Musa Jocosa G. H, Powell « ► Ex Libris < • ; C. K. ogden ; > THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Musa Jocosa By the same Author OCCASIONAL RHYMES AND REFLECTIONS UPON SUBJECTS, SOCIAL, LITERARY, AND POLITICAL Crown 8vo, 2S. cloth ; is. 6d. boards " Mr. Powell's satire flies straight to the mark, and is as successful in parody as in original composition. .... He may fairly claim to share with Mr. Traill the laurels of English pasquinade." The Times Lawrence tff Bullen, 1892 Musa Jocosa Choice Pieces of Comic Poetry Selected and arranged, with an Introduction By G. H. Powell Of the Inner Temple London Bliss, Sands £5? Foster Craven Street, Strand 1S94 CONTENTS Prior Ode on the Taking of Namur, 1695 . Tage 34. Anonymous [see note) The Vicar of Bray . . . . 53 Goldsmith Retaliation ...... 57 Haunch of Venison ..... 69 An Elegy (on the Death of a Mad Dog) . 79 R. H. Barham ("Ingoldsby Legends") The Cynotaph 81 "The Anti-jacobin" The Friend of Humanity and the Knife- Grinder ...... 93 The Progress of Man (A Didactic Poem) . 97 Lord Byron English Bards and Scotch Reviewers . .105 Horace Smith (" Rejected Addresses ") The Baby's Debut 1 17 T. Hood Death's Ramble 12; CONTENTS W. M. Thackeray Sorrows of Werther . . . . Tage 127 C. S. Calverley j Companions ..... 129 The Cock and the Bull . • 133 Bret Harte The Aged Stranger .... . 141 Plain Language from Truthful James . • 143 The Society upon the Stanislaus • H7 O. W. Holmes Contentment ..... . 151 Lewis Carroll The Walrus and the Carpenter . • 155 Father William ..... . 161 Jabberwocky ..... . 165 C. G. Leland Hans Breitmann's Barty 169 W. S. Gilbert Phrenology ..... • 173 Etiquette ...... . 179 J. K. Stephen Sincere Flattery I.— OfR. B . 187 U,_Of W. W . 190 PREFACE An introduction which exceeds the ordinary limits of a preface and comprehends much of what is usually to be found in an appendix of notes, has at least this excuse to offer for itself. The reader who does not skip it will be prepared to take the consequences. So limited is the number of English humorous writers of anything like first-class merit that to fill even a small volume with selections of undeniably excellent comic verse is no very easy matter. It is perhaps this difficulty or a modest tolerance which shrinks from making odious comparisons and invidious distinctions, that seems to deter most compilers from the task, or leads them to dilute the excellence of a few chefs d'ceuvre with a mass of passable or mediocre 8 PREFACE verse which though it sometimes has other merits, cannot be truly called comic. But though a congeries of this comprehensive kind has doubtless its use and value there seems no reason why a more exclusive and classical selection might not at once meet the appreciation of the general reader and the approval of the rigorous critic. To supply such a supposed desideratum, in the form of a handy volume, is all the true intent of the present editor. With this object — entertained for some years — he has searched, to singularly little result it must be admitted, through many a tome of forgotten lore. Collections labelled " humorous," comic," " witty," " amusing," and the like, the works of diverse more or less famous authors polished, clever, learned, shallow, trivial and tiresome, and lastly many years of periodicals known or believed to contain matter of a cheering description. The logical result of these researches has been shortly stated above. There is no over- abundant supply of " Comic Poetry " and what there is, is mostly well-known and prized. Lest, however, critics should fall foul of our conception of " the amusing " in poetry, we should be glad to introduce this venture with a sort of apology for our principles of selection, PREFACE 9 without in any way acceding to our publisher's suggestion of "A Chatty History of Comic Poetry from the time of Aristophanes." What is comprehensively classed under this name may be roughly divided, it would seem, into two classes, the merely sportive or non- sensical, nnd the satirical, of which the latter comes historically first. It is true that so phenomenal (and in certain respects so like our own) is the civilisation of Ancient Greece that we may ransack all literature and yet find no nearer parallel to the free humour of our own generation than is afforded by ancient Athenian comedy not merely in the matter of poignant and businesslike satire, but also of that " abandoned " intellectual romping here con- trasted with it. Roman humour at best is of a less urgent and more secondary order. And after the collapse of Greek and Latin civilisation the world had, we know, in this and in other matters, to begin over again. And in our own history it is hardly before the eighteenth century that playful humour, as opposed to heavy and truculent irony or ridicule, became a familiar literary weapon. Burlesque verse indeed came into fashion more especially in Italy, at an early period of lo PREFACE the Renaissance. And one of the earliest perhaps the earliest modern writer of "Non- sense verse " [a matter with which we are here seriously concerned] was one Burchiello, a Florentine barber, who died about the year 1448 and whose poems, beyond all question devoid of what is ordinarily understood as " sense," are believed by the best commentators to have been intended to be " comic," though others consider the text hopelessly corrupt, a matter perhaps not of vital importance to that class of composition : the later and more famous generation of Berni, Delia Casa, " Merlino Coc- caio" gave to this kind of comic poetry a more established position. Unfortunately modern taste lays the same charge against them all as against their contemporary Rabelais, and (still more deservedly) against our own comic drama- tists of the following century. The jocose is for them too indissolubly bound up with the impertinent and the improper ; one has to wade, ankle deep, through so much (as Voltaire him- self says of the great French satirist) to pick up so comparatively little. Addison is commonly said to have been the first who captured the unkempt gamin wit, brushed him clean from the filth of the gutters PREFACE 1 1 and introduced the " scrubbed boy " to the drawing-room of civilised " belles lettres." But humorous verse of a kind corresponding to the prose of the Spectator is even of later growth — the last refinement, nay literary luxury, of generations unburdened by wars, revolutions, or theological disputes. It is singular how little verse of at all a light or joyous spirit was pro- duced in the eighteenth century. Dr. Johnson in his brightest moments, as we may infer from his fragmentary parody of the " Percy Ballad," could have given us something of the kind. But in days when in Macaulay's immortal phrase " Everything that was miserable was summed up in the one word ' Poet ' " the necessary animal spirits seem hardly to have been available. It is natural perhaps that such a growth should have attained its perfection in our own days of wealth, peace, comfort and that felicity Of unbounded domesticity of the prevalence of which one such work as "Alice in Wonderland" is a striking historical evidence. Such an age as our own is, we are sometimes reminded, not an age of great productions, it 1 2 PREFACE is far removed from that era of action which has brought forth the greatest dramas, as when a sudden sense of the impending great- ness of England gave us the inspired outbursts of Shakespeare. We have got used to the greatness by this time. There is it might seem nothing particular to be said of the kind which rouses the sublime instincts of an ancient people. Why then should any one attempt to proclaim it ? So deep a philosophy of literature underlies those lines of the nursery rhyme Old Dog Tray is happy now He has no time to say bow-bow. The happiness of our civilisation evidences itself in no triumphant bursts of genius but in a vast fund of tolerably excellent self-expression : and incidentally (to keep to the matter before us) humour, or at least a very fair appreciation of humour, has become widely diffused among us. It needs no insular disregard of other nations nor of " un-English " varieties of wit to recognise this fact. More than one (and yet above all one) genius have we had among us gifted with that divine laughter-compelling power which is the true solvent of all that is hard, dogmatic and conventional in human PREFACE F3 nature. Yet such, as has been said, are but few and far between. Meanwhile, and more especially since the days of Dickens, it has become the most serious business of a vast or increasing number of people to be perma- nently funny, a result not always achieved either by the imitation of a great man's failings, nor by the incessant employment of a thread- bare and jaded " style de circonstance." For (to speak more especially of poetty) the dearth of objects on which to flesh one's wit has become embarrassing. Big game, in the sense of such rampant abuses as erst provoked volleys of sonorous Alexandrines, is now almost extinct. Even " Society " (the subject of one of the latest unsuccessful attempts — who now sits down to read, " The Season — A Satire ? ") has become, as the pessimist must admit with a sigh, hardly worth powder and shot. Its evil is too much interspersed with good to be a safe mark for the humane satirist. A hoarding of laboured exaggeration has to be erected in fact for him to practise at, which is as likely as not to be blown down flat by the first gust of that larger and serious criticism now blowing so freely about our ears wherever it listeth. 14 PREFACE There remain then but the comparative minutiae of political, social and literary criticism. And it would appear that these in the hands of our professional jesters are well nigh done to death. The most brilliant critic of our day in re- viewing a volume of somewhat forced persiflage, which had a great vogue a year or two ago, drew an appalling picture of the prospect before us when, parody's self being out-parodied, and all conceivable objects of light satire vaguely sniggered out of existence, jaded humorists should be left to hunt each other eternally through the dreary void. " Society verse," then, has been found a convenient generic name for that secondary class of poetry — if it can be called so — which is concerned with the criticism not of actual life but rather of the adjuncts and properties of comfortable civilisation. Of this kind, of which the last half-century has yielded such an abundant supply, grace and finish are the chief and usually the final characteristics. Properly speaking " Society verse " belongs rather to a distinctively worldly and polished atmosphere, being at its best a sort of pretty but trivial or soulless poetry and its worst the mere scrapings PREFACE 15 of literature, the dust off the side-walks of thought, the preservation of which in verse is largely responsible for the degradation of the metrical form. On the whole (with exceptions which we shall mention) it is but faintly tinged with humour. In the hands of Mr. Alfred Austin the grace, if somewhat lifeless (and, after a time, cloying), reaches the perfection of its kind. The verses of Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Hain Friswell now and again charm us by a feeling which is better than comic. The same might be said of the more solid work of James Ballantine, and of the homely idylls of " Matthew Browne " and James Smith, all of whom — and others who might be classed with them — would be naturally entitled to a place in any representative collection of authors of " light verse," though they be not " Comic Poets." Behind these follow a numerous tribe of mere journalistic " vers-de-passage " writers whose productions tail off into doggerel flavoured only with imitation. Imitation it may be observed, is either the essence, or the bane (whichever way we regard the matter), of this kind of minor poet. There is indeed no abundance of models, 16 PREFACE but the few that there are predominate with a force that seems too often to crush originality in the bud. Where this is not quite the case, for example in some of the best writers of " vers de Societe ", such as a Mortimer Collins or a Savile Clarke, we are yet disappointed by a pettiness of atmosphere and want of heartiness about the fun ; while the commoner herd seem hardly capable of producing a line in any metre that does not suggest (perhaps this is not altogether their fault) some superior author grave or gay — that is — for there is not much variety of choice — Tennyson or Calverley, imitation approbative or ironical. To one who has just concluded a tour in search of the perma- nently amusing through some thirty or forty odd years of " Punch," certain lyrics of our late poet laureate seem a very weariness of the flesh. Meanwhile owing to the marked falling-off already noticed in productions of a flagrantly absurd or objectionable order the profession of parodist presents ever a less and less profit- able opening to our over-educated young men. So far is Calverley superior in this and other particulars to all the servile herd who have PREFACE 17 followed him, that, according to the principles we have laid down, the " cream " of " Fly-leaves" should have occupied a third of our volume. The kindness of the proprietress of the copyright having granted us " two poems " we have helped ourselves as those do who are not to be asked twice. "The Cock and the Bull" is not only the author's longest work but perhaps the most finished and spiritual of parodies in existence, and to this we have added " Com- panions." Apropos of good parodies (and we have not omitted to secure those two excellent examples of "Sincere Flattery," by the late J. K. S., the most spontaneous, we venture to think, of his 11 Lapsus Calami ") the most brilliant recent production of the kind that we have met with bore upon Emerson's well-known lines concerning Brahma, beginning : If the wild slayer thinks he slays, Or if the slain man thinks he's slain, and occurred in the literary column of the Daily News. It ran as follows : If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled They know not, poor misguided souls They both shall perish unconsoled. 13 18 PREFACE I am the batsman and the bat, I am the bowler and the ball, The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch, and stumps and all, and there unfortunately it stopped. Further inquiry elicited the fact that it was the com- position of Mr. Andrew Lang and that he had not even preserved a copy (what must be his wealth who casts such pearls about the way ! ) ; but the reader will, we trust, recognise an obligation to us for here presenting him with all that we could get of this literary trouvaille. Equal to the author of " Fly Leaves " in fame, but diverse in his peculiar genius, stands the immortal " Lewis Carroll," the inventor of what may be called the modern domestic humour, the creator of that fascinating dreamland through which, veiled in a sunny mist of ethereal mirth, the daily round of life, its peaceful joys, its inanities, its fuss, friction and augmentation pass before our eyes in admired disorder. " Father William," " The Walrus and the Car- penter," and " Jabberwocky" would, it is needless to say, have been more remarkable by their absence from our collection than anything which could have taken their place. Moreover to the brief epic which goes by the latter title we have ventured to add for the benefit of classical PREFACE 19 readers a Latin version (published here for the first time) by a late distinguished Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. The Latinity may not be of quite even merit, yet even one such stanza as — Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis Rursus in amplexus, O Radiose, meos. O frabiose dies, callo clamateque calla ! Vix potuit lactus chorticulare pater, may justify our enshrining in a footnote this monument of eccentric scholarship. Prior's famous parody of Boileau's " Ode upon the taking of Namur " might perhaps claim a place as one of the earliest specimens of its kind in English literature. It is true that the piece is a political satire. But there arc satires and satires. (Juvenal himself exhibits both moods.) The seriously bitter, which seldom retains all its interest when the circumstances which evoked it have passed away ; and the genially contemptuous, which aims at provoking the reader's laughter at least as much as ridiculing an opponent. And few will be disposed to deny that in such verses as the immortal quatrain — Cannons above and mines below Did death and tombs for foes contrive, But matters have been ordered so That most of us are still alive, 20 PREFACE the British poet makes fun of the French Pindar, whose stanzas, it may be added, well deserve reprinting, being in their way, which is a very French way, almost as amusing as any parody. We have referred above to Dr. Johnson's " Percy Ballad," As with my hat upon my head I walk'd along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand, and his further application of " such poetry " to " his own immediate use " in the request for more of his favourite beverage which concludes : Yet hear, alas ! this mournful truth, Nor hear it with a frown : Thou canst not make the tea so fast As I can gulp it down. The introduction of selected pieces from the longer Poems of the "Anti-Jacobin" — a novel feature in the present collection — will hardly require an apology. This little volume of which the fifth edition appeared in 1807, has only recently been reprinted, in recognition of the enduring attractions it possesses for nineteenth- century readers. Much, indeed, of the volume, has unavoidably lost interest, but it may be PREFACE 21 doubted whether any simple piece of comic verse ever made such a decided hit as Canning's " Needy Knife-grinder " which has been shown to be applicable with but slight variations to the politics of our own, or indeed any, day. But the keenness of the occasionally misplaced satire of the Anti-Jacobins is not really so remarkable as the unfailing, not to say up- roarious, flow of animal spirits which pervades their humorous poetry. Ours is not the age of Didactic Poems — Knight's " Progress of Civil Society " has pro- gressed to that bourne of oblivion whence no literature returns ; and Pollok's "Course of Time " can be purchased for twopence at any metro- politan bookstall — but the reader must be more or less than human who does not admire the intellectual abandon of the " Progress of Man : " Ah ! who hath seen the mailed oyster rise Clap her broad wings and soaring claim the skies ? When did the owl descending from her bower Crop, midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower ? These oft-quoted inquiries remain unanswerable : but even more perfect are the Anti-Jacobin's endless onslaughts upon the " fm-de-siecle " morality of the last century. 22 PREFACE Of whist or cribbage mark th' amusing game, The partners changing, yet the sport the same. Yet must one man with one unceasing wife Play the long rubber of domestic life. The " Progress of Man," the reader will remember, is itself an " extract." We have merely carried the selection process a little further, where this was necessary to suit more modern taste. The humour of Canning, Hook- ham Frere and their collaborators, as exhibited in the poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, is to a striking degree in advance of their age. Perhaps its social and political changes gave them a better cause and better subjects than we have had since. Gifford's literary satire the " Baviad and Masviad" (1800) is dull to weariness: and the "New Tory Guide" (18 19), "with contributions by Lord Palmerston," as the booksellers describe it, contains few parodies of even second-rate merit. Among other of the pieces de resistance included in the volume we have (not to adhere too rigidly to chronological order) thought right to include Goldsmith's " Haunch of Venison," and "Retaliation" — specimens of the humour of a more classic age which we fancy are still found to provoke the mirth of the grave English. PREFACE 23 Some readers may require to be reminded that the abrupt conclusion to the last-mentioned poem When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff. He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff, is Goldsmith's own. The detached postscript which follows upon " Merry Whitefoord " is a not very happy afterthought which it seems hardly necessary to append. In attempting an " extract " from Lord Byron's " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," the editor feels that he lays himself open to the attack of the captious critic, to whom he would therefore address a word of self-defence. Even those enthusiasts who give twenty pounds for an "uncut " volume of his lordship's poetry will perhaps admit that his famous work if read straight through from cover to cover can hardly be said to leave on the whole an impression of amusement, the object with which we are here concerned. The really amusing passages seem to us to conclude, and to conclude tolerably well, with the burlesque tragic description of the Little-Jeffrey duel. What follows, indeed most of the serious part, is, if we may venture to say so, dull, and in places as grovelling in style as any production of the ill-starred Amos Cottle. 24 PREFACE Indeed the fun of the piece is often open to the charge of being a trifle superficial when it is not laboriously insincere. The query may be of little profit in the year 1894, but is there anything radically funny in the couplet Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, Behold her statue placed in glory's niche except the rhyme, which was probably its chief source of inspiration ? Again it is not a mere platitude to point out that there is nothing contemptibly ridiculous in forbidding " a knight," or any one else to read unless and until you know that he " cannot spell." But this is to consider too curiously : in truth the reality of Byron's critical hostility will not, as we know, always stand examination. A rich and turbu- lent burst of animal spirits carries him through the best part of his satirical programme, but the failing and uncertain stream leaves him stranded here and there upon muddy and prosaic flats. Few writers, however, are as amusing as Byron in the right humour, and the author's footnotes (raking in such jokes as Parson's description of the poetry which "will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten — but, not till then ") supply not the least part of the fun. Gladly indeed would we have added some PREFACE 25 good modern specimen of satire, but, as has already been said, " non est inventus" and the last substantial piece of comic verse we have included is the best known, we imagine, of the " Ingoldsby Legends." The " Ingoldsby Legends " are most of them amusing in a way, but " The Cynotaph " seems to us the one purely comic poem of the collection, a narrative if not sensational interest being prevalent throughout most of the others. The familiar volume of " Rejected Addresses " is usually regarded as a storehouse of wit. As a collection, however, it suffers rather from the limitation of its subject-matter, which is strictly dramatic, and of and belonging to a particular period. There is perhaps not much in it which can rank as first-rate humorous writing. Most of us know more brilliant lines and classical phrases from the book, than complete poems which we care to quote. The parodies on the whole are hardly good enough ; those of Laura Matilda and other early writers, slaughtered elsewhere by the ferocious Gifford, have lost their interest for the present generation, and even that on Lord Byron (in a certain vein) — Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought, 26 PREFACE is somehow not very amusing. The " simple " Wordsworthian lay, of which such lines as and I saw them go. One horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, While Papa says, " Pooh ! she may," Mamma says, " No, she sha'n't ! " have become — the latter for very obvious reasons — familiar household words, seems of more durable interest. Of more modern humorous writers we have already dealt with the most eminent. The original " Breitmann Ballad," which Mr. Leland kindly allows us to utilise, is a popular piece of burlesque. Then, as an effective contrast to the domestic verse of Lewis Carroll, fall to be added two specimens of the singular and cynical humour of Mr. W. S. Gilbert, the best, we count them, of the " Bab Ballads." 'Tis pity that in a good deal of this author's work the effect of a keen wit is to a greater or less extent marred by an odd uncertainty of tone and feeling. The ironic method of Mr. Gilbert, as exhibited in his most popular works, is indeed hyberbole run wild, after which panting Reality may be said to toil in vain, truth turned inside out with such persistence that the original sur- PREFACE 27 face of phenomena is often lost sight of. The enthusiasm, however, with which the process is carried out, and the vigorous grasp of the absurdities of civilised human nature give a peculiar charm and piquancy to his happiest productions ; and there is a sweet naturalness about such lines as The oysters with his feet aside impatiently he shoved, For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved. Apropos of the estimate of the " Bab Ballads " suggested above, a somewhat similar reflection might be passed upon the collection associated with the name of " Bongaultier." We do not know to which of the two collaborateurs, veiled under this popular " nom de plume," the fault is to be imputed, but their work has always seemed to us to comprise no piece of sustained excel- lence ; and generally, in spite of a few well- known lines of a somewhat antique flavour, to be deficient in the literary taste which gives such verse a permanent value. And, as has already been said, we are not here making a collection which aims at being representative of all well- known names. If that were the case, there is probably no name more famous than that of Tom Hood ; yet 28 PREFACE he has left very little of what is now regarded as amusing verse. " The Tale of a Trumpet " seems almost mediaeval in its antiquity, and such talent as the author shows in his lyrical pieces is devoured, so to speak, by the disease of verbal quips. . . . the horse A thing I always honour, but I never could endorse, etc. etc. etc, of which one soon has enough. " Death's Ramble " may be about the best of the lighter pieces ; but, in truth, Tom Hood is an author of a naturally melancholy cast, whose fame rests chiefly upon one poem, " The Song of the Shirt." American humour, of which we have heard so much during the past half-century, is a growth which has on the whole little deepness of earth and is disposed rather to run to leaves, the " intellectual green fruit," which the late Mr. Wendell Holmes has lamented as a characteristic product of his native country. But Mr. Holmes himself supplied an exception to the rule : and the best verse of Mr. Bret Harte is that of a humorist of the first water. Witness the more than half-sentimental ballad of " Dow's Flat." PREFACE 29 Well, ye see, this here Dow Had the worst kind 'er luck : He slipped up somehow On each thing that he struck. Why, ef he'd a' straddled that fence-rail ', The denied thing 'ud get up and buck, a verse embracing the finest conditional sentence extant in the whole range of poetry. But there is at least one Transatlantic specimen of purely comic verse which is familiar to every Englishman, and that is the Id}'ll of the Heathen Chinee, Some even of the parodies of this celebrated work — and every graduate will recall the lines In the crown of his cap Were the furies and fates, And a delicate map Of the Dorian States ; And we found in his palms, which were hollow. What is frequent in palms — that is dates — are so good that we almost regret that the presence of the original must exclude them " The Aged Stranger" is perhaps not quite so well known, but the " Society upon the Stanis- laus " largely owing to the fame of the gentle- man who Smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled upon the floor, has long occupied the position of a classic. 30 PREFACE Widely different in style, again, is the pious gravity of Mr. Wendell Holmes's Ode on " Contentment." Among poems known chiefly for a few lines the late Mr. Russell Lowell's verses on " What Mr. Robinson Thinks " will probably have occurred at this point to the reader's recollection : but the piece, though vigorous in passages, is somewhat uneven, and hardly bears transplanting from the homely and political surroundings of the " Biglow Papers." Having said enough and perhaps more than enough to explain to the reader the not very abstruse principles by which we have endeavoured to guide our selection, it behoves us to apologise for the smallness of the volume now offered to his impatient perusal. It should have been larger but for the legal and highly natural restrictions of copyright. At the suggestion of kindly critics, and with the increase of our own knowledge, it may be found possible to enlarge our collection upon the lines herein laid down. Meanwhile, in days when the public is besieged with so much would-be amusing literature, both prose and verse of uncertain tone and widely varying taste, we shall not fear even the reproach of having attempted in some sort to set up a respectable standard of humour by the juxta- PREFACE 31 position of a few pieces which, if not in the general judgment unrivalled, are at least prc- excellcnt in their kind. In conclusion we have to express our cordial thanks to Mr. Lewis Carroll, Mr. Godfrey Leland, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Bret Harte, Mrs. C. S. Calverley, Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and Messrs. Macmillan of Cambridge, for the courtesy and kindness with which they have accorded us permission to reproduce the various copyright works included in this little volume. MUSA JOCOSA ODE SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR, l'aNNEE 1692' Quelle docte et sainte ivresse Aujourd'hui me fait la loi ? Chastes Nymphes du Permesse, N'est-ce pas vous que je vois ? Accourez, troupe savante, Des sons que ma lyre enfante Ces arbres sont rejotlis. Marquez en bien la cadence ; Et vous, Vents, faites silence : Je vais parler de Louis. * To show how close is the parody of Boileau's style, the French text has been printed opposite the English. AN ODE ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, 1695* Dulce est desipere in loco Some Folks are drunk, yet do not know it : So might not Bacchus give you law ? Was it a muse, O lofty Poet, Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw ? Why all this fury? What's the matter, That oaks must come from Thrace to dance ? Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter, And is there no such wood in France ? Why must the winds all hold their tongue ? If they a little breath should raise, Would that have spoil'd the poet's song, Or puff'd away the monarch's praise. * Originally printed, as a folio pamphlet, in 1695, but the present text is taken from the " Poems " of 1718, as revised by Prior himself. 3 6 ODE Dans ses chansons immortelles, Comme un aigle audacieux, Pindare etendant ses ailes, Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux. Mais, 6 ma fidele lyre, Si dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire, Tu peux suivre mes transports ; Les chenes des monts de Thrace N'ont rien oiii que n'efface La douceur de tes accords. Est-ce Apollon et Neptune Que sur ces rocs sourcilleux, Ont, compagnons de Fortune, Bati ces murs orgueilleux ? De leur enceinte fameuse La Sambre unie a la Meuse Deffend le fatal abord, Et par cent bouches horribles L'airain sur ces monts terribles Vomit le fer, et la mort. AN ODF, 37 Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies; While virtue leads the noble way : Too like a vulture Boileau flies, Where sordid interest shows the prey. When once the poet's honour ceases, From Reason far his transports rove ; And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces, Makes Louis take the wall of Jove. Neptune, and Sol came from above, Shap'd like Megrigny, and Vauban : They arm'd these rocks, then show'd old Jove Of Marli wood the wondrous plan. Such walls, these three wise gods agreed, By human force could ne'er be shaken ; But you and I in Homer read Of gods, as well as men, mistaken, Sambre and Maese their waves may join, But ne'er can William's force restrain ; He'll pass them both, who pass'd the Boyne : Remember this, and arm the Seine. 38 ODE Dix mille vaillans Alcides Les bordant de toutes parts, D'eclairs au loin homicides Font petiller leurs ramparts : Et dans son sein infidele Par tout la terre y recele Un feu prest a s'elancer, Qui soudain percant son goufre, Ouvre un sepulcre de soufre A quiconque ose avancer. Namur, devant tes murailles, Jadis la Grece eut vingt ans, Sans fruit veu les funerailles De ses plus fiers combattans. Quelle effroyable Puissance Aujourd-hui pourtant s'avance Prete a foudroyer tes monts ? Quel bruit, quel feu l'environne C'est Jupiter en personne, Ou c'est le vainqueur de Mons. AN ODE 39 Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows With fire and sword the fort maintain ; Each was a Hercules, you tell us, Yet out they march'd like common men. Cannons above, and mines below, Did death and tombs for foes contrive ; Yet matters have been order'd so, That most of us are still alive. If Namur be compared to Troy, Then Britain's boys excelled the Greeks : Their siege did ten long years employ, We've done our bus'ness in ten weeks. What godhead does so fast advance, With dreadful power those hills to gain ? 'Tis little Will, the scourge of France, No godhead, but the first of men. His mortal arm exerts the pow'r, To keep ev'n Mons's victor under : And that same Jupiter no more Shall fright the world with impious thunder. 4° ODE N'en doute point, c'est lui-meme ; Tout brille en lui, tout est roy. Dans Bruxelles Nassau bleme Commence a trembler pour toi ; En vain il voit le Batave, Desormais docile esclave, Range sous ses etendards : En vain au Lion Belgique II voit l'Aigle Germanique Uni sous Ies leopards. Plein de la frayeur nouvelle Dont scs sens sont agites A son secours il appelle Les peuples les plus vantes Ceux-la viennent du rivage Ou s'enorgueillit le Tage De Tor, qui roule en ses eaux ; Ceux-ci des champs ou la neige Des marais de la Norvege Neuf mois couvre les roseaux. AN ODE Our King thus trembles at Namur, Whilst Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is, To Bruxelles marches on secure, To bomb the monks, and scare the ladies. After this glorious expedition, One battle makes the marshal great ; He must perform his king's commission : Who knows but Orange may retreat ? Kings are allow'd to feign the gout, Or be prevailed with not to fight And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt, That William would preserve that right. From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po, See ev'ry mother's son appear In such a case ne'er blame the foe, If he betrays some little fear : He comes, the mighty Vill'roy comes ; Finds a small river in his way ; So waves his colours, beats his drums ; And thinks it prudent there to stay. The Gallic troops breathe blood and war ; The marshal cares not to march faster ; Poor Vill'roy moves so slowly here. We fancy'd all, it was his master. 42 ODE Mais qui fait enfler la Sambre ? Sous les jumeaux effrayes, Des froids torrens de Decembre Les champs par tout sont noyes. Ceres s'enfuit eploree. De voir en proye a Boree Ses guerets d'epics charges. Et sous les urnes fangeuses Des Hyades orageuses Tout ses tresors submerges. Deployez toutes vos rages, Princes, vents, peuples, frimats, Ramassez tous vos nuages, Rassemblez tous vos soldats Malgre vous Namur en poudre S'en va tomber sous la foudre Qui domta Lille, Courtray, Gand, la superbe Espagnole, Saint Omer, Besancon, Dole, Ypres, Mastricht, et Cambray. +3 AN ODE Will no kind flood, no friendly rain Disguise the marshal's plain disgrace ? No torrents swell the low Mehayne ? The world will say he durst not pass. Why will no Hyades appear, Dear poet, on the banks of Sambre ? Just as they did that mighty year When you turn'd June into December ? The water-nymphs are too unkind To ViU'roy ; are the land-nymphs so ? And fly they all, at once combined, To shame a general and a beau ? Truth, justice, sense, religion, fame, May join to finish William's story ; Nations set free may bless his name And France in secret own his glory. But Ypres, Maestricht and Cambray, Besancon, Ghent, St. Omers, Lysle, Courtray and Dole, — ye critics, say, How poor to this was Pindar's style ? With eke's and also's tack thy strain Great bard ; and sing the deathless prince, Who lost Namur the same campaign, He bought Dixmude, and plunder'd Deynse. 44 ODE Mes presages s'accomplissent : II commence a chanceler : Sous les coups qui retentissent Ses murs s'en vont s'ecrouler. Mars en feu qui les domine Soufle a grand bruit leur ruine Et les bombes dans les airs. Allant chercher le tonnere, Semblent tombant sur la terre, Vouloir s'ouvrir les enfers. Accourez, Nassau, Baviere, De ces Murs l'unique espoir ; A couvert d'une riviere Venez, vous pouvez tout voir. Considerez ces approches : Voyez, grimper sur ces roches Ces athletes belliqueux ; Et dans les eaux, dans la flamme Louis a tout donnant l'ame, Marcher, courir avec eux. AN ODE 45 I'll hold ten pounds, my dream is out, I'd tell it you, but for the rattle Of those confounded drums ; no doubt Yon bloody rogues intend a battle. Dear me ! a hundred thousand French With terror fill the neighb'ring field ; While William carries on the trench, 'Till both the town and castle yield. Vill'roy to Boufflers should advance, Says Mars, through cannons' mouths in fire ; Id est, one mareschal of France Tells t'other, he can come no nigher. Regain the lines the shortest way, Vill'roy, or to Versailles take post For having seen it thou canst say The steps, by which Namur was lost. The smoke and flame may vex thy sight, Look not once back ; but as thou goest, Quicken the squadrons in their flight ; And bid the Devil take the slowest. Think not what reason to produce, From Louis to conceal thy fear ; He'll own the strength of thy excuse, Tell him that William was but there. 46 ODE Contemplez dans la tempete Qui sort de ces boulevards, La plume qui sur sa tete Attire tous les regards. A cet astre redoutable Toujours un sort favorable S'attache dans les combats : Et toujours avec la gloire Mars amenant la victoire Vole, et le suit a grands pas. Grands deffenseurs de l'Espagne, Montrez-vous, il en est temps, Courage, vers la Mahagne Voila vos drapeaux flottans. Jamais ses ondes craintives N'ont vu sur leurs foibles rives Tant de guerriers s'amasser. Courez done. Qui vous retarde ? Tout l'univers vous regarde. N'osez-vous la traverser ? Loin de fermer le passage A vos nombreux bataillons, AN ODE 47 Now let us look for Louis' feather, That us'd to shine so like a star, The generals could not get together, Wanting that influence great in war ; O poet ! thou had'st been discreeter, Hanging the monarch's hat so high ; If thou had'st dubb'd thy star, a meteor ; That did but blaze, and rove, and die. To animate the doubtful fight, Namur in vain expects that ray ; In vain France hopes, the sickly light Should shine near William's fuller day. It knows Versailles, its proper station, Nor cares for any foreign sphere ; Where you see Boileau's constellation, Be sure no danger can be near. The French had gathered all their force ; And William met them in their way : 48 ODE Luxembourg a du rivage Recule ses pavilions. Quoi ? leur seul aspect vous glace ? Ou sont ces chefs pleins d'audace Jadis si prompts a marcher, Qui devoient de la Tamise Et de la Drave soumise Jusqu'a Paris nous chercher ? Cependant l'effroi redouble Sur les remparts de Namur. Son gouverneur qui se trouble S'enfuit sous son dernier mur. Deja jusques a ses portes Je vois monter nos cohortes, La flamme et le fer en main : Et sur les monceaux de piques, De corps morts, de rocs, de briques, S'ouvrir un large chemin. AN ODE 49 Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse. What has friend Boileau left to say ? When his high muse is bent upon't To sing her king, that great commander, Or on the shores of Hellespont, Or in the valleys near Scamander, Would it not spoil his noble task, If any foolish Phrygian there is Impertinent enough to ask, How far Namur may be from Paris ? Two stanzas more before we end, Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks and fire : Leave 'em behind you, honest friend : And with your country-men retire. Your ode is spoilt, Namur is freed ; For Dixmuyd something yet is due ; So good Count Guiscard may proceed : But Boufflers,* Sir, one word with you. — ' Marshal Boufflers was arrested by way of reprisal for the unjust detention of the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse. D 5c ODE C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre Sur ces rochers eperdus Battre un signal pour se rendre : Le feu cesse. lis sont rendus. Depouillez votre arrogance, Fiers ennemis de la France, Et desormais gracieux, Allez a Liege, a Bruxelles, Porter les humbles nouvelles De Namur pris a vos jeux. BOILEAU. AN ODE 51 Tis done. In sight of these commanders, Who neither fight, nor raise the siege ; The foes of France march safe through Flanders, Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege. Send, Fame, this news to Trianon, That Boufflers may new honours gain : He the same play by land has shown, As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the marshal made a peer ! O William, may thy arms advance, That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France. Prior. THE VICAR OF BRAY In Good King Charles's golden days When loyalty no harm meant A zealous High-Churchman was I And so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never missed Kings were by God appointed ; And damned are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law I will maintain Unto my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, Sir. 54 THE VICAR OF BRAY When Royal James obtain'd the crown, And pop'ry came in fashion, The Penal Laws I hooted down And read the Declaration. The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, etc. When William was our King declar'd To ease a Nation's grievance With this new wind about I steered And swore to him allegiance. Old principles I did revoke Set conscience at a distance. Passive obedience was a joke A jest was non-Resistance. For this is law, etc. i When Gracious Anne became our Queen. The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen And I became a Tory. THE VICAR OF BRAY 55 Occasional Conformists base I damned their moderation And thought the Church in danger was From such prevarication. And this is law, etc. When George in pudding-time came o'er And mod'rate men looked big, sir, I turned a cat i' th' pan once more And so became a Whig, sir. And thus preferment I procured From our new Faith's Defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender. This is law, etc. The illustrious House of Hanover And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear, While they can keep possession. And in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter And George my lawful King shall be Until the times do alter. 56 THE VICAR OF BRAY For this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. Anonymous.* * According to the antiquarian Nichols, this celebrated ballad was composed by a private in Colonel Fuller's troop of dragoons. Theoriginal "Vicar of Bray," the Rev. Simon Symonds (see Disraeli's Curios. Lit.) flourished — as twice Papist and twice Protestant — in the sixteenth century. RETALIATION A POEM* Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united, If our landlordf supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : * [The notes which follow are those found in the first collected editions.] Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem. t The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor and the friends he has characterised in this poem occasionally dined. 58 RETALIATION Our dean* shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burke f shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; Our Willi: shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick § with his pepper shall heighten the savour : Our Cumberland's [| sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas 1F is pudding, substantial and plain : Our Garrick's** a salad ; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : * Doctor Bernard, Dean of Derry in Ireland. f Mr. Edmund Burke. $ Mr. William Burke, late Secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. § Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of Granada. || Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. ^[ Doctor Douglas, Canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world than as a sound critic in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen, particularly Lauder on Milton and Bower's " History of the Popes." ** David Garrick, Esq. RETALIATION 59 To make out the dinner full certain I am, That Ridge * is anchovy, and Reynolds f is lamb ; That Hickey's | a capon, and by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 'Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least, in six weeks I cou'd not find 'em out ; Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. * Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish Bar. f Sir Joshua Reynolds. \ An eminent attorney. 60 RETALIATION Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much, Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for man- kind, Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. * Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. RETALIATION 61 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; The pupil of impulse, it fore'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ; Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! * Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! * Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. 6z RETALIATION Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud, And coxcombs alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits are pleased with their own. Say where has our poet this malady caught ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault, RETALIATION 6^ Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fcar'd for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodd* shall be pious, our Kenricksf shall lecture ; MacphersonJ write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; * The Rev. Dr. Dodd. t Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of " The School of Shakespeare." % James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 64 RETALIATION New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover : Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confest without rival to shine : As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge, his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a- day : RETALIATION 65 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, If they were not his own by finessing and trick : He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ? How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be- prais'd ? * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Wovd to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc. t Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. E 66 RETALIATION But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will, Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature ; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ; I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser ; Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : Perhaps he confided in men as they go And so was too foolishly honest ? Oh, no ! Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye, — He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; RETALIATION 67 His pencil was striking, resistless and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing, When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. * Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON A POETICAL EPISTLE, TO LORD CLARE Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting, To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view; To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 70 HAUNCH OF VENISON As in some Irish houses, where things are so so One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in. But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro- nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce ; I protest in my turn, It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch ; I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best, * Lord Clare's nephew. HAUNCH OF VENISON 71 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 'Tvvas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : * But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and H — ff,t I think they love venison — I know they love beef. There's my countryman, Higgins — Oh ! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. * Dorothy Monroe, a beauty celebrated in verse by Lord Townshend. t Howard, Coley, Hogarth and Hill. 72 HAUNCH OF VENISON " What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Your own I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " "Why whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce : "I get these things often" — but that was a bounce : " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostenta- tion." " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on't — precisely at three: We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you — a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. HAUNCH OF VENISON 73 Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end; No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend ! " Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And " nobody with me at sea but myself ; " * Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumbcr'd closet just twelve feet by nine : ) * See the letters that passed between His Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor, 12 , 1769. 74 HAUNCH OF VENISON My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; " For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Pan urge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; HAUNCH OF VENISON 7; At the sides there was spinnagc and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the past)- — was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian, So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me most, was that d — d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue, And, "madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." " The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, " I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : 76 HAUNCH OF VENISON I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." " O — ho" ! quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : There's a pasty." — " A pasty ! " repeated the Jew; " I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too." " What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! " re-echo'd the Scot ; " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mis- take her ?) That she came with some terrible news from the baker : HAUNCH OF VENISON 77 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven, Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning — A relish — a tasfe — sicken'd over by learning ; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly^ of this. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song ; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. So AN ELEGY And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied, The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. Goldsmith. THE CYNOTAPH* Poor Tray charmant ! Poor Tray de mon ami ! Dog-bury and Vergers. On ! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray, Now his fleeting breath has passed away ? — Seventeen years I can venture to say, Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play, Ever more happy, and frisky, and gay, As though every one of his months was May And the whole of his life one long holiday — Now he's a lifeless lump of clay, Oh ! where shall I bury my faithful Tray ? * Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following monody with the hopeless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of " Yow-Yow-ing " memory. Tray was an attached favourite of many years' standing. Most people worth lo have had a friend of this kind : Lord Byron says he "never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman) lies ! ' F 82 THE CYNOTAPH I am almost tempted to think it hard That it may not be there, in yon sunny church- yard, Where the green willows wave O'er the peace- ful grave, Which holds all that once was honest and brave, Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true, Qualities, Tray, that were found in you. But it may not be — yon sacred ground By holiest feelings fenced around, May ne'er within its hallow'd bound Receive the dust of a soul-less hound. I would not place him in yonder fane, Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane Throws on the pavement a crimson stain Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King, With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing. No ! — come what may, My gentle Tray Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor, Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder, THE CYNOTAPH 83 Whom you see on their backs, In stone or in wax, Though the sacristans now are " forbidden to ax ; " For what Mr. Hume calls " a scandalous tax ;" While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks — No ! — Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby 'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey. Besides, in the place, They say there is not space To bury what wet nurses call a " babby." Even " Rare Ben Jonson," that famous wight I am told, is interr'd there bolt upright, In just such a posture, beneath his bust, As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust. The Epitaph, too, Would scarcely do : For what could it say, but, " Here lies Tray," A very good kind of a dog in his day, And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet. 8 4 THE CYNOTAPH No ! no ! — The Abbey may do very well For a Feudal " Nob," or poetical " Swell," " Crusaders," or " Poets," or " Knights of St. John," Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintoune. Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle. " Sir Craven," " Sir Gael," and "Sir Campbell of Saddell " (Who, poor Hook said, when he heard of the feat, Was somehow knock'd out of his family seat) ; The Esquires of the body To my Lord Tomnoddy ; "Sir Fairlie," "Sir Lambe," And the " Knight of the Ram," The " Knight of the Rose," and the " Knight of the Dragon," Who save at the flagon, And prog in the wagon, The newspapers tell us did little "to brag 9) on ; THE CYNOTAPH And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning 'em, " Sir Hopkins," " Sir Popkins," " Sir Gage," and " Sir Jerningham." All preux chevaliers, in friendly rivalry Who should best bring back the glory of Chi- valry — (Pray be so good, for the sake of my song, To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long ; Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry, "The word 'Chivalry' is but a rhyme to the eye." And now it is clear, A fastidious ear Will be, more or less, always annoy'd with you when you Insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine : As to pleasing the " eye " 'Tisn't worth while to try. Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit ' Spinach ' Is perfectly antiphonetic to ' Greenwich.') — But stay ! — I say ! Let me pause while I may — This digression is leading me sadly astray From my object — a grave for my poor dog Tray ! 86 THE CYNOTAPH I would not place him beneath thy walls, And proud o'ershadowing dome, St. Paul's ! Though I've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren, As an architect, one of the greatest of men ; And, talking of Epitaphs, — much I admire his, ' l Circumspice si Monumentum requiris ;" Which an erudite verger translated to me, " If you ask for his monument, Sir-come-spy- see /— " No ! — I should not know where to place him there ; I would not have him by surly Johnson be ; — Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby ; — Or those ugly minxes, The sister Sphynxes, Mix'd creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo, (Denon says,) the emblems of Leo and Virgo ; On one of the backs of which singular jumble, Sir Ralph Abercrombie is going to tumble, With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him, If the Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him. THE CYNOTAPH No ! I'd not have him there, — nor nearer the door, Where the man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore, And are quietly letting him down through the floor, By Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore, Alone from the row ; — Neither he, nor Lord Howe Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow. No, Tray, we must yield, And go further a-field ; To lay you by Nelson were downright effront'ry; — We'll be off from the City, and look at the country. It shall not be there, In that sepulchred square, Where folks arc interr'd for the sake of the air (Though, pay but the dues, They could hardly refuse To Tray, what they've granted to Thuggs, and Hindoos, Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews), 88 THE CYNOTAPH Where the tombstones are placed in the very best taste, At the feet and the head, Of the elegant Dead, And no one's received who's not " buried in lead:" For, there lie the bones Of Deputy Jones, Whom the widow's tears, and the orphan's groans Affected as much as they do the stones His executors laid on the Deputy's bones ; Little rest, poor knave ! Would Tray have in his grave ; Since spirits, 'tis plain, Are sent back again, To roam round their bodies, — the bad ones in pain, — Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack- chain ; Whenever they met, alarm'd by its groans, his Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's. Nor shall he be laid By that cross old maid, Miss Penelope Bird, — of whom it is said All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid. He must not be placed By one so strait-laced In her temper, her taste, her morals, and waist. THE CYNOTAPH 89 For 'tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St. Peter, Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her, She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature. And bade him " Get out for a horrid Male Creature ! " So the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her, Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her, And not being willing — or able — to beat her, Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter, With an epithet which I decline to repeat here. No, — if Tray were interred By Penelope Bird, No dog would be e'er so be- 'whelp'' and bc-