1 Ex Libris . K. OGDEN ' - ...-.?V! ' , T , / * POETS AT PLAY: A HANDBOOK OF HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. ME. LANGBRIDGE'S VAIL ADS. I. Price, 4s. 6d. ; Popular Edition, Is. SENT BACK BY THE ANGELS : AWD OTHEE BALLADS OF HOME AXD HOMELT LIFE. " No living writer of homely verse has svrpasfedfeir hare equalled the author in the realisation of the joys and sorrows of the poor. His ballads have that quaint mixture of humour and pathos which make* the interest so essentially human, tchilst every note and then tee are startled and delighted by tome touch of genuine poetry." THE GRAPHIC. CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED. II. Price, 3*. 6d.; Popular Editten, Is. 6rf. POOR FOLKS' LIVES : BALLADS AITD STORIES ix VERSE. " Ringing ballads, ichoie quaint and happy mixture of tears and laughter is irresistible." TRUTH. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO. POETS AT PLAY: A HANDBOOK OF HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. EDITED BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE, AUTHOR OF "SENT BACK BY THE AXGELS," " POOR FOLKS' LIVES," ETC. VOL. I. Our tribe never aims for the brow of Parnassus ; We seek no refreshing from Castaly's rill; Unheeding the great who mount upward and pass us, We stop to play games at the foot of the hill." HEXRY S. LEIGH. EYRE AND SPOTTISWOODE, Queen's printers : LONDON: GREAT NEW STREET, FETTER LANE, E.G. gonbon: Her Majesty's Printers. DOWN'S PARK ROAD, HACKNEY, E. W. IX ACKXOAVLEDGMF.XT OF A HEAVY DEBT, WHICH WAS INCURRED TWENTY YEARS AGO WHEN THE FIRST ' BAB" BALLAD APPEARED IN "FUN, AND WHICH HAS BEEN ACCUMULATING, AT COMPOUND INTEREST EVER SINCE. F. L. 2015178 PREFACE. IN presenting these poems to the public, I have not attempted any labelling or classification. I wished to let their authors appear as poets at play, not as poets on pins. My system of arrangement is therefore an elaborate absence of any. I feel sure that the reader will give his practical approval to my unmethodical method. He will flit from flower to flower with the abandon of a bee off duty. He will be perpetually dipping into a lucky bag ; a lucky bag, however, in which (an editor writing from Limerick may be permitted the phrase) even the blanks are prizes. If the intelligent reader should complain (he is quite capable of doing it) that a good many of the poems are deficient in earnestness of tone ; that definite dogma is too little insisted upon ; or that the collection as a whole fails in logical cogency ; I fear that I should be compelled to admit the impeachment. I might, however, remind such an objector that even Paradise Lost has been held to prove very little ; and that a monkey- on-a-stick is not, primarily, a moral engine. And yet -so far-reaching and beneficent are the functions of humour I doubt if the finest temperance sermon ever preached be not Thomas Hood's lines, " A Drop of Grin." I doubt if any tract hits out, in the same cause, so effectually as Gr. R. Sims' " Christmassing a la mode de Slumopolis." I believe that the selfish folly of extravagance was never so powerfully rebuked as by "W. A. Butler's " Nothing to Wear." If any one wants the philosophy of life crystallized from a profoundly Christian standpoint, I hardly think he will find it better done elsewhere than in Jefferey Prowse's " Learning the Verbs." "Was self-negation ever more nobly taught than PREFACE. hy Bret Harte and John Hay ? And to come, last of all, even to definite dogma what text-book of geology tells the story of creation with such pith and verve as Professor Blackie's " Song of Geology ? " It is true that I have not as yet suc- ceeded in fixing the somewhat elusive moral of " The Walrus and the Carpenter ; " nor is " The King of Canoodle-Dum " obviously didactic. Still, I think I have made out my case that even those coming to poets at play for edification need not go away empty. Again, a few super-sensitive people may take offence at a vivid expression here and there, or even at the exuberant vivacity of one or two whole poems. I have considered the case of these easily-upset digestions, and I would have pro- vided for it if I could. My conscience, however, forbade my tampering with the text of my authors ; and, after all, it is better to adapt one's menu to the appetites of healthy people than to those of dyspeptics or malades imaginaires. I have endeavoured to maintain generally a high literary standard. When this has been lowered, there has almost always been some special justification. The piece has been admitted, either because it was peculiarly fitted for recitation, or because it represented exceedingly well some characteristic phase of humour which claimed recognition and illustration. I should mention here that for the absence of the names of Lord Tennyson, Mr. Browning,, " Bon Gaultier," Mr. George Outram, and Mr. F. Anstey, I am not responsible. I hope that the collection, en masse, will represent adequately enough the humorous poetry which has been produced by Eng- land and America during, roughly speaking, the last hundred years. When, however, I have been able to give only one or two examples of an author's work, I have preferred, ceteris paribus, fresh to hackneyed pieces. From the domains often almost unexplored of living humorists I have been permitted to bring away many curiosities and treasures, and, , whatever else may be alleged against the collection, it cannot be affirmed that it is not brought down to date. PREFACE. The book is, ostensibly and actually, a collection of humorous recitations. I have, however, allowed the word " recitation " its fullest latitude. Not a few poems in these volumes which might possibly prove ineffective as platform pieces are precisely the things that one would like to repeat to a little gathering of friends. I have even in two or three cases, when authors of marked individuality have written nothing belonging to the order of recitations, admitted specimens of their humour on the sole claim of literary merit. With all deductions made, I trust that the collection will, as a whole, amply justify its title, and satisfy the needs of all sorts and conditions of humorous reciters. The text of the various poems may in nearly every case be relied upon as that of the authorized version. Except in the instances of a few American poems, and of a few by anonymous authors when shift has had to be made with the best copy that presented itself the compositors have set up the type from the actual volumes, without the intermediary of a manu- script copy. The type itself has been carefully selected with a view to legibility and clearness. And now, having said my say, I step aside, and heartily invite the public to join the poets at play. They will be found delightful companions as kindly as merry ; for the very core of humour is sympathy. FEEDEEICK LANGBRIDGE. September 28, 1888. ACKNOWLEDGMENT. The Editor desires to express his hearty gratitude to the many living Authors whose poems are quoted in these volumes, as well as to the represen- tatives of several Authors deceased, for the ready courtesy which they have displayed in placing their copyrights at his disposal. He has also to thank, very sincerely, Mr. H. E. Clarke, Mr. W. A. Gibbs, Mr. Samuel K. Cowan, and Mr. Fred. W. I/ucas, for the contribution to his pages of unpublished poems ; and Dr. W. C. Bennett, Professor Blackie, Mr. J. Ransome Carder, Mr. J. 8. Metcalfe, the Rev. Francis Meredyth, Major Norton Powlett, R.A., and Mr. B. Montgomerie Ranking, for much kind interest and for many valuable suggestions. Among Publishers and Editors, he is indebted to the following: To Mr. J. W. Arrowsmith, of Bristol, for two poems by "Agrikler ;" to Messrs. R. Bentley $ Son, for several excerpts from " The Ingoldsby Legends;'' to Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew dj~ Co., for three poems by the late Mr. Shirley Brooks; to Messrs. Cassell $ Company, Limited, for a poem from "Five Little Pitchers;" and for " A Lay of a Cannibal Island" by Mr. J. G. Watts, which originally appeared in " Cassell's Saturday Journal;" to Messrs. Chatto Sf Windus, for poems by Mr. Robert Buchanan, Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, and the late Mr. Henry S. Leigh, and, jointly with Mrs. Mackarness, for poems by the late Mr. j. R. Planche; to Messrs. Chapman $ Hall, Limited, for poems by Mr. Herman C. Merivale ; to Mr. Samuel French, for "Supers" by Mr. H. Chance Newton ; to Messrs. Hildesheimer $ Faulkner, for three, poems by Mr. F. E. Weatherly ; to Messrs. Isbister $ Co., Limited, to Mr. Arthur Locker, of the " Graphic," and to Messrs. Robert Cocks <${ Co., for verses by the Editor himself ; to Messrs. Longmans, Green $ Co., in con- junction with the Author, for extracts from Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's "From Grave to Gay;" to Mr. J. M. Lowry, the Editor of "A Book of Jousts," for poems by Mr. Samuel K. Cowan, as well as for poems by himself ; to Mr. W. M'Gee, of Dublin, the publisher of " Kottabos," for poems by respectively, Mr. Samml K. Cowan and the late Mr. Hubert de Burgh ; to Messrs. Kcgan Paul, Trench $ Co., for "A Bit o' Sly Corn-ten," from the late Rev. W. Barnes' Dorset Poems ; to Mr. B. Montgomerie Ranking, repre- senting the Proprietors of the volume called " The Quadrilateral," for a poem by the late Mr. J. H. Gibbs; to Messrs. G. Routledge $ Sons, for several poems by Samuel Lover ; to the Proprietors of " The Spectator," for Mr. Charles L. Graves' poem, " The Galway Mare ; " to Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein, Lowrey $ Co., for three extracts from " Minora Carmina ;" to Messrs. Ward $ Downey (in conjunction with the Author), for three poems from Mr. Edwin Hamilton's volume, " The Moderate Man ;" to Messrs. Ward, Lock $ Co., for extracts from the copyright poems of Thomas Hood, W.M.Praed, and "HansBreitmann,'' as well as for a poem by W. Basil Wake, taken from " Hone's Everyday Book;" and to Messrs. John Wright $ Co., of Bristol, for poems by "Agrikler." To Messrs. Dalziel Brothers he is deeply indebted for the generous kindness with which they have made him welcome to the files of "Fun" and the volumes of "Hood's Comic Annual," with their store of good things ; and to Mr. George Dalziel, per- sonally, for more kind sympathy and help than he can ever repay or forget. For any possible trespass inadvertently made upon begs leave to tender in advance his sincere apologies. CONTENTS OF FIRST VOLUME. The Ballad of the Green Old Man . The Irish Schoolmaster . King Canute .... Tribulations of a Ham Sandwich O'Connor's Wake . A White-Pine Ballad The Royal Wedding Gentle Alice Brown Tempora Mutantur, nos et Mutamur A Lay of a Cannibal Island . An Honest Valentine My First-Born The Invention of Wine . The Usual Way .... A Plumber . . . . Nell Cook . ^ . The Chimpanzor and the Chimpanzee The Travelling Train Fugitive Lines on Pawning my Watch Carrying out Instructions The Developed . . The Story of Ariadne . . The Voyage ..... The Ballad of Mr. Cooke The Song of Mrs. Jenny Geddes Without and Within Shy and Simple . The Galway Mare ..*..". The Walrus and the Carpenter " . The Maid I Love . . . Ben and the Butter . . The Reverend Simon Magus Mrs. Jones's Pirate The Forlorn One .... The Student of Bonn . . . The Housemaid .... A Villanous Ambition My Old Coat .... A New Peer The Pearl of Palencia . To the Portrait of "A Gentleman". PAGE . Charks G. Leland 1 James A. Sidey, M.D. 4 . W. M. Thackeray 6 Henry S. Leigh 9 . Robert Buchanan 11 . Bret Harte 17 Herman C. Merivale 18 W. S. Gilbert 22 Illis . . J. H. Gibbs 24 J. G. Watts 26 Author of "John Halijax, Gentleman " 29 Frederick Locker -Lampson 31 . Alfred Perceval Graves 32 Frederic E. Weatherly 35 George B. Sims 36 R. H. Barham 37 . Edwin Hamilton 45 . John W. Houghton 48 Thomas Hood 50 Frederick Lanqbridge 52 William Cox Bennett 54 J. B. Planche 5B . Saimiel K. Cowan 59 . Bret Harte 60 John Stuart Blackie 64 James Bussell Lowell 65 Charles Bruce Wade 67 . Charles L. Graves 68 Lewis Carroll 69 Hamilton Aide 72 . "Agrikler" 73 W. S. Gilbert 75 . Max Adder 78 B. H. Barham 82 Thomas Hood the Younger 83 Frederick Locker-Lampson 84 Henry S. Leigh 86 . Mortimer Collins 87 Aaron Watson 88 Walter Parke 91 . Oliver Wendell Holmes 92 CONTENTS. PAGE The Quarrel ....... Charles Mackay 94 An Uninvited Guest . . . . H. Cholmondelcy-Pennell 96 Judge Wyman Charles G. Leland 97 The Captain's CW Thomas Hood 100 Zoological Memories . . . . . J. Ashby-Sterry 104 The Demon of the Pit .... Frederick Langbridge 105 Gemini and Virgo . . . . . C. S. Calverley 109 The Height of the Ridiculous . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 112 "Dolly's Christening" ..... Eleanor Kirk 114 The City of Prague ..... W. Jeffery Prowse 115 A Tale of a Tiger's Head J. G. Watts 117 Comfort Through a Window .... Sarah M. B. Piatt 123 Here She Goes, and There She Goes . . . James Nack 124 The Masher Charles G. Leland 128 Aged Forty Edmund Yates 130 Morning Meditations ..... Thomas Hood 133 Not a Sous had he Got R.H.Barham 134 The Ghost-Player John Godfrey Saxe 136 The Quaker's Meeting Samuel Lover 138 The Lay of a Lord Mayor's Day . . William Alfred Gibbs 140 Getting Up ....... Henry S. Leigh 142 My Partner W. M. Praed 143 The Bumboat Woman's Story . . . . W. S. Gilbert 145 OTarrell the Fiddler .... Aljred Perceval Graves 148 The Tight Boots Godfrey Turner 151 Ballad of the Mermaid Charles G. Leland 153 Bits of Bunkum Esdaile Kingdon 155 Barney Brallaghan's Courtship .... Tom Hudson 156 Friar Claus's Panegyric on Wine . Henry Wadsworth Lrmgfellov) 158 The Town of Nice Herman C. Merivale 162 Loblolly Luke John W. Houghton 163 Next Morning H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 164 To my Housemaid ...... Henry S. Leigh 165 Mrs. Judge Jenkins ...... Bret Harte 166 My Familiar John Godfrey Saxe 168 The Legend of Manor Hall . The Author of " Headlong Hall" 170 A Traveller's Tale George R. Sims 174 By the Glad Sea Waves Walter Parke 175 The Demon and the Thief . . . Major Norton Powlett 176 The Widow and her Boy .... Henry S. Leigh 181 A Lay of St. Gengulphus . . . . R. H. Barham 183 The Stuttering Lass .... John Godjrey Saxe 193 The Willow-Tree W. M. Thackeray 194 The Willow-Tree (Another Version) . . . W.M.Thackeray 195 A Ballad of Skating Douglas Sladen 197 A Romance of Ramsgate . . . Charles 8. Cheltnam 198 The Bachelor's Return ..... A. P. Sinnett 203 The Whiting and the Snail .... Lewis Carroll 204 The Smuggler's Ghost . . . . . G. Manville Fenn 205 John Brown's Answer . J. R. Planche 208 CONTESTS. PAOE Poor Relations Mrs. Altdy 210 Rich Relations Mrs. Abdy 213 Loyal Effusion Horace Smith 216 The Misguided Lamb .... Frederic E. Weathcrly 218 The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 219 The Golden Age Dr. Faustus 221 An Awful Warning Henry 8. Leigh 223 The Twelfth of August Douglas Sladen 224 Culture in the Slums . . . . W. E. Henley 226 (,'ategorical Courtship ....... Anon. 228 A Connubial Eclogue .... John Godfrey Saxe 229 Its no Affair of Mine Henry 8. Leigh 231 Saying, not Meaning .... William Basil Wake 232 The Author's Ghost H. E. Clarke 234 Learning the Verbs W. Jeffery Prowse 238 The Bail-Room Belles "Fun" 240 The Art of Book-keeping .... Laman Blanchard 242 The Legend of Drachenfels Albert Smith 246 A Dream J. B. Planche 248 On Lending a Punch-Bowl . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 249 The Civilization of Tongataboo . . . Walter Parke 252 The Willows Bret Harte 255 The Doctor Thomas Hood 257 The American Traveller Robert H. Newell 259 The Oxford Student to his Mother Anon. 261 The Vicar W. M. Praed 263 The Whale . . . . . . James A. Sidey, M.D. 266 The Aged Stranger Bret Harte 268 The Belle of the Bali-Room W. M. Praed 269 Toujours Amour .... Edmund Clarence Stedman 272 Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist . Thomas Hood 273 The Lost Cord George If. Sims 275 An Eastern Question . . . . . . H. M. Paull 276 A Lay of a Cracked Fiddle . . . Frederick Langbridge 278 A Nursery Legend Henry 8. Leigh 281 Peg of Limavaddy W. M. Thackeray 282 The Confession ...... K. H. Barham 287 Seventy-Nine "....... Bret Harte 288 < )n an Old Muff .... Frederick Locker-Lampson 290 Old Grimes Albert G. Greene 292 My Partner John W. Houghton 294 The Positivists Mortimer Collins 295 How the King of Khurasan was Cured of the Rheumatism. Major Norton Powlett 296 The Devonshire Lane ..... John Marriott 305 The Country Squire ....... Grig 306 Homoeopathic Soup ....... Anon. 309 Shadows ....... " The Lantern" 310 A Faction Fight Samuel Lover 311 The Proud Miss Mac Bride . . . John Godfrey Saxe 313 xvi CONTENTS. John Trot ..... Ad Chloen, M.A Chloe, M.A., ad Amantem suum St. Smith of Utah . The Colubriad . . .*-.. Cooking and Courting Aspirations . Tipperary Tom .... That Proud Young Man Little Simplicity .... The Bellman and the Baker . Phil McKeown's Pig . Legend of Don Ditto and the Dutchmen The Theatre The Pious Editor's Creed Tea-Table Omens .... The Having The Stranger .... Too Hot Forty-Five Lady Mini Thomas Hood Mortimer Collins . Mortimer Collins Walter Parke William Cowper . Anon. George R. Sims George Dalziel . G. Manville Fenn Horace Lennard Lewis Carroll . John Smith, M.D. F. C. Burnand , James Smith James Russell Lowell John Norman Edwin Hamilton . James Smith . Somerville Gilmcy . H. Cholmondeley-Penndl . H. E. Clarke A True Ballad of St. Antidius, the Pope, and the Devil. Robert Southey A Drop of Gin Thomas Hood A Winter's Tale Herman C. Merivale The King and the Astrologer J. G. Watts In the Gloaming . . . . . C. S. Calverley Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt . . . John Godfrey Saxe A Knight of Misery Walter Parke Riding to the Fair ..... Alfred Perceval Graves The Weather in Verse ..... Vandyke Brown My Aunt's Spectre. ..... Mortimer Collins Attractions of a Fashionable Irish Watering-Place. Francis Mahony Quite by Chance ..... Frederick Langlrridge The Chaunt of the Brazen Head . . , . W. M. Praed Nothing to Wear William Allan Butler PAGE 321 324 325 326 330 332 333 335 336 339 340 344 349 342 352 355 356 359 361 361 363 364 357 369 370 376 377 381 382 384 385 386 388 389 392 POETS AT PLAYj OF ]H:UJV[OF(OU;3 VOL. I. THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN OLD MAN. IT was a balmeous day in May, when spring was springing high, And all amid the buttercups the bees did butterfly ; While the butterflies were being enraptured in the flowers, And winsome frogs were singing soft morals to the showers. Green were the emerald grasses which grew upon the plain, And green too were the verdant boughs which rippled in the rain, Far green likewise the apple hue which clad the distant hill, But at the station sat a man who looked far greener still. An ancient man, a boy-like man, a person mild and meek, A being who had little tongue, and nary bit of cheek. And while upon him pleasant-like I saw the ladies look, He sat a-counting money in a brownsome pocket-book. Then to him a policeman spoke, " Unless you feel too proud, You'd better stow away that cash while you're in this here crowd ; There's many a chap about this spot who'd clean you out like ten." " And can it be," exclaimed the man, "there are such wicked men ? " Then I will put my greenbacks up all in my pocket-book, And keep it buttoned very tight, and at the button look." He said it with a simple tone, and gave a simple smile, You never saw a half-grown shad one-half so void of guile. VOL T. A POETS AT PLAY: And the bumble-bees kept bumbling away among the flowers While distant frogs were frogging amid the summer showers, And the tree-toads were tree -toadying in accents sharp or flat, All nature seemed a-naturing as there the old man sat. Then up and down the platform promiscuous he strayed, Amid the waiting passengers he took his lemonade, A-making little kind remarks unto them all at sight, Until he met two travellers who looked cosmopolite. Now even as the old was green, this pair were darkly brown ; They seemed to be of that degree which sports about the town. Amid terrestrial mice, I ween, their destiny was Cat ; If ever men were gonoffs,* I should say these two were that. And they had watched that old man well with interested look. And gazed him counting greenbacks in that brownsome pocket- book ; And the elder softly warbled with benevolential phiz, " Green peas has come to market, and the veg'tables is riz." Yet still across the heavenly sky the clouds went clouding on, The rush upon the gliding brook kept rushing all alone, While the ducks upon the water were a-ducking just the samp, And every mortal human man kept on his little game. And the old man to the strangers very affable let slip How that zealousy policeman had given him the tip, And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim. And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him. In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped, And in that good man's confidence the younger party deeped. The p'liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage, " They're stuffin' of that duck, I guess, and leavin' out the sage." He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took, And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book, And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat, Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note. * Gonoff. A Scriptural term for a Member of the Legislature, or suchlike. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. And how they parted tenderly, and how the happy twain Went out into the Infinite by taking of the train ; Then up the blue policeman came, and said, " My ancient son, Now you have gone and did it ; say what you have been and done ? " And unto him the good old man replied with childish glee, " They were as nice a two young men as I did ever see ; But they were in such misery their story made me cry ; So I lent 'em twenty dollars which they'll pay me by-and-bye. " But as I had no twenty, we also did arrange, They got from me a fifty bill, and gimme thirty change ; But they will send that fifty back, and by to-morrer's train " " That note," out cried the constable, " you'll never see again ! " " And that," exclaimed the sweet old man, " I hope I never may, Because I do not care a cuss how far it keeps away ; For if I'm a judge of money, and I reether think I am, The one I shoved was never worth a continental dam. " They hev wandered with their sorrers into the sunny South, They hev got uncommon swallows and an extry lot of mouth. In the next train to the North'ard I expect to widely roam, And if any come inquirin', jist say I ain't at home." The p'liceman lifted up his glance unto the sunny skies, I s'pose the light was fervent, for & tear were in his eyes, And said, " If in your travels a hat store you should see, Just buy yourself a beaver tile and charge that tile to me." While the robins were a-robbing acrost the meadow gay, And the pigeons still a-pigeoning among the gleam of May, All out of doors kept out of doors as suchlike only can, A-singing of an endless hymn about that good old man. CHABLES G. LELAITD : Brand-New Ballads. POETS AT PLAY: THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. COME here, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me who " King David " was ? Now tell me if you can, sir. King David was a mighty man, And he was King of Spain, sir, His eldest daughter, " Jessie," was The " Flower of Dunblane," sir. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. " Sir Isaac Newton," who was he ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Sir Isaac Newton was the boy That climbed the apple tree, sir ; He then fell down and broke his crown, And lost his gravity, sir. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me who old " Marmion " was ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Old Marmion was a soldier bold, But he went all to pot, sir ; He was hanged upon the gallows-tree For killing Sir Walter Scott, sir. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me who " Sir Hob Hoy " was ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Sir Rob Eoy was a tailor to The King of the Cannibal Islands ; He spoiled a pair of breeches, and Was banished to the Highlands. H UMOR US RECITA TIONS. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Then " Bonaparte," who was he ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Old Bonaparte was King of France Before the Eevolution ; But he was kilt at Waterloo, Which ruined his constitution. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me who " King Jonah " was ? Now tell me if you can, sir. King Jonah was the strongest man That ever wore a crown, sir ; For though the whale did swallow him, It couldn't keep him down, sir. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me who that " Moses " was ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Sure Moses was the Christian name Of good King Pharaoh's daughter ; She was a milkmaid, and she took A profit from the water. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me now where " Dublin " is ? Now tell me if you can, sir. Och ! Dublin is a town in Cork, And built upon the Equator ; It's close to Mount Vesuvius, And watered by the " Cratur," You're right, my boy ; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, sir. Just tell me now where " London " is ? Now tell me if you can, sir. POETS AT PLAY: Och ! London is a town in Spain, 'Twas lost in the earthquake, sir ; The Cockneys murther the English there, Whenever they do spake, sir. You're right, my boy ; hould up your head r You're now a jintleman, sir; For in history and geography I've taught you all I can, sir. And if any one should ask you now Where you got all your knowledge, Just tell them 'twas from " Paddy Blake, Of Bally Blarney College." JAME& A. SIDEY_ M.D. : Histura Curiosa. KING CANUTE. KING CANUTE was weary -hearted ; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and rob- bing more ; And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. 'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, all the officers of state. Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws ; If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws. But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young : Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favourite glee- men sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue. HUMOROUS EECITATIONS. " Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal. " Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal ? " " Psha! " exclaimed the angry monarch. " Keeper, 'tis not that I feel. " 'Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair : Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care ? Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." Some one cried, " The King's arm-chair ! " Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him by two footmen able-bodied ; Languidly he sank into it : it was comfortably wadded. " Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, " over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered ! Where was glory like to mine ? " Loudly all the courtiers echoed : " Where is glory like to thine ? " " What avail me all my kingdoms ? Weary am I now and old ; Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me dead and cold ; Would I were, and quiet buried underneath the silent mould ! " Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent ! at my bosom tears and bites ; Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights ; Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights. " Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires ; Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires." " Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, " every one admires. " But for such unpleasant bygones cease, my gracious lord, to search, They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church ; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch. POETS AT PLAY: " Look ! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised ; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised : You, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed ! " " Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, " that my end is drawing near." . " Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear). " Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year." " Live these fifty years ! " the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. " Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute ? Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't. " Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they ? " " Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, " fervently I trust he may." " He to die ? " resumed the Bishop. " He a mortal like to us ? Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus : Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and cavil thus. ' ; With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet ; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet. " Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still ? So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will." " Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop ? " Canute cried ; " Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride ? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. " Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign ? " Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, " Land and sea, my lord, are thine." Canute turned toward the ocean " Back ! " he said, " thou foaming brine. " From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat ; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat : Ocean, be thou still ! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet ! " But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore ; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King and courtiers bore. And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey : And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone : Parasites exist alway. W. M. THACKERAY: Ballads. TRIBULATIONS OF A HAM SANDWICH. WHEN our lives are in the gloaming, and the night comes hither fast, Stern Mem'ry beckons back again the sunlight of the past. The task becomes a torture as we sadly reckon o'er The delights and the ambitions that are flown for evermore. The last of my companions disappeared this very morn ; He has left me to my solitude, neglected and forlorn. Alas ! my sole employment is to heave the bitter sigh, And recall my double birthplace in the cornfield and the stye. But away, fond recollections ! A distinguished Poet sings " That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is rememb'ring happier things." Why dwell on reminiscences that summon me so far, While pining ignominiously within this tavern bar ? A 5 10 POETS AT PLAY: I vainly seek from dawn to eve to tempt the outer world With coagulated mustard and a corner crisply curled. The most untutored epicure would spurn me where I lie, And the famine-stricken mendicant would coldly pass me by. Can aught retard the wing of Time ? Say, visionary wild, Canst look to feel in middle age the freshness of the child ? The cruel hand of Destiny no failing of my own Hath struck me down in sorrow here stale, crumpled and alone. Three days agone, or little more, my brief career began ! I then was topmost in the crowd, the leader of my clan. We braved the rivalry of beef of buns of bread and cheese ; We braved, to speak in metaphor, the battle and the breeze. That merry time is over : it was yet for me to learn All the horrors of an atmosphere that made my edges turn ; And the fumes of the tobacco, and the odours of the drink, And a hundred other miseries too deep for pen and ink. While ghostly waiters flitted on their duty to and fro, I courted public appetite where lunchers come and go ; But they deemed me all unfitted for their palates or their teeth, So they lifted me, and bore away a friend from underneath. And thus my life has crawled along till not a hope survives But that of being bolted by the boy who cleans the knives : I have my doubts about him he's a hungry-looking brat, But I hardly dare to fancy he would stoop so low as that ! I might be handed over to the kittens or the pup ; But my mustard is against me they would cock their noses up. I believe, if I were offered them for food this very day, That the dog would never touch me, while the cats would run away. HENEY S. LEIGH : A Town Garland. HUMOROUS BECITATIONS. 11 O'CONNOR'S WAKE. AN IRISH FIDDLE TUNE. To the wake of O'Connor What boy wouldn't go ? To do him that honour Went lofty and low. Two nights was the waking, Till day began breaking, And frolics past spaking, To please him, were done ; For himself in the middle, With stick and with fiddle, Stretch'd out at his ease, was the King of the Fun. With a dimity curtain overhead, And the corpse-lights shining round his bed, Holding his fiddle and stick, and drest Top to toe in his Sunday best, For all the world he seem'd to be Playing on his back to the companie. On each of his sides was the candle-light, On his legs the tobacco-pipes were piled ; Cleanly wash'd, in a shirt of white, His grey hair brush'd, his beard trimm'd right, He lay in the midst of his friends, and smiled. At birth and bedding, at fair and feast, Welcome as light or the smile of the priest, Ninety winters up and down O'Connor had fiddled in country and town. Never a fiddler was clever as he At dance or jig or pater-o'-pee ; The sound of his fiddle no words could paint 'Twould fright the devil or please a saint, Or bring the heart, with a single skirl, To the very mouth of a boy or girl. 12 POETS AT PLAY: He played and his elbow was never done ; He drank and his lips were never dry ; Ninety winters his life had run, But God's above, and we all must die. As she stretch'd him out quoth Judy O'Eoon " Sure life's like his music, and ended soon There's dancing and crying, There's kissing, there's sighing, There's smiling and sporting, There's wedding and courting, But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune ! " Shin suas, O'Connor"* Cried Kitty O'Bride Her best gown upon her, Tim Bourke by her side All laughed out to hear her, While Tim he crept near her To kiss her and cheer her At the back o' the door ; But the corpse in the middle, With stick and with fiddle, All done with diversion, would never play more ! On the threshold, as each man entered there, He knelt on his knee and said a prayer, But first, before he took his seat Among the company there that night, He lifted a pipe from O'Connor's feet, And lit it up by the bright corpse-light. Chattering there in the cloud of smoke, They waked him well with song and joke ; The gray old men and the cauliaghs f told Of all his doings in days of old ; The boys and girls till night was done, Played their frolics and took their fun, And many a kiss was stolen sure Under the window and behind the door. Andy Hagan and Kitty Delane Hid in a corner and courted there, " Monamondionl ! " cried old Tim Blane, Pointing them out, " they're a purty pair ! " * " Play up, O'Connor ! " t Old women. HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 13 But when they blushed and hung the head, " Troth, never be shamed ! " the old man said ; " Sure love's as short as the flowers in June, And life's like music, and ended soon There's wooing and wedding, There's birth and there's bedding, There's grief and there's pleasure To fill up the measure, But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune ! " At the wake of O'Connor Great matches were made, To do him more honour We joked and we played Two nights was the waking, Till day began breaking, The cabin was shaking Before we were done, And himself in the middle, With stick and with fiddle, As large as in life, was the King of the Fun ! " Well, I remember," said Tony Carduff, Drawing the pipe from his lips with a puff, " Well, I remember at Ballyslo', And troth and it's thirty years ago, In the midst of the fair there fell a fight, And who but O'Connor was in the middle ? Striking and crying with all his might, And with what for weapon ? the ould black fiddle ! That day would have ended its music straight If it hadn't been strong as an iron pot ; Tho' the blood was on it from many a pate, Troth, divil a bit of harm it got ! " Cried Michael na Chauliuy,* " And troth that's true Himself and the fiddle were matched by few. They went together thro' every weather, Full of diversion and tough as leather, I thought he'd never think of dying, But Jesus keep us ! there he's lying." * " Michael the Ferryman ; " lit. "belonging to the ferry." 14 POETS AT PLAY: Then the cauliaghs squatting round on the floor Began to keenagh * and sob full sore ; " God be good to the ould gossoon ! Sure life's like music, and ended soon. There's playing and plighting, There's frolic and fighting, There's singing and sighing, There's laughing and crying, But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune ! At the wake of O'Connor, The merry old man, To wail in his honour The cauliaghs began ; And Kose, DonnelPs daughter From over the water, Began (sure saints tauj The sweet drimindhu ; f All was still ; in the middle, With stick and with fiddle, O'Connor, stretched silent, seem'd hearkening too ! Oh, 'twas sweet as the crooning of fairies by night, Oh, 'twas sad, as you listened, you smiled in delight, With the tears in your eyes ; it was like a shower falling, When the rainbow shines thro' and the cuckoo is calling ; You might feel through it all, as the sweet notes were given, The peace of the Earth and the promise of Heaven ! In the midst of it all the sweet singer did stand, With a light on her hair, like the gleam of a hand ; She seemed like an angel to each girl and boy, But most to Tim Cregan, who watch'd her in joy, And when she had ended he led her away, And whisper 5 d his love till the dawning of day. After that, cried Pat Rooney, the rogue of a lad, " I'll sing something merry the last was too sad ! " And he struck up the song of the Piper of Clare, How the bags of his pipes were beginning to tear, And how, when the cracks threaten'd fairly to end them, He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them ! To cry, as during the coronach at a funeral. t A melancholy ditty. HUMOEOUS EECITATTONB. 15 How we laugh'd, young and old ! " Well, beat that if you can," Cried fat Tony Bourke, the potheen-making man " Who sings next ? " Tony cried, and at that who came in, Dancing this way and that way in midst of the din, But poor Shamus the Fool ? and he gave a great spring " By the cross, merry boys, 'tis mysilf that can sing ! " Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands, And he sang of the sea dnd the foam on the sands, Of the shining skiddawn* as it flies to and fro, Of the birds of the waves and their wings like the snow. Then he sunk his voice lower and sang with strange sound Of the caves down beneath and the beds of the drown'd, Till we wept for the boys who lie where the wave rolls, With no kinsmen to stretch them and w"ake their poor souls. When he ceased, Shamus looked at the corpse, and he said, " Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed ! " And at that the old cauliaghs began to croon : " Sure life's like his music, and ended as soon There's dancing and sporting, There's kissing and courting, There's grief and there's pleasure To fill up the measure, But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune." " A health to O'Connor ! " Fat Anthony said : " We'll drink in the honour Of him that is dead." A two-gallon cag, then, Did Anthony drag then From out his old bag then, While all there grew keen. 'Twas sweet, strong, and filling His own best distilling ; Oh, well had the dead man loved Tony's potheen ! f Then the fun brightened up ; but of all that befell It would take me a long day in summer to tell Of the dancing and singing, the leaping and sporting, And sweetest of all, the sly kissing and courting ! * Herring. t Whisky, illicitly distilled. 16 POETS AT PLAY: Two nights was the waking ; two long winter nights "O'Connor lay smiling in midst of the lights, In the cloud of the smoke like a cloud of the skies, The blessing upon him, to close his old eyes. Oh, when the time comes for myself to depart, May I die full of days like the merry old man ! I'll be willing to go with the peace on my heart, Contented and happy, since life's but a span ; And O may I have, when my lips cease to spake, To help my poor soul, such an elegant wake ! The country all there, friends and kinsmen and all, And myself in the middle, with candle and pall ! . . . Came the daw r n, and we put old O'Connor to rest, In his coffin of wood, with his hands on his breast, And we followetl him all by the hundred and more, The boys all in black, and his friends sighing sore. We left him in peace, the poor sleeping gossoon, Thinking, " Life's like his music, and ended too soon. There's laughing and sporting, There's kissing and courting, There's grief and there's pleasure To fill up the measure, But the wake and the grave are the end of the tune ! " " Good-bye to O'Connor," Cried Barnaby Blake, " May the saints do him honour For the ould fiddle's sake ! If the saints love sweet playing It's the thruth that I'm saying His sowl will be straying And fiddling an air ! He'll pass through their middle, With stick and with fiddle, And they'll give him the cead mile fealtd* up there ! ' ROBERT BUCHANAN : Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour. * " Hundred thousand welcomes." HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 17 A WHITE-PINE BALLAD. RECENTLY with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved, Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved ; But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine, Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine. Johnson's folly to be candid was a wild desire to treat Every able male white citizen he met upon the street ; And there being several thousand but this subject why pursue ? 'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do. No : not wild promiscuous treating, not the wine-cup's ruby flow, But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low. 'Twas a wild poetic fervour, and excess of sentiment, That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent. " Milton Perkins," said the Siren, " not thy wealth do I admire, But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire ; And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced, And, embrace me, Mister Perkins ! " Milton Perkins her em- braced. But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace. Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground ; And he murmured " Seraphina," and he kissed his hand, and smiled On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child. 18 POETS AT PLAY: Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign, Tn this tale of Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine, You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same ; And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim. BEET HAETE : Poetical Works. THE ROYAL WEDDING. (Vide The Times, March 14, 1879.) I'M a reporter, bound to do Keporter's duty; In language beautiful all through I sing of Beauty. And he who thinks these words of mine Something too many, Let him reflect for every line I get a penny. I sing of how the Red Prince took His pretty daughter, To marry her to Connaught's Dock Across the water. Oh, bright was Windsor's quaint old town. Decked out with bravery; And blessed Spring had ne'er a frown Or such-like knavery. The sea of legs before the gate And round the steeple, In short, the marvellously great Amount of people, Instead of treading upon toes And dresses tearing, Was (as a royal marriage goes), I thought, forbearing. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 19 The church-bells rang, the brass bands played, The place was quite full, Before the Quality had made The scene delightful. They came from Paddington by scores, 'Mid rustics ploughing, And women huddled at the doors, And infants bowing. While condescension on their part We quite expected, On ours, as usual, England's heart Was much affected. Whene'er we welcome Rank and Worth From foreign lands, it Becomes a wonder how on earth That organ stands it ! The Berkshire Volunteers in gray (Loyd Lindsay, Colonel), And the bold Rifles hold the way, With Captain Burnell. To guard St. George's brilliant nave, Believe me, no men Could properly themselves behave Except the yeomen. Spring dresses came "like daffodils Before the swallow," On ladies' pretty forms (with bills, Alas! to follow). Their beauty "took the winds of March (Which in my rhymes is A theft Shakesperean and arch : It is the Times' 's). 20 POETS AT PLAY: Sir Elvey played a solemn air; I sent a wish up; Four Bishops came to join the pair, And one Archbishop. Nine minor parsons after that To help them poured in; One strange-named man among them sate, The Rev. Tahourdin. But oh ! how this " prolific pen " Of mine must falter, "When I describe the noblemen Before the altar! There was the Lady Em'ly King- scote, like a tulip; The Maharajah Duleep Singh, And Mrs. Duleep. The gallant Teck might there be seen With sword and buckler, His Mary in a dark sage green, And Countess Puckler. Count Schlippenbach, the Ladies Schlie- fen and De Grunne, And other names that seem to me A little funny. Though from his years the child was warm, Prince Albert Victor Looked, in his naval uniform, A perfect pictur. The Marchioness of Salisbury I wondered at in Reseda velvet draped with my- osotis satin. Dark amethyst on jupes of poult Wore the Princesses; And ostrich feathers seemed to moult From half the dresses. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 21 Eeal diamonds were as thick as peas, And sham ones thicker Till, overcome, your special flees To ask for liquor! The show is o'er : by twos and twos I see them fleeting off, Lord Beaconsfield, the Daily News, And Major Vietinghoff. The happy couple lead the way, For life embarking; Then Captain Egerton and La- dy Adela Larking. Louisa Margaret! to thee Be grief a stranger, And may thy husband never be A Connaught Eanger. If in the blush of mutual hopes, And fond devotion, You're honeymooning on the slopes, I've not a notion. But this I feel, that for your true And honest passion, All sober folks wish well to you In manly fashion. While, for your chroniclers, I know, Kegnante V.R., From east to west 'twere hard to show Such men as we are! HERMAN C. MEEITALE : The White Pilgrim. 22 POETS AT PLAY: 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 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 cheque, 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 these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 23 " Girls will be girls you're very young, and nighty 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, oh ! 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 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 neighbourhood 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 was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Grood Bobber 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. 24 POETS AT PLAY: " 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. W. S. GILBEET : Fifty " Bab " Ballads. TEMPORA MUTANTUR, NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS. I ONCE believed those simple folk Who hold love a reality; And marriage not a social yoke Of mere conventionality. I thought the light of maidens' eyes, Their smiles and all the rest, Were not mere baits to catch rich flies And landed interest. I once believed (which only shows My most refreshing greenness) That breaking faith and breaking vows Came little short of meanness. I once believed that matrimony Was linking hearts and fates; And not transferring sums of money And joining large estates. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 25 I once imagined (in my youth) That not to keep a carriage Was no impediment forsooth To any happy marriage. I also fancied (but I own My verdure was delicious) That trampling young affections down Was positively vicious. I did not think the Greeks were right Before I worshipped Mammon Who, in declining marriage, write The accusative case The past ideas agree but ill With our enlightened present; The lesson must be learnt, but still The learning was not pleasant. Good qualities girls don't expect, Or bodily or mental ; You seldom find much intellect Go with a princely rental. True love is an exploded thing, Fit only for romances; Who ever heard of marrying A man without finances? In short I disbelieve them all, Those doctrines fundamental I learnt when I was very small, And very sentimental. J. H. GIBBS : The Quadrilateral. POETS AT PLAY: A LAY OF A CANNIBAL ISLAND. TWAS in the isle of Hubbubboo, Out in the Unpacific, The natives of a lively turn, Of doughty deeds prolific, Had lived in stolid ignorance For ages and for ages, Until at length their land was sought By one of England's sages. Strange folk! their fondness for a friend Was shown in ways unpleasant, And, oh, they loved their enemies As most men love a pheasant. Black-pudding was a favourite dish ; White-pudding most alluring; And any shipwrecked mariner Deemed worthy the sea-curing. One day, within a little bay, A little boat was stranded ; And then, forthwith, all clad in black, A little man was landed. The little boat put off again, When, with a limp advancing, The little one soon stared to see The natives round him dancing. Their dress was largely primitive, Bare skin the manufacture, A suit would last a man his life, And nature heal each fracture. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 27 The rude untutored savage bore A club, a spear, or chopper ; His ornaments were human teeth, With rings of burnished copper. The little man at once drew up, And thus addressed the meeting: " Ski-skibberenee, chug-a-wug ! " Which means, " A pleasant greeting ! " " Ski-skibberenee, chug-a-wug ! " Responded every caitiff, And blinked his eyes and licked his lips, And looked so like a native. "I've come to do you good, my friends," Went on the little party. Each spearman rubbed his stomach then, And looked so dreadful hearty. "The white man is the dark skin's friend,' Continued the speaker. His accents now were tremulous, His voice was growing weaker. " I love the white man as the dawn," Spoke forth one chieftain slender, " The white man, he is always good," Re-echoed round, " and tender." The small man saw a fire now made Wherein he was to enter, And though a High Church-man at heart, At once he turned Dissenter. " What are you going at, you scamps ? This body you devour, And not a soul of you will be Alive within the hour ! "You doubt me? Well, then, try a limb! He sought the glowing ember, Seized on a hatchet bash ! bash ! bash ! Off flew the limping member. 28 POETS AT PLAY: " There, cook you that ! " he cried, and tossed His leg upon the fire. Some oped their mouths, all oped their eyes, And some said they'd retire. He took a spear, reversed the limb, When one side was well toasted ; He browned it top and bottom, till At length it was well roasted. Then, to the gentry who remained He issued invitations. And from the limb, ' upon the spear, Prepared to serve their rations. " Has any one a favourite cut ? " He cried. "There, pray be seated." The favourite "cut" he quickly learned For one and all retreated! The leg went spinning after them, And smote a chieftain hoary, Who glanced behind, upon the nose, And left him grim and gory. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! that leg of cork Had cheated the unwary He was an artful little chap Was that old missionary. But, oh ! all confidence was gone, So Hubbubboo he quitted, To labour where he saw less chance Of being singed and spitted. J. G. WATTS : A Lay of a Cannibal Island. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 29 AN HONEST VALENTINE, Returned from the Dead-Letter Office. THANK ye for your kindness, Lady fair and wise, Though love's famed for blindness, Lovers hern ! for lies. Courtship's mighty pretty, Wedlock a sweet sight ; Should I (from the city, A plain man, Miss ) write, Ere we spouse-and-wive it, Just one honest line, Could you e'er forgive it, Pretty Valentine? Honey-moon quite over, If I less should scan You with eye of lover Than of mortal man ? Seeing my fair charmer Curl hair spire on spire, All in paper armor, By the parlor fire ; Gown that wants a stitch in Hid by apron fine, Scolding in her kitchen, O fie, Valentine! Should I come home surly Vexed with fortune's frown, Find a hurly-burly, House turned upside down, Servants all a-snarl, or Cleaning steps or stair : Breakfast still in parlor, Dinner anywhere : 30 POETS AT PLAY: Shall I to cold bacon Meekly fall and dine? No, or I'm mistaken Much, my Valentine. "What if we should quarrel ? Bless you, all folks do : Will you take the war ill Yet half like it too? When I storm and jangle, Obstinate, absurd, Will you sit and wrangle Just for the last word, Or, while poor Love, crying, Upon tiptoe stands, Ready plumed for flying, Will you smile, shake hands, And the truth beholding, With a kiss divine Stop my rough mouth's scolding ?- Bless you, Valentine ! If, should times grow harder, We have lack of pelf, Little in the larder, Less upon the shelf; Will you, never tearful, Make your old gowns do, Mend my stockings, cheerful, And pay visits few? Crave nor gift nor donor, Old days ne'er regret, Seek no friend save Honor, Dread no foe but Debt; Meet ill-fortune steady, Hand to hand with mine Like a gallant lady, Will you, Valentine? Then, whatever weather Come, or shine, or shade, We'll set out together, Not a whit afraid. HUMOBOU8 RECITATION*. Age is ne'er alarming, I shall find, I ween, You at sixty charming As at sweet sixteen : Let's pray, nothing loath, deir, That our funeral may Make one date serve both, dear, As our marriage day. Then, come joy or sorrow, Thou art mine, I thine. So we'll wed to-morrow, Dearest Valentine. Author of JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN : Thirty Years. MY FIRST-BORN. "HE shan't be their namesake, the rather That both are such opulent men : His name shall be that of his father, My Benjamin, shorten'd to Ben. "Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relatives' wills : I scorn such baptismal extortion (That creaking of boots must be Squills). " It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his Age will adorn ; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow, I wonder how soon he'll be born ! " A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below, 'twas a labour of love, And was calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above; Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone; That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own : 32 POETS AT PLAY: Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner Than paltry ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer! Invented and nursed by herself ; At breakfast, and dining, and teaing, An appetite nought can appease, And quite a Young-Reasoning-Being When call'd on to yawn and to sneeze. What cares a heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills ? Except for the name and the gender, She's almost as tranquil as Squills. That father, in reverie centred, Dumbfounder'd, his thoughts in a whirl, Heard Squills, as the creaking boots enter'd, Announce that his Boy was a Girl. FEEDERICK LOCKBE-LAMPSON : London L>/r. THE INVENTION OF WINE. As one day I was restin' Mount Mangerton's crest on, An ould hedge schoolmaster so larned and fine ; My comrade on the mountain, Began thus recounting In this poem so romantic, THE INVENTION OF WINE. Before Bacchus could talk Or dacently walk, Down Olympus he leaped from the arms of his nurse, But though three years in all Were consumed by the fall, He might have gone further and fared a deal worse : HUMOROUS EECITATIONS. 33 For he chanced, you must know, On a flower and fruit show, In some parish below, at the Autumn Assizes, Where Solon and Crossus, Who'd been hearin' the cases, By the people's consint were adjudgin' the prizes. "Fruit prize Number One There's no question upon We award it," they cried, in a breath, " to the divle ! By the powers of the delft On your Lowness's shelf, Who's this Skylarking Elf wid his manners uncivil ? " For, widout even a ticket, That deity wicked, Falling whack in their midst in a posture ungainly, Pucked the bunch of prize grapes Into all sorts of shapes, And made them two judges go on most profanely. " O, the deuce ! " shouted Solon, " He's not left a whole un ! " "It's the juice thin, indeed," echoed Croasus half-cryin'; For a squirt of that same, Like the scorch of a flame, Was playing it's game the ould Patriarch's eye in. Thin Solon said, " Tie him, At our pleasure we'll try him. Walk him off into qua'!, if he's able to stand it: If not, why thin get, sure, The loan of a stretcher, And convey him away do yez hear me command it ? " But Croesus, long life to you, Widout sorrow or strife to you, And a peaceable wife to you, that continted you'll die ! Just thin you'd the luck The forefinger to suck That you'd previously stuck wid despair in your eye. 34 POETS AT PLAY: 'No more that eye hurt you For the excellent virtue Of the necther you'd sipped cured its smarting at once, And you shouted to Solon, " Stop your polis patrollin,' Where's the sinse your ould poll in, you ignorant dunce ? Is it whip into quad A celestial god ? For I'll prove in a crack that the craythur's divine." " Look here ! have a sup," Some more juice he sopped up In a silver prize cup, and THEY FIRST TASTED WINE. Said Solon, "Be Japers, Put this in the papers, For this child wid his capers is divine widout doubt, Let's kneel down before him, And humbly adore him Then we'll mix a good jorum of the drink he's made out." Now the whole of this time That Spalpeen Sublime Was preparing his mind for a good coorse of howling, For you've noticed, no doubt, That the childer don't shout Till a minute or more on their heads they've been rowling " Milleah murther \ " at last, He shouted aghast, "My blood's flowing as fast as a fountain of wather; It'll soon be all spilt, And then I'll be kilt" Mistaking the juice of the grapes for his slaugthter. Thin, glancing around, He them gintlemen found Their lips to the ground most adoringly placed, Though I'm thinking the tipple, Continuin' to ripple, Bound that sacred young cripple, their devotion increased. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 35 "By Noah's Ark and the Flood, They're drinking my blood. O you black vagabones," shouted Bacchus, " take that ! ' Here wid infantile curses He up wid his thyrsus, And knocked the entire cavalcade of them flat. But soon to his joy That Celestial Boy, Comprehendin' the carnage that reddened the ground, Extending his pardon To all in the garden, Exclaimed wid a smile, as a crater he crowned, " My bould girls and boys, Be using your eyes, For you now recognise the god Bacchus in me. Come, what do you say To a slight dajoonay, Wid cowld punch and champagne, for I'm on for a spree ? : So, widout further pressing, Or the bother of dressing, Down to table they sat wid that haythen divine, And began celebrating, Wid the choicest of ating, And drinking like winking, The Invintion of Wine. ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES = Songs ofKillarney. THE USUAL WAY. THERE was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, " I'll go a-fishing in the neighbouring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met in the usual way. Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie ; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day ! " And he was in the usual way. 36 POETS AT PLAY: So lie gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out ; And he said, " Sweetheart, I love you ! " but she said she could not stay : But she did in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; " We must say good-bye," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did in the usual way. And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below ; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much in the usual way. And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo ? Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do ? Does he cherish her and love her ? Does she honour and obey ? Well they do in the usual way. TEBDEBIC E. WEATHEELY; Rhymes and Roses. A PLUMBER. AN EPISODE OF A RAPID THAW. THE dirty snow was thawing fast, As through the London streets there past A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice, Exclaimed, " I don't care what's the price A Plumber!" His brow looked mad, his eye beneath Was fixed and fierce he clenched his teeth. While here and there a bell he rung, But found not all the shops among A Plumber, HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 37 He saw his home, he saw the light Wall paper sopped- a gruesome sight. He saw his dining-room afloat, He cried, " I'll give a fi'pun note A Plumber!" "O stop the leakl" his wife had said; " The ceiling's cracking overhead. The roaring torrent's deep and wide " "I'll go and fetch," he had replied, "A Plumber," " Pa ain't at home," the maiden said, When to the plumber's house he sped. He searched through London, low and high, But nowhere could he catch or spy A Plumber. Next morn, a peeler on his round, A mud-bespattered trav'ller found, Who grasped the " Guide to Camden Town " With hand of ice the page turned down At " Plumbers." They brought a parson to his side, He gently murmured ere he died "My house has floated out to sea, I am not mad it's not d.t. : It's Plumbers." GEORGE R. SIMS : The Lifeboat, etc. NELL COOK. A LEGEND OF THE ' DARK ENTRY.' ' HARK ! listen Mrs. Ingoldsby, the clock is striking nine ! Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine, And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat, And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie about his throat. 38 POETS AT PLAY: ' And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed ; And well we know when little boys their coming home delay, They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day ! ' ' Now y nay, , dear Uncle Ingoldsby , now send me not, I pray, Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way ; I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite it's Friday night ! and then Nell Cook hath pow'r ! ' ' And, who's Nell Cook, thou silly child ? and what's Nell Cook to thee ? That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entree ? ' ' Nay, list and hear,, mine Uncle dear ! such fearsome things they tell Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell !' ' It was in bluff King Harry's days, and Monks and Friars were then, You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns y no shirts, and no cravats, And a cord was placed about their waist they had no shovel hats! ' It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift, And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope adrift ; There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk ; He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark ! ' The Canon was a portly man of Latin and of Greek, And learned lore, he had good store, yet health was on his cheek. The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye, The beer was weak, yet he was sleek he had a merry eye. ' For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin, The Canon's house it stood without; he kept good cheer within ; Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look, And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine. He called her " Nelly Cook." HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 39 ' For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was famous still; She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wondrous skill : 'Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely brown'd, Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the " Precinct " round ; ' And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, And earthward bent her modest look yet was she passing fair ; And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook : They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook. ' One day, twas on a Whitsun-Eve there came a coach and four ; It pass'd the " Green-Court " gate, and stopp'd before the Canon's door ; The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way, Each panting steed relax'd its speed out stept a Lady gay. ' " Now, welcome ! welcome ! dearest Niece," the Canon then did cry, And to his breast the Lady prest he had a merry eye, " Now, welcome ! welcome ! dearest Niece ! in sooth, thou'rt welcome here, 'Tis many a day since we have met how fares my Brother dear ? " ' " Now, thanks, my loving Uncle," that Lady gay replied : " Gramercy for thy benison ! " then " Out, alas ! " she sighed ; " My father dear he is not near ; he seeks the Spanish Main ; He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again ! " ' " Now, welcome ! welcome ; dearest Niece ; come lay thy mantle by ! " The Canon kissed her ruby lip he had a merry eye, But Nelly Cook askew did look, it came into her mind They were a little less than " kin," and rather more than "kind." 40 POETS AT PLAY: ' Three weeks are gone and over full three weeks and a day, Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady gay ; On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare, And they quaff good store of Bordeaux wine, so dainty is their fare. ' And fine upon the virginals is that gay Lady's touch, And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such ; But is it " Sanctissima ! " she sings in dulcet tones ? Or " Angels ever bright and fair ! " Ah, no ! it's " Bobbiw/ Joan ! " ' The Canon's house is lofty and spacious to the view ; The Canon's cell is ordered well yet Nelly looks askew ; The Lady's bower is in the tower, yet Nelly shakes her head She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed ! ' Six weeks were gone and over full six weeks and a day, Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay ! From which, I fear, it's pretty clear that Lady rest had none ; Or, if she slept in any bed it was not in her own. ' But where that Lady pass'd her nights, I may not well divine, Perhaps in pious oraisons at good St. Thomas' Shrine, And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true It may be so I cannot say but Nelly look'd askew. ' And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were lock'd in She'd listen at the Canon's door, she'd through the keyhole peep I know not what she heard or saw, but fury fill'd her eye She bought some nasty Doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a pie ! ' It was a glorious summer's-eve with beams of rosy red The Sun went down all Nature smiled but Nelly shook her head! Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell . Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell ! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 41 ' " Now here's to thee, mine Uncle ! a health I drink to thee ! Now pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoisie ! " The Canon sigh'd but, rousing, cried, " I answer to thy call, And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal ! " ' 'Tis early dawn the matin chime rings out for morning pray'r And Prior and Friar is in his stall the Canon is not there ! Nor in the small Refect'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he All wonder and the Sacristan says, " Lauk-a-daisy-me ! " ' They've search'd the aisles and Baptistry they've search'd above around The " Sermon House " the " Audit Room " the Canon is not found. They only find that pretty Cook concocting a ragout, They ask her where her master is but Nelly looks askew. ' They call for crow-bars "jemmies" is the modern name they bear They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar but what a sight is there ! The Canon's head lies on the bed his Niece lies on the floor ! They are as dead as any nail that is in any door ! ' The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back ! His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black ! The livid spot is on her cheek, it's on her neck of snow, And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, " Well here's a pretty Go ! " ' All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll, A knell is rung, a requiem's sung as for a sinful soul, And there's a grave within the Nave ; it's dark, and deep, and wide, And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side ! ' An Uncle so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred fane, And a Niece whose father's far away upon the Spanish The Sacristan, he says no word that indicates a doubt, But he puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his fingers out! B 5 42 POETS AT PLAY: 1 And where doth tarry Nelly Cook, that staid and comely lass ? Ay, where ? for ne'er from forth that door was Nelly known to pass. Her coif and gown of russet brown were lost unto the view, And if you mention'd Nelly's name the Monks all looked askew ! ' There is a heavy paving-stone fast by the Canon's door, Of granite gray, and it may weigh some half a ton or more, And it is laid deep in the shade within that Entry dark, Where sun or moon-beam never play'd, or e'en one starry spark. ' That heavy granite stone was moved that night, 'twas darkly said, And the mortar round its sides next morn seem'd fresh and newly laid ; But what within the narrow vault beneath that stone doth lie, Or if that there be vault, or no I cannot tell not I ! ' But I've been told that moan and groan, and fearful wail and shriek Came from beneath that paving-stone for nearly half a week For three long days and three long nights came forth those sounds of fear ; Then all was o'er they never more fell on the listening ear. ' A hundred years were gone and past since last Nell Cook was seen, When worn by use, that stone got loose, and they went and told the Dean. Says the Dean, says he, " My Masons three ! now haste and fix it tight ; " And the Masons three peep'd down to see, and they saw a fearsome sight. Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they found- It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet round ; A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well ! But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could not tell. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. ' And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie, And a mouldy piece of " kissing crust," as from a Warden-pie ! And Doctor Jones declared the bones were female bones and " Zooks ! I should not be surprised," said he, " if these were Nelly Cook's ! " ' It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember right, Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons brought to light ; And you may well in the " Dean's Chapelle " Dean Bargrave's portrait view, " Who died one night," says old Tom Wright, " in sixteen forty-two ! " ' And so two hundred years have passed since that these Masons three, AVith curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit free ; That granite stone had kept her down till then so some suppose, Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumb unto their nose. ' But one thing's clear that all the year, on every Friday night, Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet Sprite : On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried ; On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side ! ' And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook doth still pursue Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may rue; Her fatal breath is fell as death.! the Simoom's blast is not More dire (a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot). ' But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold, Delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and old, And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal breath, He ever dies within the year some dire, untimely death ! 44 POETS AT PLAY: No matter who no matter what condition, age, or sex, But some "get shot," and some "get drown'd," and " get " broken necks ; Some " get run over " by a coach ; and one beyond the s "Got" scraped to death with oyster-shells among the Carib- bees! ' Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first ! it is averred That two were hang'd on Tyburn tree for murdering of the third : Charles Storey,* too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they tell," Been gibbeted on Chatham Downs, had they not met with Nell! ' Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh ! send me not I pny, Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some other way ! I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book, For Heaven forfend that ever I foregather with Nell Cook !' The class was call'd at morning tide, and Master Tom was there ; He look'd askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and chair. He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye, He had not e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry. Hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out to dine, They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine ; For if when they've their great-coat on, they pause before they part To tell a long and prosy tale, perchance their own may smart ! * In or about the year 1780, a worthy of this name cut the throat of a journeyman paper-maker, was executed on Oaten Hill, and afterwards hung in chains near the scene of his crime. It was to this place, as being the extreme boundary of the City s jurisdiction, that the worthy Mayor with so much naivete wished to escort Archbishop M *** on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honour of attending his Grace as far as the gallows. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 45 A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in town Don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet brown ! Don't let your Niece sing " Bobbing Joan ! " don't, with a merry eye, Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie, and don't eat too much pie ! ! And oh ! beware that Entry dark, especially at night, And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moon- light ! So bless the Queen and her Koyal Weans, and the Prince whose hand she took, And bless us all, both great and small, and keep us from Nell Cook! E. H. BARHAM: Ingoldsby Legends. THE CHIMPANZOR AND THE CHIMPANZEE. ONE Balaam Vermicelli Lepidoptera FitzApe (Zoological Professor in a College at the Cape), As a competent authority is quoted even now, As the Royal Zoological Society allow. Without ever introducing any element of chance, He could tell an armadillo from a spider at a glance ; A beetle from a buffalo, a lobster from a leech, And he knew the scientific terminology for each. And he hesitated rarely to pronounce upon the spot Whether any given object was an animal or not; He was clever at comparative anatomy he knew The aurora borealis from the common cockatoo. He studied perseveringly, and had, so people said, For a work on entomology material in his head ; But he left it there to germinate, and hopefully began To investigate the question of the origin of man. 46 POETS AT PLAY: Humanity descended, as he confidently showed, From the ape, the sloth, the otter, the chameleon, and the toad ; And the latter from a tadpole, which was only head and tail, And whose parents were respectively a minnow and a snail. Those who noted his appearance were contented to agree That such, for anything they knew, was his ancestral tree ; His claim to such progenitors they scrupled to condemn, But the Adam and the Eve descent was good enough for them. He said, " The use of weapons is depriving man of nails ; For, the element of artificiality prevails. The nails of men no longer claws grow softer every day : And even those of women have a tendency that way. " Abnormally hirsute myself, I think it only fair To publish the humiliating theory that hair Is a remnant of the monkey as the ' mannikin ' is called ; And men of real intellect are generally bald." He started for the central parts of Africa, and he Found the hairier inhabitants the further from the sea, Till, finally he came upon a most undoubted ape, Which resembled him remarkably in feature and in shape. It possessed the human instincts in a marvellous degree ; It could readily distinguish between alcohol and tea, And developed such a fancy for the former of the two, That it followed him to Capetown, where he put it in the Zoo. He delivered then a lecture to the savants of the place, And they said it served to illustrate his theory of race. He dressed it up in clothes of his, which seemed to make it proud, And it smoked, and drank, and chattered, and attracted quite a crowd. The two were seldom separate the Doctor and his prize And the latter soon was looking preternaturally wise ; For the sake of wearing glasses, it had feigned its sight was dim ; For, in everything conceivable it imitated him. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 47 " Observe this cultured creature," said FitzApe, " and, if you can, Discriminate at sight between the monkey and the man." But as they looked from it to him, and then from him to it, They declared themselves unable to discriminate a bit. " I now shall bring it home," he said, " to stay with me a week ; And, before that time is over, I'll have taught it how to speak. I've had a cage constructed in my study, though indeed For such coercive measures there's no longer any need." The Professor and his protege were sitting, after tea, Enjoying some Havannahs and liqueurs of eau de vie, When, the animal was seized with such ungovernable rage That the man suspected violence, and got into the cage. But, further disconcerting the distinguished refugee, The monkey calmly locked the cage and pocketed the key ; It took the flask of brandy and a bundle of cigars, And scornfully regarded the Professor through the bars. It seized its patron's hat and cane, umbrellas, overcoats, A purse or two of sovereigns, a roll or so of notes ; Then consulting the barometer a mackintosh or two, And, bowing to him more or less respectfully, withdrew. His friends next morning found him in a pitiable plight ; He said, " Pray let me out of this, I've been locked up all night. That most inhuman monkey has incarcerated me : Run after him, and force him to deliver up the key." Then one of them remarked : " I heard our good Professor tell That a monkey might articulate, and this one does it well." Another said, " FitzApe is gone to travel north again, I met him muffled up last night, and making for the train." In vain the Doctor pleaded ; it was all of no avail. He said, " The real monkey had a little bit of tail." But " No," they said, " your friend has gone to bring you home a mate, And, pending his arrival, you will only have to wait." 48 POETS AT PLAY MORAL. Tn starting a menagerie, you safely may assume That a cage is less commodious than an ordinary room. So, harbour no phenomenon too like yourself in shape, Like Balaam Vermicelli Lepidoptera FitzApe. EDWIN HAMILTON : The Moderate Man ("Ward & Downey) . THE TRAVELLING TRAIN. WE'VE a furious hate for the travelling train, However we try to disguise it, Express, Parliamentary, Local or Main, We fiercely anathematise it ; When, horribly roaring, it lets off the steam, We swear at it groan at it hiss it, Whenever it whistles, we savagely scream, And don't we get mad if we miss it ! It's a terrible thing, is the travelling train ! While ever you're in it, it's busy In bumping and banging you, body and brain, Till you're aching, exhausted, and dizzy ; With a rattle and jangle and jolting and jar It speeds on its way to elicit The words that are better unuttered by far And make us half mad if we miss it ! We travel first-class and there fall on us pat The parties who come through the wickets, To ride in superior classes to that For which they have taken their tickets ; They talk in a loud, ungrammatical strain, And gambol and cuddle and " kiss it," It's a terrible thing, is the travelling train, And don't we get mad if we miss it 1 HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 49 The " seconds " have babies a-bawling, and boys, Who roll in in boisterous batches, And squirm on the floor with ingenious noise, And wrestle in hobnaily matches ; They hang through the windows and shout to their friends, And change at each stop, with " Is this it ? " Till they come to the point where their journeying ends, And don't we feel glad if they miss it ! We fly to the " third " and discover oh, dear ! They pack us like fish in a barrel ; We faint with the smell of bad " baccy " and beer, And rather high-flavoured apparel ; Then we say all that's bad of the travelling train, And consign to the lowest abyss it, And swear that we never will use it again, And get very mad if we miss it ! It's a hideous thing, is the travelling train, And it hasn't the slightest compunction In luring us on, till we have to remain Half-a-day at some desolate j unction ; Then it dawdles and crawls till, with rage, we could bite, Then it does the reverse videlicet It dashes along till we're fainting with fright, And don't we get mad if we miss it ! If we're late on the scene (through indulging in sleep) That train will have gone, to our sorrow, But if we're " all there," with appointments to keep, It never arrives till to-morrow. It looses our luggage, or leaves it behind, Though labels be clear and explicit, Or smashes our box and unhinges our mind, And makes us that mad if we miss it ! Its foot-warmers never are ready to hand Or their warmth will defy our detection We've always to change from its carriages, and We're certain to miss the connection. 50 POETS AT PLAY: It's full of the sharper expert with the card, Of thieves who assistance solicit, And ladies who suddenly scream for the guard And don't we get mad when we miss it ! It takes us and smashes us all into bits, And maims us or gives us the rickets, Its murders and robberies scare us to fits, And they're always demanding our tickets ! It harasses, worries, and shortens our days, And never makes up the deficit, It tortures and goads us in hundreds of ways, And it drives us quite mad if we miss it. JOHN W. HOUGHTON .- Hood's Comic Annual, 1888. FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH. " Aurum potabile: ""Gold biles the pot." FREE TRANSLATION. FAREWELL then, my golden repeater, We're come to my Uncle's old shop; And hunger won't be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop ! To quit thee, my comrade diurnal, My feelings will certainly scotch; But oh ! there's a riot internal, And Famine calls out for the Watch ! Oh! hunger's a terrible trial, I really must have a relief, So here goes the plate of your dial To fetch me some Williams's beef! As famish'd as any lost seaman, I've fasted for many a dawn, And now must play chess with the Demon And give it a check with a pawn HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. I've fasted, since dining at Buncle's, Two days with true Perceval zeal And now must make up at my Uncle's, By getting a duplicate meal. No Peachum it is, or young Lockit, That rifles my fob with a snatch ; Alas ! I must pick my own pocket, And make gravy-soup of my watch ! So long I have wander'd a starver, I'm getting as keen as a hawk; Time's long hand must take up a carver, His short hand lay hold of a fork. Eight heavy and sad the event is, But oh ! it is Poverty's crime ; I've been such a Brownrigg's Apprentice, I thus must be " out of my Time." Alas ! when in Brook Street the Upper, In comfort I lived between walls, I've gone to a dance for my supper; And now I must go to Three Balls! Folks talk about dressing for dinner, But I have for dinner undrest; Since Christmas, as I am a sinner, I've eaten a suit of my best. I haven't a rag or a mummock To fetch me a chop or a steak; I wish that the coats of my stomach Were such as my Uncle would take! When dishes were ready with garnish My watch used to warn with a chime But now my repeater must furnish The dinner in lieu of the time ! My craving will have no denials, I can't fob it off, if you stay, So go, and the old Seven Dials Must tell me the time of the day. POETS AT PLAY: Your chimes I shall never more hear 'em, To part is a Tic Douloureux ! But Tempus has his edax rerum, And I have my Feeding-Time too ! Farewell then, my golden repeater, We're come to my Uncle's old shop And Hunger won't be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop! THOMAS HOOD: Poetical Works. CARRYING OUT INSTRUCTIONS. A REAL INCIDENT. His name wears faint upon the stone, The grass grows rank above him, And Dick and I remain alone Of all who used to love him. Yet memory keeps and always will Among its hoarded riches My Uncle's shining face, his frill, His broadbrim and his breeches. Dear Uncle Ben ! how oft he'd rush, With flying tails, bare-headed The quivering fork within the gush Of stuffing left imbedded And burst amid the carters' smocks, And stay the lash from whipping, And having threatened gaol and stocks Conclude with general tipping! And oh! that day when every eye Was fixed in fascination, As arm-in-arm two forms went by With lurch and wild gyration. One toper here was nothing new Was Peter Cripps, the baker; But t'other- did one's eyes speak true? Dear heart! it was the Quaker! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 53 He'd tell the tale a hundred times, With sudden cracks of laughter That made his seals ring little chimes For full a minute after. And John, the man, must neads exclaim, As solemn as a statue, "Escortin' drunkards' 'ome ! for shame! Lor', Sir, I wonder at you ! " Good John had come to Uncle Ben A raw-boned lad ungainly, And made small scruple now and then To speak his counsel plainly. The mention of those early days Recalls a queer disaster, The outcome of a formal phrase Of John's old-fashioned master. Said Uncle, "John, if gentry call, Be sure thou doest rightly ; Thou'lt carry them across the hall, And seat them here politely. And then when thou hast raised the blind, And, may be, drawn the curtain Thou'lt bring their cards in: dost thou mind? Said John, "I do for certain." My Uncle dined at two o'clock; Dessert was on the table, When rat-tat-tat a mighty knock Brought footsteps from the stable. " I hope," said Uncle, " John is neat ; It's early yet for calling " He stopped, and bounded in his seat; "Why, bless us! What's this brawling?" He pulled the door ajar in haste, And there stood John the giant, His arms around the Parson's waist, Who fought and yelled, defiant. " It ain't no use to carry on, And make these blessed ructions ; He bid me carry you," said John, " And I'll obey instructions." 54 POETS AT PLAY: And there the while my Uncle gazed, A paralysed beholder The wriggling, red divine he raised, And flung him o'er his shoulder. He slammed him in an elbow-chair; Then, standing at Attention, Enquired, with grave and stolid air, "What name, sir, shall I mention?" The outraged parson stamped away, Rejecting explanation, And Uncle Ben thenceforward lay 'Neath excommunication. And when the tale was told anon, With chuckled interjections, " It wasn't my mistake," said John ; " I carried out directions." FREDERICK LAXGBRIDGE : Good Words. THE DEVELOPED.-A LAMENT. IAGO : " I would change my humanity with a baboon." OH, why was I developed why ? What bothers I'd escape. If I had my ancestral tail and lived a careless ape ! Excelsior is very well, but higher may be worse ; Whoever heard a monkey gent his hapless fortune curse ? The ills our flesh is heir to, into monkeydom can't win ; Of ruin if we talked to apes, their apeships all would grin. No ups and downs can hap to them that make us fume and fuss ; Nature invented tears and signs, and groans and growls, for us. A curly tail could I display, what woes I'd then escape ; Oh, why was 1 developed and not left a careless ape ? Imprimis, now, a man is born to shiver without clothes, Not furred in a close-fitting suit that nought of tailors knows ; Of my thatchings that's our Carlyle's phrase I know too well the cost ; If Nature now had been my Poole, what dunnings I had lost ! Then in my human infancy how I'd to bawl and squall At towels, soap, and scrubbings monkeys never know at all. HUMOROUS BECITATIONS. And later on, while simious boys had but to play the fool, How I was bored with the three R's and scurried off to school ! Oh, happy monkey youngsters, what wiggings you escape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a careless ape ? To be born in such a clime as this no ape would condescend ; If our tailed relations do come here, their grumblings know no end. Nature made for apes the tropics, with sunshine always on, Such real good torrid blazing as never on us shone. From Eden we were chased away no chance of a recall ; Still monkeys live in paradise, unbored with any Fall. No curse of Adam or of Cain affrights them night or day : They breathe to sleep or sun themselves, to wed and munch and play. All thoughts of familes too large our hairy friends escape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a careless ape ? "With nuts provided for them, they've not a care, because Their only toil is pleasantly to work at times their jaws ; No bills nor botherations their jolly days perplex! No Bank accounts with balances too low, their musings vex. Their cloudless years slide by them nor wrinkle any face ; They know no vain ambitions, they never dread disgrace ; Nor Past nor Future scares them, they neither know as we ; The Present is enough for them, the happiness to be ; They're never bored for rent or rates, no ennui makes them gape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a careless ape ? They nothing know of vices and sermons, thus blest twice, And all their days are Sundays, not parsons' ones, but nice ; They don't want big-sleeved bishops or any cure of souls ; They do just all they like, nor dread to be called o'er the coals ; They have no laws or judges, gaols, or courts, or wig-wise Bar. Why should they ? They've no crimes at all they don't know what they are. For such a thing as wrong or right they have no monkey word, And if you spoke to them of sins, they'd hold you quite absurd. From all our worry for our souls, our hairy friends escape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a careless ape ? 56 POETS AT PLAY: They make no ultra-slaughtering guns, or anything that slays ! They they kill other monkeys, and for that to God give praise ? For them no rifle rattles, for them no cannon roars ; They are not men and Christians, and so they have no wars. They leave to men and aldermen to guzzle, gorge, and stuff, They're not such brutes as we are to take more than just enough ; Their only drink is water pure, and that but when they thirst, They leave to us the manishness to choose of drinks the worst. They drunk ? No, no ; they are not men, and so that slough they 'scape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a sober ape ? As they've no need for cash at all, they never thirst for pelf ; They have no need of being ruled each monkey rules himself ; They've not a simious Gladstone to lead a string of tails, A hairy Disraeli to prove how Gladstone fails ; They would'nt have the suffrage, either aged ape or young ; Elections, Members, Commons, Lords, are not words in their tongue ; There is no monkey Upper Ten, no monkey King or Court ; There's neither want, nor work, nor fuss in monkeyland ; in short, From their first breaths until their last, our ills they quite escape ; Oh, why was I developed and not left a careless ape ? WILLIAM Cox BENNETT : The Lark. THE STORY OF ARIADNE. A NEW PER-VERSION. THREE or four thousand years ago, as may be roughly reckoned King Minos ruled the isle of Crete, of that great name the second. Minos the first, for wisdom famed, his grandfather, you know Was dead, and Lord Chief Justice in well, in the courts below. The second Minos wasn't quite as wise as was the first But there is no dispute about his being much the worst And on such terms he forced the poor Athenians to treat The major part full often wished that he was Minus Crete HUMOROUS EECITATIONS. 57 In his garden was a labyrinth, according to report, Much more intricate than the one you'll find at Hampton Court ; Of its construction Daedalus has always had the credit, And dead, alas ! were speedily all who essayed to thread it. For a most fearful monster was therein incarcerated, Who to his Cretan majesty was distantly related. If we may trust the poets, he was called the Minotaur, And, half a bull and half a man, was quite an awful bore : At least to the Athenians, for cruel Minos drove 'em To pay a yearly tribute to this " semi virumque bovem ; " Seven fine young men, seven sweet young maids with rage it used to fire 'em Consigned per annum to the jaws of this " semi bovemque But as it chanced, among the batch of bachelors one year, A youth of royal parentage came out a volunteer Prince Theseus, who swore by all the Gods Olympian That he would be an eaten-boy or slay that oxen-man. Now Minos had a daughter, young, beautiful, romantic, Who for this handsome foreigner conceived a passion frantic ; At the first sight of him she felt she couldn't live without him, Because, excepting his good looks, she nothing knew about him. She instantly decided from the monster-man to save him A wondrous clue to guide him through the labyrinth she gave him ; And in return he pledged to her his royal word of honour He'd marry her and settle all he had on earth upon her. This portion of our ox- tale we propose quite short to cut ; Suffice it the young fellow cracked the ox-man's occiput, Then, by the clue escaping through its thousand winding ways, Left no one in the labyrinth, but all folks in a-maze. The happy pair to Naxos sped to pass their honey moon, But when it came to forking-out, the bridegroom ceased to spoon ; And early one fine morning, I'm quite ashamed to say, He left poor Ariadne with the tavern-bill to pay. 58 POETS AT PLAY: Remember this was in an age when such affairs were common ; No one in any rank of life now so deserts a woman. Even the monstrous Minotaur deny it those who can Was less a brute than Theseus, and more a gentleman. She beat her breast, she tore her hair, which she'd a right to do, For it was all her own, except, perhaps, a lock or two ; And would have died (herself, not hair), if Bacchus, half -seas o'er, Hadn't stopped to bait his tigers at the very tavern door. " Fair one ! " he hiccupped, " though 'tis but the first time that you've seen us, Of course you know the saying, ' Sine Baccho friget Venus.' Come, dry your eyes; I whining hate, though god of wine I am; And I'll drown your real pain, my dear, in bumpers of my charn." The jokes were old ! but still they told, as old jokes often do, Especially on those who're but accustomed to the new. She dried her eyes, accepted his too tempting invitation, And took, as many since have done, to drink for consolation. What finally became of her is not so very clear ; Some say she hanged herself when in a maudlin state of beer ; Others, that she reformed, became a model of sobriety, And actually founded the first Temperance Society. Whatever may have been the fact, which thus remains in mystery, Young ladies all, take warning from this most veracious history ; By handsome foreign strangers if you wouldn't be decoyed, it Is plain you shouldn't fall in love, unless you can't avoid it. J. R. PLAifcnfi : Songs and Poems. HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. THE VOYAGE. WE hired a ship : we heaved a shout : We turned her head toward the sea: We laughed, and sculled, and bailed her out : We screamed, and whistled loud for glee. We laughed : we screamed : we sculled : we san< Beneath the merry stars of June : Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang: We meant to sail into the moon ! Far-off a boatman hailed us high : "My boat is named 'The Bonnie Bess:' Old Jack will charge you more than I, For I will charge you sixpence less : My boat is strong, and swift, and taut, But Jack's she is not worth a cuss ' : We held his terms in scorn, for what Was sixpence, or a bob, to us? We banged, we bailed; we sculled: we screamed The water gained upon us fast : We lookt upon the moon : she seemed As far as when we saw her last : We lookt : we did not mind a blow : We did not care a button, we : We knew the good ship could not go Beyond the bottom of the sea. But one at best he was a lout: The same, we guess, was short of chink Exclaimed in terror : " Let me out : I am quite sure the ship will sink. The leak is quickly gaining height: 'Twill soon be half- way up the mast : " And thro' the hatch, that starry night, We let him out, and on we past! 60 POETS AT PLAY. Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt, And jet-back coal-boats, stoled in state : And slender shallops, silvern-tipt, And other craft, both small and great. But we nor changed to skiff or barge, Or slender shallop, silvern-peakt ; We knew no vessel, small or large, Was built by mortal hands, but leakt ! Beyond the blank horizon burned : The moon had slid below the main : About the bows we sharply turned, And sculled the good ship home again. Before us gleamed the hazy dawn : We sculled, but ere we shockt the lea, Or paid old Jack, the ship had gone Down to the bottom of the sea. Above the wreck the sad sea breaks, And many a pitying moonlight streams, And o'er the yeasty waterflakes The snow-white sea-gull, sliding, screams. If any goods be washed ashore, Or cash if any cash be found To us, and not to Jack, restore; But then, you cannot : we were drowned. SAMUEL K. COWAN: Laurel Leaves. THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE. A Legend of the Cliff Souse, San Francisco. Where the sturdy ocean breeze Drives the spray of roaring seas That the Cliff-House balconies Overlook : There, in spite of rain that balked, With his sandals duly chalked, Once upon a tight-rope walked Mr. Cooke. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 61 But the jester's lightsome mien, And his spangles and his sheen, All had vanished, when the scene He forsook; Yet in some delusive hope, In some vague desire to cope, One still came to view the rope Walked by Cooke. Amid Beauty's bright array, On that strange eventful day, Partly hidden from the spray, In a nook, Stood Florinda Vere de Vere; Who with wind-dishevelled hair, And a rapt, distracted air, Gazed on Cooke. Then she turned, and quickly cried To her lover at her side, While her form with love and pride Wildly shook, " Clifford Snook ! oh, hear me now ! Here I break each plighted vow: There's but one to whom I bow, And that's Cooke! Haughtily that young man spoke: " I descend from noble folk. ' Seven Oaks,' and then ' Se'nnoak,' Lastly Snook, Is the way my name I trace : Shall a youth of noble race In affairs of love give place To a Cooke?" " Clifford Snook, I know thy claim To that lineage and name, And I think I've read the same In Home Tooke; But I swear, by all divine, Never, never to be thine, Till thou canst upon yon line Walk like Cooke." 62 POETS AT PLAY: Though to that gymnastic feat He no closer might compete Than to strike a balance-sheet In a book; Yet thenceforward, from that day, He his figure would display In some wild athletic way, After Cooke. On some household eminence, On a clothes-line or a fence, Over ditches, drains, and thence O'er a brook, He, by high ambition led, Ever walked and balanced ; Till the people, wondering, said, "How like Cooke!" Step by step did he proceed, Nerved by valour, not by greed, And at last the crowning deed Undertook : Misty was the midnight air, And the cliff was bleak and bare, When he came to do and dare Just like Cooke. Through the darkness, o'er the flow, Stretched the line where he should go Straight across, as flies the crow Or the rook : One wild glance around he cast; Then he faced the ocean blast, And he strode the cable last Touched by Cooke. Vainly roared the angry seas; Vainly blew the ocean breeze : But, alas! the walker's knees Had a crook ; And before he reached the rock' Did they both together knock, And he stumbled with a shock Unlike Cooke! HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 63 Downward dropping in the dark, Like an arrow to its mark, Or a fish-pole when a shark Bites the hook, Dropped the pole he could not save, Dropped the walker, and the wave Swift ingulfed the rival brave Of J. Cooke ! Came a roar across the sea Of sea-lions in their glee, In a tongue remarkably Like Chinnook ; And the maddened sea-gull seemed Still to utter, as he screamed, " Perish thus the wretch who deemed Himself Cooke!" But, on misty moonlit nights, Comes a skeleton in tights, Walks once more the giddy heights He mistook; And unseen to mortal eyes, Purged of grosser earthly ties, Now at last in spirit guise Outdoes Cooke. Still the sturdy ocean breeze Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, Where the Cliff-House balconies Overlook ; And the maidens in their prime, Reading of this mournful rhyme, Weep where, in the olden time, Walked J. Cooke. BEET HAKTE : Poetical Worlcs. 64 POETS AT PLAY: THE SONG OF MRS. JENNY GEDDES. (TuxE British Grenadiers.) SOME praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles ; But o'er all the world's brave women, there's one that bears the rule, The valiant Jenny Geddes, that flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow at them now! Jenny fling the stool! 'Twas the twenty -third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven, On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles' the solemn peal was given: King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule ; He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool. With a row-dow yes, I trow! there's danger in a stool! The Council and the Judges, with ermined pomp elate, The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state, Fair silken-vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school, "Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool. With a row-dow yes, I trow! there's virtue in a stool! The Bishop and the Dean came in wi' mickle gravity, Eight smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e'e ; Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool; They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool. With a row-dow yes, I trow! they'll feel a four-legged stool ! The Dean he to the altar went, and, with a solemn look, He cast his eyes to heaven, and read the curious-printed book : In Jenny's heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full ; Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool ! With a row-dow at them now ! firmly grasp the stool ! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 65 As when a mountain wild-cat springs on a rabbit small, So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall ; Wilt thou say the mass at my lug, thou Popish-puling fool ? No ! no ! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow at them now ! Jenny fling the stool! A bump, a thump ! a smash, a crash ! now gentle folks beware ! Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air, With, Well done, Jenny ! bravo, Jenny ! that's the proper tool ! When the Deil will out, and shows his snout, just meet him with a stool ! With a row-dow at them now ! there's nothing like a stool ! The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear, The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear, The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool, And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool ! With a row-dow at them now ! Jenny show the stool ! And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny's valiant hand Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land ; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a meddling fool, But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool ! With a row-dow yes, I trow ! she conquered by the stool ! JOHN STUAB* BLACKIE : Lyrical Poem*. WITHOUT AND WITHIN. MY coachman, in the moonlight there Looks through the side-light of the door, I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do, but only more. Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot. VOL. i. c 66 POETS AT PLAY: He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin. I envy him the ungyved prance By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms. O, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet! past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL : Poetical V'ork*. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 07 SHY AND SIMPLE. As I comes out by Thompson's rick, And steps across the clover, If e'er a chap had heaved a brick He might have knocked me over. For all at wanst my glance saloots A wench without a hekle; With eyes like maister's Sunday boots, And shape like duff and treacle. I steps aside to let her by She was a beauty, rayther ! Says she, " If you goes follerin' I, Young man, I'll tell my feyther." She spoke that cross, you might ha' thought I'd been and gone and smacked her; Says I, "I beant a-doing nought, And bears a high cha-rak-ter." I turns, and swings my arms like fun, And then commences humming, To show I warn't the lad to run Until I seed him coming. I'd took a dozen strides, mayhap, When she begins to holler, " Come with me, if you like, young chap, I said you warn't to foller." We'd walked along about a mile, And then my cheeks turn yeller; Says she, a-climbing on a stile, " There's lots o' room, young feller." Describe my feelings, them as can, Beside that black-eyed Wenus A hunpertected, lone young man, With but the stile between us. POETS AT PLAY: Her chestnut curls was blowing free, She really looked bewitchin' ; Says she, " Don't hitch so close to me ; Says I, " I ain't a-hitchin'." I shifts away at least I tries- With that she starts a-squalling ; "I'm tumblin' off, young man," sherries, "Oh, ketch me quick, I'm falling. I had to squeeze her wanst or twice, I didn't mind it neyther; Says she, "If you intends a splice, You'll have to ax my feyther." "Dear heart!" says I, and kind o' grins, "That notion's reyther faddy, I've got a wife at home, and twins, Exac'ly like their daddy ! " CHARLES BRUCE WADE : Fun. THE GALWAY MARE. IN the course of my wand'rings, from Cong to Kanturk, And a man of his honour is Jeremy Burke, I've seen many horses, but none, I declare, Could compate wid Jack Kafferty's fox-hunting mare. She was black as the sut, From the head to the fut, And as nate in her shapes as a Eoyal Princess ; Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse-power, 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less! No Arabian charger that's bred in the South Had so silky a coat or obaydient a mouth ; And her speed was so swift, man alive ! I'd go bail She'd slip clane away from the Holyhead mail. Her asiest saunther Was quick as a canther, Her gallop resimbled a lightning express ; Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse-power, 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 69 There was never a fence so conthrary or cruel But she would conthrive to surmount it, the jewel ! And Jack on her back, widout getting a toss, Glared ditches, no matther how crabbed or cross. An iligant shtepper, A wondherful lepper, Don't talk of Bucephalus or of Black Bess, Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse-power, 'T would desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! They were clifted,* the two of them, Jack and the mare, Eeturning one night from the Blackwater fair : Bad 'cess to that road ! in the worst place of all There isn't a sign or a taste of a wall. Sure the Barony's grief Was beyant all belief, 'Twas the loss of the mare caused the greater disthress ; Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse-power, 'T would desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! CHARLES L. GRAVES-. Spectator. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER. THE sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might : He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done. " It's very rude of him," she said, " To come and spoil the fun ! " * Anglice, " Fell over a cliff." 70 POETS AT PLAY: The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because N"o cloud was in the sky : No birds were flying overhead There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand : " If this were only cleared away," They said, " it would be grand ! " "If seven maids, with seven mops, Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, " That they could get it clear ? " " I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. " O Oysters, come and walk with us ! " The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach : We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed Their shoes were clean and neat And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 71 Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low : And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. " The time has come," the Walrus said, " To talk of many things : Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax Of cabbages and kings And why the sea is boiling hot And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, " Before we have our chat ; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat ! " " No hurry ! " said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. " A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." " But not on us," the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do ! " " The night is fine," the Walrus said. " Do you admire the view ? 72 POETS AT PLAY: "It was so kind of you to come, And you are very nice ! " The Carpenter said nothing but " Cut us another slice : I wish you were not quite so deaf I've had to ask you twice ! " "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, " To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick ! " The Carpenter said nothing but " The butter's spread too thick ! " " I weep for you," the Walrus said : "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again ? " But answer came there none And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. LEWIS CAEBOLL : Through the Looking-Glass. THE MAID I LOVE. I LOVE a maid whose eyes are blue, Who never walks but runs, Whose voice is shrilly-clear and who Is very fond of buns. You'll not be shocked if you behold Her seated on my knee, The maid I love is six years old, And I am thirty-three! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 73 She thinks I'm very old, I know, She treats me like her slave, She laughs in mockery when I show Her how she should behave. She pulls my whiskers when I scold, And dances round in glee But then she's only six years old, And I am thirty -three ! I fear she's rather fickle, too, She's many other flames, She makes them tell her tales untrue, And play at noisy games. In search of crumbs, like robin bold, She hops from knee to knee But then, she's only six years old, And I am thirty-three ! And when my back is bent with years, And I no longer sing, And she hath known the cares and tears That life must surely bring, I know her loving heart will hold A tender thought of me, In days when she was six years old, And I was thirty-three! HAMILTON AIDE : Songs without Music. BEN AND THE BUTTER. YOU'VE heerd thic tale afor ? Well, I beant zurprized at that, Of the man as stoal tha butter, and put et in hes hat : But mebby you'll excuse ma, ef I tells tha tale again, Vor thic varmer were my father, and thic very man wer Ben. Ben had been churmin' aal tha day, Churmin', and churmin', and churmin' awaay : c5 74 POETS AT PLAY: Vor tha weather wer cowld, and hes vengers wer num, And the butter oncommonly loath to come ; Zlow and shour like a miser's cash, The churm went round, and the craim went splash ; And tha daay went by, and toy-time past, And tha butter com'd flumpity flump at kst. Now Ben, as I zed, wer a hongry oaf, And moor than a match vor a quartern loaf, But whether tha bread wer white or brown, Ben liked zome butter to towl et down. Ben awpen'd the churn, and luk'd about, And tha cooast wer clear, and tha mussus wer out ; Zo a tuk o' tha butter a biggish pat, And stuff 'd et into hes owld velt hat ; But a'd skeersly pop'd hes yead into et, When fiather com'd in, and zeed un do et. Now tha daay wer past, and work wer done, And fiather wer up vor a bit o' fun. Zoo a diddent cus, nor a diddent zwear, Vor a knaw'd what Benny's wakeness were. To mid trust a cat wi' yer pet canairy, Or a hongry sheep dog in tha daairy ; Or yer goolden watch wi' a London thief, Or a methody passon wi' a brief ; But yo cooden trust Ben, not while yo mid wenk, Wher ther wer aught for to ate or to drenk. " Ben! zet thee down in thic ther cheer, And Betty shall draa thee a mug o' beer, Thes weather's anough ta shram a cat, We'll miake up a vire tiake off thy hat." " Thank ye," zed Ben, "ef I mid be zo bowld, I'll keep un on, vor I've got a bad cowld.' " Thee hast," zed fiather, " then draa up nigher." And a shov'd un cloas to the girt wood vire ; And clap'd on another fagot o' wood ; " A zweatin," zes fiather, " ull do thee good." Ben drenk'd his beer at once outright. " Thenk ye, miaster, I wish ye good night." " Stop! " zes fiather, " my trusty Ben, Betty shall vill thy mug agian, And warm et up wi' a drap o' gin, And put some shugger and nutmag in." HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 75 Ben lick'd hes chops at the thought o' that, But velt reather oniasy about hes hat. Tha drenk went down, and tha vire bleazed up, And Betty a third time vill'd hes cup ; Tha vire bleazed up, and tha drenk went down, And a velt reather gracy about the crown ; Down awver hes eyes, hes hat a thrust, And fiather wi' laffin wer fit to bust. But a put on another fagot o' wood, " A zweatin, Benny, ull do thee good." Ben got very shiny about the fiace, And down on hes zmockvrock drap'd the griace ; Ben's cloas wer zuch as yo coodent spwile, But hes waskit and breeches were zooak'd like ile. Zes fiather and Ben were all in a flutter " Thee'st caught thy cowld a churmin' butter ; I hoap thee'rt cur'd vor this here bout, Vor I've done my best to zweat un out ; But tiake my advice, my honest Ben, Dooant never thee ketch zuch a cowld agian." "Agrikler": Rhymes. THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS. A RICH advowson, highly prized, For private sale was advertised; And many a parson made a bid; The REVEREND SIMON MACKJS did. He sought the agent's : " Agent, I Have come prepared at once to buy (If your demand is not too big) The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge." " Ah ! " said the agent, " there's a berth- The snuggest vicarage on earth; No sort of duty (so I hear), And fifteen hundred pounds a year ! 76 POETS AT PLAY: " If on the price we should agree, The living soon will vacant be; The good incumbent's ninety-five, And cannot very long survive. See here's his photograph you see, He's in his dotage." "Ah, dear me! Poor soul!" said SIMON. "His decease Would be a merciful release ! " The agent laughed the agent blinked The agent blew his nose and winked And poked the parson's ribs in play It was that agent's vulgar way. The REVEREND SIMON frowned : " I grieve This light demeanour to perceive; It's scarcely comme il faut, I think : Now pray oblige me do not wink. "Don't dig my waistcoat into holes Your mission is to sell the souls Of human sheep and human kids To that divine who highest bids. " Do well in this, and on your head Unnumbered honours will be shed/' The agent said, " Well, truth to tell, I have been doing very well." "You should," said SIMON, "at your age; But now about the parsonage. How many rooms does it contain ? Show me the photograph again. "A poor apostle's humble house Must not be too luxurious ; No stately halls with oaken floor It should be decent and no more. " No billiard rooms no stately trees No tennis-grounds or pineries." " Ah ! " sighed the agent, " very true : This property won't do for you." HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 77 " All these about the house you'll find." " Well," said the parson, " never mind ; I'll manage to submit to these Luxurious superfluities. " A clergyman who does not shirk The various calls of Christian work, Will have no leisure to employ These " common forms " of worldly joy. " To preach three times on Sabbath days To wean the lost from wicked ways The sick to soothe the sane to wed The poor to feed with meat and bread ; " These are the various wholesome ways In which I'll spend my nights and days : My zeal will have no time to cool At tennis, archery, or pool." The agent said, " From what I hear, This living will not suit, I fear There are no poor, no sick at all ; For services there is no call." The reverend gent looked grave. "Dear me! Then there is no ' society ' ? I mean, of course, no sinners there Whose souls will be my special care ? " The cunning agent shook his head, "N"o, none except " (the agent said) " The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B., The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D. " But you will not be quite alone, For though they've chaplains of their own, Of course this noble well-bred clan Receive the parish clergyman." " Oh, silence, sir ! " said SIMON M., " Dukes Earls ! What should I care for them? These worldly ranks I scorn and flout ! " " Of course," the agent said, " no doubt ! " 78 POETS AT PLAY: " Yet I might show these men of birth The hollowness of rank on earth." The agent answered, "Very true But I should not, if I were you." "Who sells this rich advowson, pray?" The agent winked it was his way "His name is HART; 'twixt me and you, He is, I'm grieved to say, a Jew!" "A Jew?" said SIMON, "happy find! I purchase this advowson, mind. My life shah 1 be devoted to Converting that unhappy Jew ! " W. S. GILBEET : Fifty " Bab " Ballads. MRS. JONES'S PIRATE. A SANGUINARY pirate sailed upon the Spanish main In a rakish-looking schooner which was called the " Mary Jane." She carried lots of howitzers and deadly rifled guns, With shot and shell and powder and percussion caps in tons. The pirate was a homely man, and short and grum and fat ; He wore a wild and awful scowl beneath his slouching hat. Swords, pistols and stilettos were arranged around his thighs, And demoniacal glaring was quite common with his eyes. His heavy black moustaches curled away beneath his nose, And dropped in elegant festoons about his very toes. He hardly ever spoke at all ; but when such was the case, His voice 'twas easy to perceive was quite a heavy bass. He was not a serious pirate ; and despite his anxious cares, He rarely went to Sunday-school and seldom said his prayers. He worshipped lovely woman, and his hope in life was this : To calm his wild, tumultuous soul with pure domestic bliss. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 79 When conversing with his shipmates, he very often swore That he longed to give up piracy and settle down on shore. He tired of blood and plunder; of the joys that they could bring ; He sighed to win the love of some affectionate young thing. One morning as the " Mary Jane " went bounding o'er the sea The pirate saw a merchant bark far off upon his lee. He ordered a pursuit, and spread all sail that he could spare, And then went down, in hopeful mood, to shave and curl his hair. He blacked his boots and pared his nails and tied a fresh cravat ; He cleansed his teeth, pulled down his cuffs and polished up his hat ; He dimmed with flour the radiance of his fiery red nose, For, hanging with that vessel's wash, he saw some ladies' hose. Once more on deck, the stranger's hull he riddled with a ball, And yelled, " I say ! what bark is that ? " In answer to his call The skipper on the other boat replied in thunder tones : " This here's the bark * Matilda,' and her captain's name is Jones." The pirate told his bold corsairs to man the jolly-boats, To board the bark and seize the crew, and slit their tarry throats, And then to give his compliments to Captain Jones, and say He wished that he and Mrs. Jones would come and spend the day. They reached the bark, they killed the crew, they threw them in the sea, And then they sought the captain, who was mad as he could be, Because his wife who saw the whole sad tragedy, it seems Made all the ship vociferous with her outrageous screams. But wken the pirate's message came, she dried her streaming tears, And said, although she'd like to come, she had unpleasant fears, That, his social status being very evidently low, She might meet some common people whom she wouldn't care to know. POETS AT PLAY: Her husband's aged father, she admitted, dealt in bones, But the family descended from the famous Duke de Jones ; And such blue-blooded people, that the rabble might be checked, Had to make their social circle excessively select. Before she visited his ship she wanted him to say If the Smythes had recognised him in a social, friendly way ; Did the Jonsons ever ask him 'round to their ancestral halls ? Was he noticed by the Thomsons ? Was he asked to Simms s balls ? The pirate wrote that Thomson was his best and oldest friend, That he often stopped at Jonson's when he had a week to spend ; As for the Smythes, they worried him with their incessant calls; His very legs were weary with the dance at Simms's balls. (The scoundrel fibbed most shamelessly. In truth he only knew A lot of Smiths without a y a most plebeian crew. His Johnsons used a vulgar h, his Thompsons spelled with p, His Simses had one m, and they were common as could be.) Then Mrs. Jones mussed up her hair and donned her best delaine, And went with Captain Jones aboard the schooner Mary Jane. The pirate won her heart at once by saying, with a smile, He never saw a woman dressed in such exquisite style. The pirate's claim to status she was very sure was just When she noticed how familiarly the Johnsons he discussed. Her aristocratic scruples then were quickly laid aside, And when the pirate sighed at her, reciproc'ly she sighed. No sooner was the newer love within her bosom born Than Jones was looked upon by her with hatred and with scorn. She said 'twas true his ancestor was famous Duke de Jones, But she shuddered to remember that his father dealt in bones. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 81 So then they got at Captain Jones and hacked him Avith H sword, And chopped him into little bits and tossed him overboard. The chaplain read the service, and the captain of the bark Before his widow's weeping eyes was gobbled by a shark. The chaplain turned the prayer-book o'er ; the bride took off her glove ; They swore to honour, to obey, to cherish and to love. And, freighted full of happiness, across the ocean's foam The schooner glided rapidly toward the pirate's home. And when of ecstasy and joy their hearts could hold no more, That pirate dropped his anchor down and rowed his love ashore. And as they sauntered up the street he gave his bride a poke, And said, " In them there mansions live the friends of whom I spoke." She glanced her eye along the plates of brass upon each door, And then her anger rose as it had never done before. She said, " That Johnson has an h ! that Thompson has a p ! The Smith that spells without a y is not the Smith for me ! " And darkly scowled she then upon that rover of the wave ; " False ! False ! " she shrieked, and spoke of him as " Monster, traitor, slave ! " And then she wept and tore her hair, and filled the air with groans, And cursed with bitterness the day she let them chop up Jones. And when she'd spent on him at last the venom of her tongue, She seized her pongee parasol and stabbed him in the lung. A few more energetic jabs were at his heart required, And then this scand'lous buccaneer rolled over and expired. Still brandishing her parasol she sought the pirate boat ; She loaded up a gun and jammed her head into its throat ; And fixing fast the trigger, with string tied to her toe, She breathed " Mother ! " through the touch-hole, and kicked and let her go. 82 POETS AT PLAY: A snap, a fizz, a rumble ; some stupendous roaring tones And where upon earth's surface was the recent Mrs. Jones ? Go ask the moaning winds, the sky, the mists, the murmuring sea; Go ask the fish, the coroner, the clams but don't ask me. MAX ADELER : Oat of the II urly -Burly. THE FORLORN ONE. AH ! why those piteous sounds of woe, Lone wanderer of the dreary night? Thy gushing tears in torrents flow, Thy bosom pants in wild affright ! And thou, within whose iron breast, Those frowns austere too truly tell, Mild pity, heaven-descended guest, Hath never, never deign'd to dwell; "That rude, uncivil touch forego," Stern despot of a fleeting hour ! N"or " make the angels weep " to know The fond " fantastic tricks " of power ! Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd But droppeth as the gentle dew," And while it blesseth him who gain'd, It blesseth him who gave it, too ? Say, what art thou ? and what is he, Pale victim of despair and pain, Whose streaming eyes and bended knee Sue to thee thus and sue in vain ? Cold, callous man! he scorns to yield, Or aught relax his felon gripe, But answers, " I'm Inspector Field ! And this here warment's prigg'd your wipe." R. H. BARHAM : Ingoldsby Lcrjend.: HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 83 THE STUDENT OF BONN. A HIGHLY-SEASONED SENSATIONAL GERMAN ROMANCE. (From "Fun.") MEIN HERR VON SHRINN was tall and thin, his mien was grave and wise, And a pair of great green spectacles he wore to shade his eyes ; His lungs weren't strong his hair was long ; he had a brain of brains ; But to one sort of learning this scholar discerning devoted all his pains And spent all his time upon It was Beer Beer Beer, So sparkling bright and clear ! Oh ! this young metaphysical, quizzical, phthisical, bibulous student of Bonn. A gallon a day he held child's play a barrel not too big, For a very capacious throat had he, and dearly loved to swig ! But, by my troth, though I am loth, from truth I must not shrink His pastors and masters predicted disasters for one so given to drink. But he said to them all, " Begone ! Philosophy, like Beer, It should be always clear," Said this young metaphysical, quizzical, phthisical, bibulous student of Bonn. Alas ! at last his health broke fast. They called the doctors in, And they prescribed cold-water cure and slops both thick and thin. But he shook his head and faintly said, " I can't take water neat Yet tonic drops, with malt and hops decocted, were a treat ! Without it I can't get on ! I swallow nought but Beer So foaming, bright and clear," Said this young metaphysical, quizzical, phthisical, bibulous student of Bonn. 84 POETS AT PLAY : But every one, that it mustn't be done, protested loud and long, And he couldn't bribe the nurse to do a thing so very wrong. And day after day he faded away, and this if you would ask Was the latest word of his they heard, " Oh, pray don't shake the cask! " And thus reflecting upon His Beer Beer Beer, He quitted this mortal sphere, Did this young metaphysical, quizzical, phthisical, bibulous student of Bonn. THOMAS HOOD THE YOUXGEE: Poems, Humorous and Pathetic. THE HOUSEMAID. WISTFUL she stands and yet, resign'd, She watches by the window-blind : Poor Girl. No doubt The passers-by despise thy lot: Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not Thy Sunday out. To play a game of hide and seek With dust and cobweb all the week Small pleasure yields : Oh dear, how nice it were to drop One's pen and ink one's pail and mop ; And scour the fields. Poor Bodies few such pleasures know; Seldom they come. How soon they go ! But souls can roam; For, lapt in visions airy-sweet, She sees in this unlovely street Her far-off home. The street is now no street ! She pranks A purling brook with thymy banks. In Fancy's realm Yon post supports no lamp, aloof It spreads above her parents' roof, A gracious elm. HUMOEOUS SECITATIONS. 85 A father's aid, a mother's care, And life for her was happy there : But here, in thrall She waits, and dreams, and fondly dreams, And fondly smiles on One who seems More dear than all. Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! Suppose her fair, her name suppose Is Car, or Kitty ; She may be Jane she might be plain For must the Subject of my strain Be always pretty ? Oft on a cloudless afternoon Of budding May and leafy June, Fit Sunday weather, I pass thy window by design, And rvish thy Sunday out and mine Might fall together. For sweet it were thy lot to dower With one brief joy : a white-robed flower That prude or preacher Hardly could deem it were unmeet To lay on thy poor path, thou sweet, Forlorn young Creature. But if her thought on wooing run And if her Sunday- Swain is one Who's fond of strolling, She'd like my nonsense less than his, And so it's better as it is And that's consoling. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON : London Lyrics. POETS AT PLAY: A VILLANOUS AMBITION. IN Lambeth, at the "Dragon" tap, Upon a day it came to pass I met as affable a chap As ever took a friendly glass. We drank a very little while Dissolved one shilling and a kick : And then he told me with a smile He play'd the villains at the "Vic." I felt a sudden sense of awe, Where admiration bore a part, When dimly through the smoke I saw That son of histrionic art. I answer'd him in eager tone, In accents passionate but thick ; " I would thy lot had been my own, To play the villains at the 'Vic.'" "Methinks," I said, "I see thee now On Queen Victoria's classic boards ; There sits a frown upon thy brow, That cork and only cork affords. Thine ev r ry act proclaims thee ripe At nothing but thy foes to stick; I hail thee as a goodly type To play the villains at the 'Vic.'" We parted shortly after one, By Legislature's harsh decree : But ere we parted we had done Another drink or two or three ; He bade me tenderly good night, And call'd me amicably " brick ; " I loved the man with all my might Who play'd the villains at the "Vic. HUMOBOUS RECITATIONS. 87 I envied him with all my heart I feel it would have been my pride To act a very wicked part In dramas on the Surrey side. Had I to seek a fresh career If Fate would let me have my pick, I'd say, "Well, Destiny, look here, I'll play the villains at the ' Vic.' " Serene my days would be and bright, My deeds exceptionally good; But I would cork my brow at night And be as naughty as I could. And on my grave, when I am dead, I'd plant no jacet with its hie ; But just this little phrase instead " He played the villains at the ' Vic ! ' " HENRY S. LEIGH: Oillott and GoosequiU. MY OLD COAT. THIS old velvet coat has grown queer, I admit, And changed is the colour and loose is the fit ; Though to beauty it certainly cannot aspire, 'Tis a cosy old coat for a seat by the fire. When I first put it on it was awfully swell : I went to a picnic, met Lucy Lepel, Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl, And disjointed the nose of her lover, the Earl. We rambled away o'er the moorland together : My coat was bright purple, and so was the heather, And so was the sunset that blazed in the west, As Lucy's fair tresses were laid on my breast. 88 POETS AT PLAY: We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame, But Lucy returned to her Earl all the same ; She's a grandmamma now, and is going down hill, But my old velvet coat is a friend to me still. It was built by a tailor of mighty renown, Whose art is no longer the talk of the town : A magical picture my memory weaves When I thrust my tired arms through its easy old sleeves. I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe, Sweet maidens of old that are long over-ripe, And a troop of old cronies, right gay cavaliers, Whose guineas paid well for champagne at Watier's. A strong generation, who drank, fought, and kissed, Whose hands never trembled, whose shots never missed, Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high We remember them well, sir, my old coat and I. Ah, gone is the age of wild doings at Court, Eotten boroughs, knee-breeches, hair-triggers, and port ; Still I've got a magnum to moisten my throat, And I'll drink to the Past in my tattered old coat. MOKTIMER COLLIKS : A Selection from the Poetical Works of Mortimer Collins. A NEW PEER. "Is not a poet better than a lord?" ALFRED the Loved, the Laureate of the Court, The poet of the people, he who sang Of that great order of the Table Round, Had been a-sailing ; first into the North, Then Southward, then toward the middle sea ; And with him went the Premier, journeying, HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 89 Some said for health, and some to hatch new schemes With kings and statesmen. Howsoe'er, they came To Denmark's Court, where princes gathered round To hear our Alfred read his songs aloud. And as they journeyed homeward to the shores Of England, where the Isle our poet loved Lay sparkling like a gem npon the sea, They leaned athwart the bulwarks and spake low. " We are but Commoners, no more, we two," Said Gladstone ; " no adornment to our names, No sounding titles ; simply Mister This And Mister That. But yet, the other day, You read your verse to Emperors and Kings ; Princesses smiled upon you. You were great As they, except in title. It were well The distance lessened somewhat. Poet you, The prince of all the poets of our time, Be something more ; be noble, be a lord." Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind, His eyes all dreamy ; and he hummed a song, Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang " Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords, Turn those whose "wealth has gathered into hoards ; Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me. Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore, One that, mayhap, may live for evermore ; 'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be. Turn into lords the owners of broad lands, Turn him who in the path of progress stands, And he who doeth service to the State. Leave me the name that all the people know, A prouder title than your kings bestow, Made by myself, and not by station, great." Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then, The thought dwelt in his heart ; and many a day Thereafter, as he sat at Haslemere, Revolving and resolving, till his mind Could scarce distinguish his resolves from doubts, He muttered, " Ah, and I might be a lord ! " And so the thought grew on him, and brake down, POETS AT PLAY: And overcame him ; and the grand old name Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves. Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor For him who sang of Arthur and his knights, And Camelot, and that strange haunted mere. And one who knew the name and honoured it, Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus : " Doubtest thou here so long ? Art thou the man Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound Of titles, and whose satire never leaped Forth from its hiding place but when some claim Of place and privilege provoked thy wrath ? Wherever travels our bold English speech Across the broad Atlantic, 'mid the sands Of scorching Africa, or in the bush Of the young, strong, far-off Antipodes Thy. name is greater, more familiar, more In all men's mouths than that of any lord. fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream, Not thinking ; O imperial-spreading fame, And glory such as never poet bore Until they came, a kingdom's pride, with thee ; 1 cannot know thee if thou art a lord ; Be Alfred Tennyson until the last ; Not Baron, nor another. Is there none, Can yet persuade thee, ere it be too late ? But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb, And yet resolved. Ah, he would be a lord, And sink the name round which his glory grew. And so there came a herald with a scroll, One who makes ancestors and coats of arms, And gives alike to poet or to peer A pedigree as long as Modred's lance ; And he brought with him much emblazonry, A quartered shield, with, on the dexter side, The grand old gardener, Adam, and his wife, A-smiling at the claims of long descent. AAEON WATSON : Waifs and Strai HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 91 THE PEARL OF PALENCIA. A SPANISH TRAGEDY OF IRREGULAR VERBS. No maiden in Spain was more lovely to see Than sweet Donna A., only child of Don B., " The Pearl of Palencia." Two lovers she had, Don C. (who was good) and Don D. (who was bad). 'Twas C. she preferr'd, but she thought herself bound To mind her papa, whom she always had mound. He said, " Eich Don D. is a ' catch ' to be caught ; The prize you must snatch it is easily snaught." Thus, though she might feel just the same as she'd felt, She now must conceal what she'd never conceit ; Not speak to her love, though he tenderly spoke, Nor seek the affection she'd hitherto sake. Don B. told Don C. he must leave, and he left. The blow made him grieve, and most deeply he greft ; But Love's sun will shine, and still brightly it shone. When lovers combine as these lovers combone, In secret to meet as they secretly met, Stern parents they'll cheat as her father was chet. One night when the moon on " the rise " gently rose, Don D. in surprise the two lovers surprose. His weapon he drew ; and the moment 'twas drawn, His rival he slew ; with a blow he was dawn. Prepared not to smite, and so suddenly smitten, He'd no time to fight, or of course he'd have jitten, His fate was to fall what a cropper he fell ! A sight to appal. Donna A. it appel. Her hand, within reach, with an effort he reach'd, And this was the " last dying speech " that he speech' d : " Dear maid, fare thee well. Be my slayer forgiven ; My hour, but too quick to arrive, hath arriven. Away from existence I slide " and he slid. " I die as my fathers have died " and he did. Oh, fearful to hear was the scream that she scrempt ! Her eyes did not beam as they'd hitherto bempt, But glared fit to freeze. The assassin they froze. She shrieked, " This I seize ! " 'twas a dagger she soze . 92 POETS AT PLAY: " My loved one I lose through thy deed he is lost ; But had I to choose, thou wouldst never be chost. Die, villain ! Thy gold cannot gild up thy guilt. My will is to kill ! " So the villain she kilt. Then said, " Though my heart, doomed to break, is now broken, The vengeance I thirsted to slake I have sloken." So saying, she drank up a poisonous draught, Her queenly form shrank with a terrible shraft, On C.'s poor remains with a wild fling 'twas flung ; Her spirit, which long'd to take wing, then took wung. Her pa " such a turn " the catastrophe gave Did grieve till he grove himself into his grave. So there was an end lack-a-day ! woe is me ! Of sweet Donna A. and Dons B., C., and D. WALTER PAEKE : Patter Poems. TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN. IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY. 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. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 9 3 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. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES : Poetical Works. 94 POETS AT PLAY : THE QUARREL. " HUSH, Joanna ! 'tis quite certain That the coffee was not strong; Own your error, I'll forgive you, Why so stubborn in the wrong ? " "You'll forgive me! Sir, I hate you! You have used me like a churl; Have my senses ceased to guide me ? Do you think I am a girl ? " " Oh, no ! you're a girl no longer, But a woman formed to please; And it's time you should abandon Childish follies such as these." " Oh, I hate you ! but why vex me ? If I'm old, you're older still; I'll no longer be your victim, And the creature of your will." "But, Joanna, why this pother? It might happen I was wrong ; But, if common sense inspire me Still, that coffee was not strong." " Common sense ! you never had it ! Oh, that ever I was born ! To be wedded to a monster Who repays my love with scorn ! " "Well, Joanna, we'll not quarrel; What's the use of bitter strife? But I'm sorry that I married, I was mad to take a wife." HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 95 " Mad, indeed ! I'm glad you know it ! But, if law can break the chain, I'll be tied to you no longer In this misery and pain." " Hush, Joanna, shall the servants Hear you argue ever wrong ? Can you not have done with folly? Own the coffee was not strong." " Oh ! you goad me past endurance, Trifling with my woman's heart ! But I loathe you, and detest you, Villain ! monster ! let us part ! " Long this foolish quarrel lasted, Till Joanna, sore afraid That her empire was in peril, Summon'd never-failing aid; Summon'd tears, in copious torrents, Tears, and sobs, and piteous sighs ; Well she knew the potent practice, The artillery of the eyes! And it chanced as she imagined, Beautiful in grief was she, Beautiful to best advantage, And a tender heart had he. Kneeling at her side, he soothed her, " Dear Joanna ! I was wrong ; Nevermore I'll contradict you, But, oh make my coffee strong ! " CHARLES MACKAY : Poetical Works. 96 POETS AT PLAY: AN UNINVITED GUEST. THE supper and the song had died When to my couch I crept; I flung the muslin curtains wide And took a " first-class place inside "- It might have seemed I slept. Yet scarce the drowsy god had woo'd My pillow to befriend, When, fancy ! how extremely rude A fellow evidently screw'd Got in the other end. The bolster from my side he took To make his own complete, Then sat, and gazed with scornful look, With wrath my very pulses shook And quivered to my feet. I kicked of course long time in doubt The war waged to and fro; At last I kicked the rascal out And woke to find explosive gout Developed in my toe. H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENHELL : Pegasus Re-saddled. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. JUDGE WYMAN. A RURAL YANKEE LEGEND. LONG ago, in the State of Maine, There lived a Judge a good old soul, Bather well up in the "genial vein," And not by any means " down on " the bowl. N.B. By "bowl" I mean the "cup," And by "cup" N.B. I mean a glass, Since neither bowls nor cups go up At present when we our liquor pass. (Although I recall 'Tis three years this Fall When travelling in the wilderness, And things were all in an awful mess, And our crockery, with a horrible crash, Had gone its way to eternal smash (It came, as the driver allowed, from racin'), We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin. Excuse the digression non est crimen And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman.j The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie Kept by a man whose name was Sterret, Where he met with jolly company, But where the whisky was void of merit The real Minie rifle brand, That at forty rods kills out of hand. Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge At Sterret's, after a long, hot day, Got so tight that he couldn't budge, And found himself "well over the bay," With a " snake in his boot " and one in his hat Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned, Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat, Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned. 98 POETS AT PLAY: Couldn't tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne, Couldn't see the difference 'tween Jips and cents. And when he attempted to walk alone, Simply made a Virginia fence ; Till liquor yielded at last to sleep, And he sank into Dream River four miles deep. Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non Intro. " Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief, For, though a lawyer, he wasn't a thief." This is what the story declares, Which says he listens to lawyers' prayers. Likely enough! perhaps he may Whenever a lawyer tries to pray ! But another legend, old and quaint, Assigns them a different kind of saint, With a singular foot and peculiar hue, Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue; And this was rather the saint, I think, Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four, Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink, And made them rejoice to hear him snore. Who, save the devil, would not have wept To see these graceless legal loons Tricking the good old Judge as he slept, And filling his pockets with Sterret's spoons? With silver spoons; likewise for butter A handsome ten-dollar silver knife; Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter, And carried him home to his loving wife. If any ladies read these rhymes, Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called " runes," They may just imagine what sort of times Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons! The Judge's grief was full of merit, And his lady wasn't inclined to flout it But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret, And nothing more was said about it A month went by, and Fama, the wench ! Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse, A-id Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench Trying a fellow for stealing a horse HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 09 The evidence was all due north, It froze the prisoner every minute, Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth, And asked what " he had to say agin it ? " The prisoner looked at the planks of pine Of the little rural court-house ceiling, At all the jury in a line, Then answered, his only small card dealing, " Judge, I hev lots of honesty, But when I'm drunk I can't control it ; And as for this 'ere hoss d'ye see? I was drunk as blazes when I stole it." Answered the Judge, "If this Court were a dunce, She would say, in law that is no excuse; For the Court held that opinion once, But of late her connection's been gettin' loose. One may be certain on law to-day, And find himself to-morrow dumb. But answer me one thing truly, and say Where'bouts it was you got your rum ? " " I drank because I was invited, And got my rum at Sterret's, d'ye see ? " " Mr. Sheriff," cried the Judge, excited, " This instant set that poor man free ! The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder! Would make a man do anything, And some time or other, I shouldn't wonder If it made a saint on the gallows swing; It will run a man to perdition quicker Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes; IVhy, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor, And stole the whole of old Sterret's spoons ! " CHAKLES G. LELAND : Brand-New Ballads. 100 POETS AT PLAY: THE CAPTAIN'S COW. A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE. " Water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink." COLERIDGE. IT is a jolly Mariner As ever knew the billows' stir, Or battled with the gale; His face is brown, his hair is black, And down his broad gigantic back There hangs a platted tail. In clusters, as he rolls along, His tarry mates around him throng, Who know his budget well; Betwixt Canton and Trinidad No Sea-Komancer ever had Such wondrous tales to tell ! Against the mast he leans a-slope, And thence upon a coil of rope Slides down his pitchy " starn ;" Heaves up a lusty hem or two, And then at once without ado Begins to spin his yarn : " As from Jamaica we did come, Laden with sugar, fruit and rum, It blew a heavy gale : A storm that scared the oldest men For three long days and nights, and then The wind began to fail. " Still less and less, till on the mast The sails began to flap at last, The breezes blew so soft; Just only now and then a puff, Till soon there was not wind enough To stir the vane aloft. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 101 " No, not a cat's-paw anywhere : Hold up your finger in the air You couldn't feel a breath; For why, in yonder storm that burst, The wind that blew so hard at first Had blown itself to death. " No cloud aloft to throw a shade ; No distant breezy ripple made The ocean dark below. No cheering sign of any kind ; The more we whistled for the wind The more it did not blow. "The hands were idle, one and all; No sail to reef against a squall ; No wheel, no steering now ! Nothing to do for man or mate, But chew their cuds and ruminate, Just like the Captain's Cow. "Day after day, day after day, Becalrn'd the Jolly Planter lay, As if she had been moor'd : The sea below, the sky a-top Fierce blazing down, and not a drop Of water left aboard ! " Day after day, day after day, Becalm'd the Jolly Planter lay, As still as any log; The parching seamen stood about, Each with his tongue a-lolling out, And panting like a dog " A dog half mad with summer heat And running up and down the street, By thirst quite overcome ; And not a drop in all the ship To moisten cracking tongue and lip, Except Jamaica rum ! 102 POETS AT PLAY: " The very poultry in the coop Began to pine away and droop The cock was first to go ; And glad we were on all our parts He used to damp our very hearts With such a ropy crow. "But worse It was, we did allow. To look upon the Captain's Cow y That daily seemed 1 to shrink : Deprived of water hard or soft, For though we tried her oft and oft, The brine she wouldn't drink : "But only turn'd her bloodshot eye, And muzzle up towards the sky, And gave a moan of pain, A sort of hollow moan and sad, As if some brutish thought she had To pray to heav'n for rain ; "And sometimes with a steadfast stare Kept looking at the empty air, As if she saw beyond, Some meadow in her native land, Where formerly she used to stand A- cooling in the pond. "If I had only had a drink Of water then, I almost think She would have had the half: But as for John the Carpenter, He couldn't more have pitied her If he had been her calf. "So soft of heart he was and kind To any creature lame, or blind, Unfortunate, or dumb : Whereby he made a sort of vow In sympathising with the Cow, To give her half his rum; HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 10.'} "An oath from which he never swerved, For surely as the rum was served He shared the cheering dram ; And kindly gave one half at least, Or more, to the complaining beast, Who took it like a lamb. " At last with overclouding skies A breeze again began to rise, That stiffen'd to a gale : Steady, steady, and strong it blew ; And were not we a joyous crew, As on the .lolly Planter flew Beneath a press of sail ! " Swiftly the Jolly Planter flew, And were not we a joyous crew, At last to sight the land ! A glee there was on every brow, That like a Christian soul the Cow Appear'd to understand. "And was not she a mad-like thing To land again and taste the spring, Instead of fiery glass : About the verdant meads to scour, And snuff the honey'd cowslip flower, And crop the juicy grass ! "Whereby she grew as plump and hale As any beast that wears a tail, Her skin as sleek as silk ; And through all parts of England now Is grown a very famous Cow, By giving Rum-and-Milk ! " THOMAS HOOD : Poetical Works. 104 POETS AT PLAY: ZOOLOGICAL MEMORIES. AH, Dora, my darling, can your recollection Revert to a Sunday once early in June ? When leaving your Aunt's ever- watchful protection, You saucily said you'd " come back again soon, But must see the seal and the spotted hyena, And doted on zoophytes scarlet and blue," Poor Aunt left at three, and at six we'd not seen her That bright summer Sunday we met at the Zoo. You wore, I remember, the nicest of dresses, So simple and fresh, though it would not compare With Miss Buhl's splendid train, while your sunny bright tresses Could never out-rival her " Britanny " hair : Her parasol shaded the costliest bonnet 'Twas gorgeous and showy, 'twas heavy and new While yours was of lace, with blush roses upon it, That gay summer Sunday we lounged in the Zoo. You recollect loitering down by the water I mean by the pond where the pelicans dwell A small glove was pressed, it was six and a quarter, A hand rather smaller was p'raps pressed as well ; You said it was nonsense, and would not believe me I vowed, on my honour, 'twas perfectly true Those lashes down-drooping could never deceive me, That sweet summer Sunday we passed at the Zoo. While strolling around the green pond edged with rushes I wished we could wander for miles and for miles Your eyes brightly shone, whilst the loveliest blushes Flushed cheeks dimpled o'er by the sweetest of smiles. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 105 Then archly you said, with the sweetest of glances, " Who flirted at Prince's with Lily and Loo ? What makes you so churlish at dinners and dances, When you can be so nice when me meet at the Zoo ? " How swift flew the hours as we wandered together, Forgetful of Aunt as she sat in the shade ! 'T was really too bad in that broiling hot weather ; And when we returned what excuses you made ! " Past six, Aunt? It can't be ! You surely are joking We've not seen the zebra nor red kangaroo ! " Then prettily pouting, you looked so provoking, That fine summer Sunday we roamed at the Zoo. While bright autumn leaves in the country are falling, And London is empty, the butterflies flown ; That sunshiny Sunday I can't help recalling, As I sit in dull chambers and ponder alone. And now you are down at " The Larches," my treasure, To find short days long, for there's nothing to do, Does ever come o'er you with exquisite pleasure The thought of that Sunday we loved at the Zoo ? J. ASHBY-STERKY -. Boudoir Ballads. >THE DEMON OF THE PIT. A BALLAD OF THE BOARDS. IF you chance to make a sally Through the region of Soho, You may pass a frightful alley That is known as Eden Bow; And among the children playing On the cobble pavement there, There is one that's worth surveying, For she's really very fair. D 5 106 POETS AT PLAY She's a perfect darling bless her ! And she has such charming ways That the passers-by address her With a word or two of praise ; And enthusiastic stoppers Are occasionally known To present the child with coppers Having darlings of their own; Whereupon she'll call her cronies, Who are always pretty near, And invest in proud polonies, Or imperial ginger-beer : She will call her friends and cronies, Who make answer with a cheer, And invest in proud polonies, In the fat and fair polonies, In the rich and rare polonies, Or imperial ginger-beer. So when next you're not too busy, Let me beg of you to go, And inquire for little Lizzy In her grimy Eden Eow ; You will find her, sweet and dimply, On a doorstep sitting down, And she'll look an angel simply In her short and shabby gown. Now I fancy few, if any, Who have seen my little pet, And have tipped her with a penny, Which she laughed aloud to get, Have imagined for a second That this charming little fay Must decidedly be reckoned Quite a "woman of the day." It has never crossed their fancy For a moment, I'll engage, That the child was Miss Delancy Of the Pandemonium Stage It would never cross the fancy, If one pondered for an age, ' HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 107 That the child was Miss Delancy, The surprising Miss Delancy, The prodigious Miss Delancy, Of the Pandemonium Stage. Though herself no hint affording Of the footlights' lurid fame, Each adjacent shop and hoarding Is emblazoned with her name : See " Aerial flights of fancy ! Pyrotechnic blaze of wit ! With Miss Juliet Delancy As the Demon of the Pit! Though the boldest might have faltered At an outlay half as large, Yet the prices are unaltered There will be no extra charge ! Amid plaudits loud as thunder, And emotion past control, The astounding Infant Wonder Will sustain her famous role. In a mise where all entrances, The most unexampled hit Is Miss Juliet Delancy's, As the Demon of the Pit ; While the tout ensemble entrances, It is owned the choicest grit Is Miss Juliet Delancy's The enormous Miss Delancy's, The astounding Miss Delancy's, As the Demon of the Pit!" While the eye delighted ranges Through the Halls of Dazzling Light, Lo ! the scene by magic changes To the Eayless Kealms of Night. Through the caverns weird and gloomy Of that Stygian world below, You may see (the stage is roomy) All the marshalled goblins go. 108 POETS AT PLAY: Then the lights burn dim and bluely, And the music dies away, And the thunder rumbles truly In a very awful way. There's a yet more frightful rumble, There's a chord from wind and strings, And the goblins prostrate tumble As their chief before them springs. You may hear John whisper Nancy And they tremble where they sit "It's Miss Juliet Delancy As the Demon of the Pit." You may hear him say to Nancy And his accents shake a bit "It's Miss Juliet Delancy, The enormous Miss Delancy, The astounding Miss Delaney, As the Demon of the Pit ! " So until the opening closes, With just here and there a pause, Miss Delancy flits and poses 'Mid tumultuous applause; While a matron, short and snuffy, With a face that's not unkind, And a cold that's always stuffy, Waits resignedly behind. See ! the supers nudge each other, And the fairy tells the gnome " That there's Miss Delancy's mother, As will stay to take her 'ome." So at ten, or shortly after, While the Monstrous Little Joe Is evoking shrieks of laughter, They are trudging to Soho. Then they've something light to dream on, And the childish prayer is said, And the weary little Demon Goes contentedly to bed. They have tripe, as light to dream on, Or it may be chops instead, HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 109 And the weary little Demon Not at all a wicked Demon, But a sleepy, blinking Demon Is put quietly to bed. FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE : Sent Sack by the Angels. GEMINI AND VIRGO. SOME vast amount of years ago, Ere all my youth had vanish'd from me, A boy it was my lot to know, Whom his familiar friends called Tommy. I love to gaze upon a child; A young bud bursting into blossom ; Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled, And agile as a young opossum : And such was he. A calm-brow'd lad, Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter; Why hatters as a race are mad I never knew, nor does it matter. He was what nurses call a " limb " ; One of those small misguided creatures, Who, tho' their intellects are dim, Are one too many for their teachers : And, if you asked of him to say What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7, He'd glance (in quite a placid way) From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven And smile, and look politely round, To catch a casual suggestion ; But make no effort to propound Any solution of the question. 110 POETS AT PLAY: And so not much esteemed was lie Of the authorities: and therefore He fraternized by chance with me, Needing a somebody to care for: And three fair summers did we twain Live (as they say) and love together; And bore by turns the wholesome cane Till our young skins became as leather: And carved our names on every desk, And tore our clothes, and inked our collars; And looked unique and picturesque, But not, it may be, model scholars. We did much as we chose to do; We'd never heard of Mrs. Grundy ; All the theology we knew Was that we mightn't play on Sunday; And all the general truths, that cakes Were to be bought at four a penny, And that excruciating aches Eesulted if we ate too many : And seeing ignorance is bliss, And wisdom consequently folly, The obvious result is this That our two lives were very jolly. At last the separation came. Real love, at that time, was the fashion ; And by a horrid chance, the same Young thing was, to us both, a passion. Old POSER snorted like a horse: His feet were large, his hands were pimply, His manner, when excited, coarse: But Miss P. was an angel simply. She was a blushing gushing thing; All more than all my fancy painted ; Once when she helped me to a wing Of goose I thought I should have fainted. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Ill The people said that she was blue : But I was green, and loved her dearly. She was approaching thirty-two ; And I was then eleven, nearly. I did not love as others do; (None ever did that I've heard tell of;) My passion was a byword through The town she was, of course, the belle of: Oh sweet as to the toilworn man The far-off sound of rippling river; As to cadets in Hindostan The fleeting remnant of their liver To me was ANNA; dear as gold That fills the miser's sunless coffers ; As to the spinster, growing old, The thought the dream that she had offers. I'd sent her little gifts of fruit; I'd written lines to her as Venus; I swore unflinchingly to shoot The man who dared to come between us : And it was you, my Thomas, you, The friend in whom my soul confided, "Who dared to gaze on her to do, I may say, much the same as I did. One night, I saw him squeeze her hand; There was no doubt about the matter; I said he must resign, or stand My vengeance and he chose the latter. We met, we ' planted ' blows on blows : We fought as long as we were able : My rival had a bottle-nose, And both my speaking eyes were sable. When the school-bell cut short our strife, Miss P. gave both of us a plaister; And in a week became the wife Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master. 112 POETS AT PLAY: I loved her then I'd love her still, Only one must not love Another's: But thou and I, my Tommy, will, When we again meet, meet as brothers. It may be that in age one seeks Peace only : that the blood is brisker In boys' veins, than in theirs whose cheeks Are partially obscured by whisker; Or that the growing ages steal The memories of past wrongs from us. But this is certain that I feel Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas ! And wheresoe'er we meet again, On this or that side the equator, If I've not turned teetotaller then, And have wherewith to pay the waiter, To thee I'll drain the modest cup, Ignite with thee the mild Havannah ; And we will waft, while liquoring up, Forgiveness to the heartless Anna. C. S. CALVERLET : Verses and Translations. THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. I WROTE some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good. They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die ; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I. HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 113 I called my servant, and he came ; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb ! " These to the printer," I exclaimed, And in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), " There'll be the devil to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within ; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin. He read the next ; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear ; He read the third ; a chuckling noise I now began to hear. The fourth ; he broke into a roar ; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. OLIVEB WENDELL HOLMES : Poetical Works. 114 POETS AT PLAY: DOLLY'S CHRISTENING. " I'LL be the goodest little girl that ever you did see, If you'll let me take my dolly to church with you and me. It's too drefful bad to leave her when we's all gone away ; Oh, Cosette will be so lonesome to stay at home all day." 'Twas such a pleading pair of eyes and winsome little face, That mamma could'nt well refuse though church was not the place For dolls or playthings, she well knew. Still mamma's little maid Was always so obedient, she did'nt feel afraid. No mouse was ever half so still as this sweet little lass, Until the sermon was quite through then this did come to pass : A dozen babies (more or less), dressed in long robes of white, Were brought before the altar rail a flash of Heaven's own light. Then Mabel stood upon the seat, with Dolly, held out straight, And this is what the darling said : " Oh ! minister, please to wait, And wash my dolly up like that her name it is Cosette." The "minister" smiled and bowed his head; but mamma blushes yet. ELEANOR KIRK. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS, 115 THE CITY OF PRAGUE. Scene : " Bohemia j a desert country near the sea." SHAKESPEARE. I DWELT in a city enchanted, And lowly, indeed, was my lot ; Two guineas a week, all I wanted, Was certainly all that I got. Well, somehow I found it was plenty Perhaps you may find it the same, If if you are just five-and-twenty, With industry, hope, and an aim : Though the latitude's rather uncertain, And the longitude also is vague, The persons I pity who know not the City, The beautiful City of Prague ! Bohemian of course were my neighbours, And not of a pastoral kind ! Our pipes were of clay, and our tabors Would scarcely be easy to find. Our Tabors ? Instead of such mountains Ben Holborn was all we could share, And the nearest available fountains Were the horrible things in the square : Does the latitude still seem uncertain ? Or think ye the longitude vague ? The persons I pity who know not the City, The beautiful City of Prague! How we laughed as we laboured together ! How well I remember, to-day, Our " outings " in midsummer weather, Our winter delights at the play ! We were not over nice in our dinners ; Our " rooms " were up rickety stairs ; But if hope be the wealth of beginners, By Jove, we were all millionaires ! 116 POETS AT PLAY: Our incomes were very uncertain, Our prospects were equally vague ; Yet the persons I pity who know not the City, The beautiful City of Prague ! If at times the horizon was frowning, Or the ocean of life looking grim, Who dreamed, do you fancy, of drowning? Not we, for we knew we could swim ; Oh, Friends, by whose side I was breasting The billows that rolled to the shore, Ye are quietly, quietly resting, To laugh and to labour no more ! Still, in accents a little uncertain, And tones that are possibly vague, The persons I pity who know not the City, The beautiful City of Prague ! L'ENVOI. As for me, I have come to an anchor; I have taken my watch out of pawn ; I keep an account with a banker, Which at present is not overdrawn. Though my clothes may be none of the smartest, The "snip" has receipted the bill; But the days I was poor and an artist Are the dearest of days to me still ! Though the latitude's rather uncertain, And the longitude also is vague, The persons I pity who know not the City, The beautiful City of Prague ! W. JEFFEET PROWSE : Nicholas' Notes. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 11' A TALE OF A TIGER'S HEAD; OK, THE "RIME" OF ANOTHER ANCIENT MARINER. 'TWAS off the Muddywaddy coast, Upon a summer's day, The good ship " O'Keefoozleum " Was plowin' of her way. The wind was wery troublesome, The sea rolled mountains high, And every gallant mariner On board was standin' by. For everything aloft was gone, And Cap'in Cockle said, To Ben, the bos'an at the wheel, " You let her 'ave 'er head. " She's weathered many a wusser storm. There's nothing we can do; So let her 'ave 'er head, I say, And she will pull us through." Ben turned his quid, let go his hold An' let the wessel drive, And twenty minutes arterwards None on 'em was alive Save Ben, who'd donned the cap'n's belt Life-belt of London make By ac-cident; and so was washed Ashore in pure mistake. 118 POETS AT PLAY: For eight-and-forty hours did he Gro wand'rin' on the beach, In search of food likewise of drink- But nothing came in reach. His " bacca " box was empty quite, His stomach was the same ; At last he thought he'd better go, But not the way he came. He turned his back upon the sea, Beneath a scorchin' sun; For half-a-day he broiled and baked, Till he felt all but done. And then he sunk beside a tree And thought of little Bill, His pooty boy, an' Bess, his wife, And wished he'd made his will. " It's all u P," he sighed, " wi' me ; No 'elp or aid at hand ! " When, lo, a dark-complexioned gent In front of him did stand. " Ma-ha-ka-wo-kar-ro-kar-ree," The stalwart stranger cried : " The werry same to you, my friend,' Ben instantly replied. "I'm empty as a Hindian drum, I'm dyin', do ye hear ? " The stranger seemed to understand, And brought both bread and beer. Then on the unpertendin' meal, Poor Ben, he did regale; And, 'avin' ate and drunk the lot, Slewed round and told his tale His tale of woe, for Ben, you know, At langwidges was fine; And where they didn't understand His words, he'd make a sign. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 119 But this 'ere darky's knowledge of Our langwidge, it was such, He spoke it like a native, so That 'elped Ben werry much. " My gratitood, I'd like to prove, For all you've done, my friend, For me," says Ben; the stranger grinned, " Then to my words attend. " A great big ugly tiger lurks, About these parts to slay, A man, a woman, or a child For dinner every day. " He's gobbled up my children three, He's carried off my wife ; But worse my pigs and cow he's had, And I am poor for life. " Now our nabob, the great Ski -hi, Hath written, and hath said, He'd give a hatful of rupee For that ole tiger's head." " If that old tiger came my way, And I was armed, d'ye see," Says Ben, " that hat would pooty soon, I think, belong to me." "Brave Inglese, I'll a weapon find, We'll track the monster down, And you shall win the bright rupee, And also great renown." The native went and got a knife, At least a yard in length, Then called on Ben to follow him, And prove his pluck and strength. He led him to a jungle wast, And said, " That where him live ; To any pale-facod visitor An audience will he give. 120 POETS AT PLAY: " He rarely stir abroad by day, He'll be at home, don't fear, So go to wictory ; while I Bleep a look-out up here." Ben put his knife between his teeth, An' through the jungle crawled Until he came upon the lair Where this man-eater sprawled. At first the monster seemed surprised, Then dropped his mighty jaw To give a growl, when Ben's big knife Went slick into his maw. So taken all aback was he, That tiger wast and grim, He hadn't time to wag his tail Ere Ben had settled him. And next Ben haggled off his head, Then, jolly as could be, Came forth in triumph to his friend, And found him up a tree. " Down, down you come, an' you shall share The prize," says honest Ben. "No no, it all belong to you, Most generous of men. "You done the deed, the prize is yours, An' if with me you come, I'll take you to the great Ski-hi, But, first a drop o' rum." The native flourished, then, a flask ; Ben smelt it, took a spell; He drained it dry, then rolled his eye, And said he wasn't well. He next began to rock and reel As if he had been drunk ; And presently upon the ground Onsensible he sunk. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 121 He had been hocussed, had poor Ben, And now the native sped To claim the hatful of rupees For that man-eater's head. The great Ski-hi upon a mat, His hookah in his hand, Sat blowin' of a easy cloud, While he was bein' fanned Wi' w'ackin' wings that worked wi' ropes, And sent a breeze his way, While two dark ladies all in white Brought liquors on a tray. Now when the native did appear, With that huge tiger's head, "The hatful of rupee I claim," The grinnin' rascal said. u That tiger ne'er was slain by thee," The nabob made reply. The other, "By the prophet's beard, I couldn't tell a lie ! " I slew that tiger." " Then come here ; And now look well at me, And from my beard pluck one grey hair, The longest thou canst see." The wily native stretched his hand; A snap the nabob made, And nearly bit a finger off Of that black renegade, Who, startin', turned a dirty white, Which proved he was afraid. A noise without, and then within Springs Ben. " Holloa ! " says he, That dirty lubber stole my head Arter he'd hocussed me. 122 POETS AT PLAY: " I killed the tiger ! I alone ! And so claim your rupees." "Come hither," said the great Ski-hi, "And on thy bended knees "Pluck from my beard the longest hair, Grey hair, that thou canst see, And if thou well perform the task The prize belongs to thee." " Ay ! ay, your honour ! " answered Ben, And he essayed the pull ; Again the nabob gave a snap, But this time made a mull. Ben seized him tightly by the beard, And punched with might and main His ancient copper-coloured head, Until it shook again. " You'd bite, yer beggar, would yer ? Bite ? " Cried Ben, " Take that and that ! " And soon the great Ski-hi lay floored Upon his Hindian mat. When life returned, he took Ben's hand. While tears fell from his eyes; "Thou didst the deed, I see," said he, " And thou shalt have the prize. " As for that coward standin' there, Who quakes in every limb, Well I've a small menagerie, This day they dine off him ! " J. G. WATTS: A Lay of a Cannibal Island. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. '123 COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. (CHILD WITHIN TO TRAMP WITHOUT.) IT'S not so nice here as it looks, With china that keeps breaking so, And five of Mr. Tennyson's books Too fine to look in is it, though? If you just had to sit here (Well !) In satin chairs too blue to touch, And look at flowers too sweet to smell, In vases would you like it much ? If you see any flowers, they grow, And you can find them in the sun. These are the ones we buy, you know, In winter-time when there are none ! Then you can sit on rocks, you see, And walk about in water, too Because you have no shoes t Dear me ! How many things they let you do ! Then you can sleep out in the shade All day, I guess, and all night too, Because you know, you're not afraid Of other fellows just like you ! You have no house like this, you know, (Where mamma's cross, and ladies call) You have the world to live in, though, And that's the prettiest place of all! SAEAH M. B. PIATT: Three Little Emigrants. 124 POETS AT PLAY: HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES. Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over: "Very right But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " " What wonder ? where ? " " The clock, the clock ! ' Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke ; At last the landlord silence broke, "You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute ; But, if you please, what wonder's in it ? " " Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. " Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," The landlord said, with grin admiring, " What wager was it ? " "You remember It happened, Tom, in last December : In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 125 To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still, 'Here she goes, and there she goes' He lost the bet in half a minute." " Well, if I would, the deuce is in it ! " Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick ! " "I'm up to that!" "Don't make us wait, Begin, the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " " Hold ! " said the Yankee, " plank the ready ! " The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table. " Tom ! with the money let's be off ! " This made the landlord only scoff. He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair ; Thought he, " The fools ! I'll bite them yet So poor a trick shan't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue. His mother happened in to see Her daughter : " Where is Mrs. B ? " "When will she come do you suppose? Son!" " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " Here ! where ? " the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes; 12(5 POETS AT PLAY: " Son ! why that steady gaze and sad ? Those words, that motion, are you mad ? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And" " Here she goes, and there she goes ! ' His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him and seized his arm ; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go; While curled his very nose with ire That she against him should conspire ; And with more furious tone arose The " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " " Lawks ! " screamed the wife, " I'm in a whirl ! Kun down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But " " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " Lawks ! he is mad ! What made him thus ? Good Lord ! what will become of us ? Run for a doctor, run, run, run, For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Gray, with all your might ! " The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled, " No, leeched you mean," the other said, " Clap on a blister ! " roared another, " No ! cup him," " No, trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge ; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills : "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her ; And by to-morrow I suppose That " " Here she goes, and there she goes ! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. " You are all fools ! " the lady said, " The way is just to shave his head. Run ! bid the barber come anon." " Thanks, mother ! " thought her clever son ; " You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation shan't outwit me ! " Thus to himself, while to and fro His finger perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But " Here she goes, and there she goes ! " The barber came " Lord help him ! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him, So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him ! " But here the doctors interpose, " A woman never "- "There she goes ! " " A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick. He must be bled," " No, cup him," " Pills ! " And all the house the uproar fills. What means that smile ? what means that shiver The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet shall win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts, " 'Tis mine ! 'tis mine ! " " What do you mean ? " " I mean the fifty ; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose ! But how is this? where are they?" " Who ? " " The gentlemen, I mean the two Came yesterday, are they below ? " " They galloped' off an hour ago." " Oh, dose me ! blister ! shave and bleed ! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed ! " JAMES X 128 POETS AT PLAY: THE MASHER. IT was in the Indian summer-time, when life is tender brown, And people in the country talk of going into town, When the nights are crisp and cooling, though the sun is warm by day, In the home-like town of Glasgow, in the State of Iowa ; It was in the railroad deepo of that greatly favoured zone, That a young man met a stranger, who was still not all unknown, For they had run-countered casual in riding in the car, And the latter to the previous had offered a cigar. Now as the primal gentleman was nominated Gale, It follows that the secondary man was Mister Dale ; This is called poetic justice when arrangements fit in time, And Fate allows the titles to accommodate in rhyme. And a lovely sense of autumn seemed to warble in the air ; Boys with baskets selling peaches were vibratin' everywhere, While in the mellow distance folks were gettin' in their corn, And the biggest yellow punkins ever seen since you were born. Now a gradual sensation emotioned this our Gale, That he'd seldom seen so fine a man for cheek as Mister Dale ; Yet simultaneous he felt that he was all the while The biggest dude and cock-a-hoop within a hundred mile. For the usual expression of his quite enormous eyes Was that of two ripe gooseberries who've been decreed a prize ; Like a goose apart from berries, too though not removed from sauce He conversed on lovely Woman as if he were all her boss. Till, in fact, he stated plainly that, between his face and cash, There was not a lady living whom he was not sure to mash ; The wealthiest, the loveliest of families sublime, At just a single look from him must all give in in time. HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 129 Now when our Dale had got along so far upon the strain, They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train, A proud and queenly beauty of a transcendental face, With gloves unto her shoulders, and the most expensive lace. All Baltimore and New Orleans seemed centered into one, As if their stars of beauty had been fused into a sun ; But, ho ! her frosty dignity expressed a kind of glow Like sunshine when thermometers show thirty grades below. But it flashed a gleam of shrewdness into the head of Gale, And with aggravatin' humour he exclaimed to Mr. Dale, " Since every girl's a cricket-ball and you're the only bat, If you want to show you're champion, go in and mash on that. " I will bet a thousand dollars, and plank them on the rub, That if you try it thither, you will catch a lofty snub. I don't mean but what a lady may reply to what you say, But I bet you cannot win her into wedding in a day." A singular emotion enveloped Mr. Dale ; One would say he seemed confuseled, for his countenance was pale: At first there came an angry look, and when that look did get, He larft a wild and hollow larf, and said, " I take the bet. " The brave deserve the lovely every woman may be won ; "What men have fixed before us may by other men be done. You will lose your thousand dollars. For the first time in mv life I have gazed upon a woman whom I wish to make my wife." Like a terrier at a rabbit, with his hat upon his eyes Mr. Dale, the awful masher, went head-longing at the prize, Looking rather like a party simply bent to break the peace, Mr. Grale, with smiles, expected just a yell for the police. Oh ! what are women made of ? Oh ! what can women be ? From Eves to Jersey Lilies what bewildering sights we see ! One listened on the instant to all the Serpent said ; The other paid attention right away tc Floral Ned. VOL. I. E 130 POETS AT PLAY: With a blow as with a hammer the intruder broke the ice, And the proud and queenly beauty seemed to think it awful nice. Mr. Gale, as he beheld it, with a trembling heart began To realize he really was a most astonished man. Shall I tell you how he wooed her ? shall I tell you how he won? How they had a hasty wedding ere the evening was done ? For when all things were considered, the fond couple thought it best Such things are not uncommon in the wild and rapid West. Dale obtained the thousand dollars, and then vanished with the dream. Gale stayed in town with sorrow, like a spoon behind the cream ; Till one morning in the paper he read, though not in rhymes, How a certain blooming couple had been married fifty times ! How they wandered o'er the country; how the bridegroom used to bet He would wed the girl that evening, how he always pulled the debt; How his eyes were large and greensome ; how, in fact, to end the tale, Their very latest victim was a fine young man named Gale. CHARLES G. LELAND : \Brand-yew Ballads. AGED FORTY. No Times ! no book ! and I must wait A full half-hour ere Doldrum comes! Brown would find pictures in the grate, Jones watch the twirling of his thumbs : Both noble aims; but, after all, E'en such delights are apt to pall. Confound the stupid place ! What shall I do the time to pass? I'll give five minutes to the glass, And contemplate my face. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 131 My face ! Is this long strip of skin, Which bears of worry many a trace, Of sallow hue, of features thin, This mass of seams and lines, my face ? The aspect's bad, the glass is wrong, Some cheating ray must fall along The surface of the plate! I've known myself now forty year, Yet never saw myself appear In such a sorry state. I'll speak to Doldrum wait awhile ! Let's think a while before deciding. Of late I've noticed Nelly's smile Has been less kind and more deriding. Can I be growing old ? Can youth Have said farewell ? The simple truth I'll have, no doubt concealing ; Straightway I'll put my heart to school, And though I find I've played the fool, I'll speak out every feeling. When introduced to Minnie Blair Last night on waltzing purpose bent, I saw that rosebud smile and stare, Half pity, half astonishment. " Engaged," she murmured as I bowed, But ere I mingled with the crowd, I caught her muttered words " / waltz Avith him ! How can Grace bring Me such a, pompous stout old thing ? She's really too absurd ! " A " stout old thing ! " Oh, Lucy, love, Ten long years resting in the grave, Whose simply-sculptured tomb above The feathery-tufted grasses wave Couldst thou bear such a term applied To him who won thee for his bride, Whose heart for thee nigh broke ? Round whose slim neck thine arm would twine, As round the elm the eglantine, Or ivy round the oak. 132 POETS AT PLAY: 'Twas but last week, in Truefitt's shop, A man, with aspect grave and calm, Said I was " thinning at the top," And recommended some one's Balm ! What "balm in Gilead" could recall The mother's touch that used to fall Upon my childish brow ? That soft sweet hand that used to toy With thick curl clusters of her boy ? Where is that mother now? Gone is my hack, my gallant roan, Too hot for use. I've in his place A cob " well up to fourteen stone," Of ambling gait and easy pace. The arm that stopped the Slasher's blow, Or clave Ehine's flood, hangs listless now, No grist to any " mill." The legs so stalwart and so strong Which, all unfaltering, climbed Mont Blanc, Now ache at Primrose Hill. My heart ! my what? ten years have passed, Ten dreary years of London life And worldly selfishness, since last My heart was quickened in Love's strife : A look would make my pulses dance ; How swift would dim my bright eye's glance When Grief turned on her main ! Naught makes my eye now brightly glow Save Miimm's Moselle, or Clos Vaugeot, Or Veuve Cliquot's champagne. Yet I have known ay, I have known, If e'er 'twere given to mortal here, The pleasure of the lowered tone, The whisper in the trellised ear; The furtive touch of tiny feet, The heart's wild effervescing beat, The maddened pulse's play : Those hearts are now all still and cold, Those feet are 'neath the churchyard mould, And I have had my day ! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 133 What ! quiv'ring lips and eyelids wet At recollection of the dead ! No well-bred man should show regret Though youth, though love, though hope be fled! Ha ! Doldrum, man, come back ! What news ? So Frank's gazetted to the Blues ! And Jack's got his divorce. I'll toddle down towards the club ; A cutlet then our usual " rub " You'll join us there, of course ! EDMUND YATES : Temple Bar. MORNING MEDITATIONS. LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying- For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ? I'm not a trout. Talk not to me of bees and such like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time. To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought, His steeds that paw impatiently about, Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out! Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl; What then, if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl? 134 POETS AT PLAY: My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs " Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs ? " Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon. An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, " To meet the sun upon the upland lawn " Well-^-he died young. With charwomen such early hours agree, And sw'eeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be "All up all up!" So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon ; A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon. THOMAS HOOD : Poetical NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT. Not a sous had he got.^-not a guinea or note, And he look'd 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. HUMOEO US KECITA TIOXS. 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 Would " 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 we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory. R. H. BARHAM : Inyoldsby Legends. 136 POETS AT PLAY: THE GHOST-PLAYER. A BALLAD. TOM GOODWIN was an actor-man, Old Drury's pride and boast In all the light and sprite-ly parts, Especially the Ghost. Now Tom was very fond of drink, Of almost every sort, Comparative and positive, From porter up to port. But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff For any man to sup; For when it fails to pull him down, It's sure to blow him up. And so it fared with ghostly Tom, "Who day by day was seen A-swelling, till (as lawyers say) He fairly lost his lean. At length the manager observed He'd better leave his post, And said he played the very deuce Whene'er he played the Ghost. 'Twas only t'other night he saw A fellow swing his hat, And heard him cry, " By all the gods ! The Ghost is getting fat ! " T would never do, the case was plain, His eyes he couldn't shut; Ghosts shouldn't make the people laugh, And Tom was quite a butt. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Tom's actor friends said ne'er a word To cheer his drooping heart; Though more than one was burning up With zeal to " take his part." Tom argued very plausibly ; He said he didn't doubt That Hamlet's father drank and grew, In years, a little stout. And so, 'twas natural, he said, And quite a proper plan, To have his spirit represent A portly sort of man. 'Twas all in vain : the manager Said he was not in sport, And, like a gen'ral, bade poor Tom Surrender up his forte. He'd do perhaps in heavy parts, Might answer for a monk, Or porter to the elephant, To carry round his trunk; But in the Ghost his day was past, He'd never do for that; A Ghost might just as well be dead As plethoric and fat. Alas! next day poor Tom was found As stiff as any post; For he had lost his character, And given up the Ghost. JOHN GODFREY SAXE : Poems. E 5 133 POETS AT PLAY: THE QUAKER'S MEETING. A TRAVELLER wended the wilds among, With a purse of gold and a silver tongue ; His hat it was broad and all drab were his clothes, For he hated high colours except on his nose, And he met with a lady, the story goes. Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. The damsel she cast him a beamy blink, And the traveller nothing was loth, I think, Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the Quaker he grinned for he'd very good teeth. And he ask'd, " Art thee going to ride on the heath ? " Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid, " As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid ; For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound, And I wouldn't ' for anything ' I should be found, For between you and me I have five hundred pound." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " If that is thee* own, dear," the Quaker he said, " I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed; And I have another five hundred just now, In the padding that's under my saddle-bow, And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow ! " Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew, " Your offer I'll take though I'll not take you." A pistol she held at the Quaker's head " Now give me your gold or I'll give you my lead 'Tis under the saddle I think you said." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. * The inferior class of Quakers make thee serve not only in its true grammatical use, but also do the duty of thou, thy, and thine. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 139 The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow, And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now, As he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride, His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, And the eye that shamrn'd tender, now only defied. Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she, " To take all this filthy temptation from thee, Tor Mammon deceiveth and beauty is fleeting ; Accept from thy maoid'n a right loving greeting, For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. "And hark ! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye, Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, Remember the one that you met on the heath, Her name's Jimmy Barlow I tell to your teeth ! " Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " Friend James," quoth the Quaker, " pray listen to me, For thou canst confer a great favour, d'ye see ; The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend, But my master's and truly on thee I depend, To make it appear I my trust did defend." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair." So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat, And then through his collar quite close to his throat ; "Now one through my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, " I vote." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. " I have but a brace," said bold Jim, " and they're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent." " Then" said Ephraim, producing his pistols " just give My five hundred pounds back or as sure as you live I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. IK) POETS AT PLAY: Jim Barlow was diddled and, though he was game, He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers, And when the whole story got into the papers, They said that " the thieves were no match for the Quakers." Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. SAMUEL LOTER Poetical Works. THE LAY OF A LORD MAYOR'S DAY. THICKER and thicker, year after year, Hideous fog enveloped the city ; Denser and denser, drear and more drear, Till every one said, " What a terrible pity ! " " Why cannot something be done to abate This foul, this fearsome funeral pall ? We would willingly pay an additional rate To be rid of this misery once for all." Then a Health Society made a first start, And got up a Show for Smoke Abatement ; But, in spite of good heads and an Ernest Hart, It ended in smoke and an empty statement. Then Thinkers (and Tinkers) wrote to the Times, And the Post, Globe, and Standard took up the cry, And rung loud peals like the Christmas chimes ; Still nothing was done ! hear the reason why : Bumbledom's Beadle stood in the breach, And fought for the fog like a champion true ; And said, " Whatever you write or teach, I'll take good care you shall nothing do." But at length and at last there came a day A Ninth of November, dark and drizzly When the Lord Mayor's Show, so gaudy and gay, Loomed thro' the darkness, ghastly and grizzly. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 141 For the fog grew thicker, and blacker the gloom, Till nobody saw that Lord Mayor's Show, As it moved along like a pageant of doom, Carefully, fearfully, solemnly slow. Thicker and thicker then fell the night ; When " Ministers " came to that Lord Mayor's Dinner, 'Tvvas so dark that, despite electric light, You couldn't discern a saint from a sinner. In this compound of vapour and sulphur and smoke, With a fine rich flavour of sewer and gases, The guests in the hall could do nothing but choke, Or helplessly bray like lunatic asses. They sat them down to the turtle-feast, And partially got their breath again ; If they couldn't talk, they could eat at least, And wet their throats with dry champagne. But closer and closer clung the fog As they dismally sat at that dismal revel, Until the great Hall of Gog-Magog Seemed wholly and fully possessed by the devil. Then my great Lord Mayor got up to speak, But he choked and coughed till black in the face : Even Gr.O.M. could not utter a squeak, And my Lord Mayor's chaplain couldn't say grace. Then a panic seized on the stifling throng, And they rose from their seats in confused array, Surging and struggling and groping along, Hopelessly trying to find their way. Their carriages stood in a huddled mass, From which not one could be extricated. So thus on that night it came to pass That the Lords of Misrule were asphyxiated. WILLIAM ALFRED GI-BBS. 142 POETS AT PLAY: GETTING UP. HAVE you brought my boots, Jemima? Leave them at my chamber-door. Does the water boil, Jemima ? Place it also on the floor. Eight o'clock already, is it ? How's the weather ; pretty fine ? Eight is tolerably early ; I can get away by nine. Still I feel a little sleepy, though I came to bed at one. Put the bacon on, Jemima ; see the eggs are nicely done ! I'll be down in twenty minutes or, if possible, in less ; I shall not be long, Jemima, when I once begin to dress. She is gone, the brisk Jemima ; she is gone, and little thinks How the sluggard yearns to capture yet another forty winks. Since the bard is human only not an early village cock Why should he salute the morning at the hour of eight o'clock ? Stifled be the voice of Duty ; Prudence, prythee cease to chide ; While I turn me softly, gently, round upon my other side. Sleep, resume thy downy empire ; reassert thy sable reign ! Morpheus, why desert a fellow ? Bring those poppies hern What's the matter now, Jemima ? Nine o'clock ? It cannot be ! Hast prepared the eggs, the bacon, and the matutinal tea ? Take away the jug, Jemima. Go, replenish it anon ; Since the charm of its caloric must be very nearly gone. She has left me. Let me linger till she re-appears again. Let my lazy thoughts meander in a free and easy vein. After Sleep's profounder solace, naught refreshes like the doze. Should I tumble off, no matter : she will wake me, I suppose. Bless me, is it you, Jemima ? Mercy on us, what a knock ! Can it be I can't believe it actually ten o'clock ? I will out of bed and shave me. Fetch me warmer water up ! Let the tea be strong, Jemima. I shall only want a cup. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 143 Stop n minute ! I remember some appointment, by-the-way. 'T would have brought me mints of money : 'twas for ten o'clock to-day. Let me drown my disappointment, Slumber, in thy seventh heaven ! You may go away, Jemima. Come and call me at eleven ! HENRY S. LEIGH: Strains from the Strand. MY PARTNER. 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, AVhen 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 Grey " Was positively charming, And " Almacks " 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 that last new thing of Hook's Was vastly entertaining: And Laura said " I doat on books, Because it's always raining ! " I talked of Music's gorgeous fane ; I raved about Kossini, Hoped Ronzi would come back again, And criticised Pacini ; 144 POETS AT PLAY: I wished the chorus-singers dumb, The trumpets more pacific, And eulogised Brocard's a plomb, And A*oted Paul " terrific ! " What cared she for Medea's pride, Or Desdemona's sorrow ? " Alas ! " my beauteous listener sighed, " We must have rain 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, 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 hound:- 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 falser lover ; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together : My shuddering partner cried " del ! 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; HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 145 A politician ? It was vain To quote the morning paper ; The horrid phantoms came again, Kain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour. Flat Flattery was my only chance : I acted deep devotion, Found magic in her very 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 ! W. M. PBAED : Poems, Vol. II. THE BUMBOAT WOMAN'S STORY. I'M old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief, My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief ! For terrible sights I've seen, and dangers great I've run I'm nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done ! 146 POETS AT PLAY Ah ! I've been young in my time, and I've played the deuce with men ! I'm speaking of ten years past I was barely sixty then : My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet, Poll Pineapple's eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet ! A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships With apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips, And beer for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights, And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midship- mites. Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay, By far the sweetest of all was kind Lieutenant Belaye. Lieutenant Belaye commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun, She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun. . With a laudable view of enhancing his country's naval pride, When people inquired her size, Lieutenant Belaye replied, " Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy- ones ! " Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns. Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below, " Come down, little Buttercup, come " (for he loved to call me so), And he'd tell of the fights at sea in which he'd taken a part, And so Lieutenant Belaye won poor Poll Pineapple's heart ! But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he, " I'm ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea." And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day, For every Portsmouth maid loved good Lieutenant Belaye. And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops, And I bought an oilskin hat and a second-hand suit of slops, And I went to Lieutenant Belaye (and he never suspected me /) And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea. HUMOROUS EECITATIONS. 147 We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one, Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun. I'm sorry to say that I've heard that sailors sometimes swear, But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong, I declare. When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a " Messmate, ho ! What cheer ? " But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was " How do you do, my dear?" When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild " Dear me ! " Yet, 1 hough they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them slick : Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick ; And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair, They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair. They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run, And they screamed when Lieutenant Belaye discharged his only gun. And as he was proud of his gun such pride is hardly wrong The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long. They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said That Bill had a way of his own of making his lips look red That Joe looked quite his age or somebody might declare That Barnacle's long pig-tail was never his own own hair. Belaye would admit that his men were of no great use to him, " But, then," he would say, " there is little to do on a gunboat trim. I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew." 148 POETS AT PLAY: I saw him every day. How the happy moments sped ! Reef topsails ! Make all taut ! There's dirty weather ahead ! (I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun : In that case, I don't know whatever we should have done !) After a fortnight's cruise, we put into port one day, And off on leave for a week went kind Lieutenant Belaye, And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life), Lieutenant Belaye returned to his ship with a fair young wife ! He up, and he says, says he, " O crew of the Hot Cross Bun, Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one ! " And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits, And all fell down in so many separate fainting fits. And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, And lo ! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me, Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor's blue array, To follow the shifting fate of kind Lieutenant Belaye. It's strange to think that /should ever have loved young men, But I'm speaking of ten years past I was barely sixty then, And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow ! And poor Poll Pineapple's eyes have lost their lustre now ! W. S. GILBERT: Fifty 'Bab Ballads.' O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. Now, thin, what has become Of Thady O'Farrell? The honest poor man, What's delayin' him, why? O, the thrush might be dumb, And the lark cease to carol, Whin his music began To comether the sky. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 149 Three summers have gone Since we've missed you, O'Farrell, From the weddin', and pattern, And fair on the green. In an hour to St. John We'll light up the tar-barrel, But ourselves we're not flatter'n' That thin you'll be seen. O Thady, we've watched And we've waited for ever, To see your ould self Steppin' into the town Wid your corduroys patched So clane and so clever, And the pride of a Gruelph In your smile or your frown Till some one used say, "Here's Thady O'Farrell;" And " God bless the good man ! Let's go meet him," we cried; And wid this from their play, And wid that from their quarrel All the little ones ran To be first at your side. Soon amongst us you'd stand, Wid the ould people's blessin', As they lean'd from the door To look out at you pass ; Wid the colleen's kiss-hand, And the childer's caressin', And the boys fightin', sure, Which'd stand your first glass. Thin you'd give us the news Out of Cork and Killarney Had O'Flynn married yet? Was ould Mack still at work ? Shine's political views Barry's last bit of blarney And the boys you had met On their way to New York. 150 POETS AT PLAY: And whin from the sight Of our say-frontin' village The far-frownin' Blasquet Stole into the shade, And the warnin' of night Called up from the tillage The girl wid her basket, The boy wid his spade; By the glowin' turf-fire, Or the harvest moon's glory, In the close-crowded ring That around you we made, We'd no other desire Than your heart-thrillin' story, Or the song that you'd sing, Or the tune that you played. Till you'd axe, wid a leap From your seat in the middle, And a shuffle and slide Of your foot on the floor, " Will ye try a jig-step, Boys and girls, to the fiddle ? " "Faugh a baJlagh/'.we cried, "For a jig to be sure." For whinever you'd start Jig or planxty so merry, Wid their caperin' twirls And their rollickin' runs, Where's the heel or the heart In the kingdom of Kerry Of the boys and the girls Wasn't wid you at once ? So you'd tune wid a sound That arose as delightin' As our own colleen's voice, So sweet and so clear, As she coyly wint round, Wid a curtsey invitin' The best of the boys For the fun to prepare. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 151 For a minute or so, Till the couples were ready, On your shoulder and chin The fiddle lay quite; Then down came your bow So quick and so steady, And away we should spin To the left or the right! Thin how Micky Dease Forged steps was a wonder, And well might our women Of Eoseen be proud Such a face, such a grace, And her darlin' feet under Like two swallows skimmin' The skirts of a cloud. Thin, Thady, ochone ! Come back, for widout you We are never as gay As we were in the past. O Thady, mavrone, Why, thin, I wouldn't doubt you. Huzzah ! boys, huzzah ! Here's O'Farrell at last! ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES: SongsofKillarney. THE TIGHT BOOTS. " MY boots are tight : the hour is late ; My faltering footsteps deviate : And through the stillness of the night A wail is heard ' My boots are tight ! ' 152 POETS AT PLAY: " O weary hour ! O wretched woe ! It's only half-past three, or so. We've not had much ; I feel all right, Except my boots; they're very tight. " Old friend ! I love you more and more, Though we have met but once before. Since then I've had a deal of sorrow ; You'll come and dine with me to-morrow ? " What's this ? A tear ? I do not think They gave us half enough to drink. The moon up there looks precious queer, She's winking. Ha ! Another tear ! " I'm not a man who courts a row, But you insulted me, just now. By Jove, my friend, for what you've said, I've half a mind to punch your head. " You won't forget to-morrow, eh ? I'm sure to be at home all day. Policeman, have you got a light ? Thanks. Yes, they are, as you say, tight. " The man I like's the sort of man A man can trust, you un'erstan'. I call that man a man, you know : He is a man. Precisely so. " If any man addresses me, No matter who that man may be ; I always say, 'twixt man and man, This man's a man you un'erstan'. "The houses have a quivering look. That corner one distinctly shook; I've got another fellow's hat ; Well, never mind ! all's one for that. " The gas goes leaping up and down, We can't be right for Cam den Town. This road went east the other day ; I think south-west's a shorter way. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 153 " There used to be a place near here Where one could get a glass of beer. I wish we had some bottled Bass What is the matter with the gas ? " There's hardly wind enough to blow The reedy lamp-posts to and fro : And yet you see how each one leans I wonder what the deuce it means ? " My pipe's gone out : the air is chill ; Is this Mile End or Maida Hill ? Remember six o'clock we dine : Bring several friends say eight or nine. " The tavern bar was warm and bright, And cheerful with a ruddy light. Let's go back there and stop all night; I can't walk home : my boots are tight." GODFREY TURNER : Fun. BALLAD OF THE MERMAID. BY HANS BREITMANN. DER noble Ritter * Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein, Rode out mit shpeer und helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Khine. Und oop dere rose a meer-maid, Vot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, " Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone ? " Und he says, " I rides in de creenwood, Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I gooms into ein Gasthaus, f Und dere I trinks some peer." * Knight, Sir. f Tavern, or wine-shop. 154 POETS AT PLAY: Uncl den outsphoke de maiden Yot hadn't got nodings on : " I ton't dink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone. " You'd petter coom down in de wasser, Vhere dere's heaps of dings to see, Uncl haf a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me. " Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin', Und you catches dem efery one : " So sang dis wasser maiden Vot hadn't got nodings on. " Dere ish drunks all full mit money In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by doonder ! To shimmerin' * crowns of gold. " Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches ! Shoost see dese diamant rings ! Goom down and vill your bockets, Und I'll giss you like efery dings. " Vot you vantsh mit your schnaps f und lager ? Coorn down into der Rhine ! Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine ! " Dat fetched him J he shtood all shpell-pound ! She pooled his coat-tails down, She drawed him oonder der wasser De maiden mit nodings on. CHAKLES G. LELA^D : Hans Ereitmann's Ballads. Notes by 3. CAMDEN HOTTEN (Ward, Lock & Co.} * ' Schimmern : ' Ger. To glitter, to sparkle, to glimmer r 'Schnapps:' Ger. Drains, drinks. 1 'Brought him to a determination,' emphatically. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 155 BITS OF BUNKUM. WE have a first-rate reputation, We're 'cuter and smarter, by gum ! Than any European nation, We air, sir, I tell you, we're "some." At bargains, receivin' or partin', In buyin' or sellin' of " stuff," We know just a trifle, that's sartin', And that trifle air quite enough. Your noospapers tell of explosions, And make a tremenjeous shine, But all I can say is, " their notions Air somethin' quite different from mine." T'other night with a friend I was sleepin' A gunpowder mill was next door It bust up; when I says, "Do be keepin' Them legs of yourn still, and don't snore." When I whistle, my marvellous flutin' Licks holler the birds of the air, For the moment that I begin tootin' The critters shut up in despair. I was warblin' one night by the river And shakin' and makin' such trills, That a nightingale near, with a shiver, Suicided hisself with his quills. It would take you all day, sir, by gracious ! To walk round a full-sized Yankee cheese, And the mites air that big and voracious They'd swaller you down like green peas. And a Britisher one day remarkin' Our fruit, said, " Your pumpkins air small." " Why, stranger," says I " You air larkin', Them's currants, not pumpkins at all." ESDAILE KlXGDOX. 156 POETS AT PLAY: BARNEY BRALLAGHAN'S COURTSHIP. 'TwAS on a windy night, At two o'clock in the morning, An Irish lad so tight, All wind and weather scorning, At Judy Callaghan's door, Sitting upon the palings, His love-tale he did pour, And this was part of his waitings : Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. Oh ! list to what I say : Charms you've got like Venus ; Own your love you may, There's but the wall between us. You lie fast asleep Snug in bed and snoring ; Bound the house I creep, Your hard heart imploring. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. I've got a pig and a sow, I've got a sty to sleep 'em ; A calf and a brindled cow, And a cabin, too, to keep 'em ; Sunday hat and coat, An old grey mare to ride on ; Saddle and bridle to boot, Which you may ride astride on. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 157 I've got an acre of ground, I've got it set with praties; I've got of 'baccy a pound, I've got some tea for the ladies ; I've got the ring to wed, Some whisky to make us gaily; I've got a feather-bed And a handsome new shillelagh. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. You've got a charming eye, You've got some spelling and reading; You've got, and so have I, A taste for genteel breeding; You're rich, and fair, and young, As everybody's knowing ; You've got a decent tongue, Whene'er 'tis set a-going. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. For a wife till death I am willing to take ye; But, och ! I waste my breath, The devil himself can't wake ye. 'Tis just beginning to rain, So I'll get under cover ; To-morrow I'll come again, And be your constant lover. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. Ton HUDSOS: Bentley Ballads. 158 POETS AT PLAY: FRIAR CLAUS'S PANEGYRIC ON WINE. SCENE : Convent of HIESCHAU the convent cellar. Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines That produce these various sorts of wines ! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent ! Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes ; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind That are always distressed in body and mind ! And at times it really does me good To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling for ever under ground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound ; Each one old, and brown with mould. But filled to the lips with the ardour of youth, With the latent power and love of truth, And with virtues fervent and manifold. I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine, Then in all cellars, far and wide, The oldest, as well as the newest, wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment, With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long -in darkness pent, And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the sun; HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 159 As in the bosom of us poor friars, The tumult of half-subdued desires For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before, To open awhile the prison-door, And give these restless spirits vent. Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone ! Is of the quick and not of the dead ! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke. It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And cost some hundred florins the ohm ; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain ! At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Wiirzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine ! They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. In particular Wiirzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. 160 POETS AT PLAY: (Fills a flagon) Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and sings ! What a delicious fragrance springs From the deep flagon while it fills, As of hyacinths and daffodils ! Between this cask and the Abbot's lips Many have been the sips and slips; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine ; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition ; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul ! (He drinks.) O cordial delicious ! O soother of pain ! It flashes like sunshine into my brain! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends ! And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be; But within, what a spirit of deep unrest ! What a seething and simmering in his breast ! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart ! Let me unloose this button of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood. (Sets it running.) See ! how its currents gleam and shine, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews ; HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 161 Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach ; Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach ! The beautiful town that gives us wine With the fragrant odour of Muscadine! I should deem it wrong to let this pass Without first touching my lips to the glass, For here in the midst of the current I stand, Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver. (He drinks.) Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot And, after all, it was not a crime, For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffelsheim. A jolly old toper! who at a pull Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, And ask with a laugh, when that was done, If the fellow had left the other one ! This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars, who sit at the lower board, And cannot distinguish bad from good, And are far better off than if they could, Being rather the rude disciples of beer Than of anything more refined and dear ! (Fills the other flagon and departs.) HEJTKY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW : The Golden Legend* 162 POETS AT PLAY: THE TOWN OF NICE. (MAY, 1874.) THE town of Nice ! the town of Nice ! Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung, And never gave me any peace, The whole year round when I was young ! Eternal winter chills it yet, It's always cold, and mostly wet. Lord Brougham sate on the rocky brow, Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis, But wouldn't like to sit there now, Unless 'twere warmer than it is ; I went to Cannes the other day, But found it much too damp to stay. The mountains look on Monaco, And Monaco looks on the sea ; And, playing there some hours ago, I meant to win enormously ; But, tho' my need of coin was bad, I lost the little that I had. Ye have the southern charges yet Where is the southern climate gone ? Of two such blessings, why forget The cheaper and the seemlier one ? My weekly bill my wrath inspires ; Think ye I meant to pay for fires? Why should I stay? No worse art thou, My country ! on thy genial shore The local east-winds whistle now, The local fogs spread more and more ; But in the sunny south, the weather Beats all you know of put together. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 163 I cannot eat I cannot sleep The waves are not so blue as I; Indeed, the waters of the deep Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky : I get dyspepsia when I dine Oh, dash that pint of country-wine ! HERMAN C. MERIVALE : TJie White Pilgrim. LOBLOLLY LUKE. A SAILOR SONG. OH ! Loblolly Luke was picked up by a fluke By a chap on a charity tack, Who sent him atrip in a mercantile ship For to give him the mariner's knack ; But Luke, d'ye see, was a landsman, and he Could never learn much, though he tried, And ever so tiny a swell on the briny Would send him away to the side. 'Twas seldom he knew what was said by the crew, 'Twas seldom they followed his drift, For the slang of the seas in but little agrees With the slang that's the landlubber's gift. Imagine their state when he called each a " mate," And christened the skipper " the boss ! " And as they'd begin (what they called) to "turn in," Declared he was going to " doss ! " He looked very hard when they spoke of " the yard," And thought of policemen and cells ; His state was sublime when they told him the time In the accurate number of " bells." He thought that they still were a-calling him " Bill " Whenever they shouted " belay ! " And he guiltily shrunk when they mentioned his " bunk,' For he meant to be cutting away ! 164 POETS AT PLAY: When they looked to the clouds, and referred to " the shrouds," It gave him the painfullest shock, And the " braces " and " stays " he for several days Believed to be hosiers' stock ! The " cockpit," he thought, was a place where they fought (Away from the law-making sticks) Occasional matches, while under the hatches They bred the belligerent chicks ! The cap'n he frowned, and he wished " the swab " drowned, But didn't see how that could be, For he'd made it appear unmistekeably clear That he never was meant for the sea ; But at last (the young willin' !) they caught him a iillin' The pipe of the bos'n with shag ; So they flung out a ratlin', and pointed a Gatlin', And sent him ashore with a bag. But you'll quite understand he was spoiled for the land Along of what little he knew ; So they made him a skipper aboard of a clipper As plied between Chelsea and Kew. But the river went low in the summer, you know, Which ended Luke's loblolly yarns, For he struck on the sands, and went down with all hands, In two feet of water off Barnes. Jonx W. HCCGHTOX : Fun. NEXT MORNING. IF some one's head's not very bright, At least the owner bears no malice. . Who was it pulled my nose last night, The quarrel was not much, I think, For such a deadly arbitration, Some joke about the "missing link" And all the rest inebriation. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 165 In vino veritas ! which means A man's a very ass in liquor ; The " thief that slowly steals our brains " Makes nothing but the temper quicker. Next morning brings a train of woes, But finds the passions much sedater Who was it, now, that pulled my nose ? I'd better ring and ask the waiter. H. CHOLMON DELEY-PENNELL : From Grave to Gay. TO MY HOUSEMAID. A CRY OF ANGUISH. THIS will never do, Jemima. Clearly this will never do ! Let me put the matter frankly / must get away, or you. Vanish ! I insist upon it. Leave my den and me alone. (Pray excuse me if I wound you by my rather angry tone.) Yes, I see the crust of ages on the surface of my chairs : I behold a paper chaos grown around me unawares. Your domesticated optic obviously abhors the sight : Mine prefers a crusty chaos. Hence, away ; I wish to write. Know you not I hate a duster know you not I loathe a broom When it seeks to break the silence of my lone back sitting- room ? 'Tis the sanctum of the Muses ; here I build the lofty rhyme, Ev'ry morn before my luncheon then again till dinner-time. Here I quaff my Aganippe, here my Helicon I swill ! Here I mount my own Parnassus, pine and laurel-covered hill. Would you hither stray to " fidget" wastingall my precious time ? If you only knew, Jemima, what a hill it is to climb ! 166 POETS AT PLAY: Other duties are before you else I very much mistake. Have you never bells to answer ? Are there never beds to make ? Has the butcher been for orders? Hark, was that a knock below ? Take away the broom, Jemima. Pick your duster up and go. I forgive you this intrusion. Cleanliness is not a crime ; Still, I fain would have its revels practised at some other time. If in all my mother-lingo there be any words I hate, They are found in two expressions " clearing up " and " set- ting straight." Think me not a foe to order ; count me not a slave to dirt (If you judge me thus, Jemima, I shall be extremelv hurt.) There's a method in my madness, though unhinged my brain you deem, Trust me, I am not so brutal or so loathsome as I seem. I've arranged yon mass of papers in my own peculiar way. I can find one in a minute. Wherefore make me waste a day '; If you think my .chairs are grimy (as I've not a doubt you do) Don't imagine, I implore you, that my thoughts are grimy too. I am now and then, Jemima, prone to meditative mood ; Partial, I may say, to basking in the bliss of solitude. AVhile I weave the dainty dactyl, or the flowing anapcest, I must be alone, I tell you, unannoyed by man or beast. If you saw me count my digits, if you saw me bite my quill, Might you not be justly doubtful of my fluency or skill ? Let me only linger lonely in the " luxury of woe." Mind you shut the door behind you. Get away, Jemima Go.' HESEY S. LEIGH : Strains from the Strand. MRS. JUDGE JENKINS. (BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLEK.") M.vrn MULLER, all that summer day, Baked the meadow sweet with hay ; Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the judge would come again. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 167 But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered "-Ha-ow?" And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together. Old Muller burst into tears, and then Begged that the judge would lend him " ten ; " For trade was dull, and wages low, And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow. And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the judge's bride. But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated ; And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge's halL And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain. And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change : For Maud grew broad and red and stout ! And the waist that his arm once clasped about Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane. 168 POETS AT PLAY: And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back. For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred ; For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. Alas for maiden ! also for judge ! And the sentimental, that's one-half " fudge ; " For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore. And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace. If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, "It might have been," More sad are those we daily see : "It is, but hadn't ought to be." BRET HAKTE : Poetical Works. MY FAMILIAR. Ecce iterum Crispinus ! AGAIX I hear that creaking step ! He's rapping at the door! Too well I know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who comes but never goes! HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 109 He drops into my easy-chair, And asks about the news; He peers into my manuscript, And gives his candid views ; He tells me where he likes the line, And where he's forced to grieve ; He takes the strangest liberties, But never takes his leave ! He reads my daily paper through Before I've seen a word; He scans the lyric (that I wrote) And thinks it quite absurd ; He calmly smokes my last cigar, And coolly asks for more ; He opens everything he sees Except the entry door ! He talks about his fragile health, And tells me of the pains He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne'er complains; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay ; On themes like those away he goes But never goes away ! He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote ; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote ; He thinks the writer did me wrong ; He'd like to run him through ! He says a thousand pleasant things But never says " Adieu ! " Whene'er he comes that dreadful man Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an Autumn rain, He'll last throughout the day. 170 POETS AT PLAY: In vain I speak of urgent tasks ; In vain 1 scowl and pout ; A frown is no extinguisher, It does not put him out ! I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes ! Jon;.- GODFREY SAXE : THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. OLD Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall, To market drove his wain : Along the road it went, well stowed With sacks of golden grain. His station he took, but in vain did he look For a customer all the morn ; Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, They sold off all their corn. Then home he went, sore discontent, And many an oath he swore, And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse, When they met him at the door. Next market-day he drove away To the town his loaded wain : The farmers all, save Farmer Wall, They sold off all their grain. HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS. 171 No bidder lie found, and he stood astound At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone; Each man his several way. He stalked by his load along the road; His face with wrath was red : His arms he tossed, like a good man crossed In seeking his daily bread. His face was red, and fierce was his tread, And with lusty voice cried he, " My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, If he'll my chapman be." These works he spoke just under an oak Seven hundred winters old ; And he straight was aware of a man sitting there On the roots and grassy mould. The roots rose high, o'er the green-sward dry, And the grass around was green, Save just the space of the stranger's place, Where it seemed as fire had been. All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot Had swung and bubbled there : The grass was marred, the roots were charred, And the ivy stems were bare. The stranger up-sprung : to the farmer he flung A loud and friendly hail, And he said, " I see well, thou hast corn to sell, And I'll buy it on the nail." The twain in a trice agreed on the price ; The stranger his earnest paid, And with horses and wain to come for the grain His own appointment made. The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked His way right merrily on : He struck up a song as he trudged along, For joy that his job was done. 172 POETS AT PLAY: His children fair lie danced in the air; His heart with joy was big ; He kissed his wife ; he seized a knife, He slew a sucking pig. The faggots burned, the porkling turned And crackled before the fire; And an odour arose that was sweet in the nose Of a passing ghostly friar. He tirled at the pin, he entered in, He sate down at the board ; The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, And the humming ale out-poured. The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, He chirped like a bird in May; The farmer told how his corn he had sold As he journeyed home that day. The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale : " Oh, hapless elf ! 'tis the fiend himself To whom thou hast made thy sale ! " The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught ; He crossed himself amain : " Oh, slave of pelf ! 'tis the devil himself To whom thou hast sold thy grain ! " And sure as the day, he'll fetch them away, With the corn which thou hast sold, If thou let him pay o'er one tester more Than thy settled price in gold." The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, The wife to a long outcry; Their relish for pig and ale was flown; The friar alone picked every bone, And drained the flagon dry. The friar was gone : the morning dawn Appeared, and the stranger's wain Came to the hour, with six-horse power, To fetch the purchased grain. HUMOROUS EECITATIONS. 173 The horses were black : on their dewy track Light steam from the ground up-curled; Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke, And their tails like torches whirled. More dark and grim, in face and limb, Seemed the stranger than before, As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, Drew up to the farmer's door. On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, As he seized the sacks of grain ; And, one by one, till left were none, He tossed them on the wain. And slily he leered as his hand up-reared A purse of costly mould, Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, Shone forth the glistering gold. The farmer held out his right hand stout, And drew it back with dread; For in fancy he heard each warning word The supping friar had said. His eye was set on the silver net; His thoughts were in fearful strife ; When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait AYas snatched by his loving wife. And, swift as thought, the stranger caught The farmer his waist around, And at once the twain and the loaded wain Sank through the rifted ground. The gable-end wall of Manor Hall Fell in ruins on the place : That stone -heap old the tale has told To each succeeding race. The wife gave a cry that rent the sky At her goodman's downward flight : But she held the purse fast, and a glance she c;is To see that all was right. 174 POETS AT PLAY: 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray, And the gold was good and true; Which made her declare, that " his dealings were fair, To give the devil his due." She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, From her fond embraces riven : But she won the vows of a younger spouse With the gold which the fiend had given. Now, farmers, beware of what oaths you swear When you cannot sell your corn; Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh, With hidden tail and horn. And, with good heed, the moral a-read, Which is of this tale the pith, If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell, You may sell yourself therewith. And if by mishap you fall in the trap, Would you bring the fiend to shame, Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes, Lock up your frugal dame. The Author of HEADLONG HALL : Eentley Ballads. A TRAVELLER'S TALE. (SUGGESTED BY SOME SUMMER EXCURSIONS.) IT was a boy a London boy with matches in his hand, Who begged of me to buy a box one evening in the Strand. I always talk to ragged boys, it's just an author's whim ; They often have a tale to tell that's why I talked to him. " I wants a tanner more ! " he said, while counting up his coin, " Our treat's to-morrow mornin', sir we're going to Bouloin. We has ' dejooner ' board the ship, and ' deenay ' on the shore, But still one wants a bob to spend I wants a tanner more ! " HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 175 " Boulogne ! " I cried ; good gracious, boy ! I must have heard you wrong ; To what school, may I ask you, does your Excellence belong ? " " The ragged school, o' course !" replied that box of matches youth " D'ye think we ain't a-goin' there ? I'm tellin' yer the truth ! " Why, mother's in the workus, sir ; last year they had their treat They went as far as Hamsterdam, to what they calls a feet ; And father, what's a imbecile, was took right up the Rhine That's where our treat '11 be next year I hear as 'ow it's fine. " My sister goes to Sunday school ; her treat '11 be Mount Blank- Six hundred on 'em goin', sir, with banners all in rank ! I wish I went to Sunday school, to have a treat like that I see myself a-top of it, with paper round my 'at ! " The Mission what's in Leman-street, as takes the gutter kids, Towards their summer 'oliday 'as got no end of quids ; I hear as on a monster ship their flag will be unfurled They're goin' to take them gutter kids a woy'ge around the world ! " I gave the boy what coin I had, and left him with a frown, For I was not a gutter boy, and had to stay in town. And as that summer night in vain I tried asleep to drop, I thought Where will this growing taste for foreign travel stop? GEOKGE R. SIMS : The Lifeboat, etc. BY THE GLAD SEA WAVES. AN IDYLL. " O gai ! " French exclamation of delight. HE stood on his head on the wild sea-shore, And joy was the cause of the act, For he felt as he never had felt before, Insanely glad, in fact. 170 POETS AT PLAY: And why? In that vessel that left the bay His mother-in-law had sail'd To a tropical country far away, Where tigers and snakes prevail'd. And more than one of his creditors too Those objects of constant dread Had taken berths in that ship " Curlew," Whose sails were so blithely spread. Ah ! now he might hope for a quiet life, Which he never had known as yet, 'Tis true that he still possessed a wife, And was not quite out of debt.r But he watch'd the vessel, this singular chap, O'er the waves as she up'd and down'd, And he felt exactly like Louis Nap, When " the edifice was crown'd." Till over the blue horizon's edge She disappear'd from view, Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge, . And danced like a kangaroo. And many and many a joy some lay He peal'd o'er the sunset sea; Till down with a "fizz" went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea. WALTER PAEKE : Songs of Singularity. THE DEMON AND THE THIEF. BY Baghdad town a hermit dwelt Deep- in the gloom of his ivied cave, So very devout that he never went out, But pardon still for his sins did crave. His beard on the floor, for a yard or more, Reposed, while he lifted his hands in prayer, From his heels to his head, it could never be said, That he was in any part short of hair. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. Like a dropping well, the walls of his cell Were crusted with fungi, and reeking with damp, And often he'd sneeze, while he knelt on his knees, And his limbs and his joints were all twisted with cramp. Thus wrapped in devotion, he'd never a notion Of asking for something to wrap himself in, And heart, lungs, and liver did nothing but shiver, For no covering had they but his cuticle thin. He'd many disciples, who thought him a saint ; Then imagine their grief when they found him one day Stretched out on the cold wet floor in a faint, For a beggar had taken his dinner away. They remarked " Insha? Allah," expressive of pity, And wiped off the mud from his cheeks and his brow, Then, girding their loins, they returned to the city, And brought him a fine young buffalo cow. The holy hermit with many a prayer And blessing, their pious attention received, And asserted that now he'd the milk of this cow, His petty privations were wholly relieved. But a peasant, whose notions of " meum and tuum " Were remarkably shady, did promise and vow That by hook or by crook he would manage to do'em, And quietly slope with that buffalo cow. Not much did he care for curse or for prayer, Or the manifold books of the Doctors Four,* But he made the remark, " What a capital lark ! " And started away for the hermit's door. The sun went down, and the hill-tops brown Loomed hazy and dark through the twilight dim, When he was aware of Somebody there Who seemed to be bent upon walking with him. * The four doctors of Mussulman Law. 178 POETS AT PLAY: His hands, he observed, were remarkably curved, Tor each finger seemed tipped with a claw for a nail, And he felt some fear, as he noticed in rear A something that looked very like a tail. So after this cursory investigation Of his comrade's " ensemble " he felt rather blue, But ventured to ask, not without trepidation, " Well, stranger, and pray who the devil are you ? " " You're very polite," said that grim-looking wight, " But since I've a notion you're one of my flock, For once I'll let out what I'm going about, As I do not suppose 'twill your principles shock. " Though they call me the devil, I always am civil To people who don't interfere with me ; I'm a foe to strife, and a quiet life With my own inclinations would truly agree. " But the meekest doggie is sure to bite If you wantonly cabbage his poor little bone, And I think I've a right to a wee bit of spite Against meddlers who won't let my business alone. " There's a hermit here whom they call a Fakeer, Who really has given me cause for complaint ; He does nothing but pray both night and day, And these ignorant asses all think him a saint. " I should not object to his personal piety, For that is a part of his private affairs ; But he's taken upon him to badger and fly at me, And abuse my pet traps and my favourite snares. " Thus noon, night, and morning, he's always warning The people who flock to his wretched abode, That the deeds of the Turks are a joke to my works, And that I am a snake, and a fox, and a toad. " 'Tis true I might smile at comparisons vile, But somehow he seems to have found the way To the heart of that zany, the monkey-like many, Who, from pure imitation, have taken to pray. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 179 " So absinthe and gin, and all sorts of sweet sin Are quite at a discount ; and rogues in a row In temp'rance processions make touching confessions, And the spout and the tea-pot incessantly flow. " Good porter and swipes, and their long clay pipes By the ' mobile vulgus ' are wholly eschewed, This cranky old creature has shut up the theatre, And even Aunt Sally, I'm told, is tabooed. " As at each pious meeting he says life is fleeting, And that men should rejoice to be rid of their ills, I'll lend him a hand to the Promised Land With one of these very effectual pills. " To night when his gruel he's eagerly brewing, And poking the sticks, with his back to the door, And his old shrivelled knees o'er the embers are stewing, As though he had ne'er seen a fire before, " I'll quietly pop in, and speedily drop in The midst of the savoury steam and froth This pill, which he'll take, and in half a shake 'Twill help him, I trust, to his final broth. " And, now I've done speaking, you, sir, who are sneaking So gleefully up to the door of his cell, I should like to hear too what you're going to do, So please have the kindness your story to tell." " There's a trifling present," replied the peasant, " In the shape of a buffalo, young and fat, That a ' son,' as they term it, has given the hermit, A quadruped I am resolved to get at. " He's so wrapped in religion, a cow from a pigeon He could'nt distinguish ; now isn't it waste That on such an old muff a so beautiful buffalo Should be quite thrown away, when another has taste ? ' " Your reasoning really's most cogent," said Satan, " No caviller could find the least fault on that head, And, with logic so sound you may well keep your hat on Before all philosophers, living or dead." 180 POETS AT PLAY: Thus sweetly conversing, the hermit aspersing, To his lowly dwelling the pair drew near, But the stream of discourse soon changed its course, As you, gentle reader, shall shortly hear. Thus pondered the peasant, " 'Twould hardly be pleasant, If a hue and a hubbub were raised too soon, And the hermit in colic from draught diabolic Should bellow and howl to a very odd tune ; " For the folk would come running, and all my cunning Would never avail the cow to steal ; Or suppose I were nailed by his friends, and impaled I won't risk my bacon for beef, pork, or veal ! " ** I'd this nice little scheme on," reflected the demon, " When this blundering thief comes and puts in his oar For 'tis evident now that he can't steal the cow, Unless, in the first place, he opens the door ; " Now it's perfectly clear, should the hermit hear The door open, there'll be such a hullabaloo That perforce I must beat a disgraceful retreat, A thing which I make it a rule not to do. To the other said he, " Now, look here, do you see, You must first let me do for the holy man, Then off you can go with the fat buffalo ; To manage them both 'tis the only plan." " No, no," said the thief, " I should come to grief If I worked in a fashion so very absurd ; You've only to wait till I'm clear of the gate, And I'll venture to say I shall not be heard." 'Twas in vain that the devil held forth on the evil Of so palpably taking the cart for the horse ; In ideas on the causative equally positive, The thief of his logic maintained the force. Then, in wrangling and fretting their interest forgetting, The flame of dissension broke out 'twixt the two, And the fire of their anger grew stronger and stronger, And they cursed one another till all was blue. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 181 " Hallo, holy hermit," the peasant cried out, " This demon is seeking your reverence to slay ;" " This beast of a peasant," the demon 'gan shout, " Is intent upon driving your buff'lo away ! " The hermit arose from his couch of stone, And, hearing the outcry, began to bawl, Till the neighbours came tumbling in, everyone ; This flourished a boot-jack, that brandished an tiwl. Away went the devil, away ran the thief, Nor tarried a moment to make their adieus ; And they got such a fright on that terrible night, That never again did they plague the recluse. And these words, there's no doubt, that good hermit did spout, Which now to a proverb of proverbs have grown ; Videlicet, " Truly when rogues fall out, Honest folks generally come by their own ! " MAJOR NORTON POWVLETT : Eastern Legends and Stories. THE WIDOW AND HER BOY. THE mateless and the fatherless upon the world alone ! Two dreamers o'er a happy past a past for ever flown. No brightness has the day for them, no calmness has the night ; For them the sunny summer-time no longer brings delight. Whene'er they take their walks abroad, how many poor they see Whose days are full of industry, whose nights are full of glee ! What marvel that they mourn for him he died not long ago By whose decease the leather trade sustained so sad a blow ? Some say 'tis forty blessed years, while some say forty-five, Since Edith S , .the widow' d one, began to be alive. As good a judge of years am I as others claim to be, And I consider Edith S exactly forty-three. 182 POETS AT PLAY: They hint that she is lowly born they tell me she is fat They call her ugliness itself ; she is, but what of that ? I plant my faith in dividends, my confidence in rents ; House property is not a dream, no more are Three per Cents. We met methinks 'twas in a crowd a month ago and more. Be still, my giddy heart, be still ! To see was to adore. Enough, enough ! I dare do all that may become a man ; But what was If A City clerk, with nothing much per ami. Yet, warmed with wine and enterprise, I breathed my early love ; I swore by all the earth below and all the stars above. She heard me. Did she understand ? Her face she coyly hid : But, by the pressure of her hand, I rather think she did. I told you, reader did I not ? she had an only child : A half-neglected thing of ten, intractable and wild. Nay, " wild " is all inadequate " intractable " is weak To paint that soul of impudence, that prodigy of cheek. I love to sport with little ones ; I love the merry tricks Of little boys or little girls of only five or six. Their silly talk, their winning ways, amuse me now and then ; But if I hate one living thing, it is a boy of ten. He calls me " poor old buffer," too, or words to that effect ; And when he cracks my spectacles, I own that I object. Though little more than thirty-four, I'm growing rather bald, But scarcely wish to hear the fact so pointedly recall'd. He hides my hat, my overcoat, my walking-stick, my gloves, (Which feats of ingenuity his tender mother loves). He has too little work to do, and much too much of play : I know a first-rate boarding school a hundred miles away. Suppose upon my lowly suit the wealthy widow smiled, I might assert my claim, perhaps, to castigate the child. No doubt the duty would be mine to exercise a right Of second-hand paternity upon that widow's mite. It nearly makes me ill to see a fellow-creature weep ; Still, boys are very obstinate and canes are very cheap. 'Twould be a sore necessity but, reader, entre nous, I think that little imp would prove the sorer of the two. HUMOROUS RECITATIONS. 183 I have a turn for wedded life, and long to settle down : She owns a house in Devonshire another one in town. I shan't regret the City much : its drudgery I hate : 'Tis only cynics, after all, who scoff at silver plate. And yet there is a bitter pill, one thorn among the flow'rs ; A nightmare of a deadly form to mock my married hours. The Hymeneal bond, methinks, would bring me little joy : I might put up with Edith S ; I cannot stand the boy ! HENKT S. LEIGH : A Town Garland. A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS. GEXGULPHUS comes from the Holy Land, With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon ; Full many a day hath he been away, Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon. Full many a day hath he been away, Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea, Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea. This spruce young guest, so trimly drest, Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown ; They laugh'd, and they ate and they drank of the best, And they turned the old castle quite upside down. They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk, With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free, Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways, To get rid of what French people called Ennui. Now the festive board with viands is stored, Savoury dishes be there, I ween, Rich puddings and big, a barbecued pig, And ox- tail soup in a China tureen. There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand, While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking, Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land ! 184 POETS AT PLAY: " You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep " Says the proverb : that is " take the Fair unawares ; " A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep, Whispers, " Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stair: Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group, With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste, And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet, As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste. Then oh ! what rapture, what joy was exprest, When " poor dear Gengulphus " at last appear'd ! She kiss'd and she press'd " the dear man " to her breast, In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard. Such hugging and squeezing ! 'twas almost unpleasing, A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ;* She was so very glad, that she seem'd half-mad, And did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid, And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout ; On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops, And she mixes a stiff glass of " Cold Without." Then again she began at the " poor dear " man ; She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat, And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran, To comfort his " poor dear " travel- worn feet. " Nor night nor day since he'd been away, Had she had any rest" she " vow'd and declar'd." She " never could eat one morsel of meat, For thinking how ' poor dear ' Gengulphus fared." She " really did think she had not slept a wink Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long," He here shook his head, right little he said, But he thought she was " coming it rather too strono 1 ." * Evi SaKpvffi 7eAo