QODDODOSOaDPflPBOPDOOBt 30000DDPDDOQI UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 589 541 2 aooonapooooMOQOQaQt LIBRARY THE BOOK OF HUMOROUS POETRY. EDINBURGH WILLIAM P. NIMMO. THE BOOK OF HUMOROUS POETRY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES A. DOVLR. EDINBURGH WILLIAM P. NIMMO. CONTENTS. PAGE American Traveller (The) . . . Robert II. Newell, 1 1 7 Anacreontic to a Little Pig's Tail . Isaac Story, . 22 Annuity (The) George Ontram, 81 Anticipatory Dirge on Professor Buckland Archbishop Wliately, 131 Apple Dumplings and the King (The) Pdcr Pindar, . 104 T.aby's Debut (The) .... James Smith) . 337 Bandit's Fate (The) 379 Barber's Nuptials (The) . . . . . 317 Best of Husbands (The) . , . John G, Saxe, . 126 Best of Wives (The) 387 Better Walk than Ride ....... 427 Boxiana 169 Briefless Barrister (The) ... John G. Saxe, . 406 Captain Paton J. G. Lockhart, 204 Careless Content .... Jcflin Byrom, . 123 Case Altered (The) 260 Cataract of Lodore (The) . ' . Robert Southey, . 127 Chameleon (The) .... James Merrick, 134 Church and State .... Thomas Moore, . 441 Citizen and the Thieves (The) - 269 Cold Water 312 Collegian and the Porter (The) . J. R. PlancM, . 272 Come to the Maypole . . . . . . . 57 Comic Miseries .... John G. Saxe, . 417 #. CONTENTS. Concerning Sisters-in-Law Conjurer Cozened .... Contentment Country Squire (The) Court of Aldermen (The) . Critic (The) PAGE 323 Samuel Rowlands, 285 O. W. Holmes, . 350 Yrlarlc, . . 73 457 llpcs Sargcnt t . 380 Dead Alive (The) .... Declaration (The) .... Delia's Pocket Handkerchief, Devil's Walk (The) .... Devonshire Lane (The) Doctor Lobster .... Donkey and his Panniers (The) Double Transformation (The) . Drunkard's Conceit (The) Duke and the Tinker (The) Berangcr, f . 99 N. P. Willis, . 347 Robert Southey, . 368 Richard Parson, 26 221 J. R. Lowell, . 212 Thomas Moore, . 116 Oliver Goldsmith, 187 . . . . 48 Elegy on Madame Blaize, . Elessde ...... Oliver Goldsmith, 30x3 184 Eulogy on Laughing .... y. M. Sewall, . 102 O. W Holmes . 366 Farewell to Tobacco . . . ' . Farmer and the Counsellor (The) Fate of Sergeant Thin (The) Charles Lamb, . 410 . 230 H. G. Bell, . 29 Flattery Folly Fools Footman Joe ..... Fragment of Science (A) . Sir C. H. Williams, 403 . 445 276 G. Ilcbert, . 51 Samuel Sutler, . 301 Thomas Campbell, 352 Friend (A) Lady Blessington, 449 Gaffer Gray ..... Thomas Holcroft, 1 1 1 Gentle Echo on Woman (A) Gluggity Glug ..... Gouty Merchant and the Stranger (The) Dean Swift, . 341 . 299 . , . 429 CONTENTS. jii PAGE Happy Man (The) .... Menage, . 139 Height of the Ridiculous . O. IV. Holmes, . 305 Ho-ho of the Golden Belt . John G. Saxe, . 374 Holy Sister (An) .... Abraham Cou'ley, 24 Homoeopathic Soup .... . 382 Honest Man's Litany (The) ne A9 Hot Wind Reverie (A) . . . . 178 2IO 111 Wind (The) 391 Imaginative Crisis (The) . . 369 In Praise of Sleep .... Passeroni, . . 451 Hannah F. Gould, 4.OO Jester Condemned to Death (The) Horace Smith, . T.V-"_* 321 John Barleycorn .... Robert Burns, . 308 John Davidson ..... . 291 Jolly Good Ale and Old . John Still, 389 Jovial Priest's Confession (The) Leigh Hunt, 270 Justiciary Opei'a (A) .... James Boswell, . 9 KingofYvetot (The) B Granger, . 154 Knife Grinder (The) .... George Canning, 182 Lay of the Twaddle School (A) ... 296 Letter from a Candidate, . . . y. R. Lowell, . 225 Lines on Dr. Johnson . . . Peter Pindar, 395 Literary Lady (The) .... R. B. Sheridan, 72 Lodgings for Single Gentlemen George Colman, . 149 Love in a Cottage .... N. P. Willis, . 278 Lover's Chronicle (A) Abraham Coivley, 384 Love Song (A) .... Dean Swift, 310 Longfellow, . 176 Might and Right .... Pfeffel, . . / u 181 Milkmaid (The) .... Robert Lloyd, . 348 *7O /y 202 Money Lord Byron, 436 88 Mountain and the Squirrel, R. W. Emerson, 435 CONTENTS. Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation Nahum Fay on the loss of his Wife . Neighbour Nelly .... Newcastle Apothecary (The) New Dance (The) .... New Song of New Similes (A) . Newspaper (A) .... Nobody Nobody to Blame .... Nongtongpaw . . . Norfolk Punch Nothing to Wear .... Thomas Ingoldsby, 232 . 114 Robert B. Brough t 420 George Colman, . 31 133 John Gay, . 40 267 236 If. A. Butler, . 325 Charles Dibdin, 37 44 W. A. Butler, . 157 Ode to the Treadmill Old and Young Courtier (The) Old Grimes On lending a Punch-Bowl On the Death of a Favourite C : On the Oxford Carrier Origin of Printer's Devil . Original Love Story (An) Owed to my Creditors . Charles Lamb, . 453 257 Albert G. Green;, 249 0. W. Holmes, . 279 Thomas Gray, . 401 John Milton, . 439 Francis Brown;, 352 . 1 86 . 174 Patent Brown Stout . . Pensive Enthusiast . Pepper-Box and Salt-Cellar Picture (The) . Pig (The) . . . Pig in a Poke (The) . Pilgrim (The) . Pilgrims and the Peas (The) Pious Editor's Creed (The) Praise of Eating (The) Printer's Devil's \Vork (The) Proud Miss MacBride (The) Proverbs .... Prythee, Why so Pale ? Pupil of Merlin (The) 433 95 William Shenstone, 170 . 288 Robert Soul, 'icy, . 314 . 424 443 Tt.'i" /Y'/Y.. :';/', . 2 y. R. Lowell, . 64 . 432 108 J. G. Saxe, . 238 . 447 Sir John Suckling, 259 Goethe, \ . _. . 283 CONTENTS. ix PAGE Razor Seller (The) .... Fder Pindar, . 215 Report of an Adjudged Case William Cowper, 86 Retaliation . 208 Retort (The) George P. Morris, 409 Rival Tradesmen (The) . Peter Pindar, . 306 Robin Goodfellow .... 262 Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes Sancta Clara, . 4 Saint Patrick Dr. Maginn, . 344 St. Valentine's Day . ... Leigh Hunt, . 363 Saying not Meaning .... W. B. Wake, . 361 Schnapps ...... Seller, . . 25 Shadows . 137 Signs of Rain . . . Dr. j'aiiner, . 394 Sleep John G. Saxe, . 7 Song for Punch-Drinkers . . 324 Sorrows of Werther IT. M. Thackeray, 409 Spirit of Contradiction Robert Lloyd, . 76 Surnames ...... James Smith, . 70 Reginald Heber, 463 Table Talk . 459 Tale of a Tankard (A) Tarn o' Shanter .... Robert Burns, . 191 Theatre (The) James Smith, . 52 Thief and Cordelier (The) Matthew Prior, . 121 Thirty-five Dr. Johnson, . 94 Three Black Crows (The) 229 Three Blind Tipplers Thomas Moore, . 392 Tinker and the Glazier (The) , William Harrison, 61 To a Lady Henry G. Bell, . 142 Toby Tosspot George Colman, 223 To Fanny Thomas Moore, . 294 To make a Pastoral .... . . . . 185 To my Empty Purse Chaucer, . . i Toper and the Flies (The) Peter Pindar, . 187 ' To the Toothache . . . Robert Burns, . 416 Town of Passage (The) . . Rev. F. Mahoncy, 422 Tragic Story (A) .... Chamisso, . . 295 x CONTENTS. University of Gottingen (The) . Vagabonds (The) Venus of the Needle Vicar of Bray (The) PAGE George Canning, 35 J. T. Trcnvbridge, 255 William Allingham, 106 Wanted a Governess ....... Water Cure (The) .... William Harrison, Wedding (A) Sir John Suckling, Well of St. Keyne (The) . . . Robert Soitthey, . Wonderful One-hoss-shay . . . O. W. Holmes, . Worms ...... Alexander Pope, Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos Lord Byron, 59 396 145 342 217 69 "3 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE A beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne, . . . 374 A brace of sinners, for no good, .... 2 A brewer in a country town, . . . . 433 A citizen, for recreation's sake, .... 269 A counsel in the Common Pleas, .... 230 A country squire, of greater wealth than wit, . . 73 A donkey whose talent for burden was wond'rous, . .116 A farmer's lease contained a flaw, .... 424 A fellow in a market town, . . . . .215 A few years since, at some provincial college, . . 208 A fig for St. Dennis of France, .... 344 A Governess wanted well fitted to fill, . . 59 A group of topers at a table sat, .... 187 A jolly fat friar loved liquor, good store, . . . 299 A knight and a lady once met in a grove, . . . 463 Alas ! what pity 'tis that regularity, . . . 223 A learned man, whom once a week, . . .301 A man had once a vicious wife, .... 387 A man, in many a country town, we know, . . 31 An Attorney was taking a turn, .... 406 An Eton stripling training for the Law, . . . 202 An old song made by an aged old pate, . . 25 1 A pensive enthusiast sat on a hill, . . . .95 A perch, who had the toothache, once, . . .212 Are you anxious to bewitch ? . . . . 133 A shifting knave about the town, .... 285 xii INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PACE A sparrow caught a big blue bottle, . . . I S i A thieving fellow, naturally sly, .... 306 At Trin. Coll. Cam. which means, in proper spelling, . 272 A well there is in the west country, .... 342 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, . .86 Come, Lasses and Lads, get leave of your Dads, . 57 Day hath put on his jacket, and around, . . . 366 Dear Sir, You wish to know my notions, . . . 225 Deep ! I own I start at shadows, . . . 137 Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, . . . 341 Fanny, beware of flattery, ..... 403 Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, . . .310 Four be the elements, ..... 324 From his brimstone bed, at break of day, . . .26 From a wife of small fortune, but yet very proud, . . 49 From Oberon, in fairy land, .... 262 ' God bless the man who first invented sleep,' . . 7 Good people all, with one accord, .... 300 Great Merlin of old had a magical trick, . . . 283 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay ? . . 217 Here lies old Hobson ; death had broke his girt, . . 439 Here lies old JOHN MAGEE, late the landlord of the Sun, . 430 Here lieth one, who did most truly prove, . . . 440 He struggled to kiss her. She struggled the same, . .186 He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, . 379 Hodge held a farm, and smiled content, . . . 260 How does the water come down at Lodore ? . .127 Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray ? . 1 1 1 How many things have oft been sung or said, . .451 How much, egregious Moore, are we, . . .69 I am content, I do not care, . . . . .123 I cannot eat but little meat, . . . . . 389 I devise to end my days in a tavern drinking, , . 270 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xiii PAGE I du believe in Freedom's cause, . . . .64 If, in the month of dark December, . . . .113 I gaed to spend a week in Fife, . . . .81 I hate the very name of box, .... 169 I'm in love with Neighbour Nelly, .... 420 I'm rather slow at extravaganzas, . . . .25 I'm thinking just now of Nobody, .... 236 I'm utterly sick of this hateful alliance, . . . 210 In a certain fair island, for commerce renown'd, . .184 In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along, . . .221 In Bond Street Buildings, on a winter's night, . . 429 In debt, deserted, and forlorn, .... 391 In good King Charles's golden days, . . 151 In Liquorpond Street, as is well known to many, . . 317 Inspire my spirit, Spirit of Defoe, .... 453 In vain I lament what is past, . . . .174 I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, . . . 395 Is that dace or perch ? . . . . .457 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, . . .145 It should be brief ; if lengthy, it will steep, . . -79 It was a king of Yvetot, . . . . .154 I wrote some lines, once on a time, .... 305 Jacob ! I do not like to see thy nose, . . .314 John Bull for pastime took a prance, . . '37 John Davidson and Tib his wife, . . . .291 Just eighteen years ago this day, . . . .114 La Gallisse now I wish to touch, .... 139 Like merry Momus, while the gods were quaffing, . . 102 Little I ask ; my wants are few, .... 350 Little tail of little Pig, ..... 22 Lo ! how much grander for a human being, . ,427 Malbroock, the prince of Commanders, . . .176 Margarita first possess'd, ..... 384 Matches are made for many reasons, . . . 288 May the Babylonish curse, ..... 410 Men once were surnamed for their shape or esta'te, . . 70 Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, . . . 157 Miss Molly, a famed Toast, was fair and young, . . 396 xiv INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Mourn, Ammonites, mourn o'er his funeral um, . .131 My brother Jack was nine in May, . . . 337 My curse upon thy venom'd stang, .... 416 My dear young friend, whose shining wit, , . .417 My good Aunt Bridget, spite of age, . . . 447 My passion is as mustard strong, . . . .40 Needy knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? . .182 Never mind how the pedagogue proses, . . . 294 No plate had John and Joan to hoard, . . -39 Now as fame does report, a young duke keeos a court, . 370 Och ! the Coronation ! what celebration, . . . 232 Oft has it been my lot to mark, .... 134 Oft in danger, yet alive, . . . . .90 Oh, I have a husband as good as can be, . .126 Oh, solitude ! thou wonder-working fay, . . . 369 Oh ! terribly proud was Miss MAcBRiUE, . . . 238 Old Grimes is dead : that good old man, . . . 249 Old man, old man ! for whom digg'st thou tin's grave, . 262 Old Nick, who taught a village school, . . . 409 O Maryanne, you pretty girl, .... 106 Once on a time, a Monarch, tired with hooping, . .104 Once on a time a rustic dame, .... 348 Once on a time, the nightingale, whose singing, . . 380 One of the kings of Scanderoon, . . . .321 Organs that gentlemen play, my boy, . . . 267 ' Pray, whose is the fault ?' inquired Doolittle Dolt, . 325 Saint Anthony at Church, ..... 4 Saw ye my Trumpeter ? . . . . .10 Secluded from domestic strife, . . . .187 She that can sit three sermons in a day, . . .24 Some sing the peaceful pleasures of the plains, . . 312 Straight from the tavern door, . . .48 Take a robin's leg, ...... 382 Take quantum sujficit of meadows and trees, . .185 Task a horse beyond his strength, . . . .142 The day 's at hand, the young, the gay, . . . 3^3 The dusk flies fast through the murky air, . . 179 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xv PAGE The Frost look'd forth one still clear night, . . . 400 The hollow winds begin to blow, .... 394 The mountain and the squirrel, .... 435 The night was dark, and drear the heath, . . . 443 There are fools of pretension and fools of pretence, . . 276 There is folly in all the world, .... 445 There lived a sage in days cf yore, .... 295 There lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore, . . 88 There were three kings into the east, . . . 308 The squire had dined alone one day, . . .170 The town of Passage, ..... 422 The very silliest thing in life, . . . .76 They look'd so alike as they sat at their work, . . 323 They may talk of love in a cottage, .... 278 This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, . 279 Three sightless inmates of the sky, .... 39 2 'Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare, . . 368 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, . . 52 To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, . . . .117 To Printing-house Square, at close of day, . . . 108 Touch once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed, ....... 204 To weave a culinary clue, ..... 459 To you, my purse, and to none other wight, . . I 'Twas in a land of learning, . . . . .98 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, . . 347 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, . . . . .401 Twenty quarts of real Nantz, . . . .44 Two gentlemen their appetite had fed, . . . 361 Two honest tradesmen meeting in the S ! . . 229 Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day, . . .61 We are two travellers, Roger and I, ... 255 Weep for the. fate of Sergeant Thin, . . .29 Werther had a love for Charlotte, .... 409 What motley cares Gorilla's mind perplex, . . .72 / When a bore gets hold of me, . . . .99 When chapman billies leave the street, . . . 191 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view, . . -35 When Faustus, at first, did his printing begin, . . 352 When honest men confess'd their sins, . . . 352 xvi INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE When Royalty was young and bold, . . .441 Who borrows all your ready cash ? . . . . - 449 Who can sound the Sapphic shell, .... 296 Who has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Greve, . 121 Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, . 149 Why call the miser miserable ? 43^ Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? . . . . 259 Would you see a man that's slow ? . . . 5 1 Ye sons of the platter, give ear, .... 43 2 The Book of Humorous Poetry. TO MY EMPTY PURSE. CHAUCER. To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye by my lady dear ; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy cheer ; Me were as lief be laid upon a bier, For which unto your mercy thus I cry, Be heavy again, or elle's must I die. Now, \ ouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear Or see your colour like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never peer ; Ye be my life, ye be my hearte's steer, Queen of comfort and of good company, Be heavy again, or elle's must I die. Now purse, thou art to me my live's light, And saviour, as down in this world here, THE BOOK OF Out of this town help me by your might, Sithea that you will not be my treasure ; For I am shave as nigh as any frere, But I prayen.unto your courtesy Be heavy again, or elle's must I die. THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR. Dr. John Wolcot, better known by his nom de plume Peter Pindar, an excellent and voluminous wr'ter of humorous and satirical poetry, was born at Dodbrooke, Devonshire, in 1738. He obtained the degree of M.D. from the University of Aber- deen in 1767, and immediately afterwards he accompanied Sir 'William Trelawney, who had been appointed governor of the island, to Jamaica. He returned to England and settled in Cornwall, where he discovered and drew from obscurity the painter Opie, with whom he removed to London in 1780. On arriving in the metropolis he devoted himself to literature ; and soon became conspicuous by his political satires and humorous effusions, which, published at. short intervals, speedily became highly popular. In the decline of life he lost his sight, and he died in 1819. Many of the writings of Dr. Wolcot are of a personal and ephemeral nature, and a few are marred by a coarseness which renders them unfit for reproduction in the pie-, sent day ; but a great portion of them, a few of which are introduced in the present volume, are distinguished by a raciness of humour, and z. freshness and vivacity of style, which has been often imitated, but very rarely equalled. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 3 Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel ; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes : A nostrum, famous in old Popish times, For purifying souls that stunk with crimes $ A sort of apostolic salt, - That Popish parsons for its power exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen-salt keeps meat. The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes to go and pray : But very different was their speed, I wot : One of the sinners gallop'd on, Light as a bullet from a gun ; The other limp'd as if he had been shot, One saw the Virgin soon peccavi cried Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever \ Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above td live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother-rogue about half way, Hobbling with outstretch'd hams and bended knees, Damning the souls and bodies of the peas ; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet 4 THE BOOK OF ' How now,' the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke, ' You lazy lubber !' ' Odds curse it !' cried the other, ' 'tis no joke ; My feet, once hard as any rock, , Are now as soft as blubber. * Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear : As for Loretto, I shall not go there ; No ! to the Devil my sinful soul must go, For hang me if I ha'n't Jost every toe. ' But, brother sinner, do explain How 'tis that you are not in pain ? What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes ? Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? ' How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if nought had happen'd, burn ye f ' Why,' cried the other, grinning, ' you must know, That, just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas.' SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES. 4 Ulrich Megerle, a barefooted Augustine friar of the seventeenth century, adopted the affectation about names then in fashion, and called himself Abraham a Sancta Clara. He was a preacher, of the dramatic and picturesque order, enlivening his pulpit scenes ' How is 't that yon can like a greyhound go. Merry as if nought had happen'd, burn ye ? ' ' Why,' cried the other, grinning, you must know, That, just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, 1 took the liberty to boil my peas.' HUMOR US POE TR Y. 5 with such bursts of humour as are found attractive even in the present day. The poem here given is from Megerle's "Judas the Arch-Rogue," and was translated by an anonymous writer in The Knickerbocker a Magazine published in New York.' Wills, SAINT ANTHONY at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preach'd to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales. The carps, with their spawn, Are all thither drawn ; Have open'd their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified. Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified. And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish, The stock-fish, I mean, At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified. THE BOOK OF Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified. Crabs and turtles also, Who always move slow, Made haste from the bottom As if the devil had got 'em. No sermon beside Had the crabs so edified. Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each look'd at the preacher Like a reasonable creature. At God's word, They Anthony heard. The sermon now ended, Each turn'd and descended ; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they. But preferr'd the old way. The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, HUMOROUS POETRY. The carps are sharp-set, All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferr'd the old way. SLEEP. JOHN G. SAXE. John Godfrey Saxe, the author of the following lines and several other pieces which appear in the present volume, is a living American humorist of considerable reputation. The style of Saxe is similar to that of Hood and Praed ; and in many of his shorter poems he has displayed an amount of humorous power and poetic feeling, and a freedom of versification, which entitles him to a prominent position in the poetical literature of the United States. ' GOD bless the man who first invented sleep !' So Sancho Panza said, and so say I ; And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself j or try To make it as the lucky fellow might A close monopoly by ' patent right.' Yes, bless the man who first invented sleep (I really can't avoid the iteration) ; But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off early rising 1 THE BOOK OP ' Rise with the lark s and with the lark to bed,' Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about their rise and fall- And whether larks have any bed at all ! The ' time for honest folks to be abed ' Is in the morning, if I reason right ; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery ; or else he drinks ! Thomson, who sung about the ' Seasons,' said It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; But then he said it lying in his bed At ten o'clock A.M. the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake Awake to duty and awake to truth But when, alas ! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night ; And free at last from mortal care and guile, To live, as only in the angels' sight, HUMOR US POE TR Y. < In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackney'd phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried 'Served him right! it's not at all surprising The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising !' A JUSTICIARY OPERA. JAMES BOSWELL. 1 This burlesque of the criminal procedure in Scotland f. hundred years ago, is believed to have been, in its original form, the production of James Boswell, the biographer of Johnson, assisted by his friend Colin Maclaurin, afterwards Lord Dreghorn. The songs marked with an asterisk are additions by Sir Alexander Boswell, Bart., who printed the whole in a private volume, 410, 1814.' Robert Chambers. DRAMATIS PERSONS. CALIENDROSUS MAXIMUS, Grand Clerk of the Scales and Chopping-Knife, and Commander of the Forces. HYSTRIX, Clerk of the Rounds. BOMBYX, a very great Officer. JOHN BLACK, the Pannel. BAMBOOZLE, ~> _ > Orators for the Pannel. FLAW-FINDER, ) io THE BOOK OF PEPPERTAIL, the Horse-Couper, >, Bizz, the Blacksmith, PETER BROWN, the Exciseman. J ,,,. ' \, Witnesses. MATTHEW MUTCHKIN, WIDOW MACLEERIE, WAITER, Judges, Jurymen, Sheriffs, Bailies, Serjeants, Mob, etc. SCENE. An Inn. CALIENDROSUS MAXIMUS et HYSTRIX. DUET AIR Saw ve my father ? Cat. Saw ye my Trumpeter ? Or saw ye my Macer 1 Or saw ye my man John ? Hyst. I have not seen your Trumpeter ; I have not seen your Macer ; And drunk is your man John ! \_Martial Music. Enter a WAITER. * AIR Hy Jenny come down to Jock. Waiter. The Bailies are waitin', the Provost is come, Twal 1 permanent Serjeants, a fife and a drum; Twa Sherras, wi' swords (but they're peaceable men) ; And some twa- three mair and the clock's chappit 2 ten. [A Grand Procession. 1 Twelve. * Struck. HUMOR US POE TRY. 1 1 SCENE. A Hall. Enter CALIENDROSUS MAXIMUS, BOMBYX, HYSTRIX, BAMBOOZLE, FLAW-FINDER, MACER, JURYMEN, MOB, etc. * AIR Fye, let us a 1 to the wcddin\ Hyst. Ge en tlemen o' the Jury, Ye'll answer until a' your names. Walter Balwhid o' Pitlurie. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Matthew Powloosie o' Kames. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Duncan Macwhey o' Todwiddock. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Jacob Ba'four o' Howbrig. Jurym. Here. Hyst^ John Macindo o' Glenpuddock. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Hew Gib in Bog o' Daljig. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Patrick Macrone o' Craig-gubble. Jurym. Here. Hyst. George Yellowlees in Cowshaw. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Ralph Mucklehose in Blindrubble. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Robert Macmurdoch in Raw. Jurym. Here. Hyst. Andrew Mackissock in Shalloch. Jurym. Here. ia THE BOOK OF ffyst. Ingram Maclure in Benbole. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Gilbert Strathdee in Drummalloch. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Gabriel Tam in Dirthole. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Lowrie Macwill o' Powmuddle, Jurym. Here. ffyst. Daniel Losh o' Benskair. Jurym. Here. ffyst. John Stoupie, writer, Kirkfuddle. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Bailie Bole, shoemaker there. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Samuel Maguire in Craig-gullion. If present, sir, answer your name. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Quintin Maccosh in Knockdullion. Jurym. Here. ffyst. Gal-lery si-lence Ahem ! AIR -In the Garb of Old Gaul. Macer. Hem ! Si-lence. Cal. Officer, bring John Black to the bar. [ The Pan ml is brought in guarded, and petitions for banishment. AIR The Lee Rig. Panne!. Oh send me ower the lang asas, My ain kind lordie, O ; HUMOR US POE TRY. 13 Oh send me ower the lang seas, My am kind lordie, O. Oh send me east, or send me wast, Or send me south or nordie, O ; But send me ower the lang seas, My ain kind lordie, O. ' AIR Lass, gin ye J-o'e me, tdl me now. Cat. Pannel, a halter must be your end, The fiend at your skirts has now his prong ; Your days, that are number'd, in penitence spend ; But I'll lecture you presently, half an hour long. Mercy were folly, if lavish'd on him ; Robbing and thieving, the gallows shall check ; Our duty is plain, we'll proceed to condemn John you shall presently hang by the neck. AIR We're gay ly yet. Pannel We're no guilty yet, We're no guilty yet ; Although we're accused, , We're no guilty yet. Afore ye condemn, Ye maun hear us a bit ; For although we're accused, We're no guilty yet. \_Jitry are chosen, and the Indictment read. * AIR Grimaldts Jig in Mother Goose. Hyst. Whereas by the laws o' this realm, And o' every well-govern'd land, i 4 THE BOOK OF To seize on anither man's gear 1 (As the tangs ance a Highlandman fand), And whether the thief he be caught In the fact, or be gruppit out-fang, 2 The law says expressly, and wisely, That chiel by the thrapple 3 shall hang. And you, John Black there, the pannel, Ye robbit, assaulted, and a' ; And sae, gang till an assize, sir, And underlie pains o' the law. * AIR Miss MadeocTs Red. Bomlyx. Painful the duty is which I must now per- form, Stating a train of guilt uncommon and enorm- Ous calling my witnesses to make the fact out plain, And if your verdict's guilty, my labours not in vain. Gentlemen, your feelings must with justice never jar, The statutes of the land condemn the pris'ner at the bar ; The law most clearly indicates the gallows, as reward For culprits such as him between the 'soldiers of the guard. John Black met Peter Brown upon the king's highway, With foul intent to rob I fear intent to slay ; John Black, the pannel, did step up to Peter Brown, And with his fist, or bludgeon, did knock said Peter down, 1 Property. Caught afterwards. * Throat, neck. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 15 Ferocious, atrocious, felonious also, Did thai and there, with that or this, reiterate the blow ; Then seize'd Peter by the throat, to suffocate his cries, And most outrageously exclaim'd ' Your money, d your eyes.' Enter PETER BROWN. * AIR The bonniest lass in a! the -world. Peter. The pannel's a regardless loon, 1 And brags that he defies man ; And bauldly threepit 2 through the town He'd do for the exciseman. I thought 'twas nought but silly clash, 3 That sneevlin gowks 4 wad tell me ; Quo' I, ' My thumb I winna fash, 5 It's no siclike can fell me.' Four cadgers 6 rade through Halk-wood-stack, I doubted Jean Macleerie ; I took the road, when up cam Black, And dang 7 me tapsalteerie. 8 He rypit, 9 maybe for his knife, I thought I saw it glancin' ; He took the rue, and saved my life, Syne, like a deil, gaed dancin'. 1 Fellow. 2 Boldly threatened. 3 Idle rumour. 4 Silly Fools. 6 Will not trouble. 6 Travelling beggars or tinkers. 7 Knocked. 8 Topsy-turvy. * Searched. 16 THE BOOK OF Enter PEPPERTAIL. KIR B raw lads o 1 Gala Water. Pep. Comin frae the town o' Straiven, On my poor mare that had the spavin', I met the pannel near the Kirk o' Shotts Like ony madman he was ravin'. Black his hair, and blue his coat Tightly he did the gauger han'le ; The mair he shook the fallow by the throat, The steadier still I e'ed the pannel. Enter "MATTHEW MUTCHKIN. * AIR Calder Fair. Matt. As I cam hame frae Ruglin fair, At e'en, when it was dusky, I had enough and maybe mair, A drap ower muckle whisky. I saw twa fallows yoke thegither, Wha they were, the taen or tither, I ken nae mair nor Abram's mither, I was blind wi' whisky. Enter Bizz. * AIR Will ye gang and marry, Katy ? Bomb. Pray, what is your name, friend ? tell us. Bizz. Tammas Bizz. I've blawn the bellows, And I've clinkit 1 on the studdy,* Sin' a wean, 3 knee-heigh and duddy. 4 1 Hammered. * Anvil. Child. 4 Ragged. HUMOR US POE TRY. 17 And the gauger weel I ken, Aft he stammers butt and ben, 1 Snowkin 2 a' frae end to end He's mislear'd 3 and capernoited. 4 And I ken Jock Black fu' weel, A sturdy hand at our fore-hammer ; Bess, his wife, flytes 5 at the chiel, But weel-a-wat 6 I do condemn her. Wark, ye ken yersels, brings drouth, Wha can thole 7 a gizen'd 8 mouth? And gif 9 he tak a gill forsooth, Queans 10 maun flyte and fools maun clatter ! " Jock, I ken's an honest lad, Thievish pranks was ne'er his custom ; Though he be sae sair misca'd, Wi' gowd in gowpens 12 ye may trust him. I hae kent him sin' a bairn, A penny willing aye to earn ; And though he's coupit i' the shearn, 13 Troth, I ken nought ill about him. 1 Out and in. a Looking about suspiciously. * Mischievous. * Irritable. 6 Rages. 6 I am sure. 7 Bear. 8 Shrunk from want of moisture. If. 10 Idle women. Idle talk. u Gold iu handfuls. u At present in trouble. X 8 THE BOOK OF Enter WIDOW MACLEERIE. * AIR Ihae a wife o 1 my aiit. Widow Mac. I hae a house o 1 my ain, On the road to Hamilton ; Whisky I sell to be plain, Arran Water or Campbclton. Peter, the gauger, himsel', Whiles comes pipple-papple 1 in ; Fusion, 2 frae ony big still, He'll no put his thrapple 3 in. Widow Macleerie's my name, Mine's a tippeny eatin'-house ; Carriers find a warm hame, Mine's neist door to the meetm'-house. As for the pannel, John Black, I'm wae to see him here awa', He never wrang'd me ae plack, 4 Gude send he won clear awa ' ! \Th<. Orators for the Pannel plead. AIR Dtil tak the wars. Bamboozle. Fye on the laws that hang a man for stealing ; Sure such penal statutes were savagely framed By legislators devoid of human feeling, Before divine religion mankind had tamed. 1 Dropping in occasionally. * A small copper coin now obsolete Poison. Throat. HUMOR US POE TRY. 19 Gentlemen, 'tis yours, with vigour, To check the law's excessive rigour ; *Yours is the power, to you the choice is given, A father husband bends ; On you his fate depends : 'Tis yours to take or give, To bid him die or live ! Then here that mercy show, you hope from Heaven. AIR * * * Flaw-Finder. Gentlemen, now 'tis my turn to address you, And with much speaking I need not oppress you ; The proof lies before you, in writing down taken, All I do wish is to save this man's bacon. But, as it is usual some few things to mention, I say, that to steal it was not his intention ; So be not, I pray,' like the lords, in a fury, But bring this man off, like a sensible jury. (Charge to the Jury :) * AlR Merrily Dance the Quaker. Cal. If ever a case before me came That I could judge most clearly, This is a case, I'll boldly name, I've scrutinized it nearly. To trace the truth through all its track, No witch requires, or jugglers ; The witnesses are all a pack Of drunkards and of smugglers. 20 THE BOOK OF The counsel for the crown, with skill, Extorted facts most glaring ; Black, when primed by stoup and gill, You see, became most daring. That Black put Brown in mortal fear, The proof is clear darissima; And that he robb'd, though not quite clear, Presumptio est fortissima. Gentlemen, 'tis my desire To state the case precisely ; 'Tis you to judge, so now retire, And weigh your verdict wisely. The proof is strong, a verdict bring, Such honest men becoming ; I need not say one other thing, And so I end my summing. \Jitry arc enclosed. LOWRIE MACWILL o' POWMUDDLE, Chancellor. JOHN STOUPIE, Clerk. * K\&Ally Croaker. Powmuddle. In this case there's nae argument, Nae minor and nae major ; A chiel had ta'en a glass, and had A towzle 1 wi' a gauger. 1 Struggle. HUMOR US POE TRY. 21 That there's nae proof o' robbery, To see, I think, ye canna miss ; Sae we the pannel maun acquit No guilty, sirs unanimous. Demi chorus by five jurymen. Unanimous, unanimous. Double chorus by ten jurymen. Unanimous, unanimous. Grand chorus by the whole fifteen. Sae we the pannel maun acquit. No guilty, sirs unanimous. [ The verdict is returned. Caliendrosits Maximui reads in a passion. AIR Up and dmvn Frisky, and fire away Pat. Caliendrosus, A plague o' such juries, they make such a pother, And thus, by their folly, let pannels go free ; And still, on some silly pretext or another, Nothing is left for your lordships and me. Our duty, believe us, Was not quite so grievous, While yet we had hopes for to hang 'em up all ; But now they're acquitted, Oh, how we're outwitted ! We've sat eighteen hours here for nothing at all. Chorus by the whole Bench. Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol cle rol, lol de rol, Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, tol de rol, But now they're acquitted, etc. [Mob without huzza. 22 THE BOOK OF ANACREONTIC TO A LITTLE PIG'S TAIL, ISAAC STORY. LITTLE tail of Little Pig, Once as merry as a grig ; Twisting up, and curling down, When he grunted through the town ; Though by nature well design'd, Low to wave in form behind, Strong to guard each needful part, And to dabble in the dirt. Thee, I hail ! so sweet and fair, Tip of gristle, root of hair, Courting either stump or log, When attack'd by spiteful dog ; Gradual less'ning as a cone, With thy curling points of bone ; Joints all grateful to the knife, In the hour of deadly strife ; Knife of little roguish boy, Who thee seizes for a toy When the butcher sad or grinning, Round thy suburbs falls to cleaning, With his smoking water hot, Lately boiling in a pot ; Pot which often did contain Dinner costly, dinner plain ; Dinner from the land and water, Turtle soup and bullock's quarter ; HUMOR US FOE TRY. 23 Lobster red as setting sun, Duck destroy'd by faithful gun ; Side of sheep, joint of ram, Breast of veal, leg of lamb, Or a bit of oxen tripe ; Or a partridge, or a snipe ; Or a goose, or a widgeon ; Or a turkey, or a pigeon. But of all it did contain, What invokes the muse's strain ; A delicious sav'ry soup As was ever taken up ; Form'd of pettitoes and tail Of animal that's known to squeal. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men ; Who, with tail of little pig, Thus can run a rhyming rig ; As of Delia, or of Anna, On the gentle banks of Banna, Bardlings write, and maidens sing, Till with songs old cellars ring ; Till each hillock, dale, and alley, Grows as vocal as the valley ; And in inspiration's trance, Oysters, clams, and mussels dance. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men ; Who with tail of little pig, Thus can run a rhyming rig. 24 THE BOOK OF AN HOLY SISTER. ABRAHAM COWLEY. Abraham Cowley, the author of the following piece of satire, was born in London in 1618. He was educated at Westminster School and Cambridge, and became a poet very early in life. He attributed this direction of his genius to the perusal of Spenser, whose works ' were wont to lye in his mother's parlour.' John- son in his Lives speaks very highly of Cowley as a poet. He died in 1667, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. SHE that can sit three sermons in a day, And of those three scarce bear three words away ; She that can rob her husband, to repair A budget-priest, that noses a long prayer ; She that with lamp-black purifies her shoes, And with half-eyes and Bible softly goes ; She that her pockets with lay-gospel stuffs, And edifies her looks with little ruffs ; She that loves sermons as she does the rest, Still standing stiff that longest are the best ; She that at christenings thirsteth for more sack, And draws the broadest handkerchief for cake ; She that sings psalms devoutly, next the street, And beats her maid i' th' kitchen where none see't; She that will sit in shop for five hours' space, And register the sins of all that pass, Damn at first sight, and proudly dares to say, That none can possibly be saved but they That hang religion in a naked ear, And judge men's hearts according to their hair j HUMOR O US POE TRY. 25 That could afford to doubt, who wrote best sense, Moses, or Dod on the commandments ; She that can sigh, and cry ' Queen Elizabeth,' Rail at the Pope, and scratch-out ' sudden death :' And for all this can give no reason why : This is an holy sister, verily. SCHNAPPS. SELBER. This spirited translation from the German of SELBER appeared anonymously in the Dublin University Magazine a few years ago. I'M rather slow at extravaganzas, And what your poets call thunderclaps ; I'll therefore spin you some sober stanzas Concerning nothing at all but Schnapps. And though my wisdom, like Sancho Panza's, Consists entirely of bits and scraps, I'll bet you fourpence that no man plans as Intense a poem as I on Schnapps. Schnapps is, you know, the genteelest liquid That any tapster in Potsdam taps j When you've tobacco, and chew a thick quid, You've still to grin for your glass of Schnapps. You then wax funny, and show your slick wit, And smash to smithers with kicks and slaps Whateve^s next you in Latin quicqiiid For I quote Horace when lauding Schnapps. 26 THE BOOK OF I've but one pocket for quids and coppers, Which last moreover are mostly raps, Yet 'midst my ha'pence and pipes and stoppers I still find room for a flask of Schnapps. My daily quantum is twenty croppers, Or ten half-naggins ; but, when with chaps Who, though good Schnappers, are no slipsloppers, I help to empty a keg of Schnapps. Being fifty, sixty, or therebetwixt, I Guess many midnights cannot now elapse Before the hour comes in which my fixt eye Must look its last upon Earth and Schnapps. I'll kick the pail, too, in some dark pigstye, Imbibing hogwash, or whey perhaps, Which, taken sep'rate, or even mixt, I Don't think superior at all to Schnapps ! THE DEVIL'S WALK. RICHARD PORSON. Richard Person, the eminent Greek scholar and critic, was born at East Ruston in Norfolk, on Christmas day 1759, and died in London on September 25, 1808. The circumstances under which the following jeu-d 1 esprit was written, are supposed to have been these : One evening Porson attended a party at the house of Dr. Vincent, and on being cut out at a whist table, he rose to take his leave. Mrs. Vincent pressed him to stay, saying, ' Do stay, the rubber will soon be over, when you may go in. In the meantime, take a pen and ink at another table, and write us HUMOROUS POETR Y. 27 some verses.' Dr. Vincent seconded this request, and added, ' I will give a subject. You shall suppose that the Devil is come among us to see what we are doing, and you shall tell us what observations he makes.' Porson obeyed the injunctions, and this humorous effusion was the result. The Devil's Walk has also been claimed for Southey and Coleridge, but there can be no doubt that it originated with Porson, and in all probability it was afterwards amplified by them. FROM his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To visit his snug little farm of the earth, And see how his stock goes on. And over the hill, and over the dale, He walk'd, and over the plain ; And backwards and forwards he switch'd his long tail, As a gentleman switches his cane. And pray, how was the Devil drest ? Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best ; His coat was red, and his breeches were blue, With a little hole behind where his tail came through. He saw a lawyer killing a viper, On a dunghill, beside his own stable ; And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind Of Cain and his brother Abel. An apothecary, on a white horse, Rode by on his avocations ' Oh ! ' says the Devil, ' there's my old friend Death in the Revelations !' He saw a cottage, with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility 1 28 THE BOOK OF And the Devil was pleased, for his darling vice Is the pride that apes humility. He stepp'd into a rich bookseller's shop ; Says he, ' We are both of one college ; For I, myself, sat, like a cormorant, once, Hard by on the Tree of Knowledge.' As he pass'd through Cold-Bath-Fields, he saw A solitary cell : And the Devil was charm'd, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of hell. He saw a turnkey in a trice Fetter a troublesome jade ! 'Ah ! nimble,' quoth he, 'do the fingers move When they're used to their trade.' He saw the same turnkey unfetter the same, But with little expedition ; And the Devil thought on the long debates On the Slave Trade Abolition. Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, A pig, with vast celerity ! And the Devil grinn'd, for he saw all the while How it cut its own throat, and he thought, with a smile, Of ' England's commercial prosperity !' He saw a certain minister (A minister to his mind) Go up into a certain house, With a majority behind. HUMOR US POE TRY. 29 The Devil quoted Genesis, Like a very learned clerk, How ' Noah, and his creeping things, Went up into the ark !' 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, 'Twas the General Conflagration ! THE FATE OF SERGEANT THIN. This tragic poem, from the pen of Henry Glassford Bell, Esq., appeared in the Edinburgh Literary Journal, in 1831, that periodical being at that time under the editorial control of the author. WEEP for the fate of Sergeant Thin, A man of a desperate courage was he, More he rejoiced in the battle's din, Than in all the mess-room revelry ; But he died at last of no ugly gash, He choked on a hair of his own moustache ! Sergeant Thin was stern and tall, And he carried his head with a wonderful air; He look'd like a man who could never fall, For devil or don he did not care ; 3 o THE BOOK OF But death soon settled the Sergeant's hash, He choked on a hair of his ovvn moustache ! He did not die as a soldier should, Smiting a foe with sword in hand He died when he was not the least in the mood, When his temper was more than usually bland ; He just had fasten'd his sabre-tasche, When he choked on a hair of his own moustache ! Sorely surprised was he to find That his life thus hung on a single hair ; Had he been drinking until he grew blind, It would have been something more easy to bear ; Or had he been eating a cartload of trash, But he choked on a hair of his own moustache ! The news flew quickly along the ranks, And the whisker'd and bearded grew pale with fright ; It seem'd the oddest of all death's pranks, To murder a Sergeant by means so slight, And vain were a General's state and cash, If he choked on a hair of his own moustache I They buried poor Thin when the sun went down, His cap and his sword on the coffin lay ; But many a one from the neighbouring town Came smilingly up to the sad array, For they said with a laughter they could not quash, That he choked on a hair of his o\vn moustache I HUMORO US POETR Y. 3 1 Now every gallant and gay hussar, Take warning by this most mournful tale, It is not only bullet or scar That may your elegant form assail ; Be not too bold be not too rasli You may choke on a hair of your own moustache ! THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. GEORGE COLMAN ' THE YOUNGER.' George Colman 'the younger, ' Dramatist, Manager, and Examiner of Plays, so called to distinguish him from his father, who was also a dramatist, was born October 21, 1762. As the author of The Poor Gentleman, The Iron Chect, The Heir-at-Laiu, and numerous other standard plays, he gained for himself a high reputation as a dramatist ; and his Broad Grins, and other volumes of poetry have made his name iamous as a writer of humorous verse. He died October 26, 1836. A MAN, in many a country town, we know, Professes openly with death to wrestle ; Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are ; But meet just like prize-fighters, in a fair, Who first shake hands before they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks, 32 THE BOOK OP With all the love and kindness of a brother : So, many a suff'ring patient saith, Though the Apothecary fights with Death, Still they're sworn friends to one another. A member of this yEsculapian line Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne : No man could better gild a pill, Or make a bill, Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister, Or draw a tooth out of your head, Or chatter scandal by your bed, Or give a clyster. Of occupations these were quantum stiff. : Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough ; And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't This balanced things : for if he hurl'd A few score mortals from the world, He made amends by bringing others into't His fame full six miles round the country ran ; In short, in reputation he was solus : All the old women call'd him ' a fine man !' His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (Which oftentimes will genius fetter), Read works of fancy, it is said, And cultivated the Bdles-Lettres. HUMOR US POE TRY. 33 And why should this be thought so odd ? Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic ? Of poetry though patron-god, Apollo patronizes physic. Bolus loved verse ; and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass Of writing the directions, on his labels, In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables ; Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras. Apothecary's verse ! And where's the treason ? Tis simply honest dealing : not a crime ; When patients swallow physic without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme. He had a patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town, it might be four j To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article, In Pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical, And, on the label of the stuff, He wrote this verse ; Which, one would think, was clear enough, And terse : ' When taken To be well shaken? 34 THE BOOK OF Next morning, early, Bolus rose ; And to the patient's house he goes, Upon his pad, Who a vile trick of stumbling had : 1 1 was, indeed, a very sorry hack ; But that's of course : For what's expected from a horse With an Apothecary on his back ? Bolus arrived j and gave a doubtful tap, Between a single and a double rap. Knocks of this kind Are gn en by gentlemen who teach to dance By fiddlers, and by opera-singers : One loud, and then a little one behind ; As if the knocker fell, by chance, Out of their fingers. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, Long as a courtier's out of place Portending some disaster ; John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim, As if th' Apothecary had physick'd him, And not his master. ' Well, how's the patient ? ' Bolus said. John shook his head. ' Indeed ! hum ! ha ! that's very odd ! He took the draught ? ' John gave a nod. 'Well, how ? what then ? speak out, you dunce !' ' Why, then,' says John, ' we shook him once.' HUMOROUS POETR Y. 35 ' Shook him ! How 1 ' Bolus stammer'd out. ' We jolted him about.' ' Zounds ! Shake a patient, man ! a shake won't do.' ' No, Sir, and so we gave him two? ( Two shakes ! od's curse ! 'Twould make the patient worse.' ' It did so, Sir ! and so a third we tried.' ' Well, and what then ? ' Then, Sir, my master died !' THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. GEORGE CANNING. From The Anti-Jacobin, perhaps the most famous collection of Political Satires extant. It was originated by George Canning in 1798, and appeared in the form of a weekly newspaper, in- terspersed with poetry. Its avowed object was to expose the vicious doctrines of the French Revolution, and to hold up to ridicule and contempt the advocates of that event, and the sticklers for peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, afterwards the vigorous and severe editor of the Quarterly Review. The existence of The Anti-Jacobin was brief, but remarkably brilliant. WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls met a blue kerchief, with which he -wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.] 3 6 THE BOOK O~F Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue Which once my love sat knotting in ! Alas ! Matilda then was true ! At least I thought so at the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingen. \Ai tfie repetition of this line B.OGERO clanks his chains in cadence.] Jlarbs ! Barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew Her neat post-waggon trotting in ! Ye bore Matilda from my view j Forlorn I languish'd at the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingen. This faded form ! this pallid hue ! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many they were few When first I enter' d at the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet ! sweet Matilda Pottingen ! Thou wast the daughter of my tu -tor, law professor at the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingeru HUMOROUS POETRY. 37 Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in : Here doom'd to starve on water gru el, never shall I see the U niversity of Gottingen niversity of Gottingen. [During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and finally so hard, ns to produce a visible contusion ; he .'hen throws himself on the floor in an agony. The cnrtain drops; the anisic still continuing to play (ill it is -wholly fallen.} NONGTONGPAW. CHARLES DIBDIN. Charles Dibdin, the ' bard of the British navy,' was bom at South- ampton in 1745. He began life early as a musician, and was successively actor, theatrical manager, and author. His fame rests entirely on his songs, of which he produced the amazing number of nine hundred ! His nautical songs have been per- manent favourites ; and it is said, that, during the war at the end of last century, the influence which they exerted over the rural population was most strongly felt in supplying the navy with volunteers. For a few years at the close of his life he enjoyed a pension from Government of ^200 per annum. He died June 1813. JOHN BULL for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France ; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. 38 THE BOOK OF Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answer'd John in heathen Greek : To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, Monsieur, je vous rientends pas. John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendour almost struck him dumb. ' I say, whose house is that there here ? ' ' House ! Je vous ri entends pas, Monsieur. ' What, Nongtongpaw again ! ' cries John ; ' This fellow is some mighty Don : No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast \vith this Nongtongpaw.' John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonish'd -at the sight, ' Whose fine estate is that there here ? ' 'State! Je vous rt attends pas, Monsieur? ' His ? what ! the land and houses too ? The fellow's richer than a Jew : On everything he lays his claw ! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw.' Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, ' What lovely wench is that there here ! ' ' Ventch ! Je vous rientends pas, Monsieur* ' What, he again ? Upon my life I A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw : I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw. HUMOROUS POETRY. 39 ' But hold ! whose funeral's that ? ' cries John. Je vous rientends pas. 'What, is he gone ? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave ! His race is run, his game is up, I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup j But since he choses to withdraw, Good night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw !' A TALE OF A TANKARD. No plate had John and Joan to hoard j Plain folk in humble plight : One only tankard crown'd their board, And that was fill'd each night ! Along whose inner bottom, sketch'd, In pride of chubby grace, Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd A baby Angel's face. John swallow'd, first, a mod'rate sup ; But Joan was not like John ; For, when her lips once touch' d the cup, She drank till all was gone. John often urged her to drink fair ; But she ne'er changed a jot : She loved to see the Angel there, And therefore drain'd the pot. 40 THE BOOK OF When John found all remonstrance vain, Another card he play'd ; And, where the Angel stood so plain, A devil got portray'd. Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail, Yet Joan as stoutly quafFd ; And ever, when she seized her ale, She clear'd it at a draught. John stared, with wonder petrified ! His hair rose on his pate, And ' Why do you drink now,' he cried, ' At this enormous rate 1 ' ' O John,' says she, ' am I to blame ? I can't, in conscience, stop : For, sure, 'twould be a burning shame, To leave the Devil a drop !' A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES. JOHN GAY. John Gay, a poet and satirist of the days of Queen Anne, was born 1688 and died 1732. The works by which he is best known are Trivia, The Beggars Of era, and Fables. MY passion is as mustard strong ; I sit all sober sad ; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad. HUMORO US POETR Y. 41 Round as a hoop the bumpers flow ; I drink, yet can't forget her ; For though as drunk as David's sow,. I love her still the better. Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind ; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind. Like a stuck pig, I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er ; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before. Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin ; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin ! I, melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to Aveep ; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep. Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale ; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale. The god of love, at her approach, Is busy as a bee 5 42 THE BOOK OF Hearts, sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me. Ah me ! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crow'd about her ', But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her. Straight as my leg her shape appears, Oh, were we joined together ! My heart would be scot-free from cares And lighter than a feather. As fine as fivepence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter ; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter. As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet ; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet. As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites ; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites. Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest : HUMOR US POETR Y. 43 Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king : Good Lord ! how all men envied me ! She loved like anything. But false as hell, she, like the wind, Changed, as her sex must do : Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true. If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru ! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew. Till you grow tender- as a chick, I'm dull as any post ; Let us like curs together stick, And warm as any toast. You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better speed ; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish. 44 THE BOOK OF NORFOLK PUNCH. AN INCANTATION. TWENTY quarts of real Nantz, Eau-de-vie of southern France ; By Arabia's chemic skill, Sublined, condensed, in trickling stiil ; Tis the grape's abstracted soul, And the first matter of the bowl. Oranges, with skins of gold, Like Hesperian fruit of old, Whose golden shadow wont to quiver In the stream of Guadalquivir, Glowing, waving as they hung Mid fragrant blossoms ever young, In gardens of romantic Spain, Lovely land, and rich in vain ! Blest by nature's bounteous hand, Cursed with priests and Ferdinand ! Lemons, pale as Melancholy, Or yellow russets, wan and holy. Be their number twice fifteen, Mystic number, well I ween, As all must know, who aught can tell Of sacred lore or glamour spell ; HUMORO US POETR Y. 45 Strip them of their gaudy hides, Saffron garb of Pagan brides, And like the Argonauts of Greece, Treasure up their Golden Fleece. Then, as doctors wise preserve Things from nature's course that swerve, Insects of portentous shape worms, Wreathed serpents, asps, and tape-worms, Ill-fashion'd fishes, dead and swimming, And untimely fruits of women : All the thirty skins infuse In Alcohol's Phlogistic dews. Steep them till the blessed Sun Through half his mighty round hath run Hours twelve the time exact Their inmost virtues to extract. Lest the portion should be heady, As Circe's cup, or gin of Deady, Water from the crystal spring, Thirty quarterns, draw and bring ; Let it, after ebullition, Cool to natural condition. Add, of powder saccharine, Pounds thrice five, twice superfine ; Mingle sweetest orange blood, And the lemon's acid flood ; Mingle well, and blend tho whole With the spicy Alcohol. 46 THE BOOK OF Strain the mixture, strain it v, ell Through such vessel, as in Hell Wicked maids, with vain endeavour, Toil to fill, and toil for ever. Nine-and-forty Danaides, Wedded maids, and virgin brides (So blind Gentiles did believe), Toil to fill a faithless sieve ; Thirsty thing, with naught content, Thriftless and incontinent. Then, to hold the rich infusion, Have a barrel, not a huge one, But clean and pure from spot or taint, Pure as any female saint That within its tight hoop'd gyre Has kept Jamaica's liquid fire ; Or luscious Oriental rack, Or the strong glory of Cognac, Whose perfume far outscents the Civet, And all but rivals rare Glenlivet. To make the compound soft as silk, Quarterns twain of tepid milk, Fit for babies, and such small game, Diffuse through the strong amalgam* The fiery souls of heroes so do Combine the stiaviter in modo, Bold as an eagle, meek as Dodo. HUMOROUS POETRY. 47 Stir it round, and round, and round, Stow it safely under ground, Bung'd as close as an intention Which we are afraid to mention ; Seven days six times let pass, Then pour it -into hollow glass ; Be the vials clean and dry, Corks as sound as chastity ; Years shall not impair the merit Of the lively, gentle spirit Babylon's Sardanapalus, Rome's youngster Heliogabalus, Or that empurpled paunch, Vitellius, So famed for appetite rebellious Ne'er, in all their vasty reign, Such a bowl as this could drain. Hark, the shade of old Apicius Heaves his head, and cries Delicious ! Mad of its flavour and its strength he Pronounces it the real Nepenthe. 'Tis the Punch, so clear and bland, Named of Norfolk's fertile land, Land of Turkeys, land of Coke, Who late assumed the nuptial yoke- Like his county beverage, Growing brisk and stout with age. Joy I wish although a Tory To a Whig, so gay and hoary 48 THE BOOK OF May be, to his latest hour, Flourish in his bridal bower Find wedded love no Poet's fiction, And Punch the only contradiction. THE DRUNKARD'S CONCEIT. The following translation, or rather imitation, of the famous German song, by Herr v. Muhler, appeared in Notes and Queries a few years ago, under the signature of F. C. H. STRAIGHT from the tavern door I am come here ; Old road, how odd to me Thou dost appear ! Right and left changing sides, Rising and sunk ; Oh, I can plainly see Road ! tliou art drunk ! Oh, what a twisted face Thou hast, O moon ! One eye shut, t'other eye Wide as a spoon. Who could have dreamt of this ? Shame on thee, shame ! Thou hast been fuddling, Jolly old dame 1 HUMOR US POE TRY. 49 Look at the lamps again ; See how they reel ! Nodding and flickering Round as they wheel. Not one among them all Steady can go ; Look at the drunken lamps, All in a row. All in an uproar seem Great things and small ; I am the only one Sober at all ; But there's no safety here For sober men ; So I'll turn back to The tavern acrain. THE HONEST MAN'S LITANY. GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. FROM a wife of small fortune, but yet very proud, Who values herself on her family's blood : Who seldom talks sense, but for ever is loud, Libera me t From living i' th' parish that has an old kirk, Where the parson would rule like a Jew or a Turk, And keep a poor curate to do all his work, Libera me I 5 o THE BOOK OF From a justice of peace who forgives no offence, But construes the law in its most rigid sense, And still to bind over will find some pretence, Libera met From bailiffs, attorneys, and all common rogues, From Irish nonsense, their bogs and their brogues, From Scots' bonny clabber, their clawing and shrugs, Libera me I From spiritual courts, citations and libels, From proctors, apparitors, and all the tribe else, Which never were read of yet, in any Bibles, Libera met From dealing with great men and taking their word, From waiting whole mornings to speak with my lord, Who puts off his payments, and puts on his sword, Libera me I From trusting to hypocrites : wretches who trifle With heaven, that on earth more secure they may rifle ; Who conscience and honour and honesty stifle, Libera met From Black-coats, who never the gospel yet taught, From Red-coats, who never a battle yet fought, From Turn-coats, whose inside and outside are naught, Libera me I HUMOR US POE TRY. 5 1 FOOTMAN JOE. G. HEEERT. WOULD you see a man that's slow ? Come and see our footman, Joe : Most unlike the bounding roe, Or an arrow from a bow, , Or the flight direct of crow, Is the pace of footman Joe ; Crabs that hobble to and fro, In their motions copy Joe. Snails, contemptuous as they go, Look behind and laugh at Joe. An acre any man may mow, Ere across it crawleth Joe. Trip on light fantastic toe Ye that tripping like, for Joe ; Measured steps of solemn woe Better suit with steady Joe. Danube, Severn, Trent, and Po, Backward to the source shall flow, Ere despatch be made by Joe. Letters to a Plenipo Send not by our footman Joe. Would you Job's full merit know, Ring the bell, and wait for Joe ; Whether it be king or no, 'Tis just alike to lazy Joe. Legal process none can show, If your lawyer move like Joe. 52 THE BOOK OF Death, at last, our common foe, Must trip up the heels of Joe ; And a stone shall tell ' Below, Hardly changed, still sleepeth Joe. Loud shall the final trumpet blow, But the last comer will be Joe.' THE THEATRE. JAMES SMITH. Rejected Addresses ; or, the New Theatrum Poet arum, by James and Horace Smith, appeared in October 1812. The occasion which suggested the volume was the re-opening of Drury Lane Theatre. The managers issued an advertisement requesting that addresses, one of which should be spoken' on the opening night, might be sent in for competition. Mr. Ward, secretary of the Theatre, casually started the idea of publishing a series of supposed ' Rejected Addresses.' The brothers eagerly adopted the sug- gestion, and in six weeks the volume was published, and re- ceived by the public with enthusiastic delight. The Rejected Addresses are principally humorous imitations of eminent authors. Lord Byron and Lord Jeffrey frequently spoke highly in favour of them as ' the very best that ever were made.' 1 The Theatre,' given here, is in imitation of Crabbe, and was written by James Smith. In the Edinburgh Review, Jeffrey wrote of it : ' " The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author.' James Smith died at Craven Street, Strand, on the 24th December 1839, aged 65; and Horace died at Tunbridge Wells, July 12, 1849, in the 7oth year of his age. 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, HUMORO US POETR Y. 53 Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start ; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane ; While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please ; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscall'd standing-room. Hark ! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling 'Pit full !' gives the check he takes ; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. See to their desks Apollo's sons repair- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair ! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon ; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp \ Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. 54 THE BOOK OF Now all seems hush'd ; but no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil'd in his crash, the leader of ihe clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man : Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry ' Hats off !' And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above ; Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap ; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl, Who from his powcler'd pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues ? Who's that calls 'Silence !' with such leathern lungs ? He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence !' hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. What various swains our motley walls contain ! ' Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court ; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane ; HUMORO US POETR Y. 55 The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five they want but twopence more ; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, ' But talk their minds we wish they'd mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give ; Jews from St. Mary Axe, 1 for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they 'd even axe St. Mary ; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gaic ; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; But when John D wyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter a safe employ ; 1 A street and parish in Lime Street Ward, London at that time chiefly inhabited by Jews. 56 THE BOOK OF In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head ' He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin's name a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat ; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight \ Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullens whispered, ' Take my handkerchief.' ' Thank you,' cries Pat ; ' but one won't make a line.' 'Take mine,' cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, 'Take mine.' A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow down darts the painted clue, Starr' d, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band Upsoars the prize ! The youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd ; While to the applauding (faUeries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 57 Upsoars the prize ! The youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd ; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat COME TO THE MAY-POLE ! The name of the author of the following is unknown. It first appeared in Westminster Drollery ; ' a choice collection of the newest songs and poems.' London, 1672. It has long been a great favourite with the rustic population of England, and the words of it are said to be still sold in Seven Dials. COME, Lasses and Lads, get leave of your Dads, And away to the May-pole hie, For every fair has a sweetheart there, And the fiddler's standing by. For Willy shall dance with Jane, And Johnny has got his Joan, To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it, Trip it up and down. Strike up, says Wat : agreed, says Matt, And I prithee, fiddler, play ; Content, says Hodge, and so says Madge, For this is a holiday .- Then every lad did doff His hat unto his lass, And every girl did curtsey, curtsey, Curtsey on the grass. 58 THE BOOK OF Begin, says Hal : ay, ay, says Mall, We'll lead up Packingtorts Pound; No, no, says Noll, and so says Doll, We'll first have Sellinger's Round. Then every man began To foot it round about, And every girl did jet it, jet it, Jet it in and out. You're out, says Dick, not I, says Nick, 'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong ; 'Tis true, says Hugh, and so says Sue, And so says every one. The fiddler then began To play the tune again, And every girl did trip it, trip it, Trip it to the men. Let's kiss, says Jane, content, says Nan, And so says every she ; How many 1 says Batt, why three, says Matt, For that's a maiden's fee. The men, instead of three, Did give them half a score ; The maids in kindness, kindness, kindness, Gave 'em as many more. Then, -after an hour, they went to a bower, And play'd for ale and cakes ; And kisses too, until they were due The lasses held the stakes. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 59 The girls did then begin To quarrel with the men, And bade them take their kisses back, And give them their own again. Now there they did stay the whole of the day, And tired the fiddler quite AVith dancing and play, without any pay, From morning until night. They told the fiddler then They'd pay him for his play, Then each a twopence, twopence, twopence, Gave him, and went away. Good-night, says Harry, good-night, says Mary ; Good-night, says Dolly to John ; Good-night, says Sue to her sweetheart Hugh ; Good-night says every one. Some walk'd, and some did run ; Some loiter'd on the way, And bound themselves by kisses twelve To meet the next holiday. WANTED A GOVERNESS. A GOVERNESS wanted well fitted to fill The post of tuition with competent skill In a gentleman's family highly genteel. Superior attainments are quite indispensable, With everything, too, that's correct and ostensible ; 60 THE BOOK OF Morals of pure unexceptionability ; Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility. The pupils are five ages, six to sixteen All as promising girls as ever were seen And besides (though 'tis scarcely worthwhile to put that in) There is one little boy but he only learns Latin. The lady must teach all the several branches Whereinto polite education now launches. She's expected to speak the French tongue like a native, And be to her pupils of all its points dative. Italian she must know a fond, nor needs banish Whatever acquaintance she may have with Spanish ; Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German, In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann. The harp and piano cela va sans dire With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier. In drawing in pencil, and chalks, and the tinting That's call'd Oriental, she must not be stint in : She must paint upon paper, and satin and velvet ; And if she knows gilding, she'll not need to shelve it. Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades, The Polish mazurka, and best gallopades ; Arithmetic, history joined with chronology, Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology, Grammar, and satin stitch, netting, geography, Astronomy, use of the globes, and cosmography. 'Twere also as well she should be Calisthenical, That her charges' young limbs may be pliant to any call. Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition, Must be superintended without intermission j HUMOR O US POE TRY. 6 1 At home, she must all habits check that disparage, And when they go out must attend to their carriage. Her faith must be orthodox temper most pliable Health good and reference quite undeniable. These are the principal matters Ait reste, Address, Bury Street, Mrs. General Peste. As the salary's moderate, none need apply Who more on that point than on comfort rely. THE TINKER AND GLAZIER. WILLIAM HARRISON. William Harrison died in 1712. He was a great friend of Dean Swift's, and associated with Steele in the editorship of the Tatler. Several of his poetical pieces appeared in Dodslefs and Nichors Collections. Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day, One Glazier Dick, the other Tom the Tinker ; Both with light purses*, but with spirits gay ; And hard it were to name the sturdiest drinker. Their ale they quaff'd ; And, as they swigg'd the nappy, They both agreed, 'tis said, That trade was wond'rous dead. They joked, sung, laugh'd, And were completely happy. The Landlord's eye, bright as his sparkling ale, Glisten'd to see them the brown pitcher hug ; For every jest, and song, and merry tale, Had this blithe ending ' Bring us t'other mug.' 62 THE BOOK OF Now Dick the Glazier feels his bosom burn, To do his friend, Tom Tinker, a good turn ; And, where the heart to friendship feels inclined, Occasion seldom loiters long behind. The kettle, gaily singing on the fire, Gives Dick a hint, just to his heart's desire : And, while to draw more ale the Landlord goes, Dick, in the ashes, all the water throws ; Then puts the kettle on the fire again, And at the Tinker winks, As 'Trade's success !' he drinks, Nor doubts the wish'd success Tom will obtain. Our Landlord ne'er could such a toast withstand ; So, giving each kind customer a hand, His friendship too display'd, And drank ' Success to trade I* But, oh how pleasure vanioh'd from his eye, How long and rueful his round visage grew, Soon as he saw the kettle's bottom fly, Solder the only fluid he could view ! He raved, he caper'd, and he swore, And cursed the kettle's body o'er and o'er. 'Come! come!' says Dick, 'fetch us, my friend, more ale; All trades, you know, must live : Let's drink " May trade with none of us, e'er fail 1" The job to Tom, then, give ; And, for the ale he drinks, our lad of mettle, Take my word for it, soon will mend your kettle. 1 , HUMOR O US POE TRY. 63 The Landlord yields ; but hopes 'tis no offence, To curse the trade, that thrives at his expense. Tom undertakes the job ; to work, he goes ; And just concludes it, with the evening's close.' Souls so congenial had friends Tom and Dick, Each might be fairly call'd a loving brother ; Thought Tom, to serve my friend I know a trick, And one good turn in truth deserves another ! Out now he slily slips, But not a word he said. The plot was in his head, And off he nimbly trips. Swift to the neighb'ring church his way he takes ; Nor in the dark . Misses his mark, But every pane of glass he quickly breaks. Back as he goes., His bosom glows, To think how great will be his friend Dick's joy, At getting so much excellent employ, Return'd, he beckoning, draws his friend aside, Importance in his face, And to Dick's ear his mouth applied, Thus briefly states the case : ' Dick 1 I may give you joy, you're a made man ; I've done your business most complete, my friend : I'm off ! the devil may catch me, if he can. Each window of the church you've got to mend j 64 THE BOOK OF Ingratitude's worst curse my head befall, If, for your sake, I have not broke them all 1* Tom with surprise sees Dick turn pale, Who deeply sighs ' Oh, la ! ' Then drops his under jaw, And all his powers of utt'rance fail : While horror in his ghastly face, And bursting eye-balls, Tom can trace ; Whose sympathetic muscles, just and true, Share with his heart Dick's unknown smart, And two such phizzes ne'er met mortal view. At length, friend Dick his speech regain' d, And soon the mystery explain' d 'You have, indeed, my business done ! And I, as well as you, must run : For let me act the best I can, Tom ! Tom ! I am a ruin'd man. Zounds ! zounds ! this piece of friendship costs me dear, I always mend church windows by the year /' THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. The Biglow Papers, by James Russell Lowell, is well known as one of the most racy and pungent volumes of humorous and satirical verse which has emanated from the press of America. The Pious Editor's Crcc.l is, says the editor of the English edition, ' an exquisite piece of satire levelled at the swarms of noisy editors in the United States, who seek political preferment in the HUMOROUS POETR Y. 65 great quadrennial scrambles.' Professor Lowell was born at Boston in 1819, and he fills the chair of Bdles-Lettres in Harvard University. As a poet and humorist, he occupies a high position in America and Great Britain. I DU believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is ; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees ; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers, But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas an' coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, Purvidin' I'm in office ; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth fill'd their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets I du believe in any plan' O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes : I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote, an' keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses 66 THE BOOK OF I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions ; I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin' ; The bread conies back in many days, An' butter'd, tu, fer sartin ; I mean in prey in' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses. I du believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on ; The people's oilers soft' enough To make hard money out on ; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all, I don't care how hard money is Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in_the traces lead 'emj HUMOROUS POETRY. 67 Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' wither' d be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin' ! I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, Frum him my bread an' cheese air j I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his sotiperscription, Will, conscience, honour, honesty, An' things o' thet description. I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs, in everythin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN' ; This doth my cup with marcies fil!, This lays all thought o' sin to rest, I dotit believe in princerple, But, oh, I du in interest. I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin' ; It aint by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied, I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded. 68 THE BOOK OP I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt ; Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. I du believe wutever trash '11 keep the people in blindness, Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets, Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally ; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed met HUMOR US POETR Y. 69 WORMS. ALEXANDER POPE. The following lines were addressed by Alexander Pope, Author of the Dunciad, Essay on Man, etc., to ' The Ingenious Mr. Moore, inventor of the celebrated worm powder. ' How much, egregious Moore, are we Deceived by shows and forms ? Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All human race are worms. Man is a very worm by birth, Proud reptile, vile and vain, Awhile he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again. That woman is a worm, we find, E'er since our grannum's evil ; She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil. The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they took their rise, Then in a worm decay. The flatterer an ear-wig grows, Some worms suit all conditions ; Misers are muck-worms ; silk-worms, beaus, And death-watches, physicians. That statesmen have a worm, is seen By all their winding play ; 70 THE BOOK OF Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day. Ah, Moore ! thy skill were well employ'd, And greater gain would rise If thou couldst make the courtier void The worm that never dies. Thou only canst our fate adjourn Some few short years, no more ; E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before. By James Smith, one of the Authors of The Rejected Addresses. MEN once were surnamed for their shape or estate (You all may from history worm it), There was Louis the bulky, and Henry the Great, John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit : But now, when the doorplates of misters and dames Are read, each so constantly varies ; From the owner's trade, figure, and calling surnames Seem given by the rule of contraries. Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig, Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly, And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig While driving fat Mrs. Golightly. HUMOROUS POETRY. 71 At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout (A conduct well worthy of Nero), Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero. Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, Found nothing but sorrow await her ; She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove, That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter. Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut ; Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest ; Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut, Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest. Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock ; Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers ; Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers. Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how, He moves as though cords had entwined him j Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow, With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him. Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three, Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney. Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root, Mr. Wild with timidity draws back, Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback. 7 a THE BOOK OF Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Consumed all the fortune his dad won ; Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health ; Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one ; Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year By showing his leg to an heiress : Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear Surnames ever go by contraries. THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, statesman, wit, and author of The Rivals and The School for Scandal, etc., was bom at Dublin in 1751; died, 1816. WHAT motley cares Gorilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex I In studious dishabille behold her sit, A letter'd gossip and a household wit ; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies, A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass ; Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 73 There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish ; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals ; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. THE COUNTRY SQUIRE. YRIARTE. Don Totnas Yriarte, an eminent Spanish poet, was born at Tene- riffe, 1750. He is chiefly known to English readers by his ' Fabulas Literarias' (Literary Fables) published 1782. These fables have been frequently translated in this country and in America. The latest, and by far the most successful translation, is that by Mr. Robert Rockliff, published in Liverpool, 1854. Mr. Rockliff has caught the happy manner and free versification of his author in no ordinary degree, and his complete collection of Yriarte's Fables is one of the most excellent translations from a foreign language which has appeared of late years. Yriarte died in 1798. A COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit ' (For fools are often bless'd with fortune's smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnish'd it In splendid style. 74 THE BOOK OF 1 One thing is wanted,' said a friend ; ' for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use.' "Tis true ; but, zounds !' replied the squire with glee, ' The lumber-room in yonder northern wing (I wonder I ne'er thought of it) will be The very thing. ' I'll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire's abode. ' And when the whole is ready, I '11 despatch My coachman a most knowing fellow down, To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town.' But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf, The booby Squire repented him, and cried Unto himself: ' This room is much more roomy than I thought ; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguey price. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 75 ' Now, as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood. ' It shall be so. I '11 give the shaven deal A coat of paint a colourable dress, To look like calf or vellum, and conceal Its nakedness. * And gilt and letter'd with the author's name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be ('tis all the same) Assembled there.' The work was done ; the simulated hoards Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In bindings some ; and some, of course, in boards, Where all were wood. From bulky folios down to slender twelves, The choicest tomes in many an even row, Display'd their letter'd backs upon the shelves, A goodly show. With such a stock, which seemingly surpass'd The best collection ever form'd in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain ? 76 THE BOOK OF What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conn'd their titles, that the Squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man ? Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and bindings, take the hint and sell His costly library ; for painted books Would serve as well. THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION. By Robert -Lloyd, A.M. A collected edition of this Author's poems, edited by Dr. Kenrick, was published in 1774. ' His work en- titled The Actor is considered one of the most pleasing and scien- tific essays upon theatrical representation in general that has ever been written.' Lowndes. Born, 17365 died, 1764. THE very silliest things in life Create the most material strife ; What scarce will suffer a debate, Will oft produce the bitterest hate. ' It is,' you say I say, "Tis not ' Why, you grow warm, and I am hot. Thus each alike with passion glows, And words come first, and after blows. Friend Jerkin had an income clear, Some fifteen pounds, or more, a year ; And rented, on the farming plan, Grounds at much greater sums per ann. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 77 A man of consequence, no doubt, 'Mongst all his neighbours round about : He was of frank and open mind, Too honest to be much refined ; Would smoke his pipe, and tell his tale, Sing a good song, and drink his ale. His wife was of another mould ; Her age was neither young nor old ; Her features strong, but somewhat plain ; Her air not bad, but rather vain ; Her temper neither new nor strange, A woman's very apt to change : What she most hated was conviction ; What she most loved, flat contradiction. A charming housewife, ne'ertheless Tell me a thing she could not dress : Soups, hashes, pickles, puddings, pies ; Nought came amiss she was so wise ! For she, bred twenty miles from town, Had brought a world of breeding down, And Cumberland had seldom seen A farmer's wife with such a mien. She could not bear the sound of dame j No ; Mistress Jerkin was her name. She could harangue, with wond'rous grace, On gowns and mobs, and caps and lace ; But, tho' she managed well the house, She had a vast contempt for spouse ; 78 THE BOOK OF As being one who took no pride, And was a deal too countrify'd. Such were our couple, man and wife ; Such were their means and ways of life. Once on a time, the season fair, For exercise and cheerful air, It happen'd, in his morning's roam, He kill'd his birds, and brought them home. ' Here, Cicely, take away my gun : How shall we have these starlings done V ' Done ! what, my love ? Your wits are wild Starlings, my dear ! they're thrushes, child.' ' Nay, now, but look, consider, wife, They're starlings.' ' No, upon my life ! Sure I can judge as well as you, I know a thrush and starling too.' * Who was it shot them, you or I ? They're starlings ! ' ' Thrushes ! ' ' Zounds, you lie !' ' Pray, sir, take back your angry word, I scorn your language as your bird ; It ought to make a husband blush, To treat a wife so 'bout a thrush.' < Thrush, Cicely !' < Yes.' ' A starling !' ' No.' The lie again, and then a blow. Blows carry strong and quick conviction, And mar the powers of contradiction. Peace soon ensued, and all was well j It were imprudence to rebel, HUMOROUS POETR K 79 Or keep the ball up of debate, Against these arguments of weight. A year roll'd on in perfect ease, 'Twas 'As you like !' and ' What you please I' Till, in its course and order due, Came March the twentieth, fifty-two. Quoth Cicely ' Ah, this charming life I No tumults now, no blows, no strife ! What fools we were this day last year ! Lord, how you beat me then, my dear I Sure it was idle and absurd, To wrangle so about a bird ; A bird not worth a single rush A starling.' ' No, my love, a thrush ! That I'll maintain.'' That I'll deny. You're wrong, good husband.' 'Wife, you lie 1* Again the self-same wrangle rose, Again the lie, again the blows. Thus, every year (true man and wife) Ensues the same domestic strife : Thus every year their quarrel ends, They argue, fight, and kiss, and friends ; 'Tis ' starling,' ' thrush,' and ' thrush' and ' starling ;' 'You dog !'-- ' You slut !' 'My dear I'', My darlingl' A MODEL SERMON. It should be brief ; if lengthy, it will steep Our hearts in apathy, our eyes in sleep ; 80 THE BOOK OF The dull will yawn, the chapel-lounger doze, Attention flag, and memory's portals close. It should be warm ; a living altar coal, To melt the icy heart and charm the soul ; A sapless, dull harangue, however read, Will never rouse the soul, or raise the dead. It should be simple, practical, and clear ; No fine-spun theory to please the ear ; No curious lay to tickle letter'd pride, And leave the poor and plain unedified. It should be tender and affectionate, As his warm theme who wept lost Salem's fate ; The fiery laws, with words of love allay'd, Will sweetly warm and awfully persuade. It should be manly, just, and rational, Wisely conceived, and well express'd withal ; Not stuff'd with silly notions, apt to stain A sacred desk, and show a muddy brain. It should possess a well-adapted grace, To situation, audience, time, and place ; A sermon form'd for scholars, statesmen, lords, With peasants and mechanics ill accords. It should with evangelic beauties bloom, Like Paul's at Corinth, Athens, or at Rome j While some Epictetus or Sterne esteem, A gracious Saviour is the Gospel theme ! HUMOR O US POE TRY. 8 1 It should be mix'd with many an ardent prayer, To reach the heart, and fix and fasten there ; When God and man are mutually address'd God grants a blessing, man is truly bless'd. It should be closely, well applied at last, To make the moral nail securely fast : Thou art the man, and thou alone will make A Felix tremble and a David quake ! THE ANNUITY. GEORGE OUTRAM. 'The little work from which "The Annuity" has been selected was printed, for private distribution only, by the late Mr. George Outram. It bears the unpromising title of Legal Lyrics, qpd Metrical Illustrations of the Scottish Forms of Process ; but abounds in keen wit and rich humour, which force themselves on the appreciation even of readers whose misfortune it is to be born south of the Tweed, and to be unacquainted with the ex- quisitely simple forms and phrases of Scottish law.' Wills. I GAED to spend a week in Fife An unco week it proved to be For there I met a waesome wife Lamentin' her viduity. Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; And I was sae left to mysel' I sell't her an annuity. 82 THE BOOK OF The bargain lookit fair eneugh She just was turn'd o' saxty-three I couldna guess'd she'd prove sae teugh, 1 By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years .Jiave gane, And there she's yet as stieve's 2 a stane The limmer's growin' young again, Since she got her annuity. She's crined 3 a\va' to bane an' skin. But that it seems is nought to me. She's like to live although she's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums, 4 But comesas sure as Christmas comes To ca' for her annuity. I read the tables drawn wi' care For an Insurance Company ; Her chance o' life was stated there Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here or tables there, She's lived ten years beyond her share, An's like to live a dozen mair, To ca' for her annuity. Last Yule she had a fearfu' hoast 5 I thought a kink 6 might set me free 1 Tough. " Firm. 8 Shrunk. * Threads. * Cough. Paroxysm. HUMOROUS POETRY. 83 I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, Wi' constant assiduity. But Deil ma' care the blast gaed by, And miss'd the auld anatomy ; It just cost me a tooth, forbye 1 Discharging her annuity. If there's a sough 2 o' cholera Or typhus wha sae gleg 3 as she ! She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity ! She doesna need she's fever proof The pest walk'd o'er her very roof She tauld me sae an' then her loof * Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell her arm she brak A compound fracture as could be Nae Leech the cure wad undertak, Whate'er was the gratuity. It's cured ! She handles 't like a flail It does as weel in bits as hale But I'm a broken man mysel', Wi' her and her annuity. Her broozled 5 flesh and broken banes, Are weel as flesh an' banes can be. She beats the taeds that live in stanes, An' fatten in^vacuity 1 1 Besides. * Whisper. 8 Sharp. Hand. Bruised. Toads. 84 THE BOOK OF They die when they're exposed to air- They canna thole* the atmosphere But her ! expose her onywhere She lives for her annuity. If mortal means could nick her thread, Sma' crime it wad appear to me Ca't murder or ca't homicide I'd justify'! an' do it tae. But how to fell a wither'd wife That's carved out o' the tree o' life The timmer limmer daurs 2 the knife To settle her annuity. I'd try a shot. But whar's the mark? Her vital parts are hid frae me. Her back-bane wanders through her sark In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. She's palsified an' shakes her head Sae fast about, ye scarce can see't It's past the power o' steel or lead To settle her annuity. She might be drown'd ; but go she'll not Within a mile o' loch or sea ; Or hang'd if cord could grip a throat O' siccan exiguity. 1 Endure. The wooden hussy dares. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 85 It's fitter far to hang the rope It draws out like a telescope 'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity. Will puzion 1 do't ? It has been tried. But, be't in hash or fricassee, That's just the dish she can't abide, Whatever kind o' gout it hae. It's needless to assail her doubts She gangs by instinct, like the brutes, An' only eats an' drinks what suits Hersel' and her annuity. The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten perchance may be. She's ninety-four. Let them wha can Explain the incongruity. She should hae lived afore the flood She's come o' Patriarchal blood She's some auld Pagan mummified Alive for her annuity. She's been embalm'd inside and out- Site's sauted to the last degree There's pickle in her very snout Sae caper-like an' cruety, 1 Poison. 86 THE BOOK OF Lot's wife was fresh compared to her They've Kyanized the useless knir 1 She canna decompose nae mair Than her accursed annuity. The water-drap wears out the rock As this eternal jaud wears me. I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It's pay me here an' pay me there An' pay me, pay me, evermair I'll gang demented wi' despair I'm charged for her annuity. REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE Not to be found in any of the Books. COWPER. William Cowper, ' the most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers,' wrote a few pieces of humorous poetry, one of which John Gilfin will live as long as the English language exists. BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange -contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 1 Witch. HUMORO US POETR Y. i 87 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ; While Chief-Baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. ' In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship,' he said, ' will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.' Then holding the spectacles up to the court ' Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. ' Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then ? ' On the whole it appears, and my argument shows", With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.' Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. 88 THE BOOK OF So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but ' That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight Eyes should be shut !' MONSIEUR TONSON. THERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore, At least some fifty years ago, or more, A pleasant wight on Town, yclept Tom King, A fellow that was clever at a joke, Expert in all the arts to teaze and smoke ; In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing. To many a jovial club this King was known, With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone : Choice spirit, grave freemason, buck and blood, Would crowd his stories and bon mots to hear, And none a disappointment e'er could fear, His humour flow'd in such a copious flood. To him a frolic was a high delight : A frolic he would hunt for, day and night, Careless how prudence on the sport might frown. If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view, At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew, Nor left the game, till he had run it down. HUMOROUS POETRY. 89 One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend, Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight. 'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast, The watch, as usual, dozing on his post, And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place, there lived the numerous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans, Known at that time, by name of refugees. The rod of persecution, from their home, Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam, And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees. Well ! our two friends were saunt'ring through the street, In hopes some food for humour soon to meet, When, in a window near, a light they view ; And, though a dim and melancholy ray, It seem'd the prologue to some merry play, So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew. Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock), ' I'll ask,' says King, ' if Thompson lodges here.' ' Thompson,' cries t'other, 'who the devil's he V ' I know not,' King replies, ' but want to see What kind of animal will now appear.' After some time, a little Frenchman came ; One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame, 9 o THE BOOK OF The other held a thing they call'd culotte, An old striped woollen night-cap graced his head, A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread ; Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note. Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled, And soon address'd our wag in accents mild, Bending his head politely to his knee ' Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late ? I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait ? Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me ?' ' Sir,' replied King, ' I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go (But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear), I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this quarter dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here V The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind, Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke : ' No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here.' Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed. But King resolved not thus to drop the jest, So, the next night, with more of whim than grace, HUMOROUS POETRY. _ 91 Again he made a visit to the place, To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knoclc'd but waited longer than before ; No footstep seem'd approaching to the door ; Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. King with the knocker thunder' d then again, Firm on his post determined to remain ; And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep : The wag salutes him with a civil leer : Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise, While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyes, ' Is there a Mr. Thompson lodges here ?' The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright, ' Vy, sare, I'm sure I told yon, sare, last night (And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere) ' No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know, No Monsieur Tonson here I told you so ; Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here !' Some more excuses tender' d, off King goes, And the old Frenchman sought once more repose. The rogue next night pursued his old career. 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh, And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry, ' Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here !' 92 THE BOOK OF Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, And the next night came forth a prattling maid, Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster j Anxious, she strove his errand to inquire, He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire, He should not stir till he had seen her master. The damsel then began, in doleful state, The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate, And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day. King told her she must fetch her master down, A chaise was ready, he was leaving town, But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call, And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl, Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay. At last he wakes ; he rises ; and he swears : But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs, When King attack'd him in his usual way. The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain To his tormentor mildly to complain, And straight in rage began his crest to rear : ' Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so 1 Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago, Got tarn I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here !' True as the night, King went, and heard a strife Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife, HUMOROUS POETRY. 93 Which would descend to chase the fiend away. At length, to join their forces and agree, And straight impetuously they turn the key, Prepared with mutual fury for the fray. Our hero, with the firmness of a rock, Collected to receive the mighty shock, Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood The name of Thompson raised the storm so high, He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly, With ' Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood.' In short, our hero, with the same intent, Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went So fond of mischief was the wicked wit : They threw out water ; for the watch they call ; But King expecting, still escapes from all Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit. It happen'd that our wag, about this time, On some fair prospect sought the eastern clime, Six ling'ring years were there his tedious lot. At length, content, amid his rip'ning store, He treads again on Britain's happy shore, And his long absence is at once forgot. To London, with impatient hope, he flies, And the same night, as former freaks arise, He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. ' Ah ! here's the scene of frequent mirth,' he said ; ' My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place.' 94 THE BOOK OF With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar, And while he eager eyes the opening door, Lo ! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal ? Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say ! He took his old abode that very day Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel ! Without one thought of the relentless foe, Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago, Just in his former trim he now appears ; The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same, With rushlight, as before, he creeping came, And King's detested voice astonish'd hears. As if some hideous spectre struck his sight, His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright, His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore 'Then starting, he exclaim' d, in rueful strain, ' Begar ! here's Monsieur Tonson come again !' Away he ran and ne'er was hear'd of more ! THIRTY-FIVE. DR. JOHNSON. Mrs. Thrale, on her thirty-fifth birthday, remarked to Dr. Johnson, that no one would send her verses now that she had attained that age, upon which the Doctor, without the least hesitation, recited the lines given here. On finishing them, he said, ' And now, you HUMORO US POETR Y. 95 may see what it is to come for poetry to a dictionary-maker j you may observe that the rhymes run in alphabetical order.' And so they do. OFT in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five ; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five. Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five ; Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five ; For, howe'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-five ; He that ever hopes to thrive, Must begin by thirty-five ; And all who wisely wish to wife, Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. THE PENSIVE ENTHUSIAST. A PENSIVE enthusiast sat on a hill, The air was serene, and the evening was still, Not a sound was there heard but the clack of a mill, Near the pensive enthusiast's seat on the hill. 96 THE BOOK OF For the woes of mankind the enthusiast wept, And then, for his own satisfaction, he slept ; Till losing his balance, as sleeping men will, The pensive enthusiast roll'd down the hill. His forehead was struck 'gainst a sharp pointed rock, All the brains that he had, were beat out by the shock ; From his terrible fate, this moral is found, When you sleep out of doors, choose a piece of plain ground. THE RAPE OF THE TRAP. A BALLAD. From Dodsley's Collection, 1775. *TWAS in the land of learning, The Muse's favourite station, Such pranks, of late, Were play'd by a rat, As gave them consternation ! All in a college study, Where books were in great plenty, This rat would devour More sense in an hour, Than I could write in twenty. His breakfast, half the morning, He constantly attended ; And when the bell rung For evening-song, His dinner scarce was ended. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 97 Huge tomes of geo graphy, And maps lay all in flutter ; A river or a sea Was to him a dish of tea, And a kingdom bread and butter. Such havoc, spoil, and rapine, With grief my muse rehearses ; How freely he would dine On some bulky school-divine, And for dessert eat verses. He spared not even heroics, On which we poets pride us : And would make no more ,' Of King Arthurs, by the score, Than all the world beside does. But if the desperate potion Might chance to over-dose him ; To check its rage, He took a page Of logic, to compose him. A trap in haste and anger, Was bought, you need not doubt on't / And such was the gin, Were a lion once in, He could not, I think, get out on't. With cheese, not books, 'twas baited j The fact, I'll not bely it ; 9 8 THE BOOK OF Since none, I tell ye that, Whether scholar or rat, Minds books, when he has other diet. But more of trap and bait, sir, Why should I sing or either ? Since the rat, with mickle pride, All their sophistry defied ; And dragg'd them away together. Both trap and bait were vanish'd, Through a fracture in the flooring j Which though so trim It now may seem, Had then a dozen or more in. Then answer this, ye sages (Nor think I mean to wrong ye) j Had the rat, who thus did seize on The trap, less claim to reason, Than many a sage among ye? Dan Prior's mice, I own it, Were vermin of condition j But the rat, who chiefly learn'd What rats alone concern'd, Was the deeper politician. That England's topsy-turvy, Is clear from these mishaps, sir, Since traps, we may determine, Will no longer take our vermin, But vermin take our traps, sir; HUMOROUS POETRV. 99 Let sophs, by rats infested, Then trust in cats to catch 'em ; Lest they prove the utter bane Of our studies, where, 'tis plain, No mortal sits to watch 'em. THE DEAD ALIVE. BERANGER. Pierre Jean de Beranger, the greatest lyric poet that France has produced, was born at Paris in 1780. The influence of his songs on the public mind during the Revolutions of 1830 and 1848 is now matter of history. Speaking of his songs, Goethe says, ' They are so full of mature cultivation, of grace, wit, and subtlest irony ; they are so artistically finished, and their language is so masterly, that he is admired not only by France, but by the whole of civilized Europe.' In the present volume, we, of course, can only exhibit the humorous side of Beranger' s muse. His perception of the ludicrous was undoubtedly great, but it is in the composition of political and patriotic lyrics that his greatest power lay. He died in 1857, leaving an Autobiography, which was afterwards published. A volume of excellent translations from Beranger, by Robert B. Brough, appeared in London in 1856, and from it we have extracted the following poem, as also that of the ' King of Yvetot,' which appears in another part of the present volume. WHEN a bore gets hold of me, Dull and over-bearing, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as herring. When the thrusts of Pleasure glib In my sides are sticking, Poking fun at every rib, I'm alive and kicking. ioo THE BOOK OF When a snob his s. d. Jingles in his breeches, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as ditches. When a birthday's champagne-corks Round my ears are clicking, Marking time with well-oil' d works, I'm alive and kicking. Kings and their supremacy ' Occupy the table, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as Abel. Talk about the age of wine (Bought by cash or ticking), So you bring a sample fine, I'm alive and kicking. When a trip to Muscovy Tempts a conquest glutton," Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as mutton. Match me with a tippling foe, See who first wants picking From the dead man's field below, I'm alive and kicking. When great scribes to poetry March, by notions big led, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as pig-lead. HUMOR US FOE TRY. i o i When you start a careless song, Not at grammar sticking, Good to push the wine along, I'm alive and kicking. When a bigot, half-hours 'three, Spouts in canting gloom's tones, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as tomb-stones. When in cloisters under ground, Built of stone or bricking, Orders of the Screw you found, I'm alive and kicking. Bourbons back in France we see (Sure we don't much need 'em), Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as Freedom. Bess returns, and still our throats Finds us here a-slicking, Sitting free without our coats I'm alive and kicking. Forced to leave this company, Bottle-wine and horn-ale, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as door-nail. Pledging though a quick return, Soon my anchor sticking On the shore for which I yearn I'm alive and kicking. loz THE BOOK OF EULOGY ON LAUGHING. J. M. SEWALL. LIKE merry Momus, while the gods were quaffing, I come to give an Eulogy on Laughing ! True, courtly Chesterfield, with critic zeal, Asserts that laughing's vastly ungenteel ! The boist'rous shake, he says, distorts fine faces, And robs each pretty feature of the graces ! But yet this paragon of perfect taste, On other topics was not over-chaste ; He, like the Pharisees, in this appears, They ruin'd widows, but they made long prayers. Tithe, anise, mint, they zealously affected : But the law's weightier matters they neglected ; And while an insect strains their squeamish cauL Down goes a monstrous camel bunch and all ! Yet others, quite as sage, with warmth dispute Man's risibles distinguish him from brute ; While instinct, reason, both in common own, To laugh is man's prerogative alone ! Hail, rosy laughter, thou deserv'st the bays ! Come, with thy dimples, animate these lays, Whilst universal peals attest thy praise. Daughter of Joy ! thro' thee we health attain. When ^Esculapian recipes are vain. Let sentimentalists ring in our ears The tender joy of grief the luxury of tears Heraclitus may whine and oh ! and ah 1 I like an honest, hearty, ha, ha, ha 1 HUMORO US POE TRY. 103 It makes the wheels of nature glibber play : Dull care suppresses ; smooths life's thorny way \ Propels the 'dancing current thro' each vein j Braces the nerves ; corroborates the brain ; Shakes every muscle, and throws off the spleen. Old Homer makes you tenants of the skies, His gods, love laughing as they did their eyes ! It kept them in good humour, hush'd their squabbles, As forward children are appeased by baubles ; Even Jove the thund'rer dearly loved a laugh, When, of fine nectar, he had ta'en a quaff ! It helps digestion when the feast runs high, And dissipates the fumes of potent Burgundy. But, in the main, tho' laughing I approve, It is not every kind of laugh I love ; For many laughs e'en candour must condemn ! Some are too full of acid, some of phlegm ; The loud horse-laugh (improperly so styled), The idiot simper, like the slumb'ring child, Th' affected laugh, to show a dimpled chin, The sneer contemptuous, and broad vacant grin, Are despicable all as Strephon's smile, To show his ivory legions, rank and file. The honest laugh, unstudied, unacquired, By nature prompted, and true wit inspired, Such as Quin felt, and Falstaff knew before, When humour ' set the table on a roar ; ' Alone deserves th' applauding muse's grace ! The rest is all contortion and grimace. But you exclaim, ' Your Eulogy's too dry ; 104 THE BOOK OF Leave dissertation and exemplify ! Prove by experiment, your maxim's true, And what you praise so highly, makes us do. 1 In truth, I hoped this was already done, And Mirth and Momus had the laurel won ! Like honest Hodge, unhappy should I fail, Who to a crowded audience told his tale, And laugh'd and snigger'd all the while himself To grace the story, as he thought, poor elf 1 But not a single soul his suffrage gave While each long phiz was serious as the grave ! ' Laugh ! laugh !' cries Hodge, 'laugh loud ! (no halfing) I thought you all, ere this, would die with laughing 1 ' This did the feat ; for tickled at the whim, A burst of laughter, like the electric beam, Shook all the audience but it was at him ! Like Hodge, should every stratagem and wile Thro' my long story not excite a smile, I'll bear it with becoming modesty ; But should my feeble efforts move your glee, Laugh, if you fairly can but not at me ! THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING. PETER PINDAR. ONCE on a time, a Monarch, tired with hooping, Whipping and spurring, Happy in worrying HUMOR US POETR Y. 105 A poor, defenceless, harmless buck, The horse and rider wet as muck, From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, Enter'd through curiosity, a cot, Where sat a poor old woman with her pot. The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, In this same cot illumed by many a cranny, Had finish'd apple dumplings for her pot : In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, When, lo ! the Monarch, in his usual way, Like lightning spoke, ' What's this ? what's this 1 what ? what V Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, His eyes with admiration did expand And oft did Majesty the dumpling grapple : ' 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard indeed !' he cried : ' What makes it, pray, so hard V The dame replied, Low curtseying, ' Please your Majesty, the apple.' ' Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing !' Turning the dumpling round, rejoin'd the King. ' 'Tis most extraordinary then, all this is " It beats Pinetti's conjuring all to pieces Strange I should never of a dumpling dream But, Goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ? ' Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she ; ' I never knew That folks did apple dumplings sew.' io6 THE BOOK OF ' No ?' cried the staring Monarch with a grin, ' How, how the devil got the apple in T Reader, thou likest not my tale look'st blue Thou art a courtier roarest ' Lies, Lies, Lies !' Do, for a moment, stop thy cries I tell thee, roaring infidel, 'tis true. Why should it not be true 1 the greatest men May ask a foolish question now and then This is the language of all ages : Folly lays many a trap we can't escape it : Nemo (says some one) omnibus horis sapit : Then why not Kings, like me and other sages ? VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. By William Allingham, author of the Music Ma and other poems. O MARYANNE, you pretty girl, Intent on silky labour, Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, Excuse a peeping neighbour ! Those eyes, for ever drooping, give The long brown lashes rarely ; But violets in the shadows live, For once unveil them fairly. HUMOR US POE TRY. 107 Hast thou not lent that flounce enough Of looks so long and earnest ? Lo, here's more ' penetrable stuff,' To wljich you never turnest. Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped ! How slender, and how nimble ! Oh, might I wind their skeins of thread, Or but pick up their thimble ! How blest the youth whom love shall bring, And happy stars embolden, To change the dome into a ring, The silver into golden ! Who '11 steal some morning to her side To take her finger's measure, While Maryanne pretends to chide, And blushes deep with pleasure. Who '11 watch her sew her wedding-gown, Well conscious that it is hers, Who '11 glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors. Who '11 taste those ripenings of the south, The fragrant and delicious Don't put the pins into your mouth, O Maryanne, my precious 1 io8 THE BOOK OF I almost wish it were my trust To teach how shocking that is ; I wish I had not, as I must, To quit this tempting lattice. Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe, Across a street so narrow j A thread of silk to string his bow, A needle for his arrow ! THE PRINTER'S DEVIL'S WORK. This humorous parody on Person's 'Devil's Walk,' vide p. 31, originally appeared in the Comic Magazine. To Printing-house Square, at close of day, The young Printer's Devil is bound To set up the Paper that circulates most, Or the Paper that most turns rounds And over the leader, and over the news, , He skimm'd, and over the speeches : And the lines in the leader stood wide apart, Like W 1's waistcoat and breeches. And pray, what did the Devil do ? , Oh, he was expert at the art ! And first, just to keep his hand in play, In a ' Horrible Murder ' took part 1 In allusion to the supposed vacillating tactics of The Times. HUMOR US POETX K 1 09 But the Devil he very soon finish'd the job, And came to a regular stand ; When, for the want of some better employment, In a ' Robbery ' he had a hand. He set up a joke by W 1 ; But thinking it couldn't be meant, The Devil smiled ; for he headed it ' A serious Accident.' A speech of the Marquis of L.'s came next, But it was beyond endurance ; ' So the Devil took pity, and headed it 'A Melancholy Occurrence.' But then the young Devil bethought himself,- He might in an error fall ; For a speech such as that, he clearly saw, Required no head at all. He then had a speech of H t's to do, Where, mirdbile dictu ! a word or Two of his Latin Mr. H. recollected ; And he called that a ' Horrible Murder.' A joke too, by C r, came into his hands, But it was too witty a brevity To be C r's own ; so he headed it ' Extraordinary Longevity.' no THE BOOK OF However, he thought, at a heading like that, Some persons might kick up a bobbery ; And, as the joke was a decided Joe Miller, He called it a ' Daring Robbery.' He set up a leading article, on The advantage 'twould be to the nation, If Lord Grey would but make a new batch of peers- Which he called ' Beauties of the Creation.' A speech on Reform too by W 1 he did ; So full of disjointed inelegance, And so far from the purpose, he headed it With the title of ' Foreign Intelligence.' The debate on Pluralities next he composed ; But, finding the incomes so large, And the duty so little, he headed it ' Extraordinary Charge.' An extract from Satan Montgomery's poems Is the next thing the Devil commences ; But he sees that it's humbug, and, when it's composed, He puts it among the ' Offences.' A speech of St. P 1 was his next job ; But it was too much for the elf, And he was unable to set up the speech, For he couldn't set up himself. HUMOR US FOE TRY. in So into a corner the Devil sneaks, O'ercome by so prosy a sample, ; Composes himself, and leaves the Times To follow his example. GAFFER GRAY. THOMAS HOLCROFT. Thomas Hokroft, the author of this, was born in London I744> and was originally a shoemaker with his father. He then became an actor, and finally devoted himself to literary pursuits. He wrote several dramatic pieces, the best known of which is The Road to Ruin. In 1794 he was accused of high treason, hav- ing rendered himself obnoxious as a warm advocate of liberal principles on the outbreak of the French Revolution, but was dismissed without a trial. Died 1809. Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray ; And why does thy nose look so blue ? ' Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day !' Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray ; And warm thy old heart with a glass. ' Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone ; Then say how may that come to pass 1 Well-a-day 1' ii2 THE BOOK OF Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray ; And knock at the jolly priest's door. ' The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day !' The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray ; Warmly fenced both in back and in front ' He will fasten his locks, And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!' The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray ; And the season will welcome you there. ' His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!' My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray-; What then ? While it lasts, man, we'll live. ' The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day 1' HUMOROUS POETR Y. 1 13 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS. LORD BYRON. On the 3d of May 1810, while the 'Salsette' was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and Byron swam from Abydos to Sestos. Of the exploit, Byron himself wrote : ' The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles ; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy dullness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated, entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Nea- politan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the " Salsette's " crew were known to have accom- plished a greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Lean- der's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.' IF, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember ?) To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont I n 4 THE BOOK OF If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero, nothing loath, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! For me, degenerate modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he cross'd the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo and Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory. 'Twere hard to say who fared the best : Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! He lost his labour, I my jest ; For he was drown' d, and I've the ague. NAHUM FAY ON THE LOSS OF HIS WIFE. ' JUST eighteen years ago this day, Attired in all her best array For she was airy, young, and gay, And loved to make a grand display, While I the charges would defray HUMOR OUS POETRY. 115 My Cam Sposa went astray ; By night eloping in a sleigh, With one whose name begins with J, Resolved with me she would not stay, And be subjected to my sway ; Because I wish'd her to obey, Without reluctance or delay, And never interpose her nay, Nor any secrets e'er betray. But wives will sometimes have their way, And cause, if possible, a fray ; Then who so obstinate as they ? She therefore left my house for aye, Before my hairs had turn'd to gray, Or I'd sustain'd the least decay, Which caused at first some slight dismay : For I consider'd it foul play. Now where she's gone I cannot say, For I've not seen her since the day When Johnston took her in his sleigh, To his seductive arts a prey, And posted off to Canada. Now when her conduct I survey, And in the scale of justice weigh, Who blames me, if I do inveigh Against her to my dying day ? But live as long as live I may, I've always purposed not to pay (Contract whatever debts she may) A. shilling for her ; but I pray n6 THE BOOK OP That when her body turns to clay, If mourning friends should her convey To yonder grave-yard, they'll not lay Her body near to Nahum Fay.' THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. THOMAS MOORE. By Thomas Moore, Ireland's national poet ' The poet of all circles, and the idol of his own,' as Byron emphatically called him. A DONKEY whose talent for burden was wond'rous, So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load, One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous, That down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road. His owners and drivers stood round in a maze What ! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy, So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways, For every description of job-work so ready ! One driver (whom Ned might have ' hail'd' as a ' brother') Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown, For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or other When, lo ! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down. But, how to upraise him ? one shouts, father whistles, While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all, Declared that an ' over-production ' of thistles (Here Ned gave a stare) was the cause of his fall. HUMOR US POE TRY. 117 Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes ' There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease ; The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, And this is his mode of transition to peace! Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learn'd grimaces, Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone ' Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis (The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on.' But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic, Exclaim'd, ' Hoot awa, mon, you're a' garie astray' And declared that ' whoe'er might prefer the metallic, They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier mache? Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear, Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan, And, what was still dolefuler lending an ear To advisers whose ears were a match for his own. At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd ' Quick off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last.' THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER. This// d" 1 esprit, in which many of the absurd and unpronounceable names of American towns and villages are happily hit off, is from the Orpheus C. Kerr (Office-seeker) Papers, by Robert H. n8 THE BOOK OF Newell, one of those semi-political, occasionally mischievous, and generally ill-timed humorous effusions, which were so common in the United States during the rebellion. To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaura came - One evening in the rain. ' I am a traveller,' said he, ' Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four/ He took a tavern-bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week pass'd on ; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequester'd village called Genasagarnagum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there quite tired of Maine- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk's Misery display'd Its sweetness and its grace. HUMORO US POETR Y. 119 By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den ; AncI Scrabble Hollow, by the way Did come within his ken. Then via Nine Holes and Goose Green, He travell'd through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wander'd up and down, To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town. At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came, A.nd made him spend a day with them In hunting forest game. Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went ; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent. From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gain'd, he left the State And took a southward way. North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, 120 THE BOOK OF And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound ; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizzard too, Good provender he found. The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem, That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream. But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wond'ring tourist feel A soft delicious thrill. At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near. But spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine, straightway, A little wife he took ; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook. HUMOR US POE TRY. 121 THE THIEF AND CORDELIER. MATTHEW PRIOR. Matthew Prior, poet and diplomatist, was born in 1664. His poems are light and vivacious, and the ease and fluency with which he tells a story adds greatly to its interest. Formerly he was very much over-estimated as a poet and humorist ; but in the present day, however, justice is scarcely done to his genius. He was Secretary to the English Embassy at the Hague and at the Treaty of Ryswick, and afterwards Under-Secretary of State, and Com- missioner at the Board of Trade. He died in 1721, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. WHO has e'er been at Paris must needs know the Greve, The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave, Where honour and justice most oddly contribute To ease heroes' pains by a halter and gibbet. There death breaks the shackles which force had put on, And the hangman completes what the judge but begun ; There the Squire of the Pad and the night of the Post, Find their pains no more balk'd, and their hopes no more cross'd. Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known, And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own ; But my hearers cry out, ' What a deuce dost thou ail ? Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale.' 'Twas there then, in civil respect to harsh laws, And for want of false witness to back a bad cause, A Norman, though late, was obliged to appear, And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier ? 122 THE BOOK OF The Squire, whose good grace was to open the scene, Seem'd not in great haste that the show should begin ; Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart, And often took leave, but was loath to depart. 1 What frightens you thus, my good son V says the priest, ' You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confess'd.' ' O Father ! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon, For 'twas not that I murder'd, but that I was taken.' 1 Pugh ! pr'ythee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies; Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint Francis ; If the money you promised be brought to the chest, You have only to die ; let the Church do the rest. ' And what will folks say if they see you afraid ? It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade : Courage, friend, for to-day is your period of sorrow, And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow.' ' To-morrow !' our hero replied, in a fright, 'He that's hang'd before noon, ought to think of to-night.' ' Tell your beads,' quoth the priest, ' and be fairly truss'd up, For you surely to-night shall in Paradise sup.' 'Alas !' quoth the Squire, 'howe'er sumptuous the treat, Parbleu, I shall have little stomach to eat ; I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace, Would you be so kind as to go in my place.' HUMOR US POETR Y. 123 ' That I would,' quoth the Father, ' and thank you to boot, But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit : The feast I proposed to you I cannot taste, For this night, by our Order, is mark'd for a fast.' Then turning about to the hangman, he said, ' Despatch me, I pr'ythee, this troublesome blade ; For thy cord and my cord both equally tie, And we live by the gold for which other men die.' CARELESS CONTENT. The following verses are by John Byrom, who was born in 1691, and died in 1763. He is best known as the inventor of a system of stenography. He wrote verse with great facility; and his pastoral, 'Colin and Phoebe,' which was published in The Spectator when he was very young, was very much admired. ' As literary curiosities, his poems are too interesting to be neglected.' The following poem is perfectly in the manner of the Elizabethan age : I AM content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me ; When fuss and fret was all my fare, I got no ground as I could see : So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content. With more of thanks and less of thought, I strive to make my matters meet ; To seek what ancient sages sought, Physic and food in sour and sweet : 124 THE BOOK OF To take what passes in good part, And keep the hiccups from the heart. With good and gentle humour'd hearts, I choose to chat where'er I come, Whate'er the subject be that starts : But if I get among the glum, I hold my tongue to tell the truth, And keep my breath to cool my broth. For chance or change of peace or pain ; For Fortune's favour or her frown ; For lack or glut, for loss or gain, I never dodge, nor up nor down : But swing what way the ship shall swim, Or tack about with equal trim. I suit not where I shall not speed, Nor trace the turn of ev'ry tide ; If simple sense will not succeed I make no bustling, but abide : For shining wealth, or scaring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe. Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of they're i' th' wrong, and we're i' th' right, I shun the rancours and the routs, And wishing well to every wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes. HUMOR O US POETR Y. 1 25 With whom I feast I do not fawn, Nor if the folks should flout me, faint j If wonted welcome be withdrawn, I cook no kind of a complaint : With none disposed to disagree, But like them best who best like me. Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave ; But fame shall find me no man's fool, Nor to a set of men a slave. I love a friendship free and frank, And hate to hang upon a hank. Fond of a true and trusty tie, I never loose where'er I link ; Tho' if a bus'ness budges by, I talk thereon just as I think ; My word, my work, my heart, my hand, Still on a side together stand. If names or notions make a noise, Whatever hap the question hath, The point impartially I poise, And read or write, but without wrath j For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? I love my neighbour as myself, Myself like him too, by his leave 126 THE BOOK OF Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, Came I to crouch, as I conceive : Dame Nature doubtless has design'd A man the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it and brood it in your breast- Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, That man does right to mar his rest, Let me be deft and debonair, I am content, I do not care v THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Imitated from the German. JOHN G. SAXE. OH, I have a husband as good as can be ; No woman could wish for a better than he ! Sometimes, indeed, he may chance to be wrong, But his love for me is uncommonly strong ! He has one little fault that makes me fret, He has always less money, by far, than debt ; Moreover, he thrashes me, now and then, But, excepting that, he's the best of men ! I own he is dreadfully given to drink ; And besides he is rather too fond, I think, HUMOROUS POETRY. 127 Of playing at cards and dice ; but then, Excepting that, he's the best of men ! He loves to chat with the girls, I know (Tis the way with the men, they're always so), But what care I for his flirting, when, Excepting that, he's the best of men ? I can't but say I think he is rash To pawn my pewter, and spend the cash ; But how can I scold my darling, when, Excepting that, he's the best of men 1 When soak' d with tipple, he's hardly polite, But knocks the crockery left and right, And pulls my hair, and growls again ; But, excepting that, he's the best of men ! Yes, such is the loyalty I have shown ; But I have a spouse who is all my own j As good, indeed, as a man can be, And who could ask for a better than he ? THE CATARACT OF LODORE. ROBERT SOUTHEY. Robert Southey, ' Lake Poet,' associate of Coleridge and Words- worth, and miscellaneous writer, was born at Bristol in 1774. In 1813 he was appointed Poet- Laureate. His principal poems are Joan of Arc, Thalala, Madoc, and The Curse of Ke/iama ; 128 THE BOOK OF while his Life of Nelson is acknowledged to be one of the most perfect biographies in the English language; and his philoso- phical Doctor and laboriously compiled Common-Place Book will long continue to be the wonder and delight of the reading public. He was a voluminous writer, and also an industrious editor. Died 1843. How does the water come down at Lodore ? From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills And its gills ; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For awhile, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling ; Now smoking and frothing - Its tumult and wrath in ; HUMORO US POETR Y. 1 29 Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along ; Striking and raging, As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among : Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound : Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in, Confounding, Astounding, Dizzying and deafening the earth with its sound : Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, 130 THE BOOK OF And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and spitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning ; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and^feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering ; Dividing and gliding and sliding ; And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, HUMOR O US POE TRY. 13: And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling ; And clattering and battering and shattering ; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and pushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ; And so never ending, But always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, With a mighty uproar ; And this way the water comes down at Lodore ! ANTICIPATORY DIRGE ON PROFESSOR BUCKLAND, THE GEOLOGIST. ARCHBISHOP WHATELY. MOURN, Ammonites, mourn o'er his funeral urn, Whose neck we must grace no more ; Gneiss, granite, and slate, he settled your date,, And his ye must now deplore. 132 THE BOOK OF Weep, caverns, weep, with infiltering drip, Your recesses he'll cease to explore ; For mineral veins or organic remains, No stratum again will he bore. His wit shone like crystal his knowledge profound v From gravel to granite descended ; No trap could deceive him, no slip confound, No specimen, true or pretended. Where shall we our great professor inter, That in peace may rest his bones 1 If we hew him a rocky sepulchre, He'll get up and break the stones, And examine each stratum that lies around, For he's quite in his element underground. If with mattock and spade his body we lay In the common alluvial soil ; He'll start up and snatch those tools away Of his own geological toil ; In a stratum so young the professor disdains That embedded should be his organic remains. Then exposed to the drip of some case-hardening spring, His carcass let stalactite cover ; And to Oxford the petrified sage let us bring, When duly encrusted all over ; There, 'mid mammoths and crocodiles, high on the shelf, Let him stand as a monument raised to himself. HUMOR US POETR Y. 133 THE RADENOVITCH. A SONG OF THE NEW DANCE. ARE you anxious to bewitch ? You must learn the Radenovitch ! Would you gain of fame a niche 1 You must dance the Radenovitch ! 'Mong the noble and the rich, All the go 's the Radenovitch ! It has got to such a pitch, All must dance the Radenovitch ! If without a flaw or hitch You can dance the Radenovitch, Though you've risen from the ditch (Yet have learned the Radenovitch), You'll get on without a hitch, Dancing of the Radenovitch. If for glory you've an itch, Learn to dance the Radenovitch ; And, though corns may burn and twitch, While you foot the Radenovitch ; In your side though you've a stitch, All along o' the Radenovitch, You will gain an eminence which You will owe the Radenovitch ! Therefore let the Mai/re's switch Teach your toes the Radenovitch ! i 3 4 THE BOOK OF THE CHAMELEON. JAMES MERRICK. James Merrick, poet and divine, was born at Reading, Berkshire, in 1720. Lowth said of him that he was ' one of the best of men and most eminent of scholars.' Died, 1769. OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post ; Yet round the world the blade has been, To see whatever could be seen. Returning from his finish'd tour, Grown ten times perter than before ; Whatever word you chance to drop, The travell'd fool your mouth will stop : ' Sir, if my judgment you'll allow I've seen and sure I ought to know.' So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk'd of this, and then of that ; ^Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the Chameleon's form and nature. ' A stranger animal,' cries one, ' Sure never lived beneath the sun : HUMOR US POE TRY. 135 A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd ;* And what a length of tail behind ! How slow its pace ! and then its hue Who ever saw so fine a blue !' ' Hold there,' the other quick replies, ' 'Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open 'mouth it lay, And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, And saw it eat the air for food.' ' I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue ; At leisure I the beast survey'd Extended in the cooling shade.' 1 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' ' Green !' cries the other in a fury : ' Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?' ' 'Twere no great loss,' the friend replies ; ' For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use.' So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows When luckily came by a third ; To him the question they referr'd : 136 THE BOOK OF And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. * ' Sirs,' cries the umpire, ' cease your pother The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night, And view'd it o'er by candle-light : I mark'd it well, 'twas black as jet You stare but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it.' ' Pray, sir, do ; I'll lay my life the thing is blue.' ' And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' ' Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' Replies the man, ' I'll turn him out : And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' He said ; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo ! 'twas white. Both stared, the man look'd wondrous wise ' My children,' the Chameleon cries (Then first the creature found a tongue), ' You all are right, and all are wrong : When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you : Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own.' Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,' Replies the man, ' I '11 turn him out : And when before your eyes I Ve set him, If you don't find him black, I '11 eat him.' He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo ! 'twas white ! 136. HUMOR US POETR Y. 137 SHADOWS. DEEP ! I own I start at shadows, Listen, I will tell you why (Life itself is but a taper, Casting shadows till we die). Once, in Italy, at Florence, I a radiant girl adored : When she came, she saw, she conquer'd, And by Cupid I was floor'd. .Round ray heart her glossy ringlets Were mysteriously entwined And her soft voluptuous glances All my inmost thoughts divined. ' Mia cara Mandolina ! Are we not, indeed,' I cried, 1 All the world to one another?' Mandolina smiled and sigh'd. Earth was Eden, she an angel, I a Jupiter enshrined Till one night I saw a damning Double shadow on her blind ! 138 THE BOOK OF ' Fire and fury ! double shadows On their bedroom windows ne'er, To my knowledge, have been cast by Ladies virtuous and fair. 'False, abandon'd Mandolina! Fare thee well, for evermore ! Vengeance!' shrieked I, 'vengeance, vengeance !' And I thunder'd through the door. This event occurr'd next morning ; Mandolina staring sat, Stark amazed, as out I tumbled, Raving mad, without a hat ! Six weeks after I'd a letter, On its road six weeks delay' d With a dozen re-directions From the lost one, and it said : ' Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert ! Base suspicion's doubts resign ; Double lights throw double shadoivs ! Mandolina ever thine.' 'Heavens, what an ass !' I mutter'd, ' Not before to think of that !' And again I rush'd excited To the rail, without a hat HUMOROUS POETRY. 139 'Mandolina! Mandolina!' When her house I reach'd, I cried : ' Pardon, dearest love !' she answer' d ' I'm the Russian Consul's bride !' Thus, by Muscovite barbarian, And by Fate, my life was cross'd j Wonder ye I start at shadows ^ Types of Mandolina lost. THE HAPPY MAN. From the French of Gilles Menage, one of the most distinguished men of letters in France, who was born at Angers in 1613. Died, 1692. He is now best known as the Author of Mbnagiana, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Gold- smith's Madame Blaize, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it. LA GALLISSE now I wish to touch ; Droll air ! if I can strike it, I'm sure the song will please you much ; That is, if you should like. it. La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty When he was born but could not want, As long as he had plenty. THE BOOK OF Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when 'twas on his head. His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father's fashion ; And never quarrels broil'd his blood, Except when in a passion. His mind was on devotion bent ; He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday. He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it ; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it. Than doctors more he loved the coolc, Though food would make him gross ; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose. O happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore ; For many followed in his train, Whene'er he walk'd before. HUMOR US POE TRY. 141 Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone ; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone. His talents I can not rehearse, But every one allows, , That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse, No one could call it prose. He argued with precision nice, The learned all declare ; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare. His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight : He proved that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight. They liked him much so it appears Most plainly who preferr'd him ; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him. He was not always right, 'tis true, And then he must be wrong ; But none had found it out, he knew, If lie had held his tongue. i 4 * THE BOOK OF Whene'er a tender tear he shed, 'Twas certain that he wept ; And he would lay awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept. In tilting everybody knew His very high renown ; Yet no opponents he o'erthrew, But those that he knock'd down. At last they smote him in the head- What hero e'er fought all ? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal. And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife ; For that sad day that seal'd his death, Deprived him of his life. TO A LADY, Who asked me to write for her a Poem of ninety lines. H. G. BELL. TASK a horse beyond his strength, And the horse will fail at length ; Whip a dog, the poor dog whines Yet you ask for ninety lines. HUMOR US POE TRY. 143 Though you give me ninety quills, Built me ninety paper-mills, Show'd me ninety inky Rhines, I could not write ninety lines. Ninety miles I'd walk for you, Till my feet were black and blue ; Climb high hills, and dig deep mines, But I can't write ninety lines. Though my thoughts were thick as showers, Plentiful as summer flowers, Clustering like Italian vines, I could not write ninety lines. When you have drunk up the sea, Floated ships in cups of tea, Pluck'd the sun from where it shines, Then I'll write you ninety lines. Even the bard who lives on rhyme, Teaching silly words to chime, Seldom sleeps, and never dines, He could scarce write ninety lines. Well you know my love is such, You could never ask too much ; Yet even love itself declines Such a work as ninety lines. 144 THE BOOK OF Though you frown'd with ninety frowns, Bribed me with twice ninety towns, Offer'd me the starry signs, I could not write ninety lines. Many a deed I've boldly done Since my race of life begun ; But my spirit peaks and pines When it thinks of ninety lines. Long I hope for thee and me, Will our lease of this world be ; But though hope our fate entwines, Death will come ere ninety lines. Ninety songs the birds will sing, Ninety beads the child will string ; But his life the poet tines, If he aims at ninety lines. Ask me for a thousand pounds, Ask me for my house and grounds ; Levy all my wealth in fines, But don't ask for ninety lines. I have ate of every dish Flesh of beast, and bird, and fish ; Briskets, fillets, knuckles, chines, But eating won't make ninety lines. HUMOR O US POE TR Y. 145 I have drunk of every cup, Till I drank whole vineyards up ; German, French, and Spanish wines. But drinking won't make ninety lines. Since, then, you have used me so, To the Holy Land I'll go ; And at all the holy shrines I shall pray for ninety lines. Ninety times a long farewell, All my love I could not tell, Though 'twas multiplied by nines, Ninety times these ninety lines. A WEDDING. SIR JOHN SUCKLING. Sir John Suckling, an English poet, was born 1608-9. His writ- ings are numerous, but, on account of the licentiousness and freedom which characterizes a great number of them, they are now but little known by the general public. The following ballad, however, has long been justly celebrated for its truth and naivete, and the happy boldness in the use of homely imagery. The occasion of its being written, was, it is supposed, the marriage of Lord Broghill to Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been ; Where I the rarest things have seen ; Oh, things without compare ! 146 THE BOOK OF Such sights again can not be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, hard by the v:ay Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs ; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town ; Vorty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger tho' than thine) Walk'd on oefore the rest ; Our landlord looks like nothing to him ; The King (God bless him !) 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest. At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town : Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the crown. But wot you what 1 The youth was going To make an end of all his woing ; The parson for him staid : Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance as did the maid. HUMOR US FOE TRY. 147 The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitson-ale Could ever yet produce ; No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she Nor half so full of juyce. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring ; It was too wide a peck : And, to say truth (for out it must), It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light : But oh ! she dances such a way ; No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight. 1 Her cheeks so rare, a white was on, No daisie makes comparison (Who sees them is undone) ; For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Catherine pear, The side that's next the Sun. Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly) ; 1 It was prettily supposed that the sun danced on Easter-day. 148 THE BOOK OF But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on a Sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get ; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Passion, oh me ! how I run on ! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride. The business of the kitchen's great ; For it is fit that men should eat, Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey ; Each serving man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up like our train' d band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated 1 And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace . The company was seated. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 149 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick ; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, (And who could help it, Dick ?) O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance \. Then sit again, and sigh, and glance : Then dance again, and kiss : Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride ; But that he must not know : But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER. WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen ' Lodgings to let ' stare him full in the face : Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis welH known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. 150 THE BOOK OF Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only ; But Will was so fat he appear'd like a ton, Or like two single gentlemen roll'cl into one. He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated ; But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated ; And, though heavy to weigh as a score of fat sheep, He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same. And the next. And the next : He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous and vex'd ; Week past after week ; till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression. In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him : For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung about him. He sent for a doctor; and cried, like a ninny, 1 1 have lost many pounds. Make me well. There'.-; a guinea.' The doctor look'd wise : ' A slow fever,' he said : Prescribed sudorifics, and going to bed. ' Sudorifics in bed,' exclaim'd Will, ' are humbugs ! I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs !' Will kick'd out the doctor : but, when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ; So, calling his host, he said : ' Sir, do you know, I'm the fat single gentleman, six months ago 1 HUMOR O US POE TR Y. 151 ' Look'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will, with a grin, ' That with honest intentions you first took me in : But from the first night and to say it I'm bold I have been so d d hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.' Quoth the landlord, ' Till now, I ne'er had a dispute ; -I've let lodgings ten years ; I'm a baker, to boot ; In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven ; And your bed is immediately over my oven.' 'The oven!' says Will. Says the host, 'Why this passion ? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good Sir?' ' Zounds !' cried Will, in a taking, ' Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking ?' Will paid for his rooms : cried the host, with a sneer, ' Well, I see you've been going away half a year.' ' Friend, we can't well agree, yet no quarrel ' Will said ; ' But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.' THE VICAR OF BRAY. The village of Bray, in Berkshire, is celebrated for the vacillation of principles displayed by one of its incumbents, and 'The Vicar of Bray ' has now become a proverbial expression for a man who can alter his opinions and views so as to suit the times. According to Thomas Fuller, the Vicar of Bray retained his 152 THE BOOK OF living under Henry vin., Edward vi., Mary, and Elizabeth, being first a Papist, then a Protestant, then a Papist, then a Pro- testant again. This song is supposed to have been written by a soldier in Colonel Fuller's troop of dragoons, in the reign of George I. IN good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never miss'd. Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. When Royal James possess'd the crown, And Popery grew in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration : The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution ; And I had been a Jesuit, But for the Revolution. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 153 When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance ; With this new wind about I steer'd, And swore to him allegiance. Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance ; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. When Royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory : Occasional Conformists base, I blamed their moderation ; And thought the church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir ; 154 THE BOOK OF And thus preferment I procured From our new faith's defender ; And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. Th' illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear While they can keep possession : For in my faith and loyalty, I never more will falter, And George my lawful king shall be Until the times do alter. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. THE KING OF YVETOT. Translated from the French i guerre. Malbroock was sung in the state apartments of Versailles ; in the kitchens, in the stables, it became quite the rage. From the court it was adopted by the tradespeople of Paris, and passed thence from town to town, and country to country : it was wafted across the sea to England, where it soon became as popular as in France. It is said that a French gentleman, wishing, when in London, to be driven to Marlborough Street, had totally forgotten its name ; but, on singing the- air of Malbroock, the coachman drove him to the proper address with no other direction. Goethe, who travelled in France about the same time, was so teased with the universal concert of Marlborough, that he took a hatred to the duke who was the innocent cause of the musical epidemic.' WILLS. MALBROOCK, the prince of commanders, Is gone to the war in Flanders ; His fame is like Alexander's ; But when will he ever -come home 1 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine. HUMOR US POE TRY. 177 Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or Perhaps he may come at Easter, Egad ! he had better make haste, or We fear he may never come. Mironton, etc. For Trinity Feast is over, And has brought no news from Dover, And Easter is past, moreover, And Malbroock still delays. Milady in her watch-tower Spends many a pensive hour, Not knowing why or how her Dear Lord from England stays. While sitting quite forlorn in That tower, she spies returning A page clad in deep mourning, With fainting steps and slow. ' O page, prithee come faster ! What news do you bring of your master I I fear there is some disaster, Your looks are so full of woe.' ' The news I bring, fair lady,' With sorrowful accent said he, ' Is one you are not ready So soon, alas ! to hear. ' But since to speak I'm hurried,' Added this page, quite flurried, 178 THE BOOK OF 1 Malbroock is dead and buried !' And here he shed a tear. ' He's dead ! He's dead as a herring ! For I beheld his berring, And four officers transferring His corpse away from the field. ' One officer carried his sabre, And he carried it not without labour, Much envying his next neighbour, Who only bore a shield. ' The third was helmet-bearer That helmet which on its wearer Fill'd all who saw it with terror, And cover'd a hero's brains. 1 Now, having got so far, I Find, that by the Lord Harry ! The fourth is left nothing to cany ; So there the thing remains.' Mironton, mironton. mirontaina, A HOT WIND REVERIE, IN NOVEMBER. THE dust flies fast through the murky air p The sun shines fierce with a lurid glare jj Where shall we fly to avoid the heat Where, oh where ! drag our weary feet? HUMORO US POETR Y. 179 Where shall we lay the suffering head, To shield ourselves from the rays so red ? This dust, this dust, this horrid dust, 'Twill choke us some day it will and must. When care or sorrow oppress the heart, And its tendrils keen with anguish start, Away far away let us swiftly flee From the town in its depths of infamy Hiding ourselves in some shadowy nook, With pencil to sketch, or pleasant book A ' wee-tappit hen ' from which to quaff In foaming tankards shandy-gaff. In some sylvan glade, by the Yarra's side, ' Let us stretch our limbs in the fierce noontide, Musing on days that are long gone by, Ere we left our homes with purpose high Ere yet unravell'd was Life's dark skein, With its hope and sorrow, its joy and pain Mournful, we think of the friends afar, And treat ourselves to a mild cigar. There's one sweet face, with a laughing eye, For ever pushes those fancies by ; There's a sunlit smile remember'd well, As first on our vision its gladness fell A peech-red cheek, with a dimpled chin, And a loving heart, oh ! so pure within i8o THE BOOK OF How sweet to sit once more beside her, Calmly sucking a brandy spider. Cunningly twisted, and curl'd, and braided, Her brow with its golden hair is shaded ; In every gesture a sparkling grace Lits up with rapture the maiden's face : And the birds themselves burst into song As her tiny feet tripp'd gay along ; But we quick sloped from that bright spot, And, trembling, call'd for something hot. She, too, is gone, and I still remain Dragging along at my weary chain ; No more I'll bask in her eyes' sweet glance, Nor watch her form through the mazy dance ; I backward glance at those ' mem'ries green,' And sadly murmur, ' It might have bee'n ' It might have been, oh ! it might have been, But a parent stern stepp'd in between. Fast gather'd home to his fellow clay, That parent stern hath pass'd away ; His peach-cheek'd child, with the laughing eye. Cares little, I ween, for my doleful sigh ; For her hair's as curl'd her cheek's as red, As when at her feet my vows were shed While I to a shadow vile am grown, She'd kick down the beam at fifteen stone 1 HUMOR US FOE TRY. i 8 1 MIGHT AND RIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFEFFEL. A SPARROW caught a big blue bottle Fly, upon a weeping willow ; It buzz'd Phil held him by the throttle, ' Oh, let me go, there's a good fellow.' ' No,' says the murderer, ' not at all ; For I am big, and you are small.' A sparrow-hawk pounced on the sparrow Enjoying his repast ; at once He plunged his talons in his marrow. ' Oh, let me go ; what's the nonce 1 ' ' Oh ! ' says the murderer, ' not at all ; For I am big, and you are small.' An eagle spied the sport ; and, lo ! Popp'd down to have a bit of dinner. * Oh, please your majesty, let me go ; Have mercy on a worthless sinner.' 'Pooh !' says the murderer, 'not at all; For I am big, and you are small.' While yet the king the bones was picking, An archer served him out his gruel ; An arrow in his gizzard sticking, Made him exclaim, ' O dear, how cruel ! ' ' Tut,' quoth the archer, ' not at all ; For I am big, and you are small.' The moral is plain, ho ! read it all : - But ONE is big, all else are small. i8a THE BOOK OF THE KNIFE-GRINDER.' A DIALOGUE IN SAPPHICS BY GEORGE CANNING*. From the Anti-Jacobin. -'The " Friend of Humanity " was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more for- ward of the Reformers. He was an assiduous member of the " Society of Friends of the People." ' WILLS. 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, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day " Knives and Scissors to grind O ! " ' Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you 1 Was it the squire 1 or parson of the parish ? Or the attorney ? ' Was it the squire, for killing of his game 1 or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a law-suit ? HUMOR US FOE TRY. 183 ' (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.' KNIFE-GRINDER. ' Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. , ' Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. ' I should be glad to drink your 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 HUMANITY. ' /give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damn'd first Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to venge- ance Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast ! ' \_Kic~ks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a trans- port of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.] 184 THE BOOK OF ELESSDE; In the following lines, which first appeared in the Manchester Advertiser, the Mammon-worshipping spirit of the age is de- picted with a strength of hand and a poetic power, which very unfrequently occurs in the ' Original Poetry ' columns of the newspaper. IN a certain fair island, for commerce renown'd, Whose fleets sail'd in every sea, A sect of fanatics, men say, there was found, Who set up an idol and worship around, And call'd it by name Elessde. Many heads had the monster, and tails not a few, Of divers rare metals was he ; And temples they built him right goodly to view, Where oft they would meet, and, like idolists true, Pay their vows to the great Elessde. Moreover, at times would their frenzy attain ('Twas nought less) to so high a degree, That his soul-blinded votaries did not complain, But e'en laid down their lives his false favour to gain, So great was thy power, Elessde. As for morals, this somewhat unscrupulous race Were lax enough, 'twixt you and me ; Men would poison their friends with professional grace, And of the fell deed leave behind ne'er a trace, For the sake of the fiend Elessde. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 185 Then forgery flourish'd, and rampant and rife Was each form of diablerie ; While the midnight assassin, with mallet and knife, Would steal on his victim and rob him of life, And all for thy love, Elessde. There were giants of crime on the earth in that day, The like of which we may not see ; Although, peradventure, some sceptic will say' There be those even now who acknowledge the sway Of the god of the world s. d. TO MAKE A PASTORAL : A RECEIPT. From the Wifs Magazine, 1787. TAKE quantum sufficit of meadows and trees, While your zephyrs most wantonly play in each breeze j Let Phoebus and Flora together combine To make the sky smile and the meadows look fine. Your nymphs and your swains must be sorted in pairs ; Your swains should be love-sick, your nymphs be all fairs : Let them prattle awhile, as their hay they are tedding ; Then wind up the whole with a church and a wedding. But if grief elegiac you'd wish to assail, Your prospect must lour, your swains must look pale : Let Damon ask Corydon why droops his head ; If his Celia's unkind, or his lambkins are dead. 186 THE BOOK OF ' No !' let him reply, ' 'tis not this gives me pain ; But young Colin is dead, the delight of the plain !' Then let him invoke skies, angels, and saints, Trees, meadows, and riv'lets, to join their complaints : Till Damon, to ease him, and end these sad cries, Assures him that Colin has mounted the skies. From this kind assurance his mind is at ease, And they hie to their cottage to eat bread and cheese. AN ORIGINAL LOVE-STORY. HE struggled to kiss her. She struggled the same To prevent him so bold and undaunted ; But, as smitten by lightning, he heard her exclaim, 'Avaunt, Sir!' and off he avaunted. But when he returned, with the fiendishest laugh, Showing clearly that he was affronted, And threaten'd by main force to carry her off, She cried ' Dont !' and the poor fellow donted. When he meekly approached, and sat down at her feet, Praying aloud, as before he had ranted, That she would forgive him and try to be sweet, And said ' Cant you !' the dear girl recanted. Then softly lie whispered, ' How could you do so ? I certainly thought I was jilted ; But come thou with me, to the parson we'll go ; Say, wilt thou, my dear?' and she wilted. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 187 THE TOPER AND THE FLIES. PETER PINDAR. A GROUP of topers at a table sat, With punch that much regales the thirsty soul : Flies soon the party join'd, and join'd the chat, Humming, and pitching round the mantling bowl. At length those flies got drunk, and for their sin, Some hundreds lost their legs and tumbled in ; And sprawling 'midst the gulph profound, Like Pharaoh and his daring host, were drown'd. Wanting to drink one of the men Dipp'd from the bowl the drunken host, And drank then taking care that none were lost, He put in every mother's son agen. Up jump'd the Bacchanalian crew on this, Taking it very much amiss Swearing, and in the attitude to smite : ' Lord ! ' cried the man with gravely-lifted eyes, ' Though I don't like to swallow flies, I did not know but others might.' THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. SECLUDED from domestic strife, Jack Book- worm led a college life j i88 THE BOOK OF A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive ; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. Such pleasures unallay'd with care, Could any accident impair ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain arrived at thirty-six ? Oh, had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country town ! Or Flavia been content to stop' At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ; Or had her eyes forgot to blaze ! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ; Oh ! But let exclamation cease, Her presence banish'd all his peace. So with decorum all things carried, Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was married The honey-moon like lightning flew, The second brought its transports too ; A third, a fourth, were not amiss ; The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss ; But when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay ; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; But still the worst remain'd behind ; That very face had robb'd her mind. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 189 Skill'd in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee ; And just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night- caps wrapp'd her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend 1 Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ? In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond, to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy ; The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations. Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were pass'd between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her lips, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! He knows not how. but so it is, 1 9 o THE BOOK OF Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And though her fops are wondrous civil, lie thinks her u^ly as the devil. Now to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower ! Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes. In vain she tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field. Poor madam now, condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 191 Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old ; With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean : No more presuming on her sway, She learns good nature every day : Serenely gay and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. TAM O' SHANTER: A TALE. ROBERT BURNS. In a letter to Captain Grose, written at Dumfries in 1792, Burns gives the legend which formed the groundwork of ' Tain o' iShanter :' ' On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Allo- way kirkyard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which is about two or three hundred yards farther on than the said gate, had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, between night and morning. Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirkyard, he was surprised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old Gothic window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of hisjtcqnamtance and neighbourhood. How 1 92 THE BOOK OF the gentleman was dressed tradition does not say, but that the ladies were all in their smocks : and one of them happening unluckily to have a smock which was considerably too short to answer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggie wi' the short sark!" and, recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the universally-known fact that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close at his heels that one of them actu- ally sprang to seize him; but it was too late, nothing was on her side of the stream but the horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- ning; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the un- sightly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers not to stay too late in Ayr markets. ' The poem was composed in one day in the winter of 1790. Mrs. Burns informed Cromek that the poet had lingered longer by the river-side than his wont, and that, taking the children with her, she went out to join him, but perceiving that her presence was an interruption to him, she lingered behind him : her attention was attracted by his wild gesticulations and ungovernable mirth, while he was reciting the passages of the poem as they arose in his mind. ' Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke.' GAWIN DOUGLAS WHEN chapman billies 1 leave the street, And drouthy 2 neibors neibors meet, As market days are wearin' late, And folk begin to tak the gate : 3 Pedlars or small tradesmen. 2 Thirsty. * Road. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 193 While we sit bousing at the nappy/ And gettin' fou and unco happy, We thinkna on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, 2 and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skelkm, 3 A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ;* That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober ; That ilka melder,* wi' the miller Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller ; 5 That every naig 6 was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 1 Ale. * Breaches in hedges or walls. 8 A worthless fellow. * A talker of nonsense, a boaster, and a drunken fool. ' Money. 6 Horse. * Any quantity of corn sent to the mill is called a melder. i 9 4 THE BOOK OF That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton* Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon ! Or. catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk, 1 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars 2 me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, Tain had got planted unco 3 right, Fast by an ingle, 4 bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, 5 that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy 6 crony; Tarn lo'ed him like a very brither They had been fou for weeks thegither ! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 1 Dark. 2 Makes. 8 Unusually. * Fire. 6 Foaming ale. Thirsty. * The village where a parish church is situated is usually called the Kirkton (Kirk-town) in Scotland. HUMOR O US P OETR Y. i 95 The storm without might rair 1 and rustle Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy ! As bees flee hame wi' lades 2 o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi',.pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white then melts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether 3 time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic 4 a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling showers rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 1 Roar. Loads. 8 Tie up. * Such. 196 THE BOOK OF That night, a child might understand The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tarn skelpit 1 on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning 2 o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering 3 round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles 4 catch him unawares : Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets 5 nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane : And through the whins, and by the cairn 7 Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours a' his floods ; The doubling storm roars through the woods ; The lightnings flash frae pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 1 Rode carelessly. " Humming. 3 Staring. * Spirits. 1 Ghosts and owls. 6 Pedlar was smothered. T Stone heap. HUMOR US POE TRY. 197 Through ilka bore 1 the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst mak us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, 2 we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquebae, 3 we '11 face the devil ! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,* Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 5 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillon brent-new 6 frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle i' their heels : At winnock-bunker, 7 i' the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, 8 black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge ; He screw'd the pipes, and gart 9 them skirl, 10 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 11 Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 1 Every hole in the wall. 2 Twopenny ale. 8 Whisky. * The ale so wrought in Tammie's head. 6 A small coin. ' Brand- new. 7 A kind of window seat. 8 A rough dog. Made. " 10 Scream. "Vibrate. 198 THE BOOK OF And by some devilish cantrip 1 slight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; a Twa span-lang, wee, 3 unchristian bairns j A -thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab 4 did gape ; Five tomahaAvks, vri' bluid red-rusted ; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 6 Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glower'd," amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit/ And coost 8 her duddies to the wark, And linket 10 at it in her sark. 11 Spell. 2 Irons. 3 Small. Mouth. 5 Handle. 6 Stared. 7 Till each old beldam smoked with sweat. 8 Stript. Clothes. lo Tripped. " Shirt. HUMORO US POETR Y. 199 Now Tarn ! O Tarn ! had thae been queans, 1 A' plump and strappin' in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 2 Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen !* Thir breeks 3 o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, 4 For ae blink 5 o' the bonny burdies ! G But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie 7 hags, wad spean 8 a foal, Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock, 9 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd 10 what was what fu' brawlie, 11 * There was ae winsome wench and walie,' 12 That night enlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty sark, 13 o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, 14 she had worn, 1 Young girls. 2 Greasy flannel. 3 These breeches. 4 Hams. 6 Look. 6 Lasses. 7 Gallows-worthy. 8 Wean. 9 Jumping and capering on a staff. 10 Knew. u Full well. 12 A hearty girl and jolly. 13 Short shirt. " Girl. * The manufacturer's term for a fine linen woven in a reed of 1700 divisions. CROMEK. 200 THE BOOK OF In longitude though sorely scanty, It. was her best, and she was vauntie. 1 Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft 2 for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! But here my Muse her wing maun cour, 3 Sic flights are far beyond her power ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang 4 (A souple jade 5 she was, and strang 6 ), And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotch'd 7 and blew wi' might and main Till first ae caper, syne 8 anither, Tarn tint 9 his reason a' thegither, And roars out, ' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! ' And in an instant a' was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 10 When plundering herds assail their byke, u As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 1 Proud of it. a Bought. 8 Lower. * Jumped and kicked. 8 Girl. 6 Strong. 7 Hitched. "Then. Lost. 10 Fuss. " Hive. But here my Muse her wing maun cour, Sic flights are far beyond her power ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd. Page 200, HUMOROUS POETRY. 201 As eager runs the market-crowd, When ' Catch the thief !' resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch 1 screech and hollow. Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tam ! thou 'It get thy fairin' I 1 In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin' 1 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin" ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman 1 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient 3 a tail she had to shake I For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; * But little wist 5 she Maggie's mettle Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk 6 man and mother's son, take heed : 1 Unearthly. a Deserts. * Ne'er. * Design. * Knew. Each. 202 THE BOOK OF Whane'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys owre dear Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. MODERN LOGIC. AN Eton stripling training for the Law > A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw One happy Christmas laid upon the shelf His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf, With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his Uncle's home. Arrived, and past the usual ' How d'ye do's V Inquiries of old friends, and College news : ' Well, Tom, my lad, what saw you worth discerning ? And how goes study, boy what is't you're learning 1 ?' ' Oh, Logic, sir ; but not the worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon antiquated fools ! 'Tis wit and wranglers' logic ; thus, d'ye see, I'll prove to you as clear as A, B, C, That an eel-pie's a pigeon : to deny it, Were to swear black's white.' ' Indeed ! let's try it.' ' An eel-pie is a pie of fish V ' Well agreed.' 'A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie?' r* Proceed.' ' A Jack-pie must be a John-pie thus 'tis done, For every John-pie is a Pigeon !' ' Bravo !' Sir Peter cries ' Logic for ever ! It beats my grandmother and she was clever ! HUMOR O US FOE TRY. 203 But hold, my boy it surely would be hard That wit and learning should have no reward. To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross, And then I'll give you, Tom, a high-bred horse.' ' A horse !' cries Tom ; ' blood, pedigree, and paces ! Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races !' He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow, To think the night must pass before the morrow ; Dreamed of his boots, cap, spurs, and leather breeches, Of leaping five-barred gates, and crossing ditches : Left his warm bed an hour before the lark, Dragged his old Uncle fasting through the park : Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross, To find out something like the expected horse, But no such animal the meadows crossed : At length, beneath a tree Sir Peter stopped Took a bough shook it and down fell A fine large chestnut in its prickly shell ' There, Tom, take that.'' Well, Sir, and what beside ?' ' Why, since you're booted, saddle it, and ride. 1 ' Ride ! what 1 A chestnut !' ' Ay, come get across ; I tell you, Tom, that chestnut is a horse, And all the horse you'll get ! for I can show, As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon addle-headed fools ! All maxims but the wranglers' I disown," And stick to one sound argument your own. Since you have proved to me, I don't deny, That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie 204 THE BOOK OF What follows then, but as a thing of course, That a \iQisz-chestnut is a chestnut-7wr.fr? ? ' Tom scampered home in dudgeon, sought his room, Locked himself in to fret, and stamp, and fume ; If Logic failed to make a horse, alas ! He felt that it indeed had made an Ass / CAPTAIN PATON. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. John Gibson Lockhart, son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, contributor to Bla.ckwnod, and for nearly thirty years editor of the Quarterly Review, was born in 1793. His principal works are the cele- brated Life of Sir Waller Scott, and Spanish Ballads, and he has written several novels of more than average merit. He was also a critic of great ability, and occasionally of great severity. Died at Abbotsford, November 25, 1854. TOUCH once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows that alack-a-day ! is dead ; For a prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also, That has left the Salt-market in sorrow, grief, and wo ; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! His waistcoat, coat, and breeches, were all cut off the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-colour, or a modest genty drab, The blue stripe in his stocking round his neat slim leg did go, HUMORO US POETR Y. 205 And his ruffles, of the cambric fine, they were whiter than the snow ; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! His hair was curl'd in order at the rising of the sun, In comely rows and buckles smart that about his ears did run, And before there was a toupee, that some inches up did grow, And behind there was a long queue that did o'er his shoulders flow ; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! And whenever we forgather'd he took off his wee three cockit, And he proffer'd you his snuff-box, which he drew from his side-pocket, And on Burdett or Bonaparte he would make a remark or so, And then along the plainstones like a provost he would go; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! In dirty days he picked well his footsteps with his rattan, Oh ! you ne'er could see the least speck on the shoes of Captain Paton ; And on entering the coffee-room about two, all men did know, They would see him with his Courier in the middle of the row ; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! 206 THE BOOK OF Now and then upon a Sunday he invited me to dine On a herring and a mutton chop, which his maid dress'd very fine, There was also a little Malmsey, and a bottle of Bor- deaux, Which between me and the Captain pass'd nimbly to and fro ; Oh ! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo ! Or, if a bowl was mention'd, the Captain he would ring, And bid Nelly run to the West Port, and a stoup of water bring ; Then would he mix the genuine stuff, as they made it long ago, With limes, that on his property in Trinidad did grow ; Oh ! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo ! And then all the time he would discourse so sensible and courteous, Perhaps talking of last sermon he had heard from Dr. Porteous, Or some little bit of scandal about Mrs. So-and-So, Which he scarce could credit, having heard the con but not the/w/ Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo ! Or when the candles were brought forth, and the night was fairly setting in, HUMOROUS POETR Y. 207 He would tell some fine old stories, about Minden field or Dettingen, How he fought with a French major, and despatch'd him at a blow, While his blood ran out like water on the soft grass below ; Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo ! But at last the Captain sicken'd, and grew worse from day to day, And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, from which now he stay'd away : On Sabbaths, too, the wee kirk made a melancholy show, All for wanting of the presence of our venerable beau ; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like ot Captain Paton no mo ! And in spite of all that Cleghorn and Corkindale could do, It was plain, from twenty symptoms, that death was in his view, So the Captain made his test'ment, and submitted to his foe, And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk, 'tis the way we all must go ! Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! Join all in chorus, jolly boys, and let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows that alack-a-day ! is dead; 208 THE BOOK OF For this prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also, That has left the Salt-market in sorrow, grief, and wo ; For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo ! RETALIATION. A FEW years since, at some provincial college (Places which always rhyme, if nothing else, with know- ledge), A wight was educated, whose discerning, When added to an extraordinary mass of learning, Distinguished him on every occasion, As worthy of a first-rate situation, Above his fellow-scholars, and his fellow-men, Thus thought a genius ergo, he grew lazy. Ergo, grew poor what then ? Prest by privation, Ergo, he grew crazy. He'd strut about the street sometimes, and speak, In English incoherently, 'tis true ; But in the learned languages, Latin and Greek, His wits were sound again ; and well he knew How to interpret them in darkest mood, And prove in answering that he understood. Thus through his madness sometimes shone A glance of wit, Like light through darkness : and for one Witness the following hit: HUMOROUS POETRY. 209 He had another Old academic brother, Who, though well learn'd, had too much sense To think of living by his wits ; and hence Set up in business as a seller (Industrious fellow !) Of brittle glasses And earthenware, With vessels rare, Procured from Staffordshire and other places. One day, while raining fast as it could pour, The shopman, standing just within his door, Perceived our crazy scholar passing by, With not a thread upon him dry. Not wet himself wishing to have some sport, And scholar-like retort, He hail'd him in the Latin tongue, And flung A query, which, to those who do not know, Is render'd into English just below. Pluit tantum, Nescio quantum, Scisne tu ? TJiat il rains hard I am aware, How much it rains I cannot swear, Pray, Sir, can you ? The crazed man turn'd, and flung a huge stone, dashing Through window-panes, producing direful crashing ; And further gave his tit for tat, in 2 io THE BOOK OF The following doggrel Latin : Fregi tot, Nescio quot, Scisne tu 1 A heap of things are gone to pot, How many truly I know not, fray, Sir, do you? THE HUSBAND'S COMPLAINT. 4 Will she thy linen wash and hosen darn?' GAY. I'M utterly sick of this hateful alliance Which the ladies have form'd with impractical Science ! They put out their washing to learn hydrostatics, And give themselves airs for the sake of pneumatics. They are knowing in muriate, and nitrate, and chlorine, While the stains gather fast on the walls and the floor- ing And the jellies and pickles fall wofully short, With their chemical use of the still and retort. Our expenses increase (without drinking French wines), For they keep no accounts, with their tangents and sines And to make both ends meet they give little assistance, With their accurate sense of the squares of the distance. HUMOR US POETR Y. 211 They can name every spot from Peru to El Arish, Except just the bounds of their own native parish j And they study the orbits of Venus and Saturn, While their home is resign'd to the thief and the slattern. Chronology keeps back the dinnef two hours, The smoke-jack stands still while they learn motive powers ; Flies and shells swallow up all our every-day gains, And our acres are mortgaged for fossil remains. They cease to reflect with their talk of refraction They drive us from home by electric attraction And I'm sure, since they've bother'd their heads with affinity, I'm repulsed every hour from my learn'd divinity. When the poor, stupid husband is weary and starving, Anatomy leads them to give up the carving ; And we drudges the shoulder of mutton must buy, While they study the line of the os humeri. If we 'scape from our troubles to take a short nap, We awake with a din about limestone and trap ; And the fire is extinguished past regeneration, For the women were wrapt in the deep-coal formation. 'Tis an impious thing that the wives of the laymen Should use Pagan words 'bout a pistil and stamen ; Let the heir break his head while they foster a Dahlia, And the babe die of pap as they talk of mammalia. 212 THE BOOK OF The first son becomes half a fool in reality, While the mother is watching his large ideality j And the girl roars unchecked, quite a moral abortion, For we trust her benevolence, order, and caution. I sigh for the good times of sewing and spinning, Ere this new tree of knowledge had set them a sinning j The women are mad, and they'll build female colleges, So here's to plain English ! a plague on their ologies ! DOCTOR LOBSTER. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. A PERCH, who had the toothache, once Thus moan'd, like any human dunce : ' Why must great souls exhaust so soon Life's thin and unsubstantial boon 1 Existence on such sculpin terms, Their vulgar loves and hard-won worms,- What is it all but dross to me, Whose nature craves a larger sea ; Whose inches, six from head to tail, Enclose the spirit of a whale ; Who, if great baits were still to win, By watchful eye and fearless fin Might with the Zodiac's awful twain Room for a third immortal gain ? Better the crowd's unthinking plan, The hook, the jerk, the frying-pan ! HUMOR US POE TRY. 213 Death, thou ever roaming shark, Ingulf me in eternal dark ! ' The speech was cut in two by flight : A real shark had come in sight ; No metaphoric monster, one It soothes despair to call upon, But stealthy, sidelong, grim, I wis, A bit of downright Nemesis ; While it recovered from the shock, Our fish took shelter 'neath a rock : This was an ancient lobster's house, A lobster of prodigious nous, So old that barnacles had spread Their white encampments o'er its head,- And of experience so stupend, His claws were blunted at the end, Turning life's iron pages o'er, That shut and can be oped no more. Stretching a hospitable claw, ' At once,' said he, ' the point I saw ; My dear young friend, your case I rue, Your great-great-grandfather I knew ; He" was a tried and tender friend 1 know I ate him in the end : In this vile sea a pilgrim long, Still my sight's good, my memory strong ; The only sign that age is near Is a slight deafness in this ear ; THE BOOK OF I understand your case as well As this my old familiar shell ; This sorrow's a new-fangled notion, Come in since first I knew the ocean ; We had no radicals, nor crimes, Nor lobster-pots, in good old times ; Your traps and nets and hooks we owe To Messieurs Louis Blanc and Co. ; I say to all my sons and daughters, Shun Red Republican hot waters ; No lobster ever cast his lot Among the reds, but went to pot : Your trouble's in the jaw, you said ? Come, let me just nip off your head, And, when a new one comes, the pain Will never trouble you again : Nay, nay, fear naught : 'tis nature's law ; Four times I've lost this starboard claw : And still, ere long, another grew, Good as the old and better too !' The perch consented, and next day An osprey, marketing that way, Picked up a fish without a head, Floating with belly up, stone dead. MORAL. Sharp are the teeth of ancient saws, And sauce for goose is gander's sauce ; But perch's heads aren't lobster's claws. HUMOR O US POETR Y. 215 THE RAZOR SELLER. PETER PINDAR. A FELLOW in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And ofifer'd twelve for eighteenpence ; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard : Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard, That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, ' This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. ' No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize.' So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soap'd himself to 'ears and eyes. Being well lather'd 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 sigh'd ; ' I wish my eighteenpence within my purse.' In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 216 THE BOOK OF He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp' cl, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er : His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not loose its ruff : So kept it laughing at the steel and suds : Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. ' Razors ! a damn'd, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog !' Hodge sought the fellow found him and begun : ' P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives : You rascal ! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah ! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave.' ' Friend,' quoth the razor-man, ' I'm not a knave : As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave? ' Not think they'd shave /' quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; ' What were they made for then, you dag 1' he cries : ' Made ! ' quoth the fellow, with a smile ' to sell' HUMOR US POETR Y. 217 THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS-SHAY. Oliver Wendell Holmes, M.D., was born at Cambridge, United States, 1809. He was trained at Harvard University, in which institution he afterwards became Professor of Anatomy. In addition to considerable eminence as a physician and author of medical works, he has also attained to a high position as a poet and humorist. His Au/ocrat of the Breakfast-Table is his principal work in light literature, but he has written a great number of minor articles, and poems after the manner of Saxe and Lowell. HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it ah ! but stay, I'll tell you what happen'd without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, Have you ever heard of that, I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, Snuffy old drone from the German hive ! That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake day That the Deacon finish'd the one-hoss-shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, 2i8 THE BOOK OF In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or cross-bar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, Above or below, or within or without, And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down> but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as deacons do, With an ' I dew vum,' or an ' I tell yeou,') He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so built that it couldit break claown : ' Fur,' said the Deacon, ' 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest.' So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke. That was for spokes and floor and sills ; He sent for lancewood to make the thills j 1 The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs of logs from the ' Settler's ellum,' Last of its timber, they couldn't sell 'em, 1 Shafts. HUMOR OUS POETRY. 219 Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he 'put her through.' * There !' said the Deacon, ' naow she'll dew !' Do ! I'll tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turn'd gray, Deacon and deaconness dropp'd away, Children and grand-children where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day ! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED ; it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; ' Hahnsum kerridge ' they call'd it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; Running as usual much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. 220 THE BOOK OF In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large : Take it. You're welcome. No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER, the Earthquake-day. There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay, A general flavour of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be, for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree 1 neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring, and axle, and hub 2 encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out ! First of November, 'fifty-five ; This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-lss-shay, Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-neck'd bay. ' Huddup ! ' said the parson. Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got \.Q fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd 1 Splinter-bar. * Nave. HUMOR US POETR Y. 221 At what the Moses was .coming next All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, Just the hour of the earthquake-shock ! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around 1 The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground I You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, All at once, and nothing first, Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay, Logic is logic. That's all I say. THE DEVONSHIRE LANEL IN a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along, T' other day much in want of a subject for song ; Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain, Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet ; 222 THE BOOK OF For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round. But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride ; And even there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other. Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks, And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass, Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, That they shut up the beauties around from the sight ; And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. But thinks I too these banks within which we are pent With bud, blossom, and berry, are richly besprent ; And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam, Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home. In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose, And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Smooths the roughness of care cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey, and narrow the way; I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay ; And whate'er others think, be the last to complain, .Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. HUMOR US POE TRY. 223 TOBY TOSSPOT. GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER. ALAS ! what pity 'tis that regularity, Like Isaac Shrove's, is such a rarity. But there are swilling wights in London town, Term'd jolly dogs choice spirits alias swine ; Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine. These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures run on, Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun, By borrowing too largely of the moon. One of this kidney, Toby Tosspot hight, Was coming from the Bedford late at night : And being Bacchi plenus, full of wine, Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, 'Twasn't direct 'twas serpentine. He work'd with sinuosities along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork : Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong, A fork ! At length with near four bottles in his pate ; He saw the moon shining on Shrove's brass plate ; When reading, ' Please to ring the bell ;' And being civil beyond measure. ' Ring it ! ' says Toby ; ' very well, I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure.' 224 THE BOOK OF Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, Gave it a jerk that almost jerk'd it down. 1 ' He waited full two minutes no one came : He waited full two minutes more ; and then, Says Toby, ' If he's deaf I'm not to blame ; I'll pull it for the gentleman again.' But the first peal 'woke Isaac in a fright, Who quick'as lightning, popping up his head, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip, bolt upright. At length, he wisely to himself doth say, Calming his fears, ' Tush ! 'tis some fool has rung and run away ; When peal the second rattled in his ears. Shrove jumped into the middle of the floor ; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirr'd, He groped down stairs, and open'd the street-door, While Toby was performing peal the third. Isaac eyed Toby fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall ; Then put this question : ' Pray, sir, what d'ye want ?' Says Toby, ' I want nothing, sir, at all.' ' Want nothing ! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire.' Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, ' I pull'd it, sir, at your desire.' ' At mine's !' ' Yes, yours ; I hope I've done it well.' ' High time for Ijed, sir.' ' I was hastening to it ; But if you write up Please to ring the bell, Common politeness makes me stop and do it.' HUMORO US POETR Y. 225 LETTER FROM A CANDIDATE. J. R. LOWELL. \_Ffom the Biglow Papers^\ Deer sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to do wut wus nessary fur that town, i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here I wich I send was thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got heel the saim, I sposed it wus best, times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy. DEAR SIR, You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land ; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Ez bein' mum or underhand ; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led. So, to begin at the beginning An' come direcly to the pint, I think the country's underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out o' jint ; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat. 226 THE BOOK OF Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong, I wunt deny but wut I be so, An', fact, it don't smell very strong j My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense ; There may be folks o' greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. I'm an eclectic ; ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth ; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both ; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to -ware they'll stand. Ez fer the war, I go agin it, I mean to say I kind o' du' Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru ; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart, But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, HUMOR O US POETR Y. 227 Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So's no one couldn't pick it out ; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll jest answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil, Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I'm an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns '11 give our folks a helpin' shove ; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round. I don't appruve o' givin' pledges ; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree ; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudunt farmers don't turn out, Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer m' to grout about ? ' Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In my idees consarnin' them, / think they air an Institution, A sort of yes, jest so, ahem : 228 'THE BOOK OF Do / own any 1 Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge ; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge. Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort ; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a candidate, in short ; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev' me an'thin' in particler, Wy, "I'm a kind o' peri-wig. P. S. Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer, An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in your privit ear ; Ef you git me inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kin' o' 'nint By gittin' you inside the Lighthouse Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost, Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth ; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North. HUMOR US POETR K 229 THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand : ' Hark ye/ said he, ' 'tis an old story this About the crows ! ' ' I don't know what it is,' Replied his friend. ' No ! I'm surprised at that, Where I come from it is the common chat : But you shall hear an old affair indeed ! And that it happen' d they all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.' ' Impossible !' ' Nay, but it is really true ; I have it from good hands, and so may you.' ' From whose, I pray V So, having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. ' Sir, did you tell?' (relating the affair) ' Yes, sir, I did ; and if it's worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me ; But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three.' Resolved to trace so wond'rous an event, Whip to the third the virtuoso went. ' Sir,' and so forth, ' Why, yes ; the thing in fact, Though, in regard to number, not exact?' ' Where may I find him ?' ' Why, in such a place.' Away goes he, and having found him out, ' Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.' 230 THE BOOK OF Then to his last informant he referr'd, And begg'd to know if true what he had heard. ' Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow?' ' Not I.' Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! Black cro\vs have been thrown up, three, two, and one ; And here, I find, all comes at last to none ! ' Did you say nothing of a crow at all?' ' Crow crow, perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over.' ' And pray, Sir, what was't ? ' ' Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, Something thatVas as black, Sir, as a crow !' A COUNSEL in the Common Pleas, Who was esteem'd a mighty wit, Upon the strength of a chance hit Amid a thousand flippancies, And his occasional bad jokes In bullying, bantering, brow-beating, Ridiculing, and maltreating, Women or other timid folks, In a late cause resolved to hoax A clownish Yorkshire farmer one, Who, by his uncouth look and gait, Appear'd expressly meant by Fate For being quizz'd and play'd upon. HUMOR US POE TRY, 231 So having tipp'd the wink to those In the back rows, Who kept their laughter bottled down Until our wag should draw the cork, He smiled jocosely on the clown, And went to work. Well, Farmer Numskull, how go Calves at York V 1 Why not, Sir, as they do wi' you, But on four legs, instead of two.' ' Officer !' cried the legal elf, Piqued at the laugh against himself, * Do, pray, keep silence down below there : Now look at me, clown, attend, Have I not seen you somewhere, friend f ' Yees very like I often go there.' * Our rustic's waggish quite laconic,' The counsel cried, with grim sardonic ; ' I wish I'd known this prodigy, This genius of the clods, when I On circuit was at York residing. Now, farmer, do for once speak true, Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you Who doubtless think yourself so clever, Are there as many fools as ever In the West Riding?' * Why no, Sir, no ; we've got our share, But not so many as when you were there.' 232 THE BOOK OF MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. ' INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.' What reader of humorous poetry is unacquainted with the Ingoldsby Legends? These inimitable and mirth-provoking poems and tales were written by the Rev. R. H. Barham (1788-1845), Rector of St. Augustine and St. Faith, London, and were originally published in B 'entity's Miscellany, under the noni-de-phime of Thomas Ingoldsby. We are indebted to the kindness of Richard Bentley, Esq., Publisher, London, for permission to insert the following poem in the present volume. The following note is by the author : 'It was in the summer of 1838 that a party reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful Queen, whom God long preserve ! This purpose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the purchase of a peer's ticket, from a stationer in the Strand. . . . How Mr. Barney managed to insinuate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery : his charac- teristic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably was. The result of his observations was thus communicated to his associates in the Servant's Hall upon his return, to the infinite delectation of Mademoiselle Pauline over a Cruiskeen of his own concocting.' OCH ! the Coronation ! what celebration For emulation can with it compare ? When to Westminster the Royal Spinster And the Duke of Leinster, all in order -did repair ! 'Twas there you'd see the new Polishemen Making a scrimmage at half after four ; And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys, All standing round before the Abbey door. HUMORO US POETR Y. 233 Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning Themselves adorning, all by the candlelight, With roses and lilies and daffy-down-dillies, And gould and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. And then approaches five hundred coaches, With General Dullbeak. Och ! 'twas mighty fine To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line. Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums, All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors, The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews ; 'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy All jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots ; With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer, The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts. And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame ; And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name), Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell Mello, The Queen 01 Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs, 234 THE BOOK OF And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs. Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker, All in the gallery you might persave ; But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing, Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. There was Baron Alten himself exalting, And Prince Von Schwartzenberg, and many more; Och ! I'd be bother'd, and entirely smother'd, To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ; With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works ; But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly, 'I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks !' Then the Queen, Heaven bless her ! och ! they did dress her In her purple garaments and her goulden. crown, Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, With eight young ladies houlding up her gown ; Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow ; And Sir George Smart, oh ! he played a Consarto, With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row ! Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up For to resave her bounty and great wealth, Saying, ' Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory ! Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health !' HUMORO US POETR Y. 235 Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating ' Boys, here's your Queen ! deny it if you can ! And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur, Sneezes at that I'd like to see the man !' Then the Nobles kneeling, to the Pow'rs appealing 'Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign !' And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her, All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair too, But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, For the Earl of Surrey, all ki his hurry, Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee ; And they did splash her with raal Macasshur, And the Queen said, 'Ah ! then thank ye all for me P * Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing. And sweet trombones, with their silver tones ; But Lord Rolle was rolling 'twas mighty consoling To think his Lordship did not break his bones ! Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop, With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop ! There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, With fine polonies and rich mellow pears, Och ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. 236 THE BOOK OF Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, Crying, ' God save Victoria, our Royal Queen !' Och ! if myself should live to be a hundred, Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen ! And now, I've ended, what I pretended, This narration splendid in swate poe-thry. Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry. NOBODY. I'M thinking just now of Nobody, And all that Nobody's done, For I've a passion for Nobody, 1 That Nobody else would own. I bear the name of Nobody, For from Nobody I sprung ; And I sing the praise of Nobody, As Nobody mine has sung. In life's young morning Nobody To me was tender and dear ; And my cradle was rock'd by Nobody, And Nobody was ever near. I was petted and praised by Nobody, And Nobody brought me up, And when I was hungry, Nobody Gave me to dine or sup. HUMOR US POE TRY. 237 I went to school to Nobody, And Nobody taught me to read ; I play'd in the street with Nobody, And to Nobody ever gave heed. I recounted my tale to Nobody, For Nobody was willing to hear ; And my heart it clung to Nobody, And Nobody shed a tear. And when I grew older, Nobody Gave me a helping turn ; And by the good aid of Nobody I began my living to earn. And hence I courted Nobody, And said Nobody's I'd be, And ask'd to marry Nobody, And Nobody married me. Thus I trudge along with Nobody, And Nobody cheers my life, And I have a love for Nobody, Which Nobody has for his wife. So here's a health to Nobody, For Nobody's now in town, And I've a passion for Nobody That Nobody else would own. 23 3 THE BOOK OF THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. JOHN G. SAXE. OH ! terribly proud was Miss MACBRIDE, The very personification of pride, As she minced along in Fashion's tide, Adown Broadway on the proper side When the golden sun was setting ; There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, And a world of pride in the very sigh That her stately bosom was fretting : A sigh that a pair of elegant feet, Sandall'd in satin, should kiss the street The very same that the vulgar greet In common leather, not over 'neat' For such is the common booting (And Christian tears may well be shed, That even among our gentlemen-bred The glorious Day of Morocco is dead, And Day and Martin are reigning instead, On a much inferior footing). Oh, terribly proud was Miss MacBride ! Proud of her beauty and proud of her pride, And proud of fifty matters beside, That wouldn't have borne dissection ;" HUMORO US POETR Y. 239 Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of ' knowing cheese from chalk,' On a very slight inspection. Proud abroad, and proud at home, Proud wherever she chanced to come ; When she was glad, and when she was glum, Proud as the head of a Saracen Over the door of a tippling-shop ; Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, * Proud as a boy with a braw new top,' Proud beyond comparison. It seems a singular thing to say, But her very senses led her astray Respecting all humility ; In sooth, her dull auricular drum Could find in humble only a ' hum, ' And heard no sound of ' gentle ' come, In talking about gentility. What lowly meant she didn't know, For she always avoided ' everything low ' With care the most punctilious ; And, queerer still, the audible sound Of 'super silby' she never had found In the adjective supercilious. The meaning of meek she never knew, But imagined the phrase had something to do 240 THE BOOK OF With ' Moses,' a peddling German Jew, Who, like all hawkers, the country through Was ' a person of no position ;' And it seem'd to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane To a lady of high condition. Even her graces not her grace, For that was in the ' vocative case' Chill'd with the touch of her icy face Sat very stiffly upon her ; She never confess'd a favour aloud, Like one of the simple, common crowd, But coldly smiled, and faintly bow'd, As who should say, ' You do me proud, And do yourself an honour !' And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, Had really no foundation ; But, like the fabrics that gossips devise Those single stories that often arise, And grow till they reach a four-storey size- Was merely a fancy creation. 'Tis a curious fact as ever was known In human nature, but often shown Alike in castle and cottage, That pride, like pigs of a certain breed, Will manage to live and thrive on ' feed ' As poor as a pauper's pottage. HUMOROUS POETRY. 241 That her wit should never have made her vain, Was like her face sufficiently plain ; And as to her musical powers, Although she sang until she was hoarse, And issued notes with a banker's force, They were just such notes as we never indorse For any acquaintance of ours ! Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high, For Miss MACBRIDE first open'd her eye Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky ; But pride is a curious passion And in talking about her wealth and worth, She always forgot to mention her birth To people of rank and fashion. Of all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth, Among our ' fierce democracie !' A bridge across a hundred years, Without a prop to save it from sneers- Not even a couple of rotten peers A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy ! English and Irish, French and Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch, and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration ; So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No heraldry HARVEY will ever succeed In finding the circulation ! 242 THE BOOK OF Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it wax'd at the farther end By some plebeian vocation ; Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine That plagued some worthy relation. But Miss MACBRIDE had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her pride For rich was the old parental MACBRIDE, According to public rumour ; And he lived ' up town,' in a splendid square, And kept his daughter on dainty fare, And gave her gems that were rich and rare, And the finest rings and things to wear, And feathers enough to plume her. An honest mechanic was JOHN MACBRIDE, As ever an honest calling plied Or graced an honest ditty ; For JOHN had work'd in his early day In 'pots and pearls,' the legends say, And kept a shop with a rich array Of things in the shop and candle way, In the lower part of the city. No ' rara avis ' was honest JOHN (That's the Latin for ' sable swan '), HUMOR O US POE TR Y. 243 Though, in one of his fancy flashes, A wicked wig, who meant to deride, Call'd honest JOHN 'Old Phcenix MACBRIDE,' 'Because he rose from his ashes !' Little by little he grew to be rich, By saving of candle-ends and ' sich,' Till he reach'd at last an opulent niche No very uncommon affair ; For history quite confirms the law Express'd in the ancient Scottish saw A mickle may come to be may'r. 1 Alack for many ambitious beaux ! She hung their hopes upon her nose, (The figure is quite Horatian !) Until, from habit, the member grew As vciy a hook as ever eye knew, To the commonest observation. A thriving tailor begg'd her hand, But she gave ' the fellow ' to understand, By a violent manual action, She perfectly scorn'd the best of his clan, And reckon'd the ninth of any man An exceedingly vulgar fraction ! Another, whose sign was a golden boot, Was mortified with a bootless suit, In a way that was quite appalling ; 1 'Mickle, \vi' thrift, may chance to be main' Scotch Proverb, 244 THE BOOK OF For, though a regular sutor by trade, He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, Who cut him off with a saw and bade ' The cobbler keep to his calling.' (The muse must let a secret out : There isn't the faintest shadow of doubt That folks who oftenest sneer and flout At ( the dirty, low mechanicals,' Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees, Or coiling their legs, or trades like these, Contrived to win their children ease From Poverty's galling manacles.) A rich tobacconist comes and sues, And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse A man of his wealth and liberal views, Began, at once, with ' If 'you choose And could you really love him ;' But the lady spoil'd his speech in a huff, With an answer rough and ready enough, To let him know she was up to snuff, And altogether above him ! A young attorney, of winning grace, Was scarce allow'd to ' open his face,' Ere Miss MACBRIDE had closed his case With true judicial celerity; For the lawyer was poor, and ' seedy' to boot, And to say the lady discarded his suit, Is merely a double verity. HUMORO US POETR Y. 245 The last of those who came to court Was a lively beau of the dapper sort, Without any visible means of support A crime by no means flagrant In one who wears an elegant coat, But the point on which they vote A ragged fellow ' a vagrant.' A courtly fellow was dapper JIM, Sleek and supple, and tall and trim, And smooth of tongue as neat of limb; And, maugre his meagre pocket, You'd say, from the glittering tales he told, That JIM had slept in a cradle of gold, With FORTUNATUS to rock it. Now dapple JIM his courtship plied (I wish the fact could be denied) With an eye to the purse of the old MACBRIDE, And really 'nothing shorter !' For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, ' Whenever he dies as die he must And yields to Heaven his vital trust, He's very sure to " come down with his dust " In behalf of his only daughter.' And the very magnificent Miss MACBRIDE, Half in love, and half in pride, Quite graciously relented ; 24 6 THE BOOK OF And tossing her head, and turning her back, No token of proper pride to lack- To be a Bride, without the ' Mac,' With much disdain, consented. Alas ! that people who've got their box Of cash beneath the best of locks, Secure from all financial shocks, Should stock their fancy with fancy-stocks, And madly rush upon Wall Street rocks, Without the least apology ! Alas ! that people whose money affairs Are sound, beyond all need of repairs, Should ever tempt the bulls and bears Of Mammon's fierce zoology ! Old JOHN MACBRIDE, one fatal day, Became the unresisting prey Of Fortune's undertakers ; And, staking all on a single die, His founder'd bark went high and dry Among the brokers and breakers ! At his trade again, in the very shop Where, years before, he let it drop, He follows his ancient calling Cheerily, too, in Poverty's spite, And sleeping quite as sound at night As when, at Fortune's giddy height, He used to wake with a dizzy fright From a dismal dream of falling. HUMOROUS POETRY. 247 But, alas for the haughty Miss MACBRIDE, 'Twas such a shock to her precious pride 1 She couldn't recover, although she tried Her jaded spirits to rally ; 'Twas a dreadful change in human affairs, From a Place 'up-town' to a nook 'up-stuirs, 1 From an avenue down to an alley ! 'Twas little condolence she had, God wot, From her ' troops of friends,' who hadn't forgot The airs she used to borrow ; They had civil phrases enough, but yet 'Twas plain to see that their ' deepest regret ' Was a different thing from sorrow ! They own'd it couldn't have well been worse, To go from a full to an empty purse : To expect a ' reversion,' and get a reverse, Was truly a dismal feature ; But it wasn't strange they whisper' d at all ! That the summer of pride should have its fall Was quite according to nature ! And one of those chaps who made a pun, As if it were quite legitimate fun To be blazing away at every one With a regular double-loaded gun, Remark'd that moral transgression Always brings retributive stings To candlemakers as well as kings : For ' making light of cereous things ' Was a very wick-ed profession ! 248 THE BOOK OF And vulgar people the saucy churls ! Inquired about ' the price of pearls,' And mock'd at her situation ; ' She wasn't ruin'd, they ventured to hope- Because she was poor, she needn't mope ; Few people were better off for soap, And that was a consolation !' And, to make her cup of woe run over, Her elegant, ardent, plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her ; * He quite regretted the step, 'twas true The lady had pride enough for " two," But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker.' And now the unhappy Miss MACBRIDE, The merest ghost of her early pride, Bewails her lonely position ; Cramp'd'in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich, Was ever a worse condition ? MORAL. Because you flourish in worldly affairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station ; Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clo'es, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth's a bubble that comes and goes ! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Is subject to irritation ! HUMOR O US POE TRY. 249 OLD GRIMES. Albert G. Greene, the author of the following eccentric trifle, is a native of Providence, Rhode Island. Several of his poems have become very popular, and one of them, The Baron's Last Banquet, is considered one of the most original short poems which has appeared in America. OLD GRIMES is dead : that good old man We never shall see more : He used to wear a long black coat, All button'd down before. His heart was open as the day ; His feelings all were true : His. hair was some inclined to grey He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd : The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turn'd. Kind words he ever had for all ; He knew no base design : His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true : His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. 250 THE BOOK OF Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes, He pass'd securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears Misfortune's frown : He wore a double-breasted vest The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert : He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbours he did not abuse Was sociable and gay : He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. His knowledge hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. HUMOROUS POETRY. 251 Then undisturb'd by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran ; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. This famous old ballad first appears to have been published in the reign of James I. It is a comparison between the manners and habits of the gentry of the former generation and the modern re- finements, follies, and excesses of their sons, and the several traits wherein they differ are told with much rough but graphic humour. In Pepys' Diary, June 16, 1668, allusion is made to this ballad. ' Come to Newbery, and there dined and musick : a song of the " Old Courtier of Queen Elizabeth," and how he was changed upon the coming in of the king, did please me mightily, and I did cause W. Hewer to write it out. ' AN old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful old rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages ; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges ; Like an old courtier, etc. 252 THE BOOK OF With an old study filled full of learn'd old books ; With an old reverend chaplain you might know him by his looks ; With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks ; And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half-a-dozen old cooks ; Like an old courtier, etc. With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows ; And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose ; And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose ; Like an old courtier, etc. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb ; Like an old courtier, etc. With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own grounds ; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds ; Like an old courtier, etc. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 253 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind : But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was in- clined ; Like a young courtier ; etc. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand ; Like a young courtier, etc. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping or care, Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair ; Like a young courtier, etc. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood ; Like a young courtier, etc. 254 THE BOOK OF With a new study, stuff'd full of pamphlets and plays ; And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays ; With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days ; And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys; Like a young courtier, etc. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house but our new porter Jphn, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone ; Like a young courtier, etc. With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is complete ; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat ; With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat ; Like a young courtier, etc. With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manners are sold ; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. HUMOR US POETR K 255 THE VAGABONDS. J. T. Trowbridge is a young American author of considerable re- pute. He is a contributor to the Atlantic Monthly, and one of the Editors of Our Young Folks, A Magazine for Boys and Girls. Published at Boston. WE are two travellers, Roger and I, Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp ; Jump for the gentlemen mind your eye ! Over the table look out for the lamp ! The rogue is growing a little old : Five years we've tramp'd through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank and starved together. We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut "for my fiddle (This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings. No, thank ye, Sir I never drink ; Roger and I are exceedingly moral Aren't we, Roger ? see him wink, Well, something hot, then we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too see him nod his head ; What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk ! He understands every word that's said ; And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 256 THE BOOK OF The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, Sir) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master ! No, Sir ! see him wag his tail, and grin ! By George ! it makes my old eyes water ; That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter. We'll have some music, if your willing, And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, Sir) Shall march a little. Start, you villain ! Paws up ! Eyes front ! Salute your officer ! 'Bout face ! Attention ! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle To aid a poor old patriot soldier. March ! Halt ! Now show how the Rebel shakes' When he stands up to hear his sentence. Now tell us how many drams it takes To honour a jolly new acquaintance. HUMORO US POETR Y. 257 Five yelps that's five ; he's mighty knowing I The night's before us, fill the glasses ! Quick, Sir ! I'm ill my brain is going ! Some brandy thank you there ! it passes. Why not reform ? That's easily said ; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think ] At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love but I took to drink ; The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features You needn't laugh, Sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures : I was one of your handsome men ! If you had seen HER, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd That ever I, Sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 258 THE BOOK OF She's married since a parson's wife : 'Twas better for her that we should part Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her ! Once : I was weak and spent On the dusty road : a carriage stopped : But little she dream'd, as on she went, Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropp'd ! You've set me talking, Sir, I'm sorry : It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story 1 It is amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me ! 'Twas well she died before Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart ; He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now ; that glass was warming. You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. HUMOROUS POETRY. 259 Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; The sooner the better for Roger and me. PRYTHEE, WHY SO PALE? SIR JOHN SUCKLING. WHY so pale and wan, fond lover ? Prythee, why so pale 1 Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Prythee, why so pale ? Why so mute and dull, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute 1 Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't ? Prythee, why so mute ? Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, This cannot take her : If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her : The devil take her ! 2 6o THE BOOK OF THE CASE ALTERED. HODGE held a farm, and smiled content While one year paid another's rent ; But if he ran the least behind Vexation stung his anxious mind ; For not an hour would landlord stay But seize the very quarter day : How cheap soe'er or scant the grain, Though urged with truth, was urged in vain, The same to him if false or true, For rent must come when rent was due. Yet that same landlord's cows and steeds Broke Hodge's fence, and crops his meads ; In hunting that same landlord's hounds, See how they spread his new-sown grounds j Dog, horse, and man, alike o'erjoyed, While half the rising crop 's destroyed, Yet tamely was the loss sustain'd ; 'Tis said the sufferer once complain'd : The Squire laugh'd loudly while he spoke, And paid the bumpkin with a joke. But luckless still poor Hodge's fate ! His Worship's bull has forced a gate, And gored his cow, the last and best ; By sickness he had lost the rest. Hodge felt at heart resentment strong, The heart will feel that suffers long. HUMOR US POETR K 261 A thought that instant took his head, And thus within himself he said : ' If Hodge for once don't sting the Squire, May people post him for a liar.' He then across his shoulder throws His fork, and to his landlord goes. ' I come, an' please ye, to unfold What, soon or late, you must be told : My bull (a creature tame till now), My bull has gored your Worship's cow. 'Tis known what shifts I make to live Perhaps your Honour may forgive ! no more' 'Forgive !' the Squire replied, and swore; ' Pray, cant to me, forgive ! no more The laws my damage shall decide, And know that I '11 be satisfied.' ' Think, Sir, I'm poor, poor as a rat.' ' Think, I 'm a Justice, think of that.' Hodge bow'd again, and scratch'd his head, And recollecting, archly said ' Sir, I 'm so struck when here before ye, I fear I blunder'd in the story : 'Fore George ! but I '11 not blunder now, Yours was the bull, Sir ! mine the cow !' His Worship found his rage subsides, And with calm accent thus replied : ' I '11 think upon your case to-night But I perceive 'tis alter'd quite !' Hodge shrugg'd, and made another bow, 'An' please ye? who's the Justice nowl' 262 THE BOOK OF 'THE GRAVE-DIGGER.' * OLD man ! old man ! for whom digg'st thou this grave 1 ' I ask'd as I walk'd along ; For I saw in the heart of London streets ,A. dark and a busy throng. 'Tvvas a strange wild deed ! but a wilder wish Of the parted soul, to lie 'Midst the troubled number of living men, Who would pass him idly by ! So I said, ' Old man ! for whom digg'st thou this grave, In the heart of London town ?' And the deep-toned voice of the digger replied, ' We 're laying a gas-pipe down 1' ROBIN GOODFELLOW. Robin Goodfellow, alias Hobgoblin, alias Puck, an English domestic sprite, who was, as Sir Walter Scott has written, ' the constant attendant upon the English fairy court, and, to the elves, acted in some measure as the clown or jester of the com- pany, a character then to be found in the establishment of every person of quality, or, to use a more modern comparison, re- sembled the Pierrot of the pantomime. His jests were of the most simple, and, at the same time, of the broadest comic cha- racter; to mislead a. clown on his path homeward, to disguise HUMOROUS POETR Y. 263 himself like a stool, in order to induce an old gossip lo commit the egregious mistake of sitting down on the floor when she ex- pected to repose on a chair, were his special employments.' In the writings of Shakespeare and Milton reference is made to this spirit. The following poem is attributed to Ben Jonson, but on supposition only. FROM Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night- sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And in a minute's space, descry Each thing that 's done below the moon. There 's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins ! where I go ; But Robin I Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam : 264 THE BOOK OF Through woods, through lakes ; Through bogs, through brakes ; Or else, unseen, with them I go, All in the nick, To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho ! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound j And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands, Through pools and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine ; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine 1 And, to make sport, I puff and snort : And out the candles I do blow: The maids I kiss, They shriek Who 's this 1 I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho ! Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool ; Sometimes I meet them like a man. Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; To trip and trot about them round. Page 264. HUMOR O US FOE TRY. 265 And, while they sleep and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still ; I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow j If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! When house or hearth doth sluttish lie, I pinch the maidens black and blue ; The bed-clothes from the bed pull I, And lay them naked all to view. 'Twixt sleep and wake, I do them take, And on the key-cold floor them throw ; If out they cry, Then forth I fly, And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho ! When any need to borrow aught, We lend them what they do require ; And, for the use, demand we nought; Our own is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night, I them affright, With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho ! 266 THE BOOK OF When lazy queens have nought to do, But study how to cog and lie : To make debate and mischief too, 'T\vixt one another secretly : I mark their gloze, And it disclose To them whom they have wronged so : When I have done, I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! When men do traps and engines set In loop-holes, where the vermin creep, Who from their folds and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep ; I spy the gin, And enter in, And seem a vermin taken so ; But when they there Approach me near, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! By wells and rills and meadows green, We nightly dance our heyday guise ; And to our fairy king and queen, We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing, Away we fling ; And babes new-born steal as we go; And elf in bed We leave instead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho ! HUMORO US POETR K 267 From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I Thus nightly revell'cl to and fro ; And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, Who haunt the nights, The hags and goblins do me know ; And beldames old My feats have told, So Vale, vale; ho, ho, ho ! A NEWSPAPER. ORGANS that gentlemen play, my boy, To answer the taste of the day, my boy ; Whatever it be, They hit on the key, And pipe in full concert away, my boy. News from all countries and climes, my boy, Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy, Mix'd up with all sorts Of flying reports, And published at regular times, my boy. Articles able and wise, my boy, At least in the editor's eyes, my boy, A logic so grand That few understand To what in the world it applies, my boy. 268 THE BOOK OF Statistics, reflections, reviews, my boy, Little scraps to instruct and amuse, my boy, And lengthy debate Upon matters of State For wise-headed folks to peruse, my boy. The funds as they were and are, my boy, The quibbles and quirks of the bar, my boy And every week A clever critique On some rising theatrical star, my boy. The age of Jupiter's moons, my boy, The stealing of somebody's spoons, my boy, The state of the crops, The style of the fops, And the wit of the public buffoons, my boy. List of all physical ills, my boy, Banish'd by somebody's pills, my boy, Till you ask with surprise Why any one dies, Or what 's the disorder that kills, my boy. Who has got married, to whom, my boy, Who were cut off in their bloom, my boy, Who has had birth On this sorrow-stain'd earth, And who totters fast to their tomb, my boy. HUMOR US POETR Y. 269 The price of cattle and grain, my boy, Directions to dig and to drain, my boy, But 'twould take me too long To tell you in song A quarter of all they contain, my boy. THE CITIZEN AND THE THIEVES. From a Pamphlet, published in 1609. A CITIZEN, for recreation's sake, To see the country would a journey take Some dozen miles or very little more ; Taking his leave with friends two months before, With drinking healths and shaking by the hand, As he had travell'd to some new-found land. Well, taking horse, with very much ado, London he leaveth for a day or two : And as he rideth, meets upon the way Such as (what haste soever) bid men stay. ' Sirrah,' says one, ' stand, and your purse deliver, I am a taker, thou must be a giver? Unto a wood, hard by, they hail him in, And rifle him unto his very skin. ' Misters,' quoth he, ' pray hear me ere you go ; For you have robb'd me more than you do know, My horse, in truth, I borrow'd of my brother ; The bridle and the saddle of another ; 270 THE BOOK OF The jerkin and the bases, be a tailor's ; The scarf, I do assure you, is a sailor's ; The falling band is likewise none of mine, Nor cuffs, as true as this good light dc-th shine. The satin doublet, and raised velvet hose Are our churchwarden's, all the parish knows. The boots are John the grocer's at the Swan ; The spurs were lent me by a serving-man. One of my rings that with the great red stone In sooth, I borrow' d of my gossip Joan : Her husband knows not of it, gentle man ! Thus stands my case I pray show favour then.' ' Why,' quoth the thieves, ' thou needst not greatly care, Since in thy loss so many bear a share ; The world goes hard, and many good folks lack, Look not, at this time, for a penny back. Go, tell at London thou didst meet with four, That rifling thee, have robb'd at least a score.' THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION. Translated from the Latin of Walter de Mapes, time of Henry II. BY LEIGH HUNT. I DEVISE to end ray days in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me the glass when I am shrinking, HUMOR US POE TRY. 271 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 bedew'd with nectar that fly up to supernals; Bottles crack'd in taverns have much the sweeter kernals, Than the sups allowed to us in the college journals. Every one by nature hath a mould which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting ; By a single little boy I should be surpass'd in Writing so : I'd just as lief be buried ; tomb'd and grass'd in. Every one by nature hath a gift too, a dotation : I, when I make verses do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine that comes into the nation : It maketh sermons to astound for edification. Just as liquor fioweth good floweth forth my lay so ; But I must moreover eat or I could not say so ; Naught it availeth inwardly should* I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat I beat Ovidius Naso. 272 THE BOOK OF Neither is there given to me prophetic animation, Unless when I have ate and drank yea, ev'n to satura- tion; Then in my upper storey hath Bacchus domination, And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation. THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. J. R. PLANCH& J. R. Planche, Esq., is well known as one of the most successful of living play- wrights, and also as a distinguished member of the Society of Antiquaries. He may be said to be the founder of the modern school of burlesque, as he is certainly the ablest writer who has turned his attention to that popular class of dramatic composition. Mr. Planche in his early days wrote a number of humorous pieces in the style of Colman and Peter Pindar, many of which have become highly popular. He now holds the office of Rouge Croix Pursuivant in the Herald Office. AT Trin. Coll. Cam. which means, in proper spelling, Trinity College, Cambridge there resided One Harry Dashington a youth excelling In all the learning commonly provided For those who choose that classic station For finishing their education. That is he understood computing The odds at any race or match ; Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting ; Could kick up rows knock down the watch- Play truant and the rake at random Drink tie cravats and drive a tandem. HUMOR OUS POETRY. 273 Remonstrance, fine, and rustication, So far from working reformation, Seem'd but to make his lapses greater, Till he was warn'd that next offence Would have this certain consequence Expulsion from his Alma Mater. One need not be a necromancer To guess, that, with so wild a wight, The next offence occurr'd next night ; When our Incurable came rolling Home, as the midnight chimes were tolling, And rang the College Bell. No answer. The second peal was vain the third Made the street echo its alarum, When to his great delight he heard The sordid Janitor, Old Ben, Rousing and growling in his den. 'Who's there? I s'pose young Harum-scarum.' 4 'Tis I, my worthy Ben 'tis Harry.' ' Ay, so I thought and there you '11 tarry. 'Tis past the hour the gates are closed You know my orders I shall lose My place if I undo the door.' ' And I ' (young Hopeful interposed) ' Shall be expell'd if you refuse, So prythee ' Ben began to snore. ' I 'm wet,' cried Harry, ' to the skin, Hip ! hallo ! Ben don't be a ninny; 274 THE BOOK OF Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea, So tumble out and let me in.' 1 Humph !' growl'd the greedy old curmudgeon, Half overjoy'd and half in dudgeon, ' Now you may pass ; but make np fuss, On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate.' ' Look on the stones, old Cerberus,' Cried Harry as he pass'd the gate, ' I ve dropp'd a shilling take the light, You '11 find it just outside good-night.' Behold the Porter in his shirt, Dripping with rain that never stopp'd, Groping and raking in the dirt, And all without success ; but that Is hardly to be wonder'd at, Because no shilling had been dropp'd ; So he gave o'er the search at last, Regain'd the door, and found it fast ! With sundiy oaths, and growls, and groans, He rang once twice and thrice ; and then, Mingled 'with giggling, heard the tones Of Harry, mimicking old Ben ' Who 's there 1 'Tis really a disgrace To ring so loud I Ve lock'd the gate, I know my duty. 'Tis too late, You wouldn't have me lose my place V HUMOR O US POE TRY. 275 ' Psha ! Mr. Dashington ; remember This is the middle of November, I 'm stripp'd ; 'tis raining cats and dogs ' ' Hush, hush !' quoth Hal, ' I 'm fast asleep ;' And then he snored as loud and deep As a whole company of hogs. * But, hark ye, Ben, I '11 grant admittance At the same rate I paid myself.' ' Nay, master, leave me half the pittance/ Replied the avaricious elf. ' No all or none a full acquittance ; The terms, I know, are somewhat high ; But you have fix'd the price, not I I won't take less ; I can't afford it.' So, finding all his haggling vain, Ben, with an oath and groan of pain, Drew out the guinea, and restored it. ' Surely you will give me,' growl'd the outwitted Porter, when again admitted, * Something, now you've done your joking, For all this trouble, time, and soaking.' ' Oh, surely, surely,' Harry said, ' Since, as you urge, I broke your rest, And you 're half-drown'd and quite undress'd, I '11 give you,' said the generous fellow Free, as most people are, when mellow ' Yes, I'll give you leave to go to bed 1* 276 THE BOOK OF FOOLS. THERE are fools of pretension and fools of pretence, Fools that can't understand even other folk's sense t There are high-finish'd boobies from every great school, And many worse fools in the world than ' Tom Fool.' For Tom was the merriest fool upon earth, But Folly brought twin greater fools at a birth ; Young Hope-fool and Will-fool, fools of the first water, And at last, to beat all, she bore Spite-fool a daughter. There are fools all for saving, and fools that all spend, And great fools that borrow, and greater that lend ; Fools that rush unto crime to accumulate wealth, Fools that squander the best of all treasures their health. Fools that barter the best things of life for a song, Fools of lovers whose folly but seldom lasts long : There are fools that are single, and fools that are wed, And fools have writ volumes that never were read. There are fools, too, that read, and are never the wiser, And many's the fool takes the part of adviser : There are fools to be woo'd and still greater to woo, And fools to give Roguery plenty to do. There are fools that abuse and fools that applaud, Great fools stay at home, and great fools go abroad ; And great fools return greater fools then they went, Their morals all gone and their money all spent. HUMOROUS POETRY. 277 There are fools that see diamonds in Derbyshire spar, And these are the fools found at every Bazaar : Fools to be stared at, and fools too to stare, And mothers, great fools, let their daughters be there. There are fools in the city of pleasure and trade ; There are fools, country-gentlemen, all ready made : Great fools of great fortunes lose life and estate, For the hunting a fox and the leaping a gate. There are fools that are young, and fools that grow old, Some fools too gentle, some given to scold ; Some fools that torments friends, children, and wives, And greater that plague themselves out of their lives. I could tell of more fools without number or end, That with all this my telling I never shall mend, And perhaps lose myself, both my sense and my labour, And perhaps I am quite as great fool as my neighbour. 'Tis thus through his catalogue good Dr. John, In his eloquent fashion was wont to run on, And to wind up his descant with energy worthy The mind unsubdued by its ' particles earthly.' But a coxcomb, a prig, science-cramming, and prating, Naught-knowing, ear-boring, and gesticulating ; Oh the biggest of boobies ! all fools to surpass, For a fool's but a fool, but the Doctor's an Ass. 278 THE BOOK OF LOVE IN A COTTAGE. N. P. WILLIS. Nathaniel Parker Willis, a distinguished Litterateur, was bom at Portland, Maine, 1807. He adopted the profession of literature early in life, and for many years was an industrious editor and voluminous writer. Most of his works have been reprinted, and attained to some degree of popularity in this country. He is the brother of the strong-minded and erratic ' Fanny Fern. ' He died in the present year (1867). THEY may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine ; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free ! But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near : Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine. Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies ! HUMOR O US POE TRY. 279 You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a fly in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer. True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel, And shot from a silver string. ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar so runs the ancient tale ; 'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; 2 8o THE BOOK OF And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow, and quaff'd a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs and conceived a longing for the same ; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. But, changing hands, it reach'd at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow TIMOTHY, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what's next, it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred souls and more Along with all their furniture, to fill their new abodes To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When old MILES STANDISH took the bowl, and fill'd it to the brim ; HUMOR US POE TRY. 281 The little Captain stood and stirr'd the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He pour'd the fiery Hollands in the man that never fear'd He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; And one by one the musketeers the men that fought and pray'd All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught to kith and kin, ' Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin !' A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 282 THE BOOK OF 1 Drink, John,' she said, ' 'twill do you good, poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if God bless me ! you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ;' So John did drink, and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill ! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old Eng- lish cheer ; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here : 'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! I love the memory of the past its press'd yet fragrant flowers The moss that clothes its broken walls the ivy on its towers ; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd, my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanish'd joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; HUMOR US POE TRY. 283 And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words ' My dear, where have you been V THE PUPIL OF MERLIN. [Imitated from the German of .Goethe.] GREAT MERLIN of old had a magical trick For putting in motion a talisman stick, That would do at his pleasure whatever he wanted ; He had only to speak and the stick was enchanted ; Off it set in a twinkling, and came in a crack ; He order'd it out, and he whistled it back. A youthful disciple of Merlin's own school, A would-be magician, half knave and half fool, Once peeping through cranny, the secret found out, Heard the ' conjurote,' saw the stick fly about ; 'Twas enough, having seen, he must try the experiment : So he scamper'd off home in the height of his merriment, With a substitute broomstick to ape the magician, Repeated the charm, and enjoin'd his commission. ' Stick ! conjurote ! I command thee to bring A bucket of water just fresh from the spring, In order to wash the place tidy and clean, And render my cottage the pride of the green !' So soon as he utter'd this eloquent spell, It vanish'd instanter, he mimick'd so well j 284 THE BOOK OF Then as quickly return'd to his great satisfaction, Conducting the bucket with secret attraction. Then again sallied out and return'd with a second, A third, fourth, fifth, six full a dozen he reckon'd. Again and again comes the troublesome evil ; He heartily wishes the stick at the devil, And endeavours to stop this strange baton constabulary By repeating by heart all his magic vocabulary. In vain, the said stick is as deaf as a post, And frightens him, ready to give up the ghost. 'What,holloa! neighbours mine! oh, the shocking disaster!' The louder he holloas the stick goes the faster. In this wretched dilemma he loses his wits, He rages, he swears, and he whimpers by fits ; Beats his breasts, pulls his hair, and defaces his face, Still the stick and the bucket continued the chase. The comical scene would have kill'd you with laughter, The stick led the way and the bucket sped after. Provoked at the sight, he endeavour'd to catch it, Gets a rap on the knuckles he seizes a hatchet, In a violent passion he chops it asunder ; This stratagem proves a most exquisite blunder ; It produces a double stick, /. " Cambyses vein." ' THE town of Passage Is both large and spacious, And situated. Upon the say ; 'Tis nate and dacent, And quite adjacent, To come from Cork On a summer's day. There you may slip in To take a dippin', Forenent the shippin' That at anchor ride ; Or in a wherry Cross o'er the ferry To Carrigaloe On the other side. Mud cabins swarm in This place so charmin', With sailors' garments Hung out to dry ; HUMOR O US POETR Y. 423 And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious, In their strawbuilt sty. "Pis there the turf is, And lots of murphies, Dead sprats, and herrings, And oyster-shells ; Nor any lack, oh ! Of good tobacco, Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadiz, And from Barbadoes, But the leading trade is In whisky punch ; And you may go in Where one Molly Bowen Keeps a nate hotel For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, Whatsoever country You come hither from, Or an invitation To a jollification With a parish priest, That's called ' Father Tom.' 424 THE BOOK OF Of ships there's one fixt For lodging convicts A floating ' stone jug* Of amazing bulk ; The hake and salmon, Playing at bagammon, Swim for divarsion All round this hulk ; There ' Saxon ' sailors Keep brave repailers, Who soon with sailors Must anchor weigh From th' Em'rald Island, Ne'er to see dry land Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay. THE PIG IN A POKE. A TALE. A FARMER'S lease contain'd a flaw ; To mend it, he appeal'd to law. Dear-bought experience told him plain, That law without a fee was vain ; And that, to clear his counsel's tone, he Must bribe him or with meat or money. One morn he calls his clown in chief, * Here, take this pig to Lawyer Brief.' .HUMOROUS POETRY. 425 The clown (unlike his wife, they say) Could both be silent, and obey : The pig, secured within a sack, At ease hung dangling from his back ; Thus loaded, straight to town he went, With many an awkward compliment. A half-way house convenient stood, Where host was kind, and ale was good : In steps the clown, and calls to Cecil 'A quart of stout, to wet my whistle !' Eased of his load, he takes a chair, And quaffs oblivion to all care. Three artful wags accost the clown, And ask his errand up to town. With potent ale his heart grows warm, Which, drunk or sober, meant no harm : He tells them plainly whence he came ; His master, and the lawyer's name ; And, ere the circling mug was drain'd, Show'd what the prostrate sack contain'd. Whilst two the witless clown amuse, With merry tales, and mournful news, A third removes the sack unseen, And soon sets free the guest within : But, lest our clown the trick should trace, A well-fed cur supplies the place. The point clear'd up of what's to pay, Our clown in peace pursued his way. Arrived, he makes his awkward bow, With many a Wherefore, and As how. 426 THE BOOK OF 1 Heaven bless your Honour many a year ! Look what a pig I've brought you here.' The sack untied without demur, Forthwith out gently crept the cur. Both stood aghast with eager eyes, And both, no doubt, look'd wond'rous wise. The clown, who saw the lawyer foam, Swore 'twas a pig when brought from home : And, wondering at the queer disaster, In haste return'd to tell his master. Well pleased to see him take the bait, The wags his quick return await. What peals of noisy mirth prevail, To hear him tell the mystic tale ! The devil is in 't, they all agree, And seem to wonder more than he. From them to Cecil he repairs, To her the strange event declares : Meantime the wags, to end the joke, Replace the pig within it's poke. The rustic soon resumes his load, And, whistling, plods along the road. Th' impatient farmer hails the clown, And asks, ' What news from London town ? The pig was liked ; they made you drink 1 ' ' Nay, master ! master ! What d'ye think ? The pig (or I'm a stupid log) Is changed into a puppy dog.' ' A dog ! ' ' Nay, since my word you doubt, See here ; I'll fairly turn him out.' HUMOR US POE TRY. 427 No sooner was the sack untied, Than a loud grunt his word belied : ' Death,' cries the farmer, ' tell me whence Proceeds this daring insolence ? Make haste, take back this pig again you Presuming elf; or, zounds ! I'll brain you !' The clown of patient soul and blood, Awhile in silent wonder stood ; Then briefly cried, with phiz demure ' Yon lawyer is a witch, for sure ! How hoarse his voice ! his face how grim ! What's pig with us is dog with him : Heaven shield my future days from evil ! For, as I live, I've seen the devil.' BETTER WALK THAN RIDE. SPAVINED SAPPHICS. Lo ! how much grander for a human being, When he would journey, never to demean him- Self with a horse or carriage, but to leg it Free from all cumbrance. Sure, 'tis a folly, humble degradation, For a strong biped, muscular and nervous, Tied to a horse tail, in a cracking coach to Drag on dependent. < But it is quicker it is less fatiguing ;' True, these are reasons when the knees are gouty, 428 THE BOOK OF Or, one would flee that bashful man the sheriff, Or, from the small-pox. And, let a doctor, or a country parson, Stride like dividers, spurring like a Sambo When one is qualmish with the pangs of nature, Or with a neck broke. But for a tourist, sketching what his eyes see ; But for a scholar, nursing as he mopes on ; Just as well, better, pleasanter, and safer, For them to foot it. That we have two legs, evident to all 'tis, Who are not maim'd ; and if any doubt it, Let him his own count, and if he deny it, Best learn to cipher. Well then, these legs were given us to walk with ; Nothing more true is to a man of science ; For all the joints are fitted to this purpose, Supple, and firm too. Then never tell me more of fleetest horses, Chariots and tandems rather boots and shoes on. \ Take up your staff, and, free and philosophic, Ride on your own feet. Cease now, Miss Musey, spitting out your sapphics, Go, for I hate ye preaching 'bout your plodding ; Give me a coach and dappled pair of geldings, You may ride Shank's mare. HUMOROUS POETRY. 429 THE GOUTY MERCHANT, AND THE STRANGER. IN Bond Street Buildings, on a winter's night, Snug by his parlour fire a gouty wight Sate all alone, with one hand rubbing His leg roll'd up in fleecy hose, While t'other held beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops, Gum, galls and groceries, ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmerick, turpentine, and tin ; When lo ! a decent personage in black Enter'd, and most politely said, ' Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track, To the King's Head, And left your door ajar, which I Observed in passing by, And thought it neighbourly to give you notice.' ' Ten thousand thanks how very few get In time of danger Such kind attentions from a stranger. Assuredly that fellow's throat is Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate. He knows, too, the unconscious elf, That there's no soul at home except myself.' ' Indeed !' replied the stranger, looking grave, * Then he's a double knave. 430 THE BOOK OF He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors : And see how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your nose Perform his knavish tricks, Enter your room as I have done, Blow out your candles thus and thus Pocket your silver candlesticks, And walk off thus' So said so done he made no more remark, Nor waited for replies, But march'd off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. AN EPITAPH, OR PUNNING RUN MAD. HERE lies old JOHN MAGEE, late the landlord at the Sun, He never had an ail unless when all his ale was done : The Sun was on his sign, tho' what sign his sun was on, No studier of the Zodiac could ever hit upon. Some said it was Aquarius, so queerious he'd get ; But he declared no soda-hack should ever share his whet ; His burnish'd sun was sol-o, soul-heart'ning was his cheer, And quaffing of good porter long kept him from his liter, HUMOR US POETR Y. 43 1 As draughtsman he'd no equal, his drawings were so good, And many a noble draught has he taken from the wood, Rare spirited productions, with tasty views near Cork; And then he had a score or two rum characters in chalk. Beside the parlour window his tally it was nail'd, And tho' he'd lost one eyesight, his hop-ticks never fail'd. Good ale and cider sold here, oft made the soldier halt, And sailor Jack, his sail aback, would hoist aboard his malt -, Most cordially he 'd pour out a cordial for the fair, Whose peeper meant to ogle the pepper-mint so rare. While buxom Jen would toss off the juniper so gay, And swear it was both sweet and nice as any shrub in May. At last JOHN took to drinking, and drank till drunk with drink, His stuffing he would stuff in till stuff began to shrink ; Tho' mistress shook her hand high, he suck'd the sugar- candy, And often closed his brand eye by tippling of the brandy : His servants always firking, his firkins ran so fast, And staggering round his bar-rails, his barrels breathed their last ; And when he treated all hands his Hollands ran away, Nor reap'd he fruit from any seed for aniseed to pay. And tho' he drank the bitters, his bitters still increased He pufft the more parfait aucour till all his efforts ceased, 432 THE BOOK OF The storm, alas ! was brewing, the brewer drew his till : And Mrs. Fig, for 'bacca, to back her brought her bill. Distillers still'd his spirits, but couldn't still his mind ; He told the bailiff he would try a bail if he could find, But fumbling round the tap-room, Death tapp'd him on the head, So here he lies quite flat and stale, because, d'ye see, he's dead. THE PRAISE OF EATING. YE sons of the platter, give ear, Venter habet aures, they say, The praise of good eating to hear, You'll never be out of the way ; But with knives sharp as razors, and stomachs as keen, Stand ready to cut through the fat and the lean Through the fat and the lean, Sit ready to cut through the fat and the lean. The science of eating is old, Its antiquity no man can doubt, Though Adam was squeamish, we're told, Eve soon found a dainty bit out Then with knives sharp as razors, and stomachs as keen, Our passage let's cut through the fat and the lean Etc., etc. HUMOROUS POETR Y. 433 Through the world, from the west to the east, Whether City, or County, or Court, There's no honest man, whether Laic or Priest, But with pleasure partakes in the sport ; And with knife sharp as razor, and stomach as keen, His passage doth cut through the fat and the lean, Etc., etc. They may talk of their roast and their boil'd, They may talk of their stew and their fry, I am gentle simplicity's child, And I dote on a West-Riding pie While with knife sharp as razor, and stomach as keen, I splash through the crust to the fat and the lean, Etc., etc. PATENT BROWN STOUT. * A BREWER in a country town, Had got a monstrous reputation ; No other beer but his went down. The hosts of the surrounding station, Carving his name upon their mugs, And painting it on every shutter ; And though some envious folks would utter Hints that its flavour came from drugs, Others maintain'd 'twas no such matter ; But owing to his monstrous vat, At least as corpulent as that At Heidelberg . . . and some said fatter. 2 K 434 THE BOOK OP His foreman was a lusty Black, An honest fellow ; But one who had an ugly knack Of tasting samples as he brew'd, Till he was stupefied and mellow. One day in this top-heavy mood, Having to cross the vat aforesaid (Just then with boiling beer supplied), O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he Reel'd fell in and nothing more said, But in his favourite liquor died, Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey. In all directions round about The negro absentee was sought, But as no human noddle thought That our fat Black was now Brown Stout, They settled that the rogue had left The place for debt, or crime, or theft. Meanwhile the beer was day by day Drawn into casks and sent away, Until the lees flow'd thick and thicker, When, lo ! outstretch'd upon the ground, Once more their missing friend they found, As they had often done ... in liquor. See, cried his moralizing master, I always new the fellow drank hard, And prophesied some sad disaster His fate should other tipplers strike. HUMOR O US POE TRY. 435 Poor Mungo ! there he welters like A toast at bottom of a tankard ! Next morn a publican, whose tap, Had help'd to drain the vat so diy, Not having heard of the mishap, Come to demand a fresh supply, Protesting loudly that the last All previous specimens surpass'd, Possessing a much richer gusto Than formerly it ever used to, And begging as a special favour, Some more of the exact same flavour. Zounds ! cried the Brewer, that's a task More difficult to grant than ask Most gladly would I give the smack Of the last beer to the ensuing, But where am I to find a Black And boil him down at every brewing ? THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. The following pithy fable, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, is one of the very few instances in which the most profound thinker and eminent philosopher in America has condescended to enter the ranks of light literature. THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter ' Little prig ;' 43 6 THE BOOK OF Bun replied, ' You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry": I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.' MONEY. LORD BYRON. An Extract from the Tenth Canto of Don Juan. WHY call the miser miserable 1 as I said before : the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was . The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause, And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? HUMOR US POE TR Y. 43 7 Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial ; Then there's more merit in his self-denial. He is your only poet ; passion, pure, And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays Possess 1 dj the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. The lands on either side are his : the ship From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; His very cellars might be kings' abodes j While he, despising every sensual call, Commands the intellectual lord of all. Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,' To build a college, or to found a race, An hospital, a church and leave behind Some dome surmounted by his meagre face. Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind Even with the very ore which makes them base ; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation. 438 THE BOOK OF But whether all, or each, or none of these May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease : What is his own ? Go look at each transaction, Wars, revels, love do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction?' Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean Miser ! Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours who's wiser ! Plow beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp ! Yes ? ready money is Aladdin's lamp. ' Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, for love Is heaven, and heaven is love :' so sings the bard ; Which it were rather difficult to prove (A thing with poetry in general hard). Perhaps there may be something in ' the grove,' At least it rhymes to ' love :' but I'm prepared To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) If ' courts ' and ' camps ' be quite so sentimental. HUMOR US POE TR Y. 43 9 ON THE OXFORD CARRIER. JOHN MILTON. The following epitaphs on Hobson, the Cambridge University Carrier, ' who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the Plague,' were written by the author of Paradise Lost. The phrase ' Hobson' s Choice ' de- rived its origin from the worthy subject of the epitaphs. He kept an inn, and let horses on hire, but he would not allow his patrons to select the horses for themselves. He compelled each customer to take the one nearest the door. Hence ' Hobson's Choice ' passed into a proverb as a choice without an alternative. HERE lies old Hobson ; death hath broke his girt, And here, alas ! hath laid him in the dirt ; Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known, Death was half-glad when he had got him down ; For he had, any time this ten years full, Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull. And surely Death could never have prevail'd, Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd ; But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, And that he had ta'en up his latest inn, In the kind office of a chamberlain, Shew'd him his room where he might lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light : If any ask for him, it shall be said, * Hobson has supp'd, and 's newly gone to bed.' 440 THE BOOK OF ANOTHER ON THE SAME. HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move ; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot ; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time : And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath ; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken' d, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd ; ' Nay,' quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch' d, ' If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers.' Ease was his chief disease ; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light : His leisure told him that his time was come. And lack of load made his life burdensome, That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, ' More weight ;' But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. HVMORO US POETIC Y. 441 Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase : His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription. CHURCH AND STATE. THOMAS MOORE. WHEN Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become - If't is not civil to say old At least, a ci-devant jeime homme. One evening, on some wild pursuit, Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-a-vis. This said Religion was a friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then. ' I say' quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke ' I say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak.' 442 THE BOOK OF The friar consented little knew What tricks the youth had in his head j Besides, was rather tempted, too, By a laced coat he got in stead. Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town ; Broke windows shiver'd lamps to smash, And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down. While naught could they whose heads were broke, Learn of the 'why' or the 'wherefore,' Except that 'twas Religion's cloak The gentlemen, Avho crack'd them, wore. Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd. By the laced coat, grew frisky too Look'd big his former habits spurn'd And storm'd about as great men do Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses Said, ' Damn you,' often, or as bad Laid claim to other people's purses In short, grew either knave or mad. As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense then sitting, Summon'd the culprits both before it ; HUMOROUS POETRY. 443 Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As courts must wrangle to decide well), Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell : With this proviso Should they be Restored in due time to their senses, They both must give security In future, against such offences Religion ne'er to lend his cloak, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to ; And Royalty to crack his joke But not to crack poor people's heads, too. THE PILGRIM. THE night was dark, and drear the heath, And sudden howl'd the wind, When o'er the wold a pilgrim stray'd Some friendly inn to find. Fie hasten'd to a feeble light That glimmer'd from afar, By which he view'd a sign project, And found it was the Star. Good fare was there for man and horse, And rest for weary bones ; A famed and long-establish'd house, And kept by Mary Jones. 444 THE BOOK OF Three gentle taps the pilgrim gave, When Mary oped the door, And usher'd in her weary guest, Not knowing he was poor. But Mary's een was rather dim, Or else she might have kenn'd He was nae muckle wealthy wight The widow to befriend. No cockle-shell or cowl had he, Nor pilgrim's staff so tall ; Nor sandal shode had he, I wean, If any shoone at all. He ate; he drank, he praised the ale, Most sumptuously he fed, . And, when he heard the clock strike twelve, He march'd up-stairs to bed. Next morning breakfast was prepared, Of which he ate his fill ; When Mary Jones, in neat array, Brought in the pilgrim's bill. He heeded not the items there, But unto Jones did say, ' I bear a pilgrim's ancient name, ' And ne'er bring cash to pay.' HUMOROUS POETRY. 445 ' To touch the vile polluted ore My conscience would offend ; I neither borrow cash nor plate, Nor either do I lend. Daughter, I liked thy supper much, And much I liked the dressing ; Therefore, for all I have received, I leave thee, child, my blessing.' Poor Mary Jones astonish'd stood, To see the good man pray ; At length the hostess silence broke, And thus to him did say : ' I ne'er a pilgrim housed before, Nor such like holy folk ; But, as you say the custom's old, I bend beneath the yoke. * No doubt you have a conscience good, Nor do I mean to shock it ; But, pilgrim, when you call again, Bring money in your pocket.' FOLLY. THERE is folly in all the world, Or go we east or west, A folly that vexes the old, And keeps the young from rest. 446, THE BOOK OF The miser has folly enough, For his soul is in sordid bags ; And the spendthrift's folly, alas ! Brings him to sin and rags. There is folly in statesmen's schemes, For, spite of their plotting and wit, There's a wiser hand above That leads them with bridle and bit. There's folly in power and pride, That makes full many to fall ; There's a folly in maiden's love, But that is the sweetest of all. But of all the follies, the worst For it stings with constant smart, The scorpion of the mind Is that of a thankless heart. For the thankless heart is cursed, And with blessings encompass'd grieves For it cannot rejoice with the hand That gives nor yet receives. To be thankful makes better the good ; And if Heaven should send us ill, There is kindness in Him that gives So let us be thankful still. HUMOROUS POETRY, 447 Oh, let us be thankful in youth, And let us be thankful in age ; Let us be thankful through life, For there's pleasure in every stage. Youth has its own sweet joys, And he must be blind as a bat, Who cannot see Love's sweet smile, And will not be thankful for that. There are friends the dearest to cheer, Ere half our sand is run ; And affection makes wintry days As bright as the summer's sun. And when from the dearest on earth We part, let us hope 'tis given A boon to the thankful still To meet them again in heaven. PROVERBS. MY good Aunt Bridget, spite of age, Versed in Varlerian, Dock, and sage, Well knew the virtues of herbs ; But Proverbs gain'd her chief applause : ' Child,' she exclaim'd, ' respect old saws, And pin your faith on Proverbs.' 448 THE BOOK OT Thus taught, I dubb'd my lot secure, And playing long-rope ' slow and sure,' Conceived my movement clever ; When lo ! an Urchin by my side Push'd me head foremost in, and cried, ' Keep moving Now or Never.' At Melton next, I join'd the hunt, Of boys and bushes bore the brunt, Nor once my courser held in j But when I saw a yawning steep, I thought of ' Look before you leap,' And curb'd my eager gelding. While doubtful thus I rein'd my roan, Willing to save a fractured bone, Yet fearful of exposure, A sportsman thus my spirit stirr'd ' Delays are dangerous ;' I spurr'd My steed and leap'd th' enclosure. I ogled Jane, who heard me say That ' Rome was not built in a day,' When lo ! Sir Fleet O'Grady Put this, my saw, to sea again, And proved, by running off with Jane, ' Faint heart ne'er won fair Lady.' Aware ' New Brooms sweep clean,' I took An untaught tyro for a cook (The tale I tell a fact is), IIUMORO US POETR Y. 449 She spoilt my soup ; but when I chid, She thus once more my work undid, ' Perfection comes from practice.' Thus, out of every adage hit, And, rinding that ancestral wit As changeful as the clime is From Proverbs, turning on my heel, I now cull Wisdom from my seal Whose motto's Ne quid nimis. A FRIEND. COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. WHO borrows all your ready cash, And with it cuts a mighty dash, Proving the lender weak and rash ? Your friend ! Who finds out every secret fault, Misjudges every word .and thought, And makes you pass for worse than naught ? Your friend I Who wins youf money at deep play, Then tells you that the world doth say, "Twere wise from clubs you kept away?' Your friend I 2 v 450 THE BOOK OF Who sells you for the longest price, Horses, a dealer in a trice Would find unsound, and full of vice ? Your friend ! Who eats your dinners, then looks shrewd ; Wishes you had a cook like Ude 1 For then, much oft'ner would intrude Your friend ! Who tells you that you've shocking wine, And owns, that though he sports not fine, Crockford 's the only place to dine 1 Your friend ! Who wheedles you with words most fond To sign for him a heavy bond, * Or else, by Jove ! must quick abscond ?' Your friend 1 Who makes you all the interest pay, With principal, some future day, And laughs at what you then may say ? Your friend 1 Who makes deep love unto your wife, Knowing you prize her more than life, And breeds between you hate and strife ? Your friend ! HUMOR O US FOB TRY. 451 Who, when you've got into a brawl, Insists that out your man you call, Then gets you shot, which ends it all ? Your friend ! IN PRAISE OF SLEEP. From the Italian of Passeroni. ' Gifr molte cose, e molte sopra '1 Sonno.' How many things have oft been sung or said Concerning Sleep, in poetry and prose ! There's scarce an author worthy to be read But something on the subject can disclose ; While some declare it good, with nodding head, Others its torpid influence oppose ; And thus its good or evil each enhances, As it may chance to suit their different fancies. He who extols its worth, we always find Loves frequent naps, and after-dinner snoozes j But he who is not drowsily inclined, Old Morpheus, for the vilest god, abuses ; As one who tow'rds the ladye of his mind The honey'd terms of admiration uses, Yet those who do not care a farthing for her, Despise her charms, or mention her with horror. 452 THE BOOK OF By some, in terms of glowing praise addrest, As rest to wearied mortals sent from heav'n Of all its gracious gifts esteem'd the best A brief oblivion to our sorrows given ! Others deny its virtues, and protest Somnus from earth has every virtue driven : One calls him Son of Erebus, another Swears he is nothing better than Death's brother. Some say it keeps us healthy, and again, For sickness 'tis a soothing remedy ; Others declare it stagnates every vein, Making us, like the blood, creep lazily. All this may be, or not ; but I maintain, When I am snoring, that I feel quite free From trouble or annoyance ; and I hate A blockhead who disturbs that tranquil state* Sleep can at least a truce to sorrow bring, Altho' it may not conquer miseries, For o'er our couch he spreads his dusky wing, And grief before its mighty power flies ; And, as I somewhere heard a poet sing, ' Beggars and kings sleep soon can equalize f So, when asleep, perchance I am as good As any lord or prince of royal blood 1 Nay, I am happier still, for I must own My sleep is not disturb'd by constant fear HUMOROUS POETR Y. 453 That others may attack my wife, or throne, Or that the threat'ning Sultan marches near j I am not roused by the shrill trumpet's tone Indeed, no startling sound disturbs my ear, Unless it be the neighb'ring abbey's chime, With noisy zeal proclaiming matin time. And if in visions phantom shades arise, Invoking midnight terrors what of them ? How oft on soaring wings we range the skies At banquets sit or find some costly gem Discover where a hoarded treasure lies Or wear a monarch's Jewell' d diadem ? For many such adventures we may meet, Raised by sleep's magic-wand, with kind deceit. Moreover, I am wedded to no mate, Thinking my holy slumber she might break ; I am no doctor thief or advocate For they must ever keep both eyes awake. Oh ! when I take a hearty supper, late How sweetly sleep creeps o'er me ! I betake My wearied limbs to bed ; and, when once there, Why the dog barks, I neither know nor care ! ODE TO THE TREADMILL. CHARLES LAMB. INSPIRE my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, Th it. sang the Pillory, 454 THE BOOK OF 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 ! In such a place Who could expose thy face, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe ! That paint'st the strike 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 nought 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, HUMORO US POETR K 455 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, 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 ! 456 THE BOOK OF 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 begrimed 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. Compared with thee, 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 ! 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 all is merely Peripatetic. HUMOR US FOE TRY. 457 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, Each Tyro now proceeds A 'Walking Stewart!' THE COURT OF ALDERMEN AT FISH- MONGERS' HALL. Is that dace or perch 1 Said Alderman Birch ; I take it for herring, Said Alderman Perring. This jack's very good, Said Alderman Wood ; But its bones might a man slay, Said Alderman Ansley. I'll butter what I get, Said Alderman Heygate. Give me some stew'd carp, Said Alderman Thorp. The roe's dry as pith, Said Alderman Smith. Don't cut so far down, Said Alderman Brown : 45 THE BOOK OF But nearer the fin, Said Alderman Glyn. I've finish'd, i' faith man, Said Alderman Waithman : And I too, i' fatkins, Said Alderman Atkins. They Ve crimp'd this cod drolly, Said Alderman Scholey ; Tis bruised at the ridges, Said Alderman Brydges. Was it caught in a drag ? Nay, Said Alderman Magnay. 'Twas brought by two men, Said Alderman Ven- ables : Yes, in a box, Said Alderman Cox, They care not \iQ\vfnr '/is, Said Alderman Curtis. From air kept, and from sun, Said Alderman Thompson j Pack'd neatly in straw, Said Alderman Shaw : In ice got from Gunter, Said Alderman Hunter. This ketchup is sour, Said Alderman Flower ; Then steep it in claret, Said Alderman Garret. HUMOR O US FOE TRY. 459 TABLE TALK. To weave a culinary clue, Whom to eschew, and what to chew, Where shun, and where take rations, I sing. Attend, ye diners-out, And if my numbers please you, shout ' Hear, hear ! ' in acclamations. There are who treat you, once a year, To the same stupid set : good cheer Such hardship cannot soften. To listen to the self-same dunce, At the same leaden table, once Per annum's once too often. Rather than that, mix on my plate With men I like the meat I hate Colman with pig and treacle ; Luttrell with ven'son-pasty join, Lord Normanby with orange-wine, And rabbit pie with Jekyll. Add to George Lambe a sable snipe, Conjoin with Captain Morris tripe, By parsley-roots made denser ; Mix Macintosh with mack'rel, with Calves-head and bacon Sydney Smith, And mutton-broth with Spencer. 460 THE BOOK OF Shun sitting next the wight, whose drone Bores, sotto voce, you alone With flat colloquial pressure : Debarr'd from general talk, you droop Beneath his buzz, from orient soup, To occidental Cheshire. He who can only talk with one, Should stay at home, and talk with none- At all events, to strangers, Like village epitaphs of yore, He ought to cry, ' Long time I bore,' To warn them of their dangers. There are whose kind inquiries scan Your total kindred, man by man, Son, brother, cousin joining. They ask about your wife, who's dead, And eulogise your uncle Ned, Who died last week for coining. When join'd to such a son of prate, His queries I anticipate, And thus my lee-way fetch up ' Sir, all my relatives, I vow, Are perfectly in health and now I'd thank you for the ketchup !' Others there are who but retail Their breakfast journal, now grown stale, In print ere day was dawning ; HUMOR US POE TR K 46 1 When folks like these sit next to me, They send me dinnerless to tea ; One cannot chew while yawning. Seat not good talkers one next one, As Jacquier beards the Clarendon ; Thus shrouded you undo 'em ! Rather confront them, face to face, Like Holies Street and Harewood Place, And let the town run through 'em. Poets are dangerous to sit nigh You waft their praises to the sky, And when you think you're stirring Their gratitude, they bite you. (That's The reason I object to cats They scratch amid their purring.) For those who ask you if you ' malt,' Who ' beg your pardon ' for the salt, And ape our upper grandees, By wondering folks can touch Port-wine ; That, reader, 's your affair, not mine I never mess with dandies. Relations mix not kindly : shun Inviting brothers ; sire and son Is not a wise selection : Too intimate, they either jar In converse, or the evening mar By mutual circumspection. 462 THE BOOK OF Lawyers are apt to think the view That interests them must interest you ; Hence they appear at table Or supereloquent, or dumb, Fluent as nightingales, or mum As horses in a stable. When men amuse their fellow-guests With Crank and Jones, or Justice Best's Harangue in Dobbs and Ryal The host, beneath whose roof they sit, Must be a puny judge of wit, Who grants them a new trial. Shun technicals in each extreme : Exclusive talk, whate'er the theme, The proper boundary passes : Nobles as much offend, whose clack's For ever running on Almack's, As brokers on molasses. I knew a man, from glass to delf, Who talk'd of nothing but himself, 'Till check' d by a vertigo ; The party who beheld him ' floor'd,' Bent o'er the liberated board, And cried, l Hie jacet ego? Some aim to tell a thing that hit Where last they dined ; what there was wit Here meets rebuffs and crosses. HUMOR O US FOE TRY, 463 Jokes are like trees ; their place of birth Best suits them : stuck in foreign earth, They perish in the process. Ah ! Merriment ! when men entrap Thy bells, and women steal thy cap, They think they have trepann'd thee. Delusive thought ! aloof and dumb, Thou wilt not at a bidding come, Though Royalty command thee. The rich, who sigh for thee the great Who court thy smiles with gilded plate, But clasp thy cloudy follies : I've known thee turn, in Portman Square, From Burgundy and Hock, to share A pint of Port at Dolly's. Races at Ascot, tours in Wales, Whitebait at Greenwich ofttimes fail, To wake thee from thy slumbers. E'en now, so prone art thou to fly, Ungrateful nymph ! thou'rt fighting shy Of these narcotic numbers. SYMPATHY: REGINALD HEBER. A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 464 HUMOR O US POE TR Y. A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy. ' Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore !' ' Oh, never was maid so deserted before !' ' From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company !' They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; ' How tiresome it is ! ' said the fair with a sigh ; So they sat down to rest them in company. They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! ' One mournful embrace,' sobb'd the youth, 'ere we die !' So kissing and crying kept company. ' Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you ! ' ' Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true ! ' ' To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! ' Sure now they were excellent company ! At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, 1 The weather is cold for a watery bier ; When summer returns we may easily die- Till then let us sorrow in company ! ' THE END. CATALOGUE I0|rukr PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO, EDINBURGH, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. EDINBURGH. 1871. 5.71. 2 " |800ks pnblisbcb bjj S&illiam p. Htmmo. HUGH MILLER'S WORKS. NEW CHEAP RE-ISSUE. IN announcing a NEW CHEAP EDITION of the WORKS OF HUGH MILLER, the Publisher does not consider it necessary to add any- thing by way of commendation. The fame of Hugh Miller is securely established throughout the world, and his works, by universal consent, take rank among the highest in English Literature. To the higher and more cultivated classes of society he appeals by the purity and elegance of his style, as well as by his remarkable powers of description, and his profound knowledge of the marvels of nature. To the humbler classes and the working man, the story of his life himself originally a working man in the strictest sense of the word, pushing his way upward to the distinguished position which he attained must possess a peculiar charm, and to them his writings cannot fail to prove of special value. At the present time, the works of Hugh Miller, one of the most gifted of our self-taught and self-made men, are peculiarly suited to exercise a most powerful influence in promoting the great cause of the progress of Education ; and this new Edition, while elegant enough to command a place in the libraries of the rich, is cheap enough to be within the reach of the student and the working man. Although many of his books have already attained an immense sale notwithstanding their high price, the Publisher feels assured that they only require to be offered to the general public at a moderate rate to ensure for them a very widely increased circulation. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. ' This effort to bring the works of so distinguished an author within the reach of all classes, cannot fail to be universally appreciated.' Moiinng Star. ' Hugh Miller's writings -have long passed the period of criticism, and taken rank among standard works. From the times of the British Essayists and Oliver Goldsmith, no literary man has shown a L mastery of the English language than the author of ' The Old Eed Sandstone.' The size of the page and the letterpress are suitable for the libraiy, while the price is a third less than the original edition.' Drill;/ litview. ' The moderate price at which the series is now offered, however, will enable thousands of readers to acquire for themselves those volumes which they have hitherto only found accessible by means of the circu- lating library. From the pure, manly, and instructive character of his writings whether social, moral, or scientific and from the fascinating attractions of his style, we do not know any works better deserving of a vast circulation than those of Hugh Miller. The edition is clearly printed, and altogether well got up.' Glasgow Herald. 'This cheap re-issue by Mr. Nimmo will enable tens of thou who have yet only heard of Hugh Miller soon to learn to and admire him.' Belfs Messenger. fag HUGH MILLER'S WORKS. CHEAP POPULAR EDITIONS, In crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 5s. each. I. Thirteenth. Edition. My Schools and Schoolmasters ; or, The Story of my Education. ' A story which we have read with pleasure, and shall treasure up in memory for the sake of the manly career narrated, and the glances at old- world manners and distant scenes afforded us by the way.' Athenaeum. IT. Thirty-fourth Thousand. The Testimony of the Rocks ; or, Geology in its Bearings on the Two Theologies, Natural and Kevealed. Profusely Illustrated. ' The most remarkable work of perhaps the most remarkable man of the age. ... A magnificent epic, and the Principia of Geology.' British and Foreign Evangelical Review. III. Ninth Edition. 'The Cruise of the Betsey ; or, A Summer Ramble among the Fossiliferous Deposits of the Hebrides. With Rambles of a Geologist ; or, Ten Thousand Miles over the Fossiliferous Deposits of Scotland. IV Sketch-Book of Popular Geology. V. Ninth Edition. First Impressions of England and its People. ' This is precisely the kind of book we should have looked for from the author of the " Old Red Sandstone." Straightforward and earnest in style, rich and varied in matter, these " First Impressions " will add laurel to the wreath which Mr. Miller has already won for him- f minster Review. $0oks publiB^D bg g&iUism |). HUGH MILLER'S WORKS. CHEAP POPULAR EDITIONS, In crown 8t?o, cloth extra, price 5s. each. VI. Ninth. Edition. Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland ; Or, The Traditional History of Cromarty. A'll. Eleventh Edition. The Old Red Sandstone; or, New 'Walks in an Old Field. Profusely Illustrated. VIII. Fourth Edition. The Headship of Christ and the Rights of the Christian People. "With Preface by PETER BAYNE. A. 51. IX. Tenth Edition. Footprints of the Creator ; or, The Asterolepis of Stromness. With Preface and Notes by Mrs. MILLER, and a Biographical Sketch by Professor AGASSIZ. Prof usely Illustrated. x. ' Third Edition. Tales and Sketches. Edited, with a Preface, by Mrs. MILLER. XI. Third Edition. Essays : Historical and Biographical, Political and Social, Literary and Scientific. XII. Second Edition. Edinburgh and its Neighbourhood, Geological and Historical. With the GEOLOGY OF THE BASS ROCK. XIII. Leading Articles on Various Subjects. Edited by his Son-in-law, the Rev. JOHN DAVIDSON. With a Charac- teristic Portrait of the Author, fac-simile from a Photograph, byD. 0. HILL, R.S.A. %* Hugh Miller's Works may also be had in complete sets of 13 Volumes, elegantly bound in imitation roxburgh, gilt top, price 3, 18*-, or in cloth extra, gold, and black printing, new style, gilt top, price 3, '5s. $ooks NJMMO'S QUAflTG GIFT BOOHS, Small T 4to, beautifully printed on superior paper, handsomely bound in cloth extra, bevelled boards, gilt edges, price 7s. 6d. each, I. ROSES AND HOLLY: a (Mft*'Boo& for all tfie ffear. With Original Illustrations by eminent Artists. PEN AND PENCIL PICTURES FROM THE POETS, With Choice Illustrations by the most eminent Artists. III. GEMS OF LITERATURE: ELEGANT, HARE, AND SUGGESTIVE. Illustrated by distinguished Artists. THE BOOK OF ELEGANT EXTRACTS, Profusely Illustrated by the most eminent Artists. THE GOLDEN GIFT: A BOOK FOR THE YOUNG. Profusely Illustrated with Original Engravings on Wood by eminent Artists. VI. EPISODES OF FICTION; OR, CHOICE STORIES FROM THE GREAT* NOVELISTS. 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