mmmmm t^ m i m m '^M yyyyyuyyyyyywwwyu HHIfEiSMRigrED '/:m THE COMIC POEMS OF THOMAS HOOD. I:3«a3^,.^i FAULTS ON BOTH SIDES. \'\R DANCE — THK OPENING OF THE BALI, Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN THE COMIC POEMS OF THOMAS HOOD. WITH A PREFACE BY THOMAS HOOD THE YOUNGER. A NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION. LONDON: E. M O X O N, SON, AND COMPANY, DORSET BUILDINGS, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.G. BALLANTVNp; AND HANSON, EDINBURGH tHANUOS STREET, LONDON rR LIBRARY A)-, an UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA ^Ijl SANTA BARBARA /gV^ PREFACE. If the general public, acquainted only with the comic works of ThOjNIAS Hood, were taken by surprise when they found how he could ha«idle serious and solemn themes ; those who saw him in the flesh must have been equally astonished to learn how grave and melancholy a man the famous wit was to all appearance. The chronic ill health, which gave this expression to his countenance, was, however, powerless to affect the tone of his mind. "Here lies one who spat more blood and made more puns than any man living," was the epitaph he half-jestingly proposed for himself. The con- nection between the disease and the comic faculty is not so unreasonable as it appears at first. The invalid, who could supply mirth for millions while he himself was propped up with pillows on the bed of sickness, was not a jester whose sole stock in trade consisted in mere animal spirits — which are too often mistaken for wit, but have in common with other spirits a tendency to evaporate somewhat rapidly. Hood's wit was the fruit of an even temperament, a cheery and contented mind endowed with a keen appreciation of the ludicrous. This acute perception of what is ludicrous is the foundation of all wit, but it may influence the mind in two ways. It may render its possessor as indifferent to the feelings as it makes him alive to the failings of others. vi PREFACE. How often docs the wit, delighting in the flash and report of his jest, forget the wound it may inflict ! But, on the other hand, the shrewd appreciation of the weaknesses of others assists a kindly and well-balanced mind to avoid the infliction of pain ; and the wit of Thomas Hood was of this nature. It was all the brighter because it was never stained by a tear wantonly caused. Even the temptations of practical joking — and they have a strong in- fluence on those who enjoy the comic side of things — never betrayed him into any freak that could give pain. He worked away industriously with wood, paint, and glue to send his friend Franck a new and kilhngbait for the early spring — a veritable ^^/jj-f;; cfAvril, constructed to come in half after a brief immersion, and reveal the inscription, "Oh, you April Fool ! " He could gravely persuade his young wife, when she was first learning the mysteries of house- keeping, that she must never purchase plaice with red spots, for they were a proof that the fish were not fresh. But he was incapable of any of the cruel pleasantries for which Theodore Hook was famous : indeed, the only person he ever frightened, even, with a practical joke, was himself : when as a boy he traced with the smoke of a candle on the ceiling of a passage outside his bedroom a diaboHcal face, which was intended to startle his brother, but which so alarmed the artist himself, when he was going to bed for- getful of his own feat, that he ran down stairs — in a panic and in his night-dress — into the presence of his father's guests assembled in the drawing-room. He used to enjoy so heartily and chuckle so merrily over his innocent prac- tical jokes and hoaxes (he was never more delighted than when a friend of his was completely imposed on by a sham account of a survey of the Heavens through Lord Rosse's "monster telescope") that the tenderness he showed for the feelings of others is more remarkable. The same forbear- ance characterises his writings. In spite of many and great provocations, he seldom, or never, wrote a bitter word, though that he could have been severe is amply indicated in his "Ode to Rae Wilson," or still more in certain PREFACE. vii letters on " Copyright and Copywrong," which he was spurred on by injustice and ill-usage to address to the Athencpwn. He was a Shandean, who carried out in liis life as well as his writings the principles which Sterne confined to the latter. The first appearance of THOMAS HoOD as a comic writer was in the year 1826, when he published the First Series of "Whims and Oddities." The critics in many instances took offence at his puns, as might have been expected, for his style was new and startling. His book was full of word- play, and it is easy to conceive — as he wrote in his address to the Second Edition — " how gentlemen with one idea were perplexed with a double meaning." However, the public approved if the critics did not, and called for a second and soon after a third edition. Finally, after the publication of a second series, a fourth issue, containing the two series in one volume, was demanded. " Come what may," said Hood, "this little book will now leave four imprints behind it — and a horse could do no more ! " He had by this time commenced the Comic Annuals, a series which he carried on for many years, and by which he established his fame as the first wit and humourist of his day. When this publication ceased he wrote first for Col- burn's New Monthly., of which he was appointed Editor on Hook's death ; and subsequently, and up to the time of his death, in his own periodical. Hood's Magazine. Puns have been styled the lowest form of wit, and the critics have fallen foul of them from time immemorial until the present day. But a pun proper — and there should be a strict definition of a pun — is, it is humbly submitted, of so complicated a nature as to be anything but a low form of wit. A mere jingle of similar sounds, or a distortion of pro- nunciation does not constitute a pun — a double meaning is essential to its existence — a play of sense as well as of sound. That the latter was in Hood's opinion the more important feature of the two is to be inferred from his statement that "a pun is something like a cherry : though there may be a slight outward indication of partition — of duplicity of mean- PREFACE. ing, yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure." In other words, the sense is complete without any reference to the second meaning. Tested by this rule, the majority of so-called puns, which have brought discredit on punning, would be immediately condemned, the only excuse for the form in which they are written being the endeavour to tack on a second meaning, or too often only an echo of sound without meaning. Perhaps the best defence of punning is to be found in the " There's strength in double joints, no doubt, In double X Ale, and Dublin Stout, That the single sorts know nothing about — And the fist is strongest when doubled — And double aqua-fortis, of course. And double soda water, perforce, Are the strougest that ever bubbled ! " There's double beauty whenever a Swan Swims on a Lake, with her double thereon ; And ask the gardener, Luke or John, Of the beauty of double-blowing — A double dahlia delights the eye ; And it's far the loveliest sight in the sky When a double rainbow is glowing 1 " There's warmth in a pair of doiible soles ; As well as a double allowance of coals^ In a coat that is double-breasted — In double windows and double doors ; And a double U wind is blest by scores For its warmth to the tender-chested. " There's a twofold sweetness in double pipes ; And a double barrel and double snipes Give the sportsman a duplicate pleasure : There's double safety in double locks : And double letters bring cash for the box ; And all the world knows that double knocks Are gentility's double measure. " There's double sweetness in double rhymes, And a double at Whist and a double Times In profit arc certainly double — r!y doubling, the hare contrives to escape ; And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape, And a double-reerd topsail in trouble. PREFACE. ix " There's a double chuck at a double chin, And of course there's a double pleasure therein. If the parties were brought to telling : And however our Denises take offence, A double meaning shows donble sense ; And if proverbs tell truth, A double tooth Is Wisdom's adopted dwelling ! " The reputation of Thomas Hood as a wit an J humourist rests on his writings chiefly. His recorded sayings are few, for in general society he was shy and reserved, seldom mak- ing a joke, or doing it with so grave a face that the witticism seemed an accident, and was in many cases possibly al- lowed to pass unnoticed, for a great number of people do not recognise a joke that is not prefaced by a jingle of the cap and bells. When in the company of a few intimate friends, however, he was full of fun and good spirits. Un- fortunately, on such occasions the good thiugs were not " set in a note-book," and so were for the most part lost ; though at times an anecdote, well-authenticated, turns up to make us regret that more have not been preserved. One such anecdote, which has not hitherto appeared in print, may not be out of place here. HooD and " Peter Priggins" — the Rev. Mr. Hewlett — went on a visit to a friend of the latter's, residing near Ramsgate. As they drove out of the town they passed a board on which was printed in large letters BEWARE THE DOG A glance at the premises which the announcement was in- tended to guard showed that the qurdruped was not forth- coming, whereupon HoOD jumped out of the gig, and, pick- ing up a bit of chalk (plentiful enough in the neighbour- hood), wrote under the warning — WARE BE THE DOG? These introductory remarks cannot be better wound-up than by a quotation from a preface to " Hood's Own," in X PREFACk. _ which is laid down the system of " Practical Cheerful Phi- losophy," which is reflected in his writings, and which in- fluenced his life. The reader will more thoroughly appre- ciate the comic writings of THOMAS HoOD after its peru- sal : In the absence of a certain thin "blue and yellow" visage, and attenuated figure, — whose effigies may one day be affixed to the present work, — you will not be prepared to learn that some of the merriest effusions in the forthcoming numbers have been the relaxa- tions of a gentleman literally enjoying bad health — the carnival, so to speak, of a personified Jour Maigre. The very fingers so aristo- cratically slender, that now hold the pen, hint plainly of the ^^ ills MkaX flesh is heir to:" — my coats have become great coats, my pantaloons are turned into trowsers, and, by a worse bargain than Peter Schemihl's, I seem to have retained my shadow and sold my substance. In short, as happens to prematurely old port wine, I am of a bad colour with very little body. But what then? That emaciated hand still lends a hand to embody in words and sketches the creations or recreations of a Merry Fancy: those gaunt sides yet slialIan. A Day's Sport on the T^Ioors. Barrister on Circuit. Finding a May'r's Nest. I wish you may get it. The Box Seat. Does your Mother know you're out? To Ladies's Eyes a round, Boys. Wether Wise. The Widow's Mile. A Plaster Cast A Strange Bird. Crane-iology. Jnmes's Powder. Joining in a Catch. Single Blessedness. Long Commons and Short Commons. The Last Cut. HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS. COMIC. REPLY TO A PASTORAL POET. ELL us not of bygone days ! Tell us not of forward times ! What's the future — whai's the past — Save to fashion rhymes ? Show us that the com doth thrive ! Show us there's no wintry weather ! Show us we may laugh and live — (Those who love — together.) Senses have we for sweet blossoms — Eyes, which could admire the sun — Passions blazing in our bosoms- Hearts, that may be won ! But Labour doth for ever press us, And Famine grins upon our board ; And none will help us, none will bless us, Witli one gentle word ! None, none ! our birthright or our fate, Is hunger and inclement air — Perpetual toil — tlie rich man's hate — \Vant, scorn — the pauper's fare : A TALE OF TEMPER. We fain would gaze upon the sky, Lie pensive by the running springs ; But if we stay to gaze or sigh, We starve — though the cuckoo sings ! The moon casts cold on us below ; The sun is not our own ; The very winds which fragrance blow. But blanch us to the bone ; The rose for us ne'er shows its bloom, The violet its blue eye ,* From cradle murmuring to the tomb, We feel no beauty, no perfume, But only toil — and die ! Pauper. A TALE OF TEMPER. F all cross breeds of human sinners. The crabbedest are those who dress our dinners ; Whether the ardent fires at which they roast And broil and bake themselves like Smithfield martyrs, Are apt to make them crusty, like a toast. Or drams, encouraged by so hot a post ; However, cooks are generally Tartars ; And altogether might be safely cluster'd In scientific catalogues Under two names, like Dinmont's dogs, Pepper and Mustard. The case thus being very common, It followed, quite of course, when Mr. Jervis Engaged a clever culinary woman. He took a mere Xantippe in his service — In fact — her metal not to burnish, As vile a shrew as Shrewsbury could furnish — One who in temper, language, manners, looks, In every respect Might just have come direct From him, who is supposed to send us cooks. A TALE OF TEMPER. The very day she came into her place She slapp'd the scullion's face ; The next, the housemaid being rather pert, Snatching the broom, she " treated her like dirt " — The third, a quarrel with the groom she hit on — Cyrus, the page, had half-a-dozen knocks ; And John, the coachman, got a box He couldn't sit on. Meanwhile, her strength to rally, Brandy, and rum, and shrub she drank by stealth. Besides the Cream of some mysterious Valley That may, or may not, be the Vale of Health : At least while credit lasted, or her wealth — For finding that her blows came only thicker, Invectives and foul names but flew the quicker, The more she drank, the more inclined to bicker. The other servants one and all, Took Bible oaths whatever might befal, Neither to lend her cash, nor fetch her liquor ! This caused, of course, a dreadful schism, And what was worse, in spite of all endeavour. After a fortnight of Tea-totalism, The Plague broke out more virulent than ever ! The life she led her fellows down the stairs ! The life she led her betters in the parlour ! No parrot ever gave herself such airs, No pug-dog cynical was such a snarler ! At woman, man, and child, she flew and snapp'd, No rattlesnake on earth so fierce and rancorous — No household cat that ever lapp'd To swear and spit was half so apt — No bear, sore-headed, could be more cantankerous — No fretful porcupine more sharp and crabbed — No wolverine More full of spleen — In short, the woman was completely rabid ! The least offence of look or phrase, The slightest verbal joke, the merest frolic, A TALE OF TEMPER. Like a snap-dragon set her in a blaze. Her spirit was so alcoholic ! And woe to him who felt her tongue ! It burnt like caustic — like a nettle stung, Her speech was scalding — scorching — vitriolic ! And larded, not with bacon fat, Or anything so mild as that, But curses so intensely diabolic, So broiling hot, that he, at whom she Icvell'd, Felt in his very gizzard he was devill'd ! Often and often Mr. Jervis Long'd, and yet feared, to turn her from his service ; For why ? Of all his philosophic loads Of reptiles loathsome, spiteful, and pernicious, Stuff'd Lizards, bottled Snakes, and pickled Toads, Potted Tarantulas, and Asps malicious. And Scorpions cured by scientific modes, He had not any creature half so vicious ! At last one morning The coachman had already given warning, And little Cyrus Was gravely thinking of a new cockade, For open War's rough sanguinary trade, Or any other service, quite desirous, Instead of quarrelling with such a jade — When accident explain'd the coil she made, And whence her Temper had derived the virus ! Struck with the fever, called the scarlet, The Termagant was lying sick in bed — And little Cyrus, that precocious varlet. Was just declaring her "as good as dead," When down the attic stairs the housemaid, Ciiarlotte, Came nmning from the chamber overhead. Like one demented ; Flapping her hands, and casting up her eyes, And giving gasps of iiorror and surprise. Which thus she vented — " O Lord ! I wonder that she didn't bite us ! THE CAPTAIN'S COW. Or sting us like a Tantalizer/ {The note will make the reader wiser,) And set us all a dancing like St. Witus ! "Temper ! No wonder that the creature had A temper so uncommon bad ! She's just confessed to Doctor Griper That being out of Rum, and like denials, Which always was prodigious trials, — Because she couldn't pay the piper, She went one day, she did, to Master's wials, And drunk the spirit as preserved the Wiper ! ' THE CAPTAIN'S COW. A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE. "Water, water everywhere, But not a drop to drink." — Coleridge. iJT is a jolly Mariner As ever knew the billows' stir, Or battled with the gale ; His face is brown, his hair is black, And down his broad gigantic back There hangs a platted tail. In clusters, as he rolls along, His tarry mates around him throng. Who know his budget well ; Betwixt Canton and Trinidad No Sea-Romancer ever had Such wondrous tales to tell ! Against the mast he leans a-slope, And thence upon a coil of rone Slides down his pitchy " starn ; " Heaves up a lusty hem or two. And then at once without ado Begins to spin his yarn : — 1 Tarantula. THE CAPTAIN'S COW. " As from Jamaica we did come, Laden with sugar, fruit and rum, It blew a heavy gale : A storm that scar'd the oldest men For three long days and nights, and then The wind began to fail. " Still less and less, till on the mast The sails began to flap at last, The breezes blew so soft ; Just only now and then a puff, Till soon there was not wind enough To stir the vane aloft. " No, not a cat's paw anywhere : Hold up your finger in the air You couldn't feel a breath For why, in yonder storm that burst, The wind that blew so hard at first Had blown itself to death. " No cloud aloft to throw a shade ; No distant breezy ripple made The ocean dark below. No cheering sign of any kind ; The more we whistled for the wind The more it did not blow. " The hands were idle, one and all ; No sail to reef against a squall ; No wheel, no steering now ! Nothing to do for man or mate. But chew their cuds and ruminate, Just like the Captain's Cow. " Day after day, day after day, Becalm'd the Jolly Planter lay. As if she had been moor'd : The sea below, the sky a-top Fierce blazing dovMi, and not a drop Of water left aboard 1 THE CAPTAIN'S COW. " Day after day, day after day, Becalm'd the Jolly Planter lay, As still as any log ; The Parching seamen stood about, Each with his tongue a-lolling out, And panting like a dog — " A dog half mad with summer heat And running up and down the street. By thirst quite overcome ; And not a drop in all the ship To moisten cracking tongue and lip, Except Jamaica rum ! " The very poultry in the coop Began to pine away and droop — The cock was first to go ; And glad we were on all our parts. He used to damp our very hearts With such a ropy crow. " But worst it was, we did allow. To look upon the Captain's Cow, That daily seemed to shrink : Deprived of water hard or soft. For, though we tried her oft and oft, The brine she wouldn't drink : " But only turn'd her bloodshot eye, And muzzle up towards the sky. And gave a moan of pain, A sort of hollow moan and sad, As if some brutish thought she had To pray to hcav'n for rain ; " And sometimes with a steadfast stare Kept looking at the empty air, As if she saw beyond, Some meadow in her native land. Where formerly she used to stand A-cooling in the pond. THE CAPTAIN'S COW. " If I had only had a drink Of water then, I ahiiost think She would have had the half: But as for John the Carpenter, He couldn't more have pitied her If he had been her calf, " So soft of heart he was and kind To any creature lame, or blind, Unfortunate, or dumb : AYhereby he made a sort of vow, In sympathising with the Cow, To give her half his rum ; — " An oath from which he never swerved, For surely as the ram was serv'd He shared the cheering dram ; And kindly gave one half at least, Or more, to the complaining beast, Who took it like a lamb. "At last with overclouding skies A breeze again began to rise, That stiffen'd to a gale : Steady, steady, and strong it blew ; And were not we a joyous crew. As on the Jolly Planter flew Beneath a press of sail ! " Swiftly the Jolly Planter flew, And were not we a joyous crew, At last to sight the land ! A glee there was on every brow. That like a Christian soul the Cow Appear'd to understand. " And was not she a mad-like thing To land again and taste the spring. Instead of fieiy glass : About the verdant meads to scour, And snuff the honey'd cowslip flower, And crop the juicy grass ! THE DOVES AND THE CROWS. " Whereby she grew as plump and hale As any Least that wears a tail, Her skin as sleek as silk ; And through all parts of England now Is grown a veiy famous Cow, By giving Rum-and-Milk ! " THE DOVES AND THE CROWS. OME all ye sable little girls and boys, Ye coal-black Brothers — Sooty Sisters, come! With kitty-katties make a joyful noise ; With snaky-snekies, and the Eboe drum ! From this day forth your freedom is your own : Play\ Sambo, play, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Ye vocal Blackbirds, bring your native pipes, Your own Moors Melodies, ye niggers, bring ; To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes. Sing " Possum up a gum-tree," — roar and sing ! From this day forth your freedom is your own : Chatmt, Sambo, chaunt, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Bring all your woolly pickaninnies dear — Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang : Stretch ev'ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear, And let the driver in his whip go hang ! From this day forth your freedom is your own : Grin, Sambo, grin, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Your working garb indignantly renounce : Discard your slops in honour of the day^ Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce, Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in Mav — From this day forth your freedom is your own : Dress, Sambo, dress,-' and, Obadiah, groan! Come, join together in the dewy dance, With melting maids in steamy mazes go ^ Humanity delights lo see you prance, TALE OF A TRUMPET. Up wilh your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow— From this day forth your freedom is your own : Skip, Sambo, skip, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Kiss dark Diana on her pouting lips, And take black Phoebe by her ample waist — Tell them to-day is Slavery's eclipse, And Love and Liberty must be embraced — From this day forth your freedom is your own : Kiss, Sambo, kiss, — and, Obadiah, groan ! With bowls of sangaree and toddy come ! Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes, "Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum. To toast the whitest date of modern times — From this day forth your freedom is your own : Drink, Sambo, drink, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Taliv, all together, talk ! both old and young, Pour out the fulness of the negro heart ; Let loose the now emancipated tongue, And all your new-born sentiments impart — From this day forth your freedom is your own : Spout, Sambo, spout, — and, Obadiah, groan ! Huzza ! for equal rights and equal laws ; The British parliament has, doff 'd your chain- Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws, And swear you never will be slaves again — From this day forth your freedom is your own : Sivcar, Sambo, swear, — and, Obadiah, groan ! A TALE OF A TRUMPET. **01J woman, old woman, will you go a-she.iiinj:? Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing." Old Ballad. i]F all old women hard of hearing, The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing- On her head, it is true. Two flaps there grew. That served for a pair of gold rings to go through. TALE OF A TRUMPET. But for any purpose of ears in a parley, They heard no more than eai^s of barley. No hint was needed from D. E. F. You saw in her face that the woman was deaf : From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, Each queer feature ask'd a query ; A look that said in a silent way, "Who? and What? and How? and Eh? I'd give my ears to know what you say!" And well she might ! for each auricular Was deaf as a post — and that post in particular That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now, And never hears a word of a row ! Ears that might serve her now and then As extempore racks for an idle pen ; Or to hang with hoops from jewellers' shops With coral, ruby, or garnet drops ; Or, provided the owner so inclined, Ears to stick a blister behind ; But as for hearing wisdom, or wit, Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit, Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt, t'enn:)n, lecture, or musical bit. Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit, They might as well, for any such wish, Have been butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish ! She was deaf as a post,— as said before — And as deaf as twenty similes more, Including the adder, that deafest of snakes, WHiich never hears the coil it makes. She was deaf as a house — which modern tricks Of language would call as deaf as bricks — For her all human kind were dumb, Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum, That none could get a sound to come, Unless the Devil who had Two Sticks ! TALE OF A TRUMPET. She was deaf as a stone — say, one of the stones Demosthenes suck'd to improve his tones ; And surely deafness no further could reach Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech ! She was deaf as a nut — for nuts, no doubt, Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out — As deaf, alas ! as the dead and forgotten — (Gray has noticed the waste of breath, In addressing the "dull, cold ear of death"), Or the Felon's ear that w-as stufF'd with Cotton — Or Charles the First in statue quo ; Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud, With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax, That only stare whatever you " ax," For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax. She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond, And wouldn't listen to Mrs, Bond, — As deaf as any Frenchman appears, When he puts his shoulders into his ears : And — whatever the citizen tells his son— As deaf as Gog and Magog at one ! Or, still to be a simile-seeker. As deaf as dogs'-ears to Enfield's Speaker '. She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy, Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy ; Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics, Vvere plugg'd with gums and antiseptics. She was deaf as a nail — that you cannot hammer A meaning into, for all your clamour — There never ivas such a deaf old Gamner ! So formed to wony Both Lindley and Murray, By having no ear for Music or Grammar ! Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings, Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings, Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle. Deaf to even the definite article — No verbal message was worth a pin. Though you hired an earwig to carry it in ! I TALE OF A 'IKUrJPET. In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Ikirke, Or all the Deafness in Yearsley's work, Who in spite of his skill in hardness of liearing, Boring, blasting, and pioneering, To give tlie dummy organ and clearing, Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing. Of course the loss was a great privation, For one of her sex — whatever her station — And none the less that the Dame had a turn For making all families one concern. And learning whatever there was to learn In the prattling, tattling village of 'JVingham — As who wore silk ? and who wore gingham ? And what the Atkins's shop might bring 'em ? How the Smiths contrived to live ? and whether The fourteen IMurphys all pigg'd together? The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, And what they boil'd for their Sunday dinners ? What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf, Crockery, china, wooden, or delf? And if the parlour of Mrs. O'Grady Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady? Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle ? Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle? What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown ? And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown ? If the Cobbler could read, and believed in the Fope ? And how the Grubbs were off for soap ? If the Snobbs had furnish'd their room up-stair=:. And how they managed for tables and chairs, Beds, and other household affairs, Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares? And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows f In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys, By courtesy call'd Statistical Fellows — A prying, spying, inquisitive clan. Who have gone upon much of the ?elf-same plan, Jotting the Labouring Class's riches ; And after poking in pot and pan. And routing garments in want ol stitches. 14 TALE OF A TRUMPET. Have ascertain'd that a working man Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches ! But this alas ! from her loss of hearing, Was all a seal'd book to Dame Eleanor Spearing ; And often her tears would rise to their founts — Supposing a little scandal at play 'Twixt Mrs. O'Fie and IMrs. Au Fait— That she couldn't audit the Gossips' accounts. 'Tis true, to her cottage still they came, And ate her muffins just the same, And drank the tea of the widow'd Dame, And never swallow'd a thimble the less Of something the Reader is left to guess. For all the deafness of Mrs. S., Who saw them talk, and chuckle, and cough. But to see and not share in the social flow. She might as well have lived, you know. In one of the houses in Owen's Row, Near the New River Head, with its water cut off ! And yet the almond-oil she had tried, And fifty infallible things beside, Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin, Dabb'd, and dribbled, and squirted in : But all remedies fail'd ; and though some it was clear Like the brandy and salt (We now exalt) Had made a noise in the public ear, She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear ! At last — one very fine day in June — Suppose her sitting. Busily knitting, And humming she didn't quite know what tune ; For nothing she heard but a sort of a whizz. Which, unless the sound of the circulation. Or of thoughts in the process of fabrication. By a Spinning-Jennyish operation. It's hard to say what buzzing it is. However, except that ghost of a sound, TALE OF A TRUMPET. 15 She sat in a silence most profound — The cat was purring about the mat, But her Mistress heard no more of that Than if it had been a boatswain's cat ; And as for the clock the moments niching, The Dame only gave it credit for ticking. The bark of her dog she did not catch ; Nor yet the click of the lifted latch ; Nor yet the creak of the opening door ; Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor — But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown And turn'd its skirt of a darker brown. And lo ! a man ! a Pedlar ! ay, marry, With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry Stock'd with brooches, ribbons, and rings, Spectacles, razors, and other odd things, For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings ; A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware, Held a fair dealer enough at a fair, But deem'd a piratical sort of invader By him we dub the "regular trader," Who — luring the passengers in as they pass By lamps, gay panels, and mouldings of brass. And windows with only one huge pane of glass, And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman,— If he isn't a Pedlar, at least he's a Showman ! However, in the stranger came, And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, Threw her as knowing a nod as though He had known her fifty long years ago ; And presto ! before she could utter "Jack" — Much less " Robinson" — open'd his pack — And then from amongst his portable gear. With even more tlian a Pedlar's tact, — (Slick himself might have envied the act) — Before she had time to be deaf, in fact — Popp'd a Trumpet into her ear. " There, Ma'am ! try it ! You needn't buy it — 1 6 TALE OF A TRUMPET. The last New Patent— and notliing comes nigh it For affording the Deaf, at a little expense, The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense ! A Real Blessing — and no mistake, Invented for poor Humanity's sake ; For what can be a greater privation Than playing Dummy to all creation, And only looking at conversation — Great Philosophers talking like Platos, And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes ! Not to name the mischievous quizzers, Sharp as knives, but double as scissors, Who get you to answer quite by guess Yes for No, and No for Yes." ("That's very true," says Dame Eleanor S.) "Try it again ! No harm in trying — I'm sure you'll find it worth your buying, A little practice — that is all — And you'll hear a whisper, however small, Through an Act of Parliament party-wall, — • Every syllable clear as day, And even what people are going to say — I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't, But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon's couldu't ; And as for Scott he promises fine, But can he warrant his horns like mine Never to hear what a Lady shouldn't — Only a guinea — and can't take less." ("That's very dear," says Dame Eleanor S.) " Dear ! — Oh dear, to call it dear ! Why it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear ; Only think, and you'll find on reflection You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection ; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Tiutli, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth : Not to mention the striking of clocks — Cackle of hens — crowing of cocks — Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox — Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks — TALE OF A TRUMPET. 17 Murmur of waterfall over the rocks — • Every sound that Echo mocks — Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box — And zounds ! to call such a concert dear ! But I mustn't ' swear with my horn in your ear.* Why in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows At the Queen's Levees or the Lord Mayor's Shows, At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards' key-bugles all the year round : Come — suppose we call it a pound ! " Come," said the talkative Man of the Pack, ' ' Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come — suppose we call it a pound ! Only a pound ! it's only the price Of hearing a Concert once or twice, It's only the fee You might give Mr. C. And after all net hear his advice, But common prudence would bid you stump it ; For, not to enlarge, It's the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. Lord ! what's a pound to the blessing of hearing ! " ("A pound's a pound," said Dame Eleanor Spearing.) "T17 it again ! no harm in trying ! A pound's a pound there's no dei.ying ; But think what thousands and thousands of pound:' "We pay for nothing but hearing sounds : Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-iong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw ; Why it costs a guinea, as I'm a sinner, To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner ! One pound one thrown into the puddle, C. B i8 TALE OF A TRUMPET. To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle ! Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the Managers pitch it strong, To get a Signora to warble a song, You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker's prong ! " It's not the thing for me — I know it, To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it ; But it is the best, and time will show it. There was Mrs. F, So very deaf. That she might have worn a percussion-cap, And been knock'd on the head without hearing it snap, Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay ! Come — eighteen shillings — that's very low, You'll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot. By hearing whether they ring or not ! " Eighteen shillings ! it's worth the price, Supposing you're delicate-minded and nice. To have the medical man of your choice. Instead of the one with the strongest voice — Who comes and asks you, how's your liver. And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat on the river ! And then, with a shout, like Pat in a riot. Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet I " Or a tradesman comes — as tradesmen will — Short and crusty about his bill. Of patience, indeed, a perfect scomer. And because you're deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say. In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, Down the street and round the comer I Come — speak your mind — it's ' No or Yes.' " ("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.) TALE OF A TRUMPET. 19 " Try it again — no harm in trying, Of course you hear me, as easy as lying ; No pain at all, like a surgical trick, To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, Like Juno, or Rose, Whose ear undergoes Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle ! " You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, Or cut your tonsils right away, As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day ; And after all a matter of doubt. Whether you ever would hear the shout Of the little blackguards that bawl about, ' There you go with your tonsils out ! ' Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamor- gan On purpose to try a surgical spell, And paid a guinea, and might as well Have call'd a monkey into his organ ! For the Aurist only took a mug, And pour'd in his ear some acoustical drug, That, mstead of curing, deafen'd him rather, As Hamlet's uncle served Hamlet's father ! That's the way with your surgical gentry ! And happy your luck r.f you don't get stuck Through your liver and lights at a royal entry, Because you never answer'd the sentry ! " Try it again, dear ^ladam, try it ! Many would sell their beds to buy it. I warrant you often wake up in the night, Ready to shake to a jelly with fright. And up you must get to strike a light. And down you go, in you know what. Whether the weather is chilly or hot, — That's the way a cold is got, — To see if you heard a noise or not ! TALE OF A TRUMPET. " Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours Is hardly safe to step out of doors ! Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt, But as quiet as if he was 'shod with felt,' Till he rushes against you with all his force, And then I needn't describe the course. While he kicks you about without remorse. How awkward it is to be groom'd by a horse I Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear, And you never dream that the brute is near» Till he pokes his horn right into your ear, Whether you like the thing or lump it, — • And all for want of buying a trumpet ! "I'm not a female to fret and vex. But if I belonged to the sensitive sex, Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds, I wouldn't be deaf for a thousand pounds. Lord ! only think of chucking a copper To Jack or Bob witli a timber limb, Who looks as if he was singing a hymn, Instead of a song that's very improper ! Or just suppose in a public place You see a great fellow a-pulling a face, With his staring eyes and his mouth like an O, — And how is a poor deaf lady to know, — The lower orders are up to such games — If he's calling ' Green Peas,' or calling her names?" (" They're tenpence a peck ! " said the deafest of Dames.) '"Tis strange what very strong advising, By word of mouth, or advertising, By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans, With fifty other different plans. The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing. It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing ! Whether the .Soothing American Syrup, A Safety Ilat or a Safety Stirrup, — Infallible Pills for the h.uman frame, Or Rowland's 0-don't-o (an ominous name) ! A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits TALE OF A TRUMPET. That it beats all others '\n\.ofits ; A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn, Or a Ghost-of-a-\Vhisper-Catching Horn ! " Try it again, Ma'am, only try ! " Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry ; " It's a great privation, there's no dispute, To live like the dumb unsociable brute, And to hear no more of the fro and con. And how Society's going on, Than Mumbo Junibo or Prester John, And all for want of this sine qu& iion ; Whereas, with a horn that never offends, You may join the genteelest party that is. And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz. And be certain to hear of your absent friends ;- Not that elegant ladies, in fact, lu genteel society ever detract. Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd, — At least as a mere malicious act, — But only talk scandal for fear some fool Should think they were bred at charity school. Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation. Which even the most Don Juanish rake Would surely object to undertake At the same high pitch as an altercation. It's not for me, of course, to judge How much a Deaf Lady ought to begrudge ; But half-a-guinea seems no great matter — Letting alone more rational patter — Only to hear a parrot chatter : Not to mention that feather'd wit, The Starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit ; The Pies and Jays that utter words, And other Dicky Gossips of birds. That talk with as much good sense and decorum. As many Beaks who belong to the quorum. " 'Try it — buy it — say ten and six. The lowest price a miser could fix : I don't pretend with horns of mine. TALE OF A TRUMPET. Like some in the advertising line, To * magnify sounds ' on such marvellous scales That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale's ; But popular rumours, right or wrong, — Charity sermons, short or long, — Lecture, speech, concerto, or song, All noises and voices, feeble or strong. From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong, This tube will deliver distinct and clear ; Or, supposing by chance You wish to dance, Why, it's putting a Horn-pipe into your ear ! Try it— buy it ! Buy it— try it ! The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it, For guiding sounds to their proper tunnel : Only try till the end of June, And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune I'll turn it gratis into a funnel ! " In short, the pedlar so beset her, — Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,— With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect, — A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet, - The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet. The pedlar was gone. With the horn's assistance, She heard his steps die away in the distance ; And then she heard the tick of the clock. The purring of puss and the snoring of Shock ; And she purposely dropp'd a pin that was little, And heard it fall as plain as a skittle ! 'Twas a wonderful horn, to be but just ! Nor meant to gather dust, must and rust ; So in half a jiffy, or less than that. In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat, r.ike old Dame Trot, but without her cat. TALE OF A TRUMPET. 23 The gossip was hunting all Tringham through, As if she meant to canvass the borough, Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity ; — And, sure, had the horn been one of those The wild Rhinoceros wears on his nose, It couldn't have ripp'd up more depravity ! Depravity f mercy shield her ears ! 'Twas plain enough that her village peers In the ways of vice were no raw beginners ; For whenever she raised the tube to her drum Such sounds were transmitted as only come From the very Brass Band of human sinners ! Ribald jest and blasphemous curse (Bunyan never vented worse). With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech "Which the Seven Dialecticians teach ; Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns, And Particles pick'd from the kennels of towns, With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, Chiefly active in rows and mobs. Picking possessive Pronouns' fobs, And Interjections as bad as a blight. Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight ; Fanciful phrases for crime and sin, And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin, Garlic, Tobacco, and offals go in — A jargon so truly adapted, in fact. To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act. So fit for the brute with the human shape, Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape, From their ugly mouths it will certainly come Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb ! Alas ! for the Voice of Virtue and Tiiith, And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth ! The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang, Shock'd the Dame with a volley of slang, Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang ; While the charity chap. With his muffin cap. 24 7 ALE OP A TRUMPET. His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole, Cursed his eyes, limbs, body and soul, As if they didn't belong to the Parish ! 'Twas awful to hear, as she went along, The wicked words of the popular song ; Or supposing she listen'd — as gossips will — At a door ajar, oi a window agape, To catch the sounds they allow'd to escape, Those sounds belong'd to Depravity still ! The dark allusion, or bolder brag Of the dexterous "dodge," and the lots of "swag," The plunder'd house — or the stolen nag — The blazing rick, or the darker crime, That quench'd the spark before its time — The wanton speech of the wife immoral — The noise of drunken or deadly quanel, With savage menace, which threaten'd the life, Till the heart seem'd merely a strop " for the knife ; " The human liver, no better than that. Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman's cat ; And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding. To be punch'd into holes, like " a shocking bad hat," That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding ! In short, wherever she tum'd the horn. To the highly bred, or the lowly bom. The working man, who look'd over the hedge, Or the mother nursing her infant pledge, The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels. Or the Governess pacing the village through, With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two. Looking, as such young ladies do, Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with morals — • Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob, Nob or Snob, The Squire on his cob. Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job, To the " Saint" who expounded at "Little ZIon" — Or the " Sinner " who kept " the Golden Lion " — TALE OF A TRUMPET. 25 The man teetotally wean'd from liquor — The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar — Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker — She gather'd such meanings, double or single, That like the bell, With muffins to sell, Her ear was kept in a constant tingle ! But this was nought to the tales of shame, The constant runnings of evil fame, Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink : While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green, And not a little of feline spleen Lapp'd up in " Catty packages," too, To give a zest to the sipping and supping ; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are link'd together, As surely as Scarification and Cupping ; Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea — Or sloe, or whatever it happen'd to be, For some grocerly thieves Turn over new leaves. Without much amending their lives or their tea — No, never since cup was fiU'd or stirr'd Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard. As blacken'd their neiglibours of either gender, Especially that, which is called the Tender, But, instead of the softness we fancy therewith, Was harden'd in vice as the vice of a smith. Vromen ! the wretches ! had soil'd and marr'd Whatever to womanly nature belongs ; For the man-iage tie they had no regard, Nay, sped their mates to the sexton's yard, (Like Madame Lafifarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off iier L by inches)— And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-ivons, pokers, and tongs ! 26 TALE OF A TRUMPET. The men — they fought and gambled at fairs ; And poach'd — and didn't respect grey hairs — Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses ; And broke in houses as well as horses ; Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton, — And would their own mothers and wives for a button But not to repeat the deeds they did, Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, If all were true that fell from the tongue, There was not a villager, old or young. But deserved to be whipp'd, imprison'd, or hung, Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries. To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, or Murray's. Meanwhile the Trumpet, con amove, Transmitted each vile diabolical story ; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls. As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul's, Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, Is famous for making the most of a hint. Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, Not a flying report that flew at a name, Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat, Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive note. But vortex-like that tube of tin Suck'd the censorious particle in ; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listen'd to serpent's hiss. Nor took the viperous sound amiss. On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon ! The Dame, it is true, would mutter "shocking !" And give her head a sorrowful rocking, And make a clucking with palate and tongue, Like the call of Partlett to gather her young, A sound, when human, that always proclaims At least a thousand pities and shames ; But still the darker the tale of sin. Like certain folks, when calamities burst. TALE OF A TRUMPET. 27 Who find a comfort in "hearing tlie worst," The farther she poked the Trumpet in. Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread East and West, and North and South, Like the ball which, according to Captain Z., Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth. What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made whei-ever they came. That the parish of Tringliam was all in a flame ! For although it required such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To tuiTi the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper " as sour as varges." In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbours the village through, Look'd at each other as yellow and blue. As any electioneering crew W^earing the colours of Whigs and Tories. Ah ! well the Poet said, in sooth, That " whispering tongues can poison Tnith," — Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid. Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel. Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel. Sugar of lead,, that sweetens gruel, — At least such torments began to ring 'em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham. The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs. And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother. While sisters fasten'd their nails on each other ; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff. ! 28 TALE OF A TRUMPET. And spar, and jar — and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship — or skiff! The phghted lovers, who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk ; And wish'd for two moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn't look together on one ; ; "While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo — And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand. As the song has plann'd, Scratch'd her, penniless, out of his will ! In short, to describe what came to pass In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of '* Love in a Village "— alas ! The piece they perform'd was " The Devil to Pay ! " However, as secrets are brought to light. And mischief comes home like chickens at night ; And rivers are track'd throughout their course. And forgeries traced to their proper source ; — And the sow that ought By the ear is caught, — And the sin to the sinful door is brought ; And the cat at last escapes from the bag — And the saddle is placed on the pi-oper nag — And the fog blows off, and the key is found — And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound — And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground — And the matter gets wind to waft it about ; And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out — And the riddle is guess'd — and the puzzle is known — So the truth was sniff'd, and the Trumpet was hkni'ii ! 'Tis a day in November — a day of fog — But the Tringham people are all agog ; Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers' Sons, — With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns, — As if in pursuit of a rabid dog ; TALE OF A TRUMPET. 29 But their voices — raised to the liighest pitcli — Declare that the game is "a Witcli ! — a Witch I " Over the Green, and along by The George — Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge, And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, Till they come to the whitewash'd cottage beyond, And there at the door they muster and cluster. And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster — Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster I A noise, indeed, so loud and long. And mix'd with expressions so very strong, That supposing, according to popular fame, " Wise Woman " and Witch to be the same, No hag with a broom would unwisely stop, But up and away through the chimney-top ; Whereas, the moment they burst the door, Planted fast on her sanded floor. With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Lo and behold ! Dame Eleanor Spearing ! Oh ! then arises the fearful shout — • Bawl'd and scream'd, and bandied about — " Seize her ! — Drag the old Jezebel out ! " While the Beadle — the foremost of all the band, Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand — And after a pause of doubt and fear. Puts it up to his sharpest ear. " Now silence — silence — one and all ! " For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul ! But before he rehearses A couple of verses, The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall : For instead of the words so pious and humble, He hears a supernatural grumble. Enough, enough I and more than enough ; — Twenty impatient hands and rou^'h, By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff. Apron, 'kerchief, gown of scuff— 30 TALE OF A TRUMPET. Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff — Are clutching the Witch wherever they can. With the spite of Woman and fury of Man ; And then — but first they kill her cat. And murder her dog on the very mat — And crush the infernal Trumpet flat ; — And then they hurry her through the door She never, never will enter more ! Away ! away ! down the dusty lane They pull her, and haul her, with might and main ; And happy the hawl^uck, Tom or Harry, Dandy, or Sandy, Jerry, or Larry, Who happens to get " a leg to carry ! " And happy the foot that can give her a kick, And happy the hand that can find a brick — And happy the fingers that hold a stick — Knife to cut, or pin to prick — And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick ; — Nay, happy the urchin — Charity-bred, — Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head ! Alas ! to think how people's creeds Are contradicted by people's deeds ! But though the wishes that Witches utter Can play the most diabolical rigs — Send styes in the eye — and measle the pigs — Grease horses' heels— and spoil the butter ; Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk — And turn new milk to water and chalk, — Blight apples — and give the chickens the pip — And cramp the stomach — and cripple the hip — And waste the body — and addle the eggs — And give a baby bandy legs ; Though in common belief a Witch's curse Involves all these horrible things, and worse— As ignorant bumpkins all profess, No bumpkin makes a poke the less At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S. f As if she were only a sack of barley I Or gives her credit for greater might TALE OF A TRUMPET. 31 Than the Powers of Darkness confer at niglit On that other old woman, the parish Charley ! Ay, now's the time for a Witch to call On her Imps and Sucklings one and all — Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown, (As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down) Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack, Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, Vinegar Tom, and the rest of the pack — Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry To come "with his tail" like the bold Glengarry, And drive her foes from their savage job As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob : — But no such matter is down in the bond ; And spite of her cries that never cease. But scare the ducks and astonish the geese, The Dame is dragg'd to the fatal pond ! And now they come to the water's brim — And in they bundle her— sink or swim ; Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown, With twenty sticks to hold her dovvTi ; Including the help to the self-same end, Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend. A Pedlar ! — Yes ! — The same ! — the same ! Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame ! And now is foremost amid the stir. With a token only reveal'd to her ; A token that makes her shudder and shriek. And point with her finger, and strive to speak — But before she can utter the name of the Devil, Her head is under the water level ! There are folks about town — to name no names— Who much resemble that deafest of Dames ! And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, Circulate many a scandalous word. And whisper tales they could only have heard Through some such Diabolical Trumpets ! 32 AA^ OPEN QUESTION. AX OPEX QUESTION. " It is the king's highway, that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the iions," — Bunyan. HAT ! shut the gardens ! lock the latticed gate ! Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket ! And hang a wooden notice up to state, "On Sundays no admittance at this wicket !" The birds, the beasts, and all the reptile race Denied to friends and visitors till Monday ! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? The Gardens, — so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses, — Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub, — Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses ? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head, — Nor rum — nor gin — not even of a jMonday — The Lion is not carved — or gilt — or. red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? The bear denied ! the leopard under locks ! As if his spots would give contagious fevers; The beaver close as hat within its box ; So different from otlier Sunday beavers ! The birds invisible — the gnaw-way rats — The seal hermetically seal'd till Monday — The monkey tribe — the family of cats, — We visit other families on Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling ? The kangaroo — is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat, Struck all a heap to see a Coati Mundi? A.V OP EM QUESTION. 33 Or did the Kentish Pkimtree faint to note The pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? \Vhat feature has repulsed the serious set ? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret ? One thing is plain — it is not in the feeding ! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday — But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? AYhat change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell hyaena of the ghoulish race ? The snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic ? Do Irish minds, — (whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday) — Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? There are some moody fellows, not a few, Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue. And think when they are dismal they arc pious : Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday — • Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one. Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? What dire offence have serious fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not guinea pigs subscribe their guuiea ? Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult Tiie feathers in her head — at least till Monday ; Or did the elephant unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? C. C A.V OPEN' QUESTION. At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through monkey tricks his damaged clalhiiig? Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian goose ? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing ? Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he played extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday — But what is your opinion, I^Irs. Grundy ? To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the keepers of the brutes ferocious — As soon the tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday As any harmless man to take a walk, If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday — But what is your opinion, ^Irs. Grundy? In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin — (Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance. To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday — (That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin's no worse than baking on a Sunday — But what is your oi^inion, Mrs. Grundy ? In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I cannot think the day a bit diviner. Because no children, with forestalling smiles. Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor- It is not plain, to my poor faith at least. That what we christen " Natural " on Monday, The wondrous History of bird and beast, Can be unnatural because it's Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Gmndy ? Whereon is sinful fantasy to work ? The dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven ? AN OPEN QUESTIOM. 35 The tender love-bird — or the filial stork ? The punctual crane — the providential raven? The pelican whose bosom feeds her young ? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Wouday That feather'd marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? The busy beaver — that sagacious beast ! The sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd — That desert-ship the camel of the East, The horn'd rhinoceros — the spotted leopard — The creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday — The elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? What harm if men who bum the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of " Animated Nature ?" Better it were if, in his best of suits. The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour amongst the brutes. Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? Why, zounds ! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds ! for which I make apology) But th.at the Papists, like some fellows, thus Had somehow mi.xed up Dens with their theology ? Is Brahma's bull — a Hindoo god at home — A papal bull to be tied up till Monday — Or Leo, like his namesake. Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday — But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? Spirit of Kant ! have we not had enough To make religion satl, and sour, and snubb" But saints zoological must cant their stuff, 36 AM OPEN QUESTION. As vessels cant their ballast — rattling rubbish ! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero ^ up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the dandelions on a Sunday — Eut what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy Note. — There is an anecdote of a Scotch Professor who hap- pened during a Sunday walic to be hammering at a geological spe- cimen which he had picked up, when a peasant gravely accosted him, and said, very seriously, "Eh ! Sir, you think you are only breaking a stone, but you are breaking the Sabbath." In a similar spirit, some of our over-righteous sectarians are fond of attributing all breakage to the same cause — from the smashing of a parish lamp, up to the fracture of a human skull ; — the " break- ing into the bloody house of life," or the breaking into a brick- built dwelling. They all originate in the breaking of the Sabbath. It is the source of every crime in the country — the parent of every illegitimate child in the parish. The picking of a pocket is ascribed to the picking of a daisy — the robbery on the highway to a stroll in the fields — the incendiary fire to a hot dinner — on Sunday. AH other causes — the want of education — the want of moral culture — the want of bread itself, are totally repudiated. The criminal him- self is made to confess at the gallows that he owes his appearance on the scaffold to a walk with " Sally in our alley " on the "day that comes between a Saturday and Monday." Supposing this theory to be correct, and made like the law " for every degree," the wonder of Captain Macheath that we haven't "better company at Tyburn tree " (now the New Drop ) must be fully shared by everybody who has visited the Ring in Hyde Park on the day in question. But how much greater must be the won- der of any person who lias happened to reside, like myself, for a year or two in a continental city, inliabited, according to the strict construction of our Mawworms, by some fifteen or twenty thousand of habitual Sabbath-breakers, and yet, witliout hearing of murder and robbery as often as of blood-sausages and dollars ! A city where the Burgomaster himself must have come to a bad end, if a dance upon Sunday led so inevitably to a dance upon nothing ! The " saints " having set up this absolute dependence of crime on Sabbath-breaking, their relative proportions become a fair statisti- cal question ; and, as such, the inquiry is seriously recommended to the rigid legislator, who acknowledges, indeed, tliat the Sabbath was "made for man," but, by a singular interprctalion, conceives that the man for whom it was made is himself ! I The name of a well-known lion at that time in the Zoolosical Gardens. THE TURTLES. 37 THE TURTLES. A FABLE. " The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle."— Byron. ijNE day, it was before a civic dinner, Two London Aldermen, no matter which, Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner- But both were florid, corpulent, and rich, And both right fond of festive demolition, Set forth upon a secret expedition. Yet not, as might be fancied from the token, To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street Of Bread, or Grub, or anything to eat. Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken, But eastward to that more aquatic quarter, Where folks take water, Or bound on voyages, secure a berth For Antwerp or Ostend, Dundee or Perth, Calais, Boulogne, or any Port on earth ! Jostled and jostling, through the mud. Peculiar to the Town of Lud, Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they dived. Past many a gusty avenue, through which Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch. From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf derived ; "With darker fumes, brought eddying by the draught, From loco-smoko-motive craft ; Mingling with scents of butter, cheese, and gammons, Tea, coffee, sugar, pickles, rosin, wax, Hides, tallow, Russia-matting, hemp and flax, Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper'd salmons, Nuts, oranges, and lemons. Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum, Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum ; Alamode-beef and greens — the London soil — Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine and oil, P>ark, assafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops, Li sliort, all whifFs, and sniffs, and pufls and snufTs, From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs, Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops — 38 THE TURTLES. In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, waggons, taverns, shops, Loats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river's ridge. Assault the nose — below the bridge. A walk, however, as tradition tells, That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose. Because, incapable of other views, He met with "such a sight of smells." But on, and on, and on, In spite of all unsavoury shocks, Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John, Steadily steering ship-like for the docks — And now they reach a place the ]\Iuse, unwilling. Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing. The famous Gate of Billing, That does not lead to cooing — And now they pass that House that is so ugly A Customer to people looking "smuggley " — And now along that fatal Hill they pass Where centuries ago an Oxford bled, And proved — too late to save his life, alas ! — That he was "off his head." At last before a lofty brick-built pile Sir Peter stopp'd, and with mysterioiis smile Tingled a bell that served to bring Tlie wire-dra-\vn genius of the ring, A species of commercial Samuel Weller— To whom Sir Peter — tipping him a wink, And something else to drink — *' Show us the cellar." Obsequious bow'd the man, and led the way Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows small. Dappled wit'i mud, let in a dingy ray — A dirty tax, if they were tax'd at all. At length they came into a cellar damp, With venerable cobwebs fringed around. THE TURTLES. 39 A cellar of that stamp Which often harbours vintages renown'd, The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly, With sherry, brown or golden, Or port, so olden. Bereft of body 'tis no longer portly — But old or otherwise — to be veracious — That cobwebb'd cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious, Held nothing cnistj' — but crustaceous. Prone, on the chilly floor, Five splendid Turtles — such a five ! Natives of some West Indian shore, Were flapping all alive, Late landed from the Jolly Planter's yawl — A sight whereon the dignitaries fix'd Their eager eyes,, with ecstacy unmix'd, Like fathers that behold their infants crawl. Enjoying every little kick and sprawl. Nay — far from fatherly the thoughts they bred Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried ! The Aldermen too plainly wish'd them dead And Aldemianbury'd ! " There ! " cried Sir Peter, with an air Triumphant as an ancient victor's. And pointing to the creatures rich and rare, "There's picters !" " Talk of Olympic Games ! They're not worth mention ; The real prize for wrestling is when Jack, In Providence or Ascension, Can throw a lively turtle on its back ! " " Aye ! " cried Sir John, and ^^'ith a score of nods, Thoughtful of classical symposium, " There's food for Gods ! There's nectar ! there's ambrosium ! There's food for Roman Emperors to eat — Oh, there had been a treat 40 THE TURTLES. (Those ancient nnnies will sometimes hobljle us) For Helio-gobble-us ! " "There were a feast for Alexander's Feast ! The real sort — none of your mock or spurious ! And then he mention'd Aldermen deceased, And " Epicurius," And how Tertullian had enjoy'd such foison ; And speculated on that verdigrcase That isn't poison. "Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that ! Give me green fat ! As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles And billing turtles, Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there, A-billing in a bill of fare ! " " Of all the things I ever swallow — Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow — It almost makes me wish, I vow, To have hvo stomachs, like a cow ! " And lo ! as with the cud, an inward thrill Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb'd his frill, His mouth was oozing and he work'd his jaw — '* I almost think that I could eat one raw ! " And thus, as "inward love breeds outward talk," The portly pair continued to discourse ; And then — as Gray describes of life's divorce — With "longing lingering look" prepared to walk, Having thro' one delighted sense, at least, Enjoy'd a sort of Barmecidal feast. And with prophetic gestures, strange to see, Forestall'd the civic Banquet yet to be, Its callipash and callipee ! A pleasant prospect — but alack ! Scarcely each Alderman had turn'd liis back. When seizing on the moment so propitious, And having leam'd that they were so delicious TOWN AND COUNTRY. 41 To bite and Mip, From praises so liigh flown and injudicious, — And nothing could be more pernicious ! The turtles fell to -work, and ate each other up ! MORAL. Never, from folly or urbanity, Praise people thus profusely to their faces. Till quite in love with their own graces, They're eaten up by vanity \ TOWN AND COUNTRY. AN ODE. ! WELL may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh "C rus '." Of London pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades — my eyes detest This endless meal of brick ! What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs bum, I scent no flowery gust : Bift faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me " dust to dust." My sun his daily course renews Due east, but with no Eastern dews ; l"he path is dry and hot I His setting shows more tamely still, He sinks behind no purple hill, But down a chimney's pot ! O ! but to hear the milkmaid blithe, Or early mower wet his scythe The dewy meads among ! — My grass is of that sort, alas ! That makes no hay — called span'ow-grass By folks of vulgar tongue ! 4- TOWN AND COUNTRY. ! but to smell the woodbines sweet ! 1 think of cowslip cups — ^but meet With very vile rebuffs I For meadow-buds I get a whiff Of Cheshire cheese, — or only sniff The turtle made at Cuff's. How tenderly Rousseau reviewed His periwinkles I — mine are stewed! INIy rose blooms on a gown ! — I hunt in vain for eglantine, And find my blue-bell on the sign Tliat marks the Bell and Crown : Where are ye, birds ! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing Or mourn in thickets deep ? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchman is my Philomel, ^ly blackbird is a sweep ! Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush ! That perch on leafy bough and bush, And tune the various song ? Two hurdigurdists, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door. Are all my " tuneful throng." Where are ye, early-purling streams. Whose waves reflect the morning beams, And colours of the skies ? My rills are only puddle-drains From shambles, or reflect the stains Of calimanco-dyes ! Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones : — Not thus the city streamlets flow ; They make no music as they go. Though never "off the stones." TOWN AND COUNTRY. VN'here are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap Beside your woolly dams ? Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, My Corydons use iron hooks, And skin— not shear — the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, The Arcadian herdsman used to play Sweetly, here soundeth not ; But merely breathes unwholesome fumes, Meanwhile the city boor consumes The rank weed — "piping hot." All rural things are vilely mock'd, On every hand the sense is shock 'd, With objects hard to bear : Shades — vernal shades ! — where wine is sold ! And, for a turfy bank, behold An Ingram's rustic chair ! Where are ye, London meads and bowers. And gardens redolent of flowers Wherein the zephyr wons ? Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more. See Hatton's Gardens bricked all o'er. And that bare wood — St. John's. No pastoral scenes procure me peace ; I hold no Leasowes in my lease, No cot set round with trees : No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; And Omnium furnishes my banks With brokers — not with bees. O ! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh " rusP' Of city pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades — my eyes detest That endless meal of brick ! THE LOST HEIR. NOl No sun — no moon ! No moni — no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of dav — No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — No road — no street — no " t'other side the way"- No end to any Row — No indications where the Crescents go- No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em — No knowing 'em ! — No travelling at all — no locomotion. No inkling of the way — no notion — "No go " — by land or ocean — No mail — no post — No news from any foreign coast — No Park — no Ring — no afternoon gentility — No company — no nobility — No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November ! THE LOST HEIR. "Oh, where, and oh where Is my bonny laddie gone?'' — Old Song NE day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry That chill'd my very blood ; And lo I from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaub'd with grease and mud. THE LOST HEIR. 45 She tura'd her East, she tuni'd her West, Staring like Pythoness possest. With streaming hair and heaving breast As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man — Her riglit hand held a frying pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seem'd to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech. As wild as ocean birds, Or female Ranter mov'd to preach. She gave her " sorrow words." " Oh Lord ! oh dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild ! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a ci7ing lost- looking child ? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way — A child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab ! You promised to have half an eye on him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young dral). The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys. With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, Ile'U be rampant, he will, at his child being lost ; and the beef and the inguns not done ! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street ; 46 THE LOST HEIR. Oh Serjeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Saints forbid ! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs ; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; And his trousers considering not very much patch'd, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair. His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dress'd my mind would misgive, soibe old beggar woman in want of an orphan, Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin ! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys ! I'll break every bone of 'em I come near, Go home — you're spilling the porter — go home — Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards ! they lost him once before all along of following a ^lonkey and an Organ. Oh my Billy — my head will turn right round — if he's got kiddy- napp'd with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the out- landish tatterdemalions. Billy — where are you, Billy? — I'm as hoarse as a crow, with scream- ing for ye, you young sorrow ! And slian't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. Oh Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life v.-on't be of no more vally, THE LOST HEIR. 47 If I'm to see other folks' darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley. And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there an't no Billy there ! I would nm all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd where to run, Little Murphy, now I remember, Avas once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun, — The Lord forbid of any child of mine ! I think it would kill me raily To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's. And if I call'd him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been wash'd for a week ; As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb ; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home, lie's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got ; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot ; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age ; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways — but oh I never never shall see him no more I O dear ! to think of losing him just after nursing him back from death's door ! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. 48 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, diat him, made a seize of our hog. It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ; The last time he was fetch'd to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And Avent and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy — where are you, Billy, I say ? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers ! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not. And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face. For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him ! Lauk ! I never knew what a precious he was — but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin !" SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. i]ABLES entangling her, Shipspars for mangling her. Ropes, sure of strangling her ; Blocks over-dangling her j Tiller to batter her. Topmast to shatter her, Tobacco to spatter her ; Boreas blustering, ?rSiSffi^ SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 4^ Boatswain quite flustering, Thunder clouds musterin^' To blast her with sulphur— If the deep don't engulph her ; Sometimes fear's scrutiny Pries out a mutiny. Sniffs conflagration, Or hints at starvation : — ■ All the sea-dangers, Buccaneers, rangers, Pirates, and Sallee-men, Algerine galleymen, Tornadoes and typhons, And horrible syphons, And submarine travels Thro' roaring sea-.iavels ; Every thing wrong enough, Long boat not long enough, Vessel not strong enough ; Pitch marring frippery. The deck very slippery, And the cabin — built sloiilng, The Captain a-toping, And the Mate a blasphemer. That names his Redeemer, — With inward uneasiness ; The cook, known by greasiness, The victuals beslubber'd. Her bed— in a cupboard ; Things of strange cinistening, Snatch'd in her listening. Blue lights and red liglits And mention of dead lights, And shrouds made a tlieme of, Things horrid to dream of, — And buoys in the water To fear all exhort her ; Her friend no Leander, Herself no sea gander. And ne'er a cork jacket On board of the packet ; 50 ANACREONTIC. The breeze still a stiffening, The trumpet quite deafening ; Thoughts of repentance, And doomsday and sentence ; Everything sinister, Not a church minister, — Pilot a blunderer, Coral reefs under her, Ready to sunder her ; Trunks tipsy-topsy, The ship in a dropsy ; Waves oversurging her, Syrens a-dirgeing her ; Sharks all expecting her. Sword-fish dissecting her, Crabs with their hand-vices Punishing land vices : Sea-dogs and unicorns. Things with no puny horns, Mermen carnivorous — " Good Lord deliver us 1 " ANACREONTIC, I?Y A FOOTMAN. jlT'S wery well to talk in praise Of Tea and Water-drinking ways, In proper time and place ; Of sober draughts, so clear and cool, Dipp'd out of a ti^ansparent pool Reflecting heaven's face. Of babbling brooks, and purling rills. And streams as gushes from the hills. It's wery well to talk ; — But what becomes of all sich schemes. With ponds of ice, and running streams As doesn't even walk? A PUBLIC DINNER. A day's sport on the moors. THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. 51 When Winter comes with piercing cold, And all the rivers, new or old, Is frozen far and wide ; And limpid springs is solid stuff, And crystal pools is hard enough To skate upon and slide ; — \Yhat then are thirsty men to do, But drink of ale, and porter too, Champagne as makes a fizz ; Port, sherry, or the Rhenish sort. And p'rhaps a drop of summut short — The water-pipes is friz ! THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY. ELL ! Here I am — no Matter how it suits, A-keeping Company with them dumb Brutes, Old Park vos no bad Judge — confound his vig ! Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig ! " The like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock, But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock ! " To go to set this solitary Job To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob ! It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb ! " I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep To think of Seven Years of keepin Sheep, The spooniest Beasts in Nater, all to Sticks, And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks ! " If I'd fore-seed how Transports vood turn out To only Baa ! and Botanize about, 52 IIUGGIXS AMD DUGGINZ. I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pool, And come to Cotton as to all this Vool ! "Von only happy moment I have had Since here I come to be a Farmer's Cad, And then I cotch'd a vild Beast in a Snooze, And pick'd her Pouch of three young Kangaroos ! " Vot chance have I to go to Race or Mill? Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till ; And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry, I'd put the Natives' Linen in my Eye ! " If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag, And find a fence to turn it into Swag, I'd give it all in Lonnon Streets to stand, And if I had my pick, I'd say the Strand ! " But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall, To my old crib to meet with Jack, and Sal, I've been so gallows honest in this Place, I shan't not like to show my sheepi::Ii Face. " It's wery hard for nothing but a Box Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin' Flocks, 'Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus, They've nayther got a Poker nor a Pus. " But Folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick To dumb brate Beasts, — and so I'll cut my Stick ! And vot's the Use a Feller's Eyes to pipe Vere von can't borrow any Gcmman's Vipe?' IIUGGINS AND DUGGINS. A PASTORAL AFTER POrE. WO swains or clowns — but call them swains While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains, For all that tend on sheep as drovers, Are turned to songsters, or to lovers, HUGGIXS AND DUGGIXS. 53 Eacli of tlie lass he called his clear, Began to carol loud and clear. First Iluggins sang, and Duggins then, In the way of ancient shepherd men ; Who thus alternate hitch'd in song, "All things by turns, and nothing long." Of all the girls about our place, There's one beats all in form and face , Search tluough all Great and Little Bumpstcad, You'll only find one Peggy Plumpstead. To groves and streams I tell my flame, I make the cliffs repeat her name : When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins ! When I am walking in the grove, I think of Peggy as I rove. I'd carve her name on every tree. But I don't know my A, B, C. Whether I walk in hill or valley, I think of nothing else but Sally. I'd sing her praise, but I can sing No song, except "God save tlie King." HUGGIXS. My Peggy does all nymphs excel. And all confess she bears the bell, — • Wiiere'er she goes swains flock together, Like sheep that follow the bellwether. Sally is tall and not too straight, — Those very poplar shapes I liate ; 54 HUGGINS AND DUGGINS. But something twisted like an S, — A crook becomes a shepherdess. HUGGINS. When Peggy's dog her arms imprison, I often wish my lot was hisn ; How often I should stand and turn, To get a pat from hands like hern. I tell Sail's lambs how blest they be, To stand about and stare at she ; But when I look, she turns and shies, And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes ? Love goes with Peggy where she goes, — Beneath her smile the garden grows ; Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts! Where Sally goes it's always spring, Her presence brightens every thing ; The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, It makes brass farthings look like guineas. HOGGINS. For Peggy I can have no joy. She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, And keeps me, by her wayward tiicks. As comfortless as sheep with ticks. Sally is ripe as June or May, And yet as cold as Christmas day ; For when she's asked to change her lot. Lamb's wool, — but Sally, she wool not. PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. 55 Only with Peggy and with health, I'd never wish for state or wealth ; Talking of having health and more pence, I'd drink her health if I had fourpence. Oh, how that day would seem to shine, If Sally's banns were read with mine ; She cries, when such a wish I carry, " Marry come up ! " but will not marry. PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. A SEA ECLOGUE. " I apprehend you! "—School of Reform. Boatman. HOVE off there!— ship the rudder. Bill— cast off! she's under way! Mrs. F. She's under Ti'hat? — I hope she's not! good gracious, what a spray! Boatman. Run out the jib, and rig the boom! keep clear of those two brigs! Mrs. F. ! I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs! Boatman. Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim! Mrs. F. Great bags of stones! they're pretty things to help a boat to swim! Boatman. The wind is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault! 56 PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. Mrs. F. "Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt! Boatman. That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts! Mrs. F, If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts! Boatman. Its neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. Mrs. F. The bar! what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are! Boatman. Ho! brig ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lubber cannot steer! Mrs. F. Yes, yes, — hard up upon a rock! I know some danger's near! Lord, there's a wave! it's coming in! and roaring like a bull! Boatman. Nothing, Ma'am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full! Mrs. F. What, keep her full! what daring work! when full, she must go down! Boatman. Wliy, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit— it's coming off the town! Steady your hclml we'll clear the Pint! lay right for yonder pink! Mrs. F. Be steady — well, I hope they can! but they've got a pint of drink! Boatman. Bill, give that sheet another haul— she'll fetch it up this reach. PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT. 57 Mrs. F. • I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it hy that speech! I wonder wliat it is, now, but 1 never felt so queer! BOATiMAN. Bill, mind your luff — why Bill, I say, she's yawing — keep her near! Mrs. F. Keep near! we're going further off; the land's behind our backs. Boatman. Be easy. Ma'am, it's all correct, that's only 'cause we tacks: We shall have to beat about a bit, — Bill, keep her out to sea. Mrs. F. Beat who about? keep who at sea? — how black they look at me! Boatman. It's veering round — I knew it would! oft with her head! stand by! Mrs. F. Off with her head! whose? where? what with?— an axe I seem to spy! Boatman. She can't not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in! Mrs. F. They'll drown me, and take all I havel my life's not worth a pin! Boatman. Look out you know, be ready, Bill — just when she takes the sand! Mrs. F. The sand — O Lord I to stop my mouth! how every thingisplann'd! Bo.\tman. The handspike, Bill — quick, bear a hand! now Ma'am, just step ashore ! Mks. F. What! an't I going to be kill'd — and wclter'd in my gore? Well, Heaven be praised! but I'll not go a-sailing any more! S8 GOG AND MAGOG. GOG AND MAGOG. A GUILDHALL DUET. MAGOa, Why, Gog, I say, it's after One, And yet no dinner carved ; Shall we endure this sort of fun. And stand here to be starved ? I really think our City Lords Must be a shabby set ; I've stood here since King Charles's time, And had no dinner yet ! MAGOG. I vow I can no longer stay ; I say, are we to dine to-day ? My hunger would provoke a saint, I've waited till I'm sick and faint ; I'll tell you what, they'll starve us both, I'll tell you what, they'll stop our growth. I wish I had a round of beef My hungry tooth to charm ; I've wind enough in my inside To play the Hundredth Psalm. And yet they feast beneath our eyes Without the least remorse ; This very week I saw the Mayor A feeding like a horse ! Such loads of fish, and flesh, and fowl, To think upon it makes me growl ! COG AND MAGOG. 59 I wonder where the fools were taught, That they should keep a giant short ! They'll stop our growth, they'll stop our growth : They'll starve us both, they'll starve us both ! They said, a hundred years ago, That we should dine at One ; Why, Gog, I say, our meat by this Is rather over-done. I do not want it done at all, So hungry is my maw, Give me an Aldennan in chains. And I will eat him raw ! Of starving weavers they discuss. And yet they never think of us. I say, are we to dine to-day ; Are we to dine to-day ? Oh dear, the pang it is to feel So mealy-mouthed without a meal ! MAGOG. I'll tell you what, they'll stop our growth ! GOG. I'll tell you what, they'll starve us both ! BOTH. They'll stop our growth, they'll starve us both 1 6o THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. "I like to meet a sweep — such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the J>eeJ>, peep of a young sparrow." — Essays of Elia. " A voice cried Sweep no more \ Macbeth hath murdered sweep." — Shakspeare. xVE morning ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street : And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height about five feet. A mongrel tint he seem'd to take. Poetic simile to make, Day through his Martin 'gan to break, Quite overcoming jet. From side to side he cross'd oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walk'd upon the fret : And while he sought the dingy job. His lab' ring breast appear'd to throb And half a hiccup half a sob Betray 'd internal woe. To cry the cry he liad by rote He yeam'd, but law forbade the note. Like Chanticleer with roupy tln-oat. He gaped — bu'. not a crow ! I watch'd him, and the glimpse I snatch 'd Disclosed his soiTy eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid ; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray. He did not care to brush away; Thought I the cause he will l^etray — - And thus at last he did. Well, here's a pretty go ! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging ! THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. 6i But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regu- larly mum. But they can't undo natur — as sure as ever the moniing begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots that say Cheep ! For my own part I find my suppress'd voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us ! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup ! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathise with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue uur call- ings? I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawl- ings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing. And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing. Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks — to do the unpar- tial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seek- ing arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows ? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City ; 62 THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT. Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses. Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mis- chance ; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crj'ing for bread to a heart-breaking; Father and Mother. They haven't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbin's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally. Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue. THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD. 63 As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I an't to be a Cryer ? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows. But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows ? Do vje go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Bill- ingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive O !" in the middle of a funeral sermon ? But the fish won't keep, not the mackarel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves. Every thing, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves ! Lord help us ! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more ? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations ! And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-mocr footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly. For when v/e're drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chim- bley. THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD. SAWE a I\Iayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond ; And whiles His flatterynge Vowcs She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond ! All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was fayre and He was Kinde ; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde ! 64 JAJiVIS AND MRS. COPE. With an^rie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemed Her o\vne the Urcliine's Sinne, She pluckt Ilim out, but he was nowe Past being whipt for fallynge in. She then begins to wayle the Ladde With Slirikes that Echo answerde round — O ! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd I JARVIS AND MRS. COPE. A DECIDEDLY SERIOUS BALLAD. N Bunhill Row, some years ago, There lived one Mrs. Cope ; A pious woman she was call'd, As Pius as a Pope. Not pious in its proper sense, But chatt'ring like a bird Of sin and grace — in such a case Mag-piety's the word. Cries she, "The Reverend Mr. Trigg This day a text will broach. And much I long to hear him preach, So, Betty, call a coach." A bargain tliough she wi.sh'd to make. Ere they began to jog — "Now, Coachman, what d'ye take me for?" Says Coachman, "for a hog." But Jarvis, when he set her down, A second hog did lack — Whereas she only offered him One shilling and " a tiack." Said he, "There ain't no tracks in Quaife, You and your tracks be both — " \CCUSTO.MED TO THE CARE OF CHILDREN " THE box SEAT. JAR VIS AND MRS. COPE. St And, affidavit-like, he clencli'd Her shilling with an oath. Said she, "I'll have you fined for this, And soon it shall be done, I'll have you up at Worship Street, You wicked one, naught one ! " And sure enough at Worship Street That Friday week they stood ; She said bad language he had used, And thus she " tnade it good." " He said two shilling was his fare, And wouldn't take no less — I said one shilling was enough, — And he said C— U— S ! " And when I raised my eyes at that. He swore again at them, I said he was a wicked man, And he said D— A — M." Now Jarvy's turn was come to speak, So he stroked down his hair, " All what she says is false — cause why? I'll swear I never swear ! *' There's old Joe Hatch, the waterman, Can tell you what I am ; I'm one of seven children, all Brought up without a Dam ! " He'll say from two year old and less Since ever I were nust, If ever I said C — U — S, I v.'ish I may be cust ! " At Sion Cottage I takes up, And raining all the while, To go to New Jerusalem, A wery long two mile. 6f A LAY OF REAL LLFE. " Well, when I axes for my fare, She I'ows me in the street, And uses words as is not fit For coachmen to repeat ! "Says she, — I know where you will go, You sinner ! I know well, — Your worship, it's the P — I — T Of E and double L ;" Now here his worship stopp'd the case — Said he — I'll fine you both ! And of the two — why Mrs. Cope's I think the bitrcest oath?" A LAY OF REAL LIFE. " Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." — Goldsmith. " Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones." — Silversmith. HO ruined me ere I was bom, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn ? My Grandfather. Who said my mother was no nurse, And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother. Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear. And Mr. Pope, the overseer ? My Father. Who let me starve, to buy her gin. Till all my bones came through my skiilj Then called me "ugly little sin?" My Mother. A LAY OF REAL LLFE. (i^ Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home — and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk ? My Aunt. Who "of all earthly things " Avould boast, " He hated other's brats the most," And therefore made me feel my fiost ? My Uncle. Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore ? My Cousin. Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother. Who marred my stealthy urchin joys. And when I played cried " What a noise ! — Girls always hector over boys — My Sister. Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine ? My Brother. Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had ; " But at the stall the coin was bad ? My Godfather. Who, gratis, shared my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump ? Alas ! My Friend. Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathised with grief, Or shared my joy — my sole relief? Myself. a THE LARK AND THE ROOK. THE LARK AND THE ROOK. A FABLE. " Lo ! hear the gentle lark ! " — Shakespeare. XCE on a time — no matter where — A lark took such a fancy to the air, That though he often gazed beneath, Watching the breezy down, or healh, Yet very, very seldom he was found To perch upon the ground. Hour after hour. Through ev'ry change of weather hard or soft, Through sun and shade, and wind and show'r, Still fluttering aloft ; In silence now, and now in song. Up, up in cloudland all day long, On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight, Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare. Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air. But never to alight. It caused, of course, much speculation Among the feather'd generation ; Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it — The robin puzzled at it, and the wren. The swallows, cock and hen. The wagtail, and the linnet. The yellowhammer, and the finch as well — The sparrow ask'd the tit, who couldn't tell. The jay, the pie — but all were in the dark. Till out of patience with the common doubt, The Rook at last resolved to worm it out, And thus accosted the mysterious Lark : — " Friend, prithee, tell me why You keep this constant hovering so high, As if you had some castle in the air, That you are always poising there. A NOCTURXAL SKETCH. 69 A speck against the sky — Neglectful of each old familiar feature Of Earth that nursed you in your callow state — You think you're only soaring at heaven's gate, Whereas you're flying in the face of Nature !" " Friend," said the Lark, with melancholy tone, And in each little eye a dewdrop shone, " No creature of my kind was ever fonder Of that dear spot of earth ^Yhich gave it birth — And I was nestled in the furrow yonder ! Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath, And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath, Saluted often with a living sonnet : But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurf Of dirt and infamy about the Turf, I do not like to settle on it ! " Alas ! how Nobles of another race Appointed to the bright and lofty way Too willingly descend to haunt a place Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey ! A NOCTURNAL SKETCH. i|VEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark. The signal of the setting sun — one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and se« the Druiy-Lane Dane slain, — Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade. Denying to his frantic clutch much touch : — Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Li?ton, while you quiz his phiz. 70 DOMESTIC ASIDES. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things, Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pail-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash. Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep. But frighten'd by Policeman B 3, flee. And while they're going, whisper low, " No go! " Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble — " Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly; — But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press'd, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears — what faith is man's — Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes! DOMESTIC ASIDES ; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES. REALLY take it very kind This visit, Mrs. Skinner! I have not seen you such an age — (The uTetch has come to dinner!) "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls — What heads for painters' easels! Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — • (And give it p'rhaps the measles!) JOHN DAY. 71 " Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend ]Mr. Russel's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both, — (What boots for my new Brussels!) " What! little Clara left at home? Well, now, I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so, — (A flabby, dabby babby!) "And Mr. S., I hope he's well; Ah! though he lives so handy. He never now drops in to sup, — (The belter for our brandy!) "Come, take a seat — I long to hear About Matilda's marriage ; You're come of course to spend the day! — (Thank Heav'n, I hear the carriage!) " What, must you go ? next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — (With most uncommon pleasure!) "Good-bye! good-bye! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners! ") JOHN DAY. A PATHETIC BALL.AD. ' A Day after the Fair." — Old Proverb. DHN DAY he was the biggest man Of all the coachman-kind. With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind. 72 JOHN DAY. The very horses knew liis weight When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas-box To come but once a year. Alas! against the shafts of love What armour can prevail .'' Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail. The barmaid of the Crown he loved, From whom he never ranged, For tho' he changed his horses there, His love he never changed. He thought her fairest of all fares. So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers. One day as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pump — He came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump. Said she, my taste will never learn To like so huge a man, So I must beg you will come here As little as you can. But still he stoutly urged his suit. With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, altho' He drove the Dart for years. In vain he wooed, in vain he sued; The maid was cold and proud, And sent him off to Coventiy, While on his way to Stroud. JOHN DA V. 73 He fretted all the way to Stroud, And thence all back to town; The course of love was never smooth, So his went up and down. At last her coldness made him pine To merely bones and skin ; But still he loved like one resolved To love through thick and thin. Oh, Mary, view my wasted back, And see my dwindled calf; Tho' I have never had a wife, I've lost my better half. Alas, in vain he still assail'd Her heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone He could not move a flint. Worn out, at last he made a vow To break his being's link; For he was so reduced in size At nothing he could shrink. Now some will talk in water's praise And waste a deal of breath, But John, tho' he drank nothing else — He drank himself to death. The cruel maid that caused his love, Found out the fatal close, For, looking in the butt, she saw The butt-end of his woes. Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, But that is only talk — For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk. 74 NUMBER ONE. NUMBER ONE. VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY. T'S very hard ! — and so it is, To live in such a row, And witness this that every !Miss But me, has got a Beau. For Love goes calling up and down, But here he seems to shun ; I'm sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One ! I'm sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four ! At Number Three, I oUcn see A Lover at the door : And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun, — It's veiy hard they come so near, And not to Number One ! Miss Bell I hear has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane Without a bit of blind ; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done. Yet arts that thrive at Number Five Don't take at Number One ! 'Tis hard with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,— There's nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy ; And Mrs. Smith across the way Has got a grown-up son, But la ! he hardly seems to know There is a Number One ! There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, But he's intent on pelf, NUMBER ONE. 75 And though he's pious, will not love His neighbour as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale— The goods had quite a run ! And here I've got my single lot On hand at Number One ! My mother often sits at work And talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be In her declining days. The very maids about the house Have set me down a nun ; The sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One ! Once only when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon. Young Mr. Long came kindly in And told me not to swoon: Why can't he come again without The Phoenix and the Sun ! We cannot always have a flue On fire at Number One! I am not old ! I am not plain ! Nor awkward in my gait — I am not crooked, like the bride That went from Number Eight : I'm sure white satin made her look As brown as any bun — But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One ! At Number Six they say INIiss Rose Has slain a score of hea-rts. And Cupid,' for her sake, has been Quite prodigal of darts. The Imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun ! 76 THE DROWNING DUCKS. But if he had, he'd never deign To shoot with Number One. It's very hard, and so it is, To live in such a row ! And here's a ballad singer come To aggravate my woe. Oh take away your foolish song And tones enough to stun — There is " Nae luck about the house,' I know, at Number One ! THE DROWNING DUCKS. llMONGST the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than others- Were little ducklings in the pond. Swimming about beside their mothers—- Small things like living water lilies, But yellow as the Az.iio-dinies. "It's very hard," she used to moan, " That other people have their ducklings To gi-ace their waters — mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings." For why ! — each little yellow navy Went down — all downy — to old Davy ! She had a lake — a pond I mean — It's wave was rather thick than pearly — She had two ducks, their napes were green — She had a drake, his tail was curly, — Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond ! The birds were both the best of mothers — The nests had eggs — the eggs had luck — The infant D.'s came forth like others — But there, alas ! the matter stuck ! They might as well have all died addle, As die when they began to paddle ! THE DROWNING DUCKS. 77 For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat ; They were web-footed too to see. As ducks and spiders ought to be ! No peccant humour in a gander ' Brought havoc on her little folks, — No poaching cook — a frying pander To appetite, — destroyed their yolks, — • Beneath her veiy eyes, Od' rot 'em ! They went like plummets to the bottom. The thing was strange — a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works ! For little dudvS, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks : Great Johnson it bewildered him ! To hear of ducks that could not swim. Poor ]\Irs. Bond ! what could she do But change the breed — and she tried divers, Which dived as all seemed born to do ; No little ones were e'er survivors — Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking ! In vain their downy coats were shorn : They floundered still ; — Batch after batch went ! The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment I Whene'er they launched — oh sight of wonder ! Like fires the water "got them under !" No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did ; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up and desponded ; For Death among the water lilies, • Cried "Due ad mc," to all her dillies. 78 DIBDIN MODERNISED. But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle — Alas ! twas darker than before ! At last, about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the sun did ! The thirsty Sirius, dog-like, drank So deep his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool. Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface ; But when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think oi her face. In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet pie ! The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly. The tenants of that Eely Place Had found the way to Pick a dilly. And so by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks abduction. DIBDIN MODERNIZED. STEAMED from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib how she smoked through the breeze. She's a vessel as tight to my fancy As ever boil'd through the salt seas., When up the J?/ie the sailor goes And ventures on thepoi, The landsman, he no better knows, But thinks hard is his lot. THE STORM. 79 Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets, Weighs anchor, lights the log ; Trims up the fire, picks out the slates. And drinks his can of grog. Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; But a Boulton and Watt and good WaWs end give me ; And it an't too a little I'll strike. Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite. And shiver each bundle of wood ; Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow everything tight, And hailing a gallop we'll scud. THE SyORM RE-WRITTEN. ARK, the boatswain hoarsely bawling. By shovel, tongues, and poker stand ; Down the scuttle quick be hauling, Down your bellews, hand, boys, hand ; Now it freshens, — blow like blazes ; Now unto the coal-hole go ; Stir, boys, stir, don't mind black faces, Up your ashes nimbly throw. Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys, See the valve is clear of course ; Let the- paddles spin, don't mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft a proper draft get. Oil the engines, see all clear ; Hands up, each a sack of coal get, Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer. Now the dreadful thunder's roaring, Peal on peal contending clash ; On our heads fierce rain falls pouring. 8o FM NOT A SINGLE MAN. In our eyes the paddles splash. One wide water all around us, All above one smoke-black sky : Different deaths at once surround us ; Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? The funnel's gone ! cries ev'ry tongue out, The engineer's washed off the deck ; A leak beneath the coal-hole's sprung out Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces ; Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ; Plumb the boiler, speed decreases. Four feet water getting cold. While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, We for wives or children mourn ; Alas ! from hence there's no retreating ; Alas ! to them there's no return. The fire is out — we've burst the bellows, The tinder-box is swamped below ; Heaven have mercy on poor fellows, For only that can serve us now ! I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. " Double, single, and the rub." — Hovle. " This, this is Solitude." — Byron. ^]ELL, I confess, I did not guess A simple marriage vow Would make me find all womenkind Such unkind women now ! They need not, sure, as distant be As Javo or Japan, — Yet every Miss reminds me this — I'm not a single man ! II. Once they made choice of my bass voice To share in each duett ; STRANGE BIkD. PM NOT A SINGLE MAN. Si So well I danced, I somehow chanced To stand in every set : They now declare I cannot sing, And dance on Bruin's plan ; Me draw ! — me paint ! — me anything ! — I'm not a single man ! ni. Once I was asls-ed advice, and task'd What works to buy or not, And " would I read that passage out I so admired in Scott ? " They then could bear to hear one read •, But if I now began. How they would snub " My pretty page,'" I'm not a sinsjle man ! One used to stitch a collar then. Another hemmed a frill ; I had more purses netted then Than I could hope to fill. I once could get a button on, But now I never can — My buttons then were Bachelors- I'm not a single man I Oh how they hated politics Thrust on me by papa : But now my chat — they all leave that To entertain mamma. Mamma, who praises her own seU, Instead of Jane or Ann, And lays " her girls " upon the shelf — I'm not a single man ! Ah me, how strange it is thf^ change. In parlour and in hall ! C. FM NOT A SINGLE MAN. TJie.y treat me so, if I but jijo To make a morning call. If they had hair in papers once. Bolt up the stairs they ran ; They now sit still in dishabille^ I'm not a single man I VII, Miss Mary Bond was once so fond Of Romans and of Greeks ; She daily sought my cabinet, To study my antiques. Well, now she doesn't care a dump For ancient pot or pan, Her taste at once is modernised — I'm not a single man ! My spouse is fond of homely life, And all that sort of thing ; I go to balls without my Avife, And never wear a ring : And yet each Miss to whom I come, As strange as Genghis Khan, Knows by some sign, I can't divine,- I'm not a sin";le man ! Go where I will, I but intrude ; I'm left in crowded rooms. Like Zimmerman on Solitude, Or Mervey at his tombs. From head to heel, they make me feel Of quite another clan ; Compelled to own, though left alone, I'm not a single man ! Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast A nose of Roman line. rM NOT A SINGLE MAN. S3 Will turn up even that in scorn Of compliments of mine : She should have seen that I have been Her sex's partisan, And really married all I could — I'm not a single man ! XI. *Tis hard to see how others fare, Whilst I rejected stand, — Will no one take my arm because They cannot have my hand ? Miss Parry, that for some would go A trip to Hindostan, With me don't care to mount a stair — ■ I'm not a single man. XII. Some change, of course, should be in force But, surely, not so much- There may be hands I may not squeeze But must I never touch ? — Must I forbear to hand a chair And not pick up a fan ? But I have been myself picked up — I'm not a single man ! XIII. Others may hint a lady's tint Is pui-est red and white — May say her eyes are like the skies, So veiy blue and bright, — /must not say that she lias eyes ; Or if I so began, I have my fears about my ears, — I'm not a single man ! XIV. I must confess I did not guess A simple marriage vow. Would make me find all women-kind 84 THE GHOST. Such unkind women now ; — I might be hash'd to death, or smash'd By Ml-. Pickford's van, Without, I fear, a single tear. I'm not a single man ! THE GHOST. A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD. " I'll be your second." — Liston. N Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown ; And many folks considered \\\\\\ The stoutest man in town. But Brown and stout will jjoth wear out, One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard. Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax ; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To mamimit her blacks. With Mr. Street she soon was sweet ; The thing thus came about : She asked him in at home, and then At church he asked her out ! Assurance such as this the man ^ In ashes could not stand ; So like a Phoenix he rose up Arainst the Hand in Hand. One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view ; It came a little after one, But she was after two THE GHOST. 85 "Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame, To burn your widow's weeds ? " It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene ; My memory — like Rogers's, Should still be bound in green ! "Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubt — I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not, With all the leaves torn out ! "To think that on that finger-joint, Another pledge should cling ; Oh Bess ! upon my very soul, It sti-uck like ' Knock and Ring.' " A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return ; Your conduct. Ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in my urn ! " Remember, oh ! remember how The marriage rite did run, — If ever we one flesh should be, 'Tis now — when I have none ! "And you, Sir — once a bosom friend — Of perjured faith convict. As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider you are kick'd. "A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up ! — you marry. Ma'am, And I'll come up again." More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow, and off he v.-ent. Like fowling-piece at cock ! S6 THE DOUBLE KNOCK. THE DOUBLE KNOCK. jjAT-TAT it went upon the lion's chin, "That hat, I know it!" cried the joyful girl " Summer's it is, I know him by his knock, Comers like him are welcome as the clay ! Lizzy ! go down and open the street-door, Busy I am to any one but Jiivi. Know him you must — he has been often here ; Show him up stairs, and tell him I'm alone." Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair ; Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat ; " Sure he has brought me tickets for the play — Drury — or Covent Garden — darling man ! — Kemble will play — or Kean who makes the soul Tremble ; in Richard or the frenzied Moor — Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce Barren beside — or Liston, Laughter's Child — Kelly the natural, to witness whom Jelly is nothing to the public's jam — Cooper, the sensible — and Walter Knovvles Super, in William Tell — now rightly told. Better — perchance, from Andrews, brings a box, Letter of boxes for the Italian stage — Brocard ! Donzelli ! Taglioni I Paul ! No card, — thank Heaven — engages me to-night ! Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque — Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls. Dearly I dote on white — my satin dress, Merely one night — it won't be much the worse^ Cupid — the New Ballet I long to see — Stupid ! why don't she go and ope the door?" Glisten'd her eye as the impatient girl Listen'd, low bending o'er the topmost stair. Vainly, alas ! she listens and she bends, Plainly she hears this question and reply : *' Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d'ye want ? " "Taxes," says he, "and shall not call again ! " OUR VILLAGE. 87 OUR VILLAGE.— BY A VILLAGER. UR village, that's to say not INIiss i\Iitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy ; And in the middle, there's a gi^een of about not exceeding an acre and a half ; It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of com- mon law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drown'd kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowd- ing when the little village boys play at cricket ; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds ; With plenty of public-houses — two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckon'd the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise ' A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackled " neat post-chaise." There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease ; And close by the church-yard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough ; Eve been in it with Old Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike ; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any thing else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the up- right post ; OUR VILLAGE. Eut the pound is kept ia repairs for tlie salvC of Cob's horse, as is always tliere almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task ; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of every thing you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask. There are six empty houses, and not so well paper'd inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and elec- tion placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen ; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jas- mines, you may go and whistle ; But the Tailor's front garden grow two cabbages, a dock, a hi'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards — Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief — With two pear-trees that don't bear ; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripp'd by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby ; A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby. There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange old chimneys that never smoker, For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks ; There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-beard- ed shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls ; There's a butcher's and a carpenter's and a plumber's and a small green -grocer's, and a baker PAIRD NOT MATCITD. S9 But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there's a sexton that's a coal- merchant besides, and an undertaker ; And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare witli the London shops ; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats. Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops. And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cob- bler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village— ay, from end to end, save and except one more house. But I haven't come to that — and I hope I never shall — and that's the Village Poor-House ! PAIR'D iV^OrMATCH'D. i F wedded bliss Bards sing amiss, I cannot make a song of it ; For I am small, My wife is tall. And that's the short and long of it. When we debate It is my fate To always have the wrong of it ; For I am small. And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it ! And when I speak My voice is weak, But hers — she makes a gong of it ! For I am small, And she is tall. And that's the short and long of it ! She has, in brief, Command in Chief, 90 PAIK'D NOT MATCH' D. And I'm but Aide-de-camp of it ; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it ! She gives to me The weakest tea, And takes the whole Souchong of it ; For I am small, And she is tall. And that's the short and lone: of it ! She'll sometimes giip My buggy whip, And make me feel the thong of it ! For I am small And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it ! Against my life I She'll take a knife, Or fork, and dart the prong of it ; For I am small. And she is tall, A)i;l that's the short and long of it ! I sometimes think I'll take to drink. And hector when I'm strong of it ; For I am small. And she is tall. And that's the short and long of it ! O, if the bell Would ring her knell, I'd make a gay ding-dong of it ; For I am small. And she is tall. And that's the short and long of it 1 THE BUOY AT THE NORE. THE BOY AT THE MORE. 91 THE BOY AT THE NORE. "Alone [ did it !— Boy !" — Coriolanus. SAY, little Boy at the Nore, Do you come from the small Isle of Man ? Why, your history a mystery must be, — • Come tell us as much as you can, Little Boy at the Nore ! You live it seems wholly on water, Which your Gambier calls living in clover ; — But how comes it, if that is the case, You're eternally half seas over, — Little Boy at the' Nore ? While you ride — while you dance- -while you float- Never mind your imperfect orthography ; — But give us as M'ell as you can, Your watery auto-biography. Little Boy at the Nore ! LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITOR. I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, In a sort of sea negus I dwells ; Half and half 'twixt saltwater and Port, I'm reckon'd the first of the swells — I'm the Boy at the Nore ! I lives with my toes to the flounders, And watches through long days and nights ; Yet, cruelly eager, men look — To catch the first glimpse of my lights — I'm the Boy at the Nore. I never gets cold in the head, 80 my life on salt water is sweet, — I think I owes much of my health To being well used to wet feet — As the Boy at the Nore. 92 THE BOY AT THE NORE. There's one thing, I'm never in debt : Nay ! — I liquidates more than I oiightor ; * So the man to beat Cits as goes by, In keeping the head above water, Is the Boy at the Nore. I've seen a good deal of distress, Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette ; They should do as I do — rise o'er all ; Aye, a good floating capital get, Like the Boy at the Xore ! I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart, And cheers him, in deep water rolling ; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore ! Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off For a week to make love with my wheedles ; If the tight little boy at the Nore Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, We'd have two at the Nore ! They thinks little of sizes on water, On big waves the tiny one skulks, — While the river has Men of War on it — Yes — the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks, And the Boy's at the Nore ! But I've done — for the water is heaving Round my body, as though it would sink it ! And I've been so long pitching and tossing, That sea-sick — you'd haidly now think it — Is the Boy at the Nore ! * A word caught from some American Trader in passing. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. A PATHETIC BALLAD. 'Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified !" — Mercutio. I. WAS twelve o'clock by Chelsea cliimcs, When all in hungry tiim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim. Said he, " Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup," — • When whiter than the table-cloth, A GHOST came rising up ! in. " O, father dear, O, mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim, — You know when some one went to sea, — Don't cry — but I am him ! IV. '* You hope some day with fond emlirace To greet your absent Jack, Eut oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back ! V. " From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering ' too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs ! VI. " The ship we pump'd till we could see Old England from the tops ; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops. , 94 THE SUFFER SUFERSTITION. "Just give a look in Norey's chart. The very place it tells ; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells. VIII. Well, there we are till ' hands aloft,' We have at last a call ; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all. IX, " But oh, my spirit cannot rest, In Davy Jones's sod. Till I've appear'd to you and said,— Don't sup on that 'ere Cod ! X. " You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea ; Last Sanday week, at 2 P.M. That Cod was picking me ! XI. " Those oysters too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one. XII. " O, do not eat those oysters then. And do not touch the shrimps ; When I was in my briny grave. They suck'd my blood like imps ! XIII. " Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat. They'll know the smell they used to smell ; Just try the dog and cat I " THE BROKEN DISH. 95 XIV. The Spirit fled — they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack ! At last up started brother Jim, "Let's try if Jack was Jaclc ! " They call'd the Dog, they call'd the Cat, And little Kitten too, And down they put the Cod and sauce, To see what brutes would do. XVI. Old Tray lick'd all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps. But niunch'd the Cod— and little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps ! XVII. The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts ; O, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts ! THE BROKEN DISH. PHAT'S life but full of care and doubt, With all its fine humanities. With parasols we walk about, Long pigtails and such vanities. We plant pomegranate trees and things And go in gardens sporting. With toys and fans of peacocks' wings, To painted ladies courting. We gather flowers of every hue, And fish in boats for fishes. Build summer-houses painted blue, — But life's as frail as dishes. o6 LITERARY AND LITERAL. Walking about their groves of trees, Blue bridges and blue rivers, How little thought them two Chinese They'd both be smash'd to shivers. LITERARY AND LITERAL. HE March of Mind upon its mighty stilts, (A spirit by no means to fasten mocks on,) In travelling through Berks, Beds, Notts, and Wilts, Hants — Bucks, Herts, Oxon, Got up a thing our ancestors ne'er tliought on, A thing that, only in our proper youth, We should have chuckled at — in sober truth, A Conversazione at Hog's Norton ! A place whose native dialect, somehow, Has always by an adage been affronted. And that it is all gutturals, is now Taken for grunted. Conceive the snoring of a greedy swine. The slobbering of a hungry Ursine Sloth — If you have ever heard such creature dine — And — for Hog's Norton, make a mix of both ! — O shades of Shakspeare ! Chaucer ! Spenser ! Milton ! Pope ! Gray ! Warton ! O Colman ! Kenny ! Blanche ! Poole ! Peake ! Pocock ! Reynolds ! Morton ! O Grey ! Peel ! Sadler ! Wilberforce ! Burdett ! Hume ! Wilmot Horton ! Thhik of your prose and verse, and worse — delivered in Hog's Norton ! — The founder of Hog's Norton Athenaeum Framed her society With some variety II LITERARY AND LITERAL. qy From Mr. Roscoe's Liverpool museum ; Not a mere pic-nic, for the mind's repast. But tempting to the sohd knife-and-forker, It held its sessions in the house that last Had killed a porker. It chanced one Friday, One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, A perfect Gog or INIagog of a pig-hog, ^Yhich made of course a literary high day, — Not that our Farmer was a man to go With literary taste — so far from suiting 'em. When he heard mention of Professor Crowe, Or \u7iS\.z.-Rookh, he always was for shooting 'em ! In fact in letters he was quite a log, With him great Bacon W^as literally taken. And Hogg — the Poet — nothing but a Hog ! As to all others on the list of Fame, Although they were discuss'd and mention'd daily, He only recognised one classic name, And thought that she had hung herself —iJ/wj- BailUc! To balance this, our Farmer's only daughter Had a great taste for the Castalian water — A Wordsworth worshipper — a Southey wooer, — (Though men that deal in water-colour cakes May disbelieve the fact — yet nothing's truer) She got the bluer The more she dipped and dabbled in the Lakes. The secret truth is, Hope, the old deceiver, At future Authorship was apt to hint, Producing what some call the lype-us Fever, Which means a burning to be seen in print. Of learning's laurels — Miss Joanna Baillie — Of Mrs. Hemans — Mrs. Wilson — daily Dreamt Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley ; And Fancy hinting tliat she had the belter Of L.E.L. by one initial letter, She thought the world would quite enraptur'd see C. G 9S LITERARY AND LITERAL. "Love Lays and LvRiCb BY APIG." Accordingly, with very great propriety, She joined the H. N. B. and double S., That is, — Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society ; And saving when her Pa his pigs prohibited, Contributed Her pork and poetry towards the mess. This feast, we said, one Friday was the case, AVhen farmer Grayley — from Macbeth to quote — Screwing his courage to the "sticking place," Stuck a large knife into a grunter's throat ; — A kind of murder that the law's rebuke Seldom condemns by shake of its peruke, Showing the little sympathy of big-wigs With pig-ivigs ! The swine — poor wretch ! — with nobody to speak for it, And beg its life, resolved to have a squeak for it ; So — like the fabled swan — died singing out, And, thus, there issued from the farmer's yard A note that notified without a card. An invitation to the evening rout. And when the time came duly, — " At the close of The day," as Beattie has it, " when the ham — " Bacon and pork were ready to dispose of. And pettitoes and chit'lings too, to cram, — Walked in the H. N. B. and double S.'s, All in appropriate and swinish dresses, For lo ! it is a fact, and not a joke, Although the Muse might fairly jest upon it, They came — each " Pig-faced Lady," in that bonnet We call a poke. The Members all assembled thus, a rare woman At pork and poetry was chosen chairwoman ; — In fact, the bluest of the Blues, Miss Ikey, Whose whole pronunciation was so piggy. She always named the authoress of "Psyche'^ — As Mrs. Tiggey ! LITERARY AXD LITERAL. 99 And now arose a question of some moment, — What author for a lecture was the richer, Bacon or Hogg ? there were no votes for Beaumont, But some for Flitchcr ; While others, with a more sagacious reasoning, Proposed another work, And thought their pork Would prove more relishing from Thomson's Season-inc But practised in Shakspearian readings daily, — O ! Miss Macaulay ! Shakspeare at Hog's Norton !^ Miss Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley Selected him that evening to snort on. In short, to make our stoiy not a big tale, Just fancy her exerting Her talents, and converting The Winter's Tale to something like a pig-tale ! Her sister auditory All sitting round, with grave and learned faces, Were very plauditory. Of course, and clapped her at the proper places. Till fanned at once l)y fortune and the Muse, She thought herself the blessedest of Blues. But Happiness, alas ! has blights of ill, And Pleasure's bubbles in the air explode ; — There is no travelling through life but still The heart will meet with breakers on the road ! With that peculiar voice Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and no.:cs, Miss G., with Perdita, was making choice Of buds and blossoms for her summer posies, When coming to that line, where Proserpine Lets fall her flowers from the wain of Dis ; Imagine this — Uprose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, Grunting this question for the club's digestion, "Do Diss Waggon go from the Ould Baalcy?" THE SUB-MARINE. THE SUB-MARINE. |T was a brave and jolly wight, His cheek was baked and brown. For he had been in many climes With captains of renown, And fought with those who fought so well At Nile and Camperdown. His coat it was a soldier coat, Of red with yellow faced, But (merman-like) he look'd marine All downward from the waist ; His trowsers were so wide and blue. And quite in sailor taste ! He put the rummer to his lips, And drank a jolly draught ; He raised the rummer many times — And ever as he quaft'd, The more he drank the more the ship Seem'd pitching fore and aft ! The ship seem'd pitching fore and aft, As in a heavy squall ; It gave a lurch and down he went. Head-foremost in his fall ! Three times he did not rise, alas ! He never rose at all ! But down he went, right down at once Like any stone he dived, He could not see, or hear, or feel — Of senses all deprived ! At last he gave a look around To see where he amved ! And all that he could see was green. Sea-green on every hand ! And then he tried to sound beneath, And all he felt was sand ! There he was fain to lie, for he Could neither sit nor stand ! THE SUB-MARINE. loi And lo ! above his head there bent A strange and staring lass ; One hand was in her yellow hair, The other held a glass ; A mei'maid she must surely be If ever memiaid was ! Her fish-like mouth was open'd wide, Her eyes were blue and pale, Her dress was of the ocean green, When ruffled by a gale ; Thought he "beneath that petticoat She hides a salmon-tail ! " She look'd as siren ought to look, A sharp and bitter shrew, To sing deceiving lullabies For mariners to rue, — But when he saw her lips apart, It chill'd him through and through ! With either hand he stopp'd his ears Against her evil cry ; Alas, alas, for all his care. His doom it seem'd to die, Her voice went ringing through his head It was so sharp and high ! He thrust his fingers farther in At each unwilling eai", But still in very spite of all, The words were plain and clear ; " I can't stand here the whole day long, To hold your glass of beer ! " With open'd mouth and open'd eyes. Up rose the Sub-marine, And gave a stare to find the sands And deeps where he had been : There was no siren with her glass No waters ocean -green ! The wet deception from his eyes Kept fading more and more, LIBRARY UNIVER.^T'T^y Qp r^TTFORNIA SANTA BAEBARA THE LAMENT OF TOBY. He only saw the bar-maid stand With pouting lip before — The small green parlour of the Ship, And little sanded floor. THE LAMENT OF TOBY, THE LEARNED PIG. "A little learning is a dangerous thing." — Pope. HEAVY day! O day of woe! To misery a poster, Why was I ever farrow'd — why Not spitted for a roaster ? In this world, pigs, as well as men, Must dance to fortune's fiddlings. But must I give the classics up. For barley-meal and middlings ? Of what avail that I could spell And read, just like my betters. If I must come to this at last, To litters, not to letters? O, why are pigs made scholars of? It baffles my discerning, What griskens, fry, and chitterlings Can have to do with learning. Alas! my learning once drew cash. But public fame's unstable. So I must turn a pig again. And fatten for the table. To leave my literary line My eyes get red and leaky; But Giblett doesn't want me blue, But red and white, and streaky. Old Mullins used to cultivate My learning like a gard'ner; THE LAMENT OF TOBY. 103 But Giblett only thinks of lard, And not of Doctor I.ardner! He does not care about my brain The value of two coppers, All that he thinks about my head Is, how I'm off for choppers. Of all my literary kin A fai-ewell must be taken. Good-bye to the poetic Hogg! The philosophic Bacon! Day after day my lessons fade. My intellect gets muddy; A trough I have, and not a desk, A sty — and not a study! Another little month, and then My progress ends like Bunyan's; The seven sages that I loved Will be chopp'd up with onions! Then over head and ears in bi-ine They'll souse me, like a salmon, My mathematics turn to brawn. My logic into gammon. My Hebrew will all retrograde. Now I'm put up to fatten; My Greek, it will all go to grease; The Dogs will have my Latin I FarcM-ell (o Oxford! — and to Bliss! To ^lihnan, Crowe, and Glossop, — I now must be content with chats, Instead of learned gossip! Farewell to "Town!" farewell to "Gown I" I've quite outgrown the latter, — Instead of Trencher-cap my head Will soon be in a platter! 104 My SON AND HEIR. O.why did I at Brazen-Nose Rout up the roots of knowledge ? A butcher that can't read will kill A pig that's been to college! "Fox sorrow I could stick myself, But conscience is a dasher; A thing that would be rash in man, In me would be a rasher! One thing I ask when I am dead, And past the Stygian ditches — And that is, let my schoolmaster Have one of my two flitches: 'Twas he Avho taught my letters so I ne'er mistook or miss'd 'em, Simply by ringing at the nose, According to Bell's system. MY SON AND HEIR, Y mother bids me bind my heir, But not the trade where I should bind ; To place a boy — the how and where — It is the plague of parent-kind ! She does not hint the slightest plan, Nor what indentures to endorse ; Whether to bind him to a man, — Or, like Mazeppa, to a horse. What line to choose of likely rise, To something in the Stocks at last, — " Fast bind, fast find," the proverb cries, I find I cannot bind so fast ! A/V SON- AND HEIR. 105 IV. A Statesman James can never be ; A Tailor ?— ihere I only learn His chief concern is cloth, and he Is always cutting his concern. V. A Seedsman ? — I'd not have him so ; A Grocer's plum might disappoint ; A Butcher? — no, not that — although I hear "the times are out of joint ! " Too many of all trades there be, Like Pedlars, each has such a pack ; A merchant selling coals ? — we see The buyer send to cellar back. A Hardware dealer ? — that might please. But if his trade's foundation leans On spikes and nails, he won't have ease When he retires upon his means. VIII. A Soldier ? — there he has not nerves ; A Sailor seldom lays up pelf: A Baker ? — no, a baker serves His customer before himself. IX. Dresser of hair? — that's not the sort ; A joiner jars with his desire — A Churchman? — ^James is very short, And cannot to a church aspire. X. A Lawyer ? — that's a hardish term ! A Publisher might give him ease. If he could into Longman's firm Just plunge at once "in medias Rees." MY SON AND HEIR. XI, A shop for pot, and pan, and cup, Such brittle Stock I can't advise ; A Builder running houses up, Their gains are stories — maybe lies ! XII. A Coppersmitk I can't endure — Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing ; A Publican? no father, sure, Would be the author of his being ! XIII. A Paper-maker? — come he must To rags before he sells a sheet — A Miller? — all his toil is just To make a meal — he does not eat. XIV. A Currier ? — that by favour goes — A Chandler gives me great misgiving — • An Undertaker ? — one of those That do not hope to get their living)! XV. Three Golden Balls ? — I like them not ; An Auctioneer I never did — The victim of a slavish lot, Obliged to do as he is bid ! XVI. A Broker watching fall and rise Of Stock? — Td rather deal in stone, — A Printer ? — there his toils comprise Another's work beside his owiu XVII. A Cooper ? — neither I nor Jem Have any taste or turn for that, — A fish-retailer? — but with him, One part of trade is always flat. CLUBS. IC7 A Painter? — long he would not live, — An Artist's a precarious craft — In trade Apothecaries give, But very seldom take, a draught. XIX. A Glazier? — what if he should smash ! A Crispin he shall not be made — A Grazier may be losing cash, Although he drives a "roaring trade." XX. Well, something must be done ! to look On all my little works around — James is too big a boy, like book, To leave upon the shelf unbound. xxr. But what to do ? — my temples ache From evening's dew till morning's pearl, What course to take my boy to make — Oh could I make my boy — a girl ! CLUBS, TURNED UP EY A FEMALE HAND. "Clubs! Clubs ! part 'em ! part 'em! Clubs! Clubs!" — Ancient Cries op London. j]F all the modern schemes of Man, That time has brought to bear, A plague upon the wicked plan That parts the wedded pair ! My female friends they all agree They hardly know their hubs ; And heart and voice unite with me, " We hate the name of Clubs ! " One selfish course the Wretches keep ; They come at morning chimes, loS CLUBS. To snatch a few short hours of sleep — Rise — ^breakfast — read the Times — Then take their hats, and post away, Like Clerks or City scrubs, And no one sees them all the day, — They live, eat, drink, at Clubs ! On what they say, and what they do, They close the Club-House ijates ; But one may guess a speech or two, Though shut from their debates : "The Cook's a hasliej- — nothing more — The Children noisy grubs — A Wife's a quiz, and home's a bore " — Yes, — that's the style at Clubs ! With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse, And such Domestic Books, They once put up — but now, alas ! It's hey ! for foreign cooks ! " When -ivill you dine at home, my Dove ? " I say to Mister Stubbs, — " When Cook can make an omelette, love,— An omelette like the Clubs !" Time was, their hearts were only placed On snug domestic schemes. The book for two — united taste, — And such connubial dreams, — Friends dropping in at close of day To singles, doubles, rubs, — A little music — then the tray — And not a word of Clubs ! But former comforts they condemn ; French kickshaws they discuss. They take their wine, the wine takes them, And then they favour us : — From some offence they can't digest. As cross as bears with cubs, Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best — That's how they come from Clubs ! CLUBS. 109 It's very fine to say " Subscribe To Andrews' — can't you read?" When Wives, the poor neglected tribe, Complain how they proceed ! They'd better recommend at once Philosophy and tubs, — A woman need not be a dunce To feel the wrong of Clubs. A set of savage Goths and Picts, Would seek us now and then — • They're pretty pattern-Benedicts To guide our single men ! Indeed my daughters both declare " Their Beaux shall not be subs. To White's, or Black's, or anywhere, — They've seen enough of Clubs ! " They say, " without the marriage ties, They can devote their hours To catechize or botanize — Shells, Sunday Schools, and flovv'rs — Or teach a Pretty Poll new words. Tend Covent-Garden shrubs, Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds — As Wives do since the Clubs." Alas ! for those departed days Of social wedded life, When married folks had married ways, And lived like Man and Wife ! Oh ! Wedlock then was pick'd by none — As safe a lock as Chubb's ! But couples, that should be as one, Are now the Two of Clubs ! Of all the modern schemes of man That time has brought to bear, A plague upon the wicked plan That parts the wedded pair ! My female friends they all allow THE UNITED FAMILY. They meet with slights, and snubs, And say, " They have no husbands now, — " They're married to their Clubs !" THE UNITED FAMILY. 'We stick at nine." — Mrs. B.\ttle. "Thrice to thine' And thrice to mine, And thrice again, To make up nine." — The IVeird Sisters in Madclh. ^OW oft in families intrudes The demon of domestic feuds. One liking this, one hating that, Each snapping each, like dog and cat, With divers bents and tastes perverse, One's bliss, in fact, another's curse. How seldom anything we see Like our united family! Miss Brown of chapels goes in search, Her sister Susan likes the church; One plays at cards, the other don't; One will be gay, the other won't : In pray'r and preaching one persists. The other sneers at Methodists; On Sundays ev'n they can't agree Like our united family. There's Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart. His lady takes the Tories' part, While William, junior, nothing loth, Spouts Radical against them both. One likes the News, one takes the Age, Another buys the unstamped page ; They all say /, and never we. Like our united family. Not so with us; — with equal zeal We all support Sir Robert Peel; i I LOVE AND A COTTAGE. SlNOLt BLESSEUNESb. THE UNITED FAMILY. Of Wellington our mouths are full, We dote on Sundays on John Bull, With Pa and Ma on selfsame side, Oiir house has never to divide — No opposition members be In our united family. Miss Pope her "Light Guitar" enjoys, Her father " cannot bear the noise," Her mother's charm'd with all her song Her brother jangles with the tongs. Thus discord out of music springs, The most unnatural of things, Unlike the genuine harmony In our united family! We all on vocal music dote; To each belongs a tuneful throat, And all prefer that Irish boon Of melody — " The Young May Moon "• By choice we all select the hai-p. Nor is the voice of one too sharp, Another flat — all in ene key Is our united family. Miss Powell likes to draw and paint. But then it would provoke a saint, Her brother takes her sheep for pigs, And says her trees are periwigs. Pa praises all, black, blue, or brown; And so does Ma — but upside down! They cannot with the same eye see. Like our united family. Miss Patterson has been to France, Her heart's delight is in a dance; The thing her brother cannot bear. So she must practise with a chair. Then at a waltz her mother winks; But Pa says roundly what he thinks, All dos-a-dos, not vis-a-vis, Like our united family. THE UNITED FAMILY. We none of us that whirling love, Which both our parents disapprove, A hornpipe we delight in more. Or graceful Minuet de la Cour — A special favourite with INIamma, Who used to dance it with Papa, In this we still keep step, you sec. In our united family. Then books — to bear the Cobb's debates! One worships Scott— another hates, Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for, And Jane likes "Bunyan's Holy War." The father on Macculloch pores, The mother says all books are bores; But blue serene as heav'n are we, In our united family. We never wrangle to exalt Scott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Gait, We care not whether Smith or Hook, So that a novel be the book. And in one point we all are fast, Of novels we prefer the last, — In that the very heads agree Of our united family! To turn to graver matters still, How much we see of sad self-will ! Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life, Would be a poor lieutenant's wife. A lawyer has her Pa's good word. Her Ma has looked her out a Lord, What would they not all give to be Like GUI' united family! By one congenial taste allied, Our dreams of bliss all coincide. We're all for solitudes and cots. And love, if we may choose our lots. As partner in the rural plan f f Ai J THE UNITED FAMILY. 113 Each paints the same dear sort of man ; One heart alone tliere seems to be In our miited family. One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind, — One voice, one choice, all of a kind, — And can there be a greater bliss — A little heav'n on earth — than this? The truth to whisper in your ear. It must be told ! — we are not near The happiness that ought to be In our united family ! Alas ! 'tis our congenial taste That lays our little pleasures waste — We all delight, no doubt, to sing. We all delight to touch the string, But where's the heart that nine may touch ? And nine "May Moons" are eight too mucli — Just fancy nine, all in one key, Of our united family ! The play — Oh how we love a play, But half the bliss is shorn away ; On winter nights we venture nigh, But think of houses in July ! Nine crowded in a private box. Is apt to pick the stiffest locks — ■ Our curls would all fall out, though we Are one united family ! In art the self-same line we walk, We all are fond of heads in chalk, We one and all our talent strain Adelphi prizes to obtain ; Nine turban'd Turks are duly sent. But can the royal Duke present Nine silver palettes — no, not he — To our united family. Our eating shows the very thing, We all prefer the liver-wing, H 114 7 HE UNITED FAMILY. Asparagus when scarce and thin, And peas directly they come in, The marrow-bone — if there be one — The ears of hare when crisply done. The rabbit's brain— we all agree In our united family. In dress the same result is seen, We all so doat on apple-green ; But nine in green would seem a school Of charity to quizzing fool — We cannot all indulge our will With "that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill," Ko remnant can sufficient be For our united family. In reading hard is still our fate, One cannot read o'erlooked by eight, And nine "Disowned" — nine "Pioneers,'* Nine "Chaperons," nine "Buccaneers," Nine " Maxwells," nine " Tremaines," and such, Would dip into our means too much — Three months are spent o'er volumes three, In our united family. Unhappy Muses ! if the Nine Above in doom with us combine,^ In vain we breathe the tender flame. Our sentiments are all the same, And nine complaints address'd to Hope Exceed the editorial scope. One in, and eight put out, must be Of our united family ! But this is nought — of deadlier kindj A ninefold woe remains behind. O why were we so art and part ? So like in taste, so one in heart ? Nine cottages may be to let, But here's the thought to make us fret. We cannot each add Frederick B. To our united family. 4 THE DEAD ROBBERY. 115 THE DEAD ROBBERY. " Here's that will sack a city." — Henry the IVth. jF all the causes that induce mankind To strike against themselves a mortal docket, Tv.-o eminent above the rest we find- To be in love, or to be out of pocket : Both have made many melancholy martyrs, But p'rhaps, of all the felonies de se. By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters, Two-thirds have been through want of ;^. s. d. ! Thus happen'd it with Peter Bunce ; Both in the dumps and out of them at once, From always drawing blanks in Fortune's lottery, At last, impatient of the light of day. He made his mind up to return his clay Back to the pottery. Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad, From twenty divers druggists' shops He begg'd enough of laudanum by drops T' effect the fatal purpose that he had ; He drank them, died, and while old Charon fenied him, The Coroner convened a dozen men. Who found his death vi'as f/iMl-ent — and then The Parish buried him ! Unwatch'd, unwept. As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept ; There could not be a better opportunity For bodies to steal a body so ill kept, With alrimpunity. In fact, when Night o'er human vice and folly Had drawn her very necessary curtains, Down came a fellow witli a sack and spade, Accustom'd many years to drive a trade, With that Anatomy more Melancholy Than Burton's ! The Watchman in his box was dozing ; The Sexton diinldng at the Cheshire Cheese ; No fear of any creature interposing, iir, THE DEAD RODBERV. Tlie human Jackal woik'd away at ease : He toss'd the mould to left and right, The shabby coffin came in sight, And soon it open'd to his double-knocks, — When lo ! the stiff'un that he thought to meet. Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box, Upon his seat ! Av.'aken'd from his trance. For so the laudanum had wrought by chance, Eunce stares up at the moon, next looking level, He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony. Then shudders out these words "Are — you — the — Devil? ' " The Devil a bit of him," says Mike Mahoney, " I'm only com'd here, hoping no affront, 1 To pick up honestly a little blunt — " " Blunt ! " echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter, — " Why, man, I turn'd life's candle in the socket, Without a I'ap in either pocket, For want of that same blunt you're looking after ! " "That's true," says Mike, "and many a pretty man Has cut his stick upon your very plan. Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps. And yet he's fetch'd a dacent lot of stuff. Provided he was sound and fresh enough. And dead as dumps." " I take," quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, " the fact is. You mean a subject for a surgeon's practice, — I hope the question is not out of reason, But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone, For instance, like my own, What miq-ht it chance to fctcii now, at this season?" "Fetch, is it?" answers Mike, "why prices differ, — But taking this same small bad job of ours, I reckon, by the pow'rs ! I've lost ten pound by your not being stiffer ! " " Ten pounds ! " Bunce echoes in a sort of fluny, " Odd zoimds ! Ten pounds. How sweet it sounds, len pounds ! " THE DEAD ROBBERY. 117 And on his feet upspringing in a hurry — It seem'd the operation of a minute — A little scuffle — then a whack — • And then he took the Body Snatcher's sack And poked him in it ! Such is this life ! A very pantomime for tricks and strife ! See Bunce, so lately in Death's passive stock, Invested, now as active as a griffin. Walking — no ghost — in velveteens and smock, To sell a stiff' un ! A flash of red, then one of blue. At last, like lighthouse, came in view ; Bunce rang the nightbell ; wiped his highlows muddy ; His errand told ; the sack produced j And by a sleepy boy was introduced To Dr. Oddy, writing in his study The bargain did not take long time to settle, "Ten pounds. Odd zounds ! How well it sounds. Ten pounds," Chink'd into Bunce's palm in solid metal. With joy half-crazed. It seem'd some trick of sense, some airy gammon. He gazed and gazed, At last, possess'd with the old lust of Mammon, Thought he, " With what a very little trouble, This little capital I now might double " Another scuffle of its usual bi-evity, — And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black, Was finishing, within the sack. His "Thoughts upon Longevity !" The trick was done. Without a doubt. The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out ; Who coming to a lone convenient place. The body stripped ; hid all the clothes ; and then. Still favoured by the luck of evil men. Found a new customer in Dr. Care Ii8 THE DEAD ROBBERY. All more minute particulars to smother, Let it suffice, Nine guineas was the price For which one doctor bought the other ; As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea, " You see how one black sin bring on anudder, Like little nigger pickaninny, A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder ! " "Humph ! " said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic, Seeming to trace Some likeness in the face, "So death at last has taken old Bombastic !" But in the very middle of his joking, — The subject, still unconscious of the scoff — Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking, He too was taken off! Leaving a fragment "On the Hooping Cough." Satan still sending luck, Another body found another buyer : P'or ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck. Dead doctors going higher. "Here," said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant. Taking a glimpse at his departed brother, " Here's half a guinea in the way of present — Subjects are scarce, and when you get another, Let me be first." — Bunce took him at his word, And suddenly his old atrocious trick did, Sacking M.D. the third. Ere he could furnish " Hints to the Afilicted." Flush'd with success, Beyond all hope or guess. His new dead robbery upon his back, ^ Bunce plotted — such high flights ambition takes, — To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes. And sell them all ere they could utter " Quack ! " But fate opposed. According to the schools, When men become insufferably bad. The gods confer to drive them mad ; March hairs upon the heads of April fools ! i THE DEAD ROBBERY. 119 Tempted by the old demon avaricious, Bunce traded on too far into the morning ; Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious, Ev'n words malicious. Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning. Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket, A porter, ornamented with a ticket, Who did not seem to be at all too busy — " Here, my good man. Just show me, if you can, A doctor's — if you want to earn a tizzy ! " Away the porter marches. And with grave face, obsequious precedes him, Do^vn crooked lanes, round corners, under arches ; At last, up an old-fashion'd staircase leads him. Almost impervious to the morning ray. Then shows a door — " There, that's a doctor's reckon'd, A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second — Good day." "I'm right," thought Bunce, "as any trivet ; Another venture— and then up I give it ! " He rings— the door, just like a fairy portal, Opens untouch'd by mortal He gropes his way into a dingy room. And hears a voice come growling through the gloom, " Well— eh ?— Who ? What ?— Speak out at once ! " " I will," says Bunce. " I've got a sort of article to sell ; Medical gemmen knows me very well — " But think Imagination how it shock'd her To hear the voice roar out, " Death ! Devil ! d — n ! Confound the vagabond, he thinks I am A rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor ! " " No Doctor ! " exclaim'd Bunce, and dropp'd his jaw, But louder still the voice began to bellow, "Yes, — yes, — odd zounds !— I am a Doctor, fellow, At law ! " The word sufficed. — Of things Bunce feared the most (Next to a ghost) A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. Was law, — or any of the legal corps, — He dropp'd at once his load of flesh and bone, And, caring for no body, save his own, r.olted, — and lived securely till fourscore, From never troubling Doctors any more ! A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. IIOU happy, happy elf! (But stop, — first let me kiss away tliat tear) — • Thou tiny image of myself ! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrov\', and unsoil'd by sin — (Good heavn's ! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck ! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air — (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane ! he'll set his pinafore a-fire !) Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy ! There goes my ink !) Tliou cherub — but of earth ; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, Li liarmless sport and mirtli, (Tliat dog will bite liim if he pulls its tail !) Thou liuman humming-bee, extracting lione From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows. Singing in Youtli's l^lysium ever sunny, (Anotlier tumljle ! — that's his precious nose !) Tliy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope ') ARTHUR S SEAT. A TOTAL ECLIPSK OF THE SON. A SERENADE. With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint — (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that jug ofif, with another shove !) Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life — (He's got a knife !) fhou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on. My elfin John ! Toss the light ball — bestride the stick — (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose I) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the mom, and brilliant as its star, — (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above !) A SERENADE. jULLABY, oh, lullaby ! " Thus I heard a father cry, '■ Lullab}', oh, lullaby ! The brat will never shut an eye ; Hither come, ?ome power divine ! Close his lids or open mine ! " A.V INCENDIARY SONG. " Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! " What the devil makes him cry ? "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Still he stares — I wonder why? Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from the birth ? " Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! " Thus I heard the father cry ; " Luilaby, oh, lullaby ! Mary, you must come and try ! — Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake — The more I sing, the more you wake ! ' " Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! Fie, you little creature, fie ; Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! Is no poppy-syrap nigh ? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall ! " "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Two such nights, and I shall die ! Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! He'll be bruised, and so shall I, — How can I from bedposts keep, When I'm M'alking in my sleep ? " " Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! Sleep his very looks deny — Lullaby, oh, lullaby ! Nature soon will stupify — My nerves relax, — my eyes grow dim— Who's that fallen — me or him ? " AN INCENDIARY SONG. OME, all conflagrating fellows, Let us have a glorious rig : Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows ! Bam me, but I'll burn my wig ! i AN INCENDIARY SONG. 123 Christmas time is all before us : Burn all puddings, north and south. Burn the Turkey — Burn the Devil ! Burn snap-dragon ! burn your mouth ! Burn the coals ! they're up at sixty ! Burn Bum's Justice — burn Old Coke. Burn the chestnuts ! Burn the shovel ! Burn a fire, and burn the smoke ! Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy. Let all burnings have a turn. Burn Chabert, the Salamander, — Burn the man that wouldn't burn ! Burn the old year out, don't ring it ; Burn the one that must begin. Burn Lang Syne ; and, whilst you're burning, Burn the burn he paidled in. Burn the boxing ! Burn the Beadle ! Burn the baker ! Burn his man ! Bum the butcher — BuiTi the dustman, Burn the sweeper, if you can ! Bum the Postman ! burn the postage, Burn the knocker — bum the bell ! Burn the folks that come for money ! Burn the bills — and bum 'em well. Burn the Parish ! Bum the rating ! Burn all taxes in a mass. Bum the Paving ! Burn the lightning ! Burn the burners ! Burn the gas ! Burn all candles, white or yellow — Bum for war, and not for peace ; Burn the Czar of all the Tallow ! Burn the King of all the Greece ! Burn all canters — burn in Smithfield. Burn Tea-Total hum and bug. 124 AN INCENDIARY SONG. Burn his kettle, burn his water, Burn his mufl'in, burn his mug ! Burn tlie breeks of meddling vicars, Picking holes in Anna's U rns ! Burn all Steers's Opodeldoc, Just for being good for burns. Burn all Swindlers ! Burn Asplialtum ! Burn the money-lenders down — • Burn all schemes that burn one's fingers ! Burn the Cheapest House in town ! Burn all bores and boring topics ; Burn Brunei — aye, in his hole ! Burn all subjects that are Irish ! Burn the niggers blaclc as coal ! Burn all Boz's imitators ! Burn all tales without a head ! Burn a candle near the curtain ! Burn your Burns, and burn your bed ! Burn all wrongs that won't be righted, Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims — Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen ! Burn all sorts of burning shames ! Burn the Whigs ! and burn the Tories ! Burn all parties, great and small ! Burn that everlasting Poynder — Burn his Suttees once for all ! Burn the fop that burns tobacco. Burn a Critic that condemns. — Burn Lucifer and all his matches ! Burn the fool that burns the Thames ! Burn all burning agitators — Burn all torch-parading elves ! And oh ! burn Parson Stephen's spceclies, If they haven't burnt themselves. COPY. \2\ COPV. A NEW SPECIES OF POETRY. ^F I were used to writing verse, And had a Muse not so perverse, But prompt at Fancy's call to spring And Carol like a bird in Spring ; Or like a Bee, in summer time, That hums about a bed of thyme, And gathers honey and delights From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights ; If I, alas ! had such a Muse, To touch the Reader or amuse. And breathe the true poetic vein, This page should not be fiU'd in vain ! But ah ! the power was never mine To dig for gems in Fancy's mine : Or wander over land and main To seek the Fairies' old domain — To watch Apollo while he climbs His throne in oriental climes ; Or mark the "gradual dusky veil" Dra^vn over Tempe's tuneful vale, In classic lays remembered long — Such flights to bolder wings belong ; To Bards who on that glorious height. Of sun and song, Parnassus hight, Partake the fire divine that burns, ) In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns, > Who sang his native braes and burns. ) For me a novice strange and new, Who ne'er such inspiration knew, But weave a verse with travail sore, Ordain'd to creep and not to soar, A few poor lines alone I write. Fulfilling thus a friendly rite. Not meant to meet the Critic's eye. For oh ! to iiope from such as I, For anything that's fit to read. Were trusting to a broken reed ! \st of April, 1840. E. M. G. 126 SKIPPING. SKIPPING. A M YSTE R Y. ITTLE Children skip, The rope so gaily gripping Tom and Harr)'', Jane and Mary, Kate, Diana, Susan, Anna, All are fond of skipping ! The Grasshoppers all skip, The early dew-drop sipping, Under, over, Bent and clover, Daisy, sorrel. Without quarrel. All are fond of skipping ! The tiny Fairies skip, At midnight softly tripping ; Puck and Peri, Never weary, With an antic, Quite romantic, All are fond of skipping ! The little Boats they skip, Beside the heavy Shipping, While the squalling W^inds are calling> Falling, rising, Rising, falling, All arc fond of skipping ! The pale Diana skips. The silver billows tipping, With a dancing Lustre glancing To the motion Of the ocean — All arc fond of skipping ! I SKIPPING. 127 The little Flounders skip, When they feel the dripping ; Scorching, frying, Jumping, trying If there is not Any shying, All are fond of skippi ng ! The very Dogs they skip, While threatened with a whipping, Wheeling, prancing, Learning dancing, To a measure. What a pleasure ! All are fond of skipping ! The little Fleas they skip. And nightly come a nipping, Lord and Lady, Jude and Thady, In the night So dark and shady — All are fond of skipping ! The Autumn Leaves they skip ; When blasts the trees are stripping j Bounding, whirling, Sweeping, twirling, And in wanton Mazes curling. All are fond of skipping ! The Apparitions skip. Some mortal grievance ripping, Thorough many A crack and cranny, And the keyhole Good as any — Are all fond of skipping ! But oh ! how Readers skipj In heavy volumes dipping ! A BUTCHER. ***** and * * * * * * « « j^j^|-| * * * « « * * * and ***** All are fond of skipping ! A BUTCHER. glllOE'ER has gone thro' London Street, Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat, And how he keeps Gloating upon a sheep's Or bullock's personals, as if his own ; How he admires his halves, And quarters — and his calves, As if in truth upon his own legs grown ; — His fat ! his suet ! His kidneys peeping elegantly thro' it ! His thick flank ! And his thin ! Hts shank ! His shin ! Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone ! With what an ait He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare Gazing — and will not let a body by, Tho' buy ! buy I buy ! be constantly his cry; Meanwhile his arms a-kimbo, and a pair Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare At his Joint Stock — for one may call it so, Howbeit without a Co. The dotage of self-love was never fonder Than he of his brute bodies all a-row. Narcissus in the wave did never ponder. With love so strong. On his "portrait charmant," As our vain butcher on his carcass yonder. A PUBLIC DIN.YER. 129 Look at his sleek round skull ! How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is ! Kis visage seems to be Ripe for beef-tea ; Of brutal juices the whole man is full — In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis, The Butcher is already half a Bull, A PUBLIC DINNER. " Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide." — Ar.\bi.\n Nights. ^'T reven you just nick it. Give card — get wine ticket ; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table, To find — a hard matter — Your name in a platter ; Your wish was to sit by Your friend Mr. Whitby, But Steward's assistance Has placed you at distance. And, thanks to arrangers, You sit among strangers ; But too late for mending ; Twelve sticks come attending A stick of a Chairman, A little dark spare man, With bald sliining nob, 'Mid Committee swell-mob ; ]n short, a short figure, You thought the Duke bigger ; Then silence is wanted, N^on A^obis is chanted ; Then Chairman reads letter. The Duke's a regretter, A promise to break it, But chair he can't take it ; Is grieved to be from us. But sends friend Sir Thomas, 130 A PUBLIC DINNER. And what is far better, A cheque in the letter. Hear ! hear ! and a clatter, And there ends the matter. Now soups come and fish in, And C brings a dish in ; Then rages the battle, Ivnives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles, Under fifty wax candles ; Your soup-plate is soon full. You sip just a spoonful. Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful ; And then comes the waiter, " Must trouble for tater ; ". And then you drink wine o3 With somebody — nine off; Bucellas made handy, With Cape and bad Brandy, Or East India Sherry, That's very hot — very. You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock-turtle Went off, while you lingered. With waiter light-fingered. To make up for gammon. You order some salmon. Which comes to your fauces With boats without sauces. You then make a cut on Some Lamb big as Mutton ; And ask for some grass too. But that you must pass too ; It served the first twenty, But toast there is plenty. Then, while lamb gets coldish, A goose that is oldish — At carving not clever — You're begged to dissever, \ A PUBLIC DIiVNEJR. 131 And when you thus treat it, Find no one will eat it. So, hungry as glutton, You turn to your mutton. But — no sight for laughter — ■ The soup it's gone after. Mr. Green then is very Disposed to take Sherry, And then Mr. Nappy Will feel very happy ; And then Mr. Conner Requests the same honour ; Mr. Clarke, when at leisure, Will really feel pleasure j Then waiter leans over To take off a cover From fowls which all beg of, A wing or a leg of ; And while they all peck bone. You take to a neck bone, But even your hunger Declares for a younger. A fresh plate you call for, But vainly you bawl for : Now taste disapproves it, No waiter removes it. Still hope, newly budding, Relies on a pudding ; But critics each minute Set fancy agin it — "That's queer Vermicelli." "I say, Vizetelly, There's glue in that jelly," "Tarts bad altogether ; That crust's made of leather." "Some custard, friend Vesey?" " No — batter made easy." "Some cheese, Mr. Foster?" " — Don't like single Glo'ster." Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, 132 A PUBLIC DINNER. You see silver dishes, With those little fishes, The whitebait delicious Borne past you officious ;' And hear rather plainish A sound that's champaignish. And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles : And sniff — very pleasant ! Grouse, partridge, and pheasant, And see mounds of ices For patrons and vices. Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really desert you. You've nuts, but not crack ones. Half empty, and black ones ; With oranges sallow — They can't be called yellow — Some pippins well wrinkled. And plums almond sprinkled, Some rout cakes, and so on. Then with business to go on ; Long speeches are stutter'd. And toasts are well buttered. While dames in the gallery, AH dressed in fallallery, Look on at the mummery : And listen to flummery. Hip, hip ! and huzzaing. And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations. And lists of donations. Hush ! a song, Mr. Tiiiney — • " Mr. Benbow, one guinea ; Mr. Frederick Manual, One guinea — and annual." Song— Jockey and Jenny — ''Mr. Markliam one guinea." " Have you all filled your glasses?" A CHARITY SERMON. 133 Here's a health to good lasses. The subscription still skinny — "Mr. Franklin — one guinea." Franklin looks like a ninny ; "Mr. Boreham, one guinea — Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest^one guinea, INIr. Merrington — twenty," Rough music, in plenty. Away toddles Chairman, Tlie little dark spare man, Not sorry at ending, With white sticks attending. And some vain Tomnoddy Votes in his own body To fill the void seat up. And get on his feet up, To say, with voice squeaking, " Unaccustomed to speaking," Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty — No coach — very dirty. So, hungry and fevered. Wet-footed, spoilt beavered, Eyes aching in socket. Ten pounds out of pocket. To Brook-street the Upper You haste home to sapper. A CHARITY SERMON. " ' I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you ; and, believe me, I will shortly pay thee another visit ; but my friends, I fancy, wonder at my stay ; so let me have the money immediately.' TruUiber then put on a stern look, and cried out, 'Thou dost not intend to rob me?' * ->^ * ■»: -V ■* ' I would have thee know, friend,' addressing himself to Adams, ' I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds.' " — Josei'II Andkews. 'M an extremely charitable man — no collar and long hair, though a little carrotty ; Demure, half-inclined to the unknown tongues, but I never gain'd anything by Charity. 134 A CHARITY SERMON. I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother was traced and baited, And the overseers found her out — and she found me out — and the child was affiliato/. Oh, Charity will come home to roost — Like curses and chickens is Charity. I once, near Whitehall's very old wall, when ballads danced over the whole of it, Put a bad five-shilling-piece into a beggar's hat, but the old hat had got a hole in it ; And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer's eye seem'd to care for it. As my bad crown piece went through his bad crown piece, and they took me up to Queen's Square for it. Oh, Charity, &c. I let my very old (condemn'd) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low, So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes — all defunct and fatherless now ; For the plaguy one-sided party wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter, And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal verdict of Manslaughter. Oh, Charity, &c. I pick'd up a young well-dress'd gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St. JNIartin's Court, And charitably offer'd to see him home — for charity always seem'd to be my forte, And I've had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky job — Do you know, he got my watch — my purse — and my handkerchief — for it was one of the swell mob. Oh, Charity, &c. Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man, when it seem'd that they must be dash'd to pieces, Though several kind people were following him with all their might — but such following a horse liis speed increases ; THE CHiNA MENDER. X35 I held the horse while he -went to recruit his strength ; and I meant to ride it home, of course ; But the crowd came up and took me up — for it turn'd out the man had run away with the horse. Oh, Charity, &c. I watch'd last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it's a positive fact, That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against everybody under Mr. ]\Iartin's act ; But I couldn't catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the ears, or over the head ; And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten swell'd fingers in bed. Oh, Charity, &c. Well, I've utterly done with Charity, though I used so to preach about its finest fount ; Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but / can't turn it to any account — It goes so the very reverse way — even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety ; That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely cut of the List of Subscribers to the Humane Society. Oh, Charity, &c. THE CHINA MENDER. GOD morning, ^Nlr. "What-d'ye-call ! Well ! here's an- other pretty job ! Lord help my Lady ! — what a smash ! — if you had only heard her sob ! It was all through Mr. Lambert : but for certain he was winey, To think for to go to sit down oa a table full of Chiney. "Deuce take your stupid head ! " says my Lady to his very face ; But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there's Chiney in the case ; And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion. 135 THE CHINA MENDER. Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads — Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads ; And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head : I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed. But the frightfuUer tiiey are — lawk ! she loves them all the better : She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her. Lawk-a-mercy ! break her Chiney, and it's breaking her very heart ; If I touch'd it, she would very soon say, "Mary, we must part." To be sure she is unlucky : only Friday comes Master Randall, And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle : He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch. And that's why my Lady doesn't take to children much. Well ! there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two great coat flaps, Must go and sit down on the Dresden shepherdesses' laps. As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room ; I couldn't have made a gi-eater sweep with the handle of the broom. Mercy on us ! how my mistress began to rave and tear ! Well ! after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear. If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it won't be John Dockery, — I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery. I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy, And afraid of mad bulls on market-days every Monday and Friday. I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch ; The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match. Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney ; She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny. Lawk 1 I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking ; I could find in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making. To see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany ; But what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old Ciianey ! If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr. Spode's, He couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads. THE CHINA MENDER. 137 Well ! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, niy own self, I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf: A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns, And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns. And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top boots and sky-blue vest, And a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bowpot at the breast. God help her, poor old soul ! I shall come into 'em at her death. Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath. Well ! you think the things will mend — if they won't, Lord mend us all ! My Lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won't need to call : I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give. He won't sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live. Poor soul ! I only hope it won't forbid his bans of marriage, Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage. But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's friend ; I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend. To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats ; Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats : Be particular with the pagoda : and then here's this pretty bowl — The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole ; And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll — Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. But I needn't tell you what to do ; only do it out of hand, And charge whatever you like to charge — my Lady won't make a stand. Well ! good morning, jMr. What-d'ye-call ; for it's time our gossip ended : And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's mended. I3S MISS FANNY'S FAREWELL FLOWERS. ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER. HY, Lover, why Such a water rover? Would she love thee more For coming half seas over? Why, Lady, why] So in love with dipping ? Must a lad of Greece Come all over dripping ? Why, Cupid, why Make the passage brighter ? Were not any boat Better than a lighter ? Why, Madam, why So intrusive standing? IMust thou be on the stair When he's on the landing? MISS FANNY'S FAREWELL FLOWERS. Not "the posie of a ring." Shakespeare (all but the 7wt). CAME to town a happy man]: I need not now dissemble Why I return so sad at heart — ^'^^^ It's all through Fanny Kemble : Oh ! when she threw her flowers away, What urged the tragic slut on To weave in such a wreath as that, Ah me ! a bachelor's button. None fought so hard, none fought so well. As I to gain some token — When all the pit rose up in arms, And heads and hearts were broken ; " Huzza ! " said I, " I'll have a flower As sure as my name's Button ; " — MISS FANNY'S FAREWELL FLOWERS. 139 I made a snatch — I got a catch — By Jove ! a bachelor's button ! I've lost my watch — my hat is smashed — ]\Iy clothes declare the racket ; I went there in a full dress coat, And came home in a jacket. My nose is swell'd — my eye is black — My lip I've got a cut on ! Odds buds ! — and what a bud to get — The deuce ! a bachelor's button ! My chest's in pain ; I really fear I've somewhat hurt my bellows, By pokes and punches in the ribs From those herb-strewing fellaivs, I miss two teeth in my front row ; My corn has had 2^fiit on ; And all this pain I've had to gain This cursed bachelor's button. Had I but won a rose — a bud — A pansy — or a daisy — A periwinkle — anything — But this — it drives me crazy ! My very sherry tastes like squills, I can't enjoy my mutton ; And when I sleep I dream of it — Still — still a bachelor's button My place is book'd per coach to-night, But oh, my spirit trembles To think how country friends will ask Of Knowleses and of Kembles. It they should breathe about the wreath, When I go back to Sutton, I shall not dare to show my share, That all ! — a bachelor's button ! My luck in life was never good. But this my fate will burden : I ne'er shall like my farming more, — I know I shan't the Garden. 140 THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO. Tlie turnips all may Iiave the fly, The wheat may have the smut on, I care not, — I've a bhght at heart,— Ah me ! — a bachelor's button ! THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO. ' It must be. So Plato ? — Thou reasonest? — Well." — School Cato. T'S very hard ! oh, Dick, my boy, It's very hard one can't enjoy A little private spouting ; But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives, Up comes our master, bounce ! and gives The tragic muse a routing ! Ay, there he comes again ! be quick ! And hide the book — a playbook, Dick, He must not set his eyes on ! It's very hard, the churlish elf Will never let one stab one's self Or take a bowl of p'ison! It's very hard, but when I want To die — as Cato did — I can't, Or go non compos mentis — Eut up he comes, all fire and flame ; — No doubt he'd do the very same With Kemble for a 'prentice! Oh, Dick ! Oh, Dick ! it was not so Some half a dozen years ago ! jNIelpomene was no sneaker, When, under Reverend Mister Poole, Each little boy at Enfield School Became an Enfield speaker ! i No cruel master-tailor's cane Then thwarted the theatric vein ; THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO. 141 The tragic soil had tillage. O dear dramatic days gone by! You, Dick, were Richard then — and I Play'd Hamlet to the village, Or, as Macbeth, the dagger clutch'd, Till all the servant-maids were touch'd — Macbeth, I think, my pet is ; Lord, how we spouted Shakespeare's works — Dick, we had twenty little Burkes, And fifty Master Betties ! Why, there was Julius Ccesar Dunn, And Noi"val, Sandy Philip, — one Of Elocution's champions — Genteelly taught by his mamma To say, not father, but papa. Kept sheep upon the Grampians ! Coriolanus Crumpe — and Fig In Brutus, with brown-paper wig, And Huggins great in Cato ; Only he broke so often off, To have a fit of whooping-cough. While reasoning with Plato. And Zangra too, — but I shall weep, If longer on this theme I keep, And let remembrance loose, Dick ; Now forced to act — it's very hard — " Measure for Measure" with a yard — You Richard, with a goose, Dick ! Zounds ! Dick, it's very cdd our dads Should send us there when we were lads To leam to talk like Tullies ; And now, if one should just break out, Perchance, into a little spout, A stick about the skull is. Why should stage-learning form a part Of schooling for the tailor's art ? 142 YE TOURISTS AND TRAVELLERS. Alas ! dramatic notes, Dick, So well record the sad mistake Of him who tried at once to make Both Romeo and Coates, Dick ! YE TOURISTS AND TRAVELLERS. ■E Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine, Provided with passport, that requisite docket, First listen to one little whisper of mine — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! Don't wash or be shaved — go like hairy wild men, Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it, But if you speak English, or look it, why then — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds, Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket. With thirty per cent, as a tax on your heads, — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll see old Cologne, — not the sweetest of towns, — Wherever you follow your nose you will shock it ; 4.nd you"ll pay your three dollars to look at three crowns,- lake care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll count seven Mountains, and see Roland's Eck, Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett ; But oh ! to the tone of romance what a check, — Take care of your pocket J— take care of your pocket I Old Castles you'll see on the vine-covered hill, — Fine ruins to rivet the eye in its socket — Once haunts of Baronial Banditti, and still-— Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll stop at Coblenz, with its beautiful views, But make no long stay with your money to stock it, RURAL FELICITY. 143 Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews, — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket I — A Fortress you'll see, which, as people report. Can never be captured, save famine should block it — Ascend Ehrenbreitstein — but that's not ilieir forte, — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll see an old man who'll let off an old gun, And Luiley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it ; But think that the words of the echo thus run, — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! You'll gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the Vine! Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock it — P'raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wine — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! Perchance you will take a frisk off to the Baths — Where some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it ; But still mind the warning, wherever your paths — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! And Friendships you'll swear, most eternal ofpacts, Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket ; But still, in the most sentimental of acts — Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! In short, if you visit that stream or its shore, Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it, And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore,— Take care of your pocket ! — take care of your pocket ! RURAL FELICITY. ^^jELL, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that s country born. And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our com. 144 RURAL FELICITY. It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and in\ite me down. Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes me more partial to town. At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss, For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss ; There's something aljout a dairy farm, with its different kmds of live stock. That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam, and his innocent flock ; But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down, And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town. To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads-, and so I should like for miles, If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles ; For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in two, If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through. Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles-down, But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about town. There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a lane, And I did find a veiy nice shady one, but I never dared go again ; For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in the pound, A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground ? And that, by-the-byc, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down, Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in town. RURAL FELICITY. 145 Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away ac the first early pearly dew, And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got wetted through ; My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown. That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town ! As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch. But, mercy on us ! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch ; Beside hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown. One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows about town. But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain. And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin'sLane; And while you're running all duck'd and drown' d, and pelted with sixpenny drops, "Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing shower for the crops ! " But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown? For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town. Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gather- ing nuts, And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts. Short cuts, indeed ! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt To scramble through gaps, or jump o\er a ditch, when they're nioraiiy certain she can't, — For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case, Tho' they don't laugh out, tlie mischievous brats, I seethe "hooray.'."' in lln-ir face. C. K T46 RURAL FEU CITY. There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond. And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walked in tlie duckweed pond : Or perhaps when I've puUy-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down. As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town. Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find, But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind ; For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my go^\^l — And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town. As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard :;uch a shrill piece of work ! And ever since — and it's ten days ago — we've lived upon notliir.g but pork ; One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all countrified cooks ! Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pics of the rooks ? Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agi'ee when it's down, But it served me right, like a gooseberry, fool to look for cham- pagne out of town ? To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan, And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can, Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn. And I've fetch'd more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn ; But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found It more easy to make, But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the ralce. RURAL FELICITY. I47 I'd a country dance, too, at harvest home, v/ith a regular country- clown, But, Lord ! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town : Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs, I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs. The very hens pick holes in my hand when I grope for the new- laid eggs, And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs. I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down, The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts — but they're kept in cages in town ! Another thing is the nasty dogs— thro' the village I hardly can stir Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur ; And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down. But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town. Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright, But instead of a family murder it proved an owl, that flies screech- ing at night. Then there's plenty of ricks and stalks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing — In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing; For, besides all the troubles I've mentioned before, as endured for rurality's sake, I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and once — ugh ! I trod on a snake ! And as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin, I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds, that drives the poor suicides in ! And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be hid upon Holborn Hill ? 14^ THE DOCTOR. And daiiy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles, and fresh butter wherever you will ? And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown ? So one isn't so veiy uncountrified in the very heart of the town. Howsomever my mind's made up, and although^I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext, I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next. And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown, And perhaps I may come to the country again, ^hen London is all burnt down. THE DOCTOR. "Whatever is, 15 light." — Pope. HERE once was a Doctor, (Xo foe to the proctor,) A physic concocter, Whose dose was so pat, However it acted. One speech it extracted, — "Yes, yes," said the doctor, •' I meant it for that ! " And first, all "unaisy," Like woman that's crazy, In flies Mistress Casey, "Do come to poor Pat The blood's running faster ! He's torn off the plaster — " " V'es, yes," said the Doctor, " I meant it for that ! " Anon, with an antic. Quite strange and romantic, A woman comes frantic — THE DOCTOR. 149 •' What could you be at ? My darling dear Aleck, You've sent him oxalic ! " "Yes, yes," said the Doctor, " I meant it for that ! " Then in comes another, Dispatch'd by his mother, A blubbering brother, Who gives a rat-tat — "Oh, poor little sister Has lick'd off a blister ! " "Yes, yes," said the Doctor, " I meant it for that ! " Now home comes the flunkey, His own powder-monkey. But dull as a donkey — With basket and that— "The draught for the Squire, Sir, He cliuck'd in the fire, Sir — " "Yes, yes," said the Doctor, I meant it for that ! " The next is the pompous Head Beadle, old Bumpus — " Lord ! here is a rumpus : That pauper. Old Nat, In some drunken notion Has drunk up his lotion — " "Yes, yes," said the Doctor, I meant it for that ! " At last comes a servant. In grief very fervent : " Alas ! Doctor Derwent, Poor Master is flat ! He's drawn his last breath. Sir — That dose was his death, Sir." "Yes, yes," said the Doctor, "I meant it for that !" ISO LAYING DOWN THE LAW. LAYING DOWN THE LAW. "I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark." Merch.ant of Venice. '' If tTiou wert bom a Dog, remain so ; but if thou wert bom a Man, resume thy former shape." — Arabian Nights, POODLE, Judge-like, ^vith emphatic paw, Dogmatically laying down the law, — A batch of canine Counsel round the table. Keen-eyed, and sharp of nose, and long of jaw, At sight, at scent, at giving tongue, right able : O, Edwin Landseer, Esquire, and R. A., Thou great Pictorial yEsop, say, What is the moral of this painted fable ? O, say, accomplished artist ! Was it thy purpose, by a scene so quizzical, To read a wholesome lesson to the Chartist, So over partial to the means called Physical, Sticks, staves, and swords, and gims, the tools of treason? To show, illustrating the better course, The very Brutes abandoning Brute Force, The worry and the fight. The bark and bite. In which, says Doctor Watts, the dogs delight, And lending shaggy ears to Law and Reason, As uttered in that Court of high antiquity Where sits the Chancellor, supreme as Pope, But works — so let us hope — In equity, not iniquity ? Or was it but a speculation On transmigration, How certain of our most distinguished Daniels, Interpreters of Law's bewildering book. Would look Transformed to mastiffs, setters, hounds, and spaniels (As Brahmins in their Hindoo code advance) With that great la\vyer of the Upper House Who rules all suits by equitable nous, Become — like vile Armina's spouse — LAYING DOWN THE LAW. 151 A Dog, called Chance?' Methinks, indeed, I recognise In those deep-set and meditative eyes Engaged in mental puzzle, And that portentous muzzle, A celebrated judge, too prone to tarry To hesitate on devious ins and outs, And, on preceding doubts, to build re-douhts That regiments could not carry — Prolonghig even La^y's delays, and still Putting a skid upon the wheel up-hill, IMeanwhile the weary and desponding client Seem'd — in the agonies of indecision — In Doubting Castle, with that dreadful Giant Described in Bunyan's Vision ! So slow, indeed, was justice in its ways. Beset by more than customary clogs. Going to law in those expensive days Was much the same as going to the Dogs ! But possibly I err. And that sagacious and judicial creature. So Chancellor-like in feature. With ears so wig-like, and a cap of fur, Looking as grave, responsible, and sage, As if he had the guardianship, in fact, ' Of all poor dogs, or crackt. And puppies under age — It may be that the Creature was not meant Any especial Lord to represent, Eldon or Erskine, Cottenham or Thurlow, Or Brougliam (more like him whose potent jaw Is holding forth the letter of the law). Or Lyndhurst, after the vacation's furlough, Presently sitting in the House of Peers, On wool he sometimes M'ishes in his ears, When touching Corn Laws, Taxes, or Tithe-piggery, He hears a fierce attack. And, sitting on his sack, Listens in his great wig to greater Whiggery ! 1 See the story of Sidi Nonman, in the "Arabian Nights." 152 LAYING DOWN THE LAW. So, possibly, those others, In coats so various, or sleek, or rough, Aim not at any of the legal brothers. Who wear the silken robe, or gown of stuff. Yet who that ever heard or saw The Counsel sitting in that solemn Court, Who, having passed the Bar, are safe in port, Or those great Sergeants, learned in the Law, — Who but must trace a feature now and then Of those forensic men. As good at finding heirs as any harrier, Renown'd like greyhounds for long tales — indeed, At worrying tlie ear as apt as terriers, — Good at conveyance as the haiiy carriers That bear our gloves, umbrellas, hats, and sticks, Books, baskets, bones, or bricks. In Deeds of Trust as sure as Tray the trusty, — Acute at snifiing flaws on legal grounds, — And lastly — well the catalogue it closes ! — Still following their predecessors' noses, Through ways however dull or dusty. As fond of hunting precedents, as hounds Of running after foxes more than musty. However slow or fast, Full of urbanity, or supercilious, In temper wild, serene, or atrabilious, Fluent of tongue, or prone to legal saw. The Dogs have got a Chancellor, at last. For Laying down the Law ! And never may the canine race regret it, With whinings and repinings loud or deep, — Ragged in coat, and shortened in their keep, Worried by day, and troubled in their sleep, With cares that prey upon the heart and fret it — As human suitors have had cause to weep — For what is Law, unless poor Dogs can get it Dog-cbeap ? I A BLACK JOB. 153 A BLACK JOB. " No doubt the pleasure is as great, Of being cheated as to cheat." — Hudibh.^s. HE history of Iniman-kind to trace, Since Eve — the first of dupes — our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race Has certainly a taste for being diddled. Witness the famous Mississipi dreams ! A rage that time seems only to redouble — The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams. That cost our modem rogues so little trouble. No matter what, — to pasture cows on stubble, To twist sea-sand into a solid rope. To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, Or light with gas the whole celestial cope — Only propose to blow a bubble. And Lord ! what hundreds will sub.scribe for soap ! Soap !— it i-eminds me of a little tale, Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory. When rustic games and merriment prevail — But here's my story : Once on a time — no matter when — A knot of very charitable men Set up a Philanthropical Society, Professing on a certain plan, To benefit the race of man. And in particular that dark variety, Which some suppose inferior — as in vermin, The sable is to ermine, As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster, As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow. As blacking, or as ink to "milk below," Or yet a better simile, to show, As ragman's dolls to images in plaster I However, as is usual in our city. They had a sort of managing Committse 154 A BLACK' JOB. A board of grave responsible Directors — A Secretary, good at pen and ink — A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink, And quite an army of collectors ! Not merely male, but female duns. Young, old, and middle-aged — of all degrees — With many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese ! And what might be their aim ? To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters — To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters^ Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes. Their necks from iron yokes? To end or mitigate the ills of slavery. The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery ? To school the heathen Negroes and enlighten 'em, To polish up and brighten 'em, And make them worthy of eternal bliss ? Why, no — the simple end and aim was this — Reading a well-known proverb much amiss — To wash and whiten 'em ! They look'd so ugly in their sable hides : So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides, However the poor elves Might wash themselves. Nobody knew if they were clean or not — On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot ! Not to forget more serious complaints That even while they join'd in pious hymn, So black they were and grim. In face and limb. They look'd like Devils, though they sang like Saints ! The thing was undeniable ! They wanted washing ! not that slight ablution To which the skin of the White Man is lialjle. Merely removing transient pollution — A BLACK JOB. 155 But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing And scrubbing, Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather. And pails of water — liottish rather. But not so boiling as to turn 'em red ! So spoke the philanthropic man Who laid, and hatch'd, and nursed the plan — And oh ! to view its glorious consummation ! The brooms and mops. The tubs and slops, The baths and brushes in full operation ! To see each Crow, or Jim, or John, Go in a raven and come out a swan ! While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels, Black Venus rises from the soapy surge. And all the little Niggerlings emerge As lily-white as mussels. Sweet was the vision — but alas ! However in prospectus bright and sunny. To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was — money ; Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks and collars, shirts and frills. Cravats and kerchiefs — money, without which The negroes must remain as dark as pitch ; A thing to make all Christians sad and shiveiy, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living — so to speak — in Satan's livery ! Money — the root of evil, — dross, and stuff! But oh ! how happy ought the rich to feel. Whose means enable them to give enough To blanch an African from head to heel ! How blessed — yea, thrice blessed — to subscribe Enough to scour a tribe ! While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one, Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe, Or little one ! 156 A BLACK JOB. ]\Ioved by tliis logic (or appall'd) To persons of a certain turn so proper, The money came when call'd, In silver, gold, and copper. Presents from " Friends to blach?," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widow's mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts. Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. As thus — Elisha Brettel, An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Rebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howels, Half-a-dozen towels. The Master Rush's, Two scrubbing-brushes. Mr. T. Groom, A stable broom, And Mrs. Grubb, A tub. Great were the sums collected ! And great results in consequence expected. But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavour, According to reports At yearly courts, The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever ! Yes ! spite of all the water sous'd aloft. Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft, Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand. Brooms, brushes, palm of hand, And scourers in the ofiice strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The routing and the grubbing, The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever 1 In fact in his perennial speech. The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach. A BLACK JOB. 157 As he had hoped, From being washed and soaped, A circumstance he named with grief and pity ; But still he had the happiness to say, For self and the Committee, By persevering in the present way And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day. Although he could not promise perfect white, From certain symptoms that had come to light, He hoped in tune to get them gray ! Lull'd by this vague assurance, , The friends and patrons of the sable tribe Continued to subscribe, And waited, waited on with much endurance — Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter — Many a stinted widow, pinching mother — With income by the tax made somewhat shorter, Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter, Only to hear as ev'ry year came round. That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound j And as she loved her sable brother. That Mr. Treasurer must have another ! But, spite of pounds or guineas, Instead of giving any hint Of turning to a neutral tint, The plaguy negroes and their piccaninnies Were still the colour of the bird that caws — Only some very aged souls Showing a little gray upon their polls, Like daws ! However, nothing dashed By such repeated failures, or abashed, The Court still met ; — the Chairman and Directors, The Secretarj', good at pen and ink, The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink. And all the cash Collectors ; With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Without whose help, no charlatan alive. Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive, IS8 A BLACK JOB. Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous — Those good and easy innocents in fact, Who willingly receiving chaff for corn, As pointed out by Butler's tact, Still find a secret pleasure in the act Of being pluck'd and shorn ! However, in long hundreds there they were. Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court, To hear once more addresses from the Chair, And regular Report. Alas ! concluding in the usual strain, That what with everlasting wear and tear, The scrubbing-brushes hadn't got a hair — The brooms — mere stumi^s — would never serve ag.'in — The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds. The towels worn to threads. The tubs and pails too shattei''d to be mended — And what was added with a deal of pain, But as accounts correctly w'ould explain, Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended — The Blackamoors had still been wasli'd in vain I "In fact, the negroes were as black as ink, Yet, still as the Committee dared to think, And hoped the proposition was not rash, A rather free expenditure of cash — " But ere the prospect could be made more sunny — Up jamp'd a little, lemon-coloured man, And with an eager stammer, thus began. In angry earnest, though it sounded funny : "What! j\Iore subscriptions ! No — no — no, — not I ! You have had time — time— time enough to try ! They won't come white ! then why — why — why — why — wliy More money ? " " Why ! " said the Chairman, with an accent bland, And gentle W'aving of his dexter hand, " Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust. More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold — The why, sir, very easily is told. THE SAUSAGE MAKERS GHOST. 159 Because Humanity declares we must ! We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'enij And finding that we cannot wash them white, But still their nigritude offends the sight, We mean to rild 'em .<' " A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY. NE day — I had it from a hasty mouth, Accustom'd to make many blunders daily, And therefore will not name, precisely, South, Herschell, or Baily — But one of those great men who watch the skies, "With all their rolling, winking eyes. Was looking at that Orb whose ancient God Was patron of the Ode, and Song, and Sonnet, When thus he musing cried — " It's very odd That no Astronomer of all the squad Can tell the nature of those spots upon it ! " Lord, master ! " muttered John, a liveried elf, " To wonder so at spots upon the sun ! I'll tell you what he's done — Freckled himself.'" THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST. A LONDON LEGEND. OMEWHERE in Leather Lane— I wonder that it was not Mincing, And for this reason most convincing, That ]\Ir. Brain Dealt in those well-minced cartridges of meat Some people like to eat — However, all such quibbles overstepping, In Leather Lane he lived ; and drove a trade In porcine sausages, though London made, Call'd "Epping." i6o THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST. Right brisk was the demand, Seldom his goods stay'd long on hand, For out of all adjacent courts and lanes. Young Irish ladies and their swains' — Such soups of girls and broths of boys ! — Sought his delicious chains, Preferr'd to all polonies, saveloys, And other foreign toys — The mere chance passengers Who saw his " sassengers," Of sweetness undeniable, So sleek, so mottled, and so "friable," Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought, And bought. Meanwhile a constant thumping Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping — Incessant was the noise ! But though he had a foreman and assistant, W^ith all the tools consistent, (Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys) His means were not yet vast enough For chopping fast enough To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and pa;: .ges, For first-chop "sassages." However, Mr. Brain Was none of those dull men and slow. Who, flying bird-like by a railway train. Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago ; He did not set his face 'gainst innovations For rapid operations, And therefore in a kind of waking dream Listen'd to some hot-water sprite that hinted i^ A'l>y To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was - By steam ! Accordingly in happy hour, A bran-new Engine went to work Chopping up pounds on pounds of po»K With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power, And wonderful celerity — I 4 J THE judges; of A-SrZE. LONG COMMONS AND SHORT COMMONS. J TO JOSEPH HUME. i6i When lo ! when ev'rything to hope responded, "Whether his head was turn'd by his prosperity, Whether he had some sly intrigue, in verity, The man absconded ! His anxious Wife in vain Placarded Leather Lane, And all the suburbs with descriptive bills, Such as are issued when from homes and tills Clerks, dogs, cats, lunatics, and children roam ; Besides advertisements in all the journals, Or weeklies or diurnals, Beginning " Left his Home " — The sausage-maker, spite of white and black, Never came back. Never, alive ! — But on the seventh night, Just when the yawning grave its dead releases, Filling his bedded wife with sore affright In walk'd his grisly Sprite, In fifty thousand pieces ! " O Mary ! " so it seem'd In hollow melancholy tone to say, Whilst thro' its airy shape the moonlight gleam'd With scarcely dimmer ray — " O Mary ! let your hopes no longer flatter, Prepare at once to drink of sorrow's cup — It ain't no use to mince the matter — The Engine's chopp'd me up ! " TO JOSEPH HUME, ESQ., M.P. I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." j]H, Mr. Hume, thy name Is travelling post upon the road to fame. With four fast horses and two sharp posti- lions ; 'I'hy reputation Has friends by numeration, C. ^ i62 TO JOSEPH HUME. Units, Tens, Hundreds, Thousands, Millions. Whenever public men together dine, They drink to thee With three times three — That's nine. And oft a votary proposes then To add unto the cheering one cheer more — Nine and One are Ten ; Or somebody, for thy honour still more keen. Insists on four times four — Sixteen! In Parliament no star shines more or bigger, And yet thou dost not cai-e to cut a figure ; Equally art thou eloquent and able, Whether in showing how to serve the nation Or laying its petitions on the Table Of Multiplication. In, motion thou art second unto none, Though fortune on thy motions seems to frown. For though you set a number Ao\\t\. You seldom carry one. Great at speech thou art, though some folks cough, But liiou art greatest at z. paring off. But never blench. Although in stirring up corruption's worms You make some factions Vulgar as certain fractions, Almost reduced unto their lowest terms. Go on, reform, diminish, and retrench ; Go on, for ridicule not caring ; Sift on from one to nine with all their noughts, And make state cyphers eat up their own orts, And only in thy saving be unsparing ; At soldiers' uniforms make awful rackets, Don't trim though, but untrim their jackets. Allow the tin mines no tin tax. Cut off the Great Seal's wax! Dock all the dock-yards, lower masts and sails, Search foot by foot the Infantry's amounts, TO JOSEPH HUME. 163 Look into all the Cavalry's accounts, And crop their horses' tails. Look well to Woolwich and each Money-vote, Examine all the cannons' charges well, And those who found th' Artillery compel To forge twelve-pounders for a five-pound note. Watch Sandhurst too, its debts and its Cadets — Those Military pets. Take army — no, take Leggy Tailors Down to the Fleet, for no one but a nincum Out of our nation's narrow income Would furnish such wide trousers to the Sailors. Next take, to wonder him. The Master of the Horse's horse from under him ; Retrench from those who tend on Royal ills Wherewith to gild their pills. And tell the Stag-hound's Master he must keep The deer, &c., cheap. Close as new brooms Scrub the Bed Chamber Grooms ; Abridge the Master of the Ceremonies Of his very monies ; In short, at every salary have a pull, And when folks come for pay On quarter-day, Stop half and make them give receipts in fulL Oh, Mr. Hume, don't drink, Or eat, or sleep, a wink. Till you have argued over each reduction : Let it be food to you, repose and suction ; Though you should make more motions by one half Than any telegraph. Item by item all these things enforce, Be on your legs till lame, and talk till hoarse ; Have lozenges — mind, Dawson's — in your pocket, And swing your arms till aching in their socket ; Or if awake you cannot keep, Talk of retrenchment in your sleep ; Expose each Peachum, and show up each Lockit — Go down to the M.P.'s before you sup, i64 TO ADMIRAL GAMBIER. And while they're sitting blow them up, As Guy Fawkes could not do with all his nous ; But now we live in different Novembers, And safely you may walk into the House, First split its ears and then divide its members ! TO ADMIRAL GAMBIER, G.C.B. " Well, if you reclaim such as Hood, your Society will deserve the thanks of the country." — Temperanee Society's Herald, vol. i. No i, p. 8. " My father, when last I from Guinea Came home with abundance of "wealth. Said, 'Jack, never be such a ninny As to drink — ' says I, ' Father, your health ?"* Nothing like Grog. [H! Admiral Gam — I dare not mention hicr In such a temperate ear — Oh ! Admiral Gam— an admiral of the Blue, Of course to read the Navy List aright, For strictly shunning wine of either hue, You can't be Admiral of the Red or White : — Oh, Admiral Gam ! consider ere you call On merry Englishmen to wash their throttles With water only ; and to break their bottles, To stick, for fear of trespass, on the wall Of Exeter Hall ! Consider, I beseech, the contrariety Of cutting off our brandy, gin, and rum. And then, by tract.s, inviting us to come And " mix in your society ! " In giving rules to dine, or sup, or lunch. Consider Nature's ends before you league us To strip the Isle of Rum of all its punch — To dock the Isle of Mull of all its negus — Or doom — to suit your milk and water view— The Isle of Skye to nothing but sky-blue ! Consider — for appearance' sake — consider The sorry figure of a spirit-ridder, Going on this crusade against the suttler ; A sort of Hudibras — without a Butler ! i TO ADMIRAL GAMBIER. 165 Consider — ere you break the ardent spirits Of father, mother, brotlier, sister, daughter ; What are your beverage's washy merits ? Gin may be low— but I have known low- water ! Consider well, before you thus deliver. With such authority, your sloppy cannon ; Should British tars taste nothing but the river, Because the Chesapeake once fought the Shannon '. Consider, too — before all Eau-de-vie, Schiedam, or other drinkers, you rebut — To bite a bitten dog all curs agree ; But who would cut a man because he's cui? Consider — ere you bid the poor to fill Their murmuring stomach with the "murmuring rill" — Consider that their streams are not like ours, Reflecting heaven, and margined by sweet flowers ; On their dark pools by day no sun reclines, By night no Jupiter, no Venus shines ; Consider life's sour taste, that bids them mix Their rum with Acheron, or Gin with Styx ; If you must pour out water to the poor, oh ! Let it be at/ua d' oro ! Consider — ere as furious as a griffin, Against a glass of grog you make such work, A man may like a stiff'un, And yet not be a Burke ! Consider, too, before you bid all skinkers Turn water-drinkers, What sort of fluid fills their native rivers ; Their Mudiboos, and Niles, and Guadalquivirs. How should you like, yourself, in glass or mug, The Bog — the Bug — The Maine — the Weser — or that freezer, Neva ? Nay, take the very rill of classic ground — Lord Byron found Even Castaly better for Geneva. 1 66 TO SPENCER PERCEVAL. Consider — if, to vote Reform's arrears, His Majesty should please to make you peers. Your titles would be very far from trumps, To figure in a book of blue and red : — The Duke of Draw-well — what a name to dread ! Marquis of Main-pipe ! Earl New-River-Head ! And Temperance's chief, the Prince of Pumps ! TO SPENCER PERCEVAL, ESQ., M.P. IT, I\Ir. Spencer ! I mean no offence, sir — Retrencher of each trencher — man or woman's : JNIaker of days of ember, Eloquent Member Of the House of Com — I mean to say short commons — Thou Long Tom Coffin singing out, " Plold Fast" — Avast ! Oh, Mr. Perceval ! I'll bet a dollar, a Great growth of Cholera, And new deaths reckon'd. Will mark thy Lenten twenty-first and second. The best of our physicians, when they con it, Depose the malady is in the air : Oh, Mr. Spencer ! if the ill is there, Why should you bid the people live upon it ? Why should you make discourses against courses, While doctors, though they bid us rub and chafe, Declare, of all resources. The man is safest who gets in the safe ? And yet you bid poor suicidal sinners Discard their dinners. Thoughtless how Heaven above will look upon't, For man to die so wantonly of want ! By way of a variety, Think of the ineffectual piety Of London's Bishop, at St. Faith's or Bride's, Lecturing such chamelion insides, TO MISS KELLY. 167 Only to find He's preacliing \<- the wind. Whatever others do, — or don't, I cannot — dare not — must not fast, and won't, Unless by night your day you let me keep, hn^fast asleep ; My constitution can't obey such censors : I must have meat Three times a-day to eat ; My health's of such a sort, — To say the trath, in short, The coats of my stomach are not Spmcers ! TO MISS KELLY. ON HER OPENING THE STRAND THEATRE. BETTY — I beg pardon — Fanny K. (I was just thinking of your Betty Finnikin)- Permit me this to say, In'quite a friendly way — I like your theatre, though but a minnikin ; For though small stages Kean dislikes to spout on, Renounce me if I don't agree with Dowton, The Minors are the Passions' proper schools For me, I never can Find wisdom in the plan That keeps large reservoirs for little Pooles. I like your boxes where the audience sit A family circle ; and your little pit ; I like your little stage, where you discuss Your pleasant bill of fare. And show us passengers so rich and rare. Your little stage seems quite an omnibus. I like exceedingly your Parthian dame, Dimly remembering dramatic codgers, The ghost of Memory — the shade of Fame ! — Lord ! what a housekeeper for Mr. Rogers ! I like your savage, of a one-horse power ; i68 TO DR. HAHNEMANN. And Terence, done in Irish from the Latin ; And Sally — quite a kitchen-garden flower ; And Mrs. Drake, serene in sky-blue satin ! I like your girl as speechless as a mummy — It shows you can play dummy ! — I like your boy, deprived of every gleam Of light for ever — a benighted being ! And really think— though Irish it may seem — Your blindness is worth seeing. I like your Governess ; and there's a striking Tale of Two Brothers, that sets tears a-flowing— But I'm not going All through the bill to tell you of my liking. Suffice it, Fanny Kelly ! with your art So much in love, like others I have gro\vn, I really mean myself to take a part In "Free and Easy" — at my own bespeak — And shall three times a week Drop in and make your pretty house my own ! TO DOCTOR HAHNEMANN. THE HOMCEOPATHIST. I ELL, Doctor, Great concoctor Of medicines to help in man's distress ; Diluting down the strong to meek, And making even the weak more weak, " Fine by degrees, and beautifully less " — Founder of a new system economic, To druggists anything but comic ; Framed the whole race of Ollapods to fret. At profits, like thy doses, very small ; To put all Doctors' Boys in evil case, Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of place, — And show us old Apothecaries' Hall "To Let." How fare thy Patients ? are they dead or living. Or, well as can expected be, with such TO DR. HAHNEMANN. i69 A style of practice, liberally giving " A sum of more to that which had too much ?" Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it ? Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not? Do fevers yield to anything that's hot ? Or hearty dinners neutralise a surfeit ? Is't good advice for gastronomic ills, When Indigestion's face with pain is crumpling. To cry " Discard those Peristaltic Pills, Take a hard dumpling !" Tell me, thou German Cousin, And tell me honestly without a diddle. Does an attenuated dose of rosin Act as a tonic on the old Scotch fiddle? Tell me, when Anhalt-Coethen babies wriggle, Like eels just caught by sniggle, Martyrs to some acidity internal. That gives them pangs infernal. Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges ; Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm, Thanks to that soothing homosopatliic balm. The half of half, of half, a drop of " verges ?" Suppose, for instance, upon Leipzig's plain, A soldier pillowed on a heap of slain. In urgent want both of a priest and proctor ; When lo ! there comes a man in green and red, A featherless cocked-hat adorns his head, In short a Saxon military doctor — Would he, indeed, on the right treatment fix. To cure a horrid gaping wound. Made by a ball that weighed a pound. If he well peppered it with number six ? Suppose a felon doomed to swing Within a 7'ofc, Might friends not hope To cure him with a string? Suppose his breath arrived at a full stop, The shades of death in a black cloud before him. lyc DR. HAHNEMANN. Would a quintillionlh dose of the New Drop Restore him ? Fancy a man gone rabid from a bite, Snapping to left and right, And giving tongue lil^e one of Sebright's hounds, Terrific sounds, The pallid neighbourhood with horror cowing, To hit the proper homceopatliic mark ; Now, might not " the last taste in life " of bark. Stop his bo7v-zvcnv-ing? Nay, with a well-known remedy to fit him. Would he not mend, if with all proper care, He took " a hair Of the dog that bit him ?" Picture a man — we'll say a Dutch Meinheer — In evident emotion, Bent o'er the bulwark of the Batavier, Owning those symptoms queer — Some feel in a Sick Transit o'er the ocean. Can anything in life be more pathetic Than when he turns to us his wretched face ? — But would it mend his case To be decillionth-dosed With something like the ghost Of an emetic ? Lo ! now a darkened room ! Look through the dreary gloom. And see that coverlet of wildest form, Tost like the billows in a storm, W^here ever and anon, with groans, emerges A ghastly head ! While two impatient arms still beat the bed, Like a strong swimmer's struggling with the surges ; There Life and Death are on their battle-plain, With many a mortal ecstasy of pain — What shall support the body in its trial. Cool the hot blood, wild dream, and parching skin, And tame the raging malady witfein — A sniff of Next-to-Nothing in a phial ? TO DR. HAHNEMANN. 171 Oh 1 Doctor Hahnemann, if here I laugh, And cry together, half and half. Excuse me, 'tis a mood the subject brings, To think, whilst I have crowed like chanticleer. Perchance, from some dull eye the hopeless tear Hath gushed, with my light levity at schism, ^ To mourn some Martyr of Empiricism ! Perchance, on thy own system, I have given A pang superfluous to the pains of Sorrow, Who weeps with Memory from morn till even ; Where comfort there is none to lend or borrow. Sighing to one sad strain, " She will not come again. To-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow !" Doctor, forgive me, if I dare prescribe A rule for thee thyself, and all thy tribe. Inserting a few serious words by stealth ; Above all price of'ivealth The Body's 'Je'cvel, — not for minds profane. Or hands, to tamper with in practice rain — Like to a Woman's Virtue is Man's Health. A heavenly gift within a holy shrine! To he approached and touched with serious fear. By hands made pure, and hearts of faith sevar, Even as the priesthood of the ONE divine! Eut, zounds ! each fellow with a suit of black, And, strange to fame, W^ith a diploma'd name, That carries two more letters pick-a-back. With cane, and snuff-box, powdered wig, and block. Invents his dose, as if it were a chrism. And dares to treat our wondrous mechanism, Familiar as the works of old Dutch clock ; Yet, how would common sense esteem the man, Oh how, my unrelated German cousin, Who having some such time-keeper on trial, And finding it too fast, enforced the dial To strike upon the Homoeopathic plan Of fourteen to the dozen ? 172 REMOVAL OF SMITIJFIELD MARKET. Take my advice, 'tis given without a fee, Drown, drown your book ten thousand fathoms deep Like Prospero's beneatli the briny sea, For spells of magic have all gone to sleep ! Leave no decillionth fragment of your works. To help the interests of quacking Burkes ; Aid not in murdering even widow's mites, — And now forgive me for my candid zeal, I had not said so much, but that I feel Should you take ill what here my Muse indites, An Ode-ling more will set you all to rights. TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. " Sweeping our flocks and herds." — Douglas. rillLAXTHROPIC men !— For this address I need not make apology — Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology — Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology ! Be not dismay'd although repulsed at first. And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on ! — you shall upon their hornworks burst. And carry all their B nll-vf axks and their A'flw-parts. Go on, ye ^^•holesale drovers ! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds ! As wild as Tartar- Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers. Off with them all ! — those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle ; And save the female sex From being cow'd — like lo — by the cattle ! Fancy, — when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top^ — REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. 173 Your ladies — ready, as they own, to drop. Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fcar-oii I Or, in St. IMartin's Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein, — Fancy the terror of your timid daughters While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it — Slaughter's. Or fancy this : — Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo !" You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden ! I'hink of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss ! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross ! Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop — and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall. Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate! Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows — " 'Tis well for you that live apart — unable I'o hear this brutal Babel, But o\xrJi)\'sidds are troubled with their bcUo-i'-glottish ! No grammar too abstruse he meets However dark and verby, — He gossips Greek about the streets, And often Russ — in urbe — : Strange tongues whate'er you do them call, In short the man is able To tell you what's o'clock in all The dialects of Babel. Take him on 'Change ; tiy Portuguese, The Moorish and the Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese, The Swedish and the Danish ; Try him with these and fifty such, His skill will ne'er diminish, Although you should begin in Dutch And end (like me) in Fiimish. TO MR. M'ADAM. 187 TO MR. M'ADAM. ' Let us take to the road ! " — Beggars Opera. ADAM, hail ! Hail, Roadian ! hail, Collossus ! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the laud ! 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 deem'd invincible, 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 ! 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, — 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, i88 70 Mi:. M-ADA^r. 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac ! and shaved 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 Pi^epared 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. Upon the stones — ah ! truly watchman-like, Encouraging thy victims all to strike, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ; — Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey ! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach. By caravan or coach,— Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers. Who shall dispute thy name ! Insculpt in stone in every street. We soon shall gi'eet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquered 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 cai'e Chipping thy immortality all day ! Demosthenes, of old, — that rare old man, — Prophetically 7^//c?7cw/, Mac ! thy plan : — For he, we know, (History says so,) Vwt pebbles in his mouth when he would speak The smoothest Greek ! It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Besides the turnpike, many another path Trod, to an-ive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only ; — mighty Mac ! And 'faitli I'd swear, when on tliat winged hack, TO MR. M'ADAM. 189 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, loved the first ! — ■ Those waters which can wet a man to sing ! Which, like thy fame, ''' ixoxw granite basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe ; — and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot, — CadelFs 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 published, 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, INI 'Adam? O ! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men ! when thou shalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry, 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, — Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise ! But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne'er Have our walks since been fair? Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, I90 TO MRS. FRY. 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 hived !) 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 EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE. " Sermons in stones." — As You Like It. " Out ! out ! damned spot ! " — Macbeth, LIKE you, Mrs. Fry ! I like your name ! Its speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flame — I like the crisp brown way you have of dressing^ Good Mrs. Fry ! I like the placid claim You make to Christianity, — professing Love, and good woj-ks — of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young/ry'j bookseller, Friend Darton ! I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute — Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport — I should have said, that wear, the sober suit Shaped like a court dress — but for heaven's court. I like your sisters too, — sweet Rachel's fmit — 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, pui-ple, 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 — 'I'hey're moral standards, to know Christians by— » In short, they are your colours, Mrs, Fry ! TO MRS, FRY. 191 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 saddened down to tea-green, or Olive — and purple's given to wine, I guess ; And yellow is a convict by its dress ! 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 do\\'n, and they stand in The Evil presence ? You and I know, then How all the party colours will begin To part — the /"//tite hues will sadden there, Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair ! Witness their goodly labours one by one ! Russet makes garments for the needy poor — Dove-colour preaches love to all — and ditn Calls every day at Charity's street-door — Brcavn studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing— HLET, Such strictures as these Could a learned Chinese Only read on some fine afternoon, He would ciy with pale lips, " We shall have an Eclipse, For a Dragon has seized on the Moon ! 246 THE SURPLICE QUESTION. AN EXPLANATION BY ONE OF THE LIVERY. Says Blue-and-Buff, to Drab-and-Fink, " I've heard the hardest word I think, That ever posed me since my teens, I wonder what As-best-os means ! " Says Drab-and-Pink, to Blue-and-Buff, *' The word is clear, and plain enough. { It means a Nag wot goes the pace, And so as best os wins the race." ON THE NEW HALF-FARTHINGS. " Too small for any marketable shift, What purpose can there be for coins like these?" Hush, hush, good Sir !— Thus charitable Thrift May give a Mite to him who wants a cheese ! THE SURPLICE QUESTION. BY A BENEDICT. A VERY pretty public stir Is making, downi at Exeter, About the surplice fashion : And many bitter words and rude Have been bestowed upon the feud, And much unchristian passion. For me, I neither know nor care Whether a Parson ought to wear A black dress or a white dress ; Fill'd with a trouble of my own, — A Wife who preaches in her gown, And lectures in her night-dress ! THE EPPING HUNT. 247 THE EPPING HUNT. "hunt's roasted " ' On Monday they began to hunt." — Chevy Chase. OHN HUGGINS was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the churcli of Bow. There people bought Dutch cheeses round And single Glos'ter flat ; And English butter in a lump, And Irish — in a pat. Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At counter, with his apron tied About his counter-part. The seventh, in a Sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot ; On Sundays, for eel-pieiy, A very noted spot. Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed ! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head ! Epping, for butter justly famed. And pork in sausage popp'd ; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig's flesh is always cJiopp'd. But famous more as annals tell. Because of Easter chase ; There every year, 'twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race. 24S THE EPPING HUNT. With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapped his leather thigh, And sang the burden of the song, "This day a stag must die." For all the live-long day before. And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting " in his head. Of horn and mom, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds. All poets' wit hath ever writ In dog-x€i verse of hounds. Alas ! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap To go and hunt the dear. No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs ; Not chicken-hearted he, although 'Twas whispered of his eggs ! Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill ; Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee. And Surgeon Hunter's bill. So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine ; The liquid black they wore that day Was IVarren-ted to shine. His yellow buckskins fitted close. As erst upon a stag ; Thus well equipped he gayly skipped, At once upon his nag. But first to him that held the rein A cro\^Ti he nimbly flung ; THE EPPING HUNT. 1^9 For holding of the horse ! — why, no, For holding of his tongue. To say the horse was Huggins' own Would only be a brag ; His neighbour Fig and he went halves. Like Centaurs, in a nag. And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit ; The horse he knew would never tell, Although it was a tit. A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show. By quickly " rearing up within The way he ought to go." But Huggins, like a wary man, Was ne'er from saddle cast ; Resolved, by going very slow, On sitting very fast. And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone. A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss ; Wherever she set down her oris Thereby he put a cross. Now Huggins had a crony here. That lived beside the way ; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day. WHiereas the man had changed his mind Meanwhile upon the case ! And meaning not to hunt at all. Had gone to Enfield Chase ! 2SO THE EPPING HUNT. For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood. May break a bit of bone. "Now, be his wife a plague for life ! A coward sure is he !" Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea. Thence slowly on through Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box — No Friends to hunters after deer, Though followers of a Fox. And many a score behind — before — The self-same rout inclined ; And, minded all to march one way. Made one great march of mind. Gentle and simple, he and she. And swell, and blood, and prig ; And some had carts, and some a chaise. According to their gig. Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks (However odd it sounds). Let out that day to hunt, instead Of going to the hounds I And some had horses of their own, And some were forced to job it ; And some, while tlvey inclined to Hunt, Betook themselves to Cob-it. All sorts of vehicles and vans. Bad, middling, and the smart ; -i Here rolled along the gay barouche, J And there a dirty cart ! And lo ! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line ; k THE EFFING HUNT. 251 With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine ! Yet marvel not at any load That any horse might drag ; When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag. Now when they saw John Huggins go At such a sober pace ; "Hallo !" cried they; "come trot away. You'll never see the chase ! " But John, as grave as any judge, Made answer quite as blunt ; "It will be time enough to trot, When I begin to hunt ! " And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met. And letting go the reins of course, Prepared for heazy ivet. , And lo ! within the crowded door. Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself. A snow-white head, a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush ; A claret tint laid on by health, With master Reynard's brush ; A hearty frame, a courteous bow. The prince he learned it from ; His age about threescore and ten. And there you have Old Ti^..i. In merriest key I trow was he. So many guests to boast ; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host. 252 THE EPPING HUNT. "Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads, You're all in glorious luck : Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck. "Fair Mead's the place, wlicrc Hoi) and Tom, In red already ride ; 'Tis but a step, and on a horse, You soon may go astride''' So off they scampered, man and iiorse, As time and temper pressed — But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all tlie rest. Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob, All in Fair Mead, which held tliat day Its own fair meed of mob. Idlers to wit — no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze ; Ramblers in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees. Butchers on baclcs of Inttchcrs' hacks, That shambled to and fi^o ! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the dough! Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual for a fall ; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climbed a \vall ! 'Twas strange to tliinlc A\liat difference A single creature made ; A single stag had caused a wliole .S/rt'^nation in their trade. Now Iluggins fiom liis saddle rose, And in tlie stirrups stood ; J THE EPPING HUNT. 253 And lo ! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood. In shape like half a hearse — though not For corpses in the least ; For this contained the deer alive. And not the dear deceased ! And now began a sudden stir, And then a sudden shout, The prison doors were opened wide, And Robin bounded out ! Ilis antlered head shone blue and red. Bedecked with ribbons fine ; Like other bucks that come to 'list The hawbucks in the line. One curious gaze of wild amaze, He turned and shortly took : Then gently ran adown the mead, And bounded o'er the brook. Now Huggins, standing far aloof. Had never seen the deer, Till all at once he saw the beast Come charging in his rear. Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same. On horse and ass — like High and Low And Jack pursuing game ! Good Lord ! to see the riders now. Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their "early purl." A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers ; There was another Floorer there, Beside the Queen of Flowers ! 254 THE EPPING HUNT. Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show : But few, like Charles at Charing Cross Rode on in Statue quo. "O dear ! O.dear !" now might you hear, " I've surely broke a bone ;" " My head is sore " — with many more Such Speeches from the Thrown. Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of j\Ian. And hunters good that understood. Their laughter knew no bounds. To see the horses "throwing off" So long before the hounds. For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among ; Before those Banisters the dogs Proceed to "giving tongue." But now Old Robin's foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him. Yet always left behind. And here observe how dog and man A different temper shows : What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose ? Towler and Jowler — howlers all, No single tongue was mute ; The stag had led a hart, and lo ! The whole pack followed suit. No spur he lacked ; fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch ; THE EFFING HUNT. 255 And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch ! Away, away ! he scudded like A ship before the gale ; Now flew to y^ills we. know not of, Now, nun-like, took the vale. Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch ; — A perfect Tarn O'Shanter mob, Without a single witch. But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And, like a poet, seemed to ride Upon a winged horse ? A whipper-in ? no whipper-in : A huntsman ? no such soul : A connoisseur, or amateur? Why, yes — a horse patrol. A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Actseon in the tale, He found himself in stag ! Away they went, then, dog and deer. And hunters all away ; The maddest horses never knew Mad staggers such as they ! Some gave a shout, some rolled about. And anticked as they rode ; And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen Tally-ho^d! About two score there were, or more. That galloped in the race ; The rest, alas ! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase ! 256 THE EPPING HUNT. But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute ; The field kept getting more select, • Each thicket served to thin it. For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miiy bogs, And vainly rose and "ran a muck," To overtake the dogs. And some, in charging hurdle stakes. Were left bereft of sense ; What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence? Eut Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch could stay ; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap-years in a day ! And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed ; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed. No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit. Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate ; He never ?aw a county go At such a county rate ! " Hold hard ! hold hard ! you'll lame the dogs !" Quoth Huggins, " so I do ; J| I've got the saddle well in hand, J And hold as hard as you ! " Good Lord ! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, c. THE EPPING HUNT. 257 As if with stitches in the side That he was drawing out ! And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook ; Till bumped and galled — yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look ! And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride ; With every kick he gave a prick Deep in the horse's side ! But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze ! Where, sharper set than hunger is, He squatted all forlorn ; And, like a bird, was singing out While sitting on a thorn ! Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign ; "Possession is nine points," but his Seems more than ninety-nine. Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin. His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in ! Kow had a Papist seen his sport. Thus laid upon the shelf, Although no horse he had to cross. He might have crossed himself. Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair ; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare ! r 2s8 THE EFFING HUNT. A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone ; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone ! Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage. Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage ! Though felony, yet who would let Another's horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own ? And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair ; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the mare! So up on Huggins' horse he got. And swiftly rode away, While Huggins mounted on the mare Done brown upon a bay ! And off they set in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him ! Alas ! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive ; A dab was he, as dabs should be — All leaping and alive. And here of Nature's kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof ! Whereas the mare, although her share She harl of hoof and frocj, ThE EFFING HUNT. 259 On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log ; While Huggins in the stiiTup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song — " to see The gate his hart had gane." And, lo ! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice : The steeds, like Cinderella's team, Seemed dwindling into mice ; And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark — Though still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark ! But sad at soul John Huggins turned : No comfort could he find ; While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped, To stay five bars behind. For though by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate — Howbeit there was no toll at all — They could not clear the gate. And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a New Gray's elegy On his departed gray. Now many a sign at W^oodford town Its Inn-vitation tells : But Huggins, full of ills, of course Betook him to the Wells, Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh : But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig, And called for half-and-half. 26o THE EPPING HUNT. Vet, spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss ; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse. When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door — The mounted mob were all returned ; The Epping Hunt was o'er ! And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft ; And men, by dint of drink, became The only '■'■beasts of draught." For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer ; And overtaken men discussed The overtaken deer. How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood. Deerlike, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could : — And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could handle knives ! How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse "remained behind." And one, how he had found a horie Adrift — a goodly gray ! And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray ; Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee ; i WlbH VOU MAV GliT IT. JACK HALL. 261 ' ' A goodly gray ! why, then, I say, That gray belongs to me ! " Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound ; And gladly I will give the man A bottle and a pound !" The wine was drunk — the money paid, Though not without remorse, To pay another man so much For riding on his horse ; — And let the chase again take place For many a long, long year — John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer ! Moral. Thus pleasure oft eludes our gra^p Just when we think to grip her : And hunting after Happiness, We only hunt the slipper. JACK HALL. nS very hard when men forsake This melancholy world, and make A bed of turf, they cannot take A quiet doze. But certain rogues will come and break Their "bone" repose. 'Tis hard we can't give up our breath, And to the earth our earth bequeath, Without Death-Felches after death, Who thus exhume us ; And snatch us from our homes beneath, And hearths posthumous. 262 \JACK HALL. The tender lover comes to rear The mournful urn, and shed his tear — Her glorious dust, he cries, is here ! Alack ! alack ! The while his Sacharissa dear Is in a sack ! 'Tis hard one cannot lie amid The mould, beneath a coffin-lid, But thus the Faculty will bid Their rogues break through it, If they don't want us there, why did They send us to it ? One of these sacrilegious knaves, Who crave as hungry vulture craves, Behaving as the ghoul behaves, 'Neath church -yard wall — Mayhap because he fed on graves. Was named Jack Hall. By day it was his trade to go Tending tlie black coach to and fro ; And sometimes at the door of woe. With emblems suitable, « He stood v.-ith brother Mute, to show That life is mutable. But long before they pass'd the ferry, The dead that he had help'd to bury, He sack'd — (he had a sack to carry The bodies off in) In fact, he let them have a very Short fit of coffin. Night after night, with crow and spade, He drove this dead but thriving trade, INIeanwhile his conscience never weigh'd A single horsehair ; On corses of all kinds he prey'd, A perfect corsair ! J JACK HALL. 263 At last— it may be, Death took spite, Or, jesting only, meant to fright — He sought for Jack night after night The churchyards round ; And soon they met, the man and sprite, In Pancras' ground. Jack, by the glimpses of the moon, rerceiv'd the bony knacker soon. An awful shape to meet at noon Of night and lonely ; But Jack's tough courage did but swo /\ A minute only. Anon he gave his spade a swing Aloft, and kept it brandishing. Ready for what mishaps might spring From this conjunction ; Funking indeed was quite a thing Beside his function. " Hollo !" cried Death, "d'ye wish your sands Run out ? the stoutest never stands A chance with me, — to my commands The strongest truckles ; But I'm your friend — so let's shake hands, I should say — knuckles. " Jack, glad to see th' old sprite so sprightly And meaning nothing but uprightly. Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly. His mull did proffer: But Death, who had no nose, politely Declin'd the offer. Then sitting down upon a bank, Leg over leg, shank over shank. Like friends for conversation frank, That had no check on : Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank, " You're Death, I reckon." 264 JACK HALL. The Jaw-bone grinn'd : — " I am that same, You've hit exactly on my name; In truth it has some little fame Where burial sod is." Quoth Jack (and wink'd), "of course ye came Here after bodies." Death grinn'd again and shook his head : — " I've little business with the dead; When they are fairly sent to bed I've done my turn : Whether or not the worms are fed Is your concern. " My errand here, in meeting you, Is nothing but a 'how-d'ye-do ;' I've done what jobs I had — a few Along this way ; If I can serve a crony too, I beg you'll say." Quoth Jack, " Your Honour's very kind : And now I call the thing to mind, This parish very strict I find ; But in the next 'un There lives a very well-inclined Old sort of sexton." Death took the hint, and gave a wink As well as eyelet holes can blink ; Then stretching out his arm to link The other's arm, — " Suppose," says he, " we have a drink Of something warm." Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease Spoke up at once : — " Why, what ye please , Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese, A famous tap." But this suggestion seem'd to tease The bony chap. JACK HALL. 265 "No, no — your mortal drinks are heaily, And only make my hand unsteady; I do not even care for Deady, And loathe your mm ; But I've some glorious brewage ready, My drink is — Mum 1" And off they set, each right content — Who knows the dreary way they went ? But Jack felt rather faint and spent, And out of breath ; At last he saw, quite evident, The Door of Death. All other men had been unmann'd To see a coffin on each hand, That served a skeleton to stand By way of sentry ; In fact, Death has a very grand And awful entry. Throughout his dismal sign prevails, His name is writ in coffin nails ; The mortal darts make area rails ; A skull that mocketli, Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails Whoever knocketh. And lo ! on either side, arise Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs ; A monumental slab supplies The step of stone. Where waiting for his master lies A dog of bone. The dog leapt up, but gave no yell. The wire was puU'd, but woke no bell, The ghastly knocker rose and fell. But caused no riot ; The ways of Death, we all know well. Are very quiet. 266 JACK HALL. Old Bones stept in ; Jack stepp'd behind ; Quoth Death, I really hope you'll find The entertainment to your mind, As I shall treat ye — A friend or two of goblin kind, I've asked to meet ye. And lo ! a crowd of spectres tall, Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall, Were standing — every ghastly ball — An eager watcher. "My friend," says Death — "friends, Mr. Hall, The body-snatcher." Lord, what a tumult it produced, When Mr. Hall was introduced ! Jack even, who had long been used To frightful things. Felt just as if his back was sluic'd With freezing springs ! Each goblin face began to make Some horrid mouth — ape — gorgon — snake ; And then a spectre-hag would shake An airy thigh-bone ; And cried, (or seem'd to cry,) I'll break Your bone, with my bone ! \ Some ground their teeth — some seem d to spit — j (Nothing, but nothing came of it,) | A hundred awful brows were knit 1 In dreadful spite. f Thought Jack — " I'm sure I'd better quit Without good-night. " One skip and hop and he was clear, . And running like a hunted deer, ' As fleet as people run by fear Well spurr'd and whipp'd, , Death, ghosts, and all in that career |i! Were quite outstripp'd. I JACK HALL. 267 But those who live by death must die ; Jack's soul at last prepared to fly ; And when his latter end drew nigh, Oh ! what a swarm Of doctors came, — ^but not to try To keep him warm. No ravens ever scented prey So early where a dead horse lay, Nor vulture sniff 'd so far away A last convulse : A dozen "guests" day after day Were " at his pulse." 'Twas strange, altho' they got no fees, How still they watch'd by twos and threes. But Jack a very little ease Obtain'd from them ; In fact he did not find M. D.'s Worth one D— I\I. The passing bell with hollow toll Was in his thought — the dreary hole ! Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll, And then a cough : — " There's something weighing on my soul I wish was off ; " All night it roves about my brains. All day it adds to all my pains, It is concerning my remains When I am dead : " Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes Drew near his bed. "Alas !" he sigh'd, "I'm sore afraid A dozen pangs my heart invade j But when I drove a certain trade In flesh and bone, There was a little bargain made About my own." 268 JACK HALL. Twelve suits of black began to close, Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose, Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows, At once drew round ; Twelve noses tum'd against his nose, Twelve snubs profound. "Ten guineas did not quite suffice, And so I sold my body twice ; Twice did not do — I sold it thrice, Forgive my crimes ! In short I have received its price A dozen times !" Twelve brows got very grim and black, Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack. Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack Took up position, Ready to share the dying Jack By long division. Twelve angry doctors wrangled so, That twelve had struck an hour ago, Before they had an eye to throw On the departed ; Twelve heads tum'd round at once, and lo ! Twelve doctors started. Whether some comrade of the dead, Or Satan took it in his head To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled ! 'Tis only written. That ' ' there ivas nothing in the bed, But twelve were bitten .'" I MJSS KILMANSEGG, ETC. 269 MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. A GOLDEN LEGEND. Her Pedigree. trace the Kilinansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous Through antedilvian mists as thick As London fog such a line to pick Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick, — Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas. It wouldn't require much verbal strain To trace the Kil-man, perchance, to Cain, But, waiving all such digressions. Suffice it, according to family lore, A Patriarch Kiimansegg lived of yore. Who was famed for his great possessions. Tradition said he feather'd his nest Through an Agriculture^, interest In the Golden Age of farming ; When golden eggs were laid by the geese, And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece, And golden pippins — the sterling kind Of Hesperus — now so hard to find — Made Horticulture quite charming ! A Lord of Land, on his own estate, He lived at a very lively rate, But his income would bear carousing ; Such acres he had of pasture and heath, With herbage so rich from the ore beneath, The very ewe's and lambkin's teeth Were turn'd into gold by browsing. He gave, without any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift To each son of his loins, or daughter : 270 MISS KILMANSEGG And his debts — if debts he had — at will He liquidated by giving each bill A dip in Pactolian water. ' Twas said that even his pigs of lead, By crossing with some by Midas bred. Made a perfect mine of his piggery. And as for cattle, one yearling bull Was worth all Smithfield-market full Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory. The high-bred horses within his stud. Like human creatures of birth and blood, Had their Golden Cups and flagons : And as for the common husbandry nags. Their noses were tied in money-bags. When they stopp'd with the carts and waggons. Moreover, he had a Golden Ass, Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass. That was worth his own weight in money — And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank, Where golden bees, by alchemical prank, Gather'd gold instead of honey. Gold ! and gold ! and gold without end ! . He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend, Gold to give, and gold to lend. And reversions of gold infutiiro. In wealth the family revell'd and roU'd, Himself and wife and sons so bold ; — And his daughters sang to their harps of gold " O bella eta del' oro !" Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin, In golden text on a vellum skin. Though certain people would wink and grin. And declare the whole story a parable — That the Ancestor rich was one Jacob Ghrimes, Who held a long lease, in prosperous times, Of acres, pasture and arable. AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 271 That as money makes money, his golden bees Were the Five per Cents, or which you please When his cash was more than plenty — That the golden cups were racing affairs ; And his daughters, who sang Italian airs, Had their golden harps of Clementi. That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull, Was English John, with his pockets full. Then at war by land and water : While beef, and mutton, and other meat. Were almost as dear as money to eat. And Farmers reaped Golden Harvests of M'heat At the Lord knows what per quarter ! Her Birth. What different dooms our birthdays bring For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle ; While Death forbids another to wake, And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle ! Into this world we come like ships, Launch'd from the docks, and stocks, and slips, For fortune fair or fatal ; And one little craft is cast away In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, While another rides safe at Port Natal. What different lots our stars accord ! This babe to be hail'd and woo'd as a Lord ! And that to be shunn'd like a leper ! One, to the world's wine, honey, and corn, Another, like Colchester native, born To its vinegar, only, and pepper. One is litter'd under a roof Neither wind nor waterproof — 272 MISS KILMANSEGG That's the prose of Love in a Cottage — A puny, naked, shivering wretch, Tlie whole of whose birthright would not fetch. Though Robins himself drew up the sketch. The bid of "a mess of pottage." Born of Fortunatus's kin, Another comes tenderly ushered in To a prospect all bright and burnish'd : No tenant he for life's back slums — He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnish'd. And the other sex — the tender — the fair — What wide reverses of fate are there ! Whilst Margaret, charm 'd by the Bulbul rare. In a garden of Gul reposes — Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till — think of that, who find life so sweet ! — She hates the smell of roses ! Not so with the infant Kilmansegg ! She was not born to steal or beg, Or gather cresses in ditches ; To plait the straw, or bind the shoe. Or sit all day to hem and sew. As females must — and not a few — To fill their insides with stitches ! She was not doom'd, for bread to eat, To be put to her hands as well as her feet — To carry home linen from mangles — Or heavy-hearted, and weary-limb'd, To dance on a rope in a jacket trimm'd With as many blows as spangles. She was one of those who by Fortune's boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon In her mouth, not a wooden ladle : To speak according to poet's wont, Plutus as sponsor stood at her font, And Midas rock'd the cradle. DUE AT MICHAELMAS. CRANK-IOLOGV. AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. At her first debut she found her head On a pillow of down, in a downy bed, With a damask canopy over. For although, by the vulgar popular saw, All mothers are said to be "in the straw," Some children are born in clover. Her veiy first draught of vital air, It was not the common chameleon fare Of plebeian lungs and noses, — No — her earliest sniff Of this world was a whiff Of the genuine Otto of Roses ! When she saw the light, it was no mere ray Of that light so common — so everyday — • That the sun each morning launches — Eut six wax tapers dazzled her eyes. From a thing — a gooseberry bush for size — With a golden stem and branches. She was born exactly at half-past two, As witnessed a time-piece in or-molu That stood on a marble table — Showing at once the time of day, And a team of Gildings running away As fast as they were able, With a golden God, with a golden Star, And a golden Spear, in a golden Car, According to Grecian fable. Like other babes, at her birth she cned ; Which made a sensation far and wide — Ay, for twenty miles around her : For though to the ear 'twas nothing more Than an infant's squall, it was really the roar Of a Fifty-thousand Pounder ! It shook the next heir In his library chair. And made him cry, " Confound her !" C, S 274 MISS KILMANSEGG Of signs and omens there was no dearth, Any more than at Owen Glendower's birth, Or the advent of other great people : Two bullocks dropp'd dead, As if knock'd on the head. And barrels of stout And ale ran about, And the village-bells such a peal rang out, That they crack'd the village-steeple. In no time at all, like mushroom spa\vn, Tables sprang up all over the lawn ; Not fumish'd scantly or shabbily. But on scale as vast As that huge repast, With its loads and cargoes Of drink and botargoes, At the birth of the Babe in Rabelais. Hundreds of men were tum'd into beasts, Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts, By the magic of ale and cider : And each country lass, and each country lad. Began to caper and dance like mad, And ev'n some old ones appear'd to have had A bite from the Naples Spider. Then as night came on. It had scared King John Who considered such signs not risible, To have seen the maroons. And the whirling moons, And the serpents of flame. And wheels of the >ame. That according to some were " whizzable." Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs ! Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs. That her parents had such full pockets ! For had she been bom of Want and Thrift, For care and nursing all adrift, AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 275 It's ten to one she had had to make shift With rickets instead of rockets ! And how was the precious baby drest ? In a robe of the East, with lace of the West, Like one of Crcesus' issue — Her best bibs were made Of rich gold brocade, And the others of silver tissue. And when the "^aby inclined to nap She was lull'd on a Gros de Naples lap. By a nurse in a modish Paris cap, Of notions so exalted, She drank nothing lower than Curagoa, Maraschino, or pink Noyau, And on principle never malted. From a golden boat, with a golden spoon, The babe was fed night, morning, and noon; And although the tale seems fabulous, 'Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt, Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace built For the Horse of Heliogabalus, And when she took to squall and kick — For pain will ring, and pins will prick. E'en the wealthiest nabob's daughter — They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin, But a liquor wth leaf of gold therein. Videlicet, — Dantzic Water. In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst, And drest in the best from the very first. To please the genteelest censor — And then, as soon as strength would allow Was vaccinated, as babes are now, With virus ta'en from the best-bred cow Of Lord Althorpe's — now Earl Spencer. 276 AHSS KTLMANSEGG Her Christe.xing. Though Shakespeare asks us, " What's in a name?" (As if cognomens were much the same), There's really a very gi-eat scope in it. A name? — why, wasn't there Doctor Dodd, That servant at once of Mammon and God, Wlio found four thousand pounds and odd, A prison — a cart — and a rope in it ? A name ? — if the party had a voice, What mortal would be a Bugg by choice ? As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice? Or any such nauseous blazon ? Not to mention many a vulgar name. That would make a door-plate blush for shame, If door-plates were not so brazen ! A name ? — it has more than nominal worth. And belongs to good or bad luck at birth — As dames of a certain degree know. In spite of his Page's hat and hose, His Page's jacket, and buttons in rows, Bob only sounds like a page in prose Till turned into Rupertino. Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg, For days and days it was quite a plague. To hunt the list in the Lexicon : And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring, Ere names were found just the proper thing Yox a minor rich as a Mexican. Then cards were sent the presence to beg Of all the kin of Kilmansegg, White, yellow, and brown relations : Brothers, Wardens of City Halls, And Uncles — rich as three Golden Balls From taking pledges of nations. Nephews, whom Fortune seem'd to bewitch, Rising in life like rockets — 1 I I AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 277 Nieces, whose doweries knew no hitch — Aunts, as certain of dying rich As candles in golden sockets — Cousins German and Cousins' sons, All thriving and opulent — some had tons Of Kentiah hops in their pockets ! For money had stuck to the race through life (As it did to the bushel when cash so rife Posed Ali Baba's brother's wife) — And down to the Cousins and Coz-lings, The fortunate brood of the Kilmanseggs, As if they had come out of golden eggs, Were all as wealthy as " Goslings." It would fill a Court Gazette to name What East and West End people came To the rite of Christianity : The lofty Lord, and the titled Dame, All di'monds, plumes, and urbanity : His Lordship the May'r with his golden chain, And two Gold Sticks, and the Sheriffs twain. Nine foreign Counts, and other great men With their orders and stars, to help " M. or N." To renounce all pomp and vanity. To paint the maternal Kilmansegg The pen of an Eastern Poet would beg, And need an elaborate sonnet ; How she sparkled with gems whenever she stirr'd, And her head niddle-noddled at every word, And seem'd so happy, a Paradise Bird Had nidificated upon it. And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bow'd, And smiled to himself, and laugh'd aloud. To think of his heiress and daughter — And then in his pockets he made a grope, And then, in the fulness of joy and hope, Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water. 278 MISS KILMANSEGG He had roU'd in money like pigs in mud, Till it seem'd to have entered into his blood By some occult projection: And his cheeks instead of a healthy hue As yellow as any guinea grew, Making the common phrase seem true, About a rich complexion. And now came the nurse, and during a pause. Her dead-leaf satin would fitly cause A very autumnal rustle — So full of figure, so full of fuss, As she carried about the babe to buss. She seem'd to be nothing but bustle. A wealthy Nabob was Godpapa, And an Indian Begum was Godmamma, Whose jewels a Queen might covet — And the Priest was a Vicar, and Dean withal Of that Temple we see with a Golden Ball, And a Golden Cross above it. The Font was a bowl of American gold. Won by Raleigh in days of old. In spite of Spanish bravado ; And the Book of Pray'r was so overrun With gilt devices, it shone in the sun Like a copy — a presentation one — Of Humboldt's "El Dorado." Gold ! and gold ! and nothing but gold ! The same auiferous shine behold Wherever the eye could settle! On the walls — the sideboard — the ceiling-sky- On the gorgeous footmen standing by, In coats to delight a miner's eye With seams of the precious metal. Gold ! and gold ! and besides the gold, The very robe of the infant told A tale of wealth in every fold, It lapp'd her like a vapour ! AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 279 So fine ! so thin ! tlie mind at a loss Could compare it to nothing except a cross Of cobweb with bank-note paper. Then her pearls — 'twas a perfect sight, forsooth, To see them, like "the dew of her youth," In such a plentiful sprinkle. Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form. And gave her another, not overwarm, That made her little eyes twinkle. Then the babe was cross'd and bless'd amain ! But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane, Which the humbler female endorses — Instead of one name, as some people prefix, Kilmansegg went at the tails of six. Like a carriage of state with its horses. Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs! The golden mugs and the golden jugs That lent fresh rays to the midges ! The golden knives, and the golden spoons, The gems that sparkled like fairy boons, It was one of the Kilmansegg's own saloons, But look'd like Rundell and Bridge's ! Gold ! and gold ! the new and the old, The company ate and drank from gold, They revell'd, they sang, and were merry ; And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair. And toasted "the Lass with the golden hair" In a bumper of Golden Sherry. Gold ! still gold ! it rain'd on the nurse, Who — un-like Danae — was none the worse ! There was nothing but guineas glistening ! Fifty were given to Doctor James, For calling the little Baby names, And for saying, Amen ! The Clerk had ten, And that was the end of the Christening. 28o JII/SS KILMANSEGG Her Childhood. Our youth ! o\ir childhood ! that spring of springs ! 'Tis surely one of the blessedest things That nature ever invented ! When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth, And the poor are rich in spirits and health. And all with their lots contented ! There's little Phelim, he sings like a thrush. In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush, With the selfsame empty pockets, That tempted his daddy so often to cut His throat, or jump in the water-butt — Cut what cares I'helim? an empty nut Would sooner bring tears to their sockets. Give him a collar without a skirt, (That's the Irish linen for shirt) And a slice of bread with a taste of dirt, (That's Poverty's Irish butter). And what does he lack to make him blest ^ Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow's nest, A candle-end, and a gutter. But to leave the happy Phelim alone, Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone, For which no dog would quarrel — Turn we to little Miss Kilmansegg Cutting her first little toothy-peg With a fifty-guinea coral — A peg upon which About poor and rich Reflection might hang a moral. Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed, Capp'd, papp'd, napp'd, and lapp'd from the first On the knees of Prodigality, Her childhood was one eternal round Of the game of going on Tickler's ground Picking up gold— in reality. A^'D HER PRECIOUS LEG ?8i With extempore cartes she never play'd, Or the odds and ends of a Tinker's trade, Or little dirt pies and puddings made, Like children happy and squalid ; The very puppet she had to pet, Like a bait for the " Nix my Dolly " set, Was a Dolly of gold — and solid ! Gold ! and gold ! 'twas the burden still ! To gain the Heiress's early goodwill There was much corruption and bribery — The yearly cost of her golden toys Would have given half London's Charity Boys And Charity Girls the annual joys Of a holiday dinner at Highbury. Bon-bons she ate from the gilt conid ; And gilded queens on St. Bartlemy's day; Till her fancy was tinged by her presents — And first a Goldfinch excited her wish, Then a spherical bowl with its Golden fish, And then two Golden Pheasants. Nay, once she squall'd and scream'd like wild — And it shows how the bias we give to a child Is a thing most weighty and solemn : — But whence was wonder or blame to spring If little Miss K. — after such a swing — Made a dust for the flaming gilded thing On the top of the Fish Street column? Her Education. According to metaphysical creed, To the earliest books that children read For much good or much bad they are debtors — But before with their ABC they start, There are things in morals, as well as art. That play a very important part — " Impressions before the letters." Dame Education begins the pile, Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style, 282 MISS KILMANSEGG But alas for the elevation ! If the Lady's maid or Gossip the Nurse With a load of rubbish, or something worse, Have made a rotten foundation. Even thus with little Miss Kilmansegg, Before she learned her E for egg, Ere her Governess came, or her masters — Teachers of quite a different kind Had " cramm'd" her beforehand, and put her mind In a go-cart on golden castors. Long before her A B and C, They had taught her by heart her L. S. D. And as how she was born a great Heiress ; And as sure as London is built of bricks, My Lord would ask her the day to fix, To ride in a fine gilt coach and six. Like Her Worship the Lady May'ress. Instead of stories from Edgeworth's page, The true golden lore for our golden age, Or lessons from Barbauld and Trimmer, Teaching the worth of Virtue and Health, All that she knew was the Virtue of Wealth, Provided by vulgar nursery stealth With a Book of Leaf Gold for a Primer. The very metal of merit they told, And praised her for being as "good as gold !" Till she grew as a peacock haughty ; Of money they talk'd the whole day round, And weigh'd desert, like grapes, by the pound, rill she had an idea from the very sound That people with nought were naughty. They praised — poor children with nothing at all ! Lord ! how you twaddle and waddle and squall Like common-bred geese and ganders ! What sad little bad little figures you make To the rich Miss K., whose plainest seed-cake Was stuff 'd with corianders ! AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 283 They praised her falls, as well as her walk, Flatterers made cream cheese of chalk, They praised — how they praised — her very small talk, As if it fell from a Solon ; Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop, Or an emerald semi-colon. They praised her spirit, and now and then The Nurse brought her own little " nevy " Ben, To play with the future jNIay'ress, And when he got raps, and taps, and slaps, Scratches, and pinches, snips, and snaps, As if from a Tigress, or Bearess, They told him how Lords would court that hand, And always gave him to understand While he rubb'd, poor soul. His carroty poll, That his hair had been pull'd by "a Hairess" Such were the lessons from maid and nurse, A Governess help'd to make still worse. Giving an appetite so pervCTse Fresh diet whereon to batten — Beginning with A B C to hold Like a royal playbill printed in gold On a square of pearl-Vi'hite satm. The books to teach the verbs and nouns. And those about countries, cities, and towns. Instead of their sober drabs and browns, Were in crimson silk, with gilt edges ; — Her Butler, and Enfield, and Entick — in short Her " Early Lessons " of every sort, Look'd like Souvenirs, Keepsakes, and Pledges. Old Johnson shone out in as fine array As he did one night when he went to the play ; Chambaud like a beau of King Charles's day — Lindley Murray in like conditions — Each weary, unwelcome, irksome task, Appear'd in a fancy dress and a mask ; — :84 JI//SS KILMANSEC.G If you wisli for similar copies, ask For Howell and James's Editions. Novels she read to amuse her mind, But always the affluent match-making kind That ends with Promessi Sposi, And a father-in-law so wealthy and grand. He could give cheque-mate to Coutts in the Strand So, along with a ring and posy, He endows the Bride with Golconda off-hand, And gives the Groom Potosi. Plays she perused— but she liked the best Those comedy gentlefolks always possess'd Of fortunes so truly romantic — Of money so ready that right or wrong It always is ready to go for a song, Throwing it, going it, pitching it strong — They ought to have purses as green and long As the cucumber call'd the Gigantic. Then Eastern Tales she loved for the sake Of the Purse of Oriental make, And the thousand pieces they put in it — • But Pastoral scenes on her heart fell cold, For Nature with her had lost its hold, No field but the Field of the Cloth of Gold Would ever have caught her foot in it. What more? She learnt to sing, and dance. To sit on a horse, although he should prance, And to speak a French not spoken in France Any more than at Babel's building — And she painted shells, and flowers, and Turks, But her great delight was in Fancy Works That are done with gold or gilding. Gold ! still gold !— the bright and the dead. With golden beads, and gold lace, and gold thread She work'd in gold, as if for her bread ; The metal had so imdermined her, Gold ran in her thoughts and fiU'd her brain, i AND II ER PRECIOUS lEG. She was golden-headed as Peter's cane \Vith -which he walk'd beliiiul her. Her Accident. The horse that carried Miss Kihnansej.^, And a better never lifted leg, AVas a very rich bay, call'd Banker — - A horse of a breed and a mettle so rare, — By Bullion out of an Ingot mare, — That for action, the best of figures, and ah", It made many good judges hanker. And when she took a ride in the Park, Equestrian Lord, or pedestrian Clerk, Was tln"0\\n in an amoi'ous fever. To see the Heiress how well she sat, With her groom behind her, Bob or Nat, In green, half smother'd with gold, and a hat With more gold lace than beaver. And then when Banker obtain'd a pat. To see how he arch'd his neck at that ! He snorted with pride and pleasure ! Like the Steed in the fable so lofty and grand, Who gave the poor Ass to understand, That he didn't carry a bag of santl, But a burden of golden treasure. A load of treasure ? — alas ! alas I Had her horse but been fed upon English gi"asK, And shelter'd in Yorkshire spinneys, Had he scour'd the sand with the Desert Ass, Or where the American whinnies^ But a hunter from Erin's turf and gorse, A regular thorough-bred Irish horse, Why, he ran away, as a matter of course. With a girl worth her weight in guineas ! Mayhap 'tis the trick of such jiampered nngs,^ To shy at the sight of a beggar in rags, 286 MISS KILMANSEGG But away, like the bolt of a rabbit, — Away went the horse in the madness of fright. And away went the horsewoman mocking the sight- Was yonder blue flash a flash of blue light, Or only the skirt of her habit ? Away she flies, with the groom behind, — It looks like a race of the Calmuck kind, When Hymen himself is the starter. And the Maid rides first in the four-footed strife, Riding, striding, as if for her life. While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife, Although it's catching a Tartar. But the Groom has lost his glittering hat ! Though he does not sigh and pull up for that — Alas ! his horse is a tit for Tat To sell to a very low bidder— His wind is ruin'd, his shoulder is sprung. Things, though a horse be handsome and young, A purchaser will consider. But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust, Oh, for a fall, if fall she must, On the gentle lap of Flora ! But still, thank Heaven ! she clings to her seat — Away ! away ! she could ride a dead heat With the Dead who ride so fast and fleet. In the Ballad of Leonora ! Away she gallops, — it's awful work ! It's faster than Turpin's ride to York, On Bess that notable clipper ! She has circled the Ring ! — she crosses the Park ! Mazeppa, although he was stripp'd so stark, Mazeppa couldn't outstrip her ! The fields seem running away with the folks ! The Elms are having a race for the Oaks At a pace that all Jockeys disparages ! All, all is racing ! the Serpentine Seems rushing past like the " arrowy Rhine," AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 2S7 The houses have got on a railway line, And are off like the first-class carriages ! She'll lose her life ! she is losing her breath 1 A cruel chase, she is chasing Death, As female shriekings forewarn her : And now — as gratis as blood of Guelph — She clears that gate, which has clear'd itself Since then, at Hyde Park Corner ! Alas ! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs ! For her head, her brains, her body, and legs, Her life's not worth a copper ! Willy-nilly, In Piccadilly, A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly, A hundred voices cry, " Stop her ! " And one old gentleman stares and stands. Shakes his head and lifts his hands, And says, "How very improper!" On and on ! — what a perilous run ! The iron rails seem all mingling in one. To shut out the Green Park scenery! And now the Cellar its dangers reveals. She shudders — she shrieks— she's doom'd, she feels, To be torn by powers of horses and wheels. Like a spinner by steam machinery ! Sick with horror she shuts her eyes, But the very stones seem uttering cries. As they did to that Persian daughter, When she climb'd up the steep vociferous hill, Her little silver flagon to fill With the magical Golden Water ! " Batter her ! shatter her ! Throw and scatter her !" Shouts each stony-hearted chatterer ! " Dash at the heavy Dover ! Spill her ! kill her ! tear and tatter her ! Smash her ! crash her ! " (the stones didn't flatter her !) 2S8 AIJSS KILMANSEGG " Kick her brains out ! let her blood spatter her ! Roll on her over and over ! " For so she gather'd the awful sense Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense, As the wild horse overran it, — His four heels making the clatter of six, Like a Devil's tattoo, play'd with iron sticks On a kettle-drum of granite ! On! still on! she's dazzled with hints Of oranges, ribbons, and colour'd prints, A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints. And human faces all flashing, Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints, That the desperate hoof keeps dashing ! On and on ! still frightfully fast ! Dover-street, Bond-street, all are past! But — yes — no — yes ! — they're down at last ! The Furies and Fates have found them ! Down they go with sparkle and crash. Like a Bark that's struck by the lightning flash — There's a shriek — and a sob — And the dense dark mob Like a billow closes around them! " She breathes ! " " She don't ! " " She'll recover ! " " She won't ! " " She's stirring ! she's living, by Nemesis !' Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf! Golden dishes as plenty as delf ; Miss Kilmansegg's coming again to herself On an opulent Goldsmith's premises ! Gold ! fine gold !— both yellow and red. Beaten, and molten — polish'd, and dead — DEATH S Uf)OK. RAKUtSTEK CN CIRCUIT. A\D HER PRECIOUS LEG. iSg To see the gold with profusion spread In all forms of its manufacture ! But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg, When the femoral bone of her dexter leg Has met with a compound fracture? Gold may soothe Adversity's smart ; Nay, help to bind up a broken heart ; But to try it on any other part Were as certain a disappointment, As if one should rub the dish and plate. Taken out of a Staffordshire crate — In the hope of a Golden Service of State — With Singleton's "Golden Ointment." Her Precious Leg. "As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined," Is an adage often recall'd to mind. Referring to juvenile bias : And never so well is the verity seen, As when to the weak, warp'd side we lean, While Life's tempests and hurricanes try us. Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb : By a very, very remarkable whim. She show'd her early tuition : While the buds of character came into blow With a certain tinge that served to show The nursery culture long ago, As the gi'aft is known by fruition! For the King's Physician, who nursed the case, His verdict gave with an awful face. And three others concurr'd to egg it ; That the Patient to give old Death the slip, Like the Po^De, instead of a personal trip, Must send her Leg as a Legate. The limb was doom'd — it couldn't be saved! And like other people the patient behaved, Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved, C, 290 MISS KILMANSEGG Which makes some persons so falter, They rather would part, without a groan, With the flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone, They obtain'd at St. George's altar. But when it came to fitting the stump With a proxy limb — then flatly and plump She spoke, in the spirit olden ; She couldn't — she shouldn't — she wouldn't have wood Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood. And she swore an oath, or something as good. The proxy limb should be golden ! A wooden leg ! what, a sort of peg. For your common Jockeys and Jennies ! No, no, her mother might worry and plague — W^eep, go down on her knees, and beg, But nothing would move Miss Kilmansegg 1 She could — she would have a Golden Leg, If it cost ten thousand guineas ! Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honours and feudal bark, Is an aristocratic article : But split and sawn, and hack'd about town. Serving all needs of pauper or clown, Trod on ! stagger'd on ! Wood cut down Is vulgar — fibre and particle. And Cork !— when the noble Cork Tree shades A lovely group of Castilian maids, 'Tis a thing for a song or sonnet ! — But cork, as it stops the bottle of gin, ' Or bungs the beer— the small beer — in. It pierced her heart like a corking-pin, To think of standing upon it! A Leg of Gold — solid gold throughout, Nothing else, whether slim or stout, Should ever support her, God willing ! She must — she could — she would have her whim, AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 291 Iler father, she tura'd a deaf ear to hini — He might kill her— she didn't mind killing! He was welcome to cut off her other limb — He might cut her all off with a shilling ! All other promised gifts were in vain, Golden Girdle, or Golden Chain, She writhed with impatience more than pain, And utter'd "pshaws! " and "pishes!" But a Leg of Gold as she lay in bed. It danced before her — it ran in her head ! It jump'd with her dearest wishes ! " Gold— gold— gold ! Oh, let it be gold ! " Asleep or awake that tale she told. And when she grew delirious ; Till her parents resolved to grant her wish. If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish, The case was getting so serious. So a Leg was made in a comely mould, Of Gold, fine virgin glittering gold. As solid as man could made it — Solid in foot, and calf, and shank, A prodigious sum of money it sank ; In fact 'twas a Branch of the family Bank, And no easy matter to break it. All sterling metal — not half-and-half, The Goldsmith's mark was stamp'd on the calf — 'Twas pure as from Mexican barter ! And to make it more costly, just over the knee, Where another ligature used to be. Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see, A new-fangled Badge of the Garter ! 'Twas a splendid, brilliant, beautiful Leg, Fit for the Court of Scandcr-Beg, That Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg ! For, thanks to parental bounty, Secure from Mortification's touch, She stood on a Member that cost as much As a Member for all the County! 292 MISS KILMANSEGG Her. Fame. To gratify stern ambition's whims, What hundreds and thousands of precious limbs On a field of battle we scatter ! Sever'd by sword, or bullet, or saw, Off they go, all bleeding and raw, — • But the public seems to get the lock-jaw So little is said on the matter ! Legs, the tightest that ever were seen, ■! The tightest, the lightest, that danced on the green, ■ Cutting capers to sweet Kitty Clover ; Shatter'd, scatter'd, cut, and bowl'd down, Off they go, worse off for renown, A line in the Times, or a talk about town. Than the leg that a fly runs over ! But the Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg, That gowden, goolden, golden leg, Was the theme of all conversation ! Had it been a Pillar of Church and State, Or a prop to support the whole Dead Weight, It could not have furnish'd more debate To the heads and tails of the nation ! East and west, and north and south, Though useless for either hunger or drouth, — The Leg was in everybody's mouth, To use a poetical figure, Rumour, in taking her ravenous swim, Saw, and seized on the tempting limb, Like a shark on the leg of a nigger. Wilful murder fell very dead ; Debates in the House were hardly read ; In vain the Police Reports were fed With Irish riots and rumpuses — The Leg ! the Leg ! was the great event, Through every circle in life it went. Like the leg of a pair of compasses. AIVD HER PRECIOUS LEG. 293 The last new Novel seem'd tame and flat, The Leg, a novelty newer than that, Had tripp'd up the heels of Fiction ! It Burked the very essays of Burke, And, alas ! how Wealth over Wit play's the Turk ! As a regular piece of goldsmith's work. Got the better of Goldsmith's diction. " A leg of gold ! what of solid gold !" Cried rich and poor, and young and old, — And Master and Miss and Madam — 'Twas the talk of 'Change — the Alley — the Bank — And with men of scientific rank. It made as much stir as the fossil shank Of a Lizard coeval with Adam ! Of course with Greenwich and Chelsea elves. Men who had lost a limb themselves. Its interest did not dwindle — But Bill, and Ben, and Jack, and Tom Could hardly have spun more yarns therefrom If the leg had been a spindle. Meanwhile the story went to and fro. Till, gathering like the ball of snow, By the time it got to Stratford-le-Bow, Through Exaggeration's touches. The Heiress and Hope of the Kilmanseggs Was propp'd on tiit, She turn'd, and roU'd, and tumbled and toss'd With a tumult that would not settle : A common case, indeed, with such As have too little, or think too much, Of the precious and glittering metal. Gold ! — she saw at her golden foot The Peer whose tree had an olden root, AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 307 The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot, The handsome, the gay, and the witty — The Man of Science — of Arms — of Art, I'he man who deals but at Pleasure's mart, And the man who deals in the City. Gold, still gold — and true to the mould ! , In the very scheme of her dream it told ; For, by magical transmutation, From her Leg through her body it seem'd to go, Till, gold above, and gold below, She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toe To her organ of Veneration ! And still she retain'd through Fancy's art, The Golden Bow and Golden Dart, ^Yith which she had play'd a Goddess's part, In her recent glorification : And still, like one of the self-same brood. On a Plinth of the self-same metal she stood For the whole world's adoration. And hymns and incense around her roll'd, From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold, — For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroU'd As a horse without a bridle : ^Vhat wonder, then, from all checks exempt. If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamt She was turn'd to a Golden Idol ? Her Courtship. When leaving Eden's happy land The grieving Angel led by the hand Our banish'd Father and Mother, Forgotten amid their a\\ful doom, The tears, the fears, and the future's gloom, On each brow was a wreath of Paradise bloom, That our Parents had twined for each other. It was only while sitting like figures of stone, J^or the grieving angel had skyward flown, 308 MISS KILMANSEGG As they sat, those Two in the world alone, With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven, That scenting the gust of liappier hours. They look'd around for the precious flow'rs, And lo ! — a last relic of Eden's dear bow'rs — The chaplet that Love had woven ! And still, when a pair of Lovers meet. There's a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, That savours still of that happy retreat Where Eve by Adam was courted : Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove, Woo'd their mates in the boughs above. And the Serpent, as yet, only sported. Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A waiTnth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together ? All sweets below, and all sunny above. Oh! there's nothing in life like making love, Save making hay in fine weather! Who hath not found amongst his flow'rs A blossom too bright for this world of ours. Like a rose among snows of Sweden ? But to turn again to Miss Kilmansegg, \\'here must Love have gone to beg, If such a thing as a Golden Leg Had put its foot in Eden ! And yet — to tell the rigid truth— Her favour was sought by Age and Youth — For the prey will find a prowler ! She was follow'd, flatter'd, courted, address'd, Woo'd, and coo'd, and wheedled, and press'd, By suitors from North, South, East, and West, Like that Heiress, in song, Tibbie Fowler ! But, alas ! alas ! for the Woman's fate, Who has from a moli to choose a mate ! i AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 309 'Tis a strange and painful mystery! ])Ut the more the eggs, the worse the hatch ; The more the fish, the worse the catch ; The more the sparks, the worse the match ; Is a fact in Woman's history. C'ive her between a brace to pick, And mayhap, witli luck to help the trick, bhe will take the Faustus, and leave the Old Nick— Eut her future bliss to baffle, Amongst a score let her have a voice, And she'll have as little cause to rejoice, As if she had won the " Man of her choice " In a matrimonial raffle ! Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope, Fulfilling the adage of too much rope, With so ample a competition, She chose the least worthy of all the group, Just as the vulture makes a stoop. And singles out from the herd or troop The beast of the worst condition. A Foreign Count — who came incog., Not under a cloud, but under a fog, In a Calais packet's fore-cabin. To charm some lady British-born, With his eyes as black as the fruit of the thorn. And his hooky nose, and his beard half-shorn, Like a half-converted Rabbin. And because the Se.\ confess a charm In the man who has slash'd a head or arm. Or has been a throat's undoing, 112 was dress'd like one of the glorious trade. At least when Glory is off parade, With a stock, and a frock, well trimm'd with braid And frogs — that went a-wooing. Moreover, as Counts are ajH to do, On the left-hand side of his dark suitout, A/ASS KILMANSEGG At one of those holes that buttons go through, (To be a precise recorder,) A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap. About an inch of ribbon mayhap, That one of his rivals, whimsical chap, Described as his " Retail Order." And then— and much it help'd his chance — He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance, Perform charades, and Proverbs of France — Act the tender, and do the cruel ; For amongst his other killing parts. He had broken a brace of female hearts. And murder'd three men in duel ! Savage at heart, and false of tongue, Subtle with age, and smooth to the young. Like a snake in his coiling and curling — Such was the Count — to give him a niche — Who came to court that Heiress rich. And knelt at her foot — one needn't say which — Besieging her castle of Sterling. With pray'rs and vows he open'd his trench, And plied her with English, Spanish, and French, In phrases the most sentimental : And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch, With now and then an Italian touch, Till she yielded, without resisting much, To homage so continental. And then — the sordid bargain to close — With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose, And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes. And his beard and whiskers as black as those, The lady's consent he requited — And instead of the lock that lovers beg. The count received from Miss Kilmansegg A model, in small, of her Precious leg — And so the couple were plighted ! i AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. But, oh ! the love that gold must crown ! Better — better, the love of the clown, Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown, As if all the fairies had dress'd her ! Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth, Except that he never will part on earth With his true love's crooked tester ! Alas ! for the love that's linked with gold ! Better — better a thousand times told — More honest, happy, and laudable, The do^vnright loving of pretty Cis, Who wipes her lips, though there's nothing amiss. And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss, In which her heart is audible ! Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright. Who loves — as she labours — with all her might, And without any sordid leaven ! Who blushes as red as haws and hips, Down to her very finger-tips, For Roger's blue ribbons — to her, like strips Cut out of the azure of Heaven ! IIer Marriage. 'TWAS morn — a most auspicious one ! From the Golden East, the Golden Sun Came forth his glorious race to run. Through clouds of most splendid tinges ; Clouds that lately slept in shade. But now seem'd made Of gold brocade. With magnificent golden fringes. Gold above, and gold below. The earth reflected the golden glow. From river, and hill, and valley Gilt by the golden light of morn, The Thames — it look'd like the Golden Horn, And the Barge, that carried coal or corn. Like Cleopatra's Galley ! 312 3IISS KILMANSEGG Eright as clusters of Golden-rod, Suburban poplars began to nod, With extempore splendour furnish'd ; While London was bright with glittering clocks, Goldefi dragons, and Golden cocks, And above them all. The dome of St. Paul, With its Golden Cross and its Golden Ball, Shone out as if newly burni^li'd ! And lo ! for Golden Hours and Joys, Troops of glittering Golden Boys Danced along with a jocund noise, And tlieir gilded emblems carried ! In sliort, 'twas the year's most Golden Day, By mortals call'd the First of May, When Miss Kilmansegg, Of the Golden Leg, With a Golden Ring was married ! And thousands of children, women, and men. Counted the clock from eight till ten, From St. James's sonorous steeple ; For next to that interesting job, The hanging of Jack, or Bill, or Bob, There's nothing so draws a London mob As the noosing of very rich people. And a treat it was for the mob to behold The Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold ! And tte Footman tall and the Coachman bold. In liveries so resplendent — Coats you wonder'd to see in place, 'i .hey seem'd so rich with golden lace, That they might have been independent. Coats, that made those menials proud Gaze ^'vith scorn on the dingy crowd. Fro ■ their gilded elevations : Not to 'orget that saucy lad (Ostentation's favourite cad). AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 313 The Page, who look'd so splendidly clad, Like a Page of the "Wealth of Nations." But the Coachman carried off the state, With what was a Lancashire body of late Turn'd into a Dresden Figure ; With a bridal Nosegay of early bloom, About the size of a birchen broom, And so huge a White Favour, had Gog been Groom, He need not have woni a bigger. And then to see the Groom ! the Count ! With Foreign Orders to such an amount, And whiskers so wild — nay, bestial ; He seem'd to have borrow'd the shaggy hair As well as the Stars of the Polar Bear, To make him look celestial ! And then — Great Jove ! — the struggle, the crush, The screams, the heaving, the awful rusli. The swearing, the tearing, the fighting, — • The hats and bonnets smash'd like an egg — To catch a glimpse of the Golden Leg, Vv'hich between the steps and Miss Kilmansegg Was fully display'd in alighting ! From the Golden Ankle up to the Knee There it was for the mob to see ! A shocking act had it chanced to be A crooked leg or a skinny : But although a magnificent veil she wore, Such as never was seen before. In case of blushes, she blush'd no more Than George the First on a guinea ! Another step, and lo ! she was launched ! All in white, as Brides are blaiiched With a wreath of most wonderful splendour — Diamonds, and pearls, so rich in device, That, according to calculation nice, Her head was worth as royal a price, As the head of the Young Pretender. 514 MISS KILMANSEGG Bravely she shone — and shone the more As she sail'd through the crowd of squalid and poor, Thief, beggar, and tatterdemalion — Led by the Count, with his sloe-black eyes Bright with triumph, and some surprise, Like Anson on making sure of his prize The famous Mexican Galleon ! Anon came Lady K., with her face Quite made up to act with grace, But she cut the performance shorter ; For instead of pacing stately and stiff, At the stare of the vulgar she took a miff, And ran, full speed, into Church, as if To get maiTied before her daughter. But Sir Jacob walk'd more slowly, and bow'd Right and left to the gaping crowd, Wherever a glance was seizable : For Sir Jacob thought he bow'd like a Guelph, And therefore bow'd to imp and elf. And would gladly have made a bow to himself, Had such a bow been feasible. And last — and not the least of the sight. Six " Handsome Fortunes," all in white, Came to help in the marriage rite, — And rehearse their o\\-n h}Tnneals ; And then the bright procession to close. They were followed by just as many Beaux Quite fine enough for Ideals. Glittering men, and splendid dames, Thus they enter'd the porch of St. James', Pursued by a thunder of laughter ; For the Beadle was forced to intervene, For Jim the Crow, and his IMayday Queen, With her gilded ladle, and Jack i' the Green, Would fain have follow'd after ! Beadle-like be hush'd the shout ; But the temple was full "iniride and out," AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 315 And a buzz kept buzzing all round about Like bees when the day is sunny — A buzz universal, that interfered With the right that ought to have been revered, As if the couple already were smear'd With Wedlock's treacle and honey ! Yet Wedlock's a veiy awful thing ! 'Tis something like that feat in the ring, Which requires good nerve to do it — When one of a "Grand Equestrian Troop" Makes a jump at a gilded hoop, Not cei'tain at all Of what may befall After his getting through it ! But the count he felt the nervous work No more than any polygamous Turk, Or bold piratical skipper, Who, during his buccaneering search, Would as soon engage a hand in church As a hand on board his clipper ! And how did the Bride perform her part i Like any bride who is cold at heart, Mere snow with the ice's glitter ; What but a life of winter for her I Bright but chilly, alive without stir, So splendidly comfortless, — ^just like a Fir When the frost is severe and bitter. Suc'a were the future man and wife ! Whose bale or bliss to the end of life A few short words were to settle — *' Wilt thou have this woman?" " I will"— and then, "Wilt thou have this man?" "I will," and "Amen"— And those Two were one Flesh, in the Angels' ken. Except one Les; — that was metal. 5i6 AJ/SS KILMANSEGG Then the names were sign'd — and kiss'd the kiss : And the Bride, who came from her coach a Miss, As a Countess walk'd to her carriage— Whilst Hymen preen'd his plumes like a dove, And Cupid flutter'd his wings above, In the shape of a fly — as little a Love As ever look'd in at a marriage ! Another crash — and away they dash'd, And t'..e gilded carriage and footman flasli'd From the eyes of the gaping people — Who tura'd to gaze at the toe-and-heel Of the Golden Boys beginning a reel, To the merry sound of a wedding-peal From St. James's musical steeple. Those wedding-bells ! those wedding-bells ! How sweetly they sound in pastoral dells From a tow'r in an ivy-green jicket ! But town-made joys how dearly they cost ; And after all are tumbled and tost, Like a peal from a London steeple, and lost In town-made riot and racket. The wedding-peal, how sweetly it peals With grass or heather beneath our heels, — For bells are Music's laughter 1 — But a London peal, well mingled, be sure, With vulgar noises and voices impure, — What a harsh and discordant overture To the HaiTOony meant to come after ! But hence with Discord — perchance, too soon To cloud the face of the honeymoon With a dismal occultation ! — Whatever Fate's concerted trick, The Countess and Count, at the present nick, Have a chicken, and not a crow, to pick At a sumptuous Cold Collation. A Breakfast — no unsubstantial mess. But one in the style of Good Queen Bess, AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 317 Who, — hearty as hippocampus, — Broke her fast with ale and beef, Instead of toast and the Chinese leaf, And — in lieu of anchovy — grampus. A breakfast of fowl, and fi.^h, and flesh, WTiatever was sweet, or salt, or fresh ; With wines the most rare and curious — Wines, of the richest flavour and hue ; With fruits from the worlds both Old and New ; And fruits obtain'd before they were due At a discount most usurious. For wealthy palates there be, that scout What is in season, for what is out. And prefer all precocious savour : For instance, early green peas, of the sort That costs some four or five guineas a quart ; Where the Mint is the principal flavour. And many a wealthy man was tliere, Such as the wealthy City could spare, To put in a portly appearance — Men, whom their fathers had help'd to gild : And men, who had had their fortunes to build. And — much to their credit — had richly fill'd Their purses hy pnrsy-verajtce. ]\Ien, by popular rumour at least, Not the last to enjoy a feast ! And truly they were not idle ! Luckier far than the chestnut tits. Which, down at the door, stood champing their bits, At a different sort of bridle. For the time was come — and the whisker'd Count Help'd his Bride in the carriage to mount, And fain Avould the Muse deny it. But the crowd, including two butchers in blue, (The regular killing Whitechapel hue,) Of her Precious Calf had as ample a view ■ As if they had come to buy it ! 3i8 M/SS KILMANSEGG Then away ! away ! with all the speed That golden spurs can give to the steed, — Both Yellow Boys and Guineas, indeed, Concurr'd to urge the cattle — Away they went, with favours white, Yellow jackets, and panels bright. And left the mob, like a mob at night, Agape at the sound of a rattle. Away ! away ! they rattled and roll'd, The Count, and his Bride, and her Leg of Gold- That faded charm to the charmer ! Away, through old Brentford rang the din. Of wheels and heels, on their way to win That hill, named after one of her kin, The Hill of the Golden Farmer ! . Gold, still gold — it flew like dust ! It tipp'd the post-boy, and paid the trust; In each open palm it was freely thrust ; There was nothing but giving and taking ! And if gold could ensure the future hour, What hopes attended that Bride to her bow'r, But alas ! even hearts with a four-horse pow'r Of opulence end in breaking ! Her Honeymoon. The moon — the moon, so silver and cold. Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shady — now bright and sunny — But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange. And takes the most eccentric range Is the moon — so call'd — of honey ! To some a full-grown orb reveal'd, As big and as round as Norval's shield, And as bright as a burner Bude-lighted ; To others as dull, and dingy, and damp, As any oleaginous lamp, Of the regular old parochial stamp, In a London forr benighted. AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 319 To the loving, a bright and constant sphere, That makes earth's commonest things appear All poetic, romantic, and tender: Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump, And investing a common post, or a pump, A currant-bush or a gooseben-y-clump. With a halo of dreamlike splendour. A sphere such as shone from Italian skies. In Juliet's dear, dark liquid eyes, Tipping trees, with its argent braveries — And to couples not favour'd with Fortune's boons One of the most deliglitful of moons, For it brightens their pewter platters and spoons Like a silver service of Savory's ! For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear, And the meanest thing most precious and dear When the magic of love is present : Love, that lends a sweetness and grace, To the humblest spot and the plainest face — That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place, And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant ! Love that sweetens sugarless tea, And makes contentment and joy agree With the coarsest boarding and bedding : Love, that no golden ties can attach. But nestles under the humblest thatcli. And will fly away from an Emperor's match To dance at a Penny Wedding ! Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state, When such a bright Planet governs the fate Of a pair of united lovers ! 'Tis theirs, in spite of the Serpent's hiss, To enjoy the pure primeval kiss. With as much of the old original bliss As mortality ever recovers ! There's strength in double joints, no doubt, Tn double X Ale, and Dublin Stout, 320 jV/SS KTLMANSEGG That the single sorts know nothing about — And the fist is strongest when doubled — And double aqua-fortis of course, And double soda-water, perforce, Are the strongest that ever bubbled ! There's double beauty whenever a Swan Swims on a Lake with a double thereon ; And ask the gardener, Luke or John, Of the beauty of double-blowing — A double dahlia delights the eye ; And it's far the loveliest sight in the sky When a double rainbow is glowing ! There's warmth in a pair of double soles ; As well as a double allowance of coals — In a coat that is double-breasted — In double windows and double doors ; And a double U wind is blest by scores For its warmth to the tender-chested. There's a twofold sweetness in double pipes ; And a double barrel and double snipes Give the sportsman a duplicate pleasure : There's double safety in double locks ; And double letters bring cash for the box ; And all the world knows that double knocks Are gentility's double measure. There's double sweetness in double rhymes. And a double at Whist and a double Times In profit are certainly double — By doubling, the Hare contrives to escape ; And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape, And a double-reef'd topsail in trouble. There's a double chuck at a double chin, And of course there's a double pleasure therein, If the parties were brought to telling : And however our Dennises take offence, A double meaning shows double sense ; AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. And if proverbs tell truth, A double tooth Is Wisdom's adopted dwelling ! But double wisdom, and pleasure, and sense, Beauty, respect, strength, comfort and thence I'hrough whatever the list discovers, They are all in the double blessedness summ'd, Of what was formerly double-drumm'd, The Marriage of two true Lovers ! Now the Kilmansegg Moon, it must be told — ■ Though instead of silver it tipp'd with gold — Shone rather wan, and distant, and cold, And before its days were at thirty, Such gloomy clouds began to collect, With an ominous ring of ill effect, As gave but too much cause to expect Such weather as seamen call dirty ! And yet the moon was the "Young ]\Iay Moon," And the scented hawthorn had blossom'd soon, And the thrush and the blackbird were singing — The snow-white lambs Avere skipping in play, And the bee was humming a tune all day To flowers, as welcome as flowers in IMay, And the trout in the stream was springing !' But what were the hues of the blooming earth, Its scents — its sounds — or the music and mirth Of its furr'd or its feather'd creatures. To a Pair in the world's last sordid stage, Who had never look'd into Nature's page. And had strange ideas of a Golden Age, Without any Arcadian features? Ar.d what were joys of the pastoral kind To a Bride — town-made — with a heart and a mind With simplicity ever at battle ? A bride of an ostentatious race, Who, thrown in the Golden Farmer's place, Would have trimm'd her shepherds with golden lace, And gilt the horns of her cattle. C X MISS KILMANSEGG She could not please the pigs with her whim, And the sheep wouldn't cast their eyes at a limb For which she had been such a martyr : The deer in the park, and the colts at grass, And the cows unheeded let it pass ; And the ass on the common was such an liSo, That he wouldn't have swapp'd The thistle he cropp'd For her Leg, including the Garter ! She hated lanes and she hated fields — She hated all that the country yields — And barely knew turnips from clover ; She hated walking in any shape. And a country stile was an awkward scrape. Without the bribe of a mob to gape At the Leg in clambering over ! O blessed nature, " O rus ! O rus !" Who cannot sigh for the country thus, Absorb'd in a worldly torpor — Who does not yearn for its meadow-sweet breaih, Untainted by care, and crime, and death. And to stand sometimes upon grass or heq^h — That soul, spite of gold, is a pauper I But to hail the pearly advent of morn, And relish the odour fresh from the thorn. She was far too pamper 'd a madam. Or to joy in the daylight waxing strong, While, after ages of sorrow and wrong. The scorn of the proud, the misrule of the strong, And all the woes that to man belong. The Lark still carols the self-same song That he did to the uncurst Adam ! The Lark ! she had given all Leipsic's flocks For a Vauxhall tune in a musical box ; And as for the birds in the thicket. Thrush or ousel in leafy niche. The linnet or finch, she was far too rich To care for a Morning Concert, to which She was welcome without any ticket. AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. Gold, still gold, her standard of old. All pastoral joys were tried by gold, Or by fancies golden and crural — Till ere she had pass'd one week unblest, As her agricultural Uncle's guest. Her mind was ma-de up, and fully imprest. That felicity could not be rural ! And the Count? — to the snow-white lambs at play And all the scents and the sights of May, And the birds that warbled their passion. His ears and dark eyes, and decided nose. Were as deaf and as blind and as dull as those That overlooked the Bouquet de Rose, The Huille Antique, And Parfum Unique, In a Barber's Temple of Fashion. To tell, indeed, the true extent Of his rural bias so far it went As to covet estates in ring fences — And for rural lore he had learn'd in town That the country was green, tnrn'd up witli brown, And garnish'd with trees that a man niij^lit cut dow n Instead of his own expenses. And yet had that fault been his only one, The Pair might have had few quarrels or none. For their tastes thus far were in common ; But faults he had that a haughty bride With a Golden Leg could hardly abide — Faults that would even have roused the pride Of a far less metalsome woman ! It was early days indeed for a wife. In the very spring of her married life, To be chill'd by its wintry weather — But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do. On Hymen's turtles that bill and coo — Enjoying their "moon and honey for two" They were scarcely seen together ! 324 M/SS KILMANSEGG In vain she sat with her Precious Leg A little exposed, a la Kilmansegg, And roU'd her eyes in their sockets ! He left her in spite of her tender regards, And those loving murmurs described by bards, For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards, And the poking of balls into pockets ! Moreover he loved the deepest stake And the heaviest bets the players would make ; And he drank — the reverse of sparely, — And he used strange curses that made her fret ; And when he played with herself at piquet, She found, to her cost, For she always lost, That the Count did not count quite fairly. And then came dark mistrust and doubt, Gather'd by worming his secrets out. And slips in his conversations — Fears, which all her peace destroy'd. That his title was null — his coffers were void — And his French Chateau was in Sj^ain, or enjoy'd The most airy of situations. But still his heart — if he had such a part — ■ She — only she — might possess his heart, And hold his affections in fetters — Alas ! that hope, like a crazy ship. Was forced its anchor and cable to slip When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip In his private papers and letters. Letters that told of dangerous leagues ; And notes that hinted as many intrigues As tlie Count's in the " Barber of Seville " — In short such mysteries came to light, That the Countess-Bride, on the thirtietli niglit. Woke and started up in affright. And kick'd and scream'd with all her might. And finally fainted away outright, For she dreamt she had married the Devil ! AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 325 Her Misery. Who hath not met with home-made bread, A heavy compound of putty and lead — And home-made wines that rack the head, And home-made liqueurs and waters ? Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home, Not to name each mess, For the face or dress, Home-made by the homely daughters ? Home-made physic that sickens the sick j Thick for thin and thin for thick ; In short each homogeneous trick For poisoning domesticity ? And since our Parents, call'd the First, A little family squabble nurst, Of all our evils the worst of the worst Is home-made infelicity. There's a Golden Bird that claps its wings. And dances for joy on its perch, and sings With a Persian exultation : For the Sun is shining into the room. And brightens up the carpet-bloom, As if it were new, bran new, from the loom, Or the lone Nun's fabrication. And thence the glorious radiance flames On pictures in massy gilded frames — Enshrining, however, no painted Dames, But portraits of colts and fillies- Pictures hanging on walls, which shine, In spite of the bard's familiar line. With clusters of " Gilded lilies." And still the flooding sunlight shares Its lustre with gilded sofas and chairs. That shine as if freshly burnish' d — And gilded tables, with glittering stocks I MISS KILMANSEGG Of gilded china, and golden clocks. Toy, and trinket, and musical box, That Peace and Paris have furnish'd. And lo ! with the brightest gleam of all The glowing sunbeam is seen to fall On an object as rare as splendid — The golden foot of the Golden Leg Of the Countess — once Miss Kilmansegg — But there all sunshine is ended. Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim, And downward cast, yet not at the limb, Once the centre of all speculation ; But downward drooping in comfort's dearth, As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth — Wheftce human sorrows derive their birth — By a moral gravitation. Her golden hair is out of its braids, And her sighs betray the gloomy shades That her evil planet revolves in — And tears are falling that catch a gleam So bright as they drop in the sunny beam. That tears of aqua rcgia tliey seem, The water that gold dissolves in ; Yet, not filial grief were shed Those tears for a mother's insanity ; Nor yet because her father was dead. For the bowing Sir Jacob had bow'd his head To Death — with his usual urbanity ; The waters that down her visage rill'd Were drops of unrectified spirit distill'd From the limbeck of Pride and Vanity. Tears that fell alone and uncheckt, Without relief, and without respect, Like the fabled pearls that the pigs neglect, When pigs have that opportunity — ■ And of all the griefs that mortals share. The one that seems the hardest to bear Is the grief without community. ^AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 327 How bless'd the heart that has a friend A sympathising ear to lend To troubles too great to smother ! For as ale and porter, when flat, are restored Till a sparliling bubbling head they aftbrd, So sorrow is cheer'd by being pour'd From one vessel into another. Eut friend or gossip she had not one To hear the vile deeds that the Count had done, How night after night he rambled ; And how she had learnt by sad degrees That he drank, and smoked, and worse than these, That he "swindled, intrigued, and gambled." How he kiss'd the maids, and sparr'd with John ! And came to bed with his garments on ; With other offences as heinous — And brought strange gentlemen home to dine, That he said were in the Fancy Line, And they fancied spirits instead of wine, And call'd her lap-dog " Wenus." Of "making a book " how he made a stir But never had written a line to her, Once his idol and Cara Sposa ; And how he had storm'd, and treated her ill, Because she refused to go down to a mill. She didn't know where, but remember'd still That the Miller's name was Mendoza. How often he waked her up at night, And oftener still by the morning light. Reeling home from his haunts unlawful; Singing songs that shouldn't be sung. Except by beggars and thieves unhung — Or volleying oaths that a foreign tongue Made still more horrid and awful ! How oft, instead of otto of rose, With vulgar smells he offended her nose. From gin, tobacco, and onion ! And then how wildly he used to stare ! And shake his fist at nothing, and swear, — 328 M/SS KILMANSEGG And pluck by the handful his shagjy hair, Till he look'd like a study of Giant Despair For a new Edition of Bunyan ! For dice will run the contrary way, As well is known to all who play, And cards will conspire as in treason , And what with keeping a hunting-box, Following fox — Friends in flocks. Burgundies, Hocks, From London Docks; Stultz's frocks, Manton and Nock's Barrels and locks, Shooting blue rocks. Trainers and jocks. Buskins and socks, Pugilistical knocks. And fighting cocks, If he found himself short in funds and stocks These rhymes will furnish the reason ! His friends, indeed, were falling away — Friends wlio insist on play or pay — And he fear'd at no very distant day To be cut by Lord and by cadger, As one, who has gone, or is going, to smash. For his checks no longer drew the cash, Because, as his comrades explain'd in flash, •' He had overdrawn his badger." Cold, gold — alas ! for the gold Spent where souls are bought and sold, In Vice's Walpurgis revel ! Alas ! for muffles, and bulldogs, and guns, The leg that walks, and the leg that runs, — All real evils, though Fancy ones, When they lead to debt, dishonour, and duns. Nay, to death, and perchance the devil ! Alas ! for the last of a Golden race ! Had she cried her wrongs in the market-place, 1 AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 329 She had warrant for all her clamour — For the worst of rogues, and brutes, and rakes, Was breaking her heart by constant aches, With as little remorse as the Pauper, who breaks A flint with a parish hammer ! Her Last Will, Nov; the Precious Leg while cash was flush, Or the Count's acceptance worth a rush, Had never excited dissension ; But no sooner the stocks began to fall, Than, without any ossification at all, The limb became what people call A perfect bone of contention. For alter'd days brought alter'd ways, And instead of the complimentary phrase. So current before her bridal — The Countess heard, in language low, That her Precious Leg was precious slow, A good 'un to look at but bad to go. And kept quite a sum lying idle. That instead of playing musical airs. Like Colin's foot in going up-stairs — As the wife in the Scottish ballad declares — It made an infernal stumping. Whereas a member of cork, or wood, Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good, Without the unbearable thumping. P'rhaps she thought it a decent thing To show her calf to cobbler and king, But nothing could be absurd er — While none but the crazy would advertise Their gold before their servants' eyes. Who of course some night would make it a prize. By a Shocking and Barbarous Murder. But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff, The Leg kept its situation. 33° MISS KILMANSEGG For legs are not to be taken off, By a verbal amputation. And mortals when they take a whim, The greater the folly the stiffer the limb That stand upon it or by it — So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg, At her marriage refused to stir a peg, Till the Lawyers had fasten'd on her Leg As fast as the Law could tie it. Firmly then — and more firmly yet — With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat. The Proud One confronted the Cruel : And loud and bitter the quarrel arose Fierce and merciless — -one of those, With spoken daggers, and looks like blows. In all but the bloodshed a duel ! Rash, and wild, and wretched, and wrong. Were the works that came from Weak and Strong Till madden'd for desperate matters, Fierce as tigress escaped from her den. She flew to her desk — 'twas open'd — and then. In the time it takes to try a pen. Or the clerk to utter his slow Amen, Her Will was in fifty tatters ! But tlie Count, instead of curses wild. Only nodded his head and smiled. As if at the spleen of an angry cliild ; But the calm was deceitful and sinister ! A lull like the lull of the treacherous ?ea — For Hate in that moment had sworn to be The Golden Leg's sole Legatee, And that very night to administer ! Her Death. 'Tis a stern and startling thing to think How often mortality stands on the brink Of its grave without any misgiving ; And yet in this slippery world of strife. AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 331 In the stir of human bustle so rife, There are daily sounds to tell us that Life Is dying, and Death is living ! Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy, Bright as they are with hope and joy. How their souls would sadden instanter, To remember that one of those wedding bells, Which ring so merrily through the dells, Is the same that knells Our last farewells. Only broken into a canter ! But breath and blood set doom at nought — How little the wretched Countess thought, When at night she unloosed her sandal. That the Fates had woven her burial-cloth, And that Death, in the shape of a Death's Head Moth, Was fluttering round her candle ! As she look'd at her clock of or-molu, For the hours she had gone so wearily through, At the end of a day of trial- — How little she saw in her pride of prime The dart of Death in the Hand of Time — • That hand which moved on the dial ! As she went with her taper up the stair. How little her swollen eye was aware That the Shadow which follow'd was double ! Or when she closed her chamber door. It was shutting out, and for evermore. The world — and its worldly trouble. IJttle she dreamt, as she laid aside Her jewels — after one glance of pride — They were solemn bequests to Vanity — Or when her robes she began to doft. That she stood so near to the putting oflF Of the flesh that clothes humanity. And when she quench'd the taper's light, I low little she thought as the smoke took flight, MISS KILMANSEGG That her day was done — and merged in a night Of dreams and duration uncertain — Or along with her own, That a Hand of Bone \Vas closing mortality's curtain ! But life is sweet, and mortality blind, And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind In concealing the day of soitow ; And enough is the present tense of toil — For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil— And the mind flies back with a glad recoil From the debts not due till to-morrow. Wherefore else does the Spirit fly And bid its daily cares good-bye. Along with its daily clothing ? Just as the felon condemn'd to die — With a very natural loathing — Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes, From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes To a caper on sunny gleams and slopes, Instead of the dance upon nothing. Thus, even thus, the Countess slept, While Death still nearer and nearer crept. Like the Thane who smote the sleeping — But her mind was busy with early joys. Her golden treasures and golden toys : That flash'd a bright And golden light Under lids still red with weeping. The golden doll that she used to hug ! Her coral of gold, and the golden mug ! Her godfather's golden presents ! The golden service she had at her meals. The golden watch, and chain, and seals. Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels, And her golden fishes and pheasants ! The golden guineas in silken purse — And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse AND HER PRECIOUS LEG. 333 Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage — And London streets that were paved with gold — And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old — With each golden thing To the golden ring At her own auriferous Marriage ? And still the golden light of the sun TlTTOugh her golden dreams appear'd to run, Though the night, that roared without, was one To terrify seamen or gipsies — While the moon, as if in malicious mirth. Kept peeping down at the ruffled eartli, As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth, In revenge of her old eclipses, Eut vainly, vainly, the thunder fell, For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell That time had lately embitter' d — The Count, as once at her foot he knelt — That foot, which now he wanted to melt ! But — hush ! — 'twas a stir at her pillow she felt — And some object before her glitter'd. 'Twas the Golden Leg ! — she knew its gleam ! And up she started and tried to scream, — But ev'n in the moment she started — Down came the limb with a frightful smasli, And lost, in the universal flash That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash, The Spark, call'd Vital, departed ! ***** Gold, still gold ! hard, ho'-d yellow, and cold, For gold she had lived, and she died for gold — ■ By a golden weapon — not oaken ; In the morning they found her all alone — Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone — But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone, And the " Golden Bowl was broken !" Gold— still gold ! it haunted her yet — At the Golden Lion the Inquest met — 334 JOHN TROT. Its foreman a carver and gilder — And the Jury debated from twelve till three What the Verdict ought to be. And they brought it in as Felo de Se, *' Because her own Leg had kill'd lier !" Her Moral. Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammer'd and roll'd ; Heavy to get, and light to hold ; Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled: Spum'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould ; Price of many a crime untold ; Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Good or bad a thousand-fold ! How widely its agencies vary — To save — to ruin — to curse — to bless — As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd by the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary. JOHN TROT. A BALLAD. OHN TROT he was as tal! a lad As York did ever rear — As his dear Granny used to say, He'd make a grenadier n. A Serjeant soon came down to York, With ribbons and a frill ; My lads, said he, let broadcast be, And come away to drill. HIC.H AND LOW BOKN. ''\^ THE widow's mite. JOHN TROT. 335 But when he wanted John to 'list. In war he saw no fun, Where what is call'd a raw recruit, Gets often over-done. Let others carry guns, said he. And go to war's alarms, But I have got a shoulder-knot Impos'd upon my arms. , For John he had a footman's place To wait on Lady Wye — She was a dumpy woman, tho' Her family was high. VI. Now when two years had past away. Her Lord took very ill, • And left her to her widowhood, Of course more dumpy still. VII. Said John, I am a proper man. And very tall to see ; Who knows, but now her Lord is low, She may look up to me ? VIII. A cunning woman told me once, Such fortune would turn up ; She was a kind of sorceress, But studied in a cup ! So he walk'd up to Lady Wye, And took her quite amazed, — She thought, tho' John was tall enough, He wanted to be raised. 336 JOHN TROT. X. Eut John — for why ? she was a dame Of such a dwarfish sort — Had only come to bid her make Her mourning very short. xr. Said he, your Lord is dead and cold, You only cry in vain ; Not all the Cries of London now, Could call him back a^ain ! You'll soon have many a noble beau, To dry your noble tears — But just consider this, that I Have follow'd you for years. And tho' you are above me far, What matters high degree, When you are only four feet nine And I am six foot three. For tho' you are of lofty race. And I'm a low-born elf; Yet none among your friends could say_ You matched beneath yourself. XV. Said she, such insolence as this Can be no common case ; Though you are in my service, sir. Your love is out of place. O Lady Wye ! O Lady Wye ! Consider what you do ; How can you be so short with lae, I am not so with you ? THE WIDOW. 337 Then ringing for her serving men, They show'd him to the door : Said they, you turn out better now, Why didn't you before ? They stripp'd his coat, and gave him kicks For all his wages due ; And off, instead of green and gold, He went in black and blue. No family would take him in, Because of this discharge ; So he made up his mind to serve The country all at large. Huzza ! the Serjeant cried, and put The money in his hand, And with a shilling cut him off From his paternal land. For when his regiment went to fight At Saragossa town, A Frenchman thought he look'd too tall And so he cut him down ! THE WIDOW. NE widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh ! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by. If three should come togetlier — why, Three widows are good company ! If four should meet by any chance. C. 33S THE WIDOW. Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice — But five will up and have a dance ! Toor Mrs. C (why should I not Declare her name ! — her name was Cross) Was one of those the " common lot " Had left to weep " no common loss j " — • For she had lately buried then A man, the "very best of men," A lingering truth, discover'd first Whenever men "are at the worst." To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep — I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did not weep : In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect "veil of tears." Though ever since she lost " her prop And stay," — alas ! he wouldn't stay — She never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop, From Passion's eye, as Moore would say; Because, when Mister Cross took flight. It looked so very like a spite — He died upon a washing-day ! Still Widow Cross went twice a week, .J|| As if " to wet a widow's cheek," ' And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy, — 'Twas nothing but a make-believe. She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy ; And yet she often seem'd to raise A cambric kerchief to her eye — A duster ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry. The springs were lock'd that ought to flow — In England or in widow-woman — • >j| As those that watch the weather know. Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon. THE WIDOW. 339 But why did Widow Cross take pains, To call upon the "dear remains," — Remains that could not tell a jot, Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses ? Oh ! my black ink turns red for shame — But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn," At the next grave to Mr. Cross's ! For there an angel's virtues slept, "Too soon did Heaven assert its claim !" But still her painted face he kept, "Encompass'd in an angel's frame." He look'd quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band ; He look'd so lone, and so z^wwived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even that band ; And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out thro' son^ow's sluices — Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again — No leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main ! Whoe'er has watch'd the window-pane — I mean to say in showery weather — Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain. At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together : So far'd it with that couple's weeping ! The principle was quite as active — Tear unto tear. Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive. To cut a f.hortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting tete a tete — Two cups, — hot muffins on a plate, — With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water ! 340 THE WIDOW. The brazen vessel for a while, Had lectured in an easy song, Like Abernethy — on the bile — The scalded herb was getting strong ; All seem'd as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cosey cup of tea ; Alas ! how often human sippers With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers ! The Widow Cross, I should have told. Had seen three husbands to the mould ; She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves, But with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with "three removes :" Thus, when with any tender words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed, Mr. Cross, Came in for nothing but his thirds ; For, as all widows love too well. She liked upon the list to dwell. And oft ripp'd up the old disasters — She might, indeed, have been supposed A great ship owner, for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters ! Thus, foolish woman ! while she nursed Her mild souchong, she talk'd and reckon'd What had been left her by her first. And by her last, and by her second. Alas ! not all her annual rents Could then entice the little German, — Not Mr. Cross's Three Per Cents, Or Consols, ever make him her man ; He liked her cash, he liked her houses, But not that dismal bit of land She always settled on her spouses. So taking up his hat and band. Said he " You'll thmk my conduct odd— "DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?'' 341 But here my hopes no more may linger ; I thought you had a wedding-finger, But oh ! — it is a curtain-rod !" "DON'T YOU SJIELL FIRE?" I. flUN I — run for St. Clement's engine ! For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, And the pledges are frying and singing — Oh ! how the poor pawners will craze 1 Now where can the turncock be drinking ? Was there ever so thirsty an elf? — But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking That the plugs are as dry as himself. II. The engines ! — T hear them come rumbling ; There's the Phoenix ! the Globe ! and the Sun ! What a row there will be, and a grumbling When the water don't start for a run ! See ! there they come racing and tearing, All the street with loud voices is fiU'd ; Oh ! its only the firemen a-swearing A.t a man they've run over and kill'd ! How sweetly the sparks fly away now. And twinkle like stars in the sky ; It's a wonder the engines don't play now, But I never saw water so shy ! Why there isn't enough for a snipe, And the fire is fiercer, alas ! Oh ! instead of the New River pipe, They have gone — that they have — to the gas ! Only look at the poor little P 's On the roof — is there anything sadder? 342 ''DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?'' *-My dears, keep fast hold, if you please. And they won't be an hour with the ladder 1 But if any one's hot in their feet, And in very great haste to be saved. Here's a nice easy bit in the street, That M'Adam has lately unpaved ! There is some one — I see a dark shape At that window, the hottest of all, — My good woman, why don't you escape ? Never think of your bonnet and shawl : If your dress isn't perfect, what is it For once in a way to your hurt ? When your husband is paying a visit There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt ! Only see how she throws out her chaney! Her basons, and teapots, and all The most brittle of her goods — or any, But they all break in breaking their fall : Such things are not surely the best From a two-story window to throw — She might save a good iron-bound chest, For there's plenty of people below ! VII. O dear ! what a beautifid flash ! How it shone thro' the window and door ; ^Ye shall soon hear a scream and a crash , "When the woman falls thro' with the floor ! There ! there ! what a volley of flame. And then suddenly all is obscured ! — Well — I'm glad in my heart that I came ; — But I hope the poor man is insured ! I A IIAKD HOB. 1 :ilianL|i^ "does your mother know vou'ke olt?' THE WEE MAN. 343 THE WEE MAN. A ROMANCE. T was a merry company, And they were just afloat, When lo I a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hail'd tlie boat. "Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in ? — A slender space will serve my case. For I am small and thin." They saw he was a dwarfish man, And very small and thin ; Not seven such would matter much, And so they took him in. They laugh'd to see his little hat. With such a narrow brim ; They laugh'd to note his dapper coat With skirts so scant and trim. But barely had they gone a mile. When, gravely, one and all, At once began to think the man Was not so very small. His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim. His leg gi-ew stout, and soon plump'd out A very proper limb. Still on they went, and as they went. More rough the billows grew, — And rose and fell, a greater swell. And he was swellincr too ! And lo ! where room had been for seven. For six there scarce was space ! For five ! — for four ! — for three !— not more Tlian two could find a place \ 344 ''THE LAST MAN." There was not even room for one ! They crowded by degrees — Aye — closer yet, till elbows met, And knees were jogging knees. " Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, The wave will else come in ! " Without a word he gravely stirr'd, Another seat to win. " Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee ! " With smiling face, and courteous grace. The middle seat took he. But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide. Each neighbour wight, to left and right. Was thrust against the side. Lord ! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in ; To see him grow so monstrous now. That came so small and thin. On every brow a dew-drop stood, They grew so scared and hot, — " I' the name of all that's great and tall. Who are ye, sir, and what ? " Loud laiigh'd the Gogmagog, a laugh As loud as giant's roar — " When first I came, my proper name Was Little — now I'm Moore! " "THE LAST MAN." WAS in tlie year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree all alone, A-chanting a merry lay, — " THE LAST MAN." 345 To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day ! When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags : It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags : — So up he came to the timbers' foot And pitch'd down his greasy bags. — Good Lord ! how blithe the old beggar was ! At pulling out his scraps,— The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : "Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps ! '' Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood ; But I wished myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar's food, A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ; " Oh! " quoth he, " the heavens are good ! " Then after this grace he cast him down : Says I, "You'll get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side," For the felons' bones lay there. But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls. And offered them part of his fare. "I never harm'd t/iein, and they won't harm me: Let the proud and the rich be cravens! " I did not like that strange beggar man. He look'd so up at the heavens. Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; "There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens! " It made me angry to see his face. It had such a jesting look ; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took ; 346 ''THE LAST MAN:' Quoth he, "though I gather the green water-cress My drink is not of the brook! " Full manners-like he tender'd the dram ; Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, " Your leave, good Sir, I must ask ; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask ! " And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath ; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish'd I had buried the dead men's b jnes That were lying about the heath ! But the beggar gave me a jolly clap — " Come, let us pledge each other. For all the wide world is dead beside, And we are brother and brother — I've a yea.ming for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother. " I've a yearning for thee in my heart That almost makes me weep. For as I pass'd from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep, — But when I saw thee sitting aloft. It made me both laugh and leap !" Kow a curse (I thought) be on his love. And a curse upon his mirth, — An' it were not for that beggar man I'd be the King of the earth, — But I promis'd myself an hour should come To make him me his birth — So down we sat and bous'd again Till the sun was in mid-sky, When, just as the gentle west-wind came, We hearken'd a dismal cry ; " THE LAST MAN." 347 " Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, " Till these horrible dogs go by ! " And, lo ! from the forest's far off skirts. They came all yelling for gore, A hundred hounds pursuing at once, And a panting hart before. Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot, And there his haunches they tore ! His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done ; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun! — I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one ! And with curses sore he chid at the hounds. Till the last dropt out of sight, Anon, saith he, " let's down again, And ramble for our delight. For the world's all free, and we may choose A right cozie barn for to-night ! " With that, he set up his staff on end. And it fell with the point due West; So we far'd that way to a city great. Where the folks had died of the pest — It was fine to enter in house and hall. Wherever it liked me best ; For the porters all were stiff and cold, And could not lift their heads ; And when we came where their masters lay, The rats leapt out of the beds ; The grandest palaces in the land Were as free as workhouse sheds. But the beggar man made a mumping face. And knock'd at every gate : It made me curse to hear how he whin'd, So our fellowship turn'd to hate, 548 " THE LAST MAA'." And I bade him walk the world by himself, For I scorn'd so humble a mate ! So /le turn'd right and / turn'd left, As if we had never met ; And I chose a fair stone house for myself, For the city was all to let ; And for three brave holydays drank my fill Of the choicest that I could get. And because my jerkin was coarse and worn, I got me a properer vest ; It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, And a shining star at the breast ! — 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave To see me so purely drest ! — But Joan was dead and under the mould. And every buxom lass ; In vain I watch'd, at the window pane, For a Christian soul to pass ! But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, And browz'd on the new-come grass. — When lo ! I spied the old beggar man. And lustily he did sing! — His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, And a crown he had like a King ; So he stept right up before my gate And danc'd me a saucy fling! Heaven mend us all I — but, within my mind, I had kill'd him then and there ; To see him lording so braggart-like That was bom to his beggar's fare ; And how he had stol'n the royal crown His betters were meant to wear. But God forbid that a thief should die Without his share of the laws ! So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, And soon tied up his claws, — " THE LAST MAN." 349 I was judge myself, and jury, and all, And solemnly tried the cause. But the beggar man would not plead, but cried Like a babe without its corals. For he knew how hard it is apt to go. When the law and a thief have quarrels, — There was not a Christian soul alive To speak a word for his morals. Oh, how gaily I doff 'd my costly gear, And put on my woik-day clothes; I was tired of such a long Sunday life, — And never was one of the sloths ; But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, And made many crooked mouths. So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot, And blinded him in his bags ; 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, For a doom'd man always lags ; But by ten of the clock he was off his legs In the wind, and airing his rags ! So there he hung, and there I stood, The LAST MAN left alive, To have my own will of all the earth: Quoth I, now I shall thrive ! But when was ever honey made With one bee in a hive ! My conscience began to gnaw my heart, Before the day was done, For other men's lives had all gone out, Like candles in the sun! — But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, A thousand necks in one ! So I went and cut his body down To bury it decentlie ; God send there were any good soul alive To do the like by me ! 3SO " THE LAST MAN." But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, And bay'd me up the tree ! My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean brim ; — But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim ! Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord ! But the beggar man, where was he ? — There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags Below the gallow's tree!— I know the Devil, when I am dead. Will send his hounds for me ! — I've buried my babies one by one. And dug the deep hole for Joan, And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone ! For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger him beguil'd ; But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child ! And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, At night to make me madder, — And my wretched conscience within my breast. Is like a stinging adder : — I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, And look at the rope and ladder t — For hanging looks sweet, — but alas ! in vain My desperate fancy begs, — I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, And drink it to the dregs, — BACKING THE FAVOURITE. 351 For there's not another man alive, In the world, to pull my legs ! BACKING THE FAVOURITE. s|]H a pistol, or a knife ! For I'm weary of my life, — My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it; My estate is out at nurse, And my heart is like my purse — And all through backing of the Favourite ! At dear O'Neil's first start, I sported all my heart, — Oh, Becher, he never marr'd a braver hit ! For he cross'd her in her race, And made her lose her place, And there was an end of that Favourite ! Anon, to mend my chance, For the Goddess of the Dance ^ I pin'd and told my enslaver it ; But she wedded in a canter. And made me a Levanter, In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite ! Then next Miss M. A. Tree I adored, so sweetly she Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it ; But she left that course of life To be Mr. Bradshaw's wife, And all the world lost on the Favourite ! But out of sorrow's surf Soon I leap'd upon the turf. Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it ; * The late favourite of the King's Theatre, who left the pas seul of life, for a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne about by the Italian image vendors — an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands above her head — and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot? 352 SALLY BROWN. But standing on the pet, " Oh my bonny, bonny Bet ! " Black and yellow puU'd short up with the Favourite ! Thus flung by all the crack, I resolved to cut the pack, — The second-raters seem'd then a safer hit ! So I laid my little odds Against Memnon ! Oh, ye Gods ! Am I always to be floored by the Favourite ! THE BALLAD OF "SALLY BROWN AND BEN THE CARPENTER." I HAVE never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an enviable renown — and Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug genteel popularity. " Sally Brown" has been favoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been of so select a class as the friends of " Hohenlinden." But I do not desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal Benefit at Covert Garden ; — and, ever since, it has been a great favourite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherr>'-men of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the watetmen, it went naturally to Vauxhall : — and, over land, to Sadler's Wells. The Guards, not the mail coach, but the Life Guards,— picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others — all going to one air — against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane, and Cowcross, (all pirates I) disputed about the Copyright, and published their own editions, — and, in the meantime, the Authors, to have made bread of their song, (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient case !' must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of Literature! the profits of "Sally Brown" were divided by the Ballad ]\Iongers : — it has cost, but has never brought me, a half-penny. FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. AN OLD BALLAD. IiOUNG BEN he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade ; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew ; And Sally she did faint away, While Ben he was brought to. SALLY BROWN'. 353 III. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. IV. " Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me ; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." V. So when they'd made their game of her. And taken off her elf. She rous'd, and found she only was A coming to herself. *' And is he gone, and is he gone ?" She cried, and wept outright : " Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight."' VII. A waterman came up to her, — " Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye- water in the sea." VIII. ",Alas ! they've taken my beau Ben To sail with old Benbow ;'' And her woe began to run afresh. As if she'd said, Gee woe ! Says he, "They've only taken liiiu To the Tender-ship, you see ;" C. 3';4 SALLY BROWN. "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, "What a hard-ship that must be ! X. " Oh ! would I were a mermaid now. For then I'd follow him ; But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim. XI. "Alas ! I was not born beneath The virfrin and the scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales." XII. Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That's underneath the world ; But in two years the ship came home And all her sails were furl'd. XIII. But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she'd got another Ben, W' hose Christian-name was John. XIV. " O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, How could you serve me so ? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow !" Then rending on his 'bacco box, He heav'd a bitter sigh, Auil then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. XVI. And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not though he tried ; LOVE. 355 His head was lurn'd and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died. His death, M'hich happen'd in his birth, At forty-odd befell : They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the beU. LOVE. i]LOVE ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, Tmmping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ; A player, masquerading many parts In life's odd carnival ; — a boy that shoots. From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; A gardener pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ; The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real — A marriageable maiden's "beau ideal." O T>ove ! what art thou. Love ? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school ; A melancholy man, cross-gartering ? Grave ripe-fac'd wisdom made an April fool ? A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring ? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? O Love ! what art thou, Love ? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart — like mine — A poor bewilder'd maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters — fell design ! A poet, gone unreasonably mad, Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ? O Love I — but whither, now ? forgive me, pray ; I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. 355 A FAIRY 7 ALE. AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. II ! what's befallen Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street , Che's let her pitcher tumble down, And all the M-ater's at her feet ! The little school-boj'S stood about, And laughed to see her pumping, pumping : Now with a curtsey to the spout. And then upon her tiptoes jumping. Long time she waited for her neighbours, To have their turns :— but she must lose The wateiy wages of her labours, — Except a little in her shoes ! Without a voice to tell her tale, And ugly transport in her face ; All like a jugless nightingale, She thinks of her bereaved case. At last she sobs — she cries — she screams ! — And pours her flood of sorrows out, From eyes and moudi, in mingled streams, Just like the lion on the spout. For well poor Bessy knows her mother Must lose her tea, for water's lack. That Sukey bums — and baby-brother Ivluit be dry-rubb'd vritli huck-a-back ! A FAIRY TALE. X Hounslow heath — and close beside the road. As western travellers may oft have seen, — A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode ; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood : The walls of while, the window shutters green ; — A FAIRY TALE. 357 Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, (The' now at rest) On which it used to wander to and fro', Because its master ne'er maintain'd a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row ; But made his business travel for itself. Till he had made his pelf. And then retired — if one may call it so, Of a roadsider. Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan ; Perchance, he lov'd tlie ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnish'd, by his toil. Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ; — And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower : Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow'r ! But tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come, — when they had seen them one day ! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches. And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday: — So, having had some quarters of school breeding, They turn'd themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripen'd in the seventh stage. The childhood of old age. Began, as other children have begun, — Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, — But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax'd themselves with Whitlinglon, Or Valentine and Orson — But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con. 358 A FAIRY TALE. And being easily melted in their dotage, Slobber'd, — and kept Reading, — and wept Over the white Cat, in their wooden cottage. Thus reading on — the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, — If talking Trees and Birds reveal'd to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons, And magic-fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons. — Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When, as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and-parlour door, A hideous roar Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the v/ay. Long-horn'd, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed ; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From neither side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth ; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, — With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, — When, — whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment, — However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kick'd out a passage thro' the beastly rabble ; And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a Hornpipe before the Basket-maker's villa. Leapt o'er the tiny pale, — Back'd his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail A FAIRY TALE. 359 Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not penise, — who could? — two tales at once ; And being huff'd At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, Bang'd-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : — The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed, increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more. And, like Macheath, ' ' took to the road " again ! Jiist then, by fortune's whimsical decree. The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper ; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach ; — what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail. Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd a cornei", quite Gone out of sight ! At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing ; And looking round Where rest was to be found. There was no house — no villa there — no nothing J No house ! The change was quite amazing ; It made her senses stagger for a minute. The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; But soon her superannuated nous Explained the horrid mystery ; — and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, 36o THE FALL OF THE DEER. On which she meant to sup, — " Well ! this is Fairy Work ! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden ! " THE FALL OF THE DEER. [from an old MS.] I OW the loud Crye is up, and harke! The barkye Trees give back the Bark ; The House Wife heares the merrie rout, And runnes, — and lets the beere run out, Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for why? She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye, And see the wild Stag how he stretches The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, Running like one of Human kind Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind — As if he had not payde his Bill For Ven'son, or was owing still For his two Homes, and soe did get Over his Head and Ears in Debt ; — Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye W^ith his long Legges the while he maye : — But he is chased, like Silver Dish, As well as anye Hart may wish Except that one whose Heart doth beat So faste it hasteneth his feet ; — And runninge soe, he holdeth Death Four Feet from him, — till his Breath Faileth, and slacking Pace at last, From runninge slow he standeth faste, With hornie Bayonettes at baye. To Baying Dogges around, and they Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore. And goreth them that seeke his Gore, Whatever Dogge his Home doth rive Is dead — as sure as he's alive ! Soe that courageous Hart doth fight TIM TURPIN. 361 With Fate, and calleth up his might, And standeth stout that he maye fall Bravelye, and be avenged of all, Nor like a craven yeeld his Breath Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death ! TIM TURPIN", A PATHETIC BALLAD. YSl TURPIN he was gravel blind. And ne'er had seen the skies : For Nature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes. So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forced to do — Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two. in. There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small : But Tim had specs within his eyes, And could not see at all. Now Tim he woo'd a servant maid, And took her to his arms ; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms. V. By day she led him up and down Where'er he wish'd to jog, A happy wife, altho' she led The life of any dog. But just when Tim had liv'd a month In honey with his wife, 362 TIM TURPIiV. A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife. vir. But when his eyes were open'd thus, He wish'd them dark again : For when he look'd upon his wife, He saw her very plain. VIII. Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn't bear to eat : For she was any thing but like A Grace before his meat. IX, Now Tim he was a feeling man : For when his sight was thick. It made him feel for everything— But that was with a stick. X. So with a cudgel in his hand- It was not light or slim — He luiock'd at his wife's head until It open'd unto him. XI. And when the corpse was stiff and cold He took his slaughter'd spouse. And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house. XII. But like a wicked murderer, He liv'd in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear. XIII. The neighbours fetch'd a doctor in: Said he, this wound I dread TIM' TURPIN. 363 Can hardly be sew'd up — his life Is hanging on a thread. XIV. But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope — Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope. XV. Ah ! when he hid his bloody v,-ork. In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out. XVI. But when the parish dustman came. His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap, Than he contracted for ! XVII. A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day ; But tho' they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they. XVI II. Said Tim unto those jurymen. You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once, The author of her death. XIX. And oh! when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscrib'd with double guilt! XX. Then turning round his head again. He saw before his eyes, A great judge, and a little judge. The judges of a-size ! 3^4 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. The great judge took his judgment cap, And put it on liis head, And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, Till he was three times dead. XXII. So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit pimishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say It was a drop too much. THE MONKEY-MARTYR. A FABLE. " God help thee, said I, but I'll let thee out. cost what it will : so I turned about the cage to get to the door." — Sterne. IS strange, what awkward figures and odd capers Folks cut, who seek their doctrine from the papers ; But there are many shallow politicians. Who take their bias from bewilder'd journals, — Turn state physicians. And make themselves fools'-caps of the diurnals. One of this kind, not human, but a monkey, Had read himself at last to this sour creed — That he was nothing but Oppression's flunkey. And man a tyrant over all his breed. He could not read. Of niggers whipt, or over-trampled weavers. But he applied their wrongs to his own seed, And nourish'd thoughts that threw him into fevers ; His very dreams were full of martial beavers, And drilling Pugs, for liberty pugnacious, To sever chains vexatious : In fact, he thought that all his injur'd line Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'em THE MONKEY-MAKTYR. 365 Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrine, — Unless perchance the turnpike men should stop 'em. Full of this rancour, Pacing one day beside St. Clement Danes, It came into his brains To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor ; Where certain solemn sages of the nation Were at that moment in deliberation How to relieve the wide world of its chains, Pluck despots down, And thereby crown Whitee- as well as blackee-man-cipation. Pug heard the speeches with great approbation. And gaz'd with pride upon the Liberators j To see mere coal-heavers Such perfect Bolivars — Waiters of inns sublim'd to innovators, And slaters dignified as legislators — Small publicans demanding (such their high sense Of liberty) an universal license — And pattern-makers easing Freedom's clogs — The whole thing seem'd So fine, he deem'd The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs ! Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, W'alk'd out at last, and turn'd into the Strand, To the left hand, Conning some portions of the previous twaddle. And striding with a step that seem'd design'd To represent the mighty March of Mind, Instead of that slow waddle Of thought, to which our ancestors inclin'd — No wonder, then, that he should quickly find He stood in front of that intrusive pile, Where Cross keeps many a kind Of bird confin'd, And free-born animal, in durance vile — A thought that stirr'd up all the monkey-bile ! 366 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. The window stood ajar — It was not far, Nor, like Parnassus, veiy hard to climb — The hour was verging on the supper-time, And many a growl was sent through many a bar. Meanwhile Pug scrambled upward like a tar, And soon crept in, Unnotic'd in the din Of tuneless throats, that made the attics ring With all the harshest notes that they could bring ; For like the Jews, Wild beasts refuse, In midst of their captivity — to sing. Lord ! how it made him chafe, Full of his new emancipating zeal. To look around upon this brute-bastille, And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! The desert's denizen in one small den, Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — A bear in bars unbearable. And then The fretful porcupine, with all its quills Imprison'd in a pen ! A tiger limited to four feet ten ; And, still worse lot, A leopard lo one spot ! An elephant enlarg'd. But not discharg'd ; (It was before the elephant was shot ;) A doleful wanderoo, that wander'd not ; An ounce much disproportion'd to his pound. Pug's wrath wax'd hot To gaze upon these captive creature's round ; Whose claws — all scratching — gave him full assurance They found their durance vile of vile endurance. He went above — a solitary mounter Up gloomy stairs — and saw a pensive group Of hapless fowls- Cranes, vultures, owls, THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 367 In fact, it was a sort of Poultry-Compter, \Miere feather'd prisoners were doom'd to droop : Here sat an eagle, forc'd to make a stoop, Not from the skies, but his impending roof; And there aloof, A pining ostrich, moping in a coop ; AVith other samples of the bird creation, All cag'd against their powers and their wills. And cramp'd in such a space, the longest bills Were plainly bills of least accommodation. In truth, it was a very ugly scene To fall to any liberator's share, To see those winged fowls, that once had been Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air. His temper little mended, Pug from this Bird-cage Walk at last descended Unto the lion and the elephant, His bosom in a pant To see all nature's Free List thus suspended, And beasts depriv'd of what she had intended. They could not even prey In their own way ; A hardship always reckon'd quite prodigious. Thus he revolv'd — And soon resolv'd To give them freedom, civil and religious. That night there was no country cousins, raw I'rom AVales, to view the lion and his kin ; The keeper's eyes were fix'd upon a saw; The saw was fix'd upon a bullock's shin : Meanwhile with stealthy paw. Pug hastened to withdraw The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. Now, monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are undone ; Thou art no longer a degraded creature, But loose to roam with liberty and nature ; And free of all the jungles about London — All Ilariipstcad's heathy desert lies before thee ! 368 CRANIOLOGY. Rlethinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark, Full of the native instinct that eomes o'er thee, And turn a ranger Of Hounslow Forest, and the Regent's Park — Thin Rhodes's cows — the mail-coach steeds endanger, And gobble parish watchmen after dark : — Methinks I see thee, with the early lark, Stealing to Merlin's cave — {thy cave.) — Alas, That such bright visions should not come to pass ! Alas, for freedom, and for freedom's hero ! Alas, for liberty of life and limb ! For Pug had only half unbolted Nero, When Nero bolted him ! CRANIOLOGY. IS strange how like a very dunce, Man — with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no know- ledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology — A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of. When scratching o'er those little pole-hills. The faculties throw up like mole-hills ;— A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For though he knew his skull had g7-ijiders. Still there turn'd up no organ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled. And no man's head came in his head — Not even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater. At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him— I don't know but it might be Spurzheim — Tho' native of a dull and slow land. And makes partition of our Poll-land, At our Acquisitiveness guesses. And all those necessary nesses A ri.ASl I'.K CASI . I i^j CRANIOLOGY. 369 Indicative of human habits, All buiTowing in the head like rabbits. Thus Veneration, he made known. Had got a lodging at the Crown : And Music (see Deville's example), A set of chambers in the Temple : That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, Close by his neighbour Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration. The science thus — to speak in fit Terms — having struggled from its nit, Was seiz'd on by a swarm of Scotchmen, Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip And wallop in all doctorship. Just as in making l)roth they smaller By bobbing twenty things in water : These men, I say, make quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science ; For of all learned themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver. There's none they love so near the bodies, As analyzing their o\vn noddles ; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head. And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulel's dry wet-nurse ; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers', And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they haled in their souls ; For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs join'd with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin, But at its bumps it had a bumpkin ; Down to the very lowest gullion. And oiliest scull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they did do. They begg'd his cranium of his widow : 2 i> 370 CRANIOLOGY. No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster ; For thereon they could show depending, " The head and front of his offending," How that his philanthropic bump Was master'd by a baser lump ; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail ; And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion, — Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils. Till one gets mastery good or sinister. And comes in like a new prime-minister. Each bias in some master node is : — What takes M'Adam where a road is. To hammer little pebbles less ? His organ of destructiveness : What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate ? a lumping lump of Number : Or Malthus rail at babies so? The smallness of his Philopro — What severs man and wife ? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple : Or makes weak women go astray? Their bumps are more in fault than they. These facts being found and set in order By grave M.D.'s beyond the Border, To make them for some months eternal. Were enter'd monthly in a journal. That many a northern sage still writes in, And throws his little Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A great deal more than I or he knows. A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 371 How Music suffers, pew exemple, By wearing tight hats round the temple ; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear : And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porter's occupation : Whether shillelaghs in reality May deaden Individuality : Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in the Antiative : If falls from scaffolds make us less Inclin'd to all Constructiveness : With more such matters, all applying To heads — and therefore head'x^^'ixvg. A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. HERE'S some is born with their straight legs by natur — And some is bom with bow-legs from the first— And some that should have grovv'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd. And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs : I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. — 'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trio. Well — I gives chase, But as she run Two knots to one. There warn't no use in keeping on the race ! 372 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BCW-LEGS. Well — casting round about, what next tc try on, And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable. And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row. And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur — So I whips out a toughish end of yam, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-stam ! My eyes ! how she did pitch ! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line But always making leeway to the ditch. And yaw'd her head about all sorts of wayS/ The devil sink the craft ! And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays ! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft ! Well — I suppose We hadn't run a knot — or much beyond — (What will you have on it ?) — but off she goes. Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond ! There I am ! — all a-back ! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other track ; But when I starts. The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears ! What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to. And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever. Just while his craft was taking in her water ? THE STAG-EYED LADY. 373 I didn't like my burth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting taughter, — Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter ! The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking : Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking, — And so she swell'd, and swcll'd, And yet the tackle held, 'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder ! And there's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder ! Well, there— off Hartford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together. And can't contrive a signal of distress ; Thinks T, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out — and nothing less ; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : — Hollo ! says I, come underneath her quarter ! — And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road. And leaves the she-mare to her own concarn, A-standiiig by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blowed ! — And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd ! THE STAG-EYED LADY. A MOORISH TALE. Scheherazade immediately began the following story. i| LI BEN ALI (did you never read His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate, - How there was one in pity might exceed The sack of Troy ?) Magnificent he sate Upon the t^irone of greatness — great indeed. 374 THE STAG-EYED LADY. For those that he had under him were great — The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses' tails. AH was cruel — a most cruel one ! 'Tis rumour'd he had strangled his own mother — Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too — but happily that none Did live within harrrCs length of one another, Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days. Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit. And makes a bad man — absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked — to a fault : — 'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings ; but he had No curb upon his will — no not a Ml— Wherefore he did not reign well — and full glad His slaves had been to hang him — but they falter'd. And let him live unhang'd — and still nnalter'd. Until he got a sage-bush of a beard. Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail Of bristly hair — that, honour'd and unshear'd, Grew downward like old women and cow's tail : Being a sign of age — some gray appear'd, Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale ; But yet not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime. Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex Plis royal bosom that he had no son. No living child of the more noble sex, To stand in his Morocco shoes — not one To make a negro-pollard — or tread necks When he was gone — doom'd, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name. Therefore he chose a lady for his love. Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear THE STAG-EYED LADY. 375 So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear ; Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Alohammed's ear, Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit. Beer will grow motheiy, and ladies fair Will grow like beer ; so did that stag-eyed dame ; Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name Of mighty hero that his child should bear ; He made so certain ere his chicken came : But oh ! all worldly wit is little worth, Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth. To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun A little daughter to this world of sins ; — Miss-ioxtviX\ts never come alone — so one Brought on another, like a pair of twins : Twins ! female twins ! — it was enough to stun Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir. Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down This his paternal rage, and thus addrest — " O ! Most Serene ! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of the royal chest ? Ah ! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love to gaze on ! — Pr'ythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin !" But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew : He called his slaves to bring an ample sack Wherein a woman might hQ poked — a few Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black At this sad order ; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut o(T the " head and front of their offendine." 376 THE STAG- EYED LADY. For All had a sword, much like himself, A crooked blade, guilty of human gore — The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf Were stuck at liis head-o^'oxX.G.xs, by the score — Nor yet in peace he laid it on the shelf. But jested with it, and his wit cut sore ; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) I le often did his dozen butts a week. Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears, Came with the sack the lady to enclose ; In vain from her stag-eyes " the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose ;" In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears ; Though there were some felt willing to oppose, Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her To a kind of Moorish Serpentine ; for she Was doom'd to have a windiiig sheet of water. Then farewell, earth — farewell to the green tree — Farewell, the sun — the moon — each little daughter ! She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like a bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back. The waters oped, and the wide sack fuU-fill'd All that the waters oped, as down it fell ; Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd A ring above her, like a water-knell ; A moment more, and all its face was still'd. And not a guilty heave was left to tell That underneath its calm and blue transparence A dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence. But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,| The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor — The lady's natal star with pale affright Fainted and fell — and what were stars before, Turn'J comets as t'.io tr.lc was brought to light, THE STAG-EYED LADY. 377 And all look'd downward on the fatal wave, And made tlieir own reflections on her grave. Next night, a head — a little lady head, Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace Over their sleepy lids — and so she rais'd Her aquaXvc^^ nose above the stream, and gazed. She oped her lips — lips of a gentle blush, So pale it seem'd near drowned to a white, — She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gusli Of music bubbling through the surface light ; The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air — and through the night There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity : THE WATER PERl's SONG, j Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter. The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave ; The Mtissiil-mTkXi coming to fish in this water. Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. This sack is her cofiin, this water's her bier. This greyish bath cloak is her funeral pall ; And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter — the last of her race — She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 578 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms : But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms ! Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot. For here I leave my second leg. And the Forty-second Foot !" The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he, — " They're only pegs : But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs !" Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devours, When he'd devoured his pay ! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff" ; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off ! "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat, Should be more uniform !" FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 379 Said she, ' I loved a soldier once, For he was blythe and brave ; But I Avill never have a man With both leg's in the grave ! " Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now !" " O, Nelly Gray ! O, Nelly Gray ! For all your jeei-ing speeches. At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's breaches !" "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms. And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms !" XI. " O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse : Though I've no feet — some other man Is standing in my shoes ! " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For you will be my death ; — alas ! You will not be my AW//" * XIII. Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got — 38o THE SEA-SPELL. And life was such a burthen grown, It 'iiade him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck, A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in hfe, Enhsted in the Line ! One end he tied around a beam, And tlien removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off, — of course. He soon was off his lec-s ! And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town, — For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down ! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside ! THE SEA-SPELL. " Caiild, cauld, he lies beneath the deep." Old Scotch Ballad. T was a jolly mariner ! The tallest man of three, — He loosed his sail against the wind. And turned his boat to sea : The ink-black sky told every eye, A storm was soon to be ! THE SEA-SPELL. 381 II. But still that jolly mariner Took in no reef at all, For, in his pouch, confidingly, He wore a baby's caul ; A thing, as gossip-nurses know, That always brings a squall ! His hat was new, or, newly glazed, Shone brightly in the sun ; His jacket, like a n:aariner's. True blue as e'er was spun ; His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul, Bore forty stripes save one. And now the fretting foaming tide He steer'd away to cross ; The bounding pinnace play'd a game Of dreary pitch and toss ; A game that, on the good dry land. Is apt to bring a loss ! Good Heaven befriend that little boat, And guide her on her way ! A boat, they say, has canvas wings, But cannot fly away ! Though, like a merry singing-bird, She sits upon the spray ! VI. Still east by south the little boat. With tawny sail, kept beating : Now out of sight, between two waves, Now o'er th' horizon fleeting : Like greedy swine that feed on mast,— The waves her mast seem'd eating ! 382 THE SEA-SPELL. VII. The sullen sky grew black above, The wave as black beneath ; Each roaring billow show'd full soon A white and foamy wreath ; Like angry dogs that snarl at first, And then display their teeth. VIII. The boatman looked against the wind, The mast began to creak, The wave, per saltum, came and dried. In salt, upon his cheek ! The pointed wave against him rear'd. As if it own'd a pique ! IX. Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave, That boatman could alarm. But still he stood away to sea. And trusted in his charm ; He thought by purchase he was safe, And arm'd against all hann ! X. Now thick and fast and far aslant, The stormy rain came pouring. He heard, upon the sandy bank, The distant breakers roaring, — A groaning intennitting sound. Like Gog and Magog snoring ! XI. The sea-fowl shriek 'd around the mast. Ahead the grampus tumbled. And far off, from a copper cloud. The hollow thunder rumbled; It would have quail'd another heart, But his was never humbled. XII. For why? he had that infant's caul; And wherefore should he dread? THE SEA-SPELL. 383 Alas ! alas ! he little thought, Before the ebb-tide sped, — That like that infant, he should die, And with a watery head ! XIII. The rushing brine flow'd in apace ; His boat had ne'er a deck ; Fate seem'd to call him on, and he Attended to her beck ; And so he went, still trusting on. Though reckless — to his wreck ! XIV. For as he left his helm, to heave The ballast-bags a-weather, Three monsti^ous seas came roaring on, Like lions leagued together. The two first waves the little boat Swam over like a feather. — XV. The two first waves were past and gone. And sinking in her wake ; The hugest still came leaping on, And hissing like a snake ; Now helm a-lee ! for through the midst, The monster he must take ! XVI. Ah, me ! it was a dreary mount ! Its base as black as night, Its top of pale and livid green. Its crest of awful white. Like Neptune with a leprosy, — And so it rear'd upright ! XVII. With quaking sails, the little boat Climb'd up the foaming heap ; With quaking sails it paused awhile, At balance on the steep ; 384 THE DEMON-SHIP. Then rushing down the nether slope, Plunged with a dizzy sweep ! XVIII. Look, how a horse, made mad with fear, Disdains his careful guide ; ' So now the headlong headstrong boat, Unmanaged, turns aside, And straight presents her reeling flank Against the swelling tide ! The gusty wind assaults the sail ; Her ballast lies a-lee ! The sheet's to windward taught and stiff ! Oh ! the Lively — where is she ? Her capsiz'd keel is in the foam, Her pennon's in the sea! The wild gull, sailing overhead. Three times beheld emerge The head of that bold mariner. And then she screamed his dirge ! For he had sunk within his grave, Lapp'd in a shroud of surge ! The ensuing wave, with horrid foam, Rush'd o'er and cover'd all, — The jolly boatman's drowning scream Was smother'd by the squall, — Heaven never heard his cry, nor did The ocean heed his caul. THE DEJklON-SHIP. WAS off the Wash — the sun went down — the sea looked black and gi'im, For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim ; THE DEMON-SHIP. 385 Titanic shades ! enoi'mous gloom ! — as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light ! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky ! Down went my helm — dose reef d— the tack held freely in my hand — With ballast snug — I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee — my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord ! what a roaring hurrican beset the straining sail ! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail ! What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps be- hind ! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase. But where it sank another rose and gallop 'd in its place ; As black as night — they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturn'd a sailor's shroud : — Still flew my boat ; alas! alas! her course was nearly run ! Behold yon fatal billow rise — ten billows heap'd in one! With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last! Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face — I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine ! Another pulse — and down it rush'd — an avalanche of brine ! Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home ; The waters closed — and when I shriek'd, I shrick'd below the foam ! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed — For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. "Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?' With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath ; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound — And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around? A moon, as if the earthly moor, was shining up aloft ; C. 2 R 386 THE DEMON-SHIP. But were those beams the veiy beams that I had seen so oft? A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone ; But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own? Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night ! I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams — Hyenas — cats — blood-loving bats — and apes with hateful stare — Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls — the lion, and she-bear — Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite — Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light ! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs — All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms — Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast, — But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the mast! His cheek was black — his brow was black— his eyes and hair as dark : His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark ; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath, His breast was black — all, all was black, except his grinning teeth. His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves ! Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves! " Alar, ! " I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake? What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul! Oh, mother dear ! my tender nurse ! dear meadows that beguil'd My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, — IMy mother dear — my native fields, I never more shall see : I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!" Loud laugh'd that Sable Mariner, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stem — A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce — As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once : A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole ; — MARY'S GHOST. 387 " Our skins," said he, " are black ye see, because we carry coal ; You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields — For this here ship has pick'd you up — the Mary Ann of Shields ! " MARY'S GHOST. A PATHETIC BALLAD. I. WAS in the middle of the night, ' To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in. And stood at his bed-side. O William dear ! O William dear ! My rest eternal ceases ; Alas ! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces. I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute ; But tho' I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it. The body-snatchers they have come. And made a snatch at me j It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be ! You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone They've come and bon'd your ^lary. The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse ; 388 MARY'S GHOST. And both my legs are gone to w alk The hospital at Guy's. VII. I vow'd that you sliould have my hand, But fate gives us denial ; You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, In spirits and a phial. VIII. As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the city. IX. I can't tell where my head is gone. But Dr. Cai"puc can : As for my trunk, it's all pack'd up To go by Pickford's van. X. I wish you'd go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride ; I don't half like the outside place. They've took for my inside. Tlie cock it crows — I must be gone ! ]\Iy \Villiam, we must part ! But I'll be your's in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart. XII. Don't go to weep upon my gi-ave, And think that there I be ; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomic. ODE TO MR. B RUN EL. 389 ODE TO MR. BRUNEL. ' Well said, old Mole ! canst work i' the dark so fast? a worthy pioneer ! " Hamlet. ELL ! Monsieur Brunei, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, To join l)y a hollow wny the Bankside friends Of Rotherhilhe, and Wapping, — Never be stopping, But poking, groping, in the dark keep making An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons, For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons, To cross the water in inverse proportion, Walk under steam-boats under the keel's ridge, To keep down all extortion. And without sculls to diddle London Bridge ! In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry. Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow, Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey, To give us the " View hollow." In short it was thy aim, right north and south, To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth ; Alas ! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof, Came, like "a tide in the affairs of men ;" And with a mighty stormy kind of roar. Reproachful of thy wrong, Biu-st out in that old song Of Incledon's, beginning "Cease, rude Bore" — Sad is it, worthy of one's tears, Just when one seems the most successful. To find one's self o'er head and ears In difficulties most distressful ! Other great speculations have been nursed. Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf; But thy concern was at the worst, When it began to liqiiidaic itself ! But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, And languishes thy Tunnel, — so to paint, Under a slow incurable complaint. Bed-ridden ! 390 AJVA CRE ONTIC. Why, when thus Thames — bed-bolher'd — why repine Do ti-y a spare bed at the Seipentine ! Yet let none think thee daz'd, or craz'd, or stupid ; And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft ; Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft ! I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do ; Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two, The wine does better than such water trades : Stick up a sign — the sign of the Bore's Head; I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead, And make thy cellar subterrane, — Thy Shades? ANACREONTIC. FOR THE NEW YEAR. iJOME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass Found a proper excuse or fit season. For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass. Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason : For hark ! the last chime of the dial has ceased. And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen, Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast. Is pi^eparing to tap a fresh dozen ■ Hip ! Hip I and Hurrah ! Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom The past Year has been pleasant and sunny ; Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey — Days usher'd by dew-drops, instead of the tears. May be wrung from some wretcheder cousin — Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen ! Hip ! Hip ! and Hurrah ! And ye, who have met Vviih Adversity's blast. And been buw'd to the earth by its fury; THE BOTTLE IMl". THE IDES OF MARCH ARE COMK' I A WATERLOO BALLAD. 391 To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd, Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury, — Still, fill to the Future ! and join in our chime, The regrets of I'emembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen ! Hip ! Hip ! and Hurrah ! A WATERLOO BALLAD. O Waterloo, with sad ado. And many a sigh and groan. Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone. " O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here ? I'm come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear ! " Into our town a sergeant came With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap — alas, His bow enlisted mine ! " They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch ; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March ! " A sorrj' INIarch indeed to leave The friends he might have kep', — No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step. " O prithee tell, good sentinel. If hereabout he lies ? I want a corpse with reddish hair. And very sweet blue eyes." 392 A WATERLOG BALLAD. Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear'd to deeply strike : — " Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like." And soon she pick'd out Peter Stone, Half tum'd into a corse ; A cannon was his holster, and His mattrass was a horse. " O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage ! What have they done to your poor breast, That used to hold my image ?" " O Patty Head, O Patty Head, ! You're come to my last kissing, Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing ! " Alas ! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks ; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks. " This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be ; — Instead of opening a ball, A ball has opened me. " Its billet eveiy bullet has. And well it does fulfil it ; — I wish mine hadn't come so straight, But been a ' crooked billet.' "And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest ; — He had no pity in his heart. For he had steeVd his breast. " Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away ; A WATERLOO BALLAD 393 I call'd for quarter, but, alas ! It was not Quarter-day. " He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint : — Patty dear, it was no joke, AUhough it had a point " With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do — But soon by charging over me, The Coldstream brought me to. With kicks and cuts, and batts and blows, I throb and ache all over; I'm quite convinc'd the field of jNIars Is not a field of clover ! ** O why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph ? 1 might have been a butcher, and In business for myself ! "O why did I the bounty take (And here he gasp'd for breath) My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd Upon the door of death ! " Without a coftin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not ev'n a shell — my only chance Of being made a Kernel I " O Patty dear, our wedding belle Will never ring at Chester ! Here I must lie in Honour's bed, That isn't worth a tester I " Farewell, my regimental mates. With whom I used to dress ! My corps is changed, and I am now In quite another mess. 394 COCKLE V. CACKLE. " Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except, when I am dead, you'll go And see th' Illuminations." COCKLE V. CACKLE. HOSE who much read advertisements and bills Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills, Call'd Anti-bilious — Which some Physicians sneer at, supercihous, But which we are assured, if timely taken. May save your liver and bacon ; Whether or not they really give one ease, I, who have never tried, W^ill not decide ; But no two things in union go like these — Viz. — Quacks and Pills — save Ducks and Pease. Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow. Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow, And friends portended was preparing for A human Pate Pdrigord; She was, indeed, so very far from well, Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks, And — tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks — To save her by a Cockle from a shell ! But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth, Who very vehemently bids us "throw Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so, It seem'd to share " the bitterness of Death :" Rhubarb — Magnesia— Jalap, and the kind — Senna — Steel — Assa-fcetida, and Squills — Powder or Draught — but least her throat inclined To give a course to Boluses or Pills ; No — not to save her life, in lung or lobe. For all her liglits' or all her liver's sake, Would her convulsive thorax undertake, Only one little uncelestial globe ! COCKLE V. CACKLE. 395 'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, If she put by the pill-box in a place For linen rather than for drugs intended — Yet for the credit of the pills let's say After they thus were stow'd away, Some of the linen mended ; But Mrs. W. by disease's dint, Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, When lo ! her second son, like elder brother, Marking the hue on the parental gills, Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills, To bleach the jaundiced visage of his IMother — Who took them — in her cupboard — like the other. "Deeper and deeper, still," of course, The fatal colour daily grew in force ; Till daughter W. newly come from Rome, Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part, To cure IMamma, another dose brought home Of Cockle's ; — not the Cockles of her heart ! These going where the others went before, Of course she had a veiy pretty store ; And then — some hue of health her cheek adorning, The Medicine so good must be. They brought her dose on dose, when she Gave to the up-stairs cupboai^d, "night and morning." Till wanting room at last, for other stocks. Out of the window one fine day she pitch'd The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and cocks, — A little Barber of a by-gone day. Over the way, Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble, — that iS; John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, And twenty little Bantam fowls — with crops. Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings, To find the very things So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,' For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet ! 396 COCKLE V. CACKLE. But -while they gather'd up the nauseous nubbles, Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet. They might as well have addled been, or ratted, For long before the night — ah woe betide The Pills ! each suicidal Bantam died Unfatted ! Think of poor Burrell's shock. Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, And laid in death as Everlasting Layers, With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock, In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle ! To see as stiff as stone, his un'live stock, It really was enough to move his block. Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big, Mr. Beh's third wife's mother's coachman's wig; And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, Burst out with natural emphasis enough. And voice that grief made tremble. Into that very speech of sad Macduff — " What ! — all my pretty chickens and their dam. At one fell swoop ! — Just when I'd bought a coop To see the poor lamented creatures cram ! After a little of this mood. And brooding over the departed brood. With razor he began to ope each craw, Already turning black, as black as coals ; When lo ! the undigested cause he saw — ' ' Pison'd by goles ! " To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction. Her window still stood open to conviction ; And by short course of circumstantial labour. He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbour; — ■ Lord ! how he rail'd at her : declaring now. He'd bring an action ere next Teim of Hilary, COCKLE V. CACKLE. 397 Then, in another moment, swore a vow, He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory ! She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard, Lapp'd in a paradise of tea and cream ; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream — " Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm-yard !" Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barber Can harbour ; To dress the head and front of her offending. The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking ; In short, he made her pay him altogether. In hard cash, very hard, for ev'ry feather, Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking ; Nothing could move him, nothing made him supple, So the sad dame unpocketing her loss. Had nothing left but to sit hands across. And see her poultry "going down ten couple." Now birds by poison slain, As venom'd dart from Indian's hollow cane, Are edible ; and Mrs. W.'s thrift,— She had a thrifty vein — Destined one pair for supper to make shift, — Supper as usual at the hour of ten : But ten o'clock arrived and quickly pass'd, Eleven — twelve — and one o'clock at last, Without a sign of supper even then ! At length the speed of cookery to quicken, Betty was call'd, and with reluctant feet, Came up at a white heat — " Well, never I see chicken like them chickens ! My saucepans, they have been a pi-etty while in 'em ! Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags ; but drat Those Anli-biling Pills ! there is no bile in 'em !" I 398 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. "who'll serve the king?" AN ILLUSTRATION. ^IIAT little urchin is there nevei Hath had that early scarlet fever, Of martial trappings caught ? Trappings well call'd — because they trap And catch full many a country chap To go where fields are fought ! What little urchin with a rag Hath never made a little flag, (Our plate will show the manner,) And wooed each tiny neighbour still, Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, To come beneath the banner ! Just like that ancient shape of mist, In Hamlet, crying, '"List, O 'list !" Come, who will serve the king, And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead, And cut oft Boneyparty's head ? — And all that sort of thing. So used I, when I was a boy, To march with military toy, And ape the soldier's life ; — And with a whistle or a hum, I thought myself a Duke of Drum At least, or Earl of Fife. With gun of tin and sword of lath. Lord ! how I walk'd in glory's path With regimental mates. By sound of trump and rub-a-dubs — To 'siege the washhouse — charge the tubs — Or storm the garden gates. Ah me ! my retrospective soul ! As over memory's muster-roll PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 399 I cast my eyes anew, My former comrades all the while Rise up before me, rank and file, And form in dim review. Ay, there they stand, and dress in line, Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, And dai^k " Jamaeky Forde !" And limping Wood, and " Cockey Hawes," Our captain ahA'ays made, because He had a real sword ! Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, Who said he had a gun at home, But that was all a brag ; Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb That would hold up the flag ! Tom Anderson, and " Dunny White," Who never right-abouted right, For he was deaf and dumb ; Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play Unless he had the drum. And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, A chap that never kept the step — No more did " Surly Hugh ; " Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim " — We often had to halt for him. To let him tie his shoe. " Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick The plumes within his hat ; Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout That got so thump'd for calling out "Eyes right !" to "Squinting Matt." Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, Was always in the awkward squad. 400 ''NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW: And those two greedy Blakes, That took our money to the fair To buy the corps a trumpet there, And laid it out in cakes. Where are they now ? — an open war With open mouth declaring for ? — Or fall'n in bloody fray? Compell'd to tell the truth I am, Their fights all ended with the sham, — Their soldiership in play. Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks. And Martin sells the cock he plucks, And Jepp now deals in wine ; Harrington bears a lawyer's bag, And warlike Lamb retains his flag. But on a tavern sign. They tell me Cocky Hawes's sword Is seen upon a broker's board : And as for " Fighting Jim," In Bishopgate, last Whitsuntide, His unresisting cheek I spied Beneath a quaker brim ! Quarrelsome Scott is in the church. For Ryder now your eye must search The marts of silk and lace — Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I — I've got a substitute To Soldier in my place ! "N.\POLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW.' A NEW VERSION. N his bed, liolt upright, In the dead of the night, The French Emperor starts ghost ! '^■^^^'//j:^'^^^^^ FANCY portrait: THE DUKE OF WELL AND PRINCE OF WATER—. WETHER WISE. "NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVJEIV." bigog, Whom, except in a fog, Ygu lee with a Lantern, a Bush, and a Dog. 448 J FLYING VISIT. " Lang sinery lear, For this many a year, I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere, — Ock, pad-mad aroon, Till one fine afternoon, I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon. " CusJl quackery go, But, besides you must know, I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below ; Big bothcnim hither, Who pretended to gatlier The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather. " So Crismus an crash, Being shortish of cash, I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash — Slik mizzle an smak. So I'm come with a pack, To sell to the trade, of my own Almanack. ' ' Fiz, bobbery pcrshal, Besides aims commercial, Much wishing to honour my friend Sir John Ilerschel, Cnm puddin and tame, It's inscribed to his name. Which is now at the full in celestial fame. " Wept ivepton 'wish wept. Pray this Copy accept" — But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt : For why? a shrewd man Had devis'd a sly plan The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan. So plotted, so done — With a fight as in fun. While mock pugilistical rounds were begun, A knave who could box, And give right and left knocks, Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks. A FLYING VISIT. 449 And hard he had fared. But the people were scared Ey what the Interpreter roundly declared : " You ignorant Turks ! You will be your own Burkes — He holds all the keys of the lunary works ! "You'd best let him go — If you keep him below, The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow; He left her at full, And with such a long pull, Zounds ! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull !" So awful a threat Took effect on the set ; The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget ; So taking a jump, In the car he came plump, And threw all the ballast right out in a lump. Up soar'd the machine, With its yellow and green ; But still the pale face of the Creature was seen, Who cried from the car, ^' Dam in yooman hi gar ! " That is, — " What a sad set of villains you are !" Howbeit, at some height. He threw down quite a flight Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right — And, thanks to the boon, We shall see very soon If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon ! 2 F 450 A J?OPF A7 THE OXFORD ARMS. A ROW AT THF OXFORD ARMS. " Glorious Apollo, from on high behold us." — Old Song. I'S latterly I chanced to pass A Public House, from which, alas ! The Arms of Oxford dangle ! My ear was startled by a din, That made me tremble in my skin, A dreadful hubbub from within, Of voices in a wrangle — Voices loud, and voices high, With now and then a party-crj', Such as used in times gone by To scare the British border ; When foes from North and South of Tweed — Neighbours — and of Christian creed — Met in hate to fight and bleed, Upsetting Social Order. Surprised, I turn'd me to the crowd, Attracted by that tumult loud. And ask'd a gazei", beetle-brow'd, The cause of such disquiel. When lo ! the solemn-looking man, First shook his head on Burleigh's plan, And then, with fluent tongue, began His version of the riot : A row ' — why yes, — a pretty row, you might hear from this to G arm any, And what is woise, it's all got up among the Sons of Harmony, The more's the shame for them as used to be in time and tune, And all unite in chorus like the singing-birds in June! Ah ! many a pleasant chant I've heard in passing here along, When Swiveller was President a-knocking down a song ; But Dick's resign'd the post, you see, and 'all them shouts and hollers Is 'cause two other candidates, some sort of larned scholars, Are squabbling to be Chairman of the Glorious Apollers ! I A IWIV AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 451 Lord knows their names, I'm sure I don't, no more thrvU any yokel. But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal ; Nay, some do say, although of course the pul^lic rumour varies, They've no more warble in 'em than a pair of hen canaries, Though that might pass if they were dabs at t'other sort of thing, For a man may make a song, you know, although he cannot sing; But lork ! it's many folk's belief they're only good at prosing, , For Catnac'a swears he never saw a verse of their composing ; xVnd when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials, If pop'lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials, And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey, It's chanted like the "Dog's Meat Man," or "If I had a Don- • ^ l^cy." Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither. No ballad — worth a ha'penny — has evei' come from either, And him as writ "Jim Crow," he says, and got such lots of dollars. Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Howsomever that's the meaning of the squabble that arouses, This neighbourhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses, W' ho want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reason In Christian peace and charity according to the season. But from Number Thirty-Nine — since this electioneering job, Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there's an everlasting mob ; Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by, But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye ; And a pretty noise there is ! — what with canvassers and spouters. For in course each side is furnish'd with its backers and its toutcrs ; And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carrieJ, You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married j Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms, If you're dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the " Arms ; " While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars. To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Well, that, sir, is the racket ; and the more the sin and shame 452 A ROIV AT THE OXFORD ARMS. Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same ; Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup, — But they'll be the House's ruin, or the shutting of it up, With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears, While they've damaged many articles and broken lots of squares, And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother, By throwing Morning Heralds, Times, and Standards at each other ; Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn't to repeat. And the names tliey call each other — -for I've heard 'em in the street — • Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not. For Pasley and his divers ain't so blowing-up a lot. And then such awful swearing 1 — for there's one of , them that cusses Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition 'busses ; For he cusses every member that's agin him at the poll. As I wouldn't cuss a donkey, tho' it hasn't got a soul ; And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim, To the babby in the cradle, if they don't agree with him. Whereby, altho' as yet they have not took to use their fives. Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives, I'm bound there'll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars, Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers ! To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall, Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call — And as if there wasn't Whigs enough and Tories to fall out, Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about, — Why, a Cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows. For to flirnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows — Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews. To agitate society and loosen all its screws ; And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres, — But it's not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears. And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach. And I've had it from my cousin, and he driv a college cuach, And so knows the University, and all as there belongs. And he says that Oxford's famouser for sausages than songs, And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant, As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want, A ROIV AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 453 Or other Tavern Melodists I can't just call to mind — But it's not the classic system for to propagate the kind, Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars ^lay be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers ! For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice. It's the best among the vocalists I'd lionour with the choice ; Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch ; Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch ; Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics — And not to say, like jMuffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec's. But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud. And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd, Have brought their jangling voices, as far as they can com- pass. Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus. And him as knows most hymns — altho' I can't see how it follers — They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers ! Well, that's the row — and who can guess the upshot aftei all ? Whether Harmony will ever make the " Arms " her House of call, Or whether this here mobbing — as some longish heads foretel it, Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it. Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of any peace, For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the New Police ; — But if / was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man, Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan, Why, I'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle. For I'd have another candidate— and that's the Parish Beadle, Who m.akes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy, And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy ; Whereby — if folks was wise — instead of either of them Scholars, And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers. They'll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers. Namely — Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers! 454 A TABLE OF ERR A TA. A TABLE OF ERRATA. (HOSTESS LOQUITUR.) |ELL ! thanks be to heaven, The summons is given ; It's only gone seven And should have been six : There's fine overdoing In roasting and stewing, And victuals past chewing To rags and to sticks ! How dreadfully chilly ! I shake, willy-nilly ; That John is so silly And never will learn ! This plate is a cold one, That cloth is an old one, I wish they had told one The lamp wouldn't burn. Now then for some bhmder. For nerves to sink under ; I never shall wonder Whatever goes ill. That fish is a riddle ! It's broke in the middle, A Turbot ! a fiddle ! It's only a BrillJ! It's quite over-boil'd too. The butter is oil'd too, The soup is all spoil'd too. It's nothing but slop. The smelts looking flabby, The soles ai'e as dabby, It all is so shabby That Cook shall not stop ! As sure as the morning, She gets a month's \varning, A TABLE OF ERRATA. 455 My orders for scorning — There's nothing to eat ! I hear such a rushing, I feel such a flushing, I know I am blushing As red as a beet ! Friends flatter and flatter, I wish they would chatter ; What can be the matter That nothing comes next ? How very unpleasant ! Lord ! there is the pheasant ! Not wanted at present, I'm born to be vext ! The pudding brought on too And aiming at ton too ! And where is that John too, The plague that he is ? He's off" on some ramble ; And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz ! The veal they all eye u, But no one will try it, An Ogre would shy it So ruddy as that ! And as for the mutton, The cold dish it's put on, Converts to a button Each drop of the fat. The beef without mustard ! My fate's to be fluster'd, And there comes the custard To eat with the hare ! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing. Such waiting and disliing, I cannot help wishing A woman might swear ! 4S6 A TABLE OF ERRATA. Oh dear ! did I ever — But no, I did never — Well, come, that is clever. To send up the brawn ! That cook, I could scold her. Gets worse as she's older ; I wonder who told her That woodcocks are drawn ! It's really audacious ! I cannot look gracious, Lord help the voracious That came for a cram ! There's Alderman Fuller , Gets duller and duller. Those fowls, by the colour, Were boil'd with the ham ! Well, where is the curiy? I'm all in a flurry, No, cook's in no hurry — A stoppage again ! And John makes it wider, A pretty provider ! By bringing up cider Instead of champagne ! My troubles come faster ! There's my lord and master Detects each disaster. And hardly can sit : He cannot help seeing, All things disagreeing ; If he begins d — ing I'm off in a fit ! This cooking?— it's messing ! The spinach wants pressing. And salads in dressing Are best with good eggs. And John — yes, already — THE GREEN MAiV. 457 Has had something heady, That makes him unsteady In keeping his legs. How shall I get through it ! I never can do it, I'm quite looking to it, To sink by and by. Oh ! would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now And have a good cry ! THE GREEN MAN. CM SIMPSON was as nice a kind of man As ever lived — at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. BroAvn's first floor, At fifty pounds, — or thereabouts, — per ann. The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter, — He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers — Nor play French horns like Mr. Rogers — Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter — Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable — Still on one failing tenderly to touch. The Gentleman did like a drop too much, (Tho' there are many such) And took more Port than was exactly portable. In fact, — to put the cap upon the nipple, And try the charge, — Tom certainly did tipple. He thought the motto was but sorry stuff On Cribb's Prize Cup — Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter — That "D d be he who first cries Hold Enough!" The more cups hold, and if enough, the better. And so to set example in the eyes Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them. All his cups were of such ample size That he got into them. 458 THE GREEN' MAN. Once in the company of merry mates, In spite of Temperance's ifs and buts, So sure as Eating is set off with plates, His Drinking always was bound up with cuts! Howbeit, such Bacclianalian revels Bring very sad catastrophes about ; Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils, Not to forget the Gout. Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim To grow to Strasbourg's regulation size, As if for those hepatical goose pies — Or out of depth the head begins to swim — Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him! 'Twas Christmas — he had drunk the night before, — Like Baxter, who "so went beyond his last " — One bottle more, and then one bottle more, Till, oh ! the red-wine Kiiby-con was pass'd ! And homeward, by the short small chimes of day. With many a circumbendibus to spare, For instance, twice round Finsbury Square, To use a fitting phrase, he ivound his way. Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves — (and sparrows) — in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup : The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions, A sort of wavering just like the ocean's, Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up — An awkward circumstance enough for elves Who shave themselves ; And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it When lo ! the first short glimpse Avithin the glass — He jump'd — and who alive would fail to do it? — To see, however it had come to pass. One section of his face as green as grass ! In vain each eager wipe, With soap — without— wet — hot or cold— or dry, Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe ! Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down, THE GREEN MAN. 459 Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study, — But verdant and not brown, What could have happened to a tint so ruddy ? Indeed it was a very novel case, By way of penalty for being jolly, To have that evergreen stuck in his face, Just like the windows with their Christmas holly. "All claret marks," — thought he — Tom knew his forte — " Are red — this colour CANNOT come from Port ! " One thing was plain ; with such a face as his, 'Twas quite impossible to ever greet Good Mrs. Brown ; nay, any party meet, Altho' 'twas such a parti-coloured phiz ! As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned, The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head, With "Ax your pardon. Sir, but if you please — Unless it comes too high — Vere ought a fellow, now, to go to buy The t'other half. Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?" His mind recoil'd — so he tied up his head. As with a raging tooth, and took to bed ; Of course with feelings far from the serene. For all his future prospects seemed to be, To match his customary tea. Black mixt with gi-een. Meanwhile, good Mrs. BrowTi Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down. And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why ; To whom poor Simpson, half delirious. Returned an answer so mysterious That curiosity began to fry ; The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch By peeping in upon the patient's bed. Reported a most bloody, tied-up head, Got over-niglit of course — "Harm watch, harm catch," From Watchmen in a bo.xing-match. So, liberty or not, — Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in 46o THE GREEN MAN. A suicidal coffin — The dame ran up as fast as she could trot ; "Appearance, — fiddlesticks!" should not deter From going to the bed, And looking at the head : " La ! Mister S — , he need not care for her! A married woman that had had Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad — Her own dear late would come home late at night, And liquor always got him in a fight, She'd been in Hospitals — she wouldn't faint At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep ; She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't — Turlington's Drops she made a p'int to keep. Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand — Such skulls japann'd — she meant to say trepann'd ! Poor wretches ! you would think they'd been in battle, And hadn't hours to live, From tearing liorses' kicks or Smithfield cattle. Shamefully over-driv! — Heads forced to have a silver plate atop, To get the brains to stop. At imputations of the legs she'd been, And neither screech'd nor cried — Ilereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside. And lo ! the whole phenomenon was seen — " Preserve us all ! He's going to gangrene !" Alas ! through Simpson's brain Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain ; It tallied truly with his own misgiving, And brought a groan, To move a heart of stone — A sort of farewell to the land of living ! And as the case was imminent and urgent, He did not make a shadow of objection To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a "surgent," But merely gave a sight of deep dejection. While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief Stole, like a iew-drop on a cabbage-leaf. THE GREEN MAX. 461 Swift flew the summons, — it was life or death! And in as short a time as he could race it, Came Doctor Puddicome as short of breath, To try his Latin charms against Hie jacel. He took a seat beside the patient's bed, Saw tongue — felt pulse — examined the bad cheek, — Poked, stroked, pinch'd, kneaded it — hemm'd — shook his head — Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek, (Thinking, it seem'd, in Greek,) Then ask'd — 'twas Christmas — " Had he eaten grass. Or greens — and if the cook was so improper To boil them up with copper. Or farthings made of brass ; Or if he drank his Hock from dark gi-een glass, Or dined at City Festivals, whereat There's turtle, and green fat ? " To all of which, M-ith serious tone of woe. Poor Simpson answered "No." Indeed he might have said in form auricular. Supposing Puddicome had been a monk — ■ He had not eaten (he had only drunk) Of any thing "Particular." The Doctor was at fault ; A thing so new quite brought him to a halt. Cases of other colours came in crowds, He could have found their remedy, and soon ; But green — it sent him up among the clouds. As if he had gone up with Green's balloon ! Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin : From Yellow Jaundice yellow. From saffron tints to sallow; — Then retrospective memory lugg'd in Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town — East Indians, without number. He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown, From tan to a burnt umber, Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen Of which the Caledonian I'oet spoke, As '* rashes growing green ! " " Pooh ! pooh ! a rash grow green ! 462 THE GREEN MAN. Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke ! " Then as to flaming visages, for those The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose — But verdant that was quite a novel stroke ! Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage, In common practice he had really seen ; But green — he was too old, and grave, and sage. To think of the last stage to Turnham Green ! So matters stood in-doors — meanwhile without, Growing in going like all other rumours. The modem miracle was liuzz'd about. By People of all humoui's, Native or foreign in their dialecticals ; Till all the neighbourhood, as if their noses Had taken the odd gross from little Closes, Seem'd looking thro' gi-een spectacles. " Green faces ! " so they all began to comment — ■ " Yes — opposite to Druggist's lighted shops. But that's a flying colour — never stops — A bottle-green that's vanished in a moment. Green ! nothing of the sort occurs to mind, Nothing at all to match the present piece ; Jaclc in the Green has nothing of the kind — Green-grocers are not green — nor yet green geese ! " The oldest Supercargoes of Old Sailors Of such a case had never heard, From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd ; "Or Greenland! " cried the whalers. All tongues were full of the Green man, and still They could not make him out, with all their skill ; No soul could shape the matter, head or tail — But truth steps in where all conjectures fail. A long half-hour, in needless puzzle. Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle : He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought — And still it came to nought, When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers, "Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door! BEN BLUFF. 463 It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four, — As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars, And says there's nothing but a simple case- He got that 'ere green face By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's I" BEN BLUFF. A PATHETIC BALLAD, " Pshaw, you are not on a whaling voyage, where everything that offers is game." — The Pilot. EN BLUFF was a whaler, and many a day Had chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay, But time brought a change his diversion to spoil, And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil. He turn'd up his nose at the fumes of the Coke, And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke : As to London he briefly delivered his mind, "Sparma-city," said he — but the City declined. So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff. As soon as his whales had brought profits enough. And hard by the Docks settled down for his life, But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife. A big one she was, without figure or waist, More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste ; In fat she was lapp'd from her sole to her crown. And, turn'd into oil, would have lighted a town. But Ben like a Whaler was charm'd with the match, And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch ; A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace, And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece. For Greenland was green in his memory still ; He'd quitted his trade, but retain'd the good-will ; And often, when soften'd by bumbo and flip, Would cry — till he blubber'd — about his old ship. 464 BEN BLUFF. No craft like the Grampus could work through a floe, What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow. And then that rich smell he preferr'd to the rose, By just nosing the whole without holding his nose ! Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night, A snug Aixtic Circle of friends to invite, Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales. And drank, and blew clouds that were "very like whales. Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat, Of canting, and flinching, and cutting up fat ; And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got, And if they were meant for the Gun- whale or not? At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest. By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess'd, When, lo ! as he lay by his partner in bed. He heard something blow through two holes in its head. "A start ! " mutter'd Ben, in the Grampus afloat, And made but one jump from the deck to the boat ! " Huzza ! pull away for the blubber and bone — I look on that whale as already my own !" Then groping about by the light of the moon. He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon ; A moment he poised it, to send it more pat. And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat ! " Starn all ! " he sang out, "as you care for your lives — Stam all, as you hope to return to your wives — Stand by for the flurry ! she throws up the foam ! Well done, my old iron, I've sent you right home !" And scarce had he spoken, when lo ! bolt upright The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white, And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two, As only a fish out of water could do, " Starn all ! " echoed Ben, with a movement aback, But too slow to escape from the creature's attack ; SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT. 465 If flippers it had, they were furnisli'd with nails, — "You willin, I'll teach you that Women an't Whales !" " Avast ! " shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech, " I've heard a Whale spouting, but hei-e is a speech !" " A-spouting, indeed ! — very pretty," said she ; * ' But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea ! " To go to pretend to take vie for a fish ! You great Polar Bear — but I know what you wish — You're sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks, — You want to go back to some young Esquimax ! " "O dearest," cried Ben, "frighten'd out of his life, "Don't think I would go for to murder a wife I must long have bewailed" — "But she only cried Stuff! Don't name it, you brute, you've bc-ii'hakd me enough ! " " Lord, Polly !" said Ben, "such a deed could I do? I'd rather have murder'd all Wapping than you ! Come, forgive what is passed." " O you monster ! " she cried, " It was none of your fault that it passed of one side ! " Hovvevtr, at last she inclined to forgive; " But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live — If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail. Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale." SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT; OR, JOHN Jones's kit-cat-astrophe. " He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee." Bryan and Perenne. H ! what is that comes gliding in. And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist. "It is not painted to the life, Y^ox where's the trowsers blue ? 2 G 466 SALLY SLMPKIN'S LAMENT. Oh Jones, my dear ! — oh dear ! my Jones, What is become of you ?" " Oh ! Sally dear, it is too true, — The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark ! " Oh ! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do ! A bite in one place seems enough, But I've been bit in two. " You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share ! But let that pass — for now to you I'm neither here nor there. *' Alas ! death has a strange divorce Efiected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me ! " Don't fear my ghost will walk o'nights To haunt, as people say ; My ghost canH walk, for, oil ! my legs Are many leagues away ! "Lord! think, when I am swimming round, And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half. Without 'a quarter's notice.' " One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed ; Oh! Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist. " But now, adieu — a long adieu ! I've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle !" rM GOING TO BOMBAY. 467 I'M GOING TO BOISIBAY. " Nothing venture, nothing have." — Old Proverb. " Every Indiaman has at least two mates." —Falconer's Marine Guide. IIY hair is brown, my eyes are blue, And reckon'd rather bright ; I'm shapely, if they tell me true, And just the proper height ; My skin has been admired in verse, And called as fair as day — If I am fair, so much the worse, I'm going to Bombay ! At school I passed with some eclat ; I learned my French in France ; De Wint gave lessons how to draw, And D'Egville how to dance ; — Crevelli taught me how to sing, And Cramer how to play — It really is the strangest thing — I'm going to Bombay! III. I've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells, But not their springs to sip — To Ramsgate — not to pick up shells, — To Brighton — not to dip. I've tour'd the Lakes, and scour'd the coast From Scarboro' to Torquay — But tho' of time I've made the most, I'm going to Bombay! By Pa and Ma I'm daily told To marry now's my time, For though I'm very far from old, I'm rather in my prime. They say while we have any sun, 468 PM GOING TO BOMBAY. We ought to make our hay — And India has so hot an one, I'm going to Bombay! My cousin writes from Hyderapot My only chance to snatcli, And says the cUmate is so hot, It's sure to light a match. — She's married to a son of Mars, With very handsome pay, And swears I ought to thank my stars I'm going to Bombay! VI. She says that I shall much delight To taste their Indian treats, But what she likes may turn me quite, Their strange outlandish meats. — If I can eat rupees, who knows? Or dine, the Indian way, On doolies and on bungalows — I'm going to Bombay! She says that I shall much enjoy, — I don't know what she means, — To take the air and buy some toy. In my own palankeens,— I like to drive my pony-chair, Or ride our dapple gray — But elephants are horses there — I'm going to Bombay! Farewell, farewell, my parents dear, My friends, farewell to them ! And oh, what costs a sadder tear, Good-bye to Mr. M. !— If I should find an Indian vault. JOHN JONES. 469 Or fall a tiger's prey, Or steep in salt, it's all his fault, I'm going to Bombay! IX. That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox A. I — Commander Bird, Now lying in the London Docks, Will sail on May the Third; Apply for passage or for freight, To Nichol, Scott, and Gray — Pa has applied and seal'd my fate — I'm going to Bombay! My heart is full — my trunks as well ; My mind and caps made up. My corsets shap'd by Mrs. Bell, Are promised ere I sup ; With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best, And dresses by Duce, And a special license in my chest — I'm going to Bombay! JOHN JONES. A TATHETIC BALLAD. I saw the iron enter into his soul." — Sterne. OHN JONES he was a builder's clerk. On ninety pounds a year. Before his head was engine-turn'd To be an engineer ! For, finding that the iron roads Were quite the public tale. Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart W^as set upon a rail. But oh ! his schemes all ended ill. As schemes must come to nought. 470 JOHN JONES. With men who try to make short cuts, When cut with something short. His altitudes he did not take, Like any other elf; But first a spirit-level took, That levelled him, himself. Then getting up, from left to right So many tacks he made, The ground he meant to go upon Got very well survey'd. How crows may fly he did not care A single fig to know ; — He wish'd to make an iron road. And not an iron crow. So, going to the Rose and Cro^vn, To cut his studies short, The nearest way from pint to pint. He found was through a quart According to this rule he plann'd His railroad o'er a cup ; But when he came to lay it down, No soul would take it up ! Alas ! not his the wily arts Of men as shrewd as rats. Who out of one sole level make A precious lot oi flats 1 In vain from Z to crooked S, His devious line he show'd ; Directors even seemed to wish For some dirccter road. The writers of the public press All sneered at his design ; And penny-a-liners wouldn't give A penny for his line. ^ OVERTAKER AXO UNDERTAKER. THE BATH GUIDE. POMPEY'S GHOST. 471 Yet still he urged his darling scheme, In spite of all the fates ; Until at last his zigzag ways Quite brought him into straits. His money gone, of course he sank In debt from day to day, — His way would not pay him — and so He could not pay his way. Said he, " All parties nm me down — How bitter is my cup ! My landlord is the only man That ever nms me up ! "And he begins to talk of scores, And will not draw a cork;" — And then he rail'd at Fortune, since He could not rail at York ! The morrow, in a fatal noose They found him hanging fast; This sentence scribbled on the wall, — "I've got my line at last !" Twelve men upon the body sate, And thus, on oath, did say, " We find he got his gruel, 'cause He couldn't have his it'ay! PO:\IPE\"S GHOST. A FATHETIC BALLAD. ' Skins may diffei, but affection Dwells in white and black the same." -COWPER WAS twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o'clock at noon, Because the fAin was shining bright, And not the silver moon : A proper limo for friends to call, Or Pots, or Penny Post ; 472 POMPEVS GHOST. \ When, lo ! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's Ghost ! Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed : But Pompey's Spirit could not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn't show at night ! But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear : So Phoebe scream'd an awful scream, To prove the seaman's text. That after black appearances. White squalls will follow next. "Oh, Phoebe dear! oh, Phoebe dear! Don't go to scream or faint ; You think because I'm black I am The Devil, but I ain't ! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walk'd whilst I had breath ; But that is past, and I am now A-walking after Death ! "Xo murder, though, I come to tell, By base and bloody crime ; So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits Till some more fitting time; No Crowner, like a boatswain's mate, My body need attack, With ills round dozen to find out Why I have died so black. "One Swiday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn, As if I had in my inside POMFEY'S GHOST. 473 A heater, like the urn. Delirious in the night I giew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gather'd all the wool You see upon my head. "His Lordship for his doctor sent, ISIy treatment to begin — I wish that he had call'd him out. Before he call'd him in ! For though to physic he was bred. And pass'd at Surgeons' Hall, To make his post a sinecure He never cured at all ! "The doctor look'd about my breast, And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said, 'Your case looks very black.' And first he sent me hot cayenne, And then gamboge to swallow, — But still my fever would not turn To Scarlet or to Yellow ! "With madder and with turmeric He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed. One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost ! "Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was To sever every tie ! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die — And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth. It's lying in a bed of mould, Alonr. ' Vou may do it extempore, for it's nothing but roaring." — QuiNCE. MONGST the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpasses, Is one, — ^just now the rage, — Called " Singing for all Classes — That is, for all the British millions. And billions, And quadrillions. Not to name QuintUians, 494 MORE HULL AH BALOO. That now, alas ! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June, In time and tune, Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses ! In fact, a sort of plan, Including gentleman as well as yokel. Public or private man. To call out a Militia, — only Vocal Instead of Local, And not designed for military follies. But keeping still within the civil bordei", To form with mouths in open order, And sing in volleys. Whether this grand harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory. Maybe no, and maybe yes, Is more than I pretend to guess — ■ However, here's my story. In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats. To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But Law, Joint-Companies, and Life Assurance Find past endurance — In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear, The other day, a ragged wight Began to sing with all his might, ^^ I have a silent sorrow here I " The place was lonely ; not a creature stirred Except some little dingy bird ; Or vagrant cur that sniffed along, Indifferent to the Son of Song ; No truant errand-boy, or Doctor's lad, No idle filch or lounging cad, No Pots encumbered with diurnal beer, No printer's devil with an author's proof, MORE HULL AH BALOO. 495 Or housemaid on an errand far aloof, Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear — Who yet, confound him ! bawled as loud As if he had to charm a London crowd, Singing beside the public way, Accompanied — instead of violin. Flute, or piano, chiming in — By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray, A van with iron bars to play staccato, Or engine oblxgato — In short, without one instrument vehicular (Not even a truck, to be particular), There stood the rogue and roared, Unasked and unencored, Enough to split the organs called auricular ! Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling ! To seek a fitting simile and spin it. Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache's body in it ; But oh ! the scientific tone it lacked, And was, in fact. Only a forty-boatswain-power of bawling ! 'Twas said, indeed, for want of vocal nous, The stage had banished him when he attempted it, For tho' his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stood Vociferous — a ragged don ! And with his iron pipes laid on A row to all the neighbourhood. In vain were sashes closed And doors against the persevering Stentor, Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed, Th' intruding voice would enter. Heedless of ceremonial or decorum. Den, office, parlour, study, and sanctorum ; 495 MORE NULLAH BALOO. "Where clients and attorneys, rogues, and fools, Ladies, and masters who attended schools, Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em — How it did bore 'em ! Louder, and louder still, The fellow sang witli horrible goodwill. Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered making many a flaw In deeds of law They had to draw ; With dreadful incongruities In posting ledgers, making up accounts To large amounts, Or casting up annuities — Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse. Against whose overwhelming force No in-voice stood a chance, of course ! The Actuary pshawed and pished. And knit his calculating brows, and wished The singer "a bad life " — a mental murther ! The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunder Wished the musician further, Poles distant— and no wonder ! For Law and Harmony tend far asunder — ' The Lady could not keep her temper calm. Because the sinner did not sing a psalm — The Fiddler in the very same position As Hogarth's chafed musician (Such prints require but cursory reminders) Came and made faces at the wretch beneath, And wishing for his foe between his teeth, (Like all impatient elves That spite themselves) Ground his own grinders. But still with unrelenting note, Though not a copper came of it, in verity, MORE HULLAH BALOO- off] The horrid fellow with the ragged coat, And iron throat, Heedless of present honour and prosperity, Sang like a Poet singing for posterity, In penniless reliance — And, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme Never set Time More thoroughly at defir.nce ! From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door — " Peace, monster, peace ! Where is the New Police ! I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Don't stand there bawling, fellow, don't ! You really send my serious thoughts astray. Do — there's a dear good man — do go away." Says he, "I won't !" The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,' That sounded like a wooden d — n, For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a doorpost vent a banging oalh- In fact, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace Than in a given face A very bad expression. However, in she went, Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's Clerk at Number Ten ; Who, throwing up the sash, With accents rash. Thus hailed the most vociferous of men : •' Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant I I cannot write a sentence — no one can't ! C. 2 I 498 MORE HULL AH BALOO. So just pack up your trumps. And stir your stumps — " Says he, "I shan't !" Down -went the sash As if devoted to " eternal smash," (Another illustration Of acted imprecation), While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong. Roared out again the everlasting song, " I have a silent sorrow here !" The thing was hard to stand ! The Music-master could not stand it — But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began — But playing first a prelude of grimace, Twisting his features to the strangest shapes, So that to guess his subject from his face. He meant to give a lecture upon apes — *' Com — com — I say ! You go away ! Into two parts my head you split — My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit. When I do play — \' ou have no bis'ness in a place so still ! Can you not come another day?" Says he— "I will." "No — no — you scream and bawl ! You must not come at all ! You have no rights, by rights, to beg — You have not one off-leg — You ought to work — you have not some complaint— You are not cripple in your back or bones — Your voice is strong enough to break some stones "- Says he— "It ain't!" THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 499 " I say you ought to labour ! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbour, And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys — Look what a street it is for quiet ! No cart to make a riot. No coach, no liorses, no postilion, If you will sing, I say, it is not just, To sing so loud." — Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million !" THERE'S NO ROiMANCE IN THAT. DAYS of old, O days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balk'd and valour stalk'd On high heroic stilts — Where are ye gone ? — adventures cease, The world gets tame and flat, — We've nothing now but New Police — There's no Romance in that ! I wish I ne'er had learn'd to read, Or Radcliffe how to write! That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloister'd quite ! Would I had never drunk so deep Of dear Miss Porter's vat \ I only turn to life, and weep — There's no Romance in that ! No Bandits lurk — no turban'd Turk To Tunis bears me off — I hear no noises in the night Except my mother's cough, — No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house, No shape, — but owl or bat, Come flitting after moth or mouse,— There's no Romance in that ! 500 THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. I have not any grief profound, Or secrets to confess, My story would not fetch a pound For A. K. Newman's press ; Instead of looking thin and pale, I'm growing red and fat. As if I lived on beef and ale^ There's no Romance in that ! It's very hard, by land or sea Some strange event I court, But nothing ever comes to me That's worth a pen's report : It really made my temper chafe, Each coast that I was at, I vow'd, and rail'd, and came home safe, — There's no Romance in that ! The only time I had a chance At Brighton one fine day. My chestnut mare began to prance, Took flight, and ran away ; Alas ! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat ; A Butcher caught the rein at length, — There's no Romance in that ! Love — even love — goes smoothly on A railway sort of track — No flinty sire, no jealous Don ! No hearts upon tlie rack; No Polydore, no Theodore — His ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more — There's no Romance in that ! He is not dark, he is not tall, His forehead's rather low, He is not pensive — not at all, But smiles his teeth to show ; He comes from Wales and yet in size Is really but a sprat ; THERE'S A'O ROMA ACE IN THAT. With sandy hair and greyish eyes — There's no Romance in that ! He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks, Or long sword hanging down ; Pie dresses much like other folks, And commonly in brown ; His collar he will not discard, Or give up his cravat, Lord Byron-like — he's not a Bard — There's no Romance in that ! He's rather bald, his sight is weak, He's deaf in either drum ; Without a lisp he cannot speak, But then — he's worth a plum. He talks of stocks aiid three per cents. By way of private chat. Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,— There's no Romance in that ! I sing — no matter what I sing, Di Tanti — or Crudel, Tom Bowling, or God save the King, Di piacer — All's Well ; He knows no more about a voice For singing than a gnat — And as to Music "has no choice," There's no Romance in that ! Of light guitar I cannot boast, He never serenades ; He writes, and sends it by the post. He doesn't bribe the maids : No stealth, no hempen ladder — no ! He comes with loud rat-tat. That startles half of Bedford Row — There's no Romance in that ! He comes at nine in time to choose His coflee — just two cups, And talks with Pa about the news. 502 THE PAINTER PUZZLED. Repeats debates, and sups. John helps him with his coat aright, And Jenkins hands his hat ; My lover bows, and says good-nigh t- There's no Romance in that ! I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent, My aunt she quite approves. My Brother wishes joy from Kent, None try to thwart our loves ; On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace Will make me Mrs. Pratt, Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place— There's no Romance in that ! THE PAINTER PUZZLED. " Draw, Sir ! "—Old Play. jjELL, something must be done for ^lay. The time is drawing nigh. To figure in the catalogue And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint ; But, oh ! my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives The answer Who and What ? Oh, for some happy hit ! to throw The gazer in a trance ; "BvLt^osJ /^ — there I am posed. As people say in France. In vain I sit and strive to think, I find my head, alack ! Painfully empty, still, just like A bottle "on the rack." In vain I task my barren brain Some new idea to catch, THE PAINTER PUZZLED. 503 And tease my hair — ideas are shy Of "coming to the scratch." In vain I stare upon the air, No mental visions dawn; A blank my canvas still remains, And worse — a blank undrawn : An " aching void " that mars my rest With one eternal hint, For, like the little goblin page, It still keeps crying "Tint !" But what to tint ? ay, there's the rub. That plagues me all the while, As, Selkirk-like, I sit without A subject for my i'le. " Invention's seventh heaven " the bard Has written — but my case Persuades me that the creature dwells In quite another place. Sniffing the lamp, the ancients thought, Demosthenes musf toil ; But works of art are works indeed, And always " smell of oil. " Yet painting pictures some folks think, Is merely play and fun ; That what is on an easel set Must easily be done. But, zounds ! if they could sit in this Uneasy easy-chair, They'd very soon be glad enough To cut the camel's hair. Oh ! who can tell the pang it is To sit as I this day — With all my canvas spread, and yet Without an inch of way. 504 4 TRUE STORY. Till, mad at last to find I am Amongst such empty skullers, I feel that I could strike myself, But no — I'll "strike my colours." A TRUE STORV. [IF all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental ; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But let its proper work alone. And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the rack, As well as going to the manger. Old Hunks — it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding ways — Possessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago. Save some old stumps with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot ; If he drank any chilly liquor, They made it quite a point to throb ; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker. One tooth — I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youth — One tooth he had with many fangs. That shot at once as many pangs. It had an universal sting ; One touch of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, A TRUE STORY. 505 Just like a puppet on a string ; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track. By adding achen still to achcrs ! One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both ; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paj'ing for a blank at last ; So Hunks went on from week to weel:, And kept his torment in his cheek. Oh ! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw — gnaw — gnaw, His moans and groans were tnily shocking And loud, — altho' he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum, And tooth, but still it would not come ; Tho' tied by string to some firm thing. He could not draw it, do his best, By draw'rs, although he tried a ciiest. At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, Like his, to have their troubles out. Sad sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men. And out again the victim rushed, W'hile eyes and mouth together gushed ; At last arrived our hero's turn, 5o6 A TRUE STORY. Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets. Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations ; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties ; One chord seemed wrenching at his heart. And two were tugging at his eyes ; •' Bone of his bone," he felt of course, As husbands do in such divorce ; At last the fangs gave way a little Hunks gave his head a backward jerk. And lo ! the cause of all this work, Went — where it used to send his victual ! The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numbed his miser wit. But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding ; So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, "Let's finish, if you please." " How, finish ! why it's out !" — " Oh ! no— I'm none of your before-hand tippers, 'Tis you are out, to argue so ; My tooth is in my head no doubt. But as you say you pulled it out, Of course it's there — between your nippers." •'Zounds ! sir, d'ye think I'd sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it." But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum ! he had not drawn it. His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve ; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favour of his wit, How well a dentist had been bit I A TRUE STORY. 507 By one old stump, and that a loose one ! The thing was worth a langh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth : Alas ! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke, And hangs a weeper on the cuff ! Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against the stile, There stood his foeman, INIike Maloney, A vagrant reaper, Irish-bom, That helped to reap our miser's com, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly ; His whistle all at once was quelled, And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly. Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let obsen'ers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchet — They live hard — and they die to match it. Thus Hunks, prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking ; However, Mike began to stickle In word before he used the sickle ; But mercy was not long attendant : From words at last he took to blows. And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose ; That made it what some folks are not — A Member very independent. Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger's very nick, To put Maloney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper ; 5oS A TRUE STORY. I 1 Tliere lay the seveieJ nose, alas ! Beside the daisies on the grass, " Wee, crim;on-tipt" as well as they, According to the poet's lay : And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter ! Away ran Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, ,^ But somewhat at unusual distance. * In many a little country place f- It is a very common case ^ To have but one residing doctor. Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician — surgeon — drug-decocter ; Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta'en his tooth before. His mere name made the learned man hot — " What ! Hunks again within my door ! I'll pull his nose ;" quoth Hunks, "you cannot." The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. " O ! hum— ha— yes — I understand." |m But then arose a long demur, m For not a finger would he stir 'jt Till he was paid his fee in hand ; "JJ That matter settled, there they were, .^ With Hunks well strapped upon his chair. ;"^ The opening of a surgeon's job — His tools, a chestful or a drawful — Are always something very awful. And give the heart the strangest throb ; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel : His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling. Just like a bolus in a box : His fuiy seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox : A TRUE STORY. 509 •' Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou ; Oh ! sweet is this revenge to sup ; I have thee by the nose — it's now My turn — and I will turn it up." Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion ; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy turvy ; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all reverses ! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upward like a pitcher's spout ; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it. And was there then no argument To change the doctor's vile intent, And move his pity ? — yes, in truth. And that was — paying for the tooth. " Zounds ! pay for such a stump ! I'd rather — But here the menace went no fartlier, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser's love of snuff, A recollection strong enough To cause a very seiious flinching ; In short he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature ; For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle, (No corpse's could have felt more horrid,) And white just like an end of candle, The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead ; So, fixed by dint of rag and lint. The part was bandaged up and muffled. 5IO THE LOGICIANS. The chair unfastened, Hnnks arose, And shuffled out, for once unshuffled ; And as he went, these words he snuffled- " Well, this is ' paying thro' the nose.' " THE LOGICIANS. AN ILLUSTRATION. " Metaphysics were a large field in which to exercise the weapons logic had put into their hands-"— Scriblerus. II EE here two cavillers, Would-be unravellers Of abstruse theory and questions mysti- cal In tete-a-tete,' And deep debate, Wranglmg according to form syllogisticaL Glowing and ruddy The light streams in upon their deep brown study, And settles on our bald logician's skull : But still his meditative eye looks dull And muddy, For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato ; But to the world without And things about. His eye is blind as that of a potato : In fact, logicians See but by syllogisms — taste and smell By propositions ; And never let the common dray-horse senses Draw inferences. ■ How wise his brow ! how eloquent his nose I The feature of itself is a negation ! How gravely double is his chin, that shows Double deliberation ; His scornful lip forestalls the confutation 1 O this is he that wisely with a major And minor proves a greengage is no gauger !— ' By help of ergo, THE LOGICIANS. 511 That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager, And Taurus is no bull to toss up Virgo ! O this is he that logically tore his Dog into dogmas — following Aristotle — Cut up his cap into ten categories, And cork'd an abstract conjuror in a bottle ! O this is he that disembodied matter, And proved that incorporeal corporations Put nothing in no platter. And for mock turtle only supp'd sensations ! O this is he that palpably decided, With grave and mathematical precision How often atoms may be subdivided By long division; O this is he that show'd I is not I, And made a ghost of personal identity ; Proved ' ' Ipse " absent by an alibi, And frisking in some other person's entity ; He sounded all philosophies in truth. Whether old schemes or only supplemental \— And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth, A dental knowledge of the transcendental ! The other is a shrewd severer wight, Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone : For why ? he never let dispute alone, A logical knight-errant. That wrangled ever — morning, noon, and night, From night to morn ; he had no wife apparent But Barbara Celarent ! Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma, For on the point of his two fingers full He took the luckless wight, and gave with them a Most deadly toss, like any baited bull. Woe unto him that ever dared to breathe A sophism in his angry ear ! for that He took ferociously between his teeth, And shook it — like a terrier with a rat ! — In fact old Controversy ne'er begat One half so cruel And dangerous as he, in verbal duel 1 512 LITTLE a P. No one bad ever so complete a fame As a debater ; And for art logical his name was greater Than Dr. Watts's name ! — Look how they sit together ! Two bitter desperate antagonists, Licking each other with their tongues, like fi.^ts, Merely to settle whether This world of ours had ever a beginning — Whether created, Vaguely undated, Or time had any finger in its spinning : When, lo ! — for they are sitting at the basement^ A hand, like that upon Belshazzar's wall, Lets fall A written paper through the open casement. " O foolish wits ! (thus runs the document) To twist your brains into a double knot On such a barren question ! Be content That there is such a fair and pleasant spot For your enjoyment as this verdant earth. Go eat and drink, and give your hearts to mirth, For vainly ye contend ; Before you can decide about its birth, The world will have an end !" LITTLE O'P.— AN AFRICAN FACT, ilT was July the First, and the great hill of Howth Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south, I And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork, Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork. Now, this ship had a captain, ]\Iacmorris by name, And little O'Patrick was mate of the same ; For Bristol they sailed, but by nautical scope, They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope. 01 all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast, LITTLE a P. SI 3 Only little O'P. made a swim to the coast ; And when he revived from a sort of a trance, He saw a big Black with a very long lance. Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue, "Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung !" Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf, And down came a hundred as black as himself. They brought with them guattid, and pieces of Idaiit, The first was like beef, and the second like lamb ; "Don't I know," said O'P., "what the wretches are \V ? They're intending to eat me as soon as I'm fat !" In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot, His rations oijarbiil he suffered to rot ; He would not tovi^purry or doolberyy-lik, But kept \vin\%t\{ growing as thin as a stick. Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth, He would not let chobbery enter his mouth. But kicked down the h'lig shell, tlio' sweetened with 7iatt,- * ' I an't to be pisoned the likes of a rat ! " At last the great Joddry got quite in a rage, And cried, " O mi pitticum dambally nage ! The chobbery take, and put back on the shelf. Or give me the krug shell, I'll drink it myself ! The doolberry-Uk is the best to be had, And \}l\& purry (I chewed it myself) is not bad ; The jarbiU is Iresh, lor i saw it cut out. And the J5o/; that it came from is grazing about. My jumbo. ' but run off to Billery Nang, And tell her to put on her Jigger and iaug, And go with the B/oss to the man of the sea. And say that she comes as his Wulwid from nic." Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep, With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep. And the moment he spied her, said little OT., " Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow's at me ! " But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms, She came to accept him for life in her arms, And stretched her thick lips to a broad grin of love, A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove, With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss. Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss ; 514 THE ASSISTANT DRAPER'S PETITION. At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack, And Joddry began to look blacker than black ; " By Mumbo ! by Jumbo ! — why here is a man, That won't be made happy, do all that I can ; He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed. Let the Rham take his skangwang and chop off his head ! " THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION. ITY the sorrows of a class of men, Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity ; No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen, But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality. Oppress'd and discontented with our lot, Amongst the clamorous we take our station A host of Ribbon Men— yet is there not One piece of Irish in our agitation. Wc do revere Her Majesty the Queen ; We venerate our Glorious Constitution : \\c joy King William's advent should have been, And only want a Counter Resolution. Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure, 'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne, Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure, I'he measures we dislike are all our own. The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name, The tone our foreign policy pervading ; The Corn Laws— none of these we care to blame. Our evils we refer to over-trading. By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn ; We reverence tlie Church— but hang the cloth 1 We love her ministers — but curse the lawn ! We have, alas ! too much to do with botli ! t THE ASSISTANT DRAPER'S PETITION. 51 We love the sex : — to serve themMS a biu5 ! TVe trust they find us civil, never surly ; All that we hope of female friends is this. That their last linen may be wanted early. Ah ! who can tell the miseries of men That serve the very cheapest shops in town ? Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down ! But has not Hamlet his opinion given — O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants I " That custom is " — say custom after seven — " More honour'd in the breach than the observance." O come then, gentle ladies, come in time, O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves ; Torment us all until the seventh chime, But let us have the remnant to ourselves ! We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock. And not remain in ignorance incurable ; — To study Shakespeare, Milton, Drj-den, Locke, And other fabrics that have proved so durable. We long for thoughts of intellectual kind. And not to go bewilder'd to our beds ; With stuff and fustian taking up the mind, And pins and needles running in our heads ! For oh ! the brain gets very dull and dry, Selling from mom till night for cash or credit ; Or with a vacant face and vacant eye. Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme, We often think when we are dull and vapoury, The bliss of Paradise was so supreme, Because that Adam did not deal in drapery. 5i6 SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION. SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICAION. - " An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suSeting, that could only belong to a Bomy-parle. —Life cf Napoleotu I ME was, I always had a drop For any tale of sigh or sorrow ; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow ; I don't know hov/ it is, but now My eyelids seldom want a-drying ; The doctor, p'rhaps, could tell me how — I fear my heart is ossifying ! O'er Goethe how I used to weep, With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet. When Werter put himself to sleep With pistols kiss'd and clean'd by Charlotte; Self-murder is an awful sin, No joke there is in bullets flying, But now at such a tale I grin — I fear my heart is ossifying ! The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerv-es, and set my tears a-stealing. The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. Haller's crjing; 'TIS odd, so great a change of style — I fear my heart is ossifj'ing ! That heart was such — some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it. And in his hat I used to throw The quarter's sa\'ings of my pocket : I never wish — as I did then I — The means from my own purse supplying. To turn them all to gentlemen — I fear my heart is ossifying ! We've had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow. DOG-BERRY. ,vi?i ''Tv -A-v >^\- J) THF. LAST CUT. ''V >'."*, ^ ■ .i CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. 517 New raelo-drames, of tragic fate, And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow; Miss Zouch's case, our eyes to melt. And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing. But Lord ! — so little have I felt, I'm sure my heart is ossifying ! A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. ftXE day — no matter for the month or year, A Calais packet, just come over, And safely moor'd within the pier, Began to land her passengers at Dover; All glad to end a voyage long and roujih. And during which. Through roll and pitch, The Ocean-King had itV/^ophants enough ! Away, as fast as they could walk or run, Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals. With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels, A%vay the passengers all went but one, A female, who from some mysterious check, Still linger'd on the steamer's deck, As if she did not care for land a tittle. For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual — Or nervously afraid to put Her foot Into an Isle described as " tight and little." In vain commissioner and touter, Porter and waiter throng'd about her ; Boring, as such officials only bore — In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck. Of plank and ladder, there she stuck, She couldn't, no, she wouldn't go on shore. " But, ma'am," the steward interfered, " The wessel must be cleared. You mustn't stay aboard, ma'am, no one don't ! 5iS A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. It's quite ^n the orders so to do — And all the passengers is gene but you." Says she, "I cannot go ashore and •svon't !" *•' You ought to ! " "But I can't!" "You must !" "I shan't!" At last, attracted by the racket, 'Twirt go'mi and jacket, The captain came himself, and cap in hand, Eegg'd ver)' civilly to understand Wherefore the lady could not leave the packet. " W"hy then," the lady -whisp-ered with a shiver, That made the accents quiver, " I've got some foreign silks about me pinn'd, In short, so many things, all contraband, To tell the truth I am afraid to land. In such a searching -R-ind !" Zhincr-n Crar.t b= Co., Printers, ES:r.hur;h. THOMAS HOOD'S WORKS. HOOD'S "WORKS. Complete in lO vols. AH the Writings of the Author of tie "S-?cg of the Shir:" (H:od"s C^vrn " First aiid Second Serieo included). 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Illustrated by GusxAVE DORE. With Nine Engravings on Steel, from Original Drawings by Gustave Dor6, and many Woodcut Illustrations, folio, cloth gilt, gilt edges, iis. Just ready, the New and Only Complete Edition, in Ten Vols., crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price $os. ; half calf, 70^. ; half morocco, 705. The Complete Works of Thomas Hood, in Ten Volumes, con- taining all the Writings of this Popular Au'.hor (" Hood's Own," First and Second Series, Hood's Comic and Serious Poems included), with all the Original Illustrations by Cruikshank, Leech, &c. *»* This Edition contains also the Memorials of Thomas Hood, Edited by his Son and Daughter. Thomas Hood. Illustrated by Birket Foster. First Series. With Engravings, ■21s. Thomas Hood. Again Illustrated by Birket Foster. Large 4to, cloth gilt, giit edges zis. E. Moxo7t, Son, &* Co., Dorset Buildings, Salisbury Square. Pf? MllllSSilllllll"^ REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIT A A 001 409 784