:== _Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again._ [Illustration: Written by William Cowper with drawings by R. Caldecott.] John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he, Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the 'Bell' at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair. "My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." [Illustration: The Linendraper bold] He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. "I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife. O'erjoyed was he to find. That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. [Illustration] [Illustration] The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad! The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again; For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. [Illustration: The 3 Customers] [Illustration] 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs, "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. [Illustration] But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat. [Illustration] "So, fair and softly!" John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got, Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought, Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both. At last it flew away. [Illustration] Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around; "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!" And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made the horse's flanks to smoke, As they had basted been. [Illustration] But still he seemed to carry weight. With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist. [Illustration] Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. [Illustration] At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house!" They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired;" Said Gilpin--"So am I!" [Illustration] But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?--his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly--which brings me to The middle of my song. [Illustration] Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. [Illustration] The calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall-- Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: "I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. [Illustration] He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit: "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit." [Illustration] "But let me scrape the dirt away, That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine." Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. [Illustration] Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig; He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big. [Illustration] Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the "Bell," "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." [Illustration] The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein. But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. [Illustration] Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear. They raised the hue and cry. "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!'" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-man thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up, He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the King, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad. May I be there to see. [Illustration] [Illustration] Randolph Caldecott's Picture Books "The humour of Randolph Caldecott's drawings is simply irresistible, no healthy-minded man, woman, or child could look at them without laughing." _In square crown 4to, picture covers, with numerous coloured plates._ 1 John Gilpin 2 The House that Jack Built 3 The Babes in the Wood 4 The Mad Dog 5 Three Jovial Huntsmen 6 Sing a Song for Sixpence 7 The Queen of Hearts 8 The Farmer's Boy 9 The Milkmaid 10 Hey-Diddle-Diddle and Baby Bunting 11 A Frog He Would a-Wooing Go 12 The Fox Jumps over the Parson's Gate 13 Come Lasses,and Lads 14 Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross, &c. 15 Mrs. Mary Blaize 16 The Great Panjandrum Himself _The above selections are also issued in Four Volumes, square crown 4to, attractive binding, red edges. Each containing four different books, with their Coloured Pictures and numerous Outline Sketches_ 1 R. Caldecott's Picture Book No. 1 2 R. Caldecott's Picture Book No. 2 3 Hey-Diddle-Diddle-Picture Book 4 The Panjandrum Picture Book _And also_ _In Two Volumes, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each containing eight different books, with their Coloured Pictures, and numerous Outline Sketches._ R. Caldecott's Collection of Pictures and Songs No. 1 R. Caldecott's Collection of Pictures and Songs No. 2 Miniature Editions, _size 5-1/2 by 4-1/2 Art Boards, flat backs_ FOUR VOLUMES ENTITLED R. CALDECOTT'S PICTURE BOOKS NOS. 1, 2, 3 AND 4 _Each containing coloured plates and numerous Outline Sketches in the text._ _Crown 4to picture covers_ Randolph Caldecott's Painting Books. Three Volumes _Each with Outline Pictures to Paint, and Coloured Examples._ _Oblong 4to, cloth._ A Sketch Book of R. Caldecott's. _Containing numerous sketches in Colour and black and white._ LONDON. Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd. & NEW YORK. _The Published Prices of the above Picture Books can be obtained of all Booksellers or from the Illustrated Catalogue of the Publishers_ PRINTED AND COPYRIGHTED BY EDMUND EVANS, LTD., ROSE PLACE, GLOBE ROAD, LONDON, E.1. 
13646	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13646-h.htm or 13646-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13646/13646-h/13646-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13646/13646-h.zip) A BOOK OF NONSENSE by EDWARD LEAR With All the Original Pictures and Verses [Illustration] There was an Old Derry down Derry, who loved to see little folks merry; So he made them a Book, and with laughter they shook At the fun of that Derry down Derry. Original Dedication. TO THE GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN, GRAND-NEPHEWS, AND GRAND-NIECES OF EDWARD, 13TH EARL OF DERBY, THIS BOOK OF DRAWINGS AND VERSES (The greater part of which were originally made and composed for their parents.) Is Dedicated by the Author, EDWARD LEAR. London, 1862. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a nose, Who said, "If you choose to suppose That my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!" That remarkable Man with a nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Person of Smyrna, Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her; But she seized on the Cat, and said, "Granny, burn that! You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man on a hill, Who seldom, if ever, stood still; He ran up and down in his Grandmother's gown, Which adorned that Old Man on a hill. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Chili, Whose conduct was painful and silly; He sate on the stairs, eating apples and pears, That imprudent Old Person of Chili. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a gong, Who bumped at it all the day long; But they called out, "Oh, law! you're a horrid old bore!" So they smashed that Old Man with a gong. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Kilkenny, Who never had more than a penny; He spent all that money in onions and honey, That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Columbia, Who was thirsty, and called out for some beer; But they brought it quite hot, in a small copper pot, Which disgusted that man of Columbia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a Bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" he replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a Bee." [Illustration] There was an Old Lady of Chertsey, Who made a remarkable curtsey; She twirled round and round, till she sank underground, Which distressed all the people of Chertsey. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose chin Resembled the point of a pin; So she had it made sharp, and purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a flute,-- A "sarpint" ran into his boot! But he played day and night, till the "sarpint" took flight, And avoided that Man with a flute. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Portugal, Whose ideas were excessively nautical; She climbed up a tree to examine the sea, But declared she would never leave Portugal. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ischia, Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier; He danced hornpipes and jigs, and ate thousands of figs, That lively Old Person of Ischia [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Vienna, Who lived upon Tincture of Senna; When that did not agree, he took Camomile Tea, That nasty Old Man of Vienna. [Illustraion] There was an Old Man in a boat, Who said, "I'm afloat! I'm afloat!" When they said, "No, you ain't!" he was ready to faint, That unhappy Old Man in a boat. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Buda, Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder, Till at last with a hammer they silenced his clamor. By smashing that Person of Buda. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Moldavia, Who had the most curious behavior; For while he was able, he slept on a table, That funny Old Man of Moldavia. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Hurst, Who drank when he was not athirst; When they said, "You'll grow fatter!" he answered "What matter?" That globular Person of Hurst. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Madras, Who rode on a cream-colored Ass; But the length of its ears so promoted his fears, That it killed that Old Man of Madras. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Dover, Who rushed through a field of blue clover; But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees, So he very soon went back to Dover. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Leeds, Whose head was infested with beads; She sat on a stool and ate gooseberry-fool, Which agreed with that Person of Leeds. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Cadiz, Who was always polite to all ladies; But in handing his daughter, he fell into the water, Which drowned that Old Person of Cadiz. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Isles, Whose face was pervaded with smiles; He sang "High dum diddle," and played on the fiddle, That amiable Man of the Isles. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Basing, Whose presence of mind was amazing; He purchased a steed, which he rode at full speed, And escaped from the people of Basing. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed. [Illustration] There was an Old Person whose habits Induced him to feed upon Rabbits; When he'd eaten eighteen, he turned perfectly green, Upon which he relinquished those habits. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the West, Who wore a pale plum-colored vest; When they said, "Does it fit?" he replied, "Not a bit!" That uneasy Old Man of the West. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Marseilles, Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils: They caught several Fish, which they put in a dish, And sent to their Pa at Marseilles. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Wrekin, Whose shoes made a horrible creaking; But they said, "Tell us whether your shoes are of leather, Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?" [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose nose Was so long that it reached to her toes; So she hired an Old Lady, whose conduct was steady, To carry that wonderful nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Norway, Who casually sat in a doorway; When the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed, "What of that?" This courageous Young Lady of Norway. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Apulia, Whose conduct was very peculiar; He fed twenty sons upon nothing but buns, That whimsical Man of Apulia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Quebec,-- A beetle ran over his neck; But he cried, "With a needle I'll slay you, O beadle!" That angry Old Man of Quebec. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Bute, Who played on a silver-gilt flute; She played several jigs to her Uncle's white Pigs: That amusing Young Lady of Bute. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Philoe, Whose conduct was scroobious and wily; He rushed up a Palm when the weather was calm, And observed all the ruins of Philoe. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a poker, Who painted his face with red ochre. When they said, "You 're a Guy!" he made no reply, But knocked them all down with his poker. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Prague, Who was suddenly seized with the plague; But they gave him some butter, which caused him to mutter, And cured that Old Person of Prague. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Peru, Who watched his wife making a stew; But once, by mistake, in a stove she did bake That unfortunate Man of Peru. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the North, Who fell into a basin of broth; But a laudable cook fished him out with a hook, Which saved that Old Man of the North. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Troy, Whose drink was warm brandy and soy, Which he took with a spoon, by the light of the moon, In sight of the city of Troy. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Mold, Who shrank from sensations of cold; So he purchased some muffs, some furs, and some fluffs, And wrapped himself well from the cold. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Tring, Who embellished his nose with a ring; He gazed at the moon every evening in June, That ecstatic Old Person of Tring. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Nepaul, From his horse had a terrible fall; But, though split quite in two, with some very strong glue They mended that man of Nepaul. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Nile, Who sharpened his nails with a file, Till he cut off his thumbs, and said calmly, "This comes Of sharpening one's nails with a file!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of th' Abruzzi, So blind that he couldn't his foot see; When they said, "That's your toe," he replied, "Is it so?" That doubtful Old Man of th' Abruzzi. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Calcutta, Who perpetually ate bread and butter; Till a great bit of muffin, on which he was stuffing, Choked that horrid Old Man of Calcutta. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Rhodes, Who strongly objected to toads; He paid several cousins to catch them by dozens, That futile Old Person of Rhodes. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the South, Who had an immoderate mouth; But in swallowing a dish that was quite full of Fish, He was choked, that Old Man of the South. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Melrose, Who walked on the tips of his toes; But they said, "It ain't pleasant to see you at present, You stupid Old Man of Melrose." [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Dee, Who was sadly annoyed by a Flea; When he said, "I will scratch it!" they gave him a hatchet, Which grieved that Old Man of the Dee. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Lucca, Whose lovers completely forsook her; She ran up a tree, and said "Fiddle-de-dee!" Which embarrassed the people of Lucca. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Coblenz, The length of whose legs was immense; He went with one prance from Turkey to France, That surprising Old Man of Coblenz. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Bohemia, Whose daughter was christened Euphemia; But one day, to his grief, she married a thief, Which grieved that Old Man of Bohemia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Corfu, Who never knew what he should do; So he rushed up and down, till the sun made him brown, That bewildered Old Man of Corfu. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Vesuvius, Who studied the works of Vitruvius; When the flames burnt his book, to drinking he took, That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Dundee, Who frequented the top of a tree; When disturbed by the Crows, he abruptly arose, And exclaimed, "I'll return to Dundee!" [Illustration] There was an Old Lady whose folly Induced her to sit in a holly; Whereon, by a thorn her dress being torn, She quickly became melancholy. [Illustration] There was an Old Man on some rocks, Who shut his Wife up in a box: When she said, "Let me out," he exclaimed, "Without doubt You will pass all your life in that box." [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Rheims, Who was troubled with horrible dreams; So to keep him awake they fed him with cake, Which amused that Old Person of Rheims. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest that ever was born; But quickly snapt up he was once by a Puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a pew, Whose waistcoat was spotted with blue; But he tore it in pieces, to give to his Nieces, That cheerful Old Man in a pew. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Jamaica, Who suddenly married a Quaker; But she cried out, "Oh, lack! I have married a black!" Which distressed that Old Man of Jamaica. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "How Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile, and continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of that Cow." [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Troy, Whom several large flies did annoy; Some she killed with a thump, some she drowned at the pump, And some she took with her to Troy. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Hull, Who was chased by a virulent Bull; But she seized on a spade, and called out, "Who's afraid?" Which distracted that virulent Bull. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Dutton, Whose head was as small as a button; So to make it look big he purchased a wig, And rapidly rushed about Dutton. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!" When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!" [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Russia, Who screamed so that no one could hush her; Her screams were extreme,--no one heard such a scream As was screamed by that Lady of Russia. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Tyre, Who swept the loud chords of a lyre; At the sound of each sweep she enraptured the deep, And enchanted the city of Tyre. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Bangor, Whose face was distorted with anger; He tore off his boots, and subsisted on roots, That borascible Person of Bangor. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the East, Who gave all his children a feast; But they all ate so much, and their conduct was such, That it killed that Old Man of the East. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Coast, Who placidly sat on a post; But when it was cold he relinquished his hold, And called for some hot buttered toast. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Kamschatka, Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur; His gait and his waddle were held as a model To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Gretna, Who rushed down the crater of Etna; When they said, "Is it hot?" he replied, "No, it's not!" That mendacious Old Person of Gretna. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a beard, Who sat on a Horse when he reared; But they said, "Never mind! you will fall off behind, You propitious Old Man with a beard!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Berlin, Whose form was uncommonly thin; Till he once, by mistake, was mixed up in a cake, So they baked that Old Man of Berlin. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the West, Who never could get any rest; So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin, Which cured that Old Man of the West. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Cheadle Was put in the stocks by the Beadle For stealing some pigs, some coats, and some wigs, That horrible person of Cheadle. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Anerley, Whose conduct was strange and unmannerly; He rushed down the Strand with a Pig in each hand, But returned in the evening to Anerley. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Wales, Who caught a large Fish without scales; When she lifted her hook, she exclaimed, "Only look!" That ecstatic Young Lady of Wales. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Welling, Whose praise all the world was a-telling; She played on the harp, and caught several Carp, That accomplished Young Lady of Welling. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Tartary, Who divided his jugular artery; But he screeched to his Wife, and she said, "Oh, my life! Your death will be felt by all Tartary!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Whitehaven, Who danced a quadrille with a Raven; But they said, "It's absurd to encourage this bird!" So they smashed that Old Man of Whitehaven. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Sweden, Who went by the slow train to Weedon; When they cried, "Weedon Station!" she made no observation, But thought she should go back to Sweden. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Chester, Whom several small children did pester; They threw some large stones, which broke most of his bones, And displeased that Old Person of Chester. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Cape, Who possessed a large Barbary Ape; Till the Ape, one dark night, set the house all alight, Which burned that Old Man of the Cape. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Burton, Whose answers were rather uncertain; When they said, "How d' ye do?" he replied, "Who are you?" That distressing Old Person of Burton. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ems Who casually fell in the Thames; And when he was found, they said he was drowned, That unlucky Old Person of Ems. [Illustration] There was a Young Girl of Majorca, Whose Aunt was a very fast walker; She walked seventy miles, and leaped fifteen stiles, Which astonished that Girl of Majorca. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Poole, Whose soup was excessively cool; So she put it to boil by the aid of some oil, That ingenious Young Lady of Poole. [Illustration] There was an Old Lady of Prague, Whose language was horribly vague; When they said, "Are these caps?" she answered, "Perhaps!" That oracular Lady of Prague. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Parma, Whose conduct grew calmer and calmer: When they said, "Are you dumb?" she merely said, "Hum!" That provoking Young Lady of Parma. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Sparta, Who had twenty-five sons and one "darter;" He fed them on Snails, and weighed them in scales, That wonderful Person of Sparta. [Illustration] There was an Old Man on whose nose Most birds of the air could repose; But they all flew away at the closing of day, Which relieved that Old Man and his nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Turkey, Who wept when the weather was murky; When the day turned out fine, she ceased to repine, That capricious Young Lady of Turkey. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Aôsta Who possessed a large Cow, but he lost her; But they said, "Don't you see she has run up a tree, You invidious Old Man of Aôsta?" [Illustration] There was a Young Person of Crete, Whose toilette was far from complete; She dressed in a sack spickle-speckled with black, That ombliferous Person of Crete. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Clare, Who was madly pursued by a Bear; When she found she was tired, she abruptly expired, That unfortunate Lady of Clare. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Dorking, Who bought a large bonnet for walking; But its color and size so bedazzled her eyes, That she very soon went back to Dorking. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Cape Horn, Who wished he had never been born; So he sat on a Chair till he died of despair, That dolorous Man of Cape Horn. [Illustration] There was an old Person of Cromer, Who stood on one leg to read Homer; When he found he grew stiff, he jumped over the cliff, Which concluded that Person of Cromer. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Hague, Whose ideas were excessively vague; He built a balloon to examine the moon, That deluded Old Man of the Hague. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Spain, Who hated all trouble and pain; So he sate on a chair with his feet in the air, That umbrageous Old Person of Spain. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "Well! Will _nobody_ answer this bell? I have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white, But nobody answers this bell!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man with an Owl, Who continued to bother and howl; He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale, Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a casement, Who held up his hands in amazement; When they said, "Sir, you'll fall!" he replied, "Not at all!" That incipient Old Man in a casement. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ewell, Who chiefly subsisted on gruel; But to make it more nice, he inserted some Mice, Which refreshed that Old Person of Ewell. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Peru. Who never knew what he should do; So he tore off his hair, and behaved like a bear, That intrinsic Old Man of Peru. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard." [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose eyes Were unique as to color and size; When she opened them wide, people all turned aside, And started away in surprise. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Ryde, Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied; She purchased some clogs, and some small spotty Dogs, And frequently walked about Ryde. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose bonnet Came untied when the birds sate upon it; But she said, "I don't care! all the birds in the air Are welcome to sit on my bonnet!" 
13647	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13647-h.htm or 13647-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13647/13647-h/13647-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13647/13647-h.zip) NONSENSE SONG Stories, Botany, and Alphabets by EDWARD LEAR [Illustration] CONTENTS NONSENSE SONGS. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO THE DADDY LONG-LEGS AND THE FLY THE JUMBLIES THE NUTCRACKERS AND THE SUGAR-TONGS CALICO PIE MR. AND MRS. SPIKKY SPARROW THE BROOM, THE SHOVEL, THE POKER, AND THE TONGS THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR NONSENSE STORIES. THE STORY OF THE FOUR LITTLE CHILDREN WHO WENT ROUND THE WORLD THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES OF THE LAKE PIPPLE-POPPLE NONSENSE COOKERY NONSENSE BOTANY NONSENSE ALPHABET, No. 1 " " No. 2 " " No. 3 NONSENSE SONGS. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. [Illustration] I. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" II. Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. [Illustration] THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO. [Illustration] I. Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, "Good gracious! how you hop Over the fields, and the water too, As if you never would stop! My life is a bore in this nasty pond; And I long to go out in the world beyond: I wish I could hop like you," Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. II. "Please give me a ride on your back," Said the Duck to the Kangaroo: "I would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'Quack' The whole of the long day through; And we 'd go the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee, Over the land, and over the sea: Please take me a ride! oh, do!" Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. [Illustration] III. Said the Kangaroo to the Duck, "This requires some little reflection. Perhaps, on the whole, it might bring me luck; And there seems but one objection; Which is, if you'll let me speak so bold, Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold, And would probably give me the roo- Matiz," said the Kangaroo. [Illustration] IV. Said the Duck, "As I sate on the rocks, I have thought over that completely; And I bought four pairs of worsted socks, Which fit my web-feet neatly; And, to keep out the cold, I've bought a cloak; And every day a cigar I'll smoke; All to follow my own dear true Love of a Kangaroo." V. Said the Kangaroo, "I'm ready, All in the moonlight pale; But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady, And quite at the end of my tail." So away they went with a hop and a bound; And they hopped the whole world three times round. And who so happy, oh! who, As the Duck and the Kangaroo? [Illustration] THE DADDY LONG-LEGS AND THE FLY. [Illustration] I. Once Mr. Daddy Long-legs, Dressed in brown and gray, Walked about upon the sands Upon a summer's day: And there among the pebbles, When the wind was rather cold, He met with Mr. Floppy Fly, All dressed in blue and gold; And, as it was too soon to dine, They drank some periwinkle-wine, And played an hour or two, or more, At battlecock and shuttledore. II. Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs To Mr. Floppy Fly, "Why do you never come to court? I wish you 'd tell me why. All gold and shine, in dress so fine, You'd quite delight the court. Why do you never go at all? I really think you _ought_. And, if you went, you'd see such sights! Such rugs and jugs and candle-lights! And, more than all, the king and queen,-- One in red, and one in green." III. "O Mr. Daddy Long-legs!" Said Mr. Floppy Fly, "It's true I never go to court; And I will tell you why. If I had six long legs like yours, At once I'd go to court; But, oh! I can't, because _my_ legs Are so extremely short. And I'm afraid the king and queen (One in red, and one in green) Would say aloud, 'You are not fit, You Fly, to come to court a bit!'" IV. "Oh, Mr. Daddy Long-legs!" Said Mr. Floppy Fly, "I wish you 'd sing one little song, One mumbian melody. You used to sing so awful well In former days gone by; But now you never sing at all: I wish you'd tell me why: For, if you would, the silvery sound Would please the shrimps and cockles round, And all the crabs would gladly come To hear you sing, 'Ah, Hum di Hum!'" V. Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs, "I can never sing again; And, if you wish, I'll tell you why, Although it gives me pain. For years I cannot hum a bit, Or sing the smallest song; And this the dreadful reason is,-- My legs are grown too long! My six long legs, all here and there, Oppress my bosom with despair; And, if I stand or lie or sit, I cannot sing one single bit!" VI. So Mr. Daddy Long-legs And Mr. Floppy Fly Sat down in silence by the sea, And gazed upon the sky. They said, "This is a dreadful thing! The world has all gone wrong, Since one has legs too short by half, The other much too long. One never more can go to court, Because his legs have grown too short; The other cannot sing a song, Because his legs have grown too long!" VII. Then Mr. Daddy Long-legs And Mr. Floppy Fly Rushed downward to the foamy sea With one sponge-taneous cry: And there they found a little boat, Whose sails were pink and gray; And off they sailed among the waves, Far and far away: They sailed across the silent main, And reached the great Gromboolian Plain; And there they play forevermore At battlecock and shuttledore. [Illustration] THE JUMBLIES. [Illustration] I. They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. II. They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. III. The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. IV. And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. V. They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,-- To a land all covered with trees: And they bought an owl, and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. VI. And in twenty years they all came back,-- In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. THE NUTCRACKERS AND THE SUGAR-TONGS. [Illustration] I. The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table; The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side; And the Nutcrackers said, "Don't you wish we were able Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride? Must we drag on this stupid existence forever, So idle and weary, so full of remorse, While every one else takes his pleasure, and never Seems happy unless he is riding a horse? II. "Don't you think we could ride without being instructed, Without any saddle or bridle or spur? Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed, I'm sure that an accident could not occur. Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table, And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse! Shall we try? Shall we go? Do you think we are able?" The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly, "Of course!" III. So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute; The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said "Crack!" The stable was open; the horses were in it: Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back. The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway; The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay; The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway, Screamed out, "They are taking the horses away!" IV. The whole of the household was filled with amazement: The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about; The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement; The Salt-cellar stood on his head with a shout; The Spoons, with a clatter, looked out of the lattice; The Mustard-pot climbed up the gooseberry-pies; The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of veal-patties, And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise. V. The Frying-pan said, "It's an awful delusion!" The Tea-kettle hissed, and grew black in the face; And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race. And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter (Their ponies were cream-colored, speckled with brown), The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after; Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town. VI. They rode through the street, and they rode by the station; They galloped away to the beautiful shore; In silence they rode, and "made no observation," Save this: "We will never go back any more!" And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing, The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say "Crack!" Till, far in the distance their forms disappearing, They faded away; and they never came back! CALICO PIE. [Illustration] I. Calico pie, The little birds fly Down to the calico-tree: Their wings were blue, And they sang "Tilly-loo!" Till away they flew; And they never came back to me! They never came back, They never came back, They never came back to me! II. Calico jam, The little Fish swam Over the Syllabub Sea. He took off his hat To the Sole and the Sprat, And the Willeby-wat: But he never came back to me; He never came back, He never came back, He never came back to me. [Illustration] III. Calico ban, The little Mice ran To be ready in time for tea; Flippity flup, They drank it all up, And danced in the cup: But they never came back to me; They never came back, They never came back, They never came back to me. [Illustration] IV. Calico drum, The Grasshoppers come, The Butterfly, Beetle, and Bee, Over the ground, Around and round, With a hop and a bound; But they never came back, They never came back, They never came back. They never came back to me. [Illustration] MR. AND MRS. SPIKKY SPARROW. [Illustration] I. On a little piece of wood Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood: Mrs. Sparrow sate close by, A-making of an insect-pie For her little children five, In the nest and all alive; Singing with a cheerful smile, To amuse them all the while, "Twikky wikky wikky wee, Wikky bikky twikky tee, Spikky bikky bee!" II. Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said, "Spikky, darling! in my head Many thoughts of trouble come, Like to flies upon a plum. All last night, among the trees, I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze; And thought I, 'It's come to that Because he does not wear a hat!' Chippy wippy sikky tee, Bikky wikky tikky mee, Spikky chippy wee! III. "Not that you are growing old; But the nights are growing cold. No one stays out all night long Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!" Mr. Spikky said, "How kind, Dear, you are, to speak your mind! All your life I wish you luck! You are, you are, a lovely duck! Witchy witchy witchy wee, Twitchy witchy witchy bee, Tikky tikky tee! IV. "I was also sad, and thinking, When one day I saw you winking, And I heard you sniffle-snuffle, And I saw your feathers ruffle: To myself I sadly said, 'She's neuralgia in her head! That dear head has nothing on it! Ought she not to wear a bonnet?' Witchy kitchy kitchy wee, Spikky wikky mikky bee, Chippy wippy chee! V. "Let us both fly up to town: There I'll buy you such a gown! Which, completely in the fashion, You shall tie a sky-blue sash on; And a pair of slippers neat To fit your darling little feet, So that you will look and feel Quite galloobious and genteel. Jikky wikky bikky see, Chicky bikky wikky bee, Twicky witchy wee!" VI. So they both to London went, Alighting on the Monument; Whence they flew down swiftly--pop! Into Moses' wholesale shop: There they bought a hat and bonnet, And a gown with spots upon it, A satin sash of Cloxam blue, And a pair of slippers too. Zikky wikky mikky bee, Witchy witchy mitchy kee, Sikky tikky wee! VII. Then, when so completely dressed, Back they flew, and reached their nest. Their children cried, "O ma and pa! How truly beautiful you are!" Said they, "We trust that cold or pain We shall never feel again; While, perched on tree or house or steeple, We now shall look like other people. Witchy witchy witchy wee, Twikky mikky bikky bee, Zikky sikky tee!" [Illustration] THE BROOM, THE SHOVEL, THE POKER, AND THE TONGS. [Illustration] I. The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and Tongs, They all took a drive in the Park; And they each sang a song, ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! Before they went back in the dark. Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach; Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash; Miss Shovel was dressed all in black (with a brooch); Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash). Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! And they all sang a song. II. "O Shovely so lovely!" the Poker he sang, "You have perfectly conquered my heart. Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song, I will feed you with cold apple-tart. When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound, You enrapture my life with delight, Your nose is so shiny, your head is so round, And your shape is so slender and bright! Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! Ain't you pleased with my song?" III. "Alas! Mrs. Broom," sighed the Tongs in his song, "Oh! is it because I'm so thin, And my legs are so long,--ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong!-- That you don't care about me a pin? Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room, Ah! why don't you heed my complaint? Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom, Because you are covered with paint? Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! You are certainly wrong." IV. Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang, "What nonsense you're singing to-day!" Said the Shovel, "I'll certainly hit you a bang!" Said the Broom, "And I'll sweep you away!" So the coachman drove homeward as fast as he could, Perceiving their anger with pain; But they put on the kettle, and little by little They all became happy again. Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! There's an end of my song. THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR. [Illustration] I. Said the Table to the Chair, "You can hardly be aware How I suffer from the heat And from chilblains on my feet. If we took a little walk, We might have a little talk; Pray let us take the air," Said the Table to the Chair. II. Said the Chair unto the Table, "Now, you _know_ we are not able: How foolishly you talk, When you know we _cannot_ walk!" Said the Table with a sigh, "It can do no harm to try. I've as many legs as you: Why can't we walk on two?" III. So they both went slowly down, And walked about the town With a cheerful bumpy sound As they toddled round and round; And everybody cried, As they hastened to their side, "See! the Table and the Chair Have come out to take the air!" IV. But in going down an alley, To a castle in a valley, They completely lost their way, And wandered all the day; Till, to see them safely back, They paid a Ducky-quack, And a Beetle, and a Mouse, Who took them to their house. [Illustration] V. Then they whispered to each other, "O delightful little brother, What a lovely walk we've taken! Let us dine on beans and bacon." So the Ducky and the leetle Browny-Mousy and the Beetle Dined, and danced upon their heads Till they toddled to their beds. [Illustration] * * * * * NONSENSE STORIES. THE STORY OF THE FOUR LITTLE CHILDREN WHO WENT ROUND THE WORLD. Once upon a time, a long while ago, there were four little people whose names were [Illustration] VIOLET, SLINGSBY, GUY, and LIONEL; and they all thought they should like to see the world. So they bought a large boat to sail quite round the world by sea, and then they were to come back on the other side by land. The boat was painted blue with green spots, and the sail was yellow with red stripes: and, when they set off, they only took a small Cat to steer and look after the boat, besides an elderly Quangle-Wangle, who had to cook the dinner and make the tea; for which purposes they took a large kettle. [Illustration] For the first ten days they sailed on beautifully, and found plenty to eat, as there were lots of fish; and they had only to take them out of the sea with a long spoon, when the Quangle-Wangle instantly cooked them; and the Pussy-Cat was fed with the bones, with which she expressed herself pleased, on the whole: so that all the party were very happy. During the daytime, Violet chiefly occupied herself in putting salt water into a churn; while her three brothers churned it violently, in the hope that it would turn into butter, which it seldom if ever did; and in the evening they all retired into the tea-kettle, where they all managed to sleep very comfortably, while Pussy and the Quangle-Wangle managed the boat. [Illustration] After a time, they saw some land at a distance; and, when they came to it, they found it was an island made of water quite surrounded by earth. Besides that, it was bordered by evanescent isthmuses, with a great gulf-stream running about all over it; so that it was perfectly beautiful, and contained only a single tree, 503 feet high. When they had landed, they walked about, but found, to their great surprise, that the island was quite full of veal-cutlets and chocolate-drops, and nothing else. So they all climbed up the single high tree to discover, if possible, if there were any people; but having remained on the top of the tree for a week, and not seeing anybody, they naturally concluded that there were no inhabitants; and accordingly, when they came down, they loaded the boat with two thousand veal-cutlets and a million of chocolate-drops; and these afforded them sustenance for more than a month, during which time they pursued their voyage with the utmost delight and apathy. [Illustration] After this they came to a shore where there were no less than sixty-five great red parrots with blue tails, sitting on a rail all of a row, and all fast asleep. And I am sorry to say that the Pussy-Cat and the Quangle-Wangle crept softly, and bit off the tail-feathers of all the sixty-five parrots; for which Violet reproved them both severely. [Illustration] Notwithstanding which, she proceeded to insert all the feathers--two hundred and sixty in number--in her bonnet; thereby causing it to have a lovely and glittering appearance, highly prepossessing and efficacious. [Illustration] The next thing that happened to them was in a narrow part of the sea, which was so entirely full of fishes that the boat could go on no farther: so they remained there about six weeks, till they had eaten nearly all the fishes, which were soles, and all ready-cooked, and covered with shrimp-sauce, so that there was no trouble whatever. And as the few fishes who remained uneaten complained of the cold, as well as of the difficulty they had in getting any sleep on account of the extreme noise made by the arctic bears and the tropical turnspits, which frequented the neighborhood in great numbers, Violet most amiably knitted a small woollen frock for several of the fishes, and Slingsby administered some opium-drops to them; through which kindness they became quite warm, and slept soundly. [Illustration] Then they came to a country which was wholly covered with immense orange-trees of a vast size, and quite full of fruit. So they all landed, taking with them the tea-kettle, intending to gather some of the oranges, and place them in it. But, while they were busy about this, a most dreadfully high wind rose, and blew out most of the parrot-tail feathers from Violet's bonnet. That, however, was nothing compared with the calamity of the oranges falling down on their heads by millions and millions, which thumped and bumped and bumped and thumped them all so seriously, that they were obliged to run as hard as they could for their lives; besides that the sound of the oranges rattling on the tea-kettle was of the most fearful and amazing nature. [Illustration] Nevertheless, they got safely to the boat, although considerably vexed and hurt; and the Quangle-Wangle's right foot was so knocked about, that he had to sit with his head in his slipper for at least a week. [Illustration] This event made them all for a time rather melancholy: and perhaps they might never have become less so, had not Lionel, with a most praiseworthy devotion and perseverance, continued to stand on one leg, and whistle to them in a loud and lively manner; which diverted the whole party so extremely that they gradually recovered their spirits, and agreed that whenever they should reach home, they would subscribe towards a testimonial to Lionel, entirely made of gingerbread and raspberries, as an earnest token of their sincere and grateful infection. [Illustration] After sailing on calmly for several more days, they came to another country, where they were much pleased and surprised to see a countless multitude of white Mice with red eyes, all sitting in a great circle, slowly eating custard-pudding with the most satisfactory and polite demeanor. [Illustration] And as the four travellers were rather hungry, being tired of eating nothing but soles and oranges for so long a period, they held a council as to the propriety of asking the Mice for some of their pudding in a humble and affecting manner, by which they could hardly be otherwise than gratified. It was agreed, therefore, that Guy should go and ask the Mice, which he immediately did; and the result was, that they gave a walnut-shell only half full of custard diluted with water. Now, this displeased Guy, who said, "Out of such a lot of pudding as you have got, I must say, you might have spared a somewhat larger quantity." But no sooner had he finished speaking than the Mice turned round at once, and sneezed at him in an appalling and vindictive manner (and it is impossible to imagine a more scroobious and unpleasant sound than that caused by the simultaneous sneezing of many millions of angry Mice); so that Guy rushed back to the boat, having first shied his cap into the middle of the custard-pudding, by which means he completely spoiled the Mice's dinner. [Illustration] By and by the four children came to a country where there were no houses, but only an incredibly innumerable number of large bottles without corks, and of a dazzling and sweetly susceptible blue color. Each of these blue bottles contained a Blue-Bottle-Fly; and all these interesting animals live continually together in the most copious and rural harmony: nor perhaps in many parts of the world is such perfect and abject happiness to be found. Violet and Slingsby and Guy and Lionel were greatly struck with this singular and instructive settlement; and, having previously asked permission of the Blue-Bottle-Flies (which was most courteously granted), the boat was drawn up to the shore, and they proceeded to make tea in front of the bottles: but as they had no tea-leaves, they merely placed some pebbles in the hot water; and the Quangle-Wangle played some tunes over it on an accordion, by which, of course, tea was made directly, and of the very best quality. The four children then entered into conversation with the Blue-Bottle-Flies, who discoursed in a placid and genteel manner, though with a slightly buzzing accent, chiefly owing to the fact that they each held a small clothes-brush between their teeth, which naturally occasioned a fizzy, extraneous utterance. "Why," said Violet, "would you kindly inform us, do you reside in bottles; and, if in bottles at all, why not, rather, in green or purple, or, indeed, in yellow bottles?" To which questions a very aged Blue-Bottle-Fly answered, "We found the bottles here all ready to live in; that is to say, our great-great-great- great-great-grandfathers did: so we occupied them at once. And, when the winter comes on, we turn the bottles upside down, and consequently rarely feel the cold at all; and you know very well that this could not be the case with bottles of any other color than blue." "Of course it could not," said Slingsby. "But, if we may take the liberty of inquiring, on what do you chiefly subsist?" "Mainly on oyster-patties," said the Blue-Bottle-Fly; "and, when these are scarce, on raspberry vinegar and Russian leather boiled down to a jelly." "How delicious!" said Guy. To which Lionel added, "Huzz!" And all the Blue-Bottle-Flies said, "Buzz!" At this time, an elderly Fly said it was the hour for the evening-song to be sung; and, on a signal being given, all the Blue-Bottle-Flies began to buzz at once in a sumptuous and sonorous manner, the melodious and mucilaginous sounds echoing all over the waters, and resounding across the tumultuous tops of the transitory titmice upon the intervening and verdant mountains with a serene and sickly suavity only known to the truly virtuous. The Moon was shining slobaciously from the star-bespangled sky, while her light irrigated the smooth and shiny sides and wings and backs of the Blue-Bottle-Flies with a peculiar and trivial splendor, while all Nature cheerfully responded to the cerulean and conspicuous circumstances. In many long-after years, the four little travellers looked back to that evening as one of the happiest in all their lives; and it was already past midnight when--the sail of the boat having been set up by the Quangle-Wangle, the tea-kettle and churn placed in their respective positions, and the Pussy-Cat stationed at the helm--the children each took a last and affectionate farewell of the Blue-Bottle-Flies, who walked down in a body to the water's edge to see the travellers embark. [Illustration] As a token of parting respect and esteem, Violet made a courtesy quite down to the ground, and stuck one of her few remaining parrot-tail feathers into the back hair of the most pleasing of the Blue-Bottle-Flies; while Slingsby, Guy, and Lionel offered them three small boxes, containing, respectively, black pins, dried figs, and Epsom salts; and thus they left that happy shore forever. Overcome by their feelings, the four little travellers instantly jumped into the tea-kettle, and fell fast asleep. But all along the shore, for many hours, there was distinctly heard a sound of severely-suppressed sobs, and of a vague multitude of living creatures using their pocket-handkerchiefs in a subdued simultaneous snuffle, lingering sadly along the walloping waves as the boat sailed farther and farther away from the Land of the Happy Blue-Bottle-Flies. Nothing particular occurred for some days after these events, except that, as the travellers were passing a low tract of sand, they perceived an unusual and gratifying spectacle; namely, a large number of Crabs and Crawfish--perhaps six or seven hundred--sitting by the water-side, and endeavoring to disentangle a vast heap of pale pink worsted, which they moistened at intervals with a fluid composed of lavender-water and white-wine negus. "Can we be of any service to you, O crusty Crabbies?" said the four children. "Thank you kindly," said the Crabs consecutively. "We are trying to make some worsted mittens, but do not know how." On which Violet, who was perfectly acquainted with the art of mitten-making, said to the Crabs, "Do your claws unscrew, or are they fixtures?" "They are all made to unscrew," said the Crabs; and forthwith they deposited a great pile of claws close to the boat, with which Violet uncombed all the pale pink worsted, and then made the loveliest mittens with it you can imagine. These the Crabs, having resumed and screwed on their claws, placed cheerfully upon their wrists, and walked away rapidly on their hind-legs, warbling songs with a silvery voice and in a minor key. After this, the four little people sailed on again till they came to a vast and wide plain of astonishing dimensions, on which nothing whatever could be discovered at first; but, as the travellers walked onward, there appeared in the extreme and dim distance a single object, which on a nearer approach, and on an accurately cutaneous inspection, seemed to be somebody in a large white wig, sitting on an arm-chair made of sponge-cakes and oyster-shells. "It does not quite look like a human being," said Violet doubtfully; nor could they make out what it really was, till the Quangle-Wangle (who had previously been round the world) exclaimed softly in a loud voice, "It is the co-operative Cauliflower!" [Illustration] And so, in truth, it was: and they soon found that what they had taken for an immense wig was in reality the top of the Cauliflower; and that he had no feet at all, being able to walk tolerably well with a fluctuating and graceful movement on a single cabbage-stalk,--an accomplishment which naturally saved him the expense of stockings and shoes. Presently, while the whole party from the boat was gazing at him with mingled affection and disgust, he suddenly arose, and, in a somewhat plumdomphious manner, hurried off towards the setting sun,--his steps supported by two superincumbent confidential Cucumbers, and a large number of Waterwagtails proceeding in advance of him by three and three in a row,--till he finally disappeared on the brink of the western sky in a crystal cloud of sudorific sand. [Illustration] So remarkable a sight, of course, impressed the four children very deeply; and they returned immediately to their boat with a strong sense of undeveloped asthma and a great appetite. Shortly after this, the travellers were obliged to sail directly below some high overhanging rocks, from the top of one of which a particularly odious little boy, dressed in rose-colored knickerbockers, and with a pewter plate upon his head, threw an enormous pumpkin at the boat, by which it was instantly upset. [Illustration] But this upsetting was of no consequence, because all the party knew how to swim very well: and, in fact, they preferred swimming about till after the moon rose; when, the water growing chilly, they sponge-taneously entered the boat. Meanwhile the Quangle-Wangle threw back the pumpkin with immense force, so that it hit the rocks where the malicious little boy in rose-colored knickerbockers was sitting; when, being quite full of lucifer-matches, the pumpkin exploded surreptitiously into a thousand bits; whereon the rocks instantly took fire, and the odious little boy became unpleasantly hotter and hotter and hotter, till his knickerbockers were turned quite green, and his nose was burnt off. Two or three days after this had happened, they came to another place, where they found nothing at all except some wide and deep pits full of mulberry-jam. This is the property of the tiny, yellow-nosed Apes who abound in these districts, and who store up the mulberry-jam for their food in winter, when they mix it with pellucid pale periwinkle-soup, and serve it out in wedgewood china-bowls, which grow freely all over that part of the country. Only one of the yellow-nosed Apes was on the spot, and he was fast asleep; yet the four travellers and the Quangle-Wangle and Pussy were so terrified by the violence and sanguinary sound of his snoring, that they merely took a small cupful of the jam, and returned to re-embark in their boat without delay. What was their horror on seeing the boat (including the churn and the tea-kettle) in the mouth of an enormous Seeze Pyder, an aquatic and ferocious creature truly dreadful to behold, and, happily, only met with in those excessive longitudes! In a moment, the beautiful boat was bitten into fifty-five thousand million hundred billion bits; and it instantly became quite clear that Violet, Slingsby, Guy, and Lionel could no longer preliminate their voyage by sea. The four travellers were therefore obliged to resolve on pursuing their wanderings by land: and, very fortunately, there happened to pass by at that moment an elderly Rhinoceros, on which they seized; and, all four mounting on his back,--the Quangle-Wangle sitting on his horn, and holding on by his ears, and the Pussy-Cat swinging at the end of his tail,--they set off, having only four small beans and three pounds of mashed potatoes to last through their whole journey. [Illustration] They were, however, able to catch numbers of the chickens and turkeys and other birds who incessantly alighted on the head of the Rhinoceros for the purpose of gathering the seeds of the rhododendron-plants which grew there; and these creatures they cooked in the most translucent and satisfactory manner by means of a fire lighted on the end of the Rhinoceros's back. A crowd of Kangaroos and gigantic Cranes accompanied them, from feelings of curiosity and complacency; so that they were never at a loss for company, and went onward, as it were, in a sort of profuse and triumphant procession. Thus in less than eighteen weeks they all arrived safely at home, where they were received by their admiring relatives with joy tempered with contempt, and where they finally resolved to carry out the rest of their travelling-plans at some more favorable opportunity. As for the Rhinoceros, in token of their grateful adherence, they had him killed and stuffed directly, and then set him up outside the door of their father's house as a diaphanous doorscraper. [Illustration] THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES OF THE LAKE PIPPLE-POPPLE. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. In former days,--that is to say, once upon a time,--there lived in the Land of Gramble-Blamble seven families. They lived by the side of the great Lake Pipple-Popple (one of the seven families, indeed, lived _in_ the lake), and on the outskirts of the city of Tosh, which, excepting when it was quite dark, they could see plainly. The names of all these places you have probably heard of; and you have only not to look in your geography-books to find out all about them. Now, the seven families who lived on the borders of the great Lake Pipple-Popple were as follows in the next chapter. CHAPTER II. THE SEVEN FAMILIES. There was a family of two old Parrots and seven young Parrots. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Storks and seven young Storks. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Geese and seven young Geese. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Owls and seven young Owls. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Guinea Pigs and seven young Guinea Pigs. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Cats and seven young Cats. [Illustration] And there was a family of two old Fishes and seven young Fishes. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE HABITS OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES. The Parrots lived upon the Soffsky-Poffsky trees, which were beautiful to behold, and covered with blue leaves; and they fed upon fruit, artichokes, and striped beetles. The Storks walked in and out of the Lake Pipple-Popple, and ate frogs for breakfast, and buttered toast for tea; but on account of the extreme length of their legs they could not sit down, and so they walked about continually. The Geese, having webs to their feet, caught quantities of flies, which they ate for dinner. The Owls anxiously looked after mice, which they caught, and made into sago-puddings. The Guinea Pigs toddled about the gardens, and ate lettuces and Cheshire cheese. The Cats sate still in the sunshine, and fed upon sponge biscuits. The Fishes lived in the lake, and fed chiefly on boiled periwinkles. And all these seven families lived together in the utmost fun and felicity. CHAPTER IV. THE CHILDREN OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES ARE SENT AWAY. One day all the seven fathers and the seven mothers of the seven families agreed that they would send their children out to see the world. So they called them all together, and gave them each eight shillings and some good advice, some chocolate-drops, and a small green morocco pocket-book to set down their expenses in. They then particularly entreated them not to quarrel; and all the parents sent off their children with a parting injunction. "If," said the old Parrots, "you find a cherry, do not fight about who should have it." "And," said the old Storks, "if you find a frog, divide it carefully into seven bits, but on no account quarrel about it." And the old Geese said to the seven young Geese, "Whatever you do, be sure you do not touch a plum-pudding flea." And the old Owls said, "If you find a mouse, tear him up into seven slices, and eat him cheerfully, but without quarrelling." And the old Guinea Pigs said, "Have a care that you eat your lettuces, should you find any, not greedily, but calmly." And the old Cats said, "Be particularly careful not to meddle with a clangle-wangle if you should see one." And the old Fishes said, "Above all things, avoid eating a blue boss-woss; for they do not agree with fishes, and give them a pain in their toes." So all the children of each family thanked their parents; and, making in all forty-nine polite bows, they went into the wide world. CHAPTER V. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG PARROTS. The seven young Parrots had not gone far, when they saw a tree with a single cherry on it, which the oldest Parrot picked instantly; but the other six, being extremely hungry, tried to get it also. On which all the seven began to fight; and they scuffled, and huffled, and ruffled, and shuffled, and puffled, and muffled, and buffled, and duffled, and fluffled, and guffled, and bruffled, and screamed, and shrieked, and squealed, and squeaked, and clawed, and snapped, and bit, and bumped, and thumped, and dumped, and flumped each other, till they were all torn into little bits; and at last there was nothing left to record this painful incident except the cherry and seven small green feathers. And that was the vicious and voluble end of the seven young Parrots. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG STORKS. When the seven young Storks set out, they walked or flew for fourteen weeks in a straight line, and for six weeks more in a crooked one; and after that they ran as hard as they could for one hundred and eight miles; and after that they stood still, and made a himmeltanious chatter-clatter-blattery noise with their bills. About the same time they perceived a large frog, spotted with green, and with a sky-blue stripe under each ear. So, being hungry, they immediately flew at him, and were going to divide him into seven pieces, when they began to quarrel as to which of his legs should be taken off first. One said this, and another said that; and while they were all quarrelling, the frog hopped away. And when they saw that he was gone, they began to chatter-clatter, blatter-platter, patter-blatter, matter-clatter, flatter-quatter, more violently than ever; and after they had fought for a week, they pecked each other all to little pieces, so that at last nothing was left of any of them except their bills. And that was the end of the seven young Storks. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG GEESE. When the seven young Geese began to travel, they went over a large plain, on which there was but one tree, and that was, a very bad one. So four of them went up to the top of it, and looked about them; while the other three waddled up and down, and repeated poetry, and their last six lessons in arithmetic, geography, and cookery. Presently they perceived, a long way off, an object of the most interesting and obese appearance, having a perfectly round body exactly resembling a boiled plum-pudding, with two little wings, and a beak, and three feathers growing out of his head, and only one leg. So, after a time, all the seven young Geese said to each other, "Beyond all doubt this beast must be a Plum-pudding Flea!" On which they incautiously began to sing aloud, "Plum-pudding Flea, Plum-pudding Flea, Wherever you be, Oh! come to our tree, And listen, oh! listen, oh! listen to me!" And no sooner had they sung this verse than the Plum-pudding Flea began to hop and skip on his one leg with the most dreadful velocity, and came straight to the tree, where he stopped, and looked about him in a vacant and voluminous manner. On which the seven young Geese were greatly alarmed, and all of a tremble-bemble: so one of them put out his long neck, and just touched him with the tip of his bill; but no sooner had he done this than the Plum-pudding Flea skipped and hopped about more and more, and higher and higher; after which he opened his mouth, and, to the great surprise and indignation of the seven Geese, began to bark so loudly and furiously and terribly, that they were totally unable to bear the noise; and by degrees every one of them suddenly tumbled down quite dead. So that was the end of the seven young Geese. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG OWLS. When the seven young Owls set out, they sate every now and then on the branches of old trees, and never went far at one time. And one night, when it was quite dark, they thought they heard a mouse; but, as the gas-lamps were not lighted, they could not see him. So they called out, "Is that a mouse?" On which a mouse answered, "Squeaky-peeky-weeky! yes, it is!" And immediately all the young Owls threw themselves off the tree, meaning to alight on the ground; but they did not perceive that there was a large well below them, into which they all fell superficially, and were every one of them drowned in less than half a minute. So that was the end of the seven young Owls. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG GUINEA PIGS. The seven young Guinea Pigs went into a garden full of goose-berry-bushes and tiggory-trees, under one of which they fell asleep. When they awoke, they saw a large lettuce, which had grown out of the ground while they had been sleeping, and which had an immense number of green leaves. At which they all exclaimed,-- "Lettuce! O lettuce Let us, O let us, O lettuce-leaves, O let us leave this tree, and eat Lettuce, O let us, lettuce-leaves!" And instantly the seven young Guinea Pigs rushed with such extreme force against the lettuce-plant, and hit their heads so vividly against its stalk, that the concussion brought on directly an incipient transitional inflammation of their noses, which grew worse and worse and worse and worse, till it incidentally killed them all seven. And that was the end of the seven young Guinea Pigs. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG CATS. The seven young Cats set off on their travels with great delight and rapacity. But, on coming to the top of a high hill, they perceived at a long distance off a Clangle-Wangle (or, as it is more properly written, Clangel-Wangel); and, in spite of the warning they had had, they ran straight up to it. (Now, the Clangle-Wangle is a most dangerous and delusive beast, and by no means commonly to be met with. They live in the water as well as on land, using their long tail as a sail when in the former element. Their speed is extreme; but their habits of life are domestic and superfluous, and their general demeanor pensive and pellucid. On summer evenings, they may sometimes be observed near the Lake Pipple-Popple, standing on their heads, and humming their national melodies. They subsist entirely on vegetables, excepting when they eat veal or mutton or pork or beef or fish or saltpetre.) The moment the Clangle-Wangle saw the seven young Cats approach, he ran away; and as he ran straight on for four months, and the Cats, though they continued to run, could never overtake him, they all gradually _died_ of fatigue and exhaustion, and never afterwards recovered. And this was the end of the seven young Cats. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG FISHES. The seven young Fishes swam across the Lake Pipple-Popple, and into the river, and into the ocean; where, most unhappily for them, they saw, on the fifteenth day of their travels, a bright-blue Boss-Woss, and instantly swam after him. But the Blue Boss-Woss plunged into a perpendicular, spicular, orbicular, quadrangular, circular depth of soft mud; where, in fact, his house was. And the seven young Fishes, swimming with great and uncomfortable velocity, plunged also into the mud quite against their will, and, not being accustomed to it, were all suffocated in a very short period. And that was the end of the seven young Fishes. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. OF WHAT OCCURRED SUBSEQUENTLY. After it was known that the seven young Parrots, and the seven young Storks, and the seven young Geese, and the seven young Owls, and the seven young Guinea Pigs, and the seven young Cats, and the seven young Fishes, were all dead, then the Frog, and the Plum-pudding Flea, and the Mouse, and the Clangle-Wangle, and the Blue Boss-Woss, all met together to rejoice over their good fortune. And they collected the seven feathers of the seven young Parrots, and the seven bills of the seven young Storks, and the lettuce, and the cherry; and having placed the latter on the lettuce, and the other objects in a circular arrangement at their base, they danced a hornpipe round all these memorials until they were quite tired; after which they gave a tea-party, and a garden-party, and a ball, and a concert, and then returned to their respective homes full of joy and respect, sympathy, satisfaction, and disgust. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. OF WHAT BECAME OF THE PARENTS OF THE FORTY-NINE CHILDREN. BUT when the two old Parrots, and the two old Storks, and the two old Geese, and the two old Owls, and the two old Guinea Pigs, and the two old Cats, and the two old Fishes, became aware, by reading in the newspapers, of the calamitous extinction of the whole of their families, they refused all further sustenance; and, sending out to various shops, they purchased great quantities of Cayenne pepper and brandy and vinegar and blue sealing-wax, besides seven immense glass bottles with air-tight stoppers. And, having done this, they ate a light supper of brown-bread and Jerusalem artichokes, and took an affecting and formal leave of the whole of their acquaintance, which was very numerous and distinguished and select and responsible and ridiculous. CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION. And after this they filled the bottles with the ingredients for pickling, and each couple jumped into a separate bottle; by which effort, of course, they all died immediately, and became thoroughly pickled in a few minutes; having previously made their wills (by the assistance of the most eminent lawyers of the district), in which they left strict orders that the stoppers of the seven bottles should be carefully sealed up with the blue sealing-wax they had purchased; and that they themselves, in the bottles, should be presented to the principal museum of the city of Tosh, to be labelled with parchment or any other anti-congenial succedaneum, and to be placed on a marble table with silver-gilt legs, for the daily inspection and contemplation, and for the perpetual benefit, of the pusillanimous public. And if you ever happen to go to Gramble-Blamble, and visit that museum in the city of Tosh, look for them on the ninety-eighth table in the four hundred and twenty-seventh room of the right-hand corridor of the left wing of the central quadrangle of that magnificent building; for, if you do not, you certainly will not see them. [Illustration] * * * * * NONSENSE COOKERY. Extract from "The Nonsense Gazette," for August, 1870. "Our readers will be interested in the following communications from our valued and learned contributor, Prof. Bosh, whose labors in the fields of culinary and botanical science are so well known to all the world. The first three articles richly merit to be added to the domestic cookery of every family: those which follow claim the attention of all botanists; and we are happy to be able, through Dr. Bosh's kindness, to present our readers with illustrations of his discoveries. All the new flowers are found in the Valley of Verrikwier, near the Lake of Oddgrow, and on the summit of the Hill Orfeltugg." THREE RECEIPTS FOR DOMESTIC COOKERY. TO MAKE AN AMBLONGUS PIE. Take 4 pounds (say 4-1/2 pounds) of fresh Amblongusses, and put them in a small pipkin. Cover them with water, and boil them for 8 hours incessantly; after which add 2 pints of new milk, and proceed to boil for 4 hours more. When you have ascertained that the Amblongusses are quite soft, take them out, and place them in a wide pan, taking care to shake them well previously. Grate some nutmeg over the surface, and cover them carefully with powdered gingerbread, curry-powder, and a sufficient quantity of Cayenne pepper. Remove the pan into the next room, and place it on the floor. Bring it back again, and let it simmer for three-quarters of an hour. Shake the pan violently till all the Amblongusses have become of a pale purple color. Then, having prepared the paste, insert the whole carefully; adding at the same time a small pigeon, 2 slices of beef, 4 cauliflowers, and any number of oysters. Watch patiently till the crust begins to rise, and add a pinch of salt from time to time. Serve up in a clean dish, and throw the whole out of window as fast as possible. TO MAKE CRUMBOBBLIOUS CUTLETS. Procure some strips of beef, and, having cut them into the smallest possible slices, proceed to cut them still smaller,--eight, or perhaps nine times. When the whole is thus minced, brush it up hastily with a new clothes-brush, and stir round rapidly and capriciously with a salt-spoon or a soup-ladle. Place the whole in a saucepan, and remove it to a sunny place,--say the roof of the house, if free from sparrows or other birds,--and leave it there for about a week. At the end of that time add a little lavender, some oil of almonds, and a few herring-bones; and then cover the whole with 4 gallons of clarified Crumbobblious sauce, when it will be ready for use. Cut it into the shape of ordinary cutlets, and serve up in a clean table-cloth or dinner-napkin. TO MAKE GOSKY PATTIES. Take a pig three or four years of age, and tie him by the off hind-leg to a post. Place 5 pounds of currants, 3 of sugar, 2 pecks of peas, 18 roast chestnuts, a candle, and 6 bushels of turnips, within his reach: if he eats these, constantly provide him with more. Then procure some cream, some slices of Cheshire cheese, 4 quires of foolscap paper, and a packet of black pins. Work the whole into a paste, and spread it out to dry on a sheet of clean brown waterproof linen. When the paste is perfectly dry, but not before, proceed to beat the pig violently with the handle of a large broom. If he squeals, beat him again. Visit the paste and beat the pig alternately for some days, and ascertain if, at the end of that period, the whole is about to turn into Gosky Patties. If it does not then, it never will; and in that case the pig may be let loose, and the whole process may be considered as finished. * * * * * NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Baccopipia Gracilis.] [Illustration: Bottlephorkia Spoonifolia.] [Illustration: Cockatooca Superba.] [Illustration: Fishia Marina.] [Illustration: Guittara Pensilis.] [Illustration: Manypeeplia Upsidownia.] [Illustration: Phattfacia Stupenda.] [Illustration: Piggiwiggia Pyramidalis.] [Illustration: Plumbunnia Nutritiosa.] [Illustration: Pollybirdia Singularis.] * * * * * NONSENSE ALPHABETS. A [Illustration] A was an ant Who seldom stood still, And who made a nice house In the side of a hill. a! Nice little ant! B [Illustration] B was a book With a binding of blue, And pictures and stories For me and for you. b! Nice little book! C [Illustration] C was a cat Who ran after a rat; But his courage did fail When she seized on his tail. c! Crafty old cat! D [Illustration] D was a duck With spots on his back, Who lived in the water, And always said "Quack!" d! Dear little duck! E [Illustration] E was an elephant, Stately and wise: He had tusks and a trunk, And two queer little eyes. e! Oh, what funny small eyes! F [Illustration] F was a fish Who was caught in a net; But he got out again, And is quite alive yet. f! Lively young fish! G [Illustration] G was a goat Who was spotted with brown: When he did not lie still He walked up and down. g! Good little goat! H [Illustration] H was a hat Which was all on one side; Its crown was too high, And its brim was too wide. h! Oh, what a hat! I [Illustration] I was some ice So white and so nice, But which nobody tasted; And so it was wasted. i! All that good ice! J [Illustration] J was a jackdaw Who hopped up and down In the principal street Of a neighboring town. j! All through the town! K [Illustration] K was a kite Which flew out of sight, Above houses so high, Quite into the sky. k Fly away, kite! L [Illustration] L was a light Which burned all the night, And lighted the gloom Of a very dark room. l! Useful nice light! M [Illustration] M was a mill Which stood on a hill, And turned round and round With a loud hummy sound. m! Useful old mill! N [Illustration] N was a net Which was thrown in the sea To catch fish for dinner For you and for me. n! Nice little net! O [Illustration] O was an orange So yellow and round: When it fell off the tree, It fell down to the ground. o! Down to the ground! P [Illustration] P was a pig, Who was not very big; But his tail was too curly, And that made him surly. p! Cross little pig! Q [Illustration] Q was a quail With a very short tail; And he fed upon corn In the evening and morn. q! Quaint little quail! R [Illustration] R was a rabbit, Who had a bad habit Of eating the flowers In gardens and bowers. r! Naughty fat rabbit! S [Illustration] S was the sugar-tongs, Nippity-nee, To take up the sugar To put in our tea. s! Nippity-nee! T [Illustration] T was a tortoise, All yellow and black: He walked slowly away, And he never came back. t! Torty never came back! U [Illustration] U was an urn All polished and bright, And full of hot water At noon and at night. u! Useful old urn! V [Illustration] V was a villa Which stood on a hill, By the side of a river, And close to a mill. v! Nice little villa! W [Illustration] W was a whale With a very long tail, Whose movements were frantic Across the Atlantic. w! Monstrous old whale! X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, Who, more than all Turks, is Renowned for his fashion Of fury and passion. x! Angry old Xerxes! Y [Illustration] Y was a yew, Which flourished and grew By a quiet abode Near the side of a road. y! Dark little yew! Z [Illustration] Z was some zinc, So shiny and bright, Which caused you to wink In the sun's merry light. z! Beautiful zinc! A [Illustration] a A was once an apple-pie, Pidy, Widy, Tidy, Pidy, Nice insidy, Apple-pie! B [Illustration] b B was once a little bear, Beary, Wary, Hairy, Beary, Taky cary, Little bear! C [Illustration] c C was once a little cake, Caky, Baky, Maky, Caky, Taky caky, Little cake! D [Illustration] d D was once a little doll, Dolly, Molly, Polly, Nolly, Nursy dolly, Little doll! E [Illustration] e E was once a little eel, Eely, Weely, Peely, Eely, Twirly, tweely, Little eel! F [Illustration] f F was once a little fish, Fishy, Wishy, Squishy, Fishy, In a dishy, Little fish! G [Illustration] g G was once a little goose, Goosy, Moosy, Boosey, Goosey, Waddly-woosy, Little goose! H [Illustration] h H was once a little hen, Henny, Chenny, Tenny, Henny. Eggsy-any, Little hen? I [Illustration] i I was once a bottle of ink Inky, Dinky, Thinky, Inky, Blacky minky, Bottle of ink! J [Illustration] j J was once a jar of jam, Jammy, Mammy, Clammy, Jammy, Sweety, swammy, Jar of jam! K [Illustration] k K was once a little kite, Kity, Whity, Flighty, Kity, Out of sighty, Little kite! L [Illustration] l L was once a little lark, Larky, Marky, Harky, Larky, In the parky, Little lark! M [Illustration] m M was once a little mouse, Mousy, Bousy, Sousy, Mousy, In the housy, Little mouse! N [Illustration] n N was once a little needle, Needly, Tweedly, Threedly, Needly, Wisky, wheedly, Little needle! O [Illustration] o O was once a little owl, Owly, Prowly, Howly, Owly, Browny fowly, Little owl! P [Illustration] p P was once a little pump, Pumpy, Slumpy, Flumpy, Pumpy, Dumpy, thumpy, Little pump! Q [Illustration] q Q was once a little quail, Quaily, Faily, Daily, Quaily, Stumpy-taily, Little quail! R [Illustration] r R was once a little rose, Rosy, Posy, Nosy, Rosy, Blows-y, grows-y, Little rose! S [Illustration] s S was once a little shrimp, Shrimpy, Nimpy, Flimpy, Shrimpy. Jumpy, jimpy, Little shrimp! T [Illustration] t T was once a little thrush, Thrushy, Hushy, Bushy, Thrushy, Flitty, flushy, Little thrush! U [Illustration] u U was once a little urn, Urny, Burny, Turny, Urny, Bubbly, burny, Little urn! V [Illustration] v V was once a little vine, Viny, Winy, Twiny, Viny, Twisty-twiny, Little vine! W [Illustration] w W was once a whale, Whaly, Scaly, Shaly, Whaly, Tumbly-taily, Mighty whale! X [Illustration] x X was once a great king Xerxes, Xerxy, Perxy, Turxy, Xerxy, Linxy, lurxy, Great King Xerxes! Y [Illustration] y Y was once a little yew, Yewdy, Fewdy, Crudy, Yewdy, Growdy, grewdy, Little yew! Z [Illustration] z Z was once a piece of zinc, Tinky, Winky, Blinky, Tinky, Tinkly minky, Piece of zinc! A [Illustration] A was an ape, Who stole some white tape, And tied up his toes In four beautiful bows. a! Funny old ape! B [Illustration] B was a bat, Who slept all the day, And fluttered about When the sun went away. b! Brown little bat! C [Illustration] C was a camel: You rode on his hump; And if you fell off, You came down such a bump! c! What a high camel! D [Illustration] D was a dove, Who lived in a wood, With such pretty soft wings, And so gentle and good! d! Dear little dove! E [Illustration] E was an eagle, Who sat on the rocks, And looked down on the fields And the-far-away flocks. e! Beautiful eagle! F [Illustration] F was a fan Made of beautiful stuff; And when it was used, It went puffy-puff-puff! f! Nice little fan! G [Illustration] G was a gooseberry, Perfectly red; To be made into jam, And eaten with bread. g! Gooseberry red! H [Illustration] H was a heron, Who stood in a stream: The length of his neck And his legs was extreme. h! Long-legged heron! I [Illustration] I was an inkstand, Which stood on a table, With a nice pen to write with When we are able. i! Neat little inkstand! J [Illustration] J was a jug, So pretty and white, With fresh water in it At morning and night. j! Nice little jug! K [Illustration] K was a kingfisher: Quickly he flew, So bright and so pretty!-- Green, purple, and blue. k! Kingfisher blue! L [Illustration] L was a lily, So white and so sweet! To see it and smell it Was quite a nice treat. l! Beautiful lily! M [Illustration] M was a man, Who walked round and round; And he wore a long coat That came down to the ground. m! Funny old man! N [Illustration] N was a nut So smooth and so brown! And when it was ripe, It fell tumble-dum-down. n! Nice little nut! O [Illustration] O was an oyster, Who lived in his shell: If you let him alone, He felt perfectly well. o! Open-mouthed oyster! P [Illustration] P was a polly, All red, blue, and green,-- The most beautiful polly That ever was seen. p! Poor little polly! Q [Illustration] Q was a quill Made into a pen; But I do not know where, And I cannot say when. q! Nice little quill! R [Illustration] R was a rattlesnake, Rolled up so tight, Those who saw him ran quickly, For fear he should bite. r! Rattlesnake bite! S [Illustration] S was a screw To screw down a box; And then it was fastened Without any locks. s! Valuable screw! T [Illustration] T was a thimble, Of silver so bright! When placed on the finger, It fitted so tight! t! Nice little thimble! U [Illustration] U was an upper-coat, Woolly and warm, To wear over all In the snow or the storm. u! What a nice upper-coat! V [Illustration] V was a veil With a border upon it, And a ribbon to tie it All round a pink bonnet. v! Pretty green veil! W [Illustration] W was a watch, Where, in letters of gold, The hour of the day You might always behold. w! Beautiful watch! X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, Who wore on his head A mighty large turban, Green, yellow, and red. x! Look at King Xerxes! Y [Illustration] Y was a yak, From the land of Thibet: Except his white tail, He was all black as jet. y! Look at the yak! Z [Illustration] Z was a zebra, All striped white and black; And if he were tame, You might ride on his back. z! Pretty striped zebra! 
13648	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13648-h.htm or 13648-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13648/13648-h/13648-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13648/13648-h.zip) MORE NONSENSE Pictures, Rhymes, Botany, etc. by EDWARD LEAR [Illustration] CONTENTS NONSENSE BOTANY ONE HUNDRED NONSENSE PICTURES AND RHYMES TWENTY-SIX NONSENSE RHYMES AND PICTURES [Illustration] INTRODUCTION In offering this little book--the third of its kind--to the public, I am glad to take the opportunity of recording the pleasure I have received at the appreciation its predecessors have met with, as attested by their wide circulation, and by the universally kind notices of them from the Press. To have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands, may surely be a just motive for satisfaction, and an excuse for grateful expression. At the same time, I am desirous of adding a few words as to the history of the two previously published volumes, and more particularly of the first or original "Book of Nonsense," relating to which many absurd reports have crept into circulation, such as that it was the composition of the late Lord Brougham, the late Earl of Derby, etc.; that the rhymes and pictures are by different persons; or that the whole have a symbolical meaning, etc.; whereas, every one of the Rhymes was composed by myself, and every one of the Illustrations drawn by my own hand at the time the verses were made. Moreover, in no portion of these Nonsense drawings have I ever allowed any caricature of private or public persons to appear, and throughout, more care than might be supposed has been given to make the subjects incapable of misinterpretation: "Nonsense," pure and absolute, having been my aim throughout. As for the persistently absurd report of the late Earl of Derby being the author of the "First Book of Nonsense," I may relate an incident which occurred to me four summers ago, the first that gave me any insight into the origin of the rumor. I was on my way from London to Guildford, in a railway carriage, containing, besides myself, one passenger, an elderly gentleman: presently, however, two ladies entered, accompanied by two little boys. These, who had just had a copy of the "Book of Nonsense" given them, were loud in their delight, and by degrees infected the whole party with their mirth. "How grateful," said the old gentleman to the two ladies, "all children, and parents too, ought to be to the statesman who has given his time to composing that charming book!" (The ladies looked puzzled, as indeed was I, the author.) "Do you not know who is the writer of it?" asked the gentleman. "The name is 'Edward Lear,'" said one of the ladies. "Ah!" said the first speaker, "so it is printed; but that is only a whim of the real author, the Earl of Derby. 'Edward' is his Christian name, and, as you may see, LEAR is only EARL transposed." "But," said the lady, doubtingly, "here is a dedication to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of Edward, thirteenth Earl of Derby, by the author, Edward Lear." "That," replied the other, "is simply a piece of mystification; I am in a position to know that the whole book was composed and illustrated by Lord Derby himself. In fact, there is no such a person at all as Edward Lear." "Yet," said the other lady, "some friends of mine tell me they know Mr. Lear." "Quite a mistake! completely a mistake!" said the old gentleman, becoming rather angry at the contradiction; "I am well aware of what I am saying: I can inform you, no such a person as 'Edward Lear' exists!" Hitherto I had kept silence; but as my hat was, as well as my handkerchief and stick, largely marked inside with my name, and as I happened to have in my pocket several letters addressed to me, the temptation was too great to resist; so, flashing all these articles at once on my would-be extinguisher's attention, I speedily reduced him to silence. The second volume of Nonsense, commencing with the verses, "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat," was written at different times, and for different sets of children: the whole being collected in the course of last year, were then illustrated, and published in a single volume, by Mr. R.J. Bush, of 32 Charing Cross. The contents of the third or present volume were made also at different intervals in the last two years. Long years ago, in days when much of my time was passed in a country house, where children and mirth abounded, the lines beginning, "There was an old man of Tobago," were suggested to me by a valued friend, as a form of verse lending itself to limitless variety for rhymes and pictures; and thenceforth the greater part of the original drawings and verses for the first "Book of Nonsense" were struck off with a pen, no assistance ever having been given me in any way but that of uproarious delight and welcome at the appearance of every new absurdity. Most of these Drawings and Rhymes were transferred to lithographic stones in the year 1846, and were then first published by Mr. Thomas McLean, of the Haymarket. But that edition having been soon exhausted, and the call for the "Book of Nonsense" continuing, I added a considerable number of subjects to those previously-published, and having caused the whole to be carefully reproduced in woodcuts by Messrs. Dalzell, I disposed of the copyright to Messrs. Routledge and Warne, by whom the volume was published in 1843. EDWARD LEAR. VILLA EMILY, SAN REMO, August, 1871. NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Barkia Howlaloudia.] [Illustration: Enkoopia Chickabiddia.] [Illustration: Jinglia Tinkettlia.] [Illustration: Nasticreechia Krorluppia.] [Illustration: Arthbroomia Rigida.] [Illustration: Sophtsluggia Glutinosa.] [Illustration: Minspysia Deliciosa.] [Illustration: Shoebootia Utilis.] [Illustration: Stunnia Dinnerbellia.] [Illustration: Tickia Orologica.] [Illustration: Washtubbia Circularis.] [Illustration: Tigerlillia Terribilis.] * * * * * ONE HUNDRED NONSENSE PICTURES AND RHYMES. [Illustration] There was a young person of Bantry, Who frequently slept in the pantry; When disturbed by the mice, she appeased them with rice, That judicious young person of Bantry. [Illustration] There was an Old Man at a Junction, Whose feelings were wrung with compunction When they said, "The Train's gone!" he exclaimed, "How forlorn!" But remained on the rails of the Junction. [Illustration] There was an old person of Minety, Who purchased five hundred and ninety Large apples and pears, which he threw unawares At the heads of the people of Minety. [Illustration] There was an old man of Thermopylae, Who never did anything properly; But they said, "If you choose to boil eggs in your shoes, You shall never remain in Thermopylae." [Illustration] There was an old person of Deal, Who in walking used only his heel; When they said, "Tell us why?" he made no reply, That mysterious old person of Deal. [Illustration] There was an old man on the Humber, Who dined on a cake of Burnt Umber; When he said, "It's enough!" they only said, "Stuff! You amazing old man on the Humber!" [Illustration] There was an old man in a barge, Whose nose was exceedingly large; But in fishing by night, it supported a light, Which helped that old man in a barge. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dunrose; A parrot seized hold of his nose. When he grew melancholy, they said, "His name's Polly," Which soothed that old man of Dunrose. [Illustration] There was an old man of Toulouse Who purchased a new pair of shoes; When they asked, "Are they pleasant?" he said, "Not at present!" That turbid old man of Toulouse. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bree, Who frequented the depths of the sea; She nurs'd the small fishes, and washed all the dishes, And swam back again into Bree. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bromley, Whose ways were not cheerful or comely; He sate in the dust, eating spiders and crust, That unpleasing old person of Bromley. [Illustration] There was an old person of Shields, Who frequented the vallies and fields; All the mice and the cats, and the snakes and the rats, Followed after that person of Shields. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dunluce, Who went out to sea on a goose: When he'd gone out a mile, he observ'd with a smile, "It is time to return to Dunluce." [Illustration] There was an old man of Dee-side Whose hat was exceedingly wide, But he said, "Do not fail, if it happen to hail, To come under my hat at Dee-side!" [Illustration] There was an old person in black, A Grasshopper jumped on his back; When it chirped in his ear, he was smitten with fear, That helpless old person in black. [Illustration] There was an old man of the Dargle Who purchased six barrels of Gargle; For he said, "I'll sit still, and will roll them down hill, For the fish in the depths of the Dargle." [Illustration] There was an old person of Pinner, As thin as a lath, if not thinner; They dressed him in white, and roll'd him up tight, That elastic old person of Pinner. [Illustration] There was an old person of China, Whose daughters were Jiska and Dinah, Amelia and Fluffy, Olivia and Chuffy, And all of them settled in China. [Illustration] There was an old man in a Marsh, Whose manners were futile and harsh; He sate on a log, and sang songs to a frog, That instructive old man in a Marsh. [Illustration] There was an old person of Brill, Who purchased a shirt with a frill; But they said, "Don't you wish, you mayn't look like a fish, You obsequious old person of Brill?" [Illustration] There was an old person of Wick, Who said, "Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick; Chickabee, Chickabaw." And he said nothing more, That laconic old person of Wick. [Illustration] There was an old man at a Station, Who made a promiscuous oration; But they said, "Take some snuff!--You have talk'd quite enough, You afflicting old man at a Station!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Three Bridges, Whose mind was distracted by midges, He sate on a wheel, eating underdone veal, Which relieved that old man of Three Bridges. [Illustration] There was an old man of Hong Kong, Who never did anything wrong; He lay on his back, with his head in a sack, That innocuous old man of Hong Kong. [Illustration] There was a young person in green, Who seldom was fit to be seen; She wore a long shawl, over bonnet and all, Which enveloped that person in green. [Illustration] There was an old person of Fife, Who was greatly disgusted with life; They sang him a ballad, and fed him on salad, Which cured that old person of Fife. [Illustration] There was an old man who screamed out Whenever they knocked him about: So they took off his boots, and fed him with fruits, And continued to knock him about. [Illustration] There was a young lady in white, Who looked out at the depths of the night; But the birds of the air, filled her heart with despair, And oppressed that young lady in white. [Illustration] There was an old person of Slough, Who danced at the end of a bough; But they said, "If you sneeze, you might damage the trees, You imprudent old person of Slough." [Illustration] There was an old person of Down, Whose face was adorned with a frown; When he opened the door, for one minute or more, He alarmed all the people of Down. [Illustration] There was a young person in red, Who carefully covered her head, With a bonnet of leather, and three lines of feather, Besides some long ribands of red. [Illustration] There was an old person of Hove, Who frequented the depths of a grove; Where he studied his books, with the wrens and the rooks, That tranquil old person of Hove. [Illustration] There was a young person in pink, Who called out for something to drink; But they said, "O my daughter, there's nothing but water!" Which vexed that young person in pink. [Illustration] There was an old lady of France, Who taught little ducklings to dance; When she said, "Tick-a-tack!" they only said, "Quack!" Which grieved that old lady of France. [Illustration] There was an old person of Putney, Whose food was roast spiders and chutney, Which he took with his tea, within sight of the sea, That romantic old person of Putney. [Illustration] There was an old person of Loo, Who said, "What on earth shall I do?" When they said, "Go away!" she continued to stay, That vexatious old person of Loo. [Illustration] There was an old person of Woking, Whose mind was perverse and provoking; He sate on a rail, with his head in a pail, That illusive old person of Woking. [Illustration] There was an old person of Dean Who dined on one pea, and one bean; For he said, "More than that, would make me too fat," That cautious old person of Dean. [Illustration] There was a young lady in blue, Who said, "Is it you? Is it you?" When they said, "Yes, it is," she replied only, "Whizz!" That ungracious young lady in blue. [Illustration] There was an old Man in a Garden, Who always begged every one's pardon; When they asked him, "What for?" he replied, "You're a bore! And I trust you'll go out of my garden." [Illustration] There was an old person of Pisa, Whose daughters did nothing to please her; She dressed them in gray, and banged them all day, Round the walls of the city of Pisa. [Illustration] There was an old person of Florence, Who held mutton chops in abhorrence; He purchased a Bustard, and fried him in Mustard, Which choked that old person of Florence. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sheen, Whose expression was calm and serene; He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter, That placid old person of Sheen. [Illustration] There was an old person of Ware, Who rode on the back of a bear; When they ask'd, "Does it trot?" he said, "Certainly not! He's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear!" [Illustration] There was a young person of Janina, Whose uncle was always a fanning her; When he fanned off her head, she smiled sweetly, and said, "You propitious old person of Janina!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Cashmere, Whose movements were scroobious and queer; Being slender and tall, he looked over a wall, And perceived two fat ducks of Cashmere. [Illustration] There was an old person of Cassel, Whose nose finished off in a tassel; But they call'd out, "Oh well! don't it look like a bell!" Which perplexed that old person of Cassel. [Illustration] There was an old person of Pett, Who was partly consumed by regret; He sate in a cart, and ate cold apple tart, Which relieved that old person of Pett. [Illustration] There was an old man of Spithead, Who opened the window, and said,-- "Fil-jomble, fil-jumble, fil-rumble-come-tumble!" That doubtful old man of Spithead. [Illustration] There was an old man on the Border, Who lived in the utmost disorder; He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat, Which vexed all the folks on the Border. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dumbree, Who taught little owls to drink tea; For he said, "To eat mice is not proper or nice," That amiable man of Dumbree. [Illustration] There was an old person of Filey, Of whom his acquaintance spoke highly; He danced perfectly well, to the sound of a bell, And delighted the people of Filey. [Illustration] There was an old man whose remorse Induced him to drink Caper Sauce; For they said, "If mixed up with some cold claret-cup, It will certainly soothe your remorse!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Ibreem, Who suddenly threaten'd to scream; But they said, "If you do, we will thump you quite blue, You disgusting old man of Ibreem!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Wilts, Who constantly walked upon stilts; He wreathed them with lilies and daffy-down-dillies, That elegant person of Wilts. [Illustration] There was an old person of Grange, Whose manners were scroobious and strange; He sailed to St. Blubb in a waterproof tub, That aquatic old person of Grange. [Illustration] There was an old person of Newry, Whose manners were tinctured with fury; He tore all the rugs, and broke all the jugs, Within twenty miles' distance of Newry. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dumblane, Who greatly resembled a crane; But they said, "Is it wrong, since your legs are so long, To request you won't stay in Dumblane?" [Illustration] There was an old man of Port Grigor, Whose actions were noted for vigour; He stood on his head till his waistcoat turned red, That eclectic old man of Port Grigor. [Illustration] There was an old man of El Hums, Who lived upon nothing but crumbs, Which he picked off the ground, with the other birds round, In the roads and the lanes of El Hums. [Illustration] There was an old man of West Dumpet, Who possessed a large nose like a trumpet; When he blew it aloud, it astonished the crowd, And was heard through the whole of West Dumpet. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sark, Who made an unpleasant remark; But they said, "Don't you see what a brute you must be, You obnoxious old person of Sark!" [Illustration] There was an old man whose despair Induced him to purchase a hare: Whereon one fine day he rode wholly away, Which partly assuaged his despair. [Illustration] There was an old person of Barnes, Whose garments were covered with darns; But they said, "Without doubt, you will soon wear them out, You luminous person of Barnes!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Nice, Whose associates were usually Geese. They walked out together in all sorts of weather, That affable person of Nice! [Illustration] There was a young lady of Greenwich, Whose garments were border'd with Spinach; But a large spotty Calf bit her shawl quite in half, Which alarmed that young lady of Greenwich. [Illustration] There was an old person of Cannes, Who purchased three fowls and a fan; Those she placed on a stool, and to make them feel cool She constantly fanned them at Cannes. [Illustration] There was an old person of Ickley, Who could not abide to ride quickly; He rode to Karnak on a tortoise's back, That moony old person of Ickley. [Illustration] There was an old person of Hyde, Who walked by the shore with his bride, Till a Crab who came near fill'd their bosoms with fear, And they said, "Would we'd never left Hyde!" [Illustration] There was an old person in gray, Whose feelings were tinged with dismay; She purchased two parrots, and fed them with carrots, Which pleased that old person in gray. [Illustration] There was an old man of Ancona, Who found a small dog with no owner, Which he took up and down all the streets of the town, That anxious old man of Ancona. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sestri, Who sate himself down in the vestry; When they said, "You are wrong!" he merely said "Bong!" That repulsive old person of Sestri. [Illustration] There was an old person of Blythe, Who cut up his meat with a scythe; When they said, "Well! I never!" he cried, "Scythes for ever!" That lively old person of Blythe. [Illustration] There was a young person of Ayr, Whose head was remarkably square: On the top, in fine weather, she wore a gold feather; Which dazzled the people of Ayr. [Illustration] There was an old person of Rimini, Who said, "Gracious! Goodness! O Gimini!" When they said, "Please be still!" she ran down a hill, And was never more heard of at Rimini. [Illustration] There is a young lady, whose nose, Continually prospers and grows; When it grew out of sight, she exclaimed in a fright, "Oh! Farewell to the end of my nose!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Ealing, Who was wholly devoid of good feeling; He drove a small gig, with three Owls and a Pig, Which distressed all the people of Ealing. [Illustration] There was an old man of Thames Ditton, Who called out for something to sit on; But they brought him a hat, and said, "Sit upon that, You abruptious old man of Thames Ditton!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Bray, Who sang through the whole of the day To his ducks and his pigs, whom he fed upon figs, That valuable person of Bray. [Illustration] There was a young person whose history Was always considered a mystery; She sate in a ditch, although no one knew which, And composed a small treatise on history. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bow, Whom nobody happened to know; So they gave him some soap, and said coldly, "We hope You will go back directly to Bow!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Rye, Who went up to town on a fly; But they said, "If you cough, you are safe to fall off! You abstemious old person of Rye!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Crowle, Who lived in the nest of an owl; When they screamed in the nest, he screamed out with the rest, That depressing old person of Crowle. [Illustration] There was an old Lady of Winchelsea, Who said, "If you needle or pin shall see On the floor of my room, sweep it up with the broom!" That exhaustive old Lady of Winchelsea! [Illustration] There was an old man in a tree, Whose whiskers were lovely to see; But the birds of the air pluck'd them perfectly bare, To make themselves nests in that tree. [Illustration] There was a young lady of Corsica, Who purchased a little brown saucy-cur; Which she fed upon ham, and hot raspberry jam, That expensive young lady of Corsica. [Illustration] There was a young lady of Firle, Whose hair was addicted to curl; It curled up a tree, and all over the sea, That expansive young lady of Firle. [Illustration] There was an old person of Stroud, Who was horribly jammed in a crowd; Some she slew with a kick, some she scrunched with a stick, That impulsive old person of Stroud. [Illustration] There was an old man of Boulak, Who sate on a Crocodile's back; But they said, "Towr'ds the night he may probably bite, Which might vex you, old man of Boulak!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Skye, Who waltz'd with a Bluebottle fly: They buzz'd a sweet tune, to the light of the moon, And entranced all the people of Skye. [Illustration] There was an old man of Blackheath, Whose head was adorned with a wreath Of lobsters and spice, pickled onions and mice, That uncommon old man of Blackheath. [Illustration] There was an old man, who when little Fell casually into a kettle; But, growing too stout, he could never get out, So he passed all his life in that kettle. [Illustration] There was an old person of Dundalk, Who tried to teach fishes to walk; When they tumbled down dead, he grew weary, and said, "I had better go back to Dundalk!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Shoreham, Whose habits were marked by decorum; He bought an Umbrella, and sate in the cellar, Which pleased all the people of Shoreham. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bar, Who passed all her life in a jar, Which she painted pea-green, to appear more serene, That placid old person of Bar. [Illustration] There was a young person of Kew, Whose virtues and vices were few; But with blamable haste she devoured some hot paste, Which destroyed that young person of Kew. [Illustration] There was an old person of Jodd, Whose ways were perplexing and odd; She purchased a whistle, and sate on a thistle, And squeaked to the people of Jodd. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bude, Whose deportment was vicious and crude; He wore a large ruff of pale straw-colored stuff, Which perplexed all the people of Bude. [Illustration] There was an old person of Brigg, Who purchased no end of a wig; So that only his nose, and the end of his toes, Could be seen when he walked about Brigg. [Illustration] There was an old man of Messina, Whose daughter was named Opsibeena; She wore a small wig, and rode out on a pig, To the perfect delight of Messina. TWENTY-SIX NONSENSE RHYMES AND PICTURES. [Illustration] The Absolutely Abstemious Ass, who resided in a Barrel, and only lived on Soda Water and Pickled Cucumbers. [Illustration] The Bountiful Beetle, who always carried a Green Umbrella when it didn't rain, and left it at home when it did. [Illustration] The Comfortable Confidential Cow, who sate in her Red Morocco Arm Chair and toasted her own Bread at the parlour Fire. [Illustration] The Dolomphious Duck, who caught Spotted Frogs for her dinner with a Runcible Spoon. [Illustration] The Enthusiastic Elephant, who ferried himself across the water with the Kitchen Poker and a New pair of Ear-rings. [Illustration] The Fizzgiggious Fish, who always walked about upon Stilts, because he had no legs. [Illustration] The Good-natured Grey Gull, who carried the Old Owl, and his Crimson Carpet-bag, across the river, because he could not swim. [Illustration] The Hasty Higgeldipiggledy Hen, who went to market in a Blue Bonnet and Shawl, and bought a Fish for her Supper. [Illustration] The Inventive Indian, who caught a Remarkable Rabbit in a Stupendous Silver Spoon. [Illustration] The Judicious Jubilant Jay, who did up her Back Hair every morning with a Wreath of Roses, Three feathers, and a Gold Pin. [Illustration] The Kicking Kangaroo, who wore a Pale Pink Muslin dress with Blue spots. [Illustration] The Lively Learned Lobster, who mended his own Clothes with a Needle and Thread. [Illustration] The Melodious Meritorious Mouse, who played a merry minuet on the Piano-forte. [Illustration] The Nutritious Newt, who purchased a Round Plum-pudding for his grand-daughter. [Illustration] The Obsequious Ornamental Ostrich, who wore Boots to keep his feet quite dry. [Illustration: PARSNIP PIE] The Perpendicular Purple Polly, who read the Newspaper and ate Parsnip Pie with his Spectacles. [Illustration] The Queer Querulous Quail, who smoked a Pipe of tobacco on the top of a Tin Tea-kettle. [Illustration] The Rural Runcible Raven, who wore a White Wig and flew away with the Carpet Broom. [Illustration] The Scroobious Snake, who always wore a Hat on his Head, for fear he should bite anybody. [Illustration] The Tumultuous Tom-tommy Tortoise, who beat a Drum all day long in the middle of the wilderness. [Illustration] The Umbrageous Umbrella-maker, whose Face nobody ever saw, because it was always covered by his Umbrella. [Illustration] The Visibly Vicious Vulture, who wrote some Verses to a Veal-cutlet in a Volume bound in Vellum. [Illustration] The Worrying Whizzing Wasp, who stood on a Table, and played sweetly on a Flute with a Morning Cap. [Illustration] The Excellent Double-extra XX imbibing King Xerxes, who lived a long while ago. [Illustration] The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, whose Head was ever so much bigger than his Body, and whose Hat was rather small. [Illustration] The Zigzag Zealous Zebra, who carried five Monkeys on his back all the way to Jellibolee. 
17117	----	[Transcriber's Note: The illustration references are explained at the end of this file.] * * * * * [Illustration: Front Cover (frontcover.jpg) An ELEGY on the GLORY of her SEX Mrs Mary BLAIZE R. Caldecott's PICTURE Books Frederick Warne and Co. Ltd.] * * * * * An Elegy on the Glory of Her Sex MRS. MARY BLAIZE by Dr. Oliver Goldsmith * * * * * [Illustration (painting, pic03.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic04trans.gif)] Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- [Illustration (drawing, pic05trans.gif)] _From those_ [Illustration (drawing, pic06trans.gif)] _who spoke her praise._ [Illustration (painting, pic07.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic08trans.gif)] The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- [Illustration (drawing, pic09trans.gif)] _Who left_ [Illustration (drawing, pic10trans.gif)] _a pledge behind._ [Illustration (painting, pic11.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic12trans.gif)] She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; [Illustration (drawing, pic13trans.gif)] And never follow'd wicked ways-- [Illustration (drawing, pic14trans.gif)] _Unless when she was sinning._ [Illustration (drawing, pic15trans.gif)] At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew-- [Illustration (painting, pic16.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic17trans.gif)] _But when she shut her eyes._ [Illustration (drawing, pic18trans.gif)] [Illustration (drawing, pic19trans.gif)] Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her-- [Illustration (painting, pic20.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic21trans.gif)] _When she has walk'd before._ [Illustration (drawing, pic22trans.gif)] But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short-all: The Doctors found, when she was dead _Her last disorder mortal._ [Illustration (drawing, pic23trans.gif)] Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,-- _She had not died to-day._ [Illustration (painting, pic24.jpg)] [Illustration (drawing, pic25trans.gif)] * * * * * [Illustration: back cover (backtrans.gif) Randolph Caldecott's Picture Books "The humour of Randolph Caldecott's drawings is simply irresistible, no healthy-minded man, woman, or child could look at them without laughing." _In square crown 4to, picture covers, with numerous coloured plates._ 1 John Gilpin 2 The House that Jack Built 3 The Babes in the Wood 4 The Mad Dog 5 Three Jovial Huntsmen 6 Sing a Song for Sixpence 7 The Queen of Hearts 8 The Farmer's Boy 9 The Milkmaid 10 Hey-Diddle-Diddle and Baby Bunting 11 A Frog He Would a-Wooing Go 12 The Fox Jumps over the Parson's Gate 13 Come Lasses and Lads 14 Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross, &c. 15 Mrs. Mary Blaize 16 The Great Panjandrum Himself _The above selections are also issued in Four Volumes, square crown 4to, attractive binding, red edges. Each containing four different books, with their Coloured Pictures and innumerable Outline Sketches._ 1 R. Caldecott's Picture Book No. 1 2 R. Caldecott's Picture Book No. 2 3 Hey-Diddle-Diddle-Picture Book 4 The Panjandrum Picture Book _And also_ _In Two Volumes, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each containing eight different books, with their Coloured Pictures and numerous Outline Sketches._ R. Caldecott's Collection of Pictures and Songs No. 1 R. Caldecott's Collection of Pictures and Songs No. 2 Miniature Editions, _size 5-1/2 by 4-1/2. Art Boards, flat back._ TWO VOLUMES ENTITLED R. CALDECOTT'S PICTURE BOOKS Nos. 1 and 2, _Each containing coloured plates and numerous Outline Sketches in the text._ _Crown 4to, picture covers._ Randolph Caldecott's Painting Books. Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4. _Each with Outline Pictures to Paint, and Coloured Examples._ _Oblong 4to, cloth._ A Sketch Book of R. Caldecott's. _Containing numerous sketches in Colour and black and white_ : LONDON : Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd. : & NEW YORK : _The Published Prices of the above Picture Books can be obtained of all Booksellers or from the Illustrated Catalogue of the Publishers._ PRINTED AND COPYRIGHTED BY EDMUND EVANS, LTD., ROSE PLACE, GLOBE ROAD, LONDON, E.1. ] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [Illustration Files: The illustrations are included in the "images" directory accompanying the html version of this file. They can be viewed or downloaded separately. The paintings are full-color jpg's averaging about 60K; the drawings are transparent gif's averaging about 15K.] 
20113	----	LEAR'S NONSENSE DROLLERIES THE OWL & THE PUSSY CAT AND THE DUCK & THE KANGAROO [Illustration] WITH Original Illustrations BY WILLIAM FOSTER LONDON & NEW YORK FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 1889 _ALL RIGHTS RESERVED._ The Owl and The Pussy-Cat. * * * * * The Duck and The Kangaroo. Nonsense Drolleries _The Owl & The Pussy-Cat--The Duck & The Kangaroo._ BY EDWARD LEAR, AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK OF NONSENSE," ETC. WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM FOSTER LONDON & NEW YORK FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 1889 _ALL RIGHTS RESERVED._ _PUBLISHERS' PREFACE._ The almost general desire to have THE OWL and THE PUSSY-CAT, THE DUCK and THE KANGAROO, in a distinct form from Mr. LEAR's other Nonsense Drolleries, has induced us to issue them separately with Original Illustrations. FREDK. WARNE & CO. London Engraved & Printed at Racquet Court, _by_ _Edmund Evans_. [Illustration] The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. [Illustration] The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" [Illustration] Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" [Illustration] They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows, And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. [Illustration] "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." [Illustration] So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dinèd on mince, and slices of quince Which they ate with a runcible spoon; [Illustration] And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. The Duck and The Kangaroo. Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, "Good gracious! how you hop Over the fields and the water too, As if you never would stop! [Illustration] My life is a bore in this nasty pond, And I long to go out in the world beyond! [Illustration] I wish I could hop like you!" Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. [Illustration] "Please give me a ride on your back!" Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. "I would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'Quack,' The whole of the long day through! [Illustration] And we'd go to the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee, Over the land, and over the sea;-- Please take me a ride! O do!" Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. Said the Kangaroo to the Duck, "This requires some little reflection; Perhaps on the whole it might bring me luck, And there seems but one objection, [Illustration] Which is, if you'll let me speak so bold, Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold, And would probably give me the roo- Matiz." said the Kangaroo. [Illustration] Said the Duck, "As I sate on the rocks, I have thought over that completely, And I bought four pairs of worsted socks Which fit my web-feet neatly [Illustration] And to keep out the cold I've bought a cloak And every day a cigar I'll smoke, All to follow my own dear true Love of a Kangaroo!" Said the Kangaroo, "I'm ready! All in the moonlight pale; But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady! And quite at the end of my tail!" So away they went with a hop and a bound, And they hopped the whole world three times round; And who so happy,--O who, As the Duck and the Kangaroo? [Illustration] A LIST OF WORKS BY THE LATE EDWARD LEAR. _In oblong 4to, cloth gilt,_ The Book of Nonsense. 27th Edition, 110 Illustrations printed in outline as originally published. More Nonsense. Third Edition. 104 Illustrations. _In small 4to, cloth gilt,_ Nonsense Songs and Stories. 7th Edition. Nonsense Botany and Nonsense Alphabets. 162 Illustrations. Fifth Edition. MR. RUSKIN says, in his _List of the Best Hundred Authors_--"Surely the most beneficent and innocent of all looks yet produced is 'The Book of Nonsense,' with its corollary carols, inimitable and refreshing, and perfect in rhythm. I really don't know any author to whom I am half so grateful for my idle self as Edward Lear. I shall put him first of my hundred authors." LONDON AND NEW YORK: FREDERICK WARNE & CO. [Illustration: Back Cover] 
14706	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14706-h.htm or 14706-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/0/14706/14706-h/14706-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/0/14706/14706-h.zip) GREYBEARDS AT PLAY Literature And Art For Old Gentlemen Rhymes and Sketches by GILBERT CHESTERTON London: R. Brimley Johnson 8, York Buildings, Adelphi 1900 A DEDICATION TO E.C.B. He was, through boyhood's storm and shower, My best, my nearest friend; We wore one hat, smoked one cigar, One standing at each end. We were two hearts with single hope, Two faces in one hood; I knew the secrets of his youth; I watched his every mood. The little things that none but I Saw were beyond his wont, The streaming hair, the tie behind, The coat tails worn in front. I marked the absent-minded scream, The little nervous trick Of rolling in the grate, with eyes By friendship's light made quick. But youth's black storms are gone and past, Bare is each aged brow; And, since with age we're growing bald, Let us be babies now. Learning we knew; but still to-day, With spelling-book devotion, Words of one syllable we seek In moments of emotion. Riches we knew; and well dressed dolls-- Dolls living--who expressed No filial thoughts, however much You thumped them in the chest. Old happiness is grey as we, And we may still outstrip her; If we be slippered pantaloons, Oh let us hunt the slipper! The old world glows with colours clear; And if, as saith the saint, The world is but a painted show, Oh let us lick the paint! Far, far behind are morbid hours, And lonely hearts that bleed. Far, far behind us are the days, When we were old indeed. Leave we the child: he is immersed With scientists and mystics: With deep prophetic voice he cries Canadian food statistics. But now I know how few and small, The things we crave need be-- Toys and the universe and you-- A little friend to tea. Behold the simple sum of things, Where, in one splendour spun, The stars go round the Mulberry Bush, The Burning Bush, the Sun. Now we are old and wise and grey, And shaky at the knees; Now is the true time to delight In picture books like these. Hoary and bent I dance one hour: What though I die at morn? There is a shout among the stars, "To-night a child is born." CONTENTS THE ONENESS OF THE PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE OF THE DANGERS ATTENDING ALTRUISM ON THE HIGH SEAS ON THE DISASTROUS SPREAD OF ÆSTHETICISM IN ALL CLASSES ENVOY THE ONENESS OF THE PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE. I love to see the little stars All dancing to one tune; I think quite highly of the Sun, And kindly of the Moon. [Illustration] The million forests of the Earth Come trooping in to tea. The great Niagara waterfall Is never shy with me. [Illustration] I am the tiger's confidant, And never mention names: The lion drops the formal "Sir," And lets me call him James. [Illustration] Into my ear the blushing Whale Stammers his love. I know Why the Rhinoceros is sad, --Ah, child! 'twas long ago. [Illustration] I am akin to all the Earth By many a tribal sign: The aged Pig will often wear That sad, sweet smile of mine. [Illustration] My niece, the Barnacle, has got My piercing eyes of black; The Elephant has got my nose, I do not want it back. [Illustration] I know the strange tale of the Slug; The Early Sin--the Fall-- The Sleep--the Vision--and the Vow-- The Quest--the Crown--the Call. [Illustration] And I have loved the Octopus, Since we were boys together. I love the Vulture and the Shark: I even love the weather. [Illustration] I love to bask in sunny fields, And when that hope is vain, I go and bask in Baker Street, All in the pouring rain. [Illustration] Come snow! where fly, by some strange law, Hard snowballs--without noise-- Through streets untenanted, except By good unconscious boys. [Illustration] Come fog! exultant mystery-- Where, in strange darkness rolled, The end of my own nose becomes A lovely legend old. Come snow, and hail, and thunderbolts, Sleet, fire, and general fuss; Come to my arms, come all at once-- Oh photograph me thus! [Illustration] * * * * * OF THE DANGERS ATTENDING ALTRUISM ON THE HIGH SEAS. Observe these Pirates bold and gay, That sail a gory sea: Notice their bright expression:-- The handsome one is me. [Illustration] We plundered ships and harbours, We spoiled the Spanish main; But Nemesis watched over us, For it began to rain. Oh all well-meaning folk take heed! Our Captain's fate was sore; A more well-meaning Pirate, Had never dripped with gore. The rain was pouring long and loud, The sea was drear and dim; A little fish was floating there: Our Captain pitied him. [Illustration] "How sad," he said, and dropped a tear Splash on the cabin roof, "That we are dry, while he is there Without a waterproof. "We'll get him up on board at once; For Science teaches me, He will be wet if he remains Much longer in the sea." They fished him out; the First Mate wept, And came with rugs and ale: The Boatswain brought him one golosh, And fixed it on his tail. [Illustration] But yet he never loved the ship; Against the mast he'd lean; If spoken to, he coughed and smiled, And blushed a pallid green. Though plied with hardbake, beef and beer, He showed no wish to sup: The neatest riddles they could ask, He always gave them up. [Illustration] They seized him and court-martialled him, In some excess of spleen, For lack of social sympathy, (Victoria xii. 18). They gathered every evidence That might remove a doubt: They wrote a postcard in his name, And partly scratched it out. Till, when his guilt was clear as day, With all formality They doomed the traitor to be drowned, And threw him in the sea. [Illustration] The flashing sunset, as he sank, Made every scale a gem; And, turning with a graceful bow, He kissed his fin to them. [Illustration] MORAL. I am, I think I have remarked, Terrifically old, (The second Ice-age was a farce, The first was rather cold.) A friend of mine, a trilobite Had gathered in his youth, When trilobites _were_ trilobites, This all-important truth. We aged ones play solemn parts-- Sire--guardian--uncle--king. Affection is the salt of life, Kindness a noble thing. The old alone may comprehend A sense in my decree; But--if you find a fish on land, Oh throw it in the sea. * * * * * ON THE DISASTROUS SPREAD OF ÆSTHETICISM IN ALL CLASSES. Impetuously I sprang from bed, Long before lunch was up, That I might drain the dizzy dew From day's first golden cup. [Illustration] In swift devouring ecstacy Each toil in turn was done; I had done lying on the lawn Three minutes after one. For me, as Mr. Wordsworth says, The duties shine like stars; I formed my uncle's character, Decreasing his cigars. But could my kind engross me? No! Stern Art--what sons escape her? Soon I was drawing Gladstone's nose On scraps of blotting paper. [Illustration] Then on--to play one-fingered tunes Upon my aunt's piano. In short, I have a headlong soul, I much resemble Hanno. (Forgive the entrance of the not Too cogent Carthaginian. It may have been to make a rhyme; I lean to that opinion). [Illustration] Then my great work of book research Till dusk I took in hand-- The forming of a final, sound Opinion on _The Strand_. But when I quenched the midnight oil, And closed _The Referee_, Whose thirty volumes folio I take to bed with me, I had a rather funny dream, Intense, that is, and mystic; I dreamed that, with one leap and yell, The world became artistic. The Shopmen, when their souls were still, Declined to open shops-- [Illustration] And Cooks recorded frames of mind In sad and subtle chops. [Illustration] The stars were weary of routine: The trees in the plantation Were growing every fruit at once, In search of a sensation. The moon went for a moonlight stroll, And tried to be a bard, And gazed enraptured at itself: I left it trying hard. The sea had nothing but a mood Of 'vague ironic gloom,' With which t'explain its presence in My upstairs drawing-room. [Illustration] The sun had read a little book That struck him with a notion: He drowned himself and all his fires Deep in the hissing ocean. Then all was dark, lawless, and lost: I heard great devilish wings: I knew that Art had won, and snapt The Covenant of Things. [Illustration] I cried aloud, and I awoke, New labours in my head. I set my teeth, and manfully Began to lie in bed. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, So I my life conduct. Each morning see some task begun, Each evening see it chucked. But still, in sudden moods of dusk, I hear those great weird wings, Feel vaguely thankful to the vast Stupidity of things. * * * * * ENVOY. Clear was the night: the moon was young: The larkspurs in the plots Mingled their orange with the gold Of the forget-me-nots. The poppies seemed a silver mist: So darkly fell the gloom. You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaks Were buttercups in bloom. But one thing moved: a little child Crashed through the flower and fern: And all my soul rose up to greet The sage of whom I learn. I looked into his awful eyes: I waited his decree: I made ingenious attempts To sit upon his knee. The babe upraised his wondering eyes, And timidly he said, "A trend towards experiment In modern minds is bred. "I feel the will to roam, to learn By test, experience, _nous_, That fire is hot and ocean deep, And wolves carnivorous. "My brain demands complexity." The lisping cherub cried. I looked at him, and only said, "Go on. The world is wide." A tear rolled down his pinafore, "Yet from my life must pass The simple love of sun and moon, The old games in the grass; "Now that my back is to my home Could these again be found?" I looked on him, and only said, "Go on. The world is round." 
23972	----	None 
13649	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations and music clips as well as midi, pdf, and lilypond files. See 13649-h.htm or 13649-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13649/13649-h/13649-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/4/13649/13649-h.zip) LAUGHABLE LYRICS A Fourth Book of Nonsense Poems, Songs, Botany, Music, etc. by EDWARD LEAR Author of the _Book of Nonsense_, _More Nonsense_, _Nonsense Songs, Stories_, etc., etc. With all the Original Illustrations [Illustration] CONTENTS LAUGHABLE LYRICS THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE THE TWO OLD BACHELORS THE PELICAN CHORUS THE YONGHY-BONGHY-Bò THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES THE NEW VESTMENTS MR. AND MRS. DISCOBBOLOS THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT THE CUMMERBUND THE AKOND OF SWAT NONSENSE BOTANY " ALPHABET, No. 5 " " No. 6 LAUGHABLE LYRICS. THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE. [Illustration] When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights; When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore; When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore,-- Then, through the vast and gloomy dark There moves what seems a fiery spark,-- A lonely spark with silvery rays Piercing the coal-black night,-- A Meteor strange and bright: Hither and thither the vision strays, A single lurid light. Slowly it wanders, pauses, creeps,-- Anon it sparkles, flashes, and leaps; And ever as onward it gleaming goes A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws. And those who watch at that midnight hour From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower, Cry, as the wild light passes along,-- "The Dong! the Dong! The wandering Dong through the forest goes! The Dong! the Dong! The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Long years ago The Dong was happy and gay, Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl Who came to those shores one day. For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did,-- Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd Where the Oblong Oysters grow, And the rocks are smooth and gray. And all the woods and the valleys rang With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang,-- "_Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve._" Happily, happily passed those days! While the cheerful Jumblies staid; They danced in circlets all night long, To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, In moonlight, shine, or shade. For day and night he was always there By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, With her sky-blue hands and her sea-green hair; Till the morning came of that hateful day When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, And the Dong was left on the cruel shore Gazing, gazing for evermore,-- Ever keeping his weary eyes on That pea-green sail on the far horizon,-- Singing the Jumbly Chorus still As he sate all day on the grassy hill,-- "_Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve_." But when the sun was low in the West, The Dong arose and said,-- "What little sense I once possessed Has quite gone out of my head!" And since that day he wanders still By lake and forest, marsh and hill, Singing, "O somewhere, in valley or plain, Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! For ever I'll seek by lake and shore Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!" Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks; And because by night he could not see, He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree On the flowery plain that grows. And he wove him a wondrous Nose,-- A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! Of vast proportions and painted red, And tied with cords to the back of his head. In a hollow rounded space it ended With a luminous Lamp within suspended, All fenced about With a bandage stout To prevent the wind from blowing it out; And with holes all round to send the light In gleaming rays on the dismal night And now each night, and all night long, Over those plains still roams the Dong; And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe, While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain, To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; Lonely and wild, all night he goes,-- The Dong with a luminous Nose! And all who watch at the midnight hour, From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower, Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright, Moving along through the dreary night,-- "This is the hour when forth he goes, The Dong with a luminous Nose! Yonder, over the plain he goes,-- He goes! He goes,-- The Dong with a luminous Nose!" THE TWO OLD BACHELORS. [Illustration] Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,-- "This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money? And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner, But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?" Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,-- "We might cook this little Mouse, if we only had some Stuffin'! If we had but Sage and Onion we could do extremely well; But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!" Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onion as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round. But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up, and seize him by the toes,--all studious as he sits,-- And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into Scraps),-- When your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good--perhaps." Those two old Bachelors without loss of time The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. "You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!" But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book, At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took; And over Crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin'), The Mouse had fled--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin. They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more. [Illustration: Sheet Music--The Pelicans] [Illustration] THE PELICAN CHORUS. King and Queen of the Pelicans we; No other Birds so grand we see! None but we have feet like fins! With lovely leathery throats and chins! Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican Jill! We think so then, and we thought so still We live on the Nile. The Nile we love. By night we sleep on the cliffs above; By day we fish, and at eve we stand On long bare islands of yellow sand. And when the sun sinks slowly down, And the great rock walls grow dark and brown, Where the purple river rolls fast and dim And the Ivory Ibis starlike skim, Wing to wing we dance around, Stamping our feet with a flumpy sound, Opening our mouths as Pelicans ought; And this is the song we nightly snort,-- Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! Last year came out our Daughter Dell, And all the Birds received her well. To do her honor a feast we made For every bird that can swim or wade,-- Herons and Gulls, and Cormorants black, Cranes, and Flamingoes with scarlet back, Plovers and Storks, and Geese in clouds, Swans and Dilberry Ducks in crowds: Thousands of Birds in wondrous flight! They ate and drank and danced all night, And echoing back from the rocks you heard Multitude-echoes from Bird and Bird,-- Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! Yes, they came; and among the rest The King of the Cranes all grandly dressed. Such a lovely tail! Its feathers float Between the ends of his blue dress-coat; With pea-green trowsers all so neat, And a delicate frill to hide his feet (For though no one speaks of it, every one knows He has got no webs between his toes). As soon as he saw our Daughter Dell, In violent love that Crane King fell,-- On seeing her waddling form so fair, With a wreath of shrimps in her short white hair. And before the end of the next long day Our Dell had given her heart away; For the King of the Cranes had won that heart With a Crocodile's egg and a large fish-tart. She vowed to marry the King of the Cranes, Leaving the Nile for stranger plains; And away they flew in a gathering crowd Of endless birds in a lengthening cloud. Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! And far away in the twilight sky We heard them singing a lessening cry,-- Farther and farther, till out of sight, And we stood alone in the silent night! Often since, in the nights of June, We sit on the sand and watch the moon,-- She has gone to the great Gromboolian Plain, And we probably never shall meet again! Oft, in the long still nights of June, We sit on the rocks and watch the moon,-- She dwells by the streams of the Chankly Bore. And we probably never shall see her more. Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! [Illustration: Sheet Music--The Yonghy Bonghy Bò] THE COURTSHIP OF THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BÒ. [Illustration] I. On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bò. II. Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. III. "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. "I am tired of living singly-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. IV. "On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap); As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. V. Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! VI. "Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bongy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! VII. "Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yongby-Bonghy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!" VIII. Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me; On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. [Illustration] IX. Through the silent-roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. With a sad primaeval motion Towards the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well. Holding fast upon his shell, "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. X. From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go; On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES. [Illustration] I. The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;" He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!" II. The Pobble who has no toes, Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose." III. The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the further side,-- "He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!" IV. But before he touched the shore,-- The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone! V. And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty Mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes! VI. The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back, and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast, at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes." THE NEW VESTMENTS. There lived an old man in the Kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street. By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread, In the middle of which he inserted his head; His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice; His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes; His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose; His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops; His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops; His Coat was all Pancakes, with Jam for a border, And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order; And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather, A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together. He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise, Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys; And from every long street and dark lane in the town Beasts, Birdies, and Boys in a tumult rushed down. Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak; Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke; Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat, And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat; An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore _up_ his Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies; And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops, Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat Pigs came again and again: They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors; They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers; And now from the housetops with screechings descend Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end: They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that; They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice, And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice; They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,-- Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all. And he said to himself, as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, never more!" MR. AND MRS. DISCOBBOLOS. I. Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Climbed to the top of a wall. And they sate to watch the sunset sky, And to hear the Nupiter Piffkin cry, And the Biscuit Buffalo call. They took up a roll and some Camomile tea, And both were as happy as happy could be, Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,-- "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head, Suppose we should happen to fall!!!!! Darling Mr. Discobbolos! II. "Suppose we should fall down flumpetty, Just like pieces of stone, On to the thorns, or into the moat, What would become of your new green coat? And might you not break a bone? It never occurred to me before, That perhaps we shall never go down any more!" And Mrs. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! What put it into your head To climb up this wall, my own Darling Mr. Discobbolos?" III. Mr. Discobbolos answered, "At first it gave me pain, And I felt my ears turn perfectly pink When your exclamation made me think We might never get down again! But now I believe it is wiser far To remain for ever just where we are." And Mr. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head We shall never go down again, Dearest Mrs. Discobbolos!" IV. So Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Stood up and began to sing,-- "Far away from hurry and strife Here we will pass the rest of life, Ding a dong, ding dong, ding! We want no knives nor forks nor chairs, No tables nor carpets nor household cares; From worry of life we've fled; Oh! W! X! Y! Z! There is no more trouble ahead, Sorrow or any such thing, For Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos!" THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT. [Illustration] I. On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat. For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side, And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody ever could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. II. The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "Jam, and jelly, and bread Are the best of food for me! But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree The plainer than ever it seems to me That very few people come this way And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. III. But there came to the Crumpetty Tree Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, "Did ever you see Any spot so charmingly airy? May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! O please let us come and build a nest Of whatever material suits you best, Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" IV. And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail and the Bumble-Bee, The Frog and the Fimble Fowl (The Fimble Fowl, with a Corkscrew leg); And all of them said, "We humbly beg We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,-- Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" V. And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, And the small Olympian bear, And the Dong with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,-- All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. VI. And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "When all these creatures move What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee. THE CUMMERBUND. An Indian Poem. I. She sate upon her Dobie, To watch the Evening Star, And all the Punkahs, as they passed, Cried, "My! how fair you are!" Around her bower, with quivering leaves, The tall Kamsamahs grew, And Kitmutgars in wild festoons Hung down from Tchokis blue. II. Below her home the river rolled With soft meloobious sound, Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam, In myriads circling round. Above, on tallest trees remote Green Ayahs perched alone, And all night long the Mussak moan'd Its melancholy tone. III. And where the purple Nullahs threw Their branches far and wide, And silvery Goreewallahs flew In silence, side by side, The little Bheesties' twittering cry Rose on the flagrant air, And oft the angry Jampan howled Deep in his hateful lair. IV. She sate upon her Dobie, She heard the Nimmak hum, When all at once a cry arose, "The Cummerbund is come!" In vain she fled: with open jaws The angry monster followed, And so (before assistance came) That Lady Fair was swollowed. V. They sought in vain for even a bone Respectfully to bury; They said, "Hers was a dreadful fate!" (And Echo answered, "Very.") They nailed her Dobie to the wall, Where last her form was seen, And underneath they wrote these words, In yellow, blue, and green: "Beware, ye Fair! Ye Fair, beware! Nor sit out late at night, Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come, And swollow you outright." NOTE.--First published in _Times of India_, Bombay, July, 1874. THE AKOND OF SWAT. Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Akond of SWAT? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair, or SQUAT, The Akond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or HOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or TROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat, or a COT, The Akond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his T's and finish his I's with a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear Without a speck or a smudge or smear or BLOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or PLOT, At the Akond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or _shot_, The Akond of Swat? Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, GAROTTE? O the Akond of Swat! Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a JOT, The Akond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or WHAT, For the Akond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a LOT, For the Akond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe? Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe, or a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, SHALLOTT, The Akond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a SCOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a GROTT, The Akond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a POT, The Akond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or ROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a KNOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or NOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a YACHT, The Akond of Swat? Some one, or nobody, knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Akond of Swat! NOTE.--For the existence of this potentate see Indian newspapers, _passim_. The proper way to read the verses is to make an immense emphasis on the monosyllabic rhymes, which indeed ought to be shouted out by a chorus. * * * * * NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Armchairia Comfortabilis.] [Illustration: Bassia Palealensis.] [Illustration: Bubblia Blowpipia.] [Illustration: Bluebottlia Buzztilentia.] [Illustration: Crabbia Horrida.] [Illustration: Smalltoothcombia Domestica.] [Illustration: Knutmigrata Simplice.] [Illustration: Tureenia Ladlecum.] [Illustration: Puffia Leatherbellowsa.] [Illustration: Queeriflora Babyöides.] * * * * * NONSENSE ALPHABETS. A [Illustration] A was an Area Arch Where washerwomen sat; They made a lot of lovely starch To starch Papa's Cravat. B [Illustration] B was a Bottle blue, Which was not very small; Papa he filled it full of beer, And then he drank it all. C [Illustration] C was Papa's gray Cat, Who caught a squeaky Mouse; She pulled him by his twirly tail All about the house. D [Illustration] D was Papa's white Duck, Who had a curly tail; One day it ate a great fat frog, Besides a leetle snail. E [Illustration] E was a little Egg, Upon the breakfast table; Papa came in and ate it up As fast as he was able. F [Illustration] F was a little Fish. Cook in the river took it Papa said, "Cook! Cook! bring a dish! And, Cook! be quick and cook it!" G [Illustration] G was Papa's new Gun; He put it in a box; And then he went and bought a bun, And walked about the Docks. H [Illustration] H was Papa's new Hat; He wore it on his head; Outside it was completely black, But inside it was red. I [Illustration] I was an Inkstand new, Papa he likes to use it; He keeps it in his pocket now, For fear that he should lose it. J [Illustration] J was some Apple Jam, Of which Papa ate part; But all the rest he took away And stuffed into a tart. K [Illustration] K was a great new Kite; Papa he saw it fly Above a thousand chimney pots, And all about the sky. L [Illustration] L was a fine new Lamp; But when the wick was lit, Papa he said, "This Light ain't good! I cannot read a bit!" M [Illustration] M was a dish of mince; It looked so good to eat! Papa, he quickly ate it up, And said, "This is a treat!" N [Illustration] N was a Nut that grew High up upon a tree; Papa, who could not reach it, said, "That's _much_ too high for me!" O [Illustration] O was an Owl who flew All in the dark away, Papa said, "What an owl you are! Why don't you fly by day?" P [Illustration] P was a little Pig, Went out to take a walk; Papa he said, "If Piggy dead, He'd all turn into Pork!" Q [Illustration] Q was a Quince that hung Upon a garden tree; Papa he brought it with him home, And ate it with his tea. R [Illustration] R was a Railway Rug Extremely large and warm; Papa he wrapped it round his head, In a most dreadful storm. S [Illustration] S was Papa's new Stick, Papa's new thumping Stick, To thump extremely wicked boys, Because it was so thick. T [Illustration] T was a tumbler full Of Punch all hot and good; Papa he drank it up, when in The middle of a wood. U [Illustration] U was a silver urn, Full of hot scalding water; Papa said, "If that Urn were mine, I'd give it to my daughter!" V [Illustration] V was a Villain; once He stole a piece of beef. Papa he said, "Oh, dreadful man! That Villain is a Thief!" W [Illustration] W was a Watch of Gold: It told the time of day, So that Papa knew when to come, And when to go away. X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, whom Papa much wished to know; But this he could not do, because Xerxes died long ago. Y [Illustration] Y was a Youth, who kicked And screamed and cried like mad; Papa he said, "Your conduct is Abominably bad!" Z [Illustration] Z was a Zebra striped And streaked with lines of black; Papa said once, he thought he'd like A ride upon his back. ALPHABET, No. 6. A tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood, B said. "My Boy, oh, do not cry; it cannot do you good!" C said, "A Cup of Coffee hot can't do you any harm." D said, "A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm." E said, "An Egg beat up with milk would quickly make him well." F said, "A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell." G said, "Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold." H said, "His Hat should be kept on, to keep him from the cold." I said, "Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon." J said, "Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon!" K said, "A Kangaroo is here,--this picture let him see." L said, "A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea." M said, "A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction." N said, "Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction." O said, "An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink." P said, "Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think." Q said, "A Quince I recommend,--a Quince, or else a Quail." R said, "Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail." S said, "A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!" T said, "A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half!" U said, "An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!" V said, "I'll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!" W said, "Some Whisky-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!" X said, "Some double XX ale would be the best of all!" Y said, "Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!" Z said, "Here is a box of Zinc! Get in, my little master! We'll shut you up! We'll nail you down! We will, my little master! We think we've all heard quite enough of this your sad disaster!" 
15370	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15370-h.htm or 15370-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/7/15370/15370-h/15370-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/7/15370/15370-h.zip) BAB BALLADS AND SAVOY SONGS by W. H. GILBERT Philadelphia Henry Altemus [Illustration: BAB BALLADS AND SAVOY SONGS [Illustration] CONTENTS The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" Captain Reece The Bishop and the Busman The Folly of Brown The Three Kings of Chickeraboo The Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo To the Terrestrial Globe General John Sir Guy the Crusader King Borria Bungalee Boo The Troubadour The Force of Argument Only a Dancing Girl The Sensation Captain The Periwinkle Girl Bob Polter Gentle Alice Brown Ben Allah Achmet The Englishman The Disagreeable Man The Modern Major-General The Heavy Dragoon Only Roses They'll None of 'Em Be Missed The Policeman's Lot An Appeal Eheu Fugaces--! A Recipe The First Lord's Song When a Merry Maiden Marries The Suicide's Grave He and She The Lord Chancellor's Song Willow Waly The Usher's Charge King Goodheart The Tangled Skein Girl Graduates The Ape and the Lady Sans Souci The British Tar The Coming Bye and Bye The Sorcerer's Song Speculation The Duke of Plaza-Toro The Reward of Merit When I First Put This Uniform On Said I to Myself, Said I The Family Fool The Philosophic Pill The Contemplative Sentry Sorry Her Lot The Judge's Song True Diffidence The Highly Respectable Gondolier Don't Forget The Darned Mounseer The Humane Mikado The House of Peers The Æsthete Proper Pride The Baffled Grumbler The Working Monarch The Rover's Apology Would You Know The Magnet and the Churn Braid the Raven Hair Is Life a Boon? A Mirage A Merry Madrigal The Love-Sick Boy THE BAB BALLADS. THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." 'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." And he shook his fists and he tore his hair. Till I really felt afraid; For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "Oh, elderly man it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be "At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn: "'Twas in the good ship _Nancy Bell_ That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the _Nancy's_ men Said 'Here!' to the muster roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So, we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the _Nancy's_ mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. "Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom, 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'-- 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook _me_, While I can--and will--cook _you_!' "So, he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too. "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see, How extremely nice you'll smell,' "And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And--as I eating be The last of his chops, why I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see. * * * * * "And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play, But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have--which is to say: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!" CAPTAIN REECE. Of all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy Captain Reece. Commanding of _The Mantelpiece_. He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew. If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his infancy. A feather bed had every man, Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four. Did they with thirst in summer burn? Lo, seltzogenes at every turn. And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays. Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the "tops:" And, also, with amusement rife, A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." New volumes came across the sea From Mister Mudie's libraree; _The Times_ and _Saturday Review_ Beguiled the leisure of the crew. Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N., Was quite devoted to his men; In point of fact, good Captain Reece Beatified _The Mantelpiece_. One summer eve, at half-past ten, He said (addressing all his men): "Come, tell me, please, what I can do To please and gratify my crew. "By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can; My own convenience count as _nil_; It is my duty, and I will." Then up and answered William Lee, (The kindly captain's coxswain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man) He cleared his throat and thus began: "You have a daughter, Captain Reece, Ten female cousins and a niece, A ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two. "Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be. If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew. "If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife; And as for nervous me, old pal, Give me your own enchanting gal!" Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan: "I quite agree," he said. "O Bill; It is my duty, and I will. "My daughter, that enchanting gurl, has just been promised to an earl, And all my other familee To peers of various degree. "But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you I'll fulfil; It is my duty, and I will. "As you desire it shall befall, I'll settle thousands on you all, And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board." The boatswain of _The Mantelpiece_, He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: "I beg your honor's leave," he said, "If you wish to go and wed, "I have a widowed mother who Would be the very thing for you-- She long has loved you from afar, She washes for you, Captain R." The captain saw the dame that day-- Addressed her in his playful way-- "And did it want a wedding ring? It was a tempting ickle sing! "Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, We'll all be married this day week-- At yonder church upon the hill; It is my duty, and I will!" The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed ma of Captain Reece, Attended there as they were bid; It was their duty, and they did. [Illustration] THE BISHOP AND THE BUSMAN. It was a Bishop bold, And London was his see, He was short and stout and round about, And zealous as could be. It also was a Jew, Who drove a Putney bus-- For flesh of swine however fine He did not care a cuss. His name was Hash Baz Ben, And Jedediah too, And Solomon and Zabulon-- This bus-directing Jew. The Bishop said, said he, "I'll see what I can do To Christianize and make you wise, You poor benighted Jew." So every blessed day That bus he rode outside, From Fulham town, both up and down, And loudly thus he cried:-- "His name is Hash Baz Ben, And Jedediah too, And Solomon and Zabulon-- This bus-directing Jew." At first the busman smiled, And rather liked the fun-- He merely smiled, that Hebrew child, And said, "Eccentric one!" And gay young dogs would wait To see the bus go by (These gay young dogs in striking togs) To hear the Bishop cry:-- "Observe his grisly beard, His race it clearly shows, He sticks no fork in ham or pork:-- Observe, my friends, his nose. "His name is Hash Baz Ben, And Jedediah too, And Solomon and Zabulon-- This bus-directing Jew." But though at first amused, Yet after seven years, This Hebrew child got awful riled, And busted into tears. He really almost feared To leave his poor abode, His nose, and name, and beard became A byword on that road. At length he swore an oath, The reason he would know-- "I'll call and see why ever he Does persecute me so." The good old bishop sat On his ancestral chair, The busman came, sent up his name, And laid his grievance bare. "Benighted Jew," he said, (And chuckled loud with joy) "Be Christian you, instead of Jew-- Become a Christian boy. "I'll ne'er annoy you more." "Indeed?" replied the Jew. "Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!" Then "Done!" said he, "with you!" The organ which, in man, Between the eyebrows grows, Fell from his face, and in its place, He found a Christian nose. His tangled Hebrew beard, Which to his waist came down, Was now a pair of whiskers fair-- His name, Adolphus Brown. He wedded in a year, That prelate's daughter Jane; He's grown quite fair--has auburn hair-- His wife is far from plain. THE FOLLY OF BROWN. BY A GENERAL AGENT. I knew a boor--a clownish card, (His only friends were pigs and cows and The poultry of a small farmyard) Who came into two hundred thousand. Good fortune worked no change in Brown, Though she's a mighty social chymist: He was a clown--and by a clown I do not mean a pantomimist. It left him quiet, calm, and cool, Though hardly knowing what a crown was-- You can't imagine what a fool Poor rich, uneducated Brown was! He scouted all who wished to come And give him monetary schooling; And I propose to give you some Idea of his insensate fooling. I formed a company or two-- (Of course I don't know what the rest meant, _I_ formed them solely with a view To help him to a sound investment). Their objects were--their only cares-- To justify their Boards in showing A handsome dividend on shares, And keep their good promoter going. But no--the lout prefers his brass, Though shares at par I freely proffer: Yes--will it be believed?--the ass Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer! He added, with a bumpkin's grin, (A weakly intellect denoting) He'd rather not invest it in A company of my promoting! "You have two hundred 'thou' or more," Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it. Come, take my furnished second floor, I'll gladly show you how to spend it." But will it be believed that he, With grin upon his face of poppy, Declined my aid, while thanking me For what he called my "philanthroppy?" Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice In doubting friends who wouldn't harm them; They will not hear the charmer's voice, However wisely he may charm them. I showed him that his coat, all dust, Top boots and cords provoked compassion, And proved that men of station must Conform to the decrees of fashion. I showed him where to buy his hat, To coat him, trouser him, and boot him; But no--he wouldn't hear of that-- "He didn't think the style would suit him!" I offered him a country seat, And made no end of an oration; I made it certainly complete, And introduced the deputation. But no--the clown my prospects blights-- (The worth of birth it surely teaches!) "Why should I want to spend my nights In Parliament, a-making speeches? "I haven't never been to school-- I ain't had not no eddication-- And I should surely be a fool To publish that to all the nation!" I offered him a trotting horse-- No hack had ever trotted faster-- I also offered him, of course, A rare and curious "old Master." I offered to procure him weeds-- Wines fit for one in his position-- But, though an ass in all his deeds, He'd learnt the meaning of "commission." He called me "thief" the other day, And daily from his door he thrusts me; Much more of this, and soon I may Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me. So deaf to all sound Reason's rule This poor uneducated clown is, You cannot fancy what a fool Poor rich uneducated Brown is. THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO. There were three niggers of Chickeraboo-- Pacifico, Bang-Bang, Popchop--who Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day, "Oh, let's be kings in a humble way." The first was a highly-accomplished "bones," The next elicited banjo tones, The third was a quiet, retiring chap, Who danced an excellent break-down "flap." "We niggers," said they, "have formed a plan By which, whenever we like, we can Extemporize islands near the beach, And then we'll collar an island each. "Three casks, from somebody else's stores, Shall rep-per-esent our island shores, Their sides the ocean wide shall lave, Their heads just topping the briny wave. "Great Britain's navy scours the sea, And everywhere her ships they be, She'll recognize our rank, perhaps, When she discovers we're Royal Chaps. "If to her skirts you want to cling, It's quite sufficient that you're a king: She does not push inquiry far To learn what sort of king you are." A ship of several thousand tons, And mounting seventy-something guns, Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue, Discovering kings and countries new. The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip, Commanding that superior ship, Perceived one day, his glasses through, The kings that came from Chickeraboo. "Dear eyes!" said Admiral Pip, "I see Three flourishing islands on our lee. And, bless me! most extror'nary thing! On every island stands a king! "Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried, "And over the dancing waves I'll glide; That low obeisance I may do To those three kings of Chickeraboo!" The admiral pulled to the islands three; The kings saluted him gracious_lee_. The admiral, pleased at his welcome warm, Pulled out a printed Alliance form. "Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray-- I come in a friendly kind of way-- I come, if you please, with the best intents, And Queen Victoria's compliments." The kings were pleased as they well could be; The most retiring of all the three, In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent With a banjo-bones accompaniment. The great Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip Embarked on board his jolly big ship, Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore, And off he sailed to his native shore. Admiral Pip directly went To the Lord at the head of the Government, Who made him, by a stroke of a quill, Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville. The College of Heralds permission yield That he should quarter upon his shield Three islands, _vert_, on a field of blue, With the pregnant motto "Chickeraboo." Ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too, Are going to sail for Chickeraboo, And, see, on the good ship's crowded deck, A bishop, who's going out there on spec. And let us all hope that blissful things May come of alliance with darkey kings. Oh, may we never, whatever we do, Declare a war with Chickeraboo! [Illustration] THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO. From east and south the holy clan Of bishops gathered, to a man; To synod, called Pan-Anglican; In flocking crowds they came. Among them was a Bishop, who Had lately been appointed to The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo, And Peter was his name. His people--twenty-three in sum-- They played the eloquent tum-tum And lived on scalps served up in rum-- The only sauce they knew, When, first good Bishop Peter came (For Peter was that Bishop's name), To humor them, he did the same As they of Rum-ti-Foo. His flock, I've often heard him tell, (His name was Peter) loved him well, And summoned by the sound of bell, In crowds together came. "Oh, massa, why you go away? Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay." (They called him Peter, people say, Because it was his name.) He told them all good boys to be, And sailed away across the sea. At London Bridge that Bishop he Arrived one Tuesday night-- And as that night he homeward strode To his Pan-Anglican abode, He passed along the Borough Road And saw a gruesome sight. He saw a crowd assembled round A person dancing on the ground, Who straight began to leap and bound With all his might and main. To see that dancing man he stopped. Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, Then down incontinently dropped, And then sprang up again. The Bishop chuckled at the sight, "This style of dancing would delight A simple Rum-ti-Foozle-ite. I'll learn it, if I can, To please the tribe when I get back." He begged the man to teach his knack. "Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack," Replied that dancing man. The dancing man he worked away And taught the Bishop every day-- The dancer skipped like any fay-- Good Peter did the same. The Bishop buckled to his task With _battements_, cuts, and _pas de basque_ (I'll tell you, if you care to ask, That Peter was his name). "Come, walk like this," the dancer said, "Stick out your toes--stick in your head. Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread-- Your fingers thus extend; The attitude's considered quaint," The weary Bishop, feeling faint, Replied, "I do not say it ain't, But 'Time!' my Christian friend!" "We now proceed to something new-- Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do, Like this--one, two--one, two--one, two." The Bishop, never proud, But in an overwhelming heat (His name was Peter, I repeat), Performed the Payne and Lauri feat, And puffed his thanks aloud. Another game the dancer planned-- "Just take your ankle in your hand, And try, my lord, if you can stand-- Your body stiff and stark. If, when revisiting your see, You learnt to hop on shore--like me-- The novelty must striking be, And must excite remark." "No," said the worthy Bishop, "No; That is a length to which, I trow, Colonial Bishops cannot go. You may express surprise At finding Bishops deal in pride-- But, if that trick I ever tried, I should appear undignified In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes. "The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Are well-conducted persons, who Approve a joke as much as you, And laugh at it as such; But if they saw their Bishop land, His leg supported in his hand, The joke they wouldn't understand-- 'Twould pain them very much!" TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. BY A MISERABLE WRETCH. Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space Roll on! What, though I'm in a sorry case? What, though I cannot meet my bills? What, though I suffer toothache's ills? What, though I swallow countless pills? Never _you_ mind! Roll on! Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due; It's true my prospects all look blue-- But don't let that unsettle you! Never _you_ mind! Roll on! _(It rolls on.)_ GENERAL JOHN. The bravest names for fire and flames, And all that mortal durst, Were General John and Private James, Of the Sixty-seventy-first. General John was a soldier tried, A chief of warlike dons; A haughty stride and a withering pride Were Major-General John's. A sneer would play on his martial phiz, Superior birth to show; "Pish!" was a favorite word of his, And he often said "Ho! ho!" Full-Private James described might be, As a man of a mournful mind; No characteristic trait had he Of any distinctive kind. From the ranks, one day, cried Private James "Oh! Major-General John, I've doubts of our respective names, My mournful mind upon. "A glimmering thought occurs to me, (Its source I can't unearth) But I've a kind of notion we Were cruelly changed at birth. "I've a strange idea, each other's names That we have each got on, Such things have been," said Private James. "They have!" sneered General John. "My General John, I swear upon My oath I think 'tis so"-- "Pish!" proudly sneered his General John, And he also said "Ho! ho!" "My General John! my General John! My General John!" quoth he, "This aristocratical sneer upon Your face I blush to see! "No truly great or generous cove Deserving of them names Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove In the mind of a Private James!" Said General John, "Upon your claims No need your breath to waste; If this is a joke, Full-Private James, It's a joke of doubtful taste. "But being a man of doubtless worth, If you feel certain quite That we were probably changed at birth, I'll venture to say you're right." So General John as Private James Fell in, parade upon; And Private James, by change of names, Was Major-General John. SIR GUY THE CRUSADER. Sir Guy was a doughty crusader, A muscular knight, Ever ready to fight, A very determined invader. And Dickey de Lion's delight. Lenore was a Saracen maiden, Brunette, statuesque, The reverse of grotesque; Her pa was a bagman at Aden, Her mother she played in burlesque. A _coryphee_ pretty and loyal. In amber and red, The ballet she led; Her mother performed at the Royal, Lenore at the Saracen's Head. Of face and of figure majestic, She dazzled the cits-- Ecstaticized pits;-- Her troubles were only domestic, But drove her half out of her wits. Her father incessantly lashed her, On water and bread She was grudgingly fed; Whenever her father he thrashed her Her mother sat down on her head. Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason, For beauty so bright, Set him mad with delight; He purchased a stall for the season And sat in it every night. His views were exceedingly proper; He wanted to wed, So he called at her shed And saw her progenitor whop her-- Her mother sit down on her head. "So pretty," said he, "and so trusting! You brute of a dad, You unprincipled cad, Your conduct is really disgusting. Come, come, now, admit it's too bad! "You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant; Your daughter Lenore I intensely adore And I cannot help feeling indignant, A fact that I hinted before. "To see a fond father employing A deuce of a knout For to bang her about. To a sensitive lover's annoying." Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out!" Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky knob. Stand idly and sob. While a beautiful Saracen maiden Is whipped by a Saracen snob? "To London I'll go from my charmer." Which he did, with his loot (Seven hats and a flute), And was nabbed for his Sydenham armor, At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit. Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter, Her pa, in a rage, Died (don't know his age), His daughter, she married the prompter, Grew bulky and quitted the stage. [Illustration] KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO. King Borria Bungalee Boo Was a man-eating African swell; His sigh was a hullaballoo, His whisper a horrible yell-- A horrible, horrible yell! Four subjects, and all of them male, To Borria doubled the knee, They were once on a far larger scale, But he'd eaten the balance, you see ("Scale" and "balance" is punning, you see.) There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah, There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Deh, Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah, And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh-- Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh. One day there was grief in the crew, For they hadn't a morsel of meat, And Borria Bungalee Boo Was dying for something to eat-- "Come provide me with something to eat!" "Alack-a-Dey, famished I feel; Oh, good little Tootle-Tum-Teh, Where on earth shall I look for a meal? For I haven't no dinner to-day!-- Not a morsel of dinner to-day! "Dear Tootle-Tum, what shall we do? Come, get us a meal, or in truth, If you don't we shall have to eat you, Oh, adorable friend of our youth! Thou beloved little friend of our youth!" And he answered, "Oh Bungalee Boo, For a moment I hope you will wait-- Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo Is the queen of a neighboring state-- A remarkably neighboring state. "Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo, She would pickle deliciously cold-- And her four pretty Amazons, too, Are enticing, and not very old-- Twenty-seven is not very old. "There is neat little Titty-Fol-Leh, There is rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah, There is jocular Waggety-Weh. There is musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah-- There's the nightingale Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah!" So the forces of Bungalee Boo Marched forth in a terrible row, And the ladies who fought for Queen Loo Prepared to encounter the foe-- This dreadful insatiate foe! But they sharpened no weapons at all, And they poisoned no arrows--not they! They made ready to conquer or fall In a totally different way-- An entirely different way. With a crimson and pearly-white dye They endeavored to make themselves fair, With black they encircled each eye, And with yellow they painted their hair (It was wool, but they thought it was hair). And the forces they met in the field-- And the men of King Borria said, "Amazonians, immediately yield!" And their arrows they drew to the head, Yes, drew them right up to the head. But jocular Waggety-Weh, Ogled Doodle-Dum-Deh (which was wrong) And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh, Said, "Tootle-Tum, you go along! You naughty old dear, go along!" And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah Tapped Alack-a-Dey-Ah with her fan; And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah, Said "Pish, go away, you bad man! Go away, you delightful young man!" And the Amazons simpered and sighed, And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed, And they opened their pretty eyes wide, And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed (At least, if they could, they'd have blushed). But haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah Said, "Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean?" And despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah Said, "They think us uncommonly green, Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!" Even blundering Doodle-Dum-Deh Was insensible quite to their leers And said good little Tootle-Tum-Teh, "It's your blood we desire, pretty dears-- We have come for our dinners, my dears!" And the Queen of the Amazons fell To Borria Bungalee Boo, In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell, Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo-- The pretty Queen Tol-the-Rol-Loo. And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh Was eaten by Pish-Pooh-Bah, And light-hearted Waggety-Weh By dismal Alack-a-Deh-Ah-- Despairing Alack-a-Deh-Ah. And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah Was eaten by Doodle-Dum-Deh, And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah By good little Tootle-Tum-Teh-- Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh! THE TROUBADOUR. A troubadour he played Without a castle wall, Within, a hapless maid Responded to his call. "Oh, willow, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! If I were only free I'd hie me far away!" Unknown her face and name, But this he knew right well, The maiden's wailing came From out a dungeon cell. A hapless woman lay Within that dungeon grim-- That fact, I've heard him say. Was quite enough for him. "I will not sit or lie, Or eat or drink, I vow. Till thou art free as I, Or I as pent as thou." Her tears then ceased to flow, Her wails no longer rang, And tuneful in her woe The prisoned maiden sang: "Oh, stranger, as you play I recognize your touch; And all that I can say Is, thank you very much." He seized his clarion straight, And blew thereat, until A warden oped the gate, "Oh, what might be your will?" "I've come, sir knave, to see The master of these halls: A maid unwillingly Lies prisoned in their walls." With barely stifled sigh That porter drooped his head, With teardrops in his eye, "A many, sir," he said. He stayed to hear no more, But pushed that porter by, And shortly stood before Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye. Sir Hugh he darkly frowned, "What would you, sir, with me?" The troubadour he downed Upon his bended knee. "I've come, De Peckham Rye, To do a Christian task; You ask me what would I? It is not much I ask. "Release these maidens, sir, Whom you dominion o'er-- Particularly her Upon the second floor. "And if you don't, my lord"-- He here stood bolt upright, And tapped a tailor's sword-- "Come out, you cad, and fight!" Sir Hugh he called--and ran The warden from the gate: "Go, show this gentleman The maid in forty-eight." By many a cell they past, And stopped at length before A portal, bolted fast: The man unlocked the door. He called inside the gate With coarse and brutal shout, "Come, step it, Forty-eight!" And Forty-eight stepped out. "They gets it pretty hot, The maidens what we cotch-- Two years this lady's got For collaring a wotch." "Oh, ah!--indeed--I see," The troubadour exclaimed-- "If I may make so free, How is this castle named?" The warden's eyelids fill, And sighing, he replied, "Of gloomy Pentonville This is the female side!" The minstrel did not wait The warden stout to thank, But recollected straight He'd business at the Bank. THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT. Lord B. was a nobleman bold, Who came of illustrious stocks, He was thirty or forty years old, And several feet in his socks. To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea This elegant nobleman went, For that was a borough that he Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent. At local assemblies he danced Until he felt thoroughly ill-- He waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced, And threaded the mazy quadrille. The maidens of Turniptopville Were simple--ingenuous--pure-- And they all worked away with a will The nobleman's heart to secure. Two maidens all others beyond Imagined their chances looked well-- The one was the lively Ann Pond, The other sad Mary Morell. Ann Pond had determined to try And carry the Earl with a rush. Her principal feature was eye, Her greatest accomplishment--gush. And Mary chose this for her play, Whenever he looked in her eye She'd blush and turn quickly away, And flitter and flutter and sigh. It was noticed he constantly sighed As she worked out the scheme she had planned-- A fact he endeavored to hide With his aristocratical hand. Old Pond was a farmer, they say, And so was old Tommy Morell, In a humble and pottering way They were doing exceedingly well. They both of them carried by vote The Earl was a dangerous man, So nervously clearing his throat, One morning old Tommy began: "My darter's no pratty young doll-- I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man-- Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll, And what do 'ee mean by his Ann?" Said B., "I will give you my bond I mean them uncommonly well, Believe me, my excellent Pond, And credit me, worthy Morell. "It's quite indisputable, for I'll prove it with singular ease, You shall have it in 'Barbara' or 'Celarent'--whichever you please. "You see, when an anchorite bows To the yoke of intentional sin-- If the state of the country allows, Homogeny always steps in. "It's a highly æsthetical bond, As any mere ploughboy can tell"-- "Of course," replied puzzled old Pond. "I see," said old Tommy Morell. "Very good then," continued the lord, "When its fooled to the top of its bent, With a sweep of a Damocles sword The web of intention is rent. "That's patent to all of us here, As any mere schoolboy can tell." Pond answered, "Of course it's quite clear;" And so did that humbug Morell. "It's tone esoteric in force-- I trust that I make myself clear?"-- Morell only answered "Of course,"-- While Pond slowly muttered, "Hear, hear." "Volition--celestial prize, Pellucid as porphyry cell-- Is based on a principle wise." "Quite so," exclaimed Pond and Morell. "From what I have said, you will see That I couldn't wed either--in fine, By nature's unchanging decree _Your_ daughters could never be _mine_. "Go home to your pigs and your ricks, My hands of the matter I've rinsed." So they take up their hats and their sticks, And _exeunt ambo_, convinced. [Illustration] ONLY A DANCING GIRL. Only a dancing girl, With an unromantic style, With borrowed color and curl, With fixed mechanical smile, With many a hackneyed wile, With ungrammatical lips, And corns that mar her trips! Hung from the "flies" in air, She acts a palpable lie, She's as little a fairy there As unpoetical I! I hear you asking, Why-- Why in the world I sing This tawdry, tinselled thing? No airy fairy she, As she hangs in arsenic green, From a highly impossible tree, In a highly impossible scene (Herself not over clean). For fays don't suffer, I'm told, From bunions, coughs, or cold. And stately dames that bring Their daughters there to see, Pronounce the "dancing thing" No better than she should be. With her skirt at her shameful knee, And her painted, tainted phiz: Ah, matron, which of us is? (And, in sooth, it oft occurs That while these matrons sigh, Their dresses are lower than hers, And sometimes half as high; And their hair is hair they buy, And they use their glasses, too, In a way she'd blush to do.) But change her gold and green For a coarse merino gown, And see her upon the scene Of her home, when coaxing down Her drunken father's frown, In his squalid, cheerless den: She's a fairy truly, then! THE SENSATION CAPTAIN. No nobler captain ever trod Than Captain Parklebury Todd, So good--so wise--so brave, he! But still, as all his friends would own, He had one folly--one alone-- This Captain in the Navy. I do not think I ever knew A man so wholly given to Creating a sensation; Or p'r'aps I should in justice say-- To what in an Adelphi play Is known as "Situation." He passed his time designing traps To flurry unsuspicious chaps-- The taste was his innately-- He couldn't walk into a room Without ejaculating "Boom!" Which startled ladies greatly. He'd wear a mask and muffling cloak, Not, you will understand, in joke, As some assume disguises. He did it, actuated by A simple love of mystery And fondness for surprises. I need not say he loved a maid-- His eloquence threw into shade All others who adored her: The maid, though pleased at first, I know, Found, after several years or so, Her startling lover bored her. So, when his orders came to sail, She did not faint or scream or wail, Or with her tears anoint him. She shook his hand, and said "Good-bye;" With laughter dancing in her eye-- Which seemed to disappoint him. But ere he went aboard his boat He placed around her little throat A ribbon blue and yellow, On which he hung a double tooth-- A simple token this, in sooth-- 'Twas all he had, poor fellow! "I often wonder," he would say, When very, very far away, "If Angelina wears it! A plan has entered in my head, I will pretend that I am dead, And see how Angy bears it!" The news he made a messmate tell: His Angelina bore it well, No sign gave she of crazing; But, steady as the Inchcape rock His Angelina stood the shock With fortitude amazing. She said, "Some one I must elect Poor Angelina to protect From all who wish to harm her. Since worthy Captain Todd is dead I rather feel inclined to wed A comfortable farmer." A comfortable farmer came (Bassanio Tyler was his name) Who had no end of treasure: He said, "My noble gal, be mine!" The noble gal did not decline, But simply said, "With pleasure." When this was told to Captain Todd, At first he thought it rather odd, And felt some perturbation; But very long he did not grieve, He thought he could a way perceive To _such_ a situation! "I'll not reveal myself," said he, "Till they are both in the Eccle- siastical Arena; Then suddenly I will appear, And paralyzing them with fear, Demand my Angelina!" At length arrived the wedding day-- Accoutred in the usual way Appeared the bridal body-- The worthy clergyman began, When in the gallant captain ran And cried, "Behold your Toddy!" The bridegroom, p'r'aps, was terrified, And also possibly the bride-- The bridesmaids _were_ affrighted; But Angelina, noble soul, Contrived her feelings to control, And really seemed delighted. "My bride!" said gallant Captain Todd, "She's mine, uninteresting clod, My own, my darling charmer!" "Oh, dear," said she, "you're just too late, I'm married to, I beg to state, This comfortable farmer!" "Indeed," the farmer said, "she's mine, You've been and cut it far too fine!" "I see," said Todd, "I'm beaten." And so he went to sea once more, "Sensation" he for aye forswore, And married on her native shore A lady whom he'd met before-- A lovely Otaheitan. THE PERIWINKLE GIRL. I've often thought that headstrong youths, Of decent education, Determine all-important truths With strange precipitation. The over-ready victims they, Of logical illusions, And in a self-assertive way They jump at strange conclusions. Now take my case: Ere sorrow could My ample forehead wrinkle, I had determined that I would Not like to be a winkle. "A winkle," I would oft advance With readiness provoking, "Can seldom flirt, and never dance Or soothe his mind by smoking." In short, I spurned the shelly joy, And spoke with strange decision-- Men pointed to me as a boy Who held them in derision. But I was young--too young, by far-- Or I had been more wary, I knew not then that winkles are The stock-in-trade of Mary. I had not seen her sunlight blithe As o'er their shells it dances, I've seen those winkles almost writhe Beneath her beaming glances. Of slighting all the winkly brood I surely had been chary, If I had known they formed the food And stock-in-trade of Mary. Both high and low and great and small Fell prostrate at her tootsies, They all were noblemen, and all Had balances at Coutts's. Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt, Duke Bailey and Duke Humphy, Who eat her winkles till they felt Exceedingly uncomfy. Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes, And sticks, they say, at no-thing. He wears a pair of golden boots And silver underclothing. Duke Humphy, as I understand. Though mentally acuter, His boots are only silver, and His underclothing pewter. A third adorer had the girl, A man of lowly station-- A miserable grov'ling earl Besought her approbation. This humble cad she did refuse With much contempt and loathing; He wore a pair of leather shoes And cambric underclothing! "Ha! ha!" she cried, "Upon my word! Well, really--come, I never! Oh, go along, it's too absurd! My goodness! Did you ever? "Two dukes would make their Bowles a bride, And from her foes defend her"-- "Well, not exactly that," they cried, "We offer guilty splendor. "We do not offer marriage rite, So please dismiss the notion!" "Oh, dear," said she, "that alters quite The state of my emotion." The earl he up and says, says he, "Dismiss them to their orgies, For I am game to marry thee Quite reg'lar at St. George's." He'd had, it happily befell, A decent education; His views would have befitted well A far superior station. His sterling worth had worked a cure, She never heard him grumble; She saw his soul was good and pure Although his rank was humble. Her views of earldoms and their lot, All underwent expansion; Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot! Go, Vice in ducal mansion! BOB POLTER. Bob Polter was a navvy, and His hands were coarse, and dirty too, His homely face was rough and tanned, His time of life was thirty-two. He lived among a working clan (A wife he hadn't got at all), A decent, steady, sober man-- No saint, however--not at all. He smoked, but in a modest way, Because he thought he needed it; He drank a pot of beer a day, And sometimes he exceeded it. At times he'd pass with other men A loud convivial night or two, With, very likely, now and then, On Saturdays, a fight or two. But still he was a sober soul, A labor-never-shirking man, Who paid his way--upon the whole A decent English working man. One day, when at the Nelson's Head, (For which he may be blamed of you) A holy man appeared and said, "Oh, Robert, I'm ashamed of you." He laid his hand on Robert's beer Before he could drink up any, And on the floor, with sigh and tear, He poured the pot of "thruppenny." "Oh, Robert, at this very bar, A truth you'll be discovering, A good and evil genius are Around your noddle hovering. "They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For Total Abstinence is one, The other Inebriety." He waved his hand--a vapor came-- A wizard, Polter reckoned him: A bogy rose and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him. The monster's salient points to sum, His heavy breath was portery; His glowing nose suggested rum; His eyes were gin-and-wortery. His dress was torn--for dregs of ale And slops of gin had rusted it; His pimpled face was wan and pale, Where filth had not encrusted it. "Come, Polter," said the fiend, "begin, And keep the bowl a-flowing on-- A working-man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on." Bob shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss, If you take me for one of you-- You filthy beast, get out of this-- Bob Polter don't want none of you." The demon gave a drunken shriek And crept away in stealthiness, And lo, instead, a person sleek Who seemed to burst with healthiness. "In me, as your advisor hints, Of Abstinence you have got a type-- Of Mr. Tweedle's pretty prints I am the happy prototype. "If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!" Bob rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink, "You almost make me tremble, you! If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you? "And will my whiskers curl so tight? My cheeks grow smug and muttony? My face become so red and white? My coat so blue and buttony? "Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior? Will chubbiness assert its sway All over my exterior? "In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes, Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsicums? "And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily? My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so Tweedie-ly?" The phantom said, "You'll have all this, You'll know no kind of huffiness, Your life will be one chubby bliss, One long unruffled puffiness!" "Be off!" said irritated Bob. "Why come you here to bother one? You pharisaical old snob, You're wuss almost than t'other one! "I takes my pipe--I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be: I'm no teetotaller or sot, And as I am I mean to be!" [Illustration] GENTLE ALICE BROWN. It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown; Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!" And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode). But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest, to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?" "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" The worthy pastor heaved a sigh and dropped a silent tear-- And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece: But sins like that one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. "Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find; We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." "Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, O, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!" "A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies: He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!" "For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours! "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?" The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who now was for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two, Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. BEN ALLAH ACHMET; OR, THE FATAL TUM. I once did know a Turkish man Whom I upon a two-pair-back met, His name it was Effendi Khan Backsheesh Pasha Ben Allah Achmet. A Doctor Brown I also knew-- I've often eaten of his bounty-- The Turk and he they lived at Hooe, In Sussex, that delightful county. I knew a nice young lady there, Her name was Isabella Sherson, And though she wore another's hair, She was an interesting person. The Turk adored the maid of Hooe (Although his harem would have shocked her); But Brown adored that maiden, too: He was a most seductive doctor. They'd follow her where'er she'd go-- A course of action most improper; She neither knew by sight, and so For neither of them cared a copper. Brown did not know that Turkish male, He might have been his sainted mother: The people in this simple tale Are total strangers to each other. One day that Turk he sickened sore Which threw him straight into a sharp pet; He threw himself upon the floor And rolled about upon his--carpet. It made him moan--it made him groan And almost wore him to a mummy: Why should I hesitate to own That pain was in his little tummy? At length a Doctor came and rung (As Allah Achmet had desired) Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, And hummed and hawed, and then inquired: "Where is the pain, that long has preyed Upon you in so sad a way, sir?" The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said, "I don't exactly like to say, sir." "Come, nonsense!" said good Doctor Brown, "So this is Turkish coyness, is it? You must contrive to fight it down-- Come, come, sir, please to be explicit." The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, And coyly blushed like one half-witted, "The pain is in my little tum," He, whispering, at length admitted. "Then take you this, and take you that-- Your blood flows sluggish in its channel-- You must get rid of all this fat, And wear my medicated flannel. "You'll send for me, when you're in need-- My name is Brown--your life I've saved it!" "My rival!" shrieked the invalid, And drew a mighty sword and waved it. "This to thy weazand, Christian pest!" Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it, And drove right through the Doctor's chest The sabre and the hand that held it. The blow was a decisive one, And Doctor Brown grew deadly pasty-- "Now see the mischief that you've done,-- You Turks are so extremely hasty. "There are two Doctor Browns in Hooe, _He's_ short and stout--_I'm_ tall and wizen; You've been and run the wrong one through, That's how the error has arisen." The accident was thus explained, Apologies were only heard now: "At my mistake I'm really pained, I am, indeed, upon my word now." "With me, sir, you shall be interred, A Mausoleum grand awaits me"-- "Oh, pray don't say another word, I'm sure that more than compensates me. "But, p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?" "There's room," said he, "for any number." And so they laid them down and died. In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber. SONGS OF A SAVOYARD [Illustration] THE ENGLISHMAN. He is an Englishman! For he himself has said it, And it's greatly to his credit, That he is an Englishman! For he might have been a Roosian, A French, or Turk, or Proosian, Or perhaps Itali-an! But in spite of all temptations, To belong to other nations, He remains an Englishman! Hurrah! For the true born Englishman! THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I'm a genuine philanthropist--all other kinds are sham. Each little fault of temper and each social defect In my erring fellow creatures, I endeavor to correct. To all their little weaknesses I open people's eyes And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise; I love my fellow creatures--I do all the good I can-- Yet everybody say I'm such a disagreeable man! And I can't think why! To compliments inflated I've a withering reply; And vanity I always do my best to mortify; A charitable action I can skilfully dissect: And interested motives I'm delighted to detect. I know everybody's income and what everybody earns, And I carefully compare it with the income tax returns; But to benefit humanity, however much I plan, Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man! And I can't think why! I'm sure I'm no ascetic: I'm as pleasant as can be; You'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee; I've an irritating chuckle; I've a celebrated sneer; I've an entertaining snigger; I've a fascinating leer; To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two; I can tell a woman's age in half a minute--and I do-- But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man! And I can't think why! THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL. I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral. I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral; I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical; I'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news, With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. I'm very good at integral and differential calculus, I know the scientific names of beings animalculous, In short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral. I know our mythic history--King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's, I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox, I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus, In conies I can floor peculiarities parabolous. I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies, I know the croaking chorus from the "Frogs" of Aristophanes, Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore, And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense "Pinafore." Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform, And tell you every detail of Caractacus's uniform. In short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral. In fact when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin," When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin, When such affairs as _sorties_ and surprises I'm more wary at, And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat, When I have learn what progress has been made in modern gunnery, When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery, In short when I've a smattering of elementary strategy, You'll say a better Major-Gener_al_ has never _sat_ a gee-- For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury, Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century, But still in learning vegetable, animal and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral. THE HEAVY DRAGOON. If you want a receipt for that popular mystery Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, Take all the remarkable people in history, Rattle them off to a popular tune! The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the _Victory_-- Genius of Bismarck devising a plan; The humor of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)-- Coolness of Paget about to trepan-- The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico-- Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne-- The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault-- Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man-- The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery-- Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray Victor Emmanuel--peak-haunting Peveril-- Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell-- Tupper and Tennyson--Daniel Defoe-- Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot! Take of these elements all that are fusible, Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set them to simmer and take off the scum, And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum! If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon, Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)-- The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon-- Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban-- A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky-- Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan-- The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky-- Grace of an Odalisque on a divan-- The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal-- Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal Flavor of Hamlet--the Stranger, a touch of him-- Little of Manfred, (but not very much of him)-- Beadle of Burlington--Richardson's show; Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud! Take of these elements all that are fusible, Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set them to simmer and take off the scum, And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum! ONLY ROSES! To a garden full of posies Cometh one to gather flowers, And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, Who, uprising from their beds, Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting--never doubting That for Cytherean posies He would gather aught but roses! In a nest of weeds and nettles, Lay a violet, half hidden, Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals, Though she lived alone, apart, Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas! the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, For he gathered for his posies Only roses--only roses! THEY'LL NONE OF 'EM BE MISSED. As some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I've got a little list--I've got a little list Of social offenders who might well be underground, And who never would be missed--who never would be missed! There's the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs-- All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs-- All children who are up in dates, and floor you with 'em flat-- All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like _that_-- And all third persons who on spoiling _tete-a-tetes_ insist-- They'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed! There's the nigger serenader, and the others of his race, And the piano organist--I've got him on the list! And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face, They never would be missed--they never would be missed! Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own; And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy, And who doesn't think she waltzes, but would rather like to try; And that singular anomaly, the lady novelist-- I don't think she'd be missed--I'm _sure_ she'd not be missed! And that _Nisi Prius_ nuisance, who just now is rather rife, The Judicial humorist--I've got _him_ on the list! All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life-- They'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of them be missed. And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind, Such as--What-d'ye-call-him--Thing'em-Bob, and likewise--Never-mind, And 'St--'st--'st--and What's-his-name, and also--You-know-who-- (The task of filling up the blanks I'd rather leave to _you_!) But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list, For they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed! [Illustration] THE POLICEMAN'S LOT. When a felon's not engaged in his employment Or maturing his felonious little plans. His capacity for innocent enjoyment, Is just as great as any honest man's Our feelings we with difficulty smother When constabulary duty's to be done: Ah, take one consideration with another, A policeman's lot is not a happy one! When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling, When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime, He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, And listen to the merry village chime. When the coster's finished jumping on his mother, He loves to lie a-basking in the sun: Ah, take one consideration with another, The policeman's lot is not a happy one! [Illustration] AN APPEAL. Oh, is there not one maiden breast Which does not feel the moral beauty Of making worldly interest Subordinate to sense of duly? Who would not give up willingly All matrimonial ambition, To rescue such a one as I From his unfortunate position? Oh, is there not one maiden here, Whose homely face and bad complexion Have caused all hopes to disappear Of ever winning man's affection? To such a one, if such there be, I swear by Heaven's arch above you, If you will cast your eyes on me,-- However plain you be--I'll love you! EHEU FUGACES--! The air is charged with amatory numbers-- Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays. Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers The aching memory of the old, old days? Time was when Love and I were well acquainted. Time was when we walked ever hand in hand; A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted, None better-loved than I in all the land! Time was, when maidens of the noblest station, Forsaking even military men, Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration-- Ah, me, I was a fair young curate then! Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled; Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear; Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled; And when I coughed all thought the end was near! I, had no care--no jealous doubts hung o'er me-- For I was loved beyond all other men. Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me! Ah, me! I was a pale young curate then! A RECIPE. Take a pair of sparkling eyes, Hidden, ever and anon, In a merciful eclipse-- Do not heed their mild surprise-- Having passed the Rubicon. Take a pair of rosy lips; Take a figure trimly planned-- Such as admiration whets (Be particular in this); Take a tender little hand, Fringed with dainty fingerettes, Press it--in parenthesis;-- Take all these, you lucky man-- Take and keep them, if you can. Take a pretty little cot-- Quite a miniature affair-- Hung about with trellised vine, Furnish it upon the spot With the treasures rich and rare I've endeavored to define. Live to love and love to live You will ripen at your ease, Growing on the sunny side-- Fate has nothing more to give. You're a dainty man to please If you are not satisfied. Take my counsel, happy man: Act upon it, if you can! THE FIRST LORD'S SONG. When I was a lad I served a term As office boy to an Attorney's firm. I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor, And I polished up the handle of the big front door. I polished up that handle so successfullee That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! As office boy I made such a mark That they gave me the post of a junior clerk. I served the writs with a smile so bland, And I copied all the letters in a big round hand. I copied all the letters in a hand so free, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! In serving writs I made such a name That an articled clerk I soon became; I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit For the Pass Examination at the Institute. And that Pass Examination did so well for me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip That they took me into the partnership. And that junior partnership, I ween, Was the only ship that I ever had seen, But that kind of ship so suited me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! I grew so rich that I was sent By a pocket borough into Parliament. I always voted at my party's call, And I never thought of thinking for myself at all. I thought so little, they rewarded me, By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee! Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be, If you want to rise to the top of the tree, If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool, Be careful to be guided by this golden rule-- Stick close to your desks and _never go to sea_, And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee! WHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIES. When a merry maiden marries, Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right and nothing's wrong! From to-day and ever after Let your tears be tears of laughter-- Every sigh that finds a vent Be a sigh of sweet content! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with love is laden; Every flower is a rose, Every goose becomes a swan, Every kind of trouble goes Where the last year's snows have gone! Sunlight takes the place of shade When you marry merry maid! When a merry maiden marries Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right, and nothing's wrong. Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow, Get ye gone until to-morrow; Jealousies in grim array, Ye are things of yesterday! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with joy is laden; All the corners of the earth Ring with music sweetly played, Worry is melodious mirth. Grief is joy in masquerade; Sullen night is laughing day-- All the year is merry May! THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE. On a tree by the river a little tomtit Sang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!" And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow?' Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried, "Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?" With a shake of his poor little head he replied, "Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!" And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide's grave-- "Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name Isn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow, That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, "Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" And if you remain callous and obdurate, I Shall perish as he did, and you will know why, Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, "Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!" HE AND SHE. HE. I know a youth who loves a little maid-- (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid-- (Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!) SHE. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth, (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth-- (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do? HE. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep-- (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Daily he goes for to wail--for to weep-- (Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!) SHE. She's very thin and she's very pale-- (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) Daily she goes for to weep--for to wail-- (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do? SHE. If I were the youth I should offer her my name-- (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) HE. If I were the maid I should feed his honest flame-- (Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!) SHE. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day-- (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) HE. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way-- (For I really do believe that timid youth will die'!) BOTH. I thank you much for your counsel true; I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do! [Illustration] THE LORD CHANCELLOR'S SONG. The law is the true embodiment Of everything that's excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my lords, embody the Law. The constitutional guardian I Of pretty young Wards in Chancery, All very agreeable girls--and none Are over the age of twenty-one. A pleasant occupation for A rather susceptible Chancellor! But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can't be denied That it has its inconvenient side. For I'm not so old, and not so plain, And I'm quite prepared to marry again, But there'd be the deuce to pay in the Lords If I fell in love with one of my Wards: Which rather tries my temper, for I'm _such_ a susceptible Chancellor! And everyone who'd marry a Ward Must come to me for my accord: So in my court I sit all day, Giving agreeable girls away, With one for him--and one for he-- And one for you--and one for ye-- And one for thou--and one for thee-- But never, oh never a one for me! Which is exasperating, for A highly susceptible Chancellor! WILLOW WALY! HE. Prithee, pretty maiden--prithee, tell me true (Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!) Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you? Hey, willow waly O! I fain would discover If you have a lover? Hey, willow waly O! SHE. Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free-- (Hey but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!) Nobody I care for comes a-courting me-- Hey, willow waly O! Nobody I care for Comes a-courting--therefore, Hey, willow waly O! HE. Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me? (Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!) I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee Hey, willow waly O! Money, I despise it, But many people prize it, Hey, willow waly O! SHE. Gentle sir, although to marry I design-- (Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!) As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline. Hey, willow waly O! To other maidens go you-- As yet I do not know you, Hey, willow waly O! THE USHER'S CHARGE. Now, Jurymen, hear my advice-- All kinds of vulgar prejudice I pray you set aside: With stern judicial frame of mind, From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried! Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case: Observe the features of her face-- The broken-hearted bride! Condole with her distress of mind: From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried! And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks, The ruffianly defendant speaks-- Upon the other side; What _he_ may say you needn't mind-- From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried! KING GOODHEART. There lived a King, as I've been told, In the wonder-working days of old, When hearts were twice as good as gold, And twenty times as mellow. Good temper triumphed in his face, And in his heart he found a place For all the erring human race And every wretched fellow. When he had Rhenish wine to drink It made him very sad to think That some, at junket or at jink, Must be content with toddy. He wished all men as rich as he (And he was rich as rich could be), So to the top of every tree Promoted everybody. Ambassadors cropped up like hay, Prime Ministers and such as they Grew like asparagus in May, And Dukes were three a penny. Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats. And Bishops in their shovel hats Were plentiful as tabby cats-- If possible, too many. On every side Field-Marshals gleamed, Small beer were Lords Lieutenant deemed With Admirals the ocean teemed All round his wide dominions; And Party Leaders you might meet In twos and threes in every street Maintaining, with no little heat, Their various opinions. That King, although no one denies His heart was of abnormal size, Yet he'd have acted otherwise If he had been acuter. The end is easily foretold, When every blessed thing you hold Is made of silver, or of gold, You long for simple pewter. When you have nothing else to wear But cloth of gold and satins rare, For cloth of gold you cease to care-- Up goes the price of shoddy. In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you'll agree, When every one is somebodee, Then no one's anybody! THE TANGLED SKEIN. Try we life long, we can never Straighten out life's tangled skein, Why should we, in vain endeavor, Guess and guess and guess again? Life's a pudding full of plums; Care's a canker that benumbs. Wherefore waste our elocution On impossible solution? Life's a pleasant institution, Let us take it as it comes! Set aside the dull enigma, We shall guess it all too soon; Failure brings no kind of stigma-- Dance we to another tune! String the lyre and fill the cup, Lest on sorrow we should sup. Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle, Hands across and down the middle-- Life's perhaps the only riddle That we shrink from giving up! GIRL GRADUATES. They intend to send a wire To the moon; And they'll set the Thames on fire Very soon; Then they learn to make silk purses With their rigs From the ears of Lady Circe's Piggy-wigs. And weazels at their slumbers They'll trepan; To get sunbeams from cu_cum_bers They've a plan. They've a firmly rooted notion They can cross the Polar Ocean, And they'll find Perpetual Motion If they can! These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee! As for fashion, they forswear it, So they say, And the circle--they will square it Some fine day; Then the little pigs they're teaching For to fly; And the niggers they'll be bleaching Bye and bye! Each newly joined aspirant To the clan Must repudiate the tyrant Known as Man; They mock at him and flout him, For they do not care about him, And they're "going to do without him" If they can! These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee! THE APE AND THE LADY. A lady fair, of lineage high, Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by-- The Maid was radiant as the sun, The Ape was a most unsightly one-- So it would not do-- His scheme fell through; For the Maid, when his love took formal shape, Expressed such terror At his monstrous error, That he stammered an apology and made his 'scape, The picture of a disconcerted Ape. With a view to rise in the social scale, He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail, He grew moustachios, and he took his tub, And he paid a guinea to a toilet club. But it would not do, The scheme fell through-- For the Maid was Beauty's fairest Queen With golden tresses, Like a real princess's, While the Ape, despite his razor keen, Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen! He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits, He crammed his feet into bright tight boots, And to start his life on a brand-new plan, He christened himself Darwinian Man! But it would not do. The scheme fell through-- For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved, Was a radiant Being, With a brain far-seeing-- While a Man, however well-behaved, At best is only a monkey shaved! SANS SOUCI I cannot tell what this love may be That cometh to all but not to me. It cannot be kind as they'd imply, Or why do these gentle ladies sigh? It cannot be joy and rapture deep, Or why do these gentle ladies weep? It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said, Or why are their eyes so wondrous red? If love is a thorn, they show no wit Who foolishly hug and foster it. If love is a weed, how simple they Who gather and gather it, day by day! If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Why do you wear it next your heart? And if it be neither of these, say I, Why do you sit and sob and sigh? THE BRITISH TAR. A British tar is a soaring soul, As free as a mountain bird, His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word His nose should pant and his lips should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow. His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung; He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue. His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl: His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary attitude! [Illustration] THE COMING BYE AND BYE. Sad is that woman's lot who, year by year, Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear; As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs, Impatiently begins to "dim her eyes!" Herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings, To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well saved "combings"-- Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey, To "make up" for lost time, as best she may! Silvered is the raven hair, Spreading is the parting straight, Mottled the complexion fair, Halting is the youthful gait. Hollow is the laughter free, Spectacled the limpid eye, Little will be left of me, In the coming bye and bye! Fading is the taper waist-- Shapeless grows the shapely limb, And although securely laced, Spreading is the figure trim! Stouter than I used to be, Still more corpulent grow I-- There will be too much of me In the coming bye and bye! THE SORCERER'S SONG. Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells-- I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever filled purses, In prophecies, witches and knells! If you want a proud foe to "make tracks"-- If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax-- You've but to look in On our resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe. We've a first class assortment of magic; And for raising a posthumous shade With effects that are comic or tragic, There's no cheaper house in the trade. Love-philtre--we've quantities of it; And for knowledge if any one burns, We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet Who brings us unbounded returns: For he can prophesy With a wink _of_ his eye, Peep with security Into futurity, Sum up your history, Clear up a mystery, Humor proclivity For a nativity. With mirrors so magical, Tetrapods tragical, Bogies spectacular, Answers oracular, Facts astronomical, Solemn or comical, And, if you want it, he Makes a reduction on taking a quantity! Oh! If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe! He can raise you hosts Of ghosts, And that without reflectors; And creepy things With wings, And gaunt and grisly spectres! He can fill you crowds Of shrouds, And horrify you vastly; He can rack your brains With chains, And gibberings grim and ghastly. Then, if you plan it, he Changes organity, With an urbanity, Full of Satanity, Vexes humanity With an inanity Fatal to vanity-- Driving your foes to the verge of insanity! Barring tautology, In demonology, 'Lectro biology, Mystic nosology, Spirit philology, High class astrology, Such is his knowledge, he Isn't the man to require an apology! Oh! My name is John Wellington Wells, I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever filled purses In prophecies, witches and knells! If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe! SPECULATION. Comes a train of little ladies From scholastic trammels free, Each a little bit afraid is, Wondering what the world can be! Is it but a world of trouble-- Sadness set to song? Is its beauty but a bubble Bound to break ere long? Are its palaces and pleasures Fantasies that fade? And the glories of its treasures Shadow of a shade? Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under, From scholastic trammels free, And we wonder--how we wonder!-- What on earth the world can be! THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO. In enterprise of martial kind, When there was any fighting, He led his regiment from behind, He found it less exciting. But when away his regiment ran, His place was at the fore, O-- That celebrated, Cultivated, Underrated Nobleman, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha! You always found that knight, ha, ha! That celebrated, Cultivated, Underrated Nobleman, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! When, to evade Destruction's hand, To hide they all proceeded, No soldier in that gallant band Hid half as well as he did. He lay concealed throughout the war, And so preserved his gore, O! That unaffected, Undetected, Well connected Warrior, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! In every doughty deed, ha ha! He always took the lead, ha ha! That unaffected, Undetected, Well connected Warrior, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! When told that they would all be shot Unless they left the service, The hero hesitated not, So marvellous his nerve is. He sent his resignation in, The first of all his corps, O! That very knowing, Overflowing, Easy-going Paladin, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! To men of grosser clay, ha, ha! He always showed the way, ha, ha! That very knowing, Overflowing, Easy-going Paladin, The Duke of Plaza-Toro! THE REWARD OF MERIT. Dr. Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age: His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage; His poems held a noble rank, although it's very true That, being very proper, they were read by very few. He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the "line," And even Mr. Ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine; But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high-- The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy-- And everybody said "How can he be repaid-- This very great--this very good--this very gifted man?" But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone, A plan for making everybody's fortune but his own; For, in business, an Inventor's little better than a fool, And my highly gifted friend was no exception to the rule. His poems--people read them in the Quarterly Reviews-- His pictures--they engraved them in the _Illustrated News_-- His inventions--they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees, But all his little income went in Patent Office fees; And everybody said "How can he be repaid-- This very great--this very good--this very gifted man?" But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! At last the point was given up in absolute despair, When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire, With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse, And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House! _Then_ it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords! And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can, As this very great--this very good--this very gifted man? (Though I'm more than half afraid That it sometimes may be said That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride, However great his merits--if his cousin hadn't died!) WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON. When I first put this uniform on, I said as I looked in the glass. "It's one to a million That any civilian My figure and form will surpass. Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I've plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover's professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent everywhere! A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!" I said, when I first put it on, "It is plain to the veriest dunce That every beauty Will feel it her duty To yield to its glamor at once. They will see that I'm freely gold-laced In a uniform handsome and chaste-- But the peripatetics Of long-haired æsthetics, Are very much more to their taste-- Which I never counted upon When I first put this uniform on!" [Illustration] SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. When I went to the Bar as a very young man, (Said I to myself--said I), I'll work on a new and original plan (Said I to myself--said I), I'll never assume that a rogue or a thief Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief, Because his attorney has sent me a brief (Said I to myself--said I!). I'll never throw dust in a juryman's eyes (Said I to myself--said I), Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise (Said I to myself--said I), Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force In Exchequer, Queen's Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce, Have perjured themselves as a matter of course (Said I to myself--said I). Ere I go into court I will read my brief through (Said I to myself--said I), And I'll never take work I'm unable to do (Said I to myself--said I). My learned profession I'll never disgrace By taking a fee with a grin on my face, When I haven't been there to attend to the case (Said I to myself--said I!). In other professions in which men engage (Said I to myself--said I), The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage (Said I to myself--said I), Professional license, if carried too far, Your chance of promotion will certainly mar And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar (Said I to myself--said I!). THE FAMILY FOOL. Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumor; From morning to night he's so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good-humor! He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; Yet though people forgive his transgression, There are one or two rules that all Family Fools Must observe, if they love their profession. There are one or two rules Half a dozen, maybe, That all family fools, Of whatever degree, Must observe, if they love their profession. If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need To consider each person auricular: What is all right for B would quite scandalize C (For C is so very particular); And D may be dull, and E's very thick skull Is as empty of brains as a ladle; While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp, That he's known your best joke from his cradle! When your humor they flout, You can't let yourself go; And it _does_ put you out When a person says, "Oh! I have known that old joke from my cradle!" If your master is surly, from getting up early (And tempers are short in the morning), An inopportune joke is enough to provoke Him to give you, at once, a month's warning Then if you refrain, he is at you again, For he likes to get value for money. He'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, If you know that you're paid to be funny?" It adds to the task Of a merryman's place, When your principal asks, With a scowl on his face, If you know that you're paid to be funny?" Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.-- Oh, beware of his anger provoking! Better not pull his hair--don't stick pins in his chair; He don't understand practical joking. If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages; But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! It's a general rule, Though your zeal it may quench, If the Family Fool Makes a joke that's _too_ French, Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages! Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, And your senses with toothache you're losing, Don't be mopy and flat--they don't fine you for that, If you're properly quaint and amusing! Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, And took with her your trifle of money; Bless your heart, they don't mind--they're exceedingly kind-- They don't blame you--as long as you're funny! It's a comfort to feel If your partner should flit, Though _you_ suffer a deal, _They_ don't mind it a bit-- They don't blame you--so long as you're funny! THE PHILOSOPHIC PILL. I've wisdom from the East and from the West, That's subject to no academic rule: You may find it in the jeering of a jest, Or distil it from the folly of a fool. I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind! I can trick you into learning with a laugh; Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find A grain or two of truth among the chaff! I can set a braggart quailing with a quip, The upstart I can wither with a whim; He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip, But his laughter has an echo that is grim. When they're offered to the world in merry guise, Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will-- For he who'd make his fellow creatures wise Should always gild the philosophic pill! THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY. When all night long a chap remains On sentry-go, to chase monotony He exercises of his brains, That is, assuming that he's got any, Though never nurtured in the lap Of luxury, yet I admonish you, I am an intellectual chap, And think of things that would astonish you. I often think it's comical How Nature always does contrive That every boy and every gal That's born into the world alive Is either a little Liberal, Or else a little Conservative! Fal lal la! When in that house M.P.'s divide, If they've a brain and cerebellum, too. They're got to leave that brain outside. And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to. But then the prospect of a lot Of statesmen, all in close proximity. A-thinking for themselves, is what No man can face with equanimity. Then let's rejoice with loud Fal lal That Nature wisely does contrive That every boy and every gal That's born into the world alive, Is either a little Liberal, Or else a little Conservative! Fal lal la! SORRY HER LOT. Sorry her lot who loves too well, Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly, Had are the sighs that own the spell Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly; Heavy the sorrow that bows the head When Love is alive and Hope is dead! Sad is the hour when sets the Sun-- Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters When to the ark the wearied one Flies from the empty waste of waters! Heavy the sorrow that bows the head When Love is alive and Hope is dead! THE JUDGE'S SONG. When I, good friends, was called to the Bar, I'd an appetite fresh and hearty, But I was, as many young barristers are, An impecunious party. I'd a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue-- A brief which I bought of a booby-- A couple of shirts and a collar or two, And a ring that looked like a ruby! In Westminster Hall I danced a dance, Like a semi-despondent fury; For I thought I should never hit on a chance Of addressing a British Jury-- But I soon got tired of third class journeys, And dinners of bread and water; So I fell in love with a rich attorney's Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes, And replied to my fond professions: "You shall reap the reward of your enterprise, At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. You'll soon get used to her looks," said he, "And a very nice girl you'll find her-- She may very well pass for forty-three In the dusk, with a light behind her!" The rich attorney was as good as his word: The briefs came trooping gaily, And every day my voice was heard At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. All thieves who could my fees afford Relied on my orations, And many a burglar I've restored To his friends and his relations. At length I became as rich as the Gurneys-- An incubus then I thought her, So I threw over that rich attorney's Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney my character high Tried vainly to disparage-- And now, if you please, I'm ready to try This Breach of Promise of Marriage! TRUE DIFFIDENCE. My boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man's saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature's the worst. Though clever as clever can be-- A Crichton of early romance-- You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven't a chance. Now take, for example, _my_ case: I've a bright intellectual brain-- In all London city There's no one so witty-- I've thought so again and again. I've a highly intelligent face-- My features cannot be denied-- But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in--and why, sir? I'm modesty personified! As a poet, I'm tender and quaint-- I've passion and fervor and grace-- From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place, Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I'm diffident, modest and shy! [Illustration] THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER. I stole the Prince, and I brought him here, And left him, gaily prattling With a highly respectable Gondolier, Who promised the Royal babe to rear, And teach him the trade of a timoneer With his own beloved bratling. Both of the babes were strong and stout, And, considering all things, clever. Of that there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever. Time sped, and when at the end of a year I sought that infant cherished, That highly respectable Gondolier Was lying a corpse on his humble bier-- I dropped a Grand Inquisitor's tear-- That Gondolier had perished. A taste for drink, combined with gout, Had doubled him up for ever. Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever. But owing, I'm much disposed to fear, To his terrible taste for tippling, That highly respectable Gondolier Could never declare with a mind sincere Which of the two was his offspring dear, And which the Royal stripling! Which was which he could never make out, Despite his best endeavour. Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever. The children followed his old career-- (This statement can't be parried) Of a highly respectable Gondolier: Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)-- But _which_ of the two is not quite clear-- Is the Royal Prince you married! Search in and out and round about And you'll discover never A tale so free from every doubt-- All probable, possible shadow of doubt-- All possible doubt whatever! DON'T FORGET. Now, Marco dear, My wishes hear: While you're away It's understood You will be good, And not too gay. To every trace Of maiden grace You will be blind, And will not glance By any chance On womankind! If you are wise, You'll shut your eyes 'Till we arrive, And not address A lady less Than forty-five; You'll please to frown On every gown That you may see; And O, my pet, You won't forget You've married me! O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don't forget you've married me! You'll lay your head Upon your bed At set of sun. You will not sing Of anything To any one: You'll sit and mope All day, I hope, And shed a tear Upon the life Your little wife Is passing here! And if so be You think of me, Please tell the moon: I'll read it all In rays that fall On the lagoon: You'll be so kind As tell the wind How you may be, And send me words By little birds To comfort me! And O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don't forget you've married me! THE DARNED MOUNSEER. I shipped, d'ye see, in a Revenue sloop, And, off Cape Finistere, A merchantman we see, A Frenchman, going free, So we made for the bold Mounseer. D'ye see? We made for the bold Mounseer! But she proved to be a Frigate--and she up with her ports, And fires with a thirty-two! It come uncommon near, But we answered with a cheer, Which paralyzed the Parley-voo, D'ye see? Which paralyzed the Parley-voo! Then our Captain he up and he says, says he, "That chap we need not fear,-- We can take her, if we like, She is sartin for to strike, For she's only a darned Mounseer, D'ye see? She's only a darned Mounseer! But to fight a French fal-lal--it's like hittin' of a gal-- It's a lubberly thing for to do; For we, with all our faults, Why, we're sturdy British salts, While she's but a Parley-voo, D'ye see? A miserable Parley-voo!" So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze, As we gives a compassionating cheer; Froggee answers with a shout As he sees us go about, Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer, D'ye see? Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer! And I'll wager in their joy they kissed each other's cheek (Which is what them, furriners do), And they blessed their lucky stars? We were hardy British tars Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo, D'ye see? Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo! THE HUMANE MIKADO. A more humane Mikado never Did in Japan exist, To nobody second, I'm certainly reckoned A true philanthropist, It is my very humane endeavor To make, to some extent, Each evil liver A running river Of harmless merriment. My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment! All prosy dull society sinners, Who chatter and bleat and bore, Are sent to hear sermons From mystical Germans Who preach from ten to four, The amateur tenor, whose vocal villanies All desire to shirk, Shall, during off hours, Exhibit his powers To Madame Tussaud's waxwork. The lady who dyes a chemical yellow, Or stains her grey hair puce, Or pinches her figger, Is blacked like a nigger With permanent walnut juice. The idiot who, in railway carriages, Scribbles on window panes, We only suffer To ride on a buffer In Parliamentary trains. My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment! The advertising quack who wearier With tales of countless cures. His teeth, I've enacted, Shall all be extracted By terrified amateurs. The music hall singer attends a series Of masses and fugues and "ops" By Bach, interwoven With Sophr and Beethoven, At classical Monday Pops. The billiard sharp whom any one catches, His doom's extremely hard-- He's made to dwell In a dungeon cell On a spot that's always barred. And there he plays extravagant matches In fitless finger-stalls, On a cloth untrue With a twisted cue, And elliptical billiard balls! My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment! THE HOUSE OF PEERS. When Britain really ruled the waves-- (In good Queen Bess's time) The House of Peers made no pretence To intellectual eminence, Or scholarship sublime; Yet Britain won her proudest bays In good Queen Bess's glorious days! When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte, As every child can tell, The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular, And did it very well; Yet Britain set the world a-blaze In good King George's glorious days! And while the House of Peers withholds Its legislative hand. And noble statesmen do not itch To interfere with matters which They do not understand, As bright will shine Great Britain's rays, As in King George's glorious days! [Illustration] THE ÆSTHETE. If you're anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind, The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for _me_, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!" Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away, And convince 'em if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day. Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean, And that art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine, And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for _me_, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!" Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment _a la_ Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean. Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band, If you walk down Picadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand. And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, "If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit _me_, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!" PROPER PRIDE. The Sun, whose rays Are all ablaze With ever living glory, Does not deny His majesty-- He scorns to tell a story! He don't exclaim "I blush for shame, So kindly be indulgent," But, fierce and bold, In fiery gold, He glories all effulgent! I mean to rule the earth. As he the sky-- We really know our worth, The Sun and I! Observe his flame, That placid dame, The Moon's Celestial Highness; There's not a trace Upon her face Of diffidence or shyness: She borrows light That, through the night, Mankind may all acclaim her! And, truth to tell, She lights up well, So I, for one, don't blame her! Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We're very wide awake, The Moon and I! THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER. Whene'er I poke Sarcastic joke Replete with malice spiteful, The people vile Politely smile And vote me quite delightful! Now, when a wight Sits up all night Ill-natured jokes devising, And all his wiles Are met with smiles, It's hard, there's no disguising! Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at! When German bands From music stands Play Wagner imper_fect_ly-- I bid them go-- They don't say no, But off they trot directly! The organ boys They stop their noise With readiness surprising, And grinning herds Of hurdy-gurds Retire apologizing! Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at! I've offered gold, In sums untold, To all who'd contradict me-- I've said I'd pay A pound a day To any one who kicked me-- I've bribed with toys Great vulgar boys To utter something spiteful, But, bless you, no! They _will_ be so Confoundedly politeful! In short, these aggravating lads They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads, They give me this and they give me that, And I've nothing whatever to grumble at! THE WORKING MONARCH. Rising early in the morning, We proceed to light our fire; Then our Majesty adorning In its work-a-day attire, We embark without delay On the duties of the day. First, we polish off some batches Of political dispatches, And foreign politicians circumvent; Then, if business isn't heavy, We may hold a Royal levee, Or ratify some acts of Parliament; Then we probably review the household troops-- With the usual "Shalloo humps!" and "Shalloo hoops!" Or receive with ceremonial and state An interesting Eastern Potentate, After that we generally Go and dress our private valet-- (It's rather a nervous duty--he's a touchy little man) Write some letters literary For our private secretary-- He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can. Then, in view of cravings inner, We go down and order dinner; Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate-- Spend an hour in titivating All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting; Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State. Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King; Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great; But the privilege and pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State! After luncheon (making merry On a bun and glass of sherry), If we've nothing particular to do, We may make a Proclamation, Or receive a Deputation-- Then we possibly create a Peer or two. Then we help a fellow creature on his path With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath: Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State To a festival, a function, or a _fete_. Then we go and stand as sentry At the Palace (private entry), Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro, While the warrior on duty Goes in search of beer and beauty (And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go). He relieves us, if he's able, Just in time to lay the table, Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one, With a pleasure that's emphatic, We retire to our attic With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King, But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none; And the culminating pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done! THE ROVER'S APOLOGY. Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray; Though I own that my heart has been ranging, Of nature the laws I obey, For nature is constantly changing. The moon in her phases is found, The time and the wind and the weather, The months in succession come round, And you don't find two Mondays together. Consider the moral, I pray, Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow, Who loves this young lady to-day, And loves that young lady to-morrow. You cannot eat breakfast all day, Nor is it the act of a sinner, When breakfast is taken away To turn your attention to dinner; And it's not in the range of belief, That you could hold him as a glutton, Who, when he is tired of beef, Determines to tackle the mutton. But this I am ready to say, If it will diminish their sorrow, I'll marry this lady to-day, And I'll marry that lady to-morrow! WOULD YOU KNOW? Would you know the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a? Eyes must be downcast and staid, Cheeks must flush for shame-a! She may neither dance nor sing, But, demure in everything, Hang her head in modest way, With pouting lips that seem to say "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die of shame-a." Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a! When a maid is bold and gay, With a tongue goes clang-a, Flaunting it in brave array, Maiden may go hang-a! Sunflower gay and hollyhock Never shall my garden stock; Mine the blushing rose of May, With pouting lips that seem to say, "Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die for shame-a!" Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a! [Illustration] THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN. A magnet hung in a hardware shop, And all around was a loving crop Of scissors and needles, nails and knives, Offering love for all their lives; But for iron the magnet felt no whim, Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him, From needles and nails and knives he'd turn, For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn! His most æsthetic, Very magnetic Fancy took this turn-- "If I can wheedle A knife or needle, Why not a Silver Churn?" And Iron and Steel expressed surprise, The needles opened their well drilled eyes, The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt, The scissors declared themselves "cut out." The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said, While every nail went off its head, And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up--and drove it home, While this magnetic Peripatetic Lover he lived to learn, By no endeavor, Can Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn! BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR. Braid the raven hair, Weave the supple tress, Deck the maiden fair In her loveliness; Paint the pretty face, Dye the coral lip. Emphasize the grace Of her ladyship! Art and nature, thus allied, Go to make a pretty bride! Sit with downcast eye, Let it brim with dew; Try if you can cry, We will do so, too. When you're summoned, start Like a frightened roe; Flutter, little heart, Color, come and go! Modesty at marriage tide Well becomes a pretty bride! IS LIFE A BOON? Is life a boon? If so? it must befal That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon. Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon! What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July? I might have had to die, Perchance, in June! Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it; Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away: And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give-- I might have had to live Another morn! A MIRAGE. Were I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love-- Were I thy bride! Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle dove-- Were I thy bride! This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell-- Were I thy bride! And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel-- Were I thy bride! The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night owl's hoot To my low-whispered coo-- Were I thy bride! The skylark's trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I'd woo-- Were I thy bride! The rose's sigh Were as a carrion's cry To lullaby Such as I'd sing to thee, Were I thy bride! A feather's press Were leaden heaviness To my caress. But then, unhappily, I'm not thy bride! A MERRY MADRIGAL. Brightly dawns our wedding day; Joyous hour, we give thee greeting! Whither, whither art thou fleeting? Fickle moment, prithee stay! What though mortal joys be hollow? Pleasures come, if sorrows follow: Though the tocsin sound, ere long, Ding dong! Ding dong! Yet until the shadows fall Over one and over all, Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la! Let us dry the ready tear; Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weeping, Till the sad sundown is near. All must sip the cup of sorrow-- I to-day and thou to-morrow: This the close of every song-- Ding dong! Ding dong! What, though solemn shadows fall, Sooner, later, over all? Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la! THE LOVE-SICK BOY. When first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ-- I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy! But joy incessant palls the sense; And love, unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy! With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another's love-sick boy! * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS' PUBLICATIONS. PHILADELPHIA. PA. STEPHEN. A SOLDIER OF THE CROSS, by Florence Morse Kingsley, author of "Titus, a Comrade of the Cross." "Since Ben-Hur no story has so vividly portrayed the times of Christ."--_The Bookseller._ Cloth, 12mo., 369 pages. $1.25. PAUL. A HERALD OF THE CROSS, by Florence Morse Kingsley, "A vivid and picturesque narrative of the life and times of the great Apostle." Cloth, ornamental, 12mo., 450 pages, $1.50. VIC. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FOX TERRIER, by Marie More Marsh. "A fitting companion to that other wonderful book, 'Black Beauty.'" Cloth, 12mo., 50 cents. WOMAN'S WORK IN THE HOME, by Archdeacon Farrar. Cloth, small 18mo., 50 cents. THE APOCRYPHAL BOOKS OF THE NEW TESTAMENT, being the gospels and epistles used by the followers of Christ in the first three centuries after his death, and rejected by the Council of Nice, A.D. 325. Cloth, 8vo., illustrated, $2.00. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, _as John Bunyan wrote it_. A fac-simile reproduction of the first edition, published in 1678. Antique cloth, 12mo., $1.25. THE FAIREST OF THE FAIR, by Hildegarde Hawthorne. "The grand-daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne possesses a full share of his wonderful genius." Cloth, 16mo., $1.25. A LOVER IN HOMESPUN, by F. Clifford Smith. Interesting tales of adventure and home life in Canada. Cloth, 12mo., 75 cents. ANNIE BESANT: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Cloth, 12mo., 368 pages, illustrated. $2.00. THE GRAMMAR OF PALMISTRY, by Katharine St. Hill. Cloth, 12mo., illustrated, 75 cents. AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY MINUTES. Contains over 100 photographs of the most famous places and edifices with descriptive text. Cloth, 50 cents. WHAT WOMEN SHOULD KNOW. A woman's book about women. By Mrs. E.B. Duffy. Cloth, 320 pages, 75 cents. THE CARE OF CHILDREN, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. "An excellent book of the most vital interest," Cloth, 12mo., $1.00. PREPARATION FOR MOTHERHOOD, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. Cloth, 12mo., 320 pages, $1.00. ALTEMUS' CONVERSATION DICTIONARIES. English-German, English-French. "Combined dictionaries and phrase books." Pocket size, each $1.00. TAINE'S ENGLISH LITERATURE, translated from the French by Henry Van Laun, illustrated with 20 fine photogravure portraits. Best English library edition, four volumes, cloth, full gilt, octavo, per set, $10.00. Half calf, per set, $12.50. Cheaper edition, with frontispiece illustrations only, cloth, paper titles, per set $7.50. SHAKESPEARE'S COMPLETE WORKS, with a biographical sketch by Mary Cowden Clark, embellished with 64 Boydell, and numerous other illustrations, four volumes, over 2000 pages. Half Morocco, 12mo., boxed, per set, $3.00. * * * * * DORE'S MASTERPIECES THE DORE BIBLE GALLERY. A complete panorama of Bible History, containing 100 full-page engravings by Gustave Dore. MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, with 50 full-page engravings by Gustave Dore. DANTE'S INFERNO, with 75 full-page engravings by Gustave Dore. DANTE'S PURGATORY AND PARADISE, with 60 full-page engravings by Gustave Dore. Cloth, ornamental, large quarto (9 x 12 inches), each $2.00. * * * * * TENNYSON'S IDYLLS OF THE KING, with 37 full-page engravings by Gustave Dore. Cloth, full gilt, large imperial quarto (11 x 14-1/2 inches), $4.50. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with 46 full page engravings by Gustave Dore. Cloth, full gilt, large imperial quarto (11 x 14-1/2 inches), $3.00. BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, with 100 engravings by Frederick Barnard and others. Cloth, small quarto (9 x 10 inches), $1.00. DICKENS' CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, with 75 fine engravings by famous artists. Cloth, small quarto, boxed (9 x 10 inches), $1.00. BIBLE PICTURES AND STORIES, 100 full page engravings. Cloth, small quarto (7 x 9 inches), $1.00. MY ODD LITTLE FOLK, some rhymes and verses about them, by Malcolm Douglass. Numerous original engravings. Cloth, small quarto (7 x 9), $1.00. PAUL AND VIRGINIA, by Bernardin St. Pierre, with 125 engravings by Maurice Leloir. Cloth, small quarto (9 x 10), $1.00. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE, with 120 original engravings by Walter Paget. Cloth, octavo (7-1/2 x 9-3/4), $1.50. * * * * * ALTEMUS' ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF STANDARD AUTHORS. Cloth, Twelve Mo. Size, 5-1/2 x 7-3/4 Inches. Each $1.00. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE, by Charles and Mary Lamb, with 155 illustrations by famous artists. PAUL AND VIRGINIA, by Bernardin de St. Pierre, with 125 engravings by Maurice Leloir. ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, AND THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE, by Lewis Carroll. Complete in one volume with 92 engravings by John Tenniel. LUCILE, by Owen Meredith, with numerous illustrations by George Du Maurier. BLACK BEAUTY, by Anna Sewell, with nearly 50 original engravings. SCARLET LETTER, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, with numerous original full-page and text illustrations. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, with numerous original full-page and text illustrations. BATTLES OF THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE, by Prescott Holmes, with 7 illustrations. BATTLES OF THE WAR FOR THE UNION, by Prescott Holmes, with 80 illustrations. * * * * * ALTEMUS' YOUNG PEOPLES' LIBRARY _PRICE FIFTY CENTS EACH._ ROBINSON CRUSOE: (Chiefly in words of one syllable). His life and strange, surprising adventures, with 70 beautiful illustrations by Walter Paget. ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, with 49 illustrations by John Tenniel. "The most delightful of children's stories. Elegant and delicious nonsense."--_Saturday Review._ THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE, a companion to "Alice in Wonderland," with 50 illustrations by John Tenniel. BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, with 50 full page and text illustrations. A CHILD'S STORY OF THE BIBLE, with 72 full page illustrations. A CHILD'S LIFE OF CHRIST, with 49 illustrations. God has implanted in the infant heart a desire to hear of Jesus, and children are early attracted and sweetly riveted by the wonderful Story of the Master from the Manger to the Throne. SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, with 50 illustrations. The father of the family tells the tale of the vicissitudes through which he and his wife and children pass, the wonderful discoveries made and dangers encountered. The book is full of interest and instruction. CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA, with 70 illustrations Every American boy and girl should be acquainted with the story of the life of the great discoverer, with its struggles, adventures, and trials. THE STORY OF EXPLORATION AND DISCOVERY IN AFRICA, with 80 illustrations. Records the experiences of adventures and discoveries in developing the "Dark Continent," from the early days of Bruce and Mungo Park down to Livingstone and Stanley, and the heroes of our own times. No present can be more acceptable than such a volume as this, where courage, intrepidity, resource, and devotion are so admirably mingled. THE FABLES OF ÆSOP. Compiled from the best accepted sources. With 62 illustrations. The fables of Æsop are among the very earliest compositions of this kind, and probably have never been surpassed for point and brevity. GULLIVER'S TRAVELS. Adapted for young readers. With 50 illustrations. MOTHER GOOSE'S RHYMES, JINGLES AND FAIRY TALES, with 234 illustrations. LIVES OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES, by Prescott Holmes. With portraits of the Presidents and also of the unsuccessful candidates for the office; as well as the ablest of the Cabinet officers. It is just the book for intelligent boys, and it will help to make them intelligent and patriotic citizens. THE STORY OF ADVENTURE IN THE FROZEN SEAS, with 70 illustrations. By Prescott Holmes. We have here brought together the records of the attempts to reach the North Pole. The book shows how much can be accomplished by steady perseverance and indomitable pluck. ILLUSTRATED NATURAL HISTORY, by the Rev. J.G. Wood, with 80 illustrations. This author has done more to popularize the study of natural history than any other writer. The illustrations are striking and life-like. A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, by Charles Dickens, with 50 illustrations. Tired of listening to his children memorize the twaddle of old fashioned English history the author covered the ground in his own peculiar and happy style for his own children's use. When the work was published its success was instantaneous. BLACK BEAUTY, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A HORSE, by Anna Sewell, with 50 illustrations. A work sure to educate boys and girls to treat with kindness all members of the animal kingdom. Recognized as the greatest story of animal life extant. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS, with 130 illustrations. Contains the most favorably known of the stories. * * * * * ALTEMUS' DEVOTIONAL SERIES. Standard Religious Literature Appropriately Bound in Handy Volume Size. Each Volume contains Illuminated Title, Portrait of Author and Appropriate Illustrations. _WHITE VELLUM, SILVER AND MONOTINT, BOXED, EACH FIFTY CENTS._ 1 KEPT FOR THE MASTER'S USE, by Frances Ridley Havergal. "Will perpetuate her name." 2 MY KING AND HIS SERVICE, OR DAILY THOUGHTS FOR THE KING'S CHILDREN, by Frances Ridley Havergal. "Simple, tender, gentle, and full of Christian love." 3 MY POINT OF VIEW. Selections from the works of Professor Henry Drummond. 4 OF THE IMITATION OF CHRIST, by Thomas A'Kempis. "With the exception of the Bible it is probably the book most read in Christian literature." 5 ADDRESSES, by Professor Henry Drummond. "Intelligent sympathy with the Christian's need." 6 NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD, by Professor Henry Drummond. "A most notable book which has earned for the author a world-wide reputation." 7 ADDRESSES, by the Rev. Phillips Brooks. "Has exerted a marked influence over the rising generation." 8 ABIDE IN CHRIST. Thoughts on the Blessed Life of Fellowship with the Son of God. By the Rev. Andrew Murray. It cannot fail to stimulate and cheer.--_Spurgeon._ 9 LIKE CHRIST. Thoughts on the Blessed Life of Conformity to the Son of God. By the Rev. Andrew Murray. A sequel to "Abide in Christ." "May be read with comfort an edification by all." 10 WITH CHRIST IN THE SCHOOL OF PRAYER, by the Rev. Andrew Murray. "The best work on prayer in the language." 11 HOLY IN CHRIST. Thoughts on the Calling of God's Children to be holy as He is Holy. By the Rev. Andrew Murray. "This sacred theme is treated Scripturally and robustly without spurious sentimentalism." 12 THE MANLINESS OF CHRIST, by Thomas Hughes, author of "Tom Brown's School Days," etc. "Evidences of the sublimest courage and manliness in the boyhood, ministry, and in the last acts of Christ's life." 13 ADDRESSES TO YOUNG MEN, by the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. Seven Addresses on common vices and their results. 14 THE PATHWAY OF SAFETY, by the Rt. Rev. Ashton Oxenden, D.D. Sound words of advice and encouragement on the text "What must I do to be saved?" 15 THE CHRISTIAN LIFE, by the Rt. Rev. Ashton Oxenden, D.D. A beautiful delineation of an ideal life from the conversion to the final reward. 16 THE THRONE OF GRACE. Before which the burdened soul may cast itself on the bosom of infinite love and enjoy in prayer "a peace which passeth all understanding." 17 THE PATHWAY OF PROMISE, by the author of "The Throne of Grace." Thoughts consolatory and encouraging to the Christian pilgrim as he journeys onward to his heavenly home. 18 THE IMPREGNABLE ROCK OF HOLY SCRIPTURE, by the Rt. Hon William Ewart Gladstone, M.P. The most masterly defence of the truths of the Bible extant. The author says: The Christian Faith and the Holy Scriptures arm us with the means of neutralizing and repelling the assaults of evil in and from ourselves. 19 STEPS INTO THE BLESSED LIFE, by the Rev. F.B. Meyer, B.A. A powerful help towards sanctification. 20 THE MESSAGE OF PEACE, by the Rev. Richard W. Church, D.D. Eight excellent sermons on the advent of the Babe of Bethlehem and his influence and effect on the world. 21 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK, by the Rev. Charles H. Spurgeon. 22 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES, by the Rev. Charles H. Spurgeon. 23 THE CHANGED CROSS; AND OTHER RELIGIOUS POEMS. * * * * * ALTEMUS' ETERNAL LIFE SERIES. Selections from the writings of well-known religious authors, beautifully printed and daintily bound with original designs in silver and ink. _PRICE, 25 CENTS PER VOLUME._ 1 ETERNAL LIFE, by Professor Henry Drummond. 2 LORD, TEACH US TO PRAY, by Rev. Andrew Murray. 3 GOD'S WORD AND GOD'S WORK, by Martin Luther. 4 FAITH, by Thomas Arnold. 5 THE CREATION STORY, by Honorable William E. Gladstone. 6 THE MESSAGE OF COMFORT, by Rt. Rev. Ashton Oxenden. 7 THE MESSAGE OF PEACE, by Rev. R.W. Church. 8 THE LORD'S PRAYER AND THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, by Dean Stanley. 9 THE MEMOIRS OF JESUS, by Rev. Robert F. Horton. 10 HYMNS OF PRAISE AND GLADNESS, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. 11 DIFFICULTIES, by Hannah Whitall Smith. 12 GAMBLERS AND GAMBLING, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 13 HAVE FAITH IN GOD, by Rev. Andrew Murray. 14 TWELVE CAUSES OF DISHONESTY, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 15 THE CHRIST IN WHOM CHRISTIANS BELIEVE, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 16 IN MY NAME, by Rev. Andrew Murray. 17 SIX WARNINGS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 18 THE DUTY OF THE CHRISTIAN BUSINESSMAN, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 19 POPULAR AMUSEMENTS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 20 TRUE LIBERTY, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 21 INDUSTRY AND IDLENESS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 22 THE BEAUTY OF A LIFE OF SERVICE, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 23 THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD, by Rev. A.T. Pierson, D.D. 24 THOUGHT AND ACTION, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 25 THE HEAVENLY VISION, by Rev. F.B. Meyer. 26 MORNING STRENGTH, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. 27 FOR THE QUIET HOUR, by Edith V. Bradt. 28 EVENING COMFORT, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. 29 WORDS OF HELP FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS, by Rev. F.B. Meyer. 30 HOW TO STUDY THE BIBLE, by Rev. Dwight L. Moody. 31 EXPECTATION CORNER, by E.S. Elliot. 32 JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER, by Hesba Stratton. * * * * * ALTEMUS BELLES-LETTRES SERIES. A collection of Essays and Addresses by eminent English and American Authors, beautifully printed and daintily bound, with original designs in silver. _PRICE, 25 CENTS PER VOLUME._ 1 INDEPENDENCE DAY, by Rev. Edward E. Hale. 2 THE SCHOLAR IN POLITICS, by Hon. Richard Olney. 3 THE YOUNG MAN IN BUSINESS, by Edward W. Bok. 4 THE YOUNG MAN AND THE CHURCH, by Edward W. Bok. 5 THE SPOILS SYSTEM, by Hon. Carl Schurz. 6 CONVERSATION, by Thomas DeQuincey. 7 SWEETNESS AND LIGHT, by Matthew Arnold. 8 WORK, by John Ruskin. 9 NATURE AND ART, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 10 THE USE AND MISUSE OF BOOKS, by Frederic Harrison. 11 THE MONROE DOCTRINE: ITS ORIGIN, MEANING AND APPLICATION, by Prof. John Bach McMaster (University of Pennsylvania). 12 THE DESTINY OF MAN, by Sir John Lubbock. 13 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 14 RIP VAN WINKLE, by Washington Irving. 15 ART, POETRY AND MUSIC, by Sir John Lubbock. 16 THE CHOICE OF BOOKS, by Sir John Lubbock. 17 MANNERS, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 18 CHARACTER, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 19 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, by Washington Irving. 20 THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE, by Sir John Lubbock. 21 SELF RELIANCE, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 22 THE DUTY OF HAPPINESS, by Sir John Lubbock. 23 SPIRITUAL LAWS, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 24 OLD CHRISTMAS, by Washington Irving. 25 HEALTH, WEALTH AND THE BLESSING OF FRIENDS, by Sir John Lubbock. 26 INTELLECT, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 27 WHY AMERICANS DISLIKE ENGLAND, by Prof. Geo. B. Adams (Yale). 28 THE HIGHER EDUCATION AS A TRAINING FOR BUSINESS, by Prof. Harry Pratt Judson (University of Chicago). 29 MISS TOOSEY'S MISSION. 30 LADDIE. 31 J. COLE, by Emma Gellibrand. * * * * * ALTEMUS' NEW ILLUSTRATED VADEMECUM SERIES. Masterpieces of English and American literature, Handy Volume Size, Large Type Editions. Each Volume Contains Illuminated Title Pages, and Portrait of Author and Numerous Engravings Full Cloth, ivory finish, ornamental inlaid sides and back, boxed 40 Full White Vellum, full silver and monotint, boxed 50 1 CRANFORD, by Mrs. Gaskell. 2 A WINDOW IN THRUMS, by J.M. Barrie. 3 RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, MARJORIE FLEMING, ETC., by John Brown, M.D. 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, by Oliver Goldsmith. 5 THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW, by Jerome K. Jerome. "A book for an idle holiday." 6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE, by Charles and Mary Lamb, with an introduction by the Rev. Alfred Ainger, M.D. 7 SESAME AND LILIES, by John Ruskin. Three Lectures--I. Of the King's Treasures. II. Of Queen's Garden. III. Of the Mystery of Life. 8 THE ETHICS OF THE DUST, by John Ruskin. Ten lectures to little housewives on the elements of crystalization. 9 THE PLEASURES OF LIFE, by Sir John Lubbock. Complete in one volume. 10 THE SCARLET LETTER, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 11 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 12 MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 13 TWICE TOLD TALES, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 14 THE ESSAYS OF FRANCIS (LORD) BACON WITH MEMOIRS AND NOTES. 15 ESSAYS, First Series, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 16 ESSAYS, Second Series, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 17 REPRESENTATIVE MEN, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Mental portraits each representing a class. 1. The Philosopher. 2. The Mystic. 3. The Skeptic. 4. The Poet. 5. The Man of the World. 6. The Writer. 18 THOUGHTS OF THE EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS, translated by George Long. 19 THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS WITH THE ENCHIRIDION, translated by George Long. 20 OF THE IMITATION OF CHRIST, by Thomas À Kempis. Four books complete in one volume. 21 ADDRESSES, by Professor Henry Drummond. The Greatest Thing in the World; Pax Vobiscum; The Changed Life; How to Learn How; Dealing With Doubt; Preparation for Learning: What is a Christian; The Study of the Bible; A Talk on Books. 22 LETTERS, SENTENCES AND MAXIMS, by Lord Chesterfield. Masterpieces of good taste, good writing and good sense. 23 REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. A book of the heart. By Ik Marvel. 24 DREAM LIFE, by Ik Marvel. A companion to "Reveries of a Bachelor." 25 SARTOR RESARTUS, by Thomas Carlyle. 26 HEROES AND HERO WORSHIP, by Thomas Carlyle. 27 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. 28 ESSAYS OF ELIA, by Charles Lamb. 29 MY POINT OF VIEW. Representative selections from the works of Professor Henry Drummond by William Shepard. 30 THE SKETCH BOOK, by Washington Irving. Complete. 31 KEPT FOR THE MASTER'S USE, by Frances Ridley Havergal. 32 LUCILE, by Owen Meredith. 33 LALLA ROOKH, by Thomas Moore. 34 THE LADY OF THE LAKE, by Sir Walter Scott. 35 MARMION, by Sir Walter Scott. 36 THE PRINCESS; AND MAUD, by Alfred (Lord) Tennyson. 37 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, by Lord Byron. 38 IDYLLS OF THE KING, by Alfred (Lord) Tennyson. 39 EVANGELINE, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 40 VOICES OF THE NIGHT AND OTHER POEMS, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 41 THE QUEEN OF THE AIR, by John Ruskin. A study of the Greek myths of cloud and storm. 42 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 43 POEMS, Volume I, by John Greenleaf Whittier. 44 POEMS, Volume II, by John Greenleaf Whittier. 45 THE RAVEN; AND OTHER POEMS, by Edgar Allan Poe. 46 THANATOPSIS; AND OTHER POEMS, by William Cullen Bryant. 47 THE LAST LEAF; AND OTHER POEMS, by Oliver Wendell Holmes. 48 THE HEROES OR GREEK FAIRY TALES, by Charles Kingsley. 49 A WONDER BOOK, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 50 UNDINE, by de La Motte Fouque. 51 ADDRESSES, by the Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. 52 BALZAC'S SHORTER STORIES, by Honore de Balzac. 53 TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST, by Richard H. Dana, Jr. 54 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. An Autobiography. 55 THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA, by Charles Lamb. 56 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL-DAYS, by Thomas Hughes. 57 WEIRD TALES, by Edgar Allan Poe. 58 THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE, by John Ruskin. Three lectures on Work, Traffic and War. 59 NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD, by Professor Henry Drummond. 60 ABBE CONSTANTIN, by Ludovic Halevy. 61 MANON LESCAUT, by Abbe Prevost. 62 THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN, by Octave Feuillet. 63 BLACK BEAUTY, by Anna Sewell. 64 CAMILLE, by Alexander Dumas, Jr. 65 THE LIGHT OF ASIA, by Sir Edwin Arnold. 66 THE LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. 67 THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, by Thomas De Quincey. 68 TREASURE ISLAND, by Robert L. Stevenson. 69 CARMEN, by Prosper Merimee. 70 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, by Laurence Sterne. 71 THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 72 BAB BALLADS, AND SAVOY SONGS, by W.H. Gilbert. 73 FANCHON, THE CRICKET, by George Sand. 74 POEMS, by James Russell Lowell. 75 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK, by the Rev. Charles H. Spurgeon. 76 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES, by the Rev. Charles H. Spurgeon. 77 THE MANLINESS OF CHRIST, by Thomas Hughes. 78 ADDRESSES TO YOUNG MEN, by the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. 79 THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE, by Oliver Wendell Holmes. 80 MULVANEY STORIES, by Rudyard Kipling. 81 BALLADS, by Rudyard Kipling. 82 MORNING THOUGHTS, by Frances Ridley Havergal. 83 TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM, by T.S. Arthur. 84 EVENING THOUGHTS, by Frances Ridley Havergal. 85 IN MEMORIAM, by Alfred (Lord) Tennyson. 86 COMING TO CHRIST, by Frances Ridley Havergal. 87 HOUSE OF THE WOLF, by Stanley Weyman. * * * * * AMERICAN POLITICS (non-Partisan), by Hon. Thomas V. Cooper. A history of all the Political Parties with their views and records on all important questions. All political platforms from the beginning to date. Great Speeches on Great issues. Parliamentary Practice and tabulated history of chronological events. A library without this work is deficient. 8vo., 750 pages. Cloth, $3.00. Full Sheep Library style, $4.00. NAMES FOR CHILDREN, by Elisabeth Robinson Scovil, author of "The Care of Children," "Preparation for Motherhood." In family life there is no question of greater weight or importance than naming the baby. The author gives much good advice and many suggestions on the subject. Cloth, 12mo., $.40. TRIF AND TRIXY, by John Habberton, author of "Helen's Babies." The story is replete with vivid and spirited scenes; and is incomparably the happiest and most delightful work Mr. Habberton has yet written. Cloth, 12mo., $.35. 
35059	----	FAMILIAR FACES _By the Same Author_ MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN [Illustration: The Man Who Knows It All] FAMILIAR FACES BY HARRY GRAHAM _Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," "Misrepresentative Men," "Misrepresentative Women," etc., etc._ ILLUSTRATED BY TOM HALL [Illustration] NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1907 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY _Published August, 1907_ THE PREMIER PRESS, NEW YORK. CONTENTS PAGE THE CRY OF THE PUBLISHER 7 THE CRY OF THE AUTHOR 9 THE FUMBLER 11 THE BARITONE 15 THE ACTOR MANAGER 20 THE GILDED YOUTH 25 THE GOURMAND 29 THE DENTIST 36 THE MAN WHO KNOWS 38 THE FADDIST 44 THE COLONEL 47 THE WAITER 50 THE POLICEMAN 54 THE MUSIC HALL COMEDIAN 58 THE CONVERSATIONAL REFORMER 63 KING LEOPOLD 67 "BART'S" CLUB 71 THE REVIEWER 74 L'ENVOI 77 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE MAN WHO KNOWS IT ALL _Frontispiece_ THE BARITONE _Facing Page_ 16 THE ACTOR MANAGER " " 22 THE GILDED YOUTH " " 28 THE FADDIST " " 44 THE COMEDIAN " " 58 KING LEOPOLD " " 68 THE REVIEWER " " 74 THE CRY OF THE PUBLISHER O my Author, do you hear the Autumn calling? Does its message fail to reach you in your den, Where the ink that once so sluggishly was crawling Courses swiftly through your stylographic pen? 'Tis the season when the editor grows active, When the office-boy looks longingly to you. Won't you give him something novel and attractive To review? Never mind if you are frivolous or solemn, If you only can be striking and unique, The reviewers will concede you half a column In their literary journals, any week. And 'twill always be your publisher's ambition To provide for the demand that you create, And dispose of a gigantic first edition, While you wait. O my Author, can't you pull yourself together, Try to expiate the failures of the past, And just ask yourself dispassionately whether You can't give us something better than your last? If you really--if you truly--are a poet, As you fancy--pray forgive my being terse-- Don't you think you might occasionally show it In your verse? THE CRY OF THE AUTHOR O my Publisher, how dreadfully you bore me! Of your censure I am frankly growing tired. With your diatribes eternally before me, How on earth can I expect to feel inspired? You are orderly, no doubt, and systematic, In that office where recumbent you recline; You would modify your methods in an attic Such as mine. If you lived a sort of hand-to-mouth existence (Where the mouth found less employment than the hand); If your rhymes would lend your humour no assistance, And your wit assumed a form that never scann'd; If you sat and waited vainly at your table While Calliope declined to give her cues, You would realise how very far from _stable_ Was the _Mews_! You would find it quite impossible to labour With the patient perseverance of a drone, While some tactless but enthusiastic neighbour Played a cake walk on a wheezy gramophone, While your peace was so disturbed by constant clatter, That at length you grew accustomed--nay, resigned, To the never-ending victory of Matter Over Mind. While _you_ batten upon plovers' eggs and claret, In the shelter of some fashionable club, _I_ am starving, very likely, in a garret, Off the street so incorrectly labelled Grub, Where the vintage smacks distinctly of the ink-butt, And the atmosphere is redolent of toil, And there's nothing for the journalist to drink but Midnight oil! It is useless to solicit inspiration When one isn't in the true poetic mood, When one contemplates the prospect of starvation, And one's little ones are clamouring for food. When one's tongue remains ingloriously tacit, One is forced with some reluctance to admit That, alas! (as Virgil said) _Poeta nascit_- -_Ur, non fit_! Then, my Publisher, be gentle with your poet; Do not treat him with the harshness he deserves, For, in fact, altho' you little seem to know it, You are gradually getting on his nerves. Kindly dam the foaming torrent of your curses, While I ask you,--yes, and pause for a reply,-- Are _you_ writing this immortal book of verses, Or am _I_? I THE FUMBLER Gentle Reader, charge your tumbler With anæmic lemonade! Let us toast our fellow-fumbler, Who was surely born, not made. None of all our friends is "dearer" (Costs us more--to be jocose--); No relation could be nearer, More intensely "close"! Hear him indistinctly mumbling "Oh, I say, do let me pay!" Watch him in his pocket fumbling, In a dilatory way; Plumbing the unmeasured deeps there, With some muttered vague excuse, For the coinage that he keeps there, But will not produce. If he joins you in a hansom, You alone provide the fare; Not for all a monarch's ransom Would he pay his modest share. He may fumble with his collar, He may turn his pockets out, He can never find that dollar Which he spoke about! Cigarettes he sometimes offers, With a sort of old-world grace, But, when you accept them, proffers With surprise, an empty case. Your cigars, instead, he'll snatch, and, With the cunning of the fox, Ask you firmly for a match, and Pocket half your box! If with him a meal you share, too, You'll discover, when you've dined, That your friend has taken care to Leave his frugal purse behind. "We must sup together later," He remarks, with right good-will, "Pass the Heidsieck, please; and, waiter, Bring my friend the bill!" At some crowded railway station He comes running up to you, And exclaims with agitation, "Take my ticket, will you, too?" Though his pow'rs of conversation In the train require no spur, To this trifling obligation He will _not_ refer! When at Bridge you win his money, Do not think it odd or strange If he says, "It's very funny, But I find I've got no change! Do remind me what I owe you, When you see me in the street." Mr. Fumbler, if I know you, We shall never meet! Fumbler, so serenely fumbling In a pocket with thy thumb, Never by good fortune stumbling On the necessary sum, Cease to make polite pretences, Suited to thy niggard ends, Of dividing the expenses With confiding friends! Here, we crown thee, fumbling brother, With the fumbler's well-earned wreath, Who would'st rob thine aged mother Of her artificial teeth! We at length are slowly learning That some friendships cost too dear. "Longest worms must have a turning," And our turn is near! Henceforth, when a cab thou takest, Thou a lonely way must wend; Henceforth, when for food thou achest, Thou must dine without a friend. Thine excuses thou shalt mumble Down some public telephone, And if thou perforce _must_ fumble, Fumble all alone! II THE BARITONE In many a boudoir nowadays The baritone's _decolleté_ throat Produces weird unearthly lays, Like some dyspeptic goat Deprived but lately of her young (But not, alas! of either lung). His low-necked collar fails to show The contours of his manly chest, Since that has fallen far below His "fancy evening vest." Here, too, in picturesque relief, Nestles his crimson handkerchief. Will no one tell me why he sings Such doleful melancholy lays, Of withered summers, ruined springs, Of happier bygone days, And kindred topics, more or less Designed to harass or depress? That ballad in his bloated hand Is of the old familiar blend:-- A faded flow'r, a maiden, and A "brave kiss" at the end! (The kind of kiss that, for a bet, A man might give a Suffragette.) (THE BARITONE'S BOUDOIR BALLAD) _Eyes that looked down into mine, With a longing that seemed to say Is it too late, dear heart, to wait For the dawn of a brighter day? Is it too late to laugh at fate? See how the teardrops start! Can we not weather the tempest together, Dear Heart, Dear Heart?_ _Lips that I pressed to my own, As I gazed at her yielding form,-- Turned with a groan, and then hastened alone Into the teeth of the Storm! Long, long ago! Still the winds blow! Far have we drifted apart! You live with Mother, and I love--another! Dear Heart, Dear Heart!_ [Illustration: The Baritone] At times some drinking-song inspires Our hero to a vocal burst, Until his audience, too, acquires The most prodigious thirst. And nobody would ever think That milk was _his_ peculiar drink! What spacious days his song recalls, When each monastic brotherhood Could brew, within its private walls, A vintage just as good As that which restaurants purvey As "rare old Tawny Port" to-day! (THE BARITONE'S DRINKING SONG) _The Abbot he sits, as his rank befits, With a bottle at either knee, And he smacks his lips as he slowly sips At his beaker of Malvoisie. Sing Ho! Ho! Ho! Let the red wine flow! Let the sack flow fast and free! His heart it grows merry on negus and sherry, And never a care has he! Ho! Ho!_ (Ora pro nobis!) _Sing Ho! for the Malvoisie!_ _In cellar cool, on a highbacked stool, The Friar he sits him down, With the door tight shut, and an unbroached butt Where the ale flows clear and brown. Sing Ha! Sing Hi! Till the cask runs dry, His spirits shall never fail! For no one is dryer than Francis the Friar, When getting "outside the pail!" Ho! Ho!_ (Benedicimus!) _Sing Ho! for the nutbrown ale!_ _The Monk sits there, in his cell so bare, And he lowers his tonsured head, As he lifts the lid of the tankard hid 'Neath the straw of his trestle bed. Sing Ho! Sink Hey! From the break of day Till the vesper-bell rings clear, Of grave he makes merry and hastens to bury His cares in the butt'ry_ BIER! _Ho! Ho!_ (Pax Omnibuscum!) _Sing Ho! for the buttery beer!_ Oh, find me some secure retreat, Some Paradise for stricken souls, Where amateurs no longer bleat Their feeble baracoles, From lungs that are so oddly placed Where other people keep their waist; Where public taste has quite outgrown The faculty for being bored By each anæmic baritone Who murders "The Lost Chord," And singers, as a body, are Cursed with a permanent catarrh! III THE ACTOR MANAGER Long ago, our English actors Ranked with rogues and vagabonds; They were jailed as malefactors, They were ducked in village ponds. In the stocks the beadle shut them, While the friends they chanced to meet Would invariably cut them In the street. With suspicion people eyed them, Ev'ry country-squire would feel That his fallow-deer supplied them With the makings of a meal. They annexed the parson's rabbits, Poached the pheasants of the peer, And had other little habits Just as queer! Even Will, the Bard of Avon, As a poacher stands confest, And altho', of course, cleanshaven, Was as barefaced as the rest. He, a player by vocation, Practised, like his buckskin'd pals, Indiscriminate flirtation With the gals! Now, the am'rous actor's cravings For romance are orthodox; Nowadays he puts his savings, Not his ankles, into "stocks." Nobody to-day is doubting That a halo round him clings; One can see his shoulders sprouting Into wings. Watch the mummer managerial, Centre of a rev'rent group; Note with what an air imperial He controls his timid troupe. Deadheads scrape and bow before him, To his doors the public flocks; Even duchesses implore him For a box. Enemies, no doubt, will tell us (What we should not ever guess) That he is absurdly jealous Of subordinates' success. Minor mimes who score a hit or Threaten to advance too fast, Are advised to curb their wit or Leave the cast! Foes declare that, at rehearsal, Managers are free of speech, And unduly prone to curse all Those who come within their reach. With some tiny dams (or damlets) They exhort each "walking gent--" Language that potential Hamlets Much resent. Do not autocrats, dictators, All who lead successful lives, Swear repeatedly at waiters, Curse consistently at wives? Shall the heads of _the_ Profession, Histrionic argonauts, Be denied the frank expression Of their thoughts? [Illustration: _The Actor Manager_] Will not we who so applaud them Execrate with righteous rage Player knaves who would defraud them Of their centre of the stage? Do we grudge these godlike creatures Picture-cards that advertise-- Calcium lights that flood their features From the flies? No, for ev'ry leading actor Who produces problem plays, Is a most important factor In the world of modern days. Kings occasionally knight him, Titled ladies take him up; Even millionaires invite him Out to sup. Proudly he advances, trailing Clouds of limelight from afar, (Diffidence is _not_ the failing Of the true dramatic "star"). What cares he for rank or fashion, Politics or place or pelf? He whose one prevailing passion Is himself? All the world's a stage, we know it; Managers, whose heads are twirled, Think (to paraphrase the poet) That the stage is all the world. Other men discuss the summer, Or the poor potato crop, Nothing can prevent the mummer Talking "shop." With his Art as the objective Of his intellectual pow'rs, He (as usual, introspective) Talks about himself for hours. While his friends, who never dream of Interrupting, stand agog, He decants a ceaseless stream of Monologue. He is great. He has become it By a long and arduous climb To the crest, the crown, the summit Of the Thespian tree--a _lime_! There he chatters like a starling, There, like Jove, he sometimes nods; But he still remains the "darling Of _the gods_!" IV THE GILDED YOUTH A monocle he always wears, Safe screwed within his dexter eye; His mouth stands open wide, and snares The too intrusive fly. Were he to close his jaws, no doubt, The eyeglass would at once fall out. His choice of clothes is truly weird; His jacket, short, and _negligée_, Is slit behind, as tho' he feared A tail might sprout some day. One's eye must be inured to shocks To stand the tartan of his socks. The chessboard pattern of his check Betrays its owner's florid taste; A three-inch collar grips his neck, A cummerbund his waist; The trousers that his legs enshroud Speak for themselves, they are so loud. His shirt, his sleeve-links and his stud, Are all of a cerulean hue, And advertise that Norman blood,-- The bluest of the blue,-- Which, as a brief inspection shows, Seems to have centred in his nose. His saffron tresses, oiled with care, Back from a vacant brow he scrapes; From so compact a head of hair No filament escapes. (This surface-polish, friends complain, Does _not_ descend into the brain.) What does he do? You well may ask. Nothing at all, to be exact! Yet he performs this tedious task With quite consummate tact. (No cause for wonder this, in truth, Since he has practised it from youth.) To some wide window-seat he goes, And gazes out with torpid eyes; Then yawns politely through his nose, Looks at his watch, and sighs; Regards his boots with dumb regret, And lights another cigarette. Then glances through his morning's mail, And now, his daily labours done, Feels far too comatose and frail To give the dog a run; Besides, as he reflects with shame, He can't recall the creature's name! Safe in a front-row stall he sits, Where lyric comedy is played; And, after, to some local Ritz, Escorts a chorus-maid. The _jeunesse dorée_ of to-day Is called the _jeunesse stage-doorée_! How slow the weary days must seem (That to his fellows fly so fast), To one who in a waking-dream Awaits the next repast! How tiresome and how long they feel, Those hours dividing meal from meal! For, like Othello, he must find His "occupation gone," poor soul, Who can but wander in his mind When he requires a stroll; A mental sphere, one may surmise, Too cramped for healthy exercise. But since a poet has declared That "nothing walks with aimless feet," To ask why such a type is spared To grace the public street, Would be most curiously misplaced, And in the very worst of taste. [Illustration: _The Gilded Youth_] V THE GOURMAND (_A Ballad of Reading Grill_) He did not wear his swallow-tail, But a simple dinner-coat; For once his spirits seemed to fail, And his fund of anecdote. His brow was drawn and damp and pale, And a lump stood in his throat. I never saw a person stare, With looks so dour and blue, Upon the square of bill-of-fare We waiters call the "M'noo," And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there, From _entrée_ to _ragout_. With head bent low, and cheeks aglow, He viewed the groaning board, For he wondered if the _chef_ would show The treasures of his hoard, When a voice behind him whispered low, "Sherry or 'ock, my lord?" Gods! What a tumult rent the air, As, with a frightful oath, He seized the waiter by the hair And cursed him for his sloth; Then, grumbling like some stricken bear, Angrily answered "Both!" For each man drinks the thing he loves, As tonic, dram or drug; Some do it standing, in their gloves, Some seated, from a jug; The upper class from slim-stemmed glass, The masses from a mug. ....*....*....*....* The wine was slow to bring him woe, But when the meal was through, His wild remorse at ev'ry course Each moment wilder grew. For he who thinks to mix his drinks Must mix his symptoms too. Did he regret that tough _noisette_, And the tougher _tournedos_, The oysters dry, and the game so high, And the soufflé flat and low, Which the chef had planned with a heavy hand, And the waiters served so slow? Yet each approves the things he loves, From caviare to pork; Some guzzle cheese or new-grown peas, Like a cormorant or stork; The poor man's wife employs a knife, The rich man's mate a fork. Some gorge, forsooth, in early youth, Some wait till they are old; Some take their fare from earthenware, And some from polished gold. The gourmand gnaws in haste because The plates so soon grow cold. Some eat too swiftly, some too long, In restaurant or grill; Some, when their weak insides go wrong, Try a postprandial pill. For each man eats his fav'rite meats, Yet each man is not ill. He does not sicken in his bed, Through a night of wild unrest, With a snow-white bandage round his head, And a poultice on his breast, 'Neath the nightmare weight of the things he ate And omitted to digest. ....*....*....*....* We know not whether meals be short, Or whether meals be long; All that we know of this resort Proves that there's something wrong, That the soup is weak and tastes of port, And the fish is far too strong. The bread they bake is quite opaque, The butter full of hair; Defunct sardines and flaccid "greens" Are all they give us there. Such cooking has been known to make A common person swear. And when misguided people feed, At eve or afternoon, Their harassed ears are never freed From the fiddle and bassoon, Which sow dyspepsia's subtlest seed, With a most evil spoon. To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes, Is a pastime rare and grand; But to eat of fish or fowl or fruits To a Blue Hungarian Band Is a thing that suits nor men nor brutes, As the world should understand. Such music baffles human talk, And gags each genial guest; A grillroom orchestra can baulk All efforts to digest, Till the chops will not lie still, but walk All night upon one's chest. ....*....*....*....* Six times a table here he booked, Six times he sat and scann'd The list of dishes, badly cooked By the _chef's_ unskilful hand; And I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the band. He did not swear or tear his hair, But ordered wine galore, As though it were some vintage rare From an old Falernian store; With open mouth he slaked his drouth, And loudly called for more. He was the type that waiters know, Who simply lives to feed, Who little cares what food they show If it be food indeed, Who, when his appetite is low, Falls back upon his greed. For each man eats his fav'rite meats, (Provided by his wife); Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork, (For such, alas! is life!) The rich man eats them with a fork, The poor man with a knife. VI. THE DENTIST What a dangerous trade is the dentist's! With what perils he has to contend, As he plunges his paws In the gibbering jaws Of some trusting but terrified friend, With the risk that before he is ten minutes older His arms may be bitten off short at the shoulder! He is born in the West, is the dentist, And he speaks with a delicate twang, When polite as a prince, He requests you to "rinse," After gently removing a fang. ('Tis to save wear-and-tear to the mouth, one supposes, That dentists consistently talk through their noses.) He is painfully shy, is the dentist; For he lives such a hand-to-mouth life. When the sex known as "fair" Comes and sits in his chair, He will call for his sister or wife, For a lady-companion or female relation,-- So strong is the instinct of self-preservation! He's a talkative man, is the dentist; Though his patients are loth to reply. With his fist in your mouth He may say North is South, And you cannot well give him the lie; For it's hard to converse on such themes as the weather, With jawbone and tongue fastened firmly together! To a sensitive soul like the dentist You should always avoid talking "shop." If he drops in to tea, You must certainly see That your wife doesn't ask him to "stop!" He is _facile princeps_, perhaps, of his calling; But jokes about _princip'ly forceps_ ARE galling! There are people who say of the dentist That he isn't a gentleman quite. Half the gents that we see Are no gentler than he, And but few are so sweetly polite; For of all the strange trades to which men are apprentic'd; The gentlest, I'm certain, is that of the dentist! VII THE MAN WHO KNOWS How few of us contrive to shine In ordinary conversation As brightly as this human mine Of universal information, Or give mankind the benefit Of such encyclopædic wit. How few of us can lightly touch On any topic one may mention With so much _savoir-faire_, or such Exasperating condescension; Or take so lively a delight In setting other people right. Whatever you may do or dream, The Man Who Knows has dreamt or done it; If you propound some novel scheme, The Man Who Knows has long begun it; Should you evolve a repartee, "I made that yesterday," says he. With what a supercilious air He listens to your newest story, As tho' your latest legend were Some chestnut long of beard and hoary. "When I recount that yarn," he'll say, "I end it in a diff'rent way." With a superior smile he caps Your ev'ry statement with another, If you have lost your voice, perhaps, He knows a man who's lost his mother; If you've a cold, 'tis not so bad As one that once his uncle had. Should you describe some strange event That happened to a near relation,-- Some fatal motor accident, Some droll or ticklish situation,-- "In eighteen-eighty-eight," says he, "The very same occurred to me." Each man who dies to him supplies A peg on which to air his knowledge; "Poor So-and-So," he sadly sighs, "He shared a room with me at college. I knew his sister at Ostend. He was my father's dearest friend." If you relate some incident, A trifle scandalous or shady, An anecdote you've heard anent Some wealthy or distinguished lady, He stops you with a sudden sign:-- "She is a relative of mine!" When on some simple point of fact You fancy him impaled securely, He either smiles with silent tact, Or else he shakes his head obscurely, Suggesting that he might disclose Portentous secrets, if he chose. But if you dare to doubt his word, At once that puts him on his metal; "Your facts," says he, "are quite absurd! As for Mount Popocatepetl,-- Of course it's not in Mexico; I've been there, and I ought to know!" Or "George, how you exaggerate! It isn't half-past seven, nearly! I make it seven-twenty-eight; Your watch is out of order, clearly. Mine cannot possibly be slow; I set it half an hour ago." He knows a foreign health-resort Where tourists are quite inoffensive; He knows a brand of ancient port, Comparatively inexpensive; And he will tell you where to get The choicest Turkish cigarette. He knows hotels at which to dine And take the most fastidious guest to; He knows a mine in Argentine In which you safely can invest, too; He knows the shop where you can buy The most _recherché_ hat or tie. If you require a motor-car, He has a cousin who can tell you Of something second-hand but far Less costly than the trade would sell you; And if you want a chauffeur, too, He knows the very man for you. There's nothing that he doesn't know, Except--a rather grave omission-- How weary his relations grow Of such unceasing erudition,-- How fervently his fellows long That just for once he should be wrong. O Man Who Knows, we humbly ask That thou shouldst cease such grateful labours-- Suspend thy self-inflicted task Of lecturing thine erring neighbours; For in thy knowledge we detect No faintest sign of Intellect. VIII THE FADDIST Gentle Reader, is your bosom filled with loathing At the mention of the "Simple Life" brigade? Do you shudder at their Jaeger underclothing, Which is "fearfully and wonderfully made"? Though in manner they resemble "poor relations," Or umbrellas which their owners have forgot, They contribute to the gaiety of nations, Do they not? They are harmless little people, tame and quiet, Who will feed out of a fellow-creature's hand, If he happens to provide them with a diet Of a temperance and vegetable brand. They can easily subsist--a thing to brag of-- In the draughtiest of sanitary huts, On a "mute inglorious Stilson" and a bag of Monkey-nuts. Ev'ry faddist is, of course, an early riser; When he leaves his couch (at 6 a. m. perhaps) He will struggle with some patent "Exerciser," Until threatened with a physical collapse. He wears collars made of cellular materials, And sandals in the place of leather boots, And his victuals are composed of either cereals Or roots. [Illustration: _The Faddist_] He believes in drinking quantities of water, Undiluted by the essence of the grape; And he deprecates the universal slaughter Of dumb animals in any form or shape. So his breakfast-food (a patent, too, of course), is Made of oats which he monotonously chews, Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horses Would refuse. He discovers fatal microbes that are hiding In the liquids that his fellow creatures drink; Fell bacilli that are stealthily residing In our carpets, in our kisses, in our ink! In his eagerness such parasites to smother, He will keep himself so sterilised and aired, That one fancies he would disinfect his mother, If he dared. In a vegetarian restaurant you'll find him, Where he feeds, like any other anthropoid, Upon dishes which must certainly remind him Of the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed. As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonder If his humour is as meagre as his fare, And you look to see his tail depending under- -Neath his chair. To his friends he never wearies of explaining The exact amount of times they ought to chew, The advantages of "totally abstaining," And the joys of walking barefoot in the dew; How that slumber must be summoned circumspectly, In an attitude conducive to repose, And that breathing should be carried on correctly Through the nose. A pathetic little figure is my hero, With a sparse and wizened beard, and straggly hair, Upon which is perched a sort of a sombrero Such as operatic brigands love to wear. He may eat the nuts his prehistoric sires ate, He may flourish upon sawdust mixed with bran, But he looks more like a Nonconformist pirate Than a man! IX THE COLONEL Observe him, in the best armchair, At ev'ry "Service" Club reclining! How brightly through its close-cropped hair! His polished skull is shining! His form, inert and comatose, Suggests a stertorous repose. What strains are these that echo clear? What music on our ears is falling? Through his Æolian nose we hear The distant East a-calling. (A good example here is found Of slumber that is truly "sound.") He dreams of India's coral strand, Where, camping by the Jimjam River, He sacrificed his figure and The best part of his liver, And, in some fever-stricken hole, Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control. Blow lightly on his head, and note Its surface change from chrome to hectic; Examine that pneumatic throat, That visage apoplectic. His colour-scheme is of the type That plums affect when over-ripe. With rising gorge he stands erect, Awakened by your indiscretion, Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked-- (To coin a new expression); Where stud and collar form a juncture, You contemplate immediate puncture. His head, like some inverted cup, Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes; His eyebrows rise and beckon up His "porterhouse" moustaches;[A] And you acknowledge, as you flinch, That he's a Colonel--ev'ry inch! The voice that once in strident tones Across the barrack-square could carry, Reverberates and megaphones A rich vocabulary. (His "rude forefathers," you'll agree, Were never half so rude as he.) As blatantly he catalogues The grievances from which he suffers:-- "The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!" "The men, sir, all damduffers!" In so invet'rate a complainer You recognise the "old champaigner." His raven locks (just two or three) Recall their retrospective splendour; One of the brave Old Guard is he, That dyes but won't surrender; With fits of petulance afflicted, When questioned, crossed, or contradicted. But as, alas! from poor-man's gout, Combined with chronic indigestion, The breed is quickly dying out-- (The fact admits no question)-- I'll give you, if advice you're taking, A _recipe_ for Colonel-making. _Select some subaltern whose tone Is bluff and anything but "soul-y;" Transplant him to a torrid zone; There leave him stewing slowly; Remove his liver and his hair, Then serve up hot in an armchair._ [Footnote A: Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.] X THE WAITER "He also serves who only stands and waits!" My hero does all three, and even more. Bearing a dozen food-congested plates, With silent tread (altho' his feet are sore), He swiftly skates across the parquet floor. None can afford completely to ignore him, Because, of course, he "carries all before him!" Endowed with some of Cinquevalli's charm, He poises plate on plate, and never swerves; Two in each hand, three more up either arm,-- A feat of balancing which tries the nerves Of the least timid customer he serves. So firm his carriage, and his gait so stable, He is the Blondin of the dinner-table. Rising abruptly at the break of day (A custom more might copy, I confess), The waiter hastens, with the least delay, To don that unbecoming evening-dress Which etiquette compels him to possess. ('Tis too the conjurer's accustomed habit, Whence he evolves a goldfish or a rabbit.) Each calling its especial trademark bears. The anarchist parades a red cravat; The eminent physician always wears A stethoscope concealed within his hat; A diamond stud proclaims the plutocrat; The rural dean displays a sable gaiter, And evening dress distinguishes the waiter. Time was when he was elderly and staid, With long sidewhiskers and an old-world air. How gently, with what rev'rent hands, he laid A bottle of some vintage rich and rare Within a pail of ice beneath your chair, Like some proud steward in a hall baronial Performing an important ceremonial. How cultured his well-modulated voice, His manner how _distingué_ and discreet, As he directed your capricious choice To what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat, Or warmly recommended the Lafitte. A perfect pattern of the _genus homo_, More like a bishop than a major-domo. He kept as grave as the proverbial tomb When in some haven "hush'd and safe apart," You sought the shelter of a private room, To entertain the lady of your heart At a delightful dinner _à la carte_. (The consequences would, he knew, be shocking Were he perchance to enter without knocking.) Now he is haggard, pale and highly-strung, The alien product of some Southern sun. Who speaks an unintelligible tongue And serves impatient patrons at a run, Snatching away their plates before they've done. Brisk as a bee, and restless as the Ocean, He solves the problem of perpetual motion. You would not look to him for good advice; To him your choice you never would resign. He gauges from the point of view of price The rival worth of each respective wine; His tastes, indeed, are frankly Philistine, And, with a mien indifferent or placid, He serves your claret cold and corked and acid. His is a tragic fate, a dreary lot. Think sometimes of his troubles, I entreat, Who in a crowded restaurant and hot Walks to and fro on tired and tender feet, Watching his hungry fellow-creatures eat! What form of earthly hardship could be greater Than that which daily overwhelms the waiter? XI THE POLICEMAN My hero may be daily seen In ev'ry crowded London street; Longsuff'ring, stoical, serene, With huge pontoonlike feet, His boots so stout, so squat, so square, A motor-car might shelter there. The traffic's cataract he dams, With hands that half obscure the sun, Like monstrous, vast Virginian hams. A trifle underdone; The while the matron and the maid Pass safely by beneath their shade. His courtesy is quite unique, His tact and patience have no end; He helps the helpless and the weak, He is the children's friend; And nobody can feel alarm Who clings to his paternal arm. When foreign tourists go astray In any tangled thoroughfare, Or spinster ladies lose their way,-- The constable is there. With smile avuncular and bland, He leads them gently by the hand. He stalks on duty through the night, A bull's-eye lantern at his belt; His muffled steps are noiseless quite, His soles unheard--tho' _felt_! And burglars, when a crib they crack, Are forced to do so from the back. In far New York the "man in blue" Is Irish by direct descent. His bludgeon is intended to Inflict a nasty dent; And if you ask him for advice, He knocks you senseless in a trice. In Paris he is fierce and small, But tho' he twirls his waxed moustache, The natives heed him not at all. No more does the _apache_. And cabmen, when he lifts his palm, Drive over him without a qualm. The German minion of the law Is stern, inflexible, austere. His presence fills his friends with awe, The foreigner with fear. Your doom is sealed if he should pass And find you walking on the grass! But no policeman can compare With London's own partic'lar pet; A martyr he who stands foursquare To ev'ry Suffragette, And when that lady kicks his shins Or bites his ankles, merely grins. He may not be as bright, forsooth, As Dr. Watson's famous foil,-- Sherlock, that keen unerring sleuth Immortalised by Doyle, And Patti who, where'er she roams, Asserts "There's no Police like Holmes!" But though his movements, staid and slow, Provide the vulgar with a jest, How true the heart that beats below That whistle at his breast! How perfect an example he Of what a constable should be! XII THE MUSIC-HALL COMEDIAN When the day of toil is ended, When our labours are suspended, And we hunger for agreeable society, The relentless voice of Pleasure Bids us spend an hour of leisure In a Music-Hall or Palace of Variety, Where to furnish relaxation Ev'ry effort is directed, Tho' the claims of ventilation Have been carefully neglected. There's an atmosphere oppressive (For the smoking is excessive) In this Temple of conventional hilarity, But the place is scarcely warmer Than the average performer With his stock-in-trade of commonplace vulgarity. There is nothing wise or witty In the energy he squanders On some quite unworthy ditty Full of dubious "_dooblontonders_." [Illustration: The Music-Hall Comedian] For the singer labelled "comic" Is by nature economic- -Al of humour, and avoids originality; Like a drowning man he seizes Upon prehistoric wheezes, Which he honours with a loyal partiality, In accordance with the ruling Of a senseless superstition Which demands a form of fooling That is hallowed by tradition. Dressed in feminine apparel, With a figure like a barrel, And a smile of transcendental imbecility, All the humours he discloses Of such things as purple noses Or of matrimonial incompatibility; While the band (who would remind him That it never would forsake him) Keeps a bar or two behind him, But can never overtake him. Then he gives an imitation Of that mild intoxication Which is chronic in some sections of society, And we learn from his explaining How extremely entertaining And amusing is persistent insobriety; And we realise how funny Are the wives who nag and bicker, While the husbands spend their money Upon alcoholic liquor. He discusses, slyly winking, The delights of overdrinking, And describes his nightly orgies, which are numerous; How he comes home "full of damp," too, How he overturns the lamp, too, And does other things if possible more humorous. And we listen _con amore_, While our merriment redoubles, To the truly tragic story Of his dull domestic troubles. Next he tells us how "the lodger," A cantankerous old codger, Asks another person's spouse to come and call for him; How he tumbles from a casement In an attic to the basement, Where the lady very kindly breaks his fall for him; And our peals of happy laughter, As he lands on her umbrella, Grow ungovernable after She has fractured her patella. 'Tis a more polite performance Than "The Macs" and "The O'Gormans," Who are artistes of the "knockabout" variety, Or those ladies in chemises Who undress upon trapezes With an almost imperceptible propriety; 'Tis as worthy of encoring As the "Farmyard Imitator," And a little bit less boring Than the "Lightning Calculator." It does not evoke our strictures, Like those dreadful "Living Pictures" Which the prurient wrote columns to the press about; 'Tis no clever exhibition Like that tedious "Thought Transmission" Which we all of us disputed more or less about. But the balderdash and babble Of our too facetious hero, Tho' attractive to the rabble, Send our spirits down to zero. For we weary of his patter, Growing every moment flatter, On such subjects as connubial infelicity, And we find ourselves protesting Against everlasting jesting On the tragedies of conjugal duplicity. And we feel desirous very Of imposing _some_ restrictions On the humour that makes merry Over personal afflictions. Our disgust we cannot bridle When we see some public idol, Who is earning a colossal weekly salary, Having long ignobly pandered To the questionable standard Of intelligence that blooms in pit and gallery. We are easily contented, And our feelings we could stifle, If the comic man consented Just to raise his tone a trifle. If he shunned such risky questions As red noses, weak digestions, Drunkards, lodgers, twins and physical deformities; Ceased from casting imputations On his wretched "wife's relations," Or from mentioning his "ma-in-law's" enormities; If he didn't sing so badly, And if _only_ he were funny, We would tolerate him gladly, And get value for our money! XIII THE CONVERSATIONAL REFORMER When Theo: Roos: unfurled his bann: As Pres: of an immense Repub: And sought to manufact: a plan For saving people troub:. His mode of spelling (termed phonet:) Affec: my brain like an emet:. And I evolved a scheme (_pro tem_) To simplify my mother-tongue, That so in fame I might resem: Upt: Sinc:, who wrote "The Jung:," And rouse an interest enorm: In conversational reform. I grudge the time my fellows waste Completing words that are so comm: Wherever peop: of cult: and taste Habitually predom:. 'T would surely tend to simpli: life Could they but be curtailed a trif:. For is not "Brev: the Soul of Wit"? (Inscribe this mott: upon your badge). The sense will never suff: a bit, If left to the imag:, Since any pers: can see what's meant By words so simp: as "husb:" or "gent:." When at some meal (at dinn: for inst:) You hand your unc: an empty plate, Or ask your aunt (that charming spinst:) To pass you the potat:, They have too much sagac:, I trust, To give you sug: or pep: or must:. If you require a slice of mutt:, You'll find the salfsame princ: hold good, Nor get, instead of bread and butt:, Some tapioca pudd:, Nor vainly bid some boon-compan: Replen: with Burg: his vacant can. At golf, if your oppon: should ask Why in a haz: your nib: is sunk. And you explain your fav'rite Hask: Lies buried in a bunk:, He cannot very well misund: That you (poor fooz:) have made a blund:. If this is prob:--nay, even cert:-- My scheme at once becomes attrac: And I (pray pard: a litt: impert:) A public benefac: Who saves his fellow-man and neighb: A large amount of needless lab:. Gent: Reader, if to me you'll list: And not be irritab: or peev:, You'll find it of tremend: assist: This habit of abbrev:, Which grows like some infec. disease, Like chron: paral: or German meas:. And ev'ry living human bipe: Will feel his heart grow grate: and warm As he becomes the loy: discip: Of my partic: reform, (Which don't confuse with that, I beg, Of Brander Math: or And: Carneg:). "'Tis not in mort: to comm: success," As Add. remarked; but if my meth: Does something to dimin: or less: The waste of public breath, My country, overcome with grat: Should in my hon: erect a stat:. My bust by Rod: (what matt: the cost?) Shall be exhib:, devoid of charge, With (in the Public Lib: at Bost:) My full-length port: by Sarge:, That thous: from Pitts: or Wash: may swarm To worsh: the Found: of this Reform. ....*....*....*....* Meanwhile I seek with some avid: The fav: of your polite consid:. XIV KING LEOPOLD ("_In dealing with a race that has been composed of cannibals for thousands of years, it is necessary to use methods that best can shake their idleness and make them realise the sanctity of labour._"--King Leopold of Belgium on the Congo scandal.) People call him "knave" and "ogre" and a lot of kindred names, Or they label him as "tyrant" and "oppressor"; The majority must wilfully misunderstand his aims To regard him in the light of a transgressor. For, to tell the honest truth, he's a benevolent old man Who attempts to do his "duty to his neighbour" By endeavouring to formulate a philanthropic plan Which shall demonstrate the "sanctity of labour." There were natives on the Congo not a score of years ago, Whose existence was a constant round of pleasure; Whose imperfect education had not ever let them know The pernicious immorality of leisure. They were merry little people, in their simple savage way, Not a thought to moral obligations giving; Quite unconscious of their duties, wholly ignorant were they Of the blessedness of working for a living. But a fond paternal Government (in Belgium, need I add?) Heard their story, and, with admirable kindness, Deemed it utterly improper, not to say a trifle sad, That the heathen should continue in his blindness. "Let us civilise the children of this most productive soil," Said their agents, who proceeded to invade them; "Let us show these foolish savages the dignity of toil-- If we have to use a hatchet to persuade them!" So they taught these happy niggers how unwise it was to shirk; They implored them not to idle or malinger; And they showed them there was nothing that encouraged honest work Like the loss of sev'ral toes or half a finger. When they fancied that their womenfolk were lonely or depress'd, They would chain them nice and close to one another, And they thoughtfully abducted ev'ry baby at the breast, To facilitate the labours of its mother. [Illustration: King Leopold] So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wife And dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover; If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him with a knife, And then leave him by the roadside to recover. If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a hand, Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber, Till with infinite solicitude they made him understand The necessity of cultivating "rubber." Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress forsooth, While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary,-- And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truth Of that motto "Laborare est orare." Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tenderhearted days, (When the little children scream as they abduct them), If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to erase The effect of such endeavours to instruct them Tho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurk That these practices offend the sister-nations, That one cannot safely advocate "the sanctity of work," By a policy of theft and mutilations,-- Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled, Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny, I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the world _Some_ ideas upon the "sanctity of money!" And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once again That the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain! XV "BART'S" CLUB ("_In my view, the most absolutely perfect club of all would be a club where absolutely every man could get in, it mattered not what he had done in the past._"--Bart Kennedy.) It fills, indeed, a long felt need, This institution, just arisen; We notice here that atmosphere Of restaurant and prison, Of green-room, gambling-hell, saloon, Which makes it an especial boon. That member there with close-cropped hair, Who noisily inhales his luncheon, His flattened nose has felt the blows Of many a p'liceman's truncheon; The premier cracksman of the City, Is Chairman of our House Committee! That bull-necked youth, with fractured tooth, Discussing Plato with his neighbour, Returned to-day from Holloway, And eighteen months' "hard labour"; He's _such_ a gentleman, I think, --Or would be, if he didn't drink. We've thieves and crooks upon our books, And all the nimble-fingered gentry; The buccaneer is harboured here, The "shark" has instant entry. Blackmail is practised, too, by all, Who never heard of a black-ball! We gladly take the titled rake, The bankrupt and the unfrocked parson, All those whose vice is loading dice, Or bigamy, or arson. Most of our pilgrims have pursued The path of penal servitude. We've anarchists upon our lists, While regicides infest the smoke-room; (The _faux-bonhomme_ who brings a bomb Must leave it in the cloak-room). Ink for the forger we provide, And strychnine for the suicide. Each member's name is known to fame, As "green-goods man" or quack-physician; We welcome here the pseudo-peer, Or bogus politician. Within the shelter of our fold King Peter greets King Leopold. Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard; And no precautions are neglected. Come, then, with me, and you shall be Immediately elected, To what with confidence I dub An "absolutely perfect" club! XVI THE REVIEWER Pray observe the stern Reviewer! See with what a piercing look He impales, as with a skewer, This unlucky little book! Note his gestures of impatience, As he contemplates, perplex'd, The amazing illustrations Which adorn the text! Hear him mutter, as his swivel- Eye converges on the verse, "Any man who writes such drivel Must be capable of worse. Let it be my painful mission, As a literary man, To suppress the whole edition, If a critic can. [Illustration: The Reviewer] "More than tedious ev'ry pome is; Ev'ry drawing less than true; Such a trite and trivial tome is Quite unworthy of review. On this balderdash no vocal Praises can my tongue bestow; To the dust-bin of some local Pulp-mill let it go! "There its paper, disinfected By some cunning artifice, Shall be presently directed To diviner ends than this. There its pages, expurgated By some alchemy abstruse, Shall at length be dedicated To a nobler use!" Grim, implacable Reviewer, Do not spurn it with a groan, Tho' your labours may be fewer If you leave my books alone! 'Tis the chief of all your duties-- Duties which you strive to shirk-- To discover hidden beauties In an author's work. Jewels, though perchance elusive, Crowd this casket of a book; 'Tis your privilege exclusive For these hidden gems to look. When you have adroitly caught them, Their delights you can explain To a public which has sought them For so long in vain. Tho' you whelm me with your strictures, Snubs which one might justly call (Like the artist's cruel pictures) The "unkindest _cuts_ of Hall"! Tho' your sneers be fierce and many, Honest censure I respect, And will meekly swallow any- Thing except neglect. Tho' your mouth be far from mealy, Tho' your pen be dipped in gall, Criticise me frankly, freely,-- Better thus than not at all! Up the ladder I have crept un- Til I reached a middle rung, Do not let me die "unwept, un- Honoured and unhung." L'ENVOI Go, little book, and coyly creep Beneath the pillows of the blest, Whence those who seek in vain for sleep Shall drag thee from thy nest; That so thy sedative aroma May lull them to a state of coma. The infant child who lies awake, Within its tiny trundle-bed, No soothing potion needs to take, If thou art duly read; And hosts of harassed monthly nurses Shall bless thy soporific verses. The invalid who cannot rest Has but at thy contents to glance To hug thee to his fevered breast And fall into a trance; And sleepless patients without number Shall hail thee harbinger of slumber. Go then, fond offspring of the Muse, Perform thy deadly work by night, Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse, Thou orphan-child's delight! Appease the heirs from all the ages With balm from thine hypnotic pages! So in the palace of the king, The mansion of the millionaire, Thy readers shall combine to sing Thy praises ev'rywhere, Till folks in less exalted places Scream loudly for _Familiar Faces_! (When, if their cries are shrill and healthy, _I_ shall become extremely wealthy!) 
35051	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) [Illustration: "_I was unlucky with my wives, So are the most of married men; Undoubtedly they lost their lives,--_"] RUTHLESS RHYMES _for_ Heartless Homes By Col. D. STREAMER [Illustration] New York R. H. RUSSELL 1902 _Copyright, 1901, by Robert Howard Russell_ _Second impression, December, 1902_ Dedicated to P. P. ("_Qui connait son sourire a connu le parfait._") I NEED no Comments of the Press, No critic's cursory caress, No paragraphs my book to bless With praise, or ban with curses, So long as You, for whom I write, Whose single notice I invite, Are still sufficiently polite To smile upon my verses. If You should seek for Ruthless Rhymes (In memory of Western climes), And, for the sake of olden times, Obtain this new edition, You must not be surprised a bit, Nor even deem the act unfit, That I have dedicated it To You, without permission. P. T. O.[1] And if You chance to ask me why, It is sufficient, I reply, That You are You, and I am I,-- To put the matter briefly. That I should dedicate to You Can only interest us two; The fact remains, then, that I do, Because I want to--chiefly. And if these verses can beguile From those grey eyes of yours a smile, You will have made it well worth while To seek your approbation; No further meed Of praise they need, But must succeed, And do indeed, If they but lead You on to read Beyond the Dedication. 1901. H. G. Author's Preface WITH guilty, conscience-stricken tears I offer up these rhymes of mine To children of maturer years (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine). A special solace may they be In days of second infancy. The frenzied mother who observes This volume in her offspring's hand, And trembles for the darling's nerves, Must please to clearly understand, If baby suffers by-and-bye The Artist is to blame, not _I_! But should the little brat survive, And fatten on the Ruthless Rhyme, To raise a Heartless Home and thrive Through a successful life of crime, The Artist hopes that you will see That _I_ am to be thanked, not _he_! P. T. O.[1] Fond parent, you whose children are Of tender age (from two to eight), Pray keep this little volume far From reach of such, and relegate My verses to an upper shelf,-- Where you may study them yourself. [Illustration] FOOTNOTE: [1] Transcriber's Note: P.T.O. means Please Turn Over. This is retained in the text although the instruction is obviously not necessary. [Illustration: "_He had _such_ good cigars._"] Uncle Joe AN Angel bore dear Uncle Joe To rest beyond the stars. I miss him, oh! I miss him so,-- He had _such_ good cigars. [Illustration] Impetuous Samuel SAM had spirits naught could check, And to-day, at breakfast, he Broke his baby sister's neck, So he shan't have jam for tea! [Illustration] Inconsiderate Hannah NAUGHTY little Hannah said She could make her grandma whistle, So, that night, inside her bed Placed some nettles and a thistle. Though dear grandma quite infirm is, Heartless Hannah watched her settle, With her poor old epidermis Resting up against a nettle. Suddenly she reached the thistle! My! you should have heard her whistle! * * * * * A successful plan was Hannah's, But I cannot praise her manners. Aunt Eliza IN the drinking-well (Which the plumber built her) Aunt Eliza fell,-- We must buy a filter. [Illustration] Self-Sacrifice FATHER, chancing to chastise His indignant daughter Sue, Said, "I hope you realize That this hurts me more than you." Susan straightway ceased to roar. "If that's really true," said she, "I can stand a good deal more; Pray go on, and don't mind me." [Illustration] La Course Interrompue I. JEAN qui allait a Dijon (Il montait en bicyclette) Rencontra un gros lion Qui se faisait la toilette. II. Voila Jean qui tombe a terre Et le lion le digère! * * * * * Mon Dieu! Que c'est embêtant! Il me devait quatre francs. [Illustration] [Illustration: "_John had on some clothes of mine; I can almost see them shrinking Washed repeatedly in brine._"] John JOHN, across the broad Atlantic, Tried to navigate a barque, But he met an unromantic And extremely hungry shark. John (I blame his childhood's teachers) Thought to treat this as a lark, Ignorant of how these creatures Do delight to bite a barque. Said "This animal's a bore!" and, With a scornful sort of grin, Handled an adjacent oar and Chucked it underneath the chin. At this unexpected juncture Which he had not reckoned on, Mr. Shark he made a puncture In the barque--and then in John. Sad am I, and sore at thinking John had on some clothes of mine; I can almost see them shrinking, Washed repeatedly in brine. I shall never cease regretting That I lent my hat to him, For I fear a thorough wetting Cannot well improve the brim. Oh! to know a shark is browsing, Boldly, blandly on my boots! Coldly, cruelly carousing On the choicest of my suits! Creatures I regard with loathing Who can calmly take their fill Of one's Jæger underclothing:-- Down, my aching heart, be still! The Fond Father OF Baby I was very fond, She'd won her father's heart; So, when she fell into the pond, It gave me quite a start. [Illustration] Necessity LATE last night I slew my wife, Stretched her on the parquet flooring; I was loath to take her life, But I _had_ to stop her snoring. [Illustration] Unselfishness ALL those who see my children say, "What sweet, what kind, what charming elves!" They are so thoughtful, too, for they Are _always_ thinking of themselves. It must be ages since I ceased To wonder which I liked the least. Such is their generosity, That, when the roof began to fall, They would not share the risk with me, But said, "No, father, take it all!" Yet I should love them more, I know, If I did not dislike them so. [Illustration] Scorching John JOHN, who rode his Dunlop tire O'er the head of sweet Maria, When she writhed in frightful pain, Had to blow it out again. [Illustration] Misfortunes Never Come Singly MAKING toast at the fireside, Nurse fell in the grate and died; And, what makes it ten times worse, All the toast was burned _with_ nurse. [Illustration] The Perils of Obesity YESTERDAY my gun exploded When I thought it wasn't loaded; Near my wife I pressed the trigger, Chipped a fragment off her figure; 'Course I'm sorry, and all that, But she shouldn't be so fat. [Illustration] [Illustration: "_Now, although the room grows chilly, I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy._"] Tender-Heartedness BILLY, in one of his nice new sashes, Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes; Now, although the room grows chilly, I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy. [Illustration] Jim; or, the Deferred Luncheon Party WHEN the line he tried to cross, The express ran into Jim; Bitterly I mourn his loss-- I was to have lunched with him. [Illustration] Appreciation AUNTIE, did you feel no pain Falling from that apple tree? Will you do it, please, again? 'Cos my friend here didn't see. [Illustration] Baby BABY in the caldron fell,-- See the grief on Mother's brow; Mother loved her darling well,-- Darling's quite hard-boiled by now. [Illustration] [Illustration: "_Darling's quite hard-boiled by now._"] Nurse's Mistake NURSE, who peppered baby's face (She mistook it for a muffin), Held her tongue and kept her place, "Laying low and sayin' nuffin'"; Mother, seeing baby blinded, Said, "Oh, nurse, how absent-minded!" [Illustration] The Stern Parent FATHER heard his Children scream, So he threw them in the stream, Saying, as he drowned the third, "Children should be seen, _not_ heard!" [Illustration] "Bluebeard" YES, I am Bluebeard, and my name Is one that children cannot stand; Yet once I used to be so tame I'd eat out of a person's hand; So gentle was I wont to be A Curate might have played with me. People accord me little praise, Yet I am not the least alarming; I can recall, in bygone days, A maid once said she thought me charming. She was my friend,--no more I vow,-- And--she's in an asylum now. Girls used to clamour for my hand, Girls I refused in simple dozens; I said I'd be their brother, and They promised they would be my cousins. (One, I accepted,--more or less-- But I've forgotten her address.) They worried me like anything By their proposals ev'ry day, Until at last I had to ring The bell, and have them cleared away; (I often pondered on the cost Of getting them completely lost.) To share my somewhat lofty rank Was what they panted for, like mad; You see my balance at the bank Was not so small, and, I may add, A Castle, Gothic and immense, Is my Official Residence. It overlooks a many a mile Of park, of gardens and domains; I'm staying now in lodgings, while They're doing up the--well--the drains,-- For they began to give offence At my Official Residence. And, when I entertain at home, I hardly ever fail to please, The "upper tens" alone may come To join in my "recherché" teas; I am a King in ev'ry sense At my Official Residence. My dances, on a parquet floor, My royal dinners, which consist Of fifteen courses, sometimes more, Are things that are not lightly missed; In fact I do not spare expense At my Official Residence. My hospitality to those Whom I invite to come and stay Is famed; my wine like water flows, Exactly like, some people say, But this is mere impertinence At my Official Residence. When through the streets I walk about My subjects stand and kiss their hands, Raise a refined metallic shout, Wave flags and warble tunes on bands, While bunting hangs on ev'ry front,-- With my commands to let it bunt. When I come home again, of course, Retainers are employed to cheer, My paid domestics get quite hoarse Acclaiming me, and you can hear The welkin ringing to the sky,-- Aye, aye, and let it welk, say I! And yet, in spite of this, there are Some persons who, at diff'rent times, --(Because I am so popular)-- Accuse me of most awful crimes; A girl once said I was a flirt! Oh my! how the expression hurt! I _never_ flirted in the least, Never for very long, I mean,-- Ask any lady (now deceased) Who partner of my life has been;-- Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps, I meet a girl, like other chaps. And, if I like her very much, And if she cares for me a bit, Where is the harm of look or touch If neither of us mentions it? It isn't right, I don't suppose, But no one's hurt if no one knows! And, if I placed my hand below Her chin and raised her face an inch, And then proceeded--well, you know,-- (Excuse the vulgarism)--to clinch; It would be wrong without a doubt, That is, if anyone found out. But then, remember, Life is short And Woman's Arts are very long, And sometimes when one didn't ought One knowingly commits a wrong; Well--speaking for myself, of course, I almost always feel remorse. One should not break one's self _too_ fast Of little habits of this sort, Which may be definitely classed With gambling or a taste for port; They should be _slowly_ dropped, until The Heart is subject to the Will. I knew a man on Seventh Street Who, at a very slight expense, By persevering, was complete- Ly cured of total abstinence; An altered life he has begun And takes a horn with anyone. I knew another man whose wife Was an invet'rate suicide, She daily strove to take her life And (naturally) nearly died; But some such system she essayed, And now she's eighty in the shade. Ah, the new leaves I try to turn, But, like so many men in town, I seem, as with regret I learn, Merely to turn the corner down; A habit which I fear, alack! Makes it more easy to turn back. I have been criticised a lot; I venture to enquire what for; Because, forsooth, I have not got The instincts of a bachelor! Just hear my story, you will find How grossly I have been maligned. I was unlucky with my wives, So are the most of married men; Undoubtedly they lost their lives,-- Of course, but even so, what then? I loved them dearly, understand, And I _can_ love, to beat the band. My first was little Emmeline, More beautiful than day was she; Her proud, aristocratic mien Was what at once attracted me. I naturally did not know That I should soon dislike her so. But there it was! And you'll infer I had not very long to wait Before my red-hot love for her Turned to unutterable hate. So, when this state of things I found, I naturally had her drowned. My next was Sarah, sweet but shy, And quite inordinately meek; Yes, even now I wonder why I had her hanged within the week. Perhaps I felt a bit upset, Or else she bored me, I forget. Then came Evangeline, my third, And, when I chanced to be away, She, so I subsequently heard, Was wont (I deeply grieve to say) With my small retinue to flirt. I strangled her. I hope it hurt. Isabel was, I think, my next,-- (That is, if I remember right)-- And I was really very vexed To find her hair come off at night; To falsehood I could not connive, And so I had her boiled alive. Then came Sophia, I believe, Her coiffure was at least her own, Alas! she fancied to deceive Her friends by altering its tone. She dyed her locks a flaming red! I suffocated her in bed. Susannah Maud was number six; But she did not survive a day; Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricks And hardly anything to say. A little strychnine in her tea Finished her off, and I was free. Yet I did not despair, and soon! In spite of failures, started off Upon my seventh honeymoon With Jane; but could not stand her cough. 'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain. I pushed her underneath the train. Well, after her, I married Kate. A most unpleasant woman. Oh! I caught her at the garden gate Kissing a man I didn't know; And, as that didn't suit me quite, I blew her up with dynamite. Most married men, so sorely tried As this, would have been rather bored. Not I, but chose another bride And married Ruth. Alas! she snored! I served her just the same as Kate, And so she joined the other eight. My last was Grace; I am not clear, I _think_ she didn't like me much; She used to scream when I came near, And shuddered at my lightest touch. She seemed to wish to keep aloof, And so I threw her off the roof. This is the point I wish to make:-- From all the wives for whom I grieve, Whose lives I had perforce to take, Not one complaint did I receive; And no expense was spared to please My spouses at their obsequies. My habits, I would have you know, Are perfect, as they've always been; You ask if I am good, and go To church, and keep my fingers clean? I do, I mean to say I am, I have the morals of a lamb. In my domains there is no sin, Virtue is rampant all the time, Since I so thoughtfully brought in A bill which legalizes crime; Committing things that are not wrong Must pall before so very long. And if what you imagine vice Is not considered so at all, Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice, There's no temptation then to fall; For half the charm of things we do Is knowing that we oughtn't to. Believe me, then, I am not bad, Though in my youth I had to trek Because I happened to have had Some difficulties with a cheque. What forgery in some might be Is absentmindedness in me! I know that I was much abused, No doubt when I was young and rash, But I should not have been accused Of misappropriating cash. I may have sneaked a silver dish;-- Well, you may search me if you wish! So, now you see me, more or less, As I would figure in your thoughts; A trifle given to excess And prone perhaps to vice of sorts; When tempted, rather apt to fall, But still--a good chap after all! [Illustration] The Cat (_Advice to the Young_) My children, you should imitate The harmless, necessary cat, Who eats whatever's on his plate, And doesn't even leave the fat; Who never stays in bed too late, Or does immoral things like that; Instead of saying "Shan't!" or "Bosh!" He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash! When shadows fall and lights grow dim He sits beneath the kitchen stair; Regardless as to life and limb, A simple couch he chooses there; And if you tumble over him, He simply loves to hear you swear. And, while bad language _you_ prefer, He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr! [Illustration: _The Cat._] The Children's "Don't" _DON'T_ tell Papa his nose is red As any rosebud or geranium, Forbear to eye his hairless head Or criticise his cootlike cranium; 'Tis years of sorrow and of care Have made his head come through his hair. _Don't_ give your endless guinea-pig (Wherein that animal may build a Sufficient nest) the Sunday wig Of poor, dear, dull, deaf Aunt Matilda. Oh, _don't_ tie strings across her path, Or empty beetles in her bath! _Don't_ ask your uncle why he's fat; Avoid upon his toe-joints treading; _Don't_ hide a hedgehog in his hat, Or bury bushes in his bedding. He will not see the slightest sport In pepper put into his port! _Don't_ pull away the cherished chair On which Mamma intended sitting, Nor yet prepare her session there By setting on the seat her knitting; Pause ere you hurt her spine, I pray-- That is a game that _two_ can play. My children, never, never steal! To know their offspring is a thief Will often make a father feel Annoyed and cause a mother grief; So never steal, but, when you do, Be sure there's no one watching you. [Illustration: "Don't _hide a hedgehog in his hat._"] Perhaps you have a turn for what Is known as "misappropriation," Attractions this has doubtless got For persons of a certain station, But prevalent 'twill never be Among the aristocracy. Of course, suppose you want a thing (The owner's absent), and you borrow A ruby ring; you mean to bring Your friend his trinket back to-morrow Meanwhile you have the stones reset, Lest he forget! Lest he forget! And if some rude detective's hand Should find beneath your cloak a roll Of muslin, or a cruet-stand That's labelled "Hotel Metropole," With kindly smile you hand them back, A harmless Kleptomaniac! * * * * * Don't tell a lie! Some men I've known Commit the most appalling acts, Because they happen to be prone To an economy of facts; And if _to lie_ is bad, no doubt 'Tis even worse _to get found out_! * * * * * Don't take the life of any one, However horrid he may be; That sort of thing is never done, Not in the best society, Where even parricide is thought A most unfilial kind of sport. Among the "Upper Ten" to-day, It is considered want of tact To slay one's kith and kin, and may Be classed as an "unfriendly act." Oh, yes, of course I know that this Is merely public prejudice. [Illustration: "_Or empty beetles in her bath!_"] But ever since the world began, Howe'er well meant his motives are, The man who slays his fellow man Is never really popular, Whether he sins from love of crime, Or merely just to pass the time. [Illustration] Envoi SPEED, Ruthless Rhymes; throughout the land Disperse yourselves with patient zeal! Go, perch upon the Critic's hand, Just after he has had a meal. But should he still unkindly be, Unperch and hasten back to me. And, wheresoever you may roam, Remember the secluded shelf (Where, sitting in his Heartless Home, The author chortles to himself), There, in the distant by-and-bye, You still may flutter back--to die. [Illustration] 
36543	----	THE MOTLEY MUSE BY THE SAME AUTHOR RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES BALLADS OF THE BOER WAR MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN FISCAL BALLADS VERSE AND WORSE MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN DEPORTMENTAL DITTIES CANNED CLASSICS * * * * * THE BOLSTER BOOK LORD BELLINGER THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN * * * * * A GROUP OF SCOTTISH WOMEN THE MOTHER OF PARLIAMENTS SPLENDID FAILURES [Illustration] THE MOTLEY MUSE (RHYMES FOR THE TIMES) BY HARRY GRAHAM AUTHOR OF 'RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES' ETC. ETC. With Illustrations by LEWIS BAUMER _Second Impression_ NEW YORK LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD 1913 [_All rights reserved_] TO N. B. WHO DESIGNED THE COVER OF THIS BOOK ITS CONTENTS ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED NOTE _Many of the verses published in this volume have appeared in the pages of 'The Observer,' 'The Pall Mall Gazette,' and 'The Graphic,' and are here reprinted by kind permission._ CONTENTS PAGE FOREWORD--THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN! xi RHYMES FOR THE TIMES 'WHAT'S IN A NAME?' 1 NOBODY'S DARLING! 3 ROSES ALL THE WAY 6 THE TRIUMPH OF JAM 8 EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE 10 SARAH OWEN 12 THE LAST HORSED 'BUS 15 STAGE SUPPORT 17 SCRIBBLERS ALL! 20 THE LYONS CUBS 22 'THE CRIES OF LONDON' 25 THE MODEL FARM 27 THE ADVENTURER 29 A PLEA FOR PONTO 31 THE 'WASTER' 33 THE CHOICE 36 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL 38 THE SPORTING SPIRIT 40 PERSPECTIVE 43 'RAG-TIME' 45 'THE PIPES' 47 MODERN DANCING 49 THE PUBLIC INTEREST 52 THE MILITANTS 54 PLAGUES AT THE PLAY 57 A SUGGESTION 59 THE MODEL MOTORIST 61 THE PARISH PUMP 64 POLICE COURT SENSE 66 CLUB CANTOS CANTO I. THE ATHENÆUM 69 CANTO II. WHITE'S 72 CANTO III. THE BACHELORS' 74 CANTO IV. THE GARRICK 76 CANTO V. THE AUTOMOBILE 79 CANTO VI. BROOKS'S 81 CANTO VII. 'THE BEEFSTEAK' 84 CANTO VIII. THE TRAVELLERS' 87 CANTO IX. 'THE BATH' 90 SONGS IN SEASON NEW YEAR'S EVE 93 FEBRUARY 95 SPRING 97 SPRING-CLEANING 100 'ROYAL ASCOT' 102 'ROSES' 105 THE END OF THE SEASON 107 THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH 109 'THE TWELFTH' 111 NOVEMBER 113 THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS 115 ENVOI 119 FOREWORD THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN! ['Sadness, once a favourite pose of poets, is no longer fashionable. Nowadays melancholy people are looked upon as depressing.'--The _Gentlewoman_.] Bygone bards in baleful ballads would betoken Worlds of wretchedness and globes compact of gloom; Pensive poets of the past have sung or spoken Of the misery of mortals' daily doom, Of the hearts that are as hard as something oaken, Of the blossoms that are blighted ere they bloom, Of the ease with which a lover's vows are broken, And the terrors of the tomb! Now no longer 'tis the minstrel's mawkish fashion To narrate a tale of melancholy woe, Of some wight whose face was haggard, wan, and ashen, And who languished in the days of long ago, Who adored, with pure but unrequited passion, And a heart that was as soft as any dough, A divine but unsusceptible Circassian Who continued to say 'No'! For to-day our lays are light, our sonnets sprightly, We adopt a tone inspiriting and blithe; We can treat the saddest subjects fairly brightly, And we never make our fellow-creatures writhe. We regard all signs of sorrow as unsightly And as dreary as the Esplanade at Hythe, And in seas of lyric joy we swim as lightly As a saith[1] else a lythe[2])! And a poet who the populace enrages By an out-of-date endeavour to combine The dispiriting solemnity of sages With the quill-work of the fretful porcupine, Is considered so unworthy of his wages That the public will not read a single line, And his gems will never sparkle in the pages Of a volume such as mine! RHYMES FOR THE TIMES 'WHAT'S IN A NAME?' [Lord Lincolnshire pointed out that Britain's glory has always depended very largely upon men whose names suggest no historical associations; upon the Browns and the McGhees, as well as upon the Willoughbys, the Talbots, and the Cecils.] In praise of many a noble name, Let lesser poets chaunt a pæan; The deathless fame will I proclaim Of others, more plebeian. Let minstrels sing of Montagues, Of Scots and Brabazons and Percys, While lovers of the Muse (or Meux) On Lambtons base their verses. My lyre, which neither mocks nor mimics, Shall laud the humbler patronymics. Though Talbots may have led the van, And fought the battles of the nation, 'Twas but a simple Elliman Invented embrocation! Though Churchills many a triumph won, And Stanleys made their world adore them, 'Twas Pickford--ay, and Paterson-- Who 'carried' all before them! Not twice, in our rough island story, Was Smith synonymous with glory! The snob may snigger, if he likes; But on the rolls of Greater Britain The famous name of William Sikes Immortally is written; And when men speak, in sneering tones, Of Brown, Jones, Robinson (They do so!), I always cite _John_ Brown, _Burne_-Jones And Robinson _Caruso_, And thus, with bright examples, teach 'em That Beecham's quite as good as Beauchamp! NOBODY'S DARLING! ['Nobody loves millionaires any more.'--Mr. ZIMMERMAN.] Time was when Society wooed me, The populace fawned at my feet; Men petted and praised and pursued me, My social success was complete. The pick of the Peerage, with smiles on their faces, Would sell me their family portraits and places. With stairs of pure marble below me, My stand as a host I would take, While guests (who, of course, didn't know me) The hand of my butler would shake, Averring, in phrases delightfully hearty, How much they enjoyed his agreeable party. I gave away libraries gratis, Each village and town to adorn, Till with the expression '_Jam satis!_' Lord Rosebery laughed them to scorn; And soon Mr. Gosse and the groundlings were snarling At one who must style himself Nobody's Darling! [Illustration] And now when I purchase their pictures, Or bid for some family seat, Men pass most disparaging strictures, Discussing my action with heat; While newspapers term it a 'public disaster' Each time I endeavour to buy an Old Master! The country I rob of its treasures (By carting its ruins away!); I lessen all popular pleasures By spoiling the market, they say; And so they invoke Mr. George's assistance To tax the poor plutocrat out of existence! ROSES ALL THE WAY ['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses.'--The _Times_.] Each year in vain I take the train To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet; No lady fair is ever there To speed me with a bouquet; No maiden on my brow imposes A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses! No purple phlox adorns the locks Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium; No garlands deck my shapely neck With jasmine or geranium. I travel, like a social pariah, Without a single calceolaria! Though up and down I 'train' to town, Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker, No female hand has ever planned To trim my third-class 'smoker,' To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias, Or drape the seats with pink azaleas! Let others envy wealthy men --The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Cassels-- I'd much prefer, I must aver, Like lucky Mr. Lascelles, To travel well supplied with posies Of (on the 'Underground') _Tube_-roses! [Illustration] THE TRIUMPH OF JAM (_With shamefaced apologies to the author of a beautiful poem_) [The _Daily Mirror_, in a leading article, deplored the fact that 'roly-poly' pudding, otherwise known as 'jam-roll,' was not to be obtained at fashionable West End restaurants.] Although our wives deride for ever, Though cooks grow captious or gaze aghast (Cooks, swift to sunder, to slash and sever The ties that bind us to things long past), We will say as much as a man might wish Whose whole life's love comes up on a dish, Which he never again may feast on, and never Shall taste of more while the ages last. I shall never again be friends with 'rolies,' I shall lack sweet 'polies' where, thick like glue, The jam in some secret Holy of Holies Crouches and cowers from mortal view. There are tastes that a tongue would fain forget, There are savours the soul must e'er regret; My tongue how hungry, how starved my soul is! I shall miss 'jam-pudding' my whole life through! The gleam and the glamour, glimmering through it, The steam that rises, to greet the sun, The fragrant fumes of the jam and suet That mix and mingle, to blend as one; The white-capped cook who stirs so hard, To twine the treacle and knead the lard, To soak and season, to blend and brew it-- These things are over, and no more done! I must go _my_ ways (others shall follow), Filling myself, till I rise replete, With fugitive things not good to swallow, Drink as my friends drink, eat what they eat; But if I could hear that sound (O squish!) Of the 'roly-poly' leaving its dish, My heart would be lighter, my life less hollow, At sight of my childhood's favourite sweet! Ah, why do I live in an age that winces At 'shape' (blanc-mange) of a bygone brand, At tripe and trotters, at stews and minces, At hash or at haggis, heavy in hand? Come lunch, come dinner, no word is said Of the jam that in suet so veils its head. I shall never eat it again, for at Princes' If I cry for it there, will they understand? EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE [A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty shillings.] Never more shall I and Ponto Traverse the Marine Parade, Pass the Pier and wander onto Eastbourne's Esplanade; Never more, with lungs like leather, And a heart as light as feather, Shall we stray and play together Where we strayed and played! On the cruel Council's shingle Man and beast no more may mingle! With what never-ending rapture Ponto would retrieve a stone, Leap into the sea and capture Sticks, wherever thrown; Issue dripping from the ocean, With his tail in constant motion, And express his true devotion In a strident tone, Till the Judge, his license marking, Fined him forty bob for barking! Still, upon the sands, sopranos Topmost notes in anguish reach, Masked musicians thump pianos, Negro minstrels screech; German bandsmen blare and bellow, But my Ponto, poor old fellow, May not raise his loud but mellow Bark upon the beach! 'Dumb,' indeed, is every beast born In the neighbourhood of Eastbourne! SARAH OWEN [A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the _Daily Mail_ to say that he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill and found that out of forty-two domestics only one--'Sarah Owen, sewing-maid'--was in favour of the Servant Tax.] Come, children, gather round and hark To my entrancing tale! For though you've heard of Joan of Arc, Of brave Grace Darling in her barque, Of Florence Nightingale, Not one of these such nerve displayed As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! Her master ranged his forty-two Domestics in a row. As from his breast the Bill he drew, 'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?' Though forty-one said 'No!' '_My_ threepence will be gladly paid!' Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid. [Illustration] In vain his head the butler shook, The gard'ner's grins grew broad, The housemaids wore a scornful look, 'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook, The 'handy man' guffawed. Serene, intrepid, unafraid, Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! And whether she was right or wrong, She showed a dauntless will, A firm resolve, a purpose strong, Which move me like a battle-song And make my bosom thrill! The fame and name shall never fade Of Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! THE LAST HORSED 'BUS Fare thee well, thou plum-faced driver, Poised upon thine airy seat! Final, ultimate survivor Of an order obsolete! Fare thee well! Thy days are numbered. Long, full long, by weight encumbered, Tardily thy team hath lumbered Down each London Street, Passed by carts, bath-chairs, and hearses, And the cause of constant curses! Fare thee well, conductor sprightly, Gay and buoyant pachyderm, Holding up thy 'bus politely For each passenger infirm; Yet, when roused to indignation By a rival's reprobation, How adroit in the creation Of some caustic term! Deft to ridicule or rally, Swift with satire as with sally! Ancient Omnibus ungainly, We shall miss thee, day by day, When thy swift successors vainly We with signals would delay; When upon their platforms perching, With each oscillation lurching, We are perilously searching For the safest way To alight without disaster, While we speed each moment faster! As our means of locomotion, Year by year, more deadly grow, We shall think with fond devotion Of thy stately gait and slow. Harassed, vexed, fatigued, and flurried, Shaken, discomposed, and worried, As in motors we are hurried Wildly to and fro, We perchance shall not disparage Horse-drawn omnibus or carriage! STAGE SUPPORT [The prospective Unionist candidate for Hoxton, at his first meeting, was supported by Lord Shrewsbury, the Hon. Claude Hay, and Mr. George Robey.] When I stand as 'Independent' next election, I shall vanquish my opponents, Smith and Brown. (Smith's a Unionist, in favour of Protection, Brown's a Radical Free Trader of renown.) But my triumph at the polls I shall attribute, I confess, To the men of light and leading whose assistance spelt success. Smith may marshal Austen Chamberlains and Carsons On his platform, for the populace to view; Brown may muster all his Nonconformist parsons, And a member of the Cabinet or two; I shall need no brilliant orators, no Ministers of State, If I only can rely on the support of Harry Tate! [Illustration] Brown has posters: 'Vote for Brown and Old Age Pensions!' Smith has placards: 'Vote for Smith and Work for All!' I shall calmly call constituents' attentions To the pet of ev'ry London music hall, When I publish, as his message, on each flaming window-card: 'Every Vote you give to Johnson is a vote for Wilkie Bard!' Can you wonder, then, that Independents rally Round a candidate to whom the Fates allot That his meetings shall be graced by Cinquevalli, And his policy endorsed by Malcolm Scott? Or that ev'ry one should mention--proud and humble, poor and rich-- That a vote for Mr. Johnson is a vote for Little Tich? SCRIBBLERS ALL! [In the House of Commons, Lord Claud Hamilton referred to Mr. Birrell as a 'distinguished scribbler.'] Who would be a Man of Letters, Ink on paper daily dribbling, In a fashion which his betters Scornfully describe as 'scribbling'? Who would practise a vocation So unlucrative and painful, To deserve a designation Cruelly disdainful? Pity pen- or pencil-nibblers Labelled as 'distinguished scribblers'! Sculptors are but seldom branded-- 'Those illustrious plaster-shapers'; Violinists' friends, though candid, Never call them 'catgut-scrapers.' Styling painters 'canvas-scratchers' Would offend against convention; Surgeons as 'appendix-snatchers' Nobody would mention. Who would term Lord Claud's directors 'Guinea-pigs' or 'fee collectors'? Yet, although no politicians We entitle 'platform-stumpers,' Nor refer to great musicians As 'immortal pedal-thumpers,' Though we name no leading jurist: 'This notorious legal-quibbler,' Ev'ry writer of the purest Prose shall be a 'scribbler,' Till the Gribbles cease to gribble And no more the Whibleys whibble! THE LYONS CUBS ['Waiting is a good, and often a lucrative profession, which must be freed from the hostile prejudice entertained by the ordinary British family. On the Continent and in America there is no such prejudice, and University men often find the profession worth entering.'--Evening Paper.] I said to George, my eldest son, 'Now that your college days are done, 'And high opinions you have won 'For wisdom and discretion, 'The time has come, as I suspect, 'When you should ponder and reflect 'Upon your future, and select 'A calling or profession.' He answered brightly, 'Righto, pater! 'I'd like to be a British waiter!' 'Come, George,' I said, 'don't be absurd! 'I asked what _calling_ you preferred. 'The Bar (although, I've always heard, 'The work is something frightful), 'The Church, the Services, the Bench, 'Diplomacy--nay, do not blench, 'You know how good you are at French-- 'Is each of them delightful; 'I'll come for your decision later.' Said George, 'I wish to be a waiter! 'Yes, at some café let me wait; 'For though I stroked my College eight, 'The year they won the Ladies' Plate, 'How mean a triumph _that_ is, 'Compared with his who daily bears 'Whole stacks of Ladies' Plates downstairs, 'Or "bumps" the backs of diners' chairs, 'At Evans's or Gatti's! 'A "first" in "Greats" I deem no greater 'Than every exploit of the waiter. 'When single-handed he controls 'Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls, 'Than any Fellow of All Souls 'More talent he evinces, 'And shows why those who feel the charm 'Of balancing without alarm 'Six soup-plates upon either arm, 'At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's, 'To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter 'Prefer the napkin of the waiter!' [Illustration] 'THE CRIES OF LONDON' No 'Milk below maid' now awakes The city with her plaintive pipe; No tuneful pedlar hawks 'Hot Cakes!' No wench at dawn the silence breaks With strains of 'Cherry Ripe!' No cries of 'Mack'rel!' subtly blend With 'Knives to grind!' or 'Chairs to mend!' The fireman's shout no more we hear; 'Punch' and his satellites are dumb; No more, when autumn days draw near, Do songs of 'Lavender!' rise clear Above the traffic's hum. No 'China orange' now is sold; The muffin's knell is mutely toll'd! And yet our nerves are sorely tried-- Since Nature's lute has many a rift-- By 'cries' which Tube and 'bus provide: 'Fares please!' ''Old tight, miss!' 'Full inside!' 'No smoking in the lift!' * * * * * And oh! the gulf that separates 'Sweet lavender!' from 'Mind the gates!' THE MODEL FARM ['If you want good milk, butter, cheese, beef, mutton, and bacon, keep the animals which supply these things amused--give them toys, in fact.'--The _Daily Mirror_.] When a friend after breakfast some compliment pays To the nourishment recently taken, When he mentions the eggs with expressions of praise, And says flattering things of the bacon, I conduct him at once to my farm on the Downs Which is managed so blithely and brightly That the brows of my cows are unwrinkled by frowns And my chickens are jocund and sprightly, Where dogs in their kennels avoid being snappy, And ev'ry dumb creature is healthy and happy. Each sheep is diverted with suitable toys That shall keep it obese and contented; Ev'ry pig, whose delectable flesh one enjoys, With a doll or a drum is presented; For 'tis thus that I nurture those succulent lambs That are always so sweet and so tender, And secure those remarkably delicate hams Which the sow is so loth to surrender; Ev'ry egg (as supplied to our own Royal Fam'ly) Is hatched by a hen who has patronised Hamley! Each ox is devoted to 'Animal Grab,' Ev'ry heifer plays 'tag' with a wether; There's a swan who at 'Pool' is no end of a dab, And the pigs play 'Backgammon' together. 'Pitch-and-toss' is the favourite game of the bull, 'Ducks-and-drakes' makes the goslings feel perky, While the crossest old ram never 'loses his wool' When he plays 'Rouge-et-noir' with the turkey; Which is why all my produce--cheese, poultry or mutton-- Appeals to the taste of both gourmet and glutton! THE ADVENTURER ['Gentleman, aged 26, seeks adventure; well up in finance, badminton, tennis, swimming, canoeing, bridge, and mechanics; banker's reference, if required.'--The _Times_.] My word! I'm the chap for adventures! There's nothing on earth I can't do, From dabbling in doubtful debentures To paddling a birch-bark canoe! At golf, when I get into trouble, How 'dead' my approaches are laid! At bridge, how I dauntlessly double Each spade! While as for lawn-tennis, there never was yet A player who volleyed so hard at the net! At chess I've invented a gambit That fills my opponents with dread; At billiards I don't care a d---- bit _How_ often I pocket the red! In water I swim like a salmon, At football I kick all the goals; I'm simply first-class at backgammon Or bowls, And, really, I'm equally deft and adroit When I'm handling a mallet or pitching a quoit! And now for employment I hanker Where gifts such as mine are of use; (A character, backed by my banker, I'm only too glad to produce). A life of adventure that's brimming With badminton, bridge, and canoes, With simple mechanics and swimming, I'd choose---- A life for a man who's 'well up in finance,' With a sprinkling of sport and a dash of romance! A PLEA FOR PONTO [Sir Frederick Banbury moved in the House of Commons:--'That in the opinion of this House no operation for the purpose of vivisection should be performed upon dogs.'] When you're studying the habits Of the germ of German measles, When you're searching out a cure for indigestion, You may practise upon rabbits, Upon guinea-pigs, or weasels, If you think that they throw light upon the question; You may note how bad the bite is Of the microbe of bronchitis, By performing operations upon frogs, But I've yet to hear the mention Of a surgical invention That can justify experiments on DOGS. I would sooner people perished Of lumbago or swine-fever (Or, at any rate, I'd rather they should chance it!) Than that any hound I cherished From a 'pom' to a retriever, Should be subject to the vivisector's lancet. I know nought of theoretics, But in spite of anæsthetics --Ether, chloroform or other soothing drug-- (Though perhaps I argue wrongly) I should disapprove most strongly, If I found a person puncturing my pug! If we wish to make a bee-line For the chicken-pox bacillus, From the hen-house there is nothing to debar us; We may learn from creatures feline What the causes are that kill us When we suffer from infirmities catarrhous! But when dogs' insides we study, Then our hands and hearts grow bloody, And we needn't be a crank or partisan To display a strong objection To the so-called vivisection Of that animal we style the Friend of Man! THE 'WASTER' ['I think that in certain respects the 'Waster' is one of the great forces of Empire; it is in him that the spirit of the Elizabethan gentleman adventurer survives most vigorously. To me the waster is a peculiarly English product; in many respects he appeals to me more than any one in the community.'--Sir HERBERT TREE.] When others praise the pious, My own response is faint; I feel no morbid bias In favour of the saint. My pæans, rather, let me raise To laud the 'Waster' and his ways! I love to watch my hero, As through the streets he struts, With loud 'Pip! Pip!' or 'Cheer Oh!' Greeting his fellow-Nuts, And haunting ev'ry public bar To cadge a cocktail or cigar! [Illustration] Each Saturday, at Brighton, How well he plays the rôle Of Admirable Crichton, At Grand or Metropole! The British Lion's whelp, indeed, True scion of the Bulldog Breed! The 'unco guid' may censure, The prudes their eyebrows raise; His passion for adventure Recalls those spacious days When Britain's flag, from sea to sea, Was borne by 'Wasters' such as he! And soon 'twill be his mission, When fall'n on evil times, To bear the old tradition To far Colonial climes; The seeds of Empire there he'll sow. Meanwhile, I wish to Heav'n he'd go! THE CHOICE [A well-known lady dog-fancier informed a representative of the _Daily Mirror_ that, in case of fire, she would most certainly save her dog rather than her husband.] 'Go! Sound the fire alarm!' she cried. 'My house is all ablaze inside! 'The flames are spreading far and wide; 'The air with smoke is laden! 'My darling's in an upper room! 'Oh, save him from a fiery tomb!' Straight, as she spoke, through sparks and fume Came brave Lieutenant Sladen. Quoth he: 'The horsed-escape is here, ma'am; 'We'll save your husband, never fear, ma'am!' 'My _husband_?' she replied. 'Nay, nay! 'Don't waste your time on _him_, I pray, 'But turn your thoughts without delay 'To things that really matter. 'For though my weaker-half's asleep, 'A faithful lap-dog, too, I keep, 'And if I hold the former cheap, 'I idolise the latter. 'Gladly, to save the best of bow-wows, 'I'd sacrifice,' she sobbed, 'my spou-ouse! 'How prettily my nose he licks! '(I'm speaking of the dog) and pricks 'His ears and barks, while as for tricks 'He never seems to tire, man! 'He'll balance sugar on his snout----' From burning windows came a shout; Her husband suddenly leaned out And thus addressed the fireman: 'You've seen the sort of wife I cherish; 'Then be humane and--let me perish!' ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL (_With apologies to Thomas Gray_) [Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young noblemen' at English schools!] Ye modern spires, ye fireproof floors, Of Boston's boarding-school, Each grateful scion still adores Your Hiram's homely rule; For here no boy would ever brag That he employed a ducal 'fag,' His 'brolly' for to furl, Or sent a Baronet 'up town' To fetch his tea from 'Little Brown,' Or caned a belted Earl! His scorn of lords the youthful Yank Can openly display, For here, regardless of their rank, The little Viscounts play. The Earl of Byfleet's eldest son Is known as Percival T. Bunn, And joins the common scrum, As daily he delights to share With Chas. K. Grubb (Lord Woking's heir) His wad of chewing-gum! Here Reginald, Lord Swaffield's boy, Protects beneath his wing The family of Kid McCoy, The famous Doughnut King; While John, the Duke of Portsmouth's child ('Jawn' by his school-companions styled), Forgets his kith and kin, And soon begets a taste, alack! For 'highballs,' 'cocktails,' 'canvasback,' For clams and terrapin! To each his fancies! I have done. And yet, for auld lang syne, Though Boston suits another's son, Eton I'll choose for mine! And though he won't acquire a twang, Or get the hang of Yankee slang, Like others of his class, My son I'll seek to Anglicise; For, if Lord Tankerville be wise, I'd sooner be an ass! THE SPORTING SPIRIT ['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'--Dr. T. CLAYE SHAW in the _Times_.] It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit At which I might happen to fire; I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge To die in a neighbouring shire. By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly, A duck or a woodcock to kill, And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger With far greater vigour than skill, Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic, And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic! A flask of old brandy I always keep handy, And, after an opportune nip, My wits are collected, my aim is corrected, My weapon with firmness I grip. I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled; Two outlines I hazily trace Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant When each single bird is a brace; Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother, And so I am bound to hit one or the other! [Illustration] My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey Whose eyes I persistently wipe, And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor, I shot, in mistake for a snipe; At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever Retrieves more than any dog there; No bag is so heavy as that which I levy At Welbeck, so what do I care? Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble, My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble! PERSPECTIVE ['It is sad and humiliating, but true, that our humanity is a matter of geography.'--The _Pall Mall Gazette_.] When told that twenty thousand Japs Are drowned in a typhoon, We feel a trifle shocked, perhaps, But neither faint nor swoon. 'Dear me! How tragic!' we repeat; 'Ah, well! Such things must be!' Our ordinary lunch we eat And make a hearty tea; Such loss of life (with shame I write) Creates no loss of appetite! When on a Rocky Mountain ranch Two hundred souls, all told, Are buried in an avalanche, The tidings leave us cold. 'Poor fellows!' we remark. 'Poor things!' 'All crushed to little bits!' Then go to _Bunty Pulls the Strings_, Have supper at the Ritz, And never even think again Of land-slides in the State of Maine! But when the paper we take in Describes how Mr. Jones Has slipped on a banana-skin And broken sev'ral bones, 'Good Heavens! What a world!' we shout; 'Disasters never cease!' 'What _is_ the Government about?' 'And _where_ are the Police?' Distraught by such appalling news All creature comforts we refuse! Though plagues exterminate the Lapp, And famines ravage Spain, They move us not like some mishap To a suburban train. Each foreign tale of fire or flood, How trumpery it grows Beside a broken collar-stud, A smut upon the nose! For Charity (Alas! how true!) Begins At Home--and ends there, too! 'RAG-TIME' At dawn, beneath my casement, Scrubbing the area stairs, The boot-boy in the basement Is whistling rag-time airs. At breakfast, while I'm eating, A German band outside With unction keeps repeating The latest 'Wedding Glide.' Where'er I go, whate'er I do, I can't escape from 'Hitchykoo'! Pursued, as by a pixy, By each infectious air, I 'Want to be in Dixie' When ev'rybody's there! Though 'Honolulu-looing' I've done my best to shun, What 'Ev'rybody's Doing' I cannot leave undone! The subtle spell I can't withstand Of 'Alexander's Rag-Time Band'! Like ancient hosts of Midian, I kneel, enslaved and tame, Before a modern Gideon, And Melville is his name! He grips me without pity, He binds me with a thong Of contrapuntal ditty, Of syncopated song! And in his sweet, seductive strains I hear the rattle of my chains! So, when you next behold me Perform a Turkey-trot, In fashion which (they've told me) Makes chaperones feel hot; Or with a strict adherence To rules of Bunny-hug, Combine the ape's appearance With manners of the Thug, I beg you won't find fault with me, But lay the blame on Melville G.! 'THE PIPES' The voice of the violoncello Brings peace and enjoyment to some, The cornet appeals to one fellow, Another enjoys a big drum; The horn and the bugle, of melody frugal, A third deems agreeably stirring, The twang of the zither, the piccolo's twitter, A fourth is preferring; But none who attains to the years known as riper Can fail to be moved by the pipes of the Piper! O Piper, processioning proudly Round tables where men sit at meat, Performing your pibrochs so loudly That no human voice can compete, What memories tender your dirges engender! Your wind-bag successfully squeezing, You stir the affections and wake recollections, Both painful and pleasing, That soothe (like a poultice) or sting (like a viper) The hearts that respond to the pipes of the Piper! O Piper, persistently plodding At dawn round some castle in Skye, Where guests (with their ears full of wadding) On couches of agony lie, No thrush in the thicket, no frog, and no cricket, No creature on land or in ocean, Expressing its passion in musical fashion, Can rouse such emotion As sets the most soulless of Sassenachs wiping The tears from his eyes at the sound of your piping! Though many may term you infestive, Discordant, or dull, as they please, Or say that your skirls are suggestive Of pigs being bitten by bees; There's nought so exciting, for marching or fighting, As sounds that your chanter produces; No strains so entrancing, for dining, or dancing, Or similar uses! In peace or in war, for civilian or 'sniper,' There's nothing on earth like the pipes of the Piper! MODERN DANCING When the Waltz was first invented, Grandmamma was much upset; Long she mourned, and loud lamented, Staid Quadrille and Minuet. In her eyes (a bit oldfashioned) Waltzing called for condemnation, As a somewhat too empassioned Form of social relaxation! Grandma, with averted head, Swept her daughters home to bed! When the practice of 'reversing' Revolutionised the dance, Dear Mamma was heard aspersing Fashions introduced from France. With invectives harsh and stinging She abused those youthful dancers Who were over fond of 'swinging' Partners in the Kitchen Lancers; Ragging, as a ballroom sport, Made Mamma get up and snort! [Illustration] Now, when Bunny-hugging habits Elevate maternal hairs, When our daughters act like rabbits, And our sons behave like bears; When the modern ballroom gang goes Through the complicated mazes Of those pseudo-Spanish Tangoes (Last of corybantic crazes!), We can only gaze aghast, Like our forbears in the past! But although each he (or she) grows More and more inclined to romp, Emulating am'rous negroes In some Mississippi swamp, Recollect, when Gossip chatters, Though the best hotels taboo it, 'Tisn't _what_ we dance that matters, But the way in which we do it! Chaperones may look askance: _Honi soit qui mal y_--dance! THE PUBLIC INTEREST ['We are entitled to use courteous or discourteous language, according as we think the public interest requires it.'--Lord HUGH CECIL.] When rivals in the Party fray, Their sluggish blood unwarmed, An old-world courtesy display ('My honourable friend,' they say, 'Is surely misinformed?') Such feeble methods I despise, My principles are higher; Opponents I apostrophise With piercing and persistent cries Of 'Renegade!' or 'Liar!' For I can hear, above the din, A voice within my breast That bids me use such language, in The public interest. Some golfers, when they miss a putt, Look mortified or frown, Keeping their lips discreetly shut, They say 'Good gracious!' or 'Tut-tut, 'That makes me seven down!' Such self-control is hard to bear, I loathe their sickly phrases, And much prefer, to clear the air, An honest 'Blast!' or 'Blazes!' Explaining, if the caddies grin Or partners should protest, That I am simply swearing, in The public interest! When ladies whom I chance to meet In crowded Tube or tram Attempt to oust me from my seat Or tread upon my tender feet, I always murmur 'Damn!' And when upon the telephone, 'Exchange' remarks, 'Line's busy!' My choice of language, and its tone, Makes hardened operators groan And supervisors dizzy. For I maintain, through thick and thin, Discourtesy is best, So long as you display it in The public interest! THE MILITANTS Though Man, who alas! is our master, Declares us unfit to be free, Ignoring the placards we playfully plaster On paling and pavement and tree; And though ev'ry journal, with cunning infernal, Our speeches refuses to quote, Our conduct bears witness to feminine fitness, And shows we are ripe for the Vote! On roofs and in cellars we've hidden, We've chained ourselves firmly to posts, Attended receptions, without being bidden, And heckled political hosts. With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle, Our cause we have sought to promote; By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling, We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote! [Illustration] What tales of our feats could be written! Of damage we love to inflict, Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten, Of Cabinet Ministers kicked! Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow Until it was forced down our throat, To prove to the nation by auto-starvation How worthy we were of the Vote! The gardens at Kew we've uprooted, We've ruined the 'greens' on the links, The letters of innocent strangers polluted With poisonous acids and inks! Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning, For others we care not a groat, But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily, To prove ourselves fit for the Vote! PLAGUES AT THE PLAY ['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'--The _Times_.] 'Well-dressed,' and well-fed, and well-meaning (God knows!), They arrive when the play is half ended; As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows, They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes, Quite unconscious of having offended! Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit, And uncloak in a leisurely fashion, While they act as a blind to the people behind Who grow perfectly purple with passion; Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled, Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled! A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy (This in audible accents they mention), And whenever some distant attendant they spy, They halloo or give vent to remarks such as 'Hi!' In attempts to attract her attention. After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse, And enjoy a good gossip together On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have caught, On the state of the crops and the weather, Till they leave, in the midst of some tense 'situation,' That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation. O managers, pray, am I asking too much If I beg that these 'persons of leisure' Be kept in a sound-proof and separate hutch, If their nightly theatrical manners are such As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure? For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied With a cage for such talkative parrots, Or a series of stalls (of the kind that have walls And some hay and a couple of carrots) Would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing And deal with an evil in need of redressing! A SUGGESTION [Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.] My friend, why did you hold your hand, Why falter, why desist, When there are treasures in the land That never would be missed? Next time you plunder the R.A., Its precincts do not quit Till you have made, as plumbers say, A thorough job of it. Take ev'ry so-called work of art And (with a nation's thanks) depart! Remove each Royal Portrait, do, Each Presentation Bust, And all those Problem Pictures, too, Which have to be discussed. Take ev'ry daub that's labelled 'Spring' Or 'Chelsea in a Fog,' Or 'Home again!' or 'Baby's Swing,' Or 'Mrs. A. and Dog.' Take 'Hanging up the Mistletoe!' And (with the public's blessing) go! Then prosecute your search elsewhere, If fame you wish to win; Take Shakespeare's bust from Leicester Square And Cleopatra's Pin. Take sculptured Statesmen, hand to breast, Who on our pavements smile, And half the statues that congest The Abbey's crowded aisle. And, last of all, whate'er befall, Don't fail to take the Albert Hall! THE MODEL MOTORIST [Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.'] Ye murderous, motoring scorchers, With manners of Gadarene hogs, Inflicting unspeakable tortures On children and chickens and dogs; Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows, And filling their infants with terror, Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding That _you_ could perhaps be in error, Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie, And hasten away without saying you're sorry! [Illustration] O listen, I beg, _con amore_, Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight, And hark, while I tell you the story Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight! When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding By constables ambushed in Chertsey, He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,' But, donning (with marvellous court'sy) The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,' Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!' With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch A creature so rare, so unique, Who questioned no constable's stop-watch, Who showed neither temper nor pique, But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity, Admitting at once his transgression, Content to take _their_ word, with never a swear-word, To leave an unpleasant impression; Exclaiming--his parents were Irish--'Begorry! ''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!' Then follow his brilliant example, Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' prone, And seek by apologies ample For sins of the past to atone. Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled, Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter The man whom your motor has mangled; But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry, Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry! THE PARISH PUMP (A BALLADE) ['The parish pump is the best friend of the teacher of history, and the man who, on the basis of Imperialism, sneers at the parish pump, does not know what he is talking about.'--Canon MASTERMAN.] The pedagogue his desk may thump And lecture, with a skill profound, On Parliaments called 'Long' or 'Rump,' On Scone (where Scottish kings were crowned); On butts of Malmsey wine which drowned The Prince who chanced therein to jump; On Richard, Gloucester's Duke, renowned For having a perpetual 'hump'; On Runnymede's immoral clump, Where poor King John was run to ground And signed the Charter (on a stump) Whereon our liberties we found; On Windsor, where, with horse and hound, The eighth King Henry grew so plump, And where the doleful courtiers frowned When George the Third went off his chump! Such facts I simply cannot lump, Preferring greatly to expound The tale of how Sir Joseph Crump Expended many a well-earned pound (No better Mayor was ever found, Although his lady _is_ a frump!) On giving Mugley-on-the-Mound A presentation Parish Pump. Then beat the tabor, blow the trump! Let welkins with your shouts resound! The cause of Empire cannot slump While noble deeds like this abound! Go, children, pass the story round Of how the head of Crump and Comp: (Whose enemies may Fate confound!) Supplied the Parish with a Pump! POLICE COURT SENSE ['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'--Mr. CHESTER JONES.] When Uncle Edward comes to dine, He drinks such quantities of wine, You never know How far he'll go, Or what he'll leave unsaid; He frequently insults his host, And quotes things from the _Winning Post_, Until, with sighs, His friends arise And bear him off to bed. But as they leave him in his bunk, With what a joy intense They realise he is not drunk-- In the Police Court sense! [Illustration] He played bezique with me, one day, To find that, at the close of play, He'd lost each game; The total came To three pounds seventeen. He never paid a cent of that, And took away my new top-hat, Leaving behind A hideous kind Of gibus, old and green. But still it filled me with relief, Observing his offence, To think that he was not a thief-- In the Police Court sense! The details of his private life, The way he treats his luckless wife, Make all aware That he can care For nothing but himself; But what on earth is she to do, Though snubbed and beaten black and blue? To sue, of course, For a divorce Would be a waste of pelf. Yet, all the same, my aunt avows, It saves her much expense To feel she has a faithful spouse-- In the Police Court sense! CLUB CANTOS CANTO I THE ATHENÆUM Dignified, austere, infestive, Stands the stately Athenæum, With an atmosphere suggestive Of a mausoleum. Freezing silence reigns within (You can hear the falling pin!) And the punster points with pride To the _frieze_ you get outside! Here the Bishop, with his nether Limbs in leggings swathed demurely (Hatbrim fastened by a tether To the crown securely), Buttonholes some friendly Duke, To discuss the Pentateuch, Or abstracts (with absent mind) All th' umbrellas he can find. [Illustration] Here each great and famous Briton Snored and slumbered almost daily: Thackeray and Bulwer Lytton, Dickens and Disraeli. Trollope through this doorway stept, In that chair Macaulay slept, While, with cotton in his ears, Herbert Spencer snubbed his peers. Here our scientific pedants Write their Monographs on Rabbits Or their studies of the Red-ant's Socialistic habits. Here the statesman threshes out Themes of Philosophic Doubt, While the Laureate scours each shelf For a rhyme to 'Guelph' and 'self.' Poet, painter, politician, Throng this Hall of the Immortals; Sophist, sage, and statistician Cross these pompous portals. Here the pundits of the State Herd with the Episcopate; Scientist and learned lord Mix with Mr. H-mphr-y W-rd. If the roof fell in, ah me! Where would Mother England be? CANTO II WHITE'S Observe the élite, staring into the street, Through that famous elliptical casement; How coldly they eye all the friends who pass by, With a look of self-conscious effacement! This ancient tradition of non-recognition Is dear to all clubs (save Soho ones!), Where Brummels and Nashes still twirl their moustaches, And even the windows are _Beau_-ones! Here, once the resort of all lovers of sport, Are the counters and dice of past players; The belt, too, bestowed upon Heenan, who showed So much grit when he battled with Sayers. Here, loudly proclaiming their passion for gaming, Our prodigal ancestors betted; Their shekels they squandered, and home again wandered, Stone-broke or profoundly indebted! Less prone to high play is the member to-day Than his forbear, that fire-eating gamester. His pleasure he takes in more moderate stakes, And his losses don't cause quite the same stir. But, still, a White's-clubber can win a big rubber, With all of his forefathers' vigour, And double 'no trumps,' too, until the score jumps to A really respectable figure! A cursory look at the old wager-book Will discover full many an entry Recalling the age when this club was the rage Of the pick of our peerage and gentry. But now the old places are filled with fresh faces, Of members less wise and less witty, Of hearty old busters, of pool-playing thrusters, Of brokers and blokes from the City, Whose names are less worthy recording on vellum Than those of a Walpole, a Pulteney, or Pelham! CANTO III THE BACHELORS' While clerks lunch at Lockhart's or Lyons', And labourers meet at some 'pub,' Society's celibate scions Resort to the Bachelors' Club; For here all the members elected Belong to a very smart set, And bask in the sunshine reflected From Mr. Gillett. Here youths of the Governing Classes At regular intervals call, To tap barometrical glasses Or study the tape in the Hall; Discussing the 'latest from Lincoln,' Comparing the odds of each bet, Or reading out jokes from the '_Pink 'Un_' To Mr. Gillett. And though they severely disparage Those trammels that Benedicks bind, And members who contemplate marriage Are spoken to sharply and fined; 'The Sex' they regard as no sinners, And ladies may often be met, Partaking of luncheons or dinners With Mr. Gillett. Here, too, for young persons of leisure Who wish to develop the mind, Instruction is tempered with pleasure, Tuition with fun is combined; New knowledge they gain (one conjectures) And cerebral stimulus get, Attending the Radium Lectures Of Mr. Gillett. Then ho! for this celibate centre For youths who are loth to espouse, Though fish-knives (the gift of their mentor) May tempt them to cancel their vows! And ho! for that guide and dictator! Their whistles let bachelors wet (A whisky and soda, please, waiter!) To Mr. Gillett! CANTO IV THE GARRICK If for solitude you feel a partiality, If you chance to be unsociably inclined, If (like other men of British nationality) You abominate the presence of your kind; If you take your pleasures glumly And delight in dining dumbly, And if table-talk's a thing you nearly die of; If you look with detestation Upon Gen'ral Conversation, Then the Garrick is a club you should fight shy of! If you hunger for companionship and jollity, If you much prefer to chatter while you eat, If you condescend at moments to frivolity, And will fraternise with any one you meet; If your interest is chronic In the art called histrionic, If your passion for the drama's hot and strong, too; If you welcome its professors Telling tales about their 'dressers,' Then the Garrick is a club you should belong to! [Illustration] If you come here (say) at supper-time on Saturdays, You will meet with all the patrons of the stage (Though the place is not so popular, these latter days, As it was before 'week-ends' became the rage). Here each notable 'first-nighter,' Critic, journalist, and writer, Sprinkles pepper on this club's especial oyster, And you hear a well-known jurist Or some literary purist Telling anecdotes unsuited to the cloister! Here you'll notice, too, a perfect portrait-gallery Of those mummers who immortal have become, Though they earned, no doubt, a less prodigious salary Than the moderns who more lucratively mum. On these walls they all assemble, Garrick, Matthews, Irving, Kemble, Men who knew what the traditions of the stage meant, In the days when ev'ry mummer Wore a sealskin coat in summer And would scorn a common music-hall engagement! 'Tis a club for ev'ry section of the laity, Where the Services, the Press, the Bench, the Bar, Find delight in S-m-r H-cks's verbal gaiety And the anecdotal wit of C-m-ns C-rr. Here the members who are crafty Seek a seat that isn't draughty-- In the anteroom or lounge you may discern 'em-- And postprandially cluster, Gaining dignity and lustre From the presence of a B-ncr-ft and a B-rnh-m! CANTO V THE AUTOMOBILE Pall Mall was a sober and dignified street In the days (say) of Dickens or Marryat, Where statesmen their peers would with courtesy greet, Where the senator sauntered on leisurely feet, And the dowager drove in her chariot. The War Office entries Were guarded by sentries; But Mars was polite to the Graces, And officers' mothers, Their sisters, and others, Called daily on those in high places, Demanding, with true patriotic devotion, Their sons' (or their brothers') more rapid promotion! Times changed. The old War Office warren was scrapped, And this suitable site was selected By motorists, goggled, befurred, and peak-capped, As a central position excessively apt For the Palace of Fun they erected. In place of old quiet Came racket and riot, As cars at the club kept arriving, Or p'licemen in torrents Poured in, to serve warrants On members for 'furious driving'; Where amateur chauffeurs, resolved to be jolly, Were drowning dull care in a 'Petrol and Polly'! For those who enjoy fellow-men in the bunch This is really a fine place of meeting; For here in a crowd men may guzzle and munch (Though the orchestra makes such a noise while they lunch That the members can't hear themselves eating). Here thousands forgather, To feed and to blather-- Each day brings a fresh reinforcement-- And tell (with a dry sense Of fun) how their licence Got marked with its latest endorsement, Or how many yokels and dogs they ran over The day that they fractured the 'record' to Dover! CANTO VI BROOKS'S How soft those whiskered waiters tread, Their dishes dexterously handing! 'Twould seem (as some one aptly said) As though a nobleman lay dead Upon an upper landing, In such tranquillity and quiet Do members masticate their diet! Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,' With loved ones safely at a distance, Which men demand who seek release From cares that cause the brow to crease And poison the existence; Peace, comatose--nay, cataleptic-- Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic! [Illustration] The special feature of the place Is that it has no special feature; Its tone is that of frigid grace With which the Briton loves to face Each human fellow-creature. Here sire meets son, or brother brother, And neither need address the other! Within this dignified retreat, From Government or Opposition, The Whigs of all opinions meet, Eyeing each other, as they eat, With looks of dumb suspicion. Here Unionist regards Home Ruler With feelings daily growing cooler. Through Brooks's battered ballot-box His way to fame a man may well win, Who sits where Sheridan and Fox Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks With Wilberforce and Selwyn; Where modern wits and legislators Converse with no one but the waiters! CANTO VII 'THE BEEFSTEAK' While Germans eat flesh that is said to be equine, And Chinamen batten on birds' nests and dogs, While Frenchmen with _vin ordinaire_ (such a weak wine!) Ingurgitate molluscs and frogs, The Briton, old-fashioned, in language empassioned, On underdone oxen demands to be fed; His soul seems to glory in steaks that are gory, He 'looks on the kine when they're red,' And all his carnivorous cravings awake When somebody happens to name 'The Beefsteak.' 'Tis years since the first of those chops began grilling, Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling, The flesh was undoubtedly strong'! When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen That circle which met round his sociable hearth, Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth, And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz. Some centuries later we find a revival; Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend, Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival, _La vie de Bohème du_ West End! Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies Are heard at a board where the diet is plain, Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly With Morris or poor Corney Grain, While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays! 'Tis said that the neophyte's nerves are affected, When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry; At sight of the eminent persons collected, He feels unaccountably shy; Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy By slapping the newcomer hard on the back, Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly! Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack!' When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed, He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.' Here friendship and talk are the principal factors That make of this Club a resort beyond praise, For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors (Who dine here on matinée days). No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted, And members in rivalry verbal may vie Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr!) And deprecate _steaks_ that are high! While brains never weary and tongues never flag, As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'! CANTO VIII THE TRAVELLERS' Though clubs without number are suited to slumber, How few (as has often been noted) To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing, Are quite so completely devoted As that which is labelled, in language poetic, The final resort of the peripatetic! Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished By portraits, by prints or engravings, On sofas of leather, designed altogether To satisfy somnolent cravings, Where, clutching the _Times_ or the _Chronicle_ tightly, A member may slumber in public politely. A subtle aroma, conducive to coma, Which renders the coffee-room pleasant, Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant. The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething, And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing! [Illustration] No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here Its votaries find uninviting; You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-_snorem_,' But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting; While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some) With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome! These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic, And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning) Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters To call them next Saturday morning; And even explorers, their rambles arrested, Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested! CANTO IX 'THE BATH' Ye citizens of common clay Who, squinting in a painful way, Remove (with grimy hands and grey) The smuts upon your noses, Come, follow me to Dover Street Where, any moment, we may meet Figures as fragrant and as sweet As new-mown hay or roses, Tripping along the primrose path That leads each member to 'The Bath'! Ye breadwinners, who seek in vain To keep your features free from stain, When in some matutinal train To town you daily rush up, Observe the cleanly creatures, please, Who in this club recline at ease! Existence for such men as these Is one long 'Wash and Brush Up'! Perfumed and scented, combed and curled, They live unspotted of the world! Here Indian clubs are deftly swung, And dumb-bells twirled, by old and young; Here 'horizontal bars' are hung With eminent patricians; And when, at times, on Sunday nights, The lady-members (clad in tights), From swimming-bath's sublimest heights, Give diving exhibitions, Tis 'Water, water ev'rywhere'-- And sopped spectators get their share! Observe that youth, with purple socks And chest suggestive of an ox; He comes to 'punch the ball' or box With (possibly) Lord Desb'rough. Observe that Admiral; though old, He takes a daily plunge, I'm told, Though when the water's rather cold He very often says 'Brrrh!' Or, if the suds get in his eyes, 'Here! What the _douche_!' he crossly cries. That warning, to the sloven dear: 'Abandon Soap who enter here!' Upon these walls does not appear, To reassure the dirty; But on the Turkish bathroom screen, Pinned to a notice-board of green, This statement, day by day, is seen: 'Pores Open, 7.30.' Till Bishops at 'The Bath,' they say, Are moved to murmur, 'Let us Spray!' Then, Gentle Reader, I advise (Should opportunity arise) That you should be extremely wise And join this institution; And thus, though deeming dumb-bells 'Bosh!' And scorning hectic games of 'Squash,' You may enjoy a thorough wash, A top-to-toe ablution, Nor die, in deep dejection plunged, 'Unsoapt, unlathered, and unsponged!' SONGS IN SEASON NEW YEAR'S EVE In fashion reflective, with plaint or invective, We view in perspective the year in eclipse, The duties neglected, the faults uncorrected, The blunders, the failures, the slips! We note with depression that painful procession Of lapse and transgression which held us in thrall, The sins of omission, the vaulting ambition, The pride that preceded each fall! Regretful, alas! we are loth to remember The good resolutions we made last December! The keen politicians who cherished ambitions To better conditions for sons of the State, Make private confession of wasting each session In fruitless and futile debate; The Peer of position regards with contrition That past inanition, so hard to resist; The social reformer grows sensibly warmer, To note opportunities miss'd; While Cabinet statesmen still seek (somewhat sadly) For patience to suffer the Suffragettes gladly! But never despairing, each mind, greatly daring, Fresh programmes preparing, fresh projects revolves; New plans undertaking, new promises making, New plots, new designs, new resolves! With hopes unabated, and spirits elated, We feel ourselves fated, this year, to succeed, Devising and dreaming, suggesting and scheming To triumph, to conquer, to lead! With hearts that are wiser (though probably sadder), We start once again at the foot of the ladder! FEBRUARY ['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English character that enables it to triumph over the English climate.'--The _Pall Mall Gazette_.] [Illustration] I gaze each morning through my rainswept casement, Into the murky, mud-bound street below; I grimly note the slush that floods the basement, The hail, the sleet--and oh! I feel that I am greater than I know! Only a demigod could thrive 'Mid such surroundings drear; Only a hero could survive In such an atmosphere! Each day the sullen sky becomes more leaden, The weather grows less suited to a dog; Each night damp mists arise, to chill and deaden! (The golf-course is a bog: Twice has my ball been stymied by a frog!) Still sweetly in my bosom wakes The knowledge nought can mar, That 'tis our island climate makes Us Britons what we are! For if we basked in fragrant, warm oases, We should not wear that air of self-control Which, round about our placid British faces, Shines like an aureole, Expressing true stolidity of soul. To chill and gloom, to frost and thaw, Our country owes to-day The dogged jaw of Bonar Law, The eye of Edward Grey! O Mother England, wettest of wet nurses, Where would a poet be without your clime, Which gives him such a subject for his verses, Supplying (ev'ry time) A reason for his undistinguished rhyme? His lesson may be sharp and stern, His anguish keen and long; But so in sniffing he may learn What he expounds in song! SPRING When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten, By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone, When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard, Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone; When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling, Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm, And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled, In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm; Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring! [Illustration] When the maiden, matinéeing, from some playhouse portals straying (Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab, While her fiancé ungainly--so unlike dear Harry Ainley!-- In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab; When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge, Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy (Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)! With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling, While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring! Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic, I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young. So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season, I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust, That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting, As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust. As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring, I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring! SPRING-CLEANING ['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in oneself.'--The _Bromide's Handbook_.] Let me sing in mournful numbers Of the sorrows of the Spring, When the house is full of plumbers And the builder has his fling! Ladders lean on ev'ry landing, Pails repose on ev'ry stair, Painters, who on planks are standing, Block the road to ev'rywhere, And with pigments evil-smelling Drive us from our dismal dwelling. Stairs are carpetless to step on, Bannisters are far from dry, While (like Damocles's weapon) Plaster threatens from on high. Any room we chance to enter Our depression but completes: Chairs and tables in the centre Hide beneath encircling sheets, And the painters (horrid vandals!) Have deprived the doors of handles. Workmen through our windows peering Spread their pitfalls in our path; Daily we are found adhering To some freshly-painted bath; Daily have our cooks contended That, however great our grief, Till the kitchen-range be mended, We must live on frigid beef; And at last we grasp the meaning Of that fatal phrase, 'Spring-Cleaning'! [Illustration] 'ROYAL ASCOT' Ho! find me my faithful field-glasses (The kind with collapsible joints); Ho! bring me my bundle of passes, My pencils (the ones that have points); Ho! give me my 'topper,' The head-dress that's proper For meetings where Royalties muster; Put scent on my 'hanky' (That's quite enough, thankye!) And polish my boots with a duster; That so I may venture, with grace and composure, To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure! At Ascot, where beautiful dresses Enrapture the masculine gaze, How oft I've indulged in excesses Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise! How oft in the Paddock (Though squashed like a haddock) Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded! What fortunes I've flung to The Ring, which they've clung to, Those touts who my pockets denuded! What niggardly odds did those bookmakers lay me! (How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!) [Illustration] At Ascot, that popular function, Society leans on the rails, And sport is enjoyed in conjunction With lobsters and underdone quails! While Rank and while Fashion Regard with compassion The antics of clown or of nigger, But one imperfection Appears, on inspection, This party to mar or disfigure: 'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses, If only----if only there weren't any horses! 'ROSES' A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY' (_With apologies to Wordsworth_) I wandered shyly as a ghost That prowls in haunted keeps and tow'rs, When all at once I saw a host, A crowd of ladies selling flow'rs; Along the Mall, beside the Pond, From Lady Cr-we to Lady M-nd! Continuous as the stars that shine, Like poppies in a field of wheat, They stretched in never-ending line Along the kerb of ev'ry street; Ten thousand saw I, file by file, Selling their 'blooms' with sprightly smile. The world about them smiled, for they Bedecked the dingy thoroughfares; A fellow could not fail to pay His penny for such wares as theirs. I bought and bought--but little guessed What wealth those simple flowers expressed. For all the cash they helped to net, In streets where stood their rosy stalls, Went to reduce that endless debt Which is the curse of hospitals; And Chairmen cast dull care away And danced on Alexandra Day! [Illustration] THE END OF THE SEASON How grimy and gritty are streets in the City, How parched is each pavement and park, Where Londoners harried in thoroughfares arid Forgather from dawn until dark! An atmosphere torrid, oppressive and horrid, With leather-like lungs we inhale, While odorous motors (more pungent than bloaters) Our impotent nostrils assail, And whistles and catcalls and horns without number Combine to destroy all our chances of slumber! How weary my heart is of dinners and parties, How sick of each concert and play! All social exertion I view with aversion, Of banquets I dream with dismay. Each moment enhances my hatred of dances, All luncheons with loathing I hail; At ev'ry collation, in sheer detestation, I shrink from each cutlet or quail; For though I enjoy such delights within reason, I gratefully welcome the end of the Season! The holiday feeling is over me stealing, I long to escape from the town, Exchanging its highways for hedges and byways, For moorland and meadow and down. In cobble-paved alleys how verdant the valleys, How fragrant the forests appear, Where fountains are flashing, and rivulets splashing Make melody sweet to the ear; Where Orpheus his musical message delivers, And Pan and his piping are heard by the rivers! [Illustration] THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH (_With apologies to W. B. Yeats_) I will arise and go now, and go to Inverness, And a small villa rent there, of lath and plaster built; Nine bedrooms will I have there, and I'll don my native dress, And walk about in a d---- loud kilt. And I will have some sport there, when grouse come driven slow, Driven from purple hill-tops to where the loaders quail; While midges bite their ankles, and shots are flying low, And the air is full of the grey-hen's tail. I will arise and go now, for ever, day and night, I hear the taxis bleating and the motor-'buses roar, And over tarred macadam and pavements parched and white I've walked till my feet are sore! For it's oh, to be in Scotland! now that August's nearly there, Where the capercailzie warble on the mountain's rugged brow; There's pleasure and contentment, there's sport and bracing air, In Scotland----now! [Illustration] 'THE TWELFTH' If you're waking, call me early, Call me early, Rob MacDougall, When the skies are pale and pearly And the air is keen and chill; And we'll break our fast together, In a fashion somewhat frugal, And be off across the heather To 'the hill.' Soon will coveys come a-flitting, Over purple slopes and ridges, To the butts where we are sitting With our loaders close behind. Though the mist obscure our vision, And our necks are stung by midges, And we shoot without precision, Never mind! If the birds fly fast and freely O'er the lair where we are lying With the cartridges that Eley So obligingly supplies, When the drive is duly ended We can count the dead and dying We have rent (or is it 'rended'?) From the skies! As we stimulate the labours Of retrievers bent on finding Stricken birds our next-door neighbours Will indubitably claim, We declare to one another (Though we scarcely need reminding) That a grouse beats any other Kind of game, And that, given sport and weather, There is nothing like the thrill Of a day among the heather On the hill! NOVEMBER Poets may proclaim the praises Of some fragrant April day, Search their lexicons for phrases To describe the dew-drenched daisies Of each merry May; Minor bards may work like niggers, Framing epic rhyme or rune, To extol the timely rigours Of an English June; Though its charms I well remember, I prefer November! Though the tourists sing together When July is warm and bright, While to sportsmen on the heather, Bent on bagging fur and feather, August brings delight; Though September's seldom stormy, And October, chill and dry, Carries joy to every Dormy- House from Wick to Rye; Yet (since I am not a member) I prefer November! In the street the slime may spatter Ev'ry wretched passer-by; Hail and sleet and snow may batter On my window-pane--what matter? What on earth care I? Other months may be less muddy, Or a fairer face present; In my cheerful firelit study I am quite content! Seated by the glowing ember, I prefer November! THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs! With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling, No shadow should darken our brows! (But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling, The ladders we stand on are apt to give way, When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing; 'Tis hard to be merry and gay! And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!) Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies! Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it! Make ready a score of mince-pies! (But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful Of how indigestion is fostered and bred, How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful, While alcohol flies to the head; Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!) Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow, Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what! (But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted To hang full of goodies and toys through the night, Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted With toffee and Turkish Delight; While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it, And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!) [Illustration] Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces Troop happily home to delight us at Yule! We rejoice when the holiday season releases The inmates of college and school! (But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting 'When Shepherds'--a hymn which they sing out of tune-- They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting If holidays _are_ such a boon; And even the kindliest relative wearies Of constantly answering juvenile queries!) Christmas is here! Little children excited Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause, As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted, In honour of kind Santa Claus! (But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'! By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung; He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper, By droves of the clamorous young! All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet; No room in the building is free from their riot!) Christmas is here! Let us load our relations With presents expensive and offerings rare, And assume, as we lavish our tips and donations, A noble and bountiful air! (But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post, And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel, And worth eighteenpence at the most, Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her, 'Dear Jane is a trifle more _dear_ than we thought her'?) Christmas is here! Let us go serenading, In glees and in madrigals raising our voice, In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading, O maidens divine of our choice! (But we mustn't forget how our _last_ Christmas carols Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks, When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels Bang into the smalls of our backs! If one justly expects some applause and encoring, A ball in the back is excessively boring!) Christmas is here! At a season so sprightly We banish all thoughts about mundane affairs, And attempt to be gay and to smile fairly brightly, In spite of our worries and cares. (But financial embarrassments mortify most men Whose hearts a prognostic of bankruptcy grips, When the dustmen and milkmen, policemen and postmen, Demand their habitual tips!) * * * * * Then tell me--and grateful I'll be to you, very-- Oh, tell me why Christmas was ever called 'Merry'! ENVOI [All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore. All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him in.] Simple is the man who fancies, In his fond and foolish heart, That the author weaves romances For the love of Art; That the poet's torch, ignited By some sacred inner fire, Is a spark of genius lighted To illume his lyre; That 'tis Honour or Ambition Prompts the bard to composition! No celestial inspiration Gilds the poet's cheerless den, Kindles his imagination, Stirs his sluggish pen; No divine _afflatus_, blowing From some charmed Pierian font, Starts the springs of fancy flowing Like the spur of Want. This, poor Pegasus controlling, Sets the eye in frenzy rolling! Not in search of fame or rank is He who drives this fretful quill, But his balance at the bank is Practically _nil_, And the cause, the motive, lying At his inspiration's roots, Is the sound of children crying, Crying out for boots; 'Tis the need for ready money Makes the humorist so funny! Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press FOOTNOTES: [1] A species of pollack. [2] Another species of pollack. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. Punctuation has been corrected without note. 
982	----	BOOK OF NONSENSE By Edward Lear There was an Old Derry down Derry, Who loved to see little folks merry; So he made them a Book, And with laughter they shook, At the fun of that Derry down Derry! TO THE GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN, GRAND-NEPHEWS, AND GRAND-NIECES OF EDWARD, 13th EARL OF DERBY, THIS BOOK OF DRAWINGS AND VERSES (The greater part of which were originally made and composed for their parents,) IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR, EDWARD LEAR 1. There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!" 2. There was a Young Lady of Ryde, Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied; She purchased some clogs, And some small spotty dogs, And frequently walked about Ryde. 3. There was an Old Man with a nose, Who said, "If you choose to suppose, That my nose is too long, You are certainly wrong!" That remarkable Man with a nose. 4. There was an Old Man on a hill, Who seldom, if ever, stood still; He ran up and down, In his Grandmother's gown, Which adorned that Old Man on a hill. 5. There was a Young Lady whose bonnet, Came untied when the birds sate upon it; But she said, "I don't care! All the birds in the air Are welcome to sit on my bonnet!" 6. There was a Young Person of Smyrna, Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her; But she seized on the Cat, And said, "Granny, burn that! "You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!" 7. There was an Old Person of Chili, Whose conduct was painful and silly; He sate on the stairs, Eating apples and pears, That imprudent Old Person of Chili. 8. There was an Old Man with a gong, Who bumped at it all the day long; But they called out, "O law! You're a horrid old bore!" So they smashed that Old Man with a gong. 9. There was an Old Lady of Chertsey, Who made a remarkable curtsey; She twirled round and round, Till she sunk underground, Which distressed all the people of Chertsey. 10. There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a Bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! "It's a regular brute of a Bee!" 11. There was an Old Man with a flute, A sarpint ran into his boot; But he played day and night, Till the sarpint took flight, And avoided that man with a flute. 12. There was a Young Lady whose chin, Resembled the point of a pin: So she had it made sharp, And purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin. 13. There was an Old Man of Kilkenny, Who never had more than a penny; He spent all that money, In onions and honey, That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny. 14. There was an Old Person of Ischia, Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier; He danced hornpipes and jigs, And ate thousands of figs, That lively Old Person of Ischia. 15. There was an Old Man in a boat, Who said, "I'm afloat! I'm afloat!" When they said, "No! you ain't!" He was ready to faint, That unhappy Old Man in a boat. 16. There was a Young lady of Portugal, Whose ideas were excessively nautical; She climbed up a tree, To examine the sea, But declared she would never leave Portugal. 17. There was an Old Man of Moldavia, Who had the most curious behaviour; For while he was able, He slept on a table, That funny Old Man of Moldavia 18. There was an Old Man of Madras, Who rode on a cream-coloured ass; But the length of its ears, So promoted his fears, That it killed that Old Man of Madras. 19. There was an Old Person of Leeds, Whose head was infested with beads; She sat on a stool, And ate gooseberry fool, Which agreed with that person of Leeds. 20. There was an Old Man of Peru, Who never knew what he should do; So he tore off his hair, And behaved like a bear, That intrinsic Old Man of Peru. 21. There was an Old Person of Hurst, Who drank when he was not athirst; When they said, "You'll grow fatter," He answered, "What matter?" That globular Person of Hurst. 22. There was a Young person of Crete, Whose toilette was far from complete; She dressed in a sack, Spickle-speckled with black, That ombliferous person of Crete. 23. There was an Old Man of the Isles, Whose face was pervaded with smiles; He sung high dum diddle, And played on the fiddle, That amiable Man of the Isles. 24. There was an Old Person of Buda, Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder; Till at last, with a hammer, They silenced his clamour, By smashing that Person of Buda 25. There was an Old Man of Columbia, Who was thirsty, and called out for some beer; But they brought it quite hot, In a small copper pot, Which disgusted that man of Columbia. 26. There was a young Lady of Dorking, Who bought a large bonnet for walking; But its colour and size, So bedazzled her eyes, That she very soon went back to Dorking. 27. There was an Old Man who supposed, That the street door was partially closed; But some very large rats, Ate his coats and his hats, While that futile old gentleman dozed. 28. There was an Old Man of the West, Who wore a pale plum-coloured vest; When they said, "Does it fit?" He replied, "Not a bit!" That uneasy Old Man of the West. 29. There was an Old Man of the Wrekin, Whose shoes made a horrible creaking; But they said, "Tell us whether, Your shoes are of leather, Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?" 30. There was a Young Lady whose eyes, Were unique as to colour and size; When she opened them wide, People all turned aside, And started away in surprise. 31. There was a Young Lady of Norway, Who casually sat in a doorway; When the door squeezed her flat, She exclaimed, "What of that?" This courageous Young Lady of Norway. 32. There was an Old Man of Vienna, Who lived upon Tincture of Senna; When that did not agree, He took Camomile Tea, That nasty Old Man of Vienna. 33. There was an Old Person whose habits, Induced him to feed upon Rabbits; When he'd eaten eighteen, He turned perfectly green, Upon which he relinquished those habits. 34. There was an old person of Dover, Who rushed through a field of blue Clover; But some very large bees, Stung his nose and his knees, So he very soon went back to Dover. 35. There was an Old Man of Marseilles, Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils; They caught several Fish, Which they put in a dish, And sent to their Pa at Marseilles. 36. There was an Old Person of Cadiz, Who was always polite to all ladies; But in handing his daughter, He fell into the water, Which drowned that Old Person of Cadiz. 37. There was an Old Person of Basing, Whose presence of mind was amazing; He purchased a steed, Which he rode at full speed, And escaped from the people of Basing. 38. There was an Old Man of Quebec, A beetle ran over his neck; But he cried, "With a needle, I'll slay you, O beadle!" That angry Old Man of Quebec. 39. There was an Old Person of Philae, Whose conduct was scroobious and wily; He rushed up a Palm, When the weather was calm, And observed all the ruins of Philae. 40. There was a Young Lady of Bute, Who played on a silver-gilt flute; She played several jigs, To her uncle's white pigs, That amusing Young Lady of Bute. 41. There was a Young Lady whose nose, Was so long that it reached to her toes; So she hired an Old Lady, Whose conduct was steady, To carry that wonderful nose. 42. There was a Young Lady of Turkey, Who wept when the weather was murky; When the day turned out fine, She ceased to repine, That capricious Young Lady of Turkey. 43. There was an Old Man of Apulia, Whose conduct was very peculiar; He fed twenty sons, Upon nothing but buns, That whimsical Man of Apulia. 44. There was an Old Man with a poker, Who painted his face with red oker; When they said, "You're a Guy!" He made no reply, But knocked them all down with his poker. 45. There was an Old Person of Prague, Who was suddenly seized with the plague; But they gave him some butter, Which caused him to mutter, And cured that Old Person of Prague. 46. There was an Old Man of the North, Who fell into a basin of broth; But a laudable cook, Fished him out with a hook, Which saved that Old Man of the North. 47. There was a Young Lady of Poole, Whose soup was excessively cool; So she put it to boil, By the aid of some oil, That ingenious Young Lady of Poole. 48. There was an Old Person of Mold, Who shrank from sensations of cold; So he purchased some muffs, Some furs and some fluffs, And wrapped himself from the cold. 49. There was an Old Man or Nepaul, From his horse had a terrible fall; But, though split quite in two, By some very strong glue, They mended that Man of Nepaul. 50. There was an old Man of th' Abruzzi, So blind that he couldn't his foot see; When they said, "That's your toe," He replied, "Is it so?" That doubtful old Man of th' Abruzzi. 51. There was an Old Person of Rhodes, Who strongly objected to toads; He paid several cousins, To catch them by dozens, That futile Old Person of Rhodes. 52. There was an Old Man of Peru, Who watched his wife making a stew; But once by mistake, In a stove she did bake, That unfortunate Man of Peru. 53. There was an Old Man of Melrose, Who walked on the tips of his toes; But they said, "It ain't pleasant, To see you at present, You stupid Old Man of Melrose." 54. There was a Young Lady of Lucca, Whose lovers completely forsook her; She ran up a tree, And said, "Fiddle-de-dee!" Which embarrassed the people of Lucca. 55. There was an old Man of Bohemia, Whose daughter was christened Euphemia; Till one day, to his grief, She married a thief, Which grieved that old Man of Bohemia. 56. There was an Old Man of Vesuvius, Who studied the works of Vitruvius; When the flames burnt his book, To drinking he took, That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius. 57. There was an Old Man of Cape Horn, Who wished he had never been born; So he sat on a chair, Till he died of despair, That dolorous Man of Cape Horn. 58. There was an Old Lady whose folly, Induced her to sit in a holly; Whereon by a thorn, Her dress being torn, She quickly became melancholy. 59. There was an Old Man of Corfu, Who never knew what he should do; So he rushed up and down, Till the sun made him brown, That bewildered Old Man of Corfu. 60. There was an Old Man of the South, Who had an immoderate mouth; But in swallowing a dish, That was quite full of fish, He was choked, that Old Man of the South. 61. There was an Old Man of the Nile, Who sharpened his nails with a file; Till he cut off his thumbs, And said calmly, "This comes-- Of sharpening one's nails with a file!" 62. There was an Old Person of Rheims, Who was troubled with horrible dreams; So, to keep him awake, They fed him with cake, Which amused that Old Person of Rheims. 63. There was an Old Person of Cromer, Who stood on one leg to read Homer; When he found he grew stiff, He jumped over the cliff, Which concluded that Person of Cromer. 64. There was an Old Person of Troy, Whose drink was warm brandy and soy; Which he took with a spoon, By the light of the moon, In sight of the city of Troy. 65. There was an Old Man of the Dee, Who was sadly annoyed by a flea; When he said, "I will scratch it," They gave him a hatchet, Which grieved that Old Man of the Dee. 66. There was an Old Man of Dundee, Who frequented the top of a tree; When disturbed by the crows, He abruptly arose, And exclaimed, "I'll return to Dundee." 67. There was an Old Person of Tring, Who embellished his nose with a ring; He gazed at the moon, Every evening in June, That ecstatic Old Person of Tring. 68. There was an Old Man on some rocks, Who shut his wife up in a box; When she said, "Let me out," He exclaimed, "Without doubt, You will pass all your life in that box." 69. There was an Old Man of Coblenz, The length of whose legs was immense; He went with one prance, From Turkey to France, That surprising Old Man of Coblenz. 70. There was an Old Man of Calcutta, Who perpetually ate bread and butter; Till a great bit of muffin, On which he was stuffing, Choked that horrid old man of Calcutta. 71. There was an Old Man in a pew, Whose waistcoat was spotted with blue; But he tore it in pieces, To give to his nieces,-- That cheerful Old Man in a pew. 72. There was an Old Man who said, "How,-- Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile, And continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of that Cow." 73. There was a Young Lady of Hull, Who was chased by a virulent Bull; But she seized on a spade, And called out--"Who's afraid!" Which distracted that virulent Bull. 74. There was an Old Man of Whitehaven, Who danced a quadrille with a Raven; But they said--"It's absurd, To encourage this bird!" So they smashed that Old Man of Whitehaven. 75. There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest as ever was born; But quickly snapt up he, Was once by a puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn. 76. There was an Old Man of the Hague, Whose ideas were excessively vague; He built a balloon, To examine the moon, That deluded Old Man of the Hague. 77. There was an Old Man of Jamaica, Who suddenly married a Quaker; But she cried out--"O lack! I have married a black!" Which distressed that Old Man of Jamaica. 78. There was an old person of Dutton, Whose head was so small as a button; So to make it look big, He purchased a wig, And rapidly rushed about Dutton. 79. There was a Young Lady of Tyre, Who swept the loud chords of a lyre; At the sound of each sweep, She enraptured the deep, And enchanted the city of Tyre. 80. There was an Old Man who said, "Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!" When they said--"Is it small?" He replied--"Not at all! It is four times as big as the bush!" 81. There was an Old Man of the East, Who gave all his children a feast; But they all ate so much, And their conduct was such, That it killed that Old Man of the East. 82. There was an Old Man of Kamschatka, Who possessed a remarkably fat cur, His gait and his waddle, Were held as a model, To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka. 83. There was an Old Man of the Coast, Who placidly sat on a post; But when it was cold, He relinquished his hold, And called for some hot buttered toast. 84. There was an Old Person of Bangor, Whose face was distorted with anger; He tore off his boots, And subsisted on roots, That borascible person of Bangor. 85. There was an Old Man with a beard, Who sat on a horse when he reared; But they said, "Never mind! You will fall off behind, You propitious Old Man with a beard!" 86. There was an Old Man of the West, Who never could get any rest; So they set him to spin, On his nose find his chin, Which cured that Old Man of the West. 87. There was an Old Person of Anerley, Whose conduct was strange and unmannerly; He rushed down the Strand, With a Pig in each hand, But returned in the evening to Anerley. 88. There was a Young Lady of Troy, Whom several large flies did annoy; Some she killed with a thump, Some she drowned at the pump, And some she took with her to Troy. 89. There was an Old Man of Berlin, Whose form was uncommonly thin; Till he once, by mistake, Was mixed up in a cake, So they baked that Old Man of Berlin. 90. There was an Old Person of Spain, Who hated all trouble and pain; So he sate on a chair, With his feet in the air, That umbrageous Old Person of Spain. 91. There was a Young Lady of Russia, Who screamed so that no one could hush her; Her screams were extreme, No one heard such a scream, As was screamed by that Lady of Russia. 92. There was an Old Man, who said, "Well! Will NOBODY answer this bell? I have pulled day and night, Till my hair has grown white, But nobody answers this bell!" 93. There was a Young Lady of Wales, Who caught a large fish without scales; When she lifted her hook, She exclaimed, "Only look!" That ecstatic Young Lady of Wales. 94. There was an Old Person of Cheadle, Was put in the stocks by the beadle; For stealing some pigs, Some coats, and some wigs, That horrible Person of Cheadle. 95. There was a Young Lady of Welling, Whose praise all the world was a-telling; She played on the harp, And caught several carp, That accomplished Young Lady of Welling. 96. There was an Old Person of Tartary, Who divided his jugular artery; But he screeched to his wife, And she said, "Oh, my life! Your death will be felt by all Tartary!" 97. There was an old Person of Chester, Whom several small children did pester; They threw some large stones, Which broke most of his bones, And displeased that old person of Chester. 98. There was an Old Man with an owl, Who continued to bother and howl; He sate on a rail, And imbibed bitter ale, Which refreshed that Old Man and his owl. 99. There was an Old Person of Gretna, Who rushed down the crater of Etna; When they said, "Is it hot?" He replied, "No, it's not!" That mendacious Old Person of Gretna. 100. There was a Young Lady of Sweden, Who went by the slow train to Weedon; When they cried, "Weedon Station!" She made no observation, But thought she should go back to Sweden. 101. There was a Young Girl of Majorca, Whose aunt was a very fast walker; She walked seventy miles, And leaped fifteen stiles, Which astonished that Girl of Majorca. 102. There was an Old Man of the Cape, Who possessed a large Barbary Ape; Till the Ape one dark night, Set the house on a light, Which burned that Old Man of the Cape. 103. There was an Old Lady of Prague, Whose language was horribly vague; When they said, "Are these caps?" She answered, "Perhaps!" That oracular Lady of Prague. 104. There was an Old Person of Sparta, Who had twenty-five sons and one daughter; He fed them on snails, And weighed them in scales, That wonderful person of Sparta. 105. There was an Old Man at a easement, Who held up his hands in amazement; When they said, "Sir, you'll fall!" He replied, "Not at all!" That incipient Old Man at a casement. 106. There was an old Person of Burton, Whose answers were rather uncertain; When they said, "How d'ye do?" He replied, "Who are you?" That distressing old person of Burton. 107. There was an Old Person of Ems, Who casually fell in the Thames; And when he was found, They said he was drowned, That unlucky Old Person of Ems. 108. There was an Old Person of Ewell, Who chiefly subsisted on gruel; But to make it more nice, He inserted some mice, Which refreshed that Old Person of Ewell. 109. There was a Young Lady of Parma, Whose conduct grew calmer and calmer; When they said, "Are you dumb?" She merely said, "Hum!" That provoking Young Lady of Parma. 110. There was an Old Man of Aosta, Who possessed a large Cow, but he lost her; But they said, "Don't you see, She has rushed up a tree? You invidious Old Man of Aosta!" 111. There was an Old Man, on whose nose, Most birds of the air could repose; But they all flew away, At the closing of day, Which relieved that Old Man and his nose. 112. There was a Young Lady of Clare, Who was sadly pursued by a bear; When she found she was tired, She abruptly expired, That unfortunate Lady of Clare. 
40134	----	A MORAL ALPHABET. * * * * * BY THE SAME AUTHORS. MORE BEASTS (FOR WORSE CHILDREN). Demy 4to. 3s. 6d. THE MODERN TRAVELLER. Fcap. 4to. 3s. 6d. EDWARD ARNOLD, LONDON. * * * * * A MORAL ALPHABET by H. B. With Illustrations by B. B. Authors of "The Bad Child's Book of Beasts" "More Beasts for Worse Children" "The Modern Traveller" etc. London Edward Arnold 37 Bedford Street 1899 _DEDICATION._ TO THE GENTLEMAN ON PAGE 49. A stands for [Illustration] Archibald who told no lies, And got this lovely volume for a prize. [Illustration] The Upper School had combed and oiled their hair, And all the Parents of the Boys were there. In words that ring like thunder through the Hall, Draw tears from some and loud applause from all,-- The Pedagogue, with Pardonable Joy, Bestows the Gift upon the Radiant Boy:-- [Illustration] "Accept the Noblest Work produced as yet" (Says he) "upon the English Alphabet; "Next term I shall examine you, to find "If you have read it thoroughly. So mind!" And while the Boys and Parents cheered so loud, That out of doors [Illustration] a large and anxious crowd Had gathered and was blocking up the street, The admirable child resumed his seat. MORAL. Learn from this justly irritating Youth, To brush your Hair and Teeth and tell the Truth. B stands for Bear. [Illustration] When Bears are seen Approaching in the distance, Make up your mind at once between Retreat and Armed Resistance. [Illustration] A Gentleman remained to fight-- With what result for him? The Bear, with ill-concealed delight, Devoured him, Limb by Limb. [Illustration] Another Person turned and ran; He ran extremely hard: The Bear was faster than the Man, And beat him by a yard. MORAL. Decisive action in the hour of need Denotes the Hero, but does not succeed. C stands for Cobra; when the Cobra [Illustration] bites An Indian Judge, the Judge spends restless nights. MORAL. This creature, though disgusting and appalling, Conveys no kind of Moral worth recalling. D The Dreadful [Illustration] Dinotherium he Will have to do his best for D. The early world observed with awe His back, indented like a saw. His look was gay, his voice was strong; His tail was neither short nor long; His trunk, or elongated nose, Was not so large as some suppose; His teeth, as all the world allows, Were graminivorous, like a cow's. He therefore should have wished to pass Long peaceful nights upon the Grass, But being mad the brute preferred To roost in branches, like a bird.[A] A creature heavier than a whale, You see at once, could hardly fail To suffer badly when he slid And tumbled [Illustration] (as he always did). His fossil, therefore, comes to light All broken up: and serve him right. MORAL. If you were born to walk the ground, Remain there; do not fool around. [A] We have good reason to suppose He did so, from his claw-like toes. E stands for [Illustration] Egg. MORAL. The Moral of this verse Is applicable to the Young. Be terse. F for a [Illustration] Family taking a walk In Arcadia Terrace, no doubt: The parents indulge in intelligent talk, While the children they gambol about. At a quarter-past six they return to their tea, Of a kind that would hardly be tempting to me, Though my appetite passes belief. There is Jam, Ginger Beer, Buttered Toast, Marmalade, With a Cold Leg of Mutton and Warm Lemonade, And a large Pigeon Pie very skilfully made To consist almost wholly of Beef. MORAL. A Respectable Family taking the air Is a subject on which I could dwell; It contains all the morals that ever there were, And it sets an example as well. G stands for Gnu, whose weapons of Defence Are long, sharp, curling Horns, and Common-sense. To these he adds a Name so short and strong, [Illustration] That even Hardy Boers pronounce it wrong. How often on a bright Autumnal day The Pious people of Pretoria say, "Come, let us hunt the----" Then no more is heard But Sounds of Strong Men struggling with a word. Meanwhile, the distant Gnu with grateful eyes Observes his opportunity, and flies. MORAL. Child, if you have a rummy kind of name, Remember to be thankful for the same. H was a [Illustration] Horseman who rode to the meet, And talked of the Pads of the fox as his "feet"-- An error which furnished subscribers with grounds For refusing to make him a Master of Hounds. He gave way thereupon to so fearful a rage, That he sold up his Stable and went on the Stage, And had all the success that a man could desire In creating the Part of [Illustration] "The Old English Squire." MORAL. In the Learned Professions, a person should know The advantage of having two strings to his bow. I the Poor Indian, justly called "The Poor," [Illustration] He has to eat his Dinner off the floor. MORAL. The Moral these delightful lines afford Is: "Living cheaply is its own reward." J stands for James, who thought it immaterial To pay his taxes, Local or Imperial. In vain the Mother wept, the Wife implored, James only yawned as though a trifle bored. [Illustration] The Tax Collector called again, but he Was met with Persiflage and Repartee. When James was hauled before the learned Judge, Who lectured him, he loudly whispered, "Fudge!" The Judge was startled from his usual calm, He [Illustration] struck the desk before him with his palm, And roared in tones to make the boldest quail, "_J stands for James_, IT ALSO STANDS FOR JAIL." And therefore, on a dark and dreadful day, Policemen came and took him all away. MORAL. The fate of James is typical, and shows How little mercy people can expect Who will not pay their taxes; (saving those To which they conscientiously object.) K for the Klondyke, a Country of Gold, Where the winters are often excessively cold; Where the lawn every morning is covered with rime, And skating continues for years at a time. Do you think that a Climate can conquer the grit Of the Sons of the West? Not a bit! Not a bit! When the weather looks nippy, the bold Pioneers Put on two pairs of Stockings and cover their ears, And roam through the drear Hyperborean dales With a vast apparatus of Buckets and Pails; [Illustration] Or wander through wild Hyperborean glades With Hoes, Hammers, Pickaxes, Matlocks and Spades. There are some who give rise to exuberant mirth By turning up nothing but bushels of earth, While those who have little cause excellent fun By attempting to pilfer from those who have none. At times the reward they will get for their pains Is to strike very tempting auriferous veins; Or, a shaft being sunk for some miles in the ground, Not infrequently nuggets of value are found. They bring us the gold when their labours are ended, And we--after thanking them prettily--spend it. MORAL. Just you work for Humanity, never you mind If Humanity seems to have left you behind. L was a Lady, Advancing in Age, Who drove in her carriage and six, With a Couple of Footmen a Coachman and Page, Who were all of them regular bricks. [Illustration] If the Coach ran away, or was smashed by a Dray, Or got into collisions and blocks, The Page, with a courtesy rare for his years, Would leap to the ground with inspiriting cheers, While the Footman allayed her legitimate fears, And the Coachman sat tight on his box. At night as they met round an excellent meal, They would take it in turn to observe: "What a Lady indeed! . . . what a presence to Feel! . . ." "What a Woman to worship and serve! . . ." [Illustration] But, perhaps, the most poignant of all their delights Was to stand in a rapturous Dream When she spoke to them kindly on Saturday Nights, And said "They deserved her Esteem." MORAL. Now observe the Reward of these dutiful lives: At the end of their Loyal Career They each had a Lodge at the end of the drives, And she left them a Hundred a Year. Remember from this to be properly vexed When the newspaper editors say, That "The type of society shown in the Text "Is rapidly passing away." M was a Millionaire who sat at Table, And ate like this-- [Illustration] as long as he was able; At half-past twelve the waiters turned him out: He lived impoverished and died of gout. MORAL. Disgusting exhibition! Have a care When, later on, you are a Millionaire, To rise from table feeling you could still Take something more, and not be really ill. N stands for Ned, Maria's younger brother, [Illustration] Who, walking one way, chose to gaze the other. In Blandford Square--a crowded part of town-- Two People on a tandem knocked him down; Whereat [Illustration] a Motor Car, with warning shout, Ran right on top and turned him inside out: The damages that he obtained from these Maintained him all his life in cultured ease. MORAL. The law protects you. Go your gentle way: The Other Man has always got to Pay. O stands for Oxford. Hail! salubrious seat Of learning! Academical Retreat! Home of my Middle Age! Malarial Spot Which People call Medeeval (though it's not). The marshes in the neighbourhood can vie With Cambridge, but the town itself is dry, And serves to make a kind of Fold or Pen [Illustration] Wherein to herd a lot of Learned Men. Were I to write but half of what they know, It would exhaust the space reserved for "O"; And, as my book must not be over big, I turn at once to "P," which stands for Pig. MORAL. Be taught by this to speak with moderation Of places where, with decent application, One gets a good, sound, middle-class education. P stands for Pig, as I remarked before, A second cousin to the Huge Wild Boar. But Pigs are civilized, while Huge Wild Boars [Illustration] Live savagely, at random, out of doors, And, in their coarse contempt for dainty foods, Subsist on Truffles, which they find in woods. Not so the cultivated Pig, who feels The need of several courses at his meals, But wrongly thinks it does not matter whether He takes them one by one [Illustration] or all together. Hence, Pigs devour, from lack of self-respect, What Epicures would certainly reject. MORAL. Learn from the Pig to take whatever Fate Or Elder Persons heap upon your plate. Q for Quinine, which children take [Illustration] With Jam and little bits of cake. MORAL. How idiotic! Can Quinine Replace Cold Baths and Sound Hygiene? R the Reviewer, [Illustration] reviewing my book, At which he had barely intended to look; But the very first lines upon "A" were enough To convince him the _Verses_ were excellent stuff. So he wrote, without stopping, for several days In terms of extreme, but well-merited Praise. To quote but one Passage: "No Person" (says he), "Will be really content without purchasing three, "While a Parent will send for a dozen or more, "And strew them about on the Nursery Floor. "The Versification might call for some strictures "Were it not for its singular wit; while the Pictures, "Tho' the handling of line is a little defective, "Make up amply in _verve_ what they lack in perspective." MORAL. The habit of constantly telling the Truth Will lend an additional lustre to Youth. S stands for Snail, who, though he be the least, Is not an uninstructive Hornèd Beast. [Illustration] His eyes are on his Horns, and when you shout Or tickle them, the Horns go in and out. Had Providence seen proper to endow The furious Unicorn or sober Cow With such a gift the one would never now Appear so commonplace on Coats of Arms. And what a fortune for our failing farms If circus managers, with wealth untold, Would take the Cows for half their weight in gold! MORAL. Learn from the Snail to take reproof with patience, And not put out your Horns on all occasions. T [Illustration] for the Genial Tourist, who resides In Peckham, where he writes Italian Guides. MORAL. Learn from this information not to cavil At slight mistakes in books on foreign travel. U for the Upas Tree, [Illustration] that casts a blight On those that pull their sisters' hair, and fight. [Illustration] But oh! the Good! They wander undismayed, And (as the Subtle Artist has portrayed) Dispend the golden hours at play beneath its shade.[B] MORAL. Dear Reader, if you chance to catch a sight Of Upas Trees, betake yourself to flight. [B] A friend of mine, a Botanist, believes That Good can even browse upon its leaves. I doubt it.... V for [Illustration] the unobtrusive Volunteer, Who fills the Armies of the World with fear. MORAL. Seek with the Volunteer to put aside The empty Pomp of Military Pride. W My little victim, let me trouble you To fix your active mind on W. [Illustration] The WATERBEETLE here shall teach A sermon far beyond your reach: He flabbergasts the Human Race By gliding on the water's face With ease, celerity, and grace; _But if he ever stopped to think Of how he did it, he would sink._ MORAL. Don't ask Questions! X [Illustration] No reasonable little Child expects A Grown-up Man to make a rhyme on X. MORAL. These verses teach a clever child to find Excuse for doing all that he's inclined. Y [Illustration] stands for Youth (it would have stood for Yak, But that I wrote about him two years back). Youth is the pleasant springtime of our days, As Dante so mellifluously says (Who always speaks of Youth with proper praise). You have not got to Youth, but when you do You'll find what He and I have said is true. MORAL. Youth's excellence should teach the Modern Wit First to be Young, and then to boast of it. Z [Illustration] for this Zébu, who (like all Zebús)[C] Is held divine by scrupulous Hindoos. [C] Von Kettner writes it "_Zé_bu"; Wurst "Ze_bu_": I split the difference and use the two. MORAL. Idolatry, as you are well aware, Is highly reprehensible. But there, We needn't bother,--when we get to Z Our interest in the Alphabet is dead. ILLUSTRATED HUMOROUS BOOKS _Published by Mr. EDWARD ARNOLD._ REALLY AND TRULY! OR, THE CENTURY FOR BABES. Written by ERNEST AMES, and Illustrated by MRS. ERNEST AMES, Authors of "An A B C for Baby Patriots." Fully and brilliantly coloured. Price 3s. 6d. RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES. The Verses by COLONEL D. STREAMER; the Pictures by G---- H----. Crown 4to. 3s. 6d. TAILS WITH A TWIST. An Animal Picture-Book by E. T. REED, Author of "Pre-Historic Peeps," &c. With Verses by "A BELGIAN HARE." Oblong demy 4to. 3s. 6d. THE FRANK LOCKWOOD SKETCH-BOOK. Being a Selection of Sketches by the late SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P. Third Edition. Oblong royal 4to. 10s. 6d. MORE BEASTS (FOR WORSE CHILDREN). Verses by H. B. Pictures by B. B. Demy 4to. 3s. 6d. THE MODERN TRAVELLER. By H. B. and B. B. Fcap. 4to. 3s. 6d. A MORAL ALPHABET. By H. B. and B. B. Fcap. 4to. 3s. 6d. EDWARD ARNOLD, 37, BEDFORD STREET, LONDON. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Page 41, "o" changed to "to" (I to write) 
49684	----	provided by the Internet Archive PUCK ON PEGASUS By H. Cholmondeley Pennell Illustrated By Leech, Phiz, Portch, and Tenniel With a Frontispiece By George Cruikshank Fourth Edition Routledge, Warne, & Routledge: 1862. PUCK ON PEGASUS. "Those that Hobgoblin call you, and swee Puck You do their work, and they shall have good luck, Are not you he?"------ Midsummer Nights Dream. PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION. |The custom of inditing a preface is one which is perhaps more honoured in the breach than in the observance: nevertheless, I cannot allow the present opportunity to pass without returning my hearty thanks and acknowledgments to my Critics, and the Press generally, for the indulgent consideration I have received at their hands, and for the discriminating advice, of which, in revising this edition, I have gladly availed myself. Many of the minor pieces-introduced in the first instance principally as vehicles for illustrations have been omitted, and others of a somewhat less trivial character substituted. These alterations have, to a certain extent, modified the original design of the book, as conveyed by its title; but the unexpectedly flattering reception accorded to the two most serious poems, the "Night Mail North," and the "Derby Day," (the former haying been quoted at length in nine Reviews) led me to think that the change might not be disadvantageous. I have had on the whole but few hard knocks to complain of; certainly fewer than, considering the nature of some of the poems, I had reason to expect. For these adverse criticisms, which were no doubt the expression of the genuine opinions of their writers, I bear no grudge. As the Author of "The Season" pointedly phrases it, I could "have escaped censure only by escaping notice." WEYBRIDGE, 20 May, 1862. [Illustration: 5022] THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH (Euston Square, 1840.) [Illustration: 9024] OW then, take your seats! for Glasgow and the North; Chester!--Carlisle!--Holyhead, and the wild Frith of Forth. Clap on the steam, and sharp's the word "You men in scarlet cloth:-- "Are there any more passengers, For the Night.. Mail.. to the North!" Are there any more passengers? Yes three-but they can't get in, Too late, too late!-How they bellow and knock, They might as well try to soften a rock As the heart of that fellow in green. For the Night Mail North? what Ho-- (No use to struggle, you can't get thro') My young and lusty one-- Whither away from the gorgeous town?-- "For the lake and the stream and the heather brown, "And the double-barrell'd gun!" For the Night Mail North, I say?-- You with the eager eyes-- You with the haggard face and pale?-- 'From a ruin'd hearth and a starving brood, "A crime and a felon's gaol!" For the Night Mail North, old man?-- Old statue of despair-- Why tug and strain at the iron gate? "My daughter!!" Ha! too late, too late, She is gone, you may safely swear; She has given you the slip, d'you hear? She has left you alone in your wrath,-- And she's off and away, with a glorious start, To the home of her choice, with the man of her heart, By the Night Mail North! Wh------ish R------ush Wh-----ish r------ush.----- "What's all that hullabaloo? "Keep fast the gates there-who is this "That insists on bursting thro'?" A desp'rate man whom none may withstand, For look, there is something clench'd in his hand--- Tho' the bearer is ready to drop--- He waves it wildly to and fro, And hark! how the crowd are shouting below--- "Back!"--- And back the opposing barriers go, "A reprieve for the Cannongate murderer Ho! "In the Queen's name--- "STOP. "Another has confessed the crime." Whish--rush--whish--rush--- The Guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet, Now forward and northward! fierce and fleet, Thro' the mist and the dark and the driving sleet, As if life and death were in it; 'Tis a splendid race! a race against Time,--- And a thousand to one we win it. Look at those flitting ghosts--- The white-arm'd finger posts--- If we're moving the eighth of an inch, I say, We're going a mile a minute! A mile a minute--for life or death--- Away, away! though it catches one's breath, The man shall not die in his wrath: The quivering carriages rock and reel--- Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding steel! The thundering crank, and the mighty wheel!-- Are there any more pasengers For the Night.. Mail.. to the North? [Illustration: 0028] SONG OF IN-THE-WATER. (By L--g--f--R.) [Illustration: 9029] HEN the summer night descended Sleepy on the White-- Witch water; Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Gazing on the silent water-- Gazing on the gleaming river-- With her azure eyes and tender,-- On the river, glancing forward, Till the laughing waves sprang upward, Dancing in her smile of sunshine Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As they sprang into the starlight; As they clasp'd her charm'd reflection Glowing to their silver bosoms-- As they whisper'd, "Fairest, fairest, "Rest upon our crystal bosoms!" And she straightway did according:-- Down into the water stept she, Down into the shining river, Like a red deer in the sunset-- Like a ripe leaf in the autumn: From her lips like roses snow-fill'd, Came a soft and dreamy murmur. Softer than the breath of summer. Softer than the murmring river! Sighs that melted as the snows melt. Silently and sweetly melted; Words that mingled with the crisping Foam upon the billow resting. From the forest shade primeval, Piggey-Wiggey look'd out at her; He, the very Youthful Porker-- He, the Everlasting Granter-- Gazed upon her there, and wonder'd! With his nose out, rokey-pokey-- And his tail up, curley-wurley-- Wonder'd what on earth the row meant. Wonder'd what the girl was up to-- What the deuce her little game was? And she floated down the river, Like a water-proof Ophelia-- For her crinoline sustained her!! [Illustration: 0032] THE FIGHT FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP. By L --d M--l-- y. TOLD BY AN ANCIENT GLADIATOR TO HIS GREAT GRANDMOTHER. I. [Illustration: 9033] ARGE Heenan of Benicia, By ninety-nine gods he swore, That the bright Belt of England Should grace her sons no more. By ninety-nine he swore it, And named the "fisting" day.-- East and west and south and north Sir Richard Mayne rode wildly forth His cohorts to array! II. East and west and south and north The smart Detectives flew-- South and north and east and west They watch'd the long day thro'. West and south--east and north-- The word went flashing by, "Look out for Sayers and Heenan, "Policemen--mind your eye!" III. Sir Robert's azure heroes Look'd out uncommon keen, From park and plain and prairie, From heath and upland green; From Essex fens and fallows, From Hampshire--dale and down-- From Sussex' hundred leagues of sand, To Shropshire's fat and flow'ry land And Cheshire's wild and wasted strand, And Yorkshire's heather brown;-- And so, of course, the fight came off A dozen miles from Town. IV. Then first stept out great Heenan, Unmatch'd for breadth and length; And in his chest it might be guess'd, He had unpleasant strength. And to him went the Sayers That look'd both small and thin, But well each practised eye could read The Lion and the Bull-dog breed,-- And from each fearless stander-by Arose that genuine British cry, "Go in, my boy,--and win!" V. And he "went in"--and smote him Through mouth-piece and through cheek; And Heenan smote him back again Into the ensuing week; Full seven days thence he smote him With one prodigious crack, And th' undaunted Champion straight Discern'd that he was five feet eight, When flat upon his back:-- Whilst a great shout of laughter Rang from the Yankee pack. VI. As springs the Whitworth bullet Out sprang the Champion then, And dealt the huge Benician A vast thump on the chin; And thrice and four times strongly Drove in the shatt'ring blow; And thrice and four times waver'd The herculean foe; And his great arms swung wildly, Like ship-masts, to and fro. VII. But now no sound of laughter Was heard on either side, Whilst feint, and draw, and rally, The cautious Bruisers tried; And long they spared and counter'd, Till Heenan sped a thrust So fierce and quick, it swept away Th' opposing guard like sapling spray,-- And for the second time that day The Champion bit the dust. VIII. Short time lay English Sayers Upon the ground at length, Short time his Yankee foeman Had triumph in his strength; Bight to the eye he smote him And his soul went with the blow-- Such blow no other hand could dash Such blow no other arm could smash-- The giant tottered low; And for a space they spong'd his face, And thought the eye would go. IX. Time's up!--Again they battle; Again the strokes" fly free; But Sayers' right arm--that arm of pride-- Now dangles pow'rless by his side, Plain for all eyes to see; And thro' that long and desp'rate shock-- Two mortal hours on the clock-- By sheer indomitable pluck With his _left hand_ fought he! X. With his left hand he fought him, Though he was sore in pain,-- Full twenty times hurl'd backward, Still pressing on again! With his left hand he fought him, Till each could fight no more; Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow, Till Heenan could not see his foe-- Such fighting England never knew Upon her soil before! XI. They gave him of the standard Gold coinage of the realm, As much as one stout guardsman Could carry in his helm; They made him an ovation On the Exchange hard by,-- And they may slap their pockets In witness if I lie. XII. And ev'ry soul in England Was glad, both high and low, And books were voted snobbish, And "gloves" were all the go; And each man told the story, Whilst ladies' hearts did melt, How Sayers, the British Champion, Did battle for the Belt. XIII. And still, when Yankees swagger Th' almighty "stars and stripes," And put eternal bunkum Into their neighbours' pipes,-- With joke and gibe and banter Long shall the tale be told, How stout Tom Sayers kept the Belt And Yankee Doodle sold! [Illustration: 0040] THE PETITION [Illustration: 9041] H! pause awhile, kind gentleman, Nor turn thy face away; There is a boon that I must ask, A pray'r that I would pray. Thou hast a gentle wife at home? A son--perchance like me-- And children fair with golden hair To cling around thy knee? Then by their love I pray thee, And by their merry tone; By home, and all its tender joys, Which I have never known,-- By all the smiles that hail thee now; By ev'ry former sigh; By ev'ry pang that thou hast felt When lone, perchance, as I,-- By youth and all its blossoms bright, By manhood's ripen'd fruits, By Faith and Hope and Charity-- Yer'll let me clean yer boots! [Illustration: 0042] HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON (By R--b--t S--th--y.) _"There standyth on the one tide of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal; wherepon in gaye timet, ye youths and ye maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport themselvet and take their pleasaunce; runnynge both uppe and downe with great glee and to the much endangerment of their fair nekkes."_ _Kirke's Memoirs_ [Illustration: 9043] OW do the Daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily:-- Gingerly Tenderly; Fairily; Glidingly, Slidingly, Slippingly Trippingly Skippingly Clippingly!-- Dashing and flying, And clashing and shying, And starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And rushing and crushing, And leaping and creeping, And tottering and staggering, And lumbering and slithering, And hurrying and skurrying, And worrying and flurrying, Feathers a-flying all--bonnets untying all-- Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all, Balmorals dancing and glancing entrancing all,-- Feats of activity-- Nymphs on declivity-- Mothers in extacies-- Fathers in vextacies-- Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teazing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Rumbling and tumbling and grumbling and stumbling on, Any fine afternoon, About July or June-- That's just how the Daughters Come down at Dunoon! [Illustration: 0046] 'THE POET CLOSE.' (_Mr. "Barney Maguire's" Account._) CH! botheration! what a perturbation And exasperation in the Press arose, At the first mintion of the Queen's intintion To confer a pinsion on the Poet Close! There was the True-Blues-Man and the Farthing-- Newsman All in the confushan fighting cheek by jowl; And the Whigs and Tories forgett'n their furies In their indignation and giniral howl! The _TittlerTattle_ and the _Penny-Rattle_ Led off the battle with a puny squake, Whilst the _Big-Tin-Kettle_ and the 'heavy metal' His hash for to settle took the liberty to spake;-- "Shure'twas most ongracious, not to say owdacious, And enough to bring the water to their eyes, To take the loaves and fishes from the chilthren's dishes And bestow the Royal Bounty in such wise. "If so be that noble Er-rls and infarior chur-rls Has parties they don't love and daresen't bate, Let them squeeze their purses to choke off the curses And not foist their verses on the Public State! 'Twas worse than jobbery, and a right down robbery, For to give the ruffian fifty pounds a year,-- Becase the swate nobilities were dhreading his civilities, And ould Lord Lonsdale in a state of bodily fear. "Themselves despiting, there was Carlisle writing, And Brougham inditing of saft-sardering notes, And Viscount Palmerston a-chuckling at the harm he's done, And dipping his fingers in the county votes.-- 'Twould be a wrong entirely, to be remimber'd direly, If the scribbling blackguard on 'the List' was placed, And should the Legislature support the crature Then for sartin shure the counthry was disgraced!" So the papers thunder'd, and the people wonder'd _Whose_ nose had blunder'd into this hornet's nist; And the Queen, Heav'n bless her! the Roy'1 Rehdresser, Struck Close's name out of the Civil List Och! then, what a rowing and a rubadub-dow-ing And universal crowing fill'd the air, With a gin'ral hissing,--but Lord Pam was missing, And making for the house-top by the garret-stair! THE DU CHILLU CONTROVERSY _(After the "Snapping Turtle.")_ [Illustration: 9050] AVE you read B. P. Du Chaillu? Chaillu of the Big Baboon? He who slew the fierce Gorilla In the Mountains of the Moon? All day long that injured party Rested on the boughs his chin; Strangling spifflicated niggers Just to keep his biceps in. Nightly several score of lions Yielded up their worthless lives; And there was a cry in Mickbos, For the King had lost his wives. Wrathful was the sable monarch At their unexpected hops; For the brute had cook'd the gruel Of the Nymphs who cook'd the chops! Thro' this land of death and danger, Mandrake-swamp and stagnant fen,-- Where the spiders look like asses, And the asses grow like men,-- Where the Shniego-Bmouvé sitteth Hairless underneath his hat, And a white man is a dainty Irresistible if fat,-- Where the alligator gambols-- Whale like--in the black lagoon;-- Went unscathed B. P. Du Chaillu, Chaillu of the Big Baboon! Found the Shniego-Bmouvé squatting, Hairless,'neath the tropic moon Saw the spiders--saw the asses-- (When he gazed in the Lagoon)-- Twigg'd the Crocodile stupendous, Winking with ferocious eye,-- Met the Cannibals--the feasters On cold missionary pie;-- Shot, and bagg'd, the fierce Gorilla, To the music of the drum,-- Heard, fifteen miles off, his roaring, Mellow'd to a gentle--hum! What, you doubt me! gen'rous public, Hear me swear it's no take in-- Owen says the throat's a larynx, And look here's the beggar's skin! ADVERTISEMENT [Illustration:9053] OST, stolen, or stray'd!--During Satur-- day's fog-- A confoundedly ugly terrier dog. Coat short, fore-legs long, color mud-- dyish black. (Item--bites freely:)--no hair on the back:-- Whoso brings the above to Old-Lady Place East, Will be rewarded!! _(by getting rid of the beast)_. [Illustration: 0053] OUR SWEET RECRUITING SERGEANTS. _"Down before his feet she knelt, Her locks of gold Ml o'er her." Edward and Philippa._ [Illustration: 9054] OME look from the window with me, Charley love, They are marching this way thro' the gloom; With clatter of steel, And echoing peal, And a ringing reverb'rating hum As they come;-- 'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum! 'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum, Charley love. Our own Volunteers, Caro mine,-- See, now their arms glance! "Front form!--left--advance!"-- As the long column wheels into line It's divine To watch how their bayonets shine. From village and town they have drawn, Charley love, They've gather'd from lowland and height,-- Their lasses have braced The swords to their waist, And armed them for England and Right, and to fight For the banner that's waving to night. Gallant hearts! they are bound to our own, Charley love, They are link'd by each tie that endears,-- By hopes and by pray'rs-- By smiles and by tears-- Long, long ring those shouts in our ears! Hark, three cheers-- Three times three for our brave Volunteers! Adieu! the bright pageant grows dark, Charley love, Their ranks are beginning to fade-- The last glimmer dies-- There's a mist in my eyes!-- Their voices come faint thro' the shade, I'm afraid That's good night to our Rifle Brigade! [Illustration: 0056] SONNET TO HIMSELF. [Illustration: 9057] FF! off! thou art an ass, thou art an ass, "Thou man of endless words and little sense, "Of pigmy powers and conceit im-- mense-- "Thou art a Donkey! Take a bit of grass?" Oh, Martin! Oh, my Tupper! thus exclaims A groveling Age, grown envious of thy fames,-- Thy boundless sonnets, and Proverbial bays: Blest Silence! lovéd Silence! thou art Heavn!-- (See my remarks in "Sonnet 47")-- _Yet_ will I breathe my pleasant Poems forth Innumerable. Hundreds more--ay tens Of thousands! Sweet etherial rhymes, I hold ye here! and hug ye--all the lot;-- A monstrous pile of quintessential rot!! [Illustration: 0058] DERBY DAY [Illustration: 9059] H! who will over the Downs with me?" Over Epsom Downs, and away-- The Sun has got a tear in his eye, And the morning mists are light and high;-- We shall have a splendid day. And splendid it is, by all that's hot!-- A regular blaze on the hill; And the turf rebounds from the light-shod heel And the tapering spokes of the delicate wheel With a springy-velvety sort of a feel That fairly invites "a spill." Splendid it is; but we musnt stop, The folks are beginning to run,-- Is yonder a cloud that covers the course? No, it's fifty thousand--man and horse-- Come out to see the fun. So--just in time for the trial spurt; The jocks are cantering in,-- We shall have the leaders round in a crack, And a hundred voices are shouting "back," But nobody stirs a pin! There isn't a soul will budge So much as an inch from his place, Tho' the hue of the Masters scarlet coat Is a joke compared to his face. To the ropes! to the ropes!"--Now stick to your hold;-- A breezy flutter of crimson and gold, And the crowd are swept aside,-- You can see the caps as they fall and rise Like a swarm of variegated flies Coming glittering up the ride; To the ropes, for your life!" Here they come--there they go--" The exquisite graceful things! In the very sport of their strength and pride; Ha! that's the Favourite--look at his, It suggests the idea of wings: And the glossy neck is arched and firm In spite of the flying pace; The jockey sticks to his back like glue, And his hand is quick and his eye is true, And whatever skill and pluck can do They will do to win the race. The colt with the bright broad chest, Will run to win to day-- There's fame and fortune in every bound And a hundred and fifty thousand pound Staked on the gallant Bay! "_Theyre off!_".... And away at the very first start, "Hats down! hats down in front! "Hats down, you sir in the wide-awake!"-- The tighten'd barriers quiver and shake But they bravely bear the brunt. A hush, like death, is over the crowd; D'you hear that distant cry?-- Then hark how it gathers, far and near, One rolling, ringing, rattling cheer As the race goes dashing by, And away with the hats and caps in the air, And the horses seem to fly... Forward! forward! at railway speed, There's one that has fairly taken the lead In a style that can scarce miscarry; Oyer and on, like a flash of light, And now his colours are coming in sight, Favourite! Favourite!--scarlet and white-- He'll win, by the Lord Harry!! If he can but clear the Corner, I say, The Derby is lost and won-- It's an awful shave, but he'll do the trick, Now! Now or never--he's passing it quick.-- _He's round!_... No, he isn't; he's broken his neck, And the jockey his collar bone: And the whirlwind race is over his head, Without stopping to ask if he's living or dead,-- Was there ever such rudeness known? He fell like a trump in the foremost place-- He died with the rushing wind on his face-- At the wildest bound of his glorious pace-- In the mad exulting revel; He left his shoes to his son and heir, His hocks to a champagne dealer at Ware, A lock of his hair To the Lady-Mare, And his hoofs and his tail------to the------! [Illustration: 0064] [Illustration: 5065] AH, WHO? [Illustration: 9066] HO comes so damp by grass and grave, At ghastly twilight hour; And bubbles forth his pois'nous breath On ev'ry shudd'ring flow'rî Who dogs the houseless wanderer Upon the wintry wold; And kisses--with his frothy lips-- The clammy brow and cold? Who, hideous, trails a slimy form, Betwixt the moonlight pale; And the pale, fearful, sleeping face? Our little friend--the Snail. [Illustration: 0067] "DAILY TRIALS." _By a Dyspeptic_. [Illustration: 9068] UNCH, sir? Yes-ser, Pickled Salmon Cutlets Kidneys Greens and"-- "Gammon! Have you got no wholesome meat, sir? Flesh or fowl that one can eat, sir?" "Eat, sir? Yes-ser, on the dresser Pork, sir"--"Pork, sir, I detest, sir"-- "Lobsters?" "Are to me unblest, sir"-- "Duck and Peas?" "I can't digest, sir"-- 'Roe, sir?" "No, sir!" "Fish, sir?" "Pish, sir!" Sausage?" "Sooner eat the dish, sir-- _Hath_ a puppy charms for Briton? _Can_ the soul rejoice in kitton? "Shrimps, sir? Prawns, sir? Crawfish? Winkle? Scallops ready in a twinkle? Wilks and Cockles, Crabs to follow!" "Heav'ns, _nothing_ I can swallow! Waitar!" "Yes-sar." "Bread for twenty. I shall starve in midst of plenty!" [Illustration: 0069] HOW WE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REBLEW [Illustration: 9070] H, Brighton's the place For a beautiful face, And a figure that gracefully made is; And so far as I know There's none other can show, At the right time of year--say November or so-- Such a bevy of pretty young ladies. Such blows on the Down! Such lounges thro' Town! Such a crush at Parade and Pavilion! Such beaches below! (Where people don't go), Such bathing!--Such dressing, past Madame Tussaud!-- No wonder it catches the Million! For bustle and breeze And a sniff of salt seas Oh, Brighton's the place!--not a doubt of it;-- But instead of post-chaise Or padded coupes If you had to get there a la excursionaise-- (Which Trench Says is French For a seat on a bench, With an even toss up if you frizzle or drench)-- I think you'd be glad to keep out of it! With their slap dash, crack crash, And here and there a glorious smash, And a hundred killed and wounded,-- It's little our jolly Directors care, For a Passenger's neck if he pays his fare, So away you go at a florin a pair, The signal whistle has sounded! Off at last An hour past The time, and carriages tight-full; Why this should be We can't quite see, But of course it's all a part of the spree, And it's really most delightful! Crush, pack-- Brighton and back-- All the way for a shilling,-- What'prentice cit But doesn't admit Tho' ten in a row is an awkwardish fit, At the price it's exceedingly filling! _(Chorus of Passengers.)_ Crash, crack-- Brighton and back-- All the way for a shilling,-- Tho' the pace be slow We're likely to go A long journey before we get back d'you know, The speed's so remarkably "killing"! Ho! "slow" you find? Then off, like the wind-- With a jerk that to any unprejudiced mind Feels strongly as if it had come from _behind_-- Away like mad we clatter; Bang--slap,--bang--rap,-- "Can't somebody manage to see what has hap--?" There goes Jones's head!--no, it's only his cap!-- Jones, my boy, who's your hatter? Slow it is, is it? jump jolt, Slithering wheel and starting bolt, Staggering, reeling, and rocking,-- Now we're going it!---jolt jump, Whack thwack, thump bump,-- It's a mercy we're all stuck fast in a lump, The permanent way is shocking! Away we rattle--we race--we fly!-- Mrs. Brown is certain she's going to die, 'We've our own ideas on that point, you and I) But this pitching will make evry one ill,-- Screech scream--groan grunt-- Express behind, and Luggage in front,-- If we have good luck we may manage to shunt Before we get into the tunnel! _(Chorus of Passengers.)_ Jump, jolt-- Engines that bolt-- Brighton and back for a shilling-- Jolt jump--but we've children and wives, Jump jolt--who value our lives, Jump--and you won't catch one here again who survives The patent process of killing! _(Chorus of Directors.)_ With our slap dash, crack crash, And here and there a glorious smash And a hundred killed and wounded!-- It's little we jolly directors care For a passenger's limbs if he pays his fare, So away you go at a florin the pair, The signal whistle has sounded!! SCHOOL "FEEDS." [Illustration: 9076] Y, there they sit! a merry rout As village green can show, That were such woful little wights A summer hour ago. Such woful weary little wights! And precious hungry too-- And now they look like sausages All smiling in a row. For they have fed on dainty fare This blazing August day, And ate--as only people eat When _other_ people pay! A pyramid of roasted ox Has vanish'd like a shot; Plum puddings, brobdiguag, have gone The second time, to pot; Devoted fowls have come to grief, With persecuted geese; And ducks (it is a wicked world!) Departed life in peas. My Lord and Lady Bountiful Have done the civil thing,-- The lady patrons of "the turf" Have waited in the "ring;" The Grand Comptroller of the cake Can hardly hold the knife; The milk-and-water Ganymede Is weary of his life; Yet still the conflict rages round! But now there comes a lull-- The edge of youthful appetite Is waxing somewhat dull-- And fat Fenetta bobs, and says, "No, thank ye, mam,--I'm 'ful'!" Alone amid the festive throng One tiny brow is sad! One cherub face is wet with grief-- What ails you little lad? Why still with scarifying sleeve That tearful visage rub? Ah! much I fear, my gentle boy, You don't enjoy your grub! You're altogether off your feed, Your laughing looks have fled,-- Perhaps some little faithful friend Has punch'd your little head? You miss some well remembered face The merry rout among? The lips that blest, the arms that prest, The neck to which you clung? A brothers voice? a sister's smile? Perhaps--you've burnt your tongue? Here, on a sympathetic breast, Your tale of suff'ring pour. Come, darling! tell me all----"Boo-hoo;-- "I can't eat any more!" [Illustration: 0079] LORD HOLLYGREENS COURTSHIP _(BY MRS. E. B. BR--N--G.)_ A POET WRITES TO HIS FRIEND. Place--BEDLAM. Time--PROBABLY "SATURDAY NIGHT ABOUT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING." "_Dear my friend, and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you; "Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will." (!!!) Mrs. Browning's "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."_ [Illustration: 9080] O Ho, Ha Ha, He He--Hum!!!! 0, Charley, let me weep adown your Manly bosom! o'er that chamber, tears must surely run ad libi.-- I'm a victim! friend and pitcher!--done incontinently brown--your Poet is immensely diddled by a--but _narrabo tibi_:-- (There's a Lady, * who writes verses, in the true spas-- modic metre,-- Better writes she, certes, better than all women with-- out end: Writes full darkly:--I defy all Bards alive or dead to beat her At a nubibustic stanza that no man can comprehend-- Her sublime afflatus had I, and her noble scorn of rhyming, I could write you something tallish--should make Lindley Murray suffer,-- Would she "lean her spirit" o'er me, in this rhympho-- leptic climbing, ** I would paint My Courtship in a style would make you stare, Old Buffer!)-- * I cannot forego this opportunity of paying my humble tribute of ad-- miration to the genius and accomplishments of Mrs. Barrett Browning, whose lamented death has occurred since the above effusion first appeared in print; and I do so the more readily as I fear lest lines which were written in mere gaité de cour may possibly have been construed into a serious attack upon works, the general and undoubted merits of which I should be the first to acknowledge. ** "Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the muses-- "And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star." --Lady Geraldine's Courtship. You know, Charley, 'where I saw my Marianne (first) in Belgravia; And (_secundo_) how I loved her, with more love than kith and kin do: (_Tertio_) how I won,--and wed her,--yestermorn; and her behaviour You shall hear in five words--last night she exodus'd BY THE WINDOW!! O! my Charley, you remember, on that cold fifth of November, As we saunter'd slowly Eastward, with the weed between our lips; How we spied a damsel beauteous, lymphomatically duteous, (I.E. cook at Number 7, scrubbing of the kitchen steps). Charley, you and I remember, on that bright fifth of November, How she knelt there like a statue,--knelt bare-armëd in the breeze,-- Whist her saponaceous lavement catalambanized the pavement, And her virginal white vesture flutter'd, reef d-wise, to the knees. Spell-bound in the road behind her, paused the Hurdy-- Gurdy Grinder, Strangling in his wild excitement, Jumping Jimmy the baboon; Whilst the Genius of the Organ, fascinated by her Gorgon Beauty, stood enraptured--captured--playing madly out of tune. Then with her blue eyes entrancing, and her taper ankle glancing, And her rounded arms akimbo resting on her dainty waist; She half turn'd,--and turning threw me one glance "utterly to undo me"-- (Well, you know'twas me she look'd at, Charley, and she show'd her taste! ) Evermore my soul beguiling, in arch silence she kept smiling-- And my heart within my bosom, pretematurally hopp'd; Still as near I drew, and nearer, she grew fair and yet more fairer (!)-- On both knees upon the pavement (Miles's bags, my Boy) I dropp'd. [Illustration: 0084] Then--but why should I confide you, what you know as well as I do? How she look'd up like an angel, (I can see her figure still!) "I am yours, sir, if you'll take me--if you'll marry me and make me "A fine Lady, like my Missis:"--how I cried, "By Jove, I WILL!" How thenceforward ev'ry morning, wet and wind and weather scorning, By the steps of Number 7, punctual as the clock I past,-- How my love grew daily stronger--strength'ning as the days grew longer-- Till my Marianne consented, and we named the day at last. How my Queen of Cake and Curry volunteer'd a muffin-worry, How I fondly made my advent somewhat ere the moment due,-- And on going to the cupboard, like a second Mother Hubbard, Found the same, not "bare," but fill'd with six feet one of Horse Guards Blue. "Monster!'tis my only brother!"--"Silence, Madam-- you're another: "Come out of your cupboard, Lobster! come out, gallant Corporal Brown,-- "Slave! (I said) base Kitchen-creeper! (said I) I will stop your peeper! "I will tap your claret, Lobster,--I'll--" [Illustration: 0086] --but here he knock'd me down. How, still chain'd by Love the Fetterer, spite of cupboard and etcetera, To Cremome one night I took her, in a "Pork Pie" highly killing; Purvey'd buns and ices satis, and a sherry-cobbler --gratis! (Tho' you know I do not, Charley, love to sep'rate from a shilling)-- How, when ev'rything was paid for; fun and fireworks only stay'd for; And my belle amie had eaten ev'rything that she was able; Whilst the Resonant Steam-Dragon* (that's the tea-- pot), and the flagon Of Lymphatic Cow (that's milk), stood smiling on the arbor table,-- "Might she just step out and find her parasol she'd left behind her? "Whilst I kindly pour'd the tea out, and the cream that look'd so yellow?"-- * "She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant Steam-Eagles Follow far on the direction of her little dove-like hand." _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_. Yellow? Ha, ha! who could think it!--She never came back to drink it:-- I fell flooded in a Brown. * ( study, understood, Old Fellow). How my love withstood this trial, (toughish there is no denial) Soul-subdued by her low pleading, satin-tongued, soap-- soft as silk,-- Not a saint his heart could harden, thus so sweetly ask'd for pardon:-- I suck'd in the obvious crammer kindly as my mother's milk. Soh! (I said)--and then forgave her: and she promised to behave her-- Self in future like an angel (which she did, and show'd her wings) And I fancied yestermorning (fool) that my reward was dawning,-- So it was--and with a vengeance! (fool again) But some one rings?-- * . . . "I fell flooded in a dark."-- _Lady Geraldine's Courtship._ 'Twas a cruel thing--but funny?--her eloping ere her Honey-- [Illustration: 0089] Moon'd scarce risen?--cutting, very,--and for me the world is dead. Slightly crushing to my hopes is this performance on the ropes! Miss Marianne _suspensa scalis_--(would t'were sus. per col. instead!) Ass that I was to be wedded!--Wonderfully wooden-- headed! I'm a wiser man now, Charley,--_certes_, up to snuff--but sadder,-- Oh, the fickle little Hindoo! _Facilis descensus_ window! Oh--that bell again! what's this?---- A Bill OF £5 FOR THE LADDER! [Illustration: 0090] LAY OF THE DESERTED INFLUENZED (How you speak through your Dose) [Illustration: 9091] O, doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore! Dever bore our feet shall rove The beadows as of yore! Dever bore with byrtle boughs Her tresses shall I twide-- Dever bore her bellow voice Bake bellody with bide! Dever shall we lidger bore, Abid the flow'rs at dood, Dever shall we gaze at dight Upod the tedtder bood! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd, Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful! by owd! Ho, doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore, She will forget be id a bonth-- Bost probably before. She will forget the byrtle boughs, The flow'rs we pluck'd at dood, Our beetigs by the tedtder stars, Our gazigs od the bood. Ad I shall dever see agaid The Lily ad the Rose; The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow! The perfect bouth ad dose! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd-- Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful!! by owd!! [Illustration: 5093] I'VE LOST MY -------- [Illustration: 9094] EELER! hast thou found my treasure,-- Hast thou seen my vanish'd Fair? Flora of the raven ringlets, Flora of the shining hair? Tell me quick, and no palaver, For I am a man of heat-- Hast thou seen her, X 100? Hast thou view'd her on thy beat? Mark'd, I say, her fairy figure In the wilderness of Bow? Traced her lilliputian foot-prints On the sands of Rotten Row? Out, alas! thou answ'rest nothing, And my senseless anger dies; Who would look for "speculation" In a boil'd potato's eyes? Foggy Peeler! purblind Peeler! Wherefore walk'st thou in a dream?-- Ask a plethoric black beetle Why it walks into the cream! Why the jolly gnats find pleasaunce In your drowsy orbs of sight,-- Why besotted daddy long-legs Hum into the nearest light,-- 'Tis his creed, "_non mi ricordo_," And he wanders in a fog; As that other peel, her-- Baceous, wanders in your glass of grog;-- Ah, my Flora! (graceless chit!) O Pearl of all thy peerless race! Where shall fancy find one fit, O Fit to fill thy vacant place? Who can be the graceful ditt-o Ditto to that form and face? Hence, then, sentimental twaddle! Love, thy fetters I will fly-- Friendship is not worth a boddle, Lost, alas! I've lost--my Skye. [Illustration: 0096] THE VIII CRUSADE. (Preach'd by Puck ye Poete against Paint and Pommade.) [Illustration: 9097] DO you wish that your face should be fair? That your cheek should be rosy and plump? Morning noontide and night Take a dip in the bright Wave that flows from the spout of the pump,-- From a Pump!-- Not a dump Do we care for the lily Pick'd in Piccadilly, Or grown by the "Camphorate Lump." Do you sigh for ambrosial hair? For clustering ringlets to match? Little goose! To the deuce With pommades--learn the use Of the BRUSH, and you'll soon have a thatch That shall 'catch' The moustachio'd amasser Of Rowland's Macassar, (At twenty-five shillings a batch). Is it ivory teeth you desire? A set that no dentist may trammel? To Rowland's O-dont-o Cry, "No that we won't O! "It softens the precious enamel!" (That Schamyl Sends packing, confound it, To the Sultan Mahound. (It 'S _au naturel_, perch'd on a Camel)) Then toy not with powder and paste! Sweet nymphs, they are deadliest foes; No Piver persuade you-- No Rowland invade you-- In peace let each dimple repose Where it grows! When he shows You his Kalydor Lotion Reply "We've a notion "It takes all the skin off one's nose!" (As he goes) Add "There's nothing can beat your's "For blist'ring the features "But, 'Atkinson's Milk of the Rose!"' [Illustration: 0099] IN MEDI�VOS. [Illustration: 9100] F you love to wear An unlimited extent of hair Push'd frantically back behind a pair Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy-- And peripatate by star light To gaze upon some far light Till you've caught an aggravated catarrh right In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye,-- Or if you're given to the style Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle, And fancy all the while, you're taking "an earnest view" of things; Making Rousseau a hero, Mahomet better than Nero, And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings: Or if you write sonnets, In (and out of) Time and on its Everlasting "works of art and genius" (cobweb wreath'd!) And fly off into rapture At some villanous old picture Not one atom like nature Nor any human creature, that ever breath'd,-- Some Amazonian Vixen Of indescribable complexion And _hideous_ all conception to surpass; And actually prefer this abhorrence To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence---- Why then--I think that you must be an Ass! [Illustration: 0101] FIRE! "Away there, to the east-- "Towards the Surrey ridge,-- "I see a puff of dunnish smoke "Over the Southwark Bridge:"-- A single curl of murky mist That scales the summer air: And the watchman wound his listless way Slow down the turret stair. London! that deck'st thyself with wave-won spoils, Sea-gather d wealth--Spires, palaces, And temples high; Well might thy goodly burgesses exclaim "See this--and die! *-- "See these great streets; survey these monster marts; "The lordly'Changes of our merchant kings;-- "Behold this Thames, with all its flutt'ring breast "Brave with white wings.-- "Wharves, stately with warehouses-- "Docks, with a world's treasure-chest in bail-- "What hand shall touch ye? "What rash foe assail?" "_Fire! to the eastward--Fire!_ A hurrying tramp of feet,-- A sickly haze that wraps the town Like a leaden winding-sheet,-- A smothering smoke is in the air-- A crackling sound--a cry!-- And yonder, up over the furnace pot That smokes like the smoke of the Cities of Lot, There's something fierce and hissing and hot That licks the very sky! * The Italians have a proverb, _"See Naples, and die"_ Fire! fire! ghastly fire! It broadens overhead; Red gleam the roofs in lurid light The Heav'ns are glowing-red. From east to west--from west to east!-- Red runs the turbid Thames-- "Fire! fire! the engines! fire! "Or half the town's in flames-- "Fire------" A raging, quivering gulf... A wild stream, blazing by... Red ruin... fearful flaming leaps... White faces to the sky.... "The engines, Ho! back for your lives!" And out the Firemen dash'd; "Stand clear in front! room, townsmen, room!"-- Like lightning thro' the gath'ring gloom The swarthy helmets flash'd: Stand from the causeway--Horse and Man!-- Back, while there's time for aid-- Back, gilded coach!--back, lordly steed S-- There's fear and fate hangs on their speed, And life and death and daring deed, Room for the Fire Brigade! COUNT CABOUR. In Memoriam. Weep, Italy, weep! For the sun of thy dawning, Now set in midday: For the flower of thy morning, In bloom pass'd away. On his brow be the laurel, Fame's smile on his sleep,-- But weep for thy Hero, Weep, Italy, weep! Weep, Italy, weep! For thy great one departed-- The eloquent breath: For the strong, the high hearted, Now silent in death. For the lion-like courage; The eye of the lynx; The wisdom that baffled The Gallican sphinx; That humbled the pride Of the priesthood of Rome; Thy falchion abroad, And thy buckler at home; In whose life thou wert first, And the last on whose lip,-- For thy Patriot--Statesman-- Weep, Italy, weep! Weep, Italy! weep-- And the loud cannon's rattle Make mourn for the brave-- For the light of thy battle, Cold-quench'd in the grave! For the daring that conquer'd By Mincio's flood; That wiped out each slave-stain In Austrian blood; That swept the red eagle From Gaeta's steep,-- For his Country's Avenger Let Italy weep! Yes, Italy! weep! For the arm that has righted Thy wrongs and thy shame; For the hand that has lighted Bright Liberty's flame: That took from thee--Scorning! That left thee--Renown! Thy long scatter'd jewels Gave back to thy crown,-- That nerved thee to conquer, That taught thee to keep, For the man that has saved thee Weep, Italy, weep! THE WELL OF TRUTH [Illustration: 9110] 'TWAS sunset--(much ill-usèd hour, And Southey swears it's yellow!)-- And so I lay and smoked the weed-- Immaculate Havannah!-- And watch'd a spider nobbling flies In an artistic manner. And mused in speculative vein On England, and her story; Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig, And Derby was a Tory;-- Which diff'ring Poets tell you Is ev'ry shade from green to red, Why Manchester detested war, And cottons took delight in; Why Cobden's voice was all for peace, And Horsman's all for fighting;-- Why England sent out Bibles' store, To teach our pig-tail'd brother; And gave him Gospel with one hand, And Opium with the other;-- And why the Church was always poor, And Lawyers lived in clover, And why my tailor made me pay His last.. account.. twice... over... And why------ Perhaps it was the scent That hover'd round my bow'r? Perhaps it was the flies that haunt That soul-subduing hour? Or else those interesting gnats, Which sting one so severely, Made dreamy music round my head, Until I slept--or nearly:-- But lo! I floated on a pool, Beneath a monstrous funnel, Whose crowning disc shone faint above, Like sun-light thro' a tunnel; And forms and faces quaint and strange Swept by me ev'ry minute; And ev'ry breast transparent lay And had a window in it. Then sudden thro' my mind it flash'd-- What mania could have got'em-- The place was truth's historic well, And I--was at the bottom! And first I mark'd a sombre man * Of aspect wondrous saintly, Whose pious eyes look'd shock'd and good, If Sin but whisper'd faintly; * Sir John Paul. And every Sunday in the plate, His clinking gold was given With such an air--the righteous vow'd His alms had conquer'd Heaven! And such his godly wrath'gainst all Who betted, swore, or liquor'd,-- Old women said around his head An Angel halo flicker'd. But looking through his heart I saw A blank, dark, moral torpor,-- And while he gave his princely alms He cursed the needy pauper. And all men grovell'd at his feet With coax, and crawl, and wheedle;-- But I thought of Dives' burning tongue And the parabolic needle. And next I spied a priestly band, In cassock, cope, and mitre, Who diff'ring slightly from the Church, Lent all their wits to spite her,-- With some who thought church-music gave The Devil grievous handles; And some who lit Polemic War By lighting altar-candles; And one who held a certain place Most probable to get to, Unless he preach'd in a scarlet cloak And pray'd in a _falsetto!_-- But _one_ thing I could plainly read, On ev'ry breast displaying;-- The rev'rend men took more delight In quarrelling than praying! They pass'd--and lo! an Hebrew youth, To ebon locks confessing, The sturdy yeomanry of Bucks In honey'd phrase addressing. And so enthusiastic wax'd The sleek bucolic charmer; As if his body, soul, and brains, Had all been born a farmer. And he felt "glad" and "proud," he said, To meet his friends again-- "His valued friends!"--and in his heart He wished himself in Spain;-- Of all spots in the world, he said, To see them _there_ he'd rather,-- And inly sent them ev'ry one To Jericho--or farther. And so he gave their right good health-- And off it went in toppers; And call'd them "Men and Patriots," And in his heart "Clodhoppers."-- And then--with very blandest smiles-- From self and boon carousers, Gave prizes to some model louts, And one _a pair of trousers!!_ * * Vide "Times" of 4 Nov. 1857, giving an account of the meeting of the Amersham and Chesham Agricultural Association. And as he cried "Take, fine old man, "These best of merit's brandings,"-- He thought "Was ever such a Calf "On such thin understandings!" Just then roll'd by, so bluff and bold, A tar--from truck to kelson-- And prophesied such vast exploits, Men cried--"Another Nelson!" "You'll see," quoth he, "_I'll_ shortly be "In Heav'n or Cronstadt reckon'd"-- But never meant to chance the _first_, Or go too near the _second_. And then I lost him in the crowd, Nor could the question try on; If I'd heard the voice of Balaam's ass Or the roar of Britain's lion; But when I thought what bumping things The hero had been saying, I felt I knew what Gray must mean By the din of battle _braying_.-- [Illustration: 0118] PERILS OF THE FINE ARTS. [Illustration: 9119] OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl, What horror do I see? What frantic fiend has done the deed That rends your charms from me? Those matchless charms which like the sun Lit up Belinda Place-- What fiend, I ask, in human mask Has dared to black your face? Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose Are both of ebon hue; Your chin is green--your lips are brown-- Your nose is prussian blue! This mom the very driven snow Was not so stainless pure,-- And now, alack! you're more a black, Than any black-a-more. Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove, That I could clutch his throat!-- That I could give his ears a _cuff_, Who gave your face a _coat_: If there is justice in the land-- But no:--the law is bosh: Altho' it's tme you're black and blue That remedy "won't wash." Revenge, I say!--yet hold, no rage-- I will be calm, sweet wife-- Calm--_icy_ calm------------Speak, woman, speak, That I may have his life!! Who did the deed?-- "Oh! Charles,'twas _you!_ "Nay, dearest, do not shrink-- "This face and chin!--I've wash'd it in "Your Photographic Ink!" [Illustration: 0121] CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE _(Not by A--f--d T--y--n.)_ [Illustration: 9122] OUTHWARD Ho--Here we go!-- O'er the wave onward, Out from the Harbor of Cork Sail'd the Six Hundred! Sail'd like Crusaders thence, Burning for Peter's pence,-- Burning for fight and fame-- Burning to show their zeal-- Into the gates of Rome, Into the jaws of Hell, (It's all the same) March'd the Six Hundred! "Barracks, and tables laid! Food for the Pope's Brigade!" But ev'ry Celt afraid, Gazed on the grub dismay'd-- Twigg'd he had blunder'd;-- "Who can eat rancid grease? Call _this_ a room a-piecc?" * "Silence unseemly din, Prick them with bayonets in."-- Blessed Six Hundred! Waves ev'ry battle-blade.-- "Forward! the Pope's Brigade!"-- Was there a man obeyed? No--where they stood they stay'd, Tho' Lamoriciere pray'd, Threaten'd, and thunder'd,-- * A room for each man, and a table furnished from the fat of the land, were among the inducements reported to have been held out to the "Pope's own." "Charge!" Down their sabres then Clash'd, as they turn'd--and ran-- Sab'ring the empty air, Each of one taking care,-- Here, there, and ev'rywhere Scatter'd and sunder'd. Sick of the powder smell, Down on their knees they fell; Howling for hearth and home-- Cursing the Pope of Rome-- Whilst afar shot and shell Volley'd and thunder'd; Captured, alive and well, Ev'ry Hibernian swell, Came back the tale to tell; Back from the states of Rome-- Back from the gates of Hell-- Safe and sound ev'ry man-- Jack of Six Hundred! When shall their story fade? Oh the mistake they made! Nobody wonder'd. Pity the fools they made-- Pity the Pope's Brigade-- Nobbled Six Hundred! WUS, EVER WUS [Illustration: 9126] US! ever wus!:--By freak of Puck's My most exciting hopes are dash'd; I never wore my spotless ducks But madly--wildly!--they were splash'd. I never roved by Cynthia's beam, To gaze upon the starry sky; But some unpleasant beetle came, And charged into my pensive eye: And oh! I never did the swell In Regent-street, amongst the beaus, But smuts the most prodigious fell, And always settled on my Nose! [Illustration: 0127] TOO BAD, YOU KNOW. _(New Year's Eve,'58.)_ [Illustration: 9128] T was the huge metropolis With fog was like to choke; It was the gentle cabby-- horse His ancient knees that broke;-- And, oh, it was the cabby-man That swore from ear to ear, And did vituperate his eyes Considerably severe, If any swell should make him stir Another step that year! Then up and spake that bold cabman, Unto his inside Fare,-- "I say, you Sir,--come out of that!-- "I say, you Sir in there-- "Six precious aggrawatin miles "I've druv to this here gate, "And that poor injer'd hanimal "Is in a faintin state; "There aint a thimblefull of shine, "The fog's as black as pitch,-- "I'm flummox'd'tween them posteses "And that most 'ateful ditch. "So bundle out! my'oss is beat; "I'm sick of this'ere night;-- I say, you Sir in there,--hear?---- _He's bolted--blow me tight!_" [Illustration: 0130] "THE DAYS THE THING." Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw-- W-Waterloo Place? yes you T--Take the first tut--tut--tut--turning that faces you,-- Lul--left, and then kuk--kuk--kuk,--kuk-- kuk--kuk--keep up Pell Mell'till you See the Wuw--Wuw----Wuw----Wuw---- Zounds, Sir, you'll get there before I can tell it you! [Illustration: 0131] GHOSTRIES. [Illustration: 9132] ID you never hear a rustling, In the comer of your room; When the faint fantastic fire-light Served but to reveal the gloom? Did you never feel the clammy Terror, starting from each pore, At a shocking Sort of knocking On your chamber door? Did you never fancy something Horrid, underneath the bed? Or a ghastly skeletonian, In the garret overhead? Or a sudden life-like movement, Of the _Vandyke_, grim and tall? Or that ruddy Mark, a bloody Stain upon the wall? Did you never see a fearful Figure, by the rushlight low, Crouching, creeping, _crawling_ nearer-- Putting out its lingers--SO. Whilst its lurid eyes glared on you From the darkness where it sat-- And you _could_ not, Or you _would_ not, See it was the cat? [Illustration: 0134] "MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE." [Illustration: 9135] IR Toby was a portly party; Sir Toby took his turtle hearty; Sir Toby lived to dine: _Chateau d'Iquen_ was his fort; Bacchus would have backt his port; He was an Alderman in short Of the very first water--and wine. An Alderman of the first degree, But neither wife nor son had he; He had a daughter fair: And often said her father, "Cis, "You shall be dubb'd 'my Lady,' Miss, "When I am dubb'd Lord Mayor. "The day I don the gown and chain, "In Hymen's modern Fetter-Lane "You wed Sir Gobble Grist; "And whilst with pomp and pageant high "I scrape, and stut, and star it by "St. George's in the East, you'll try "St. George's in the West." Oh vision of paternal pride! Oh blessed Groom to such a Bride! Oh happy Lady Cis! Yet sparks won't always strike the match, And she may chance to miss her 'catch,' Or he may catch--a _miss!_ Such things do happen, here and there, When Knights are old, and Nymphs are fair, And who can say they don't? When Worldly takes the gilded pill, And Dives stands and says "I will," And Beauty says "I WONT!" Sweet Beauty! Sweeter thus by far-- Young Goddess of the silver star, Divinity capricious!-- Who would not barter wealth and wig, And pomp and pride and _otium dig_, For Youth--when 'plums' weren't worth a fig And Venus smiled propitious? Alas! that beaus will lose their spring, And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,' Unstruck by Cupid's dart! Alas that--must the truth be told-- Yet oft'ner has the archer sold The 'white and red,' to touch the 'gold,' And Diamonds trump'd the Heart! That luckless heart! too soon misplaced!-- Why is it that parental taste On sagest calculation based So rarely pleases Miss? Let those who can, the riddle read; For me, I've no idea indeed, No more, perhaps, had Cis. It might have been she found Sir G. Less tender than a swain should be,-- Young--sprightly--witty--gay?-- It might have been she thought his hat Or head too round or square or flat Or empty--who can say? What Bard shall dare? Perhaps his nose?-- A shade too pink, or pale, or rose?-- His cut of beard, wig, whisker, hose?-- A wrinkle?--here--or there?-- Perhaps the _preux chevalier's_ chance, Hung on a word or on a glance, Or on a single hair! I know not! But the Parson waited, The Groomsmen swore, the Bridegroom rated, Till two o'clock or near;-- Then home again in rage and wrath, Whilst pretty Cis---- was rattling North With Jones the Volunteer! [Illustration: 0139] ODE TO HAMPSTEAD. [Illustration: 9140] H Hampstead! cool oasis! (No longer 'green,' alas)-- Where once a week, on Sunday, The Cockneys go to grass; Where spurs the bold Apprentice Up the astonish'd ride, Pursued by mild suggestions Of room to spare inside; Where Donkey-boys still flourish, Unawed by Martin's Act, The lash that drives a squadron Promiscuously whackt;-- Upon whose hills the dust-wreath Comes down like the simoom, Beneath whose slopes the winkle Has a perennial bloom,-- And whose once chrystal waters Present the sort of look The sea did when the savages Plunged in for Captain Cook;-- I love thee still!--Tho' tarnish'd Is ev'ry blade and leaf, Tho' Highgate Fields are bitterness, And Belsize Park is grief,-- Tho' Brick-kilns are not lovely, And Railways banish rest, And Omnibi are hateful And Hansom Cabs unblest,-- Tho' Pic-nics take the place of Cows, Tho' Geese are abdicating, Tho' Boys usurp the haunts of Fish And Ice-carts spoil the skating;-- I love thee still!--Thy benches, When no East wind assails,-- Thy turf, sweet to recline upon-- When unengross'd by snails,-- Oh! never may thy blooming heath By Wilson be enclosed; Still on thy lawn let fairy feet Disport them unopposed; I love thee, yes I love thee still!-- Yet must I fain confess That ev'ry time I gaze above Thy spreading chimney-pots, my love Grows beautifully less! [Illustration: 0143] OUR TRAVELLER. [Illustration: 9144] F thou wouldst stand on Etna's burning brow, With smoke above, and roaring flame below; And gaze adown that molten gulf reveal'd, Till thy soul shudder'd and thy senses reel'd.-- If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride, Or stem the billows of Propontic tide; Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine "haut," And shriek "Excelsior!" amidst the snow.-- Wouldst tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be,-- Perils by land, and perils on the sea,-- This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it,-- [Illustration: 0145] CHINESE PUZZLES. THE WEDDING GIFT. _In the name of Fo, Thus saith the shadow of Nobody._ [Illustration: 9146] ROM many a dark delicious ripple The Moonbeams drank ethereal tipple; Whilst over Eastern grove and dell The perfumed breeze of evening fell, And the young Bulbul warbling gave Her music to the answering wave. But not alone the Bulbul's note Bade Echo strike her silver lute, Nor fell the music of her dream Alone on waving wood and stream; For thro' the twilight blossoms stray'd, Enamour'd youth, and fairy maid; And mingled with her warblings lone A voice of sweet and playful tone. "And ah!" the gentlest accents said, "You bid me name the Task; "But if you love me as you vow, "Then give me what I ask! "No quest for errant knight have I, "No deed of high emprize; "No giant Tartars to be slain, "In homage to my eyes." "Oh, take my life!" her lover cried, "Nor break this dream of bliss; "Take house, or head, or lands, or fame-- "Take evry thing but _this_,-- "To gaze upon those silken braids "Unenvious be my part; "I could not steal one golden tress, "To bind it round my heart. "Tho' all the pearls of Ind were strung "Upon a single hair, "I would not cut the shiner off,-- "I wouldn't, Za', I swear." The lady laughed a careless laugh,-- "While downward flows the river, "The lover who bids for Zadie's heart "And hand must make up his mind to part With the Gift, or part for ever!" "Remorseless Nymph!" exclaimed the youth, "Thus stick'ling for a curl,-- "Delilah was a joke to you. "Excruciating girl;-- "Sole Empress of the breast of Fi, "What _can_ the object be, "For you to get a Lock for which "You ne'er can get a Key? "Just think, if I should wear a wig, "How would you like me, Zadie? "I'm sure you'll give it up, my sweet, "Do--there's a gentle Lady!" The Maiden laugh'd a silv'ry laugh;-- "The white stars set and shiver; "The lover who bids for Zadie's heart "And hand, must make up his mind to part "With the Gift--or part for ever" ETCETERA. [Illustration: 9150] HE stars were out on the lake, The silk sail stirr'd the skiff; And faint on the billow, and fresh on the breeze, The summer came up thro' the cinnamon trees With an odoriferous sniff. There was song in the scented air, And a light in the listening leaves,-- The light of the myriad myrtle fly, When young Fo-Fum and little Fe-Fi Came forth to gaze upon the sky--&c.! Oh! little Fe-Fi was fair, With the rose in her raven hair! From her almond eyes, and celestial nose, To the tips of her imperceptible toes &c. Fo-Fum stood tall I wis, (May his shadow never be less!) A highly irresistible male, The ladies turn'd pale At the length of his nail And the twirl of his unapproachable tail &c. "Now listen, Mooo-mine, my Star! My life! my little Fe-Fi; For over the blossom and under the bough There's a soft little word that is whispering now Which I think you can guess if you try! In the bosom of faithful Fum, There's a monosyllabic hum,-- A little wee word Fe-Fi can spell, Concluding with 'E,' and beginning with 'L,' &c." "Oh! dear, now what can it be? That little wee word Fo-Fum? That funny wee word that sounds so absurd With an 'E' and an 'L' and a 'Hum!' A something that ends with an E?-- It must be my cousin So-Sle? "Or pretty Pe-Pale Who admired your tail?-- I shall never guess what it can be I can see That is spelt with an L and an El I never shall guess, if I die-- Fo-Fum, sir, I'm going to cry!-- Oh, dear how my heart is beginning to beat! Why there's silly Fo-Fum on his knees at my feet," &c. Deponent knoweth not, History showeth not, If the lady read the riddle; And whether she found It hard to expound-- As the story ends in the middle. Was gallant Fo-Fum Constrain'd to succumb To the "thrall of delicious fetters,"-- Or pretty Fe-Fi Induced to supply The text of the missing letters? Oh, no one can tell! But this extract looks well, Faute de mieux (e. g. "want of a betterer")-- "Received: by Hang-Hi, "From Fo-Fum, for Fe-Fi, "A thousand dollars" &c! WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT. [Illustration: 9154] DREAMT it! such a funny thing And now it's taken wing: I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing. It had a monkey--in a trap-- Suspended by the tail: Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd, And his countenance was pale. And he had danced and dangled there; Till he grew very mad: For his tail it was a handsome tail And the trap had pinch'd it--bad. The trapper sat below, and grinn'd; His victim's wrath wax'd hot:-- He bit his tail--and fell--and kill'd The trapper on the spot:-- It had a pig--a stately pig; With curly tail and quaint: And the Great Mogul had hold of that Till he was like to faint. So twenty thousand Chinamen; With three tails each at least: Came up to help the Great Mogul And took him round the waist. And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands; And so it came to pass; That twenty thousand Chinamen Sat down upon the grass:-- It had a Khan--a Tartar Khan-- With tail superb, I wis: And that fell graceful down a back Which was consider'd his. And so, all sorts of boys that were Accursed, swung by it: Till he grew savage in his mind And vex'd, above a bit-- And so, he swept his tail, as one Awak'ning from a dream: And those abominable ones Flew off into the stream-- And so, they hobbled up and down, Like many apples there: Till they subsided--and became Amongst the things that were:-- And so it had a moral too; That would be bad to lose: "Whoever takes a _tail_ in hand Should mind his p's and _queues_." I dreamt it!--such a funny thing! And now it's taken wing; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing! [Illustration: 0160] [Illustration: 0158] CASE IN LUNACY. [Illustration: 9160] AS any one read the great lunacy case? The case that's Lock'd, and Labell'd, and Laced With a Tissue of lies, and a Docket of 'waste,' And a golden Key, the reverse of chased, (Tho' hunted thro' the Hilary)-- Has any one read how the Law can hound, And badger, and bully a man,'till it's bound A mortgage on ev'ry acre of ground And robb'd him of sixty thousand pound-- Without being put in the pillory? Has any one read--does any one know-- If he marries a wife who's not quite _comme il_, And a handsome estate should inherit,-- What a suit of chancery can effect, To strip him, even of self-respect, Hold him up to scorn contempt; and neglect, And ruin him, body and spirit? Has any one read--mark'd--weigh'd--the worth Of a common name and a kindred birth, A Brother's--Uncle's--love upon earth, To the love that is filthy lucre's? How day after day, without being hurt, A man can drag his own flesh thro' the dirt For a thousand pounds at his Broker's? Yes, ev'ry one's read--we all of us know-- What man's 'first friend* could become his worst foe, Bring him up in the way he ought not to go,-- Then lie, to make him a beggar;-- Turn him loose upon Town without guardian or friend,-- Lay traps in his paths lest they happen'd to mend,-- Set spies to note ev'ry shilling he'd spend-- Ev'iy pitiful pound he might borrow or lend,-- And dip his fingers in slime without end-- We can guess who cuts such a figure! A GIGGLE FOR "EXCELSIER" [Illustration: 9163] HE shades of night had fallen (at When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd A youth, who bore, in manual vice, A pot of something monstrous nice-- 'X--X:' Haw haw! His brow was bad:--his young eye scann'd The frothing flaggon in his hand, And like a gurgling streamlet sprung The accents to that thirsty tongue, X--X: Haw haw! In happy homes he saw them grub On stout, and oysters from a tub,-- The dismal gas-lights gleam'd without, And from his lips escaped a shout, "X--X: Haw haw!" "Young man," the Sage observed, "just stay, "And let me dip my beak, I say-- "The pewter is deep, and I am dry!" "Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye? "X--X? Haw haw!" "Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend "Thy beery burden here, my friend--" Th' unbidden tear regretful rose, But still his thumb tip sought his nose; "X--X? Haw haw!" "Beware the gutter at thy feet! "Beware the Dragons of the street! "Beware lest Thirsty Bob you meet!" This was the ultimate remark; A voice replied far thro' the dark, "X--X? Haw haw!" That night, by watchmen on their round, The person in a ditch was found; Still grasping in his manual vice That pot--once fill'd with something nice.-- X--X: Haw haw!! [Illustration: 0165] THE THREAD OF LIFE. A FRAGMENT. _(After T--s H--d.)_ [Illustration: 9167] I. IFE! what depths of mystery hide In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride, That mingle in Tribulation's tide, To quench the spark, Vitality! What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope, Were "made strong" (without the use of rope) In the Thread--Individuality. Life! what a web of follies and fears, Pleasures and griefs, sighs, smiles and tears, Are twined in the woof that Mortality's shears Must be everlastingly thinning,-- What holes for Physician Death to darn, Are eternally spun in the wonderful yam That the Fates are eternally spinning! Life! what marvellous throbs and throes The alchemy of Existence knows; What "weals within wheels" (and woes without _wohs!_) Give sophistry a handle; Though Hare * himself could be dipp'd in the well Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell, It would throw no more light on the vital spell Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell, Or the dip--a ha'penny candle! Alas! for the metaphysical host; The wonderful wit and wisdom they boast, * C. J. Hare, author of "Guesses at Truth." When the time arrives they must give up the ghost, Become quite phantasmagorical,-- And it's found at the last that they know as much Of the secret of LIFE--as they do of Dutch-- Or, if a lame verse may borrow a crutch, As was known by the Delphic Oracle. Into being we come, in ones and twos, To be kiss'd, to be cuffd, to obey, to abuse, Each destined to stand in another's shoes To whose heels we may come the nighest; This turns at once into Luxury's bed, Whilst that in a gutter lays his head, And this--in a house with a wooden lid And a roof that's none of the highest. We fall like the drops of April show'rs, Cradled in mud or cradled in flow'rs, Now idly to wile the rosy hours, And now for bread to importune; Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap-- And one--a "more kicks than ha'pence chap"-- For a slap--without the fortune! [Illustration: 0170] Who hasn't heard of the infant squall? Sharper, shriller, and longer than all The Nor'-wester squalls, that may chance to befall At Cape Horn, as nauticals tell us; And who,--oh who?--hasn't heard before The dulcet tones of the infant roar? Ear-piercing in at the drawing room door-- Down-bellowing, right thro' the nursery floor-- Like a hundred power bellows? Alas! that the very rosiest wreath Should ever be twined with a thorn beneath! Forth peeping, from purple and damask sheath, In a manner quite anti-floral; And startling, as when to that Indian root The traveller stretches his hand for the fruit, And a crested head comes glittering out With a tongue that is somewhat forkèd no doubt, And a tail--that has quite a moral! And who'd have believed that diminutive thing Just form'd as you'd say, to kiss and to cling, Would ever have opened, except to sing, Those lips, that look so choral? Behold the soft little struggling ball! With rosy niouth ever ready to squall, Kicking and crowing and grasping "small," At its Indiarrabber dangle,-- Whilst tiny fists in the pillows lurk That are destined perhaps for fighting the Turk, And doing no end of mangling work, Or perhaps, for working a mangle! 'Tis passing strange, that all over the earth Men talk of the "stars" that "rule" at their birth, For little such dazzling sponsors are worth, Whate'er Cagliostro may say; Tho' all the Bears in the heav'ns combined-- Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Jupiter shined, In our glitt'ring horoscope, we shall find Most men who are bom of woman kind Are born in the _milky-way_. In the milky-way! ev'ry mother's son; From the son of a lord, to the 'son of a gun,' Of colors, red, brown and yellow and dun, An astonishing constellation; From the black Papouse of the Cape de Verd, The cream of Tartar, and scum of Kurd, To the son and heir of Napoleon the Third, Who sucks--to the joy of a Nation! And that puny atom may happen to claim The yeiy first round on the Ladder of Fame, At the general conflagration. The squeaky voice may be heard ere long In the shout of the battle, deep and strong, Like the brazen clash of a mighty gong That has broken loose from tether; Whilst many a hardy bosom quails And many a swarthy visage pales At the griffin clutch of those tender nails As they come to the "scratch" together. But well says a poet of rising fame,* That to hint at an 'infantile frailty's' a shame For the Baby-days have come round the same To us all, and we can't but confess'em; * F. Locker, Author of London Lyrics, &c. When the brawny hands, that can rend an oak, Went both into Mammy's mouth for a joke!-- And the feet that stand like the solid rock, Were "tootsies pootsies, bless'em!" When to howl was the only accomplishment rife In our 'tight little bundle' of wailing and strife, And pap was the summum bonum of life, To a mouth in perpetual pucker; When "Ma" was a semi-intelligent lump, Possess'd by a mania for making us "plump," And "Nus" was an inexhaustible pump With an everlasting "sucker." Yet, laugh if we will at those baby-days, There was more of bliss in its careless plays, Than in after time from the careful ways Or the hollow world, with its empty praise, Its honey'd speeches, and hackney'd phrase, And its pleasures, for ever fleeting,-- And more of sense in its bald little pate, On its own little matters of Church and State, Than in many a House of Commons' debate, Or the "sense" of a Manchester meeting! And laugh as we may, it would make us start, Could we read the depths of its mother's heart,-- Or imagine one twenty-thousandth part Of the feelings that stir within it; What a freight that little existence bears Of pallid smiles and tremulous tears, Of joys never breathed into mortal ears, Griefs that the callous world never hears, SufFring that only the more endears, And love, that would reach into endless years, Snuff' d out, it may be, in a minute! Would you look on a mother in all her pride? Her radiant, dazzling, glorious pride?-- Then seek yon garret--leaden-eyed-- And thrust the mouldering panel aside-- The door that has nothing to lock it,-- And the walls are tatter'd, and damp, and drear, And the light has a quivering gleam, like fear, For the hand of Sickness is heavy here And the lamp bums low in the socket. Mid rags, and want, and misery, piled, A woman is watching her stricken child, With a love so tender, a look so mild, That the patient little sufTrer has smil'd-- A smile that is strangely fair!-- And lo! in that chamber, poverty-dyed, A mother in all her dazzling pride-- A glorious mother is there! And the child is squalid, and puny, and thin,-- But HUSH--hush your voice as you enter in! Nor dare to despise, lest a deadly sin On your soul rest unforgiven;-- Perchance, oh scornful and worldly-wise, A Shakespeare dreams in those thoughtful eyes-- A Newton looks out at the starry skies-- Or a prison'd angel in calm surprise Looks back to its Heaven! II. Life, life! a year or two more, And the Bark has launch'd from the quiet shore To the restless waves that bubble and roar, Where the billow never slumbers,-- And the storms of fate have caught in the sail, And the sharks are gathering thick on his trail, Like a New Edition of Jonah's whale-- That is coming out in Numbers!* III. Tempus, time,--fuflit, flies! And the ship returns with a gallant prize, A fairy Craft of diminutive size, Or perhaps with a huge Three-decker; He has sailed from the matrimonial shore, With a 'breeze' at starting, and 'squalls' before, And he's married a Blue, or he's wed to a Bore, Or perhaps--to my Lady Pecker! FINIS. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE FIRST EDITION. MORNING POST. "'Puck on Pegasus' is at the same time the handsomest and cheapest book of the kind that we have ever seen.... Puck, as he careers through the world on his mad horse, shoots arrows of the pleasantest raillery, dipped in Eau de Cologne rather than gall, at the follies of the season, the artistic foibles of literary celebrities, and the affectations of all classes, high and low. The wee, mocking urchin indites a sonnet in the style of Martin Tupper, mimics Mrs. Browning, trills a song of _In- the-water_ after the fashion of Longfellow; and, with the aid of a black cat, stirs up 'a shocking sort of knocking at your chamber door,' that reminds the beating heart of Edgar Poe. He induces Tennyson to write the _Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade_ and gives us a lay of _The Fight for the Championship_ by Lord Macaulay. Some of the youngster's capers are certainly unjustifiable; but extravagant mirth is never severely judged when it expresses itself in easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected. Moreover, though Mr. Pennell's muse respects neither the age nor fame of those whom he satirises, he never forgets gentlemanly con--sideration for the feelings of his readers. A joke that would bring a blush to a maiden's cheek, or a sarcasm aimed at the inoffensive, are not to be found in his poems. Nor do we draw attention to the prevailing lightness of his muse in a spirit of condemnation, but rather of regret that the fine feeling and pathetic force manifested in the treatment of his two finest pieces/ the _Night Mail North_, and the _Derby_ should have inspired him less frequently than mere gaiety of heart.... The rhythm and rugged swing of the _Night Mail North_, will give the reader a taste of Mr. Pennell's higher qualities." SATURDAY REVIEW. "---- Mr. Pennell's parodies and imitations are certainly above the average; they are at times, it is true, somewhat unequal, but there is a good deal of vigorous and healthy versification scattered throughout the volume."... "He has, moreover, studied with considerable advantage what is vulgarly termed the art of 'selling,' more properly described as a species of bathos. Barham, of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, as well as Hood and Bon Gualtier, excelled greatly in this. Such pieces usually give scope for some pretty writing at their commencement, which the reader may accept seriously or ironically as he should feel disposed. The absurdity or satire is condensed generally into the last one or two lines. Mr. Pennell's stanzas headed _Ah / Who_, are among his most neat and amusing efforts of this character."... "No doubt the works of Hood have exercised a con--siderable influence on Mr. Pennell's versification; and in this school he may be fairly considered to have enrolled himself. "The _Derby Day_ is one of the most spirited sketches in this volume. The first three lines of our extract are excellent in their way, and have a fine healthy _élan_ about them. The absence of the word 'trump' would render them eligible for quotation in much higher poetical company. The next verse, of a decidedly lower order, may still be given as a very fair reproduction of Hood's peculiar style and humour. Our author is telling how thé Derby favourite breaks his neck in the race:-- 'He fell like a trump in the foremost place-- He died with the rushing wind on his face-- At the wildest bound of his glorious pace-- In the mad exulting revel He left his shoes to his son and heir, His hocks to a champagne-dealer at Ware, A lock of his hair To the Lady-Mare, And his hoofs and his tail to the----! "There are also to be found some prettyish bits of descriptive verse, of which the following may be quoted, from the so-called song of _In-the-Water_ with Longfellow's metre preserved:-- 'Down into the water stept she, Down into the tranquil nver, Like a red deer in the sunset-- Like a ripe leaf in the autumn! Ever from her lips of coral, From her lips like roses snow-flll'd, Came a soft and dreamy murmur, Softer than the murm'ring river! Sighs that melted as the snows melt, Silently and sweetly melted.' "We should advise Mr. Pennell, on the first available occasion, to disem--barrass himself here of the stock-in-trade 'lips of coral.' This passage would be materially improved by the omission. Again, in the _Night Mail North_, our author seems at home in his subject, and writes with considerable effect "Tis a splendid race I a race against Time,-- 'The quivering carriages rock and reel, Hurrah! for the rush of the grinding steel! And a thousand to one we win it. Look at those flitting ghosts-- The thundering crank, and the mighty The white-arm'd finger-posts-- wheel!--' If we're moving the eighth of an inch, Isay, We're going a mile a minute!...' "The last line but one is powerful enough, and the best in the extract. There is plenty of poetry in railways and steam engines; and now that other mines of inspiration are growing somewhat exhausted, we cannot see why a new shaft should not be run in this direction. Many of our readers may find, besides these extracts, much that is clever and amusing in 'Puck on Pegasus.'" "To be funny without being vulgar, to tell a story with gestures and yet not become a buffoon, to parody a poet and yet retain the flavour of his real poetry, to turn all the finest feelings of the heart into fun, and yet not to be coarse or unfeeling, is not granted by Apollo to every writer of humorous poems."... "Mr. Pennell is an excellent parodyist, an ingenious punster, a reviver and modifier of existing systems of fun, a vigorous worker of veins of humour not yet carried for enough."... "Of all the poems, we like best the _Night Mail North_, which has a singular weird power about it that takes a hold on the imagination.... _Lord Jolly Green's Courtship_ is a well-written parody on a well-known poem of Mrs. Browning. Next best is, perhaps, the _Sayers and Heenan Fight_, a very vigorous imitation of Lord Macaulay's _Coman Ballads._ There is a great rush and gallop about the _Derby Day_; the lines at the end are- not unworthy of Hood's playful thoughtfulness." EXAMINER. "There is, without doubt, a good deal of humorous verse in this gaily got up and cleverly illustrated volume.... But there are better things than slang versides in Mr. Pennell's book, and more striking lines than those which are printed in black letters. The _Derby Day_ offers a favourable example of a popular subject well treated, in which the scene is vividly and often poetically depicted. The _Fight for the Championship_, written in imitation of Lord Macaulay's _Horatius_, is also very well done.... The measure of the author's power may, however, be taken from the poem emtitled _The Night Mail North_, one of the best things the book contains..... Let Mr. Pennell trust to the original strength that is in him, and he may bestride his 'Pegasus' without fear." FRASER'S MAGAZINE. "When a gentleman means to be absurd, and at the same time can support his pretensions to amuse his readers with cleverness, we know how to accost him. 'Puck on Pegasus' is full of those eccentricities which make one laugh in spite of oneself, or in unison with oneself, according as one takes it up in a grave or a gay humour. It reminds one of the _Bon Gaultier Ballads_ of some years ago.... The illustrations are capital, as they were likely to be considering whose they are." ILLUSTRATED NEWS OF THE WORLD. "Mr. Pennell's 'Puck' is gay, rattling, and really clever, something in the Bon Gaultier style... full of fun... very smart." BELL'S LIFE. "An admirable drawing-room table _brochure_, and is certain to have a run." ARMY AND NAYY GAZETTE. "No one will be wearied with these verses.... We have seldom seen a book more completely suitable to a drawing-room table. Mr. Pennell has avoided Puck's sometimes offensive characteristic." WELDON'S REGISTER. "Mr. Pennell's 1 Puck on Pegasus' is one of the most amusing books of verse that we have fallen in with for many a day." MANCHESTER EXAMINER. "... There is a high talent in _The Thread of Life_, showing that Mr. Pennell can do much finer work whenever he may desire to soar above mere trifling." PRESS. "Mr. Pennell writes so well that we wish he would take the trouble to write better. He possesses humour and the 'fatal facility' of rhyming.... The _Night Mail North_ and the Derby Day are the two best poems." ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE. "Easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected." COURT CIRCULAR. "This is certainly one of the cleverest productions of the day, and gives the clearest evidence of the genius of its author in almost every page." LONDON REVIEW. "...The popularity the work has already obtained, serves to show that the author's desi res have been crowned with success." ORIENTAL BUDGET. "Mr. Pennell has caught the spirit, as well as the style, of the different poets he imitates, while his lines have an elegance, mid a sly bo-peep sort of beauty.... The nick-names and mock climax in the song of _In-the-- Water_, are in their way inimitable imitations.... The Author, however, gives proofs of far higher powers than those of mimicry." 
45292	----	provided by The Internet Archive THE PLACID PUG AND OTHER RHYMES By (The Belgian Hare) Lord Alfred Douglas Author of "Tails with a twist" and "The Duke of Berwick" Illustrated by P. P. 1906 [Illustration: 008] [Illustration: 010] THE PLACID PUG |THE placid Pug that paces in the Park, `Harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead, Lives his dull life, and recks not of the Shark `In distant waters. Lapped in sloth and greed, He fails in strenuous life to make a mark, The placid Pug that paces in the park.= Round the slow circle of his nights and days `His life revolves in calm monotony. Not unsusceptible to casual praise, `And mildly moved by the approach of "tea," No forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays Round the slow circle of his nights and days.= He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes, `To mark the mood of animals or men. His joy is limited to mild surmise `When a new biscuit swims into his ken. And when athwart his gaze a Rabbit flies, He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.= And all the while the Shark in Southern seas [Illustration: 013] `Pursues the paths of his pulsating quest, Though the thermometer at fierce degrees `Might well admonish him to take a rest, The Pug at home snores in ignoble ease. (And all the while the Shark in Southern seas!)= If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea `And forced to swim long miles to find their food, Tutored to front the Hake's hostility, `And beard the Lobster in his dangerous mood, Would not their lives more sane, more useful be, If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea?= The placid Pug still paces in the park, `Untouched by thoughts of all that might have been. Undreaming that he might have "steered his bark" `Through many a stirring sight and stormy scene. But being born a Pug and not a Shark The placid Pug still paces in the park.= BALLAD FOR BISHOPS |BISHOPS and others who inhabit The mansions of the blest on earth, [Illustration: 015] Grieved by decline of infant birth, Have drawn attention to the rabbit. Not by design these good men work To raise that beast to heights contested, But by comparison, suggested, With those who procreation shirk.= For if a nation's moral status Be measured by prolific habit, Between man and the meanest rabbit There is an evident hiatus.= Each year, by lowest computations, Six times the rabbit rears her young, And frequent marriages among The very closest blood relations In very tender years ensure A constant stream of "little strangers," Who, quickly grown to gallant rangers, See that their families endure.= Not theirs to shirk paternal cares, Moved by considerations sordid, A child can always "be afforded"; The same applies to Belgian hares.= These noble brutes, pure Duty's pendants, May live to see their blood vermilion Coursing through something like a billion Wholly legitimate descendants.= Knowledge's path is hard and stony, And some may read who unaware are That rabbit brown and Belgian hare are Both members of the genus Coney.= The common hare, who lives in fields And never goes into a hole, (In this inferior to the mole) In all things to the Belgian yields.= He will, immoral brute, decline To multiply domestic "pledges," The family he rears in hedges Is often limited to nine.= Such shocking want of _savoir faire_, (Surely a symptom of insanity) Might goad a Bishop to profanity Were it not for the Belgian hare.= SONG FOR VINTNERS |THE Lion laps the limpid lake, `The Pard refuses wine, The sinuous Lizard and the Snake, `The petulant Porcupine, Agree in this, their thirst to quench Only with Nature's natural "drench."= In vain with beer you tempt the Deer, `Or lure the Marmozet; The early morning Chanticleer, `The painted Parroquet, Alike, on claret and champagne Gaze with unfaltering disdain.= No ale or spirit tempts the Ferret, `No juice of grape the Toad. [Illustration: 022] In vain towards the "Harp and Merit" `The patient Ox you goad; Not his in rapture to extol The praises of the flowing bowl.= The silent Spider laughs at cider, `The Horse despises port; The Crocodile (whose mouth is wider `Than any other sort) Prefers the waters of the Nile To any of a stronger style.= The Rabbit knows no "private bar," `The Pelican will wander Through arid plains of Kandahar, `Nor ever pause to ponder Whether in that infernal clime The clocks converge to "closing time."= True "bona-fide traveller" `Urging no sophist plea, How terrible must seem to her `Man's inebriety; She who in thirsty moments places Her simple trust in green oases.= With what calm scorn the Unicorn, `In his remote retreat, Must contemplate the fervour born `Of old "Château Lafitte." Conceive the feelings of the Sphinx Confronted with Columbian drinks!= And oh! if all this solemn truth `Were dinned into its mind From earliest years, might not our youth `Regenerate mankind, Aspire to climb the Heights, and dare To emulate the Belgian hare?= HYMN FOR HUMBLE PEOPLE |THE staunch and strenuous Serpent spends his time `In the safe field of serpentine pursuits, Rightly considering it a social crime `To parody the ways of other brutes.= Scorning the fraud of alien aspirations, `The snobbishness that apes another class, Proud, and yet conscious of his limitations, `He bites the dust and grovels in the grass.= The moral food that keeps him down is Force, `Force to confine his fancies to their beds. [Illustration: 028] Makes him the laughing-stock of quadrupeds.= No weak attempt to carol like the Lark, `Fore-doomed to failure and to ridicule, Troubles his life; he does not wish to bark, `Has no desire to amble like a Mule.= Having no legs he does not try to walk, `But keeps contentedly his native crawl; Having no voice he does not strive to talk, `Much less to bellow or to caterwaul.= Mark the inevitably reached result: `To balance the advantages he missed, In three departments he may yet exult `To be the only perfect specialist.= Three arts are his: to writhe, to hiss, to creep. `The Toad's tenacity, the Wombat's wiles, Or the keen cunning of the crafty Sheep `(And all are artists in their various styles),= Would vainly challenge them. He reigns supreme `In these the fields of his activity, And reigning so defies the envious Bream, `Who sneers and shrugs and sniggers in the sea.= Type of the wise, who roar but never foam `(If they can help it) at the mouth, except When night and morn they brush their teeth at home `With pallid powder for that purpose kept.= VERSICLES FOR VEGETARIANS |SINCE Dr. Watts in frenzy fine `Extolled the "busy Bee," The patience of the Porcupine, `The Newt's fidelity, The calm contentment of the Pike, Have stirred our hearts and brain alike.= Lives there a man so lost, so low, `That he has never found Some lesson in the Buffalo, `Some precept in the Hound? Few who have won Victoria's cross Owe _nothing_ to the Albatross.= These pleasant thoughts must turn our minds, `In meditation quiet, Towards the moral law that binds `The principles of diet. Since 'tis a maxim none disputes, That we should imitate the brutes.= As has been shown in former verse, `The animal creation Does not in its own nature nurse `Inebriate inclination; Nor is it formed by Heaven to pant For alcoholic stimulant.= That being so, our path is plain, `We must eschew all drinks; If we are anxious to attain `To the celestial brinks, The meanest Hippopotamus Will make our duty clear to us.= But in the search for Natural guides `To moral food-restrictions, We are assaulted on all sides `By patent contradictions. Thus, while the Lion lives on meat, The Pheasant is content with wheat.= Who then, when beasts do not agree, `Shall venture to decide? [Illustration: 033] Some will adopt the Chimpanzee [Illustration: 034] `And some the Fox as guide, Others the Bear or Antelope, Nature allows the fullest scope.= HYMN FOR HOWLERS |WHO that has sailed upon the ocean's face, `Or walked beside the sea along the sand, Has not felt envy for the piscine race, Comparing its domain, where noise is banned, To the infernal racket that takes place On land?= While up above the billows rage and roar And make a most unnecessary noise, And shallow Shrimps, who live too near the shore, Are harassed by the shouts of girls and boys, Who find the beach a place convenient for Their toys,= The happy members of the Fishy clan Pursue in peace their various pursuits, All undisturbed by bell of muffin-man, Or bellow of purveyor of fresh fruits, Who at each "Pub" his voice republican Recruits.= The harmless Herring gambols with his young, And heeds but hears not their impulsive play. (His heart is with their mother who was flung, Kippered to feed a clerk's bank-holiday, Into the salting-tub and passed unsung Away.)= Now, had this Herring been of human breed, And lived in London or some other town, Fate would have made him _hear_ as well as heed His offspring as it gambolled up and down, [Illustration: 037] Making a noise that's very hard indeed To drown.= Moreover, organ-grinders would have ground, And yowls from both "employed" and "unemployed"; Hoarse howls from those who had "salvation" found, And bawls from those whose faith had been destroyed, Would have combined to keep his sense of sound Annoyed.= Who would not therefore rather be a Whale, A Hake, a Haddock, or a Mackerel, Than linger in this sad uncertain vale (Here where men sit and hear each other yell)? Better to go, if other places fail, To ------ DIRGE FOR DEFEATED CANDIDATES |THE dreadful Dragon and the Unicorn, `Accustomed to be treated with respect, `And much annoyed by present-day neglect, Have sometimes wished they never had been born, `At least in any world so "unselect."= Their non-existence being now a "fact" `Accepted by mankind's majority, `They naturally feel quite "up a tree." They don't know what to do to counteract `These damned delusions of Democracy.= Although they often walk out in the sun, `And show themselves in all important streets, `Although in fact they have their "regular beats," They're hardly ever seen by any one, `And get no notice in the "daily sheets."= Although as signs they hang on various inns, `They find themselves irrevocably "out."= [Illustration: 040] In vain they prance and caracole about, Even the tribute of "derisive grins" `Is now denied them in their final rout.= Mere non-belief in his existence may `Seem, to one emptying a festive flagon `In the interior of the "Wasp and Wagon," A very trifling matter any way. `But it is most annoying to the Dragon.= The subject may appear beneath contempt `To one who holds the world's applause in scorn, `Preferring in a cloister to adorn "Illumined scrolls in heavenly colours dreamt," `But it is galling to the Unicorn. POEM FOR THE PROUD |SEEN in the mirror of the poet's dream, (Exclusively reserved for the "elect"), Each animal supplies us with a theme For wondering-admiration and respect. Thus, to those men who truly modest seem Compare The Hare.= The Bee performs all sorts of useful things When she is gathering honey for the hive, She fertilises flowers and plants, and brings Food to keep necessary Drones alive. Unless annoyed she very seldom stings, Dear me! The Bee.= The Dove extols and cherishes his mate, And coos and woos all through the summer day. H is life is blamelessly immaculate, And though his wings enable him to stray, He seldom does. He never comes home late. By Jove! The Dove.= The Crow displays a splendid scorn of pelf, Backed by invulnerable self-restraint. All specious arts he lays upon the shelf, And, being free from every primal taint, He keeps himself entirely to himself. [Illustration: 044] Bravo The Crow!= The Stork _compels_ our admiration, he Will stand for several hours in the same place And on one leg, instead of two (or three), Thus practising economy of space. A grand example of stability! Oh Lork! The Stork.= The self-repressive Cod, on his own beat, Swims in elaborately-studied curves. He keeps below, not wishing to compete With surface-swimming fishes, though his nerves Are sometimes tried by lack of air, and heat. Good God! The Cod.= SONG FOR SIDLERS |THE Crab walks sideways, not because his build `Precludes the possibility of walking straight, And not (as some have thought) that he is filled `With strange and lawless theories on gait; Still less that he is foolishly self-willed `And prone to show off or exaggerate.= No serious student of his life and ways `Will venture to impugn his common sense; His tact and moderation win high praise `Even from those whose faculties are dense And blind to the false issues which they raise `When they accuse him of malevolence.= "But, ah!" these shallow hide-bound pedants cry, `"If to the Crab all virtues you concede, If his intentions are not evil, why `This sidelong walk, [Illustration: 047] `These flanking steps that lead To no advancement of Humanity, `No exaltation of the mortal breed?= "Why not go forward as the Sword-fish goes? `Or move straight backward, like the jibbing Horse Why this absurd and pitiable pose `That takes delight in any devious course? Why this dislike to 'following the nose' `Which all the best authorities endorse?"= Insensate fools. Swims not the Cod in curves? `Does not the running Roebuck leap and bound If in his flight the Capercailzie swerves, `Shall he be mocked by every Basset-hound Who, having neither feathers, wings, nor nerves, `Has not the pluck to rise up from the ground?= Peace, peace, the Crab adopts a side-long walk, `For reasons still impossible to see. And if his pride permitted him to talk `To any one who did not do as he, His instinct would be, probably, to balk `The hopes of vulgar curiosity.= And while the schoolmen argue and discuss, `And fill the air with "whats," and "whens," and "whys," And demonstrate as: thus, and thus, and thus, `The crab will pulverise their theories, And put an end to all this foolish fuss `By walking sideways into Paradise. FRAGMENT FOR PHILOSOPHERS |IN the abysses of the ocean deeps, `Fathoms removed from men and mortal strife, [Illustration: 050] The unexpectant Oyster smiles and sleeps `Through the calm cycle of his peaceful life.= What though above his head the steamboat plies, `And close at hand he hears the fume and fuss Of the impetuous Halibut that flies `The mad embraces of the Octopus.= Though the fierce tails of Whales like flails descend `Upon the water lashed to furious foam, And the Sea-serpents writhe and twist and bend `All round the purlieus of his ocean home,= He still preserves his philosophic calm, `His high detachment from material things, And lays to his untroubled soul the balm `Of that contentment oft denied to kings.= Not far off, on the shore, men fume and fret, `And prowl and howl and postulate and preach, The Baby bellows in the bassinet, `And the Salvation Army on the beach.= The unsuccessful "Artist" of the "Halls" `Has blacked his face with cork, and now he sings Of moons and coons and comic funerals [Illustration: 052] `And the enchantment that the cake-walk brings.= And on the pier the "milingtary band" `Poisons the air with beastly brazen sound, While cockney couples wander hand in hand, [Illustration: 053] `And dismal tourists tour, [Illustration: 054] And bounders bound.= And donkey-boys allure to donkey rides `The sitters on the sand beside the sea, And touts sell "guides" to all the town provides, `From theatres to "painless dentistry."= To all this noise the Oyster lends no ear, `Partly because he has no ear to lend, Partly because he hates to interfere, `Chiefly because these rhymes must have an end.= [Illustration: 056] 
13650	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations and music clips as well as midi, pdf, and lilypond files. See 13650-h.htm or 13650-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/5/13650/13650-h/13650-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/6/5/13650/13650-h.zip) NONSENSE BOOKS by EDWARD LEAR With all the Original Illustrations 1894 PUBLISHERS' NOTICE. The first _Book of Nonsense_ was published in 1846. Three other volumes,-- _Nonsense Songs, Stories, etc._, published in 1871; _More Nonsense Pictures, etc._, in 1872; and _Laughable Lyrics: A Fresh Book of Nonsense, etc._, in 1877,--comprise all the "Nonsense Books" written by Mr. Lear. "Surely the most beneficent and innocent of all books yet produced is the _Book of Nonsense_, with its corollary carols, inimitable and refreshing, and perfect in rhythm. I really don't know any author to whom I am half so grateful for my idle self as Edward Lear. I shall put him first of my hundred authors." JOHN RUSKIN, In the _List of the Best Hundred Authors_. [Illustration: EDWARD LEAR. ENGRAVED BY ANDREW FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN SAN REMO, BY RONCAROLO.] CONTENTS. I. A BOOK OF NONSENSE. II. NONSENSE SONGS, STORIES, BOTANY, AND ALPHABETS. III. MORE NONSENSE PICTURES, RHYMES, BOTANY, ETC. IV. LAUGHABLE LYRICS: A FRESH BOOK OF NONSENSE POEMS, SONGS, BOTANY, ETC. [Illustration: QUI LEGIT REGIT.] The following lines by Mr. Lear were written for a young lady of his acquaintance, who had quoted to him the words of a young lady not of his acquaintance, "How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!" "How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!" Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more or less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig. He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs; Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs. He sits in a beautiful parlor, With hundreds of books on the wall; He drinks a great deal of Marsala, But never gets tipsy at all. He has many friends, lay men and clerical, Old Foss is the name of his cat; His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat. When he walks in waterproof white, The children run after him so! Calling out, "He's come out in his night- Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!" He weeps by the side of the ocean, He weeps on the top of the hill; He purchases pancakes and lotion, And chocolate shrimps from the mill. He reads, but he cannot speak, Spanish, He cannot abide ginger beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! * * * * * INTRODUCTION. Edward Lear, the artist, Author of "Journals of a Landscape Painter" in various out-of-the-way countries, and of the delightful "Books of Nonsense," which have amused successive generations of children, died on Sunday, January 29, 1888, at San Remo, Italy, where he had lived for twenty years. Few names could evoke a wider expression of passing regret at their appearance in the obituary column; for until his health began to fail he was known to an immense and almost a cosmopolitan circle of acquaintance, and popular wherever he was known. Fewer still could call up in the minds of intimate friends a deeper and more enduring feeling of sorrow for personal loss, mingled with the pleasantest of memories; for it was impossible to know him thoroughly and not to love him. London, Rome, the Mediterranean countries generally, Ceylon and India, are still all dotted with survivors among his generation who will mourn for him affectionately, although his latter years were spent in comparatively close retirement. He was a man of striking nobility of nature, fearless, independent, energetic, given to forming for himself strong opinions, often hastily, sometimes bitterly; not always strong or sound in judgment, but always seeking after truth in every matter, and following it as he understood it in scorn of consequence; utterly unselfish, devoted to his friends, generous even to extravagance towards any one who had ever been connected with his fortunes or his travels; playful, light-hearted, witty, and humorous, but not without those occasional fits of black depression and nervous irritability to which such temperaments are liable. Great and varied as the merits of his pictures are, Lear hardly succeeded in achieving any great popularity as a landscape-painter. His work was frequently done on private commission, and he rarely sent in pictures for the Academy or other exhibitions. His larger and more highly finished landscapes were unequal in technical perfection,--sometimes harsh or cold in color, or stiff in composition; sometimes full of imagination, at others literal and prosaic,--but always impressive reproductions of interesting or peculiar scenery. In later years he used in conversation to qualify himself as a "topographical artist;" and the definition was true, though not exhaustive. He had an intuitive and a perfectly trained eye for the character and beauty of distant mountain lines, the solemnity of rocky gorges, the majesty of a single mountain rising from a base of plain or sea; and he was equally exact in rendering the true forms of the middle distances and the specialties of foreground detail belonging to the various lands through which he had wandered as a sketcher. Some of his pictures show a mastery which has rarely been equalled over the difficulties of painting an immense plain as seen from a height, reaching straight away from the eye of the spectator until it is lost in a dim horizon. Sir Roderick Murchison used to say that he always understood the geological peculiarities of a country he had only studied in Lear's sketches. The compliment was thoroughly justified; and it is not every landscape-painter to whom it could honestly be paid. The history of Lear's choice of a career was a curious one. He was the youngest of twenty-one children, and, through a family mischance, was thrown entirely on the limited resources of an elderly sister at a very early age. As a boy he had always dabbled in colors for his own amusement, and had been given to poring over the ordinary boys' books upon natural history. It occurred to him to try to turn his infant talents to account; and he painted upon cardboard a couple of birds in the style which the older among us remember as having been called Oriental tinting, took them to a small shop, and sold them for fourpence. The kindness of friends, to whom he was ever grateful, gave him the opportunity of more serious and more remunerative study, and he became a patient and accurate zoölogical draughtsman. Many of the birds in the earlier volumes of Gould's magnificent folios were drawn for him by Lear. A few years back there were eagles alive in the Zoölogical Gardens in Regent's Park to which Lear could point as old familiar friends that he had drawn laboriously from claw to beak fifty years before. He united with this kind of work the more unpleasant occupation of drawing the curiosities of disease or deformity in hospitals. One day, as he was busily intent on the portrait of a bird in the Zoölogical Gardens, an old gentleman came and looked over his shoulder, entered into conversation, and finally said to him, "You must come and draw my birds at Knowsley." Lear did not know where Knowsley was, or what it meant; but the old gentleman was the thirteenth Earl of Derby. The successive Earls of Derby have been among Lear's kindest and most generous patrons. He went to Knowsley, and the drawings in the "Knowsley Menagerie" (now a rare and highly-prized work among book collectors) are by Lear's hand. At Knowsley he became a permanent favorite; and it was there that he composed in prolific succession his charming and wonderful series of utterly nonsensical rhymes and drawings. Lear had already begun seriously to study landscape. When English winters began to threaten his health, Lord Derby started a subscription which enabled him to go to Rome as a student and artist, and no doubt gave him recommendations among Anglo-Roman society which laid the foundations of a numerous _clientèle_. It was in the Roman summers that Lear first began to exercise the taste for pictorial wandering which grew into a habit and a passion, to fill vivid and copious note-books as he went, and to illustrate them by spirited and accurate drawings; and his first volume of "Illustrated Excursions in Italy," published in 1846, is gratefully dedicated to his Knowsley patron. Only those who have travelled with him could know what a delightful comrade he was to men whose tastes ran more or less parallel to his own. It was not everybody who could travel with him; for he was so irrepressibly anxious not to lose a moment of the time at his disposal for gathering into his garners the beauty and interest of the lands over which he journeyed, that he was careless of comfort and health. Calabria, Sicily, the Desert of Sinai, Egypt and Nubia, Greece and Albania, Palestine, Syria, Athos, Candia, Montenegro, Zagóri (who knows now where Zagóri is, or was?), were as thoroughly explored and sketched by him as the more civilized localities of Malta, Corsica, and Corfu. He read insatiably before starting all the recognized guide-books and histories of the country he intended to draw; and his published itineraries are marked by great strength and literary interest quite irrespectively of the illustrations. And he had his reward. It is not any ordinary journalist and sketcher who could have compelled from Tennyson such a tribute as lines "To E.L. on his Travels in Greece":-- "Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneïan pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls, "Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there." Lear was a man to whom, as to Tennyson's Ulysses, "All experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world." After settling at San Remo, and when he was nearly sixty years old, he determined to visit India and Ceylon. He started once and failed, being taken so ill at Suez that he was obliged to return. The next year he succeeded, and brought away some thousands of drawings of the most striking views from all three Presidencies and from the tropical island. His appetite for travel continued to grow with what it fed upon; and although he hated a long sea-voyage, he used seriously to contemplate as possible a visit to relations in New Zealand. It may safely, however, be averred that no considerations would have tempted him to visit the Arctic regions. A hard-working life, checkered by the odd adventures which happen to the odd and the adventurous and pass over the commonplace; a career brightened by the high appreciation of unimpeachable critics; lightened, till of late, by the pleasant society and good wishes of innumerable friends; saddened by the growing pressure of ill health and solitude; cheered by his constant trust in the love and sympathy of those who knew him best, however far away,--such was the life of Edward Lear. --_The London Saturday Review,_ Feb. 4, 1888. Among the writers who have striven with varying success during the last thirty or forty years to awaken the merriment of the "rising generation" of the time being, Mr. Edward Lear occupies the first place in seniority, if not in merit. The parent of modern nonsense-writers, he is distinguished from all his followers and imitators by the superior consistency with which he has adhered to his aim,--that of amusing his readers by fantastic absurdities, as void of vulgarity or cynicism as they are incapable of being made to harbor any symbolical meaning. He "never deviates into sense;" but those who appreciate him never feel the need of such deviation. He has a genius for coining absurd names and words, which, even when they are suggested by the exigencies of his metre, have a ludicrous appropriateness to the matter in hand. His verse is, with the exception of a certain number of cockney rhymes, wonderfully flowing and even melodious--or, as he would say, _meloobious_--while to all these qualifications for his task must finally be added the happy gift of pictorial expression, enabling him to double, nay, often to quadruple, the laughable effect of his text by an inexhaustible profusion of the quaintest designs. Generally speaking, these designs are, as it were, an idealization of the efforts of a clever child; but now and then--as in the case of the nonsense-botany--Mr. Lear reminds us what a genuine and graceful artist he really is. The advantage to a humorist of being able to illustrate his own text has been shown in the case of Thackeray and Mr. W.S. Gilbert, to mention two familiar examples; but in no other instance of such a combination have we discovered such geniality as is to be found in the nonsense-pictures of Mr. Lear. We have spoken above of the melodiousness of Mr. Lear's verses, a quality which renders them excellently suitable for musical setting, and which has not escaped the notice of the author himself. We have also heard effective arrangements, presumably by other composers, of the adventures of the Table and the Chair, and of the cruise of the Owl and the Pussy-cat,--the latter introduced into the "drawing-room entertainment" of one of the followers of John Parry. Indeed, in these days of adaptations, it is to be wondered at that no enterprising librettist has attempted to build a children's comic opera out of the materials supplied in the four books with which we are now concerned. The first of these, originally published in 1846, and brought out in an enlarged form in 1863, is exclusively devoted to nonsense-verses of one type. Mr. Lear is careful to disclaim the credit of having created this type, for he tells us in the preface to his third book that "the lines beginning, 'There was an old man of Tobago,' were suggested to me by a valued friend, as a form of verse leading itself to limitless variety for Rhymes and Pictures." Dismissing the further question of the authorship of "There was an old man of Tobago," we propose to give a few specimens of Mr. Lear's Protean powers as exhibited in the variation of this simple type. Here, to begin with, is a favorite verse, which we are very glad to have an opportunity of giving, as it is often incorrectly quoted, "cocks" being substituted for "owls" in the third line: "There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, 'It is just as I feared! Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!'" With the kindly fatalism which is the distinctive note of the foregoing stanza, the sentiment of our next extract is in vivid contrast:-- "There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was terribly bored by a bee; When they said, 'Does it buzz?' he replied, 'Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a Bee.'" To the foregoing verse an historic interest attaches, if, that is, we are right in supposing it to have inspired Mr. Gilbert with his famous "Nonsense-Rhyme in Blank Verse." We quote from memory:-- "There was an Old Man of St. Bees, Who was stung in the arm by a wasp. When they asked, 'Does it hurt?' he replied, 'No, it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a Hornet!'" Passing over the lines referring to the "Young Person" of Crete to whom the epithet "ombliferous" is applied, we may be pardoned--on the ground of the geographical proximity of the two countries named--for quoting together two stanzas which in reality are separated by a good many pages:-- "There was a Young Lady of Norway, Who casually sat in a doorway; When the doors queezed her flat, she exclaimed, 'What of that?' This courageous young person of Norway." "There was a Young Lady of Sweden, Who went by the slow train to Weedon; When they cried, 'Weedon Station!' she made no observation, But thought she should go back to Sweden." A noticeable feature about this first book, and one which we think is peculiar to it, is the harsh treatment which the eccentricities of the inhabitants of certain towns appear to have met with at the hands of their fellow-residents. No less than three people are "smashed,"--the Old Man of Whitehaven "who danced a quadrille with a Raven;" the Old Person of Buda; and the Old Man with a gong "who bumped at it all the day long," though in the last-named case we admit that there was considerable provocation. Before quitting the first "Nonsense-Book," we would point out that it contains one or two forms that are interesting; for instance, "scroobious," which we take to be a Portmanteau word, and "spickle-speckled," a favorite form of reduplication with Mr. Lear, and of which the best specimen occurs in his last book, "He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled the bell." The second book, published in 1871, shows Mr. Lear in the maturity of sweet desipience, and will perhaps remain the favorite volume of the four to grown-up readers. The nonsense-songs are all good, and "The Story of the Four little Children who went Round the World" is the most exquisite piece of imaginative absurdity that the present writer is acquainted with. But before coming to that, let us quote a few lines from "The Jumblies," who, as all the world knows, went to sea in a sieve:-- "They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees. And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart, And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-Daws, And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree, And no end of Stilton Cheese. _Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve._ And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more, And every one said, 'How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore.'" From the pedestrian excursion of the Table and the Chair, we cannot resist making a brief quotation, though in this, as in every case, the inability to quote the drawings also is a sad drawback:-- "So they both went slowly down, And walked about the town, With a cheerful bumpy sound, As they toddled round and round. And everybody cried, As they hastened to their side, 'See, the Table and the Chair Have come out to take the air!' "But in going down an alley To a castle in a valley, They completely lost their way, And wandered all the day, Till, to see them safely back, They paid a Ducky-Quack, And a Beetle and a Mouse, Who took them to their house. "Then they whispered to each other, 'O delightful little brother, What a lovely walk we've taken! Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!' So the Ducky and the leetle Browny-Mousy, and the Beetle Dined, and danced upon their heads, Till they toddled to their beds." "The Story of the Four little Children who went Round the World" follows next, and the account of the manner in which they occupied themselves while on shipboard may be transcribed for the benefit of those unfortunate persons who have not perused the original: "During the day-time Violet chiefly occupied herself in putting salt-water into a churn, while her three brothers churned it violently in the hope it would turn into butter, which it seldom if ever did." After journeying for a time, they saw some land at a distance, "and when they came to it they found it was an island made of water quite surrounded by earth. Besides that it was bordered by evanescent isthmuses with a great Gulf-Stream running about all over it, so that it was perfectly beautiful, and contained only a single tree, five hundred and three feet high." In a later passage, we read how "by-and-by the children came to a country where there were no houses, but only an incredibly innumerable number of large bottles without corks, and of a dazzling and sweetly susceptible blue color. Each of these blue bottles contained a bluebottlefly, and all these interesting animals live continually together in the most copious and rural harmony, nor perhaps in many parts of the world is such perfect and abject happiness to be found." Our last quotation from this inimitable recital shall be from the description of their adventure on a great plain where they espied an object which "on a nearer approach and on an accurately cutaneous inspection, seemed to be somebody in a large white wig sitting on an arm-chair made of sponge-cake and oyster-shells." This turned out to be the "Co-operative Cauliflower," who, "while the whole party from the boat was gazing at him with mingled affection and disgust ... suddenly arose, and in a somewhat plumdomphious manner hurried off towards the setting sun, his steps supported by two superincumbent confidential cucumbers ... till he finally disappeared on the brink of the western sky in a crystal cloud of sudorific sand. So remarkable a sight of course impressed the four children very deeply; and they returned immediately to their boat with a strong sense of undeveloped asthma and a great appetite." In his third book, Mr. Lear takes occasion in an entertaining preface to repudiate the charge of harboring any ulterior motive beyond that of "Nonsense pure and absolute" in any of his verses or pictures, and tells a delightful anecdote illustrative of the "persistently absurd report" that the Earl of Derby was the author of the first book of "Nonsense." In this volume he reverts once more to the familiar form adopted in his original efforts, and with little falling off. It is to be remarked that the third division is styled "Twenty-Six Nonsense Rhymes and Pictures," although there is no more rhyme than reason in any of the set. Our favorite illustrations are those of the "Scroobious Snake who always wore a Hat on his Head, for fear he should bite anybody," and the "Visibly Vicious Vulture who wrote some Verses to a Veal-cutlet in a Volume bound in Vellum." In the fourth and last of Mr. Lear's books, we meet not only with familiar words, but personages and places,--old friends like the Jumblies, the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, the Quangle Wangle, the hills of the Chankly Bore, and the great Gromboolian plain, as well as new creations, such as the Dong with a luminous Nose, whose story is a sort of nonsense version of the love of Nausicaa for Ulysses, only that the sexes are inverted. In these verses, graceful fancy is so subtly interwoven with nonsense as almost to beguile us into feeling a real interest in Mr. Lear's absurd creations. So again in the Pelican chorus there are some charming lines:-- "By day we fish, and at eve we stand On long bare islands of yellow sand. And when the sun sinks slowly down, And the great rock-walls grow dark and brown, When the purple river rolls fast and dim, And the ivory Ibis starlike skim, Wing to wing we dance around," etc. The other nonsense-poems are all good, but we have no space for further quotation, and will take leave of our subject by propounding the following set of examination questions which a friend who is deeply versed in Mr. Lear's books has drawn up for us:-- 1. What do you gather from a study of Mr. Lear's works to have been the prevalent characteristics of the inhabitants of Gretna, Prague, Thermopylae, Wick, and Hong Kong? 2. State briefly what historical events are connected with Ischia, Chertsey, Whitehaven, Boulak, and Jellibolee. 3. Comment, with illustrations, upon Mr. Lear's use of the following words: Runcible, propitious, dolomphious, borascible, fizzgiggious, himmeltanious, tumble-dum-down, spongetaneous. 4. Enumerate accurately all the animals who lived on the Quangle Wangle's Hat, and explain how the Quangle Wangle was enabled at once to enlighten his five travelling companions as to the true nature of the Co-operative Cauliflower. 5. What were the names of the five daughters of the Old Person of China, and what was the purpose for which the Old Man of the Dargle purchased six barrels of Gargle? 6. Collect notices of King Xerxes in Mr. Lear's works, and state your theory, if you have any, as to the character and appearance of Nupiter Piffkin. 7. Draw pictures of the Plum-pudding flea, and the Moppsikon Floppsikon Bear, and state by whom waterproof tubs were first used. 8. "There was an old man at a station Who made a promiscuous oration." What bearing may we assume the foregoing couplet to have upon Mr. Lear's political views? --_The London Spectator_. * * * * * A BOOK OF NONSENSE by EDWARD LEAR. With All the Original Pictures and Verses [Illustration] There was an Old Derry down Derry, who loved to see little folks merry; So he made them a Book, and with laughter they shook At the fun of that Derry down Derry. Original Dedication. TO THE GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN, GRAND-NEPHEWS, AND GRAND-NIECES OF EDWARD, 13TH EARL OF DERBY, THIS BOOK OF DRAWINGS AND VERSES (The greater part of which were originally made and composed for their parents.) Is Dedicated by the Author, EDWARD LEAR. London, 1862. * * * * * [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a nose, Who said, "If you choose to suppose That my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!" That remarkable Man with a nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Person of Smyrna, Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her; But she seized on the Cat, and said, "Granny, burn that! You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man on a hill, Who seldom, if ever, stood still; He ran up and down in his Grandmother's gown, Which adorned that Old Man on a hill. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Chili, Whose conduct was painful and silly; He sate on the stairs, eating apples and pears, That imprudent Old Person of Chili. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a gong, Who bumped at it all the day long; But they called out, "Oh, law! you're a horrid old bore!" So they smashed that Old Man with a gong. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Kilkenny, Who never had more than a penny; He spent all that money in onions and honey, That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Columbia, Who was thirsty, and called out for some beer; But they brought it quite hot, in a small copper pot, Which disgusted that man of Columbia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a Bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" he replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a Bee." [Illustration] There was an Old Lady of Chertsey, Who made a remarkable curtsey; She twirled round and round, till she sank underground, Which distressed all the people of Chertsey. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose chin Resembled the point of a pin; So she had it made sharp, and purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a flute,-- A "sarpint" ran into his boot! But he played day and night, till the "sarpint" took flight, And avoided that Man with a flute. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Portugal, Whose ideas were excessively nautical; She climbed up a tree to examine the sea, But declared she would never leave Portugal. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ischia, Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier; He danced hornpipes and jigs, and ate thousands of figs, That lively Old Person of Ischia [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Vienna, Who lived upon Tincture of Senna; When that did not agree, he took Camomile Tea, That nasty Old Man of Vienna. [Illustraion] There was an Old Man in a boat, Who said, "I'm afloat! I'm afloat!" When they said, "No, you ain't!" he was ready to faint, That unhappy Old Man in a boat. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Buda, Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder, Till at last with a hammer they silenced his clamor. By smashing that Person of Buda. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Moldavia, Who had the most curious behavior; For while he was able, he slept on a table, That funny Old Man of Moldavia. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Hurst, Who drank when he was not athirst; When they said, "You'll grow fatter!" he answered "What matter?" That globular Person of Hurst. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Madras, Who rode on a cream-colored Ass; But the length of its ears so promoted his fears, That it killed that Old Man of Madras. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Dover, Who rushed through a field of blue clover; But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees, So he very soon went back to Dover. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Leeds, Whose head was infested with beads; She sat on a stool and ate gooseberry-fool, Which agreed with that Person of Leeds. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Cadiz, Who was always polite to all ladies; But in handing his daughter, he fell into the water, Which drowned that Old Person of Cadiz. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Isles, Whose face was pervaded with smiles; He sang "High dum diddle," and played on the fiddle, That amiable Man of the Isles. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Basing, Whose presence of mind was amazing; He purchased a steed, which he rode at full speed, And escaped from the people of Basing. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed. [Illustration] There was an Old Person whose habits Induced him to feed upon Rabbits; When he'd eaten eighteen, he turned perfectly green, Upon which he relinquished those habits. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the West, Who wore a pale plum-colored vest; When they said, "Does it fit?" he replied, "Not a bit!" That uneasy Old Man of the West. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Marseilles, Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils: They caught several Fish, which they put in a dish, And sent to their Pa at Marseilles. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Wrekin, Whose shoes made a horrible creaking; But they said, "Tell us whether your shoes are of leather, Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?" [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose nose Was so long that it reached to her toes; So she hired an Old Lady, whose conduct was steady, To carry that wonderful nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Norway, Who casually sat in a doorway; When the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed, "What of that?" This courageous Young Lady of Norway. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Apulia, Whose conduct was very peculiar; He fed twenty sons upon nothing but buns, That whimsical Man of Apulia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Quebec,-- A beetle ran over his neck; But he cried, "With a needle I'll slay you, O beadle!" That angry Old Man of Quebec. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Bute, Who played on a silver-gilt flute; She played several jigs to her Uncle's white Pigs: That amusing Young Lady of Bute. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Philoe, Whose conduct was scroobious and wily; He rushed up a Palm when the weather was calm, And observed all the ruins of Philoe. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a poker, Who painted his face with red ochre. When they said, "You 're a Guy!" he made no reply, But knocked them all down with his poker. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Prague, Who was suddenly seized with the plague; But they gave him some butter, which caused him to mutter, And cured that Old Person of Prague. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Peru, Who watched his wife making a stew; But once, by mistake, in a stove she did bake That unfortunate Man of Peru. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the North, Who fell into a basin of broth; But a laudable cook fished him out with a hook, Which saved that Old Man of the North. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Troy, Whose drink was warm brandy and soy, Which he took with a spoon, by the light of the moon, In sight of the city of Troy. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Mold, Who shrank from sensations of cold; So he purchased some muffs, some furs, and some fluffs, And wrapped himself well from the cold. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Tring, Who embellished his nose with a ring; He gazed at the moon every evening in June, That ecstatic Old Person of Tring. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Nepaul, From his horse had a terrible fall; But, though split quite in two, with some very strong glue They mended that man of Nepaul. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Nile, Who sharpened his nails with a file, Till he cut off his thumbs, and said calmly, "This comes Of sharpening one's nails with a file!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of th' Abruzzi, So blind that he couldn't his foot see; When they said, "That's your toe," he replied, "Is it so?" That doubtful Old Man of th' Abruzzi. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Calcutta, Who perpetually ate bread and butter; Till a great bit of muffin, on which he was stuffing, Choked that horrid Old Man of Calcutta. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Rhodes, Who strongly objected to toads; He paid several cousins to catch them by dozens, That futile Old Person of Rhodes. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the South, Who had an immoderate mouth; But in swallowing a dish that was quite full of Fish, He was choked, that Old Man of the South. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Melrose, Who walked on the tips of his toes; But they said, "It ain't pleasant to see you at present, You stupid Old Man of Melrose." [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Dee, Who was sadly annoyed by a Flea; When he said, "I will scratch it!" they gave him a hatchet, Which grieved that Old Man of the Dee. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Lucca, Whose lovers completely forsook her; She ran up a tree, and said "Fiddle-de-dee!" Which embarrassed the people of Lucca. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Coblenz, The length of whose legs was immense; He went with one prance from Turkey to France, That surprising Old Man of Coblenz. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Bohemia, Whose daughter was christened Euphemia; But one day, to his grief, she married a thief, Which grieved that Old Man of Bohemia. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Corfu, Who never knew what he should do; So he rushed up and down, till the sun made him brown, That bewildered Old Man of Corfu. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Vesuvius, Who studied the works of Vitruvius; When the flames burnt his book, to drinking he took, That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Dundee, Who frequented the top of a tree; When disturbed by the Crows, he abruptly arose, And exclaimed, "I'll return to Dundee!" [Illustration] There was an Old Lady whose folly Induced her to sit in a holly; Whereon, by a thorn her dress being torn, She quickly became melancholy. [Illustration] There was an Old Man on some rocks, Who shut his Wife up in a box: When she said, "Let me out," he exclaimed, "Without doubt You will pass all your life in that box." [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Rheims, Who was troubled with horrible dreams; So to keep him awake they fed him with cake, Which amused that Old Person of Rheims. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest that ever was born; But quickly snapt up he was once by a Puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a pew, Whose waistcoat was spotted with blue; But he tore it in pieces, to give to his Nieces, That cheerful Old Man in a pew. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Jamaica, Who suddenly married a Quaker; But she cried out, "Oh, lack! I have married a black!" Which distressed that Old Man of Jamaica. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "How Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile, and continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of that Cow." [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Troy, Whom several large flies did annoy; Some she killed with a thump, some she drowned at the pump, And some she took with her to Troy. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Hull, Who was chased by a virulent Bull; But she seized on a spade, and called out, "Who's afraid?" Which distracted that virulent Bull. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Dutton, Whose head was as small as a button; So to make it look big he purchased a wig, And rapidly rushed about Dutton. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!" When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!" [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Russia, Who screamed so that no one could hush her; Her screams were extreme,--no one heard such a scream As was screamed by that Lady of Russia. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Tyre, Who swept the loud chords of a lyre; At the sound of each sweep she enraptured the deep, And enchanted the city of Tyre. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Bangor, Whose face was distorted with anger; He tore off his boots, and subsisted on roots, That borascible Person of Bangor. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the East, Who gave all his children a feast; But they all ate so much, and their conduct was such, That it killed that Old Man of the East. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Coast, Who placidly sat on a post; But when it was cold he relinquished his hold, And called for some hot buttered toast. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Kamschatka, Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur; His gait and his waddle were held as a model To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Gretna, Who rushed down the crater of Etna; When they said, "Is it hot?" he replied, "No, it's not!" That mendacious Old Person of Gretna. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a beard, Who sat on a Horse when he reared; But they said, "Never mind! you will fall off behind, You propitious Old Man with a beard!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Berlin, Whose form was uncommonly thin; Till he once, by mistake, was mixed up in a cake, So they baked that Old Man of Berlin. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the West, Who never could get any rest; So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin, Which cured that Old Man of the West. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Cheadle Was put in the stocks by the Beadle For stealing some pigs, some coats, and some wigs, That horrible person of Cheadle. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Anerley, Whose conduct was strange and unmannerly; He rushed down the Strand with a Pig in each hand, But returned in the evening to Anerley. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Wales, Who caught a large Fish without scales; When she lifted her hook, she exclaimed, "Only look!" That ecstatic Young Lady of Wales. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Welling, Whose praise all the world was a-telling; She played on the harp, and caught several Carp, That accomplished Young Lady of Welling. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Tartary, Who divided his jugular artery; But he screeched to his Wife, and she said, "Oh, my life! Your death will be felt by all Tartary!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Whitehaven, Who danced a quadrille with a Raven; But they said, "It's absurd to encourage this bird!" So they smashed that Old Man of Whitehaven. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Sweden, Who went by the slow train to Weedon; When they cried, "Weedon Station!" she made no observation, But thought she should go back to Sweden. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Chester, Whom several small children did pester; They threw some large stones, which broke most of his bones, And displeased that Old Person of Chester. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Cape, Who possessed a large Barbary Ape; Till the Ape, one dark night, set the house all alight, Which burned that Old Man of the Cape. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Burton, Whose answers were rather uncertain; When they said, "How d' ye do?" he replied, "Who are you?" That distressing Old Person of Burton. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ems Who casually fell in the Thames; And when he was found, they said he was drowned, That unlucky Old Person of Ems. [Illustration] There was a Young Girl of Majorca, Whose Aunt was a very fast walker; She walked seventy miles, and leaped fifteen stiles, Which astonished that Girl of Majorca. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Poole, Whose soup was excessively cool; So she put it to boil by the aid of some oil, That ingenious Young Lady of Poole. [Illustration] There was an Old Lady of Prague, Whose language was horribly vague; When they said, "Are these caps?" she answered, "Perhaps!" That oracular Lady of Prague. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Parma, Whose conduct grew calmer and calmer: When they said, "Are you dumb?" she merely said, "Hum!" That provoking Young Lady of Parma. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Sparta, Who had twenty-five sons and one "darter;" He fed them on Snails, and weighed them in scales, That wonderful Person of Sparta. [Illustration] There was an Old Man on whose nose Most birds of the air could repose; But they all flew away at the closing of day, Which relieved that Old Man and his nose. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Turkey, Who wept when the weather was murky; When the day turned out fine, she ceased to repine, That capricious Young Lady of Turkey. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Aôsta Who possessed a large Cow, but he lost her; But they said, "Don't you see she has run up a tree, You invidious Old Man of Aôsta?" [Illustration] There was a Young Person of Crete, Whose toilette was far from complete; She dressed in a sack spickle-speckled with black, That ombliferous Person of Crete. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Clare, Who was madly pursued by a Bear; When she found she was tired, she abruptly expired, That unfortunate Lady of Clare. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Dorking, Who bought a large bonnet for walking; But its color and size so bedazzled her eyes, That she very soon went back to Dorking. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Cape Horn, Who wished he had never been born; So he sat on a Chair till he died of despair, That dolorous Man of Cape Horn. [Illustration] There was an old Person of Cromer, Who stood on one leg to read Homer; When he found he grew stiff, he jumped over the cliff, Which concluded that Person of Cromer. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of the Hague, Whose ideas were excessively vague; He built a balloon to examine the moon, That deluded Old Man of the Hague. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Spain, Who hated all trouble and pain; So he sate on a chair with his feet in the air, That umbrageous Old Person of Spain. [Illustration] There was an Old Man who said, "Well! Will _nobody_ answer this bell? I have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white, But nobody answers this bell!" [Illustration] There was an Old Man with an Owl, Who continued to bother and howl; He sat on a rail, and imbibed bitter ale, Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl. [Illustration] There was an Old Man in a casement, Who held up his hands in amazement; When they said, "Sir, you'll fall!" he replied, "Not at all!" That incipient Old Man in a casement. [Illustration] There was an Old Person of Ewell, Who chiefly subsisted on gruel; But to make it more nice, he inserted some Mice, Which refreshed that Old Person of Ewell. [Illustration] There was an Old Man of Peru. Who never knew what he should do; So he tore off his hair, and behaved like a bear, That intrinsic Old Man of Peru. [Illustration] There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard." [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose eyes Were unique as to color and size; When she opened them wide, people all turned aside, And started away in surprise. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady of Ryde, Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied; She purchased some clogs, and some small spotty Dogs, And frequently walked about Ryde. [Illustration] There was a Young Lady whose bonnet Came untied when the birds sate upon it; But she said, "I don't care! all the birds in the air Are welcome to sit on my bonnet!" * * * * * NONSENSE SONGS Stories, Botany, and Alphabets by EDWARD LEAR. With One Hundred and Fifty Illustrations [Illustration] CONTENTS. NONSENSE SONGS. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO THE DADDY LONG-LEGS AND THE FLY THE JUMBLIES THE NUTCRACKERS AND THE SUGAR-TONGS CALICO PIE MR. AND MRS. SPIKKY SPARROW THE BROOM, THE SHOVEL, THE POKER, AND THE TONGS THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR NONSENSE STORIES. THE STORY OF THE FOUR LITTLE CHILDREN WHO WENT ROUND THE WORLD THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES OF THE LAKE PIPPLE-POPPLE NONSENSE COOKERY NONSENSE BOTANY NONSENSE ALPHABET, No. 1 " " No. 2 " " No. 3 NONSENSE SONGS. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. [Illustration] I. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" II. Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. [Illustration] THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO. [Illustration] I. Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, "Good gracious! how you hop Over the fields, and the water too, As if you never would stop! My life is a bore in this nasty pond; And I long to go out in the world beyond: I wish I could hop like you," Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. II. "Please give me a ride on your back," Said the Duck to the Kangaroo: "I would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'Quack' The whole of the long day through; And we 'd go the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee, Over the land, and over the sea: Please take me a ride! oh, do!" Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. [Illustration] III. Said the Kangaroo to the Duck, "This requires some little reflection. Perhaps, on the whole, it might bring me luck; And there seems but one objection; Which is, if you'll let me speak so bold, Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold, And would probably give me the roo- Matiz," said the Kangaroo. [Illustration] IV. Said the Duck, "As I sate on the rocks, I have thought over that completely; And I bought four pairs of worsted socks, Which fit my web-feet neatly; And, to keep out the cold, I've bought a cloak; And every day a cigar I'll smoke; All to follow my own dear true Love of a Kangaroo." V. Said the Kangaroo, "I'm ready, All in the moonlight pale; But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady, And quite at the end of my tail." So away they went with a hop and a bound; And they hopped the whole world three times round. And who so happy, oh! who, As the Duck and the Kangaroo? [Illustration] THE DADDY LONG-LEGS AND THE FLY. [Illustration] I. Once Mr. Daddy Long-legs, Dressed in brown and gray, Walked about upon the sands Upon a summer's day: And there among the pebbles, When the wind was rather cold, He met with Mr. Floppy Fly, All dressed in blue and gold; And, as it was too soon to dine, They drank some periwinkle-wine, And played an hour or two, or more, At battlecock and shuttledore. II. Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs To Mr. Floppy Fly, "Why do you never come to court? I wish you 'd tell me why. All gold and shine, in dress so fine, You'd quite delight the court. Why do you never go at all? I really think you _ought_. And, if you went, you'd see such sights! Such rugs and jugs and candle-lights! And, more than all, the king and queen,-- One in red, and one in green." III. "O Mr. Daddy Long-legs!" Said Mr. Floppy Fly, "It's true I never go to court; And I will tell you why. If I had six long legs like yours, At once I'd go to court; But, oh! I can't, because _my_ legs Are so extremely short. And I'm afraid the king and queen (One in red, and one in green) Would say aloud, 'You are not fit, You Fly, to come to court a bit!'" IV. "Oh, Mr. Daddy Long-legs!" Said Mr. Floppy Fly, "I wish you 'd sing one little song, One mumbian melody. You used to sing so awful well In former days gone by; But now you never sing at all: I wish you'd tell me why: For, if you would, the silvery sound Would please the shrimps and cockles round, And all the crabs would gladly come To hear you sing, 'Ah, Hum di Hum!'" V. Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs, "I can never sing again; And, if you wish, I'll tell you why, Although it gives me pain. For years I cannot hum a bit, Or sing the smallest song; And this the dreadful reason is,-- My legs are grown too long! My six long legs, all here and there, Oppress my bosom with despair; And, if I stand or lie or sit, I cannot sing one single bit!" VI. So Mr. Daddy Long-legs And Mr. Floppy Fly Sat down in silence by the sea, And gazed upon the sky. They said, "This is a dreadful thing! The world has all gone wrong, Since one has legs too short by half, The other much too long. One never more can go to court, Because his legs have grown too short; The other cannot sing a song, Because his legs have grown too long!" VII. Then Mr. Daddy Long-legs And Mr. Floppy Fly Rushed downward to the foamy sea With one sponge-taneous cry: And there they found a little boat, Whose sails were pink and gray; And off they sailed among the waves, Far and far away: They sailed across the silent main, And reached the great Gromboolian Plain; And there they play forevermore At battlecock and shuttledore. [Illustration] THE JUMBLIES. [Illustration] I. They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue And they went to sea in a sieve. II. They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. III. The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. IV. And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. V. They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,-- To a land all covered with trees: And they bought an owl, and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. VI. And in twenty years they all came back,-- In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. THE NUTCRACKERS AND THE SUGAR-TONGS. [Illustration] I. The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table; The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side; And the Nutcrackers said, "Don't you wish we were able Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride? Must we drag on this stupid existence forever, So idle and weary, so full of remorse, While every one else takes his pleasure, and never Seems happy unless he is riding a horse? II. "Don't you think we could ride without being instructed, Without any saddle or bridle or spur? Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed, I'm sure that an accident could not occur. Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table, And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse! Shall we try? Shall we go? Do you think we are able?" The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly, "Of course!" III. So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute; The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said "Crack!" The stable was open; the horses were in it: Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back. The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway; The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay; The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway, Screamed out, "They are taking the horses away!" IV. The whole of the household was filled with amazement: The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about; The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement; The Salt-cellar stood on his head with a shout; The Spoons, with a clatter, looked out of the lattice; The Mustard-pot climbed up the gooseberry-pies; The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of veal-patties, And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise. V. The Frying-pan said, "It's an awful delusion!" The Tea-kettle hissed, and grew black in the face; And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race. And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter (Their ponies were cream-colored, speckled with brown), The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after; Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town. VI. They rode through the street, and they rode by the station; They galloped away to the beautiful shore; In silence they rode, and "made no observation," Save this: "We will never go back any more!" And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing, The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say "Crack!" Till, far in the distance their forms disappearing, They faded away; and they never came back! CALICO PIE. [Illustration] I. Calico pie, The little birds fly Down to the calico-tree: Their wings were blue, And they sang "Tilly-loo!" Till away they flew; And they never came back to me! They never came back, They never came back, They never came back to me! II. Calico jam, The little Fish swam Over the Syllabub Sea. He took off his hat To the Sole and the Sprat, And the Willeby-wat: But he never came back to me; He never came back, He never came back, He never came back to me. [Illustration] III. Calico ban, The little Mice ran To be ready in time for tea; Flippity flup, They drank it all up, And danced in the cup: But they never came back to me; They never came back, They never came back, They never came back to me. [Illustration] IV. Calico drum, The Grasshoppers come, The Butterfly, Beetle, and Bee, Over the ground, Around and round, With a hop and a bound; But they never came back, They never came back, They never came back. They never came back to me. [Illustration] MR. AND MRS. SPIKKY SPARROW. [Illustration] I. On a little piece of wood Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood: Mrs. Sparrow sate close by, A-making of an insect-pie For her little children five, In the nest and all alive; Singing with a cheerful smile, To amuse them all the while, "Twikky wikky wikky wee, Wikky bikky twikky tee, Spikky bikky bee!" II. Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said, "Spikky, darling! in my head Many thoughts of trouble come, Like to flies upon a plum. All last night, among the trees, I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze; And thought I, 'It's come to that Because he does not wear a hat!' Chippy wippy sikky tee, Bikky wikky tikky mee, Spikky chippy wee! III. "Not that you are growing old; But the nights are growing cold. No one stays out all night long Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!" Mr. Spikky said, "How kind, Dear, you are, to speak your mind! All your life I wish you luck! You are, you are, a lovely duck! Witchy witchy witchy wee, Twitchy witchy witchy bee, Tikky tikky tee! IV. "I was also sad, and thinking, When one day I saw you winking, And I heard you sniffle-snuffle, And I saw your feathers ruffle: To myself I sadly said, 'She's neuralgia in her head! That dear head has nothing on it! Ought she not to wear a bonnet?' Witchy kitchy kitchy wee, Spikky wikky mikky bee, Chippy wippy chee! V. "Let us both fly up to town: There I'll buy you such a gown! Which, completely in the fashion, You shall tie a sky-blue sash on; And a pair of slippers neat To fit your darling little feet, So that you will look and feel Quite galloobious and genteel. Jikky wikky bikky see, Chicky bikky wikky bee, Twicky witchy wee!" VI. So they both to London went, Alighting on the Monument; Whence they flew down swiftly--pop! Into Moses' wholesale shop: There they bought a hat and bonnet, And a gown with spots upon it, A satin sash of Cloxam blue, And a pair of slippers too. Zikky wikky mikky bee, Witchy witchy mitchy kee, Sikky tikky wee! VII. Then, when so completely dressed, Back they flew, and reached their nest. Their children cried, "O ma and pa! How truly beautiful you are!" Said they, "We trust that cold or pain We shall never feel again; While, perched on tree or house or steeple, We now shall look like other people. Witchy witchy witchy wee, Twikky mikky bikky bee, Zikky sikky tee!" [Illustration] THE BROOM, THE SHOVEL, THE POKER, AND THE TONGS. [Illustration] I. The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and Tongs, They all took a drive in the Park; And they each sang a song, ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! Before they went back in the dark. Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach; Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash; Miss Shovel was dressed all in black (with a brooch); Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash). Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! And they all sang a song. II. "O Shovely so lovely!" the Poker he sang, "You have perfectly conquered my heart. Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song, I will feed you with cold apple-tart. When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound, You enrapture my life with delight, Your nose is so shiny, your head is so round, And your shape is so slender and bright! Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! Ain't you pleased with my song?" III. "Alas! Mrs. Broom," sighed the Tongs in his song, "Oh! is it because I'm so thin, And my legs are so long,--ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong!-- That you don't care about me a pin? Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room, Ah! why don't you heed my complaint? Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom, Because you are covered with paint? Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! You are certainly wrong." IV. Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang, "What nonsense you're singing to-day!" Said the Shovel, "I'll certainly hit you a bang!" Said the Broom, "And I'll sweep you away!" So the coachman drove homeward as fast as he could, Perceiving their anger with pain; But they put on the kettle, and little by little They all became happy again. Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong! There's an end of my song. THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR. [Illustration] I. Said the Table to the Chair, "You can hardly be aware How I suffer from the heat And from chilblains on my feet. If we took a little walk, We might have a little talk; Pray let us take the air," Said the Table to the Chair. II. Said the Chair unto the Table, "Now, you _know_ we are not able: How foolishly you talk, When you know we _cannot_ walk!" Said the Table with a sigh, "It can do no harm to try. I've as many legs as you: Why can't we walk on two?" III. So they both went slowly down, And walked about the town With a cheerful bumpy sound As they toddled round and round; And everybody cried, As they hastened to their side, "See! the Table and the Chair Have come out to take the air!" IV. But in going down an alley, To a castle in a valley, They completely lost their way, And wandered all the day; Till, to see them safely back, They paid a Ducky-quack, And a Beetle, and a Mouse, Who took them to their house. [Illustration] V. Then they whispered to each other, "O delightful little brother, What a lovely walk we've taken! Let us dine on beans and bacon." So the Ducky and the leetle Browny-Mousy and the Beetle Dined, and danced upon their heads Till they toddled to their beds. [Illustration] * * * * * NONSENSE STORIES. THE STORY OF THE FOUR LITTLE CHILDREN WHO WENT ROUND THE WORLD. Once upon a time, a long while ago, there were four little people whose names were [Illustration] VIOLET, SLINGSBY, GUY, and LIONEL; and they all thought they should like to see the world. So they bought a large boat to sail quite round the world by sea, and then they were to come back on the other side by land. The boat was painted blue with green spots, and the sail was yellow with red stripes: and, when they set off, they only took a small Cat to steer and look after the boat, besides an elderly Quangle-Wangle, who had to cook the dinner and make the tea; for which purposes they took a large kettle. [Illustration] For the first ten days they sailed on beautifully, and found plenty to eat, as there were lots of fish; and they had only to take them out of the sea with a long spoon, when the Quangle-Wangle instantly cooked them; and the Pussy-Cat was fed with the bones, with which she expressed herself pleased, on the whole: so that all the party were very happy. During the daytime, Violet chiefly occupied herself in putting salt water into a churn; while her three brothers churned it violently, in the hope that it would turn into butter, which it seldom if ever did; and in the evening they all retired into the tea-kettle, where they all managed to sleep very comfortably, while Pussy and the Quangle-Wangle managed the boat. [Illustration] After a time, they saw some land at a distance; and, when they came to it, they found it was an island made of water quite surrounded by earth. Besides that, it was bordered by evanescent isthmuses, with a great gulf-stream running about all over it; so that it was perfectly beautiful, and contained only a single tree, 503 feet high. When they had landed, they walked about, but found, to their great surprise, that the island was quite full of veal-cutlets and chocolate-drops, and nothing else. So they all climbed up the single high tree to discover, if possible, if there were any people; but having remained on the top of the tree for a week, and not seeing anybody, they naturally concluded that there were no inhabitants; and accordingly, when they came down, they loaded the boat with two thousand veal-cutlets and a million of chocolate-drops; and these afforded them sustenance for more than a month, during which time they pursued their voyage with the utmost delight and apathy. [Illustration] After this they came to a shore where there were no less than sixty-five great red parrots with blue tails, sitting on a rail all of a row, and all fast asleep. And I am sorry to say that the Pussy-Cat and the Quangle-Wangle crept softly, and bit off the tail-feathers of all the sixty-five parrots; for which Violet reproved them both severely. [Illustration] Notwithstanding which, she proceeded to insert all the feathers--two hundred and sixty in number--in her bonnet; thereby causing it to have a lovely and glittering appearance, highly prepossessing and efficacious. [Illustration] The next thing that happened to them was in a narrow part of the sea, which was so entirely full of fishes that the boat could go on no farther: so they remained there about six weeks, till they had eaten nearly all the fishes, which were soles, and all ready-cooked, and covered with shrimp-sauce, so that there was no trouble whatever. And as the few fishes who remained uneaten complained of the cold, as well as of the difficulty they had in getting any sleep on account of the extreme noise made by the arctic bears and the tropical turnspits, which frequented the neighborhood in great numbers, Violet most amiably knitted a small woollen frock for several of the fishes, and Slingsby administered some opium-drops to them; through which kindness they became quite warm, and slept soundly. [Illustration] Then they came to a country which was wholly covered with immense orange-trees of a vast size, and quite full of fruit. So they all landed, taking with them the tea-kettle, intending to gather some of the oranges, and place them in it. But, while they were busy about this, a most dreadfully high wind rose, and blew out most of the parrot-tail feathers from Violet's bonnet. That, however, was nothing compared with the calamity of the oranges falling down on their heads by millions and millions, which thumped and bumped and bumped and thumped them all so seriously, that they were obliged to run as hard as they could for their lives; besides that the sound of the oranges rattling on the tea-kettle was of the most fearful and amazing nature. [Illustration] Nevertheless, they got safely to the boat, although considerably vexed and hurt; and the Quangle-Wangle's right foot was so knocked about, that he had to sit with his head in his slipper for at least a week. [Illustration] This event made them all for a time rather melancholy: and perhaps they might never have become less so, had not Lionel, with a most praiseworthy devotion and perseverance, continued to stand on one leg, and whistle to them in a loud and lively manner; which diverted the whole party so extremely that they gradually recovered their spirits, and agreed that whenever they should reach home, they would subscribe towards a testimonial to Lionel, entirely made of gingerbread and raspberries, as an earnest token of their sincere and grateful infection. [Illustration] After sailing on calmly for several more days, they came to another country, where they were much pleased and surprised to see a countless multitude of white Mice with red eyes, all sitting in a great circle, slowly eating custard-pudding with the most satisfactory and polite demeanor. [Illustration] And as the four travellers were rather hungry, being tired of eating nothing but soles and oranges for so long a period, they held a council as to the propriety of asking the Mice for some of their pudding in a humble and affecting manner, by which they could hardly be otherwise than gratified. It was agreed, therefore, that Guy should go and ask the Mice, which he immediately did; and the result was, that they gave a walnut-shell only half full of custard diluted with water. Now, this displeased Guy, who said, "Out of such a lot of pudding as you have got, I must say, you might have spared a somewhat larger quantity." But no sooner had he finished speaking than the Mice turned round at once, and sneezed at him in an appalling and vindictive manner (and it is impossible to imagine a more scroobious and unpleasant sound than that caused by the simultaneous sneezing of many millions of angry Mice); so that Guy rushed back to the boat, having first shied his cap into the middle of the custard-pudding, by which means he completely spoiled the Mice's dinner. [Illustration] By and by the four children came to a country where there were no houses, but only an incredibly innumerable number of large bottles without corks, and of a dazzling and sweetly susceptible blue color. Each of these blue bottles contained a Blue-Bottle-Fly; and all these interesting animals live continually together in the most copious and rural harmony: nor perhaps in many parts of the world is such perfect and abject happiness to be found. Violet and Slingsby and Guy and Lionel were greatly struck with this singular and instructive settlement; and, having previously asked permission of the Blue-Bottle-Flies (which was most courteously granted), the boat was drawn up to the shore, and they proceeded to make tea in front of the bottles: but as they had no tea-leaves, they merely placed some pebbles in the hot water; and the Quangle-Wangle played some tunes over it on an accordion, by which, of course, tea was made directly, and of the very best quality. The four children then entered into conversation with the Blue-Bottle-Flies, who discoursed in a placid and genteel manner, though with a slightly buzzing accent, chiefly owing to the fact that they each held a small clothes-brush between their teeth, which naturally occasioned a fizzy, extraneous utterance. "Why," said Violet, "would you kindly inform us, do you reside in bottles; and, if in bottles at all, why not, rather, in green or purple, or, indeed, in yellow bottles?" To which questions a very aged Blue-Bottle-Fly answered, "We found the bottles here all ready to live in; that is to say, our great-great-great- great-great-grandfathers did: so we occupied them at once. And, when the winter comes on, we turn the bottles upside down, and consequently rarely feel the cold at all; and you know very well that this could not be the case with bottles of any other color than blue." "Of course it could not," said Slingsby. "But, if we may take the liberty of inquiring, on what do you chiefly subsist?" "Mainly on oyster-patties," said the Blue-Bottle-Fly; "and, when these are scarce, on raspberry vinegar and Russian leather boiled down to a jelly." "How delicious!" said Guy. To which Lionel added, "Huzz!" And all the Blue-Bottle-Flies said, "Buzz!" At this time, an elderly Fly said it was the hour for the evening-song to be sung; and, on a signal being given, all the Blue-Bottle-Flies began to buzz at once in a sumptuous and sonorous manner, the melodious and mucilaginous sounds echoing all over the waters, and resounding across the tumultuous tops of the transitory titmice upon the intervening and verdant mountains with a serene and sickly suavity only known to the truly virtuous. The Moon was shining slobaciously from the star-bespangled sky, while her light irrigated the smooth and shiny sides and wings and backs of the Blue-Bottle-Flies with a peculiar and trivial splendor, while all Nature cheerfully responded to the cerulean and conspicuous circumstances. In many long-after years, the four little travellers looked back to that evening as one of the happiest in all their lives; and it was already past midnight when--the sail of the boat having been set up by the Quangle-Wangle, the tea-kettle and churn placed in their respective positions, and the Pussy-Cat stationed at the helm--the children each took a last and affectionate farewell of the Blue-Bottle-Flies, who walked down in a body to the water's edge to see the travellers embark. [Illustration] As a token of parting respect and esteem, Violet made a courtesy quite down to the ground, and stuck one of her few remaining parrot-tail feathers into the back hair of the most pleasing of the Blue-Bottle-Flies; while Slingsby, Guy, and Lionel offered them three small boxes, containing, respectively, black pins, dried figs, and Epsom salts; and thus they left that happy shore forever. Overcome by their feelings, the four little travellers instantly jumped into the tea-kettle, and fell fast asleep. But all along the shore, for many hours, there was distinctly heard a sound of severely-suppressed sobs, and of a vague multitude of living creatures using their pocket-handkerchiefs in a subdued simultaneous snuffle, lingering sadly along the walloping waves as the boat sailed farther and farther away from the Land of the Happy Blue-Bottle-Flies. Nothing particular occurred for some days after these events, except that, as the travellers were passing a low tract of sand, they perceived an unusual and gratifying spectacle; namely, a large number of Crabs and Crawfish--perhaps six or seven hundred--sitting by the water-side, and endeavoring to disentangle a vast heap of pale pink worsted, which they moistened at intervals with a fluid composed of lavender-water and white-wine negus. "Can we be of any service to you, O crusty Crabbies?" said the four children. "Thank you kindly," said the Crabs consecutively. "We are trying to make some worsted mittens, but do not know how." On which Violet, who was perfectly acquainted with the art of mitten-making, said to the Crabs, "Do your claws unscrew, or are they fixtures?" "They are all made to unscrew," said the Crabs; and forthwith they deposited a great pile of claws close to the boat, with which Violet uncombed all the pale pink worsted, and then made the loveliest mittens with it you can imagine. These the Crabs, having resumed and screwed on their claws, placed cheerfully upon their wrists, and walked away rapidly on their hind-legs, warbling songs with a silvery voice and in a minor key. After this, the four little people sailed on again till they came to a vast and wide plain of astonishing dimensions, on which nothing whatever could be discovered at first; but, as the travellers walked onward, there appeared in the extreme and dim distance a single object, which on a nearer approach, and on an accurately cutaneous inspection, seemed to be somebody in a large white wig, sitting on an arm-chair made of sponge-cakes and oyster-shells. "It does not quite look like a human being," said Violet doubtfully; nor could they make out what it really was, till the Quangle-Wangle (who had previously been round the world) exclaimed softly in a loud voice, "It is the co-operative Cauliflower!" [Illustration] And so, in truth, it was: and they soon found that what they had taken for an immense wig was in reality the top of the Cauliflower; and that he had no feet at all, being able to walk tolerably well with a fluctuating and graceful movement on a single cabbage-stalk,--an accomplishment which naturally saved him the expense of stockings and shoes. Presently, while the whole party from the boat was gazing at him with mingled affection and disgust, he suddenly arose, and, in a somewhat plumdomphious manner, hurried off towards the setting sun,--his steps supported by two superincumbent confidential Cucumbers, and a large number of Waterwagtails proceeding in advance of him by three and three in a row,--till he finally disappeared on the brink of the western sky in a crystal cloud of sudorific sand. [Illustration] So remarkable a sight, of course, impressed the four children very deeply; and they returned immediately to their boat with a strong sense of undeveloped asthma and a great appetite. Shortly after this, the travellers were obliged to sail directly below some high overhanging rocks, from the top of one of which a particularly odious little boy, dressed in rose-colored knickerbockers, and with a pewter plate upon his head, threw an enormous pumpkin at the boat, by which it was instantly upset. [Illustration] But this upsetting was of no consequence, because all the party knew how to swim very well: and, in fact, they preferred swimming about till after the moon rose; when, the water growing chilly, they sponge-taneously entered the boat. Meanwhile the Quangle-Wangle threw back the pumpkin with immense force, so that it hit the rocks where the malicious little boy in rose-colored knickerbockers was sitting; when, being quite full of lucifer-matches, the pumpkin exploded surreptitiously into a thousand bits; whereon the rocks instantly took fire, and the odious little boy became unpleasantly hotter and hotter and hotter, till his knickerbockers were turned quite green, and his nose was burnt off. Two or three days after this had happened, they came to another place, where they found nothing at all except some wide and deep pits full of mulberry-jam. This is the property of the tiny, yellow-nosed Apes who abound in these districts, and who store up the mulberry-jam for their food in winter, when they mix it with pellucid pale periwinkle-soup, and serve it out in wedgewood china-bowls, which grow freely all over that part of the country. Only one of the yellow-nosed Apes was on the spot, and he was fast asleep; yet the four travellers and the Quangle-Wangle and Pussy were so terrified by the violence and sanguinary sound of his snoring, that they merely took a small cupful of the jam, and returned to re-embark in their boat without delay. What was their horror on seeing the boat (including the churn and the tea-kettle) in the mouth of an enormous Seeze Pyder, an aquatic and ferocious creature truly dreadful to behold, and, happily, only met with in those excessive longitudes! In a moment, the beautiful boat was bitten into fifty-five thousand million hundred billion bits; and it instantly became quite clear that Violet, Slingsby, Guy, and Lionel could no longer preliminate their voyage by sea. The four travellers were therefore obliged to resolve on pursuing their wanderings by land: and, very fortunately, there happened to pass by at that moment an elderly Rhinoceros, on which they seized; and, all four mounting on his back,--the Quangle-Wangle sitting on his horn, and holding on by his ears, and the Pussy-Cat swinging at the end of his tail,--they set off, having only four small beans and three pounds of mashed potatoes to last through their whole journey. [Illustration] They were, however, able to catch numbers of the chickens and turkeys and other birds who incessantly alighted on the head of the Rhinoceros for the purpose of gathering the seeds of the rhododendron-plants which grew there; and these creatures they cooked in the most translucent and satisfactory manner by means of a fire lighted on the end of the Rhinoceros's back. A crowd of Kangaroos and gigantic Cranes accompanied them, from feelings of curiosity and complacency; so that they were never at a loss for company, and went onward, as it were, in a sort of profuse and triumphant procession. Thus in less than eighteen weeks they all arrived safely at home, where they were received by their admiring relatives with joy tempered with contempt, and where they finally resolved to carry out the rest of their travelling-plans at some more favorable opportunity. As for the Rhinoceros, in token of their grateful adherence, they had him killed and stuffed directly, and then set him up outside the door of their father's house as a diaphanous doorscraper. [Illustration] THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES OF THE LAKE PIPPLE-POPPLE. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. In former days,--that is to say, once upon a time,--there lived in the Land of Gramble-Blamble seven families. They lived by the side of the great Lake Pipple-Popple (one of the seven families, indeed, lived _in_ the lake), and on the outskirts of the city of Tosh, which, excepting when it was quite dark, they could see plainly. The names of all these places you have probably heard of; and you have only not to look in your geography-books to find out all about them. Now, the seven families who lived on the borders of the great Lake Pipple-Popple were as follows in the next chapter. CHAPTER II. THE SEVEN FAMILIES. There was a family of two old Parrots and seven young Parrots. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Storks and seven young Storks. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Geese and seven young Geese. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Owls and seven young Owls. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Guinea Pigs and seven young Guinea Pigs. [Illustration] There was a family of two old Cats and seven young Cats. [Illustration] And there was a family of two old Fishes and seven young Fishes. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE HABITS OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES. The Parrots lived upon the Soffsky-Poffsky trees, which were beautiful to behold, and covered with blue leaves; and they fed upon fruit, artichokes, and striped beetles. The Storks walked in and out of the Lake Pipple-Popple, and ate frogs for breakfast, and buttered toast for tea; but on account of the extreme length of their legs they could not sit down, and so they walked about continually. The Geese, having webs to their feet, caught quantities of flies, which they ate for dinner. The Owls anxiously looked after mice, which they caught, and made into sago-puddings. The Guinea Pigs toddled about the gardens, and ate lettuces and Cheshire cheese. The Cats sate still in the sunshine, and fed upon sponge biscuits. The Fishes lived in the lake, and fed chiefly on boiled periwinkles. And all these seven families lived together in the utmost fun and felicity. CHAPTER IV. THE CHILDREN OF THE SEVEN FAMILIES ARE SENT AWAY. One day all the seven fathers and the seven mothers of the seven families agreed that they would send their children out to see the world. So they called them all together, and gave them each eight shillings and some good advice, some chocolate-drops, and a small green morocco pocket-book to set down their expenses in. They then particularly entreated them not to quarrel; and all the parents sent off their children with a parting injunction. "If," said the old Parrots, "you find a cherry, do not fight about who should have it." "And," said the old Storks, "if you find a frog, divide it carefully into seven bits, but on no account quarrel about it." And the old Geese said to the seven young Geese, "Whatever you do, be sure you do not touch a plum-pudding flea." And the old Owls said, "If you find a mouse, tear him up into seven slices, and eat him cheerfully, but without quarrelling." And the old Guinea Pigs said, "Have a care that you eat your lettuces, should you find any, not greedily, but calmly." And the old Cats said, "Be particularly careful not to meddle with a clangle-wangle if you should see one." And the old Fishes said, "Above all things, avoid eating a blue boss-woss; for they do not agree with fishes, and give them a pain in their toes." So all the children of each family thanked their parents; and, making in all forty-nine polite bows, they went into the wide world. CHAPTER V. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG PARROTS. The seven young Parrots had not gone far, when they saw a tree with a single cherry on it, which the oldest Parrot picked instantly; but the other six, being extremely hungry, tried to get it also. On which all the seven began to fight; and they scuffled, and huffled, and ruffled, and shuffled, and puffled, and muffled, and buffled, and duffled, and fluffled, and guffled, and bruffled, and screamed, and shrieked, and squealed, and squeaked, and clawed, and snapped, and bit, and bumped, and thumped, and dumped, and flumped each other, till they were all torn into little bits; and at last there was nothing left to record this painful incident except the cherry and seven small green feathers. And that was the vicious and voluble end of the seven young Parrots. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG STORKS. When the seven young Storks set out, they walked or flew for fourteen weeks in a straight line, and for six weeks more in a crooked one; and after that they ran as hard as they could for one hundred and eight miles; and after that they stood still, and made a himmeltanious chatter-clatter-blattery noise with their bills. About the same time they perceived a large frog, spotted with green, and with a sky-blue stripe under each ear. So, being hungry, they immediately flew at him, and were going to divide him into seven pieces, when they began to quarrel as to which of his legs should be taken off first. One said this, and another said that; and while they were all quarrelling, the frog hopped away. And when they saw that he was gone, they began to chatter-clatter, blatter-platter, patter-blatter, matter-clatter, flatter-quatter, more violently than ever; and after they had fought for a week, they pecked each other all to little pieces, so that at last nothing was left of any of them except their bills. And that was the end of the seven young Storks. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG GEESE. When the seven young Geese began to travel, they went over a large plain, on which there was but one tree, and that was, a very bad one. So four of them went up to the top of it, and looked about them; while the other three waddled up and down, and repeated poetry, and their last six lessons in arithmetic, geography, and cookery. Presently they perceived, a long way off, an object of the most interesting and obese appearance, having a perfectly round body exactly resembling a boiled plum-pudding, with two little wings, and a beak, and three feathers growing out of his head, and only one leg. So, after a time, all the seven young Geese said to each other, "Beyond all doubt this beast must be a Plum-pudding Flea!" On which they incautiously began to sing aloud, "Plum-pudding Flea, Plum-pudding Flea, Wherever you be, Oh! come to our tree, And listen, oh! listen, oh! listen to me!" And no sooner had they sung this verse than the Plum-pudding Flea began to hop and skip on his one leg with the most dreadful velocity, and came straight to the tree, where he stopped, and looked about him in a vacant and voluminous manner. On which the seven young Geese were greatly alarmed, and all of a tremble-bemble: so one of them put out his long neck, and just touched him with the tip of his bill; but no sooner had he done this than the Plum-pudding Flea skipped and hopped about more and more, and higher and higher; after which he opened his mouth, and, to the great surprise and indignation of the seven Geese, began to bark so loudly and furiously and terribly, that they were totally unable to bear the noise; and by degrees every one of them suddenly tumbled down quite dead. So that was the end of the seven young Geese. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG OWLS. When the seven young Owls set out, they sate every now and then on the branches of old trees, and never went far at one time. And one night, when it was quite dark, they thought they heard a mouse; but, as the gas-lamps were not lighted, they could not see him. So they called out, "Is that a mouse?" On which a mouse answered, "Squeaky-peeky-weeky! yes, it is!" And immediately all the young Owls threw themselves off the tree, meaning to alight on the ground; but they did not perceive that there was a large well below them, into which they all fell superficially, and were every one of them drowned in less than half a minute. So that was the end of the seven young Owls. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG GUINEA PIGS. The seven young Guinea Pigs went into a garden full of goose-berry-bushes and tiggory-trees, under one of which they fell asleep. When they awoke, they saw a large lettuce, which had grown out of the ground while they had been sleeping, and which had an immense number of green leaves. At which they all exclaimed,-- "Lettuce! O lettuce Let us, O let us, O lettuce-leaves, O let us leave this tree, and eat Lettuce, O let us, lettuce-leaves!" And instantly the seven young Guinea Pigs rushed with such extreme force against the lettuce-plant, and hit their heads so vividly against its stalk, that the concussion brought on directly an incipient transitional inflammation of their noses, which grew worse and worse and worse and worse, till it incidentally killed them all seven. And that was the end of the seven young Guinea Pigs. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG CATS. The seven young Cats set off on their travels with great delight and rapacity. But, on coming to the top of a high hill, they perceived at a long distance off a Clangle-Wangle (or, as it is more properly written, Clangel-Wangel); and, in spite of the warning they had had, they ran straight up to it. (Now, the Clangle-Wangle is a most dangerous and delusive beast, and by no means commonly to be met with. They live in the water as well as on land, using their long tail as a sail when in the former element. Their speed is extreme; but their habits of life are domestic and superfluous, and their general demeanor pensive and pellucid. On summer evenings, they may sometimes be observed near the Lake Pipple-Popple, standing on their heads, and humming their national melodies. They subsist entirely on vegetables, excepting when they eat veal or mutton or pork or beef or fish or saltpetre.) The moment the Clangle-Wangle saw the seven young Cats approach, he ran away; and as he ran straight on for four months, and the Cats, though they continued to run, could never overtake him, they all gradually _died_ of fatigue and exhaustion, and never afterwards recovered. And this was the end of the seven young Cats. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. THE HISTORY OF THE SEVEN YOUNG FISHES. The seven young Fishes swam across the Lake Pipple-Popple, and into the river, and into the ocean; where, most unhappily for them, they saw, on the fifteenth day of their travels, a bright-blue Boss-Woss, and instantly swam after him. But the Blue Boss-Woss plunged into a perpendicular, spicular, orbicular, quadrangular, circular depth of soft mud; where, in fact, his house was. And the seven young Fishes, swimming with great and uncomfortable velocity, plunged also into the mud quite against their will, and, not being accustomed to it, were all suffocated in a very short period. And that was the end of the seven young Fishes. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. OF WHAT OCCURRED SUBSEQUENTLY. After it was known that the seven young Parrots, and the seven young Storks, and the seven young Geese, and the seven young Owls, and the seven young Guinea Pigs, and the seven young Cats, and the seven young Fishes, were all dead, then the Frog, and the Plum-pudding Flea, and the Mouse, and the Clangle-Wangle, and the Blue Boss-Woss, all met together to rejoice over their good fortune. And they collected the seven feathers of the seven young Parrots, and the seven bills of the seven young Storks, and the lettuce, and the cherry; and having placed the latter on the lettuce, and the other objects in a circular arrangement at their base, they danced a hornpipe round all these memorials until they were quite tired; after which they gave a tea-party, and a garden-party, and a ball, and a concert, and then returned to their respective homes full of joy and respect, sympathy, satisfaction, and disgust. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. OF WHAT BECAME OF THE PARENTS OF THE FORTY-NINE CHILDREN. BUT when the two old Parrots, and the two old Storks, and the two old Geese, and the two old Owls, and the two old Guinea Pigs, and the two old Cats, and the two old Fishes, became aware, by reading in the newspapers, of the calamitous extinction of the whole of their families, they refused all further sustenance; and, sending out to various shops, they purchased great quantities of Cayenne pepper and brandy and vinegar and blue sealing-wax, besides seven immense glass bottles with air-tight stoppers. And, having done this, they ate a light supper of brown-bread and Jerusalem artichokes, and took an affecting and formal leave of the whole of their acquaintance, which was very numerous and distinguished and select and responsible and ridiculous. CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION. And after this they filled the bottles with the ingredients for pickling, and each couple jumped into a separate bottle; by which effort, of course, they all died immediately, and became thoroughly pickled in a few minutes; having previously made their wills (by the assistance of the most eminent lawyers of the district), in which they left strict orders that the stoppers of the seven bottles should be carefully sealed up with the blue sealing-wax they had purchased; and that they themselves, in the bottles, should be presented to the principal museum of the city of Tosh, to be labelled with parchment or any other anti-congenial succedaneum, and to be placed on a marble table with silver-gilt legs, for the daily inspection and contemplation, and for the perpetual benefit, of the pusillanimous public. And if you ever happen to go to Gramble-Blamble, and visit that museum in the city of Tosh, look for them on the ninety-eighth table in the four hundred and twenty-seventh room of the right-hand corridor of the left wing of the central quadrangle of that magnificent building; for, if you do not, you certainly will not see them. [Illustration] * * * * * NONSENSE COOKERY. Extract from "The Nonsense Gazette," for August, 1870. "Our readers will be interested in the following communications from our valued and learned contributor, Prof. Bosh, whose labors in the fields of culinary and botanical science are so well known to all the world. The first three articles richly merit to be added to the domestic cookery of every family: those which follow claim the attention of all botanists; and we are happy to be able, through Dr. Bosh's kindness, to present our readers with illustrations of his discoveries. All the new flowers are found in the Valley of Verrikwier, near the Lake of Oddgrow, and on the summit of the Hill Orfeltugg." THREE RECEIPTS FOR DOMESTIC COOKERY. TO MAKE AN AMBLONGUS PIE. Take 4 pounds (say 4-1/2 pounds) of fresh Amblongusses, and put them in a small pipkin. Cover them with water, and boil them for 8 hours incessantly; after which add 2 pints of new milk, and proceed to boil for 4 hours more. When you have ascertained that the Amblongusses are quite soft, take them out, and place them in a wide pan, taking care to shake them well previously. Grate some nutmeg over the surface, and cover them carefully with powdered gingerbread, curry-powder, and a sufficient quantity of Cayenne pepper. Remove the pan into the next room, and place it on the floor. Bring it back again, and let it simmer for three-quarters of an hour. Shake the pan violently till all the Amblongusses have become of a pale purple color. Then, having prepared the paste, insert the whole carefully; adding at the same time a small pigeon, 2 slices of beef, 4 cauliflowers, and any number of oysters. Watch patiently till the crust begins to rise, and add a pinch of salt from time to time. Serve up in a clean dish, and throw the whole out of window as fast as possible. TO MAKE CRUMBOBBLIOUS CUTLETS. Procure some strips of beef, and, having cut them into the smallest possible slices, proceed to cut them still smaller,--eight, or perhaps nine times. When the whole is thus minced, brush it up hastily with a new clothes-brush, and stir round rapidly and capriciously with a salt-spoon or a soup-ladle. Place the whole in a saucepan, and remove it to a sunny place,--say the roof of the house, if free from sparrows or other birds,--and leave it there for about a week. At the end of that time add a little lavender, some oil of almonds, and a few herring-bones; and then cover the whole with 4 gallons of clarified Crumbobblious sauce, when it will be ready for use. Cut it into the shape of ordinary cutlets, and serve up in a clean table-cloth or dinner-napkin. TO MAKE GOSKY PATTIES. Take a pig three or four years of age, and tie him by the off hind-leg to a post. Place 5 pounds of currants, 3 of sugar, 2 pecks of peas, 18 roast chestnuts, a candle, and 6 bushels of turnips, within his reach: if he eats these, constantly provide him with more. Then procure some cream, some slices of Cheshire cheese, 4 quires of foolscap paper, and a packet of black pins. Work the whole into a paste, and spread it out to dry on a sheet of clean brown waterproof linen. When the paste is perfectly dry, but not before, proceed to beat the pig violently with the handle of a large broom. If he squeals, beat him again. Visit the paste and beat the pig alternately for some days, and ascertain if, at the end of that period, the whole is about to turn into Gosky Patties. If it does not then, it never will; and in that case the pig may be let loose, and the whole process may be considered as finished. * * * * * NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Baccopipia Gracilis.] [Illustration: Bottlephorkia Spoonifolia.] [Illustration: Cockatooca Superba.] [Illustration: Fishia Marina.] [Illustration: Guittara Pensilis.] [Illustration: Manypeeplia Upsidownia.] [Illustration: Phattfacia Stupenda.] [Illustration: Piggiwiggia Pyramidalis.] [Illustration: Plumbunnia Nutritiosa.] [Illustration: Pollybirdia Singularis.] * * * * * NONSENSE ALPHABETS. A [Illustration] A was an ant Who seldom stood still, And who made a nice house In the side of a hill. a! Nice little ant! B [Illustration] B was a book With a binding of blue, And pictures and stories For me and for you. b! Nice little book! C [Illustration] C was a cat Who ran after a rat; But his courage did fail When she seized on his tail. c! Crafty old cat! D [Illustration] D was a duck With spots on his back, Who lived in the water, And always said "Quack!" d! Dear little duck! E [Illustration] E was an elephant, Stately and wise: He had tusks and a trunk, And two queer little eyes. e! Oh, what funny small eyes! F [Illustration] F was a fish Who was caught in a net; But he got out again, And is quite alive yet. f! Lively young fish! G [Illustration] G was a goat Who was spotted with brown: When he did not lie still He walked up and down. g! Good little goat! H [Illustration] H was a hat Which was all on one side; Its crown was too high, And its brim was too wide. h! Oh, what a hat! I [Illustration] I was some ice So white and so nice, But which nobody tasted; And so it was wasted. i! All that good ice! J [Illustration] J was a jackdaw Who hopped up and down In the principal street Of a neighboring town. j! All through the town! K [Illustration] K was a kite Which flew out of sight, Above houses so high, Quite into the sky. k Fly away, kite! L [Illustration] L was a light Which burned all the night, And lighted the gloom Of a very dark room. l! Useful nice light! M [Illustration] M was a mill Which stood on a hill, And turned round and round With a loud hummy sound. m! Useful old mill! N [Illustration] N was a net Which was thrown in the sea To catch fish for dinner For you and for me. n! Nice little net! O [Illustration] O was an orange So yellow and round: When it fell off the tree, It fell down to the ground. o! Down to the ground! P [Illustration] P was a pig, Who was not very big; But his tail was too curly, And that made him surly. p! Cross little pig! Q [Illustration] Q was a quail With a very short tail; And he fed upon corn In the evening and morn. q! Quaint little quail! R [Illustration] R was a rabbit, Who had a bad habit Of eating the flowers In gardens and bowers. r! Naughty fat rabbit! S [Illustration] S was the sugar-tongs, Nippity-nee, To take up the sugar To put in our tea. s! Nippity-nee! T [Illustration] T was a tortoise, All yellow and black: He walked slowly away, And he never came back. t! Torty never came back! U [Illustration] U was an urn All polished and bright, And full of hot water At noon and at night. u! Useful old urn! V [Illustration] V was a villa Which stood on a hill, By the side of a river, And close to a mill. v! Nice little villa! W [Illustration] W was a whale With a very long tail, Whose movements were frantic Across the Atlantic. w! Monstrous old whale! X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, Who, more than all Turks, is Renowned for his fashion Of fury and passion. x! Angry old Xerxes! Y [Illustration] Y was a yew, Which flourished and grew By a quiet abode Near the side of a road. y! Dark little yew! Z [Illustration] Z was some zinc, So shiny and bright, Which caused you to wink In the sun's merry light. z! Beautiful zinc! A [Illustration] a A was once an apple-pie, Pidy, Widy, Tidy, Pidy, Nice insidy, Apple-pie! B [Illustration] b B was once a little bear, Beary, Wary, Hairy, Beary, Taky cary, Little bear! C [Illustration] c C was once a little cake, Caky, Baky, Maky, Caky, Taky caky, Little cake! D [Illustration] d D was once a little doll, Dolly, Molly, Polly, Nolly, Nursy dolly, Little doll! E [Illustration] e E was once a little eel, Eely, Weely, Peely, Eely, Twirly, tweely, Little eel! F [Illustration] f F was once a little fish, Fishy, Wishy, Squishy, Fishy, In a dishy, Little fish! G [Illustration] g G was once a little goose, Goosy, Moosy, Boosey, Goosey, Waddly-woosy, Little goose! H [Illustration] h H was once a little hen, Henny, Chenny, Tenny, Henny. Eggsy-any, Little hen? I [Illustration] i I was once a bottle of ink Inky, Dinky, Thinky, Inky, Blacky minky, Bottle of ink! J [Illustration] j J was once a jar of jam, Jammy, Mammy, Clammy, Jammy, Sweety, swammy, Jar of jam! K [Illustration] k K was once a little kite, Kity, Whity, Flighty, Kity, Out of sighty, Little kite! L [Illustration] l L was once a little lark, Larky, Marky, Harky, Larky, In the parky, Little lark! M [Illustration] m M was once a little mouse, Mousy, Bousy, Sousy, Mousy, In the housy, Little mouse! N [Illustration] n N was once a little needle, Needly, Tweedly, Threedly, Needly, Wisky, wheedly, Little needle! O [Illustration] o O was once a little owl, Owly, Prowly, Howly, Owly, Browny fowly, Little owl! P [Illustration] p P was once a little pump, Pumpy, Slumpy, Flumpy, Pumpy, Dumpy, thumpy, Little pump! Q [Illustration] q Q was once a little quail, Quaily, Faily, Daily, Quaily, Stumpy-taily, Little quail! R [Illustration] r R was once a little rose, Rosy, Posy, Nosy, Rosy, Blows-y, grows-y, Little rose! S [Illustration] s S was once a little shrimp, Shrimpy, Nimpy, Flimpy, Shrimpy. Jumpy, jimpy, Little shrimp! T [Illustration] t T was once a little thrush, Thrushy, Hushy, Bushy, Thrushy, Flitty, flushy, Little thrush! U [Illustration] u U was once a little urn, Urny, Burny, Turny, Urny, Bubbly, burny, Little urn! V [Illustration] v V was once a little vine, Viny, Winy, Twiny, Viny, Twisty-twiny, Little vine! W [Illustration] w W was once a whale, Whaly, Scaly, Shaly, Whaly, Tumbly-taily, Mighty whale! X [Illustration] x X was once a great king Xerxes, Xerxy, Perxy, Turxy, Xerxy, Linxy, lurxy, Great King Xerxes! Y [Illustration] y Y was once a little yew, Yewdy, Fewdy, Crudy, Yewdy, Growdy, grewdy, Little yew! Z [Illustration] z Z was once a piece of zinc, Tinky, Winky, Blinky, Tinky, Tinkly minky, Piece of zinc! A [Illustration] A was an ape, Who stole some white tape, And tied up his toes In four beautiful bows. a! Funny old ape! B [Illustration] B was a bat, Who slept all the day, And fluttered about When the sun went away. b! Brown little bat! C [Illustration] C was a camel: You rode on his hump; And if you fell off, You came down such a bump! c! What a high camel! D [Illustration] D was a dove, Who lived in a wood, With such pretty soft wings, And so gentle and good! d! Dear little dove! E [Illustration] E was an eagle, Who sat on the rocks, And looked down on the fields And the-far-away flocks. e! Beautiful eagle! F [Illustration] F was a fan Made of beautiful stuff; And when it was used, It went puffy-puff-puff! f! Nice little fan! G [Illustration] G was a gooseberry, Perfectly red; To be made into jam, And eaten with bread. g! Gooseberry red! H [Illustration] H was a heron, Who stood in a stream: The length of his neck And his legs was extreme. h! Long-legged heron! I [Illustration] I was an inkstand, Which stood on a table, With a nice pen to write with When we are able. i! Neat little inkstand! J [Illustration] J was a jug, So pretty and white, With fresh water in it At morning and night. j! Nice little jug! K [Illustration] K was a kingfisher: Quickly he flew, So bright and so pretty!-- Green, purple, and blue. k! Kingfisher blue! L [Illustration] L was a lily, So white and so sweet! To see it and smell it Was quite a nice treat. l! Beautiful lily! M [Illustration] M was a man, Who walked round and round; And he wore a long coat That came down to the ground. m! Funny old man! N [Illustration] N was a nut So smooth and so brown! And when it was ripe, It fell tumble-dum-down. n! Nice little nut! O [Illustration] O was an oyster, Who lived in his shell: If you let him alone, He felt perfectly well. o! Open-mouthed oyster! P [Illustration] P was a polly, All red, blue, and green,-- The most beautiful polly That ever was seen. p! Poor little polly! Q [Illustration] Q was a quill Made into a pen; But I do not know where, And I cannot say when. q! Nice little quill! R [Illustration] R was a rattlesnake, Rolled up so tight, Those who saw him ran quickly, For fear he should bite. r! Rattlesnake bite! S [Illustration] S was a screw To screw down a box; And then it was fastened Without any locks. s! Valuable screw! T [Illustration] T was a thimble, Of silver so bright! When placed on the finger, It fitted so tight! t! Nice little thimble! U [Illustration] U was an upper-coat, Woolly and warm, To wear over all In the snow or the storm. u! What a nice upper-coat! V [Illustration] V was a veil With a border upon it, And a ribbon to tie it All round a pink bonnet. v! Pretty green veil! W [Illustration] W was a watch, Where, in letters of gold, The hour of the day You might always behold. w! Beautiful watch! X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, Who wore on his head A mighty large turban, Green, yellow, and red. x! Look at King Xerxes! Y [Illustration] Y was a yak, From the land of Thibet: Except his white tail, He was all black as jet. y! Look at the yak! Z [Illustration] Z was a zebra, All striped white and black; And if he were tame, You might ride on his back. z! Pretty striped zebra! * * * * * MORE NONSENSE Pictures, Rhymes, Botany, etc. by EDWARD LEAR [Illustration] CONTENTS. NONSENSE BOTANY ONE HUNDRED NONSENSE PICTURES AND RHYMES TWENTY-SIX NONSENSE RHYMES AND PICTURES [Illustration] INTRODUCTION. In offering this little book--the third of its kind--to the public, I am glad to take the opportunity of recording the pleasure I have received at the appreciation its predecessors have met with, as attested by their wide circulation, and by the universally kind notices of them from the Press. To have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands, may surely be a just motive for satisfaction, and an excuse for grateful expression. At the same time, I am desirous of adding a few words as to the history of the two previously published volumes, and more particularly of the first or original "Book of Nonsense," relating to which many absurd reports have crept into circulation, such as that it was the composition of the late Lord Brougham, the late Earl of Derby, etc.; that the rhymes and pictures are by different persons; or that the whole have a symbolical meaning, etc.; whereas, every one of the Rhymes was composed by myself, and every one of the Illustrations drawn by my own hand at the time the verses were made. Moreover, in no portion of these Nonsense drawings have I ever allowed any caricature of private or public persons to appear, and throughout, more care than might be supposed has been given to make the subjects incapable of misinterpretation: "Nonsense," pure and absolute, having been my aim throughout. As for the persistently absurd report of the late Earl of Derby being the author of the "First Book of Nonsense," I may relate an incident which occurred to me four summers ago, the first that gave me any insight into the origin of the rumor. I was on my way from London to Guildford, in a railway carriage, containing, besides myself, one passenger, an elderly gentleman: presently, however, two ladies entered, accompanied by two little boys. These, who had just had a copy of the "Book of Nonsense" given them, were loud in their delight, and by degrees infected the whole party with their mirth. "How grateful," said the old gentleman to the two ladies, "all children, and parents too, ought to be to the statesman who has given his time to composing that charming book!" (The ladies looked puzzled, as indeed was I, the author.) "Do you not know who is the writer of it?" asked the gentleman. "The name is 'Edward Lear,'" said one of the ladies. "Ah!" said the first speaker, "so it is printed; but that is only a whim of the real author, the Earl of Derby. 'Edward' is his Christian name, and, as you may see, LEAR is only EARL transposed." "But," said the lady, doubtingly, "here is a dedication to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of Edward, thirteenth Earl of Derby, by the author, Edward Lear." "That," replied the other, "is simply a piece of mystification; I am in a position to know that the whole book was composed and illustrated by Lord Derby himself. In fact, there is no such a person at all as Edward Lear." "Yet," said the other lady, "some friends of mine tell me they know Mr. Lear." "Quite a mistake! completely a mistake!" said the old gentleman, becoming rather angry at the contradiction; "I am well aware of what I am saying: I can inform you, no such a person as 'Edward Lear' exists!" Hitherto I had kept silence; but as my hat was, as well as my handkerchief and stick, largely marked inside with my name, and as I happened to have in my pocket several letters addressed to me, the temptation was too great to resist; so, flashing all these articles at once on my would-be extinguisher's attention, I speedily reduced him to silence. The second volume of Nonsense, commencing with the verses, "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat," was written at different times, and for different sets of children: the whole being collected in the course of last year, were then illustrated, and published in a single volume, by Mr. R.J. Bush, of 32 Charing Cross. The contents of the third or present volume were made also at different intervals in the last two years. Long years ago, in days when much of my time was passed in a country house, where children and mirth abounded, the lines beginning, "There was an old man of Tobago," were suggested to me by a valued friend, as a form of verse lending itself to limitless variety for rhymes and pictures; and thenceforth the greater part of the original drawings and verses for the first "Book of Nonsense" were struck off with a pen, no assistance ever having been given me in any way but that of uproarious delight and welcome at the appearance of every new absurdity. Most of these Drawings and Rhymes were transferred to lithographic stones in the year 1846, and were then first published by Mr. Thomas McLean, of the Haymarket. But that edition having been soon exhausted, and the call for the "Book of Nonsense" continuing, I added a considerable number of subjects to those previously-published, and having caused the whole to be carefully reproduced in woodcuts by Messrs. Dalzell, I disposed of the copyright to Messrs. Routledge and Warne, by whom the volume was published in 1843. EDWARD LEAR. VILLA EMILY, SAN REMO, August, 1871. * * * * * NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Barkia Howlaloudia.] [Illustration: Enkoopia Chickabiddia.] [Illustration: Jinglia Tinkettlia.] [Illustration: Nasticreechia Krorluppia.] [Illustration: Arthbroomia Rigida.] [Illustration: Sophtsluggia Glutinosa.] [Illustration: Minspysia Deliciosa.] [Illustration: Shoebootia Utilis.] [Illustration: Stunnia Dinnerbellia.] [Illustration: Tickia Orologica.] [Illustration: Washtubbia Circularis.] [Illustration: Tigerlillia Terribilis.] * * * * * ONE HUNDRED NONSENSE PICTURES AND RHYMES. [Illustration] There was a young person of Bantry, Who frequently slept in the pantry; When disturbed by the mice, she appeased them with rice, That judicious young person of Bantry. [Illustration] There was an Old Man at a Junction, Whose feelings were wrung with compunction When they said, "The Train's gone!" he exclaimed, "How forlorn!" But remained on the rails of the Junction. [Illustration] There was an old person of Minety, Who purchased five hundred and ninety Large apples and pears, which he threw unawares At the heads of the people of Minety. [Illustration] There was an old man of Thermopylae, Who never did anything properly; But they said, "If you choose to boil eggs in your shoes, You shall never remain in Thermopylae." [Illustration] There was an old person of Deal, Who in walking used only his heel; When they said, "Tell us why?" he made no reply, That mysterious old person of Deal. [Illustration] There was an old man on the Humber, Who dined on a cake of Burnt Umber; When he said, "It's enough!" they only said, "Stuff! You amazing old man on the Humber!" [Illustration] There was an old man in a barge, Whose nose was exceedingly large; But in fishing by night, it supported a light, Which helped that old man in a barge. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dunrose; A parrot seized hold of his nose. When he grew melancholy, they said, "His name's Polly," Which soothed that old man of Dunrose. [Illustration] There was an old man of Toulouse Who purchased a new pair of shoes; When they asked, "Are they pleasant?" he said, "Not at present!" That turbid old man of Toulouse. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bree, Who frequented the depths of the sea; She nurs'd the small fishes, and washed all the dishes, And swam back again into Bree. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bromley, Whose ways were not cheerful or comely; He sate in the dust, eating spiders and crust, That unpleasing old person of Bromley. [Illustration] There was an old person of Shields, Who frequented the vallies and fields; All the mice and the cats, and the snakes and the rats, Followed after that person of Shields. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dunluce, Who went out to sea on a goose: When he'd gone out a mile, he observ'd with a smile, "It is time to return to Dunluce." [Illustration] There was an old man of Dee-side Whose hat was exceedingly wide, But he said, "Do not fail, if it happen to hail, To come under my hat at Dee-side!" [Illustration] There was an old person in black, A Grasshopper jumped on his back; When it chirped in his ear, he was smitten with fear, That helpless old person in black. [Illustration] There was an old man of the Dargle Who purchased six barrels of Gargle; For he said, "I'll sit still, and will roll them down hill, For the fish in the depths of the Dargle." [Illustration] There was an old person of Pinner, As thin as a lath, if not thinner; They dressed him in white, and roll'd him up tight, That elastic old person of Pinner. [Illustration] There was an old person of China, Whose daughters were Jiska and Dinah, Amelia and Fluffy, Olivia and Chuffy, And all of them settled in China. [Illustration] There was an old man in a Marsh, Whose manners were futile and harsh; He sate on a log, and sang songs to a frog, That instructive old man in a Marsh. [Illustration] There was an old person of Brill, Who purchased a shirt with a frill; But they said, "Don't you wish, you mayn't look like a fish, You obsequious old person of Brill?" [Illustration] There was an old person of Wick, Who said, "Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick; Chickabee, Chickabaw." And he said nothing more, That laconic old person of Wick. [Illustration] There was an old man at a Station, Who made a promiscuous oration; But they said, "Take some snuff!--You have talk'd quite enough, You afflicting old man at a Station!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Three Bridges, Whose mind was distracted by midges, He sate on a wheel, eating underdone veal, Which relieved that old man of Three Bridges. [Illustration] There was an old man of Hong Kong, Who never did anything wrong; He lay on his back, with his head in a sack, That innocuous old man of Hong Kong. [Illustration] There was a young person in green, Who seldom was fit to be seen; She wore a long shawl, over bonnet and all, Which enveloped that person in green. [Illustration] There was an old person of Fife, Who was greatly disgusted with life; They sang him a ballad, and fed him on salad, Which cured that old person of Fife. [Illustration] There was an old man who screamed out Whenever they knocked him about: So they took off his boots, and fed him with fruits, And continued to knock him about. [Illustration] There was a young lady in white, Who looked out at the depths of the night; But the birds of the air, filled her heart with despair, And oppressed that young lady in white. [Illustration] There was an old person of Slough, Who danced at the end of a bough; But they said, "If you sneeze, you might damage the trees, You imprudent old person of Slough." [Illustration] There was an old person of Down, Whose face was adorned with a frown; When he opened the door, for one minute or more, He alarmed all the people of Down. [Illustration] There was a young person in red, Who carefully covered her head, With a bonnet of leather, and three lines of feather, Besides some long ribands of red. [Illustration] There was an old person of Hove, Who frequented the depths of a grove; Where he studied his books, with the wrens and the rooks, That tranquil old person of Hove. [Illustration] There was a young person in pink, Who called out for something to drink; But they said, "O my daughter, there's nothing but water!" Which vexed that young person in pink. [Illustration] There was an old lady of France, Who taught little ducklings to dance; When she said, "Tick-a-tack!" they only said, "Quack!" Which grieved that old lady of France. [Illustration] There was an old person of Putney, Whose food was roast spiders and chutney, Which he took with his tea, within sight of the sea, That romantic old person of Putney. [Illustration] There was an old person of Loo, Who said, "What on earth shall I do?" When they said, "Go away!" she continued to stay, That vexatious old person of Loo. [Illustration] There was an old person of Woking, Whose mind was perverse and provoking; He sate on a rail, with his head in a pail, That illusive old person of Woking. [Illustration] There was an old person of Dean Who dined on one pea, and one bean; For he said, "More than that, would make me too fat," That cautious old person of Dean. [Illustration] There was a young lady in blue, Who said, "Is it you? Is it you?" When they said, "Yes, it is," she replied only, "Whizz!" That ungracious young lady in blue. [Illustration] There was an old Man in a Garden, Who always begged every one's pardon; When they asked him, "What for?" he replied, "You're a bore! And I trust you'll go out of my garden." [Illustration] There was an old person of Pisa, Whose daughters did nothing to please her; She dressed them in gray, and banged them all day, Round the walls of the city of Pisa. [Illustration] There was an old person of Florence, Who held mutton chops in abhorrence; He purchased a Bustard, and fried him in Mustard, Which choked that old person of Florence. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sheen, Whose expression was calm and serene; He sate in the water, and drank bottled porter, That placid old person of Sheen. [Illustration] There was an old person of Ware, Who rode on the back of a bear; When they ask'd, "Does it trot?" he said, "Certainly not! He's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear!" [Illustration] There was a young person of Janina, Whose uncle was always a fanning her; When he fanned off her head, she smiled sweetly, and said, "You propitious old person of Janina!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Cashmere, Whose movements were scroobious and queer; Being slender and tall, he looked over a wall, And perceived two fat ducks of Cashmere. [Illustration] There was an old person of Cassel, Whose nose finished off in a tassel; But they call'd out, "Oh well! don't it look like a bell!" Which perplexed that old person of Cassel. [Illustration] There was an old person of Pett, Who was partly consumed by regret; He sate in a cart, and ate cold apple tart, Which relieved that old person of Pett. [Illustration] There was an old man of Spithead, Who opened the window, and said,-- "Fil-jomble, fil-jumble, fil-rumble-come-tumble!" That doubtful old man of Spithead. [Illustration] There was an old man on the Border, Who lived in the utmost disorder; He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat, Which vexed all the folks on the Border. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dumbree, Who taught little owls to drink tea; For he said, "To eat mice is not proper or nice," That amiable man of Dumbree. [Illustration] There was an old person of Filey, Of whom his acquaintance spoke highly; He danced perfectly well, to the sound of a bell, And delighted the people of Filey. [Illustration] There was an old man whose remorse Induced him to drink Caper Sauce; For they said, "If mixed up with some cold claret-cup, It will certainly soothe your remorse!" [Illustration] There was an old man of Ibreem, Who suddenly threaten'd to scream; But they said, "If you do, we will thump you quite blue, You disgusting old man of Ibreem!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Wilts, Who constantly walked upon stilts; He wreathed them with lilies and daffy-down-dillies, That elegant person of Wilts. [Illustration] There was an old person of Grange, Whose manners were scroobious and strange; He sailed to St. Blubb in a waterproof tub, That aquatic old person of Grange. [Illustration] There was an old person of Newry, Whose manners were tinctured with fury; He tore all the rugs, and broke all the jugs, Within twenty miles' distance of Newry. [Illustration] There was an old man of Dumblane, Who greatly resembled a crane; But they said, "Is it wrong, since your legs are so long, To request you won't stay in Dumblane?" [Illustration] There was an old man of Port Grigor, Whose actions were noted for vigour; He stood on his head till his waistcoat turned red, That eclectic old man of Port Grigor. [Illustration] There was an old man of El Hums, Who lived upon nothing but crumbs, Which he picked off the ground, with the other birds round, In the roads and the lanes of El Hums. [Illustration] There was an old man of West Dumpet, Who possessed a large nose like a trumpet; When he blew it aloud, it astonished the crowd, And was heard through the whole of West Dumpet. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sark, Who made an unpleasant remark; But they said, "Don't you see what a brute you must be, You obnoxious old person of Sark!" [Illustration] There was an old man whose despair Induced him to purchase a hare: Whereon one fine day he rode wholly away, Which partly assuaged his despair. [Illustration] There was an old person of Barnes, Whose garments were covered with darns; But they said, "Without doubt, you will soon wear them out, You luminous person of Barnes!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Nice, Whose associates were usually Geese. They walked out together in all sorts of weather, That affable person of Nice! [Illustration] There was a young lady of Greenwich, Whose garments were border'd with Spinach; But a large spotty Calf bit her shawl quite in half, Which alarmed that young lady of Greenwich. [Illustration] There was an old person of Cannes, Who purchased three fowls and a fan; Those she placed on a stool, and to make them feel cool She constantly fanned them at Cannes. [Illustration] There was an old person of Ickley, Who could not abide to ride quickly; He rode to Karnak on a tortoise's back, That moony old person of Ickley. [Illustration] There was an old person of Hyde, Who walked by the shore with his bride, Till a Crab who came near fill'd their bosoms with fear, And they said, "Would we'd never left Hyde!" [Illustration] There was an old person in gray, Whose feelings were tinged with dismay; She purchased two parrots, and fed them with carrots, Which pleased that old person in gray. [Illustration] There was an old man of Ancona, Who found a small dog with no owner, Which he took up and down all the streets of the town, That anxious old man of Ancona. [Illustration] There was an old person of Sestri, Who sate himself down in the vestry; When they said, "You are wrong!" he merely said "Bong!" That repulsive old person of Sestri. [Illustration] There was an old person of Blythe, Who cut up his meat with a scythe; When they said, "Well! I never!" he cried, "Scythes for ever!" That lively old person of Blythe. [Illustration] There was a young person of Ayr, Whose head was remarkably square: On the top, in fine weather, she wore a gold feather; Which dazzled the people of Ayr. [Illustration] There was an old person of Rimini, Who said, "Gracious! Goodness! O Gimini!" When they said, "Please be still!" she ran down a hill, And was never more heard of at Rimini. [Illustration] There is a young lady, whose nose, Continually prospers and grows; When it grew out of sight, she exclaimed in a fright, "Oh! Farewell to the end of my nose!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Ealing, Who was wholly devoid of good feeling; He drove a small gig, with three Owls and a Pig, Which distressed all the people of Ealing. [Illustration] There was an old man of Thames Ditton, Who called out for something to sit on; But they brought him a hat, and said, "Sit upon that, You abruptious old man of Thames Ditton!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Bray, Who sang through the whole of the day To his ducks and his pigs, whom he fed upon figs, That valuable person of Bray. [Illustration] There was a young person whose history Was always considered a mystery; She sate in a ditch, although no one knew which, And composed a small treatise on history. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bow, Whom nobody happened to know; So they gave him some soap, and said coldly, "We hope You will go back directly to Bow!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Rye, Who went up to town on a fly; But they said, "If you cough, you are safe to fall off! You abstemious old person of Rye!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Crowle, Who lived in the nest of an owl; When they screamed in the nest, he screamed out with the rest, That depressing old person of Crowle. [Illustration] There was an old Lady of Winchelsea, Who said, "If you needle or pin shall see On the floor of my room, sweep it up with the broom!" That exhaustive old Lady of Winchelsea! [Illustration] There was an old man in a tree, Whose whiskers were lovely to see; But the birds of the air pluck'd them perfectly bare, To make themselves nests in that tree. [Illustration] There was a young lady of Corsica, Who purchased a little brown saucy-cur; Which she fed upon ham, and hot raspberry jam, That expensive young lady of Corsica. [Illustration] There was a young lady of Firle, Whose hair was addicted to curl; It curled up a tree, and all over the sea, That expansive young lady of Firle. [Illustration] There was an old person of Stroud, Who was horribly jammed in a crowd; Some she slew with a kick, some she scrunched with a stick, That impulsive old person of Stroud. [Illustration] There was an old man of Boulak, Who sate on a Crocodile's back; But they said, "Towr'ds the night he may probably bite, Which might vex you, old man of Boulak!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Skye, Who waltz'd with a Bluebottle fly: They buzz'd a sweet tune, to the light of the moon, And entranced all the people of Skye. [Illustration] There was an old man of Blackheath, Whose head was adorned with a wreath Of lobsters and spice, pickled onions and mice, That uncommon old man of Blackheath. [Illustration] There was an old man, who when little Fell casually into a kettle; But, growing too stout, he could never get out, So he passed all his life in that kettle. [Illustration] There was an old person of Dundalk, Who tried to teach fishes to walk; When they tumbled down dead, he grew weary, and said, "I had better go back to Dundalk!" [Illustration] There was an old person of Shoreham, Whose habits were marked by decorum; He bought an Umbrella, and sate in the cellar, Which pleased all the people of Shoreham. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bar, Who passed all her life in a jar, Which she painted pea-green, to appear more serene, That placid old person of Bar. [Illustration] There was a young person of Kew, Whose virtues and vices were few; But with blamable haste she devoured some hot paste, Which destroyed that young person of Kew. [Illustration] There was an old person of Jodd, Whose ways were perplexing and odd; She purchased a whistle, and sate on a thistle, And squeaked to the people of Jodd. [Illustration] There was an old person of Bude, Whose deportment was vicious and crude; He wore a large ruff of pale straw-colored stuff, Which perplexed all the people of Bude. [Illustration] There was an old person of Brigg, Who purchased no end of a wig; So that only his nose, and the end of his toes, Could be seen when he walked about Brigg. [Illustration] There was an old man of Messina, Whose daughter was named Opsibeena; She wore a small wig, and rode out on a pig, To the perfect delight of Messina. TWENTY-SIX NONSENSE RHYMES AND PICTURES. [Illustration] The Absolutely Abstemious Ass, who resided in a Barrel, and only lived on Soda Water and Pickled Cucumbers. [Illustration] The Bountiful Beetle, who always carried a Green Umbrella when it didn't rain, and left it at home when it did. [Illustration] The Comfortable Confidential Cow, who sate in her Red Morocco Arm Chair and toasted her own Bread at the parlour Fire. [Illustration] The Dolomphious Duck, who caught Spotted Frogs for her dinner with a Runcible Spoon. [Illustration] The Enthusiastic Elephant, who ferried himself across the water with the Kitchen Poker and a New pair of Ear-rings. [Illustration] The Fizzgiggious Fish, who always walked about upon Stilts, because he had no legs. [Illustration] The Good-natured Grey Gull, who carried the Old Owl, and his Crimson Carpet-bag, across the river, because he could not swim. [Illustration] The Hasty Higgeldipiggledy Hen, who went to market in a Blue Bonnet and Shawl, and bought a Fish for her Supper. [Illustration] The Inventive Indian, who caught a Remarkable Rabbit in a Stupendous Silver Spoon. [Illustration] The Judicious Jubilant Jay, who did up her Back Hair every morning with a Wreath of Roses, Three feathers, and a Gold Pin. [Illustration] The Kicking Kangaroo, who wore a Pale Pink Muslin dress with Blue spots. [Illustration] The Lively Learned Lobster, who mended his own Clothes with a Needle and Thread. [Illustration] The Melodious Meritorious Mouse, who played a merry minuet on the Piano-forte. [Illustration] The Nutritious Newt, who purchased a Round Plum-pudding for his grand-daughter. [Illustration] The Obsequious Ornamental Ostrich, who wore Boots to keep his feet quite dry. [Illustration: PARSNIP PIE] The Perpendicular Purple Polly, who read the Newspaper and ate Parsnip Pie with his Spectacles. [Illustration] The Queer Querulous Quail, who smoked a Pipe of tobacco on the top of a Tin Tea-kettle. [Illustration] The Rural Runcible Raven, who wore a White Wig and flew away with the Carpet Broom. [Illustration] The Scroobious Snake, who always wore a Hat on his Head, for fear he should bite anybody. [Illustration] The Tumultuous Tom-tommy Tortoise, who beat a Drum all day long in the middle of the wilderness. [Illustration] The Umbrageous Umbrella-maker, whose Face nobody ever saw, because it was always covered by his Umbrella. [Illustration] The Visibly Vicious Vulture, who wrote some Verses to a Veal-cutlet in a Volume bound in Vellum. [Illustration] The Worrying Whizzing Wasp, who stood on a Table, and played sweetly on a Flute with a Morning Cap. [Illustration] The Excellent Double-extra XX imbibing King Xerxes, who lived a long while ago. [Illustration] The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, whose Head was ever so much bigger than his Body, and whose Hat was rather small. [Illustration] The Zigzag Zealous Zebra, who carried five Monkeys on his back all the way to Jellibolee. * * * * * LAUGHABLE LYRICS A Fourth Book of Nonsense Poems, Songs, Botany, Music, etc. by EDWARD LEAR Author of the _Book of Nonsense_, _More Nonsense_, _Nonsense Songs, Stories_, etc., etc. With All the Original Illustrations. [Illustration] CONTENTS LAUGHABLE LYRICS. THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE THE TWO OLD BACHELORS THE PELICAN CHORUS THE YONGHY-BONGHY-Bò THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES THE NEW VESTMENTS MR. AND MRS. DISCOBBOLOS THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT THE CUMMERBUND THE AKOND OF SWAT NONSENSE BOTANY " ALPHABET, No. 5 " " No. 6 * * * * * LAUGHABLE LYRICS. THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE. [Illustration] When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights; When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore; When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore,-- Then, through the vast and gloomy dark There moves what seems a fiery spark,-- A lonely spark with silvery rays Piercing the coal-black night,-- A Meteor strange and bright: Hither and thither the vision strays, A single lurid light. Slowly it wanders, pauses, creeps,-- Anon it sparkles, flashes, and leaps; And ever as onward it gleaming goes A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws. And those who watch at that midnight hour From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower, Cry, as the wild light passes along,-- "The Dong! the Dong! The wandering Dong through the forest goes! The Dong! the Dong! The Dong with a luminous Nose!" Long years ago The Dong was happy and gay, Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl Who came to those shores one day. For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did,-- Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd Where the Oblong Oysters grow, And the rocks are smooth and gray. And all the woods and the valleys rang With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang,-- "_Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve._" Happily, happily passed those days! While the cheerful Jumblies staid; They danced in circlets all night long, To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, In moonlight, shine, or shade. For day and night he was always there By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, With her sky-blue hands and her sea-green hair; Till the morning came of that hateful day When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, And the Dong was left on the cruel shore Gazing, gazing for evermore,-- Ever keeping his weary eyes on That pea-green sail on the far horizon,-- Singing the Jumbly Chorus still As he sate all day on the grassy hill,-- "_Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve_." But when the sun was low in the West, The Dong arose and said,-- "What little sense I once possessed Has quite gone out of my head!" And since that day he wanders still By lake and forest, marsh and hill, Singing, "O somewhere, in valley or plain, Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! For ever I'll seek by lake and shore Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!" Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks; And because by night he could not see, He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree On the flowery plain that grows. And he wove him a wondrous Nose,-- A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! Of vast proportions and painted red, And tied with cords to the back of his head. In a hollow rounded space it ended With a luminous Lamp within suspended, All fenced about With a bandage stout To prevent the wind from blowing it out; And with holes all round to send the light In gleaming rays on the dismal night And now each night, and all night long, Over those plains still roams the Dong; And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe, While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain, To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; Lonely and wild, all night he goes,-- The Dong with a luminous Nose! And all who watch at the midnight hour, From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower, Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright, Moving along through the dreary night,-- "This is the hour when forth he goes, The Dong with a luminous Nose! Yonder, over the plain he goes,-- He goes! He goes,-- The Dong with a luminous Nose!" THE TWO OLD BACHELORS. [Illustration] Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,-- "This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money? And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner, But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?" Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,-- "We might cook this little Mouse, if we only had some Stuffin'! If we had but Sage and Onion we could do extremely well; But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!" Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onion as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round. But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up, and seize him by the toes,--all studious as he sits,-- And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into Scraps),-- When your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good--perhaps." Those two old Bachelors without loss of time The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. "You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!" But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book, At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took; And over Crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin'), The Mouse had fled--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin. They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more. [Illustration: Sheet Music--The Pelicans] [Illustration] THE PELICAN CHORUS. King and Queen of the Pelicans we; No other Birds so grand we see! None but we have feet like fins! With lovely leathery throats and chins! Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican Jill! We think so then, and we thought so still We live on the Nile. The Nile we love. By night we sleep on the cliffs above; By day we fish, and at eve we stand On long bare islands of yellow sand. And when the sun sinks slowly down, And the great rock walls grow dark and brown, Where the purple river rolls fast and dim And the Ivory Ibis starlike skim, Wing to wing we dance around, Stamping our feet with a flumpy sound, Opening our mouths as Pelicans ought; And this is the song we nightly snort,-- Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! Last year came out our Daughter Dell, And all the Birds received her well. To do her honor a feast we made For every bird that can swim or wade,-- Herons and Gulls, and Cormorants black, Cranes, and Flamingoes with scarlet back, Plovers and Storks, and Geese in clouds, Swans and Dilberry Ducks in crowds: Thousands of Birds in wondrous flight! They ate and drank and danced all night, And echoing back from the rocks you heard Multitude-echoes from Bird and Bird,-- Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! Yes, they came; and among the rest The King of the Cranes all grandly dressed. Such a lovely tail! Its feathers float Between the ends of his blue dress-coat; With pea-green trowsers all so neat, And a delicate frill to hide his feet (For though no one speaks of it, every one knows He has got no webs between his toes). As soon as he saw our Daughter Dell, In violent love that Crane King fell,-- On seeing her waddling form so fair, With a wreath of shrimps in her short white hair. And before the end of the next long day Our Dell had given her heart away; For the King of the Cranes had won that heart With a Crocodile's egg and a large fish-tart. She vowed to marry the King of the Cranes, Leaving the Nile for stranger plains; And away they flew in a gathering crowd Of endless birds in a lengthening cloud. Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! And far away in the twilight sky We heard them singing a lessening cry,-- Farther and farther, till out of sight, And we stood alone in the silent night! Often since, in the nights of June, We sit on the sand and watch the moon,-- She has gone to the great Gromboolian Plain, And we probably never shall meet again! Oft, in the long still nights of June, We sit on the rocks and watch the moon,-- She dwells by the streams of the Chankly Bore. And we probably never shall see her more. Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still! [NOTE.--The Air of this and the following Song by Edward Lear; the Arrangement for the Piano by Professor Pomè, of San Remo, Italy.] [Illustration: Sheet Music--The Yonghy Bonghy Bò] THE COURTSHIP OF THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BÒ. [Illustration] I. On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bò. II. Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. III. "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. "I am tired of living singly-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. IV. "On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap); As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. V. Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! VI. "Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bongy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! VII. "Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yongby-Bonghy-Bò! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!" VIII. Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me; On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. [Illustration] IX. Through the silent-roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. With a sad primaeval motion Towards the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well. Holding fast upon his shell, "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. X. From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go; On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES. [Illustration] I. The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;" He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!" II. The Pobble who has no toes, Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose." III. The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the further side,-- "He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!" IV. But before he touched the shore,-- The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone! V. And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty Mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes! VI. The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back, and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast, at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes." THE NEW VESTMENTS. There lived an old man in the Kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street. By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread, In the middle of which he inserted his head; His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice; His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes; His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose; His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops; His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops; His Coat was all Pancakes, with Jam for a border, And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order; And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather, A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together. He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise, Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys; And from every long street and dark lane in the town Beasts, Birdies, and Boys in a tumult rushed down. Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak; Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke; Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat, And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat; An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore _up_ his Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies; And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops, Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat Pigs came again and again: They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors; They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers; And now from the housetops with screechings descend Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end: They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that; They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice, And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice; They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,-- Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all. And he said to himself, as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, never more!" MR. AND MRS. DISCOBBOLOS. I. Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Climbed to the top of a wall. And they sate to watch the sunset sky, And to hear the Nupiter Piffkin cry, And the Biscuit Buffalo call. They took up a roll and some Camomile tea, And both were as happy as happy could be, Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,-- "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head, Suppose we should happen to fall!!!!! Darling Mr. Discobbolos! II. "Suppose we should fall down flumpetty, Just like pieces of stone, On to the thorns, or into the moat, What would become of your new green coat? And might you not break a bone? It never occurred to me before, That perhaps we shall never go down any more!" And Mrs. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! What put it into your head To climb up this wall, my own Darling Mr. Discobbolos?" III. Mr. Discobbolos answered, "At first it gave me pain, And I felt my ears turn perfectly pink When your exclamation made me think We might never get down again! But now I believe it is wiser far To remain for ever just where we are." And Mr. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head We shall never go down again, Dearest Mrs. Discobbolos!" IV. So Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Stood up and began to sing,-- "Far away from hurry and strife Here we will pass the rest of life, Ding a dong, ding dong, ding! We want no knives nor forks nor chairs, No tables nor carpets nor household cares; From worry of life we've fled; Oh! W! X! Y! Z! There is no more trouble ahead, Sorrow or any such thing, For Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos!" THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT. [Illustration] I. On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat. For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, With ribbons and bibbons on every side, And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, So that nobody ever could see the face Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. II. The Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "Jam, and jelly, and bread Are the best of food for me! But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree The plainer than ever it seems to me That very few people come this way And that life on the whole is far from gay!" Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. III. But there came to the Crumpetty Tree Mr. and Mrs. Canary; And they said, "Did ever you see Any spot so charmingly airy? May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! O please let us come and build a nest Of whatever material suits you best, Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" IV. And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; The Snail and the Bumble-Bee, The Frog and the Fimble Fowl (The Fimble Fowl, with a Corkscrew leg); And all of them said, "We humbly beg We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,-- Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" V. And the Golden Grouse came there, And the Pobble who has no toes, And the small Olympian bear, And the Dong with a luminous nose. And the Blue Baboon who played the flute, And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,-- All came and built on the lovely Hat Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. VI. And the Quangle Wangle said To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, "When all these creatures move What a wonderful noise there'll be!" And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, And all were as happy as happy could be, With the Quangle Wangle Quee. THE CUMMERBUND. An Indian Poem. I. She sate upon her Dobie, To watch the Evening Star, And all the Punkahs, as they passed, Cried, "My! how fair you are!" Around her bower, with quivering leaves, The tall Kamsamahs grew, And Kitmutgars in wild festoons Hung down from Tchokis blue. II. Below her home the river rolled With soft meloobious sound, Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam, In myriads circling round. Above, on tallest trees remote Green Ayahs perched alone, And all night long the Mussak moan'd Its melancholy tone. III. And where the purple Nullahs threw Their branches far and wide, And silvery Goreewallahs flew In silence, side by side, The little Bheesties' twittering cry Rose on the flagrant air, And oft the angry Jampan howled Deep in his hateful lair. IV. She sate upon her Dobie, She heard the Nimmak hum, When all at once a cry arose, "The Cummerbund is come!" In vain she fled: with open jaws The angry monster followed, And so (before assistance came) That Lady Fair was swollowed. V. They sought in vain for even a bone Respectfully to bury; They said, "Hers was a dreadful fate!" (And Echo answered, "Very.") They nailed her Dobie to the wall, Where last her form was seen, And underneath they wrote these words, In yellow, blue, and green: "Beware, ye Fair! Ye Fair, beware! Nor sit out late at night, Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come, And swollow you outright." NOTE.--First published in _Times of India_, Bombay, July, 1874. THE AKOND OF SWAT. Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Akond of SWAT? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair, or SQUAT, The Akond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or HOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or TROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat, or a COT, The Akond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his T's and finish his I's with a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear Without a speck or a smudge or smear or BLOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or PLOT, At the Akond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or _shot_, The Akond of Swat? Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, GAROTTE? O the Akond of Swat! Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a JOT, The Akond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or WHAT, For the Akond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a LOT, For the Akond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe? Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe, or a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, SHALLOTT, The Akond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a SCOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a GROTT, The Akond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a POT, The Akond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or ROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a KNOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or NOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a YACHT, The Akond of Swat? Some one, or nobody, knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Akond of Swat! NOTE.--For the existence of this potentate see Indian newspapers, _passim_. The proper way to read the verses is to make an immense emphasis on the monosyllabic rhymes, which indeed ought to be shouted out by a chorus. * * * * * NONSENSE BOTANY. [Illustration: Armchairia Comfortabilis.] [Illustration: Bassia Palealensis.] [Illustration: Bubblia Blowpipia.] [Illustration: Bluebottlia Buzztilentia.] [Illustration: Crabbia Horrida.] [Illustration: Smalltoothcombia Domestica.] [Illustration: Knutmigrata Simplice.] [Illustration: Tureenia Ladlecum.] [Illustration: Puffia Leatherbellowsa.] [Illustration: Queeriflora Babyöides.] * * * * * NONSENSE ALPHABETS. A [Illustration] A was an Area Arch Where washerwomen sat; They made a lot of lovely starch To starch Papa's Cravat. B [Illustration] B was a Bottle blue, Which was not very small; Papa he filled it full of beer, And then he drank it all. C [Illustration] C was Papa's gray Cat, Who caught a squeaky Mouse; She pulled him by his twirly tail All about the house. D [Illustration] D was Papa's white Duck, Who had a curly tail; One day it ate a great fat frog, Besides a leetle snail. E [Illustration] E was a little Egg, Upon the breakfast table; Papa came in and ate it up As fast as he was able. F [Illustration] F was a little Fish. Cook in the river took it Papa said, "Cook! Cook! bring a dish! And, Cook! be quick and cook it!" G [Illustration] G was Papa's new Gun; He put it in a box; And then he went and bought a bun, And walked about the Docks. H [Illustration] H was Papa's new Hat; He wore it on his head; Outside it was completely black, But inside it was red. I [Illustration] I was an Inkstand new, Papa he likes to use it; He keeps it in his pocket now, For fear that he should lose it. J [Illustration] J was some Apple Jam, Of which Papa ate part; But all the rest he took away And stuffed into a tart. K [Illustration] K was a great new Kite; Papa he saw it fly Above a thousand chimney pots, And all about the sky. L [Illustration] L was a fine new Lamp; But when the wick was lit, Papa he said, "This Light ain't good! I cannot read a bit!" M [Illustration] M was a dish of mince; It looked so good to eat! Papa, he quickly ate it up, And said, "This is a treat!" N [Illustration] N was a Nut that grew High up upon a tree; Papa, who could not reach it, said, "That's _much_ too high for me!" O [Illustration] O was an Owl who flew All in the dark away, Papa said, "What an owl you are! Why don't you fly by day?" P [Illustration] P was a little Pig, Went out to take a walk; Papa he said, "If Piggy dead, He'd all turn into Pork!" Q [Illustration] Q was a Quince that hung Upon a garden tree; Papa he brought it with him home, And ate it with his tea. R [Illustration] R was a Railway Rug Extremely large and warm; Papa he wrapped it round his head, In a most dreadful storm. S [Illustration] S was Papa's new Stick, Papa's new thumping Stick, To thump extremely wicked boys, Because it was so thick. T [Illustration] T was a tumbler full Of Punch all hot and good; Papa he drank it up, when in The middle of a wood. U [Illustration] U was a silver urn, Full of hot scalding water; Papa said, "If that Urn were mine, I'd give it to my daughter!" V [Illustration] V was a Villain; once He stole a piece of beef. Papa he said, "Oh, dreadful man! That Villain is a Thief!" W [Illustration] W was a Watch of Gold: It told the time of day, So that Papa knew when to come, And when to go away. X [Illustration] X was King Xerxes, whom Papa much wished to know; But this he could not do, because Xerxes died long ago. Y [Illustration] Y was a Youth, who kicked And screamed and cried like mad; Papa he said, "Your conduct is Abominably bad!" Z [Illustration] Z was a Zebra striped And streaked with lines of black; Papa said once, he thought he'd like A ride upon his back. ALPHABET, No. 6. A tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood, B said. "My Boy, oh, do not cry; it cannot do you good!" C said, "A Cup of Coffee hot can't do you any harm." D said, "A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm." E said, "An Egg beat up with milk would quickly make him well." F said, "A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell." G said, "Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold." H said, "His Hat should be kept on, to keep him from the cold." I said, "Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon." J said, "Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon!" K said, "A Kangaroo is here,--this picture let him see." L said, "A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea." M said, "A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction." N said, "Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction." O said, "An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink." P said, "Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think." Q said, "A Quince I recommend,--a Quince, or else a Quail." R said, "Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail." S said, "A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!" T said, "A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half!" U said, "An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!" V said, "I'll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!" W said, "Some Whisky-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!" X said, "Some double XX ale would be the best of all!" Y said, "Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!" Z said, "Here is a box of Zinc! Get in, my little master! We'll shut you up! We'll nail you down! We will, my little master! We think we've all heard quite enough of this your sad disaster!" 
36702	----	VERSE AND WORSE VERSE AND WORSE VERSE AND WORSE BY HARRY GRAHAM ('COL. D. STREAMER') AUTHOR OF 'BALLADS OF THE BOER WAR,' 'RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES,' 'MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN,' 'FISCAL BALLADS,' ETC., ETC. LONDON EDWARD ARNOLD 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, BOND STREET, W. 1905 [_All rights reserved_] NOTE THE BABY'S BAEDEKER and PERVERTED PROVERBS have been published in America by Mr. R. H. Russell and Messrs. Harper Bros. of New York. 'The Ballad of Ping-pong,' 'Bill,' and 'The Place where the Old Cleek Broke,' have appeared in _The Century Magazine_, _The Outlook_, and _Golf_ respectively. 'Uncle Joe,' 'Aunt Eliza,' 'John,' 'The Cat,' and 'Bluebeard,' were included in Mr. Russell's American edition of _Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes_. CONTENTS PAGE AUTHOR'S PREFACE ix FOREWORD xi PART I _THE BABY'S BAEDEKER_ I. ABROAD 3 II. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 6 III. GREAT BRITAIN 9 IV. SCOTLAND 11 V. IRELAND 13 VI. WALES 15 VII. CHINA 16 VIII. FRANCE 19 IX. GERMANY 21 X. HOLLAND 23 XI. ICELAND 26 XII. ITALY 27 XIII. JAPAN 30 XIV. PORTUGAL 32 XV. RUSSIA 33 XVI. SPAIN 36 XVII. SWITZERLAND 39 XVIII. TURKEY 41 XIX. DREAMLAND 44 XX. STAGELAND 47 XXI. LOVERLAND 48 XXII. HOMELAND 53 PART II _CHILDISH COMPLAINTS AND OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES_ CHILDISH COMPLAINTS-- PRELUDE 57 APPENDICITIS 61 WHOOPING-COUGH 61 MEASLES 62 ADENOIDS 62 CROUP 62 RUTHLESS RHYMES-- I. MOTHER-WIT 63 II. UNCLE JOE 64 III. AUNT ELIZA 65 IV. ABSENT-MINDEDNESS 66 V. JOHN 68 VI. BABY 71 VII. THE CAT 72 PART III _PERVERTED PROVERBS_ I. 'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD' 77 II. 'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST' 86 III. 'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE' 89 IV. 'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY' 91 V. 'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS' 92 VI. 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND' 96 VII. 'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS' 99 VIII. 'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH' 100 IX. POTPOURRI 103 PART IV _OTHER VERSES_ BILL 111 THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR 114 THE MOTRIOT 128 THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST 130 THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG 135 THE PESSIMIST 138 THE PLACE WHERE THE OLD CLEEK BROKE 140 THE HOMES OF LONDON 143 THE HAPPIEST LAND 146 A LONDON INVOLUNTARY 151 BLUEBEARD 154 THE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOLES 166 ROSEMARY (A BALLAD OF THE BOUDOIR) 170 PORTKNOCKIE'S PORTER 172 THE BALLAD OF THE LITTLE JINGLANDER 176 AFTWORD 182 ENVOI 185 AUTHOR'S PREFACE With guilty, conscience-stricken tears, I offer up these rhymes of mine To children of maturer years (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine). A special solace may they be In days of second infancy. The frenzied mother who observes This volume in her offspring's hand, And trembles for the darling's nerves, Must please to clearly understand, If baby suffers by and by The Publisher's at fault, not _I_! But should the little brat survive, And fatten on this style of Rhyme, To raise a Heartless Home and thrive Through a successful life of crime, The Publisher would have you see That _I_ am to be thanked, not _he_! Fond parent, you whose children are Of tender age (from two to eight), Pray keep this little volume far From reach of such, and relegate My verses to an upper shelf; Where you may study them yourself. FOREWORD The Press may pass my Verses by With sentiments of indignation, And say, like Greeks of old, that I Corrupt the Youthful Generation; I am unmoved by taunts like these-- (And so, I think, was Socrates). Howe'er the Critics may revile, I pick no journalistic quarrels, Quite realising that my Style Makes up for any lack of Morals; For which I feel no shred of shame-- (And Byron would have felt the same). I don't intend a Child to read These lines, which are not for the Young; For, if I did, I should indeed Feel fully worthy to be hung. (Is 'hanged' the perfect tense of 'hang'? Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!) O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime, By you these verses may be seen! Accept the Moral with the Rhyme, And try to gather what I mean. But, if you can't, it won't hurt me! (And Browning would, I know, agree.) Be reassured, I have not got The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes, Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot, Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's! (If so, I should not waste my time In writing you this sort of rhyme.) I strive to paint things as they Are, Of Realism the true Apostle; All flow'ry metaphors I bar, Nor call the homely thrush a 'throstle.' Such synonyms would make me smile. (And so they would have made Carlyle.) My Style may be, at times, I own, A trifle cryptic or abstruse; In this I do not stand alone, And need but mention, in excuse, A thousand world-familiar names, From Meredith to Henry James. From these my fruitless fancy roams To Aesop's or La Fontaine's Fable, From Doyle's or Hemans' 'Stately Ho(l)mes,' To t'other of The Breakfast Table; Like Galahad, I wish (in vain) 'My wit were as the wit of Twain! Had I but Whitman's rugged skill, (And managed to escape the Censor), The Accuracy of a Mill, The Reason of a Herbert Spencer, The literary talents even Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen, The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen, Or Watson's gift of execration, The sugar of Le Gallienne, Or Algernon's alliteration, One post there is I'd not be lost in, --Tho' I might find it most ex-Austin'! Some day, if I but study hard, The public, vanquished by my pen, 'll Acclaim me as a Minor Bard, Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell; And listen to my lyre a-rippling Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling. Were I, like him, a syndicate, Which publishers would put their trust in; A Walter Pater up-to-date, Or flippant scholar like Augustine; With pen as light as lark or squirrel, I'd love to kipple, pate and birrell. So don't ignore me. If you should, 'Twill touch me to the very heart oh! To be as much misunderstood As once was Andrea del Sarto; Unrecognised, to toil away, Like Millet,--(not, of course, Mill_ais_). And, pray, for Morals do not look In this unique agglomeration, --This unpretentious little book Of Infelicitous Quotation. I deem you foolish if you do, (And Mr. Arnold thinks so, too). PART I _THE BABY'S BAEDEKER_ An International Guide-Book for the young of all ages; peculiarly adapted to the wants of first and second Childhood. I ABROAD Abroad is where we tourists spend, In divers unalluring ways, The brief occasional week-end, Or annual Easter holidays; And earn the (not ill-founded) charge Of being lunatics at large. Abroad, we lose our self-respect; Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude; Consider any garb correct, And no display of temper rude; Descending, when we cross the foam, To depths we dare not plumb at home. (Small wonder that the natives gaze, With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks, Who patronise their Passion-plays, In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks; An op'ra-glass about each neck, And on each head a cap of check.) Abroad, where needy younger sons, When void the parent's treasure-chest, Take refuge from insistent duns, At urgent relatives' request; To live upon their slender wits, Or sums some maiden-aunt remits. Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare) Regardless of nostalgic pains, The weary New York millionaire Retires with his oil-gotten gains, And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis To found our Public Libraries. For ours is the primeval clan, From which all lesser lights descend; Is Crockett not our countryman? And call we not Corelli friend? Our brotherhood has bred the brain Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine. Tho' nowadays we seldom hear Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord, Or Tennyson, the poet peer, Who came into the garden, Mord; Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread, We have a prophet still in Stead. And so we stare, with nose in air; And speak in condescending tone, Of foreigners whose climes compare So favourably with our own; And aliens we cannot applaud Who call themselves At Home Abroad! II UNITED STATES OF AMERICA This is the Country of the Free, The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew; Where you're as good a man as me, And I'm a better man than you! (O Liberty, how free we make! Freedom, what liberties we take!) 'Tis here the startled tourist meets, 'Mid clanging of a thousand bells, The railways running through the streets, Skyscraping flats and vast hotels, Where rest, on the resplendent floors, The necessary cuspidors. And here you may encounter too The pauper immigrants in shoals, The Swede, the German, and the Jew, The Irishman, who rules the polls And is employed to keep the peace, A venal and corrupt police. They are so busy here, you know, They have no time at all for play; Each morning to their work they go And stay there all the livelong day; Their dreams of happiness depend On making more than they can spend. The ladies of this land are all Developed to a pitch sublime, Some inches over six foot tall, With perfect figures all the time. (For further notice of their looks See Mr. Dana Gibson's books.) And, if they happen to possess Sufficient balance at the bank, They have the chance of saying 'Yes!' To needy foreigners of rank; The future dukes of all the earth Are half American by birth. _MORAL_ A 'dot' combining cash with charms Is worth a thousand coats-of-arms. III GREAT BRITAIN The British are a chilly race. The Englishman is thin and tall; He screws an eyeglass in his face, And talks with a reluctant drawl. 'Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow! By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!' The English_woman_ ev'rywhere A meed of admiration wins; She has a crown of silken hair, And quite the loveliest of skins. (Go forth and seek an English maid, Your trouble will be well repaid.) Where Britain's banner is unfurled There's room for nothing else beside, She owns one-quarter of the world, And still she is not satisfied. The Briton thinks himself, by birth, To be the lord of all the earth. Some call his manners wanting, or His sense of humour poor, and yet Whatever he is striving for He as a rule contrives to get; His methods may be much to blame, But he arrives there just the same. _MORAL_ If you can get your wish, you bet it Doesn't much matter _how_ you get it! IV SCOTLAND In Scotland all the people wear Red hair and freckles, and one sees The men in women's dresses there, With stout, décolleté, low-necked knees. ('Eblins ye dinna ken, I doot, We're unco guid, so hoot, mon, hoot!') They love 'ta whuskey' and 'ta Kirk'; I don't know which they like the most. They aren't the least afraid of work; No sense of humour can they boast; And you require an axe to coax The canny Scot to see your jokes. They play an instrument they call The bagpipes; and the sound of these Is reminiscent of the squall Of infant pigs attacked by bees; Music that might drive cats away Or make reluctant chickens lay. _MORAL_ Wear kilts, and, tho' men look askance, Go out and give your knees a chance. V IRELAND The Irishman is never quite Contented with his little lot; He's ever thirsting for a fight, A grievance he has always got; And all his energy is bent On trying not to pay his rent. He lives upon a frugal fare (The few potatoes that he digs), And hospitably loves to share His bedroom with his wife and pigs; But cannot settle even here, And gets evicted once a year. In order to amuse himself, At any time when things are slack, He takes his gun down from the shelf And shoots a landlord in the back; If he is lucky in the chase, He may contrive to bag a brace. _MORAL_ Procure a grievance and a gun And you can have no end of fun. VI WALES The natives of the land of Wales Are not a very truthful lot, And the imagination fails To paint the language they have got; Bettws-y-coed-llan-dud-nod- Dolgelly-rhiwlas-cwn-wm-dod! _MORAL_ If you _must_ talk, then do it, pray, In an intelligible way. VII CHINA The Chinaman from early youth Is by his wise preceptors taught To have no dealings with the Truth, In fact, romancing is his 'forte.' In juggling words he takes the prize, By the sheer beauty of his lies. For laundrywork he has a knack; He takes in shirts and makes them blue; When he omits to send them back He takes his customers in too. He must be ranked in the 'élite' Of those whose hobby is deceit. For ladies 'tis the fashion here To pinch their feet and make them small, Which, to the civilised idea, Is not a proper thing at all. Our modern Western woman's taste In pinching leans towards the waist. The Chinese Empire is the field Where foreign missionaries go; A poor result their labours yield, And they have little fruit to show; For, if you would convert Wun Lung, You have to catch him very young. The Chinaman has got a creed And a religion of his own, And would be much obliged indeed If you could leave his soul alone; And he prefers, which may seem odd, His own to other people's god. Yet still the missionary tries To point him out his wickedness, Until the badgered natives rise,-- And there's one missionary less! Then foreign Pow'rs step in, you see, And ask for an indemnity. _MORAL_ Adhere to facts, avoid romance, And you a clergyman may be; To lie is wrong, except perchance In matters of Diplomacy. And, when you start out to convert, Make certain that you don't get hurt! VIII FRANCE The natives here remark 'Mon Dieu!' 'Que voulez-vous?' 'Comment ça va?' 'Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!' 'Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?' They shave one portion of their dogs, And live exclusively on frogs. They get excited very quick, And crowds will gather before long If you should stand and wave your stick And shout, 'À bas le Presidong!' Still more amusing would it be To say, 'Conspuez la Patrie!' The French are so polite, you know, They take their hats off very well, And, should they tread upon your toe, Remark, 'Pardon, Mademoiselle!' And you would gladly bear the pain To see them make that bow again. Their ladies too have got a way Which even curates can't resist; 'Twould make an Alderman feel gay Or soothe a yellow journalist; And then the things they say are so Extremely--well, in fact,--you know! _MORAL_ The closest scrutiny can find No morals here of any kind. IX GERMANY The German is a stolid soul, And finds best suited to his taste A pipe with an enormous bowl, A fraulein with an ample waist; He loves his beer, his Kaiser, and (Donner und blitz!) his Fatherland! He's perfectly contented if He listens in the Op'ra-house To Wagner's well-concealed 'motif,' Or waltzes of the nimble Strauss; And all discordant bands he sends Abroad, to soothe his foreign friends. When he is glad at anything He cheers like a dyspeptic goat, 'Hoch! hoch!' You'd think him suffering From some affection of the throat. A disagreeable noise, 'tis true, But pleases him and don't hurt you! _MORAL_ A glass of lager underneath the bough, A long 'churchwarden' and an ample 'frau' Beside me sitting in a Biergarten, Ach! Biergarten were paradise enow! X HOLLAND This country is extremely flat, Just like your father's head, and were It not for dykes and things like that There would not be much country there, For, if these banks should broken be, What now is land would soon be sea. So, any child who glory seeks, And in a dyke observes a hole, Must hold his finger there for weeks, And keep the water from its goal, Until the local plumbers come, Or other persons who can plumb. The Hollanders have somehow got The name of Dutch (why, goodness knows!), But Mrs. Hollander is not A 'duchess' as you might suppose; Mynheer Von Vanderpump is much More used to style her his 'Old Dutch.' Their cities' names are somewhat odd, But much in vogue with golfing men Who miss a 'put' or slice a sod, (Whose thoughts I would not dare to pen), 'Oh, Rotterdam!' they can exclaim, And blamelessly resume the game. The Dutchman's dress is very neat; He minds his little flock of goats In cotton blouse, and on his feet He dons a pair of wooden boats. (He evidently does not trust Those dykes I mentioned not to bust). He has the reputation too Of being what is known as 'slim,' Which merely means he does to you What you had hoped to do to him; He has a business head, that's all, And takes some beating, does Oom Paul. _MORAL_ Avoid a country where the sea May any day drop in to tea, Rememb'ring that, at golf, one touch Of bunker makes the whole world Dutch! XI ICELAND The climate is intensely cold; Wild curates would not drag me there; Not tho' they brought great bags of gold, And piled them underneath my chair. If twenty bishops bade me go, I should decidedly say, 'No!' _MORAL_ If ev'ry man has got his price, As generally is agreed, You will, by taking my advice, Let yours be very large indeed. Corruption is not nice at all, Unless the bribe be far from small. XII ITALY In Italy the sky is blue; The native loafs and lolls about, He's nothing in the world to do, And does it fairly well, no doubt; (Ital-i-ans are disinclined To honest work of any kind). A light Chianti wine he drinks, And fancies it extremely good; (It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks);-- While macaroni is his food. (I think it must be rather hard To eat one's breakfast by the yard). And, when he leaves his country for Some northern climate, 'tis his dream To be an organ grinder, or Retail bacilli in ice-cream. (The French or German student terms These creatures '_Paris_ites' or '_Germs_.') Sometimes an anarchist is he, And wants to slay a king or queen; So with some dynamite, may be, Concocts a murderous machine; 'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!' Then blows himself up by mistake. Naples and Florence both repay A visit, and, if fortune takes Your toddling little feet that way, Do stop a moment at The Lakes. While, should you go to Rome, I hope You'll leave your card upon the Pope. _MORAL_ Don't work too hard, but use a wise discretion; Adopt the least laborious profession. Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must, Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust. XIII JAPAN Inhabitants of far Japan Are happy as the day is long To sit behind a paper fan And sing a kind of tuneless song, Desisting, ev'ry little while, To have a public bath, or smile. The members of the fairer sex Are clad in a becoming dress, One garment reaching from their necks Down to the ankles more or less; Behind each dainty ear they wear A cherry-blossom in their hair. If 'Imitation's flattery' (We learn it at our mother's lap), A flatterer by birth must be Our clever little friend the Jap, Who does whatever we can do, And does it rather better too. _MORAL_ Be happy all the time, and plan To wash as often as you can. XIV PORTUGAL You are requested, if you please, To note that here a people lives Referred to as the Portuguese; A fact which naturally gives The funny man a good excuse To call his friend a Portugoose. _MORAL_ Avoid the obvious, if you can, And _never_ be a funny man. XV RUSSIA The Russian Empire, as you see, Is governed by an Autocrat, A sort of human target he For anarchists to practise at; And much relieved most people are Not to be lodging with the Czar. The Russian lets his whiskers grow, Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and Imbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut'; A habit which (I understand) Enables him with ease to tell His name, which nobody could spell. The climate here is cold, with snow, And you go driving in a sleigh, With bells and all the rest, you know, Just like a Henry Irving play; While, all around you, glare the eyes Of secret officers and spies! The Russian prisons have no drains, No windows or such things as that; You have no playthings there but chains, And no companion but a rat; When once behind the dungeon door, Your friends don't see you any more. I further could enlarge, 'tis true, But fear my trembling pen confines; I have no wish to travel to Siberia and work the mines. (In Russia you must write with care, Or the police will take you there.) _MORAL_ If you hold morbid views about A monarch's premature decease, You only need a--Hi! Look out! Here comes an agent of police! . . . . . (In future my address will be 'Siberia, Cell 63.') XVI SPAIN 'Tis here the Spanish onion grows, And they eat garlic all the day, So, if you have a tender nose, 'Tis best to go the other way, Or else you may discern, at length, The fact that 'Onion is strength.' The chestnuts flourish in this land, Quite good to eat, as you will find, For they are not, you understand, The ancient after-dinner kind That Yankees are accustomed to From Mr. Chauncey M. Depew. The Spanish lady, by the bye, Is an alluring person who Has got a bright and flashing eye, And knows just how to use it too; It's quite a treat to see her meet The proud hidalgo on the street. He wears a sort of soft felt hat, A dagger, and a cloak, you know, Just like the wicked villains that We met in plays of long ago, Who sneaked about with aspect glum, Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!' His blood, of blue cerulean hue, Runs in his veins like liquid fire, And he can be most rude if you Should rob him of his heart's desire; 'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack! His dagger perforates your back! If you should care to patronise A bull-fight, as you will no doubt, You'll see a horse with blinded eyes Be very badly mauled about; By such a scene a weak inside Is sometimes rather sorely tried. And, if the bull is full of fun, The horse is generally gored, So then they fetch another one, Or else the first one is encored; The humour of the sport, of course, Is not so patent to the horse. _MORAL_ Be kind to ev'ry bull you meet, Remember how the creature feels; Don't wink at ladies in the street; And don't make speeches after meals; And lastly, I need not explain, If you're a horse, don't go to Spain. XVII SWITZERLAND This atmosphere is pure ozone! To climb the hills you promptly start; Unless you happen to be prone To palpitations of the heart; In which case swarming up the Alps Brings on a bad attack of palps. The nicest method is to stay Quite comfortably down below, And, from the steps of your chalet, Watch other people upwards go. Then you can buy an alpenstock, And scratch your name upon a rock. _MORAL_ Don't do fatiguing things which you Can pay another man to do. Let friends assume (they may be wrong), That you each year ascend Mong Blong. Some things you can _pretend_ you've done, And climbing up the Alps is one. XVIII TURKEY The Sultan of the Purple East Is quite a cynic, in his way, And really doesn't mind the least His nickname of 'Abdul the ----' (Nay! I might perhaps come in for blame If I divulged this monarch's name.) The Turk is such a kindly man, But his ideas of sport are crude; He to the poor Armenian Is not intentionally rude, But still it is his heartless habit To treat him as _we_ treat the rabbit. If he wants bracing up a bit, His pleasing little custom is To take a hatchet and commit A series of atrocities. I should not fancy, after dark, To meet him, say, in Regent's Park. A deeply married man is he, 'Early and often' is his rule; He practises polygamy Directly after leaving school, And so arranges that his wives Live happy but secluded lives. If they attend a public place, They have to do so in disguise, And so conceal one-half their face That nothing but a pair of eyes Suggests the hidden charm that lurks Beneath the veils of lady Turks. Then too in Turkey all the men Smoke water-pipes and cross their legs; They watch their harem as a hen That guards her first attempt at eggs. (If you don't know what harems are, Just run and ask your dear papa.) _MORAL_ Wives of great men oft remind us We should make our wives sublime, But the years advancing find us Vainly working over-time. We could minimise our work By the methods of the Turk. XIX DREAMLAND Here you will see strange happenings With absolutely placid eyes; If all your uncles sprouted wings You would not feel the least surprise; The oddest things that you can do Don't seem a bit absurd to you. You go (in Dreamland) to a ball, And suddenly are shocked to find That you have nothing on at all,-- But somehow no one seems to mind; And, naturally, _you_ don't care, If they can bear what you can bare! Then, in a moment, you're pursued By engines on a railway track! Your legs are tied, your feet are glued, The train comes snorting down your back! One last attempt at flight you make And so (in bed) perspiring wake. You feel so free from weight of cares That, if the staircase you should climb, You gaily mount, not single stairs, But whole battalions at a time; (My metaphor is mixed, may be, I quote from Shakespeare, as you see). If you should eat too much, you pay (In dreams) the penalty for this; A nightmare carries you away And drops you down a precipice! Down! down! until, with sudden smack, You strike the mattress with your back. _MORAL_ At meals decline to be a beast; 'Too much is better than a feast.' XX STAGELAND The customs of this land have all Been published in a bulky tome. The author is a man they call Jer_ome_ K. J_er_ome _K_. Jer_ome_. So, lest on his preserves I poach, This subject I refuse to broach. _MORAL_ The moral here is plain to see. If true the hackneyed witticism Which stamps Originality As 'undetected plagiarism,' What a vocation I have miss'd As undetected plagiarist! XXI LOVERLAND This is the land where minor bards And other lunatics repair, To live in houses made of cards, Or build their castles in the air; To feed on hope, and idly dream That things are really what they seem. The natives are a motley lot, Of ev'ry age and creed and race, But each inhabitant has got The same expression on his face; They look, when this their features fills, Like angels with internal chills. The lover sits, the livelong day, Quite inarticulate of speech; He simply brims with things to say; Alas! the words he cannot reach, And, silent, lets occasion pass, Feeling a fulminating ass. It is the lady lover's wont To blush, and look demure or coy, To say, 'You mustn't!' and, 'Oh! don't!' Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!' (But this, of course, is just her way, She wouldn't wish you to obey.) The lover, in a trembling voice, Demands the hand of his lovee, And begs the lady of his choice To share some cottage-by-the-sea; With _her_ a prison would be nice, A coal-cellar a Paradise! 'Love in a cottage' sounds so well; But oh, my too impatient bride, No drainage and a constant smell Of something being over-fried Is not the sort of atmosphere That makes for wedded bliss, my dear. And when the bills are rather high, And when the money's rather low, See poor Virginia sit and sigh, And ask why Paul _must_ grumble so! He slams the door and strides about, And, through the window, Love creeps out. 'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sight With fire of passion from above, Nor ever bids us see aright The many faults in those we love; Ah no! I deem it otherwise, For lovers have the clearest eyes. They see the faults, the failures, and The great temptations, and they know, Although they cannot understand, That they would have the loved one so. Believe me, Love is never blind, His smiling eyes are wise and kind. Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween, 'Tis but to make it up again; The sunshine seems the more serene That follows after April rain; And love should lead, if love be true, To perfect understanding too. If in our hearts this love beats strong, We shall not ever seek to earn Forgiveness for some fancied wrong, Nor need to pardon in return; But learn this lesson as we live, 'To understand is to forgive.' And all you little girls and boys Will find this out yourselves, some day, When you have done with childish toys And put your infant books away. Ah! then I pray that hand-in-hand You tread the paths of Loverland. _MORAL_ Don't fall in love, but, when you do, Take care that he (or she) does too; And, lastly, to misquote the bard, If you _must_ love, don't love too hard. XXII HOMELAND The tour is over! We must part! Our mutual journey at an end. O bid farewell, with aching heart, To guide, philosopher, and friend; And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!' The kindly tear that dims his eye. The tour is ended! Sad but true! No more together may we roam! We turn our lonely footsteps to The spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home. Nor time nor temper can afford A more protracted trip abroad. O Home! where we must always be So hopelessly misunderstood; Where waits a tactless family, To tell us things 'for our own good'; Where relatives, with searchlight eyes, Can penetrate our choicest lies. Where all our kith and kin combine To prove that we are worse than rude, If we should criticise the wine Or make complaints about the food. Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome, Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!' PART II _CHILDISH COMPLAINTS_ AND _OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES_ CHILDISH COMPLAINTS PRELUDE (_By Way of Advertisement_) I have no knowledge of disease, No notion what ill-health may be, Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's Knees Mean something different to me To what they do to other folk. (This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.) Of course, when young, I had complaints, And little childish accidents; For twice I ate a box of paints, And once I swallowed eighteen pence. (_N.B._, I missed the paints a lot, But got the coins back on the spot.) But no practitioner has seen My tongue since then, down to the present, And I, alas! have never been An interesting convalescent. Ah! why am I alone denied The Humour of a weak inside? Why is it? I will tell you why; A certain mixture is to blame. One day for fun I chanced to try A bottle of--what _is_ the name? That thing they advertise a lot,-- (Oh, what a memory I've got!) It's stuff you must, of course, have seen, Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots, In cakes or little pills, I mean-- (Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots, That I am really much to blame For not remembering the name!) Still, let me recommend a keg (With maker's name, be sure, above it), 'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg, And village idiots simply love it; Old persons sit and scream for it,-- I do so hope you'll try a bit! So efficacious is this stuff, Its virtue and its strength are such, One single bottle is enough,-- In fact, at times, 'tis far too much. (The patient dies in frightful pain, Or else survives, and tries again.) An aunt of mine felt anyhow, All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits, Had freckles badly too; but now She doesn't have a thing but fits. She's just as strong as any horse,-- Tho' still an invalid, of course. I had an uncle, too, that way, His health was in a dreadful plight; Would often spend a sleepless day, And lie unconscious half the night. He took two bottles, large and small, And now--he has no health at all! The Moral plainly bids you buy This stuff, whose name I have forgotten; You won't regret it, if you try-- (My memory is simply rotten!) My funds will profit, in addition, Since I enjoy a small commission! CHILDISH COMPLAINTS _No. 1 (Appendicitis)_ I've got Appendicitis In my Appendicit, But I don't mind, Because I find I'm quite 'cut out' for it. _No. 2. (Whooping-cough)_ If only I had Whooping-cough! I'd join a Circus troupe! And folks would clamour at the door, And pay a shilling--even more, To see me 'Whoop The Whoop.' _No. 3. (Measles)_ Of illnesses like chickenpox And measles I've had lots; I do not like them much, you know, They are not really nice, altho' They're rather nice in spots. _No. 4. (Adenoids)_ A Cockney maid produced such snores, Folks left the City to avoid them; And all becos, She said, it was Her adenoids that 'ad annoyed them! _No. 5. (Croup)_ I had the Croup, in years gone by, And that is why to-day, Altho' no longer youthful, I Am still a Croupier. RUTHLESS RHYMES I MOTHER-WIT When wilful little Willie Black Threw all the tea-things at his mother, She murmured, as she hurled them back, 'One good Tea-urn deserves another!' II UNCLE JOE Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know, To rest beyond the stars. I miss him, oh! I miss him so,-- He had _such_ good cigars. III AUNT ELIZA In the drinking-well (Which the plumber built her) Aunt Eliza fell,---- We must buy a filter. IV ABSENT-MINDEDNESS Absent-minded Edward Brown Drove his lady into town; Suddenly the horse fell down! Mrs. Ned (Newly wed) Threw a fit and lay for dead. Edward, lacking in resource, Chafed the fetlocks of his horse, Sitting with unpleasant force (Just like lead) On the head Of the prostrate Mrs. Ned. She demanded a divorce, Jealous of the favoured horse. Edward had it shot, of course. . . . . . Years have sped; She and Ned Drive a motor now instead. V JOHN John, across the broad Atlantic, Tried to navigate a barque, But he met an unromantic And extremely hungry shark. John (I blame his childhood's teachers) Thought to treat this as a lark, Ignorant of how these creatures Do delight to bite a barque. Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and, With a scornful sort of grin, Handled an adjacent oar and Chucked it underneath the chin. At this unexpected juncture, Which he had not reckoned on, Mr. Shark he made a puncture In the barque--and then in John. . . . . . Sad am I, and sore at thinking John had on some clothes of mine; I can almost see them shrinking, Washed repeatedly in brine. I shall never cease regretting That I lent my hat to him, For I fear a thorough wetting Cannot well improve the brim. Oh! to know a shark is browsing, Boldly, blandly, on my boots! Coldly, cruelly carousing On the choicest of my suits! Creatures I regard with loathing, Who can calmly take their fill Of one's Jaeger underclothing:-- Down, my aching heart, be still! VI BABY Baby roused its father's ire, By a cold and formal lisp; So he placed it on the fire, And reduced it to a crisp. Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit! This is _overdoing_ it!' VII THE CAT (_Advice to the Young_) My children, you should imitate The harmless, necessary cat, Who eats whatever's on his plate, And doesn't even leave the fat; Who never stays in bed too late, Or does immoral things like that; Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!' He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash! When shadows fall and lights grow dim, He sits beneath the kitchen stair; Regardless as to life and limb, A shady lair he chooses there; And if you tumble over him, He simply loves to hear you swear. And, while bad language _you_ prefer, He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr! PART III _PERVERTED PROVERBS_ I 'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD' Virtue its own reward? Alas! And what a poor one, as a rule! Be Virtuous, and Life will pass Like one long term of Sunday-school. (No prospect, truly, could one find More unalluring to the mind.) The Model Child has got to keep His fingers and his garments white; In church he may not go to sleep, Nor ask to stop up late at night. In fact he must not ever do A single thing he wishes to. He may not paddle in his boots, Like naughty children, at the sea; The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits Is not, alas! for such as he. He watches, with pathetic eyes, His weaker brethren make mud-pies. He must not answer back, oh no! However rude grown-ups may be; But keep politely silent, tho' He brim with scathing repartee; For nothing is considered worse Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse. He must not eat too much at meals, Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor; However vacuous he feels, He may not pass his plate for more; --Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache For further slabs of Christmas cake. He is commanded not to waste The fleeting hours of childhood's days, By giving way to any taste For circuses or matinées; For him the entertainments planned Are 'Lectures on the Holy Land.' He never reads a story-book By Rider H. or Winston C., In vain upon his desk you'd look For tales by Arthur Conan D., Nor could you find upon his shelf The works of Rudyard--or myself! He always fears that he may do Some action that is _infra dig._, And so he lives his short life through In the most noxious rôle of Prig. ('Short Life' I say, for it's agreed The Good die very young indeed.) Ah me! how sad it is to think He could have lived like me--or you! With practice, and a taste for drink, Our joys he might have known, he too! And shared the pleasure _we_ have had In being gloriously bad! The Naughty Boy gets much delight From doing what he should not do; But, as such conduct isn't Right, He sometimes suffers for it, too. Yet, what's a spanking to the fun Of leaving vital things Undone? The Wicked flourish like the bay, At Cards or Love they always win, Good Fortune dogs their steps all day, They fatten while the Good grow thin. The Righteous Man has much to bear; The Bad becomes a Bullionaire! For, though he be the greatest sham, Luck favours him, his whole life through; At 'Bridge' he always makes a Slam After declaring 'Sans atout'; With ev'ry deal his fate has planned A hundred Aces in his hand. Yes, it is always just the same; He somehow manages to win, By mere good fortune, any game That he may be competing in. At Golf no bunker breaks his club, For him the green provides no 'rub.' At Billiards, too, he flukes away (With quite unnecessary 'side'); No matter what he tries to play, For him the pockets open wide; He never finds both balls in baulk, Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk. He swears; he very likely bets; He even wears a flaming necktie; Inhales Egyptian cigarettes, And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti'; Yet, spite of all, one must confess That nought succeeds like his excess. There's no occasion to be Just, No need for motives that are fine, To be Director of a Trust, Or Manager of a Combine; Your Corner is a public curse, Perhaps, but it will fill your purse. Then stride across the Public's bones, Crush all opponents under you, Until you 'rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves'; and, when you do, The widow's and the orphan's tears Shall comfort your declining years! . . . . . Myself, how lucky I must be, That need not fear so gross an end; Since Fortune has not favoured me With many million pounds to spend. (Still, did that fickle Dame relent, I'd show you how they _should_ be spent!) I am not saint enough to feel My shoulder ripen to a wing, Nor have I wits enough to steal His title from the Copper King; And there's a vasty gulf between The man I Am and Might Have Been; But tho' at dinner I may take Too much of Heidsick (extra dry), And underneath the table make My simple couch just where I lie, My mode of roosting on the floor Is just a trick and nothing more. And when, not Wisely but too Well, My thirst I have contrived to quench, The stories I am apt to tell May be, perhaps, a trifle French;-- (For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt, That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.)-- It does not render me unfit To give advice, both wise and right, Because I do not follow it Myself as closely as I might; There's nothing that I wouldn't do To point the proper road to _you_. And this I'm sure of, more or less, And trust that you will all agree-- The Elements of Happiness Consist in being--just like Me; No sinner, nor a saint perhaps, But--well, the very best of chaps. Share the Experience I have had, Consider all I've known and seen, And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad, But cultivate a Golden Mean. . . . . . What makes Existence _really_ nice Is Virtue--with a dash of Vice. II 'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST' What is Enough? An idle dream! One cannot have enough, I swear, Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream, Nougat or Chocolate Éclairs, Of Oysters or of Caviar, Of Prawns or Pâté de Foie _Grar_! Who would not willingly forsake Kindred and Home, without a fuss, For Icing from a Birthday Cake, Or juicy fat Asparagus, And journey over countless seas For New Potatoes and Green Peas? They say that a Contented Mind Is a Continual Feast;--but where The mental frame, and how to find, Which can with Turtle Soup compare? No mind, however full of Ease, Could be Continual Toasted Cheese. For dinner have a sole to eat (Some Perrier Jouet, '92), An Entrée then (and, with the meat, A bottle of Lafitte will do), A quail, a glass of port (just one), Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done. Your tastes may be of simpler type;-- A homely pint of 'half-and-half,' An onion and a dish of tripe, Or headpiece of the kindly calf. (Cruel perhaps, but then, you know, ''_Faut tout souffrir pour être veau_!') 'Tis a mistake to eat too much Of any dishes but the best; And you, of course, should never touch A thing you _know_ you can't digest; For instance, lobster:--if you _do_, Well,--I'm amayonnaised at you! Let this be your heraldic crest: A bottle (chargé) of Champagne, A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd), Below, this motto to explain-- 'Enough is Very Good, may be; Too Much is Good Enough for Me!' III 'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE' Unscrupulous Pigmongers will Attempt to wheedle and to coax The ignorant young housewife till She purchases her pigs in pokes; Beasts that have got a Lurid Past, Or else are far Too Good to Last. So, should you not desire to be The victim of a cruel hoax, Then promise me, ah! promise me, You will not purchase pigs in pokes! ('Twould be an error just as big To poke your purchase in a pig.) Too well I know the bitter cost, To turn this subject off with jokes; How many fortunes have been lost By men who purchased pigs in pokes. (Ah! think on such when you would talk With mouths that are replete with pork!) And, after dinner, round the fire, Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee, Implore your bored but patient sire To tell you what a Poke may be. The fact he might disclose to you-- Which is far more than _I_ can do. . . . . . The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes Is not to make your choice too quick. In purchasing a Book of Jokes, Pray poke around and take your pick. Who knows how rich a mental meal The covers of _this_ book conceal? IV 'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY' To these few words, it seems to me, A wealth of sound instruction clings; O Learn to Take things easily-- Espeshly Other People's Things; And Time will make your fingers deft At what is known as Petty Theft. 'Fools and Their Money soon must part!' And you can help this on, may be, If, in the kindness of your Heart, You Learn to Take things easily; And be, with little education, A Prince of Misappropriation. V 'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS' I never understood, I own, What anybody (with a soul) Could mean by offering a Stone This needless warning not to Roll; And what inducement there can be To gather Moss, I fail to see. I'd sooner gather anything, Like primroses, or news perhaps, Or even wool (when suffering A momentary mental lapse); But could forgo my share of moss, Nor ever realise the loss. 'Tis a botanical disease, And worthy of remark as such; Lending a dignity to trees, To ruins a romantic touch; A timely adjunct, I've no doubt, But not worth writing home about. Of all the Stones I ever met, In calm repose upon the ground, I really never found one yet With a desire to roll around; Theirs is a stationary rôle. (A joke,--and feeble on the whole.) But, if I were a stone, I swear I'd sooner move and view the World, Than sit and grow the greenest hair That ever Nature combed and curled. I see no single saving grace In being known as 'Mossyface'! Instead, I might prove useful for A weapon in the hand of Crime, A paperweight, a milestone, or A missile at Election-time; In each capacity I could Do quite incalculable good. When well directed from the Pit, I might promote a welcome death, If fortunate enough to hit Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth, Who twice each day the playhouse fills,-- (For Further Notice see Small Bills). At concerts, too, if you prefer, I could prevent your growing deaf By silencing the amateur Before she reached that upper F; Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick, Restrain some local Kubelik. Then, human stones, take my advice, (As you should always do, indeed); This proverb may be very nice, But don't you pay it any heed, And, tho' you make the critics cross, Roll on, and never mind the moss! VI 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND' Since it can never be too late To change your life, or else renew it, Let the unpleasant process wait, Until you are _compelled_ to do it. The State provides (and gratis too) Establishments for such as you. Remember this, and pluck up heart, That, be you publican or parson, Your ev'ry art must have a start, From petty larceny to arson; And even in the burglar's trade, The cracksman is not born, but made. So, if in your career of crime, You fail to carry out some 'coup,' Then try again a second time, And yet again, until you _do_; And don't despair, or fear the worst, Because you get found out at first. Perhaps the battle will not go, On all occasions, to the strongest; You may be fairly certain tho' That He Laughs Last who Laughs the Longest. So keep a good reserve of laughter, Which may be found of use hereafter. Believe me that, howe'er well meant, A good resolve is always brief; Don't let your precious hours be spent In turning over a new leaf. Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay, And then are only in the way. The Road to--well, a certain spot (A road of very fair dimensions), Has, so the proverb tells us, got A parquet-floor of Good Intentions. Take care, in your desire to please, You do not add a brick to these. For there may come a moment when You shall be mended, willy-nilly, With many more misguided men, Whose skill is undermined with skilly. Till then procrastinate, my friend; 'It _Never_ is Too Late to Mend!' VII 'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS' This pen of mine is simply grand, I never loved a pen so much; This paper (underneath my hand) Is really a delight to touch; And never in my life, I think, Did I make use of finer ink. The subject upon which I write Is ev'rything that I could choose; I seldom knew my wits more bright, More cosmopolitan my views; Nor ever did my head contain So surplus a supply of brain! VIII 'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH' I knew a man who lived down South; He thought this maxim to defy; He looked a Gift-horse in the Mouth; The Gift-horse bit him in the Eye! And, while the steed enjoyed his bite, My Southern friend mislaid his sight. Now, had this foolish man, that day, Observed the Gift-horse in the _Heel_, It might have kicked his brains away, But that's a loss he would not feel; Because, you see (need I explain?), My Southern friend has got no brain. When any one to you presents A poodle, or a pocket-knife, A set of Ping-pong instruments, A banjo or a lady-wife, 'Tis churlish, as I understand, To grumble that they're second-hand. And he who termed Ingratitude As 'worser nor a servant's tooth' Was evidently well imbued With all the elements of Truth; (While he who said 'Uneasy lies The tooth that wears a crown' was wise). 'One must be poor,' George Eliot said, 'To know the luxury of giving'; So too one really should be dead To realise the joy of living. (I'd sooner be--I don't know which-- I'd _like_ to be alive and rich!) _This_ book may be a Gift-horse too, And one you surely ought to prize; If so, I beg you, read it through, With kindly and uncaptious eyes, Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan, And this one doesn't rhyme! IX POTPOURRI There are many more Maxims to which I would like to accord a front place, But alas! I have got To omit a whole lot, For the lack of available space; And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense To the following Essence of Sound without Sense: Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft To the Well will get broken at last. But you'll find it a fact That, by using some tact, Such a danger as this can be past. (There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own, Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.) Half a loafer is never well-bred, And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing. And the mice are at play When the Cat is away, For a moment, inspecting a King. (Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare, It is right to suppose that the King will take care.) Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood, When a Stitch in Good Time will save Nine, While a Bird in the Hand Is worth Two, understand, In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine. (Tho' the two, if they _Can_ sing but Won't, have been known, By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.) Never Harness the Cart to the Horse; Since the latter should be _à la carte_. Also, Birds of a Feather Come Flocking Together, --Because they can't well Flock Apart. (You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think, But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.) It is only the Fool who remarks That there Can't be a Fire without Smoke; Has he never yet learned How the gas can be turned On the best incombustible coke? (Would you value a man by the checks on his suits, And forget '_que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts?_') Now '_De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum_,' Is Latin, as ev'ry one owns; If your domicile be Near a Mortuaree, You should always avoid throwing bones. (I would further remark, if I could,--but I couldn't-- That People Residing in Glasshouses shouldn't.) You have heard of the Punctual Bird, Who was First in presenting his Bill; But I pray you'll be firm, And remember the Worm Had to get up much earlier still; (So that, if you _can't_ rise in the morning, then Don't; And be certain that Where there's a Will there's a Won't.) You can give a bad name to a Dog, And hang him by way of excuse; Whereas Hunger, of course; Is by far the Best Sauce For the Gander as well as the Goose. (But you shouldn't judge any one just by his looks, For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many Cooks.) With the fact that Necessity knows Nine Points of the Law, you'll agree. There are just as Good Fish To be found on a Dish As you ever could catch in the Sea. (You should Look ere you Leap on a Weasel Asleep, And I've also remarked that Still Daughters Run Cheap.) The much trodden-on Lane _will_ Turn, And a Friend is in Need of a Friend; But the Wisest of Saws, Like the Camel's Last Straws, Or the Longest of Worms, have an end. So, before out of Patience a Virtue you make, A decisive farewell of these maxims we'll take. PART IV _OTHER VERSES_ BILL (_Told by the Hospital Orderly_) At Modder, where I met 'im fust, I thought as 'ow ole Bill was dead; A splinter, from a shell wot bust, 'Ad fetched 'im somewheres in the 'ead; But there! It takes a deal to kill Them thick-thatched sort o' blokes like Bill. In the field-'orspital, nex' day, The doctors was a-makin' out The 'casualty returns,' an' they Comes up an' pulls ole Bill about; Ole Colonel Wilks, 'e turns to me, 'Report this "dangerous,"' sez 'e. But Bill, 'oo must 'ave 'eard it too, 'E calls the doctor, quick as thought: 'I'd take it kindly, sir, if you 'Could keep me out o' the report. 'For tho' I'm 'it, an' 'it severe, 'I doesn't want my friends to 'ear. 'I've a ole mother, 'way in Kent, ''Oo thinks the very world o' me; 'I'd thank you if I wasn't sent 'As "wounded dangerous,"' sez 'e; 'For if she 'ears I'm badly hit, 'I lay she won't get over it. 'At Landman's Drift she lost a lad '(With the 18th 'Ussars 'e fell), 'Poor soul, she'd take it mighty bad 'To think o' losin' me as well; 'So please, sir, if it's hall the same, 'I'd ask you not to send my name.' The Colonel bloke 'e thinks a bit, 'Oh, well,' sez 'e, 'per'aps you're right. 'And, now I come to look at it, 'I'll send you in as "scalp-wound, slight." 'O' course it's wrong of me, but still--' 'Gawd bless you, sir, an' thanks!' sez Bill. . . . . . . 'E didn't die; 'e scrambled through. They hoperated on 'is 'ead, An' Gawd knows wot they didn't do,-- 'Tripoded' 'im, I think they said. I see'd 'im, Toosday, in Pall Mall, Nor never knowed 'im look so well. Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now, In London, an' employed again; Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'ow The doctors took out 'alf 'is brain! Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this-- 'E's working at the War Office. THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR (_A long way after Ingoldsby_) When Anthony Adamson first went to school The reception he got was decidedly cool; And, because he was utterly hopeless at games, He was given all sorts of opprobrious names, Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool'; For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,' 'Tis their natural instinct, which nobody blames, Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits, To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' or Some name calculated to cause him to suffer. They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole, Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the rôle Of the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied), However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded, Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul, And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole. He was rather a curious boy, was this youth, And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth, And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth, For he didn't much mind When they left him behind, And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket; Some other less heating employment he'd find, And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted, This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted, Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it, Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it, And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold, Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold, And at any rate furnished a good imitation), In deep rumination, With much mastication, And wonderful patience, Await inspirations; And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions; When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed, As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed. So all the day long and for half of the night Would young Anthony Adamson nibble and write, With extravagant feelings of joy and delight, And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard, That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word; And altho' composition, Which was his ambition, At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory; Arrived in a while At evolving a style Which a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory. Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teens He began to take aim at the big magazines, With articles, verses, and little love-scenes; And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note (Which I haven't the space nor the leisure to quote), Containing a humble request, and a hope, And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope. Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk, And he found them well-written and quite picturesque, And he sighed to see talent like this go to waste On what couldn't appeal to the popular taste. For the Public, you see (With a capital P), Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it be Something really exciting, however bad writing, With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes, Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials, Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting. So back to the Author his manuscript went; Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sent An encouraging letter, To say he'd do better To lower his style to the popular level; When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly, But mentally) told him to go to the devil! But a few of his articles never came back, And their whereabouts no one was able to track, For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?) Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them (Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere, And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed), And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed. Tho' to this I am really unable to swear, Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare. Now when Anthony Adamson grew rather older, And wiser, and bolder, And broader of shoulder, He thought he'd a fancy to write for the Press,-- 'Tis a common idea with the young, more or less;-- And he saw himself doing Critiques and reviewing The latest new books as they came from the printers; To set them on thrones or to smash them to splinters, To damn with faint praise, Or with eulogies raise, As he banned or he blest, Just whatever seemed best To the wit and the wisdom of twenty-three winters. But when he had carefully read thro' the papers, Arranged to the taste of our nation of drapers, And wisely as Solomon Studied each column, an Awful attack of despair and depression Assailed him, and then, As he threw down his pen, He was forced to confess To no hope of success, If he entered the great journalistic profession. For the only description of 'copy' that pays, In the journals that ev'ry one reads nowadays, Is the personal matter, Impertinent chatter, The tales of the tailor, the barber, the hatter; Society small talk, And mere servants'-hall talk, The sort of what's-nobody's-business-at-all-talk; And those who can handle The latest big scandal With the taste of a Thug and the tact of a Vandal, Whatever society paper they write in, Can always provide what their readers delight in. An article, vulgarly written, which deals With the food that celebrities eat at their meals To the popular intellect always appeals. People laugh themselves hoarse At the latest divorce, While a peer's breach of promise is comic, of course; How eager each face is, As ev'ry one races To read the details of the Cruelty cases! And a magistrate's pun Is considered good fun, And arouses the bench of reporters from torpor, When it's at the expense of some broken-down pauper! So Anthony pondered the different ways Of attaining and gaining the popular praise; And selected a score of his brightest essays, Just enough for a book, Which he hopefully took To some publishers, thinking perhaps they would look At what might (as he couldn't help modestly hinting) Repay the expense and the trouble of printing. Now the publishers all were extremely polite, And encouraging quite, For they saw he could write; But the answer they gave him was always the same. 'You are not,' so they said, 'in the least bit to blame, And your style is so good, Be it well understood, We'd be happy to publish your work if we could; But alas! All the people who know are agreed This is not what the Public demands, or would read. 'It is over the head Of the people,' they said. 'If you'd only write down to the popular level!' (Once more, he replied, they could go to the devil!) The result to our author was not unexpected, And, as on his failures he sadly reflected, He took out his pen and a nib he selected, Then wrote (and his verses Were studded with curses) This poem, the Lay of the Author (Rejected). _The rejected Author's cup Comes from out a bitter bin, Constable won't 'take him up,' Chambers will not 'take him in.'_ _Publishers, when interviewed, Each alas! in turn looks Black; De la Rue is De-la-rude, Nutt is far too hard to crack._ _Author, humble as a vassal (He is feeling Low as well), Sadly waits without the Cassell, Vainly tries to press the Bell._ _Author, hourly growing leaner, Finds each day his jokes more rare, Asks the Longman if he's Green, or Spottiswoode to take the Eyre._ _Author, blithe as lark each morning, Finds each night his tale unheard, And, when Fred'rick gives him Warn(e)ing, Is not Gay as any Bird._ _Author, to his writings partial, Musters their array en bloc, Which the Simpkins will not Marshall, And the Elliot will not Stock._ _Tho' for little he be yearning, Yet that little Long he'll want, When the Lane has got no turning, And the Richards will not Grant._ Now when Anthony's life it grew harder and harder; Less coal in the cellar, less meat in the larder; He thought for a while, And at last (with a smile) He determined to sacrifice even his style. So he wrote just whatever came into his head, Without any regard for the living or dead, Or for what his friends thought or his enemies said. From his style he effaced, As incentives to waste, All the canons of grammar and even good taste; And so book after book after book he brought out, Which you've probably read, and you know all about; For the publishers bought them, And ev'ry one thought them So splendidly vulgar, that no one had ever Read anything quite so improperly clever. He tried ev'ry style, from the fashion of Ouida's (His characters being Society Leaders; The Heroine, suited to middle-class readers,-- A governess she, who might well have been humbler; The Hero a Duke, an inveterate grumbler; And a Guardsman who drank crême-de-menthe from a tumbler) To that of another more popular lady, And wrote about aristocrats who were shady, And showed that the persons you happen to meet In the Very Best Houses are always effete; That they gamble all night, in particular sets, And (Oh, hasn't she said it, Tho' can it be credit- Ed?) have no intention of paying their debts! His best, which the Critics said 'teemed with expression,' Was the one-volume novel 'A Drunkard's Confession'; The next, 'My Good Woman. A Love Tale'; another, Most popular this, 'The Flirtations of Mother'; And lastly, the crowning success of his life, 'How the Other Half Lives. By a Baronet's Wife.' And the Publishers now are all down on their knees, As they offer what fees He may happen to please; And success he discerns As with rapture he learns The amount that he earns From his roy'lty returns. (N.B.--I omit the last 'a' here in Royalty, For reasons of scansion and not from disloyalty.) The moral of this is quite easy to see; If a popular author you're anxious to be, You won't care a digamma For truth or for grammar, Be far from straitlaced Upon questions of taste, And don't trouble to polish your style or to bevel, But always write down to the popular level; Be vulgar and smart, And you'll get to the heart Of the persons directing the lit'rary mart, And your writings must reach (It's a figure of speech) The--(well, what shall we call it--compositor's) devil! THE MOTRIOT (_After Robert Browning_) 'It was chickens, chickens, all the way, With children crossing the road like mad; Police disguised in the hedgerows lay, Stop-watches and large white flags they had, At nine o'clock o' this very day. 'I broke the record to Tunbridge Wells, And I shouted aloud, to all concerned, "Give room, good folk, do you hear my bells?" But my motor skidded and overturned; Then exploded--and afterwards, what smells! 'Alack! it was I rode over the son Of a butcher; rolled him all of a heap! Nought man could do did I leave undone; And I thought that butcher's boys were cheap,-- But this, poor man, 'twas his only one. 'There's nobody in my motor now,-- Just a tangled car in the ditch upset; For the fun of the fair is, all allow, At the County Court, or, better yet, By the very foot of the dock, I trow. . . . . . 'Thus I entered, and thus I go; In Court the magistrate sternly said, "Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!" I might not question, so promptly paid. Henceforth I _walk_; I am safer so.' THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST Archibald Ames is an artist, And a widely renowned R.A., For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad, The greatest success he has always had, And he makes his profession pay. He has no idea of proportion, No notion of colour or line, But perhaps for such there is little need, Since everybody is fully agreed That his _subjects_ are quite divine. His pictures are sweetly simple; The ingredients all must know,-- Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two, A very old man, and a baby's shoe, And some bunches of mistletoe. In some, an angelic infant Is helping a kitten to play, Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat (Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat), Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray. Or else there's a runaway couple, With a distant view of papa, An elderly party with rich man's gout, Who swears himself rapidly inside out, In a broken-down motor-car. Or it may be a scene in the Workhouse, Where a widow of high degree, With almost suspiciously puce-coloured hair, Has arrived in a gorgeous carriage-and-pair, To distribute a pound of tea. Sometimes he portrays a battle, With a 'square' like a Rugby scrum, Where a bugler, the colours grasped in his hand, And making a final determined stand, Plays 'God Save the King' on a drum. This is the kind of subject That he gives to us day by day; You may jeer at the absence of all technique, But these are the pictures the people seek From this justly renowned R.A. In distant suburban boudoirs You will find them, in gilded frames, 'The Prodigal Calf' (a homely scene) 'Grandmamma's Boots,' or 'To Gretna Green,' The Works of Archibald Ames. And, if they appeal to the public, In the usual course of events, Some enterprising manager comes, And buys them up for enormous sums, And they serve as advertisements. Where the child is painting the kitten With Potter's Indelible Dye, While Grandpapa shows to the reckless cat McBride's Indestructible Gibus Hat, (Which Ev'ry one ought to buy). And the Gretna Green arrangement An interest new acquires, By depicting how great the advantages are Of the Patented Spoofenhauss Auto-car, With unpuncturable tyres. And the widow (Try Kay's for mourning), As black as Stevenson's Ink, Is curing the paupers of sundry ills By the gift of a box of the Palest Pills For persons who may be Pink. And the bugler-boy in the battle, With trousers of Blackett's Blue, Unshrinking as Simpson's Serge, and free As Winkleson's Patent Ear-drum he, And steadfast as Holdhard's Glue. This is the modern fashion In the popular art of the day, And this is the reason that Archibald Ames Ranks high among other familiar names As a very well-known R.A. THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG (_After Swinburne_) The murmurous moments of May-time, What bountiful blessings they bring! As dew to the dawn of the day-time, Suspicions of Summer to Spring! Let others imagine the time light, With maidens or books on their knee, Or live in the languorous limelight That tinges the trunk of the Tree. Let the timorous turn to their tennis, Or the bowls to which bumpkins belong, But the thing for grown women and men is The pastime of ping and of pong. The game of the glorious glamour! The feeling to fight till you fall! The hurricane hail and the hammer! The batter and bruise of the ball! The glory of getting behind it! The brief but bewildering bliss! The fear of the failure to find it! The madness at making a miss! The sound of the sphere as you smack it, Derisive, decisive, divine! The riotous rush of your racket, To mix and to mingle with mine! The diadem dear to the King is, How sweet to the singer his song; To me so the plea of the ping is, And the passionate plaint of the pong. I live for it, love for it, like it; Delight of my dearest of dreams! To stand and to strive and to strike it,-- So certain, so simple it seems! Then give me the game of the gay time, The ball on its wandering wing, The pastime for night or for day-time, The Pong, not to mention the Ping! THE PESSIMIST (_After Maeterlinck_) Life's bed is full of crumbs and rice, No roses float on my lagoon; There are no fingers, white and nice, To rub my head with scented ice, Or feed me with a spoon. I think of all the days gone by, Replete with black and blue regret; No comets light my glaucous sky, My tears are hardly ever dry, I never can forget! I see the yellow dog, Desire, That strains against the lead of Hope, With lilac eyes and lips of fire, As all in vain he strives to tire The hand that holds the rope. I see the kisses of the past, Like lambkins dying in the snow, The honeymoon that did not last, The tinted youth that flew so fast, And all this vale of woe. So, raising high my raucous cry, I ask (and Fates no answer give), Why am I pre-ordained to die? O cruel Fortune, tell me, why Am I allowed to live? THE PLACE WHERE THE OLD CLEEK BROKE (_After Whyte-Melville_) Life is hollow to the golfer, of however high his rank, If the dock-leaf and the nettle grow too free, If a bramble bar his progress, if he's bunkered by a bank, If his golf-ball jerks and wobbles off the tee. There's a ditch I never pass, full of stones and broken glass, And I'd sooner lift my ball and count a stroke, For the tears my vision blot when I see the fatal spot, 'Tis the place where my old cleek broke. There's his haft upon the table, there's his head upon a chair; And a better never felt the summer rain; I may curse and I may swear, my umbrella-stand is bare, I shall never use my gallant cleek again! With what unaccustomed speed would he strike the Golf-ball teed! How it sounded on his metal at each stroke! Not a flyer in the game such parabolas could claim, At the place where the old cleek broke! Was he cracked? I hardly think it. Did he slip? I do not know. He had struck the ball for forty yards or more; He was driving smooth and even, just as hard as he could go, I had never seen him striking so before. But I hardly can complain, for there must have been a strain I had forced beyond the compass of a joke-- And no club, however strong, could have lasted over long At the place where the old cleek broke! There are men, both staid and sound, who hold it happiness unique, At which only the irreverent can scoff, That is reached by means of brassey, driver, niblick, spoon, or cleek, And that life is not worth living without Golf. Well, I hope it may be so; for myself I only know That I never more shall try another stroke; Yes, I've wearied of the sport, since a lesson I was taught, At the place where the old cleek broke. THE HOMES OF LONDON (_After Mrs. Hemans_) The happy homes of London, How beautiful they stand! The crowded human rookeries That mar this Christian land. Where cats in hordes upon the roof For nightly music meet, And the horse, with non-adhesive hoof, Skates slowly down the street. The merry homes of London! Around bare hearths at night, With hungry looks and sickly mien, The children wail and fight. There woman's voice is only heard In shrill, abusive key, And men can hardly speak a word That is not blasphemy. The healthy homes of London! With weekly wifely wage, The hopeless husbands, out of work, Their daily thirst assuage. The overcrowded tenement Is comfortless and bare, The atmosphere is redolent Of hunger and despair. The blessed homes of London! By thousands, on her stones, The helpless, homeless, destitute, Do nightly rest their bones. On pavements Piccadilly way, In slumber like the dead, Their wan pathetic forms they lay, And make their humble bed. The free, fair homes of London! From all the thinking throng, Who mourn a nation's apathy, The cry goes up, 'How long!' And those who love old England's name, Her welfare and renown, Can only contemplate with shame The homes of London town. THE HAPPIEST LAND (_After Longfellow_) There sat one day in a tavern, Somewhere near Lincoln's Inn, Six sleepy-looking working men, Imbibing 'twos' of gin. The Potman filled their tankards With the liquor each preferred, Torpid and somnolent they sat, And spake not one rude word. But when the potman vanished, A brawny Scot stood forth; 'Change here,' quoth he, 'for Aberdeen, Strathpeffer and the North! 'No country in the world, I ken, With Scotia can compare, With all the dour and canny men, And the bonnie lasses there. 'I hae a wee bit hoosie, An' a burn runs greetin' by, An' unco crockit Minister An' a bairn to milk the ki'; 'I hae a muckle haggis, A bap an' a skian-dhu, A cairngorm and a bannock, An' a sonsy kailyard too!' 'Bejabers!' said an Irishman, 'Acushla and Ochone! There's but one country on the Earth, Ould Oireland stands alone! 'Give me the Emerald Isle, avick! With murphies for to ate, An' as many pigs and childer As the fingers on me _fate_.' Exclaimed a Frenchman, 'Par Exemple! Donnez-moi ma Patrie! Vin ordinaire and savoir faire Are good enough for me! 'Have you the penknife of my Aunt? Mais non, hélas! but then, The female gardener has got Some paper and a pen!' Then spoke a Greek, 'The Isles of Greece! What can compare with those? Thalassa! and Eurêka! Rhododaktylos êôs!' 'On London streets I'm working, With a vat of asphalt stew, Putting off the old macadam, And a-laying down the new; 'But the country of my childhood Is the best that man may know, Oh didêmi also phêmi, Zôê mou sas agapô!' Straight rose a German and remarked 'Vot of die Vaterland? Ach Himmel! Unberüfen! And the luffly German band? 'Gif me some Gotterdammerung, And nuddings more I need, But ewigkeit and sauerkraut And niebelungenlied!' 'Nonsense!' exclaimed an Englishman. ('I surely ought to know!) Old England is the only place Where any man should go! 'Show me the something furriner Who such a fact denies, And, if I can't convince 'im, I can black 'is bloomin' eyes!' Then entered in the potman, And pointed to the door; 'Outside,' said he, 'is where _you_'ll go, If I have any more!' . . . . . It was six friendly working men, Brimming with 'twos' of gin, Who crept from out the tavern, As the Dawn came creeping in. A LONDON INVOLUNTARY (_After W. E. Henley_) _Spizzicato non poco skirtsando_ Old Palace Yard! Hark how their breath draws lank and hard, The sallow stern police! Breaking the desultory midnight peace With plangent call, to cry 'Division'! This their first especial charge. And now, low, luminous, and large, The slumbrous Member hurries by. Let us take cab, Dear Heart, take cab and go From out the lith of this loud world (I know The meaning of the word). Come, let us hie To where the lamp-posts ouch the troubled sky,-- (And if there is one thing for which I vouch It is my knowledge of the verb to ouch.) So, as we steal Homeward together, we shall feel The buxom breeze,-- (Observe the epithet; an apt one, if you please.) Down through the sober paven street, Which, purged and sweet, Gleams in the ambient deluge of the water-cart, Bemused and blurred and pinkly lustrous, where The blandest lion in Trafalgar Square Seems but a part Of the great continent of light,-- An attribute of the embittered night,-- How new, how naked and how clean! Couchant, slow, shimmering, superb! Constant to one environment, nor even seen Pottering aimlessly along the kerb. Lo! On the pavement, one of those Grim men who go down to the sea in ships, Blaspheming, reeling in a foul ellipse, Home to some tangled alley-bedside goes,-- Oozing and flushed, sharing his elemental mirth With all the jocund undissembling earth; Drooping his shameless nose, Nor hitching up his drifting, shifting clothes. And here is Piccadilly! Loudly dense, Intractable, voluminous, immense! (Dear, dear my heart's desire, can I be talking sense?) BLUEBEARD Yes, I am Bluebeard, and my name Is one that children cannot stand; Yet once I used to be so tame I'd eat out of a person's hand; So gentle was I wont to be, A Curate might have played with me. People accord me little praise, Yet I am not the least alarming; I can recall, in bygone days, A maid once said she thought me charming. She was my friend,--no more I vow,-- And--she's in an asylum now. Girls used to clamour for my hand, Girls I refused in simple dozens; I said I'd be their brother, and They promised they would be my cousins. (One I accepted,--more or less,-- But I've forgotten her address.) They worried me like anything By their proposals ev'ry day; Until at last I had to ring The bell, and have them cleared away; They longed to share my lofty rank, Also my balance at the bank. My hospitality to those Whom I invite to come and stay Is famed; my wine like water flows,-- Exactly like, some people say; But this is mere impertinence To one who never spares expense. When through the streets I walk about, My subjects stand and kiss their hands, Raise a refined metallic shout, Wave flags and warble tunes on bands; While bunting hangs on ev'ry front,-- With my commands to let it bunt! When I come home again, of course, Retainers are employed to cheer, My paid domestics get quite hoarse Acclaiming me, and you can hear The welkin ringing to the sky,-- Ay, ay, and let it welk, say I! And yet, in spite of this, there are Some persons who, at diff'rent times, --(Because I am so popular)-- Accuse me of most awful crimes; A girl once said I was a flirt! Oh my! how the expression hurt! I _never_ flirted in the least, Never for very long, I mean,-- Ask any lady (now deceased) Who partner of my life has been;-- Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps, I meet a girl, like other chaps,-- And, if I like her very much, And if she cares for me a bit, Where is the harm of look or touch, If neither of us mentions it? It isn't right, I don't suppose, But no one's hurt if no one knows! One should not break oneself _too_ fast Of little habits of this sort, Which may be definitely classed With gambling, or a taste for port; They should be _slowly_ dropped, until The Heart is subject to the Will. I knew a man (in Regent Street) Who, at a very slight expense, By persevering, was complete- Ly cured of Total Abstinence An altered life he has begun And takes a glass with any one. I knew another man, whose wife Was an invet'rate suicide; She daily strove to take her life, And (naturally) nearly died; But some such system she essayed, And now--she's eighty in the shade. Ah, the new leaves I try to turn! But, like so many men in town, I seem (as with regret I learn) Merely to turn the corner down; A habit which, I fear, alack! Makes it more easy to turn back. I have been criticised a lot; I venture to inquire what for? Because, forsooth, I have not got The instincts of a bachelor! Just hear my story, you will find How grossly I have been maligned. I was unlucky with my wives, So are the most of married men; Undoubtedly they lost their lives,-- Of course, but even so, what then? I loved them like no other man, And I _can_ love, you bet I can! My first was little Emmeline, More beautiful than day was she; Her proud, aristocratic mien Was what at once attracted me. I naturally did not know That I should soon dislike her so. But there it was! And you'll infer I had not very long to wait Before my red-hot love for her Turned to unutterable hate. So, when this state of things I found, I had her casually drowned. My next was Sarah, sweet but shy, And quite inordinately meek; Yes, even now I wonder why I had her hanged within the week; Perhaps I felt a bit upset, Or else she bored me. I forget. Then came Evangeline, my third, And when I chanced to be away, She, so I subsequently heard, Was wont (I deeply grieve to say) With my small retinue to flirt. I strangled her. I hope it hurt. Isabel was, I think, my next,-- (That is, if I remember right),-- And I was really very vexed To find her hair come off at night; To falsehood I could not connive, And so I had her boiled alive. Then came Sophia, I believe, Her coiffure was at least her own; Alas! she fancied to deceive Her friends, by altering its tone. She dyed her locks a flaming red! I suffocated her in bed. Susannah Maud was number six, But she did not survive a day; Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricks, And hardly anything to say. A little strychnine in her tea Finished her off, and I was free. Yet I did not despair, and soon, In spite of failures, started off Upon my seventh honeymoon, With Jane; but could not stand her cough. 'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain. I pushed her underneath the train. Well, after her, I married Kate, A most unpleasant woman. Oh! I caught her at the garden gate, Kissing a man I didn't know; And, as that didn't suit me quite, I blew her up with dynamite. Most married men, so sorely tried As this, would have been rather bored. Not I, but chose another bride, And married Ruth. Alas! she snored! I served her just the same as Kate, And so she joined the other eight. My last was Grace; I am not clear, I _think_ she didn't like me much; She used to scream when I came near, And shuddered at my lightest touch. She seemed to wish to keep aloof, And so I threw her off the roof. This is the point I wish to make;-- From all the wives for whom I grieve, Whose lives I had perforce to take, Not one complaint did I receive; And no expense was spared to please My spouses at their obsequies. My habits, I would have you know, Are perfect, as they've always been; You ask if I am good, and go To church, and keep my fingers clean? I do, I mean to say I am, I have the morals of a lamb. In my domains there is no sin, Virtue is rampant all the time, Since I so thoughtfully brought in A bill which legalises crime; Committing things that are not wrong Must pall before so very long. And if what you imagine vice Is not considered so at all, Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice, There's no temptation then to fall; For half the charm of things we do Is knowing that we oughtn't to. Believe me, then, I am not bad, Though in my youth I had to trek, Because I happened to have had Some difficulties with a cheque. What forgery in some might be Is absent-mindedness in me! I know that I was much abused, No doubt when I was young and rash, But I should not have been accused Of misappropriating cash. I may have sneaked a silver dish;-- Well, you may search me if you wish! So, now you see me, more or less, As I would figure in your thoughts; A trifle given to excess, And prone perhaps to vice of sorts; When tempted, rather apt to fall, But still--a good chap after all! 'THE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOLES' (_After Stephen Phillips_) Attracted to the frozen river's brink, Where on a small impromptu snow-swept rink, The happy skaters darted left and right, Or circled amorously out of sight, Some self-supporting; some, like falling stars, Spread-eagling ankle-weak parabolas; I watched the human swarm, and I was 'ware A woman, disarranged, knelt on a chair. She had cold feet on which she could not run, And piteously she thawed them in the sun. Those feet were of a woman that alone Was kneeling; a pink liquid by her shone, Which raising to her luminous, lantern jaw, She sipped; or idly stirred it with a straw. Upon her hat she wore a kind of fowl, An hummingbird, I ween, or else an owl. Then turned to me. I looked the other way, Trembling; I knew the words she wished to say. So warm her gaze the blood rushed to my head, Instinctively I knew her feet were dead. Amorphous feet, like monumental moons, Pavement-obliterating, vast, pontoons, Superbly varnished, to the ice had come, And now, snow-kissed, frost-fettered, dangled numb. Gently she spoke,--the while my senses whirled, Of 'largest circulations in the world'; Wildly she spoke, as babble men in dreams, Of feeling life's blood 'rushing to extremes'; But I ignored her with deliberate stare, Until the indelicate thing began to swear. Sensations as of pins and needles rose, Apollinaris-like, in tingled toes. She felt the hungry frost that punctured holes, Like concentrated seidlitz, in her soles. Feebly she stept; and sudden was aware Her feet had gone,--they were no longer there,-- And from her boots was willing to be freed; She would not keep what she could never need. Sullenly I consented, and withdrew From either heel a huge chaotic shoe; Yet for a time laboriously and slow She journeyed with her ponderous boots, as though Along with her she could not help but bear The bargelike burdens she was wont to wear. Towards me she reeled; and 'Oh! my Uncle,' cried, 'My Uncle!' but I pushed her to one side, Then smiled upon her so she could not stay,-- (My smile can frighten motor-cars away):-- While thus I grinned, not knowing what to do, A belted beadle, in immaculate blue, Plucked at my sleeve, and shattered my romance, Wheeling on cushion tires an ambulance. Deliberately then he laid her there, Tucked in and bore away; I did not care! ROSEMARY (_A Ballad of the Boudoir_) 'E'er August be turned to September, Nor Summer to Autumn as yet, My darling, you Autumn remember What Summer so sure to forget. 'Though age may extinguish the ember That glowed in our hearts when we met, Remember, my love, to remember, And I will forget to forget. 'Who knows but the winds of December May drift us asunder, my pet; And if I forget to remember, Remember, my sweet, to forget! 'My beauty will fade, as the posy You gave me that night on the stairs; My lips will not always be rosy, My head cannot give itself 'airs. 'Alas! as we both become older, Existence draws nigh to a close; So, until I've forgotten your shoulder, You must not remember my nose. 'Our days were not all sunny weather; Even so we have nought to regret,-- Ah! let us remember together, Until we forget to forget!' PORTKNOCKIE'S PORTER (_With apologies to Porphyria's Lover_) The train came early in to-night, The sullen guard was soon awake, And threw my luggage down, for spite, To where the platform seemed a lake; And did his best my box to break. When sidled up a porter; straight, He mopped the platform with a broom, And, kneeling, made the well-filled grate Blaze up within the waiting-room, And so dispelled the usual gloom. Which done, he came and took his seat Beside me, doffed his coat, untied His bootlaces, and let his feet Peep coyly out on either side; Then called me. When no voice replied, He rolled his shirt-sleeve up, and rose, And laid his brawny biceps bare, And, where my eyebrows meet my nose, He slowly shook his fist, just there, And seized me by my yellow hair. Then roughly asked me, had I got A head as empty as a bubble? Bidding me sternly, did I not Desire henceforth to see things double, To give him something for his trouble. Nor could my arguments prevail; Entreaties, threats were all in vain! Returned he to the twice-told tale Of how, from out the midnight train, He bore my luggage through the rain. I fixed him with my cold grey eye, But all in vain; at last I knew That porter hated me; (though why I cannot understand, can you?) And what on earth was I to do! Next moment, though I still perspire To think of it, I quickly found A thing to do; and on the fire I pushed him backwards with a bound, And piled the coal up all around. Cremated him. No pain he felt. As a shut coop that holds a hen, I oped the register and smelt An odour as of burnt quill-pen. My laughter bubbled over then. I seized him lightly, with the tongs About his waist; and through the door I bore him, burning with my wrongs, And laid him on the line. What's more, The down express was due at four. . . . . . The mark is on the metals still, A gruesome stain, I must confess, And, when I pass, it makes me ill To note the somewhat painful mess Concocted by the down express. Portknockie's porter; so he died. The date of inquest is deferred. 'Tis thought a case of suicide; And he who might have seen or heard,-- The guard,--has never said a word. THE BALLAD OF THE LITTLE JINGLANDER 'WHEN THE MOTHER COUNTRY CALLS!' (_With apologies to all concerned_) _North and South and East and West, the message travels fast! East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast! North and West and East and South, the battle-cry grows plain! West and South and North and East, it echoes back again!_ For the East is calling Westwards, and the North is speaking South, There's a threat on ev'ry curling lip, an oath in ev'ry mouth; 'Tis the shadow of an Empire o'er the Universe that falls, And the winds of Heaven wonder when the Mother-country calls! Now the call is carried coastwise, from Calay to Bungapore, From the sunny South Pacific to the North Atlantic shore; Gathers volume in its footsteps and grows grander as it goes, From Jeboom to Pongawongo, where the Rumtumpootra flows. The 'native-born' he sits alert beneath a deodar, He sharpens up his 'cummerbund' and loads his 'khitmagar,' His 'ekkah' stands untasted, as he girds upon his brow The 'syce' his father gave him, saying 'unkah punkah jow!' _Come forth, you babu jemadar, No lackh of pice we bring, Bid the ferash comb your moustashe, And join the great White King!_ And Westward, where 'Our Lady of the Sunshine' (not 'the Snows') Delights to herd the caribou, and where the chipmunk grows, The 'habitant' he sits amid a grove of maple trees, He decorates his shanty and he polishes his 'skis.' And see! Through ranch or lumber-camp, where'er the news shall go, The daughters cease to gather fruit, the sons to shovel snow! They love the dear old Mother-land that they have never seen, The Empire that they advertise as 'vaster than has been'! _Come forth, you mild militiaman, To conquer or to fail, Who is it helps the Lion's whelps Untwist the Lion's tail?_ The pride of race, the pride of place, and bond of blood they feel, The Indies indicate it and New Zealand shows new zeal. The daughters in their Mother's house are mistress in their own; They are her heirs, her flesh is theirs, and they would share her bone! Lo! Greater Britain stretches out her hands across the sea; Australia forgets her impecuniositee; On Afric's shore the wily Boer is ready now to fight, For the Khaki and the rooinek, for the Empire and the Right! _Come forth, you valiant volunteer, Come forth to do or die, You give a hand to Mother, and She'll help you by and by!_ Upon her score of distant shores the sun is always bright; (And always in her empire, too, it must somewhere be night!) Her birthplace is the Ocean, where her pennon braves the breeze; Her motto, 'What is ours we'll hold (and what is not we'll seize!)' Her rule is strong, her purse is long, her sons are stern and true, With iron hands she holds her lands (and other people's too). She sees her chance and cries 'Advance,' while others stand and gape, Her oxengoads shall claim the roads from Cairo to the Cape. _Come out, you big black Fuzzy-Wuz, You've got to take your share; We'll make you sweat till you forget You broke a British Square!_ _North and South and East and West, the message travels fast! East and West and North and South, the bugles blare and blast! Hear we but a whisper that the foe is at the walls, And, by Gad, we'll show them something when the Mother Country calls!_ AFTWORD 'Tis done! We reach the final page With feelings of relief, I'm certain; And there arrives, at such a stage, The moment to ring down the Curtain. (This metaphor is freely taken From Shakespeare,--or perhaps from Bacon.) The Book perused, our Future brings A plethora of blank to-morrows, When memories of Happier Things Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows. (I trust you recognise this line As being Tennyson's, not mine.) My verses may indeed be few, But are they not, to quote the poet, 'The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door'? I know it! (What an _in_human door would be, Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.) 'Twas one of my most cherished dreams To write a Moral Book some day;-- What says the Bard? 'The best laid schemes Of Mice and Men gang aft agley!' (The Bard here mentioned, by the bye, Is Robbie Burns, of course,--not I.) And tho' my pen records each thought As swift as the phonetic Pitman, Morality is not my 'forte,' O Camarados! (_vide_ Whitman). And, like the Porcupine, I still Am forced to ply a fretful quill. We may be Masters of our Fate, (As Henley was inspired to mention), Yet am I but the Second Mate Upon the s.s. 'Good Intention'; For me the course direct is lacking,-- I have to do a deal of tacking. To seek for Morals here's a task Of which you well may be despairing; 'What has become of them?' you ask. They've given me the slip,--like Waring. 'Look East!' said Browning once, and I Would make a similar reply. Look East, where in a garret drear, The Author works, without cessation, Composing verses for a mere- Ly nominal remuneration; And, while he has the strength to write 'em, Will do so still--_ad infinitum!_ ENVOI Speed, flippant rhymes, throughout the land; Disperse yourselves with patient zeal! Go, perch upon the critic's hand, Just after he has had a meal. But should he still unfriendly be, Unperch and hasten back to me. . . . . . O gentle maid, O happy boy, This copy of my book is done; But don't forget that I enjoy A royalty on ev'ry one; Just think how wealthy I should be, If you would purchase two or three! _MORAL_ No moral that I ever took Seemed quite so evident before. If purchasing an author's book Will keep the wolf from his back-door, It is our very obvious mission To buy up the entire edition. FINIS. Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press * * * * * _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ Fiscal Ballads. (SECOND IMPRESSION.) _Fcap. 8vo. 1s. net._ 'The fiscal controversy has not been very fruitful in verse. So far as we are aware, only one balladist has found any genuine inspiration in it. That is Mr. Harry Graham, whose skill as a rhymer in other directions has already been abundantly proved. The ballads for the most part take a colloquial form, and while containing much humour, are full of sound doctrine.... Mr. Graham, it will be seen, has great facility in rhyme, and in all this rhyme there is reason. When the General Election comes this book should be a gold-mine for the political reciter.'--_Westminster Gazette_. 'A most amusing contribution to the literature of the fiscal controversy.'--_Daily Telegraph_. 'True ballads, with abundant vigour and piquancy.'--_Aberdeen Free Press_. 'Good both in intention and execution.'--_Speaker_. 'These ballads ... are very good. Indeed, we cannot remember any recent example of political truths expressed with such exactness as well as spirit in humorous verse. The fun is as good as the argument.... Of this admirable little book we will only say, in conclusion, that it will amuse and delight even those who had imagined that nothing more worth reading could possibly be printed on the fiscal question. We would strongly urge such persons to invest a shilling in "Fiscal Ballads," for we are confident they will not be disappointed. If the Free-Trade organisations are wise, they will seek leave to reprint selections from them in leaflets which can be circulated by the million.'--_Spectator_. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX ST., W. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes. ILLUSTRATED BY 'G. H.' _Oblong_ 4_to._ 3_s._ 6_d._ 'It is impossible not to be amused by some of the "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," by Colonel D. Streamer, nor can any one with a sense of humour fail to appreciate the many amusing points in the illustrations.'--_Westminster._ '"Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes" is the name of a really charming little book of rhymes. The words are by Col. D. Streamer, and the illustrations by "G. H.," and 'tis hard to say whether words or pictures are the cleverer.... The book is one which must, however, be seen to be appreciated; to properly describe it is impossible.'--_Calcutta Englishman._ 'Wise parents will, however, keep strictly to themselves "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," by Col. D. Streamer. The illustrations by "G. H." are very amusing, and especially happy is that to "Equanimity," when "Aunt Jane observed the second time She tumbled off a 'bus, The step is short from the sublime To the ridiculous."' --_Daily Telegraph._ 'Another charming whimsicality published by Mr. Edward Arnold is "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes."'--_Sydney Morning Herald._ 'The veriest nonsense, possessing the quality that makes it akin to Carroll's work.'--_New York Bookworm._ 'It is difficult to see the humour of "Philip, foozling with his cleek, Drove his ball through Helen's cheek. Sad they bore her corpse away, Seven up and six to play."' --_Scotsman._ LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX ST., W. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ Ballads of the Boer War. _Fcap. 8vo, buckram._ 3_s._ 6_d._ _net._ (_Second Edition._) 'There is unquestionably a good deal of human nature in the book, and as an expression of sentiments which have remained hitherto inarticulate, as a revelation not always edifying, but often illuminating, of the heart of the man in the ranks, this little volume is a distinct addition to the literature of the war.'--_Spectator._ 'Racy expressions of Tommy Atkins' feelings in Tommy Atkins' language.... "Coldstreamer's" verses in their kind are as good as any we have seen.'--_Academy._ 'These colloquial rhymes express the private soldier's views in his own language.'--_The Times._ 'These racy ballads make a book which many will read with interest and sympathy.'--_Scotsman._ 'As good as anything yet done in the vernacular of Mr. Thomas Atkins. A book for every friend of the army.'--_Outlook._ 'One of the liveliest books of light verse we have come across for a long time.'--_County Gentleman._ 'Vigorous Kiplingesque verses, with sound common-sense and genuine feeling. Well worth reading and buying.'--_To-Day._ 'Mephitic exhalations.'--_Daily News._ LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS, 48 LEICESTER SQUARE, W.C. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ Misrepresentative Men. ILLUSTRATED BY F. STROTHMAN. (_Second Edition._) OPINIONS OF THE AMERICAN PRESS. 'One of the most amusing books of the year. Mr. Graham is a fluent and ingenious rhymester, with an alert mind and a well-controlled sense of humour.'--_The Times_ (New York). '"Misrepresentative Men" shows so high-spirited a mastery of words and metre (the result, we take it, of laborious days) that it will be read with pleasure by the most fastidious lover of what is amusing.'--_The Nation_ (New York). 'Mr. Graham's verses are exceedingly clever, and Mr. Strothman's illustrations add to their cleverness.'--_The Bookman_ (New York). 'A very amusing little book, by that cleverly humorous versifier "Col. D. Streamer," whose _Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes_ has had such a deserved vogue.'--_Town Topics_ (New York). 'The most amusing biographical caricatures of celebrities that we have read for a long time. There is not a dull line in the entire collection.'--_The Bookseller_ (New York). 'These satirical verses have the same ingenious humour as the writer's previous rhymes. The book is altogether refreshing.'--_Town and Country_ (New York). 'The hit of the season.'--_The Lexington Herald._ 'A most attractively humorous work.'--_The Pittsburg Despatch._ 'A little book of really clever verse.'--_The Milwaukee Sentinel._ LONDON: GAY AND BIRD, 22 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND. SELECTIONS FROM MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S LIST OF NEW AND RECENT BOOKS. THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE RIGHT HON. CECIL JOHN RHODES. By the HON. SIR LEWIS MICHELL. _Illustrated._ _Two volumes, demy 8vo._, 30s. net. This important work will take rank as the authoritative biography of one of the greatest of modern Englishmen. Sir Lewis Michell, who has been engaged upon the work for five years, is an executor of Mr. Rhodes' will, and a trustee of the Rhodes Estate. He was an intimate personal friend of Mr. Rhodes for many years, and has had access to all the papers at Groote Schuur. Hitherto, although many partial appreciations of the great man have been published in the Press or in small volumes, no complete and well-informed life of him has appeared. The gap has now been filled by Sir Lewis Michell so thoroughly that we have in these two volumes what will undoubtedly be the final estimate of Mr. Rhodes' career for many years to come. THE REMINISCENCES OF ADMIRAL MONTAGU. _With Illustrations._ _One volume, demy 8vo._, cloth, 15s. net. The Author of this entertaining book, Admiral the Hon. Victor Montagu, has passed a long life divided between the amusements of aristocratic society in this country and the duties of naval service afloat in many parts of the world. His memory recalls many anecdotes of well-known men, and he was honoured with the personal friendship of the late King Edward VII. and of the German Emperor, by whom his seamanship, as well as his social qualities, were highly esteemed. As a sportsman he has something to say about shooting, fishing, hunting, and cricket, and his stories of life in the great country houses where he was a frequent guest have a flavour of their own. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. NOVELS. HOWARDS END. By E. M. FORSTER, AUTHOR OF 'A ROOM WITH A VIEW,' 'THE LONGEST JOURNEY,' ETC. 6s. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ A ROOM WITH A VIEW. 6s. THE RETURN. By WALTER DE LA MARE. 6s. 'The Return' is the story of a man suddenly confronted, as if by the caprice of chance, with an ordeal that cuts him adrift from every certain hold he has upon the world immediately around him. He becomes acutely conscious of those unseen powers which to many, whether in reality or in imagination, are at all times vaguely present, haunting life with their influences. In this solitude--a solitude of the mind which the business of everyday life confuses and drives back--he faces as best he can, and gropes his way through his difficulties, and wins his way at last, if not to peace, at least to a clearer and quieter knowledge of self. THE GRAY MAN. By JANE WARDLE. 6s. The writer is one of the very few present-day novelists who have consistently followed up the aim they originally set themselves--that of striking a mean between the Realist and the Romanticist. In her latest novel, 'The Gray Man,' which Miss Wardle herself believes to contain the best work she has so far produced, it will be found that she has as successfully avoided the bald one-sidedness of miscalled 'Realism' on the one hand, as the sloppy sentimentality of the ordinary 'Romance' on the other. At the same time, 'The Gray Man' contains both realism and romance in full measure, in the truer sense of both words. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ MARGERY PIGEON. 6s. THE PASQUE FLOWER. 6s. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. NOVELS. THE PURSUIT. By FRANK SAVILE. 6s. That the risk of being kidnapped, to which their great riches exposes multi-millionaires, is a very real one, is constantly being reaffirmed in the reports that are published of the elaborate precautions many of them take to preserve their personal liberty. In its present phase, where there is the great wealth on one side and a powerful gang--or rather syndicate--of clever rascals on the other, it possesses many characteristics appealing to those who enjoy a good thrilling romance. Mr. Savile has already won his spurs in this field, but his new tale should place him well in the front ranks of contemporary romancers. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ SEEKERS. _A Romance of the Balkans._ 6s. THE DESERT VENTURE. 6s. ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK'S LATEST NOVEL. FRANKLIN KANE. By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK, AUTHOR OF 'VALERIE UPTON,' 'AMABEL CHANNICE,' ETC. _Second Impression._ 6s. 'Anne Sedgwick is in the first rank of modern novelists, and nobody who cares for good work can afford to miss one line that she writes.'--_Punch._ 'A figure never to be forgotten.'--_Standard._ 'There are no stereotyped patterns here.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'A very graceful and charming comedy.'--_Manchester Guardian._ AN ADMIRABLE NOVEL BY A NEW WRITER. A STEPSON OF THE SOIL. By MARY J. H. SKRINE. _Second Impression._ 6s. 'Mrs. Skrine's admirable novel is one of those unfortunately rare books which, without extenuating the hard facts of life, maintain and raise one's belief in human nature. The story is simple, but the manner of its telling is admirably uncommon. Her portraits are quite extraordinarily vivid.'--_Spectator._ LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. BOOKS ON COUNTRY LIFE. FLY-LEAVES FROM A FISHERMAN'S DIARY. By CAPTAIN G. E. SHARP. _With Photogravure Illustrations. Crown 8vo._, 5s. net. This is a very charming little book containing the reflections on things piscatorial of a 'dry-fly' fisherman on a south country stream. Although the Author disclaims any right to pose as an expert, it is clear that he knows well his trout, and how to catch them. He is an enthusiast, who thinks nothing of cycling fifteen miles out for an evening's fishing, and home again when the 'rise' is over. Indeed, he confesses that there is no sport he loves so passionately, and this love of his art--surely dry-fly fishing is an art?--makes for writing that is pleasant to read, even as Isaac Walton's love thereof inspired the immortal pages of 'The Compleat Angler.' MEMORIES OF THE MONTHS. By the RIGHT HON. SIR HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart., AUTHOR OF 'SCOTTISH GARDENS,' ETC. _SERIES I. to V._ _With Photogravure Illustrations. Large crown 8vo._, 7s. 6d. each. Every year brings new changes in the old order of Nature, and the observant eye can always find fresh features on the face of the Seasons. Sir Herbert Maxwell goes out to meet Nature on the moor and loch, in garden and forest, and writes of what he sees and feels. This is what gives his work its abiding charm, and makes these memories fill the place of old friends on the library bookshelf. COLONEL MEYSEY-THOMPSON'S HANDBOOKS. A HUNTING CATECHISM. By COLONEL R. F. MEYSEY-THOMPSON, AUTHOR OF 'REMINISCENCES OF THE COURSE, THE CAMP, AND THE CHASE.' _Fcap. 8vo._, 3s. 6d. net. A FISHING CATECHISM. 3s. 6d. net. A SHOOTING CATECHISM. 3s. 6d. net. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. A GAMEKEEPER'S NOTE-BOOK. By OWEN JONES and MARCUS WOODWARD. With Photogravure Illustrations. Large crown 8vo., cloth, 7s. 6d. net. In this charming and romantic book we follow the gamekeeper in his secret paths, stand by him while with deft fingers he arranges his traps and snares, watch with what infinite care he tends his young game through all the long days of spring and summer--and in autumn and winter garners with equal eagerness the fruits of his labour. He takes us into the coverts at night, and with him we keep the long vigil--while poachers come, or come not. The authors know their subject through and through. This is a real series of studies from life, and the note-book from which all the impressions are drawn and all the pictures painted is the real note-book of a real gamekeeper. TEN YEARS OF GAME-KEEPING. By OWEN JONES. With numerous Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. One volume, demy 8vo., cloth, 10s. 6d. net. 'This is a book for all sportsmen, for all who take an interest in sport, and for all who love the English woodlands. Mr. Jones writes from triple view-points--those of sportsman, naturalist, and gamekeeper--and every page of his book reveals an intimate knowledge of the ways of the English wild, a perfect mastery of all that the word "woodcraft" may stand for, and a true instinct of sportsmanship. This book at once takes its place as a standard work; and its freshness will endure as surely as spring comes to the woods that inspired it.'--_Evening Standard._ REGINALD FARRER'S GARDENING BOOKS. IN A YORKSHIRE GARDEN. By REGINALD FARRER. _With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo._, 10s. 6d. net. MY ROCK-GARDEN. Fully Illustrated. Large crown 8vo., 7s. 6d. net. Third Impression. ALPINES AND BOG-PLANTS. Fully Illustrated. Large crown 8vo., 7s. 6d. net. A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. By the late Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE, Dean of Rochester. Illustrated by G. H. MOON and G. S. ELGOOD, R.I. Twenty-fourth Impression. Presentation Edition, with Coloured Plates, 6s. Popular Edition, 3s. 6d. A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN AND THE GARDENER. By the late Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE, Dean of Rochester. Popular Edition. Crown 8vo., 3s. 6d. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. BOOKS OF TRAVEL. FOREST LIFE AND SPORT IN INDIA. By SAINTHILL EARDLEY-WILMOT, C.I.E., lately Inspector-General of Forests to the Indian Government; Commissioner under the Development and Road Improvement Funds Act. Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net. The Author of this volume was appointed to the Indian Forest Service in days when the Indian Mutiny was fresh in the minds of his companions, and life in the department full of hardships, loneliness, and discomfort. These drawbacks, however, were largely compensated for by the splendid opportunities for sports of all kinds which almost every station in the Service offered, and it is in describing the pursuit of game that the most exciting episodes of the book are to be found. Tigers, spotted deer, wild buffaloes, mountain goats, sambhar, bears, and panthers, are the subject of endless yarns, in the relation of which innumerable useful hints, often the result of failure and even disasters, are given. IN FORBIDDEN SEAS: Recollections of Sea-Otter Hunting in the Kurils. By H. J. SNOW, F.R.G.S. Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net. The Author of this interesting book has had an experience probably unique in an almost unknown part of the world. The stormy wind-swept and fog-bound regions of the Kuril Islands, between Japan and Kamchatka, have rarely been visited save by the adventurous hunters of the sea-otter, and the animal is now becoming so scarce that the hazardous occupation of these bold voyagers is no longer profitable. SPORT AND NATURE IN SPAIN. By ABEL CHAPMAN and WALTER J. BUCK, British Vice-Consul at Jerez. With 200 Illustrations by the AUTHORS, E. CALDWELL, and others, Sketch Maps, and Photographs. In Europe Spain is certainly far and away the wildest of wild lands--due as much to her physical formation as to any historic or racial causes. Naturally the Spanish fauna remains one of the richest and most varied in Europe. It is of these wild regions and of their wild inhabitants that the authors write, backed by lifelong experience. The present work represents nearly forty years of constant study, of practical experience in field and forest, combined with systematic note-taking and analysis by men who are recognized as specialists in their selected pursuits. These comprise every branch of sport with rod, gun, and rifle; and, beyond all that, the ability to elaborate the results in the light of modern zoological science. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. TWENTY YEARS IN THE HIMALAYA. By Major the Hon. C. G. BRUCE, M.V.O., Fifth Gurkha Rifles. Fully Illustrated. With Map. Demy 8vo., cloth. 16s. net. The Himalaya is a world in itself, comprising many regions which differ widely from each other as regards their natural features, their fauna and flora, and the races and languages of their inhabitants. Major Bruce's relation to this world is absolutely unique--he has journeyed through it, now in one part, now in another, sometimes mountaineering, sometimes in pursuit of big game, sometimes in the performance of his professional duties, for more than twenty years; and now his acquaintance with it under all its diverse aspects, though naturally far from complete, is more varied and extensive than has ever been possessed by anyone else. RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD MOUNTAINEER. By WALTER LARDEN. Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo., cloth. 14s. net. There are a few men in every generation, such as A. F. Mummery and L. Norman Neruda, who possess a natural genius for mountaineering. The ordinary lover of the mountains reads the story of their climbs with admiration and perhaps a tinge of envy, but with no thought of following in their footsteps--such feats are not for him. The great and special interest of Mr. Larden's book lies in the fact that he does not belong to this small and distinguished class. He tells us, and convinces us, that he began his Alpine career with no exceptional endowment of nerve or activity, and describes, fully and with supreme candour, how he made himself into what he very modestly calls a second-class climber--not 'a Grepon-crack man,' but one capable of securely and successfully leading a party of amateurs over such peaks as Mont Collon or the Combin. THE MISADVENTURES OF A HACK CRUISER. By F. CLAUDE KEMPSON, Author of 'The _Green Finch_ Cruise.' With 50 Illustrations from the Author's sketches. Medium 8vo., cloth. 6s. net. Mr. Kempson's amusing account of 'The _Green Finch_ Cruise,' which was published last year, gave deep delight to the joyous fraternity of amateur sailor-men, and the success that book enjoyed has encouraged him to describe a rather more ambitious cruise he undertook subsequently. Mr. Kempson is not an expert, but he shows how anyone accustomed to a sportsman's life can, with a little instruction and common sense, have a thoroughly enjoyable time sailing a small boat. The book is full of 'tips and wrinkles' of all kinds, interspersed with amusing anecdotes and reflections. The Author's sketches are exquisitely humorous, and never more so than when he is depicting his own substantial person. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. THE COTTAGE HOMES OF ENGLAND. CHARMINGLY ILLUSTRATED IN COLOUR BY MRS. ALLINGHAM. _With 64 Full-page Coloured Plates from Pictures by HELEN ALLINGHAM, never before reproduced_. 8_vo._ (9-1/2 _in._ by 7 _in._), 21s. net. _Also a limited Edition de Luxe_, 42s. net. A HISTORY OF THE LONDON HOSPITAL. By E. W. MORRIS, SECRETARY OF THE LONDON HOSPITAL. _With Illustrations._ 6s. net. 'Besant long ago wrote "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," and won and built thereby the People's Palace. Here is a better book. Its people are real, its romance is facts, its palace is a hospital of a thousand beds.'--_Daily Telegraph._ THE BOOK OF WINTER SPORTS. With an Introduction by the Rt. Hon. the EARL OF LYTTON, and contributions from experts in various branches of sport. Edited by EDGAR SYERS. _Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo._, 15s. net. THE DUDLEY BOOK OF COOKERY AND HOUSEHOLD RECIPES. By GEORGIANA, COUNTESS OF DUDLEY. _Handsomely printed and bound. Third Impression._ 7s. 6d. net. COMMON-SENSE COOKERY: Based on Modern English and Continental Principles worked out in Detail. By Colonel A. KENNEY-HERBERT. Over 500 pages. Illustrated. 6s. net. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ FIFTY BREAKFASTS. 2s. 6d. FIFTY LUNCHEONS. 2s. 6d. FIFTY DINNERS. 2s. 6d. LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43, MADDOX STREET, W. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Pages 148 and 149: The words noted below are transliterations of the original Greek characters. Then spoke a Greek, 'The Isles of Greece! What can compare with those? [Greek: Thalassa]! and [Greek: Eurêka]! [Greek: Rhododaktylos êôs]!' 'But the country of my childhood Is the best that man may know, Oh [Greek: didêmi] also [Greek: phêmi], [Greek: Zôê mou sas agapô]!' 
6652	----	Be that as it may, on the very first day That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee, What occur'd almost frightened her senses away, Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty, They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons; And especially how, as regards invalids, His miraculous cures far outrival'd Von Morison's. "The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away, And people born blind now can easily see us!" But she (we presume, a disciple of Hume) Shook her head, and said angrily, "'Credat Judaeus!' "Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars, To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on. He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!" The Chair--at that word--it seems really absurd, But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins! For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard Which she utter'd, of what was beneath her forgetful Each particular hair stood on end in the chair, Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful, That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether, Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within, And the maids cried--"Good gracious! how very tenacious!" --They as well might endeavor to pull off her skin!-- She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain; In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,-- The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle"! And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;" So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts. With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark As to what his fate was; but I can not imagine he Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine: For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure, And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds, As you'll see, if you'll look in a rather scarce book, "God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds. MORAL. Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away, Like Ulysses of old (vide Homer and Naso), Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day, And when you are coming home, just write and say so! And you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam, Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum, Don't visit a house when the master's from home! Shun drinking,--and study the "Vilce Sanctorum!" Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail; But remember Gengulphus's wife!--and reflect On the moral enforced by her terrible tale! SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS. A LEGEND OF GERMANY. R. HARRIS BARHAM Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight, Was equally ready to tipple or fight, Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle; In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle," Unstain'd by dishonor, unsullied by fear, All his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier. Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental, He had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental; Besides, 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun, So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one; Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking; And what moralists say, Is as naughty--to play, To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarte; Till these, and a few less defensible fancies Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances. When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing Their rents, swearing "tunes were so bad they were losing," His steward said, "O, sir, It's some time ago, sir, Since aught through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer, And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers." Sir Rupert the brave thus address'd his retainers: "My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock Is out, with the Kurchwasser, Barsae, Moselle, And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well, I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose; As to me, I opine, Left sans money or wine, My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine, Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over, Though he lived a roue, yet he died a philosopher." The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely. Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream, Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes, In other respects she was scanty of clothes; For, so says tradition, both written and oral, Her ONE garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral. Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, With silver chords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar, And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight, Soon found his astonishment merged in delight; But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees, Till at length it invaded her very chemise, While the heavenly strain, as the wave seem'd to swallow her And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower; --Jumping up in his boat And discarding his coat, "Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!" Then into the water he plunged with a souse That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house. Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink, And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch; Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood, Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud. But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight, When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!-- A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal, Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small Came thronging around him, regardless of danger, And seem'd all agog for a peep at the stranger, Their figures and forms to describe, language fails-- They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails; Of their genus or species a sample to gain, You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain; E'en the famed Mr. Myers, Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop To stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop. But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes, Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots, For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention, In a moment completely absorb'd his attention. A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer), Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd, Lay stretch'd out before him--and every nerve thrill'd As scores of young women Were diving and swimming, Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;-- All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns, They came floating about him like so many prawns. Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes Alluded to), ere he lept into the billows Possess'd irreproachable morals, began To feel rather queer, as a modest young man; When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognized soon As the one he had seen by the light of the moon, And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence, "Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance; My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen, All do me the honor to call me their Queen; I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here And hope you can make it convenient to dine here." The Knight blush'd, and bow'd, As he ogled the crowd Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud; "Ma'am, you do me much honor--I can not express The delight I shall feel--if you'll pardon my dress-- May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps In the river at midnight for want of the 'dumps,' He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps; If I could but have guess'd--what I sensibly feel-- Your politeness--I'd not have come en dishabille, But have put on my SILK tights in lieu of my STEEL." Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray, You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way; We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish, And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine, I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine." The Knight made a bow more profound than before, When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door, And said, bending his knee, "Madame, on a servi!" Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place, And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace, What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she Apologized much for their plain water-souchy, Want of Harvey's, and Cross's, And Burgess's sauces? Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he Preferr'd his fish plain, without soy or anchovy. Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel, Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel, The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes Than what they were served on, the massive gold dishes; While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls, Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls, And a thought came across him and caused him to muse, "If I could but get hold Of some of that gold, I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!" When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses; Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas, "Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"-- Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender, Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender, And told her outright How that he, a young Knight, Had never been last at a feast or a fight; But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year, And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer, Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent, How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.; How they follow'd--and then, The once civilest of men, Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he'd Ever raised money by way of annuity; And, his mortgages being about to foreclose, How he jumped into the river to finish his woes! Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear, That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear: Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly, And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles, Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain, A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign, With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride (For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied); No couple so happy on earth should be seen As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline; Not that money's my object--No, hang it! I scorn it-- And as for my rank--but that YOU'D so adorn it-- I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall, And, instead of 'the GREAT,' be call'd 'Rupert the SMALL,' --To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus, I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse." Lurline hung her head Turn'd pale, and then red, Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed, As though his abruptness, in "popping the question" So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion. Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh, "You are welcome," she murmur'd in tones most bewitching, "To every utensil I have in my kitchen!" Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight, Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed One arm, which the lady most closely embraced, Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture, And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture, "And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff, I'll be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy, Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey Than to put up the bans and kick out the attorney." One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land, For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one, Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny, Which some others already had half-fill'd with money; In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore; But Sir Rupert was strong, And while pulling along, Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song. LAY OF THE NAIADS. "Away! away! to the mountain's brow, Where the castle is darkly frowning; And the vassals, all in goodly row, Weep for their lord a-drowning! Away! away! to the steward's room, Where law with its wig and robe is; Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe, And sweetly we'll tidde their tobies!" The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling, When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling. What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare! The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air, For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp, And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago, and cramp; But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded Wet jacket, or trousers, or thought of repining, Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining. But, oh! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa, When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay! Away went "cognovits," "bills," "bonds," and "escheats," Rupert cleared off old scores, and took proper receipts. Now no more he sends out, For pots of brown stout, Or schnapps, but resolves to do henceforth without, Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety, Enroll himself one of a Temp'rance Society, All riot eschew, Begin life anew, And new-cushion and hassock the family pew! Nay, to strengthen him more in this new mode of life He boldly determined to take him a wife. Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense Of honor, should put Lurline's name in the license, And that, for a man of his breeding and quality, To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath, Is not quite consistent with rigid morality; But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water And declined as unsuited, A bride so diluted-- Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing, Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von--something (Her name has escaped me), sole heiress, and niece To a highly respectable Justice of Peace. "Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!" So much time is saved in the billing and cooing-- The ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves, And all the et cetera which crown people's loves; A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker. And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre, That shaft which, the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is, A plumb-color'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries, 'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight, With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white, And the bridemaids fair with their long lace vails, As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dispensers, March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers. With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had open'd his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant? And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?" When from base to turret the castle shook!!! Then came a sound of a mighty rain Dashing against each storied pane, The wind blew loud, And coal-black cloud O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd; How it could happen they could not divine, The morning had been so remarkably fine! Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas; But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd, As if heaven and earth were coming together; None ever had witness'd such terrible weather. Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd, Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears In the vails, as it danced on the brass chandeliers; The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon, When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon. Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected, And endeavor'd to cheer His bride, in her ear Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture." But now, from without, A trustworthy scout Rush'd hurriedly in-- Wet through to the skin, Informing his master 'the river was rising, And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.' He'd no time to say more, For already the roar Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door, While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen, Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline; And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, She was stung by the spretoe injuria formoe. What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride, What she said to the ladies who stood by her side, What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, Oh, nobody mentions--for nobody knows; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout, The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in Ere the close of the day All was clean wash'd away-- One only survived who could hand down the news, A little old woman that open'd the pews; She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck, In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in; In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek; In vain was their search After aught in the church, They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch. The Humane Society Tried a variety Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles. MORAL. This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware Of liquor, and how you run after the fair! Shun playing at SHORTS--avoid quarrels and jars-- And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars! --Let no run of bad-luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide! Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!-- Be up in the morning by half after seven! Keep from flirting--nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage, An action for breach of a promise of marriage;-- Don't fancy odd fishes! Don't prig silver dishes! And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know, BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO! LOOK AT THE CLOCK. R. HARRIS BARHAM. "Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce, As she opened the door to her husband's knock, Then paused to give him a piece of advice, "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock! Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?-- Out all night! Me in a fright! Staggering home as it's just getting light! You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!-- Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!" Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans, Her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit: To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue. Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to any thing nice, Nought that was good to him came amiss, Whether to eat, or to drink or to kiss! Especially ale-- If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales: To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W. That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon! What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"-- At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door: And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three! That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often, among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!" Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast, But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but THIS I can, When sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne! The fatal catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce to commence His "ingenious defense," Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense," "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"-- The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored"--he was "apt to be rather too quick;"-- But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;--all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!" Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures and hints about "breaking his bones," While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the deceased Had styled him "a Beast," And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, SARVE HER RIGHT!" Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead. Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain, it's name you'll excuse me from telling For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R, Its first syllable "PEN," Is pronounceable;--then Come two LL's, and two HH's, two FF's, and an N; About half a score R's and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN." Well--the moon shone bright Upon "PEN" that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below. O'er fell, and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,-- Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing Poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved-- Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; And how Mr. Tudor, Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in law to the King. He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, On all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out "What's that?"-- That very queer sound?-- Does it come from the ground? Or the air,--from above,--or below,--or around?-- It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse,--or the tread of a man,-- Or the hum of a crowd,--or the shouting of boys,-- It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! Not unlike a cart's,--but that can't be;--for when Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men," With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up "PEN?" Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk, Now experienced what school-boys denominate "funk." In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon; While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a coffin a-walking up stairs." Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun, When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay, Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!" 'Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place, And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was altered at all--but the Face! In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire; And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip, No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life! The identical face of his poor defunct Wife! One glance was enough Completely "Quant. suff." As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"-- Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff, David turned himself round; Ten feet of ground He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound! I've seen people run at West End Fair for cheeses-- I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises-- At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that-- At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder-- I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder-- I've seen little boys run away from a cane-- And I've seen (that is, READ OF) good running in Spain; But I never did read Of, or witness such speed As David exerted that evening.--Indeed All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!" He reaches its brow,-- He has past it,--and now Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill, That bugbear behind him is after him still! And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!!" Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown Came o'er her white forehead, She said, "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;-- To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!" She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call; His late wife's disaster By no means had past her," She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!" Then regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose, Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! In that shady retreat With nothing to eat And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, Consigning to Satan,--viz., cruel Miss Davis' Mr. David has since had a "serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!" That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR, Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!" Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!" And that GIN'S but a SNARE of Old Nick the deluder! And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair," And make all his QUONDAM associates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, "Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly--"Gentlemen! LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!" [Illustration: LAMB.] THE BAGMAN'S DOG. R. HARRIS BARHAM. Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL. It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup, He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup! The Bagman taught him many a trick; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, He could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand: Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail. Never was puppy so bien instruit, Or possess'd of such natural talent as he; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder. Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog! When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How no one could say, Whether soft liaison induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;-- He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before; But storming or swearing but little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails. In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps--some half score-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door. It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the time of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho-- Be this as it may--at the date I assign To my tale--that's about Seventeen Sixty-Nine-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line. There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travel'd full oft for the firm before, But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trust-worthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter, as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost the great dog. * * * * * * "The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!" So all sing and say By night and by day, In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustached Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion Promulgates his notion Of being a "Rover" and "Child of the Ocean"-- Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!" But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!" * * * * * * I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise--" --That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back. And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar--a Cheapside Buccaneer!--" But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza. * * * * * "So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down, down, And now we'll go backward and forward, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."-- --I hope you've sufficient discernment to see, Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the D Is a fault which you must not attribute to me; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee," She sung, as she danced me about on her knee, In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three: All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors, At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack! Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee. And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of "calking," And "quarter-deck walking," "Fore and aft," And "abaft," "Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft," (At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laughed), Of binnacles--bilboes--the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower-cable--the jib--and sheet-anchor; Of lower-deck guns--and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases Employ'd by old pilots, with hard-featured faces;-- Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;-- How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear.-- But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh, dear!)-- With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer. There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."-- So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!" Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder kick'd up such a hullballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N. E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs." In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakspeare describes near the "still vex'd Bermudas," When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda, While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom, You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colors so warm; Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth, more gravely,--see also Lucretius, --A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school, on Dean Colet's foundation.-- Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twist Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows In West longtitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes; There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specific gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, 'Mid the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoll'n by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour. You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Header,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'T was the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect, and I haven't Lempriere-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on clucking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey. "O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!" And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize, When, as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?-- No such thing, Reader--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog! * * * * * * * I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout, Are a class that society doesn't much care about; Men who gam their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing," Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Bogg, When the curly-tail'd Dog At last dragged him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold," And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a Maitre de Danse, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite. A suspicious observer perhans might have traced The petiles soins, tendered with so much good taste To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four, You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term, a "too dense population," Indeed the sole sign of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz., an old man, his wife, two lads, made a start, he The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-Dieuing, Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing, * * * * * * * Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd, "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!" In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon. Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli. * * * * * * Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently.-- Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly, And something sinister lurk'd in his eye, Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing; He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots, With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes. Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat. And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat. The little garcons too strove to express Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress" With a great deal of juvenile French politesse; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff" Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!" And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable! I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "Good Eatynge Deserveth good Drynkynge." You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!" Pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!" He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin." So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!" Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way Allow me to say, Kind Reader--you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears! And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!" "To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:-- Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded, How fast they succeeded. Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink! At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps. Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply" Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;" For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup, At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 't were rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:" So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!" And "marshal'd" him so "The way he should go," Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair. Or a movable there, Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!" Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!-- --It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white. Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post. Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in," And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on HIS friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog. For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!" And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'T was Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square! It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet! Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest But, it was not so here; For although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;" And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!" So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!" But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength. Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt'-- 'T was "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk." And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder,-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair. * * * * * * * The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose. Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street; --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and "bruises," I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twist the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact. As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the gargcos, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off; Next making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore! It's a great many years ago--mine then were few-- Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux; I think that they say She had been, in her day A First-rate,--but was then what they term a Rasee,-- And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play,--That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"-- That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed-- I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-- In such a position, that, on his unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them." MORAL. And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day. Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!-- If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!-- And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!-- Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog! Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!! L'Envoye. I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, I never once thought to inquire what became of him; If YOU want to know, Reader, the way. I opine, To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,-- Is,--(a penny will do't)--by addressing a line To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne. DAME FREDEGONDE. WILLIAM AYTOUS. When folks with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race. A dame more buxom, blithe and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavor to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice. Of Father Raulin's good advice." Frankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well, What do you think?" When thus he met her "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" "But help I must have, there's the curse. I may go further and fare worse." "Why, take him then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good,-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best." The bells rung out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, And thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek. She lost her beauties plump and sleek, For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd, And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words, That servants make the worst of lords. She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss, If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought, Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough the chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!" "Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about!" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink. THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY The noble king of Brentford Was old and very sick; He summoned his physicians To wait upon him quick; They stepped into their coaches, And brought their best physic. They crammed their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him; They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer; I'd better make my will." The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your majesty Would wish of me to-day?" "The doctors have belabored me With potion and with pill; My hours of life are counted O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two, I want to make my will. "O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord and eke of Kew: I've three per cents and five per cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two. "Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober prince is he; And from the day we breeched him, Till now he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me. "At school they never flogged him; At college, though not fast, Yet his little go and great go He creditably passed, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last. "He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head; In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned. "When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend. "While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse; While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews. "Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a DULLARD, And Ned a GENIUS?" "You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits." "Your grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate." The will, as Brentford spoke it, Was writ, and signed, and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turned him round, and dozed; And next week in the church-yard The good old king reposed. Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief; Tom hid his fat, white countenance In his pocket handkerchief. Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onward he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque. And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle king and just-- With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed. "When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him, (I mean to tax your bill;) And, as you signed and wrote it, I pr'ythee read the will." The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt. "My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from. "Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas "What he thought about us twain.") "Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er. "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning, This ever was the case. "Ned's genius, blithe and singing Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dullness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound. "O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onward go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet. "And ever, as he wanders, Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine. "Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him Your flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose. "Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are weakest, The witty are not wise; O, bless your good stupidity, It is your dearest prize! "And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold-- A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold; "Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cool to yield to passion, Or silly tenderness. March on--your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success. "Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I can not trust. "Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents; "I leave to you, my Thomas--" ("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas,-- To you, IN TRUST for Ned." The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze! "'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'T was thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed. "See, here the will is witnessed, And here's his autograph." "In truth, our father's writing," Said Edward, with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be loser, Tom, We'll share it half and half." "Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing can not be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a half-penny. "'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother; The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property He knows not how to spend it. "'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest laborer Is worthy his reward, "'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.'" Such was old Brentford's honest testament; He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed, To say his young son Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. Long time the famous reign of Ned endured, O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'T was commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two. TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. I. With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille. Confiding in my ample means-- In troth, I was a happy chiel! I passed the gate of Valenciennes. I never thought to come by Lille. I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly passed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille. To Antwerp town I hastened post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,--my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille? I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a load of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal. I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. II. To stealing I can never come, To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home; How could I pawn it, then, at Lille? "La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boiled veal: I turn and look another way, _I_ dare not ask the bill at Lille. I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I can not pay your bill:" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille. He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille. Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochincal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone. How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. III. The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise; How can I, without cash, at Lille? I pass in sunshine burning hot By cafes where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of Lille! What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille? O, gracious gods, it makes me sick, It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille! O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal! I tremble as I pass the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille. The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal: Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! You're not the poorest man in Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. IV. Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? O do not leave me in the lurch,-- I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille! Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille. And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real) It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!-- It did! and I had hope in Lille! 'T was five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay, my meal; I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best in Lille. What see I on my table stand,-- A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,-- "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is--it is--a ten pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille! [He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.] SHADOWS Lantern DEEP! I own I start at shadows, Listen, I will tell you why; (Life itself is but a taper, Casting shadows till we die.) Once, in Italy, at Florence, I a radiant girl adored: When she came, she saw, she conquered, And by Cupid I was floored. Round my heart her glossy ringlets Were mysteriously entwined-- And her soft voluptuous glances All my inmost thoughts divined. "Mia cara Mandolina! Are we not, indeed," I cried, "All the world to one another?" Mandolina, smiled and sighed. Earth was Eden, she an angel, I a Jupiter enshrined-- Till one night I saw a damning DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND! "Fire and fury! double shadows On their bed-room windows ne'er, To my knowledge, have been cast by Ladies virtuous and fair. "False, abandoned, Mandolina! Fare thee well, for evermore! Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!" And I thundered through the door. This event occurred next morning; Mandolina staring sat, Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled, Raving mad, without a hat! Six weeks after I'd a letter, On its road six weeks delayed-- With a dozen re-directions From the lost one, and it said: "Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert! Base suspicion's doubts resign; DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS! Mandolina--ever thine." "Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered, "Not before to think of that!"-- And again I rushed excited To the rail, without a hat. "Mandolina! Mandolina!" When her house I reached, I cried: "Pardon, dearest love!" she answered-- "I'm the Russian Consul's bride!" Thus, by Muscovite barbarian, And by Fate, my life was crossed; Wonder ye I start at shadows? Types of Mandolina lost. THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule, She was playful as a rabbit. Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker. One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him! The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!" SATIRICAL THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS! SAMUEL BUTLER. How various and innumerable Are those who live upon the rabble! 'Tis they maintain the Church and State, Employ the priest and magistrate; Bear all the charge of government, And pay the public fines and rent; Defray all taxes and excises, And impositions of all prices; Bear all th' expense of peace and war, And pay the pulpit and the bar; Maintain all churches and religions, And give their pastors exhibitions; And those who have the greatest flocks Are primitive and orthodox; Support all schismatics and sects, And pay them for tormenting texts; Take all their doctrines off their hands, And pay 'em in good rents and lands; Discharge all costly offices, The doctor's and the lawyer's fees, The hangman's wages, and the scores Of caterpillar bawds and whores; Discharge all damages and costs Of Knights and Squires of the Post; All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders, And pay for all their ropes and ladders; All pettifoggers, and all sorts Of markets, churches, and of courts; All sums of money paid or spent, With all the charges incident, Laid out, or thrown away, or given To purchase this world, Hell or Heaven. THE CHAMELEON. MATTHEW PRIOR. As the Chameleon who is known To have no colors of its own: But borrows from his neighbor's hue His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight: As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him, and his heirs male; So the young squire, when first he comes From country school to Will or Tom's: And equally, in truth is fit To be a statesman or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down; Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad; Admits him in among the gang: They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colors which they lend him, Thus merely, as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances. If haply he the sect pursues, That road and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face: He drinks his coffee without lace. This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right, And teaches Marlborough when to fight. Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit He loves cheap port, and double bub; And settles in the hum-drum club: He earns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits, And drinks champagne among the wits! Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; Is in the chair; prescribes the law; And lies with those he never saw. MERRY ANDREW. MATTHEW PRIOR. SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor) At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd, To please our masters, and his friends the crowd; A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held: His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd. With a grave look in this odd equipage, The clownish mimic traverses the stage: Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll, To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull: Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain, What does your emblematic worship mean? Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak: Your emble--(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek. To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense: Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense. That busy fool I was, which thou art now; Desirous to correct, not knowing how: With very good design, but little wit, Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit I for this conduct had what I deserv'd; And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd. But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat; Since I have found the secret to be great. O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill.-- Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.-- Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much: think little; and talk less; Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong, But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue. A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks; But when he heard him give this golden rule, Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool. JACK AND JOAN. MATTHEW PRIOR. Stet quicunque volet potens Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA. Interr'd beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run; If human things went ill or well; If changing empires rose or fell; The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple still the same. They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then? Why then they walk'd and eat again: They soundly slept the night away; They just did nothing all the day; And having buried children four, Would not take pains to try for more; Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree: Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespass'd on the other's ground, Nor fame, nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid; So every servant took his course; And bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder filled his table; And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate; And took, but read not the receipt: For which they claim their Sunday's due, Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know; So never made themselves a foe, No man's good deeds did they commend; So never rais'd themselves a friend. Nor cherish'd they relations poor; That might decrease their present store: Nor barn nor house did they repair; That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Each Christmas they accompts did clear, And wound their bottom round the year. Nor tear or smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung, and bonfires made, If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died, or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise: Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were: Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died. THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighboring pool: Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor. But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his To raise the lumber from the earth. But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings. TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT. I. Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read, II. By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor. III. When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. IV. When I talk and you are heedless I will show no anger needless. V. When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. VI. When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. VII. Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII. Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose. IX. You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget. X. You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder. XI. Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares. XII. Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect. Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends. THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes. The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbor ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd. Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was grieved to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet; He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excite stoic's rage. The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('T was Nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect, Not by his frigid constitution; But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow Of Chastity, as monks do now: Which he resolved to keep forever hence, And strictly too, as doth his reverence. Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess? --Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us. The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job. No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most. The cringing Knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case. Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd, because he could not flatter: He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it. The Chaplain vows, he can not fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meager looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He can not help it, for his heart, Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good, Supports their minds with heavenly food: At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a-day to prayers, He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favorite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practiced to their shame. The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'T was he defeated the excise. 'T was known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station, To serve the king, and please the nation. Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity; 'Tis true, the people understood. That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out every year; Must at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound, He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations, To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother, And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he has liberty to choose. The Sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk, I own the moral not exact, Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up, From fields Elysian, fabling Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, For libeling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers, While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents every day. The Ass was never known so stupid, To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be stroked, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles. But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men. A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES. WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN. [Footnote: The following foot-note's, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.] To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend. I often tried in vain to find A simile* for womankind, *[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le. In English, a likeness.] A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em. [Footnote: Not to hurt them.] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud* presented to my view, *[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.] And straight this parallel I drew: Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim? [Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.] Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon. When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.--Diog, Laert, Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,-- Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit. Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?--Plat, de ira cohibenda. I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.] The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam: [Footnote: Ramble.] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting, [Footnote: Not vomiting.] Are not more solid nor more lasting, A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled, [Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.] Though in the darkest dumps* you view them, *[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.] Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection, [Footnote: Reflection of the sun.] And frequently produce infection: So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbor's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron* will confess, *[Footnote: Motherly woman.] That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colors are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,* *[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapors rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace. [Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail, *[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.] Our ears on every side assail. Clouds when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,* you see, *[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.] In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name, Let me proclaim* it then aloud, *[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.] That every woman is a cloud. ON A LAPDOG. JOHN GAY. Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more: Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore. Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair, Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care. Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd, And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd. Methinks I see her frantic with despair, Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow, And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast, No dread events upon this fate attend, Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state, And dying lions show the monarch's fate, Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? Fo when a lapdog falls, no lover dies. Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears, Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss. He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd: "Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd." THE RAZOR SELLER. PETER PINDAR. A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter if the fellow BE a knave, Provided that the razors SHAVE; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried-- All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er: His muzzle, formed of OPPOSITION stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't SHAVE." "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would SHAVE." "Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to SELL." THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS. PETER PINDAR. A great law Chief, whom God nor demon scares, Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers, The devil behind him pleased and grinning, Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder, Declaring naught was ever bolder, Admiring such a novel mode of sinning: Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare, Which proves what blood game infidels can dare; Which to my memory brings a fact, Which nothing but an English tar would act. In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given, For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven, Particularly in a storm, Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Their souls are in a miserable funk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, If in His goodness only once, once more, He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore. In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying." One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask. The boy was soon found missing, and full soon The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out, Gave him a clawing to some tune-- This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout "Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, "And save your d---d young sinful soul." He then the moral-mending cat applied, And turned him like a badger from his hole Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him "Flog," cried the boy, "flog--curse me, flog away-- I'll go--but mind--G--d d--n me if I'll PRAY." BIENSEANCE PETER PINDAR. There is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance, Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it. To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline, In many cases; To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin. To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity-- I deem it a most portable commodity, A sort of magic wand, Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand For verily I've marveled times enow To see an Englishman, the ninny, Give people for their services a guinea, Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow. Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity, But as they pay their court to people's vanity, Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go The souls and faces of mankind like dough! With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail To folly--see the under-written tale: THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL At Paris some time since, a murdering man, A German, and a most unlucky chap, Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan, Fell into Justice's strong trap The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, On which the dullest fibers learn to feel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more; Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar. A flippant petit maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry-- "Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?" "Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, Fellow, is contrary to bienseance." KINGS AND COURTIERS. PETER PINDAR How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see! So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; To start, to run, to leap, to fly, And gambol in the royal eye; And, if expectant of some high employ, How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy! How rich the incense to the royal nose! How liquidly the oil of flattery flows! But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour, How altered instantly the courtier clan! How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan! Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In fancy holds her ever in his arms: In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, And on that breast the soul of rapture pours. Night, too, entrances--slumber brings the dream-- Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns! Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown--but smile: Sublime are royal nods--most precious things!-- Then, to be whistled to by kings! To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat! Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat--worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore! "Here"--pointing to the shoulder--I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"-- Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As--"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?" Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat. Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear-- Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl. PRAYING FOR RAIN. PETER PINDAR How difficult, alas! to please mankind! One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, petition for a southern, utters. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?--I don't know. Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain. The parson most devoutly prayed-- The powers of prayer were soon displayed; Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain. It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay: Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring. It happened too that Robin was from home; But when he heard the story, in a foam He sought the parson, like a lion roaring. "Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing! A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! What! pray for RAIN before I SAVED my hay! Oh! you re a cruel and ungrateful man! _I_ that forever help you all I can; Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay, Whenever we have something on the spit, Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit; "Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, Whose bones you are so fond of picking; And often too a cag of brandy! YOU that were welcome to a treat, To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; Making my house so very handy! "YOU, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies, With MY fine field of hay before your eyes! A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.-- Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!" "Dear Mister Jay!" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas! I never thought upon your field of grass." "Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose-- Was not the field just underneath your NOSE? This is a very pretty losing job!"-- "Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer,"-- "Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only SPORT: What doth Cobb own that any rain can HURT?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare. "The fellow owns, as far as I can LARN, A few old houses only, and a barn; As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to HIM? Not Noah's flood could make HIS trumpery SWIM. "Besides--why could you not for drizzle pray? Why force it down in BUCKETS on the hay? Would _I_ have played with YOUR hay such a freak? No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week." "Dear Mister Jay, I do protest, I acted solely for the best; I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. Your anger for this ONCE restrain, I'll never bring a drop again Till you and all the parish are AGREED." APOLOGY FOR KINGS PETER PINDAR As want of candor really is not right, I own my satire too inclined to bite: On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup-- Now shall she praise, and try to make it up. Why will the simple world expect wise things From lofty folk, particularly kings? Look on their poverty of education! Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods, And by their awful frowns and nods, Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation! They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind! Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Immured, they doze in ignorance and state. Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend A little with their subjects to unbend! An instance take:--A king of this great land, In days of yore, we understand, Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair: An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide; Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side; And into the cathedral stole the pair. The verger met them in his blue silk gown, And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down, Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay: Looking the frightened verger through and through, And with his eye-glass--"Well, sir, who are you? What, what, sir?--hey, sir?" deigned the king to say. "I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing; Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean." "Hey? verger! verger!--you the verger?--hey?" "Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE," The verger answered, with the mildest mien. Then turned the king about toward the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear, "Hey, hey--what, what--fine fellow, 'pon my word: I'll knight him, knight him, knight him--hey, my lord?" [It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.] Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain, He kenned the trembling verger o'er again. "He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried: "Sixpence would handsomely requite him." "Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him--no, won't knight him." Now to the lofty roof the king did raise His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise! For thus his marveling majesty did speak: "Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete; High--high and lofty too, and clean, and neat: What, verger, what? MOP, MOP it once a week?" "An't please your majesty," with marveling chops, The verger answered, "we have got no mops In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king-- "No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing; They might as well pretend to scrub the sky." MORAL. This little anecdote doth plainly show That ignorance, a king too often lurches; For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know The natural history of mops and churches? [Illustration with caption: BYRON.] STORY THE SECOND. From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand, Returned the mighty ruler of the land-- "My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king. "A few! beneath your royal notice, sir," Replied Lord Pembroke--"Sir, my lord, stir, stir; Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing, "Who's this? who's this?--who's this fine fellow here? "Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer. "Sir Sostris, hey?--Sir Sostris?--'pon my word! Knight or a baronet, my lord? One of my making?--what, my lord, my making?" This, with a vengeance, was mistaking? "SE-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied-- "A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old." "Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried, "I need not that--I need not that be told." "Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?" "'Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer; "Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey? Cleaned stables!--cracked a lion like a flea; Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him-- The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him." Our moral is not merely water-gruel-- It shows that curiosity's a jewel! It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell: It shows that subjects must not give opinions To people reigning over wide dominions, As information to great folk is hell: It shows that decency may live with kings, On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs; And shows (for numerous are the naked things) That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks. ODE TO THE DEVIL. PETER PINDAR. The devil is not so black as he is painted. Ingratum Odi. Prince of the dark abodes! I ween Your highness ne'er till now hath seen Yourself in meter shine; Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere. Sweet warbled on your smutty ear, Before this Ode of mine. Perhaps the reason is too plain, Thou triest to starve the tuneful train, Of potent verse afraid! And yet I vow, in all my time, I've not beheld a single rhyme That ever spoiled thy trade. I've often read those pious whims-- John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns, That chant of heavenly riches. What have they done?--those heavenly strains, Devoutly squeezed from canting brains, But filled John's earthly breeches? There's not a shoe-black in the land, So humbly at the world's command, As thy old cloven foot; Like lightning dost thou fly, when called, And yet no pickpocket's so mauled As thou, O Prince of Soot! What thousands, hourly bent on sin, With supplication call thee in, To aid them to pursue it; Yet, when detected, with a lie Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry, "The Devil made me do it." Behold the fortunes that are made, By men through rouguish tricks in trade, Yet all to thee are owing-- And though we meet it every day, The sneaking rascals dare not say, This is the Devil's doing. As to thy company, I'm sure, No man can shun thee on that score; The very best is thine: With kings, queens, ministers of state, Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great, And many a grave divine. I'm sorely grieved at times to find, The very instant thou art kind, Some people so uncivil, When aught offends, with face awry, With base ingratitude to cry, "I wish it to the Devil." Hath some poor blockhead got a wife, To be the torment of his life, By one eternal yell-- The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds, I'd give this moment twenty pounds To see the jade in hell." Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant, Thou never company wouldst want To make thee downright mad; For, mind me, in their wishing mood, They never offer thee what's good, But every thing that's bad. My honest anger boils to view A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew, So much thy humble debtors, Rushing, on Sundays, one and all, With desperate prayers thy head to maul, And thus abuse their betters. To seize one day in every week, On thee their black abuse to wreak, By whom their souls are fed Each minute of the other six, With every joy that heart can fix, Is impudence indeed! Blushing I own thy pleasing art Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart, And led my steps to joy-- The charms of beauty have been mine And let me call the merit thine, Who broughtst the lovely toy. So, Satan--if I ask thy aid, To give my arms the blooming maid, I will not, though the nation all, Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp) A vile old good-for-nothing pimp, But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal." Since truth must out--I seldom knew What 'twas high pleasure to pursue, Till thou hadst won my heart-- So social were we both together, And beat the hoof in every weather, I never wished to part. Yet when a child--good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got, With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout, With claws beyond comparing. Taught to avoid the paths of evil, By day I used to dread the devil, And trembling when 'twas night, Methought I saw thy horns and ears, They sung or whistled to my fears, And ran to chase my fright. And every night I went to bed, I sweated with a constant dread, And crept beneath the rug; There panting, thought that in my sleep Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep, And eat me, though so snug. A haberdasher's shop is thine, With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine, To suit both man and maid: Thy wares they buy, with open eyes; How cruel then, with constant cries, To vilify thy trade! To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath-- Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth, Without thy aid, old sweeper; So mawkish, few will put it down, Even from the cottage to the crown, Without thy salt and pepper. O Satan, whatsoever geer, Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear, Black, red, or blue, or yellow; Whatever hypocrites may say, They think thee (trust my honest lay) A most bewitching fellow. 'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!) To praise the bridge o'er which we pass Yet often I discover A numerous band who daily make An easy bridge of thy poor back, And damn it when they 're over. Why art thou, then, with cup in hand, Obsequious to a graceless band, Whose souls are scarce worth taking; O prince, pursue but my advice, I'll teach your highness in a trice To set them all a quaking. Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy: Lock up each charming fille de joie; Give race-horses the glander-- The dice-box break, and burn each card-- Let virtue be its own reward, And gag the mouth of slander; In one week's time, I'll lay my life, There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife, That will not glad agree, If thou will chaim'em as before, To show their nose at church no more, But quit their God for thee. Tis now full time my ode should end: And now I tell thee like a friend, Howe'er the world may scout thee; Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning, And folks so very fond of sinning, They can not do without thee. THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE. PETER PINDAR. In seventeen hundred seventy-eight, The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain, Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite The peaceful natives of the western main, With faggots and the blood-delighting sword, To play the devil, to oblige the Lord! For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling, Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling, Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further; For which most pious reason, hard to work, They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork, To charm the God of mercy with their murther! I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed, In tapestry so rich, portrayed, A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle: Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried To fix his foot the palfry to bestride; In vain!--he could not o'er the palfry straddle! Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained, And every effort of the King disdained, Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled, And greatly mortified, as well as humbled. Prodigious was the struggle of the day, The horse attempted not to run away; At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin, And swore by every saint and holy martyr He would not yield the traitor quarter, Until he got possession of his skin. Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight, Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight, And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts of hay. Not with more energy and fury The beauteous street--walker of Drury Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade, Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile, Ah, me! her paramour beguile, And to her bed of healthy straw persuade; Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl, And snails with silver traces deck the wall. And now a cane, and now a whip he used, And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised; Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick, Arid bore with Christian spirit whip and stick; And what excessively provoked this prince, The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince. Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow To shoot the rebel like a sparrow; And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force, Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse! Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar, With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore, Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast; Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel, Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell, Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast; Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound He brought the mighty Hector to the ground. Yet more to gratify his godlike ire, He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire! Showing his pages round, poor trembling things, How dangerous to resist the will of kings. THE TENDER HUSBAND. PETER PINDAR Lo, to the cruel hand of fate, My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate, Resigns her tuneful breath-- Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale, And blue each harmless finger-nail, She's beautiful in death. As o'er her lovely limbs I weep, I scarce can think her but asleep-- How wonderfully tame! And yet her voice is really gone, And dim those eyes that lately shone With all the lightning's flame. Death was, indeed, a daring wight, To take it in his head to smite-- To lift his dart to hit her; For as she was so great a woman, And cared a single fig for no man, I thought he feared to meet her. Still is that voice of late so strong, That many a sweet capriccio sung, And beat in sounds the spheres; No longer must those fingers play "Britons strike home," that many a day Hath soothed my ravished ears, Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined To think how I may speak my mind, Nor hurt her dear repose; Nor think I now with rage she'd roar, Were I to put my fingers o'er, And touch her precious nose. Here let me philosophic pause- How wonderful are nature's laws, When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air, Like culinary fires, Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note, Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat, And loud instructive lungs; O Death, in her, though only one, Are lost a thousand charms unknown, At least a thousand tongues. Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh, And saw her gently-closing eye, How great was my surprise! Yet have I not, with impious breath, Accused the hard decrees of death, Nor blamed the righteous skies. Why do I groan in deep despair, Since she'll be soon an angel fair? Ah! why my bosom smite? Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!-- But let me give such ravings o'er-- Whatever is, is right. O doctor! you are come too late; No more of physic's virtues prate, That could not save my lamb: Not one more bolus shall be given-- You shall not ope her mouth by heaven, And Grizzle's gullet cram. Enough of boluses, poor heart, And pills, she took, to load a cart, Before she closed her eyes: But now my word is here a law, Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw, She shall not seek the skies. Good sir, good doctor, go away; To hear my sighs you must not stay, For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill; When next you come, pray bring your bill I'll pay it; sir, with pleasure. Ye friends who come to mourn her doom. For God's sake gently tread the room, Nor call her from the blessed-- In softest silence drop the tear, In whispers breathe the fervent prayer, To bid her spirit rest. Repress the sad, the wounding scream; I can not bear a grief extreme-- Enough one little sigh-- Besides, the loud alarm of grief, In many a mind may start belief, Our noise is all a lie. Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care; Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare, Her mouth, ah! slowly close; Her mouth a magic tongue that held-- Whose softest tone, at times, compelled To peace my loudest woes. And, carpenter, for my sad sake, Of stoutest oak her coffin make-- I'd not be stingy, sure-- Procure of steel the strongest screws, For who could paltry pence refuse To lodge his wife secure? Ye people who the corpse convey, With caution tread the doleful way, Nor shake her precious head; Since Fame reports a coffin tossed, With careless swing against a post, Did once, disturb the dead. Farewell, my love, forever lost! Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost, That I again will woo-- By all our past delights, my dear, No more the marriage chain I'll wear, Deil take me if I do! THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY. PETER PINDAR. A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel, To parry from his soul the wrath Divine, That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple, Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine; Who every day is gorgeously decked out, In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small, Just like a fine young lady for a rout, A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball. At first the Soldier at a distance kept, Begging her vote and interest in heaven-- With seeming bitterness the sinner wept, Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven: Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery! Declared what miracles the dame could do, Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe, And such like wonder-working mummery. What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner, Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her, The mouth of history doth not mention, And therefore I can't tell but by invention, One day, as he was making love and praying, And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying, And sins so manifold confessing; He drew, as if to whisper, very near, And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear, Instead of taking the good lady's blessing. Then off he set, with nimble shanks, Nor once turned back to give her thanks: A hue and cry the thief pursued, Who, to his cost, soon understood That he was not beyond the claw Of that same long-armed giant, christened Law. With horror did his judges quake-- As for the tender-conscienced jury, They doomed him quickly to the stake, Such was their devilish pious fury. However, after calling him hard names, They asked if aught he had in vindication, To save his wretched body from the flames, And sinful soul from terrible damnation. The Soldier answered them with much sang froid, Which showed, of sin, a conscience void, That if they meant to kill him they might kill: As for the diamond which they found about him, He hoped they would by no means doubt him, That madam gave it him from pure good-will. The answer turned both judge and jury pale; The punishment was for a time deferred, Until his Holiness should hear the tale, And his infallibility be heard. The Pope, to all his counselors, made known This strange affair--to cardinals and friars, Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars. The question now was banded to and fro, If Mary had the power to GIVE, or NO. That Mary COULD NOT give it, was to say The wonder-working lady wanted power-- This was the stumbling-block that stopped the way-- This made Pope, cardinals, and friars lower. To save the Virgin's credit, And keep secure the diamonds that were left; They said, she MIGHT, indeed, the gem bestow, And consequently it might be no theft: But then they passed immediately an act, That every one discovered in the fact Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand, Or from the saints of any land, Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter, Flayed here, and fried eternally hereafter. Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear To need poetical assistance; Which bids you not let men approach too near, But keep the saucy fellows at a distance; Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize Jewels from ladies, even upon their knees! A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY PETER PINDAR A king of France upon a day, With a fair lady of his court, Was pleased at battledore to play A very fashionable sport, Into the bosom of this fair court dame, Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame, King Louis by odd mischance did knock The shuttlecock, Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves, To nestle with the pretty little loves! "Now, sire, pray take it out"--quoth she, With an arch smile,--But what did he? What? what to charming modesty belongs! Obedient to her soft command, He raised it--but not with his hand! No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs, What a chaste thought in this good king! How clever! When shall we hear agen of such a thing? Lord! never, Nor were our princes to be prayed To such an act by some fair maid, I'll bet my life not one would mind it: But handy, without more ado, The youths would search the bosom through, Although it took a day to find it! THE EGGS. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX. Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that's of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled--they say-- Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried-- Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised-- Most happy thought I--and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette. "Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!" But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, "I have it now--ye're all a pack of louts!-- With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed." And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot. Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse, But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat: In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle, All had their day--the last was still the best But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill-- But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!" Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show. THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX. "On good and bad an equal value sets The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets, And never fails to praise," With vile pretense, The scurrilous author thus his trash excused. A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense, Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused. A Donkey's master said unto his beast, While doling out to him his lock of straw, "Here, take it--since such diet suits your taste, And much good may it do your vulgar maw!" Often the slighting speech the man repeated. The Ass--his quiet mood by insult heated-- Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take, Master unjust! but not because I choose it. Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it." Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed How your defaults by false excuse you cover! Fed upon straw--straw it may eat, indeed; Try it with generous fare--'t will scorn the other. THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED. WILLIAM COWPER. Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mohammed's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarred; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These chose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mohammedans eat up the hog. You laugh--'tis well--The tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. Renounce the world--the preacher cries. We do--a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed; Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he; With, sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. WILLIAM COWPER. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then holding the spectacles up to the court-- Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then? On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one IF or BUT-- That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut! HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [Footnote: Kennedy gives the following account of the origin of "Holy Willie's Prayer;"--Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Clerk of Ayr, the Poet's friend and benefactor was accosted one Sunday morning by a mendicant, who begged alms of him. Not recollecting that it was the Sabbath, Hamilton set the man to work in his garden, which lay on lay on the public road, and the poor fellow was discovered by the people on their way to the kirk, and they immediately stoned him from the ground. For this offense, Mr. Hamilton was not permitted to have a child christened, which his wife bore him soon afterward, until he applied to the synod. His most officious opponent was William Fisher, one of the elders of the church: and to revenge the insult to his friend, Burns made him the subject of this humorous ballad.] ROBERT BURNS. O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony giud or ill They've done afore thee! I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here, afore thy sight. For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation Thro' Adam's cause. When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me into hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake. Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' thy flock. [O L--d, then kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singing there, and dancing here, Wi' great and sma'; For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a'.] But yet, O L--d! confess I must, At times I 'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defll'd in sin. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'. An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes. L--d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds. O L--d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head. L--d in the day of vengeance try him, L--d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare. But, L--d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen! EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road. Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun-- Observe wha's standing wi him! Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane! Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er And mercy's day is gane. But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS. "O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"-- MILTON. O Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far: An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' Tirl in the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my Grannie summon To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quack-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip--wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour. Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog., An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, Maist ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Au' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava? But ai your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit; But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin', An' cheat you yet. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!! THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH. ROBERT SOUTHEY. From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on. Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane. How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and hia breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through. A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her, Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister. He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair-- Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare. For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame. He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel. An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation. He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat; And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation. Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth. And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity. He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him, He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge. As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of Hell. He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work. He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition. He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting. But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion! And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon. A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes. With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's. Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning. This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come. He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less. Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now. Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours. You will not think, great Cosmocrat! That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in. When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling, Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians, My all sorts of--inians And all sorts of--arians; My all sorts of--ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all. Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils. How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils! My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles! At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through. His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the stitches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below. Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see! Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me. So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had. Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad. And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation. Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme. That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset. There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in. So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done. And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. But, then, said Satan to himself As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner. He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail. But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him. He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish. They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man. But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way. But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine. Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by. As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door. And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek. The Devil then he prophesied It would one day be matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk. A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine. And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song. And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical competition; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition. Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road, For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to Hell; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell. For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ----'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration. CHURCH AND STATE. THOMAS MOORE. When Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become-- If't is not civil to say OLD-- At least, a ci-devant jeune homme. One evening, on some wild pursuit, Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-a-vis. This said Religion was a friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then. "I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke-- "I say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak." The friar consented--little knew What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted, too, By a laced coat he got in stead, Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows--shiver'd lamps to smash, And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down. While naught could they whose heads were broke Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 't was Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore. Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd By the laced coat, grew frisky too-- Look'd big--his former habits spurn'd-- And storm'd about as great men do-- Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-- Said "Damn you," often, or as bad-- Laid claim to other people's purses-- In short, grew either knave or mad. As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense then sitting, Summon'd the culprits both before it; Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As courts must wrangle to decide well), Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell: With, this proviso--Should they be Restored in due time to their senses, They both must give security In future, against such offenses-- Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; And Royalty to crack his joke-- But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too. LYING. THOMAS MOORE. I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours; But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth! THE MILLENNIUM. SUGGESTBD BY THE LATE WORK OF THE KEVEKEND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." THOMAS MOORE. Millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it-- As matters both public and private now go, With multitudes round us, all starving or near it, A good rich millennium will come A PROPOS. Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold, Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags-- A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound-- A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves! Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian, Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at eaoh;-- Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we May, even in our times a jubilee share, Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee, And so often has fail'd, we began to despair. There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;-- There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P., Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh! There was also--but why should I burden my lay With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng, Go on, mighty man--doom them all to the shelf-- And, when next thou with prophecy tronblest thy sconce, Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once! THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL THOMAS MOORE In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND, Chronologers and verses vary, Which proves historians should be wary We only know the important truth-- His Majesty HAD cut a tooth. And much his subjects were enchanted, As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby As he was there by Eight Divine (What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine, And everybody's goods and rhino)-- Of course his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors-- Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses, And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers. Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye gods, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles? But no--if Thibet NAD M.P.s, They were far better bred than these, Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition. But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures--and, no doubt Those of ALL noble beasts--break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-- Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old General's toes-- Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse--though with the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did NOT) an odious pickle. At length, some patriot lords--a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, For folks like Pidcock to exhibit-- Some patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em-- In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em--That, as for treason, 't was a thing That made them almost sick to think of-- That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough, When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!-- But still--though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)-- They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong-- Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;-- In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping-- They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping! When this was read--no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-- "What, whip a Lama!--suffer birch To touch his sacred---infamous! Deistical!--assailing thus The fundamentals of the Church! No--no--such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven--and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies." The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met-- The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette Assures us) like a hero bore it. And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal MartyrDom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since Have all behaved themselves MUCH better. ETERNAL LONDON. THOMAS MOORE. And is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision! 'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines Are sacred from Threadneedle-street. If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- The Funds--(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast--(what! higher still?)-- And--(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)-- Will soon be down to sixty-seven," Go where we may--rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still, The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH-- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for traveling lasts, If Cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, WILL leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands-- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees--- If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids-- Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the BLACKS of Carolina-- Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China. OF FACTOTUM NED. THOMAS MOORE. Here lies Factotum Ned at last: Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he hadn't some small share. Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT-- Whatever statesmen did or said-- If not exactly brought about, Was all, at least, contrived by Ned. With NAP if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price six pence). If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all, but Frenchmen, think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through it-- Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-- From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen. When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd--who advised the deed? Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he. For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright SEEN the King, He sent such hints through Viscount THIS, To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts, The drama, books, MS. and printed-- Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 't-- Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--a dangerous hole in't. 'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In THAT Ned--trust him--had his finger. LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY--IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE. What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad naughty girl-- Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em. But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd--I forget--a la--something which sounded Like alicampane--but, in truth, I'm confounded And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.-- But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise, With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking. Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-- This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting, But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting? Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears! Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one "This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!" Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out), 'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about; That this passion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State. What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm! What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it! If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it! No--never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic! But, the dancing--ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca-- There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance! Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if SHE has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias! Fanny Bias in Flora--dear creature!--you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground. And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then--YOU'VE a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge! The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in), They call it the Play-house--I think--of Saint Martin: Quite charming--and VERY religious--what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;-- Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC! But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had. Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If I well can describe--there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll--you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up--imagine, dear Doll, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher! Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'maelle vil be so very good-- Just for von little course"--though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would. Off we set--and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara! This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre. Now, hear me--this stranger--it may be mere folly-- But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly? Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.--he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush." I must now bid adieu--only think, Dolly, think If this SHOULD be the King--I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge. Nota Bene.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising, and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power. SECOND LETTER. Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature! But DON'T you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in 't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't. At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!) But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie, Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch, That a Brandenburg--(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)-- Would be, after all, no such very great catch, If the R--G--T, indeed--" added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him--"La, Pa, how CAN you say so, When the R--G--T loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear Dolly--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen; And would like us much better as old--ay, as old As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear-- You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air! Let me see--'t was on Saturday--yes, Dolly, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly; And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!" Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois-- And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seem'd full--so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we view'd--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think, Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!" But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing LIKE a man was--no lover sat there! In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past, To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl, But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his! Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day," Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody, Something about the "green spot of delight," (Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day) Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday! We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say? If Bob was to know!--a Restaurateur's, dear; Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine) Condescended, for once, to make one of the party; Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine, And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty; Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE-- "My sighs," said he "ceased with the first glass I drank you, The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light, And now that's all o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!" To MY great annoyance, we sat rather late; For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery--Bobby, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it-- What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!" 'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's! We enter'd--and scarcely had Bob, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Dolly, I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him, And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh Dolly, these heroes--what creatures they are! In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter; As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water! He joined us--imagine, dear creature my ecstasy-- Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE, And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--though oft (as, of course, it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did: And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather, We all would set off in French buggies, together, To see Montmorency--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau. His card then he gave us--the NAME, rather creased-- But 't was Calicot--something--a colonel, at least! After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"how do you do?" But, Lord--there's Papa for the post---I'm so vex'd-- Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night!--I was charmingly dress'd, And--SO providential--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(though Pa has by the bills)-- And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la, it's in vain-- So, good by, my sweet Doll--I shall soon write again, R.F. Nota bene--our love to all neighbors about-- Your papa in particular--how is his gout? P. S.--I 've just open'd my letter to say, In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, pray For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is. THIRD LETTER. At last, DOLLY--thanks to a potent emetic Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss Of an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses-- I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hear If that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'S Was actually dying with love or--blue devils. But love, DOLLY, love is the theme _I_ pursue; With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do-- Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies Any imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes, Which he stares at till _I_, DOLL, at HIS do the same; Then he simpers--I blush--and would often exclaim, If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!" Well, the morning was lovely--the trees in full dress For the happy occasion--the sunshine EXPRESS-- Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing. Though late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and there On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet! And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs, As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse, And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, And--in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose; And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see A day such as that at divine Montmorency! There was but ONE drawback---at first when we started, The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; How cruel--young hearts of such moments to rob! He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so, For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S-- Served with him, of course--nay, I'm sure they were cronies; So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can trace Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face As you do on that pillar of glory and brass Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass, It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-- About English affairs an odd blunder or two. For example--misled by the names. I dare say-- He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH, And--such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-- Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one! But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd; And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!-- "'T was there," said he--not that his WORDS I can state-- 'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;-- But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote, Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure, Then sanded it over with silver and azure, And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do?- Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!" What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions, Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear! "'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- As down the small garden he pensively led-- (Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)-- "'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY, (Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day), That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!" Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd, As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd, The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is) Led us to talk about other commodities, Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget, For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set, And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he ask'd ne, with eagerness--who made my gown? The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know, And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago, That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI, But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her-- It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker-- I mean OF HIS PARTY--and, though much the smartest, LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st. Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd--so well knowing The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammer'd out something--nay, even half named The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen It was made by that B*rb*n**t b--h, VIOTORINE!" What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err, And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were, Besides, though the word on good manners intrench, I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French. But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away, And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us-- The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us-- That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"-- Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain, They can only be felt in their fullness divine By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline, Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine! But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections; And full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for THERE is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS! Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true, O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue For the FLESH of the VERYS--I'll visit their BONES!" He insists upon MY going with him--how teasing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--Good-by. B. F. Four o'clock. Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever-- I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never; To think of the wretch!--what a victim was _I_! 'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die! My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick! Oh what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! 'Tis true as I live--I had coax'd brother BOB so (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so), For some little gift on my birth-day--September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach (Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- (The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But--ye gods, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! Oh--Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear-- 'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And when THAT too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worship'd--vile treacherous thing-- To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam round--the wretch smil'd, I believe, But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seem'd to wither, And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither! I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said--"Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!" Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE! What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread through the country--and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE Nota Bene,--I'm sure you will hear with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. Cox (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box. [Illustration: POPE.] THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. NETLEY ABBEY. [Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.] R. HARRIS RARHAM I saw thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave; And the ivy sheen With its mantle of green That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovehly bright In that glorious light, And I felt 't was holy ground. Then I thought of the ancient time-- The days of thy monks of old,-- When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song. And then a vision pass'd Across my mental eye; And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns, And long white vails, went by; Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,-- --But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad! Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, And "dear linen souls," In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-- And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear With front severe And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chants the responses too late or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune. (Then you know They'd a "movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now--and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight. But then "a change came o'er" My spirit--a change of fear-- That gorgeous scene I beheld no more, But deep beneath the basement floor A dungeon dark and drear! And there was an ugly hole in the wall-- For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small! And mortar and bricks All ready to fix, And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!-- That horrible hole!--it seems to say, 'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'" And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad-- And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad. Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think That maiden's eye, which was made to wink, Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink, Or be closed for aye In this kind of way, Shut out forever from wholesome day, Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink, No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!-- And that maiden's lip, Which was made to sip, Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip! --That wandering glance and furtive kiss, Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis, Should yet be considered so much amiss As to call for a sentence severe as this!-- And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh The poor lone victim's stifled cry, "Well, I can't understand How any man's hand COULD wall up that hole in a Christian land! Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work, And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy, Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak, In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek, 'When all's said and done, far better it was for us, Tied back to back And sewn up in a sack, To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!' Oh! a saint 't would vex To think that the sex Should be no better treated than Combe's double X! Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar." If ever on polluted walls Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit, for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride! Lo where it comes!--the tempest lowers,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down--with the nests, and the rooks will fly!" Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Moldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown Bombazeen gown, Miter, and crosier, and all are flown! And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that gray and moldering wall. The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art-- Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now! No sound--good gracious!--what was that? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near and more near-- Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By abbots and abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life! Danced to by "All the World and his Wife." Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea. Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin! "--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!" And I said to the person who drove my "shay" (A very intelligent man, by the way), "This, all things considered, is rather too gay! It don't suit my humor,--so take me away! Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song! If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,' And I really consider it all very wrong.-- --Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"-- He paus'd, and said, Scratching his head, "Why I really DO think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!" "Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, "My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay' (As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say That a Visitor whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But--'_I_ CAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'" FAMILY POETRY. R. HARRIS BARHAM Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day, Though line before I never wrote! "On what occasion?" do you say? Our Dick has got a long-tail'd coat!! Not a coatee, which soldiers wear Button'd up high about the throat, But easy, flowing, debonair, In short a CIVIL long-tail'd coat. A smarter you'll not find in town, Cut by Nugee, that snip of note; A very quiet olive brown 's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat. Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole, The proud Hungarian, and the Croat, Yet Esterhazy, on the whole Looks best when in a long-tail'd coat Lord Byron most admired, we know, The Albanian dress, or Suliote, But then he died some years ago, And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat; Or past all doubt the poet's theme Had never been the "White Capote," Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream, The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat! We also know on Highland kilt Poor dear Glengarry used to dote, And had esteem'd it actual guilt I' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat! No wonder 'twould his eyes annoy, Monkbarns himself would never quote "Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray," Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat. Jackets may do to ride or race, Or row in, when one's in a boat, But in the boudoir, sure, for grace There's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd cost, Of course in climbing up a tree, On terra-firma, or afloat, To mount the giddy topmast, he Would doff awhile his long-tail'd coat. What makes you simper, then, and sneer? From out your own eye pull the mote! A PRETTY thing for you to jeer-- Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat? Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean. Why, though too young to give a note, Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen 's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat. What! would you have him sport a chin Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat O' German Mahon, ere begin To figure in a long-tail'd coat? Suppose he goes to France--can he Sit down at any table d' hote, With any sort of decency, Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat? Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit, There soon may be a sans culotte, And Nugent's self may then admit The advantage of a long-tail'd coat. Things are not now as when, of yore, In tower encircled by a moat, The lion-hearted chieftain wore A corselet for a long-tail'd coat; Then ample mail his form embraced, Not like a weasel or a stoat, "Cribb'd and confined" about the waist, And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat With beamy spear or biting ax, To right and left he thrust and smote-- Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks Fall from a modern long-tail'd coati More changes still! now, well-a-day! A few cant phrases learned by rote, Each beardless booby spouts away, A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat! Prates of the "March of Intellect"-- "The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTE So noble, who could e'er suspect Had just put on a long-tail'd coat? Alack! alack! that every thick- Skull'd lad must find an antidote For England's woes, because, like Dick, He has put on a long-tail'd coat! But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail, Nor can I longer time devote; Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE, The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat. THE SUNDAY QUESTION. THOMAS HOOD. "It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,"--BUNYAN. What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, On Sundays no admittance at this wicket! The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race, Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? The Gardens--so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses-- Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub-- Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head-- No rum--nor gin--not even of a Monday-- The Lion is not carved--or gilt--or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks! As if his spots would give contagious fevers! The Beaver close as hat within its box; So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible--the Gnaw-way Rats-- The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday-- The Monkey tribe--the Family of Cats-- We visit other families on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling? The Kangaroo--is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat, Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? What feature has repulsed the serious set? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret? One thing is plain--it is not in the feeding! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-- But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race? The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds--(whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)-- Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy? There are some moody Fellows, not a few, Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious: Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?-- Or perhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? What dire offense have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt The feathers in her head--at least till Monday; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy? At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he preyed extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious-- As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin-- (Unless he's loose)--to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday-- (That is, provided that he did not dance)-- Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I can not think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-- It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen "Natural" on Monday, The wondrous history of Bird and Beast, Can be unnatural because it's Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? Whereon is sinful fantasy to work? The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird--or the filial Stork? The punctual Crane--the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feathered marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? The busy Beaver--that sagacious beast! The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd-- That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East, The horned Rhinoceros--the spotted Leopard-- The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday-- The Elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy? What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?" Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology? Is Brahma's Bull--a Hindoo god at home-- A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?-- Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy? ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE [Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's verses as "profaneness and ribaldry."] THOMAS HOOD. "Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice; For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise!"--Coleridge. "It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be."--Old Ballad. A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand-- Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretched, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched, And though I have not seen the shadow sketched, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture. I guess the features:--in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint, Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks--not physicians--in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out moral taints, And call the devil over his own coals-- Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed: Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed, But endless flames, to scorch them like flax-- Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed The impression of St. Peter's keys in wax! Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief, it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall-- That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till every farthing-candle RAY Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace! Well!--be the graceless lineaments confest I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth;"-- No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious-- Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull, I pray for grace--repent each sinful act-- Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turned by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As any body's rotten borough. What else? No part I take in party fray, With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars, I fear no Pope--and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times--but then It's when I 've got my wine--I say d---- canters! I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry-- 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses Who thrust them into matters none of theirs And, though no delicacy discomposes Your saint, yet I consider faith and prayers Among the privatest of men's affairs. I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it. On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk-- For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth! Mere verbiage--it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates or Plato--where 's the odds?-- Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot! A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis-- An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages--through sheer pretense-- Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion through the lobby, Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house." I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pindar, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lashed by law, wherever found, And driven to church as to the parish pound. I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that groveling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor, One wishes worship freely given to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor-- The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I--the Saviour with his law of love. Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's college, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord Of this world's aristocracy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage as they do in ships. One place there is--beneath the burial-sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is--the Fane of God, Where all are equal who draw living breath;-- Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-- He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to every pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,-- Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil! Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,-- A scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots! The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts: But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knolled to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:-- O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters? A man may cry Church! Church! at every word, With no more piety than other people-- A daw's not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple; The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor! Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against, his sinful bias-- "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie--I cheat--do any thing for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious!" In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts; On Sunday morning--(at the day don't fret)-- In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple, "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel, And master wanted once to buy it,-- But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,-- He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious! But being so particular religious, Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heaven below, I have been there and still would go," Yet I am none of those who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God. As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurned some elements of Christian prayer-- An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"-- Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humilty. Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS! I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own common-place-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas Some minds improve by travel--others, rather, Resemble copper wire or brass, Which gets the narrower by going further! Worthless are all such pilgrimages--very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The humans heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak. Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes. Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo. For me--through heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travelers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR? Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him, two black eyes for being blind? Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a cankered stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine? The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly CATHOLIC, one common form, At which unchecked All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm. Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trailed around its base The blue significant Forget-Me-Not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope!-- "Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me through!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX." With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells, Religion lives and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint. To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan! "Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feathered clay--thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes-- "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner, Behold these lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That heaven has shed upon me con amore-- A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story! _I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill! That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. By saints!--the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches-- But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor, In parish stocks, instead of breeches. The Saints?--the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about-- Mere living bundles of combustion. The Saints!--the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown-- That bid you balk A Sunday walk, And shun God's work as you should shun your own. The Saints!--the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl! The Saints!--the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk, A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands! Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in every feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome! To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool, a font. Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the fall heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love! Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked: but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labeled with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heaven a railway trust, And churches--that's the naked fact--mere factories? O! simply open wide the temple door, And let the solemn, swelling organ greet, With VOLUNTARIES meet, The WILLING advent of the rich and poor! And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibiations from the vocal throng-- From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone. How strange it is, while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol--and even use upon occasion-- That Christian principle, conciliation? But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus: One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt a while, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle. Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it-- And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force; The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool; The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse, The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow--it quite makes me--why It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!" Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether-- And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop Just nolens volens through the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather-- Then walking to the door, and smiling grim, He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I've CONciliated him!" Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel-- (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale Whereto is tied a moral. Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The doctors gave her over--to an ass. Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl Of assinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny. To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long-eared creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back-- "Your sarvant, Miss--a werry spring-like day-- Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss--but I'ze brought ye Jack-- He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray." So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness; But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness? DEATH'S RAMBLE. THOMAS HOOD. One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel. His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank; His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed Like a butcher that kills his own. The first he slaughtered it made him laugh (For the man was a coffin-maker), To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker. Death saw two Quakers sitting at church; Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer. He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once--for he knew They never would shoot each other. He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal." He met a coachman driving a coach So slow that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the QUICK. Death saw a tollman taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summoned to all eternity. He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther! Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum." He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust. He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for death, And never on rum-and-water. Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump! THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. THOMAS HOOD. My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that my cat? What d'ye think of that my dog? What loving tete-a-tetes to come! What tete-a-tetes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all MY ties had leave to jog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? The mother brought a pretty Poll-- A monkey, too, what work he made! The sister introduced a beau-- My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own,-- A snappish mongrel christened Grog,-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? The monkey bit--the parrot screamed, All day the sister strummed and sung, The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learned to use her tongue; Her mother had such wretched health, She sat and croaked like any frog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants crossed my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seemed my own, I might as well have been a log-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed, She could not bear that Mister Blogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sister's part-- The maid declared her master wrong-- The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With Pussy in the elbow-chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? ON SAMUEL ROGERS. LORD BYRON. Question. Nose and chin would shame a knocker, Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker: Mouth which marks the envious scorner, With a scorpion in each corner, Turning its quick tail to sting you In the place that most may wring you: Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy; Carcass picked out from some mummy Bowels (but they were forgotten, Save the liver, and that's rotten); Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden-- Form the Devil would frighten God in. Is't a corpse stuck up for show, Galvanized at times to go With the Scripture in connection, New proof of the resurrection? Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it? I would walk ten miles to miss it. Answer. Many passengers arrest one, To demand the same free question. Shorter's my reply, and franker-- That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker. Yet if you could bring about, Just to turn him inside out, Satan's self would seem less sooty, And his present aspect--Beauty. Mark that (as he masks the bilious Air, so softly supercilious) Chastened bow, and mock humility, Almost sickened to servility; Hear his tone, (which is to talking That which creeping is to walking-- Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe), Hear the tales he lends his lip to; Little hints of heavy scandals, Every friend in turn he handles; All which women or which men do, Glides forth in an innuendo, Clothed in odds and ends of humor-- Herald of each paltry rumor. From divorces down to dresses, Women's frailties, men's excesses, All which life presents of evil Make for him a constant revel. You're his foe--for that he fears you, And in absence blasts and sears you: You're his friend--for that he hates you, First caresses, and then baits you, Darting on the opportunity When to do it with impunity: You are neither--then he'll flatter Till he finds some trait for satire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Where it injures to disclose it, In the mode that's most invidious, Adding every trait that's hideous, From the bile, whose blackening river Rushes through his Stygian liver. Then he thinks himself a lover: Why I really can't discover In his mind, age, face, or figure: Viper-broth might give him vigor. Let him keep the caldron steady, He the venom has already. For his faults, he has but ONE-- 'Tis but envy, when all's done. He but pays the pain he suffers; Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Lights which ought to burn the brighter For this temporary blighter. He's the cancer of his species, And will eat himself to pieces; Plague personified, and famine; Devil, whose sole delight is damning! For his merits, would you know 'em? Once he wrote a pretty Poem. MY PARTNER. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter. Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, When summer's rose is newest; Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, When autumn's sky is bluest; And well my heart might deem her one Of life's most precious flowers, For half her thoughts were of its sun, And half were of its showers. I spoke of novels:--"Vivian Gray" Was positively charming, And "Almack's" infinitely gay, And "Frankenstein" alarming; I said "De Vere" was chastely told. Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold," And Lady Morgan's "racy;" I vowed the last new thing of Hook's Was vastly entertaining; And Laura said--"I dote on books, Because it's always raining!" I talked of music's gorgeous fane, I raved about Rossini, Hoped Ronzo would come back again, And criticized Paccini; I wished the chorus singers dumb. The trumpets more pacific, And eulogized Brocard's APLOMB And voted Paul "terrific." What cared she for Medea's pride Or Desdemona's sorrow? "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We MUST have storms to-morrow!" I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, Vast forests, trackless mountains; I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And jests for Indian noses; I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, And Vienna's dread of treason; And Laura asked me where the glass Stood at Madrid last season. I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds And Jane take up her Handel; Why Julia walked upon the heath, With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried--"Oh, God! How could they in such weather?" Was she a blue?--I put my trust In strata, petals, gases; A boudoir pedant?--I discussed The toga and the fasces; A cockney-muse?--I mouthed a deal Of folly from Endymion: A saint?--I praised the pious zeal Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; A politician?--It was vain To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again, Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor. Flat flattery was my only chance, I acted deep devotion, Found magic in her every glance, Grace in her every motion; I wasted all a stripling's lore, Prayer, passion, folly, feeling; And wildly looked upon the floor, And wildly on the ceiling; I envied gloves upon her arm, And shawls upon her shoulder; And when my worship was most warm, She "never found it colder." I don't object to wealth or land And she will have the giving Of an extremely pretty hand, Some thousands, and a living. She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Sings sweetly, dances finely, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her!-- The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer, And hang himself beside it! THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED. Years--years ago--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--oh, heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen. Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalina jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo, And recipes of elder water. And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored, Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolishd. She smil'd on many just for fun-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first the only one Her heart thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely molded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves-- A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows--and then we parted. We parted--months and years roll'd by; We met again for summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh-- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers. SORROWS OF WERTHER. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled. Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. ["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found THAT NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."]--Morning Paper. Ye Yankee volunteers! It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one. So--in both hemispheres The woman are untrue, And cruel in the New, As in the Old one! What--in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn, Nine tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Folorn? Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipped her wicked chains, Fled and out-ran her. And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star- embroidered banner! And so it is with all The warriors ranged in line, With lace bedizened fine And swords gold-hilted-- Yon lusty corporal, Yon color-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes-- Has each been jilted? Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, "The pioneers and all," The fifer nimble-- Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets, And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal-- O cymbal-beating black, Tell us, as thou canst feel, Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin? O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing. Confess, ye volunteers, Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Roman-- Confess, ye grenadiers, However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman! No corselet is so proof, But through it from her bow, The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough, But's in the struggle thrown, And tripped and trodden down By her slim ankle. Thus, always it has ruled, And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle. Alcides was befooled, And silly Samson shorn, Long, long ere you were born, Poor Yankee Doodle! COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. A POEM, IN TWO CANTOS. PUNCH. CANTO THE FIRST. COURTSHIP. Fairest of earth! if thou wilt hear my vow, Lo! at thy feet I swear to love thee ever; And by this kiss upon thy radiant brow, Promise afiection which no time shall sever; And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now, To be extinguished--never, dearest, never! Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign? CATHERINE! my own sweet Kate! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair-- Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring, And we will live in solitude, nor care For aught save for each other. We will fling Away all sorrow--Eden shall be there! And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king! Still coy, and still reluctant? Sweetheart say, When shall we monarchs be? and which the day? CANTO THE SECOND. MATRIMONY. Now MRS. PRINGLE, once for all, I say I will not such extravagance allow! Bills upon bills, and larger every day, Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow! Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash--nay, nay, Tears, MRS. PRINGLE, will not gull me now-- I say I won't allow ten pounds a week; I can't afford it; madam, do not speak! In wedding you I thought I had a treasure; I find myself most miserably mistaken! You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure;-- In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken. Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure; Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken! I seek retirement, and I find--a riot; Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet! CONCERNING SISTERS-IN-LAW. PUNCH. I. They looked so alike as they sat at their work, (What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk!) The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts, The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the same hearts The same irresistible cut in their jibs, The same little jokes, and the same little fibs-- That I thought the best way to get out of my pain Was by--HEADS for Maria, and WOMAN for Jane; For hang ME if it seemed it could matter a straw, Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law. II. But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind; And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one, That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one. Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool; Never calls me a monster--not even a fool; All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up, And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:-- Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished--Heav'n forgive me the flaw!-- That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law. III. Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing! The daily comparisons, too, she will bring! Wife--curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed; She--ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;" Wife--sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating; She--merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting: Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows To the happy half-way between mother and spouse. In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw, He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law. IV. That no good upon earth can be had undiluted Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted; And preachers and poets have proved it is so With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos. Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn, The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn, There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun-- In short, they've used all illustrations--but one; And have left it to me the most striking to draw-- Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW. THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH. As a young Lobster roamed about, Itself and mother being out, Their eyes at the same moment fell On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell "Look," said the younger; "is it true That we might wear so bright a hue? No coral, if I trust mine eye, Can with its startling brilliance vie; While you and I must be content A dingy aspect to present." "Proud heedless fool," the parent cried; "Know'st thou the penalty of pride? The tawdry finery you wish, Has ruined this unhappy fish. The hue so much by you desired By his destruction was acquired-- So be contented with your lot, Nor seek to change by going to pot." TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY. PUNCH. Silence, all! ye winged choir; Let not yon right reverend sire Hear your happy symphony: 'Tis too good for such as he. On the day of rest divine, He poor townsfolk would confine In their crowded streets and lanes, Where they can not hear your strains. All the week they drudge away, Having but one holiday; No more time for you, than that-- Unlike bishops, rich and fat. Utter not your cheerful sounds, Therefore, in the bishop's grounds; Make him melody no more, Who denies you to the poor. Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush! Throstle, be a songless thrush; Nightingale and lark, be mute, Never sing to such a brute. Robin, at the twilight dim, Never let thine evening hymn, Bird of red and ruthful breast, Lend the bishop's Port a zest. Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, Keeping us from fields and flowers, Who to pen us tries, instead, 'Mong the intramural dead. Only let the raven croak At him from the rotten oak; Let the magpie and the jay Chatter at him on his way. And when he to rest has laid him, Let his ears the screech-owl harry; And the night-jar serenade him With a proper charivari. THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH. Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite; Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid To paint the sufferings they can not write: Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts, Let slender youths in agony expire; Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts Roast at some fierce imaginary fire. Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes, See her own ALFRED to the old church tower Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses; Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal, Wherein two doves their little bills entwine; (A vile device, which always makes me feel Marriage would only add your bills to mine.) For arts like these I've neither skill nor time; But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid, And share my fortune in that happier clime, Your berth is taken, and your passage paid. For reading, lately, in my list of things, "Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too! The horrid host of buttons and of strings Flashed on my spirit, and I thought--of you. "Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived-- That vast receptacle of all things known-- "To teach this truth my outfit was contrived, It is not good for man to be alone!" Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore (Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons), And though she's nearly full, can take some more Dry goods, by measurement--say GREEN and SONS. Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind, We might have married, and been happy HERE; But since young married folks the means must find The eyes of stern society to cheer, And satisfy its numerous demands, I think 'twill save us many a vain expense, If on our wedding cards this Notice stands, "At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!" A SCENE ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONTIER. PUNCH. "Dey must not pass!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinel To one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well "Thev must not pass? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried; "No English book can pass mit me;" the sentinel replied. The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hope There are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope; But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell--" "Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pass!" said the startled sentinel. "This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY, Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry; If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever tried To find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide? This map, again, of Switzerland--nay, man, you needn't start or Look black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta; I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury-- We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye (Uri)." "Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles! Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles? I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had, For now Ich kann nicht let him pass, for fear he should be bad. Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and den Die Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men; Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well; Hoch Himmel! here he most not pass:" said the learned sentinel. "Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land, He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand." "My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way to Quite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO. My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long, And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong; So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well." "Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel. ODE TO THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT ON HIS WONDERFUL REAPPEARANCE. PUNCH. From what abysses of the unfathom'd sea Turnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then, If we may venture to believe in thee, And affidavits of sea-faring men? What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home! Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell? If--like the mermaid, with her glass and comb-- Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell. Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham? Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel, An entity, though modified by flam, A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal? I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art; I can not say a reptile of the deep, Because thou dost not play a reptile's part; Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep. The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE, I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seen And him who says he saw thee t'other day, I will not bid address the corps marine. Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not? What sort of snake may be thy class and style? That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot, And mentioned--rather often--by CARLYLE? Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind? Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again-- A serpent of the visionary kind, Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain? Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp, And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail? If of the Boa species, couldst thou clasp Within thy fold, and suffocate, a whale? How long art thou?--Some sixty feet, they say, And more--but how much more they do not know: I fancy thou couldst reach across a bay From head to head, a dozen miles or so. Scales hast thou got, of course--but what's thy weight? On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin, A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state, A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin. If I could clutch thee--in a giant's grip-- Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime? Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip, Being all over glazed with fishy slime? Hast thou a forked tongue--and dost thou hiss If ever thou art bored with Ocean's play? And is it the correct hypothesis That thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way? What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin, Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear? What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin?-- A set that probably would make one stare. What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoal Of herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and room To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole, By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume? Art thou alone, thou serpent, on the brine, The sole surviving member of thy race? Is there no brother, sister, wife, of thine, But thou alone, afloat on Ocean's face? If such a calculation may be made, Thine age at what a figure may we take? When first the granite mountain-stones were laid, Wast thou not present there and then, old Snake? What fossil Saurians in thy time have been? How many Mammoths crumbled into mold? What geologic periods hast thou seen, Long as the tail thou doubtless canst unfold? As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead, Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike; And, so far, none will question what they said, That thou unto a whale wast very like. A flock of birds a record, rather loose, Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull; Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose, And also several of the genus Gull. THE FEAST OF VEGETABLES, AND THE FLOW OF WATER. PUNCH. New Year comes,--so let's be jolly; On the board the Turnip smokes, While we sit beneath, the holly, Eating Greens and passing jokes How the Cauliflower is steaming, Sweetest flower that ever blows. See, good old Sir Kidney, beaming, Shows his jovial famed red nose. Here behold the reign of Plenty,-- Help the Carrots, hand the Kail; Roots how nice, and herbs how dainty, Well washed down with ADAM'S Ale! Feed your fill,--untasted only Let the fragrant onion go; Or, amid the revels lonely, Go not nigh the mistletoe! KINDRED QUACKS. PUNCH. I overheard two matrons grave, allied by close affinity (The name of one was PHYSIC, and the other's was DIVINITY), As they put their groans together, both so doleful and lugubrious: Says PHYSIC, "To unload the heart of grief, ma'am, is salubrious: Here am I, at my time of life, in this year of our deliverance; My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence. But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,-- Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me." "Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am; I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am. I've some, as well,--no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't, ma'am, Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am." "There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing." "Well," says DIVINITY, "I've those that teach that Heaven's beatitudes Are to be earned by postures, genuflexions, bows, and attitudes." "My good-for-nothing sons," says PHYSIC, "some have turned hydropathists, Some taken up with mesmerism, or joined the homoeopathists." "Mine," says DIVINITY, "pursue a system of gimcrackery, Called Puseyism, a pack of stuff, and quite as arrant quackery." Says PHYSIC, "Mine have sleep-walkers, pretending through the hide of you, To look, although their eyes are shut, and tell you what's inside of you." "Ah!" says DIVINITY, "so mine, with quibbling and with caviling, Would have you, ma'am, to blind yourself, to see the road to travel in." "Mine," PHYSIC says, "have quite renounced their good old pills and potions, ma'am, For doses of a billionth of a grain, and such wild notions, ma'am." "So," says DIVINITY, "have mine left wholesome exhortation, ma'am, For credence-tables, reredoses, rood-lofts, and maceration, ma'am." "But hospitals," says PHYSIC, "my misguided boys are founding, ma'am." "Well," says DIVINITY, "of mine, the chapels are abounding, ma'am." "Mine are trifling with diseases, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "not attacking them." "Mine," says DIVINITY, "instead of curing souls, are quacking them." "Ah, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "I'm to blame, I fear, for these absurdities." "That's my fear too," DIVINITY says; "ma'am, upon my word it is." Says PHYSIC, "Fees, not science, have been far too much my wishes, ma'am." "Truth," says DIVINITY, "I've loved much less than loaves and fishes, ma'am." Says each to each, "We're simpletons, or sad deceivers, some of us; And I am sure, ma'am, I don't know whatever will become of us." THE RAILWAY TRAVELER'S FAREWELL TO HIS FAMILY. PUNCH. 'T was business call'd a Father to travel by the Rail; His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale. He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee; And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast and free. I'm going by the Rail, my dears--ELIZA, love, don't cry-- Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by. I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea, And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see. I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss; And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss; And in an instant, quick as thought--before you could cry "Ah!" An accident occurs, and--say good-by to poor Papa! Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink, And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think. The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks, And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and every body's necks. Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin-- Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in; And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remain Confined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train. If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright, When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white; Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash, If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash. Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day, Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay; Over and over goes the train--the engine off the rail, And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale. And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life, May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife-- With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace, And present to you, unalter'd, every feature of his face. I hope I shall come back, my dears--but, mind, I am insured-- So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured. An action then will also lie for you and your Mamma-- And don't forget to bring it--on account of poor Papa. A LETTER AND AN ANSWER. PUNCH. THE PRESBYTERS TO PALMERSTON. The Plague has come among us, Miserable sinners! Fear and remorse have stung us, Miserable sinners! We ask the State to fix a day, Whereon all men may fast and pray, That Heaven will please to turn away The Plague that works us sore dismay, Miserable sinners! PALMERSTON TO THE PRESBYTERS. The Plague that comes among you, Miserable sinners! To effort hath it strung you? Miserable sinners! You ask that all should fast and pray; Better all wake and work, I say; Sloth and supineness put away, That so the Plague may cease to slay; Miserable sinners! For Plagues, like other evils, Miserable sinners! Are GOD'S and not the Devil's, Miserable sinners! Scourges they are, but in a hand Which love and pity do command: And when the heaviest stripes do fall, 'Tis where they're wanted most of all, Miserable sinners! Look round about your city, Miserable sinners! Arouse to shame and pity, Miserable sinners! Pray: but use brush and limewash pail; Fast: but feed those for want who fail; Bow down, gude town, to ask for grace But bow with cleaner hands and face, Miserable sinners! All Time GOD'S Law hath spoken, Miserable sinners! That Law may not be broken, Miserable sinners! But he that breaks it must endure The penalty which works the cure. To us, for GOD'S great laws transgressed, Is doomsman Pestilence addressed, Miserable sinners! We can not juggle Heaven, Miserable sinners! With one day out of seven, Miserable sinners! Shall any force of fasts atone For years of duty left undone? How expiate with prayer or psalm, Deaf ear, blind eye, and folded palm? Miserable sinners! Let us be up and stirring, Miserable sinners! 'Mong ignorant and erring, Miserable sinners! Sloth and self-seeking from us cast, Believing this the fittest fast, For of all prayers prayed 'neath the sun There is no prayer like work well done, Miserable sinners! PAPA TO HIS HEIR, A FAST MINOR. PUNCH. My son, a father's warning heed; I think my end is nigh: And then, you dog, you will succeed Unto my property. But, seeing you are not, just yet. Arrived at man's estate, Before you full possession get, You'll have a while to wait. A large allowance I allot You during that delay; And I don't recommend you not To throw it all away. To such advice you'd ne'er attend; You won't let prudence rule Your courses; but, I know, will spend Your money like a fool. I do not ask you to eschew The paths of vice and sin; You'll do as all young boobies, who Are left, as you say, tin. You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green, At all that's right you'll joke; Your life will be a constant scene Of billiards and of smoke. With bad companions you'll consort With creatures vile and base, Who'll rob you; yours will be, in short, The puppy's common case. But oh, my son! although you must Through this ordeal pass, You will not be, I hope--I trust-- A wholly senseless ass. Of course at prudence you will sneer, On that theme I won't harp; Be good, I won't say--that's severe; But be a little sharp. All rascally associates shun To bid you were too much, But, oh I beware, my spooney son, Beware one kind of such. It asks no penetrative mind To know these fellows: when You meet them, you, unless you're blind, At once discern the men. The turgid lip, the piggish eye, The nose in form of hook, The rings, the pins, you tell them by, The vulgar flashy look. Spend every sixpence, if you please, But do not, I implore, Oh! I do not go, my son, to these Vultures to borrow more. Live at a foolish wicked rate, My hopeful, if you choose, But don't your means anticipate Through bill-discounting Jews. [Illustration: CHAUCER] SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE. PUNCH. Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green, Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene, Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge. Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees. Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose. Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete--except the nose. Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream, Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream. Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries--A Pair of Sylphide's Wings; Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings). Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen--Three Services of Plate In real papier mache--all in a decent state; One of these services includes--its value to increase-- A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece. Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed, Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught. Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts, Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts. Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent. Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig--in wool--of Bide-the-Bent. Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish--Soles, Cod, and Dace-- For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place. Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear. Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings--at per pair. Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat, And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet. Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white, Warranted equal to Cashmere--upon the stage at night-- With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back; The tails of twisted worsted--pale yellow, tipped with black. Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare-- The Crown of Semiramide--complete, with false back hair; The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to fling His sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king. Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song. Lot Sixty-two, A Document. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong. Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array, Beginning at the Druids down to the present day. Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls. Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls. Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room, Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb. Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill. Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will. Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow. Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow. Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat; Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat. Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower. Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower. Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks. Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box. WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE. PUNCH. Our gracious Queen--long may she fill her throne-- Has been to see Louis Napoleon. The Majesty of England--bless her heart!-- Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte; And Cousin Germans have survived the view Of Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud. In our young days we little thought to see Such legs stretched under such mahogany; That British Royalty would ever share At a French Palace, French Imperial fare: Nor eat--as we should have believed at school-- The croaking tenant of the marshy pool. At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then, As we have since, and hope to do again. This great event of course could not take place Without fit prodigies for such a case; The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third Thrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd, Then rose on end, and stood so all day long, Amid the cheers of an admiring throng. In every lawyer's office Eldon shed From plaster nose three heavy drops of red. Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the point Of its proboscis--was that out of joint? While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear, And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!" TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. It may be so--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art. That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee. Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue;-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do? Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in. I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild. That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee. Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare. She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again. It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say! And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes. I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way; But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before. MY AUNT. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span. My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell? Her father--grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles-- Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'T was in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon." They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small. They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins;-- O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins. So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track;) "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!" Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade, Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree. COMIC MISERIES. JOHN G. SAXE. My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a "happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man! You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,-- You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes,-- A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain-- Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again! You're talking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse,-- You think you 've got him--when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day! You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun! By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While every body marvels why Your mirth is under ban,-- They think your very grief "a joke," You're such a funny man! You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine), You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of And why you don't begin! You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose-- A solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news: You quarrel with your wife! My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man! IDEES NAPOLEONIENNES. WILLIAM AYTOUN. The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.--TRANSLATOR. Come, listen all who wish to learn How nations should be ruled, From one who from his youth has been In such-like matters school'd; From one who knows the art to please, Improve and govern men-- Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees, Napoleoniennes! To keep the mind intently fixed On number One alone-- To look to no one's interest, But push along your own, Without the slightest reference To how, or what, or when-- Eh bien! c'est la premiere Idee Napoleonienne. To make a friend, and use him well, By which, of course, I mean To use him up--until he's drain'd Completely dry and clean Of all that makes him useful, and To kick him over then Without remorse--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne. To sneak into a good man's house With sham credentials penn'd-- to sneak into his heart and trust, And seem his children's friend-- To learn his secrets, find out where He keeps his keys--and then To bone his spoons--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne. To gain your point in view--to wade Through dirt, and slime, and blood-- To stoop to pick up what you want Through any depth of mud. But always in the fire to thrust Some helpless cat's-paw, when Your chestnuts burn--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne. To clutch and keep the lion's share-- To kill or drive away The wolves, that you upon the lambs May, unmolested, prey-- To keep a gang of jackals fierce To guard and stock your den, While you lie down--c'est une Idee Napoleonienne. To bribe the base, to crush the good, And bring them to their knees-- To stick at nothing, or to stick At what or whom you please-- To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear, Forswear, and swear again-- To rise--Ah! voia des Idees Napoleoniennes. THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN Air--"The days we went a-gipsying." I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes, strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way-- "Why you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood-- That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know. To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. PARODIES AND BURLESQUES WINE. JOHN GAY. Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus. HOR. Of happiness terrestrial, and the source Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse! Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape, Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul, Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature, And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age, A kindly warmth diffusing;--youthful fires Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before: Cordial restorative to mortal man, With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd! Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing, By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air. When fumy vapors clog our loaded brows With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes, The external symptoms of remorse within, Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps, With head incumbent on expanded palm, Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd; Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd; Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din, Who fails not to exalt him to the stars, And fix him there among the branched crew (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn, The greatest monsters of the Zodiac), Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf, Or Delia's scornful slights, and cold disdain, Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse, The worst events that mortals can befall; By cares depress'd, in pensive hippish mood, With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll, Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust, New life incites, and warms our chilly blood. Straight with pert looks we raise our drooping fronts, And pour in crystal pure thy purer juice;-- With cheerful countenance and steady hand Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim To the expecting mouth:--with grateful taste The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue; The circling blood with quicker motion flies: Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight Dispell'st those clouds that, lowering dark, eclips'd The whilom glories of the gladsome face;-- While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling rolling eyes, Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim. So mists and exhalations that arise From "hills or steamy lake, dusky or gray," Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays, And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold; Unable to resist, the foggy damps, That vail'd the surface of the verdant fields, At the god's penetrating beams disperse! The earth again in former beauty smiles, In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear. When disappointed Strephon meets repulse, Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours, Till reinforc'd by thy most potent aid He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort. To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing, The British seaman quits his native shore, And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss, Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak, "With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;" Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls In dangers imminent, till she arrives At those blest climes thou favor'st with thy presence. Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast, Or lofty Teneriffe, Palma, Ferro, Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores, With gazing pleasure and astonishment, At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire) He thinks himself arrived: the purple grapes, In largest clusters pendent, grace the vines Innumerous: in fields grotesque and wild, They with implicit curls the oak entwine, And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs: Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought, Or of left native isle, or absent friends, Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe, His kindly treacherous memory now presents; The jovial god has left no room for cares. Celestial Liquor! thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard, With lofty numbers, and heroic strains Unparallel'd, with eloquence profound, And arguments convictive, didst enforce Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd; Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet To jaded Muse, and oft with vain attempt, Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull, With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low, His unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount Of bright Lenaean sire, her barren drought He quench'd, and with inspiring nectarous juice Her drooping spirits cheer'd:--aloft she towers, Borne on stiff pennons, and of war's alarms, And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings. 'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts, And resolution bold, and ardor brave, Excit'st: thou check'st inglorious lolling ease, And sluggish minds with generous fires inflam'st. O thou! that first my quickened soul didst warm, Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise, Thy universal sway o'er all the world, In everlasting numbers, like the theme, I may record, and sing thy matchless worth. Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd, His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height; Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd Aerial; now in Ariconian bogs She lies inglorious, floundering, like her theme, Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise. With what sublimest joy from noisy town, At rural seat, Lucretius retir'd: Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares, Where the white poplar and the lofty pine Join neighboring boughs, sweet hospitable shade, Creating, from Phoebean rays secure, A cool retreat, with few well-chosen friends, On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse! With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths, Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods! Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls, And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight, Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine! Whether from Formian grape depressed, Falern, Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, Lesbian, or Coecuban, the cheering bowl Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heighten'd wit To sing Mecaena's praise, their patron kind. But we not as our pristine sires repair To umbrageous grot or vale; but when the sun Faintly from western skies his rays oblique Darts sloping, and to Thetis' wat'ry lap Hastens in prone career, with friends select Swiftly we hie to Devil,* young or old, *[Footnote: The Devil's Tavern, Temple Bar.] Jocund and boon; where at the entrance stands A stripling, who with scrapes and humil cringe Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland: With lightest bound, and safe unerring step, He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs. Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue, And wagging tail, gambols and frisks before His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd, Whether in shady wood or pasture green, And waits his coming at the well-known gate. Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port, Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce Command and sovereignty: with haughty air, And studied mien, in semicircular throne Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands; Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd, Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine: Attendant slaves with eager strides advance, And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud Words unintelligible, noise confus'd: She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes, In characters mysterious, words obscure: More legible are algebraic signs, Or mystic figures by magicians drawn, When they invoke the infernal spirit's aid. Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance Of savage Thracians and Croatian boors; The loud Centaurian broils with Lapithae Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean god; Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence (Amid their cups whose innate temper's shown), In clumsy fist wielding scymetrian knife, Who slash each other's eyes, and blubber'd face, Profaning Bacchanalian solemn rites: Music's harmonious numbers better suit His festivals, from instruments or voice, Or Gasperani's hand the trembling string Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames, Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue, Sweet symphonies should flow: the Delian god For airy Bacchus is associate meet. The stair's ascent now gain'd, our guide unbars The door of spacious room, and creaking chairs (To ear offensive) round the table sets. We sit; when thus his florid speech begins: "Name, sirs! the wine that most invites your taste; Champaign, or Burgundy, or Florence pure, Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old, Bourdeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant." For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers). He quits the room alert, but soon returns, One hand capacious glistering vessels bears Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure, A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught With goodly wine. He, with extended hand Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice, O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon: We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs: Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!) And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best, Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile: With hearty zeal and wish unanimous, Her health we drink, and in her health our own. A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat We improve the interval, and joyous mirth Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee, Or witty joke, our airy senses moves To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room With universal peals and shouts resounds. The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen, Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame, And mutual endearments, all her joys, Like to the kind turtle's pure untainted love, Center in him, who shares the grateful hearts Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen; For by his prudent care united shores Were sav'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire. The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field. Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd, That shone in his most worthy ancestors; For then distinct in separate breasts were seen Virtues distinct, but all in him unite. Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal Frugal, but free and generous of his own. Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland, And Halifax, the Muses' darling son, In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine The surest judgment and the brightest wit, Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too; And all the worthies of the British realm, In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge The dulcet wine with a more charming gust. Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell, Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid!-- Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours; Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye; All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records, Now most we seem'd--such is the power of Wine. Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise Of coach, or cant, or smoky link-boy's call, Is heard--but universal silence reigns; When we in merry plight, airy and gay, Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly, With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord, Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod: Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our wills; When we with liberal hand the score discharge, And homeward each his course with steady step Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft. ODE ON SCIENCE. DEAN SWIFT. O, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairer science ever dwells Beneath the mossy cave; Indulge the verdure of the woods, With azure beauty gild the floods, And flowery carpets lave. For, Melancholy ever reigns Delighted in the sylvan scenes With scientific light While Dian, huntress of the vales, Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales Though wrapt from mortal sight Yet, goddess, yet the way explore With magic rites and heathen lore Obstructed and depress'd; Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, Untaught, not uninspired, to shine By Reason's power redress'd. When Solon and Lycurgus taught To moralize the human thought Of mad opinion's maze, To erring zeal they gave new laws, Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause, That blends congenial rays. Bid bright Astraea gild the morn, Or bid a hundred suns be born, To hecatomb the year; Without thy aid, in vain the poles, In vain the zodiac system rolls, In vain the lunar sphere. Come, fairest princess of the throng; Bring sweet philosophy along, In metaphysic dreams: While raptured bards no more behold A vernal age of purer gold, In Heliconian streams. Drive thraldom with malignant hand, To curse some other destined land. By Folly led astray: Ierne bear on azure wing; Energic let her soar, and sing Thy universal sway. So when Amphion bade the lyre To more majestic sound aspire, Behold the mad'ning throng, In wonder and oblivion drowned, To sculpture turned by magic sound, And petrifying song. A LOVE SONG, IN THE MODERN TASTE. DEAN SWIFT. Fluttering spread thy purple pinions Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping Mourned Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre: Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate. BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID. DEAN SWIFT In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'T was still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, "What ar't!" Then softly turn'd aside, to view Whether the lights were burning blue The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: "Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd, While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes." They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower. The flier, though it had leaden feet, Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side; The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat, which it can not turn. The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change, a pulpit grew. The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged. The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter: And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe. A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep By lodging folks disposed to sleep. The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most Philemon, having paused a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style; Then said, "My house is grown so fine, Methinks, I still would call it mine. I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson if you please." He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve; His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues: He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wish'd women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for "right divine;" Found his head fill'd with many a system; But classic authors--he ne'er miss'd 'em. Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced with lace. "Plain Goody" would no longer down, 'T was "Madam," in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes. Amazed to see her look so prim, And she admired as much at him. Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amid their talk, To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"-- "Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks I feel it true, And really yours is budding too-- Nay--now I can not stir my foot; It feels as if 't were taking root." Description would but tire my Muse, In short, they both were turn'd to yews. Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which, 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted, So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER IN IMITATION OP VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. DEAN SWIFT. Careful, observers may foretell the hour, (By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage; Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear. Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this DEVOTED town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach. Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through), Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborne bridge. Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood; Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY; OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY. PETER PINDAR. Sic transit gloria mundi!--Old Sun Dials. From House of Buckingham, in grand parade, To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade. THE ARGUMENT.--Peter's loyalty.--He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote: The Poet Laureate.] of joking.--Complimenteth the poet Laureate.-- Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.--Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.--Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.--King Charles the Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.--Peter praiseth himself.--Peter reproved by Mr. Warton.--Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.--A fine simile.--Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.--Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.--Mr. Warton replieth.--Peter administereth bold advice.--Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.--Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.--Peter maketh a natural simile.--Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.--Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing. THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.--His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.--His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.--Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell street.--Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.--Mr. Ramus's return from his embassy.--Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr. Ramus.--The King's pleasure thereat.--Description of people of worship.--Account of the Whitbread preparation.--The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street.--The arrival at the brewhouse.--Great joy of Mr. Whitbread.--His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.--A West India simile.--The marvelings of the draymen described.--His Majesty peepeth into a pump.--Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.--The MINUTE curiosity of the King.--Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.--His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth wonder.--Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.--His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.--Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--King noteth NOTABLE things.--Profound questions proposed by Majesty.--As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.--Majesty in a mistake.--Corrected by the brewer.--A nose simile.--Majesty's admiration of the bell.--Good manners of the bell.--Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.--Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for answers.--Peter telleth the duty of Kings.-- Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.--Sublime sympathy of a water- spout and a king.--The great use of asking questions.--The habitation of truth.--The collation.--The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.--Majesty proposeth to take leave.--Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's objections.--The king runneth a rig on his host.--Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.--Miss Whitbread curtsieth.--The queen dippeth.--The Cavalcade departeth. Peter triumpheth.--Admonisheth the Laureate.--Peter croweth over the Laureate.--Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who have lost their legs.--Peter reasoneth.--Vaunteth.--Even insulteth the Laureate.--Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.--Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings. Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre, Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire, To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine, Say, may we venture to believe a line? You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke. Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught; Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought, I think, must put a dog into a laugh: Edward and Harry were much braver men Than this new-christened hero of thy pen. Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half; Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain, George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain; Sees swords and bayonets without a dread, Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head: Although at grand reviews he seems so blest, And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest, Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster; Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming, And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine, With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters. Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess: His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality, Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche As that old queen, though often called old b--ch, In fame's colossal house of immortality. As for John Dryden's Charles--that king Indeed was never any mighty thing; He merited few honors from the pen: And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow, Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow, And mind--kept company with GENTLEMEN: For, like some kings, in hobby grooms, Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms, Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight-- Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids, Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades: Indeed I know not what Charles did by night. Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover; In short, I'm candor's self all over; Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe; Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised, And humble Merit from the ground be raised: What thinkest thou of Peter now? Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king, Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing; That king has virtues that should make thee stare." Is it so?--Then the sin's in me-- 'Tis my vile optics that can't see; Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer. But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne, So distant, O ye gods! from every one, The royal virtues are like many a star, From this our pigmy system rather far: Whose light, though flying ever since creation, Has not yet pitched upon our nation. [Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer, Huygens] Then may the royal ray be soon explored-- And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming, I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word The instant I behold it coming. But, Thomas Warton, without joking, Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking? How canst thou seriously declare, That George the Third With Cressy's Edward can compare, Or Harry?--'Tis too bad, upon my word: George is a clever king, I needs must own, And cuts a jolly figure on the throne. Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray What to the devil shall I sing or say?" I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom: Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying, His gracious eyes and ears was edifying, By abbey company and kettle drum: Leaving that son to death and the physician, Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition; Two poachers, who make man their game, And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim. Say, though the monarch did not see his son, He kept aloof through fatherly affection; Determined nothing should be done, To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection. For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs? Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes; And what are sighs and tears but wind and water, That show the leakiness of feeble nature? Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel; Like air and any sort of drink, Whizzing and oozing through each chink, That proves the weakness of the barrel. Say--for the prince, when wet was every eye, And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout; Say how a King, unable to dissemble, Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout: Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear! Denied till then a thimble full of beer; For which they've thanked the author of this meter, Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim, And call such royal avarice, a shame. Say--but I'll teach thee how to make an ode; Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode, In company with my immortal lay; And look, Tom--thus I fire away-- BIRTH-DAY ODE. This day, this very day, gave birth, Not to the brightest monarch upon earth, Because there are some brighter and as big; Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven, George loves them also, when they're given To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.* Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation Prove what a charming thing is education. *[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable part of the royal amusement.] Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame: Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name; Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew-- Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew: Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!" Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen! Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage, To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page, To say that majesty proposed to view, With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed, His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed, And learn the noble secret how to brew. Of such undreamt-of honor proud, Meet reverently the brewer bowed; So humbly (so the humble story goes,) He touched even terra firma with his nose; Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus, "Happy are we that our great king should name us, As worthy unto majesty to show, How we poor Chiswell people brew." Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought, To majesty tha welcome tidings brought, How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake, And trembled--then the civil things he said-- On which the king did smile and nod his head: For monarchs like to see their subjects quake: Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are, Proclaiming reverence and humility: High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare Of kingly grandeur and great capability! People of worship, wealth, and birth, Look on the humbler sons of earth, Indeed in a most humble light, God knows! High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs, While people walking on the strand like crows. Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made; Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid He should not charm enough his guests divine: He gave his maids new aprons, gowns and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine: Busy as horses in a field of clover, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street; But oftener charmed with fashionable air, Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square. Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO, His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE. With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show, And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs. Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod To smiling Whitbread, who, had God Come with his angels to behold his beer, With more respect he never could have met-- Indeed the man was in a sweat, So much the brewer did the king revere. Her majesty contrived to make a dip: Light as a feather then the king did skip, And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh, Before poor Whitbread comprehended half. Reader, my Ode should have a simile-- Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree, Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews, I've seen--such noise the feathered imps did make, As made my very pericranium ache-- Asking and telling parrot news: Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys, Devoured the questions that the king did ask: In different parties were they staring seen, Wondering to think they saw a king and queen! Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask. Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon) Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon; And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, To view, and be assured what sort of things Were princesses, and queens, and kings, For whose most lofty station thousands sigh! And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan, Few were the mouths that had not got a man! Now majesty into a pump so deep Did with an opera-glass so curious peep: Examining with care each wondrous matter That brought up water! Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, A chattering bird we often meet, A bird for curiosity well known; With head awry, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. And now his curious majesty did stoop To count the nails on every hoop; And, lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, "What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?" So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break his neck. Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl, Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL; Thus microscopic genuises explore Things that too oft provoke the public scorn, Yet swell of useful knowledges the store, By finding systems in a pepper-corn. Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, To make the majesty of England stare, That he had butts enough, he knew, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew: On which the king with wonder swiftly cried, "What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side, What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?" To whom with knitted, calculating brow, The man of beer most solemnly did vow, Almost to Windsor that they would extend; On which the king, with wondering mien, Repeated it unto the wondering queen: On which, quick turning round his haltered head, The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed; The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder, Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder. Now did the king for other beers inquire, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire And, after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs? This was a puzzling, disagreeing question; Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion: A kind of question to the man of cask, That not even Solomon himself would ask. Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took A very pretty memorandum-book, With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white, And in it legibly began to write-- MEMORANDUM. A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates. MEM. 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer-- Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere. QUOERE. Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well? MEM. To try it soon on our small beer-- 'Twill save us several pound a year. MEM. To remember to forget to ask Old Whitbread to my house one day MEM. Not to forget to take of beer the cask, The brewer offered me, away. Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd, Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed, And then put up his asses' skin. To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, "Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!" "Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes, The brewer answered--"also, sir, of oats: Another thing my horses too maintains, And that, an't please your majesty, are grains." "Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops? Grains, grains?--that comes from hops--yes, hops, hops? hops?" Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault-- "Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt." "True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile: "From malt, malt, malt--I meant malt all the while." "Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, "An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure." "Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply, "I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I." Now this was wise in Whitbread--here we find A very pretty knowledge of mankind; As monarchs never must be in the wrong, 'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue, To tell a little fib, or some such thing, To save the sinking credit of a king. Some brewers, in a rage of information, Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation, Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever! Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain! The man had cut his consequence in twain; The king had hated the WISE fool forever! Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose That bright with many a ruby glows, That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear, Is nursed on something better than small-beer. Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise, Or natural history holding lofty station, Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes, Such kings have had a goodly education. Now did the king admire the bell so fine, That daily asks the draymen all to dine: On which the bell rung out (how very proper!) To show it was a bell, and had a clapper. And now before their sovereign's curious eye, Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs, All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style, Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs: On which the observant man, who fills a throne, Declared the pigs were vastly like his own: On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys, Tears and astonishment in both his eyes, His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal, Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine Be deemed by majesty so fine! Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?" To which the king assented with a nod; On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!" Then winked significant on Miss; Significant of wonder and of bliss; Who, bridling in her chin divine, Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, And then her lowest courtesy made For such high honor done her father's swine. Now did his majesty so gracious say To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way, "Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade? Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men? "D'ye hunt!--hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old-- You'll be lord mayor--lord mayor one day-- Yes, yes, I've heard so--yes, yes, so I'm told: Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay? I'll prick you every year, man, I declare: Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor. "Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best You put your liveries on the draymen-hee? Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest. What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock? But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?" Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed If I know what to answer first;" Then searched his brains with ruminating eye: But e'er the man of malt an answer found, Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply. Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong- From curiosity doth wisdom flow: For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long, The more a man inquires, the more he'll know. Reader, didst ever see a water-spout? 'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No." Well then! he makes a most infernal rout; Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below, With huge proboscis reaching from the sky, As if he meant to drink the ocean dry: At length so full he can't hold one drop more-. He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship, And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep: Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews, Suck from the tribe of officers the news, Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter, And souse it on the queen with such a clatter! I always would advise folks to ask questions; For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge: Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions, Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college; Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges, Even of the lowest green-bag drudges. The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell, Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well, Questions are then the windlass and the rope That pull the grave old gentlewoman up: Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions, Reflecting upon kings for asking questions. Now having well employed his royal lungs On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs, The king and Co. sat down to a collation Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation. Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork, That merciless fell like tomahawks to work, And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle, While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle. The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath Amidst the regiments of death, Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round, And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer "Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear, You're of an ancient family--renowned-- What? what? I'm told that you're a limb Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym: What Whitbread, is it true what people say? Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae? I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes-- A snuffling round-headed society-- Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats-- Bunyans, and Practices of Piety: Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare-- Rather see cash--yes, yes--than books of prayer. Thirtieth of January don't you FEED? Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head." Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish, Whole hosts o'erturned--and seized on all supplies; The royal visitors expressed a wish To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes. But first the monarch, so polite, Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT. Unwilling in the list to be enrolled, Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg, Then to his generous sovereign made a leg, And said, "He was afraid he was too old. He thanked however his most gracious king, For offering to make him SUCH A THING." But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear! It was not age that bade the man of beer The proffered honor of the monarch shun: The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright, Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight, A tale that farrowed such a world of fun. He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed, Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:-- A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye; And though a Presbyterian, can not think Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink) Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly! Now from the table with Caesarean air Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow, When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair, Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow. Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops, Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops; Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips That never hurt the royal knees and hips; For hips and knees of queens are sacred things, That only bend on gala days Before the best of kings, When odes of triumph sound his praise.-- Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard--P. P.] Such, Thomas, is the way to write! Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite; Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky: No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti. Thus should an honest laureate write of kings-- Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS; I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme Call every king a character sublime; For conscience will not suffer me to wander So very widely from the paths of candor. I know full well SOME kings are to be seen, To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen, Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed-- They MAY have been with such a present blessed, And therefore fancy that some STILL remains; For every well-experienced surgeon knows, That men who with their legs have parted, Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES, And often at the twinges started; They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain! Fancying the toes were all come back again. If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned, Can fancy those same toes at times returned; So kings, in matters of intelligences, May fancy they have stumbled on their senses. Yes, Tom--mine is the way of writing ode-- Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God! Strange disappointment in thy looks I read; And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry, "Is this an action, Peter, this a deed To raise a monarch to the sky? Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng, Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!" Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels-- Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife, But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact-- Thy Caesar never did an act More wise, more glorious in his life. Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings, Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house: And may they never do more foolish things Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse. THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.] While at the helm of state you ride, Our nation's envy, and its pride; While foreign courts with wonder gaze, And curse those councils which they praise; Would you not wonder, sir, to view Your bard a greater man than you? Which that he is you can not doubt, When you have read the sequel out. You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, No great analogy between Greatness and happiness is seen. If then, as it might follow straight, WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT; Forbid it, gods, that you should try What'tis to be so great as I! The family that dines the latest, Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; But latest hours must surely fall 'Fore him who never dines at all. Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles--in the air? We're often taught it doth behoove as To think those greater who're above us; Another instance of my glory, Who live above you, twice two story; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of ARLINGTON. Greatness by poets still is painted With many followers acquainted: This too doth in my favor speak; YOUR levee is but twice a week; From mine I can exclude but one day, My door is quiet on a Sunday. Nor in the manner of attendance, Doth your great bard claim less ascendance Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation; While I, like the Mogul in INDO, Am never seen but at my window. If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is easily amended; For I'll come down, with wondrous ease, Into whatever PLACE you please. I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures. Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation, Tuscan and French are in my head, LATIN I write, and GREEK--I read. If you should ask, what pleases best? To get the most, and do the least. What fittest for?--You know, I'm sure; I'm fittest for--a SINE-CURE. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER. [Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:] ANTI-JACOBIN. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. [Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, assumed.] "Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!" THE WIDOW. SAPPHIOS Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell: Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: She had no home, the world was all before her. She had no shelter. Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her: "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer, "Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish." "Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and "'Scissors to grind O!' Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney? "Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit? "(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story." KNIFE-GRINDER. "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. "Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-- Stocks for a vagrant. "I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir." FRIEND OF HUMANITY. "I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!" [Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.] INSCRIPTION FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.* FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN. 1797 For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH, AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd! *INSCRIPTION BY SOUTHEY FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN, THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS. For thirty years, secluded from mankind, Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread He paced around his prison: not to him Did Nature's fair varieties exist; He never saw the sun's delightful beams, Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sad And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT In JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal Our Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhile From man withheld, even to the latter days When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd. SONG [Footnote: There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.] SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF "THE ROVER." FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798. CANNING. I. Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U --niversity of Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds--] II. Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!-- Alas! Matilda THEN was true! At least I thought so at the U-- --niversity of Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.] III. Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U-- --niversity of Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. IV. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many--they were few When first I entered at the U-- --niversity of Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. V. There first for thee my psssion grew, Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu-- --tor, law professor at the U-- --niversity at Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. VI. Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru-- --el, never shall I see the U-- --niversity of Gottingen-- --niversity of Gottingen. [During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.] THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY. I. DELIA AT PLAY. She held a CUP AND BALL of ivory white, LESS WHITE the ivory than her snowy hand! Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand, As now, intent, in INNOCENT delight, Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with EAGLE SIGHT, Now on the pointed end INFIXED its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed. Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART; (Alas! that sport like THAT should be her pride!) And the KEEN POINT which steadfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's DART; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who ON THAT DART IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM? II. THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA. Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. Far from my Delia now by fate removed, At home, abroad, I view her everywhere: HER ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see, My GODDESS-MAID, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR. FOR LOVE ANNIHILATES THE WORLD TO ME! And when the weary SOL AROUND HIS BED CLOSES THE SABLE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT, SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight She shines confest. When EVERY SOUND IS DEAD, The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to ROLL The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. Far, far from her my BODY drags its chain, But sure with Delia I EXIST A SOUL! III. THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR. I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er From book or needlework her looks arise, On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES, And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR, And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys. O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze; I envy him! and jealous fear alarms, Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charms WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days, When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly gentleman, With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane! THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY. I. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine. When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near, Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein; And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be designed-- THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE! Here, when she took the maccaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee! Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat. And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw, That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. II. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE. The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR. Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove! And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR, Who died to make pomatum for my love. Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside. Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART. Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed; Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead. Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate, My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN. The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings; And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care, The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS. III. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA S HAIR, AND HER ANGER. Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise! Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth, Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes. Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn, For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst. Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life; Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight, And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife. Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love? What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes? Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go! Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe! Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die, May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL. Last night--Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer! The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay, And let me from its ample records tear ONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY! Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight, And I will STOP HIM on his restless way; Omnipotent in love's resistless might, I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY. Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair, My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve, I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve: And would at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men! She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, And while my heart with transport parted big, She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried, "You stupid puppy--you have spoiled my wig!" [Illustration: WILLIS] THE BABY'S DEBUT. [Footnote: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ALICE FELL, and the greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."--Edinburg Review.] A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.--REJECTED ADDRESSES JAMES SMITH. Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter. My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-year's-day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top. Jack's in the pouts, and this it is-- He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane. This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right A pretty thing, forsooth! If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth! Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!" Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet. The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am. My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see. What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!--my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground. At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan. "You've only got to curtsy, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?" But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? Where's Jack? O there they sit! They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit. And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you. [Blow a kiss, and exit.] PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS. A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES. JAMES SMITH My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery-ware, And when that donkey looked me in the face, His face was sad I and you are sad, my Public. Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles-street I prepared to walk. Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I looked me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labors; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth. Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watched the work, express their various thoughts! While some believed it never would be finished, Some, on the contrary, believed it would. I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wished that front Cemented like the front in Brydges-street; As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish's tail. White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face. Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!" To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish! Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters! What is the Regency in Tottenham-street, The Royal Amphitheater of Arts, Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba. [Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house, exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better elephant than that!"] Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee," And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [EXIT HASTILY.] THE THEATER. [Footnote: "'The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author. * * * It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description."--Edinburg Review.] [A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CEABBE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.] JAMES SMITH. Interior of a Theater described.--Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.--Pit full.--The Orchestra tuned.--One Fiddle rather dilatory.--Is reproved--and repents.--Evolutions of a Play-bill.--Its final Settlement on the Spikes.--The Gods taken to task--and why.-- Motley Group of Play-goers.--Holywell-street, St. Pancras.--Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice--not in London--and why.--Episode of the Hat. 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widened pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches to late comers doom No room for standing, miscalled STANDING-ROOM. Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hushed--but, no, one fiddle will Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foiled in his clash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!" And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. What various swains our motley walls contain! Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five--they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-- Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin's name-a red haired youth, Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurned the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." "Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line." "Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine." A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew, Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-- Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned, Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. A TALE OF DRURY LANE [Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to select--It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr. Scott's admirable romances."--Quarterly Review. "'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so ventureously assumed by the describer"--Edinburg Review.] [A BURLESQUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT'S METRICAL ROMANCES. REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH. [To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.] Survey this shield, all bossy bright-- These cuisses twin behold! Look on my form in armor dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belonged to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valor tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance, And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall. THE NIGHT. On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flittered the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then reassumed its still array; When as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appear'd to slumber in the light. From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead All was so hushed and still. THE BURNING. As chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flashed upon her eyes So London's sons in night-cap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke "The playhouse is in flames!" And, lo! where Catharine street extends, A fiery tail its luster lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguined drain; Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height Where patent shot they sell; The Tennis-Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, The ticket-porters' house of call. Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson's Hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across red Thames's gleaming tide, To distant fields the blaze was borne, And daisy white and hoary thorn In borrowed luster seemed to sham The rose of red sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise, It seemed that nations did conspire To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summoned firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thundered through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Showed foreman of the British gang-- His name was Higginbottom. Now 'Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun. Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, The Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Whitford and Mitford joined the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell's gloomy mound! E'en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed, Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo "Heads below!" Nor notice give at all. The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof would fall. Back, Robins, back; Crump, stand aloof! Whitford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down, in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from th' astonished crowd. At length the mist awhile was cleared, When, lo! amid the wreck upreared, Gradually a moving head appeared, And Eagle firemen knew 'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!" And poured the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He tottered, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, To succor one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire), His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o'erwhelmed him quite, He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman, and afraid of bumps!-- What are they fear'd on? fools: 'od rot 'em!" Were the last words of Higginbottom. THE REVIVAL Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, "Joy to the managing committee!" Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady. Didst mark, how toiled the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leaped like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realize bold Wyatt's plan Rushed may a howling Irishman; Loud clattered many a porter-can, And many a ragamuffin clan, With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She "wings the midway air," elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears. No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears Have cut the bauble off. Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deemed her walls so thick, Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick! DRURY'S DIRGE. [BY LAUBA MATILDA.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH. "You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force, Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atone For that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"--GIFFORD. Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing. Softly slept the dome of Drury O'er the empyreal crest, When Alecto's sister-fury Softly slumbering sunk to rest. Lo! from Lemnos, limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Oytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire. Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness, Mercy holds the vail to Truth. See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana's fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckoned, Clouds envelop Drury Lane. Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the god fulfills his mission, Chivarly, resign thy lance. Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds disheveled lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry. See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine's peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak. Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave; Jealousy's ensanguined chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave. Pan beheld Patrocles dying, Nox to Niobe was turned; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurned. Thus fell Drury's lofty glory, Leveled with the shuddering stones Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans. Hark! what soft Aeolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature's ringlets deck the thorn. Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet, and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul. Where is Cupid's crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow. Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart, See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never, let us part! WHAT IS LIFE BY "ONE OF THE FANCY." BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?" And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?" My muse and I are not at strife, So listen, lady, to my measure:-- Listen amid thy graceful leisure, To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure. 'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stain With sallow light the window-pane: To dress--to wear a rough drab coat, With large pearl buttons all afloat Upon the waves of plush: to tie A kerchief of the King-cup dye (White spotted with a small bird's-eye) Around the neck, and from the nape Let fall an easy fan-like cape: To quit the house at morning's prime, At six or so--about the time When watchmen, conscious of the day Puff out their lantern's rush-light ray; Just when the silent streets are strewn With level shadows, and the moon Takes the day's wink and walks aside To nurse a nap till eventide. 'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable, Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL, And mount a gig that had a spring Some summer's back: and then take wing Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue) A jade whose "withers are unwrung;" Who stands erect, and yet forlorn, And from a HALF-PAY life of corn, Showing as many POINTS each way As Martial's Epigrammata, Yet who, when set a-going, goes Like one undestined to repose. 'Tis LIFE to revel down the road, And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load, To rave and rattle at the GATE, And shower upon the gatherer's pate Damns by the dozens, and such speeches As well betokens one's SLANG riches: To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKED A glass or so--'tis LIFE to take it! To see the Hurst with tents encampt on; Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton; Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being led Into the yard, and clean'd and fed); Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis (The last a fighting rara avis), And, half in secret, scheme a plan For trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN. 'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry, With boon companions, wild and merry, And see the ring upon the Hurst With carts encircled--hear the burst At distance of the eager crowd. Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proud And dauntless man step, full of hopes, Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes, Throw in his hat, and with a spring, Get gallantly within the ring; Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile, Taking all cheerings with a smile: To see him skip--his well-trained form, White, glowing, muscular, and warm, All beautiful in conscious power, Relaxed and quiet, till the hour; His glossy and transparent frame, In radiant plight to strive for fame! To look upon the clean shap'd limb In silk and flannel clothed trim; While round the waist the 'kerchief tied, Makes the flesh glow in richer pride. 'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him hold His hand forth, tremulous yet bold, Over his second's, and to clasp His rival's in a quiet grasp; To watch the noble attitude He takes--the crowd in breathless mood: And then to see, with adamant start, The muscles set, and the great heart Hurl a courageous splendid light Into the eye-and then-the FIGHT! FRAGMENTS. [BY A FREE-LOVER.] BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823 They were not married by a muttering priest, With superstitious rites, and senseless words, Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book, In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen) Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH! THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth-- The starry empyrean their vast temple-- Their book each other's eyes--and Love himself Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!-- Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy The spirit of the universe.--In sooth There was a sort of drizzling rain that day, For I remember (having left at home My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA, Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter Under an entry not twelve paces off (It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop For half an hour or more, and there I mused (Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed, That hurried as a het'rogenous mass To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir), I mused upon the running stream of LIFE! But that's not much to the purpose--I was telling Of these most pure espousals.--Innocent pair! Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains About the yielding mind of credulous youth, Wound by the nurse and priest--YOUR energies, Your unsophisticated impulses, Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch! With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit Held no communion.--'T was well done, fair creature! T' assert the independence of a mind Created-generated I would say-- Free as "that chartered libertine, the air." Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange! Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew Your kindred souls by * * * * * * * * * * There fled the noblest spirit--The most pure, Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art, Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now Into and with the all-absorbing frame Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life, While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones, My thoughts and feelings like electric flame Shot through the solid mass, toward the source, And blended with the general elements, When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds (Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays-- Dull joys of prejudice and superstition And vulgar decencies begirt thee round; And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.-- But reason came-and firm philosophy, And mild philanthropy, and pointed out The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame, To curb within a little paltry pale The love that over all created things Should be diffusive as the atmosphere. Then did thy boundless tenderness expand Over all space--all animated things And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart, A ready tear for all.--The dying whale, Stranded and gasping--ripped up for his blubber By Man the Tyrant.--The small sucking pig Slain for his riot.--The down-trampled flower Crushed by his cruel foot.--ALL, EACH, and ALL Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then-- (SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE) Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim, As her just right, support and love from THEE-- Then didst thou * * * * * * * * * * * THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE There's somewhat on my breast father, There's somewhat on my breast! The live-long day I sigh, father, At night I can not rest; I can not take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so, A weary weight oppresseth me-- The weary weight of woe! 'Tis not the lack of gold, father Nor lack of worldly gear; My lands are broad and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear; My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief, But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief! 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast-- Its that confounded cucumber I've ate, and can't digest. THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY. THOMAS MOORE. With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back, In awful prescience of the impending THWACK, Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood--and with prelusive SPAR, And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war! The One, in bloom of youth--a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE-- The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made, Express, by Nature for the hammering trade; But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much, And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch. Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came, While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame, And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT, Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and felt With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd, Round LUGS and OGLES [Footnote: Ears and Eyes.] flew the frequent fist; While showers of FACERS told so deadly well, That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell! But firmly stood ENTELLUS--and still bright, Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY'S light, STOPP'D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fire The Immortal FANCY could alone inspire! While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought, An opening to the COVE'S huge carcase sought (Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour, When on ONE leg he hopp'd to--take the Tower!) And here, and there, explored with active FIN [Footnote: Arm.] And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win, And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN. And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann'd PUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand, But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spied His shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside-- So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain NOBBER pass'd Through empty air; and He, so high, so vast, Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground Not B--CK--GH--M himself, with bulkier sound, Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories, Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish'd Tories! Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yells From Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLS Fill'd the wide heaven--while, touch'd with grief to see His PAL, [Footnote: Friend] well-known through many a LARK and SPREE, [Footnote: Party of pleasure and frolic] Thus RUMLY FLOOR'D, the kind ACESTES ran, And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man, Uncow'd, undamaged to the SPORT he came, His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame. The memory of his MILLING glories past, The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS'D, All fired the veteran's PLUCK--with fury flush'd, Full on his light-limb'd CUSTOMER he rush'd-- And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing, RUFFIAN'D the reeling youngster round the RING-- Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given, But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven Beats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL'S SHOT [Footnote: A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL'S, so called.] Around the Trojan's LUGS flew peppering hot! Till now AENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread, Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred Preserved alike the peace and DARES' head, BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK-- Then kindly thus the PUNISH'D youth bespake: Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impel So RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL? Sees't thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid, Herself descends to this great HAMMERER'S aid, And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers, Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS? Then, yield thee, youth--nor such a SPOONEY be, To think mere man can MILL a Deity!" Thus spoke the Chief--and now, the SCRIMAGE o'er, His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES bore Back to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart, And MUNS and NODDLE PINK'D in every part. While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush'd, And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush'd, Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd! NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT. [PARODY ON WOLFE'S "BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE."] R. HARRIS BARHAM Not a SOUS had he got--not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning; We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his MARSHALL cloak around him. "The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Whould "consumedly ache" on the morrow. We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water.-- Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory!! RAISING THE DEVIL. A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. R. HARRIS BARHAM. "And hast thou nerve enough?" he said, That gray Old Man, above whose head Unnumbered years have roll'd-- "And hast thou nerve to view," he cried, "The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!-- -- Art thou indeed so bold? "Say, canst Thou, with unshrinking gaze, Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze Of that unearthly eye, That blasts where'er it lights--the breath That, like the Simoom, scatters death On all that yet CAN die! --"Darest thou confront that fearful form, That rides the whirlwind, and the storm, In wild unholy revel!-- The terrors of that blasted brow, Archangel's once--though ruin'd now-- --Ay--dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"-- "I dare!" the desperate Youth replied, And placed him by that Old Man's side, In fierce and frantic glee, Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb --"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM! --THE DEVIL I-I fain would see!-- "In all his Gorgon terrors clad, His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad Rejoined in reckless tone.-- --"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said, And sigh'd and shook his hoary head, With many a bitter groan. He drew the mystic circle's bound, With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around; He traced full many a sigil there; He mutter'd many a backward pray'r, That sounded like a curse-- "He comes !"--he cried with wild grimace, "The fellest of Apollyon's race!" --Then in his startled pupil's face He dash'd-an EMPTY PURSE!! THE LONDON UNIVERSITY; [Footnote: see footnote to SONG by Canning.] OR, STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS. AN ODE TO BE PERFORMED ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW COLLEGE. R. HARRIS BARHAM. Whene'er with pitying eye I view Each operative sot in town, I smile to think how wondrous few Get drunk who study at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. What precious fools "The People" grew, Their alma mater not in town; The "useful classes" hardly knew Four was composed of two and two, Until they learned it at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. But now they're taught by JOSEPH HU- ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town, Their ITEMS and their TOTTLES too; Each may dissect his sister Sue, From his instructions at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. Then L----E comes, like him how few Can caper and can trot in town, In PIROUETTE or PAS DE DEUX-- He beats the famed MONSIEUR GIROUX, And teaches dancing at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. And GILCHRIST, see, that great Geentoo- Professor, has a lot in town Of Cockney boys who fag Hindoo, And LARN JEM-NASTICS at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. SAM R--- corpse of vampire hue, Comes from its grave to rot in town; For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew, And chants, the Pleasures of the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,-- Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,-- Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue And yellow, d--ns the other two, But lauds the ever-glorious U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. Great BIRBECK, king of chips and glue, Who paper oft does blot in town, From the Mechanics' Institu- tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw, Lever and axle at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. LORD WAITHAM, who long since withdrew From Mansion House to cot in town; Adorn'd with chair of ormolu, All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo, Lectures on FREE TRADE at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. Fat F----, with his coat of blue, Who speeches makes so hot in town, In rhetoric, spells his lectures through, And sounds the V for W, The VAY THEY SPEAKS it at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. Then H----E comes, who late at New- gate Market, sweetest spot in town! Instead of one clerk popp'd in two, To make a place for his ne-phew, Seeking another at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. There's Captain ROSS, a traveler true, Has just presented, what in town- 's an article of great VIRTU (The telescope he once peep'd through, And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe On Croker Mountains), to the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew, Where Whigs might eat and plot in town, And swill his port, and mischief brew-- Poor CREEVY sips his water gru- el as the beadle of the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town, There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew, Names ne'er to be forgot in town, In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue-- Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew, Come trooping on to join the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. To crown the whole with triple queue-- Another such there's not in town, Twitching his restless nose askew, Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. GRAND CHORUS: Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town-- niversity we've Got in town. DOMESTIC POEMS. THOMAS HOOD. I. GOOD-NIGHT. The sun was slumbering in the west, my daily labors past; On Anna's soft and gentle breast my head reclined at last; The darkness closed around, so dear to fond congenial souls, And thus she murmured in my ear, "My love, we're out of coals. "That Mister Bond has called again, insisting on his rent; And all the Todds are coming up to see us, out of Kent; I quite forgot to tell you John has had a tipsy fall;-- I'm sure there's something going on with that vile Mary Hall! "Miss Bell has bought the sweetest milk, and I have bought the rest-- Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best. I really think the Jones's house would be the thing for us; I think I told you Mrs. Pope had parted with her NUS-- "Cook, by the way, came up to-day, to bid me suit myself-- And, what'd ye think? the rats have gnawed the victuals on the shelf. And, Lord! there's such a letter come, inviting you to fight! Of course you, don't intend to go--God bless you, dear, goodnight!" II. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop--first let me kiss away that tear)-- Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub--but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny, (Another tumb!--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-- (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I can not write, unless he's sent above!) III. A SERENADE. "LULLABY, O, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry, "Lullaby, O, lullaby! The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids, or open mine!" "Lullaby, O, lullaby! What the devil makes him cry? Lullaby, O, lullaby! Still he stares--I wonder why, Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from their birth?" "Lullaby, O, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, O, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try!-- Hush, O, hush, for mercy's sake-- The more I sing, the more you wake!" "Lullaby, O, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, O, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall!" "Lullaby, O, lullaby! Two such nights and I shall die! Lullaby, O, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I-- How can I from bed-posts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep!" "Lullaby, O, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny-- Lullaby, O, lullaby! Nature soon will stupefy-- My nerves relax--my eyes grow dim-- Who's that fallen--me or him?" ODE TO PERRY, THE INVENTOR OF THE STEEL PEN. THOMAS HOOD "In this good work, Penn appears the greatest, usefullest of God's instruments. Firm and unbending when the exigency requires it--soft and yielding when rigid inflexibility is not a desideratum--fluent and flowing, at need, for eloquent rapidity--slow and retentive in cases of deliberation--never spluttering or by amplification going wide of the mark--never splitting, if it can be helped, with any one, but ready to wear itself out rather in their service--all things as it were with all men--ready to embrace the hand of Jew, Christian, or Mohammedan--heavy with the German, light with the Italian, oblique with the English, upright with the Roman, backward in coming forward with the Hebrew--in short, for flexibility, amiability, constitutional durability, general ability, and universal utility, It would be hard to find a parallel to the great Penn." --Perry's CHARACTERISATION OF A SETTLER. O! Patent Pen-inventing Perrian Perry! Friend of the goose and gander, That now unplucked of their quill-feathers wander, Cackling, and gabbling, dabbling, making merry, About the happy fen, Untroubled for one penny-worth of pen, For which they chant thy praise all Britain through, From Goose-Green unto Gander-Cleugh!-- Friend to all Author-kind-- Whether of Poet or of Proser-- Thou art composer unto the composer Of pens--yea, patent vehicles for Mind To carry it on jaunts, or more extensive PERRYgrinations through the realms of thought; Each plying from the Comic to the Pensive, An Omnibus of intellectual sort; Modern improvements in their course we feel, And while to iron railroads heavy wares, Dry goods and human bodies, pay their fares, Mind flies on steel To Penrith, Penrhyn, even to Penzance; Nay, penetrates, perchance, To Pennsylvania, or, without rash vaunts, To where the Penguin haunts! In times bygone, when each man cut his quill, With little Perryan skill, What horrid, awkward, bungling tools of trade Appeared the writing implements home-made! What Pens were sliced, hewed, hacked, and haggled out, Slit or unslit, with many a various snout, Aquiline, Roman, crooked, square, and snubby. Stumpy and stubby; Some capable of ladye-billets neat, Some only fit for ledger-keeping clerk, And some to grub down Peter Stubbs his mark, Or smudge through some illegible receipt; Others in florid caligraphic plans, Equal to ships, and wiggy heads, and swans! To try in any common inkstands, then, With all their miscellaneous stocks, To find a decent pen, Was like a dip into a lucky box: You drew--and got one very curly, And split like endive in some hurly-burly; The next unslit, and square at end, a spade, The third, incipient pop-gun, not yet made; The fourth a broom; the fifth of no avail, Turned upward, like a rabbit's tail; And last, not least, by way of a relief, A stump that Master Richard, James or John, Had tried his candle-cookery upon, Making "roast-beef!" Not so thy Perryan Pens! True to their M's and N's, They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split, Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit, Or drop large dots, Hugh full-stop blots, Where even semicolons were unfit. They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudge In sable sludge-- Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops, They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stops Compose both prose and verse, the sad and merry-- For when the editor, whose pains compile The grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile, Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's, But lays "by the most celebrated Pens," What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry? Pleasant they are to feel! So firm! so flexible! composed of steel So finely tempered--fit for tenderest Miss To give her passion breath, Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death-- But their supremest merit still is this, Write with them all your days, Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays-- (No dramatist should ever be without 'em)-- And, just conceive the bliss-- There is so little of the goose about 'em, One's safe from any hiss! Ah! who can paint that first great awful night, Big with a blessing or a blight, When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret, Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright, Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness--more f's yet: Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat, Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that, Funeral, fate-foreboding--sits in doubt, Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage To see his play upon the stage come out; No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage, And he is sitting on the spikes behind it, Striving to look as if he didn't mind it! Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat, Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt, That went a beaver in, comes out a rat! Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright, Upon Rienzi's night, Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag, Quite to a rag. Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life, Afraid of his own "Wife;" Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine-- "The ice-brook's temper"--pleasant to the chine! For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail. Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer, Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where? Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth, While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck, Squeeze out and suck More oranges with his one fevered mouth Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south? Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice, Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet. Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints, During their trial? 'Tis past denial. And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock? And does not Planche, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords, And called upon himself to "walk the plank?" As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot, What have they more Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot, Than bear that capers on a hotted floor! Thus pending--does not Matthews, at sad shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?-- Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?-- And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?-- Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple About his arms, and Adam's apple Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat? Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire Or not to take a jump into the fire? Did Wade feel as composed as music can? And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man? Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater, And ere its changes ring transform himself? A frightful mug of human delf? A spirit-bottle--empty of "the cratur"? A leaden-platter ready for the shelf? A thunderstruck dumb-waiter? To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Committed at the Surrey, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, Corporal worry, And spiritual scurry, Dram-devil--attic curry! All going well, From prompter's bell, Until befell A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce-- There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once! My head was swimming, while my arms were flying! My legs for running--all the rest was frying! Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, Thy pens so innocent of goose! For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Discarding port and sherry, Drink--"Perry!" Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man! And when, ah me! far distant be the hour! Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower, Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many! And Penury itself shall club its penny To raise thy monument in lofty place, Higher than York's or any son of War; While time all meaner effigies shall bury, On due pentagonal base Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr! A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY. CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS. Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent, A famed tragedian--one of tuneful tongue-- Appeared for that night only--'t was Charles Young. As Rolla he. And as that Innocent, The Child of hapless Cora, on there went A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among-- So light she seem'd, and so intelligent! That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap: Snatching the creature by her tiny gown, He plants her on his shoulder,--All, all clap! While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown, She lisps in Rolla's ear,--"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP, OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!" SIDDONS AND HER MAID. W. S. LANDOR SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast; The herb of China is its crown at last. Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear? MAID. Yes, missus, yes. SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here, With penetrated, penetrating eyes. MAID. Mine? missus! are they? SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise, Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake. MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake! SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread? MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I, Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity. SIDDENS. Fond maiden! MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam! If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em. SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain That Shakspeare's language germinates again. THE SECRET SORROW. PUNCH Oh! let me from the festive board To thee, my mother, flee; And be my secret sorrow shared By thee--by only thee! In vain they spread the glitt'ring store, The rich repast, in vain; Let others seek enjoyment there, To me 'tis only pain. There WAS a word of kind advice-- A whisper soft and low, But oh! that ONE resistless smile! Alas! why was it so? No blame, no blame, my mother dear. Do I impute to YOU, But since I ate that currant tart I don't know what to do! SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS. AFTER SCHILLER. PUNCH. Four be the elements, Here we assemble 'em, Each of man's world And existence an emblem. Press from the lemon The slow flowing juices-- Bitter is life In its lessons and uses. Bruise the fair sugar lumps-- Nature intended Her sweet and severe To be everywhere blended. Pour the still water-- Unwarning by sound, Eternity's ocean Is hemming us round. Mingle the spirit, The life of the bowl-- Man is an earth-clod Unwarmed by a soul! Drink of the stream Ere its potency goes!-- No bath is refreshing Except while it glows! THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND. PUNCH. She's not what fancy painted her-- I'm sadly taken in: If some one else had won her, I Should not have cared a pin. I thought that she was mild and good As maiden e'er could be; I wonder how she ever could Have so much humbugg'd me. They cluster round and shake my hand-- They tell me I am blest: My case they do not understand-- I think that I know best. They say she's fairest of the fair-- They drive me mad and madder. What do they mean by it? I swear I only wish they had her. 'Tis true that she has lovely locks, That on her shoulders fall; What would they say to see the box In which she keeps them all? Her taper fingers, it is true, 'Twere difficult to match: What would they say if they but knew How terribly they scratch? TEMPERANCE SONG. PUNCH. AIR--FRIEND OF MY SOUL. Friend of my soul, this water sip, Its strength you need not fear; Tis not so luscious as egg-flip, Nor half so strong as beer. Like Jenkins when he writes, It can not touch the mind; Unlike what he indites, No nausea leaves behind. LINES ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME. PUNCH. I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms, As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day; And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms, And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye. But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread, Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever, And I look to the moment of parting with dread, For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever. Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart! Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief; And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief. The last of a long and affectionate race, As thy days are declining I love thee the more, For I feel that thy loss I can never replace-- That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore. Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I can not--I will not--forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST SHIRT. GRUB-STREET. MADNESS. PUNCH. There is a madness of the heart, not head-- That in some bosoms wages endless war; There is a throe when other pangs are dead, That shakes the system to its utmost core. There is a tear more scalding than the brine That streams from out the fountain of the eye, And like the lava leaves a scorched line, As in its fiery course it rusheth by. What is that madness? Is it envy, hate, Or jealousy more cruel than the grave, With all the attendants that upon it wait And make the victim now despair, now rave? It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief, Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner, The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef, And spilt the tart--in short, she's dish'd the dinner!" THE BANDIT'S FATE. PUNCH. He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-- I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow. A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid. I saw it but a moment--and I wish I saw it now-- As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow. And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow. LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH. Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile. Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds-- And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds. Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again. Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis-- The warrior is dead. THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS. PUNCH. Though largely developed's my organ of order, And though I possess my destructiveness small, On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border, If thus you are deaf to my vehement call For thee veneration is daily extending, On a head that for want of it once was quite flat; If thus with my passion I find you contending, My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest; For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved, I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest; But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved! I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead I'll send unto thee;--then upon thee I'll call. Rejection--alas! to the lover how horrid-- When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. PUNCH. I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpeter. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. A BALLAD OF BEDLAM. PUNCH. O, lady wake!--the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday. The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me. STANZAS TO AN EGG. [BY A SPOON.] PUNCH. Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection, Kidnapped in thy downy nest, Soon for my breakfast--sad reflection!-- Must thou in yon pot be drest. What are the feelings of thy mother? Poor bereaved, unhappy hen! Though she may lay, perchance, another, Thee she ne'er will see again. Yet do not mourn. Although above thee Never more shall parent brood. Know, dainty darling! that I love thee Dearly as thy mother could. A FRAGMENT. PUNCH. His eye was stern and wild,--his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay; He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he look'd upon the scroll--once more its words he read-- Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,-- I could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumb'd and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more. * * * * * * * Again I looked,--a fearful change across his face had pass'd-- He seem'd to rave,--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue-- "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE! EATING SONG. PUNCH. Oh! carve me yet another slice, O help me to more gravy still, There's naught so sure as something nice To conquer care, or grief to kill. I always loved a bit of beef, When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine; And now it gives my heart relief In sorrow's darksome hour--to dine! THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH. A weakness seizes on my mind--I would more pudding take; But all in vain--I feel--I feel--my little head will ache. Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam. I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea. It may be so--I can not tell--I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef--to taste that apple-pie; I long--I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try. I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch. Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear, My brain swims round--I feel it all--mother, your child is queer! THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS. PUNCH. Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER! LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH. My head is like a title-deed, Or abstract of the same: Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read Thine own long-cherish'd name. Against thee I my suit have brought, I am thy plaintiff lover, And for the heart that thou hast caught, An action lies--of trover. Alas, upon me every day The heaviest costs you levy: Oh, give me back my heart--but nay! I feel I can't replevy. I'll love thee with my latest breath, Alas, I can not YOU shun, Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death Takes me in execution. Say, BESSY dearest, if you will Accept me as a lover? Must true affection file a bill The secret to discover? Is it my income's small amount That leads to hesitation? Refer the question of account To CUPID'S arbitration. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT. PUNCH. Oh! take away my wig and gown, Their sight is mockery now to me. I pace my chambers up and down, Reiterating "Where is HE?" Alas! wild echo, with a moan, Murmurs above my feeble head: In the wide world I am alone; Ha! ha! my only client's--dead! In vain the robing-room I seek; The very waiters scarcely bow, Their looks contemptuously speak, "He's lost his only client now." E'en the mild usher, who, of yore, Would hasten when his name I said, To hand in motions, comes no more, HE knows my only client's dead. Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, Open the pleadings of a suit: Ne'er shall the judges cut me short While moving them for a compute. No more with a consenting brief Shall I politely bow my head; Where shall I run to hide my grief? Alas! my only client's dead. Imagination's magic power Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be, The spot, the day, the very hour, When first I sign'd my maiden plea. In the Exchequer's hindmost row I sat, and some one touched my head, He tendered ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead. In vain I try to sing--I'm hoarse: In vain I try to play the flute, A phantom seems to flit across-- It is the ghost of a compute. I try to read,--but all in vain; My chamber listlessly I tread; Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain; Ho! ho! my only client's dead. I think I hear a double knock: I did--alas! it is a dun. Tailor--avaunt! my sense you shock; He's dead! you know I had but one. What's this they thrust into my hand? A bill returned!--ten pounds for bread! My butcher's got a large demand; I'm mad! my only client's dead. LOVE ON THE OCEAN. PUNCH. They met, 't was in a storm On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke--at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turned his face aside, And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd. She gazed upon the wave, Sublime she declared it; But no reply he gave-- He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south, Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth, And out he thought 't was leaping. "O, then, Steward!" he cried With the deepest emotion; Then totter'd to the side, And leant o'er the ocean. The world may think him cold, But they'll pardon him with quickness, When the fact they shall be told, That he suffer'd from sea-sickness. "OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?" [Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee then as now" were two popular songs in 1849] AND "YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!" PUNCH. [Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N--T--N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL--CHE DE F--TZ--FL--M to C--PT--N DE B--RS, of the C-DS--M G--DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D--CH--SS of S--TH--D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.] "Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on, When gayer scenes recall That fairy face, that stately grace, To reign amid the ball? When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers For fete-champetres shall don, Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow, Still sew my buttons on? "The noble, sweet, are at thy feet, To meet a freezing eye; The gay, the great, in camp and state, In vain around thee sigh. Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway, To bless a younger son-- But when we live in lodgings, say, Wilt sew his buttons on?" "Yes I will sew thy buttons on, Though all look dark and drear; And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay, Two hundred pounds a year. Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames, Of gauds and gems I'll none; Nor ask to roam, but sit at home, And sew thy buttons on! "When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush, And fast the waltzers fly, Though tame at tea I bide with thee, No tear shall dim my eye. When summer's close brings Chiswick shows-- When all from town have gone, I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown, But sew thy buttons on!" THE PAID BILL A BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY. PUNCH O fling not this receipt away, Given by one who trusted thee; Mistakes will happen every day However honest folks may be. And sad it is, love, twice to pay; So cast not that receipt away! Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours, When we this bill have all forgot, They send it in again--ye powers! And swear that we have paid it not-- How sweet to know, on such a day We've never cast receipts away! PARODY FOR A REFORMED PARLIAMENT. PUNCH. The quality of bribery is deep stained; It droppeth from a hand behind the door Into the voter's palm. It is twice dirty: It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis basest in the basest, and becomes Low blacklegs more than servants of the Crown. Those swindlers show the force of venal power, The attribute to trick and roguery, Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins: But bribery is below their knavish "lay." It is the vilest of dishonest things; It was the attribute to Gatton's self; And other boroughs most like Gatton show When bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you, Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this-- That in the cause of just reform, you all Should lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery; And that dislike doth cause us to object to The deeds of W. B. THE WAITER. PUNCH. I met the waiter in his prime At a magnificent hotel; His hair, untinged by care or time, Was oiled and brushed exceeding well. When "waiter," was the impatient cry, In accents growing stronger, He seem'd to murmur "By and by, Wait a little longer." Within a year we met once more, 'Twas in another part of town-- An humbler air the waiter wore, I fancied he was going down. Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!" He came out rather stronger, As if he'd say with toss of head, "Wait a little longer." Time takes us on through many a grace; Of "ups and downs" I've had my run, Passing full often through the shade And sometimes loitering in the sun. I and the waiter met again At a small inn at Ongar; Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain-- He bade me wait the longer. Another time--years since the last-- At eating-house I sought relief From present care and troubles past, In a small plate of round of beef. "One beef, and taturs," was the cry, In tones than mine much stronger; 'T was the old waiter standing by, "Waiting a little longer." I've marked him now for many a year; I've seen his coat more rusty grow; His linen is less bright and clear, His polished pumps are on the go. Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves-- They used to be much stronger, The waiter's whole appearance proves He can not wait much longer. I sometimes see the waiter still; 'Gainst want he wages feeble strife; He's at the bottom of the hill, Downward has been his path through life. Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries, Which louder grow and stronger; 'Tis to old Time he now replies, "Wait a little longer." [Illustration: Oliver Wendell Holmes] THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE." PUNCH, 1851. YANKEE DOODLE sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Every body ran him down, And laugh'd at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people--never mind-- Says quiet YANKEE DOODLE. Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. YANKEE DOODLE had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went a-head, And they came nowhere arter. Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. O'er Panama there was a scheme Long talk'd of, to pursue a Short route--which many thought a dream-- By Lake Nicaragua. JOHN BULL discussed the plan on foot, With slow irresolution, While YANKEE DOODLE went and put It into execution. Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. A steamer of the COLLINS line, A YANKEE DOODLE'S notion, Has also quickest cut the brine Across the Atlantic Ocean. And British agents, no ways slow Her merits to discover, Have been and bought her--just to tow The CUNARD packets over. CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don't mention: I guess that COLTS' revolvers whack Their very first invention. By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chaw'd up as by a vulture. CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd, And you must now be view'd all As having been completely licked By glorious YANKEE DOODLE. CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc. LINES FOR MUSIC. PUNCH. Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang, The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang; Up, up in the air with the light tamborine, And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene; For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds, Through which the gay traveler actively bounds. With the voice of the public the statesman must chime, And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time; The lawyer will coolly his client survey, As an instrument merely whereon he can play. Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang, With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang! DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.--A MYSTERY. PUNCH. MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman. PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers. BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other. JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other. BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey the Bonny Breast Knot." The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day; Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro. MEADOWS enters, musing. MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill; I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale, I've quitted Holborn's heights--the slopes of Snow, Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track, Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith; That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear, Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows, Making one compound of Satanic sound, Is stunned, in physical and moral sense. But this is Ludgate Hill--here commerce thrives; Here, merchants carry trade to such a height That competition, bursting builders' bonds, Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof, Unites the basement with the floors above; Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength, The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse, In one "tremendous failure" totters down!-- 'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten. [Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself. PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far; I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain; I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown; I've ransacked forty female reticules-- And nothing found--some business must be done. By Jove--I'd rather turn Lascar at once: Allow the walnut's devastating juice To track its inky course along my cheek, And stain my British brow with Indian brown. Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz-- Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring-- With strings of bold, effective glassy beads Circle my neck--and play the Brahmin Priest, To win the sympathy of passing crowds, And melt the silver in the stranger's purse. But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me The bulging skirts of that provincial coat Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within. [Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets This is indeed a prize! [Meadows turns suddenly round, Your pardon, sir; Is this, the way to Newgate? MEADOWS. Why, indeed I scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here, I should not like to misdirect you. PRIGWELL. Thank you, I'll find the way to Newgate by myself. [Exit. MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis. ENTER BLIND VOCALIST. BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS, WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny--(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLIND VOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny--(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKES THE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)--breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING "HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUS COLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSH BETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS. ENTER BROWN AND JONES. MEETING, THEY STOP AND SHAKE HANDS MOST CORDIALLY FOR SEVERAL MINUTES. BROWN. How are you, JONES? JONES. Why, BROWN, I do declare 'Tis quite an age since you and I have met. BROWN. I'm quite delighted. JONES. I'm extremely glad. [An awkward pause BROWN. Well! and how are you? JONES. Thank you, very well; And you, I hope are well? BROWN. Quite well, I thank you. [Another awkward pause. JONES. Oh!--by the way--have you seen THOMSON lately? BROWN. Not very lately. (After a pause, and as if struck with a happy idea). But I met with SMITH-- A week ago. JONES. Oh! did you though, indeed? And how was SMITH? Brown. Why, he seemed pretty well [Another long pause; at the end of which both appear as if they were going to speak to each other. JONES. I beg your pardon. SMITH. You were going to speak? JONES. Oh! nothing. I was only going to say-- Good morning. SMITH. Oh! and so was I. Good-day. [Both shake hands, and are going off in opposite directions, when Smith turns round. Jones turning round at the same time they both return and look at each other. JONES. I thought you wished to speak, by looking back. BROWN. Oh no. I thought the same. BOTH TOGETHER. Good-by! Good-by! [Exeunt finally; and the conversation and the curtain drop together. PROCLIVIOR. (A slight Variation on LONGFELLOW'S "EXCELSIOR.") PUNCH. The shades of night were falling fast, As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'd A youth, whose look told in a trice That his taste chose the queer device-- PROCLIVIOR! His hat, a wide-awake; beneath He tapp'd a cane against his teeth; His eye was bloodshot, and there rung, Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue, PROCLIVIOR! In calm first-floors he saw the light Of circles cosy for the night; But far ahead the gas-lamps glow; He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow," PROCLIVIOR! "Come early home," his Uncle said, "We all are early off to bed; The family blame you far and wide;" But loud that noisy youth replied-- PROCLIVIOR! "Stay," said his Aunt, "come home to sup, Early retire--get early up." A wink half quivered in his eye; He answered to the old dame's sigh-- PROCLIVIOR! "Mind how you meddle with that lamp! And mind the pavement, for it's damp!" Such was the Peeler's last good-night A faint voice stutter'd out "All right." PROCLIVIOR! At break of day, as far West-ward A cab roll'd o'er the highways hard, The early mover stopp'd to stare At the wild shouting of the fare-- PROCLIVIOR! And by the bailiff's faithful hound, At breakfast-time, a youth was found, Upon three chairs, with aspect nice, True to his young life's queer device, PROCLIVIOR! Thence, on a dull and muggy day, They bore him to the Bench away, And there for several months he lay, While friends speak gravely as they say-- PROCLIVIOR! JONES AT THE BARBER'S SHOP. PUNCH. SCENE.--A Barber's Shop. Barber's men engaged in cutting hair, making wigs, and other barberesque operations. Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber. JONES. I wish my hair cut. OILY. Pray, sir, take a seat. OILY puts a chair for JONES, who sits. During the following dialogue OILY continues cutting JONES'S hair. OILY. We've had much wet, sir. JONES. Very much, indeed. OILY. And yet November's early days were fine. JONES. They were. OILY. I hoped fair weather might have lasted us Until the end. JONES. At one time--so did I. OILY. But we have had it very wet. JONES. We have. [A pause of some minutes. OILY. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time; But this I say, sir, it was badly cut: No doubt 't was in the country. JONES. No! in town! OILY. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise. JONES. 'Twas cut in town--and in this very room. OILY. Amazement!--but I now remember well. We had an awkward, new provincial hand, A fellow from the country. Sir, he did More damage to my business in a week Than all my skill can in a year repair. He must have cut your hair. JONES (looking at him). No--'twas yourself. OILY. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake. JONES. I don't mistake--'twas you that cut my hair. [A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors. OILY. Your hair is very dry, sir. JONES. Oh! indeed. OILY. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it. JONES. I like it dry. OILY. But, sir, the hair when dry. Turns quickly gray. JONES. That color I prefer, OILY. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off, And baldness will ensue. JONES. I would be bald. OILY. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig.-- We've wigs so natural they can't be told From real hair. JONES. Deception I detest. [Another pause ensues, during which OILY blows down JONES'S neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting. OILY. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind. JONES. I see you have. (Pays 6d.) I think you'll find that right. OILY. If there is nothing I can show you, sir, JONES. No: nothing. Yet--there may be something, too, That you may show me. OILY. Name it, sir. JONES. The door. [EXIT JONES. OILY (to his man). That's a rum customer at any rate. Had I cut him as short as he cut me, How little hair upon his head would be! But if kind friends will all our pains requite, We'll hope for better luck another night. [Shop-bell rings and curtain falls. THE SATED ONE. [IMPROMPTU AFTER CHRISTMAS DINNER.] PUNCH. It may not be--go maidens, go, Nor tempt me to the mistletoe; I once could dance beneath its bough, But must not, will not, can not, now! A weight--a load within I bear; It is not madness nor despair; But I require to be at rest, So that my burden may-digest! SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND [Footnote: See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder] PUNCH. FRIEND OF SELF-GOVERNMENT. Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going? Sad is thy fate--reduced to law and order, Local self-government yielding to the gripe of Centralization. Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s, Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard, Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon's House was his castle. Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK-- Underground foe to the British Constitution-- Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY Thus to assail you? Was it the growth of Continental notions, Or was it the Metropolitan police-force Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and Easiest of doctrines? Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH'S great work on Centralization? If you haven't, buy it; Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your View on the subject. CAB-DRIVER. View on the subject? jiggered if I've got one; Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't-- Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry Hover a cabstand. Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'-- And them there blessed beaks is down upon us Dead as an 'ammer! As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can't say I knows him-- But as you talks so werry like a gem'man, Perhaps you're goin in 'ansome style to stand a Shillin' a mile, sir? FRIEND OF SELF--GOVERNMENT. I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first-- Sixpence a mile--or drive me straight to Bow-street-- Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty, Insolent rascal! JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. [Footnote: In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all ludicrously misapplied] [AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.] COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND PUNCH. O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith. Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof. The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een. And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen. The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs. Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke! My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And SCOTIA! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt, An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne. THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK. PUNCH THE STEAK. Air.--"The Sea." Of Steak--of Steak--of prime Rump Steak-- A slice of half-inch thickness take, Without a blemish, soft and sound; In weight a little more than a pound. Who'd cook a Stake--who'd cook a Steak-- Must a fire clear proceed to make: With the red above and the red below, In one delicious genial glow. If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn't put on your Steak. First rub--yes, rub--with suet fat, The gridiron's bars, then on it flat Impose the meat; and the fire soon Will make it sing a delicious tune. And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow, Just turn the upper side below. Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er, For a moment you broil your Steak no more, But on a hot dish let it rest, And add of butter a slice of the best; In a minute or two the pepper-box take, And with it gently dredge your Steak. When seasoned quite, upon the fire Some further time it will require; And over and over be sure to turn Your Steak till done--nor let it burn; For nothing drives me half so wild As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled. I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef, With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my Steak I never wished to change: For a Steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea. ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. AIR--"Scots wha has." Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig; So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity. Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the Pig's interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that's rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined. Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before 'Tis for serving fit. Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter'd cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut--not tear-- Off the head of it. Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O'er it melted butter spread-- Stinginess won't do. When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me! BEIGNET DE POMME. AIR--"Home, Sweet Home." 'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme! A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme! Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores--if you 'll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme! CHERRY PIE. AIR--"Cherry Ripe." Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Kentish cherries you may buy. If so be you ask me where To put the fruit, I'll answer "There!" In the dish your fruit must lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Full and fair ones mind you buy Whereabouts the crust should go, Any fool, of course will know; In the midst a cup may lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc. DEVILED BISCUIT. AIR--"A Temple of Friendship." "A nice Devil'd Biscuit," said JENKINS enchanted, "I'll have after dinner--the thought is divine!" The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted-- To fully enjoy it--a glass of good wine. He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it, And at peppering the well-butter'd biscuit he went; Then, some cheese in a paste mix'd with mustard spread o'er it And down to be grill'd to the kitchen 'twas sent. "Oh! how," said the Cook, "can I this think of grilling, When common the pepper? the whole will be flat. But here's the Cayenne; if my master is willing, I'll make, if he pleases, a devil with that." So the Footman ran up with the Cook's observation To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look: "Oh, go to the devil!" forgetting his station, Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook. RED HERRINGS. AIR--"Meet Me By Moonlight." Meet me at breakfast alone, And then I will give you a dish Which really deserves to be known, Though it's not the genteelest of fish. You must promise to come, for I said A splendid Red Herring I'd buy-- Nay, turn not away your proud head; You'll like it, I know, when you try. If moisture the Herring betray, Drain, till from moisture 'tis free; Warm it through in the usual way, Then serve it for you and for me. A piece of cold butter prepare, To rub it when ready it lies; Egg-sauce and potatoes don't spare, And the flavor will cause you surprise IRISH STEW. AIR--"Happy Land." Irish stew, Irish stew! Whatever else my dinner be, Once again, once again, I'd have a dish of thee. Mutton chops, and onion slice, Let the water cover, With potatoes, fresh and nice; Boil, but not quite over, Irish stew, Irish stew! Ne'er from thee, my taste will stray. I could eat Such a treat Nearly every day. La, la, la, la! BARLEY BROTH. Air--"The King, God bless him!" A basin of Barley Broth make, make for me; Give those who prefer it, the plain: No matter the broth, so of barley it be, If we ne'er taste a basin again. For, oh I when three pounds of good mutton you buy, And of most of its fat dispossess it, In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie; Then in water proceed to dress it. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie; Then in water proceed to dress it. What a teacup will hold--you should first have been told-- Of barley you gently should boil; The pearl-barley choose--'tis the nicest that's sold-- All others the mixture might spoil. Of carrots and turnips, small onions, green peas (If the price of the last don't distress one), Mix plenty; and boil altogether with these Your basin of Broth when you dress one. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Two hours together the articles boil; There's your basin of Broth, if you'd dress one. CALF'S HEART. Air--"Maid of Athens, ere we part." Maid of all work, as a part Of my dinner, cook a heart; Or, since such a dish is best, Give me that, and leave the rest. Take my orders, ere I go; Heart of calf we'll cook thee so. Buy--to price you're not confined-- Such a heart as suits your mind: Buy some suet--and enough Of the herbs required to stuff; Buy some le non-peel--and, oh! Heart of calf, we'll fill thee so. Buy some onions--just a taste-- Buy enough, but not to waste; Buy two eggs of slender shell Mix, and stir the mixture well; Crumbs of bread among it throw; Heart of calf we'll roast thee so. Maid of all work, when 'tis done, Serve it up to me alone: Rich brown gravy round it roll, Marred by no intruding coal; Currant jelly add--and lo! Heart of calf, I'll eat thee so. THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING. AIR--"Jeannette and Jeannott." If you wish to make a pudding in which every one delights, Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites; Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine, And shred and chop some suet particularly fine; Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried, A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside; Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour, And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour; Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,-- Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot; But though I don't know which of these two methods I should praise, I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs. Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome, I'd have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home; And as for other puddings whatever they might be, Why those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me. APPLE PIE. AIR-"All that's bright must fade." All new dishes fade-- The newest oft the fleetest; Of all the pies now made, The Apple's still the sweetest; Cut and come again, The syrup upward springing! While my life and taste remain, To thee my heart is clinging. Other dainties fade-- The newest oft the fleetest; But of all the pies now made, The Apple's still the sweetest. Who absurdly buys Fruit not worth the baking? Who wastes crust on pies That do not pay for making? Better far to be An Apple Tartlet buying, Than to make one at home, and see On it there's no relying: That all must be weigh'd, When thyself thou treatest-- Still a pie home-made Is, after all, the sweetest. Who a pie would make, First his apple slices; Then he ought to take Some cloves--the best of spices: Grate some lemon rind, Butter add discreetly; Then some sugar mix--but mind The pie's not made too sweetly. Every pie that's made With sugar, is completest; But moderation should pervade-- Too sweet is not the sweetest. Who would tone impart, Must--if my word is trusted-- Add to his pie or tart A glass of port--old crusted If a man of taste, He, complete to make it, In the very finest paste Will inclose and bake it. Pies have each their grade; But, when this thou eatest, Of all that e'er were made, You'll say 'tis best and sweetest. LOBSTER SALAD. AIR-"Blue Bonnets Over The Border." Take, take, lobsters and lettuces; Mind that they send you the fish that you order: Take, take, a decent-sized salad bowl, One that's sufficiently deep in the border. Cut into many a slice All of the fish that's nice, Place in the bowl with due neatness and order: Then hard-boil'd eggs you may Add in a neat array All round the bowl, just by way of a border. Take from the cellar of salt a proportion: Take from the castors both pepper and oil, With vinegar, too--but a moderate portion-- Too much of acid your salad will spoil. Mix them together, You need not mind whether You blend them exactly in apple-pie order; But when you've stirr'd away, Mix up the whole you may-- All but the eggs, which are used as a border. Take, take, plenty of seasoning; A teaspoon of parsley that's chopp'd in small pieces: Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, A small taste of onion the flavor increases. As the sauce curdle may, Should it: the process stay, Patiently do it again in due order; For, if you chance to spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil, Still to proceed would on lunacy border. STEWED STEAK AIR--"Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed." Had I pound of tender Steak, I'd use it for a stew; And if the dish you would partake, I'll tell you what to do. Into a stew-pan, clean and neat, Some butter should be flung: And with it stew your pound of meat, A tender piece--but young. And when you find the juice express'd By culinary art, To draw the gravy off, were best, And let it stand apart. Then, lady, if you'd have a treat, Be sure you can't be wrong To put more butter to your meat, Nor let it stew too long. And when the steak is nicely done, To take it off were best; And gently let it fry alone, Without the sauce or zest; Then add the gravy--with of wine A spoonful in it flung; And a shalot cut very fine-- Let the shalot be young. And when the whole has been combined, More stewing 't will require; Ten minutes will suffice--but mind Don't have too quick a fire. Then serve it up--'t will form a treat! Nor fear you've cook'd it wrong; GOURMETS in all the old 't will meet, And GOURMANDS in the young. GREEN PEA SOUP. AIR--"The Ivy Green." Oh! a splendid Soup is the true Pea Green I for it often call; And up it comes in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. When a leg of mutton at home is boil'd, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor (before 'tis spoil'd) A peck of peas I steep. When boil'd till tender they have been, I rub through a sieve the peas so green. Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power; And having return'd them to the stock, I stew them for more than an hour; Then of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before The soup from the fire I move. Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar soup Pea Green. Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm. Smoking hot in a smart tureen, A rare soup is the true Pea Green! TRIFLE. AIR--"The Meeting of the Waters." There's not in the wide world so tempting a sweet As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet; Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart. Yet it is not the sugar that's thrown in between, Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green; 'Tis not the rich cream that's whipp'd up by a mill: Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still. 'Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid, Of which a delicious foundation is made; And you'll find how the last will in flavor improve, When soak'd with the wine that you pour in above. Sweet PLATEAU of Trifle! how great is my zest For thee, when spread o'er with the jam I love best, When the cream white of eggs--to be over thee thrown, With a whisk kept on purpose--is mingled in one! MUTTON CHOPS. AIR--"Come dwell with me." Come dine with me, come dine with me, And our dish shall be, our dish shall be, A Mutton Chop from the butcher's shop-- And how I cook it you shall see. The Chop I choose is not too lean; For to cut off the fat I mean. Then to the fire I put it down, And let it fry until 'tis brown. Come dine with me; yes, dine with me, etc. I'll fry some bread cut rather fine, To place betwixt each chop of mine; Some spinach, or some cauliflowers, May ornament this dish of ours. I will not let thee once repine At having come with me to dine: 'T will be my pride to hear thee say, "I have enjoy'd my Chop, to-day." Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me; Dine, dine, dine, with me, etc. BARLEY WATER. AIR--"On the Banks of Allan Water." For a jug of Barley Water Take a saucepan not too small; Give it to your wife or daughter, If within your call. If her duty you have taught her, Very willing each will be To prepare some Barley Water Cheerfully for thee. For a jug of Barley Water, Half a gallon, less or more, From the filter that you bought her, Ask your wife to pour. When a saucepan you have brought her Polish'd bright as bright can be, In it empty all the water, Either you or she. For your jug of Barley Water ('Tis a drink by no means bad), Some two ounces and a quarter Of pearl barley add. When 'tis boiling, let your daughter Skim from blacks to keep it free; Added to your Barley Water Lemon rind should be. For your jug of Barley Water (I have made it very oft), It must boil, so tell your daughter, Till the barley's soft. Juice of a small lemon's quarter Add; then sweeten all like tea; Strain through sieve your Barley Water-- 'Twill delicious be. BOILED CHICKEN. AIR--"Norah Creina." Lesbia hath a fowl to cook; But, being anxious not to spoil it, Searches anxiously our book, For how to roast, and how to boil it. Sweet it is to dine upon-- Quite alone, when small its size is;-- And, when cleverly 'tis done, Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear! My boiled--not roasted--tender Chicken; I can wish No other dish, With thee supplied, my tender Chicken! Lesbia, take some water cold, And having on the fire placed it, And some butter, and be bold-- When 'tis hot enough--taste it. Oh! the Chicken meant for me Boil before the fire grows dimmer, Twenty minutes let it be In the saucepan left to simmer. Oh, my tender Chicken dear! My boil'd, delicious, tender Chicken! Rub the breast (To give a zest) With lemon-juice, my tender Chicken. Lesbia hath with sauce combined Broccoli white, without a tarnish; 'Tis hard to tell if 'tis design'd For vegetable or for garnish. Pillow'd on a butter'd dish, My Chicken temptingly reposes, Making gourmands for it wish, Should the savor reach their noses. Oh, my tender pullet dear! My boiled--not roasted--tender Chicken Day or night, Thy meal is light, For supper, e'en, my tender Chicken. STEWED DUCK AND PEAS. AIR--"My Heart and Lute." I give thee all, I can no more, Though poor the dinner be; Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the store That I can offer thee. A Duck, whose tender breast reveals Its early youth full well; And better still, a Pea that peels From fresh transparent shell. Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas! One's hunger to allay; At least for luncheon they may pass, The appetite to stay, If seasoned Duck an odor bring From which one would abstain, The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring, Set all to rights again. I give thee all my kitchen lore, Though poor the offering be; I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd, before You come to dine with me: The Duck is truss'd from head to heels, Then stew'd with butter well; And streaky bacon, which reveals A most delicious smell When Duck and Bacon in a mass You in the stew-pan lay, A spoon around the vessel pass, And gently stir away: A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring, Then in it twenty onions fling, And gently stir again. A bunch of parsley, and a leaf Of ever-verdant bay, Two cloves--I make my language brief-- Then add your Peas you may! And let it simmer till it sings In a delicious strain, Then take your Duck, nor let the strings For trussing it remain. The parsley fail not to remove, Also the leaf of bay; Dish up your Duck--the sauce improve In the accustom'd way, With pepper, salt, and other things, I need not here explain: And, if the dish contentment brings, You'll dine with me again. CURRY. Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares, And chops it nicely into little squares; Five onions next prepares the little minx (The biggest are the best her Samiwel thinks). And Epping butter, nearly half a pound, And stews them in a pan until they're brown'd. What's next my dexterous little girl will do? She pops the meat into the savory stew, With curry powder, table-spoonfulls three, And milk a pint (the richest that may be); And, when the dish has stewed for half-an-hour, A lemon's ready juice she'll o'er it pour: Then, bless her! then she gives the luscious pot A very gentle boil--and serves quite hot. P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish; Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fish Are fit to make A CURRY. 'Tis, when done, A dish for emperors to feed upon. THE RAILWAY GILPIN. PUNCH. JOHN GILPIN is a citizen; For lineage of renown, The famed JOHN GILPIN'S grandson, he Abides in London town. To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear, "Stewed up here as we've been Since Whitsuntide, 'tis time that we Should have a change of scene. "To-morrew is a leisure day, And we'll by rail repair Unto the Nell at Dedmanton, And take a breath of air. "My sister takes our eldest child; The youngest of our three Will go in arms, and so the ride Won't so expensive be." JOHN soon replied, "I don't admire That railway, I, for one; But you know best, my dearest dear And so it must be done. "I, as a linen-draper bold, Will bear myself, and though 'Tis Friday by the calendar, Will risk my limbs, and go." Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, "Nicely said: And then, besides, look here, We'll go by the Excursion Train, Which makes it still less dear." JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife, And slightly smiled to find That though on peril she was bent, She had a careful mind. The morning came; a cab was sought: The proper time allow'd To reach the station door; but lo! Before it stood a crowd. For half an hour they there were stay'd, And when they did get in-- "No train! a hoax!" cried clerks, agog To swear through thick and thin. "Yea!" went the throats; stamp went the heels Were never folks so mad, The disappointment dire beneath; All cried "it was too bad!" JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied, But he must needs remain, Commanded by his willful bride, And take the usual train. 'T was long before our passengers Another train could find, When--stop! one ticket for the fares Was lost or left behind! "Good lack!" quoth JOHN, "yet try it on." "'T won't do," the Guard replies; And bearing wife and babes on board, The train without him flies. Now see him in a second train, Behind the iron steed, Borne on, slap dash-for life or bones With small concern or heed. Away went GILPIN, neck or naught, Exclaiming, "Dash my wig! Oh, here's a game! oh, here's a go! A running such a rig!" A signal, hark!--the whistle screamed-- Smash! went the windows all: "An accident!" cried out each one, As loud as he could bawl. Away went GILPIN, never mind-- His brain seemed spinning round; Thought he, "This speed a killing pace Will prove, I'll bet a pound !" And still, as stations they drew near, The whistle shrilly blew, And in a trice, past signal-men, The train like lightning flew. Thus, all through merry Killbury, Without a stop shot they; But paused, to 'scape a second smash, At Dedmanton so gay. At Dedmanton his loving wife, On platform waiting, spied Her tender husband, striving much To let himself outside. "Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are-- Come out!" they all did cry; "To death with waiting we are tired!" "Guard!" shouted GILPIN, "Hi!" But no--the train was not a bit Arranged to tarry there, For why?--because 't was an Express, And did dispatches bear. So, in a second, off it flew Again, and dashed along, As if the deuce't were going to, With motive impulse strong. Away went GILPIN, on the breath Of puffing steam, until They came unto their journey's end, Where they at last stood still And then--best thing that he could do-- He book'd himself for Town; They stopped at every station up, Till he again got down. Says GILPIN, "Sing, Long live the QUEEN, And eke long life to me; And ere I'll trust that Line again, Myself I blest will see!" ELEGY. WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION. PUNCH. The Station clock proclaims the close of day; The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea; The last train starts upon its dangerous way, And leaves the place to darkness and to me. Now fades the panting engine's red tail-light, And all the platform solemn stillness holds, Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night, By smothered coughs announce their several colds. Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes placed too high up to peep, All in their iron safes securely laid, The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep. The Debts to credit side so neatly borne, What should be losses, profits proved instead; The Dividends those pages that adorn No more shall turn the fond Shareholder's head. Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield, Their evidence arithmetic could choke: How jocund were they that to them appealed! How many votes of thanks did they provoke! Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON'S toil, Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure; Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil 'Twas glad to share--while it could share secure. All know the way that he his fortune made, How he bought votes and consciences did hire; How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire, Till these accounts at last their doctored page, Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll, When virtue suddenly became the rage, And wiped George Hudson out of fashion's scroll. Full many a noble Lord who once serene The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share, For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen, Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare. For those who, mindful of their money fled, Rejoice in retribution, sure though late-- Should they, by ruin to reflection led, Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate, Haply that wooden-headed sage may say, "Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn, When at his levees elbowing their way, Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn. "There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy, There his own arts his favorites he would teach, And put them up to good things on the sly. "Till to the House by his admirers borne, Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove, And on through commerce, colonies, and corn, Like engine, without break or driver, drove. "Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till, Out came one cooked account--of our M. P.; Another came--yet men scarce ventured, still, To think their idol such a rogue could be. "Until those figures set in sad array Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay, Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn." THE EPITAPH. Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth, A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known; Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth, God Mammon early marked him for his own. Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear; When he won foully he did freely spend. He plundered no one knows how much a-year, But Chancery o'ertook him in the end. No further seek his frailties to disclose: For many of his sins should share the load: While he kept rising, who asked how he rose? While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed? THE BOA AND THE BLANKET. [Footnote: A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.] AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.--[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH. It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday! May be muttered to-morrow! What?-- THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET, Speckled Enthusiast! It was full moon's full moonlight! The Shilling I had paid down at the Gate Seem'd hung in Heaven. To NEWTON'S EYE (As Master of the Mint). A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling! I was alone, with Nothing to Speak of But Creation! Yes! Gigantic NOAH'S Ark of twenty times her tonnage, Lay crouch'd, and purring, and velvety, and fanged About me! Cane-colored tigers--rug-spotted Leopards-- Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit--to true love knots Semblable! Striped Zebra--Onager Calcitrant--Common Ass, And I--and all were there! The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut, Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored. The Lion's Cage was hot with heat of blood: And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves! In Gardens Zoological and Regent, I, meditating, stood! And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling, Impartial Moon, that showed me all. My heart fluttered as tho' winged from Mercury! I moved--approached the Snake-House! Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went! The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling strings Of my melodious heart! Down--down to its coral roots! I dashed aside the human tear; and--yes--prepared myself With will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake! The Boa!! The Python!!! The Anaconda!!!! A Boa was there! A Boa, 'neath Crystal Roof! And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws, Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped! "And so (I couldn't help it) so," I groaned--"the ancient Snake-- That milk-white thing--and innocent--trustful! And then, Death--Death-- And lo! there, typical, it is--it is-- THE BLANKET!! Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower; And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!" Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep, And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny, Meet his demand at three and six months' date! (We know such Boas and rabbits, Know we not?) Let me pass on! And here 'tis cool; nay, even cold Without the Snake-House! The Moon still glistens, and again I think Of Multitudes who've paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here! The city muckworm, who Prom peacock orient, scarce could tell a cock Of hay! Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pig He knows, and (as for money) Ever has his squeak for't! Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man, Master of probabilities! He sees the tusk of elephant--the two tusks-- And, with a thought, cuts 'em into cubes-- And with another thought--another--and another- Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty years Those spotted squares shall come up sixes! And this in living elephant! And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks, Accompanied By PRINCE ALBERT, THE PRINCE OF WALES, THE PRINCESS ROYAL, And The Rest of the Royal Children!-- She saw the Tiger! Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB'S Tiger's Head? She saw the Lion! Thought she of one of her own Arms? She did NOT see the Unicorn; but (With her gracious habits of condescension) Did she think of him a bit the less? Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on! And now I am here; and whether I will or no, I feel I'm jolly! The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet (Of course i mean the Whigs), Know not, when they rise to-morrow, What color they will wake!-- The baby elephant seems prematurely old: Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughts Of cakes and oranges given it by boys; Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic! This is very sad. No more of it! Ha! ha! here sits the Ape--the many-colored wight! Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax, And so be-colored with prismatic hues, As though he had come from sky to earth-- Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow! Hush! I have made a perfect circle! And at the Snake-House once again I stand! Such is life! Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident! To be conceived--Oh, perhaps! Described--Oh, never! Keepers are up, and crowd about the box-- The Boa's box--with unconcerned rabbits! Not so the Boa! Look! Behold! And where's the Blanket? In the Boa's inside place! The Monster mark! How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as though He had within him rolls and rolls Of choking, suffocating influenza, That lift his eyes from out their sockets!--Of fleecy phlegm That will neither in or out, but mid-way Seem to strangle! Silence and wonder settle on the crowd; From whom instinctively and breathlessly, Ascend two pregnant questions! "Will the Boa bolt the blanket? Will the blanket choke the Boa?" Such the problem! And then men mark and deduce Differently "THE BLANKET IS ENGLAND: THE BOA THE POPE, WILL THE POPE DISGORGE HIS BULL?" "THE BLANKET'S FREE TRADE: THE CORN-GORGED FOLK IS THE BOA WITH PLENTY STIFLED!" "THE BLANKET'S REFORM TO GAG THE MOB, AND NAUGHT TO SATISFY!" But I, a lofty and an abstract man, A creature of a higher element Than ever nourished the wood Ordained for ballot-boxes--I Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and, Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock, Says--"What's your opinion, Sir? If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must: If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?" "My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa-- You will conceive me--are a type, yes, just a type, Of this our day. The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food What needs must scour or suffocate, Not nourish! My friend, let the wool of that one blanket Warm but the back of one live sheep, And the Boa would bolt the animal entire, And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones, And turning them to healthful nutriment! Believe this vital truth; The stomach may take down and digest And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton; That would turn at and reject One little ball of worsted!" On saying this I turned away, Feeling adown the small-o'-the back That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW We have said a good thing; Knowing it better than the vain world Ever can or ever will Reader, I have sung my song! The BOA AND THE B----, like new-found star, Is mine no longer; but the world's!-- Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note? With note akin that immortal bard The snow-white Swan of Avon? Or haply, to that --RARA AVIS, --That has --"Tried WARREN'S?" THE DILLY AND THE D'S. [Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee," published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.] [AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.] BY S--L W--RR--N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S PUNCH. PART FIRST. Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature, Alien to Law! Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS, Whither away?--Away! Far from my brief--Brief with a fee upon it, Tremendous! And probably--before my business is concluded-- A REFRESHER--nay, several!! Whither whirlest thou thy thrall? Thy willing thrall? "NOW AND THEN;" But not just at this moment, If you please, Spirit! No, let me read and ponder on THE PLEADINGS. Declaration! Plea!! Replication!!! Rejoinder!!!! Surrejoinder!!!!! Rebutter!!!!!! Surrebutter!!!!!!! ETC! ETC!! ETC!!! It may not be. The Muse-- As ladies often are-- Though lovely, is obstinate, And will have her own way! * * * * And am I not As well as a Q.S., An F.R.S. And LL.D.? Ask BLACKWOOD The reason why, and he will tell you, So will the Mayor-- The MAYOR OF HULL! I obey, Spirit. Hang my brief--'tis gone!-- To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court. Whither away? Where am I? What is it I behold? In space, or out of space? I know not. In fact I've not the least idea if I'm crazy. Or sprung--sprung? I've only had a pint of Port at dinner And can't be sprung-- Oh, no!--Shame on the thought! I see a coach!-- Is it a coach? Not exactly. Yet it has wheels-- Wheels within wheels--and on the box A driver, and a cad behind, And Horses--Horses?-- Bethink thee--Worm!-- Are they Horses? or that race Lower than Horses, but with longer ears And less intelligence-- In fact--"EQUI ASINI," Or in vernacular JACKASSES? 'Tis not a coach exactly-- Now I see on the panels-- Pricked out and flourished-- A word! A magic word-- "THE DILLY!"--"THE DERBY DILLY!" Oh Dilly! Dilly!--all thy passengers Are outsiders-- The road is rough and rutty-- And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son-- Driveth Furiously! And the cad upon the monkey-board The monkey-board behind, Scorneth the drag--but goes Downhill like mad. He hath a Caucasian brow! A son of SHEM, is he, Not of HAM-- Nor JAPHETH-- In fact a Jew-- But see, the pace Grows faster--and more fast--in fact-- I may say A case of Furious driving! Take care, you'll be upset-- Look out! Holloa! * * * * Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!! The Dilly-- With all its precious freight Of men and Manners-- Is gone! Gone to immortal SMASH! Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes! Oh Muse--lend me my scroll To do it with, for I have lost My wipe! PART SECOND * * * Again upon the road The road to where? To nowhere in particular! Ah, no--I thank thee, Muse-- That hint--'tis a finger-post, And "he that runs may read"-- He that runs? But I am not running-- I am riding-- How came I here?--what am I riding on? Who are my fellow-passengers? Ah, ha! I recognize them now! The Coach-- The Box-- The Driver-- And the Cad-- I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again And now I see That finger-post! It saith "To Oxford Fifty-two miles." And, hark! a chorus! From all the joyous load, Driver and cad, and all! "We go," they sing-- To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED." To be Doctored? Then, wherefore Are ye so cheerful? I was not cheerful in my early days-- Days of my buoyant boyhood-- When, after inglutition Of too much Christmas pudding, Or Twelfth cake saccharine, I went, as we go now, To be Doctored! Salts! Senna and Rhubarb!! Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!! And Antimonial Wine!!!! "WORM! IDIOT!! DONKEY!!!" Said the free-spoken Muse "With them thou goest to be doctored, too, Not in medicine--but in Law-- All these--and thou-- Are going to be made HONORARY LL.D.s! Behold! And know thy company Be thou familiar with them, But by no means vulgar-- For familiarity breeds contempt; And no man is a hero To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE! So ponder and perpend." DERBY! The wise, the meek, the chivalrous-- Mirror of knightly graces And daily dodges; Who always says the right things At the right time, And never forgets himself as others-- Nor changes his side Nor his opinion-- A STANLEY to the core, as ready To fight As erst on FLODDEN FIELD His mail-clad ancestor.-- See the poem Of MARMION, By SIR WALTER SOOTT! DIZZY! Dark--supple--subtle-- With mind lithe as the limbs Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors-- With tongue sharp as the spear That o'er Sahara Flings the blue shadow Of the crown of ostrich feathers-- As described so graphically By LAYARD, in his recent book On Nineveh! With tongue as sharp As aspic's tooth of NILUS, Or sugary Upon the occasion As is the date Of TAFILAT. DIZZY, the bounding Arab Of the political arena-- As swift to whirl Right about face-- As strong to leap From premise to conclusion-- As great in balancing A budget-- Or flinging headlong His somersets Over sharp swords of adverse facts, As were his brethren of EL-ARISH, Who Some years ago exhibited-- With rapturous applause-- At Astley's Amphitheater-- And subsequently At Vauxhall Gardens! * * * * * Clustering, front and back On box and knife-board, See, petty man; Behold! and thank thy stars That led thee--Worm-- THEE, that art merely a writer And a barrister, Although a man of elegant acquirements, A gentleman and a scholar-- Nay, F.R.S. to boot-- Into such high society, Among such SWELLS, And REAL NOBS! Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers! Oh! happy, happy, happy, Oh, happy SAM! Say, isn't this worth, at the least "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!" * * * * * And these are all, to day at least--- Thy fellows! Going to be made LL.D.s, even as thyself-- And thou shalt walk in silk attire. And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth, And lunch in Hall-- In Hall! Where lunched before thee, But on inferior grub, That first great SAM-- SAM JOHNSON! And LAUD, and ROGER BACON, And CRANMER, LATIMER, And RIDLEY, And CYRIL JACKSON--and a host besides, Whom at my leisure I will look up In WOOD'S "ATHENAE OXONIENSES" Only to think! How BLACKWOOD Is honored! ALISON! AYTOUN! BULWER!!! And last, not least The great SAM GANDERAM!!!! Oh EBONY! Oh MAGA! And oh Our noble selves! "A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH. The partial power that to the female race Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace, With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one, And to another gives as good as none: But woman still for nature proves a match, And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales; Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales; To this we must refer the use of stays; Nor less the bustle of more modern days. Artful device! whose imitative pad Into good figures roundeth off the bad-- Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen, Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline-- How oft to thee the female form doth owe A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow, Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below! There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame, Who had a friend--JAMES TAYLOR was his name. He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade And still saved up the profits that he made, Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed, The father in the savings-bank was led In his child's name a small sum to invest, From which he drew the legal interest. Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went, Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent, Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds, The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds. Our cautious legislature--well 'tis known-- Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown: 'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt, Though any thing but easy to draw out. And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay, And, short of cash, unto the bank applied; Failing some form of law, he was denied! JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd--look'd blank and blue;-- In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do: His creditor was stern--the bill was over due. As to a friend he did his plight deplore-- The worthy dame of whom I spoke before-- (It might cause pain to give the name she owns, So let me use the pseudonym of JONES); "TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend, I do not care if I the money lend. But even friends security should hold: Give me security--I'll lend the gold." "This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries. "See--in my daughter's name the sum that lies!" She saw--and, satisfied, the money lent; Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content. But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast! What terrors throng her once unbroken rest! Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook-- But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book? Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay; Paper--as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say-- Will make wings to itself, and fly away! Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase, Until at last she hit upon a place. Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned, Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand? Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make; But when did woman vanity forsake? What nature sternly to her form denied, A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied, Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide! 'Twas thought--'twas done! by help of ready pin, The sawdust was let out, the book put in. Henceforth--at home--abroad--where'er she moved, Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved. She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight: No fear of burglars scared her through the night; But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold, What fort against cupidity can hold? Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in, The ODOR LUCRI--the strong scent of TIN? For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin. Some time elapsed--the time required by law, Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw, His kind but cautious creditor to pay, So to the savings-bank they took their way. There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew-- To do what no rude eye might see her do-- And soon returning--with a blushing look, Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book. Which he, presenting, did the sum demand Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland. What can there be upon the red-lined page That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage? What means his invitation to J.T., To "Walk in for a moment"--"he would see"-- "Only a moment"--"'twas all right, no doubt," "It could not be"--"and yet"--here he slipped out, Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed, And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed. "What means the man by treating people so?" Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know." Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew! TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue-- POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong, Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"-- And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast, Revealed the book was forged--from first to last! Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES? The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones? The van--the hand-cuffs--and the prison cell Where pined JAMES TAYLOR--wherefore pause to tell? Soon came the Assizes--and the legal train; In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign; And though his council mustered tears at will, And made black white with true Old Bailey skill, TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued, Was doomed to five years' penal servitude; And in a yellow suit turned up with gray, To Portland prison was conveyed away! Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame-- When lo--one day unto the bank there came A new JAMES TAYLOR--a new MRS. JONES-- And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns! "Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"-- Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks-- "The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew-- These are imposters-yet the book is true!" When like a flash upon his mind it burst-- Who brought the second book had forged the first! Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong-- Again that pair were bid to "Come along!" The truth before the justices appear'd, And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd. In evil hour--by what chance ne'er was known, Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn, Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside The artificial charms that decked her side-- But so it was, how or whene'er assailed-- The treacherous hiding-place was tried--and failed! The book was ta'en--a forged one fill'd its place;- And MRS. JONES was robb'd--not to her face-- And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace! Who shall describe her anguish--her remorse? James Taylor was at once released, of course; And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before. My tale is told--and, what is more, 'tis true: I read it in the papers--so may you. And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all-- Though reticules may drop, and purses fall, Though thieves may unprotected females hustle, Never invest your money in a bustle. STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. PUNCH. I. ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME. Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal Whence flowed that sudden tear: The truth 't were kindness to conceal From thy too anxious ear. How often when some hidden spring Of recollected grief Is rudely touched, a tear will bring The bursting breast relief! Yet 't was no anguish of the soul, No memory of woes, Bade that one lonely tearlet roll Adown my chiseled nose: But, ah! interrogation's note Still twinkles in thine eye; Know then that I have burnt my throat With this confounded pie! II. OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe, Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough: Some other night 't were joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not now! 'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I can not now embrace The opportunity--and thee. 'Tis sad to think that jealousy's Sharp scissors may our true love sever; And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest, list--I DINED OFF DUCK! III. ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL. EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness? Whence that dark o'erclouded brow? What hath stilled thy bounding gladness, Changed thy pace from fast to slow? Is it that by impulse sudden Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn? Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden Right upon thy favorite corn? "Is it that for evenings wasted Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel? Or hath that sham champagne we tasted Turned thy polka to a reel? Still that gloom upon each feature? Still that sad reproachful frown?" ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature, All my back hair's coming down!" COLLOQUY ON A CAB-STAND. ADAPTED FOR THE BOUDOIR. PUNCH. "OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say-- JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet: WILLIAM, the horses of his friend, With hay and water used to tend. "Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be, That MAYNE has issued a decree, Severe and stern, against us, planned Of comfort to deprive our Stand?" "I fear the tale is all too true," Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do." "Are we restricted to the Row And from the footpath?" "Even so." "Must our companions be resigned, We to the Rank alone confined?" "Yes; or they apprehend the lads Denominated Bucks and Cads." "Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard And are we, too, from beer debarred?" Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here We also are forbidden beer." "Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?" "That's interdicted too." "Indeed!" "Nor in the purifying wave Must we our steeds or chariots lave." "For private drivers, at request, It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest That we shall move, I understand?" "Such, I believe, IS the command" "Of all remains of food and drink Left by our animals I think, We are required to clear the ground?" "Yes: to remove them we are bound." "These mandates should we disobey--" "They take our licenses away." "That were unkind. How harsh our lot!" "It is indeed." "Now is it not?" "Thus strictly why are we pursued?" "It is alleged that we are rude; The people opposite complain, Our lips that coarse expressions stain." "Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say We smoke and tipple all the day, Are oft in an excited state, Disturbance, noise, and dirt create." "What shocking stories people tell! I never! Did you ever?--Well-- Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed. "May they be blest!" his Friend replied. THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH. You, who hold in grace and honor, Hold, as one who did you kindness When he publish'd former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward, for the accents, Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha. Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conception, Of the manly nervous diction, Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it? Should you ask me, Is it worthless, Is it bosh and is it bunkum, Merely facile flowing nonsense, Easy to a practiced rhythmist, Fit to charm a private circle, But not worth the print and paper David Bogue hath here expended? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool and most presumptuous. Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it? Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?" Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectiful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this meter, And embalming the traditions, Fables, rites, and suspepstitions, Legends, charms, and ceremonials Of the various tribes of Indians, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Finds its sugar in the rushes: From the fast-decaying nations, Which our gentle Uncle Samuel Is improving, very smartly, From the face of all creation, Off the face of all creation. Should you ask me, By what story, By what action, plot, or fiction, All these matters are connected? I should answer, I should tell you, Go to Bogue and buy the poem, Publish'd neatly, at one shilling, Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings. Should you ask me, Is there music In the structure of the verses, In the names and in the phrases? Pleading that, like weaver Bottom, You prefer your ears well tickled; I should answer, I should tell you, Henry's verse is very charming; And for names--there's Hiawatha, Who's the hero of the poem; Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, Hiawatha's graceless father; There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah-- Ladies both, of various merit; Puggawangum, that's a war-club; Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy, "Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow; And the women and the maidens Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis," Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness. Then there's lovely Minnehaha-- Pretty name with pretty meaning-- It implies the Laughing-water; And the darling Minnehaha Married noble Hiawatha; And her story's far too touching To be sport for you, yon donkey, With your ears like weaver Bottom's, Ears like booby Bully Bottom. Once upon a time in London, In the days of the Lyceum, Ages ere keen Arnold let it To the dreadful Northern Wizard, Ages ere the buoyant Mathews Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness-- I remember, I remember How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Tried to save these Indian stories From the fate of chill oblivion. Out came sundry comic Indians Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um. With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly. Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, But repented of his bargain, And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off-- Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee. If you ask me, What this memory Hath to do with Hiawatha, And the poem which I speak of? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool, and most presumptuous; 'Tis not for such humble cattle To inquire what links and unions Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings, Of their betters, mighty poets, Mighty writers--PUNCH the mightiest; I should answer, I should tell you, Shut your mouth, and go to David, David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor, Buy the Song of Hiawatha, Read, and learn, and then be thankful Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth, PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him. COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM AYTOUN. "Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh! "Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow. "There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain! "Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony. "Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death. "Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!" "Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind! "It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth! "Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,-- Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!" [Illustration: Lowell] THE HUSBAND'S PETITION. WILLIAM AYTOUN. Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper, A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love. I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose! Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine: And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers-- Ah! Jane, how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me. Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes: By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper, That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo'd thee, dear! By that great vow which bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask. THE BITER BIT. WILLIAM AYTOUN. The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild! A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. BY SIR E------- B------- L-------. WILLIAM AYTOUN Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink, I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm! But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil? I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams; There should Apollo's bays be budding now: And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams. When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught. Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam. Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better. A fice for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers," Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?" No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT! THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W------ E------ A------, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN. Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropp'd--that star of honor--on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum, Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd--let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him, as we found him--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is! FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN. ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus: Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness! Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease-- A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille. That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!" Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng! How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back. So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery! But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm), We pass'd to the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more! LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN. Guards! who at Smolensko fled-- No--I beg your pardon--bled! For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me. Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie. Who's afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman's till? Who would pay a tailor's bill? Let him turn and flee. Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before-- That is, follow me! See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly! Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery! Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into--of the state--a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!) Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold-- These may be inclined to scold Our severity. Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory. Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice, We, the nation's darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE. THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN. On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera. But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack shasseurs of Africa By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry. Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere. But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery. More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery. 'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably. Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor. PUFFS POETICAL. WILLIAM AYTOUM I. PARIS AND HELEN. As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed. He said: "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field. "Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep. "Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me. "How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in! "Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest! Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom! Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, Breathing round thee rich perfume?" Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied: "Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell! 'Twas a gift I had of Venus,-- Venus who hath loved me well. "And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known, O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.' "'Tis inclosed in yonder casket-- Here behold its golden key; But its name--love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!" Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow; Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay; Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap! II. TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR. Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving, Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in, Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin! "Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! From my dressing table get thee gone! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? There again! That cut was to the bone! Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone!" Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please. There! the deed is done!" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid: But he wronged the blameless Gods; for hearken! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy RODGER'S name engraved upon the blade. REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES I saw the curl of his waving lash, And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash, As his steed went thundering by. And he may ride in the rattling gig, Or flourish the Stanhope gay, And dream that he looks exceeding big To the people that walk in the way; But he shall think, when the night is still, On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, And the ghost of many a veteran bill Shall hover around his slumbers; The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, And constables cluster around him, And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep Where their specter eyes have found him! Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong, And bid your steed go faster; He does not know as he scrambles along, That he has a fool for his master; And hurry away on your lonely ride, Nor deign from the mire to save me; I will paddle it stoutly at your side With the tandem that nature gave me! EVENING. BY A TAILOR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meager ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with;--but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments. Is that a swan that rides upon the water? O no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,--it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me,--oh, most fearfully! It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel With all around me;--I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle,--and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of my legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. PHAETHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN. JOHN G. SAXX DAN PHAETHON--so the histories run-- Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN; Or rather of PHOEBUS--but as to his mother, Genealogists make a deuce of a pother, Some going for one, and some for another! For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer, This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA! Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun To elevate funds and depreciate fun, Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;" Running, they say, Trips every day (On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way). And lighted up with a famous array Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display, And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay." With never a fare, and nothing to pay! Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father, To grant him a favor, and this the rather, Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy, That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy! Intending, the rascally son of a gun, To darken the brow of the son of the SUN! "By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire, While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire, "To prove your reviler an infamous liar, I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!" "Then by my head," The youngster said, "I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!-- For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't-- I beg you won't-- Just stop a moment and think upon't! You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your tender age! Besides, you see, 'T will really be Your first appearance on any stage! Desist, my child, The cattle are wild, And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,' Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'-- They're not the fellows to draw it mild! Desist, I say, You'll rue the day-- So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!" But the youth was proud, And swore aloud, 'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd-- He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed! In vain the boy was cautioned at large, He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge, And vowed that any young fellow of force, Could manage a dozen coursers, of course! Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry He had given his word in such a hurry, But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt He was in for it now, and couldn't back out. So calling Phaethon up in a trice, He gave the youth a bit of advice:-- "'Parce stimulis, utere loris!' (A "stage direction," of which the core is, Don't use the whip--they're ticklish things-- But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!) Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is, 'Medio tutissimus ibis' (As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen!) So mind your eye, and spare your goad, Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!" Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place, Drove off the steeds at a furious pace, Fast as coursers running a race, Or bounding along in a steeple-chase! Of whip and shout there was no lack, "Crack--whack-- Whack--crack" Resounded along the horses' back!-- Frightened beneath the stinging lash, Cutting their flanks in many a gash, On--on they sped as swift as a flash, Through thick and thin away they dash, (Such rapid driving is always rash!) When all at once, with a dreadful crash, The whole "establishment" went to smash! And Phaethon, he, As all agree, Off the coach was suddenly hurled, Into a puddle, and out of the world! MORAL. Don't rashly take to dangerous courses-- Nor set it down in your table of forces, That any one man equals any four horses! Don't swear by the Styx!-- It's one of Old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular "fix," And hold 'em there as fast as bricks! THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. [AFTER GOLDSMITH.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame, Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could detect at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or without the points pleased her the same. If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring. Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees. EPIGRAMMATIC EPIGRAMS OF BEN JONSON. TO FINE GRAND. What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly, Or take an Epigram so fearfully, As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter? The world must know your greatness is my debtor. IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jest I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast. ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after, That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter. ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing; ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring, With which a learned madam you bely. ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfully Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn. ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt. ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt. ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock. ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's cock, In most vile verses, and cost me more pain, Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein. Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you. TO BRAINHARDY. Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest, Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest Thyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon, Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one; So in short time, thou art in arrearage grown Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none; Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released, Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest. Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right, He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight. TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC. When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee. TO SIR ANNUAL FILTER. Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I; And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why? For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit; For then our water-conduits do run wine; But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine. ON BANKS THE USURER. Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout, His moneys travel for him in and out, And though the soundest legs go every day, He toils to be at hell, as soon as they. ON CHEVRIL THE LAWYER No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese, But as they come, on both sides he takes fees, And pleaseth both; for while he melts his grease For this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace. EPIGRAMATIC VERSES BY SAMUEL BUTLER. OPINION. Opinion governs all mankind, Like the blind's leading of the blind; For he that has no eyes in 's head, Must be by a dog glad to be led; And no beasts have so little in 'em As that inhuman brute, Opinion. "Tis an infectious pestilence, The tokens upon wit and sense, That with a venomous contagion Invades the sick imagination: And, when it seizes any part, It strikes the poison to the heart." This men of one another catch, By contact, as the humors match. And nothing's so perverse in nature As a profound opiniator. CRITICS. Critics are like a kind of flies, that breed In wild fig-trees, and when they're grown up, feed Upon the raw fruit of the nobler kind, And, by their nibbling on the outward rind, Open the pores, and make way for the sun To ripen it sooner than he would have done. HYPOCRISY. Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion: So round white stones will serve, they pay, As well as eggs to make hens lay. POLISH. All wit and fancy, like a diamond, The more exact and curious 'tis ground, Is forced for every carat to abate, As much in value as it wants in weight. THE GODLY. A godly man, that has served out his time In holiness, may set up any crime; As scholars, when they've taken their degrees May set up any faculty they please. PIETY. Why should not piety be made, As well as equity, a trade, And men get money by devotion, As well as making of a motion? B' allow'd to pray upon conditions, As well as suitors in petitions? And in a congregation pray, No less than Chancery, for pay? MARRIAGE. All sorts of vot'ries, that profess To bind themselves apprentices To Heaven, abjure, with solemn vows, Not Cut and Long-tail, but a Spouse As the worst of all impediments To hinder their devout intents. POETS. It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich. Had ne'er been clapp'd with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t' avoid being idle, set up wit. PUFFING. They that do write in authors' praises, And freely give their friends their voices Are not confined to what is true; That's not to give, but pay a due: For praise, that's due, does give no more To worth, than what it had before; But to commend without desert, Requires a mastery of art, That sets a gloss on what's amiss, And writes what should be, not what is. POLITICIANS. All the politics of the great Are like the cunning of a cheat, That lets his false dice freely run, And trusts them to themselves alone, But never lets a true one stir, Without some fingering trick or slur; And, when the gamester doubts his play, Conveys his false dice safe away, And leaves the true ones in the lurch T' endure the torture of the search. FEAR. There needs no other charm, nor conjurer To raise infernal spirits up, but fear; That makes men pull their horns in, like a snail That's both a pris'ner to itself, and jail; Draws more fantastic shapes, than in the grains Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains; When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls, Are only in the insides of their skulls. THE LAW. The law can take a purse in open court While it condemns a less delinquent for't. THE SAME. Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws, A greater penance than an honest cause. THE SAME. All those that do but rob and steal enough, Are punishment and court-of-justice proof, And need not fear, nor be concerned a straw In all the idle bugbears of the law; But confidently rob the gallows too, As well as other sufferers, of their due. CONFESSION. In the Church of Rome to go to shrift Is but to put the soul on a clean shift. SMATTERERS All smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light. BAD WRITERS. As he that makes his mark is understood To write his name, and 'tis in law as good, So he, that can not write one word of sense Believes he has as legal a pretense To scribble what he does not understand, As idiots have a title to their land. THE OPINIONATIVE. Opinionators naturally differ From other men; as wooden legs are stiffer Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow, Which way soever they're design'd to go. LANGUAGE OF THE LEARNED. Were Tully now alive, he'd be to seek In all our Latin terms of art and Greek; Would never understand one word of sense The most irrefragable schoolman means: As if the Schools design'd their terms of art, Not to advance a science, but to divert; As Hocus Pocus conjures to amuse The rabble from observing what he does. GOOD WRITING. As 'tis a greater mystery in the art Of painting, to foreshorten any part, Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chief Of all perfections to be plain and brief. COURTIERS. As in all great and crowded fairs Monsters and puppet-play are wares, Which in the less will not go off, Because they have not money enough; So men in princes' courts will pass That will not in another place. INVENTIONS. All the inventions that the world contains, Were not by reason first found out, nor brains, But pass for theirs who had the luck to light Upon them by mistake or oversight. LOGICIANS. Logicians used to clap a proposition, As justices do criminals, in prison, And, in as learn'd authentic nonsense, writ The names of all their moods and figures fit; For a logician's one that has been broke To ride and pace his reason by the book; And by their rules, and precepts, and examples, To put his wits into a kind of trammels. LABORIOUS WRITERS. Those get the least that take the greatest pains, But most of all i' th' drudgery of the brains, A natural sign of weakness, as an ant Is more laborious than an elephant; And children are more busy at their play, Than those that wiseliest pass their time away. ON A CLUB OF SOTS. The jolly members of a toping club, Like pipestaves, are but hoop'd into a tub; And in a close confederacy link, For nothing else but only to hold drink. HOLLAND. A country that draws fifty feet of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature; And when the sea does in upon them break, And drown a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe, but at the rate they stink; That live as if they had been run a-ground, And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey; And, when their merchants are blown up and cracked, Whole towns are cast away and wrecked; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd, In which they do not live, but go a-board. WOMEN. The souls of women are so small, That some believe they've none at all; Or if they have, like cripples, still They've but one faculty, the will; The other two are quite laid by To make up one great tyranny; And though their passions have most pow'r, They are, like Turks, but slaves the more To th' abs'lute will, that with a breath Has sovereign pow'r of life and death, And, as its little int'rests move, Can turn 'em all to hate or love; For nothing, in a moment, turn To frantic love, disdain, and scorn; And make that love degenerate T' as great extremity of hate; And hate again, and scorn, and piques, To flames, and raptures, and love-tricks. EPIGRAMS OF EDMUND WALLEB. A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH. Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net, So grossly woven, and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show, If she would bite: her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are dis-abus'd, when first she gapes: The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulcher. OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS. Design, or chance, makes others wive; But nature did this match contrive: EVE might as well have ADAM fled, As she denied her little bed To him, for whom heav'n seem'd to frame, And measure out, this only dame. Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly Of sad distrust, and jealousy: Secured in as high extreme, As if the world held none but them. To him the fairest nymphs do show Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow: And ev'ry man a POLYPHEME Does to his GALATEA seem; None may presume her faith to prove; He proffers death that proffers love. Ah CHLORIS! that kind nature thus From all the world had sever'd us: Creating for ourselves us two, As love has me for only you! EPIGRAMS OF MATTHEW PRIOR. A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turn'd up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?-- Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. THE FLIES. Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol, (A Fly upon the chariot pole Cries out), what Blue-bottle alive Did ever with such fury drive? Tell Belzebub, great father, tell (Says t' other, perch'd upon the wheel), Did ever any mortal Fly Raise such a cloud of dust as I? My judgment turn'd the whole debate: My valor sav'd the sinking state. So talk two idle buzzing things; Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings. But let the truth to light be brought; This neither spoke, nor t' other fought: No merit in their own behavior: Both rais'd, but by their party's favor. PHILLIS'S AGE. How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three. TO THE DUKE DE NOALLES. Vain the concern which you express, That uncall'd Alard will possess Your house and coach, both day and night, And that Macbeth was haunted less By Banquo's restless sprite. With fifteen thousand pounds a-year, Do you complain, you can not bear An ill, you may so soon retrieve? Good Alard, faith, is modester By much, than you believe. Lend him but fifty louis-d'or; And you shall never see him more: Take the advice; probatum est. Why do the gods indulge our store, But to secure our rest? ON BISHOP ATTERBURY. Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay, As you value your peace, make the best of your way. Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw, If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law. And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found, That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground, He will claim to himself what is strictly his due, And an action of trespass will straightway ensue, That you without right on his premises tread, On a simple surmise that the owner is dead. FORMA BONUM FRAGILE. What a frail thing is beauty! says baron Le Cras, Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass: And scarcely had he spoke it, When she more confus'd as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true: She dropt the eye, and broke it. EARNING A DINNER. Full oft doth Mat. with Topaz dine, Eateth baked meats, drinketh Greek wine; But Topaz his own werke rehearseth; And Mat. mote praise what Topaz verseth. Now sure as priest did e'er shrive sinner, Full hardly earneth Mat. his dinner. BIBO AND CHARON. When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, And full of champagne as an egg's full of meat, He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said, He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead. Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied: You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died. THE PEDANT. Lysander talks extremely well; On any subject let him dwell, His tropes and figures will content ye He should possess to all degrees The art of talk; he practices Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty EPIGRAMS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. THE COUNTESS OF MANCHESTER. Written on his admission to the Kit-Cat Club, in compliance with the rule that every new member should name his toast, and write a verse in her praise. While haughty Gallia's dames, that spread O'er their pale cheeks an artful red, Beheld this beauteous stranger there, In nature's charms divinely fair; Confusion in their looks they showed, And with unborrowed blushes glowed. TO AN ILL-FAVORED LADY. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.] While in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue, What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But when the candle entered I was cured. TO A CAPBICIOUS FEIEND. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.] In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee. TO A ROGUE. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.] Thy beard and head are of a different dye: Short of one foot, distorted in an eye: With all these tokens of a knave complete, Should'st thou be honest, thou 'rt a dev'lish cheat. EPIGRAMS OF ALEXANDER POPE. ON MRS. TOFTS. (A CELEBRATED OPERA SINGER.) So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride. That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died. TO A BLOCKHEAD. You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. THE FOOL AND THE POET. Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet. EPIGRAMS OF DEAN SWIFT. ON BURNING A DULL POEM. An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought when I this poem read, No vessel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean the head without the brain. The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupefying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb. In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice. How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame. TO A LADY, On hearing her praise her husband. You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find, For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. THE CUDGELED HUSBAND. As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife, He took to his heels and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice- But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life; Went home, and was cudgeled again by his wife. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast, Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawled by every rake, His breast again would cover, And fairly bid the devil take The diamond and the lover. ON SEEING THE BUSTS OP NEWTON, LOCKE, AND OTHERS, Placed by Queen Caroline in Richmond Hermitage. Louis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head; Our frugal queen, to save her meat, Exalts the heads that cannot eat. ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER. Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amid our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame. ON ONE DELACOURT'S COMPLIMENTING CARTHY ON HIS POETRY. Carthy, you say, writes well--his genius true, You pawn your word for him--he'll vouch for you. So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other's bail. ON A USURER. Beneath this verdant hillock lies, Demar, the wealthy and the wise. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest, The very chest in which, they say, His other self, his money lay. And, if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe, that four in five Will think his better half alive. TO MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: These Venus cleans from every spurious grain Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD. THE REVERSE; OR, MRS. CLUDD. Venus one day, as story goes, But for what reason no man knows, In sullen mood and grave deport, Trudged it away to Jove's high court; And there his Godship did entreat, To look out for his best receipt: And make a monster strange and odd, Abhorr'd by man and every god. Jove, ever kind to all the fair, Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took A neatly bound and well-gilt book; Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, But what was very choice and rare. Scarce had he turn'd a page or two-- It might be more, for aught I know; But, be the matter more or less, 'Mong friends 't will break no squares, I guess. Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, Here's one will fit you to a T. But, as the writing doth prescribe, 'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. Away he went, and search'd the stews, And every street about the Mews; Diseases, impudence, and lies, Are found and brought him in a trice From Hackney then he did provide, A clumsy air and awkward pride; From lady's toilet next he brought Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. These Jove put in an old close-stool, And with them mix'd the vain, the fool. But now came on his greatest care, Of what he should his paste prepare; For common clay or finer mold Was much too good, such stuff to hold At last he wisely thought on mud; So raised it up, and call'd it--CLUDD. With this, the lady well content, Low curtsey'd, and away she went. THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED. All folks who pretend to religion and grace, Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: But if HELL may by logical rules be defined The place of the damn'd--I'll tell you my mind. Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, Most certainly there is HELL to be found: Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves; Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; Dama'd time-serving priests all over the nation; And into the bargain I'll readily give you Damn'd ignorant prelates, and councillors privy. Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. How happy for us that it is not at home! THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. With a world of thought oppress'd, I sunk from reverie to rest. A horrid vision seized my head, I saw the graves give up their dead! Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, And thunder roars and lightning flies; Amazed, confused, its fate unknown, The world stands trembling at his throne! While each pale sinner hung his head, Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: "Offending race of human kind, By nature, reason, learning, blind; You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; And you, who never fell from pride: You who in different sects were shamm'd, And come to see each other damn'd; (So some folk told you, but they knew No more of Jove's designs than you); --The world's mad business now is o'er, And I resent these pranks no more. --I to such blockheads set my wit! I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're bit." PAULUS THE LAWYER. LINDSAY. "A slave to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; While smiling Nature, in her best attire, Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. Can he, who knows that real good should please Barter for gold his liberty and ease?" This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore: He grasps the shining gifts, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes o'er the laws. EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS SHERIDAN. ON A CARICATURE. If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it. ON DEAN SWIFT'S PROPOSED HOSPITAL FOR LUNATICS Great wits to madness nearly are allied, This makes the Dean for kindred THUS provide. TO A DUBLIN PUBLISHER. Who displayed a bust of Dean Swift in his window, while publishing Lord Orrery's offensive remarks upon the Dean. Faulkner! for once thou hast some judgment shown, By representing Swift transformed to stone; For could he thy ingratitude have known, Astonishment itself the work had done! WHICH IS WHICH. BYRON. "God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! God bless--no harm in blessing--the Pretender. But who that pretender is, and who that king, God bless us all, is quite another thing." ON SOME LINES OF LOPEZ DE VEGA. DR. JOHNSON. If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father. ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH. Placed between the busts of Newton and Pope. LORD CHESTERFIELD "Immortal Newton never spoke More truth than here you'll find; Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke More cruel on mankind. "The picture placed the busts between, Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen-- But Folly at full length." ON SCOTLAND. CLEVELAND. "Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home." EPIGRAMS OF PETER PINDAR. EDMUND BURKE'S ATTACK ON WARREN HASTINGS Poor Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun: Poor Edmund GROANS--and Britain is UNDONE! Reader! thou hast, I do presume (God knows though) been in a snug room, By coals or wood made comfortably warm, And often fancied that a storm WITHOUT, Hath made a diabolic rout-- Sunk ships, tore trees up--done a world of harm. Yes, thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes, Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries; And sigh'd, "How wretched now must thousands be! Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!" When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar, A ZEPHYR--in the key-hole of the door! Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes, On which he long hath looked with LONGING eye To fill poor Edmund's not o'erburden'd dishes? Give Mun a sup--forgot will be complaint; Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a SAINT. ON AN ARTIST Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the Exhibition. A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet The British Roscius in the street, Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags-- The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace-- "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick--"No!" replied the man of rags. "The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure--" "When?" with an oath, cried Garrick--"for by G-- I never saw that face of yours before!-- What characters, I pray, Did you and I together play?" "Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock-- When you play'd Hamlet, sir--I play'd the cock" ON THE CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES "FINISH'D!" a disappointed artist cries, With open mouth, and straining eyes; Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat-- "Lord! why have you not mentioned ME!" Mention THEE! Thy IMPUDENCE hath put me in a SWEAT-- What rage for fame attends both great and small Better be D--N'D, than mention'd NOT AT ALL! THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme-- Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint. West swears I've not an atom of sublime-- I swear he hath no notion of a saint; And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Baptized by naturalists, owls: Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers. The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass," With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass; Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own Is often of the choicest Portland stone. I've said it too, that this artist's faces Ne'er paid a visit to the graces: That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a pudding- No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag. I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: I'm told the man with technicals is blest, That he can talk a deal upon the art; Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it-- "About it, goddess, and about it." Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise-- And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows, His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too! BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS When Barry dares the President to fly on, 'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage Daring some dreadful war to wage, Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion. Or like a louse, of mettle full, Nurs'd in some giant's skull-- Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed, Employs with vehemence his angry claws, And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws, To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD! ON THE DEATH OP MR. HONE, R. A. There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone-- His works be with him under the same stone: I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em; But, Muse!--DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM-- As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer, Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER. Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train Sunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean; And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motion To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again. ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST. Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, A little daisy in the garden place, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration, Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation, Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour: Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out, To show its marvelous gard'ning skill; Then staring round, all wild for praises panting, Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting; And boast away, too happy elf, How that it found the daisy all itself! ANOTHER ON THE SAME. In SIMILE if I may shine agen- Thus have I seen a fond old hen With one poor miserable chick, Bustling about a farmer's yard; Now on the dunghill laboring hard, Scraping away through thin and thick, Flutt'ring her feathers--making such a noise! Cackling aloud such quantities of joys, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, Was born to deal prodigious knocks, To shine the Broughton of game cocks, And kill the fowls of all the earth! EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS. Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell." But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags. The church clock struck one--alas! 't was Peter's knell, Who sigh'd, "I'm coming--that's the ostler's bell!" TRAY'S EPITAPH. Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone; Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way- Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray. ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM. Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown- I think very different, with thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone. [The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E---'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.--P. P.] A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E---, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID. O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig-- Your lord and son are still behind. EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS. THE POET'S CHOICE. I murder hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus. The Jeities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter Hood in death does sleep;-- To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither. ON JOHN DOVE INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE. Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer, persecution, A dram was MEMENTO MORI: But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory. ON ANDREW TURNER. In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, And cuist it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, And shaped it something like a man. And ca'd it Andrew Turner. ON A SCOTCH COXCOMB Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under. ON GRIZZEL GRIM. Here lies with death auld Grizzel Grim. Lineluden's ugly witch; O death, how horrid is thy taste, To lie with such a b----! ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye stayed whole years awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass-- Perhaps he was your father. EPITAPH ON W---. Stop, thief! dame Nature cried to Death, As Willie drew his latest breath; You have my choicest model ta'en; How shall I make a fool again? ON A SUICIDE. Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble-- Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble. EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING. NIGER. "He's gone at last--old Niger's dead!" Last night 'twas said throughout the city; Each quidnunc gravely shook his head, And HALF the town cried, "What a pity!" The news proved false--'t was all a cheat-- The morning came the fact denying; And ALL the town to-day repeat What HALF the town last night was crying. A NICE POINT. Say which enjoys the greater blisses, John, who Dorinda's picture kisses, Or Tom, his friend, the favor'd elf, Who kisses fair Dorinda's self? Faith, 'tis not easy to divine, While both are thus with raptures fainting, To which the balance should incline, Since Tom and John both kiss a painting. THE POINT DECIDED. Nay, surely John's the happier of the twain, Because--the picture can not kiss again! TRUE NOBILITY. Young Stirps as any lord is proud, Vain, haughty, insolent, and loud, Games, drinks, and in the full career Of vice, may vie with any peer; Seduces daughters, wives, and mothers, Spends his own cash, and that of others, Pays like a lord--that is to say, He never condescends to pay, But bangs his creditor in requital-- And yet this blockhead wants a title! TO A LIAR. Lie as long as you will, my fine fellow, believe me, Your rhodomontading will never deceive me; Though you took me in THEN, I confess, my good youth, When moved by caprice you once told me the truth. MENDAX. See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking. THE BAD-WIFE. SAVANS have decided, that search the globe round, One only bad wife in the world can be found; The worst of it is, as her name is not known, Not a husband but swears that bad wife is his own. THE DEAD MISER. From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can't be his BODY alone--in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL. ON FELL. While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite. THE BAD ORATOR. So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying; Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying. THE WISE CHILD. How plain your little darling says "Mamma," But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa." One thing is clear: your conscientious rib Has not yet taught the pretty dear to fib. SPECIMEN OF THE LACONIC. "Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice-- "Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise. CUPID AND MERCURY, OR THE BARGAIN. Sly Cupid late with Maia's son Agreed to live as friend and brother; In proof, his bow and shafts the one Chang'd for the well-fill'd purse of t'other. And now, the transfer duly made, Together through the world they rove; The thieving god in arms array'd, And gold the panoply of love! FRITZ. Quoth gallant Fritz, "I ran away To fight again another day." The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again. ON DORILIS. That Dorilis thus, on her lap as he lies, Should kiss little Pompey, excites no surprise; But the lapdog whom thus she keeps fondling and praising, Licks her face in return--that I own is amazing! TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER. So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet. ON TWO BEAUTIFUL ONE-EYED SISTERS Give up one eye, and make your sister's two, Venus she then would be, and Cupid you. THE PER-CONTRA, OR MATRIMONIAL BALANCE How strange, a deaf wife to prefer! True, but she's also dumb, good sir. EPIGRAMS S. T. COLERIDGE. AN EXPECTORATION, Or Spienetic Extempore, on my joyful departure from the city of Cologne. As I am rhymer, And now, at least, a merry one, Mr. Mum's Eudesheimer, And the church of St. Geryon, Are the two things alone, That deserve to be known, In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne. EXPECTORATION THE SECOND. In Clon, the town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne. But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? TO A LADY, Offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls. Nay, dearest Anna, why so grave? I said you had no soul,'tis true, For what you ARE you can not HAVE; 'Tis _I_ that have one since I first had you. AVARO. [STOLEN FROM LESSING.] There comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench--why sure they have Immured his SOUL within his grave. BEELZEBUB AND JOB. Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health, He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, oxen, horses, cows-- But cunning Satan did not take his spouse. But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse! SENTIMENTAL. The rose that blushes like the morn, Bedecks the valleys low: And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, My Angelina's toe. But on the rose there grows a thorn, That breeds disastrous woe: And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe. AN ETERNAL POEM. Your poem must ETERNAL be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail. BAD POETS. Swans sing before they die--'t were no bad thing; Did certain persons die before they sing. TO MR. ALEXANDRE, THE VENTRILOQUIST. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good, To carry two visages under one hood: What should folks say to YOU? who have faces so plenty, That from under one hood you last night showed us twenty! Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth? Man, woman or child--a dog or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask?--each dead implement too, A workshop in your person--saw, chisel, and screw! Above all, are you one individual?--I know You must be, at least, Alexandre and Co. But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob, And that I, as the sheriff, should take up the job: And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse! THE SWALLOWS. R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The Prince of Wales came into Brooke's one day, and complained of cold, but after drinking three glasses of brandy and water, said he felt comfortable. The prince came in and said't was cold, Then put to his head the rummer, Till SWALLOW after SWALLOW came, When he pronounced it summer. FRENCH AND ENGLISH. ERSKINE The French have taste in all they do, Which we are quite without; For Nature, that to them gave GOUT To us gave only gout. EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS MOORE. TO SIR HUDSON LOWE. Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW (By name, and ah! by nature so), As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians. They tied him down-these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance! And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches; And how some VERY little things, That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches. Alas! alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Though different, too, these persecutions For Gulliver, THERE, took the nap, While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians! DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS DUKE OF CUMBERLAND. Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"-- "Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz, "You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!" TO MISS ----- With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix, One knows not where to take you; I pray you, if 'tis not too far, Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are, Or what she meant to make you. Yet stay--you need not take the pains With neither beauty, youth, nor brains, For man or maid's desiring: Pert as female, fool as male, As boy too green, as girl too stale The thing's not worth inquiring! TO ----- Die when you will, you need not wear At heaven's court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see The voice we hear and you will be An angel READY-MADE for heaven! UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN. Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH? ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood! FROM THE FRENCH. Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack--he's everywhere: At church--park--auction--dinner--rout-- Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back-- Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-- You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?" One hundred times a-day, at least. A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead-- I've seen him but three times to-day!" A JOKE VERSIFIED. "Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?" THE SURPRISE. Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow? Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE--than NOW!" ON ----. Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never more than the snuff. ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE! ON A TUET-HUNTER. Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside his place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a STAR he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company. THE KISS. Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight. Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move Ah, no!--again--that kiss was wrong How can you be so dull, my love? "Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied And in her milky arms she caught me "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!" EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET--(ROBERT SOUTHEY.) Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did! Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all; Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water. And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honor's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack. Death, weary of so dull a writer, Put to his works a FINIS thus. Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter Than did his quartos upon us! WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the "Book of Follies." This journal of folly's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO? None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms; Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS! THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN. They tell us that Woman was made of a rib Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side; But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib, And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied. For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span; And when Nature cut off this appendage behind, Why--then woman was made of the tail of the man. If such is the tie between women and men, The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf; For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, And makes a most damnable ape of himself! Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, Every husband remembers the original plan, And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, Why--he leaves her behind him as much as he can. ANACREONTIQUE. Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower; And while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think--in WOE the clusters weep. Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the LUXURY OF WOE! SPECULATION. Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy --- up at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself. ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT. REV. SAMUEL WESLEY. While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-- He ask'd for BREAD, and he received a STONE. ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OP THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE. CHARLES LAMB. Ye politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, And left the HAIR APPARENT. TO PROFESSOR AIREY, On his marrying a beautiful woman. SIDNEY SMITH Airey alone has gained that double prize, Which forced musicians to divide the crown; His works have raised a mortal to the skies, His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down. ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD. SAMUEL ROGERS "They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it; He has a heart--and gets his speeches by it." EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON. TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'" Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt, A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why should we weep, I can't find out, Unless for THEE we weep in pity. Yet there is one I pity more, And much, alas! I think he needs it-- For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. The rhymes, without the aid of magic, May ONCE be read--but never after; Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain? If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us you'll read them o'er again. WINDSOR POETICS. On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor. Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thing-- It moves, it reigns--in all but name, a king; Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, --In him the double tyrant starts to life; Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, Each royal vampyre wakes to life again. Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mold a George? ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more--so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off--so he's now carriON. EPIGRAMS OF BARHAM. ON THE WINDOWS OF KING'S COLLEGE REMAINING BOARDED. Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens. Professors, in your plan there seems A something not quite right: 'Tis queer to cherish learning's beams By shutting out the light. While thus we see your windows block'd, If nobody complains; Yet everybody must be shock'd, To see you don't take pains. And tell me why should bodily Succumb to mental meat? Or why should Pi-ra, Beta Pi-ra, Pi-c, Be all the pie we eat? No HELLUO LIBRORUM I, No literary glutton, Would veal with Virgil like to try, With metaphysics, mutton. Leave us no longer in the lurch, With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos: But give us beef instead of birch, And BOARD US--not your windows. NEW-MADE HONOR. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.] A friend I met, some half hour since-- "GOOD-MORROW JACK!" quoth I; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by; When up came Jem--"Sir John, your slave!" "Ah, James; we dine at eight-- Fail not--(low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait." The king can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner. EHEU FUGACES. What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labunter, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me I Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis, and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing, I murmur, "O mihi praeteritos !" ANONYMOUS EPIGRAMS ON A PALE LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND. Whence comes it that, in Clara's face, The lily only has its place? Is it because the absent rose Has gone to paint her husband's nose? UPON POPE'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms, As pity melts us, or as passion warms, That after ages will with wonder seek Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek. RECIPE FOR A MODERN BONNET. Two scraps of foundation, some fragments of lace, A shower of French rose-buds to droop o'er the face; Fine ribbons and feathers, with crage and illusions, Then mix and DErange them in graceful confusion; Inveigle some fairy, out roaming for pleasure, And beg the slight favor of taking her measure, The length and the breadth of her dear little pate, And hasten a miniature frame to create; Then pour, as above, the bright mixture upon it, And lo! you possess "such a love of a bonnet!" MY WIFE AND I As my wife and I, at the window one day, Stood watching a man with a monkey, A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy," Who was driving a stout little donkey. To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, "There's a relation of yours in that carriage." To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, "Ah, yes, a relation--BY MARRIAGE!" ON TWO GENTLEMEN, One of whom, O'Connell, delayed a duel on the plea of his wife's illness; the other declined on account of the illness of his daughter. Some men, with a horror of slaughter, Improve on the Scripture command, And honor their wife and their daughter, That their days may be long in the land. WELLINGTON'S NOSE. "Pray, why does the great Captain's nose Resemble Venice?" Duncomb cries. "Why," quoth Sam Rogers, "I suppose. Because it has a bridge of size (sighs)." THE SMOKER. All dainty meats I do defy Which feed men fat as swine, He is a frugal man indeed That on a leaf can dine! He needs no napkin for his hands, His finger's ends to wipe, That keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in his pipe! AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING. "Harry, I can not think," says Dick, "What makes my ANKLES grow so thick:" "You do not recollect," says Harry, "How great a CALF they have to carry." TO A LIVING AUTHOR. Your comedy I've read, my friend, And like the half you pilfer'd best; But sure the piece you yet may mend: Take courage, man! and steal the rest. EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS HOOD. ON THE ART-UNIONS. That picture-raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good coloring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely lotteries encourage drawing. THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY. A mechanic his labor will often discard If the rate of his pay he dislikes: But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard-- Will continue to work though it STRIKES. EPIGRAMS BY W. SAVAGE LANDOR ON OBSERVING A VULGAR NAME ON THE PLINTH OF AN ANCIENT STATUE. Barbarians must we always be? Wild hunters in pursuit of fame? Must there be nowhere stone or tree Ungashed with some ignoble name. O Venus! in thy Tuscan dome May every god watch over thee! Apollo I bend thy bow o'er Rome, And guard thy sister's chastity. Let Britons paint their bodies blue As formerly, but touch not you. LYING IN STATE. Now from the chamber all are gone Who gazed and wept o'er Wellington; Derby and Dis do all they can To emulate so great a man: If neither can be quite so great, Resolved is each to LIE IN STATE. [Illustration: LANDOR] EPIGRAMS FROM PUNCH. THE CAUSE. Lisette has lost her wanton wiles-- What secret care consumes her youth, And circumscribes her smiles?-- A SPECK ON A FRONT TOOTH? IRISH PARTICULAR. Shiel's oratory's like bottled Dublin stout-- For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER A poor man went to hang himself, But treasure chanced to find: He pocketed the miser's pelf And left the rope behind. His money gone, the miser hung Himself in sheer despair: Thus each the other's wants supplied, And that was surely fair. STICKY. I'm going to seal a letter, Dick, Some WAX pray give to me. I have not got a SINGLE STICK, Or WHACKS I'd give to thee. THE POET FOILED. To win the maid the poet tries, And sometimes writes to Julia's eye She likes a VERSE--but, cruel whim, She still appears A-VERSE to him. BLACK AND WHITE The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night, And boast that they are only blessed with light. Peel's politics to both sides so incline, His may be called the EQUINOCTIAL LINE. INQUEST--NOT EXTRAORDINARY. Great Bulwer's works fell on Miss Basbleu's head, And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead! A jury sat, and found the verdict plain-- She died of MILK and WATER ON THE BRAIN. DOMESTIC ECONOMY. Said Stiggins to his wife, one day, "We've nothing left to eat; If things go on in this queer way, We shan't make BOTH ENDS MEET." The dame replied, in words discreet, "We're not so badly fed, If we can make but ONE end MEAT, And make the other BREAD." ON SEEING AN EXECUTION. One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop, To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop: "Alas!" cried one, as round in air he spun, "That miserable wretch's RACE IS RUN." "True," said the other, drily, "to his cost, The race is run--but, by a NECK 'tis lost." A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE. "I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks," Said a punster, perusing a trial: "I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux, He's been VAUX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL!" THE AMENDE HONORABLE. Quoth Will, "On that young servant-maid My heart its life-string stakes." "Quite safe!" cries Dick, "don't be afraid-- She pays for all she breaks." THE CZAR. CZAR NICHOLAS is so devout, they say, His majesty does nothing else than prey. BAS BLEU. Ma'amselle Bas Bleu, erudite virgin, With learned zeal is ever urging The love and reverence due From modern men to things antique, Egyptian, British, Roman, Greek, Relic of Gaul or Jew. No wonder that, Ma'amselle, the love Due to antiquity to prove And urge is ever prone; She knows where'er there cease to be Admirers of Antiquity, She needs must lose her own! TO A RICH YOUNG WIDOW. I will not ask if thou canst touch The tuneful ivory key? Those silent notes of thine are such As quite suffice for me. I'll make no question if thy skill The pencil comprehends, Enough for me, love, if thou still Canst draw thy dividends! THE RAILWAY OP LIFE. Short was the passage through this earthly vale, By turnpike roads when mortals used to wend; But now we travel by the way of rail, As soon again we reach the journey's end. A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM. Which is of greater value, prythee, say, The Bride or Bridegroom?--must the truth be told? Alas, it must! The Bride is given away-- The Bridegroom's often regularly sold. NUMBERS ALTERED. The lounger must oft, as he walks through the streets, Be struck with the grace of some girl that he meets; So graceful behind in dress--ringlets--all that-- But one gaze at the front--what a horrid old cat! You then think of the notice you've seen on a door, Which informs you, of "70 late 24." GRAMMAR FOR THE COURT OF BERLIN His majesty you should not say of FRITZ, That king is neuter; so for HIS, use ITS. THE EMPTY BOTTLE. WILLIAM AYTOUN Ah, liberty! how like thou art To this large bottle lying here, Which yesterday from foreign mart, Came filled with potent English beer! A touch of steel--a hand--a gush-- A pop that sounded far and near-- A wild emotion--liquid rush-- And I had drunk that English beer! And what remains?--An empty shell! A lifeless form both sad and queer, A temple where no god doth dwell-- The simple memory of beer! THE DEATH OF DOCTOR MORRISON. BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY. What's the news?--Why, they say Death has killed Dr. Morrison. The Pill-maker? Yes. Then Death will be sorry soon. EPIGRAMS BY JOHN G. SAXE. ON A RECENT CLASSIC CONTROVERSY. Nay, marvel not to see these scholars fight, In brave disdain of certain scath and scar; 'Tis but the genuine, old, Hellenic spite,-- "When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!" ANOTHER. Quoth David to Daniel--"Why is it these scholars Abuse one another whenever they speak?" Quoth Daniel to David--"it nat'rally follers Folks come to hard words if they meddle with Greek!" ON AN ILL-READ LAWYER. An idle attorney besought a brother For "something to read--some novel or other, That was really fresh and new." "Take Chitty!" replied his legal friend, "There isn't a book that I could lend Would prove more 'novel' to you!" ON AN UGLY PERSON SITTING FOR A DAGUERREOTYPE Here Nature in her glass--the wanton elf-- Sits gravely making faces at herself; And while she scans each clumsy feature o'er, Repeats the blunders that she made before! WOMAN'S WILL. Men dying make their wills--but wives Escape a work so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had? FAMILY QUARRELS. "A fool," said Jeanette, "is a creature I hate!" "But hating," quoth John, "is immoral; Besides, my dear girl, it's a terrible fate To be found in a family quarrel!" A REVOLUTIONARY HERO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder year by year; As every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, And vanquished Perry, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail. EPIGRAMS OF HALPIN THE LAST RESORT. A dramatist declared he had got So many people in his plot, That what to do with half he had Was like to drive him drama-mad! "The hero and the heroine Of course are married--very fine! But with the others, what to do Is more than I can tell--can you?" His friend replied--"'Tis hard to say, But yet I think there is a way. The married couple, thank their stars And half the 'others' take the cars, The other half you put on board An Erie steamboat--take my word, They'll never trouble you again!" The dramatist resumed his pen. FEMININE ARITHMETIC. LAURA. On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble-- For I was but eighteen in spring, While his age exactly is double. MAMMA He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity! LAURA His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty? THE MUSHROOM HUNT. In early days, ere Common Sense And Genius had in anger parted, They made to friendship some pretense, Though each, Heaven knows! diversely hearted. To hunt for mushrooms once they went, Through nibbled sheepwalks straying onward, Sense with his dull eyes earthward bent, While Genius shot his glances sunward! Away they go! On roll the hours, And toward the west the day-god edges; See! Genius holds a wreath of flowers, Fresh culled from all the neighboring hedges! Alas! ere eve their bright hues flit, While Common Sense (whom I so doat on!) Thanked God "that he had little wit," And drank his ketchup with his mutton. JUPITER AMANS. DEDICATED TO VICTOR HUGO. LONDON LEADER "Le petit" call not him who by one act Has turned old fable into modern fact Nap Louis courted Europe: Europe shied: Th' imperial purple was too newly dyed. "I'll have her though," thought he, "by rape or rapine; Jove nods sometimes, but catch a Nap a napping! And now I think of Jove, 't was Jove's own fix, And so I'll borrow one of Jove's own tricks: Old itching Palm I'll tickle with a joke, And he shall lend me England's decent cloak." 'Twas said and done, and his success was full; He won Europa with the guise of Bull! THE ORATOR'S EPITAPH. LORD BROUGHAM. "Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes, My fate a useful moral teaches; The hole in which my body lies Would not contain one-half my speeches." ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT. THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION. TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II. LEIGH HUNT. I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking. That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking. A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's intervals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals. Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting; By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in. Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound--for edification. Just as liquor floeth good--floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso. Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation. TONIS AD RESTO MARE. ANONYMOUS AIR--"Oh, Mary, heave a sigh for me." O MARE aeva si forme; Forme ure tonitru; Iambicum as amandum, Olet Hymen promptu; Mihi is vetas an ne se, As humano erebi; Olet mecum marito te, Or eta beta pi. Alas, plano more meretrix, Mi ardor vel uno; Inferiam ure artis base, Tolerat me urebo. Ah me ve ara silicet, Vi laudu vimin thus? Hiatu as arandum sex-- Illuc Ionicus. Heu sed heu vix en imago, My missis mare sta; O cantu redit in mihi Hibernas arida? A veri vafer heri si, Mihi resolves indu: Totius olet Hymen cum-- Accepta tonitru. DIC. DEAN SWIFT. Dic, heris agro at, an da quar to fine ale, Fora ringat ure nos, an da stringat ure tale. [Footnote: Dick, here is a groat, a quart o' fine ale. For a ring at your nose, and a string at your tail.] MOLL. DEAN SWIFT. Mollis abuti, Has an acuti, No lasso finis, Molli divinis. [Footnote: Moll is a beauty, Has an acute eye; No lass so fine is, Molly divine is.] TO MY MISTRESS. DEAN SWIFT. O mi de armis tres, Imi na dis tres. Cantu disco ver Meas alo ver? [Footnote: O my dear mistress I am in a distress. Can't you discover Me as a lover?] A LOVE SONG. DEAN SWIFT. Apud in is almi de si re, Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re, Alo veri findit a gestis, His miseri ne ver at restis. [Footnote: A pudding is all my desire, My mistress I never require; A lover I find it a jest is, His misery never at rest is.] A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN. IN THE DORIC MANNER. DEAN SWIFT. Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo. Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express? Echo. Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? Echo. Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address? Echo. A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? Echo. A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Liar. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo. Her deer. Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? Echo. Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? Echo. Beer. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind? Echo. Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo. Be cross. Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo. Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo. Blows. Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo. Bang her. Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger? Echo. Hang her. Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo. Guard her well. TO MY NOSE. ANONYMOUS. Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joy Which my nose knows? Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee As any mountain of its snows! I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows! ROGER AND DOLLY. BLACKWOOD. Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window-- Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump; He begg'd for admittance--she answered him no-- Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump. No, no, Roger, no--as you came you may go-- Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump. O what is the reason, dear Dolly? he cried-- Humpaty, humpaty, hump-- That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied?-- Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-- Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here-- Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump-- Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir Numpaty, numpaty, nump-- Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took-- Trumpaty, trumputy, trump-- And all in despair jump'd into a brook-- Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump-- His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-- Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-- So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more-- Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump-- He did speedily find one more fat and more kind-- Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-- But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid-- Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump. THE IRISHMAN. BLACKWOOD. I. There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man, And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. II. His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across: And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost doubled a yard across. O the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey devouring Irishman-- The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting Irishman. III. One of his eyes was bottle green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear, O, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman. IV. He took so much of Lundy-foot, That he used to snort and snuffle--O, And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. O, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman. V. His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again, The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman. VI. This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity, O, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman. A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY! CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS. A CAT I sing, of famous memory, Though CATachrestical my song may be; In a small garden CATacomb she lies, And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the CATacoustic song Swells with her virtues' CATalogue along; No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears. Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voice It dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise; Most CATegorical her virtues shone, By CATenation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air, As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag away Their lengths, like CATtle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT the Embodyment of this CATastrophe. A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES. JOHN BAY My passion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad. Round as a hoop the bumpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better. Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind. Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before. Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin! I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep. Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale. The god of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me. Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her. Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares And lighter than a feather. As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet. As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites. Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast. Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! She loved like any thing. But false as hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true. If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew. Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast. You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish. REMINISCENCES OP A SENTIMENTALIST. THOMAS HOOD. "My TABLES! MEAT it is, _I_ SET IT down!"--Hamlet I think it was Spring--but not certain I am-- When my passion began first to work; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb, And the season was over for pork. 'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes--for Morris had asked me to dine-- And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine. Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild With sheer envy, to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled As I afterward offered some duck. I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love--but my heart was quite lost When it came to the trifle and sweets. With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land, To her parents I told my designs-- And then to herself I presented my hand, With a very fine pottle of pines! I asked her to have me for weal or for woe, And she did not object in the least;-- I can't tell the date--but we married I know Just in time to have game at the feast. We went to ----, it certainly was the sea-side; For the next, the most blessed of morns, I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride, Sitting down to a plateful of prawns. O, never may memory lose sight of that year, But still hallow the time as it ought! That season the "grass" was remarkably dear, And the peas at a guinea a quart. So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, So united in heart--so congenial in taste-- We were both of us partial to brawn! A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride, But then Death--I ne'er dreamt about that! O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried When my turbot eloped with the cat! My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, But the cause no physician could nab; But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear-- It was just after supping on crab. In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed, Still her strength and her appetite pined; She lost relish for what she had relished the most, Even salmon she deeply declined! For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out. As the oysters were just coming in! She died, and she left me the saddest of men, To indulge in a widower's moan; Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then, As I ate my first "natives" alone! But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, And with sorrowful crape on their hats, O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying--I think it was sprats! FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. THOMAS HOOD. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms! Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!" The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "they're only pegs: But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs!" Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went up to pay his devours, When he devoured his pay! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off! "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!" Said she, "I loved a soldier once For he was blithe and brave But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave! "Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!" "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs, In Badajos's BREACHES!" "Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you can not wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!" "O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:-- Though I've no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes! "I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now, a long farewell! For you will be my death;--alas You will not be my NELL!" Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off--of course, He soon was off his legs! And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town-- For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a STAKE in his inside! NO! THOMAS HOOD. No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no "t' other side the way"-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing 'em-- No knowing 'em! To traveling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- No go--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. November! JACOB OMNIUM'S HOSS A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY One sees in Viteall Yard, Vere pleacemen do resort. A wenerable hinstitute, 'Tis called the Pallis Court A gent as got his i on it, I think will make some sport The natur of this Court My hindignation riles: A few fat legal spiders Here set & spin their viles; To rob the town theyr privlege is, In a hayrea of twelve miles. The Judge of this year Court Is a mellitary beak. He knows no more of Lor Than praps he does of Greek, And prowides hisself a deputy Because he can not speak. Four counsel in this Court-- Misnamed of Justice--sits; These lawyers owes their places to Their money, not their wits; And there's six attornies under them, As here their living gits. These lawyers, six and four, Was a livin at their ease, A sendin of their writs abowt, And droring in the fees, When their erose a cirkimstance As is like to make a breeze. It now is some monce since, A gent both good and trew Possest a ansum oss vith vich He didn know what to do: Peraps he did not like the oss, Perhaps he was a scru. This gentleman his oss At Tattersall's did lodge; There came a wulgar oss-dealer, This gentleman's name did fodge, And took the oss from Tattersall's: Wasn that a artful dodge? One day this gentleman's groom This willain did spy out, A mounted on this oss, A ridin him about; "Get out of that there oss, you rogue," Speaks up the groom so stout. The thief was cruel whex'd To find hisself so pinn'd; The oss began to whinny, The honest groom he grinn'd; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind. And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable yard! Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes? His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if _I_'d committed crimes, Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mann Attack me in the TIMES! Now, shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up; And he handed in a little bill, Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob. For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied, For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, Which the thief had took to ride. "Do you see any think green in me?" Mr. Jacob Homnium cried. "Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb, And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb, Shall _I_ be called to pay?--It is A iniquitious Jobb." Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix, And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six; And there he sor these men of Lor, And watched 'em at their tricks. The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come; The lawyers said their say, The Judge looked wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um. O, a weary day was that For Jacob to go through; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you). And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two. And then there was his own, Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six. Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-dicks! I can not settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust, At aving for to pay this sumb, But I should think he must, And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d. With most igstreme disgust. O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound. A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound. Good sport it is to you, To grind the honest pore; To puy their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent, for Lor; Make haste and git your costes in, They will not last much mor! Come down from that tribewn, Thou Shameless and Unjust; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth, august; Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must. And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen, And rise up Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den; That sty for fattening lawyers in, On the bones of honest men. PLEACEMAN X. THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she. This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three. Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she. "Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be. No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free. Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be! Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she. She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee. When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she. Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she. I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free. So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she. On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she. Now, yon young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. PLEACEMAN X THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY Galliant gents and lovely ladies, List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings: (Lord I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things!) In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where-- Vy, it was at four-and-tventy, Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her. Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look: Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal-- Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal! You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size; Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my hyes! I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you! What's your name, my beauty, tell me? And she faintly hansers, "Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, And I live at tventy-four." Hofttimes came this British seaman, This deluded gal to meet: And at tventy-four was welcome, Tventy-four in Guilford Street And Eliza told her Master (Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar. And he brought his landlady vith him (Vich vas all his hartful plan), And she told how Charley Thompson Reely was a good young man. And how she herself had lived in Many years of union sweet, Vith a gent she met promiskous, Valkin in the public street. And Eliza listened to them, And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin. Hand the clergyman jine their ands. And he ast about the lodgers (Vich her master let some rooms), likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons. Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Came on Sundy veek to see her, And he sent Eliza Davis Hout to vetch a pint of beer. Hand while poor Eliza vent to Fetch the beer, devoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish him. To the lodgers, their apartments, This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas: Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her vith rum and vater, Like a fiend in huming shape. But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four. He vas valkin in his garden, Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sor the Lodger's vinders lighted hup. Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; Something's going wrong, he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodger's bed. And he called a brother Pleaseman, Vich vas passing on his beat, Like a true and galliant feller, Hup and down in Guildford Street. And that Pleaseman, able-bodied, Took this voman to the cell; To the cell vere she was quodded, In the Close of Clerkenwell. And though vicked Charley Thompson Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman Took him to the self-same place. And this precious pair of raskles Tuesday last came up for doom; By the beak they was committed, Vich his name was Mr. Combe. Has for poor Eliza Davia, Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, will never listen In the streets to sailors moar. But if she must ave a sweet-art (Vich most every gurl expex), Let her take a jolly Pleaseman, Vich is name peraps is--X. LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. [Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur] BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE). W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street; Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico. While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born! The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for. With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp. Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste. Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Toward them steps with joy; Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us Is it a gal or a boy?" Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is a PRINCE." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince. He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, "Egad, its my buthday." By memory backards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born Upon the first of May. Peraps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him. I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne. His father praps he sees, Most musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords. Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she? And I shouldn be surprise While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind. * * * * To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!) They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a veskit red.) To see that carriage come The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" "Your Royal Ighness, yes." He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone, And X, although the people push, Says wery kind "Move hon." The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear Duke, my little son and you Was born the self-same day. "The lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here. "That lady is as well As can expected be; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free. "That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see, To show our honor for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be. "That name it rhymes to fame; All Europe knows the sound; And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound. "King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em, I'll be bound. "You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib; I name you then, with all my heart, The Godsire of this babe." That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son, And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy His little catechism. And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere. And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X. THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Come, all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, It is all about a Doctor was traveling by the rail, By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares don't desire), From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire. A traveling from Bury this Doctor was employed With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd; And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed. She entered into the carriage all with a tottering step, And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep; The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty. She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said, Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. Better to travel by secknd class than sit alone in the fust, And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust. A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail; Saysee you look unwell, ma'am, I'll elp you if I can, And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man. "Thank you, sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale, Because I ain't accustom'd to traveling on the rale; I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:" And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast. So in conwersation the journey they beguiled, Capting Loyd and the medical man, and the lady and the child, Till the warious stations along the line was passed, For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last. When at Shorediteh tumminus at lenth stopped the train, This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. "Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear; My carridge and my osses is probbibly come here. "Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?" The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he. Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently. With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, Then she gave the Doctor the child--wery kind he nust it; Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from, Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform. Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze; Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, The Capting and the Doctor vaited with the babby. There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore: Never, never back again did that lady come To that pooty sleeping Hinfant a suckin of his Thum! What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, When the darling baby woke, cryin for its nuss? Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild, And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child. That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, And made it very comforable by giving it some pap; And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found? A couple of ten pun notes sown up, in its little gownd! Also, in its little close, was a note which did conwey, That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way: And for its Headucation they reglary would pay, And sirtingly like gentle-folks would claim the child one day, If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, Per adwertisement in the TIMES, where the baby lay. Pity of this baby many people took, It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look; And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see Any kind lady as would do as much for me, And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd, I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)-- There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away. While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, To send the little infant back to Devonshire. Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran; Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, That takes his seat in Worship-street four times a week. "O Justice!" says the Doctor, "Instrugt me what to do, I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you; My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills, (There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills!) "I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose Of this pore little baby, and the twenty-pun note, and the clothes, And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez." Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, "This year application does me much perplesk; What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby." The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart-- He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows, To the tender mussies of the Union House. Mother who left this little one on a stranger's knee, Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he! Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she; And do not take unkindly this little word of me: Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be! PLEACEMAN X. THE CRYSTAL PALACE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing The Palace made o' windows! Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial O would before That Thomas Moore Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of Godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron! And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums. My Muse's words Is like the birds That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there. This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which imperors might covet, Stands in Hide Park Like Noah's Ark A rainbow bint above it. The towers and faynes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, St. Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo. 'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations. Her subjects pours From distant shores. Her Injians and Canajians; And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance. Here comes likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They sent their best To fill her Coornocopean. I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honor Misteer H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there.) With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in. Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring. There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in. There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "God save the Queen," by turns. There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver and of copper, And some in zink, And some, I think, That isn't over proper. There's staym Ingynes, That stand in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort, Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing. There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs; There's dibblers and there's harrows, And plows like toys, For little boys, And illegant wheel-barrows. For them genteels Who ride on wheels, There a plenty to indulge 'em, There's Droskys snug From Paytersbug And vayhycles from Belgium. There's Cabs on Stands, And Shandthry danns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland Sleighs, Have cross'd the seas, And Jaunting Cars from Cork here. Amazed I pass Prom glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Beneath me nose In this sublime Musayum, Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A saber from Damasco; There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow. There's German flutes, Marcoky boots, And Naples Macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay, Polonia her polonies. There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Ginger-bread and Jewels. There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins filled with roses. There 'a canvas tints, Teeth instruments, And shuits of clothes by Moses. There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber. Ah, JUDY thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu 'Tis I would thrait you to it. So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Crystal Exhibition. [Illustration: THACKERAY] THE SPECULATORS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep. I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro. There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket. Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags: Swaggering over the stones, These snabby bucks did walk And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk. Was I sober or awake? Could I believe my ears? Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares. I wondered more and more: Says one--"Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for In the Diddlesee Junction line?" "I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they wouldn't give me one;" His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done: "O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town; _I_ always write for five hundred shares, And THEN they put me down." "And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, "for all your boast;" "I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the post?" "I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up; But here's taters smoking hot--I say Let's stop, my boy, and sup." And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail. Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and toss'd And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost. "Bless railroads everywhere," I said, "and the world's advance; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France, For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance." LETTER FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN MEXICO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller that ain't a Feared. I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' Prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfly HOSEA BIGLOW. This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin'. An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis? [Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.--H.B.]This sort o' thing aint JEST like thet--I wish thet I wuz furder- [Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.--H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins), There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It's glory--but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But when it comes to BEIN' killed--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked, Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go" "None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster. Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly, The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my. Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay, *[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.--H. B.] Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay), An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it-- Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em), About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky-- I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin, An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn. [Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany thin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.--H. B] This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver). The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater; The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin' Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'. He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?" [Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.--H. B.] You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant), [Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.--H. B.] The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright--'t wuz jest a common CIMEX LECTULARIUS. One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, HIS bellowses is sound enough--ez I'm a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg--'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter! Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito-- (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe! My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't, I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't). Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*--an ourang outang nation, *[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.--H. B.] A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter, No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, "Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon. The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper; He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on't This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin! I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;" But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!" Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'-- But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers--wal, taint no use ajawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN A LETTER FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD. JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.--H. B. Dear Sir--You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Es bein' mum or underhand; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led. So, to begin at the beginnin'; An' come directly to the pint, I think the country's underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out o' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat. Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong I wunt deny but wut I be so-- An', fact, it don't smell very strong; My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o'greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they'll stand. Ez fer the war, I go agin it-- I mean to say I kind o' du-- Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart-- But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart. About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So's no one couldn't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll just answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil-- Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank. Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I 'am an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns I'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round. I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudent farmers don't turn out-- Ez long'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer'm to grout about? Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In MY idees consarnin' them-- _I_ think they air an Institution, A sort of--yes, jest so--ahem: Do _I_ own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge. Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a candidate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an' thin' in particler. Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig. P. S. Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in YOUR privit ear; Ef you git ME inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged from off the roost, I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost-- Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North. THE CANDIDATE'S CREED. (BIGLOW PAPERS.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets. I du believe in ANY plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses. I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit. I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses. I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care HOW hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'! I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description. I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest-- I DON'T believe in princerple, But, O, I DU in interest. I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded. I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could'nt ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface. I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness-- Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets-- Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me. THE COURTIN'. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender. Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in among 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny on the dresser. The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'. An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'. She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu, Araspin' on the scraper-- All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle of the seekle: His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle. A SONG FOR A CATARRH. PUNCH By Bary ALLe is like the suL, WheL at the dawL it fliLgs Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs. IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL FroB her a scorLful frowL, But sooL as I By prayers begiL, She cries O Lo! begoLe, Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe! By Bary ALLe is like the mooL, WheL first her silver sheeL Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe, That else had sileLt beeL. But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light, OL be, alas! looks dowL; Her sBiles oL others beaB their light, Her frowLs are all By owL. I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg-- Her frowLs are all By owL. EPITAPH ON A CANDLE. PUNCH. A WICKED one lies buried here, Who died in a DECLINE; He never rose in rank, I fear, Though he was born to SHINE. He once was FAT, but now, indeed, He's thin as any griever; He died--the Doctors all agreed, Of a most BURNING fever. One thing of him is said with truth, With which I'm much amused; It is--that when he stood, forsooth, A STICK he always used. Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made, But this was not enough, For finding it a poorish trade, He also dealt in SNUFF. If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray," He much ill nature show'd; On such occasions he would say, "Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D" In this his friends do all agree, Although you'll think I'm joking, When GOING OUT 'tis said that he Was very fond of SMOKING. Since all religion he despised, Let these few words suffice, Before he ever was baptized They DIPP'D him once or twice. POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE. A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER. PUNCH. On going forth last night, a friend to see, I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B; Reeling along the path he held his way. "Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K" Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far, You were a little s-o-b-e-R? 'T were happier for your family, I guess, Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S. Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em, Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M." 'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you You want to kick up a blest r-o-W. Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby, If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!) I've just return'd from a tee-total party, Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P. The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye, He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E. He'd taken so much lush into his belly, I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E. A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;-- The gin had got into her h-e-A-D. (My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are; They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!) But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy) All day to weak imperial p-O-P. And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin', Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!" ON A REJECTED NOSEGAY, OFFERED BY THE AUTHOR TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, WHO RETURNED IT. PUNCH. What! then you won't accept it, wont you? Oh! No matter; pshaw! my heart is breaking, though. My bouquet is rejected; let it be: For what am I to you, or you to me? 'Tis true I once had hoped; but now, alas! Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass. I was a fool--perchance I am so still; You won't accept it! Let me dream you will: But that were idle. Shall we meet again? Why should we? Water for my burning brain? I could have loved thee--Could! I love thee yet Can only Lethe teach me to forget? Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find! Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind? Or is it?--ha! at last I see it come; Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum. A SERENADE. PUNCH. Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT? CONFOUND THE CAT!)-- Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestow On him who sadly waits below, To catch--(A VILLAIN UP ABOVE HAS THROWN SOME WATER ON ME, LOVE!) To catch one token-- (OH, LORD! MY HEAD IS BROKEN; THE WRETCH WHO THREW THE WATER DOWN, HAS DROPPED THE JUG UPON MY CROWN)-- To catch one token, which shall be As dear as life itself to me. List, lady, then; while on my lute I breathe soft--(NO! I'LL NOT BE QUIET; HOW DARE YOU CALL MY SERENADE A RIOT? I DO DEFY YOU)--while upon my lute I breathe soft sighs--(YES, I DISPUTE YOUR RIGHT TO STOP ME)--breathe soft sighs. Grant but one look from those dear eyes-- (THERE, TAKE THAT STUPID NODDLE IN AGAIN; CALL THE POLICE!--DO! I'LL PROLONG MY STRAIN), We'll wander by the river's placid flow-- (UNTO THE STATION-HOUSE!--NO, SIR, I WON'T GO; LEAVE ME ALONE!)--and talk of love's delight. (OH, MURDER!--HELP! I'M LOCKED UP FOR THE NIGHT!) RAILROAD NURSERY RHYME. PUNCH. Air--"Ride a Cock Horse." Fly by steam force the country across, Faster than jockey outside a race-horse: With time bills mismanaged, fast trains after slow, You shall have danger wherever you go. AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS PUNCH. I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair, I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub-breed; Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear, And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed. I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale; Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail. You shall pip-pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole; But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol! You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play, You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately racoon; And then did-did-dear, together we'll stray To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon. You wished (I r-r-remember it well, And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish) To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel- ican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish! THE PEOPLE AND THEIR PALACE. IMPROVISED BY A FINE GENTLEMAN. PUNCH. Oh dem that absawd Cwystal Palace! alas, What a pity they took off the duty on glass! It's having been evaw ewected, in fact, Was en-ti-a-ly owing to that foolish act. Wha-evew they put it a cwowd it will dwaw, And that is the weason I think it a baw; I have no gweat dislike to the building, as sutch; The People is what I object to sa mutch. The People!--I weally am sick of the wawd: The People is ugly, unpleasant, absawd; Wha-evaw they go, it is always the case, They are shaw to destroy all the chawm of the place. Their voices are loud, and their laughter is hawse; Their fealyaws are fabsy, iwegulaw, cause; How seldom it is that their faces disclose, What one can call, pwopally speaking, a nose! They have dull heavy looks, which appeaw to expwess Disagweeable stwuggles with common distwess; The People can't dwess, doesn't know how to walk. And would uttaly wuin a spot like the Pawk. That I hate the People is maw than I 'll say; I only would have them kept out of my way, Let them stay at the pot-house, wejoice in the pipe, And wegale upon beeaw, baked patatas, and twipe. We must have the People--of that tha's no doubt-- In shawt they could not be, pahaps, done without. If'twa not faw the People we could not have Boots Tha's no doubt that they exawcise useful pasuits. They are all vewy well in their own pwopa spheeaw A long distance off; but I don t like them neeaw; The slams is the place faw a popula show; Don't encouwage the people to spoil Wotten Wow. It is odd that the DUKE OF AWGYLL could pasue, So eccentwic a cawse, and LAD SHAFTESBUWY too, As to twy and pwesawve the Glass House on its site, Faw no weason on awth but the People's delight. A "SWELL'S" HOMAGE TO MRS. STOWE PUNCH. A must wead Uncle Tom--a wawk Which A'm afwaid's extwemely slow, People one meets begin to talk Of Mrs. HARWIETBEECHASTOWE. 'Tis not as if A saw ha name To walls and windas still confined; All that is meawly vulga fame: A don't wespect the public mind. But Staffa'd House has made haw quite Anotha kind a pawson look, A Countess would pasist, last night, In asking me about haw book. She wished to know if I admiawd EVA, which quite confounded me; And then haw Ladyship inqwaw'd Whethaw A did'nt hate LEGWEE? Bai JOVE! A was completely flaw'd; A wish'd myself, or haw, at Fwance; And that's the way a fella's baw'd By ev'wy gal he asks to dance. A felt myself a gweat a fool Than A had evaw felt befaw; A'll study at some Wagged School The tale of that old Blackamaw! THE EXCLUSIVE'S BROKEN IDOL. PUNCH. A don't object at all to War With a set a fellas like the Fwench, But this dem wupcha with the Czar, It gives one's feeling quite a wench. The man that peace in Yawwup kept Gives all his pwevious life the lie; A fina fella neva stepped, Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high! He cwushed those democwatic beasts; He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew, Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests, Most likely vewy pwoppa too. To think that afta such a cawce, Which nobody could eva blame, The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce Against this countwy just the same! We all consida'd him our fwiend, But in a most erwoneus light, In shawt, it seems you can't depend On one who fancies might is wight. His carwacta is coming out; His motives--which A neva saw-- Are now wevealed beyond a doubt, And we must fight--but what a baw! THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY. PUNCH. Air--"Weber's Last Waltz." My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw, And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw! No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot, In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT. Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell! Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell; I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw, And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw. Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm; Fahwell the gauze and muslin--doomed to load the Hebwew's bags; Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went--just fancy--as old wags! That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue, And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to; How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold. THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE [Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.] PUNCH. Wot's this?--wot hever is this 'ere? Eh?--arf a suvrin!--feels like vun-- Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer! Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!-- No--that ain't right-- The yaller's turned wite! Ha, ha, ho!--he's sold and done-- Come, I say!--I won't stand that-- 'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN! Over the left and all round my hat, As the pewter pot said to the kevarten. Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART, Old Spooney, to be sure-- Between you and me and the old blind oss And the doctor says there ain't no cure. D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?-- From Temple Bar to Charing Cross? Two mile and better--arf a crown-- Talk of screwing a feller down! As for poor BILL, it's broke his art. Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!-- That's--how much?-- A farthin' touch! Now as we can't demand back fare. But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?-- The fare of a himperial carridge? You don't mean all this 'ere for me! In course you ain't heerd about my marridge-- I feels so precious keveer! How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed? I've ad a slight hindisposition But a Beak ain't no Physician. Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere? You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob! He wasn't bled: And I was let in for forty bob, Or a month, instead: And I caught the lumbago in the brain-- I've been confined-- But never you mind-- Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane. Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell? It sets my ed a spinnin-- The QUEEN'S eye winks--it ain't no sell-- The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin: Ha, ha! 't was guv By the cove I druv-- I vunders for wot e meant it! For e sez to me, E sez, sez e, As I ort to be contented! Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say? My fare!--wot, that! Yer knocks me flat. Hit in the vind!--I'm chokin--give us air-- My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare? Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile? I ain't hinsane--not yet--not yet avile! Wot makes yer smile? My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner! Wot's this I've got? Show us a light-- This 'ere is--wot?-- There's sunthin the matter with my sight-- It is--yes!--No!-- 'Tis, raly, though-- Oh, blow! blow! blow!-- Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner! ALARMING PROSPECT PUNCH. To the Editor of "PUNCH." SIR--You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets. I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin. The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES). Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1] Joan and Colin took their way, While each flower the dew was swigging, [2] In the jocund month of May. Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter; Colin youth's most nutty [4] son; Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her-- Him full many a spicy [6] one. She her faithful bosom's jewel Did unto this young un' [7] plight; But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel, Said as how he'd never fight. [9] Soon as e'er the lark had risen, They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10] And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12] Gone to roam as lovers use. In a crack [13] the youth and maiden To a flowery bank did come, Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden, Not without melodious hum. Down they squatted [15] them together, "Lovely Joan," said Colin bold, "Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whether Thou dost dear thy Colin hold?" "Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic, Cried the young and ardent maid; "Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic, Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said. "Bolt?" she falter'd, "from the gov'nor? Oh! my Colin, that won't pay; [20] He will ne'er come down, [21] my love, nor Help us, if we run away." "Shall we then be disunited?" Wildly shrieked the frantic cove; [22] "Mull'd [23] our happiness! and blighted In the kinchin-bud [24] our love! "No, my tulip! [25] let us rather Hand in hand the bucket kick; [26] Thus we'll chouse [27] your cruel father-- Cutting from the world our stick!" [28] Thus he spoke, and pull'd a knife out, Sharp of point, of edge full fine; Pierc'd her heart, and let the life out-- "Now," he cried, "here's into mine!" [29] But a hand unseen behind him Did the fatal blow arrest. Oh, my eye! [30] they seize and bind him-- Gentle Mure, conceal the rest! In the precints of the prison, In his cold crib [31] Colin lies; Mourn his fate all you who listen, Draw it mild, and mind your eyes! [32] 1. "Prigging," stealing; as yet exclusively applied to petty larceny. "Stealing" is as well known to be a poetical term as it is to be an indictable offense; the Zephyr and the Vesper Hymn, cum multis aliis, are very prone to this practice. 2. "Swigging," drinking copiously--of malt liquor in particular. "Pearly drops of dew we drink."--OLD SONG. 3. "Plummiest," the superlative of "plummy," exquisitely delicious; an epithet commonly used by young gentlemen in speaking of a bonne bouche or "tit bit," as a mince pie, a preserved apricot, or an oyster patty. The transference of terms expressive of delightful and poignant savor to female beauty, is common with poets. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath."--SHAKESPEARE. "Charley loves a pretty girl, AS SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY."--ANON. 4. "Nutty," proper--in the old English sense of "comely," "handsome." "Six PROPER youths, and tall."--OLD SONG. 5. "Nob," a person of consequence; a word very likely to be patronized, from its combined brevity and significancy. 6. "Spicy," very smart and pretty; it has the same recommendation, and will probably supplant the old favorite "bonny." "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride."--HAMILTON. 7. "Young'un," youth, young man. "A YOUTH to fortune and to fame unknown."--GRAY. 8. "Gov'nor," or "guv'nor," a contraction of "governor," a father. It will, no doubt, soon supersede sire, which is at present the poetical equivalent for the name of the author of one's existence. See all the poets, passim. 9. "Said as how he'd never fight," the thing was out of the question; a metaphorical phrase, though certainly, at present, a vulgar one. 10. "Snooze," slumber personified, like "Morpheus," or "Somnus." 11. "Daddle."--Q. from daktulos, a finger--pars pro toto!--Hand, the only synonym for it that we have, except "Paw," "Mawley," &c., which are decidedly generis ejusdem.12. "His'n," his own; corresponding to the Latin suus, his own and nobody else's, so frequently met with in OVID and others. 13. "Crack," a twinkling, an extremely short interval of time, which was formerly expressed, in general, by a periphrasis; as, "Ere the leviathan can swim a league!"--SHAKESPEARE. 14. "Cut," sped. A synonym. 15. "Squatted," sat. Id. 16. "Davy," affidavit, solemn oath. Significant and euphonious, therefore alluring to the versifier. 17. "Don't I, just?" A question for a strong affirmation, as, "Oh, yes, indeed I do;" a piece of popular rhetoric, pithy and forcible and consequently almost sure to be adopted--especially by the pathetic writers. 18. "Bolt," ran away. Syn. 19. "Bumptious," fearless, bold, and spirited; a very energetic expression such as those rejoice in who would fair "DENHAM'S strength with Waller's sweetness join." 20. "That won't pay," that plan will never answer. Metaph. 21. "Come down," disburse; also rendered in the vernacular by "fork out." etc. Id. 22. "Cove," swain. "Alexis shunn'd his fellow SWAINS."--PRIOR. See also SHENSTONE PASSIM. 23. "Mull'd," equivalent to "wreck'd," a term of pathos. 24. "Kinchin-bud," infant-bud. Metaph.; moreover, very tender, sweet, and touching, as regards the idea. 25. "My tulip," a term of endearment. "Fairest FLOWER, all flowers excelling." ODE TO A CHILD: COTTON. 26. "The bucket kick," pleonasm for die; as, "to breathe life's latest sigh."--"To yield the soul,"--"the breath,"--or, UT APUD ANTIQ. "Animam expirare," seu "efflare," etc. 27. "Chouse," cheat. Syn. 28. "Cutting . . . our stick." Pleon. ut supra. 29. "Here's unto mine!" A form of speech analogous to "Have at thee."--SHAKESPEARE, and the dramatists generally. 30. "Oh, my eye!" an interjectional phrase, tantamount to "Oh, heavens!" "Merciful powers!" etc. 31. "Cold crib," cold bed. "Go to thy cold bed and warm thee."--SHAK. 32. "Draw it mild," etc. Metaph. for "Rule your passions, and beware!" I doubt not that it will be admitted by your judicious readers that I have substantiated my case. Our monarchical institutions may preserve our native tongue for a time, but if it does not become, at no very distant period, as strange a medley as that of the American is at present--to use the expressive but peculiar idiom of that people--"IT'S A PITY." I am, sir, etc., P. EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE. BY THE SOLE SURVIVOR OF A DEPLORABLE ACCIDENT (NO BLAME TO BE ATTACHED TO ANY SERVANTS OF THE COMPANY). PUNCH. Collisions four Or five she bore, The Signals wor in vain; Grown old and rusted, Her biler busted, And smash'd the Excursion Train. "HER END WAS PIECES." THE TICKET OF LEAVE. [AS SUNG BY THE HOLDER, AMID A CONVIVIAL CIRCLE IN THE SLUMS.] PUNCH. Ven a prig has come to grief, He's no call for desperation; Though I'm a conwicted thief, Still I've opes of liberation. The Reverend Chapling to deceive A certain dodge and safe resource is, Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave, And then resumes your wicious courses. (SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary, 'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and 'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first, mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson. "Ven a prig," etc. Them parsons is so jolly green, They're sure to trust in your conwersion, Which they, in course, believes 'as been The consequence of their exertion. You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes, And they takes that to be repentance; Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs, By reason only of your sentence. (SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man," he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe: "thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more 'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make." "'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER: if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine--and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER--I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself-- "Ven a prig," etc In the chapel hof the Jug, Then I did the meek and lowly, Pullin' sitch a spoony mug That I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly. As loud as ever I could shout, All the responses too I hutter'd, Well knowing what I was about: So the reverend Gent I buttered. (Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up. But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that--and p'raps 'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the Chapling--Cos vy? "Ven a prig," etc. So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing. (Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc. A POLKA LYRIC. BARCLAY PHILLIPS Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide. Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss? Liberius--most willingly, Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere. Turn laeva cito, tum dextra, First to the left, and then t' other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere--run away, just in sham. A SUNNIT TO THE BIG OX. COMPOSED WHILE STANDING WITHIN 2 FEET OF HIM, AND A TUCHIN' OF HIM NOW AND THEN. ANONYMOUS All hale! thou mighty annimil--all hale! You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit! I wonder how big you was wen you Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now That you've grone so long, and thick, and phat; Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid! I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big, And if you grode it in a month or so. I spose wen you wos young tha didn't gin You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff Into your little stummick, jest to see How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt Fed you on otes and ha and sich like, With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh! In all probability yu don't no yure enny Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did, Yude brake down fences and switch your tail, And rush around, and hook, and beller, And run over fowkes, thou orful beast O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik, And sassengers, and your tale, Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds, Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop, And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu, Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater Ketchup, wouldn't be bad to taik. Thou grate and glorious inseckt! But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile! And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di, I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes, Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race; And as I don't expect to have a half a dollar Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as I ain't a ded head, I will sa, farewell. ENIGMATIC RIDDLES BY MATTHEW PRIOR. TWO RIDDLES. Sphinx was a monster that would eat Whatever stranger she could get; Unless his ready wit disclos'd The subtle riddle she propos'd. Oedipus was resolv'd to go, And try what strength of parts would do. Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate; Tell me what animal is that Which has four feet at morning bright, Has two at noon and three at night? 'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature, At first creeps, like his fellow creature, Upon all-four; as years accrue, With sturdy steps he walks on two; In age, at length, grows weak and sick, For his third leg adopts a stick. Now, in your turn, 'tis just methinks, You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx. What greater stranger yet is he Who has four legs, then two, then three; Then loses one, then gets two more, And runs away at last on four? ENIGMA. By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown, I dispose of all honors, myself having none: I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life, Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife. When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak, And their cudgels and shovels away from them take. Pair maidens and ladies I by the hand get, And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set. For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands, Then presently take off your lands from your hands. But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts, That you love me much more than you do your own hearts. ANOTHER. Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth, We sisters owe to art our second birth: The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters, Made on the land, to travel on the waters. Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound, Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground: They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim, Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim. RIDDLES BY DEAN SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. [Footnote: The following notice is subjoined to some of those riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago (i. e. about 1724), some ingenious gentle-men, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author has a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."] A MAYPOLE. Deprived of root, and branch, and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an hour; Yet standers-by may plainly see They get no nourishment from me. My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground; All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen. No couple-beggar in the land E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand. I join'd them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing. And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke: Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three-- I mean the church, the king, and me. ON THE MOON. I with borrowed silver shine, What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tartar: Then the half, and then the whole, Ever dancing round the pole. What will raise your admiration, I am not one of God's creation, But sprung (and I this truth maintain), Like Pallas, from my father's brain. And after all, I chiefly owe My beauty to the shades below. Most wondrous forms you see me wear, A man, a woman, lion, bear, A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field, All figures heaven or earth can yield; Like Daphne sometimes in a tree; Yet am not one of all you see. ON INK. I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night; Yet all that know me will agree, I'm dead except I live in light. Sometimes in panegyric high, Like lofty Pindar, I can soar, And raise a virgin to the sky, Or sink her to a filthy ----. My blood this day is very sweet, To-morrow of a bitter juice; Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, And so applied to different use. Most wondrous is my magic power: For with one color I can paint; I'll make the devil a saint this hour, Next make a devil of a saint. Through distant regions I can fly, Provide me but with paper wings; And fairly show a reason why There should be quarrels among kings; And, after all, you'll think it odd, When learned doctors will dispute, That I should point the word of God, And show where they can best confute. Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats 'Tis I that must the lands convey, And strip their clients to their coats; Nay, give their very souls away. ON A CIRCLE. I'm up and down, and round about, Yet all the world can't find me out; Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure, They never yet could find my measure. I'm found almost in every garden, Nay, in the compass of a farthing. There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill, Can move an inch except I will. ON A PEN. In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white. My person tall, and slender waist, On either side with fringes graced; Tell me that tyrant man espied, And dragg'd me from my mother's side, No wonder now I look so thin; The tyrant stript me to the skin: My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt: At head and foot my body lopt: And then, with heart more hard than s one, He pick'd my marrow from the bone. To vex me more, he took a freak To slit my tongue and make me speak But, that which wonderful appears, I speak to eyes, and not to ears. He oft employs me in disguise, And makes me tell a thousand lies: To me he chiefly gives in trust To please his malice or his lust, From me no secret he can hide: I see his vanity and pride: And my delight is to expose His follies to his greatest foes. All languages I can command, Yet not a word I understand. Without my aid, the best divine In learning would not know a line: The lawyer must forget his pleading; The scholar could not show his reading Nay; man my master is my slave; I give command to kill or save. Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year, And make a beggar's brat a peer. But, while I thus my life relate, I only hasten on my fate. My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd, I hardly now can force a word. I die unpitied and forgot, And on some dunghill left to rot. A FAN. From India's burning clime I'm brought, With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught. Not Iris, when she paints the sky, Can show more different hues than I: Nor can she change her form so fast, I'm now a sail, and now a mast. I here am red, and there am green, A beggar there, and here a queen. I sometimes live in a house of hair, And oft in hand of lady fair. I please the young, I grace the old, And am at once both hot and cold Say what I am then, if you can, And find the rhyme, and you're the man. ON A CANNON. Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined. For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, But all I delight in is pieces of lead; Except when I trade with a ship or a town, Why then I make pieces of iron go down. One property more I would have you remark, No lady was ever more fond of a spark; The moment I get one my soul's all a-fire, And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire. ON THE FIVE SENSES. All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother Knows one title of the other; We in frequent counsels are, And our marks of things declare, Where, to us unknown, a clerk Sits, and takes them in the dark. He's the register of all In our ken, both great and small; By us forms his laws and rules, He's our master, we his tools; Yet we can with greatest ease Turn and wind him where you please. One of us alone can sleep, Yet no watch the rest will keep, But the moment that he closes, Every brother else reposes. If wine's bought or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest. Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel. Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful sound. ON SNOW. From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin. No lady alive can show such a skin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together. Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to insnare. Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, The foulest impressions I easily take. My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother. ON A CANDLE. Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth, And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee, Are all my parents more than he: I, a virtue, strange and rare, Make the fairest look more fair; And myself, which yet is rarer, Growing old, grow still the fairer. Like sots, alone I'm dull enough, When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff; But, in the midst of mirth and wine, I with double luster shine. Emblem of the Fair am I, Polish'd neck, and radiant eye; In my eye my greatest grace, Emblem of the Cyclops' race; Metals I like them subdue, Slave like them to Vulcan too; Emblem of a monarch old, Wise, and glorious to behold; Wasted he appears, and pale, Watching for the public weal: Emblem of the bashful dame, That in secret feeds her flame, Often aiding to impart All the secrets of her heart; Various is my bulk and hue, Big like Bess, and small like Sue: Now brown and burnish'd like a nut, At other times a very slut; Often fair, and soft and tender, Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender: Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours: But whatever be my dress, Greater be my size or less, Swelling be my shape or small Like thyself I shine in all. Clouded if my face is seen, My complexion wan and green, Languid like a love-sick maid, Steel affords me present aid. Soon or late, my date is done, As my thread of life is spun; Yet to cut the fatal thread Oft revives my drooping head; Yet I perish in my prime, Seldom by the death of time; Die like lovers as they gaze, Die for those I live to please; Pine unpitied to my urn, Nor warm the fair for whom I burn; Unpitied, unlamented too, Die like all that look on you. ON A CORKSCREW. Though I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is prisoners to set free. No slave his lord's commands obeys With such insinuating ways. My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, Wherein the men of wit delight. The clergy keep me for their ease, And turn and wind me as they please. A new and wondrous art I show Of raising spirits from below; In scarlet some, and some in white; They rise, walk round, yet never fright In at each mouth the spirits pass, Distinctly seen as through a glass. O'er head and body make a rout, And drive at last all secrets out; And still, the more I show my art, The more they open every heart. A greater chemist none than I Who, from materials hard and dry, Have taught men to extract with skill More precious juice than from a still. Although I'm often out of case, I'm not ashamed to show my face. Though at the tables of the great I near the sideboard take my seat; Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done, Is never pleased till I make one; He kindly bids me near him stand, And often takes me by the hand. I twice a-day a-hunting go, And never fail to seize my foe; And when I have him by the poll, I drag him upward from his hole; Though some are of so stubborn kind, I'm forced to leave a limb behind. I hourly wait some fatal end; For I can break, but scorn to bend. AN ECHO. Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me; Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the laborers of Babel. Now I am a dog, or cow, I can bark, or I can low; I can bleat, or I can sing, Like the warblers of the spring. Let the love-sick bard complain, And I mourn the cruel pain; Let the happy swain rejoice, And I join my helping voice: Both are welcome, grief or joy, I with either sport and toy. Though a lady, I am stout, Drums and trumpets bring me out: Then I clash, and roar, and rattle, Join in all the din of battle. Jove, with all his loudest thunder, When I'm vexed can't keep me under, Yet so tender is my ear, That the lowest voice I fear; Much I dread the courtier's fate, When his merit's out of date, For I hate a silent breath, And a whisper is my death. ON THE VOWELS. We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you'll find in jet. T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within. If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you. ON A PAIR OF DICE. We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run, Some are made, and some undone: But men find it to their cost, Few are made, but numbers lost. Though we play them tricks forever, Yet they always hope our favor. ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS. By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet every thing that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet everywhere I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm still the same--but ever now. Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, Yet neither smell, see, taste, nor hear. All shapes and features I can boast, No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost: All colors, without paint, put on, And change, like the chameleon. Swiftly I come, and enter there, Where not a chink lets in the air; Like thought, I'm in a moment gone, Nor can I ever be alone: All things on earth I imitate Faster than nature can create; Sometimes imperial robes I wear, Anon in beggar's rags appear; A giant now, and straight an elf, I'm every one, but ne'er myself; Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice, I move my lips, but want a voice, I ne'er was born, nor ne'er can die, Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I? ON TIME. Ever eating, ever cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last. CATALOGUE OF SOURCES ADDISON, JOSEPH--The Essayist of the "Spectator;" born 1632 died 1708. Addison, though one of the most celebrated of English humorists, wrote scarcely a line of humorous verse. ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM--An American writer; contributor to "Putnam's Magazine;" author of a volume of poems recently published in Hartford. ANONYMOUS--To Punch's Almanac, for 1856, we are indebted for an account of this prolific writer: "Of Anon," says Punch, "but little is known, though his works are excessively numerous. He has dabbled in every thing. Prose and Poetry are alike familiar to his pen. One moment he will be up the highest flights of philosophy, and the next he will be down in some kitchen garden of literature, culling an Enormous Gooseberry, to present it to the columns of some provincial newspaper. His contributions are scattered wherever the English language is read. Open any volume of Miscellanies at any place you will, and you are sure to fall upon some choice little bit signed by 'Anon.' What a mind his must have been! It took in every thing like a pawnbroker's shop. Nothing was too trifling for its grasp. Now he was hanging on to the trunk of an elephant and explaining to you how it was more elastic than a pair of India-rubber braces; and next he would be constructing a suspension bridge with a series of monkey's tails, tying them together as they do pocket- handkerchief's in the gallery of a theater when they want to fish up a bonnet that has fallen into the pit. "Anon is one of our greatest authors. If all the things which are signed with Anon's name were collected on rows of shelves, he would require a British Museum all to himself. And yet of this great man so little is known that we are not even acquainted with his Christian name. There is no certificate of baptism, no moldy tombstone, no musty washing-bill in the world on which we can hook the smallest line of speculation whether it was John, or James, or Joshua, or Tom, or Dick, or Billy Anon. Shame that a man should write so much, and yet be known so little. Oblivion uses its snuffers, sometimes, very unjustly. On second thoughts, perhaps, it is as well that the works of Anon were not collected together. His reputation for consistency would not probably be increased by the collection. It would be found that frequently he had contradicted himself---that in many instances when he had been warmly upholding the Christian white of a question he had afterward turned round, and maintained with equal warmth the Pagan black of it. He might often be discovered on both sides of a truth, jumping boldly from the right side over to the wrong, and flinging big stones at any one who dared to assail him in either position. Such double-sidedness would not be pretty, and yet we should be lenient to such inconsistencies. With one who had written so many thousand volumes, who had twirled his thoughts as with a mop on every possible subject, how was it possible to expect any thing like consistency? How was it likely that he could recollect every little atom out of the innumerable atoms his pen had heaped up? "Anon ought to have been rich, but he lived in an age when piracy was the fashion, and when booksellers walked about, as it were, like Indian chiefs with the skulls of the authors they had slain, hung round their necks. No wonder, therefore, that we know nothing of the wealth of Anon. Doubtless he died in a garret, like many other kindred spirits, Death being the only score out of the many knocking at his door that he could pay. But to his immortal credit let it be said he has filled more libraries than the most generous patrons of literature. The volumes that formed the fuel of the barbarians' bonfire at Alexandria would be but a small book-stall by the side of the octavos, quartos, and duodecimos he has pyramidized on our book-shelves. Look through any catalogue you will, and you will find that a large proportion of the works in it have been contributed by Anon. The only author who can in the least compete with him in fecundity is Ibid." ANTI-JACOBIN, THE---Perhaps the most famous collection of Political Satires extant. Originated by Canning in 1797, it appeared in the form of a weekly newspaper, interspersed with poetry, the avowed object of which was to expose the vicious doctrines of the French Revolution, and to hold up to ridicule and contempt the advocates of that event, and the sticklers for peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, the vigorous and unscrupulous critic and poetaster the writers, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterward Earl of Liverpool); Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterward Marquis Wellesley), Lord Morpeth (afterward Earl of Carlisle), Baron Macdonald, and others. These gentlemen spared no means, fair or foul, in their attempts to blacken their adversaries. Their most distinguished countrymen, if opposed to the Tory government of the time being, were treated with no more respect than foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. The period was one of great political excitement, a fierce war with republican France being in progress, the necessity for which divided the public into two great parties; national credit being affected, the Bank of England suspending cash payments, mutinies breaking out in the fleets at Spithead and the Nore, and Ireland at the verge of rebellion. Spain, also, had declared war against Britain, which was thus left to contend singly against the power of France. Party feeling running very high, the anti-Jacobins were by no means discriminating in their attacks, associating men together who really had nothing in common. Hence the reader is surprised to find Charles Lamb and other non-intruders into politics, figuring as congenial conspirators with Tom Paine. Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, and other eloquent liberals of the day, with Tierney, Home Tooke, and Coleridge were at the same tune writing and talking in the opposite extreme, and little quarter was given--certainly none on the part of the Tory wits. The poetry of the "Anti-Jacobin," however, was not exclusively political, comprising also parodies and burlesques on the current literature of the day, some being of the highest degree of merit, and distinguished by sharp wit and broad humor of the happiest kind. In these, Canning and his coadjutors did a real service to letters, and assisted in a purification which Gifford, by his demolition of the Delia Cruscan school of poetry had so well begun. Perhaps no lines in the English language have been more effective or oftener quoted than Canning's "Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder." Many of the celebrated caricatures of Gilray were originally designed to illustrate the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin. It had, however, but a brief, though brilliant existence. Wilberforce and others of the more moderate supporters of the ministry became alarmed at the boldness of the language employed. Pitt (himself a contributor to the journal), was induced to interfere, and after a career of eight months, the "Anti-Jacobin" (in its original form), ceased to be. AYTOUN, WILLIAM--Professor of Polite Literature in the Edinburg University: editor of "Blackwood's Magazine:" son-in-law of the late Professor Wilson. Professor Aytoun was bred to the bar but, we believe, never came into practice. He is tha author of several humorous pieces, and of many in which the intention to be humorous was not realized. He is what the English call a very CLEVER man. Like many others who excel in ridicule and sarcasm, he is devoid of that kind of moral principle which makes a writer prefer the Just to the Dashing. Aytoun is a fierce Tory in politics--a snob on principle. The specimens of his humorous poetry contained in this collection were taken from the "Ballads of Bon Gaultier," and the "Idees Napoleoniennes," editions of both of which have been published in this country. BARHAM, REV. RICHARD HARRIS--Author of the celebrated "Ingoldsby Legends," published originally in "Bentley's Miscellany," afterward collected and published in three volumes, with a memoir by a son of the author. Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788. His family is of great antiquity, having given its name to the well-known "Barham Downs," between Dover and Canterbury. He was educated at St. Paul's School in Canterbury, where he made the acquaintance of Richard Bentley, who afterward became his publisher. From this school, he wont to Oxford, entering Brazennose College, as a gentleman commoner, where he met Theodore Hook, and formed a friendship with that prince of wits which terminated only with Hook's life. At the University, Barham led a wild, dissipated life--as the bad custom then was--and was noted as a wit and good fellow. Being called to account, on one occasion, by his tutor for his continued absence from morning prayer, Barham replied, "The fact is, sir, you are too LATE for me." "Too late?" exclaimed the astonished tutor. "Yes, sir," rejoined the student, "I can not sit up till seven o'clock in the morning. I am a man of regular habits, and unless I get to bed by four or five, I am fit for nothing the next day." The tutor took this jovial reply seriously, and Barham perceiving that he was really wounded, offered a sincere apology, and afterward attended prayers more regularly. Entering the church, he devoted himself to his clerical duties with exemplary assiduity, and obtained valuable preferment, rising at length to be one of the Canons of St. Paul's Cathedral. This office brought him into relations with Sydney Smith, with whom, though Barham was a Tory, he had much convivial intercourse. Very early in life Mr. Barham became an occasional contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, then in the prime of its vigorous youth. The series of contributions called "Family Poetry," which appear in the volumes for 1823, and subsequent years, were by him. Most of those humorous effusions have been transferred to this volume. In 1837 Mr. Bentley established his "Miscellany," and secured the services of his friend Barham, who, up to this time was unknown to the general public, though he had been for nearly twenty years a successful writer. The "Ingoldsby Legends" now appeared in rapid succession, and proved so popular that their author soon became one of the recognized wits of the day. A large number of these unique and excellent productions enrich the present collection, "As respects these poems," says Mr. Barham's biographer, "remarkable as they have been pronounced for the wit and humor which they display, their distinguishing attractions lies in the almost unparalleled flow and felicity of the versification. Popular phrases, sentences the most prosaic, even the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches from well-nigh every language, are wrought in with an apparent absence of all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and convulses the reader at every turn. The author triumphs with a master hand over every variety of stanza, however complicated or exacting; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced; syllables the most intractable, and the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of language are coupled together as naturally as those kindred spirits which poets tell us were created pairs, and dispersed in space to seek out their particular mates. A harmony pervades the whole, a perfect modulation of numbers, never, perhaps, surpassed, and rarely equaled in compositions of their class. This was the forte of Thomas Ingoldsby; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated on his ear like the Shandean hinge." These observations are just. As a rhymer, Mr. Barham has but one equal in English literature--Byron. Mr. Barham died at London on the 17th of June, 1845, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He was an extremely amiable, benevolent character. It does not appear that his love of the humorous was ever allowed to interfere with the performance of his duties as a clergyman. Without being a great preacher, he was a faithful and kindly pastor, never so much in his element as when ministering to the distresses, or healing the differences of his parishioners. Unlike his friend, Sydney Smith, he was singularly fond of the drama, and for many years was a member of the Garrick Club. He was one of the few English writers of humorous verse, ALL of whose writings may be read aloud by a father to his family, and in whose wit there was no admixture of gall. "BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY"--A London Monthly Magazine, founded about twenty years ago by Mr. Bentley, the publisher. Charles Dickens, and the author of the Ingoldsby Legends were among the first contributors. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE--First appeared in April, 1817 Founded by William Blackwood, a shrewd Edinburgh bookseller. Its literary ability and fierce political partisanship, soon placed it fore-most in the ranks of Tory periodicals. Perhaps no magazine has ever achieved such celebrity, or numbered such a host of illustrious contributors. John Wilson, the world-famous "Christopher North," was the virtual, though not nominal editor, Blackwood himself retaining that title. It would be a long task to enumerate all, who, from the days of Sir Walter Scott and the Ettrick Shepherd, to those of Bulwer and Charles Mackay, have appeared in its columns. Maginn, Lockhart, Gillies, Moir, Landor, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, Bowles, Barry Cornwall, Gleig, Hamilton, Aird, Sym, De Quincey, Allan Cunningham, Mrs. Hemans, Jerrold, Croly, Warren, Ingoldsby (Barham), Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Milnes, and many others, of scarcely less note, found in Blackwood scope for their productions, whether of prose or verse. In its early days much of personality and sarcasm marked its pages, savage onslaughts on Leigh Hunt, and "the Cockney School of Literature," alternating with attacks on the Edinburgh Review, the Quarterly, and all Whigs and Whig productions whatever. The celebrated Noctes Ambrosianae, a series of papers containing probably more learning, wit, eloquence, eccentricity, humor, and personality than have ever appeared elsewhere, formed part of the individuality of Blackwood. They were written by Wilson, Maginn, Lockhart, and Hogg, the two first named (and especially Wilson), having the pre-eminence. To the New York edition of this work, by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie (whose notes contain a perfect mine of information), we refer the reader for further particulars relative to Blackwood. BROUGHAM, LORD--The well-known member of the English House of Peers. It seems, from some jocularities attributed to his lordship, that he adds to his many other claims to distinction that of being a man of wit. BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN--The most celebrated of American poets. Editor of the "New York Evening Post." Born 1794. BURNS, ROBERT--Born 1750, died 1796. The best loved, most national, most independent, truest, and greatest of Scottish poets, of whom to say more here were an impertinence. BUTLER, SAMUEL--Born in 1612; the son of a substantial farmer in Worcestershire, England. Very little is known of the earlier portion of his life, as he had reached the age of fifty before he was so much as heard of by his contemporaries. He appears to have received a good education at the cathedral school of his native county, and to have filled various situations, as clerk in the service of Thomas Jeffries of Earl's Croombe, secretary to the Countess of Kent, and general man of business to Sir Samuel Luke, of Cople Hoo, Bedfordshire, who, it is said, served as the model for his hero, Hudibras. The first part of this singular poem was published at the close of 1662, and met with extraordinary success. Its wit, its quaint sense and learning, its passages of sarcastic reflection on all manner of topics, and above all, its unsparing ridicule of men and things on the Puritan side, combined to render it a general favorite. The reception of Part II., which appeared a year subsequent, was equally flattering. Yet its author seems to have fallen into the greatest poverty and obscurity, from which be never was enabled to emerge. It appears to have been his strange fate to flash all at once into notoriety, which lasted precisely two years, to fill the court and town during that time with continuous laughter, intermingled with inquiries who and what he was, and then for seventeen long years to plod on unknown and unregarded, still hearing his Hudibras quoted, and still preparing more of it, or matter similar, with no result. He died, in almost absolute destitution, in 1680, and was buried at a friend's expense, in the church-yard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. BYROM--A noted English Jacobite. Born 1691. BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL--Born 1788, died in Greece, 1824. Respecting his celebrated Satire on the poet Rogers, which appears in this collection, we read the following in a London periodical:--"The satire on Rogers, by Lord Byron, is not surpassed for cool malignity, dexterous portraiture, and happy imagery, in the whole compass of the English language. It is said, and by those well informed, that Rogers used to bore Byron while in Italy, by his incessant minute dilettantism, and by visits at hours when Byron did not care to see him. One of many wild freaks to repel his unreasonable visits was to set his big dog at him. To a mind like Byron's, here was sufficient provocation for a satire. The subject, too, was irresistible. Other inducements were not wanting. No man indulged himself more in sarcastic remarks on his cotemporaries than Mr. Rogers. He indulged his wit at any sacrifice. He spared no one, and Byron, consequently did not escape. Sarcastic sayings travel on electric wings--and one of Rogers's personal and amusing allusions to Byron reached the ears of the poetic pilgrim at Ravenna. Few characters can bear the microscopic scrutiny of wit. Byron suffered. Fewer characters can bear its microscopic scrutiny when quickened by anger, and Rogers suffered still more severely. "This, the greatest of modern satirical portraits in verse, was written before their final meeting at Bologna. Rogers was not aware that any saying of his had ever reached the ear of Byron, and Byron never published the verses on Rogers. They met like the handsome women described by Cibber, who, though they wished one another at the devil, are 'My dear,' and 'My dear,' whenever they meet. One doubtless considered his saying as something to be forgotten, and the other his verses as something not to be remembered. These verses are not included in Byron's works, and are very little known." CHAUCER lived in the thirteenth century, dying in 1400. He is designated the father of English poetry. The obsolete phraseology of his writings, though presenting a barrier to general appreciation and popularity, will never deter those who truly love the "dainties that are bred in a book" from holding him in affection and reverence. His chief work, the "Canterbury Pilgrimage," "well of English undefiled" as it is, was written in the decline of life, when its author had passed his sixtieth year. For catholicity of spirit, love of nature, purity of thought, pathos, humor, subtle and minute discrimination of character and power of expressing it, Chaucer has one superior--Shakspeare. CHESTERFIELD, LORD--Born in 1694; died 1773. Courtier, statesman, and man of the world; famous for many things, but known to literature chiefly by his "Letters to his Son," which have formed three generations of "gentlemen," and still exert great influence. Chesterfield was a noted wit in his day, but most of his good things have been lost. CLEVELAND, JOHN--A political writer of Charles the First's time; author of several satirical pieces, now known only to the curious. He died in 1659. COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR--Poet, plagiarist, and opium-eater. Born at Bristol, in 1770. Died near London in 1834. He was a weak man of genius, whose reputation, formerly immense, has declined since he has been better known. But "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner," will charm many generations of readers yet unborn. Most of the epigrams which appear in his works are ADAPTED from Leasing. COWPER, WILLIAM--The gentle poet of religious England: born 1731; died 1800. Cowper was an elegant humorist, despite the gloominess of his religious belief. It is said, however, that his most comic effusions were written during periods of despondency. "CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS"--A monthly Magazine, published at the period of the artist's greatest celebrity, principally as a vehicle for his pencil. Its editor was Laman Blanchard, a lively essayist, and amiable man, whom anticipations of pecuniary distress subsequently goaded to suicide. DEVREAUX, S. H.--An American scholar. Translator of "Yriarte's Fables," recently published in Boston. ERSKINE, THOMAS--One of the most eminent of English lawyers. Born 1750; died 1823. FIELDING, HENRY--The great English Humorist; author of "Tom Jones;" born, 1707; died, 1754. GAY, JOHN--A poet and satirist of the days of Queen Anne. Born 1688; died, 1732. His wit, gentleness, humor, and animal spirits appear to have rendered him a general favorite. In worldly matters he was not fortunate, losing 20,000 pounds by the South Sea bubble; nor did his interest, which was by no means inconsiderable, succeed in procuring him a place at court. He wrote fables, pastorals, the burlesque poem of "Trivia," and plays, the most successful and celebrated of which is the "Beggar's Opera." Of this work there exists a sequel or second part, as full of wit and satire as the original, but much less known. Its performance was suppressed by Walpole, upon whom it was supposed to reflect. GRAY, THOMAS--Author of the "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard;" Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. Born in London, 1716; died, 1771. Gray was learned in History, Architecture, and Natural History. As a poet, he was remarkable for the labor bestowed on his poems, for his reluctance to publish, and for the small number of his compositions. Carlyle thinks he is the only English poet who wrote less than he ought. HALPIX.----- --A writer for the press, a resident of New York, author of "Lyrics by the Letter H," published a year or two since by Derby. HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL--A physician of Boston, Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University; born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1809. Dr. Holmes's humorous verses are too well known to require comment in this place. His burlesque, entitled "Evening, by a Tailor," is very excellent of its kind. HOOD, THOMAS--Author of the "Song of the Shirt," which Punch had the honor of first publishing. Born in 1798; died in 1845. Hood was the son of a London bookseller, and began life as a clerk. He became afterward an engraver, but was drawn gradually into the literary profession, which he exercised far more to the advantage of his readers than his own. His later years were saddened by ill-health and poverty. Some of his comic verses seem forced and contrived, as though done for needed wages. Hood was one of the literary men who should have made of literature a staff, not a crutch. It was in him to produce, like Lamb, a few very admirable things, the execution of which should have been the pleasant occupation of his leisure, not the toil by which he gained his bread. HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH--English Journalist and Poet. Born in 1784. His father was a clergyman of the Established church, and a man of wit and feeling. JOHNSON, DR. SAMUEL--Born 1709; died 1784. Critic, moralist, lexicographer, and, above all, the hero of Boswell's Life of Johnson. The ponderous philosopher did not disdain, occasionally, to give play to his elephantine wit. JONSON, BEN--Born 1574; died 1637. Poet, playwright, and friend of Shakspeare, in whose honor he has left a noble eulogium. A manly, sturdy, laborious, English genius, of whose dramatic productions, however, but one ("Every Man in his Humor") has retained possession of the stage. He is also the author of some exquisite lyrics. LAMB, CHARLES--Born in London, 1775; died, 1832. As a humorous essayist, unrivaled and peculiar, he is known and loved by all who are likely to possess this volume. LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE--A living English writer of considerable celebrity, author of "Imaginary Conversations," contributor to several leading periodicals. Mr. Landor is now advanced in years. His humorous verses are few, and not of striking excellence. "LANTERN," THE--A comic weekly, in imitation of "Punch," published in this city a few years ago. The leading spirit of the "Lantern" was Mr. John Brougham, the well-known dramatist and actor. "LEADER," THE--A London weekly newspaper, of liberal opinions; ably written and badly edited, and, therefore, of limited circulation. LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM--The well-known German author; born 1729; died 1781. The epigrams of Lessing have been so frequently stolen by English writers, that, perhaps, they may now be considered as belonging to English literature, and hence entitled to a place in this collection. At least we found the temptation to add them to our stock irresistible. LINDSAY--A friend of Dean Swift. A polite and elegant scholar; an eminent pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterward advanced to be one of the justices of the Common Pleas. LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL--The American Poet. Born at Boston, in the year 1819. To Mr. Lowell must be assigned a high, if not the highest place, among American writers of humorous poetry. The Biglow Papers, from which we have derived several excellent pieces for this volume, is one of the most ingenious and well-sustained jeux d'esprit in existence. MAPES, WALTER DE--A noted clerical wit of Henry the Second's time. MOORE, THOMAS--The Irish poet; born at Dublin in the year 1780. Moore has been styled the best writer of political squibs that ever lived. He was employed to write comic verses on passing events, by the conductors of the "London Times," in which journal many of his satirical poems appeared. The political effusions that gave so much delight thirty years ago are, however, scarcely intelligible to the present generation, or if intelligible, not interesting. But Moore wrote many a sprightly stanza, the humor of which does not depend for its effect upon local or cotemporary allusions. This collection contains most of them. MORRIS, GEORGE P--The father of polite journalism in this city, and the most celebrated of American Song-writers. Born in Pennsylvania about the beginning of the present century. "PERCY RELIQUES"--A celebrated collection of ancient ballads, edited by Bishop Percy, a man of great antiquarian knowledge and poetic taste. The publication of the "Percy Reliques" in the last century, introduced the taste for the antique, which was gratified to the utmost by Sir Walter Scott, and which has scarcely yet ceased to rage in some quarters. PHILIPS, BARCLAY--A living English writer, of whom nothing is known in this country. PINDAR, PETER--See Wolcott. POPE, ALEXANDER--The poet of the time of Queen Anne; author of the "Dunciad," which has been styled the most perfect of satires. Born in London, 1688; died, 1744. PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH--An English poet, author of "Lillian," born in London about the year 1800. Little is known of Mr. Praed in this country, though it was here that his poems were first collected and published in a volume. His family is of the aristocracy of the city, where some of his surviving relations are still engaged in the business of banking. At Eton, Praed was highly distinguished for his literary talents. He was for some time the editor of "The Etonian," a piquant periodical published by the students. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where he won an unprecedented number of prizes for poems and epigrams in Greek, Latin, and English. On returning to London, he was associated with Thomas Babbington Macaulay in the editorship of "Knight's Quarterly Magazine," after the discontinuance of which he occasionally contributed to the "New Monthly." A few years before his death, Mr. Praed became a member of Parliament, but owing to his love of ease and society, obtained little distinction in that body. Mr. N. P. Willis thus writes of the poet as he appeared in society: "We chance to have it in our power to say a word as to Mr. Praed's personal appearance, manners, etc. It was our good fortune when first in England (in 1834 or '35), to be a guest at the same hospitable country-house for several weeks. The party there assembled was somewhat a femous one-Miss Jane Porter, Miss Julia Pardoe, Krazinski (the Polish historian), Sir Gardiner Wilkinson (the Oriental traveler), venerable Lady Cork ('Lady Bellair' of D'lsraeli's novel), and several persons more distinguished in society than in literature. Praed, we believe, had not been long married, but he was there with his wife. He was apparently about thirty-five, tall, and of dark complexion, with a studious bend in his shoulders, and of irregular features strongly impressed with melancholy. His manners were particularly reserved, though as unassuming as they could well be. His exquisitely beautiful poem of 'Lillian' was among the pet treasures of the lady of the house, and we had all been indulged with a sight of it, in a choicely bound manuscript copy--but it was hard to make him confess to any literary habits or standing. As a gentleman of ample means and retired life, the land of notice drawn upon him by the admiration of this poem, seemed distasteful. His habits were very secluded. We only saw him at table and in the evening; and, for the rest of the day, he was away in the remote walks and woods of the extensive park around the mansion, apparently more fond of solitude than of anything else. Mr. Praed's mind was one of wonderful readiness--rhythm and rhyme coming to him with the flow of an improvisatore. The ladies of the party made the events of every day the subjects of charades, epigrams, sonnets, etc., with the design of suggesting inspiration to his ready pen; and he was most brilliantly complying, with treasures for each in her turn." Mr. Praed died on the 15th of July, 1839, without having accomplished any thing worthy the promise of his earlier years--another instance of Life's reversing the judgment of College. As a writer of agreeable trifles for the amusement of the drawing-room, he has had few superiors, and it is said that a large number of his impromptu effusions are still in the possession of his friends unpublished. Two editions of his poems have appeared in New York, one by Langley in 1844, and another by Redfield a few years later. PRIOR, MATTHEW--Born 1664; died 1721. A wit and poet of no small genius and good nature--one of the minor celebrities of the days of Queen Anne. His "Town and Country Mouse," written to ridicule of Dryden's famous "Hind and Panther," procured him the appointment of Secretary of Embassy at the Hague, and he subsequently rose to be ambassador at Paris. Suffering disgrace with his patrons he was afterward recalled, and received a pension from the University of Oxford, up to the time of his death. "PUNCH"--Commenced in July, 1841, making its appearance just at the close of the Whig ministry, under Lord Melbourne, and the accession of the Tories, headed by Sir Robert Peel. Originated by a circle of wits and literary men who frequented the "Shakspeare's Head," a tavern in Wych-street, London. Mark Lemon, the landlord was, and still is, its editor. He is of Jewish descent, and had some reputation for ability with his pen, having been connected with other journals, and also written farces and dramatic pieces. Punch's earliest contributors were Douglas Jerrold, Albert Smith, Gilbert Abbot a'Beckett Hood and Maginn- Thackeray's debut occurring in the third volume. It is said that one evening each week was especially devoted to a festive meeting of these writers, where, Lernon presiding, they deliberated as to the conduct and course of the periodical. "Punch," however, was at first not successful, and indeed on the point of being abandoned as a bad speculation, when Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, two aspiring printers, now extensive publishers, purchased it at the very moderate price of one hundred pounds, since which time it has continued their property, and a valuable one. In those days it presented a somewhat different appearance from the present, being more closely printed, finer type used, and the illustrations (with the exception of small, black, silhouette cuts, after the style of those in similar French publications), were comparatively scanty. Soon, however, "Punch" throve apace, amply meriting its success. To Henning's drawings (mostly those of a political nature), were added those of Leech, Kenny Meadows, Phiz (H. K. Browne), Gilbert, Alfred Crowquill (Forrester), and others--Doyle's pencil not appearing till some years later. Chief of these gentlemen in possession of the peculiar artistic ability which has identified itself with "Punch" is unquestionably Mr. John Leech, of whom we shall subsequently speak, at greater length. He has remained constant to the journal from its first volume. Jerrold's writings date from the commencement. Many essays and satiric sketches over fancy signatures, are from his pen. His later and longer productions, extending through many volumes, are "Punch's Letters to his Son," "Punch's Complete Letter Writer," "Twelve Labors of Hercules," "Autobiography of Tom Thumb," "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Capsicum House for Young Ladies," "Our Little Bird," "Mrs. Benimble's Tea and Toast," "Miss Robinson Crusoe," and "Mrs. Bib's Baby," the last two of which were never completed. During the publication of the "Caudle Lectures," "Punch" reached the highest circulation it has attained. We have the authority of a personal friend of the author for the assertion that their heroine was no fictitious one. The lectures were immensely popular, Englishmen not being slow to recognize in Jerold's caustic portraiture the features of a very formidable household reality. But with the ladies Mrs. Caudle proved no favorite, nor, in their judgment, did the "Breakfast-Table-Talk," of the Henpecked Husband (subsequently published in the Almanac of the current year), make amends for the writer's former productions. Albert Smith's contributions to the pages of "Punch," were the "Physiologies of the London Medical Student," "London Idler," and "Evening Parties," with other miscellaneous matter. Much of the author's own personal experience is probably comprised in the former, and his fellow-students and intimates at Middlesex Hospital were at no loss to identify the majority of the characters introduced. Mr. Smith's connection with "Punch" was not of long continuance. A severe criticism appearing subsequently in its columns, on his novel of the "Marchioness of Brinvilliers" (published in "Bentley's Miscellany," of which journal he was then editor), he, in retaliation, made an onslaught on "Punch" in another story, the "Pottleton Legacy," where it figures under the title of the Cracker. Mr. Gilbert a'Beckett, who had before been engaged in many unsuccessful periodicals, found in "Punch" ample scope for his wit and extraordinary faculty of punning. In "The Comic Blackstone," "Political Dictionary," "Punch's Noy's Maxims," and the "Autobiography, and other papers relating to Mr. Briefless," he put his legal knowledge to a comic use. Many fugitive minor pieces have also proceeded from his pen, and he has but few equals in that grotesque form of hybrid poetry known as Macaronic. He is now a London magistrate, and PAR EXCELLENCE, the punster of "Punch." The Greek versions of sundry popular ballads, such as "The King of the Cannibal Islands," were the work of Maginn. Hood's world-famous "Song of the Shirt," first appeared in "Punch's" pages. Thackeray has also been an industrious contributor, Commencing with "Miss Tickletoby's Lectures" (an idea afterward carried out in a somewhat different fashion by a'Beckett in his "Comic History of England"), he, besides miscellaneous writings, produced the "Snob Papers," "Jeames's Diary," "Punch in the East," "Punch's Prose Novelists," "The Traveler in London," "Mr. Brown's Letters to a Young Man about Town," and "The Proser." Of the merits of these works it is unnecessary to speak. The "Book of Snobs" may rank with its author's most finished productions. "Jeames's Diary," suggested by the circumstance of a May-fair footman achieving sudden affluence by railroad speculations during the ruinously exciting period of 1846, may, however, be considered only a further carrying out of the original idea of "Charles Yellowplush." A ballad in it, "The Lines to my Sister's Portrait," is said, to use a vulgar, though expressive phrase, to have SHUT UP Lord John Manners, who had achieved some small reputation as "one of the Young England poits." Thackeray parodied his style, and henceforth the voice of the minstrel was dumb in the land. Like Jerrold's "Caudle Lectures," of which many versions appeared at the London theaters, Jeames's adventures were dramatized. The "Prose Novelists" contain burlesque imitations of Bulwer, D'Israeli, Lever, James, Fennimore Cooper, and Mrs. Gore. The illustrations accompanying Thackeray's publications in "Punch," are by his own hand, as are also many other sketches scattered throughout the volumes. They may be generally distinguished by the insertion of a pair of spectacles in the corner. His articles, too, frequently bear the signature "SPEC." Not until the commencement of 1855 did Thackeray relinquish his connection with "Punch." An allusion to this, from his pen, contained in an essay on the genius of Leech, and published in the "Westminster Review," was commented upon very bitterly by Jerrold, in a notice of the article which appeared in "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper," of which he is editor. During the last five years, other writers, among which may be enumerated the Mayhew brothers, Mr. Tom Taylor, Angus Reach, and Shirley Brooks, have found a field for their talents in "Punch.'Only Jerrold, a'Beckett, and the editor, Mark Lemon, remain of the original contributors. Its course has been a varied, but perfectly independent one, generally, however, following the lead of the almighty "Times," that glory and shame of English journalism, on political questions. In earlier days it was every way more democratic, and the continuous ridicule both of pen and pencil directed against Prince Albert, was said to have provoked so much resentment on the part of the Queen, that she proposed interference to prevent the artist Doyle supplying two frescos to the pavilion at Buckingham Palace. "Punch's" impartiality has been shown by attacks on the extremes and absurdities of all parties, and there can be little question that it has had considerable influence in producing political reform, and a large and liberal advocacy of all popular questions. In behalf of that great change of national policy, the repeal of the Corn Laws, "Punch" fought most vigorously, not, however, forgetting to bestow a few raps of his baton on the shoulders of the Premier whose wisdom or sense of expediency induced such sudden tergiversation as to bring it about. O'Connell's blatant and venal patriotism was held up to merited derision, which his less wary, but more honest followers in agitation, O'Brien, Meagher, and Mitchell, equally shared. Abolition (or at least modification) of the Game Laws, and of the penalty of death, found championship in "Punch," though the latter was summarily dropped upon a change in public opinion, perhaps mainly induced by one of Carlyle's "Latter Day" pamphlets. "Punch" has repeatedly experienced (and merited) the significant honor of being denied admission to the dominions of continental monarchs. Louis Philippe interdicted its presence in France, even (if we recollect aright) before the Spanish marriage had provoked its fiercest attacks--subsequently, however, withdrawing his royal veto. In Spain, Naples, the Papal Dominions, those of Austria, Russia, and Prussia, the hunch-backed jester has been often under ban as an unholy thing, or only tolerated in a mutilated form. Up to the commencement of the late war, strict measures of this kind were in operation upon the Russian frontier, but "Punch" now is freely accorded ingress in the Czar's dominions--probably as a means of keeping up the feeling of antagonism toward England. Its success has provoked innumerable rivals and imitators, from the days of "Judy," "Toby," "The Squib," "Joe Miller," "Great Gun," and "Puppet-Show," to those of "Diogenes" and" "Falstaff." None haveachieved permanent popularity, and future attempts would most likely be attended with similar failure, as "Punch" has a firm hold on the likings of the English people, and especially Londoners. It fairly amounts to one of their institutions. Like all journals of merit and independence, it has had its law troubles, more than one action for libel having been commenced against it. James Silk Buckingham, the traveler and author, took this course, in consequence of the publication of articles disparaging a club of his originating, known as the "British and Foreign Institute." A Jew clothes-man, named Hart, obtained a small sum as damages from "Punch." But Alfred Bunn, lessee of Drury Lane Theater, libretto-scribbler, and author of certain trashy theatrical books, though most vehemently "pitched into," resorted to other modes than legal redress. He produced a pamphlet of a shape and appearance closely resembling his tormentor, filled not only with quizzical, satirical, and rhyming articles directed against Lemon, a'Beckett, and Jerrold (characterizing them as Thick-head, Sleek-head, and Wrong-head), but with caricature cuts of each. Whether in direct consequence or not, it is certain that "the poet Bunn" was unmolested in future. Our notice would scarcely be complete without a few lines devoted to the "Punch" artists, and more especially John Leech. Doyle (the son of H. B., the well-known political caricaturist), whose exquisite burlesque medieval drawings illustrative of the "Manners and Customs of ye Englishe," will be remembered by all familiar with "Punch's" pages, relinquished his connection with the journal and the yearly salary of eight hundred pounds, in consequence of the Anti-papal onslaughts which followed the nomination of Cardinal Wiseman to the (Catholic) Archbishop of Westminster. The artist held the older faith, and was also a personal friend of "His Eminence." His place was then filled by John Tenniel, a historical painter, who had supplied a cartoon to the Palace of Westminster, and is still employed on "Punch," he, in conjunction with John Leech, and an occasional outsider, furnishing the entire illustrations. John Leech, himself, to whom the periodical unquestionably owes half its success, has been constant to "Punch" from an early day. He has brought caricature into the region of the fine arts, and become the very Dickens of the pencil in his portrayal of the humorous side of life. Before his advent, comic drawing was confined to very limited topics, OUTRE drawings and ugliness of features forming the fun--such as it was. Seymour's "Cockney Sportsmen," and Cruikshank's wider (yet not extensive) range of subjects, were then the best things extant. How stands the case now? Let "Punch's" twenty-nine volumes, with their ample store of pictorial mirth of Leech's creating, so kindly, so honest, so pleasant and graceful, answer. Contrast their blameless wit and humor with the equivoque and foul double entendre of French drawings, and think of the difference involuntarily suggested between the social atmospheres of Paris and London. Leech is a good-looking fellow, approaching the age of forty, and not unlike one of his own handsome "swells" in personal appearance. The Royal Academy Exhibition of 1855 contained his portrait, painted by Millais, the chief of the pre-Raphaelite artists, who is said to be his friend. As may be gathered from his many sporting sketches, Leech is fond of horses, and piques himself on "knowing the points" of a good animal. (We may mention, by-the-by, that Mr. "Briggs" of equestrian celebrity had his original on the Stock Exchange.) He in summer travels considerably, forwarding his sketches to the "Punch" office, generally penciling the accompanying words on the wood-block. In one of the past volumes, dating some eight or ten years back, he has introduced himself in a cut designated "our artist during the hot weather," wherein he appears with his coat off, reclining upon a sofa, and informing a pretty servant-girl who enters the room, that "he is busy." Quizzical Portraits of the writers of "Punch" have been introduced in its pages. In Jerrold's "Capsicum House" (vol. XII.), the author's portrait, burlesqued into the figure of "Punch," occurs more than once. And a double-page cut, entitled "Mr. Punch's Fancy Ball," in the early part of the same volume, comprises sketches of the then entire corps of contributors, artistic and literary. They are drawn as forming the orchestra, Lemon conducting, Jerrold belaboring a big drum, Thackeray playing on the flute, Leech the violin, and others extracting harmony from divers musical instruments. Again they appear at a later date, as a number of boys at play, in an illustration at the commencement of Vol. XXVII. "Punch's" office is at 85 Fleet-street. The engraving, printing, and stereotyping is performed at Lombard-street, Whitefriars, where its proprietors have extensive premises. REJECTED ADDRESSES, by James and Horace Smith, published in London, October, 1812. The most successful jeu d'esprit of modern times, having survived the occasion that suggested it for nearly half a century, and still being highly popular. It has run through twenty editions in England, and three in America. The opening of Drury-lane theater in 1802, after having been burned and rebuilt, and the offering of a prize of fifty pounds by the manager for the best opening address, were the circumstances which suggested the production of the "Rejected Addresses." The idea of the work was suddenly conceived, and it was executed in six weeks. In the preface to the eighteenth London edition the authors give an interesting statement of the difficulties they encountered in getting the volume published: "Urged forward by our hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on having completed our task in time to have it printed and published by the opening of the theater. But, alas! our difficulties, so far from being surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost invincible objection to single volumes of low price, especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no previous name, we little anticipated that they would refuse to publish our 'Rejected Addresses,' even although we asked nothing for the copyright. Such, however, proved to be the case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking ourselves to one of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a back parlor, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira. 'What have you already written?' was his first question, and interrogatory to which we had been subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which we can be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.' We presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning, and that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son against going into the water until he could swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed our companion, tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe Miller,' was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first anecdote in the facetiae of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed the bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? do, hoh!--Well, leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, and give you an answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his door on the following morning when our papers were returned to us with the observation--'These trifles are really not deficient in smartness; they are well, vastly well for beginners; but they will never do--never. They would not pay for advertising, and without it I should not sell fifty copies.' "This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced publishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest D FORTIORI, that its writers ran a risk of being still more heavy losers, should they undertake the publication on their own account. We had no objection to raise a laugh at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost, uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our 'Addresses,' now in every sense rejected, might probably have never seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher, then residing in Bow-street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication, and to give us half the profits, SHOULD THERE BE ANY; a liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to collect some 'Imitations of Horace,' which had appeared anonymously in the 'Monthly Mirror,' offering to publish them upon the same terms. We did so accordingly; and as new editions of the 'Rejected Addresses' were called for in quick succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our half copyright in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds! We have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress upon publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to the possible merit of the works submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a name." The authors add, that not one of the poets whom they "audaciously burlesqued," took offense at the ludicrous imitation of their style. From "Sir Walter Scott," they observe, "we received favors and notice, both public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this myself!' said that fine tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forgot upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to dinner; but, recollecting afterward that William Spencer formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off; telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like to meet?' inquired the poet 'O!' answered the lady, 'one of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' 'The very man upon earth. I should like to know!' rejoined the lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends over since. Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy: 'Tell him we forgive him, were he twenty times our satirist.' "It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of a Leicester clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I do not see why they should have been rejected,' observed the matter-of-fact annotator; 'I think some of them very good!' Upon the whole, few have been the instances, in the acrimonious history of literature, where a malicious pleasantry like the 'Rejected Addresses'--which the parties ridiculed might well consider more annoying than a direct satire--instead of being met by querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has procured for its authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will, of those whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued." James Smith died in London on the 29th of December, 1836, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. His brother survived him many years. Both were admired and ever-welcome members of the best society of London. ROGERS, SAMUEL--The English poet and banker, recently deceased. Author of a "pretty poem," entitled, "The Pleasures of Memory." In his old age, he was noted for the bitter wit of his conversation. SAXE, JOHN G--Editor of the "Burlington Gazette," and "Wandering Minstrel." The witty poems of Mr. Saxe are somewhat in the manner of Hood. To be fully appreciated they must be heard, as they roll in sonorous volumes, from his own lips. His collected poems were published a few years ago by Ticknor & Fields, and have already reached a ninth edition. SCOTT, SIR WALTER--Born 1771; died, 1832. Sir Walter Scott, though he excelled all his cotemporaries in the humorous delineation of character, wrote little humorous verse. The two pieces published in this volume are so excellent that one is surprised to find no more of the same description in his writings. SHERIDAN, DR. THOMAS--Noted for being an intimate friend of Dean Swift, and the grandfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Born in 1684; died in 1738. He was an eccentric, witty, somewhat learned, Dublin schoolmaster. He published some sermons and a translation of Persius; acquired great celebrity as a teacher; but through the imprudence that distinguished the family, closed his life in poverty. We may infer from the few specimens of his facetious writings that have been preserved that he was one of the wittiest of a nation of wits. One or two of his epigrams are exquisitely fine. SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY--Author of the "Rivals," and the "School for Scandal." Born at Dublin in 1751; died, 1816. Sheridan must have written more humorous poetry than we have been able to discover. It is probable that most of his epigrams and verified repartees have either not been preserved, or have escaped our search. Moore, in his "Life of Sheridan," gives specimens of his satirical verses, but only a few, and but one of striking excellence. SMITH, HORACE--See "Rejected Addresses." SMITH, JAMES--See "Rejected Addresses." SMITH, REV. SYDNEY--The jovial prebendary of St. Paul's, the wittiest Englishman that ever lived; died in 1845. Except the "Recipe for Salad," and an epigram, we have found no comic verses by him. He "leaked another way." SOUTHEY, ROBERT--The English poet and man of letters; born in 1774. Southey wrote a great deal of humorous verse, much of which is ingenious and fluent. He was amazingly dexterous in the use of words, and excelled all his cotemporaries, except Byron and Barham, in the art of rhyming. SWIFT, JONATHAN--Dean of St. Patrick's. Dublin. Born 1667; died, 1739. It were superfluous to speak of the career or abilities of this great but most unhappy man, who unquestionably ranks highest amid the brilliant names of that brilliant epoch. His works speak for him, and will to all time. Of his poetical writings it may be said that though only surpassed in wit and humor by his more universally known prose, they are infinitely NASTIER than any thing else in the English language. They have, however, the negative virtue of being nowise licentious or demoralizing--or at least no more so than is inseparable from the choice of obscene and repulsive subjects. Nearly all his unobjectionable comic verses may be found in this volume. THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE--The greatest of living satirists. Born at Calcutta of English parents, in 1811. Most of Mr. Thackeray's comic verses appeared originally in "Punch" They have recently been collected and published in a volume with other and more serious pieces. This collection contains nothing more mirth-provoking than the "Ballads of Pleaceman X," by Mr. Thackeray. WAKE, WILLIAM BASIL--An English writer, contributor to "Hone's Every Day Book." WALLER, EDMUND--Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1608. Poet, man of fortune, member of the Long Parliament, and traitor to the People's Cause. He was fined ten thousand pounds and banished, but Cromwell permitted his return, and the poet rewarded his clemency by a panegyric. WESLEY, REV. SAMUEL--A clergyman of the Church of England; father of the celebrated John Wesley; author of a volume of poems, entitled "Maggots;" born in 1662; died in 1785. WILLIAMS, SIR CHARLES HANBURY--A noted wit of George the Second's time; born in 1709; died, 1759. He was a friend of Walpole, sat in parliament for Monmouth, and rose to some distinction in the diplomatic service. An edition of his writings in three volumes was published in London in 1822. Time has robbed his satires of their point, by burying in oblivion the circumstances that gave rise to them. A single specimen of his writings is all that was deemed worthy of place in this volume. WILLIS, N. P.--The well-known American poet and journalist, Mr. Willis has written many humorous poems, but only a few have escaped the usual fate of newspaper verses. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807. WOLCOTT, JOHN (Peter Pindar), the most voluminous, and one of the best of the humorous poets who have written in the English language. He was born in Devonshire, England, and flourished in the reign of George III, whose peculiarities it was his delight to ridicule. No king was ever so mercilessly and so successfully lampooned by a poet as George III by Peter Pindar. Wolcott was by profession a Doctor of Medicine. In 1766, we find him accompanying his relative, Sir William Trelawney, to Jamaica, of which island Sir William had been appointed governor. While there, the rector of a valuable living died, and Dr. Wolcott conceived the idea of entering the church and applying for the vacant rectorship. To this end he began actually to perform the duties of the parish, reading prayers and preaching, and soon after returned to England to take orders, provideed with powerful recommendations. To his great disappointment, the Bishop of London refused him ordination, and the reader of Peter Pindar will not be at a loss to guess the reason of the refusal. Wolcott now established himself in Truro, and continued in the successful practice of medicine there for several years. At Truro, he met the youthful Opie. "It is much to his honor," says one who wrote in Wolcott's own lifetime, "that during his residence in Cornwall, he discovered, and encouraged, the fine talents of the late Opie, the artist; a man of such modesty, simplicity of manners, and ignorance of the world, that it is probable his genius would have lain obscure and useless, had he not met, in Dr. Wolcott, with a judicious friend, who knew how to appreciate his worth, and to recommend it tothe admiration of the world. The Doctor's taste in painting has already been noticed; and it may now be added, that perhaps few men have attained more correct notions on the subject, and the fluency with which he expatiates on the beauties or defects of the productions of the ancient or modern school, has been amply acknowledged by all who have shared in his company. The same taste appears to have directed him to some of the first subjects of his poetical satire, when he began to treat the public with the pieces which compose these volumes. The effect of these poems on the public mind will not be soon forgot. Here appeared a new poet and a new critic, a man of unquestionable taste and luxuriant fancy, combined with such powers of satire, as became tremendously formidable to all who had the misfortune to fall under his displeasure. It was acknowledged at the same time, that amid some personal acrimony, and some affectionate preferences, not far removed, perhaps, from downright prejudice, he in general grounded his praise and censure upon solid principles, and carried the public mind along with him, although sometimes at the heavy expense of individuals." Later in life Dr. Wolcott removed to London, where he died at an advanced age. His writings were, as may be supposed, eagerly read at the time of their publication, but since the poet's death, they have scarcely received the attention which their merits deserve. The present collection contains all of his best poems which are not of a character too local and cotemporary, or too coarse in expression, to be enjoyed by the modern reader. YRIARTE, DON TOMAS DE--An eminent Spanish poet, born at Teneriffe about 1760. He is known to English readers chiefly through his "Literary Fables," of which, specimens, translated by Mr. Devereaux, are given in this volume, Yriarte also wrote comedies and essays.