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 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES 
 
 TO 

 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES 
 
 TO 
 
 (great people. 
 
 "CATCHING ALL THE ODDITIES, THE WHIMSIES, THE ABSUBDITIES, AND 
 THE LITTLENESSES OF CONSCIOUS GREATNESS BY THE WAY." 
 
 Citizen qf the World. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY. 
 
 1825.
 
 LONDON : 
 Printed by D. S. Maurice. Fenchurch Street.
 
 < '^J 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 The present being the first appearance 
 of this little Work, some sort of Ad- 
 dress seems to be called for from the 
 Author, Editor, and Compiler, — and we 
 come forward in prose, totally overcome, 
 like a flurried manager in his every-day 
 clothes, to solicit public indulgence — pro- 
 test an indelible feeling of reverence — bow, 
 beseech, promise, — and "all that." 
 
 To the persons addressed in the Poems, 
 nothing need be said, as it would be only 
 swelling the book, (a custom which we de- 
 test,) to recapitulate in prose what we have 
 said in verse. To those unaddressed, an 
 apology is due; and to them it is very res- 
 pectfully offered. Mr. Hunt, for his Per- 
 manent Ink, deserves to have his name re- 
 corded in his own composition — Mr. Col- 
 man, the amiable King's Jester, and Oath- 
 
 A
 
 VI 
 
 blaster of the modern Stage, merits a line 
 — Mr. Accum, whose fame is potted — Mr. 
 Bridgman, the maker of Patent Safety 
 Coffins — Mr. Kean, the great Lustre of the 
 Boxes — Sir Humphry Davy, the great 
 Lamplighter of the Pits — Sir William 
 Congreve, one of the proprietors of the 
 Portsmouth Rocket — yea, several others 
 call for the Muse's approbation; — but our 
 little Volume, like the Adelphi Theatre, is 
 easily filled, and those who are disap- 
 pointed of places now, are requested to 
 wait until the next performance. 
 
 Having said these few words to the 
 uninitiated, we leave our Odes and Ad- 
 dresses, like Gentlemen of the Green Isle, 
 to hunt their own fortunes; — and, by a 
 modest assurance, to make their way to 
 the hearts of those to whom they are de- 
 sirous of addressing themselves.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 A Second Edition being called for, the 
 Author takes the opportunity of expressing 
 his grateful thanks to his Readers and Re- 
 viewers, for the kind way in which they 
 have generally received his little Book. 
 Many of those who have been be-Oded in 
 the following pages have taken the verse- 
 offerings in good part ; and the Author has 
 been given to understand that certain 
 " Great People," who have been kept ** out 
 of situations," have, like Bob Acres, looked 
 upon themselves as very ill-used Gentle- 
 men. It is rather hard that there should
 
 VIU 
 
 not be room for all the Great ; — but this 
 little conveyance, — a sort of light coach to 
 Fame, — like other conveyances, v^^hile it 
 has only four m, labours under the disad- 
 vantage of having twelve out. The Pro- 
 prietor apprehends he must meet the wants 
 of the Public by starting an extra coach : 
 in which case, Mr. Colman (an anxious 
 Licenser) and Mr. Hunt (the best maker of 
 speeches and blacking in the City and 
 Liberty of Westminster) shall certainly be 
 booked for places. To the latter Gentleman, 
 the Author gratefully acknowledges the 
 compliment of a bottle of his permanent 
 ink : it will be, indeed, pleasant to write an 
 Address to Mr. Wilberforce in the liquid of 
 a beautiful jet Black, which the Author 
 now meditates doing. Odes, written in 
 permanent ink, will doubtless stand a 
 chance of running a good race with Gray's ! 
 A few objections have been made to the 
 present Volume, which the Author regrets
 
 IX 
 
 he' cannot attend to, without serious da- 
 mage to the whole production. The Ad- 
 dress to Maria Darlington is said by se- 
 veral ingenious and judicious persons to be 
 namby-pamby . — ^This is a sad disappoint- 
 ment to the Writer, as he was in hopes he 
 had accomplished a bit of the right Slmi- 
 stonian. The verses to the Champion of 
 England are declared irreverent, — and those 
 to Dr. Ireland, and his Partners in the 
 Stone Trade, are held out as an improper 
 interference with sacred things ; these Ad- 
 dresses are certainly calumniated : the one 
 was really written as an affectionate inquiry 
 after a great and reverend Warrior, now 
 in rural retirement ; and the other was in- 
 tended as a kindly advertisement of an 
 exhibition, which, although cheaper than 
 the Tower, and nearly as cheap as Mrs. 
 Salmon's Wax-work, the modesty of the 
 Proprietors will not permit them suffi- 
 ciently to puft\
 
 To the universal objection, —that the 
 Book is over-run with puns, — the Author 
 can only say, he has searched every page 
 without being able to detect a thing of the 
 kind. He can only promise, therefore, 
 that if any respectable Reviewer will point 
 the vermin out, they shall be carefully 
 trapped and thankfully destroyed.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut page 1 
 
 Ode to Mr. M'Adam ..15 
 
 A Friendly Address to Mrs. Fry, in Newgate .. . . 23 
 Ode to Richard Martin, Esq., M. P. for Galway . . . . 33 
 
 Ode to the Great Unknown .. 39 
 
 Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England .. 55 
 
 Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior 61 
 
 Address to Sylvanus Urban, Esq., Editor of the Gentleman's 
 
 Magazine .. .. .. .. .. ..69 
 
 An Address to the Steam Washing Company . . . . 73 
 
 Ode to Captain Parry . . . . . . . . ..91 
 
 Address to R. W. EUiston, Esq. .. .. .. 103 
 
 Address to Maria Darlington, on her return to the Stage . . Ill 
 
 Ode to W. Kitchener, M. D 117 
 
 Address to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster .. ..129 
 Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq 137
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES. 
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, 
 
 THE AERONAUT. 
 
 " Up with me !— up with me into the sity !" 
 
 IVoRDSwoRTB—on a Lark ! 
 
 ^ 1. 
 
 Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd. 
 The vain, the weaUhy, and the proud, 
 
 Their meaner flights pursue, 
 Let us cast oft' the fooHsh ties 
 That bind us to the earth, and rise 
 
 And take a bird's-eye view ! — 
 
 B
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 2. 
 
 A few more whiffs of my segar 
 And then, in Fancy's airy car, 
 
 Have with thee for the skies : — 
 How oft this fragrant smoke upcurPd 
 Hath borne me from this little world, 
 
 And all that in it lies ! — 
 
 Away ! — away ! — the bubble fills — 
 Farewell to earth and all its hills ! — 
 
 We seem to cut the wind ! — 
 So high we mount, so swift we go, 
 The chimney tops are far below. 
 
 The Eagle's left behind !— 
 
 4. 
 Ah me ! my brain begins to swim ! — 
 The world is growing rather dim ; 
 
 The steeples and the trees — 
 My wife is getting very small ! 
 I cannot see my babe at all ! — 
 
 The Dollond, if you please ! —
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 5. 
 
 Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, 
 Lord ! what a Lilliput it is. 
 
 That little world of Mogg's ! — 
 Are those the London Docks ? — that channel, 
 The mighty Thames .'' — a proper kennel 
 
 For that small Isle of Dogs ! — 
 
 6. 
 What is that seeming tea-urn there .'' 
 That fairy dome, St. Paul's ! — I swear, 
 
 Wren must have been a Wren ! — 
 And that small stripe ? — it cannot be 
 The City Road ! — Good lack ! to see 
 
 The little ways of men ! 
 
 Little, indeed ! — my eyeballs ache 
 To find a turnpike. — I must take 
 
 Their tolls upon my trust ! — 
 And where is mortal labour gone ? 
 Look, Graham, for a little stone 
 
 Mac Adamiz'd to dust !
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 8. 
 
 Look at the horses ! — less than flies ! — 
 Oh, what a waste it was of sighs 
 
 To wish to be a Mayor ! 
 What is the honour .^ — none at all, 
 One's honour must be very small 
 
 For such a civic chair ! — 
 
 9. 
 And there's Guildhall ! — 'tis far aloof — 
 Methinks, I fancy through the roof 
 
 Its little guardian Gogs, 
 Like penny dolls — a tiny show ! — 
 Well, — I must say they're rvU'd below 
 
 By very little logs ! — 
 10. 
 Oh ! Graham, how the upper air 
 Alters the standards of compare ; 
 
 One of our silken flags 
 Would cover London all about — 
 Nay, then — let's even empty out 
 
 Another brace of bags !
 
 TO JIR. GIIAHAM. 
 11. 
 
 Now for a glass of bright champagne 
 Above the clouds ! — Come, let us drain 
 
 A bumper as we go ! — 
 But hold ! — for God"'s sake do not cant 
 The cork away — unless you want 
 
 To brain your friends below. 
 
 12. 
 Think ! what a mob of little men 
 Are crawling just within our ken, 
 
 Like mites upon a cheese ! — 
 Pshaw ! — how th^e foolish sight rebukes 
 Ambitious thoughts !-^-can there be Dukes 
 
 Of Gloster such as these ! — 
 
 13. 
 Oh ! what is glory ? — what is fame .'* 
 Hark to the little mob^s acclaim, 
 
 'Tis nothing but a hum ! — 
 A few near gnats would trump as loud 
 As all the shouting of a crowd 
 
 That has so far to come ! —
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 14. 
 
 Well — they are wise that choose the near, 
 A few small buzzards in the ear, 
 
 To organs ages hence ! — 
 Ah me, how distance touches all ; 
 It makes the true look rather small, 
 
 But murders poor pretence. 
 
 15. 
 *' The world recedes ! — it disappears ! 
 Heav'n open on my eyes — my ears 
 
 With buzzing noises ring !" — 
 A fig for Southey"'s Laureat lore ! — 
 Whafs Rogers here .'' — Who cares for Moore 
 
 That hears the Angels sing ! — 
 16. 
 A fig for earth, and all its minions ! — 
 We are above the world's opinions, 
 
 Graham ! we'll have our own ! — 
 Look what a vantage height we've got !— 
 Now do you think Sir Walter Scott 
 
 Is such a Great Unknown ?
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 17- 
 
 Speak up ! — or hath he hid his name 
 To crawl thro' " subways'"' unto fame, 
 
 Like Wilhams of Comhill ? — 
 Speak up, my lad ! — when men run small 
 We'll show what's little in them all. 
 Receive it how they will ! — 
 
 18. 
 Think now of Irving ! — shall he preach 
 The princes down, — shall he impeach 
 
 The potent and the rich. 
 Merely on ethic stilts, — and I 
 Not moraUze at two miles high 
 The true didactic pitch ! 
 
 19. 
 Come : — what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir .? 
 Is Gifford such a Gulliver 
 
 In LiUiput's Review, 
 That like Colossus he should stride 
 Certain small brazen inches wide 
 For poets to pass through 'f
 
 8 TO MK. GRAHAM. 
 
 20. 
 
 Look down ! the world is but a spot. 
 Now say — Is Black Avood''s loto or not, 
 
 For all the Scottish tone ? 
 It shall not weigh us here — not where 
 The sandy burden's lost in air — 
 
 Our lading — where is't flown ? 
 21. 
 Now, — like you Croly's verse indeed — 
 In heaven — where one cannot read 
 
 The " Warren" on a wall .'' 
 What think you here of that man's fame ? 
 Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, 
 
 To me 'tis very small ! 
 22. 
 And, truly, is there such a spell 
 In those three letters, L. E. L., 
 
 To witch a world with song ? 
 On clouds the Byron did not sit, 
 Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit, 
 
 And say the world was wrong !
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 23. 
 
 And shall not we ? Let''s tliink aloud ! 
 Thus being couch'd upon a cloud, 
 
 Graham, we'll have our eyes ! 
 We felt the great when we were less, 
 But we'll retort on littleness 
 
 Now we are in the skies. 
 
 24. 
 
 Graham, Graham, how I blame 
 The bastard blush, — the petty shame, 
 
 That used to fret me quite, — 
 The little sores I covered then. 
 No sores on earth, nor sorrows when 
 
 The world is out of sight ! 
 25. 
 My name is Tims. — I am the man 
 That North's unseen diminished clan 
 
 So scurvily abused ! 
 
 1 am the very P. A. Z. 
 
 The London's Lion's small pin's head 
 So often hath refused !
 
 10 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 26. 
 
 Campbell — (you cannot see him here) — 
 Hath scorn'd my lays .-—do his appear 
 
 Such great eggs from the sky ? — 
 And Longman, and his lengthy Co. 
 Long, only, in a little Row, 
 
 Have thrust my poems by ! 
 
 27- 
 What else ? — I'm poor, and much beset 
 
 With damn'd small duns — that is — in debt 
 
 Some grains of golden dust ! 
 But only worth, above, is worth. — 
 What's all the credit of the earth ? 
 
 An inch of cloth on trust ! 
 
 28. 
 What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man ! 
 Nay, worlds of wealth ? — Oh, if you can 
 
 Spy out, — the Golden Ball ! 
 Sure as we rose, all money sank : 
 What's gold or silver now ? — the Bank 
 Is gone — the 'Change and all !
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 11 
 
 29. 
 
 What's all the ground-rent of the globe ? — 
 Oh, Graham, it would worry Job 
 
 To hear its landlords prate ! 
 But after this survey, I think 
 I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink 
 From men of large estate ! 
 30. 
 And less, still less, will I submit 
 To poor mean acres' worth of wit — 
 
 I that have heaven's span — 
 I that like Shakspeare's self may dream 
 Beyond the very clouds, and seem 
 An Universal Man ! 
 31. 
 Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds ! 
 Like Birds of Paradise the clouds 
 
 Are winging on the wind ! 
 But what is grander than their range .? 
 More lovely than their sun-set change ? — 
 The free creative mind !
 
 12 
 
 TO MR. GUAHAM. 
 
 32. 
 
 Well ! the Adults' Schoors in the air ! 
 The greatest men are lesson'd there 
 
 As well as the Lessee ! 
 Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small 
 Behold the greatest stage of all, 
 How humbled they would be ! 
 33 
 " Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, 
 " To see themselves as others see 'em," 
 
 'Twould much abate their fuss ! 
 If they could think that from the skies 
 They are as little in our eyes 
 As they can think of us ! 
 34. 
 Of us ! are we gone out of sight ? 
 Lessen'd ! diminish'd ! vanish'd quite ! 
 
 Lost to the tiny town ! 
 Beyond the Eagle's ken — the grope 
 Of Dolland's longest telescope ! 
 Graham ! we're going down !
 
 TO MR. GRAHAM. 13 
 
 35. 
 Ah me ! I've touch'd a string that opes 
 The airy valve ! — the gas elopes — 
 
 Down goes our bright Balloon ! — 
 Farewell the skies ! the clouds ! I smell 
 The lower world ! Graham, farewell, 
 
 Man of the silken moon ! 
 36. 
 The earth is close ! the City nears — 
 Like a burnt paper it appears, 
 
 Studded with tiny sparks ! 
 Methinks I hear the distant rout 
 Of coaches rumbling all about — 
 
 We're close above the Parks ! 
 
 37 
 
 I hear the watchmen on their beats, 
 Hawking the hour about the streets. 
 
 Lord ! what a cruel jar 
 It is upon the earth to light ! 
 Well — there's the finish of our flight ! 
 
 I've smoked my last segar !
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 
 
 <' Let us take to the road V'—Beggar^s Opera. 
 
 1. 
 
 M'Adam, hail ! 
 Hail, Roadian ! hail, Colossus ! who dost stand 
 Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land ! 
 
 Oh universal Leveller ! all hail ! 
 To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, 
 
 The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going,— 
 To thee, — how much for thy commodious plan, 
 
 Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing ! 
 
 The Bristol mail 
 
 Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deeni'd invincible,
 
 16 TO MR. M'aDAM. 
 
 When carrying Patriots now shall never fail 
 Those of the most " unshaken public principle." 
 Hail to thee, Scot of Scots ! 
 
 Thou northern light, amid those heavy men ! 
 Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside, 
 Thou scatter'st flints and favours far and wide, 
 From palaces to cots ; — 
 
 Dispenser of coagulated good ! 
 
 Distributor of granite and of food ! 
 Long may thy fame its even path march on 
 
 E'en when thy sons are dead ! 
 Best benefactor ! though thou giv'st a stone 
 
 To those who ask for bread ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Thy first great trial in this mighty town 
 Was, if I rightly recollect, upon 
 
 That gentle hill which goeth 
 Down from " the County" to the Palace gate, 
 
 And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth 
 Past the Old Horticultural Society, —
 
 TO MR. M^ADAM. 17 
 
 The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, 
 Where ladies play high shawl and satin games — 
 
 A little Hell of lace ! 
 And past the Athenaeum, made of late, 
 
 Severs a sweet variety 
 Of milliners and booksellers who grace 
 
 Waterloo Place, 
 Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 
 ■"Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey"'s. 
 Thou stood' st thy trial, Mac ! and shav'd the road 
 From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode 
 So well, that paviours threw their rammers by. 
 Let down their tuck'd shirt sleeves, and with a 
 
 sigh 
 Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die ! 
 
 Next, from the palace to the prison, thou 
 
 Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat, — 
 Preventing though the rattling in the street. 
 Yet kicking up a row, 
 c
 
 18 TO MR. M'aDAM. 
 
 Upon the stones — ah ! truly watchman-like, 
 Encouraging thy victims all to strike, 
 
 To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ; — 
 Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old 
 Bailey ! 
 And to the stony bowers 
 Of Newgate, to encourage the approach. 
 By caravan or coach, — 
 Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers. 
 
 4. 
 Who shall dispute thy name ! 
 Insculpt in stone in every street. 
 
 We soon shall greet 
 Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame ! 
 Where'er we take, even at this time, our way. 
 Nought see we, but mankind in open air, 
 Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare; — 
 
 And with a patient care. 
 Chipping thy immortality all day ! 
 Demosthenes, of old, — that rare old man, — 
 Prophetically, follow' d, Mac ! thy plan : —
 
 TO MR. M'ADAM. ly 
 
 For he, we know, 
 (History says so,) 
 Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak 
 The smoothest Greek ! 
 5. 
 It is " impossible, and cannot be," 
 But that thy genius hath, 
 Besides the turnpike, many another path 
 Trod, to arrive at popularity. 
 O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, 
 Nor ridden a roadster only ; mighty Mac ! 
 And 'faith Fd swear, when on that winged hack. 
 Thou hast observed the highways in the sky ! 
 Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, 
 
 And " hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say ? 
 Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep 
 
 The noiseless tenor of their way ? (see Gray.) 
 What line of road should poets take to bring 
 
 Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first ! — 
 Those waters which can wet a man to sing ! 
 
 Which, like thy fame, "from granite basins burst, 
 " Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?'
 
 20 TO MR. M'aDAM. 
 
 6. 
 
 — That thouVt a proser, even thy birth-place might 
 Vouchsafe ; — and Mr, Cadell may, God wot, 
 Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot, — 
 Cadell's a wayward wight ! 
 Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, 
 And I can throw, I think, a little light 
 Upon some works thou hast written for the town, — 
 And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown ! 
 
 " Highways and Byeways," is thy book, no doubt, 
 (One whole edition's out,) 
 And next, for it is fair 
 That Fame, 
 Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em; — 
 " Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair,"— 
 
 (Blair is a Scottish name,) 
 What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam ? 
 
 O ! indefatigable labourer 
 In the paths of men ! when thou shalt die, 't-vvill be 
 A mark of thy surpassing industry,
 
 TO MR. M'aDAM. 21 
 
 That of the monument, which men shall rear 
 Over thy most inestimable bone, 
 Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone ! — 
 Of a right ancient line thou comest, — through 
 Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue. 
 Until we see thy sire before our eyes, — 
 RoUing his gi'avel walks in Paradise ! 
 But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er 
 
 Have our walks since been fair ! 
 Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, 
 For ever varying, through his varying range, 
 
 Time maketh all things even ! 
 In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven! 
 He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived, — 
 
 (How are Time's wonders hiv'd!) 
 In pity to mankind, and to befriend 'em, — 
 (Time is above all praise,) 
 That he, who first did make our evil ways, 
 Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em!
 
 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS 
 TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE. 
 
 " Sermons in stones." — Asya>i like H. 
 " Out I out ! damned spot V'— Macbeth. 
 
 1. 
 
 I LIKE you, Mrs. Fry ! I like your name ! 
 
 It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing 
 
 In daily act round Charity's great flame — 
 
 I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing 
 
 Good Mrs. Fry ! I Uke the placid claim 
 
 You make to Christianity, — professing 
 
 Love, and good works — of course you buy of Bai'ton 
 
 Beside the young frys bookseller, Friend Darton 
 
 5 
 
 I
 
 24 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 . 2. 
 
 I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute — 
 Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport — 
 I should have said, that wear, the sober suit 
 Shap*'d like a court dress — ^but for heaven's court. 
 I like your sisters too, — sweet RachePs fruit — 
 Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support 
 Of virtue — and I like to see them clad 
 With such a difference — just like good from bad ! 
 
 I like the sober colours — not the wet ; 
 
 Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow — ■ 
 
 Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet — 
 
 In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go — 
 
 The others are a chaste, severer set, 
 
 In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go — 
 
 TheyVe moral standards^ to know Christians by— 
 
 In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry !
 
 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 As for the naughty tinges of the prism — 
 
 Crimson's the cruel uniform of war — 
 
 Blue — hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism ; 
 
 And green is young and gay — not noted for 
 
 Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, 
 
 Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or 
 
 Olive — and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess ; 
 
 And yellow is a convict by its dress 1 
 
 5. 
 
 They're all the devil's liveries, that men 
 
 And women wear in servitude to sin — 
 
 But how will they come off, poor motleys, when 
 
 Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in 
 
 The Evil presence ? You and I know, then 
 
 How all the party colours will begin 
 
 To part — the Pittite hues will sadden there. 
 
 Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair 1
 
 26 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 6. 
 
 Witness their goodly labours one by one ! 
 Russet makes garments for the needy poor — 
 Dove-colour preaches love to all — and dun 
 Calls every day at Charity's street-door — 
 Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun 
 All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour 
 Oil into wounds : and drab and slate supply 
 Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 Well ! Heaven forbid that I should discommend 
 The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour ! 
 When all persuasions in your praises blend — 
 The Methodist's creed and cry are. Fry for ever ! 
 No — I will be your friend — and, like a friend, 
 Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never 
 Start at that word ! But I must ask you why 
 You keep your scliool in Newgate, Mrs. Fry ?
 
 TO MRS. FRY. 27 
 
 8. 
 
 Too well I know the price our mother Eve 
 Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters 
 Commit a petty larceny, and thieve — 
 Pay down a crime for " entrance''' to your " quarters f 
 Your classes may increase, but I must grieve 
 Over your pupils at their bread and waters ! 
 Oh, tho' it cost you rent — (and rooms run high) 
 Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 9. 
 
 O save tlie vulgar soul before ifs spoiFd ! 
 Set up your mounted sign without the gate — 
 And there inform the mind before 'tis soiFd ! 
 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! 
 Nay, if you would not have your laboiu's foiFd, 
 Take it inclining towVds a virtuous state, 
 Not prostrate and laid flat — else, woman meek ! 
 The upright pencil will but hop and shriek !
 
 28 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 10. 
 
 Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain 
 
 The evil spirit from the heart it preys in, — 
 
 To bring sobriety to life again, 
 
 Chok'd with the vile Anacreontic raisin, — 
 
 To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain, — 
 
 To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, 
 
 Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her ; 
 
 To tame the wild-fowl- ways of Jenny Diver 1 
 
 11. 
 
 Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach 
 Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw — 
 To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach 
 She made in manners — to write heaven's own law 
 On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach, 
 In cells, that are not memory's — to draw 
 The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye 
 Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry !-
 
 TO MRS. FRY. 29 
 
 12. 
 
 In vain you teach them baby- work \nthin: 
 ""Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime ; 
 Tis but a tedious darning of old sin — 
 Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time — 
 It is too late for scouring to begin 
 When virtue''s ravelFd out, when all the prime 
 Is worn away, and nothing sound remains ; 
 You'll fret the fabric out before the stains ! 
 
 la 
 
 I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry ! 
 
 I like your cookery in every way ; 
 
 I like your shrove-tide service and supply ; 
 
 I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play ; 
 
 I like the pity in your fuU-brimmM eye ; 
 
 [ like your carriage, and your silken grey, 
 
 Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching ; 
 
 But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.
 
 30 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 14. 
 
 Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! Repair 
 Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. 
 O, come abroad into the wholesome air, 
 And take your moral place, before Sin seats 
 Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. 
 Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipfs 
 To dress them in the pan, but do not try 
 To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 15. 
 
 Put on your decent bonnet, and come out ! 
 Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools 
 In jail — ^but at the Porch! hinting, no doubt, 
 That Vice should have a lesson in the rules 
 Before 'twas whipt by law. — O come about, 
 Good Mrs. Fry ! and set up forms and stools 
 All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street, 
 But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat !
 
 TO MRS. FRY. 31 
 
 16. 
 
 Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you 
 That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour ; 
 Teach her it is not virtue to pursue 
 Ruin of blue, or any other colour ; 
 Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue. 
 Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar ; 
 Teach her that " flooring Charleys" is a game 
 Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. 
 
 17- 
 
 O come and teach our children — that ar'n't ours- 
 That heaven's straight pathAvay is a narrow way, 
 Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours 
 Children, like Time— or rather they both prey 
 On youth together — meanwhile Newgate low'rs 
 Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, 
 To shut them out from any more blue sky : 
 Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry !
 
 33 TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 18. 
 
 You are not nice — go into their retreats, 
 And make them Quakers, if you will. — 'Twere best 
 They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans j9/ea^« ,- 
 That they had hats wifhhrims, — that they were drest 
 In garbs without lappels — than shame the streets 
 With so much raggedness. — You may invest 
 Much cash this way — but it will cost its price, 
 To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice ! 
 
 19. 
 
 In brief, — Oh teach the child its moral rote. 
 Not in the way from which "'twill not depart, — 
 But out — out — out ! Oh, bid it walk remote ! 
 And if the skies are clos"'d against the smart, 
 Ev''n let him wear the single-breasted coat. 
 For that ensureth singleness of heart, — 
 Do what you will, his every want supply, 
 Keep him — ^but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry i
 
 ODE 
 
 TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE, 
 
 M.P. FOR GALWAY. 
 
 "iWar<in,inthis, has proved himself a very good Man V—Boxiana. 
 
 How many sing of wars, 
 
 Of Greek and Trojan jars — 
 
 The butcheries of men ! 
 The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen !" 
 Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill ; 
 
 But no one sings the man 
 
 That, like a pelican, 
 Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill! 
 
 D
 
 34 TO RICHARD MARTIK, ESQ. M.P. 
 
 2. 
 
 Thou Wilberforce of hacks ! 
 
 Of whites as well as blacks, 
 
 Pyebald and dapple gray, 
 Chesnut and bay — 
 No poet's eulogy thy name adorns ! 
 
 But oxen, from the fens, 
 
 Sheep— in their pens, 
 Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! 
 Thou art sung on brutal pipes ! 
 
 Drovers may curse thee. 
 
 Knackers asperse thee, 
 And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes ; 
 
 But the old horse neighs thee, 
 
 And zebras praise thee. 
 Asses, I mean — that have as many stripes ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear. 
 
 In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ, — 
 
 Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air !
 
 TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ. M.P. 35 
 
 Bullocks don''t wear 
 
 Oxide of iron ! 
 The cruel Jarvy thou hast summoned oft. 
 Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, 
 That thought his horse the courser of the two — 
 
 Whilst Swift smiled down aloft ! — 
 O worthy pair ! for this, when ye inhabit 
 Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts 
 From flesh to feather) — when the clown uplifts 
 His hands against the sparrowV nest, to grab it, — 
 He shall not harm the Martins and the Swifts ! 
 
 4. 
 Ah ! when Dean Swift was quirky how he enhanc'd 
 The horse ! — and humbled biped man like Plato ! 
 But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd — 
 Gone backward in the world — and not advanced, — 
 
 Remember Cato ! 
 Swift was the horse's champion — not the King's, 
 
 Whom Southey sings, 
 Mounted on Pegasus — would he were thrown ! 
 He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone,
 
 36 TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESGi. M.I'. 
 
 Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things ! 
 Ah well-a-day ! the ancients did not use 
 Their steeds so cruelly ! — let it debar men 
 From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse — 
 Look at the ancients' Muse ! 
 Look at their Carmen ! 
 
 5. 
 
 O, Martin ! how thine eye — 
 That one would think had put aside its lashes, — 
 That can't bear gashes 
 Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy 
 That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane, — 
 For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, 
 Or some man painted in a bloody vein — 
 Gods ! is there no Horse-spital ! 
 That such raw shows must sicken the humane ! 
 Sure Mr. Whittle 
 Loves thee but little, 
 To let that poor horse linger in his pane !
 
 TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ. M.T. 37 
 
 6. 
 
 O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses ! 
 O wipe away the national reproach — 
 
 And find a decent Vulture for their corses ! 
 And in thy funeral track 
 Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach ! 
 
 Steeds that confess " the luxury of wo .'" 
 True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, 
 
 And many a wretched hack 
 Shall sorrow for thee, — sore with kick and blow 
 And bloody gash — it is the Indian knack — 
 (Save that the savage is his own tormentor) — 
 Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf — 
 The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, 
 
 And Man and Horse go half and half, 
 As if their griefs met in a common Centaur !
 
 ODE 
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 " breathe not his name !" — Moorb. 
 
 1. 
 
 Thou Great UnknoAvii ! 
 I do not mean Eternity, nor Death, 
 
 That vast incog ! 
 For I suppose thou hast a living breath, 
 Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, 
 
 Thou man of fog ! 
 Parent of many children— cliild of none ! 
 
 Nobody's son !
 
 40 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 Nobody's daughter — but a parent still ! 
 
 Still but an ostrich parent of a batch 
 
 Of orphan eggs, — ^left to the world to hatch. 
 
 Superlative Nil ! 
 A vox and nothing more, — ^yet not Vauxhall ; 
 A head in papers, yet without a curl ! 
 
 Not the Invisible Girl ! 
 No hand — ^but a hand-writing on a wall — 
 
 A popular nonentity. 
 Still caird the same, — without identity ! 
 
 A lark, heard out of sight, — 
 A nothing shin'd upon, — invisibly bright, 
 
 " Dark with excess of light !" 
 Constable's literary John-a-nokes — 
 The real Scottish wizard — and not which, 
 
 Nobody — ^in a niche ; 
 
 Every one's hoax ! 
 
 Maybe Sir Walter Scott — 
 Perhaps not ! 
 Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks ?
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 41 
 
 2. 
 
 Thou, — whom the second-sighted never saw, 
 
 The Master Fiction of fictitious history ! 
 
 Chief Nong tong paw ! 
 
 No mister in the world — and yet all mystery ! 
 
 The " tricksy spirit"" of a Scotch Cock Lane — 
 
 A novel Junius puzzling the world"'s brain — 
 
 A man of Magic — yet no talisman ! 
 
 A man of clair obscure — not he o"* the moon ! 
 
 A star — at noon. 
 
 A non-descriptus in a caravan, 
 
 A private— of no corps — a northern light 
 
 In a dark lantern, — Bogie in a crape — 
 
 A figure — but no shape ; 
 
 A vizor — and no knight ; 
 
 The real abstract hero of the age , 
 
 The staple Stranger of the stage ; 
 
 A Some One made in every man^s presumption, 
 
 Frankenstein's monster — but instinct with gump- 
 tion ; 
 
 Another strange state captive in the north,
 
 42 TO THE GKEAT UNKNOWX. 
 
 Constable-guarded in an iron mask — 
 Still let me ask, 
 Hast thou no silver platter, 
 No door-plate, or no card — or some such matter, 
 To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth ? 
 
 a 
 
 Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger 
 Of Curiosity with airy gammon ! 
 Thou mystery-monger. 
 Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon. 
 That people buy and canH make head or tail of it ; 
 (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it ;) 
 Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, 
 That lay their proper bodies on the shelf — 
 Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, 
 
 Thou Zimmerman made practical ! 
 Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, 
 
 That, hke the Nile, 
 Hideth its soiirce wherever it is bred. 
 
 But still keeps disemboguing 
 
 (Not disembroguing)
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 43 
 
 Thro"' such broad sandy mouths without a head ! 
 Thou disembodied author — not yet dead, — 
 The whole world's literary Absentee ! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore hast thou fled, 
 Thou learned Nemo^wise to a degree, 
 
 Anonymous L. L. D. ! 
 
 Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang 
 That do — and inquests cannot say who did it ! 
 
 Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang ? 
 Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch — or hid it ? 
 Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber ? Heaven forbid it ! 
 
 I should be very loth to see thee hang ! 
 I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd. 
 An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. 
 
 Tho' thou hast newly tum'd thy private bolt on 
 The curiosity of all invaders — 
 
 I hope thou art merely closeted with Col ton, 
 Who knows a little of the Holy Land^ 
 
 Writing thy next new novel — The Crusaders !
 
 44 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 5. 
 
 Perhaps thou wert even born 
 To be Unknown. — Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, 
 At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, 
 
 Pinn^'d to a ticket 
 That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing 
 The future great unmentionable being. — 
 
 Perhaps thou hast ridden 
 A scholar poor on St. Augustine"'s Back, 
 Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack 
 
 Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden ; 
 A httle hoard of clever simulation, 
 
 That took the town — and Constable has bidden 
 Some hundred pounds for a continuation — 
 To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation. 
 
 6. 
 I liked thy Waverly — first of thy breeding ; 
 
 I like its modest " sixty years ago," 
 As if it was not meant for ages' reading. 
 
 I don't like Ivanhoe, 
 Tho"* Dymoke does — it makes him think of clattering
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWK. 45 
 
 In iron overalls before the king, 
 Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, 
 
 Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ring — 
 Oh better far than all that anvil clang 
 
 It was to hear thee touch the famous string 
 Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, 
 Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, 
 Like Sagittarian Pan ! 
 
 7- 
 
 I like Guy Mannering — but not that sham son 
 Of Brown. — I like that literary Sampson, 
 Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. 
 I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson 
 
 That slew the Guager ; 
 And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major ; 
 And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, 
 
 That Scottish Witch of Endor, 
 That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it. 
 To tell a great man's fortune— or to make it ! 
 
 8. 
 I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on. 
 He makes me think of Mr. Britton,
 
 46 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 Who has — or had — within his garden wall, 
 A miniature Stone Henge^ so very small 
 
 The sparrows find it difficult to sit on ; 
 And Dousterswivel, like Poyais"' M'Gregor; 
 And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar^ 
 
 Painted so cleverly, 
 I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly ! 
 I like thy Barber — him that fir'd the Beacon — 
 But thafs a tender subject now to speak on ! 
 
 9. 
 
 I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. — His very charms 
 Fashioned him for renown ! — In sad sincerity, 
 
 The man that robs or writes must have long arms, 
 If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity ! 
 Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity. 
 Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) 
 
 Bearing the name she bore, 
 A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy ! 
 But Roys can never die — why else, in verity. 
 Is Paris echoing with " Vive le Roy /"
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 47 
 
 Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di 
 Vernon, of course, shall often live again — 
 Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain. 
 
 Who can pass by 
 Nor feel the Thief "s in prison and at hand ? 
 There be Old Bailey Jarvys on the stand ! 
 
 10. 
 
 I like thy Landlord's Tales !— I like that Idol 
 ( )f love and Lammennoor — the blue-eyed maid 
 That led to church the mounted cavalcade, 
 
 And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal ! 
 Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches — 
 I like the family (not silver) branches 
 That hold the tapers 
 
 To light the serious legend of Montrose. — 
 I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours. 
 As if he could not walk or talk alone. 
 Without the devil— or the Great Unknown, 
 
 Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows ! 
 
 11. 
 I like St. Leonard's Lily — drench'd with dew ! 
 I like thy Vision of the Covenanters,
 
 48 TO THE GRKAT UKKNOWN. 
 
 That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. 
 I like the battle lost and won ; 
 The hurly burly's bravely done, 
 The warlike gallops and the warlike canters ! 
 I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, 
 Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, 
 With one eye on his sword, 
 And one upon the Word, — 
 How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel \ 
 I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple 
 His raven steed with blood of many a corse — 
 I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels 
 
 Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse — 
 She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels ! 
 
 12. 
 I like thy Kenilworth — but I'm not going 
 
 To take a Retrospective Re-Review 
 Of all thy dainty novels — merely showing 
 The old familiar faces of a few. 
 The question to renew, 
 How thou canst leave such deeds without a name. 
 Forego the unclaimed dividends of fame,
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 49 
 
 Forego the smiles of literary houris — 
 
 Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, 
 
 And all the Carse of Gowrie's, 
 When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty — 
 
 Or see thy image on Italian trays, 
 Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparte, 
 
 Be painted by the Titian of R. A.'s, 
 Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Guelph ! 
 PVhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with 
 Homer's, 
 Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself 
 To other Englands with Australian roamers — 
 Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee 
 Displace the native wooden gods, or be 
 The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf! 
 
 13. 
 It is not modesty that bids thee hide — 
 She never wastes her blushes out of sight : 
 It is not to invite 
 The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,— 
 And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide,
 
 50 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 Even royal heads are with thy readers reckoned, — 
 From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars 
 In crimson collars, 
 
 And learned Serjeants in the Forty-Second ! 
 
 Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd ? 
 
 Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, 
 
 Defying distance and its dim control ; 
 
 Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon"'d worth 
 
 A brace of Miltons for capacious soul — 
 
 Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north, 
 
 And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole ! 
 
 14 
 
 Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, 
 
 With such a giant genius at command. 
 For ever at thy stamp. 
 
 To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, 
 
 When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand 
 
 Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, 
 Tho' princes sought her. 
 
 And lead her in procession hymeneal, 
 
 Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal !
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWX. 51 
 
 Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, 
 Enveloped in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs ? 
 Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, 
 Some hopeless Imp, hke Riquet with the Tuft, 
 Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff 'd. 
 Or bullied by our great reviewdng Gogs ? 
 
 15. 
 
 What in this masquing age 
 Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy ? 
 
 What but the critic's page ? 
 One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye ; 
 Another hath a wen, — he won't show where ; 
 
 A third has sandy hair, 
 A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, 
 Things for a vile reviewer to espy ! 
 Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose, — 
 
 Finally, this is dimpled. 
 Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled. 
 Things for a monthly critic to expose — 
 Nay, what is thy own case — that being small, 
 Thou choosest to be nobody at all !
 
 52 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 16. 
 
 Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones — 
 E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, 
 That shadowy revelation of thyself — 
 To build thee a small hut of haunted stones — 
 For certainly the first pernicious man 
 That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee 
 In some vile literary caravan — 
 Shown for a shilling 
 Would be thy killing, 
 Think of Crachami^'s miserable span ! 
 No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in 
 
 Than there it fell in — 
 But when she felt herself a show, she tried 
 To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf ! and 
 died! 
 
 17- 
 
 O since it was thy fortune to be born 
 
 A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch 
 From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, 
 Still with thy small crow pen
 
 TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 53 
 
 Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn — 
 Still Scottish story daintily adorn, 
 
 Be still a shade — and when this age is fled, 
 When we poor sons and daughters of reality 
 
 Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, 
 And Time destroys our mottoes of morality — 
 The lithographic hand of Old Mortality 
 Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, 
 
 A featureless death's head. 
 And rob Oblivion cv'n of the Unknown !
 
 ADDRESS. 
 TO MR. DYMOKE, 
 
 THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. 
 
 " — Anna Viramque cano !" Virgil. 
 
 1. 
 
 Mr. Dymoke ! Sir Knight ! if I may be so bold — 
 
 (I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,) 
 Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold ? — 
 
 Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung 
 down ? 
 
 2. 
 Are you — who that day rode so maiPd and admir'd. 
 
 Now sitting at ease in a library chair ? 
 Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hir'd, 
 
 With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare ?
 
 56 TO MK. DYMOKE. 
 
 3. 
 
 What's become of the cup ? Great tin-plate worker? 
 say! 
 Cup and ball is a game which some people deem 
 fun! 
 Oh ! three golden balls haven''t lur'd you to play 
 Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one ? 
 
 How defunct is the show that was chivalry ''s mimic ! 
 
 The breast-plate — the feathers — the gallant array ! 
 So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke ! 
 
 The day of brass breeches ! as Wordsworth would 
 say! 
 
 Perchance in some village remote, with a cot. 
 And a cow, and a pig, and a barn-door, and all ; — 
 
 You show to the parish that peace is your lot. 
 And plenty, — tho' absent from Westminster Hall!
 
 TO MR. DYMOKE. 57 
 
 .6. 
 
 And of course you turn every accoutrement now 
 To its separate use, that your wants may be well 
 met ; — 
 You toss in your breast-plate your pancakes, and 
 grow 
 A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet. 
 
 r 
 
 And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, 
 
 less bright 
 
 Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task ; — 
 
 And you bake your own bread in your tin ; and, Sir 
 
 Knight, 
 
 Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque ! 
 
 8. 
 
 I low dehghtful to sit by your beans and your peas. 
 With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutchM, 
 
 And chat of the bUxjd that had delug'd the Pleas, 
 And (Irencird the King's Bench, — if the glove hatl 
 been touched !
 
 58 TO MR. DYMOKE. 
 
 If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions, 
 Had snatch'd your "best doe," — he"'d have flooded 
 the floor ; — 
 
 Nor wovdd even the best of his crafty inventions, 
 "Life Preservers,"" have floated him out of his gore! 
 
 10. 
 
 Oh, you and your horse ! what a couple was there ! 
 
 The man and his hacker, — to win a great fight ! 
 Though the trumpet was loud, — ^you'd an undisturbed 
 air ! 
 
 And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray sans 
 
 affright ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore 
 When he waddled tail- wise with the cup to his 
 stall ; — 
 
 For though his departure was at the front door. 
 Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.
 
 TO MR. DYMOKE- 59 
 
 12. 
 
 He went, — and "'twould puzzle historians to say, 
 When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your 
 
 AVhether caution or courage inspired him that day, 
 For, though he retreated, he never turn"'d tail. 
 
 13. 
 
 By my life, he"'s a wonderful charger ! — The best ! 
 
 Though not for aParthian corps! — yet for you ! — 
 Distinguish^ alike at a fray and a feast, 
 
 What a Horse for a grand Retrospective Review ! 
 
 14. 
 
 What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool 
 
 When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far 
 aloof! — 
 
 What a tail-piece for Bewick ! — or pyebakl for Poole, 
 To bear him in safetv from EUiston's hoof !
 
 60 TO MR. DYMOKE. 
 
 15. 
 
 Well ; hail to Old Cato ! the hero of scenes ! 
 
 May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge ;- 
 Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans, 
 
 Well " pent up in Utica'' over the Bridge ! 
 
 16. 
 
 And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb"'s rival, I keep 
 Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and 
 best ! 
 
 And oh ! when you come to the Hummums to sleep, i 
 May you lie " like a warrior taking his rest !"
 
 ODE 
 
 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 "This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, 
 And to do that well crayes a kind of wit." 
 
 Tvsdfth Night. 
 
 1. 
 
 Joseph ! they say thou'st left the stage, 
 
 To toddle down the hill of life, 
 
 And taste the flannclFd ease of age. 
 
 Apart from pantomimic strife — 
 
 *' Retired — (for Young would call it so) — 
 
 The world shut out" — in Pleasant Row !
 
 62 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 
 
 2. 
 And hast thou really wash"'d at last 
 From each white cheek the red half moon ! 
 And all thy public Clownship cast, 
 To play the private Pantaloon ? 
 All youth — all ages — yet to be 
 Shall have a heavy miss of thee ! 
 
 a 
 
 Thou didst not preach to make us wise — 
 Thou hadst no finger in our schooling — 
 Thou didst not " lure us to the skies" — 
 Thy simple, simple trade was — Fooling ! 
 And yet, Heav"'n knows ! we could — we can 
 Much " better spare a better man !" 
 
 4. 
 Oh, had it pleas'd the gout to take 
 The reverend Croly from the stage, 
 Or Southey, for our quiet's sake. 
 Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, 
 Or, damme ! namby pamby Poole, — 
 Or any other clown or fool !
 
 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 
 
 5. 
 
 Go, Dibdin — all that bear the name, 
 Go Byeway Highway man ! go ! go ! 
 Go, SkefFy — man of painted fame. 
 But leave thy partner, painted Joe! 
 I could bear Kirby on the wane, 
 Or Signor Paulo with a sprain ! 
 
 6. 
 Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made 
 His grey hairs scarce in private peace 
 Had Waithman sought a rural shadi 
 Or Cobbett ta''en a turnpike lease — 
 Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill — 
 I think I could be cheerful still ! 
 
 Had Medwin left off, to his praise. 
 Dead lion kicking, like — a friend ! — 
 Had long, long Irving gone his ways, 
 To muse on death at Ponder' s End — 
 Or Lady Morgan taken leave 
 Of Letters — still I might not grieve ! 
 
 63
 
 64) TO JOSEPH (iRIMALDI. 
 
 8. 
 But, Joseph — every body's Jo ! — 
 Is gone — and grieve I will and must ! 
 As Hamlet did for Yorick, so 
 Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,) 
 And talk as he did when he miss"*d 
 The kissing-crust that he had kiss''d ! 
 
 9. 
 Ah, where is now thy rolling heatl ! 
 Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes, 
 (As old Catullus would have said,) 
 Thy oven-mouth, that swallowed pies — 
 Enormous hunger — ^monstrous drowth ! 
 Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth ! 
 
 10. 
 Ah, where thy ears, so often cuflF'd ! — 
 Thy funny, flapping, filching hands ! — 
 Thy partridge body, always stufF'd 
 With waifs, and strays, and contrabands ! — 
 Thy foot — ^like Berkeley's Foote — for why ? 
 'Twas often made to wipe an eye !
 
 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 65 
 
 11. 
 
 Ah, where thy legs — that witty pair ! 
 For "great wits jump" — and so did they ! 
 Lord ! how they leap'd in lamp-light air ! 
 Caper d — and bounc'd — and strode away ! — 
 That years should tame the legs — alack ! 
 Fve seen spring thro' an Almanack ! 
 
 12. 
 But bounds will have their bound — the shocks 
 Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes ; 
 And those that frisk'd in silken clocks 
 May look to limp in fleecy hose — 
 One only — (Champion of the ring) 
 Could ever make his Winter, — Spring ! 
 
 13. 
 And gout, that owns no odds between 
 The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, 
 Will visit — but I did not mean 
 To moralize, though I am grown 
 Thus sad, — Thy going seem'd to beat 
 A muffled drum for Fun's retreat !
 
 66 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 
 
 14. 
 
 And, may be — ^'tis no time to smother 
 A sigh, when two prime wags of London 
 Are gone — thou, Joseph, one — the other 
 A Joe ! — " sic transit gloria Munden f 
 A third departure some insist on, — 
 Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston ! — 
 
 15. 
 Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep 
 With ancient " Do%eif' to the dregs — 
 Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep, 
 And put a hatchment o'er her eggs ! 
 Let Farley weep — for Magic's man 
 Is gone, — his Christmas Caliban ! 
 
 16. 
 Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, 
 As tho' they walked behind thy bier, — 
 For since thou wilt not play again. 
 What matters, — if in heav'n or here ! 
 Or in thy grave, or in thy bed ! — 
 There's Quick,* might just as well be dead ! 
 
 * One of the old actors :— still a performer (but in private) 
 of Old Rapid.
 
 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. &J 
 
 17- 
 
 Oh, how will thy departure cloud 
 
 The lamp-light of the little breast ! 
 
 The Christmas child will grieve aloud 
 
 To miss his broadest friend and best, — 
 
 Poor urchin ! what avails to him 
 
 The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm? 
 
 18. 
 For who like thee could ever stride 
 Some dozen paces to the mile ! — 
 The motley, medley coach provide — 
 Or like Joe Frankenstein compile 
 The vegetable man complete ! — 
 A proper Covent Garden feat ! 
 
 19. 
 Oh, who like thee could ever drink, 
 Or eat, — swill, swallow — bolt — and choke ! 
 Nod, weep, and hiccup— sneeze and wink ? — 
 Thy very yawn was quite a joke ! 
 Tho' Joseph Junior acts not ill, 
 « There's no Fool like the old Fool" still !
 
 68 TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI. 
 
 20. 
 
 Joseph, farewell ! dear funny Joe ! 
 We met with mirth, — we part in pain ! 
 For many a long, long year must go, 
 Ere Fun can see thy like again — 
 For Nature does not keep great stores 
 Of perfect Clowns — that are not Boors !
 
 ) 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE, 
 
 EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 '* Dost thou not suspect mj' years ?" 
 
 Much Ado About Nothins;. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Urban ! never must thou lurch 
 A sober age made serious drimk by thee ; 
 
 Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, 
 And nurse thy little bald Biography. 
 
 2. 
 
 Oh, my Sylvanus ! what a heart is thine ! 
 
 And what a page attends thee ! Long may I 
 Hang in demure confusion o''er each line 
 
 That asks thy little questions with a sigh !
 
 70 TO SYLVANUS URBAN. 
 
 3 
 
 Old tottering years have nodded to their falls, 
 Like pensioners that creep about and die ; — 
 
 But thou, Old Parr of periodicals, 
 Livest in monthly immortality ! 
 
 4. 
 
 How sweet ! — as Byron of his infant said, — 
 ** Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace ; 
 
 To see the mild no-meanings of thy head, 
 Taking a quiet nap upon thy face ! 
 
 5. 
 How dear through thy Obituary to roam. 
 
 And not a name of any name to catch ! 
 To meet thy Criticism walking home, 
 
 Averse from rows, and never calling " Watch !" 
 
 6. 
 Rich is thy page in soporific things, — 
 
 Composing compositions, — lulling men, — 
 Faded old posies of unburied rings, — 
 
 Confessions dozing from an opiate pen : —
 
 TO 5YLVANUS URBAN. 'Jl 
 
 r 
 
 Lives of Right Reverends that have never liv'd — 
 
 Deaths of good people that have really died, — 
 Parishioners, — hatched, — husbanded, — and wivM, 
 
 Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side ! 
 
 8. 
 The sacred query, — the remote response, — 
 
 The march of serious minds, extremely slow, — 
 The graver"'s cut at some right aged sconce, 
 
 Famous for nothing many years ago ! 
 
 9. 
 
 B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write 
 
 " Com us," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid; — 
 And C, next month, an answer doth indite. 
 
 Informing B. that Mr. Milton did ! 
 
 10. 
 
 X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea, 
 
 Caught upon Martin Luther years agone ; — 
 
 And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, 
 Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.
 
 72 TO SYLVANUS UHBAN. 
 
 11. 
 
 There is no end of thee, — there is no end, 
 
 Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits I 
 Thou dost, witli alphabets, old walls attend, 
 
 And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets. 
 
 12. 
 Go on, Sylvanus ! — Bear a wary eye. 
 
 The churches cannot yet be quite run out ! 
 Some parishes must yet have been passed by, — 
 
 There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt ! 
 
 13. 
 Go on — and close the eyes of distant ages ! 
 
 Nourish the names of the undoubted dead I 
 So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages. 
 
 Heavy and lively, though but seldom red. 
 
 14. 
 
 Go on ! and thrive ! Demurest of odd fellows ! 
 
 Bottling up dullness in an ancient binn ! 
 Still live ! still prose ! continue still to teU us 
 
 Old truths ! no strangers, though we take them in I
 
 AN ADDRESS 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 " Archer. How many are there, Scrub? 
 
 Scrub. Five and fort^-, Sir." — Beaiix Stratagem. 
 
 " For shanie — let the linen alone !" — Af. IV. of Wiiukor. 
 
 Mr. Scrub — Mr. Slo}^ — or whoever you be ! 
 The Cock of Steam Laundries, — the head Patentee 
 Of Associate Cleansers, — Chief founder and prime 
 Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime — 
 Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety — 
 That make washing public — and wash in society — 
 O lend me your ear ! if that ear can forego, 
 For a moment, the music that bubbles below, —
 
 74 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 From your new Surrey Geisers* all foaming and 
 
 hot, — 
 That soft '■^ simmer'' s sang" so endeard to the Scot — 
 If your hands may stand still, or your steam without 
 
 danger — 
 If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple 
 
 stranger. 
 Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub, — 
 O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub, — 
 And lend me your ear, — Let me modestly plead 
 For a race that your labours may soon supersede—* 
 For a race that, now washing no living affords — 
 Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards. 
 Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at 
 
 ease, 
 Not with bread in the funds— or investments of 
 
 cheese, — 
 But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream. 
 Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam. 
 
 * Geisers : — the boiling springs in Iceland.
 
 TO TttE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. JS 
 
 Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge 
 Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge — 
 When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, 
 She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, 
 And beginneth her toil while the mom is still 
 
 grey, 
 As if she was washing the night into day — 
 Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora 
 Beginneth to scatter the dew-drops before her ; 
 Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, 
 Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more 
 
 pearly — 
 Her head is involved in an aerial mist. 
 And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist ; 
 Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty ; 
 She's Industry''s moral — she''s all moral beauty ! 
 Growing brighter and brighter at every rub — 
 Would any man ruin her ? — No, Mr. Scrub ! 
 No man that is manly would work her mis- 
 hap — 
 No man that is manly would covet her cap —
 
 76 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 Nor her apron — her hose — nor her gown made of 
 
 stuff— 
 Nor her gin — nor her tea — nor her wet pinch of 
 
 snufF! 
 Alas ! so she thought — ^but that slippery hope 
 Has betrayed her — as tho' she had trod on her soap ! 
 And she, — whose support, — like the fishes that fly. 
 Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her 
 
 sky- 
 She whose living it was, and a part of her fare. 
 To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea 
 
 bear. 
 With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a 
 
 mop — 
 Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop — 
 She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, 
 And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land ! 
 
 Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she 
 stands, 
 Instead of a counterpane wringing her hands !
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 77 
 
 All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale, 
 With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale ! 
 No smoke from her flue — and no steam from her 
 
 pane, 
 There once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and 
 
 the rain — 
 Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engrossed, 
 Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post ! 
 Ah, where are the playful young pinners — ah, where 
 The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air — 
 The brisk waltzing stockings — the white and the 
 
 black. 
 That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the 
 
 slack — 
 The liglit sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd, 
 That blew into shape, and embodied the wind ! 
 There was white on the grass — there was white on 
 
 the spray — 
 Her garden — it looked like a garden of May ! 
 But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub — 
 \'ouVe ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrubb !
 
 ^8 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 YouVe ruin"'d her custom — now families drop her — 
 From her silver reduced — nay, reduc''d from her 
 
 copper! ,, .; 
 
 The last of her washing is done at her eye, 
 One poor little kerchief that never gets dry ! 
 From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth, 
 And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth, — 
 But her children come round her as victuals grow 
 
 And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want- 
 When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be 
 
 fed. 
 And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead. 
 And even its pearlashes laid in the grave — 
 Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave, 
 And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub 
 
 Sir Astley, can''t bind up her heart or her tub, 
 
 Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr, Scrub ! 
 Need you wonder, when steam has depriv''d her of 
 
 — bread, 
 If she prays that the evil may visit your head—
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 79 
 
 Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Com- 
 mittee, — 
 If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city — 
 In short, not to mention all plagues without number, 
 If she wishes you all in the Wash at the H umber ! 
 
 Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and de- 
 spair, 
 When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew 
 
 rare — 
 When the sum of her suds might be summed in a 
 
 bowl, 
 And the rusty cold iron quite entered her soul — 
 When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye 
 Had caught " the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going 
 
 by, 
 
 Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, 
 And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both 
 
 together. 
 In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose, 
 Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose.
 
 80 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 On her sheet — if a sheet were still left her — to write, 
 Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw 
 the light — 
 
 LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE 
 
 FROM BRIDGET JONES 
 
 TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE 
 WASHING COMMITTEE. 
 
 It''s a shame, so it is, — men can"'t Let alone 
 
 Jobs as is Woman's right to do— and go about there 
 
 Own — 
 Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new 
 
 schools 
 For washing to sit Up, — and push the Old Tubs 
 
 from their stools ! 
 But your just like the Raddicals, — for upsetting of 
 
 the Sudds 
 When the world wagged well enuff — and Wommen 
 
 washed your old dirty duds,
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COiMPANY. 81 
 
 I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no 
 steem Indians, that's Flat, — 
 
 But I warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy 
 and gentlemanny for all that — 
 
 I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great 
 Kittle 
 
 I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very con- 
 siderable period back when I were little, 
 
 And they Said it went with Steem, — But that was 
 a joke ! 
 
 For I never see none come of it, — that's out of it— 
 but only sum Smoak — 
 
 And for All your Power of Horses about your In- 
 dians you never had but Two 
 
 In my time to draw you About to Fairs — and hang 
 you, you know that's true ! 
 
 And for All your fine Perspectuses, — howsomever 
 you bewhich 'em. 
 
 Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a 
 one at Mitchum,
 
 82 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing- 
 has with one another to Do — 
 
 It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a 
 Birdshigh view! 
 
 But Thats your look out — Fve not much to do 
 with that — But pleas God to hold up fine, 
 
 Id show you caps and pinners and small things as 
 lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line 
 
 Without going anv Father ofF then Little Parodies 
 Place, 
 
 And Thats more than you Can — and 111 say it be- 
 hind your face — 
 
 But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you to 
 Speak, — 
 
 As kept Dockter Patty son out of his Shirt for a 
 Weak ! 
 
 Thinks I, when I heard it — Well there's a pretty 
 go! 
 
 That comes o' not marking of things or washing 
 out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so !
 
 TO THK STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 83 
 
 Till Their frends comes and owns them, like 
 
 drownded corpeses in a Vault, 
 But may Hap you havint Larn-d to spel— and 
 
 That ant your Fault, 
 Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as 
 
 has Larn"'d, — 
 For if it warnt for Washing, — and whare Bills is 
 
 concarned 
 What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans 
 
 Headication, 
 And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays — fit 
 
 for any Cityation. 
 
 Well, what I says is This — when every Kittle 
 
 has its spout. 
 
 Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about ! 
 
 To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff 
 
 Wind 
 For blowing up Boats with, — but not to hurt 
 
 human kind
 
 84 TO THK STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's 
 
 loaded with hot water, 
 Thof a X Sherrif might know Better, than make 
 
 things for slaughtter, 
 As if War warnt Cruel enuff — wherever it befalls, 
 Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding 
 
 hot balls, — 
 But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced 
 
 Scrubbs 
 As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem 
 
 rubbing Clubs, 
 For washing Dirt Cheap, — and eating other Peple's 
 
 grubs ! 
 Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, 
 But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their 
 
 Beau-He ! 
 They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God 
 
 nose there will be !) 
 And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes 
 
 for their Goods, 
 When you and your Steem has ruined (G — d for- 
 give mee) their lively Hoods,
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 85 
 
 Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their 
 youth ! 
 
 And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four 
 Sooth ! 
 
 But if so be They leave their Lines what are they 
 to go at — 
 
 They won't do for AngelPs — nor any Trade like 
 That, 
 
 Nor we cant Sow Babby Work, — for that's all Be- 
 spoke, — 
 
 For the Queakers in Bridle ! and a vast of the 
 confind Folk 
 
 Do their own of Themselves— even the bettermost 
 of em — aye, and evn them of middling de- 
 grees — 
 
 Why Lauk help you Babby Linen ant Bread and 
 Cheese ! 
 
 Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, 
 
 But we must all go and be Bankers, — like Mr. 
 Marshes and Mr. Chamberses, — and that's 
 what we must !
 
 8G TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPAXY. 
 
 God nose you oght to have more Concern for our 
 
 Sects, 
 When you nose vou have suck'd us and hanged 
 
 rovuid our Mutherly necks, 
 And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Be- 
 sides washing — 
 You ant, blame you ! like Men to go a slushing and 
 
 sloshing 
 In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers 
 And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril 
 
 things, ant you now by your next door 
 
 naybours — 
 Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up 
 No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, 
 And for all Your Fine Water Works going round 
 
 and round 
 They'll scruntch your Bones some day — FU be bound 
 And no more nor be a gudgement, — for it cant 
 
 come to good 
 To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing, — 
 
 nor not fit It should,
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 87 
 
 For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, 
 Nor to do . away Laundrisses as is Links of the 
 
 Creation — 
 And cant be dun without in any Country But a 
 
 naked Hottinpot Nation 
 Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your 
 
 Tubbs 
 And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good 
 
 rubs — 
 But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) 
 
 nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, 
 Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's 
 
 Backs — 
 And let yovir neighbours oxin an Asses alone, — 
 And every Thing thats hem, — and give every one 
 
 their Hone ! 
 
 Well, its God for us All, and every Washer 
 Wommen for herself, 
 And so you might, without shoving any on us off 
 the shelf,
 
 88 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe 
 And pull off Your Pattins, — ^and leave the washing 
 
 to we 
 That nose what''s what — Or mark what I say, 
 Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some 
 
 Day— 
 When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their 
 
 ant nun at all, 
 And Cris mass cum — and never a Cloth to lay in 
 
 Gild Hall, 
 Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare 
 Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to 
 
 do good in his Harm-Chare — 
 Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is 
 
 sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) 
 
 but to stew 
 And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew 
 With a vast more like That, — and all along of Steem 
 Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam — 
 But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, 
 And I cant say I''m Sorry afore God if you shoud,
 
 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 89 
 
 For men mought Get their Bread a great many 
 
 ways 
 Without taking ourn, — aye,and Moor to your Prays 
 You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck- 
 
 Adam''s milky ways — thaf s what you might. 
 Or bete Carpets — or get into Parlcamint, — or drive 
 
 Crabrolays from morning to night, 
 Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, 
 
 and slepe upon a poste ! 
 (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say, — and 
 
 a very hard pillow at most,) 
 Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that 
 
 I'm awares. 
 Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and 
 
 roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, 
 "Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry 
 
 sifting Dirt ! 
 But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You 
 
 no Hurt ! 
 
 Yourn with Anymocity, 
 
 Bridckt Jones.
 
 ODE 
 
 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 " By the North Pole, I do challenge thee !" 
 
 1. 
 
 Parry, my man ! has thy brave leg 
 Yet struck its foot against the peg 
 
 On which the world is spun ? 
 Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare 
 Writ by the hand of Nature there 
 
 Where man has never run ! 
 
 2. 
 Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown 
 Of channels in the Frozen Zone, 
 
 Or held at lc\ Bay,
 
 92 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 Hast thou still miss'd the proper track 
 For homeward Indian men that lack 
 
 A bracing by the way ? 
 
 3. 
 Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble 
 On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble 
 
 Of geographic scholar ? 
 Or found new ways for ships to shape, 
 Instead of winding round the Cape, 
 
 A short cut thro' the collar ! 
 
 4. 
 Hast found the way that sighs were sent to* 
 The Pole — tho"' God knows whom they went to ! 
 
 That track reveard to Pope — 
 Or if the Arctic waters sally. 
 Or terminate in some blind alley, 
 
 A chilly path to grope ? 
 
 * "And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole." 
 
 Eloisa to Abelard.
 
 TO CAPTAIK PARRY. 93 
 
 5. 
 Alas ! tho" Ross, in love with snows, 
 Has painted them couleur de rose^ 
 
 It is a dismal doom, 
 As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, 
 " In regions of thick-ribbed ice" — 
 
 All bright, — and yet all gloom ! 
 
 6. 
 ""Tis well for Gheber souls that sit 
 Before the fire and worship it 
 
 With pecks of Wallsend coals, 
 With feet upon the fender"'s front, 
 Roasting their corns — like Mr. Hunt — 
 
 To speculate on poles. 
 
 7- 
 
 'Tis easy for our Naval Board — 
 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord 
 
 Of London and of ease, 
 That lies in ninety feet of down, 
 With fur on his nocturnal gown, 
 
 To talk of Frozen Seas !
 
 94 TO CAPTAIN PARKY. 
 
 8. 
 
 'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, 
 And prate about the mundane spit, 
 
 And babble of Cook''s track — 
 He'd roast the leather off his toes, 
 Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows, 
 To plant a British Jack ! 
 
 9. 
 Oh, not the proud licentious great. 
 That travel on a carpet skate, 
 Can value toils like thine ! 
 What 'tis to take a Hecla range, 
 Through ice unkno\vn to Mrs. Grange, 
 And alpine lumps of brine ! 
 10. 
 But we, that movmt the Hill o' Rhyme, 
 Can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The lofty slippery steep. 
 Ah ! there are more Snow Hills than that 
 Which doth black Newgate, like a hat. 
 Upon its forehead keep.
 
 TO CAPTAIX PAKRY. 95 
 
 11. 
 
 Perchance thouVt now — while I am writing — 
 Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting 
 
 About thy frozen spine ! 
 Or thou thyself art eating whale, 
 Oily, and underdone, and stale, 
 
 That, haply, crossed thy line ! 
 12. 
 But ril not dream such dreams of ill — 
 Rather will I believe thee still 
 
 Safe cellared in the snow, — 
 Reciting many a gallant story, 
 Of British kings and British glory, 
 
 To crony Esquimaux — 
 13. 
 Cheering that dismal game where Night 
 Makes one slow move from black to white 
 
 Thro' all the tedious year, — 
 Or smitten by some fond frost fair. 
 That comb'd out crystals from her hair. 
 
 Wooing a seal-skin Dear !
 
 96 TO CAPTAIX PAURV. 
 
 14. 
 
 So much a long communion tends, 
 As Byron says, to make us friends 
 
 With what we daily view — 
 God knows the daintiest taste may come 
 To love a nose that's like a plum 
 
 In marble, cold and blue ! 
 15. 
 To dote on hair, an oily fleece ! 
 As tho"" it hung from Helen o' Greece — 
 
 They say that love prevails 
 Ev"'n in the veriest polar land — 
 And surely she may steal thy hand 
 
 That used to steal thy nails ! 
 16. 
 But ah, ere thou art fixt to marry, 
 And take a polar Mrs. Parry, 
 
 Think of a six months'" gloom — 
 Think of the wintry waste, and hers, 
 Each furnished with a dozen /wr«, 
 
 Think of thine icy dome !
 
 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 97 
 
 Think of the children born to blubber ! 
 Ah me ! hast thou an Indian rubber 
 
 Inside ! — to hokl a meal 
 For months, — about a stone and half 
 Of w hale, and part of a sea calf — 
 
 A fillet of salt veal ! — 
 
 18. 
 Some walrus ham — no trifle but 
 A decent steak — a solid cut 
 
 Of seal — no wafer slice ! 
 A rein-deer's tongue and drink beside ! 
 Gallons of Sperm — not rectified ! 
 
 And pails of water-ice ! 
 
 19. 
 
 Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus r 
 Still come away, and teach to us 
 
 Those blessed alternations — 
 To-day to run our dinners fine. 
 To feed on air and then to dine 
 
 With Civic Corporations — 
 
 H 
 
 r*
 
 98 TO CAPTAIK PARRY. 
 
 20. 
 
 To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, 
 And then to take a half year's filling 
 
 In P. N.'s pious Row — 
 When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, 
 Thro' something we have worn our pens on 
 
 For Longman and his Co. 
 
 21. 
 O come and tell us what the Pole is — 
 Whether it singular and sole is, — 
 
 Or straight, or crooked bent, — 
 If very thick or very thin, — 
 Made of what wood — and if akin 
 
 To those there be in Kent .? 
 
 22. 
 There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, 
 Have talk'd of poles — yet, after all, 
 
 What has the public learn'd ? 
 And Hunt's account must still defer, — 
 He sought the poll at Westminster— 
 
 And is not yet returrCd !
 
 TO CAPTAIN PAKIIV. 99 
 
 23. 
 
 Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, 
 
 Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole, 
 
 And how the fur-man deals ? 
 And Eldon doubts if it be true, 
 That icy Chancellors really do 
 
 Exist upon the seals ! 
 
 24. 
 Barrow, by well-fed office grates, 
 Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, 
 
 And longs that he were there ; 
 And Croker, in his cabriolet. 
 Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, 
 
 And pants to cross the mer I 
 
 25. 
 O come away, and set us right, 
 And, haply, throw a northern hght 
 
 On questions such as these : — 
 Whether, when this drown'd world was lost, 
 The surflux waves were locked in frost, 
 
 And turn'd to Icy Seas !
 
 100 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 Is Ursa Major white or black ? 
 Or do the Polar tribes attack 
 
 Their neighbours — and what for ? 
 Whether they ever play at cuffs, 
 And then, if they take off their muffs 
 
 In pugilistic war ? 
 
 27. 
 Tell us, is Winter champion there, 
 As in our milder fighting air ? 
 
 Say, what are Chilly Ions ? 
 What cures they have for rheums beside. 
 And if their hearts get ossified 
 
 From eating bread of bones ? 
 28. 
 Whether they are such dwarfs — the quicker 
 To circulate the vital liquor, — * 
 
 And then, from head to heel — 
 How short the Methodists must choose 
 Their dumpy envoys not to lose 
 
 Their toes in spite of zeal.'' 
 * Buffon
 
 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 101 
 
 29. 
 Whether 'twill soften or sublime it 
 To preach of Hell in such a climate — 
 
 Whether may Wesley hope 
 To win their souls— or that old function 
 Of seals — with the extreme of unction — 
 
 Bespeaks them for the Pope ? 
 30. 
 Whether the lamps will e'er be " learned" 
 Where six months' " midnight oil" is burned, 
 
 Or Letters must defer 
 With people that have never conn'd 
 An A, B, C, but live beyond 
 
 The Sound of Lancaster ! 
 
 31. 
 O come away at any rate — 
 Well hast thou earn'd a downier state — 
 
 With all thy hardy peers — 
 Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, 
 And rub thy feet with opodeldock, 
 
 After such frosty years.
 
 102 TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 32. 
 
 Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, 
 Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. 
 
 However coy before. 
 Shall bid thee now set up thy rest 
 In that Brest Harbour, Woman's breast, 
 
 And tempt the Fates no more !
 
 ADDRESS 
 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE, 
 
 THE GREAT LESSEE ! 
 
 Do you know, you villain, that I am at this moment the greatest man 
 living ? — Wild Oaln. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! Great Lessee ! Great Manager ! Great Man ! 
 Oh, Lord High Elliston ! Immortal Pan 
 Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane ! 
 Macready's master ! Westminster's high Dane ! 
 (As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, 
 Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls !) 
 Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring ! 
 Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring ! 
 Drury's Aladdin ! Whipper-in of Actors ! 
 Kicker of rebel-pref ace-malefactors !
 
 104 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 
 
 Glass-blowers' corrector ! King of the cheque-taker ' 
 At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker ! 
 Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and Cakes ! 
 In silken hose the most reformed of Rakes ! 
 Oh, Lord High Elliston ! lend me an ear ! 
 (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) 
 While I, in little slips of prose, not verse, 
 Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse ! 
 
 2. 
 Bright was thy youth — thy manhood brighter still — 
 The greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill — 
 Lightest comedian of the pleasant day. 
 When Jordan threw her svmshine o'er a play ! 
 When fair Thalia held a merry reign, 
 And Wit was at her Court in Drury Lane ! 
 Before the day when Authors wrote, of course, 
 The " Entertainment not for Man but Horse." 
 Yet these, though liappy, were but subject times, 
 And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbs — 
 Far from my wish it is to stifle down 
 The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown !
 
 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 105 
 
 Tho'' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields, 
 Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George'^s Fields. 
 Dibdin was Premier — and a golden age 
 For a short time enriched the subject stage. 
 Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and- 
 
 plenty ; 
 Ours but one Bench could boast, whilst thou hadst 
 
 twenty ; 
 But the times changed — and Booth-acting no more 
 Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door. 
 Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, 
 Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens ! 
 
 3. 
 Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat 
 Practised, the most bewitching in Wych Street. 
 Charles had his royal ribaldry restor"'d. 
 And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whorM ; 
 Rochester there in dirty ways again 
 Reveird — and liv'd once more in Drury Lane : 
 But thou, R. W. ! kept'st thy moral ways. 
 Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays.
 
 106 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 
 
 A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys 
 That soiFd the benches and that made a noise : — 
 Rebuking, — Half a Robert, Half- a Charles, — 
 The wellbiird Man that call'd, for promised Carles; 
 '' Sir ! — Have you yet to know ! Hush — Hear me 
 
 out! 
 
 " A Man — pray silence ! — may be down with gout, 
 " Or want — or Sir! — aw ! — ^listen ! — may be fated, 
 " Being in debt, to be incarcerated ! 
 "You, — in the back ! — can scarcely hear a line ! 
 " Down from those benches — ^butchers — they are 
 
 mine /" 
 
 5. 
 Lastly — and thou wert built for it by nature !- 
 Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Theatre ! 
 Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, 
 And Renters cluck'd around thee in a brood. 
 King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean ! 
 Of many a lady and of many a Quean ! 
 With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun — 
 But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
 
 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 107 
 
 Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, 
 And Cohnan lives to cut the damnlets out ! 
 
 6. 
 Oh, worthy of the house ! the King's commission ! 
 Isn't thy condition " a most bless'd condition ?" 
 Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all. 
 The very lofty and the very small — 
 Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick — 
 Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick — 
 Seeest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, 
 Without the danger of newspaper comments — 
 Tellest Macrcady, as none dared before, 
 Thine open mind from the half-open door ! — 
 (Alas ! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown, 
 To be a Boniface in Buxton town !) — 
 Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know, 
 And callest to them, to a numient, — " Go !" 
 Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing — 
 Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing — 
 (To prove, no doubt, the endless free list ended. 
 And all, except the public press, suspended)
 
 108 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESa. 
 
 Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot — andkiss'd 
 The pearly whiteness of a Stephens"* wrist — 
 Kissing and pitying — tender and humane ! 
 " By heaven she loves me ! Oh, it is too plain !" 
 A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips, 
 Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips ! 
 
 7- 
 
 Go on, Lessee ! Go on, and prosper well ! 
 Fear not, though forty Glass-blowers should rebel — 
 Shew them how thou hast long befriended them. 
 And teach Dubois their treason to condemn ! 
 Go on ! addressing pits in prose and worse ! 
 Be long, be slow, be any thing but terse — 
 Kiss to the gallery the hand that's glov'd — - 
 Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Belov'd, 
 Ask the two shilling Gods for leave to dun 
 With words the cheaper Deities in the One ! 
 Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene, 
 Cane Williams still, and stick to Mr. Kean, 
 Warn from the benches all the rabble rout ; 
 Say, those are mine — " In parliament, or out !"
 
 TO R. W. ELLISTOX, ESQ. 109 
 
 Swing cats, — for in thy house there's surely space, — 
 Oh Beasley, for such pastime, plann'd the place ! 
 Do anything! — Thy fame, thy fortune, nourish! 
 Laugh and grow fat ! be eloquent, and flourish ! 
 Go on — and but in this reverse the thing, 
 Walk backward with wax lights before the King — 
 Go on ! Spring ever in thine eye ! Go on ! 
 Hope's favourite child ! ethereal Elliston !
 
 ADDRESS 
 TO MARIA DARLINGTON, 
 
 ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE. 
 
 " It was Maria ! — 
 
 And better fate did Maria deserve than to have lier banns forbid 
 
 She had, since that, she told me, stra3'ed as far as Rome, Eind walked 
 'ound St. Peter's once— and retum'd back — " 
 
 See the whole vtory, in Sterne and the Newspapers. 
 
 Thou art come back again to the stage, 
 
 Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it ; 
 !Vnd 'tis well for this fortunate age 
 
 That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it ! 
 [t is pleasant to see thee again — 
 
 Right pleasant to see thee, by Hercle, 
 Jnmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne! 
 
 And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley !
 
 112 TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 
 
 2. 
 
 Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light 
 
 (Not my Foote — I speak by correction) 
 As the snow on some mountain at night, 
 
 Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. 
 The pit is in raptures to free thee, 
 
 The Boxes impatient to greet thee, 
 The Galleries quite clamVous to see thee, 
 
 And thy scenic relations to meet thee ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Ah, where was thy sacred reteat ? 
 
 Maria ! ah, where hast thou been, 
 With thy two little wandering Feet, 
 
 Far away from all peace and pea-green ! 
 Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold, 
 
 Far away from himself and his lot ! 
 I envy the place thou hast strolPd, 
 
 If a stroller thou art — which thou'rt not !
 
 TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 113 
 
 Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, 
 
 Methinks, at the close of the day — 
 When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string, 
 
 And thy little dog quite gone astray — 
 He bade thee to sorrow no more — 
 
 He wish'd thee to lull thy distress 
 In his bosom — he couldn't do more, 
 
 And a Christian could hardly do less ! 
 
 5. 
 
 Ah, me ! for thy small plaintive pipe, 
 
 I fear we must look at thine eye— « 
 I would it were my task to wipe 
 
 That hazel orb thoroughly dry ! 
 Oh sure 'tis a barbarous deed 
 
 To give pain to the feminine mind — 
 But the wooer that left thee to bleed 
 
 Was a creature more killing than kind ! 
 
 I
 
 114 TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 
 
 6. 
 
 The man that could tread on a worm 
 
 Were a brute — and inhuman to boot ; 
 But he merits a much harsher term 
 
 That can wantonly tread on a Foote ! 
 Soft mercy and gentleness blend 
 
 To make up a Quaker— but he 
 That spurn'd thee could scarce be a Friend^ 
 
 Tho' he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee ! 
 
 They that lov'd thee, Maria, have flown ! 
 
 The friends of the midsummer hour ! 
 But those friends now in anguish atone, 
 
 Arid mourn o'er thy desolate bow'r. 
 Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out 
 
 Yea, utterly out of his bias ; 
 And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt, 
 
 Is counting his Ave Marias !
 
 TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 115 
 
 8. 
 
 Ah, where wert thou driven away, 
 
 To feast on thy desolate woe ? 
 We have witness''d thy weeping in play, 
 
 But none saw the earnest tears flow — 
 Perchance thou wert truly forlorn, — 
 
 Tho' none but the fairies could mark 
 Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn. 
 
 Or the thistles in Burderop Park ! 
 
 9. 
 
 Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow 
 
 Has silver'd the crown of Hayne's nob — 
 For even the greenest will grow 
 
 As hoary as " White-headed Bob—" 
 He'll wish, in the days of his prime, 
 
 He had been rather kinder to one 
 He hath left to the malice of Time — 
 
 A woman — so weak and undone !
 
 ODE 
 
 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 AUTUOa OF THE COOK's OEACLE — OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL 
 
 UUSIC — THE AET OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING 
 
 LIFE — PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, 
 
 OPERA GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES — THE 
 
 housekeeper's LEDGER — AND THE 
 
 PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL. 
 
 " I nile the roast, as Milton says !" — Caleb Quotem. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! multifarious man ! 
 Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton ! 
 
 Bom to enlighten 
 The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking — 
 Master of the Piano— and the Pan — 
 As busy with the kitchen as the skies ! 
 
 Now looking 
 At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes, — 
 Or boiling eggs — timed to a metronome —
 
 118 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 As much at home 
 In spectacles as in mere isinglass — 
 In the art of frying brown — as a digression 
 On music and poetical expression, — 
 Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas ! 
 Could tell Calliope from " Calliopee!'' 
 
 How few there be 
 Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, 
 
 (Observatories,) 
 And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, 
 However cook''s synonymous with Kater* ! 
 Alas ! still let me say, 
 
 HoAV few could lay 
 The carving knife beside the tuning fork. 
 Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work ! 
 
 2. 
 Oh, to behold thy features in thy book ! 
 Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, 
 
 How it would look ! 
 With one raised eye watching the diaPs date. 
 
 * Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor.
 
 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 119 
 
 And one upon the roast, gently cast down — 
 Thy chops— done nicely brown — 
 
 The gamish'd brow — with " a few leaves of bay" — 
 The hair — " done Wiggy's way !" 
 
 And still one studious finger near thy brains, 
 As if thou wert just come 
 From editing some 
 
 New soup— or hashing Dibdin's cold remains ! 
 
 Or, Orpheus-like, — fresh from thy dying strains 
 
 Of music, — Epping luxuries of sound. 
 
 As Milton says, " in many a bout 
 Of Unked sweetness long drawn out," 
 
 Whilst all thy tame stufTd leopards listened round ! 
 
 Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal. 
 Standing like Fortune,-— on the jack — thy wheel. 
 (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes. 
 Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye !) 
 Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, 
 As tho"" it were the same to sing or fry —
 
 120 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 Nay, so it is — hear how Miss Paton's throat 
 
 Makes " fritters" of a note ! 
 And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born 
 By name and nature) oh ! how night and morn 
 He for the nicest public taste doth dish up 
 The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop ! 
 And is not reading near akin to feeding. 
 Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit 
 
 Receptacles for wit ? 
 Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, 
 Minc'd brains into a Tart ? 
 Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts. 
 
 Book-treats, 
 Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her — 
 Receipts to be devour''d, as well as read. 
 The Culinary Art in gingerbread — 
 The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar ! 
 4. 
 Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page — 
 Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein — 
 So — ^in a kitchen — would have talk'd Montaigne,
 
 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 121 
 
 That merry Gascon — humourist, and sage ! 
 Let slender minds with single themes engage. 
 
 Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope, — 
 Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,— or 
 
 Hume on " Twice three make four," 
 Or Lovelass upon Wills, — Thou goest on 
 Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson ! 
 
 Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, 
 StufTd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 
 
 And ever shifting on from change to change, 
 Saucepans — old Songs — Pills — Spect acles — and 
 Spits ! 
 
 Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range ! 
 Thy grasp a miracle ! — till I recall 
 Th' indubitable cause of thy variety — 
 Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all 
 That spying — frying — singing — mix'd Society 
 Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet 
 Welch Rabbits — and thyself — in Warren Street ! 
 
 5. 
 Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, 
 Where learned visitors discoursed — and fed ?
 
 122 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 There came Belzoni, 
 Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead — 
 
 And gentle Poki — and that Royal Pair, 
 Of whom thou didst declare^ 
 " Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read — 
 They were — what Sandwiches shouldbe — half bred /" 
 There fam*'d M'Adam from his manual toil 
 Relaxed — and freely own'd he took thy hints 
 
 On " making Broth with Flints'" — 
 There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil 
 For melted butter — Combe with his medullary 
 
 Notions about the Skullery, 
 And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil — 
 There witty Rogers came, that punning elf ! 
 Who used to swear thy book 
 Would really look 
 A Delphic " Oracle," if laid on Delf-^ 
 There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss"'d 
 His own — and thy own — " Magazine of Taste'''' — 
 
 There Wilberforce the Just 
 Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd
 
 TO VV. KITCHENER, M.D. 123 
 
 Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, 
 That " do not break their yolks j''' — 
 Which hufiTd him home, in grave disgust and haste ! 
 
 6. 
 There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore 
 Thy Patties — thou werthand-and-glove with Moore, 
 Who call'd thee " Kitchen Addison'''' — for why ? 
 Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, 
 Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, 
 " Teaching us how to live and how to die r 
 There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry — 
 There Trench, the Thames Projector, first broughton 
 
 His sine Quay non, — 
 There Martin would drop in on Monday eves. 
 Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 
 
 'Gainst cattle days and death, — 
 Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, 
 
 Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager 
 For fighting on soup meagre — 
 " And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have 
 seen 
 A Marshal Tureen r
 
 124 TO W. KITCHENEE, M.D. 
 
 7- 
 
 Great was thy Evening Cluster .'^-often grac'd 
 With DoUond — Burgess — and Sir Humphry Davy ! 
 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclined to Taste, — 
 There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste 
 For puffs — and Accum analysed a gravy. 
 Colman — the Cutter of Coleman Street, His said 
 Came there, — and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, 
 (His claim to letters) — Kater, too, the Moon''s 
 Crony, — and Graham, lofty on balloons, — 
 There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, 
 Who wrote a light horse play, which Yates com- 
 pleted — 
 And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ. 
 And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, — 
 Madame Valbreque thrice honour''d thee, and came 
 With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle, — 
 The Dibdins, — Tom, Charles, Frognall, — came 
 
 with tuns 
 Of poor old books, old puns ! 
 And even Irving spar'd a night from fame, —
 
 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 125 
 
 And talked — till thou didst stop him in the middle, 
 To serve round Teivah-diddle ! * 
 
 8. 
 
 Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good bye ! 
 So let them : — thou thyself art still a Host ! 
 
 Dibdin — Comaro — Newton — Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec! — Lovelass — and Weber, 
 
 Matthews in Quot'em — Moore's fire- worshipping 
 Gheber — 
 Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross''d ! 
 Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, 
 Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling, — 
 And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion ! 
 
 Thou art, sans question, 
 The Corporation's love — its Doctor Darling ! 
 Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the Bed 
 
 Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying 
 " Illustrations of Lying .'" 
 
 * The Doctor's composition for a night-cap.
 
 126 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 Ninety square feet of down from heel to head 
 
 It measured, and I dread 
 Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, 
 A monstrous burthen on the corporation ! — 
 Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share, 
 Sea-turtles by the score — Oxen by droves, 
 Geese, turkeys, by the flock — fishes and loaves 
 
 Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation 
 Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration ! 
 
 9. 
 Oh ! worthy Doctor ! surely thou hast driven 
 The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast— 
 
 (His honour seems to rest ! — ) 
 And what is thy reward ?— ^Hath London given 
 Thee public thanks for thy important service ? 
 
 Alas ! not even 
 The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis ! — 
 Yet could I speak as Orators should speak 
 Before the worshipful the Common Council 
 (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) 
 Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
 
 TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 127 
 
 Richly engross'd on vellum : — Reason urges 
 That he who rules our cookery — that he 
 Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be 
 A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess !
 
 ■i
 
 AN ADDRESS 
 
 TO THE VERY REVEREND JOHN IRELAND, D.D. 
 
 CHARLES FYNES CLINTON, LL.D. 
 
 THOMAS CAUSTON, D.D. 
 
 HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, M.A- 
 
 JOSEPH ALLE.V, M.A. 
 
 LORD HENRY FITZROY, M.A. 
 
 THE BISHOP OF EXETER. 
 
 WM. H. EDWARD BENTINCK, M.A. 
 JAMES WEBBER, B.D. 
 WILLIAM SHORT, D.D. 
 JAMES TOURNAY, D.D. 
 ANDREW BELL, D.D. 
 GEORGE HOLCOMBE, D.D. 
 
 'Ef}t Bean ant) Chapter of mmmimuv. 
 
 " Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough." 
 
 Citizen of the World. 
 
 Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter, 
 
 Exhibitors of giant men. 
 Hail to each surplice-back'd Adapter 
 
 Of England's dead, in her Stone den ! 
 Ye teach us properly to prize 
 
 Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, 
 And, to throw light upon our eyes, 
 
 Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles, 
 
 K
 
 130 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER 
 
 2. 
 
 Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file. 
 
 Call in your shillings, two and two ; 
 March with them up the middle aisle, 
 
 And cloister them from public view. 
 Yours surely are the dusty dead. 
 
 Gladly ye look from bust to bust. 
 Setting a price on each great head, 
 
 To make it come, down with the dust. 
 
 Oh, as I see you walk along 
 
 In ample sleeves and ample back, 
 A pursy and well-order'd throng. 
 
 Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black ! 
 In vain I strive me to be dumb, — 
 
 You keep each bard like fatted kid. 
 Grind bones for bread like Fee faw fum ! 
 
 And drink from sculls as Byron did !
 
 OF WESTMIXSTER. 131 
 
 4. 
 
 The profitable Abbey is 
 
 A sacred "'Change for stony stock, 
 Not that a speculation "'tis — 
 
 The profit"'s founded on a rock. 
 Death, Dean, and Doctors, in each nave 
 
 Bony investments have inum''d ! 
 And hard "'twould be to find a grave 
 
 From which " no money is retum''d !" 
 
 5. 
 Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought 
 
 By reverence for those learned bones. 
 Shall often come and walk your short 
 
 Two-shilling * fare upon the stones. — 
 Ye have that talisman of Wealth, 
 
 Which puddling chemists sought of old, 
 Till ruin d out of hope and health ; — 
 
 The Tomb"'s the stone that turns to gold ! 
 
 * Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those 
 in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying 
 to the English People to know, that while butchers' meat is 
 rising, tombs are falling.
 
 132 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER 
 
 Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat 
 
 Your dinners from your own dead race, 
 Think Gray, preserv''d, a " funeral meat," 
 
 And Dryden, deviPd, after grace, 
 A relish ; — and you take your meal 
 
 From Rare Ben Jonson underdone, 
 Or, whet your holy knives on Steele, 
 
 To cut away at Addison ! 
 
 Oh say, of all this famous age, 
 
 Whose learned bones your hopes expect, 
 Oh have ye numbered Rydal's sage. 
 
 Or Moore among your Ghosts elect ? 
 Lord Byron was not doomed to make 
 
 You richer by his final sleep — 
 Why don't ye warn the Great to take 
 
 Their ashes to no other heap !
 
 OF WESTMINSTER. 133 
 
 8. 
 
 Southey's reversion have ye got ? 
 
 With Coleridge, for his body, made 
 A bargain ? — has Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade ? 
 Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold 
 
 His features for your marble shows. 
 Or Campbell bartered, ere he's cold. 
 
 All interest in his " bone repose ?" 
 
 9. 
 
 Rare is your show, ye righteous men ! 
 
 Priestly Politos, — rare, I ween ; 
 But should ye not outside the Den 
 
 Paint up what in it may be seen ? 
 A long green Shakspeare, with a deer 
 
 Grasp'd in the many folds it died in,— 
 A Butler stuiTd from ear to ear. 
 
 Wet AVhite Bears weeping o'er a Dry-den !
 
 134 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER 
 
 10. 
 
 Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap, 
 
 A Giant of some inches high ; 
 Paint Handel up, that organ chap, 
 
 With you, as grinders, in his eye ; 
 Depict some plaintive antique thing. 
 
 And say th' original may be seen ; — 
 Blind Milton with a dog and string 
 
 May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green 1 
 
 11. 
 
 Put up in Poet's Corner, near 
 
 The little door, a platform small ;. 
 Get there a monkey — never fear. 
 
 You'll catch the gapers one and all 1 
 Stand each of ye a Body Guard, 
 
 A Trumpet under either fin. 
 And yell away in Palace Yard 
 
 « All dead ! All dead ! Walk in ! Walk in !'
 
 SF WESTMINSTEH. 
 
 12. 
 
 135 
 
 (But when the people are inside, 
 
 Their money paid — I pray you, bid 
 The keepers not to mount and ride 
 
 A race around each coffin hd. — 
 Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought, last year, 
 
 That it was hard — the woman clacks — 
 To have so little in her ear — 
 
 And be so hurried through the Wax ! — ) 
 
 13. 
 
 " AValk in ! two shillings only ! come ! 
 
 Be not by country grumblers funk'd ! — 
 Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb ! 
 
 The Cheapest House for the defunct !" 
 Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection, 
 
 And every rude surmise 'twill stop — 
 Write up, that you have no connexion 
 
 (In large) — with any other shop !
 
 136 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER, &C 
 
 14. 
 
 And still, to catch the Clowns the more. 
 
 With samples of your shows in Wax, 
 Set some old Harry near the door 
 
 To answer queries with his acce. — 
 Put up some general begging-trunk — 
 
 Since the last broke by some mishap, 
 You've all a bit of General Monk, 
 
 From the respect you bore his Cap !
 
 ODE 
 
 TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 
 
 SECHETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF 
 MENDICITY. 
 
 " This is 5'our charge — you shall comprehend all vagrom men." — 
 
 Much Ado abwit Nothins. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hail, King of Shreds and Patches, hail, 
 
 Disperser of the Poor ! 
 Thou Dog in office, set to bark 
 
 All beggars from the door ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Great overseer of overseers. 
 
 And Dealer in old rags ! 
 Thy public duty never fails. 
 
 Thy ardour never flags !
 
 138 TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh, when I take my walks abroad, 
 
 How many Poor I miss ! 
 Had D(ktor Watts walk'd now a days, 
 
 He would have written this ! 
 4. 
 So well thy Vagrant catchers prowl, 
 
 So clear thy caution keeps 
 The path — O, Bodkin, sure thou hast 
 
 The eye that never sleeps ! 
 5. 
 
 No BeHsarius pleads for alms. 
 No Benbow lacketh legs ; 
 
 The pious man in black is now 
 The only man that begs ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Street-Handels are disorganized. 
 
 Disbanded every band ! — 
 The silent scraper at the door 
 Is scarce allowed to stand !
 
 TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 139 
 
 7- 
 
 The Sweeper brushes with his broom, 
 
 The Carstairs with his chalk 
 Retires, — the Cripple leaves his stand, 
 
 But cannot sell his walk. 
 
 8. 
 
 The old Wall-blind resigns the wall. 
 
 The Camels hide their humps, 
 The Witherington without a leg 
 
 Mayn't beg upon his stumps ! 
 
 9. 
 
 Poor Jack is gone, that used to dofF 
 
 His batter 'd tatter 'd hat. 
 And show his dangling sleeve, alas ! 
 
 There seem'd no arm in that ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Oh ! was it such a sin to air 
 
 His true blue naval rags. 
 Glory's own trophy, like St. PauJ, 
 
 Hung round with holy flags !
 
 140 TO H. BODKIX, ESQ. 
 
 11. 
 
 Thou knowest best. I meditate, 
 
 My Bodkin, no offence ! 
 Let us, henceforth, but guard our pounds, 
 
 Thou dost protect our pence ! 
 
 12. 
 
 Well art thou pointed 'gainst the Poor, 
 
 For, when the Beggar Crew 
 Bring their petitions, thou art paid. 
 
 Of course, to "run them through." 
 
 13. 
 
 Doubtless thou art what Hamlet meant- — 
 
 To wretches the last friend ; 
 What ills can mortals have, they can't 
 
 " With a bare Bodkin" end .? 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurdi Street.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
 JWL 1 7 1961 
 
 51 
 
 <-,& "I 
 
 t0ry1-ll-50(2555)470 
 
 S 1991 
 
 REMINGTON RAND - 20
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 370 326 i
 
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