THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES XCbe CanterDur^ poets. Edited by William Sharp. HUMOROUS POEMS. HUMOROUS POEMS OF THE CENTURY. EDI- TED, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, BY RALPH H. CAINE. LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE. NEW YORK: 3 EAST 14th STREET. CONTENTS. WRITERS OF THE PAST. PoRSON, Richard— Nothing . . . , Lysaght, Edward— Kitty of Coleraine , DiBDiN, Charles— Jack at the Opera .... Poor Jack ..... MiLLTKEN, Richard Alfred— The Fair Maid of Passage . AVOLCOT, Dr. (Peter Pindar)— The Razor-Seller , . , . Byron, Lord- To "Woman . . . , . A Country House Party Canning, George— The Knife-Grinder .... Blake, William— Cupid ...... The Little Vagabond Scott, Sir Walter— The Ventriloquist .... Nora's Vow . . . . , Coleridge, Samuel Taylor— The Devil's Thoughts Sentimental ..... A Buck A Rhymester ..... On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country Cologne ..... On a Reader of his own Verses On a Bad Singer .... Giles's Hope . . . . , page 1 /^ .^rV;,|-JL':S: LIB SEllS O- VI CONTENTS. Lamb, Charles— Woik .... Pindaric Ode to the TreadmUl Smith, James— The Debating Society The Baby's Debut . Smith, Horace— The Jester Condemned to Death Bayly, Thomas Haynes— The Old Bachelor . "Why don't the Men Propose? Out .... SouTHEY, Robert— The Well of St. Keyne Campbell, Thomas— The Jilted Nymph . Blanchaud, S. Lama.n— Philosophy of Games False Love and True Lo^c The Art of Book-keeping . Nairne, Carolina, Baroness- The Laird o' Cockpen Hood, Thomas— A Parental Ode " Don't you Smell Fire ? " . Rondeau Pain iu a Pleasure Boat Domestic Asides Lamb, Mary— Going into Breeches Moore, Thomas— A Publisher's Epistle Literary Advertisement The Looking Glasses lIu.NT, Leigh- The Nun The Jovial Priest's Confession CONTENTS. Vll Brough, Robert B.— Neighbour Nelly John of Gaunt sings from the German Clough, Arthur Hugh— The Latest Decalogue Spectator ab Extra . Smedley, Frank E.— A Fj tte of the Blues LaiNdor, Walter Savage— The Honey-moon A Sensible Girl's Reply to Moore . A dying man was sore perplext Under the Lindens . DuFFERiN, Lady— Terence's Farewell . Daubeny, Charles— Verses on a Cat Chambers, Dr. Robert— The Annuitant's Answer . Lever, Charles- Tlie Pope .... The Widow Malone Lytton, Lord— If the Poor made Laws for the Rich Collins, Mortimer— My Old Coat .... Byron, Henry J.— Rural Simplicity Ode to the Moon Leigh, Henry S.— 'Twas ever thus Only Seven .... Craik, Mrs. (Dinah M. Muloch)— An Honest Valentine PAGE . 71 - 73 78 100 101 102 vni CONTENTS. LI\'ING WRITERS. Holmes, Omver Wendell— Ode for a Social Meeting Aunt Tabitha .... The Deacon's Masterpiece . Adams, Chaules F.— Sequel to the " One-Horse Shay ' . Blackie, Professor John Stuart— Concerning I and non-I Scott, William Bell— Cupid among the Maidens . A Bridal Race .... Sherbrooke, Lord— For my own health I have stayed here too lonj Mackay, Charles— Cynical Ode to an Ultra-Cynical Public A Bachelor's .^Iono-rhyTne . The Great Critics Fanny ; or. The Beauty and the Bee Lowell, James Russell— "Without and Within The Pious Editor's Creed . Locker-Lampson, Frederick— My Fir.st-born A Terrible Infant My Son Johnny Vfe Victis .... To Parents and Guardians . Patmore, Coventry— The Girl of all Periods Turner, Godfrey— Dissolving Views Somebody Else Locker, Arthur— Ode by a Christmas Pudding at Sea A Horrible Tale Photography by Moonlight Saint Monday CONTENTS. Rathbone, Philip Henry— The British Sabbath : A Diabolical Rsverie- Sala, George Augustus— Carmen Stettinense .... EossETTi, William Michael— Gabriel Rossetti Salvator Rosa Heine, 1856 .... The Chinese Opium War, 1842 Dickens, 1870 .... Rossetti, Christina— Freaks of Fashion . Yates, Edmund — All Saints' .... Aged Forty .... Brown, Rev. Thomas E.— A Son and Heir . . , Hay, John— Jim Bludso .... Distiches .... Good and Bad Luck Meredith, Owen— Plucking a Flower . See-Saw .... Carroll, Lewis— Father William The Walrus and the Carpen ter LovELL, John— The Dead Monk of St. Blaizes the Bare Gilbert, W. S.— To Phoebe .... The Precocious Baby Captain Reece Pennell, H. Cholmondely— Hard Lines .... Trevelyan, Sir George Otto, M.P.— The Owl's Song -185S PAGE . 149 156 157 158 159 160 161 164 164 167 172 174 175 175 177 179 181 185 201 202 205 210 CONTENTS. Harte, Bret— Plain Language from Truthful James Further Language from lYuthful James Her Letter His Answer to " Her Letter " "Jim "... In the Tunnel DOBSON, Austin— A Sonnet in Dialogue Tu Quoque Dora versus Rose The Poet and the Critics Buchanan, Robert— O'Connor's Wake The Wedding of Shon Maclean Scott, Clement— Brighton Pier A Contradiction GRAVE.S, Alfrkd Percevax— Father O'Flynn What is Life widout a Wife '.' Jenny, I'm not Jesting Waddington, Samuel— Prince Lucifer Ttie Watermamma . Sims, George R.— Parliamentary Etiquette Sensational Science Courtiiope, William John— The Nightingale's Song Grundy, Sydney— A Barrister's Boy Bell, H. T. Mackenzie— Waiting for the Dentist TiREBUCK, William— Double and Quits A Speechless After-Dinner Speech Pat's Plea O' Conor, Charles P.— East End Society Verse Anstey, F.— Burglar Bill . PREFACE. SELECTIONS from the humorous poetry of England and America have already been made, and hence the present compilation has no claims to special originality of subject or of design. It is brief, and, I trust, it is comprehen- sive ; it includes many writers, and I think it gives examples of their best. The book may perhaps be found to be an agreeable companion — a companion of unfailing good spirits and of cheerful countenance. It is not within my pur- pose to offer much that is of the nature of criticism. I am content to furnish some plain and useful biographical and bibliographical information con- cerning the authors whom I lay under contribu- tion. Readers who wish for criticism of comic poetry may find it in many places, and of various degrees of interest and merit. The editor of a xii PREFACE. selection of comic poetry works a^^ainst serious odds. Nearly every lover of the humorous has his own pet piece. For this piece he will look first. If he find it he will be tolerant to the book containing it : if he miss it his sympathy will be straightway and irretrievably lost. Of course I have to lay my account with such strong pre- dilections, and I shall be happy if I have not outraged too many of them. It has been one of my aims to include the humorous poems of poets who are not chiefly remarkable for humour. I trust I have included nothing that is bad, but I will not be so rash as to hope that I have included everything that is good. My space is narrow, my plan is bounded by many limitations, and among my hampering difficulties is that of atoning for coming latest by being perhaps the freshest of my rather numerous clan. Much of this volume is still copyright, and for the courtesy of copyright holders — authors and publishers — I return my own, my editor's, and my publisher's best thanks. But if, notwithstanding some care and industry, I have included any copyright piece without the necessary permission, it has been quite unwittingly, and I shall hope to be pardoned for the over- PREFACE. xiii sight. Unfortunately the rigid rule of more than one publishing firm has excluded several writers of high importance. During the preparation of this volume I have received many interesting letters, and I cannot deny my readers the benefit of one of them. It has always been supposed that Mr. "Lewis Carroll," the author of those delightful books, Alice's Adventures m Wonderland ; Through the Looking Glass; and Phantasmagoria^ was the Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, of Oxford. But what says Mr. Dodgson himself? I received the following letter, which, I should not forget to say, is in typewriting, the envelope being addressed by the same process : — " Christ Church, Oxford, Nov. 2, 1888. " Mr. C. L. Dodgson begs to say, in reply to Mr. Caine's letter, received this morning, that he has never put his name to any such pieces as are named by Mr. Caine. His published writings are exclusively mathematical, and would not be suitable for such a volume as Mr. Caine proposes to edit." Is this also a touch of his quality? R, H. C. WRITERS OF THE PAST Ibumorou0 poetr?. NOTHING. Mysterious Nothing ! how shall I define Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness? Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine, Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express ; But though we cannot thee to aught compaie, A thousand things to thee may likened be, And though thou art with nobody nowhere. Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee. How many books thy history contain ; How many heads thy mighty plans pursue ; What labouring hands thy portion only gain ; ^^^lat busy-bodies thy doings only do ! To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend, And — like my sonnet — all in nothing end. Richard Porson. 649 JACK A T THE OPERA. KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitly one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain. " Oh ! what shall I do now? 'twas looking at you, now ; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again ; 'Twas the pride of my dairy ! O Barney M'Cleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine ! " I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain ; A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her, vShe vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. Twas hay-making season — I can't tell the reason — Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain ; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. Edxvard Lysaght. JACK AT THE OPERA. At Wapping I landed, and called to hail Mog ; She had just shaped her course to the play : Of two rums and one water I ordered my grog, And to speak her soon stood under weigh. But the Haymarket I for old Drury mistook, Like a lubber so raw and so soft ; Half-a-George handed out, at the change did not look, Manned the ratlins, and went up aloft. JACK AT THE OPERA. 3 As I mounted to one of the uppermost tiers, With many a coxcomb and flirt, Such a damnable squalling saluted my ears I thought there'd been somebody hurt ; But the devil a bit — 'twas your outlandish rips Singing out with their lanterns of jaws ; You'd ha' swored you'd been taking of one of they trips 'Mongst the Caffres or wild Catabaws. "^^^lat's the play, Ma'am?" says I, to a good-natured tit. " The play ! 'tis the uproar^ you quiz." '' My timbers," cried I, "the right name on't you've hit, For the devil an uproar it is." For they pipe and they squeal, now alow, now aloft ; If it wa'n't for the petticoat gear, With their squeaking so mollyish, tender, and soft, One should scarcely know ma'am from mounseer. Next at kicking and dancing they took a long spell. All springing and bounding so neat, And spessiously one curious Madamaselle, — Oh, she daintily handled her feet ! But she hopped, and she sprawled, and she spun round so queer, 'Twas, you see, rather oddish to me ; And so I sang out, " Pray be decent, my dear ; Consider I'm just come from sea. "'Taint an Englishman's taste to have none of these goes ; So away to the playhouse I'll jog, Leaving all your fine Cantums and Ma'am Parisoes, For old Billy Shakspeare and Mog." POOR JACK. So I made for the theatre, and hailed my dear spouse \ She smiled as she sawed me approach ; And, when I'd shook hands and saluted her bows. We to Wapping set sail in a coach. Charles Dilhiiii. POOR JACK. Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 'Bout danger and fear and the like ; A tight water boat and good sea room give me, And 'tain't to a little I'll strike ; Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth, should smite And shiver each splinter of wood. Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, And under reefed fore-sail we'll scud : Avast ! now don't think me a milksop so soft, To be taken for trifles aback ; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft. To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. Why, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay, Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch : For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. Without orders that come down below ; POOR JACK. 5 And many fine things that proved clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow : For, says he, do ye mind me, let storms ere so oft Take the topsails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. I said to our Poll, for, d'ye see, she would cry, When last we weighed anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling and piping your eye ? Why, what a d d fool you must be ! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all. Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, Why, you'll never hear of me more: W^hat then? — all's ahazard ; come, then, don't be so soft, — Perhaps I may laughing come back ; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft. To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship, And with her brave the world without offering to flinch, From the moment the anchor's a-trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, tides, and ends. Nought's a trouble from duty that springs. For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friends', And as for my life, 'tis the King's. Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback. For the same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good berth for Poor Jack. Charles Dibdin. THE FAIR MAID OF PASSAGE. THE FAIR MAID OF PASSAGE.* O ! FAIR maid of Passage, As plump as a sassage, And as mild as a kitten, Those eyes in your face ! — Yerrah ! pity my case, For poor Dermuid is smitten ! Far softer nor silk, And more white than new milk, Oh, your lily-white hand is ; Your lips red as cherries, And your eyes like blackberries. And you're straight as the wand is ! Your talk is so quare, And your sweef curly hair, Is as black as the devil ; And your breath is as sweet, too, As any potato, Or orange from Seville. When dressed in her bodice She trips like a goddess, So nimble, so frisky ; One kiss from her cheek, 'Tis so soft and so sleek That 'twould warm me like whisky. So I sobs and I pine, And I grunts like a swine, Because you're so cruel ; No rest can I take, All asleep or awake. But I dreams of my jewel. Passage is the town now named Queenstown, Cork. THE RAZOR-SELLER. Your hate, then, give o\'er, Nor Dermuid, your lover, So cruelly handle ; Or, iaith, Dermuid must die, Like a pig in a stye, Or the snuff of a candle. Richard Alfred Milliken, THE RAZOR-SELLER. A FELLOW in a market town, Most musical cried " Razors," up and down, And offered twelve for eighteenpence ; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man should buy, with cash and sense. A country Lumpkin the great offer heard, Poor Hodge ! who suffered by a thick black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid. And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, " This rafical stole the razors, I suppose ! " No matter if the fellow be a knave. Provided that the razors shave : It sa7-ti7ily will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling, in heart and soul content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. THE RAZOR-SELLER. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze : 'Twas a vile razor ! — then the rest he tried — All were impostors — " Ah ! " Hodge sighed, " I wish my eighteenpence were in my purse." In vain, to chase his beard and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, reviled, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er : His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds : Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws. Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws. On the vile cheat that sold the goods : " Razors ! a base, confounded dog ! Not fit to scrape a hog ! " Hodge sought the fellow — found him, and begun — "Perhaps, Mister Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives : You rascal ! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my whiskers here a scrubbing With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah, I tell you you're a knave. To cry up razors that can't shave." " Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I'm no knave : As for the razors you have bought. Upon my word, I never thought That they would shave." TO WOMAN, 5 Not think they'd shave ! " quoth Hodge with wonder- ing eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; ^Vhat were they made for, then, you dog? " he cries. " Made ! " quoth the fellow, with a smile — " to sell.'" Dr. Wolcot. TO WOMAN. Woman ! experience might have told me, That all must love thee who behold thee ; Surely experience might have taught, Thy firmest promises are nought ; But, placed in all thy charms before me. All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh, Memory ! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover. When hope is fled, and passion's over! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue. Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows I How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth ! Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When, lo ! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand, " Woman I thy vows are trac'd in sand." Lord Byron. lo A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY. A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY. The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot Or hunt : the young, because they liked the sport The very first thing boys like after play and fruit ; The middle-aged to make the day more short ; For enmn is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language : — we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. The elderly walk'd through the library. And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. And made upon the hothouse several strictures ; Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures ; Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. But none wzxo. gene,: the great hour of union Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were Masters of their own time — or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY. i X)iscuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, And settled bonnets by the newest code ; Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor. For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she-epistle, And hardly heaven — because it never ends. I love the mystery of a female missal, "Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, But, full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle When he allured poor Dolon : — You had better Take care what you reply to such a letter. Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but no dice ;- Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays ; — Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice, And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days : And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. With evening came the banquet and the wine ; The conversazione ; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine (My heart or head aches with the memory yet). The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp — because to music's charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field-days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 12 A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY. Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise or charms that should or should not be admired. The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, And then retreated soberly— at ten. The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres: The wits watch'd every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon mot, head and ears. Small is the rest of those who would be smart; A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it ; And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold. As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old ; And our Sophias are not so emphatic. But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. They separated at an early hour ; That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : But in the country, ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — May the rose call back its true colour soon ! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge— at least some winters. Lord Byron. THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 13 THE KNIFE-GRINDER. A DIALOGUE IN SOPHICS. Friend of Humanity. *' Needy Knife-grinder ! whither are you going? Rough is the road — your wheel is out of order — Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches ! " Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, WTio in their coaches roll along the turnpike Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ' Knives and Scissors to grind, O ! ' *' Tell me. Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives ? Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ? Or the attorney ? " Was it the squire for killing of his game, or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit? " (Have you not read the 'Rights of Man, 'by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story." Knife-g rindcr. " Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir. Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. 14 CUPID, " Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. '■'• I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir." Friend of Htimanity. *' /give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damn'd first- Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance — Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast ! " \_Kicks the Knife-grinder^ overturns his wheel^ and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.^ George Canning. CUPID. Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he ? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow. And the girl shoots with her eye And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. THE LITTLE VAGABOND, 15 Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man : And then he's so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts. That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. Williani Blaka. THE LITTLE VAGABOND. Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold ; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and \\arm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well ; The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray. Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring ; And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch. And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel, William Blake, 16 THE VENTRILOQUIST. THE VENTRILOQUIST. (ADDRESSED TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE, A POPULAR VENTRILOQUIST.) Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good To carry two visages under one hood : \\Tiat should folks say io you ? who have faces so plenty, That from under one hood, you last night show'd us twenty ! Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth ? Man, woman, or child — a dog or a mouse ? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house ? Each live thing, did I ask ? — each dead implement, too, A workshop in your person, — saw, chisel, and screw ! Above all, are you one individual ? — I know You must be, at least, Alexandre & Co. But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob. And that I, as the sheriff',* should take up the job ; And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse ! Sir Walter ScotL 1S24. * Sir Walter Scott was Sheriff of Selkirkshire. NORA'S VOW. 17 NORA'S VOW. [In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red Earl's son, until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lake— until one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mind— except the vehemence of her protestations.] Hear what Highland Nora said, — *' The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. P'or all the gold, for all the gear. And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son." *' A maiden's vows," old Galium cpoke, " Are lightly made and lightly broke. The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light ; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae ; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son." '* The swan," she said, "the lake's dear breast May barter for the eagle's nest ; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high. Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son." 650 1 8 THE DEVILS THOUGHTS. Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made ; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river ; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel ; But Nora's heart is lost and won, — She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! Sir Waller Scott. iSi6. THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. From his brimstone bed at break of day A-walking the Devil is gone, To visit his snug little farm upon earth, And see how his stock goes on. Over the hill and over the dale. And he went over the plain, And backward and forward he switched his long tail, As a gentleman switches his cane. And how, then, was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday best ; His jacket was red, and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through. He saw a lawyer killing a viper On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind Of Cain and his brother Abel. WRITTEN IN A N A LB UM. 1 9 He saw an apothecary on a white horse Ride by on his own vocations ; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelations. He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility; And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin Is the pride that apes humility. He went into a rich bookseller's shop. Quoth he ! we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a cormorant once, Fast by the tree of knowledge. Down the river there plied, with wind and tide, A pig, with vast celerity, And the Devil looked wise as he saw how the while It cut its own throat. There ! quoth he, with a smile, Goes " England's commercial prosperity." As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw A solitary cell ; And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving his prisons in hell. General Gascoigne's burning face He saw with consternation ; And back to hell his way did take, For the Devil thought by a slight mistake It was a general contlngration. S. T. Coleridge. 20 A RHYMESTER. SENTIMENTAL. The rose that blushes like the morn Bedecks the valleys low ; And so dost thou, sweet infant corn. My Angelina's toe. But on the rose there grows a thorn That breeds disastrous woe ; And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe, 5. T. Coleridge. A BUCK. So Mr. Baker heart did pluck — And did a-courting go ! And Mr. Baker is a buck ; For why ? he needs the doe. S. T. Coleridi^i A RHYMESTER. Jem writes his verses with more speed Than the printer's boy can set 'em ; Quite as fast as we can read, And only not so fast as we forget 'em. S. T. Coleridge. COLOGNE. 21 ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY. And this reft house is tliat, the which he built, Lamented Jack ! and here his malt he piled, Cautious in vain ! these rats that squeak so wild, Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did he not see her gleaming through the glade ? Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn. Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed : And, aye beside her stalks her amorous knight ! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white. Ah ! thus through broken clouds at night's high noon Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest moon ! S. T. Coleridge. COLOGNE. In Koln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fang'd with murderous stones. And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; I counted two and seventy stenches, All well defined, and several stinks ! Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne ; But tell me, Nymphs ! what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? S. T. Coleridge. GJLES'S HOPE. OX A READER OF HIS OWN VERSES.* Hoarse Mcevius reads his hobbling verse To all, and at all times; And deems them both divinely smooth, His voice, as well as rhymes. But folks say, — " ^^lt?vius is an ass ! " But Maevius makes it clear That he's a monster of an ass, An ass without an ear. S. T. Coleridce. ON A BAD SINGER. Swans sing before they die :— 'twere no bad thing, Should certain persons die before they sing. S. T. Coleridge. GILES'S HOPE. What? rise again with a/Zone's bones, Quoth Giles, I hope you fib : I trusted, when I went to Heaven, To go without my rib. Said to be from the German. ODE TO THE TREADMILL. 23 WORK. Who first invented Work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down To the ever-haunting importunity Of business in the green fields, and the town — ■ To plough, loom, anvil, spade — and oh! most sad. To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan ! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, That round and round uncalculably reel — For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel — In that red realm from which are no returnings : Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye. He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day. Charles Lamb. PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREADMILL. Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, That sang the Pillory, In loftier strains to show A more sublime Machine Than that where thou wert seen With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry. Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below- A most unseemly show ! ir. In such a place Who could expose thy face, 24 ODE TO THE TREADMILL, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe ! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life. Far above Rousseau ? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood, Bare to the mob, on holiday or high day. If naught else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on Bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday ! Our ancestors' were sour days, Great Master of Romance ! A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days : Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where, in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, Only without the parrot ; By sure experience taught to know, Whether the qualms thou makest him feel were truly such or no. But stay ! methinks in statelier measure — A more companionable pleasure — I see thy steps the mighty Treadmill trace (The subject of my song. ODE TO THE TREADMILL. 25 Delay'd however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue, thief— that live to future ages Through many a labour'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home ! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags ; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags. There points to Amy, treading equal chimes. The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. Incompetent my song to raise To its just height thy praise, Great Mill ! That by thy motion proper (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill,) Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences. That were begrim'd before, as clean and sweet As flour from purest wheat. Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human or divine. ODE TO THE TREADMILL. VI. Compared with Ihee, What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump, Or jump. But walk men into virtue; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time And leisure to be good ; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps. Thou best philosopher made out of wood I Not that which framed thy tub. Where sate the Cynic cub, With nothing in his bosom sympathetic ; But from those groves derived, I deem, Where Plato nursed his dream Of immortality ; Seeing that clearly Thy system is all merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art). That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Fach Tyro now proceeds A " Walking Stewart I " Charles Lamb, THE DEBATING SOCIETY, ly THE DEBATING SOCIETY. I SING of a queer set of fellows Who meet once a week just to prate ; Some gabble, and some blow the bellows. While others, good lack ! Go clickety clack With tongue and with wrist. Knee, body, and fist, And bellow, harangue, and debate ; Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock, Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock. Look ye here, Mr. Chair, All confusion, I declare — All confusion, all confusion, All confusion, I declare ; Order, order, order, order, Chair, chair, chair ! The question for this night's discussion — Pray, gentlemen, be better bred— Is this — If a Turk or a Russian Were born, if you please, At the Antipodes, Where moon there is none, And never a sun. But darkness is light, And morning is night. He would walk on his heels or his head ? Will nobody get up? The evening grows late, Hats off ! A new member begins the debate. Look ye here, etc. 28 THE BABY'S DEBUT. He sat down — then up rose a second, The second he called up another ; Four, five, six, and seven were reckoned, Eight, nine, ten, eleven, To eloquence given ; All chatter and prate, Harangue and debate, Till argument sticks, And boxes and kicks Bring noise, and confusion, and bother; Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock, Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock. Look ye here, etc. James Smith. THE BABY'S DEBUT. Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage ina child's chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter. My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New Year's Day So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top. THE BABY'S DEBUT. 29 Jack's in the pouts, and this it is, — He thinks mine came to more than his, So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars ! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose ! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg. And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlour door : Oft flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window pane. This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth ! If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth ! Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, " O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt : No Drury Lane for you to-day ! " And while papa said, " Pooh, she may Mamma said, " No, she shan't ! " Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go : one horse was blind ; The tails of both hung down behind ; Their shoes were on their feet. THE BABY'S DEBUT. The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the liunber-room : I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes (I always talk to Sam) : So what does he, but takes and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am ? My father's walls are made of brick. But not so tall, and not so thick. As these ; and, goodness me ! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As these that now I see. What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound : And there's a row of lamps ; my eye ! How they do blaze ! I wonder why They keep them on the ground. At first I caught hold of the wing. And kept away ; but Mr. Thing— Umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, " Go on, my pretty love, — Speak to 'em, little Nan. THE BABTS DEBUT, 31 '■ You've only got to curtsey, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take : I've known the day when brats not quite Thirteen got fifty pounds a night ; Then why not Nancy Lake ? " But while I'm speaking, where's papa ? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? Where's Jack ? Oh, there they sit ! They smile, they nod ; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit. And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show ; So bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss. And, if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you. {^Biows kiss, and exit. James Smith. [This poem is from the collection known as the Rejected Addressee. For the benefit of any reader unacquainted with the circumstances under which the " Baby's Dt^but" was written it may be stated that after the destruction by fire of Drury Lane Theatre, the directors offered a premium for the best poetical address to be spoken at tlie opening of the new building. James Smith, in conjunction with his brother Horace, took advantage of this, and wrote addresses in the styles of the leading writers of the day, the poem here given being a humorous imitation uf Wordsworth.] THE JESTER CONDEMNED. THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATIJ One of the Kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester Had in his train, a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable scrapes. And quite as many tricks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master. Some sin, at last, beyond all measure Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his Serene and raging Highness : Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard. Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows : his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify the knave, Exclaimed, " 'Tis time to stop that breath : Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave ! Thou stand'st condemned to certain death : THE OLD BACHELOR. ^^^ Silence, base rebel ! no replying ! But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying." '* Thy royal will be done — 'tis just," Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust. " Since my last moment to assuage, Your majesty's humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age ! " Horace Smith. THE OLD BACHELOR. When I was a school-boy, aged ten, Oh, mighty little Greek I knew ; With my short striped trousers, and now and then With stripes upon my jacket too ! When I saw other boys to the playground run, I threw my old Gradus by, And I left the task I had scarce begun ; — There'll be time enough for that, said I. When I was at college my pride was dress, And my groom and my bit of blood ; But as for my study, I must confess That I was content with my stud. I was deep in my tradesmen's books, I'm afraid, Though not in my own, by-the-bye ; And when rascally tailors came to be paid, There'll be time enough for that, said I. 651 34 THE OLD BACHELOR, I was just nineteen when I first fell in love, And I scribbled a deal of rhyme ; And I talked to niyself in a shady grove Till I thought I was quite sublime. I was torn from my love ! — 'twas a dreadful blow, And the lady she wiped her eye ; But I didn't die of grief — oh, dear me, no ! — There'll be time enough for that, said I. The next was a lady of rank, a dame With blood in her veins you see ; "With the leaves of the Peerage she fanned the fiame That was now consuming me. But though of her great descent she spoke, I found she was still very high ; And I thought looking up to a wife no joke — There'll be time enough for that, said I. My x\^yi\. penchant was for one whose face Was her fortune, she was so fair ! Oh, she spoke with an air of enchanting grace, But a man cannot live upon air ; And when Poverty enters the door, young Love Will out of the casement fly ; The truth of the proverb I'd no wish to prove — There'll be time enough for that, said I. My next was a lady who loved romance, And wrote very splendid things ; And she said with a sneer, when I asked her to dance, •' Sir, I ride upon a horse with wings ! " THE OLD BACHELOR. 35 There was ink upon her thumb when I kissed her hand, And she whispered, " If you should die, I will write you an epitaph gloomy and grand;" — There'll be time enough for that, said I. I left her, and sported my figure and face At opera, party, and ball ; I met pretty girls at ev'ry place, But I found a defect in all ! The first did not suit me, I cannot tell how, The second, I cannot say why ; And the third — Bless me, I will not marry ncnv ; There'll be time enough for that, said I. I looked in the glass and I thought I could trace A sort of a wrinkle or two ; So I made up my mind that I'd make up my face, And come out as good as new. To my hair I imparted a little more jet, And I scarce could suppress a sigh ; But I cannot be quite an old bachelor yet — No, there's time enough for that, said I. I was now fifty-one, yet I still did adopt All the airs of a juvenile beau ; But somehow, whenever the question I popp'd, The girls with a laugh said, " No !" I am sixty to-day — not a very young man — And a bachelor doomed to die ; So youths be advised, and marry while you can ; There's no time to be lost, say I. Thomas Haynes Bayly, 36 WHY DO A' T THE MEN PROPOSE? WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE? Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why don't the men propose ? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes ; It is no fault of yours, mamma, 77iai everybody knows ; You fele the finest men in town, Vet, oh ! they won't propose. I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, To make a proper match ; For coronets and eldest sons, I'm ever on the watch ; I've hopes when some distingtie beau A glance upon me throws ; But though he'll dance and smile and flirt, Alas ! he won't propose. I've tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue ; I've bought big books and talked of them As if I'd read them through ! With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt The heads of all the beaux ; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh ! they won't propose. I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss ; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss ; OUT, 37 And so I lisped oul nought beyond Plain "yesses" or plain "noes,"' And wore a sweet unmeaning smile ; Yet, oh ! they won't propose. Last night at Lady Ramble's rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, " Now \ propose again " I started, turning pale ; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose ; But oh ! I found 'tj»vas only at Ecarte\\€^ propose. And what is to be done, mamma ? Oh, what is to be done ? I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty -one ; At balls I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows ; Why don't the men propose, mamma ? Why wor^t the men propose ? Thomas Haynes Bayly. OUT. Out, John ! out, John ! What are you about, John ? If you don't say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John ! Say I'm out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John! 38 OUT. Say you've not the least idea when I shall come again, John ! Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John ! Say I'm courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John ! Run, John ! run, John ! There's another dun, John ! If it's Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John ! If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John t Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked, John ! Take your pocket-handkerchief and put it to your eye, John ! Say your master's not the man to bid you tell a lie, John ! Oh, John ! go, John ! There's Noodle's knock, I know, John! Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John ! Tell him just before he came you saw me mount the hill, John! Say you think I'm only gone to pay his little bill, John ! Then I think you'd better add that if I miss to-day, John ! You're very sure I mean to call next time I pass his way, John! Hie, John I fly, John ! I will tell you why, John ! If there is not Grimshaw at the corner, let me die, John I THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 39 He will hear of no excuse ; I'm sure he'll search the house, John ! Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John ! Bid him take a chair and wait ; I know he'll not refuse, John ! While I pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John 1 Thomas Hayncs Bayly. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-lree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he ; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. 40 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE, There came a man from the house hard by At the well to fill his pail ; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail. " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he, *' For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. " Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." " I have left a good woman who never was here,"' The stranger he made reply ; " }3ut that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why? " " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angels summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell. '• If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life, ** But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then ! " The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. THE JILTED NYMPH. 41 '* Vou drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"' He to the Cornish-man said : But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. " I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." Robert Southey. THE JILTED NYMPH. W\ jilted, forsaken, outwitted ; Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl — The lass is alone to be pitied Who ne'er has been courted at all : Never by great or small, Woo'd or jilted at all ; Oh, how unhappy's the lass Who has never been courted at all ! My brother call'd out the dear faithless, In fits I was ready to fall. Till I found a policeman who, scatheless. Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall Seized them, seconds and all — Pistols, powder, and ball ; I wish'd him to die, my devoted, But not in a duel to sprawl. 42 PHILOSOPHY OF GAMES. What though at my heart he has tilted, What though I have met with a fall ? Better be courted and jilted, Than never be courted at all. Woo'd and jilted and all, Still I will dance at the ball ; And waltz and quadrille With light heart and heel, W^ith proper young men, and tall. But lately I've met with a suitor, W'hose heart I have gotten in thrall, And I hope soon to tell you in future That I'm woo'd and married and all : Woo'd and married and all, W^hat greater bliss can befall? And you all shall partake of my bridal cake When I'm woo'd and married, and all. Thomas Campbell. PHILOSOPHY OF GAMES. " Life," said Tabby, taking snuff, '■ Life's a game at Blindman's Buff." " True," said Tabby ; " very true : Death's a game of Forfeits too ! " 1836. Laman Blauchard. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING, 43 FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC. The Disconsolate IMy heart will break — I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favourite — he Who seemed my own through good and ill — Has basely turned his back on me. The Comforter Ah ! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head heioxe And now he's as he ought to be. 1836. Laman Blanchard. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. How hard, when those who do not wdsh To lend, that's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers — folks that fish With literary hooks ; Who call and take some favourite tome, But never read it through ; They thus complete their set at home, By making one at you. Behold the bookshelf of a dunce \^^^o borrows — never lends ; Yon work, in twenty volumes, once Belonged to twenty friends. 44 THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. New tales and novels you may shut From view — 'tis all in vain ; They're gone — and though the leaves are "cut" They never "come again." For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt; But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra guilt. A circulating library Is mine — my birds are flown; There's one odd volume left, to be Like all the rest, a-lone. I, of my *' Spenser " quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken ; Of '* Lamb " I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my " Bacon." My " Hall" and " Hill " were levelled flat, But *' Moore" was still the cry; And then, although I threw them " Sprat," They swallowed up my " Pye." O'er everything, however slight. They seized some airy trammel ; They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night, And pocketed my "Campbell." And then I saw my " Crabbe " at last, Like Hamlet's, backward go ; And as my tide was e'obing fast, Of course I lost my " Rowe." THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING, 45 I wondered into what balloon My books their course had l)ent ; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my " Marvell " went. My *' Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker; And once, while I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a ** Walker." While studying o'er the fire one day My ** Hobbes " amidst the smoke ; They bore my " Colman " clean away, And carried off my " Coke." They picked my " Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent's worth ; And now my losses I deplore, Without a " Home " on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal. For though I caught them stealing " Swift," As swiftly went my " Steele." " Hope " is not now upon my shelf, Wliere late he stood elated ; But, what is strange, my " Pope" himself Is excommunicated. My little '* Suckling " in the grave Is sunk, to swell the ravage ; And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save 'Tv/as mine to lose — a " Savage," 46 THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. Even *' Glover's " works I cannot put Aly frozen liands upon ; Though ever since I lost my " Foote," My " Bunyan " has been gone My ** Hoyle " with " Cotton " went ; oppressed, My " Taylor " too must fail ; To save my '* Goldsmith " from arrest, In vain I offered " Bayle." I " Prior" sought, but could not see The " Hood " so late in front ; And when I turned to hunt for " Lee," Oh ! where was my " Leigh Hunt ! " I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not " Tickell " touch ; And then, alas ! I missed my " Mickle," And surely mickle's much. "Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse. To think I cannot read my " Reid," Nor even use my " Hughes." To " West," to " South," I turn my head, Exposed alike to odd jeers ; For since my " Roger Ascham's" fled, I ask 'em for my " Rogers." They took my "Home" — and "Home Tooke too, And thus my treasures flit ; I feel when I would " Hazlitt " view, The flames that it has lit. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 47 My word's worth little, "Wordsworth " gone, If I survive its doom ; How many a bard I doated on Was swept off — with my " Broome.*' My classics would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped ; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, " My * Livy' has eloped J " My life is wasting fast away — I suffer from these shocks ; And though I fixed a lock on '* Grey," There's grey upon my locks. I'm far from young — am growing pale — I see my " Butter" fly; And when they ask about my ally 'Tis " Burton " I reply. They still have made me slight returns. And thus my griefs divide ; For oh ! they've cured me of my " Burns,"' And eased my " Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they never found me " Gay," They have not left me " vSterne." 1830. Laman Blanchard. 48 THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. The Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great, Ilis mind is ta'en up with the things o' the State; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, 15ut favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new ; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? He took the grey mare, and rade cannily — And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee ; " Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine, '* And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown. Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low. And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, '* Na ; And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie ; He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; A PARENTAL ODE. 49 And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ; " Oh ! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm-and-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel tappit-hen. But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen. Ca?oiiiia, Baroness Nah-ne. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. Tiiou happy, happy elf! (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself ! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck ! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 652 50 A PARENTAL ODE. Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy ! There goes my ink !) Thou cherub — but of earth ; Fit playfellows for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove 1 (He'll have that jug off with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife !) Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John ! Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick I) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-do\yn, ''DOK'T YOU SMELL FIRE?'' 51 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamblike frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown,) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) Thomas Hood. DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?" Run ! — run for St. Clement's engine ! For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, And the pledges are frying and singeing — Oh ! how the poor pawners will craze ! Now where can the turncock be drinking? Was there ever so thirsty an elf? — But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking That the plugs are as dry as himself. The engines ! — I hear them come rumbling; There's the Phoenix ! the Globe ! and the Sun 1 What a row that will be, and a grumbling, When the water don't start for a run ! 52 ''DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?' See ! there they come racing and tearing, All the street with loud voices is fiU'd ; Oh ! it's only the firemen a-swearing At a man they've run over and kill'd ! How sweetly the sparks fly away now, And twinkle like stars in the sky ; It's a wonder the engines don't play now, But I never saw water so shy ! Why, there isn't enough for a snipe, And the fire it is fiercer, alas ! Oh ! instead of the New River pipe, They have gone — that they have — to the gas IV. Only look at the poor little P 's On the roof — is there anything sadder ? My dears, keep fast hold, if you please, And they won't be an hour with the ladder ! But if any one's hot in their feet, And in very great haste to be saved, Here's a nice easy bit in the street, That M'Adam has lately unpaved ! There is some one— I see a dark shape At that window, the hottest of all,— My good woman, why don't you escape ? Never think of your bonnet and shawl : If your dress isn't perfect, what is it For once in a way to your hurt ? \Yhen your husband is paying a visit There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt ! RONDEAU. 53 Only see how she throws out her chaiieyl Her basins, and teapots, and all The most brittle oi her goods — or any, But they all break in breaking their fall : Such things are not surely the best From a two-storey window to throw — She might save a good iron-bound chest, For there's plenty of people below 1 VI r. Oh dear ! what a beautiful flash ! How it shone thro' the window and door ; We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, When the woman falls thro' with the floor ! There ! there ! what a volley of flame, And then suddenly all is obscured ! — Well — I'm glad in my heart that I came ;— But I hope the poor man is insured ! Thomas Hood. RONDEAU. O CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne'er Behold a worshipful Lord May'r Seated in his great civic chair So dear ? Then cast thy longing eyes this way, It is the ninth November day. And in his new-born state survey One here ! 54 PALY L\ A PLEASURE BOAT. To rise from little into great Is pleasant ; but to sink in state From high to lowly is a fate Severe. Too soon his shine is overcast, Chill'd by the next November blast; His blushing honours only last One year ! He casts his fur and sheds his chains, And moults till not a plume remains — The next impending may'r distrains His gear. He slips like water through a sieve — Ah, could his little pleasure live Another twelvemonth — he would give One ear ! Thomas Hood. TAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. A SEA ECLOGUE. " I apprehend you ! "School of Reform. Boatman. Shove off there !— ship the rudder, Bill — cast off! she's under way ! PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. 55 Mrs. F. She's under what ? — I hope she's not ! good gracious, what a spray ! Boatman. Run out the jib, and rig the boom ! keep clear of those two brigs ! Mrs. F. I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs! Boatman. Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim ! Mrs. F. Great bags of stones ! they're pretty things to help a boat to swim ! Boatman. The wind is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault ! Mrs. F. Wind fresh, indeed ! I never felt the air so full of salt ! Boatman. That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts ! Mrs. F. If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts ! Boatman. It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. 56 PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. Mrs. F. The bar ! what, roads with turninkes too ? I wonder where they are ! Boatmaji, Ho ! Brig ahoy ! hard up ! hard up ! that hibbcr cannot steer ! Mrs. F. Yes, yes, — hard up upon a rock ! I know some danger's near ! Lord, there's a wave ! it's coming in ! and roaring like a bull ! Boatman. Nothing, Ma'am, but a little slop ! go large, Bill ! keep her full ! Mrs. F. What, keep her full ! what daring work ! When full, she must go down ! Boatvian, ^^^ly, Bin, it lulls ! ease off a bit — it's coming off the town! Steady your helm ! we'll clear the Pint! lay right for yonder pink ! Mrs. F. Be steady — well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of drink ! Boatman. Bill, give that sheet another haul — she'll fetch it up this reach. PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. 57 Mrs. F. I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they know it by that s])eech ! I wonder what it is, now, but — I never felt so queer ! Boattnaa. Bill, mind your luff— v^hy. Bill, I say, she's yawing — keep her near ! Mrs. F. Keep near ! we're going further off ; the land's behind our backs. Boatman. Be easy, Ma'am, it's all correct, that's only 'cause we tacks ; We shall have to beat about a bit — Bill, keep her out to sea. Mrs. F. Beat who about ? keep who at sea ? — how black they look at me ! Boatman. It's veering round — I knew it would ! off with her head ! stand by ! Mrs. F. Off with her head ! whose ? where ? what with ? — an axe I seem to spy ! Boatman. She can't not keep her own, you see ; we shall have to pull her in ! 58 DOMESTIC ASIDES. Mrs. F. They'll drown me, and take all I have ! my life's not worth a phi ! Boatman. Look out, you know, be ready, Bill — ^just when she takes the sand ! Mrs. F. The sand — O Lord ! to stop my mouth ! how every- thing is plann'd ! Boatniayi. The handspike, Bill— quick, bear a hand! now, Ma'am, just step ashore ! Mrs. F. What ! ain't I going to be killed — and weltered in my gore? Well, Heaven be praised ! but I'll not go a-sailing any more ! Thomas Hood. DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES. " I REALLY take it very kind This visit, Mrs. Skinner ! I have not seen you such an age — (The wretch has come to dinner !) DOMESTIC ASIDES, 59 "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls— What heads for painters' easels ! Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — (And give it, p'rhaps, the measles !) " Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both — (What boots for my new Brussels !) " W'hat ! little Clara left at home? Weli, now, I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so, — (A flabby, dabby, babby !) " And Mr. S., I hope he's well ; Ah ! though he lives so handy, He never now drops in to sup — (The better for our brandy !) " Come, take a seat — I long to hear About Matilda's marriage ; You're come, of course, to spend the day !— (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage !) '-' What ! must you go? Next time I hope You'll give me longer measure ; Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — (With most uncommon pleasure !) " Good-bye ! Good-bye ! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners ! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners ! ") Thomas HooJ. 6o GOING INTO BREECHES. GOING INTO BREECHES. Joy to Philip !— he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Put the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade, Redcoat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding trim, Birthday beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state Or the pride (yet free from sin) Of my little .NIanikin ; Never was there pride or bliss Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em Philip's limbs have got their freedom : He can run, or he can ride, And do tsventy things beside, Which his petticoats forbad. Is he not a happy lad? Now he's under other banners : He must leave his former manners. Bid adieu to female games, And forget their very names — Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, Sports for girls and punies weak ! Baste-the-bear he may now play at, Leap-frog, football, sport away at ; Show his skill and strength at cricket- Mark his distance, pitch his wicket ; Run about in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow ; A PUBLISHER'S EPISTLE. 6i Climb a tree, or scale a wall, Without any fear to lall ; If he get a hurt or bruise, To complain he must refuse, Though the anguish and the smart Go unto his little heart ; He must have his courage ready, Keep his voice and visage steady. Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, That a tear may never come ; And his grief must only speak From the colour in his cheek. This, and more, he must endure — Hero he in miniature ! This, and more, must now be done, Now the breeches are put on. Ma?y Lamb, A PUBLISHER'S EPISTLE. From Messrs. L — ck — gt — 7t 6^ Co. to , Esq. Per post, sir, we send your MS. — look'd it through - Very sorry — but can't undertake — 'twouldn't do. Clever work, sir ! — would get tip prodigiously well — Its only defect is — it never would sell. And though stalecmen may glory in being tmhoiight. In an author 'tis not so desirable thought. Hard times, sir, — most books are too dear to be read — Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's s}?iall-change are fled. Yet the paper we publishers pass in their stead Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) Not even such names as F — tzg — r — d's can sink it ! 63 A PUBLISHER'S EPISTLE. However, sir — if you're for trying again, And at something that's vendible — we are your men. Since the Chevalier C — rr took to marrying lately, The trade is in want of a {yavelkr greatly. No job, sir, more easy — your cowitry once plannM, A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your quarto of Travels, sir, clean out of hand. An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell, — And a lick at the Papists is stire to sell well. Or — supposing you've nothing original m you — Write parodies, sir, and such fame it will win you, You'll get to the blue-stocking routs of Albina ! (Mind — iioi to her dinners — a second-hand muse Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the blues.) Or — in case nothing else in this world you can do — The deuce is in't, sir, i! you cannot revie^u ! Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, We've a scheme to suggest — Mr. Sc — tt, you must know, (Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row,) Plaving quitted the Borders, to seek new renown, Is coming, by long quarto stages, to town ; And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay) Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way. Now, the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can Iseat him) To start a fresh poet through Highgate to vieet him ; Who by means of quick proofs — no revises — long coaches — May do a few villas, before Sc — tt appioaches. Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, Ile'U reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn- Abbey. LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT. 63 Such, sir, is our plan — if you're up to the freak, 'Tis a match ! and we'll put you in trainijig xxtyX week. At present, no more — in reply to this letter, a Line will oblige very much Yours, et cetera, Temple of the Muses. Thomas Moore. LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT. Wanted — Authors of all-work, to job for the season, No matter which party, so faithful to neither ; Good hacks, who, if pos'd for a rhyme or a reason, Can manage, like ******, to do without either. If in gaol, all the better for out-o'-door topics ; Your gaol is for Travelers a charming retreat ; They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, And sail round the world, at their ease, in the Fleet. For a Dramatist, too, the most useful of schools — He can study high life in the King's Bench community; Aristotle could scarce keep him more withiti rules, And oi place he, at least, must adhere to the unity. Any lady or gentleman, come to an age To have good "Reminiscences" (three score or higher), Will meet with encouragement — so much, fer page, And the spelling and grammar both found by ihe buyer. 64 LITERAR Y AD VER TISEMENT. No matter with lohat their remembrance is stock'd, So they'll only remember the qtiatiitim desir'd ; — Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oci.. Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's requir'd. They may treat us, like Kelly, with o\^ jeiuV esprit s^ Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic ; Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,* That ginger-bread cakes always give them the colic. Wanted, also, a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn, By "Farmers" and "Landholders" — (worthies whose lands Enclos'd all in bow-pots, their attics adorn, Or, whose share of the soil may be seen on their hands) . No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, Sure of a market ; — should they, too, who pen 'em, Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'S — 11 — v — n,t Something extra allow'd for the additional venom. Funds, Physic, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, All excellent subjects for turning a penny ; — To write upon all is an author's sole chance For attaining, at least, the least knowledge oiany. Nine times out of ten, if his title is good, The material within of small consequence is ; — Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, Why — that's the concern of the reader, not his. * This lady also favours us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered " comme pour elle." + A gentleman who was distinguished by his evidence befove the Irish Committees. THE LOOKING GLASSES. 65 ,Vofa Bene— 2X1 Essay, now printing, to show, That Horace (as clearly as words could express it) Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, When he wrote thus — " Qu dcunque in Fund is, assess it." Tho?nas Moore. THE LOOKING GLASSES. A FABLE. There was a land — to nat/ie the place Is neither now my wish nor duty — Where reign'd a certain royal race, By right of their superior beauty. What was the cut legitimate Of these great persons' chins and noses, By right of which they ruled the State, No history I have seen discloses. But so it was — a settled case — Some Act of Parliament, passed snugly, Had voted thevi a beauteous race. And all their faithful subjects ugly. As rank, indeed, stood high or low. Some change it made in visual organs ; Your Peers were decent — Knights, so so — But all your common people, gorgons ! 653 66 THE LOOKING GLASSES, Of course, if any knave but hinled That the King's nose was turned awry, Or that the Queen (God bless her !) squinted, The judges doom'd that knave to die. But rarely things like this occurr'd ; The people to their King were duteous, And took it, on his Royal word, That they were frights, and He was beauteous. The cause whereof, among all classes, Was simply this— these island elves Had never yet seen looking-glasses. And, therefore, did not know themselves. Sometimes, indeed, their neighbours' faces Might strike them as more full of reason, More fresh than those in certain places — liut, Lord ! the very thought was treason. Besides, howe'er we love our neighbour, And take his face's part, 'tis known We ne'er so much in earnest labour As when the face attack'd 's our own. So on they went — the crowd believing— (As crowds well governed always do) Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving — So old the joke, they thought 'tv/as true. But jokes, we know, if they too far go, Must have an end — and so, one day, Upon that coast there was a cargo Of looking-glasses cast away. THE LOOKING GLASSES. 67 *T\vas said, some Radicals, somewhere, Had laid their wicked heads together, And forced that ship to founder there, — While some believed it was the weather. However this might be, the freight Was landed without fees or duties ; And from that hour historians date The downfall of the Race of Beauties. The looking glasses got about, And grew so common through the land, That scarce a tinker could walk out Without a mirror in his hand. Comparing faces, morning, noon, And night, their constant occupation — By dint of looking glasses, soon They grew a most reflecting nation. In vain the Court, aware of errors In all the old-established mazards, Prohibited the use of mirrors. And tried to break them at all hazards : — In vain — their laws might just as well Have been waste-paper on the shelves ; Tliat fatal freight had broke the spell ; People had look'd — and knew themselves. If chance a Duke, of birth sublime, Presumed upon his ancient face, (Some calf-head, ugly from all time). They popp'd a mirror to his Grace : — • 68 THE LOOKING GLASSES. Just hinting, by that gentle sign, How little Nature holds it true That what is call'd an ancient line, Must be a line of Beauty too. From Dukes, they passed to regal phizzes, Compared them proudly with their own, And cried, " How could such monstrous quizzes In Beauty's name usurp the throne ? " Then they wrote essays, pamphlets, books, Upon Cosmetical Economy, Which made the King try various looks, But none improved his physiognomy. And satires at the Court were levelTd, And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, That soon, in short, they quite be-devil'd Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses. At length— but here I drop the veil. To spare some loyal folks' sensations ; Besides, what follow'd is the tale Of all such late-enlightened nations ; Of all to whom old Time discloses A truth they should have sooner known — That Kings have neither rights nor noses A whit diviner than their own. Thomas Moore. THE NUN. 69 THE NUN. Suggested by part of the Italian song, beginning "Se moneca ti fai." If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be ; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too ; The doves all take the veil, too ; The blind will see the show : What ! you become a nun, my dear I'll not believe it, no. If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be ; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chaunt " We trust in thee": The incense will go sighing. The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine: What ! you go take the vows, my dear You may — but they'll be mine. Leigh Hunt. 70 THE PRIEST'S CONFESSION. THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION.* I DEVISE to end my days — in a tavern drinking, INIay some Christian hold for me — the glass when I am shrinking ; That the Cherubim may cry — when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul — of this gentleman's way of thinking. A glass of wine amazingly— enlighteneth one's internals ; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar — that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns — have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us — in the college journals. Every one by nature hath — a mould which he w-as cast in ; I happen to be one of those — who never could write fasting ; By a single little boy — I should be surpass'd in Writing so; I'd just as lief — be buried, tomb'd, and grass'd in. Every one by nature hath — a gift too, a dotation ; I, when I make verses, — do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine — that comes into the nation : It maketh sermons to abound — for edification. Just as liquor floweth good — floweth forth my lay so ; But I must moreover eat — or I could not say so ; Nought it availeth inwardly — should I write all day so ; But with God's grace after meat — I beat Ovidius Naso. * A translation from the Latin of AVaher de Mapes, Arch- deacon of Oxford. NEIGH BO UR NELL V. 7 1 Neither is there given to me — prophetic animation, Unless when I have sat and drank — yea, ev'n to saturation ; Then in my upper story — hath Bacchus domination, And Phoebus rusheth into me — and beggareth all relation. Le/p-/i Hunt. NEIGHBOUR NELLY. I'm in love with neighbour Nelly, Though I know she's only ten, While, alas ! I'm eight-and-forty,— And the marriedest of men ! I've a wife who weighs me double, I've three daughters all with beaux I've a son with noble whiskers, Who at me turns up his nose — Though a square-toes, and a fogey. Still I've sunshine in my heart : Still I'm fond of cakes and marbles, Can appreciate a tart — I can love my neighbour Nelly Just as tho' I were a boy : I could hand her nuts and apples From my depths of corduroy. She is tall, and growing taller. She is vigorous of limb : (You should see her play at cricket With her little brother Jim. 72- NEIGHBOUR NELLY. She has eyes as blue as damsons, She has pounds of auburn curls : She regrets the game of leap-:rog Is prohibited to girls. I adore my neighbour Nelly : I invite her in to tea : And I let her nurse the baby — All her pretty ways to see. Such a darling bud of woman, Yet remote from any teens, — I have learn't from baby Nelly What the girl's doll instinct means. Oh ! to see her with the baby ! He adores her more than I, — How she choruses his crowing, — How she hushes every cry ! How she loves to pit his dimples With her light forefinger deep, How she boasts to me in triumph, When she's got him off to sleep ! We must part, my neighbour Nelly, For the summers quickly flee ; And your middle-aged admirer Must supplanted quickly be. Yet as jealous as a mother, — A distemper'd canker'd churl, I look vainly for the setting To be worthy such a pearl, Robert B. Bt JOHN OF GA UNT SINGS. 73 JOHN OF GAUNT SINGS FROM THE GERMAN. Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street. Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet Staggering, swaggering, reeling about, Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt. Gas-lamps, be quiet — stand up, if you please. What the deuce ails you ? you're weak in the knees Some on your heads — in the gutter, some sunk — Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk. Angels and ministers ! look at the moon — Shining up there like a paper balloon, Winking like mad at me : Moon, I'm afraid — Now I'm convinced — Oh ! you tipsy old jade. Here's a phenomenon : look at the stars — Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars, Dancing quadrilles ; caper'd, shuffl'd, and hopp'd. Heavenly bodies ! this ought to be stopp'd. Down come the houses ! each drunk as a king — Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing ; Inside the bar, it was safe and all right, I shall go back there, and stop for the night. Robert B. Broiigh. 74 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA, THE LATEST DECALOGUE. Thou shalt have one God only, who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse : At Church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend : Honour thy parents ; that is, all From whom advancement may befall : Thou shalt not kill ; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive : Do not adultery commit ; Advantage rarely comes of it : Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat : Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly ; Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition. At-thur Hii^h Clou^h, SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. I. As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA, 75 I sit at my table, en grand seigneur. And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor ; Not only the pleasure itself of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving : So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, And how one ought never to think of one's self, How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking — My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. II. Le Diner. Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, And he who came first had to wait for the last ; The oysters ere this had been in and been out ; Whilst I have been sitting and thinking about How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. A clear soup with eggs ; voilh totU ; of the fish 'T\\e/ileis de sole are a moderate dish A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say : By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. After oysters, sauterne ; then sherry, champagne, Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 76 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, And tell to our ears in tlie sound that they love How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. I've the simplest of palates ; absurd it may be, Rut I almost could dine on z. poulet-au-riz. Fish and soup and omelette and that — but the deuce — There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Russe ! So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. ^'our chablis is acid, away with the hock, Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc : St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please, Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. As for that, pass the bottle, and d n the expense, I've seen it observed by a writer of sense, That the labouring classes could scarce live a day, If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho! So useful it is to have money. One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend. Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend, And so suppose now, while the things go away. By way of a grace we all stand up and say. How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA, 77 Pa7-venatit. I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets, When I look at the number of persons one meets, Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do ^^^lose fathers and mothers can't give them a sou. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. I ride and I drive, and I care not a d n, The people look up and they ask who I am ; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So useful it is to have money. It was but this winter I came up to town, And already I'm gaining a sort of renown ; Find my way to good houses without much ado, Am beginning to see the nobility, too. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So useful it is to have money. O dear ! what a pity they ever should lose it, Since they are the people that know how to use it; So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners. And yet, after all, it is we are the winners. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho I So needful it is to have money. It's all very well to be handsome and tall, ^Yhich certainly makes you look well at a ball ; 78 A FYTTE OF THE BLUES. It's all very well to be clever and witty, But if you are poor, why it's only a pity. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. There's something undoubtedly in a fine air, To know how to smile and be able to stare ; High breeding is something, but well-bred or net. In the end the one question is, what have you got. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. And the angels in pink and the angels in blue, In muslins and moires so lovely and new, What is it they want, and so wish you to guess, Eut if you have money, the answer is VeS: So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. Arthur Hiizh Clciisrh. A FVTTE OF THE BLUES.* Of woman's rights and woman's wrongs we've heard much talk oi late, The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great ; And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate, For 'neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of Time ! * 4t;— "The Old Englisli Gentlemau. ' A FYTTE OF THE BLUES. 79 The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools, That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules; But this idea's exploded quite, as to your cost you'll find, If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind, In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time. If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace, ^'ou'll observe a very "powerful" expression in her face; The lady's stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand, And her head quite full of something hard she doesn't understand. Like a puzzle-pated Blue-stocking, one of the modern time. And her dress will be peculiar, both in fabric and in make, An artistic, classic, tragic, highly-talented mistake; Which is what she calls "effective," though I'd rather not express The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress, ^Vhen worn by some awful Blue-stocking, one of the modern time. She'll talk about statistics, and ask if you're inclined To join the progress movement for development of mind. If you inquire what that means, she'll frown and say 'tis best Such matter should be understood, but never be express'd, By a stern suggestive Blue-stocking, in this mystic modern time. ancis. Coventry ratmore. i-,8 D/SSOLV/\G VIEWS. DISSOLVING VIEWS. Scenes that are brightest, the song in the play says, Fleetest and first are to go; Sadly we sigh for the fancies and faces, Past Hke a Lord Mayor's show. Still the faint echoes of childhood are calling Pleasures no longer to be ; Dead as the leaves that keep falling and falling Round the old roots of the tree. Ah ! the time seems to me ages and ages Since I was chubby and small ; Turning life's wonderful picture-book pages, Now near the last page of all. When shall my soul drink again at your fountains, Beauty, Affection, and Truth ? When the swift river runs back to the mountains — When you restore me my youth. Where are my friends of the playground and schoo room, Comrades in short corduroys? Sometimes I meet one or two in a full room, Bald-headed, snuff-taking boys. Where are the objects of early devotion, Beautiful beings of eight ? Married, perhaps: but I have not a notion As to their conjugal slate. SOMEBODY ELSE. 139 'Mid his gay embers youn^^ Love lies .1 dreaming. How with oUi Time he may ran^'c; Nothing is left us but shadows and seeming; Nothing is constant but cliange. Godfrey Turner. SOMEBODY ELSE. ^^'HO knows who is who in this huge masquerade? (As to knowing what's what, pooh ! you can't, sir.) Here's a teacher of language* discovered at last To have dabbled in oat-bruising all these years past, Though under the name of a matron or ^naid, Much famed for not taking an answer ! ^L1ry Wedlake is Fenwick de Porquet ! what next ? Mr. Spurgcon may keep a casino ; 'Midst polkas profane he may ponder his text, Not at all by the sight of such vanities vexed ; About his identity if you're perplexed, Why he's Ruskin ; and Ruskin's IJoleno I The bank no less bankrupt than British, again, A problem affords that will try us; The scrij)tural Cameron, godly but deep. Appears in some mystic relation to sheep ; Symbolical hint that this fleecer of men Is as pastoral, just, as he's pious ! " \\Tio's who ? " I exclaim, with an agonised voice ; And Echo, my 'wilderment sharing, Calls out some absurd combinations of names, * 7/1 re Fenwick de Porquet, tmdinji as an agricultural iiniile- mont manufacturer, under the title of Mary Wedlake & Co.— Vide Times, June 27th, 1857, Report of Proceedings in Bank- ruptcy. I40 SOMEBODY ELSE. And informs me that Fechter is 7iot Edwin James, Though the Flexible Brothers of Bagdad rejoice In the joint appellation of Baring. Sir Archibald Alison trades as Morel ; The Cure's Lord John Russell, I fancy, Millais passes for Woodin — he used to be Pell ; Wiscount Williams of Lambeth — no end of a swell — May be Field the detective and Calcraft as well, For aught that you possibly can see. Mrs. Gaskell (of course I mean Robins the clown) You'd hardly have guessed to be Moses ; Perhaps, too, you think it impossible quite That "Elizabeth Lazenby" means Mrs. Bright; Or that no one whom any one sees about town Is the one that the other supposes. The pamphlet by Captain Magan (" Silent Long") On the export returns of Havanna, Which may have suggested the opening lines In Eisenberg's "Maud," about cheap dinner wines - Mr. Newby declares, and he never is wrong. Was revised by Miss Julia Pastrana. If Dr. de Jongh, being Holyoake's aunt, Stops the heirs of the late Robert Owen From selling his right in the cod-liver oil To Keeley, in trust for the offspring of Doyle, Can Blondin recover? I say that he can't. Wait a bit though ; I feel my brain going 1 They say that a total is greater or less If something you add or take from it. My head ! — I mean hers — no; yours. Here it is — catch ! ODE BY A CHRIS TMA S P UDDJNG. 1 4 1 We're all of us friends, you know, round Colney Ilatcii ! A 15i^hop's a man. Ha, ha ! Certainly. Vcs. Police! liuld me down! I'm the Comei ! Godfrey Turner. ODE BY A CHRIST.MAS PUDDING AT SKA. I. AT., 49° 5' N. ; LONG., 9° 17' \V. To all yoa Puddings now on shore I write, to give a notion Of what mishai)S there are in store For Puddings born on Ocean: It blew a gale from sou'-sou'-west, liUt the skipper's wife she did her best. As she kneaded the dough on her own sea-chest, With a fal lal lal lal la. The vessel gave a lurch, a wave Right down the hatchway came ; The skipper's wife stood stout and brave, I wish I'd done the same; For I rolled in a fright along the lloor, And the skipper, coming in at the door, Gave me a kick, which my jacket tore. With a fal lal lal lal la. His good wife gathered up the bits, And put my limbs together ; Says she, " I must have lost my wits To cook in such foul weather ; But sailor-boys they love good cheer, And Christmas comes but once a year. So I won't be beat, I'll persevere," With a fal lal lal lal la. 142 A HORRIBLE TALE. The galiey-fire burnt bright and clear, As she put me into the pot ; Thinks I, "It suits me being here, I feel so jolly and hot." But a great green sea burst over the deck, And I fancied myself a perfect wreck, In cold salt water up to my neck, With a fal lal lal lal la. Cries cook, " The Pudding's surely spoiled."' " No, no ! " says the skipper's wife; "That Christmas Pudding shall be boiled. If I sacrifice my life." With her own fair hands she lit the fire, And though the waves rose higher and higher, At last she accomplished her desire, With a fal lal lal lal la. And here they are, these Sailor-boys, All full of mirth and glee; They sit in a ring, with lots of noise, And they're going to eat poor Me ! When smack ! there comes a roaring squall, A lurch — and into the scuppers fall Sailor-boys, Christmas Pudding, and all, With a fal lal lal lal la. Arthur Locker^ A HORRIBLE TALE. Without — the wind against the pane Sighed like a ghost that strives to gain Admittance to its old domain. A HORRIBLE TALE. 143 Within— the fire burnt brimstone-blue, So that each face, to neighbours' view, Seemed of a ghastly, corpse-like hue. Close by the fire sat Mr. Jones, Who told, in earnest awe-struck tones, A thrilling tale of blood and bones ! A tale of mystery and crime, Beginning, "Once upon a time," And echoing like a funeral chime. We listened with a solemn dread, As to a message from the dead. For Jones believed each word he said. And as he spoke he waxed in vigour; His hair rose up, his eyes grew bigger ; He seemed a supernatural figure ! Entranced, we marked his stony glare, His hollow voice, his bristling hair ; Our eyeballs gave back stare for stare ! And then we saw upon the wall A Something that was worse than all, Something that held us fast in thrall. A gruesome Shape, with peaked jaw. With horned head, with outstretched paw, And at each finger's end a claw ! Our blood was chilled, we could not speak, We could not even raise a shriek. Efich moment seemed a tedious week. 144 PHOTOGRAPHY BY MOONLIGHT. But Fear was soon laid on the shelf, WTien we perceived this monstrous elf Was but the shade of Jones himself. Reaction made us laugh — and that Made Jones's tale seem rather flat, So presently he sought his hat. Arthur Locke/ PHOTOGRAPPIY BY MOONLIGHT. Trudging across the purple sky, The Man in the Moon looked down Over the gaslights, and chimney-pots. And steeples oi London Town ; The clocks were striking the midnight hour As he peeped into a lady's bower ; And he there saw a sight Which made him exclaim, ** I could linger all night To gaze on that same." It was really rude of him to stare At Caroline, combing her golden hair. Enraptured with what he saw, He sighed, " I wish I could draw • But, stay ! I'll go to A man who can photo." He blew his silver whistle, and straight Twelve little Stars from the Milky Way Came with a curtsey, and said, ** We wait, Your Highness, to do whatever you say." He whispered his wishes, and, forthwith, laden With the sweet burden of that fair maiden, They carried Caroline through the air, PHOTOGRAPHY BY MOOXUGHT. 145 Over street, and terrace, and square, Till they arrived at Chancery Lane ; And there, without breaking a single pane, The crystal roof gave way at a touch. And Caroline nmch Surprised at her sudden aerial excursion, Accomplished without the least exertion. Found herself sitting;, After her flitting, In Mr. Charles Watkins's patient's chair ! 'I hen the Man in the Moon called a Comet, and said: ** G*^' ^^^^^ ^^^ photographer out of his bed ! '* Off flew the Comet at lightning pace, Woke Watkins by whisking his tail in his face And said : "Charlie W., Sorry to trouble you. But you're wanted upstairs for an urgent case " Watkins grumbles, and yawns, and wakes, Then dresses himself in a brace of shakes. Now for this wonderful operation ! In a state of excessive agitation The Man in the Moon did his best to shine, For he loved the fair sitter. Miss Caroline But though she sat like a statue, and her face wore a charming expression, Though Watkins tried all he knew To focus her sharp and true. The pieces of sensitive glass never yielded the slightest impression. Hour after hour passed, And nothing was done, till at last Red streaks in the eastern sky, Proclaimed that day was nigh.' 658 146 SAINT MONDA Y. Then in the Shooter's Hill direction Uprose an Orb with a ruddy complexion — 'Twas Apollo himself — the Lord of Light — And he cried : " Some exceedingly impudent wight Is daring to poach on my domain — Mr. Moon, don't attempt these tricks again, Remember, you only shine by reflection ! " Then he laughed such a laugh of utter derision, That Caroline woke — it was only a vision ! Arthur Locker, SAINT MONDAY. A DAY AT HAMPTON COURT. '* Since week after week we have toiled in the City, Next Monday at ten, if the morning is fair, Let us meet at the Waterloo Station, dear Kitty, And worship Saint Monday in fresh country air." Monday's sky was a picture — I counted upon it In the ocean of blue a few islands of white ; King Sun, I am sure, thought of Kitty's new bonnet, And warned all the rain-clouds to keep out of sight. I dressed in my best, and went down to the Garden — That famed Convent Garden, where nuns long ago, Lest their feelings, for lack of real lovers, should harden, Made roses, and pansies, and lilies, their beaux. The nuns have departed, but flowers still abound there, And fruits of all climates, the choicest and best : A basket of strawberries for Kitty I found there ; I pulled a blush rose to be pinned at her breast. SAINT MONDAY. 147 How sweetly she smiled as I entered the station ! How softly she chid me because I was late ! I glanced round the platform with some exultation, For I saw not a girl to compare to my Kale. We did not make love in the train, for our carriage Was full, and my Kitty is shy of display ; So we sat like a pair after ten years of marriage, Inhaling the breath of the newly-mown hay. Arrived at the Palace, we looked at the pictures Of warriors who frown, and of ladies who charm. How patiently Kate heard my critical strictures ! How happy I felt as she leant on my arm ! We praised the Court beauties of Lely and Kneller ; ** But yon carved oaken frame, which hangs low on the wall. Contains, dearest Kate," so I ventured to tell her, " By far the most beautiful portrait of all." *' 'Tis only a mirror," she answered. ** No, really, Dear Kitty, a picture has come into view — Such a pretty young lady ! Can she be by Lely r My darling, I vow 'tis exactly like you ! " Kate coloured, then laughed, then began to chastise me, With her parasol-tip, as if I was to blame : I glanced round, and as no one was near to surprise me, I kissed her in front of that old oaken frame. Our sight-seeing done, we were tempted to linger Beneath an old yew, on the smooth-shaven lawn : Kate dealt out our fruit, till each dear little finger Was rosily tipped, like Aurora's at dawn. 148 SAINT MONDAY. Then I read in our guide-book of Wolsey and Harr}', Of Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr, And, methought, had bluff Hal had the rare luck to marry My Kitty, he couldn't have ventured so far. We finished our day with a row on the water, I pressed Kate to steer, and in each little hand Put a tiller-rope — then, as I carefully taught her, She timidly gave me the word of command. Then I grew sentimental, and said, " If this river. Instead of the Thames, were the dark stream of Fate, Contented I'd row on for ever and ever With just such a dear little coxswain as Kate." We were loath to return, but the sun was descending, And Kitty's mamma would be wanting her tea; " Pleasures never seem sweeter than just as they're ending." The same thought occurred both to Kitty and me. And how kind was the guard, who contrived to discover — I think the good soul had a love of his own — That I stood towards Kate in the light of a lover. And gave us a box, by ourselves, all alone. Of all folks that evening he did us the best turn — Perhaps he was Cupid, in charge of the train — If so, for our next trip we'll choose the South Western, And worship Saint Monday at Hampton again. Arthur Locker. 7 HE liRI 7 AS// SA lULA 7 //. 1 49 TilH BRITISH SAHliATlI: A DIABOLICAL KKVl.KIE. — 1S58. TnK Devil he sat in his easy-chair, His face was furrowcil with lines of care, I'or lliinj;s had been ^oin^ on far loo well — The balance was ba'.l in ihe ledger of hell : l''vcn war, so often liis firm ally, For once had proved angel of unity To a nation that frittered in petty strife And in selfish sloth its heart and life : And the Devil he looked glum. Then he turned to the '1 itnes police reports, For he was most terribly out of sorts ; Put when he read of the beaten wife. Of the poisoned friend, of the drunken strife. His tail, which, grown limp, grey, and scant of hair, Lay nH>urnfully coiled beneath his chair, liegan to move gently hither and fro, And his swarthy cheek began to glow : " Here's a health to my friends," quoth he. Then the Devil read how a black-robed crew — Quoth he, " They stick to my livery too " — Had all met under the sad pretence Of forming themselves for the Sabbath defence, To promote throughout the English nation To their utmost the Sunday desecration, And to leave no choice to the man of lal) )ur Lut loving his drink, or hating his neighbour — No choice but the gin-shop or church. Quoth he : — " I know what these fellows leach, I* or I once heard a famous parson preach. I took a great brass-bound gilt-edged book — 1 50 THE BRITISH SABBA TH. My malignant scowl passed for pious look — Ah me : what a weary time was that ! Two hours on my stiffening tail I sat : With the pins and needles I grew quite pale, And for near three weeks could not wag that tail, For the parson had sent it to sleep. " The preacher said from the skies above That he brought a message of hope and love. Thought I, ' This never will do for me, But I'll stop a minute and wait to see.* And when the message he came to tell, Meseemed that it came not from heaven but hell, And I fixed my eyes on the topmost rafter. For fear I should burst into peals of laughter, At a message so wonderful quaint. " He said the message came but to them Who believed exactly as suited him, Whom he midwifed into their second birth, And God damn the rest of the living earth ; That Socinians, Turks, and Catholics, all Belonged to the Devil — both great and small : lie repeated this message again and again, I could do no less than cry out, * Amen ' ; * But,' thought I to myself, * I wish I knew I was sure of them as I am of you.'" And the Devil went reading on ; — " How the only day that the world of Art And Nature found time to touch the heart, Of their own museums priests robbed the poor, Of their picture-galleries shut the door, While the rich had their club and reading-room. Green-house and hot-house in constant bloom : THE liRITISH SAB HA Til. i = 'Mid ihc beasts and the birds they mi^ht freely stray, In gardens cl\\\, ah ! I've n^jl a pound a-year ; Nay, oft for weeks I've not a dime — a ; And so I dare not even dream Of Caviar and Rudesheimer. If some kind heart that beats for me, This troubled liead could e'er be press'd on ; If, in the awful nipht, this hand, Oulslretch'd, a form I loveil could rest on ; It wife, or chiki, or friend, or dog, I call'd my own, in any clime — a, This lyre I'd tune to other strains Than Caviar and Rudesheimer. Stay ! there's a poodle, who's my friend, Shaved *' Henri," far acro>s the ocean : liut, bah ! I'm maudlin ; t'other flask Will chase this babyish emotion. Her hair was light, her eyes were bright ; I heard her bridal— death-bell, chime — a ; Here, kellner ! take away the glass ; — My eyes are dim with — Rudesheimer. 156 GABRIELE ROSSETTL Inspector Synions is an ass — He may be right, though, in his praxis ; What, though tlie moon does not rotate, And hasn't even got an axis? The earth is square — the sky's pea-green — 'Tis half-a-mile from Hull to Lima ; And I'm as drunk as any lord On Caviar and Rudesheimer. George Augustus Sala. GABRIELE ROSSETTL STATUS QUO. In that same realm of rabid Belzebub, Who fits to every crime its punishment, Over a sink of unimagined scent Lies Mauro Cappellari, visage sub. And he, who was in life a moveless tub, Moveless immovable he there is pent : And aye for aye the Church's President Sucks in an odour — not the one they dub '• Of Sanctity." — "Another pain, and worse," He one day said, "provide me : I can bear No more the stink of all the universe." But Belzebub to him replied, "No, no ! Thou shalt remain to everlasting there ! This is the penalty of the Status Quo." William Michael Rossetti. SALVATOR ROSA. 157 SALVATOR ROSA. AGAINST THOSE WHO WOULD NOT HELIKVE HIM TO BE THE REAL AUTHOR OF HIS SATIRES. Therefore, because Salvator is my name, Do all and sundry " Crucify him ! " shout? But well it must be that the rascal rout Should only after Passion yield me fame. More than one Pilate asks me if I came At Satire's crown by thieving out and out : Me Peters more than one deny and scout, More than one Judas gives the kiss of shame. A gang of canting and unhappy Jews Swear that with glory's sanctum making free, I use another's Godhead in abuse. But this time they shall (ind the thing askew : They do the thieves, the Christ I shall not do ; Rather my Pindus proves their Calvary. William Michael Rossetti. 158 HEINE, HEINE, 1856. The most delicious master of the lash, Most intricate in choice simplicity, Sweetest in love-lilt, and in irony Consummate, as the opposed perceptions clash, And leave a tingling silence ; born to abash The priest and acolyte, and half to free The ponderous German mind with augury Of coming storm and sunshine when the crash Of lightning-hearted France shall penetrate The air which kinglets and professors breathe : Heine, the clarion of all brains which seethe With bright revolt and swift iconoclasm ; Unvanquished martyr of his eight years' spasm French German Jew, immortal reprobate. William Michael Kossetti. THE CHINESE OPIUM WAR. 159 THE CHINESE OPIUM WAR, 1842. A Christian merchant likes to sell his drug — Poison, it may be, but the chance is yours \Vho buy it. Buy it not, and all your floors Of joss-houses shall tremble, and the tug Of war constrain you. The religious Thug (Vet not a Christian) in like manner scores Successive victims of his noose, adores Ilis Juggernaut, and nestles in the hug Of well-earned sleep. A liuddhist Emperor's gong Booms, and he swears *' It shall not be." Effete, Atrophied, bloodless, sheep-faced, with a bleat Like sheep, his millions suck their opium still. Our British, to the missionaries' song Of loud Te Deum, gird themselves and kill. William Michael Kossetti. i6o DICKENS. DICKENS, 1870. Friend of the friendless, curious-peering eye Which, through the beggar's rags, the harlot's ban, The reeking hide of the vulgarian, Sees the quick heart of our humanity; Impatient reprobater of the lie That flares and sputters in the seemly van Of social order stablished, whereto man And monkey jabber their responsive cry ; Illuminator of the darkest slums Of England and the world with humorous quip, Which flashes, and wild laughter flashes too : Dickens, swift Vanderdecken of such a crew Of build outlandish as might man a ship Where Laputa's coast-line fronts on Christendom's. William Michael Rossetti. I'A'EAA'S OF J'ASIJJON. i6i FREAKS OF FASHION. Such a ImLbub in the nests, Such a bustle and squeak I Nestlings, guiltless of a feather. Learning just to speak, Ask — •' And how about the fashions? " From a caveinous beak. I'erched on bushes, perched on hedges. Perched on firm hahas, Perched on anything that holds iheiii, Gay papas and grave mammas Tench the knowledge — thirsty nestlings : Hear the gay papas. Robin says : "A scarlet waistcoat Will be all the wear, Snug, and also cheerful-looking For the frostiest air. Comfortable for the chest too When one comes to plume and pair." " Neat grey hoods will be in vogue," Quoth a Jackdaw : " Glossy grey. Setting close, yet setting easy, Nothing fly away ; Suited to our misty mornings, A la uegligte.'^ Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, Haughty Cockatoos Answer — " Hoods may do for mornings, But for evenings choose High head-dresses, curved like crescents, Such as well-bred persons use." 659 i62 FREAKS OF FASHION, " Top-knots, yes ; yet more essential Still, a train or tail," Screamed the Peacock ; " Gemmed and lustrous. Not too stiff, and not too frail ; Those are best which rearrange as Fans, and spread or trail." Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind An inimitable neck : "After all, there's nothing sweeter For the lawn or lake Than simple white, if fine and flaky And absolutely free from speck." ** Yellow," hinted a Canary, "Warmer, not less distinut he never funked, and he never lied ; I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engines well ; Never be passed on the river ; To mind the pilot's bell ; JIM BLUDSO. 173 And if ever the Prairie Belie took fire, A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last. The Movastar was a better boat, liut the Belle she wouldn't be passed ; And so come tcarin' along that night, — The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar. And burnt a hole in the night. And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that wilier-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, '* I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard. And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got oft" Afore the smoke-stacks fell, — And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren't no saint — but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. 174 DISTICHES. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing — And went for it thar and then : And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men. John Hay. DISTICHES. Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. This one may love her some day ; some day the lover will not. There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, When they seem going they come : Diplomats, women, and crabs. As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name ihem, Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king. What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second ? What does the second love bring ? Only regret for the first. John Hay. PLUCKING A FLOWER. 175 GOOD AND BAD LUCK. Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls ; Long in one place she will not stay : Back Irom your brow she strokes the curls, Kisses you quick and flies away. But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes And stays — no fancy has she for flitting, — Snatches of true-love songs she hums, And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. John Hay. PLUCKING A FLOWER. He. O MAIDEN, vermeil rose ! Unplanted, unsown. Blooming alone As the wild flower blows, With a will of thine own ! Neither grafted nor grown, Neither gather'd nor blown, O maiden, O rose ! Blooming alone In the green garden-close, Unnoticed, unknown, Unpropt, unsupported, Unwater'd, unfed, Unkist and uncourted, Unwoo'd and unwed, O sweet wild rose, \Yho knows ? who knows ? 176 PLUCKING A FLOWER. Might I kiss thee and court thee? My kiss would not hurt thee ! O sweet, sweet rose, In the green garden-close, If a gate were undone, And if I might come to thee, And meet thee alone ? Sue thee, and woo thee. And make thee my own ? Clasp thee, and cull thee — what harm would be done ? She. Beside thy field my garden blows. Were a gate in the garden left open . . . who knows ? And I water'd my garden at eventide ? (Who knows ?) And if somebody silently happen'd to ride That way ? And a horse to the gate should be tied ? And if somebody (who knows who ?), unespied, Were to enter my garden to gather a rose ? Who knows ? . . . I suppose No harm need be done. My beloved one, Come lightly, come softly at set of the sun ! Come, and caress me ! Kiss me, and press me ! Fold me, and hold me ! Kiss me with kisses that leave not a trace, But set not the print of thy teeth on my face. Or my mother will see it, and scold me. Chx'en Meredith. SEE-SAIK 177 SEE-SAW. She was a harlot, and I was a thief: But we loved each other beyond belief: She lived in the garret, and I in the kitchen. And love was all that we both were rich in. When they sent her at last to the hospital, lioth day and night my tears did fall ; They /ell so fast that, to dry their grief, I borrow'd my neighbour's handkerchief. III. The world, which, as it is brutally taught, Still judges the act in lieu of the thought, P^ound my hand in my neighbour's pocket, And clapp'd me, at once, under chain and locket. When they ask'd me about it, I told them plain, Love it was that had turn'd my brain : How should I heed where my hand had been, When my heart was dreaming of Celestine ? Twelve friends were so struck by my woful air, That they sent me abroad for change of air ; And, to prove me the kindness of their intent, They sent me at charge of the Government. 660 178 SEE-SAW. When I came back again, — whom, think you, I meet 13ut Celesline here, in Regent Street ? In a carriage adorn'd with a coronet, And a dress, all flounces, and lace, and jet : VII. For her carriage drew up to the bookseller's door, Where they publish those nice little books for the poor ; I took ofimy hat, and my face she knew, And gave me — a sermon by Mr. Bellcw. VIII. But she gave me (God bless her I), along with the book, Such a sweet sort of smile, such a heavenly look, That, as long as I live, I shall never forget Celestine, in her coach with the carl's coronet. There's a game that men play at in great London-town; Whereby some must go up, sir, and some must go down : And since the mud sticks to your coat if you fall, Why, the strongest among us keeps close to the wall. X. But some day, soon or late, in my shoes I shall stand, More exalted than any great Duke in the land ; A clean shirt on my back, and a rose in my coat, And a collar conferral l)y the Queen round my throat. FATHER WILLIAM. 179 XI. And I know that my Celestine will not forfjet To be there, in her coach wiih njy lord's coronet : She will smile to me then, as she smiled to me now : I shall nod to her gaily, and make liur my Low ; — iicfore I rejoin all those famous old thieves, Whose deeds have imnK)rtaliscd Rome, sir, and Greece: Whose names are inscribed upon Ilistoiy's leavt-;, 1 ike n)y own on the books of the City I'olice : — XIII. Alexander, and Caesar, and other preat robbers, Who once tried to pocket the whole universe : — Not 10 speak of our own parliamentary jobbers, Willi llicir hands, bless ihem all, in the popular purse. O'iVen Meredith. FATHER WILLIAM. '* Vou are old, Father William," the young man said, " And your hair has become very while ; And yet you incessantly stand on your head — Do you think, at your age, it is right ? " i8o FATHER WILLIAM. " In my youth," Father ^Villiam replied to his son, " I feared it might injure the brain ; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." " Vou are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned beTorc, And have grown most uncommonly fat ; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door — Pray, what is the reason of that? " " In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey lock«;, " I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box — Allow me to sell you a couple." *' Vou are old," said the youth, " and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet ; Vet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak — Pray, how did you manage to do it ? " " In my youth," said his father, " I look to the law, And argued each case with niy wife ; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "Vou are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as evei ; Vet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose — What made you so awfully clever? " 1 1 \4 L R US A A' J) THE CA Rl'EN 7 ER. \ S i " I have answered three questions, and that is enouj^h," S;iid his father. *' Don't give yourself airs ! l)(j you think I can listen all day to such stufl ? iJe oH, ur I'll kick you down stairs ! " Lezvi's Carroll. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTKK TiiK 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, liecause 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." The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry, You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky : No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly. The V/alrus 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 ! " i82 WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER. " 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. " Oh, 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. 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. W'A LRUS AND TH E CARPEN'I ER, 1S3 Tlie 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." '• 15ut wait a bit," the Oysters cried, " liefore 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? 1 84 WALRUS AXD THE CARPENTER " It was so kind of you to come, And you are veiy 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 sympathise." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief, Before his streaming eyes. *' Oh, Oysters," said the Carpenter, " You've had a pleasant run I Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. Lcii'is Carroll, THE DEAD MONK. 185 THE DEAD MONK OF ST. BLAIZES THE BARE. All Ancient anil Full Chirious Legend, done Into a Jinsle of JUiynies— with every Apology to the Manes of the I^te Thuniiis Inpoldsby, Ks(itiire, of TappingtonEverd.rd, iu the County of Kent. I. Abbot Eaoulpii sits throned in his Judgment Chair, In the great groined Hall of St. Hlaizes the Bare ; With his mitre and crook, And his bell and his book, And his candle ; and doom-black Judgment Cope, With the orphreys of flame, And the hood of the same, Which were blessed and sent over from Rome by the Pope. It is New Year's Eve — Eadulph's annual assize, To " hear and determine," admonish, advise, Order penance, give shrift, And turn black sheep adrift — That the brotherhood all may, with consciences clear. Worldly passions subdued, Holy fervour renewed, Say a midnight mass for the dying Old Year. The Abbot sat early ; the Abbot sits late : And what with the din of the old men's prate, And the harrying throes Of the gout in his toes, And the cravings of hunger and worries of age, He fumes and he frets. And he flies into pets. And at last shuts his book in a towering rage. iS6 THE DEAD MONK. lie closes his court ; he descends from his chair ; And the little white boys with the golden hair, And Crucifer Rede, And Apparitor Bede In procession are forming for leaving the Hall, When a terrible rout Is heard without. Like a public-house row or a midnight brawl. *' Who dares ! " — Abbot Eadulph can utter no more Ero a crowd of lay brethren swarm at the door, With a gabbling and sputt'ring, W^hich sink into mutt'ring, As fiercely he orders them all to their knees. Then he singles out two — "John and Peter, 'tis you Who ferment all such scandalous uproars as these. " You're the curse of the brotherhood — plague of my life, With your squabbling, and wrangling, and old women's strife. Foregad ! But I'll teach ye " At this point of his spcecli, he, With very unabbotlike rancour and spite. At John hurls his crook. And at Peter his book. And bids them pack out of his fatherly sight. Then again he sets forth ; and in less than a crack Is discussing v.'ith relish his capon and sack. John and Peter, meanwhile, Are venting their bile, THE DEAD MONK. 187 In language which cannot be stated in verse : Suffice it to say, That when each went his way, lie bestowed on the other his heartiest curse. Now, within a sling's throw of St. Blaizes the Bare, Stands a snug public-house callcil the Tadpole and Chair, Whereat the " choice spirits" of Yarrow-on-Vare (A sleepy old town, with a sleepy old mayor), Meet to gamble and tipple and " drive away care; " And at half-past ten. In a little back den, At this snug little hostel are seated two men, Intent on a game Of — I don't know its name — It's akin to backgammon, but not quite the same. (You've men and you've dice, And you count by the points On a leathern device In a sham book with joints ; But there's something peculiar in putting your man on, And a game is a game — it's not called *' the gammon.") Lookers-on there are none ; All the "company" 's gone (As becomes quiet folk who've to rise before dawn). All — excepting the two, who play silently on : They're mine host of the Tadpole and — Lay Brother John! Ah ! could he but see — As he tells off with glee. For the tenth time, the winning points — one— two — three — 1 88 THE DEAD MONK. The Shadow of Fear That is hovering near To shut out for ever the coming New Year, Brother John, I trow well, would have never been here. But his winnings are great ; And with sj^irits elate He pockets his angels— coin big with fate — Not remarking the scowl of intensified hate Which upon the dark brow of the landlord sate : With a gay " God be wi' ye — it's getting quite late," He turns him to go, When a treacherous blow On his cervical vertebrce lays him low. It was skilfully dealt, It could hardly be felt, Ere the joyous old monk Lay, without doubt, defunct, In a motionless heap, as though he'd been drunk. His pockets are rifled — a gaping trap-door Is ready hoist up in the " snuggery" floor ; And into a well, Whose depth none might tell, Brother John had been bundled in one moment more ; When out from a cupboard, Like Old Mother Hubbard, Popp'd the murderer's wife ! The murderer blubbered. Full many a blood-curdling deed had he done : He'd murdered for profit, he'd murdered for fun. But — 'twas the one human trait in his inhuman life — He strove to conceal his worst crimes from his wife. ** For myself I don't care," He'd been heard to declare, " But for her — blood's a burden too heavy to bear." THE DEAD MONK. 1S9 Thcre've been many men else who in " lime's winged flight," Have the devil mistook for an angel of light. '* Come Joe ! Be a man ! " Thus the lady began, " Don't suppose that I've only just found out your plan ; I saw by your eye, As to bed I went by, That tills wretched old baggage was destined to die ; So I just popped in there, By the little back stair (I've done so far oft'ner than you are aware), And— had the job you've just done Proved too much for one — I'd have helped you — you trembling old son of a gun. There, there, say no more ; Clap down the trap-door ; We mustn't put this body under the floor. Old Peter's been in for his evening beer ; And — confound his sleek questions ! — he kncnvs /ohti is here : John's f!0^ heen seen since — that's perfectly clear ; If John '\%xi\. found yowx case will look queer. Now take my advice : Pick him up in a trice, And pitch him clean over the monast'ry wall : It thus will appear, when they find him a-sprawl, That being out late. With no key to the gate, lie was clambering over in time for * the call,' And broke his pernicious old neck in the fall." 'Tis done as advised — not a moment too soon ; For the pale, clear rays of the rising moon igo THE DEAD MONK. Are beginning to pierce the Cimmerian gloom As the murd'rer returns to his little snug room. Meanwhile, Brother John Lies his full length along — Never more to hear matins or evensong — By the side of a fountain pellucid and deep, As placid as if he were only asleep. Reigns silence supreme o'er the earth, in the air, As the moonbeams troop down from their pearl-cavern'd lair, To sport with the shadows in Yarrow-on-Yare : They through lattices teem, \Vith shimmering gleam, To silver some sleeping child's innocent dream ; They fall faint and fair ^Vhere, disburthened of care, Lie the mound-cover'd dead, near the lov'd house of prayer ; They trip o'er the green round the maypole bare ; They frost the stone cross in the old Market Square ; Like fairy and fay, They noiselessly play O'er the stream that purls on to its goal far away. Into each shafted aisle Of the great cloistered pile. Looming out on the hill-top, they peer with a smile ; They play hide-and-seek in its niches and porches ; They flash from the glass like electrical torches ; While buttress and mullion and corbel and band, Are touched with the grace of their vanishing hand. In the chapel they glimmer from groining to floor ; THE DEAD MONK. 191 Through the windows they pour — They creep under the door ; They dance round the pillars, and flit lightly o'er The cressets and lecturns and carven rood-screen — Through the clerestory dart with a lance-like sheen. They sweep through the nave, draped in blinding white : But they pause in their flight, In the soft rainbow light Of the great eastern window, so richly bedight, Where the dream of the sheaves, And the Babe 'mong the beeves. And the Crucified One, hung between the two thieves. And a baron in greaves, And a priest in deep sleeves, Shine dappled in shadows, that fall from the leaves Of the ivy bush stirred by the moonlit breeze. Hark ! a bell 'gins to swing with monotonous clang- '* Tang, tang — tang, tang : " " May the Abbot go hang ! " Grumbled Sacristan Guy, as he out of bed sprang, " Things is at a pass When we has to do mass On a mid-winter midnight? — Egiejus old hass! " "Tang, tang — tang, tang — " All the corridors rang With echoing feet and doors shut with a bang, As thurifer, crucifer, acolyte small, Come hurrying all, At the bell's frenzied call. To make ready the chapel from altar to stall. "Tang, tang — tang, tang — " And still as it swang The helpers poured in in a motley gang : 192 THE DEAD MONK. All — all but poor John, Who lies full length along — Never more to hear matins or evensong — By the side of the fountain that's clear and deep, As placid as if he were only asleep. A whisper goes round — none can guess where he is, Excepting old Peter, who screws up his phiz Into one huge wink, Chuckling "What should you think. If my dea)- brother John was a victim to drink ?" " Tang, tang — tang, tang ; " Up starts with a pang The murd'rer, who dreams that it knells for a "hang," And still feels a pain In his jugular vein. As he falls to his blood-broken slumbers again. "Tang, tang — tang, tang," till the deep noon of night- The moonbeams, meanwhile, disappearing from sight. As light after light On the great altar's height Springs forth into being, all dazzling and bright ; And the lamps 'gin to shine Round the Patron Saint's shrine, And adown the long aisle in a glimmering line. At length the old organ peals out soft and slow ; And the monks enter — kneeling down row after row On each side the aisle, where their tonsur'd heads show Like ostrich eggs ranged on a heap of " old clo' : " The Venites begun. The censers are swung By little white boys, who're remarkably young ; And Crucifer Rede, And Apparitor Bede, THE DEAD MONK. 193 And Banner-boy Paul, enter in, and precede The deacons and priest, who've the service to read. In dalmatic, and tunicle, needlework'd stark, Come Gospeller Cyril and Sub-deacon Mark ; While in chasuble, maniple, alb, and stole, Comes the Celebrant grey ; and to bring up the whole Abbot Eadulph, full-robed in his vestments of State — His cloth of gold cope and his jewelled breastplate. \Yhat boots it to tell How the clang of the bell Mingled faintly with voice and with deep organ swell, As the stately procession moved on to the choir ; How the boys fell apart, while the men went up higher — Th' abbot to his rich-carven canopied chair — The deacons and priest to the High Altar stair ? What boots it to say How, in dazzling array, The altar-plate shone like the sun at noonday ; Or what need to declare How the perfumed prayer, Sung in unison'd antiphons, filled all the air ? The service is done — It is just after one : A half-dozen monks to the Abbot have run To say (while old Peter's enjoying the fun) That lay brother John lies as drunk as a tun At the Tadpole and Chair, Down in Yarrow-on-Yare ; Asks the Abbot full shrewdly, " Pray, who saw him there? " The monks bring in Peter, who "begs to explain : He knows no such tavern — excepting by name ; But he heard a man say as he came up the lane That— really it gave him a great deal of pain 661 194 THE DEAD MONK. To repeat the report, but " — He paused with affright As the Abbot roared " s' Light ! But I'll set this thing right ; I'll be sure if 'tis fact, or mere personal spite. If true, Brother John shall pay for it dearly ; If untrue, you, Peter, shall rue it severely." By the Abbot's command, two lay brethren repair To that sinister tavern, the Tadpole and Chair, They return to report that old John isn't there : The landlord, they say, Said he'd not been all day ; But the landlady pressed Him to make a clean breast, And that John had been there he then freely confessed The landlady adding, that just before " call " She saw John climb over the Monast'ry wall ; " She feared he'd disabled himself by a fail." Said the Abbot, " Go see, And bring him to me ; I'll teach him, the dog, to go out on the spree." Their search was in vain ; They came back again — " He's not in the garden ; he's not in the lane ! " The truth is, old Peter out that way had wander'd And spied, as he o'er the case thoughtfully ponder' d. The body of John Lying full-length along. By the side of the fountain pellucid and deep : And, anger'd to find him so calmly asleep, He'd smote him a stroke With his stout staff of oak. And discovered soon after that John's neck was broke. Having thus, as he thought, committed foul murther. He deemed it no harm to go just one step further. THE DEAD MONK. 195 " To libel the dead, Can hurt no one," he said, " And 'twill save me, I think, from a course of dry bread." So he shouldered the body and bore it once more To the place where 'twas brought from some two hours before. 'Gainst the door of the Tadpole he propped it up neatly, Gave a runaway rap, and " skedaddled " discreetly. " Now they won't suspect me" He chuckled with glee, *' And they'll think John was killed in a public-house spree." He 'scaped Eadulph's seachers as homewards he sped. And — the quest given up for the monk who was dead — With the rest of the brethren he crept off to bed. IV. " Hark ! hark !— There's a knock ! Now be firm as a rock ! " The bolts are withdrawn — the key turns in the lock ; And mine host of the Tadpole falls flat on the floor. With a tpfrified yell, 'twixt a shriek and a roar, As the corpse of old John tumbles in at the door : Rolling slark, to his side, With its eyes open wide, It ghastfully glares at the prone homicide, Whose terrors its death-grin appears to deride. The murderer moans. And shudders and groans ; And a cold perspiration exudes from his bones As, deceived by the rustle Of his better-half s bustle. He fears the dead monk's getting up for a tussle. 196 THE DEAD MONK, " Now, Joseph, be cool, And don't play the fool," Says his wife, in a whisper as hoarse as 'tis cruel ; "If you're not quite distraught Give the matter a thought- Could a dead man come here unless he was brought ? Tut, tut ! Who cares who ? It's a parcel of fudge ; He's been brought here by some one who owes us a grudge. That's enough for his coming. Now as to his going ! See how the old baggage sits mopping and mowing ! Here — slip him into this sack, Take him up on your back, And pitch him out into the Yare in a crack : And they'll say when he's found. He, by mishap, was drowned : For our friend with the grudge will be mum, I'll be bound." With the monk in the sack. And the sack on his back. The murd'rer steals on down the well-beaten track Which leads to the stream, Where the moonbeams gleam 'Mong the ripples that throw off a silvery steam. He utters no sound, He looks not around, He keeps liis eyes steadfastly fixed on the ground, When he hears — click-a-clack — Near upon him, good lack ! Certain footsteps that follow adown the same track. He contrives to look back : 'Tis a Form with a sack Exactly like his ; and the Form's dressed in black ! THE DEAD MONK. 197 lie breathes hard and quick, 'Tis full surely Old Nick ! He pauses — small blame ! The Form does the same, He steps on with his pack — Click-a-clack — click -a-clack — The Form follows glibly; 'tis still on his track. Again he stops short, And as if in grim sport, The Form does so too, and emits a loud snort. All his muscles fall slack, His load slips off his back, And he sinks down in fear by the side of his sack. Then once more he takes courage, and peers round again, To find that the Form's done precisely the same. " Cuss the body ! " he cries ; " may the devil ketch holt of it ! For, come weal or come woe, /'// make a clean bolt of it." The words were scarce said, When the Form scratched its head, Left its load in the roadway, and fearsomely fled. Mine host stole on tiptoe, peeped into the sack Which the Form had abandoned, and started aback. He looked in again, and murmured, " I'm blessed If this 'ere ain't a pig, and it's already dressed 1 " Then he said something rude 'bout his limbs and his eyes, Left the dead monk behind, and ran home with his prize. V. There's a cave in the forest that lies beyond Yarrow, From whence deeds are done fit to freeze up one's marrow : 198 THE DEAD MONK. It's spacious inside, though its entrance is narrow. Just drop on your knees, Under yon clump of trees, And if you're not portly, and don't mind a squeeze. And don't get stopped midway, you'll crawl in with ease. Come, that's right ! We are there In the famed " Robbers' Lair." Blear-eyed, beetle-browed, and with unkempt hair — How awful they look in the lurid torch -glare ! There's Slog the highwayman, there's Kidnapping Kit, And Ben Biudyer, who many a weazand has slit ; There's sheep-stealing Jem, and Sam Clots, with his knife. And Daggers, the Chieftain, and Daggers's wife, Whose eyes are both blacked. And whose face is much hacked, For she's angered her mate and been what he calls "whacked." How they drink ! How they swear ! How they bellow and blare O'er their cards ! But you want to get out in the air? Well, well, as you will — ■ Hark ! A whistle sounds shrill : Says the Chieftain, "Go, see if it's Housebreaking Bill." One creeps out and returns : ' ' Here's a jolly rum rig — Old Billy's come back, but he ain't brought the pig ! " Bill enters. " How's this? Have you made a (blank) miss? " *' An' he has," growled the chieftain, "he'll rue it, I wis." At this Bill speaks up: "Pals all, look ye 'ere (He'd been badly brought up, and his language was queer), I collar'd the porker, and got away clear ; But in coming along by the old limestone delf, THE DEAD MONK. 199 1 sees straight afore me a ugly old elf, On my oath, the exact ghost and fetch o' myself ! With a pig in a sack, And the sack on his back, A labourin' along on the werry same track. I stops ; he stops too. I goes on, so do he, In fac', he does everythink 'zactly like me ! Ah, pals ! you may laugh, but old Bill you don't ketch A comin' to blows with his own ghost and fetch. I don't tell no lies; I was took by surprise ; And if 'twasn't Old Nick, why — there the pig lies For the boldest to fetch, and — Lord help him as tries ! " Two robbers — Tom Slog and the Chieftain himself — At once make their way to the lane by the delf ; And they there find a sack, Which they quickly bring back. Drag into the cave, and proceed to unpack. They open its mouth. Roars the Chief, " Why, Bill's drunk ; This here ain't a pig ; it's the corpse of a monk ! " Bill swears 'twas a pig that he left in the lane ; Says the Chief, " My swee^ William, I wish to refrain From the use of hard words, but you've sold us — that's plain. How I will not inquire ; but — don't do it again, Or perhaps we may open your jugular vein. Meanwhile take this sack, Hoist it up on your back, And, as business to-night is a little bit slack, Tom and I will go with you, and, dash my (blank) wig, Vou shall hang up the monk where you took down the pig.", 'Tis done. Who shall tell Of the horror that fell 200 THE DEAD MONK, On the butcher who rose at the first matin bell, And came to convey, Ere the breaking of day, The pig to a market town some miles away ? The loss of his pork was full grievous to bear ; The gain of the corpse quite a dreadful affair, For the common law ran that, a body being found In any man's house or on any man's ground, That man should be hanged without bothering further, Unless he could show that he'd not done a murther. Now, the butcher in order to 'scape this dilemma, Consulted his wife — her name was Jane Emma — And, between them, they hit on this excellent plan : About eight o'clock, just as business began, They loosed the " grey boss," Threw the old monk across, And made a great noise with an old frying pan. Away went the steed down the principal street. " Stop, thief! " roared the butcher, and followed it fleet. All Yarrow turned out to take part in the chase, Throwing stones and hallooing — ne'er was seen such a race — Till at last the old horse, plunging into the Yare, Made an end of the Monk of St. Blaizes the Bare ; For his body being found, A jury profound This verdict returned — " Accidentally drowned." John's murd'rer, I need not say, " died in his shoes" — Twas for killing his wife in a fit of the blues ; While as to old Peter, he'd very bad nights All the rest of his life, and saw horrible sights. Abbot Eadulph, meanwhile, every virtue exhibited, And the Chief and his robbers were every one gibbeted. TO PHCEBE. MORAL. Should chance ever take you to Yarrow-on-Yare, Never "use" that snug "public," the Tadpole and Chair ; By no means go out to the famed *' Robbers' Lair," For the chances are even you won't find it there : And, rememb'ring the proverb about the grey mare, Take a wife and consult her ; and — heed my last prayer — Never be The Dead Monk of St. Blaizes the Bare. John Lovell. TO PHCEBE. " Gentle, modest, little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half-an hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming, If I loved you, Phoebe dear. " Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing ! Please ecstaticise existence ; Love me, oh, thou fairy thing ! " Words like these, outpouring sadly, You'd perpetually hear. If I loved you, fondly, madly ; — But I do not, Phoebe dear ! W, S. Gilbert, 202 THE PRECOCIOUS BATyY. THE PRECOCIOUS IJABV. A VKKY TRUE TALE. An elderly person, a prophet l)y trade — With his quibs and his tips On withered old lips — He married a young and a beautiful maid The cunning old blade, Though rather decayed, He married a beautiful, beautiful maid. She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be, With her tempting smiles And maidenly wiles. And he was a trille otT seventy-three : Now what she could sec Is a puzzle to me, In a prophet of seventy — seventy-three ! Of nil their relations, good, middling, and bad. With their loud high jinks, And underbred winks, Ni He'll a weed in liis inMiilh and a ijlas* in hii eye ; A hat all aw ry, An octagon lie, And a miniature — miniature ylass in his eye. lie {jrundilcd at wearintj a frock and a caji, With his ** Oh, dear, oh ! " And his •' Hang it, you know !" And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap - " My friends, it's a tap That is not worth a lap." (Now this was remarkably excellent pap.) He'd cliuck his nurse under tiie cliin, and he'd h.ay, With his •' Fal, lal, lal," " Vou (loosed fine p;al ! " 'lliis shocking precocity drove 'em away : " A month from to-day Is as long as I'll stay — Then I'd wi>h, if you please, for to \\ish you gooil day." His father, a simple old gentleman, he With nursery rhyme And *' Once on a time " NN'ould tell him the story of " Little Do P." " So pretty was she, So pretty and wee, As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could l»c." liul the babe, with a dig that would startle nn ox, With his " C'ck ! oh, my ! Go along wiz 'oo, fie ! " W^ould exclaim, " I'm afraid 'oo a socking old fox.'' !04 THE PRECOCIOUS BAIyV. Now a father it sliocks, And it whitens his locks, "When his little b;ibe calls him a shocking old fox. The name of his father he'd couple and pair (With his ill-bred laugh And insolent chaff) With those of the nursery heroines rare ; Virj^inia the fair, Or Good GoMen-hair, Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear. ♦'There's Jill and Wiite Cat" (said the bold little brat), With his loud " I la, ha !" " 'Oo sly ickle pa ! Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo Peep, and 'oo ^^rs. Jack Sprat ! I've noticed *oo pat My pretty White Cat — I sink dear mamma ougiit to know about dat I " He early determined to marry and wive, For better or worse. With his elderly nurse — Which the poor little Imy didn't live to contrive : His health didn't thrive — No longer alive. He died an enfe-bled oM dofard at five ! CAPTAIN RIIECE. 205 MORAL. Now, elderly men off the bachelor crew, With wrinkled hose And si>cclaclcd nose, Don't marry at all — you may take it as true, If ever you do, Tile step you will rue, For your babes will l>e elderly- -elderly, too. W. S. GilUrt. CAPTAIN RKKCE. Of all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a belter crew Than that of worthy Captain Reece, Commanding of The Mantlepiece. He was adored by all his men, F»)r worthy Captain Rcecc, K.N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comlort of his crew. If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad. Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his iniancy. A feather bed had every man. Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown Windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four. 2o6 CAPTAIN REECE. Did they with thirst in summer burn? Lo ! seltzogcnes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays. Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the " tops"; And, also, with amusement rile, A " Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." New volumes came across the sea From Mister Mudie's Libraree ; The Times and Saturday RevicM Beguiled the leisure of the crew. Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N., Was quite devoted to his men ; In point of fact, good Captain Reece Beatified The MantUpiece. One summer eve, at half-past ten, He said (addressing all his men) : "Come, tell me, please, what can I do To please and gratify my crew? " By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can ; My own convenience count as ////; It is my duty, and I will." Then up and answered William Lee (The kindly captain's coxswain he, \ nervous, shy, low spoken man), lie cleared his throat and thus began CAPTAIN REECE. 207 " Vou have a duii^littr, Captain Kcece, Tin female cousins and a nircc, A Ma, if what I'm tohl is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two. " Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly like we all should be If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew. '■ If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife ; And as for nervous me, oM pal, (live mc your own enchanting' gal ! " Good Captain Rcecc, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan : " I quite a{,'ree," he said, •' O Bill ; It is my duty, and I will. " My daughter, that enchanting girl. Has just been promised to an Lail, And all my other familee To peers of various degree. " But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you I'll fulfil ; It is my duty, and I will. •* As you desire it shall befall, I'll settle thousands on you all, And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board." 2o8 CAPTAIN REECE. The boatswain of The Mantlepiece, He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece : '■ I beg your honour's leave," he said ; " If you would wish to go and wed, " I have a widowed mother who Vv'^ould be the very thing for you — She long has loved you from afar : She washed for you, Captain R.' The Captain saw the dame that day — Addressed her in his playful way— '* And did it want a wedding ring? It was a tempting ickle sing ! •'Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, We'll all be married this day week At yonder church upon the hill ; It is my duty, and 1 will ! " The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed Ma of Captain Reece Attended there as they were bid ; It was their duty, and they did. W. S, Gilbert. HARD LIAES. 209 HARD LINES. It was the huge metropoliL With fog was like to chokt , It was the ancient cabby-horse His seedy knees that broke : And oh, it was the cabby-man That swore with all his might, And did request he might be blow'd Particularly tight, If any swell should make him stir Another step that night ! Then up and spake that bold cabman Unto his inside fare : " I say, you Sir, come out of that ! I say, you Sir, in there,— " Six precious aggrawatin' miles I've dniv to this here gate, And that poor injer'd hanimal Is in a fainting state. " There ain't a thimbleful of light, ^ The fog's as black as pitch, I m flummox'd 'tween them postesses And that most 'aiej^il ditch. " So bundle out ! my 'oss is beat, I'm sick of this 'ere job;— I say, you Sir, in Vn&xe—cPyou 'ear 9 He's bolted ! Strike me. Bob ! " H. Cholmondely Pennell. 662 2IO THE owns SONG. THE OWL'S SONG. Come hither and listen, whoever Would learn from our pages the miracle Of passing for witty and clever Without being voted satirical ! He'd better be apt with his pen Than well-dressed and well-booted and gloved, Who likes to be liked by the men, By the women who loves to be loved : And Fashion full often has paid Her good word in return for a gay word, For a song in the manner of Praed, Or an anecdote worthy of Hayward. And hither, you sweet schoolroom beauties, Who only at Easter came out ! We'll teach you your dear little duties At ball-room, and concert, and rout ; With whom you may go down to supper, And where you may venture to please ; And what you should say about Tupper, And what of the cattle disease ; And when you must ask a new member Why ke did not move the Address, And hint how you laughed last November On reading his squibs in the Press. You Pitts of the future, we'll get you To show yourselves modest and smart, And, if you speak hastily, set you Three pages of Hansard by heart. TR UTHFUL JAMES. 2 1 1 Whenever with quoting you bore us (As pert young Harrovians will) Your last repetition from Horace, You'll write out a chapter of Mill. But if you can think of a hit That's brilliant and not very blue, We'll greet it by piping " Tu-whit," And mark it by hooting " Tu-whoo."' Sir George Otto Trevelyan. PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870, Which I wish to remark — And my language is plain — That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar. Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name; And I will not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply ; But his smile it was pensive and childlike. As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. ; 1 2 TR UTHFUL JAMES. It was August the third ; And quite soft was the skies : Which it mit^ht be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand. It was Euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve : Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see — Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, " Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour ' And he went for that heathen Chinee. TR UTHFUL J A MES, 2 1 3 In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand ; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game " he did not understand." In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs — Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in taper — that's wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar — Which the same I am free to maintain. Bret Harte. FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. NYE's ford, STANISLAUS, 187O. Do I sleep ? do I dream ? Do I wander and doubt ? Are things what they seem? Or is visions about ? Is our civilisation a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? 214 TRUTHFUL JAMES, Which expressions are strong ; Yet would feebly imply Some account of a wrong — Not to call it a lie — As was worked off on William, my pardner, And the same being W. Nye. He came down to the Ford On the very same day Of that lottery, drawed By those sharps at the Bay ; And he says to me, " Truthful, how goes it ?" I replied, " It is far, far from gay— " For the camp has gone wild On this lottery game, And has even beguiled ' Injin Dick' by the same." Which said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen — Do you know what his number is, James?" I replied, " Seven, two. Nine, eight, four, is his hand ; " When he started — and drew Out a list, which he scanned ; Then he softly went for his revolver, With language I cannot command. Then I said, " William Nye ! " But he turned upon me, And the look in his eye Was quite painful to see. And he says : " You mistake ; this poor Injin I protects from such sharps as you be ! " 7R UTHFUL JAMES, 2 1 5 I was shocked and withdrew ; But I grieve to relate, When he next met my view Injin Dick was his mate ; And the two around town was a-Iyincj In a frightfully dissolute state. When the war-dance they had Round a tree at the Bend Was a sight that was sad; And it seemed that the end Would not justify the proceedings, As I quiet remarked to a friend. For that Injin he fled The next day to his band ; And we found William spread Very loose on the strand, With a peaceful-like smile on his features, And a dollar greenback in his hand. Which the same, when rolled out, We observed with surprise, That that Injin, no doubt, Had believed was the prize — Them figures in red in the corner, Which the number of note specifies. Was it guile or a dream ? Is it Nye that I doubt? Are things what they seem ? Or is a vision about ? Is our civilisation a failure ? Or is the Caucasian played out ? Bret Barte, 2i6 HER LETTER. HER LETTER. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe evenjj'^w would admire, — It cost a cool thousand in France ; Tm be-diamondcd out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue : In short, sir, *' the belle of the season " Is wasting an hour upon you. A dozen engagements I've broken ; I left in the midst of a set ; Likewise a proposal, half-spoken, That waits— on the stairs — for me yet. They say he'll be rich, — when he grows up And then he adores me indeed ; And you, sir, are turning your nose up. Three thousand miles off, as you read. " And how do I like my position? " " And what do I think of New York? " " And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk? " " And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds, and silks, and all that ? ' " And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat ? " Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving Kach day in the Park, four-in-hand, — If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand, — HER LETTER, 217 If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that, — You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier, — In the bustle and glitter befitting The " finest soiree of the year," — In the mist of a gaze de ChamOery, And the hum of the smallest of talk, — Somehow, Joe, I thought of the '* Ferry," And the dance that we had on " the Fork '" ; Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall ; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go ; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow ; Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest ; Of — the something you said at the gate. Ah I Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To '* the best paying lead in the State." Well, well, it's all past : yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money. That I should be thinking, right there, 2i8 JUS ANSWER TO ''HER LETTER:' Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing ! (Mamma says my taste is low). Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! And I'm to be " finished " by travel, — Whatever's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat ? Good-night ! — here's the end of my paper ; Good-night ! — if the longitude please, — For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that. That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. Bret Harte, HIS ANSWER TO "PIER LETTER." REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES, Bfing asked by an intimate party — Which the same I would term as a friend — Which his health it were vain to call hearty. Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; HIS ANSWER TO ''HER LETTERP 219 For his arm it was broken quite recent, And has something gone wrong with his lung,^ Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue : First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter To the end, — and the end came too soon ; That a slight illness kept him your debtor (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; That his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate). And he says that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought ; That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought (V/hich are words he would put in these pages By a party not given to guile ; Which the same not, at date, paying wages Might produce in the sinful a smile). He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him, — that very Same rose he is treasuring now (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk. Miss, And insists on his legs being free ; And his language to me from his bunk. Miss, Is frequent and painful and free) ; He hopes you are wearing no willows. But are happy and gay all the while ; That he knows (which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style. 220 HIS ANSWER TO ''HER LETTER:' And the same you will pardon), — he knows, Miss, That though parted by many a mile, Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile. And you'll still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; In this green laurel-spray that he treasures — It was plucked where your parting was last ; In this specimen, — but a small tritlc, — It will do for a pin for your shawl (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle. Was his last week's " clean-up" — and his all). He's asleep; which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change. Miss, In view that his fever was high ; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive, And now my respects, Miss, to you. Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom, — it's true. Which I have a small favour to ask you. As concerns a bull-pup, which the same, — If the duty would not overtask you, — Vou would please to procure for me, game. And send her express to the Flat, Miss, Which they say York is famed for the breed, Which though words of deceit may be that. Miss, I'll trust to your taste. Miss, indeed. P.S. — \\Tiich this same interfering Into other folks' ways I despise ; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as lies ''jim:' 221 Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers That, having no family claims, Here's my pile ; which it's six hundred dollars, As is yours, with respect, Truthful James. Bret Harle. -JIM." Say, there ! P'r'aps Some on you chaps ]\Tight know Jim Wild ? Well, — no offence : Thar ain't no sense In gettin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! You Ain't of that crew, Blest if you are ! Money? — Not much: That ain't my kind : I ain't no such. Rum ?— I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim. Did you know him ? — Jess 'bout your size ; Same kind of eyes? 222 "//A/." Well, that is strange : Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us : Eh? The h — , you say ! Dead? That little cuss ? What makes you star,- You over thar ? Can't a man drop 's glass 'n yer shop But you must rar' ? It wouldn't take D — much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor — little — Jim ! — Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben, — No — account men : Then to take him I Well, thar— Good-bye- No more, sir, — I — Eh? What's that you say ?— Why, dern it !— sho !— No ? Yes ! By Jo I IN THE TUNNEL, 223 Sold! Sold ! Why, you limb ! You orney, Derned old Lonc^-legfred Jim ! Bret Harie, IN THE TUNNEL. Didn't know Flynn, Flynn of Virginia, — Long as he's been 'yar ! Look'ee here, stranger, Whar hev you been? Here in this tunnel He was my pardner, That same Tom Flynn, - Working together, In wind and weather, Day out and in. Didn't know Flynn ! Well, that is queer; Why, it's a sin To think of Tom Flynn, Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear, — Stranger, look 'yar ! Thar in the drift, Back to the wall, He held the timbers Ready to fall ; 224 A SONNET IN DIALOGUE. Then in the darkness I heard him call : " Run for your life, Jake ! Run for your wi'e's sake ! Don't wait for me." And that was all Heard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia. That's all about Flynn of Virginia. That lets me out. Here in the damp, — Out of the sun, — That 'ar derned lamp Makes my eyes run. Well, there. I'm done ! But, sir, when you'll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn,— Flynn ot Virginia, — Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn ; Say that you've been 'yar. Bret Harte. A SONNKT IN DIALOGUE. Frank [oil the lawn). Come to the terrace, May, — the sun is low. May {in the house). Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead. A SONNET IN DIALOGUE, 225 Fra}ik. There are two peaches by the strawberry bed. A/ay. They will be riper if we let them grow. Frank. Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know. May. Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead. Frank. But surely, May, your pony must be fed. May. And was, and is. I fed him hours ago. 'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir. Frank. Still, I had something you would like to hear. May. No doubt some new frivolity of men. Frank. Nay, — 'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores Chiefly, I think . . . May [coming to the windoiu)- What is this secret, then ? Frank {^mysteriously). There are no eyes more beautiful than yours ! Austin D oh son. 66:; 226 TU QUOQUE. TU QUOQUE. AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. Nellie. If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir, If I were you ! Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew. I would at least pretend I recollected, U I were you ! Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish. Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, If I were you ! Fiauk. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, — the mildest "honey dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! Nellie. If I were you, I would not. Sir, be bitter, Even to write the "Cynical Review"; — TU QUO QUE. 227 Frank. No ; I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you ! Nellie. Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful, — Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; Borrow my fan. I would not look s.o fj-ightftil, If I were you ! Frank. " It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! /shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you ! Nellie. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, Sir ! WTiere shall it be ? To China — or Peru ? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir, If I were you ! Frank. No — I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do — Ah, you are strong, — I would not then be cruel, If I were you ! Nellie. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, — F?-auk. One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,^- 228 DORA VERSUS ROSE. Nellie. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ? Frauk. I should admit that I \\y?, pique, too. Nellie. Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it. If I were you ! [Waltz— TTx^ //;//.] Austin D oh sen DORA VERSUS ROSE. " The case is proceeding." From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's — ■ At least, on a practical plan — To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever met is Like mine : I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde. Each rivals the other in powers — Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down tov.ers ; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly ; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly, — Or Buridan's ass. DORyl JERSUS ROSE. 229 If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora yet mingled Somehow with the tune and the time ; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do's, And behold I am writing upon it The legend, *'To Rose.' Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all over-scrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her. It turns to her rival instead ; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding Ineffable nose. Was there ever so sad a dilemma ? For Rose I would perish {pro tern. ) ; For Dora I'd willingly stem a — (Whatever might offer to stem) ; But to make the invidious election, — To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple, — a grain, more affection, I ca7i7iot decide. And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis, — Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora and Rose. 230 THE POET AND THE CRITICS. (after-thought.) But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), Not quite so delightful as Rose, — Not wholly S3 charming as Dora, — Should appear, is it wrong to suppose, — As the claims of the others are equal, — And flight — in the main— is the best, — That I might . . . But no matter, — the sequel Is easily guessed. Austin Dob son. THE POET AND THE CRITICS. If those who wield the Rod forget, 'Tis truly — Qiiis custodietl A certain Bard (as Bards will do) Dressed up his Poeras for Review. His Type was plain, his Title clear ; His Frontispiece by Fourdrinier. Moreover, he had on the Back A sort of sheepskin Zodiac ; — A Mask, a Harp, an Owl, — in fine, A neat and "classical" Design. But the z«-Side? — "Well, good or bad, The Inside was the best he had : Much Memory, — more Imitation; — Some Accidents of Inspiration ; — Some Essays in that finer Fashion Where Fancy takes the place of Passion ; — And some (of course) more roughly wrought, To catch the advocates of Thought. In the less-crowded Age of Anne Our Bard had been a favoured man ; Fortune, more chary with the Sickle, Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell : He might have even dared to hope A Line's Malignity from Pope ! But now, when Folks are hard to please, And Poets are as thick as — Peas, The Fates are not so prone to flatter, Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . No Matter. The Book, then, had a minor Credit : The Critics took, and doubtless read it. Said A. — These little So7igs display No lyric Gift ; but still a Ray, — A Promise. They -will do no Harm. 'Twas kindly, if not very warm. Said B. — The Author may, in Time, Acquire the Rudimejits of Rhyme : His efforts now are scarcely Verse. This, certainly, could not be worse. Sorely discomfited, our Bard Worked for another ten Years — hard. Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on ; New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone ; Before his second Volume came His Critics had forgot his Name ; And who, forsooth, is bound to know Each Laureate i^i embryo ! They tried and tested him, no less, — The pure Assayers of the Press. Said A. — The Author may, in Time . , . Or much what B. had said of Rhyme. 232 O'COyXOR'S WAKE. Then B. — These Uttle Songs display . . . And so forth, in the sense of A. Over the Bard I throw a Veil. There is no moral to this Tale. Ausiiii Dobscn. O'CONNOR'S WAKE. AN IRISH FIDDLE TUNE. To the wake of O'Connor What boy M'ouldn'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 divinity 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 washed, in a shirt of white, His grey hair brush'd, his beard trimmed right, He lay in the midst of his friends and smiled. O'CONNOR'S WAKE. 233 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 county and town, Never a fiddler was clever as he At dance or jig ox pater-d -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. 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 stretched him out quoth Judy O'Roon — " 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, 0' 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 ! * " Play up, O'Connor ! " 234 O'CONNOR'S WAKE. On the threshold, as each man entered there, He knelt on his knee and said a prayer, But first before he took his seat Amon^ the company there that night, I!e 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 grey old men and the caziliaghs* 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, " Monamondioul! " cried old Tim Blane, Pointing them out, " they're a purty pair ! And 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 — * Old women. 0'CONi\OR\S WAKE. 235 Two nights was tlie waking, Ti)l 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 lor 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." Then the caiiHaghs, 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, * "Michael the Ferryman" ; lit. "belonging to the fen-y." t To cry, as during the coronach at a funeral. 236 O'CONNOR^S WAKE. 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 catdiaglis began ; And Rose, Donnell's daughter From over the water, Began (sure the saints taught her !) The sweet drimiindhic ; * 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, W' hen 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 jcy. And when she had ended he led her away, And whisper'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, * A melancholy ditty. O'CONNOR'S WAKE. 237 And how, when the cracks threaten'd lairly to end thera, He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them ! 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 myself that can sing! " Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands, And he sang of the sea and the foam on the sands, Of the shining skiddazvn* 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 wake their poor souls. When he ceased, Shamus looked at the corpse, and lie said, *' Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed ! " And at that the old catiliaghs began to croon : " Sure life's like his music, and ended soon — There's dancing and sporting. There's kissing and couiting, 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." * Henius:. 238 O'CONNOR'S WAKE. A two-gallon cag, then, Did Anthony drag them, 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 Tor\y's fof/ieefi! 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 ! 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 lip? 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 dawn, and we put old O'Connor to rest, In his coffin of wood, with his hands on his breast, And we followed him all by the hundred and more — The boys all in black, and the 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, * Whisky, illicitly distilled. WEDDING OF SHON MACLEAN, 239 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 truth 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 Jealla* up there!" Robert Buchanan. * Hundred thousand welcomes. The preceding Poem is a literal description of a wake in the wildest and loneliest part of Connaught. Several of the characters— e.r/., Shamus the Fool — are well known to the mountaineers and fishermen of that untrodden district, where the old Celtic tongue is still spoken in its purity and the old Celtic customs are still practised, and where the author, in almost complete seclusion, passed four happy years. THE WEDDING OF SHON MACLEAN. A BAGPIPE MELODY. To the wedding of Shon Maclean, Twenty Pipers together Came in the wind and the rain Playing across the heather ; Backward their ribbons flew, Blast upon blast they blew, 240 WEDDING OF SHON MACLEAN, Each clad in tartan new, Bonnet, and blackcock feather : And every Piper was fou,* Twenty Pipers together ! , . , lie's but a Sassenach blind and vain Who never heard of Shon Maclean — The Duke's own Piper, called " Shon the Fair/' From his freckled skin and his fiery hair. Father and son, since the world's creation, The Macleans had followed this occupation, And played the pibroch to fire the Clan Since the first Duke came and the earth began. Like the whistling of birds, like the humming of bees, Like the sough of the south-wind in the trees, Like the singing of angels, the playing of shawms. Like Ocean itself with its storms and its calms, Were the strains of Shon, when with cheeks allame He blew a blast thro' the pipes of fame. At last, in the prime of his playing life, The spirit moved him to take a wife — • A lassie with eyes of Highland blue, ^^^lo loved the pipes and the Piper too, And danced to the sound, with a foot and a leg White as a lily and smooth as an egg. So, twenty Pipers were coming together O'er the moor and across the heather. All in the wind and rain : Twenty Pipers so brawly dressed Were flocking in from the east and the west, To bless the bedding and blow their best At the wedding of Shon Maclean. * Pronounce /oo— ?'. 3 1 1 I'AGK ]\Iatthew Arnold has expressed his esteem for Mr. O'Conor's verse, remarking that "his song has gaiety, tune, pathos — it invigoroies." Mr. O'Conor is at his best in depicting a scene with an Irish background, and his reputation must be consider- ably enhanced by the publication of his Collected Poems, with musical illustrations and drawings . 272 Patmoke, Coventry Kearsey Deighton, was born at Woodford, in Essex, on July 2nd, 1823. In the first years of his authorship he wrote for the reviews. Poems (1844) was his first book, and this was reprinted in 1853, under the title of Tamerton Church Toicer, and otlicr Poemis. The Angel in the Iloxise is the work by which he is best knoAvn, and it is divided into four parts — The Betrothal (1854), The Pspotcsal (1856), Faithful for Ever (1860), and The Victories of Love (1862). In 1873 he edited The Children's Garland from the Best Poets. In 1877 The Unknown Eros, and Other Odes appeared, and in the same year he edited the Autobiouraphy of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall), A revised and collected edition of his poems was published in 1886. From 1847-66 he was assistant librarian at the British Museum. At about the latter date he bought and occupied an estate of four hundred acres in Sussex. At Hastings, where he now lives, he has built a large Catholic church . 136 Pennell, Henry Cholmondely, the eldest son of Sir Charles Henry Pennell, was born in 1837. He entered the public service in 1853, and since that time has held various official appointments. In 1866 he became one of H.M, Inspectors of Fisheries, and in 1875 was sent as representative of the English Government to Egypt for the purpose of inaugurating many important com- 312 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. PAGE inercial reforms. His literary productions are Puck in Pegasus (1S61), Tlie Crescent (1866), Modem Babylon (1873), The Muses of Mayfair, vers cle Societe (1874), Pegasus liesaddled (1877), the two latter subsequently forming volumes in Messrs. Chatto and Windus' '* Mayfair Library." Mr. Pennell lias of late years contributed largely to the literature of angling. One of his most recent books Avas Fishing, in the " Badminton Library " series ....... 209 PORSON, Richard, an eminent classic scholar and critic, was born in East Rushton, Norfolk, in 1759. His education was first undertaken by his lather, the clerk of the parish, and afterwards by Mr. Norris, the vicar, who sent Porson to Eton. He removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he was elected to a fellowship in 1781. He received his degree in 1785, and was elected Greek professor in 1793. He published many translations, his last work being an edition of ^schylus in two volumes. Some years before his death he was appointed to the position of librarian to the London Institution. He died in 1808 1 Rathbone, Philip Henry, is a member of an old Lancashire family directly associated with the commerce of Liverpool for a period now covering nearly 250 years. Half a century ago his father was the mayor of the borough, and for the same constituency his brother, Mr. William Rathbone— at present one of the members for Carnarvonshire — sat in the House of Commons for many years. Mr. Philip Henry Rathbone was born in 1S2S, and was first elected to the Liverpool City Council in 1867, ■with which corporation he has been ever since identified. In London he is chiefly known as an art connoisseur and as chairman of the Walker Art BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 313 PAGE Gallery, a position which he still holds. The poem given in the present collection is a good example of his style, but the foUowiDg poem, ^vhicll has never belore appeared, is even more characteristic . . , . . .149 MY LAST VOYAGE AS MATE. A TALE FOR THE UNDERWRITERS. I WOULD sail with the Devil himself, If the Devil would give good pay ; But there are some things I dare not do, AVhich it makes me curse to say. I wou!d sail with the Devil himself, If he would not sink his ship ; If he did, though the Devil himself. By G it Avould be his last trip. For I love the ships I sail in, They're the only things I love, Tlie only things on the earth beneath, Or in the heavens above. For I never had Father or Mother, Or brother, or friend I knew ; I once had the love of woman, But the woman proved untrue. I sailed one voyage with a captain Whose looks were as black as night ; And instead of speaking he snarled, As if he would like to bite. He looked no man in the face, But glared from the side of his eye, And always had an imeasy look. Unless he were telling a lie. 314 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, His brother, who owned the vessel, Had a flashy, jaunty air ; I hardly know wbicli I liated most, From tlie day 1 saw the pair. As the ship was leaving the river, I heard the owner say, As he stept over the bulwark, " Well, then, old lad— good day. " Come back as soon as you like, A short and a pleasant trip, And whenever you do cume back I'll tind you another ship. "I've insured this treble her value, At Antwerp, Paris, and here. And at Lloyd's I've a pot upon her. So she mustn't) come back, that's clear.' Well, we cast off the tug and pilot, But had not been out a week, AVhen though we'd no dirty weather, The ship began to leak. It wasn't so much at first, But she daily leaked more and more. And at night I heard strange noises Under the cabin floor. So I bored a hole wth a gimlet. From my cabin through which to peep, And at night I saw the captain. Come down with a stealthy creep. He gave one glare round the cabin, Then taking the cabin light. He lifted an old chest lid, got in, And descended out of sight. I made a bolt from my cabin. And leapt down into the place, Came splash to my middle in water. With the captain face to face. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 315 The captain turnetl fiercely upon lue, " What the h do you want below ?" " Hush, captain," I said, " don't bellov/, Or else all the crew will know. '* A bargain's a bargain, captain, What do you pay this trip ? And, captain, I'd like to be ready, When do you leave the ship ?" He flung himself savagely on me, Said I, " Two can play at that," And I gave him a blow on his forehead. Was more than a tit for his tat. Down, down we went into the water. Out, out went the hissing light, Ugh, it was dark, damp, and dreary, Our struggle for life that night. The captain's head fell against something, I felt it was the knob of a plug ; I seized, and with desperate effort Wrenched it out at a single tug. Then freeing myself from the captain, Cleared the place at a single boui;d. And slamming the old chest lid, sat down To wait there until he was drowned. The skipper lay stunned a few moments, I was almost in hopes he was dead, Then I felt the chest lid bend beneath me, >Vith the bang, bang, bang of his head. I let the head up for a moment. By George, it was not a nice sight. Sometimes when I've had a bout drinking. It dances before me at nights. Dazed with liquor and livid with terror. His eyes seemed to start from his head, His expression was madly beseeching. His hair matted, clotted, and red. 3i6 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. I'd the plug in my hand, and I hit him, Back down in the water he sank ; I seized on the bottle of spirits, It boiled through my veins as I drank. I waited, it might be ten minutes, It seemed like ten hours I know ; Looked, saw something white in the darkness, Bobbing up in the Avater below. I plunged with my plug to replace it, I was long enough finding the hole, For the body kept bumping against me, As the ship began slightly to roll. Then changed clothes, went on deck to steersman. Said he, " What's the matter below? The captain's more bumptious than usual, I heard a most temble row." " O nothing." I answered ; "as usual, The skipper's as drunk as old sin. But I don't think he'll give us much trouble, I fancy I heard him turn in." Just then the man said nothing further, Although he'd his doubts I could see, But I knew he hated the captain, And I thought that he rather liked me. I found I could hardly step even. As I hurriedly paced on the deck, And my shirt where the folds met the collar Felt rough like a rope round my neck. Till the steersman bent tow'rds me and whispered- " Whatever has happened to-night, Remember that I have heard nothing." " Thanks, old fellow," I nodded ; " all right." Next morning 'twas known through the vessel, That the captain's dead body was found. In a secret hold half-filled with water, That he'd tumbled in dnink and been drowned. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 317 So we sewed up the body in sail cloth, And tumbled it overboard ; And of course I took charge of the vessel, The crew saying never a word. We'd fine weather, and all went on smoothly, From that to the end of the trip ; But the owner did not look so happy As he ought to receive back his ship. I whispered a sliort explanation That I'd come now to live upon shore ; Then he pressed a few bank-notes upon me, And nodded a promise of more. I'm a rogue and an outcast, I know it. But I've done one good deed at the least, 'Twas when I sat down on the old chest lid, And rid the world of a bea&t. I live upon bleeding the brother, It suits me uncommonly well ; And when I would fain raise my spirits, I think of him broiling in h . RossETTi, William Michael, brother of Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti, was born in 1829. He was educated at a private school and at King's College School, London. In 1845 he entered the Excise Office, now the Inland Revenue. Some tliree years later he joined the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, then in its infancy, and edited The Germ during the four months of its existence. His leisure time since that period has been devoted for the most part to literary pursuits. He acted as critic, chiefly of fine art, for several of the important weekly papers, and has edited works for the Early English Text and Chaucer Societies. In 1865 he published a literal blank verse translation of Dante's Hell, and his other important works are : Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, a criticism (1866) ; 3i8 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. PAGE Fine Art Chiejiy Contemporary (1867) ; Note on tlie Royal Acadeviy Exhibition (1868), in conjunction with Mr. Swinburne ; A Selection from the Poems of Walt Whitman (18C8) ; Shelley's Poetical Wcnrks, with memoir and notes (1870); Moxon's Popular Poets (1870-75) ; Blake's Poems (Aldine edition), with memoir (1874) ; Lives of Famous Poets (1878). In 1869 Mr. Rossetti became assistant secretary in the Inland Revenue Office, and in 1874 married Lucy Madox Bro\\'n, daughter of the celebrated painter. "Mrs. Holmes Grey" is tlie title of a poem of modern life which Mr. Rossetti con- tributed to the Broadway Magazine. A few years ago he commenced a series of " Democratic Sonnets." Some of these poems are of a savagely humorous character, and "Heine, 1856," "The Chinese Opium-War, 1842," and "Dickens, 1870," which belong to the series, now appear for the first time . . . . . . .156 Rossetti, Christina Georgika, was born in London in December 1830. She has written several volumes of verse for children, which have obtained a wide popularity. A collected edition of her poems appeared in 1875. Since that date she has published a number of sonnets which are to be found in Mr. Hall Caine's Sonnets of Three Centuries (18S2), and Mr. William Sharp's Sonnets of this Century (1886), the last-named volume forming one of the Canterbury Poet series. The piece given in the present collection is from Routled^re's Every Girl's Annual, but Miss Rossetti has since the date of the first appearance of the poem made considerable change in its text . 161 Sala, George Augustus Hexry, is the son of an Italian gentleman who married a favourite English singer of West Indian extraction. He was born in BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 319 PAGE Loudon in 1828. He relinquished art as a profes- sion in favour of authorship and journalism, and became a constant contributor to the Household Words. He was the founder of tlie Temple Bar Magazine, and lor many years wrote ** Echoes of the Week " in the Illustrated Lmidon News. He has long been identified with the Daily Telegraph, and has acted for this journal as sjiecial corre- spondent in various parts of the world. He has published a number of books recounting his experiences abroad . . . . .153 Scott, Clement William, was bom in October 1841 at Christ Church parsonage, Hoxton, London, and was educated at Marlborough College, Wiltshire. He is better known as the dramatic critic of the Daily Telegraph and the editor of the Theatre than a versifier. The two pieces quoted, " Brighton Pier " and "A Contradiction," are from a happy collection published by Messrs. Rout- ledge under the title of Lays and Lyrics (1888). This volume consists for the most part of serious poems, and there are several among them which have achieved great popularity, a notable instance being that of " A Tale of the Dover Express." He is the author or part author of a number of plays, including Dip)loi)w.cy , The Vicarage, Off the Line, The Cape Mail, Peril, The Crivison Cross, Odette, Tears, Idle Tears, and Sister- Mary . . . 247 Scott, Sir Walter, was born in Edinburgh on August 15th, 1771. He received his education first at the Edinburgh High School, and afterwards at the University of that city. In 1786 he was articled to his father, and in 1792 was called to the bar. In 1796 he published a translation of some of Burger's ballads, and in 1798 of Goethe's " Goetz yon Berlichingeu." Following these appeared 320 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. PAGE numerous volumes of poetry, amongst which were Border Minstrelsy (1803), Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805), Marmion (1808), The Lady of the Lake (1810), Rokehy (1812), and Lord of the Isles (1815). During the period between 1814 and 1826 were published The Waverley Novels, which comprised upwards of twenty volumes. In 1821 Scott was created a baronet, and, assisted by the profits of the Waverley Novels, he purchased the estate of Abbots- ford. The failure of a printing firm in which Scott was closely interested, in 1826, involved him in endless difficulties ; but, refusing to enter the bankruptcy court and so avoid his liabilities, he declared his intention of paying his creditors in full. To do this demanded a close and unceasing application to work ; and the extraordinary rapidity with which his literaiy productions appeared during the ensuing year represented a strain upon his mental faculties which could not 1)6 long sustained. In 1830 he was seized with a paralytic stroke, from which he never recovered. His mind was com- pletely broken up, and his reason only returned to him at intervals. During one of these remis- sions he requested to be placed before his desk, but when he attempted to write the pen dropped from his palsied hand, and he fell back in his chair and wept. He died on the 21st September 1882 . IG Scott, William Bell, has won distinction in many walks of life. He was born in 1811 at St. Leonards, near Edinburgh, and educated at the Edinburgh High School. His earliest poems were published in Tail's Magazine and in the Edinburgh Uni- versity Souvenir. In 1836 he established himself in London, and his first considerable picture, "The Old English Ballad Singer," was exhibited at the British Institute two years later. This same year (1838) he published his first volume of verse. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 321 PAGE A series of allegorical etchings appeared in 1851, and in 1854 Poems by a Painter. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc., appeared in 1875, and in 1878 a folio volume, William Blake, Etchings from his work, with descriptive text. A hundred short pieces, entitled Tlie Poet's Harvest Home, appeared in 1882, and that same year he added to his claims as poet, painter, etcher, and man of letters, the claims of an architect, by building a hall, in the mediaeval style, at Penkill Castle. Mr. Scott was the friend of D. G. Kossetti and other pre-Raphaelite painters . . . , 119 Shebbrooke, The Right Hon. Robert Lowe, Viscount, D.C.L., LL.D., was born in 1811, and was educated at Winchester and University Col- lege, Oxford, graduating with honours in 1833. He was elected a fellow of Magdalen in 1834. In 1842 he was called to the bar by the Hon. Society of Lincoln's Inn. The same year he sailed for Australia, and for about seven years was a member of the Council of New South Wales, He returned to England in 1851, and in the following year entered Parliament as member for Kidderminster. He has held various olFices of State, and in 1868 became Chancellor of the Exchequer in the administration of Mr. Glad- stone. His budget of 1871, containing the un- popular match tax, met with so much opposition that its withdrawal became necessary. On the re- accession of his party to power in 1880 he was created Viscount Sherbrooke. He is known in literature as the author of Poems of a Life, pub- lished in 1885. The first edition of this book owed its publication to a mistake, and contained a great number of inaccuracies. A second and authorised edition appeared shortly afterwards . 121 669 322 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. PAGE Sims, George Robert, was born in London on Sep- tember 2nd, 1847. He was educated at Hanwell College, and afterwards at Bonn. He joined the staff of Fun just after the deatli of Tom Hood, the younger, in 1874, and in the same year received an appointment on the Weekly Despatch. He has contributed to the Referee since 1877, under the familiar pseudonym of "Dagouet." ^\iQ Dagonet Ballads first appeared in the columns of that news- paper, and they obtained still further popularity upon their reproduction in book form. Turning his attention to the stage, Cratch and Toothpick was produced at the Royalty Theatre in April of 1879. Some of his other pieces are Motker-in- Laio, The Member for Slocum, The Gay City, Half-xoay House, The Romany Rye, and The Merry Duchess (comic opera), but his greatest success has been The Lights o' London, which, produced by Mr. Wilson Barrett at the Princess's Theatre in 1882, ran for close upon 250 nights. After a lapse of more than seven years the piece continues to find favour. Mr. Sims \vrote a number of letters to the Daily News a few years back, in which startling disclosures were made as to the condition of the poor in London. Sketches of life in the East-end from his pen also appeared iu CasselVs Journal {\%^%) . . . .256 Smkdley, Francis Edward, was born at Marlow in 1818. He was for some time editor of Sharpie's Magazine, to which he contributed a number of stories — Frank Fcdrlegh (1850), Leu-is Arundel (1852), The Fortunes of the Colville Family (1853), Harry CoverdaWs Courtship (1854), and The Mysteries of Redgrave Court (1859) were among the number. He was also the author of a volume of poems entitled Gathered Leaves, published in BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 323 PAGE 1865, with a preface by his friend Mr. Edmund Yates. He died in 1864 . . . .78 Smith, James (born 1775, died 1839), and Horace (born 1779, died 1849), were the co-authors of Rejected Addresses (1812), a collection of parodies on the styles of the various poets who were then living, called forth by the management of Drury Lane Theatre, offering a prize of £20 for the best addresses to be spoken upon the re-opening of the theatre. They also wrote numerous papers for the magazines, and Horace himself afterwards produced some twenty novels . . .27 SouTHEY, Egbert, poet, essayist, and historian, was born August 12th, 1774. Early in life he became acquainted with Coleridge, with the result that they formed a beneficent humanitarian scheme, already alluded to in the note on Coleridge. Wat Tyler (Vl^i) was his first production, and from this work it will be seen that he was actuated by extreme Liberal ideas. In 1804 he took up his residence near Keswick, in Cumberland, and during the succeeding years, and after his appointment as Poet Laureate in 1813, produced a long list of poetical, biographical, and historical works. He was the first of the "Lake" poets to obtain sub- stantial recognition. In 1821 Oxford conferred the degree of D.C.L., he declined a baronetcy, biit in 1835 accepted a pension of £300. He died March 21st, 1843 39 TiREBUCK, William, was born in Liverpool in 1354. After some years spent in commercial life he joined the staff of the Liverpool Mail, now defunct. He afterwards became connected with the Ym'kshire Post, also contributing to several London journals. His principal pablications are — Williavi Daniels, 324 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. PAGE Artist, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Great Minds in Art, and St. Margaret, a novel which has had a gratifying reception. He is also the author of numerous songs, operettas, etc. In the spring (1890) Mr. Tirebuck will publish Miss Dornida Dorothy Holt, the largest and most important work he has yet attempted. The humorous element will be strongly marked .... 267 Trevelyan, The Right Hon. Sir George Otto, Baronet, was born in 1838, and received his educa- tion at Harrow School and Trinity College, Cambridge. During a few years' residence in India he contributed to Macmillan's Magazine, " Letters of a Competition Wallah," and on his return published an account of the Cav/npore Tragedy. In 1865 he entered Parliament as member for the Border Burghs. In December 1868, he was made Civil Lord of the Admiralty, and in 1880 Parliament Secretary to that Board. In May 1882, he succeeded Lord Frederick Cavendish as Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. From November 188i to June 1885 he was Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and for a short time in the latter year, and in 1886, was Secretary for Scotland. He is the author of The Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay (1876), The Early Times of Charles James Fox {18S0) . . .210 Turner, Godfrey Wordsworth, was born in Loudon in 1825. Both his parents had inclinations towards literature, so that very early in life he became acquainted with the great English poets and prose- writers. He commenced life as a painter, but acting upon the advice of his father's friend, Leigh Hunt, he relinquished the vocation, for which he was little suited, and entered upon a successful career as a journalist. His first engagement was BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 325 witli The Spectator^ and during the period of his connection with this paper he wrote also for the Morning Chronicle and The Leader. Later he acted as fine art critic for John Bull, and siib- seqiiently accepted duties of a more onerous character in relation to the management of that journal. For a wliile he was on the staff of the Daily News, but in December 1860 he transferred to the Daily Telegraph, and he has been connected with this journal ever since. He has served the Daily Telegraph in various literary capacities, and has gone abroad as special correspondent. He is the autlior of Jest and Earnest, Homely Scenes from Great Painters, Art Studies, and other books. As in the case of most other journalists much of his best work has dropped out of sight in the columns of newspapers and magazines. More than one good thing of his appeared in The Train at a time when Robert Brough, Frank E. Smedley, John Oxenford, George Augustus Sala, William Brough, Edmund Yates, Lewis Carroll, J. Palgrave Simpson, J. Hains Friswell, and many others were writing for this magazine. In the present collection there is included a piece entitled " John of Gaunt sings from the German," by Robert Brough. The poem appeared in the first volume of The Train, and was written by Brough at the instigation of Dr. Strauss, who, having roughly translated it, placed his version at the service of The Train band just before the magazine was floated. The theme thus became common property among them, and was used by Mr. Godfrey Turner as well as Brough. Brough's rendering was, in the opinion of John Oxenford, equal to the original. Some time afterwards Mr. Turner worked out the idea in " The Tight Boots," which appeared in Fun whilst that journal was under the editorship of Tom Hood the Younger. Mr. 326 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, PAGE Frederick Locker-Lampson discovering the poem " hidden in that conspicuous place," valued it so highly as to include it in his volume of Patchwork. At the time of the issue of the volume he did not know the authorship of the poem, but mentioning it afterwards in the company of Henry S. Leigh, was told that it was written by Mr. Turner. Immediately afterwards ^Mr. Locker-Lampson sent a copy of his book, with a complimentary note, with Mr. Turner's name at the end of the verses, at the foot of which Fun only had previously stood. While Brough really translated the poem, Mr. Godfrey Turner merely brought in the dramatically humorous fancy at the end. The pieces included in the present collection are taken from Jest and Earnest, a most entertaining collec- tion of sketches in prose and in verse . . lo8 Waddington, Samuel, was bom in 1844, and was educated at St. John's School, Huntingdon, and Brasenose College, Oxford, where he took his degree of B.A. in 1865. It had been his intention to enter the Church of England, but this was relinquished when he found he could not sub- scribe to the Articles. He afterv\'ards, through the influence of the Duke of Richmond, obtained an appointment at the Board of Trade, and it has been during his spare hours that his literary work has been produced. He is chiefly knowm by his sonnets and his contribu- tions to sonnet literature, and has published a number of valuable books on this subject. The principal are— English Sonnets hy Living Writers (1880), Sonnets and other Verse (1884), English Sonnets hy Poets of the Past (1882), and Sonnets of Europe (1886), the latter being in the same series as the present collection. He has also published a biography of Arthur Clough. It is a matter of BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES, 327 PAGE interest to know that Mr. Waddington was first led to make a collection of sonnets at the snggestion of his friend, Mr. Austin Dobson. It will be noticed that the sonnet, " The Water- niamnia," is written with but two rhymes through- out the entire poem. The only other sonnets of this description that I remember to have met with are Mr. Gosse's "Pipe Player" and Mr. Edgar Fawcett's " Transformation." Waterton, the naturalist, writes — "There are dreadful stories concerning a horrible beast in Guiana called the Watermamraa, which, when it happens to take a spite against a canoe, rises out of the river, and in the most unrelenting manner possible carries both canoe and occupants down to the bottom with it, and there destroys them. Ludicrous extravagances ! pleasing to those fond of the marvellous, and excellent matter for a disinterested brain." Another traveller in Guiana mentions it under the name of " didi," or " water-child " — " On our way we passed a deep pool where there was an eddy, in which the guide informed us there lived a 'water-child' covered with long hair." Mr. Waddington has just issued from the press A Century of Sonnets, a collection of his own poems. The sonnets are all good, but one of the best things in the book is "The Epilogue," a poem of rare beauty . . 254 WoLCOT, John, was born in Devonshire in 1838, and after practising medicine for some time, became medical attendant to Sir William Trelawiug, the Governor of Jamaica. "While in Jamaica he took orders and held a living which was in the gift of the Governor. On the death of his patron he returned to England, and in 1780 settled in London, where, under the pseudonym of " Peter Pindar," his ability as a satiiical writer gained for him a front 328 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. rank. He is the author of Lyric Odes, Peeps at St. Jatnes', The Lousi'd, etc. He died in 1819 . 7 Yates, Edmund Hodgson, was the son of Frederick Henry Yates (1797-1842), the actor-manager. He was bom in 1831, and was educated at Highgate School and in Germany. He entered the Post- Office service in 1>47, and for over ten years had the charge of the missing letter branch. He is the author of My Haunts and their Frequenters (1854) ; After Ojffice Hours (1S61) ; Broken to Harness (1864) ; Running the Gauntlet (1S65) ; Land at Last (1866) ; Bhxck l