The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

by Thomas Hood

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt—The historian of the old English ports—the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:—

"Sir,—About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline."

"I am, Sir,"

"With respects from your humble Servant,"
"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

"On Monday they began to hunt."—Chevy Chase.

John Huggins was as bold a man

As trade did ever know,

A warehouse good he had, that stood

Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round,

And single Glo'ster 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-piety,

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 pop't;

Where, winter time or summer time,

Pig's flesh is always chop't.

But famous more, as annals tell,

Because of Easter Chase:

There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer,

There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,

And slapt his leather thigh,

And sang the burthen of the song,

"This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before,

And all the night in bed,

Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts

On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,

And echo's answering sounds,

All poets' wit hath ever writ

In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Alas! there was no warning voice

To whisper in his ear,

Thou art a fool in leaping Cheap

To go and hunt the deer!

No thought he had of twisted spine,

Or broken arms or legs;

Not chicken-hearted he, altho'

T'was whispered of his egg!

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 Warren-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,

As once upon a stag;

Thus well equipt he gaily skipt,

At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein

A crown he nimbly flung:

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 neighbor 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,

Altho' 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 orts,

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.

Whereas the man had changed his mind,

Meanwhile upon the case!

And meaning not to hunt at all,

Had gone to Enfield Chase.

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 thro' Laytonstone,

Past many a Quaker's box,—

No friends to hunters after deer,

Tho' followers of a Fox.

And many a score behind—before—

The self-same route 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!

And some had horses of their own,

And some were forced to job it:

And some, while they inclined to Hunt,

Betook themselves to Cob-it.

All sorts of vehicles and vans,

Bad, middling, and the smart;

Here rolled along the gay barouche,

And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad

Of costermonger line;

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 heavy wet.

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 Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,

So many guests to boast;

So certain congregations meet,

And elevate the host.

"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, where Bob and Tom

In red already ride;

'Tis but a step, and on a horse

You soon may go a-stride."

So off they scampered, man and horse,

As time and temper pressed—

But Huggins, hitching on a tree,

Branched off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time

To join with Tom and Bob,

All in Fair Mead, which held that day

Its own fair mead 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 backs of butchers' hacks,

That shambled to and fro!

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 wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference

A single creature made;

A single stag had caused a whole

Stagnation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,

And in the stirrups stood:

And lo! a little cart that came

Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,—tho' 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!

His 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 mild 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!

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 Man.

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 Barristers the dogs

Proceed to "giving tongue."

And 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;

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 "hills we know not of,"

Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now,

Went off at furious pitch;—

A perfect Tam 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 wingèd 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 Acteon 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-hoed.

About two score there were, not more,

That galloped in the race;

The rest, alas! lay on the grass,

As once in Chevy Chase!

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 miry 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?

But 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 saw a county go

At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs,"

Quoth Huggins, "So I do,—

I've got the saddle well in hand,

And hold as hard as you!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along,

And throw his arms about,

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

Seemed 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!

Now had a Papist seen his sport,

Thus laid upon the shelf,

Altho' 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!

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!

Tho' 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 Hugging 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, altho' her share

She had of hoof and frog,

On coming to a gate stopped short

As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup 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,—

Tho' 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 tho' 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 Woodford 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 neighbor Fig,

And called for half-and-half.

Yet, '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 man discussed

The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast,

And how at bay he stood,

Deer-like, 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 horse

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;

"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,

Tho' 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 grasp,

Just when we think to grip her;

And hunting after happiness,

We only hunt a slipper.

[THE DROWNING DUCKS.]

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond

Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others,

Were little ducklings in a pond,

Swimming about beside their mothers—

Small things like living water-lilies,

But yellow as the daffo-dillies.

"It's very hard," she used to moan,

"That other people have their ducklings

To grace 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—

Its 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!

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 humor in a gander

Brought havoc on her little folks,—

No poaching cook—a frying pander

To appetite,—destroyed their yolks,—

Beneath her very 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 ducks, beyond conviction,

Should float without the help of corks:

Great Johnson, it bewildered him!

To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. 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!

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 "Duc ad me" to all her dillies!

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;

And when the eels were caught and split

By Mrs. Bond, just think of 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.

[A STORM AT HASTINGS,]

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August—Hastings every day was filling—

Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"!

With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling

To be bedipped—be noticed—or be braced,

And all things rose a penny in a shilling.

Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste

"Accommodation bills" kept coming down,

Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits,

Flying from London smoke and dust annoying,

Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,

And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying,

Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,

And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying

A morning's reading by the ocean's rim,

That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature,

So small, he almost might a twin have been

With Miss Crachami—dwarfish quite in stature,

Yet well proportioned—neither fat nor lean,

His face of marvellously pleasant feature,

So short and sweet a man was never seen—

All thought him charming at the first beginning—

Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance—and chance repaid

His ardent passion with her fondest smile,

The sunshine of good luck, without a shade,

He staked and won—and won and staked—the bile

It stirred of many a man and many a maid,

To see at every venture how that vile

Small gambler snatched—and how he won them too—

A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,

'Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass,

And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks

Of needles, silks, and cottons—but, alas!

She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox

Was lucky—but she saw three caddies pass

To that small imp;—no living luck could loo him!

Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed—and rode—and won—and walked,

The wondrous topic of the curious swarm

That haunted the Parade. Many were balked

Of notoriety by that small form

Pacing it up and down: some even talked

Of ducking him—when lo! a dismal storm

Stopped in—one Friday, at the close of day—

And every head was turned another way—

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise

Bulky and slow upon the southern brink

Of the horizon—fanned by sultry sighs—

So black and threatening, I cannot think

Of any simile, except the skies

Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink—

Mis-shapen blotches of such heavy vapor,

They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave,

And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on

The stony-hearted beach;—some bards would have

It always rampant, in that idle fashion—

Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave,

Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion,

Who meekly settle in and take their places,

With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head,

Like troubled table-beer—and make it bounce,

And froth, and roar, and fling—but this, I've said,

Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce:

But then, a grander contrast thus it bred

With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce

Something more awful in the serious ear,

As one would whisper that a lion's near—

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder

Growled long—but low—a prelude note of death,

As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,

But still it muttered to the sea beneath

Such a continued peal, as made us wonder

It did not pause more oft to take its breath,

Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,

And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm,

Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes

Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm:

Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas,

Right on our coast;—a dismal, coal-black form;

Many proud gaits were quelled—and all bravadoes

Of folly ceased—and sundry idle jokers

Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days

The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing,

And they are used to many a pretty blaze,

To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing

With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays:

And truly one could think, without much lashing

The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful

And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin—all the fair crowd

Vanished—as if they knew their own attractions,—

For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud

Began to make some very crooked fractions—

Only some few remained that were not cowed,

A few rough sailors, who had been in actions,

And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's,

Lest it should blow,—were pulling up the Rose:

(No flower, but a boat)—some more were hauling

The Regent by the head:—another crew

With that same cry peculiar to their calling—

Were heaving up the Hope:—and as they knew

The very gods themselves oft get a mauling

In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew

The Neptune rather higher on the beach,

That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power,

Had all usurped the azure of the skies,

Making our daylight darker by an hour,

And some few drops—of an unusual size—

Few and distinct—scarce twenty to the shower,

Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes—

But then this sprinkle thickened in a trice

And rained much harder—in good solid ice.

Oh for a very storm of words to show

How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us!

Handel would make the gusty organs blow

Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:—

But ev'n his music seemed composed and low,

When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus;

Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,

And frozen comfits rolled along the ground—

As big as bullets:—Lord! how they did batter

Our crazy tiles:—and now the lightning flashed

Alternate with the dark, until the latter

Was rarest of the two!—the gust too dashed

So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter

Some panes,—and so it did—and first it smashed

The very square where I had chose my station

To watch the general illumination.

Another, and another, still came in,

And fell in jingling ruin at my feet,

Making transparent holes that let me win

Some samples of the storm:—Oh! it was sweet

To think I had a shelter for my skin,

Culling them through these "loopholes of retreat"—

Which in a little we began to glaze—

Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

But which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played

Its crooked fires in constant flashes still,

Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed

Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill,

So that it lit the town, and grandly made

The rugged features of the Castle Hill

Leap, like a birth, from chaos into light,

And then relapse into the gloomy night—

As parcel of the cloud;—the clouds themselves,

Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,

Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,

That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting.

We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves

Busy upon those crags, and ever casting

Huge fragments loose,—and that we felt the sound

They made in falling to the startled ground.

And so the tempest scowled away,—and soon

Timidly shining through its skirts of jet,

We saw the rim of the pacific moon,

Like a bright fish entangled in a net,

Flashing its silver sides,—how sweet a boon

Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget,

With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas—

Peace in the sky—and coolness in the breeze!

Meantime the hail had ceased:—and all the brood

Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;

At every window there were maids who stood

Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains,—

Or with coarse linens made the fractions good,

Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,—

Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt

The wind resolved—blowing the candles out.

No house was whole that had a southern front,—

No greenhouse but the same mishap befell;

Bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the brunt,—

No sex in glass was spared!—For those who dwell

On each hill-side, you might have swum a punt

In any of their parlors;—Mrs. Snell

Was slopped out of her seat,—and Mr. Hitchin

Had a flower-garden washed into a Kitchen.

But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed

The recent violence.—Each after each

The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed,

Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach.

Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aimed

Across the calm, and hinted by his speech

A gale next morning—and when morning broke,

There was a gale—"quite equal to bespoke."

Before high water—(it were better far

To christen it not water then, but waiter,

For then the tide is serving at the bar)

Rose such a swell—I never saw one greater!

Black, jagged billows rearing up in war

Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter,

With lots of froth upon the shingle shed,

Like stout poured out with a fine beachy head.

No open boat was open to a fare,

Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips;

No bathing woman waded—none would dare

A dipping in the wave—but waived their dips;

No seagull ventured on the stormy air,

And all the dreary coast was clear of ships;

For two lea shores upon the River Lea

Are not so perilous as one at sea.

Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene

Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,—

A boiling ocean of mixed black and green,

A sky of copper color, grim and surly,—

When lo, in that vast hollow scooped between

Two rolling Alps of water,—white and curly!

We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming,

Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!

Sometimes a hand—sometimes a little shoe—

Sometime a skirt—sometimes a hank of hair

Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view,

Sometimes a knee—sometimes a back was bare—

At last a frightful summerset he threw

Right on the shingles. Any one could swear

The lad was dead—without a chance of perjury,

And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown,

Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,

And after venting Pity's sigh and groan,

Then curiosity began with her fit;

And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!

'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit!

And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies,

We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles!

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave

His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,

Providing in this world he was to have

A lordship over luck, by whose exertion

He might control the course of cards and brave

All throws of dice,—but on a sea excursion

The juggling demon, in his usual vein,

Seized the last cast—and Nicked him in the main!

[LINES TO A LADY.][29]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,

And tempest make a soda-water sea,

Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,

And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,—

A wine more praised than it deserves to be!

Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,

And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth,

Making a midnight meal of he and she;

Go where the lion in his hunger howleth,

And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,

Or lies along at full length like a tree,

Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,

And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth

In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,

And, like a woman, all she can revealeth,

And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,

And parasols of straw where hats should be,

Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,

And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills,

And tall bamboos—may none bamboozle thee!

Go gaze upon their elephants and castles,

And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier,

And parch the peppered palate like a pea,

Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier,

And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,

Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay,

Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,

And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,

Go to the land of pagod and rupee,

Where every black will be your slave and servant,

And think of me!

[THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.]

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up!

For it does not accord with my notions,

Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,

To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,

And dip in at each watery dimple;

But however I wish

To inveigle the fish,

To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,

My bad luck never seems to diminish;

It would seem that the Bream

Must be scarce in the stream,

And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,

Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,

And although at my hook

With attention I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,

But they seem upon different terms now;

Have they taken advice

Of the "Council of Nice,"

And rejected their "Diet of Worms," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,

Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;

For the gut I have brought,

I had better have bought

A good rope that was used to Jack-ketching!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,

It is vain in this river to search then;

I may wait till it's night,

Without any bite

And at roost-time have never a Perch then!

No Roach can I meet with—no Bleak,

Save what in the air is so sharp now;

Not a Dace have I got,

And I fear it is not

"Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize

To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!

What then can I deem

Of so fishless a stream

But that 'tis—like St. Mary's—Ottery!

For an Eel I have learned how to try,

By a method of Walton's own showing—

But a fisherman feels

Little prospect of Eels,

In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,

Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,

And hungry and faint—

Let the Fancy just paint

What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,

While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell—

So, wet to the skin,

I'll e'en back to my inn,

Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!

[ODE]

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."—DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic 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 Bull-warks and their Ram-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale 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 Iö—by the cattle!

Fancy,—when droves appear on

The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,—

Your ladies—ready, as they own, to drop,

Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on!

Or, in St. Martin'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!

Think 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 neighbors that live round

The Market-ground

Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows—

"'Tis well for you that live apart—unable

To hear this brutal Babel,

But our firesides are troubled with their bellows."

"Folks that too freely sup

Must e'en put up

With their own troubles if they can't digest;

But we must needs regard

The case as hard

That others' victuals should disturb our rest,

That from our sleep your food should start and jump us!

We like, ourselves, a steak,

But, Sirs, for pity's sake!

We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-us!"

"If we do doze—it really is too bad!

We constantly are roar'd awake or rung,

Through bullocks mad

That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers—now let's take

The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake!

O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts,

Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones;

Such fierce tame beasts,

That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"

Seeing a red Cow come

To swallow her Tom Thumb,

And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,

When looking at their public private boxes,

To see in the back row

Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's!

Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come

Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,

Just when the Ghost is certain,

A great rent in the curtain,

And enter two tall skeletons—of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics

Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,

Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,

The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!

Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right,

And to each Show and sight

Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;

To Richardson's Stage Dramas,

Dio—and Cosmo—ramas,

Giants and Indians wild,

Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,

And that most rare of Shows—a Show of Gratitude!

[A REPORT FROM BELOW!]

"Blow high, blow low."—SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B.

One night were sitting down to tea,

With toast and muffins hot—

They heard a loud and sudden bounce,

That made the very china flounce,

They could not for a time pronounce

If they were safe or shot—

For Memory brought a deed to match

At Deptford done by night—

Before one eye appeared a Patch,

In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life,

Without some small attempt at strife,

Our nature will not grovel;

One impulse hadd both man and dame,

He seized the tongs—she did the same,

Leaving the ruffian, if he came,

The poker and the shovel.

Suppose the couple standing so,

When rushing footsteps from below

Made pulses fast and fervent;

And first burst in the frantic cat,

All steaming like a brewer's rat,

And then—as white as my cravat—

Poor Mary May, the servant!

Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter,

Master and Mistress both flew at her,

"Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?"

Till Mary, getting breath,

Upon her tale began to touch

With rapid tongue, full trotting, such

As if she thought she had too much

To tell before her death:—

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs,

And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs;

'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'—and there she stops for coughin,

'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often,

But please the pigs,'—for that's her way of swearing in a passion,

I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion!

Well down she takes my master's horn—I mean his horn for loading,

And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding.

Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper,

I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper;

You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff,

But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.

Well, when the pinch is over—'Teach your Grandmother to suck

A powder horn,' says she—Well, says I, I wish you luck.

Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips,

'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips;

Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these;

I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.

So in it goes, and Bounce—O Lord! it gives us such a rattle,

I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle!

Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs,

And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks.

Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter,

But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water.

I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance,

As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence;

All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap

Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap.

Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together,

As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather;

But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality,

She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality.

Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother,

Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.

So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,

Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it;

Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin;

Here lays a leg, and there a leg—I mean, you know, a stocking—

Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,

And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt;

But as nobody was in 'em—none but—nobody was hurt!

Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump,

When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.

And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,

A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:

Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches,

And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,

For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew;

Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true,

But these words is all she whispered—'Why, where is the powder blew?'"

["I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."][30]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S——, to ask

A Benedictine pen,

That cannot quite at freedom write

Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint

To fill this page's span,

But be correct and recollect

I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink

How hard to get along,

That may not turn on words that burn

Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I

May woo all in a clan,

But one Miss S—— I daren't address—

I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head

May eke it out with heart,

And in their lays it often plays

A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss,

But if I so began,

I have my fears about my ears—

I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak,

Nor on your lip be warm,

I must be wise about your eyes,

And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short,

On T.H. Bayly's plan,

I must not twine a single line—

I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart

To keep you off its beat,

And I might dare as soon to swear

At you, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire

As other poets can—

My life (she's by) won't let me die—

I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove,

Forbidden bow and dart,

Without a groan to call my own,

With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd

To flirt e'en with your fan,

Here end, as just a friend, I must—

I'm not a single man.

[THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.]

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,

When all in hungry trim,

Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup

With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod

How bravely I shall sup"—

When, whiter than the tablecloth,

A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"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 embrace

To greet your absent Jack,

But 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 pumped till we could see

Old England from the tops;

When down she went with all our hands,

Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"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 Joneses sod,

Till I've appeared 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 Sunday 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.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters then,

And do not touch the shrimps;

When I was in my briny grave,

They sucked 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!"

XIV.

The spirit fled—they wept his fate,

And cried, Alack, alack!

At last up started brother Jim,

"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,

And little Kitten too,

And down they put the Cod and sauce,

To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,

Puss never stood at crimps,

But munched the Cod—and little Kit

Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod

And sauce, they stood like posts;

Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,

Put no belief in Ghosts!

[THE DUEL.]

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown,

There lived a Mister Bray,

Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,

And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair outsides are seldom seen,

Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell, but there your court

No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love;

I who have shot a pigeon match,

Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more,

Consider what you do;

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell—

I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,

Your threats I quite explode;

One who has been a volunteer

Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless

Your passion quiet keeps,

I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,

May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed,

And that for copper red;

But these two went away to give

Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece,

This pleasant thought to give—

When they were dead, they thus should have

Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long

The seconds then forbore,

And having taken one rash step,

They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan

Against the deadly strife,

By putting in the prime of death

Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,

But when they took their stands,

Fear made them tremble so, they found

They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

Here one of us may fall,

And like St. Paul's Cathedral now

Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach

Misconduct to your name;

If I withdraw the charge, will then

Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree—

But think of Honor's Courts!

If we go off without a shot,

There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright,

Though cloudy it begun:

Why can't we aim above, as if

We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air

Their bullets they did send;

And may all other duels have

That upshot in the end!

[A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.]

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."—Scotch Song.

On that first Saturday in May,

When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,

Repair to see what each R.A.

Has done since last they sought the Strand,

In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,

In short, what's called the private view,—

Amongst the guests—the deuce knows how

She got in there without a row—

There came a large and vulgar dame,

With arms deep red, and face the same,

Showing in temper not a Saint;

No one could guess for why she came,

Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way,

Elbowed Lord Durham—poked Lord Grey—

Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move,

And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;

The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,

She made the Vice, his Honor, budge,

And gave a pinch to Park, the judge.

As for the ladies in this stir,

The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two,

She searched the pictures through and through,

On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,

And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part,

A deeper red each cheek became,

Her very eyes lit up in flame,

That made each looker-on exclaim,

"Really an ardent love of art!"

Alas! amidst her inquisition,

Fate brought her to a sad condition;

She might have run against Lord Milton,

And still have stared at deeds in oil.

But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,

She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes,

Like a lay-figure for surprise,

At last this stammered out, "How now?

Woman—where, woman, is your ticket,

That ought to have let you through our wicket?"

Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?"

Said Mr. H—— with expedition,

"There's no Cow in the Exhibition."

"No Cow!"—but here her tongue in verity,

Set off with steam and rail celerity—

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity,

Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee!

No Cow—but hold your tongue—for you needn't talk to me—

You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be—

I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow,

Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow!

You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards,

Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!

They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors,

David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,—

Why, Morland was a fool to him,—at a little pig or sow—

It's really hard it ain't hung up,—I could cry about the Cow!

But I know well what it is, and why—they're jealous of David's fame,

But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,—

Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now?

David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow

If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners—

Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's?

Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row,

If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow!

I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature,

Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature!

It must be hung—and shall be hung—for, Mr. H——, I vow

I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow!

As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,

If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair.

Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand,

Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand—

Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow,

It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow.

We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here,

The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear—

And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw,

And the Suffolk Gallery will not do—it's not a Suffolk Cow:

I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals

Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels:

His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,

He hardly whipped the boys at all,—or helped to nurse the babby,

And when he had her all complete and painted over red,

He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.

Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow,

Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow.

And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half—

David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

[LINES TO MARY.]

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true,

And I was blest in so believing;

But till this hour I never knew—

That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss,

Or some such trifle when I courted,

You said, indeed, that love was bliss,

But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face—

It would have been an unfair feeling

To dream that you had pilfered lace—

And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred,

To bring your coldness to repentance,

Before I hammer'd out a word,

How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth

I strove to prove my love no fiction,

How could I guess I urged a truth

On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part,

Your hand—where I have look'd and linger'd,

Altho' it stole away my heart,

Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew,

The charms in which my muse delighted—

Alas! the lay I thought was new.

Spoke only what had been indicted!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,

Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,

I little thought that you had run

A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world,

My vanity it now must shock it—

And down at once my pride is hurled,

You've pick'd me—and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far,

The banns were read by Doctor Daly,

Who asked if there was any bar—

Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones

In that pure white that angel garb is,

Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,

Among the Joans that link with Darbies?

And when the parson came to say,

My goods were yours, if I had got any,

And you should honor and obey,

Who could have thought—"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!—the worst of all your slips

I did not till this day discover—

That down in Deptford's prison ships,

O Mary! you've a hulking lover!

[THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.][31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."

Picture of Isle of Wight.

I.

One close of day—'twas in the Bay

Of Naples, bay of glory!

While light was hanging crowns of gold

On mountains high and hoary,

A gallant bark got under weigh,

And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct,

With wine and oil for cargo,

Her crew of men some nine or ten,

The captain's name was Jago;

A good and gallant bark she was,

La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view,

With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,

Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair,

Meet heads for painter's study;

But midst their tan there stood one man,

Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow

Ne'er shone in song or sonnet,

His hair, a little scant, and when

He doff'd his cap or bonnet,

One saw that Grey had gone beyond

A premiership upon it!

V.

His eye—a passenger was he,

The cabin he had hired it,—

His eye was gray, and when he look'd

Around, the prospect fired it,—

A fine poetic light, as if

The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.

VI.

His frame was stout, in height about

Six feet—well made and portly;

Of dress and manner just to give

A sketch, but very shortly,

His order seem'd a composite

Of rustic with the courtly.

VII.

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed,

And chatted with the seamen,

And often task'd their skill and ask'd,

"What weather is't to be, man?"

No demonstration there appeared,

That he was any demon.

VIII.

No sort of sign there was that he

Could raise a stormy rumpus,

Like Prospero make breezes blow,

And rocks and billows thump us,—

But little we supposed what he

Could with the needle compass!

IX.

Soon came a storm—the sea at first

Seem'd lying almost fallow—

When lo! full crash, with billowy dash,

From clouds of black and yellow,

Came such a gale as blows but once

A cent'ry, like the aloe!

X.

Our stomachs we had just prepared

To vest a small amount in;

When, gush! a flood of brine came down

The skylight—quite a fountain,

And right on end the table rear'd

Just like the Table Mountain.

XI.

Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine,

Each roll, its rôle repeating,

Roll'd down—the round of beef declar'd

For parting—not for meating!

Off flew the fowls, and all the game

Was "too far gone for eating!"

XII.

Down knife and fork—down went the pork,

The lamb too broke its tether;

Down mustard went—each condiment—

Salt—pepper—all together!

Down everything, like craft that seek

The Downs in stormy weather.

XIII.

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake,

Her timbers seem'd to sever;

Down, down, a dreary derry down,

Such lurch she had gone never;

She almost seem'd about to take

A bed of down forever!

XIV.

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw,

Thus robbed of all its uses,

He thought he saw the Evil One

Beside Vesuvian sluices,

Playing at dice for soul and ship,

And throwing Sink and Deuces.

XV.

Down fell the steward on his face,

To all the Saints commending;

And candles to the Virgin vow'd,

As save-alls 'gain'st his ending.

Down fell the mate, he thought his fate,

Checkmate, was close impending!

XVI.

Down fell the cook—the cabin boy,

Their beads with fervor telling,

While Alps of surge, with snowy verge,

Above the yards came yelling.

Down fell the crew, and on their knees

Shudder'd at each white swelling!

XVII.

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue,

His crimson light a cleaver

To each red rover of a wave:

To eye of fancy-weaver,

Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in

A raging scarlet fever!

XVIII.

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd

To Saint aid Virgin Mary;

But one there was that stood composed

Amid the waves' vagary;

As staunch as rock, a true game-cock

'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!

XIX.

His ruddy cheek retained its streak,

No danger seem'd to shrink him:

His step still bold—of mortal mould

The crew could hardly think him:

The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd

To know; could never sink him.

XX.

Relaxed at last the furious gale

Quite out of breath with racing;

The boiling flood in milder mood,

With gentler billows chasing;

From stem to stern, with frequent turn,

The Stranger took to pacing.

XXI.

And as he walked to self he talked,

Some ancient ditty thrumming,

In undertone, as not alone—

Now whistling, and now humming—

"You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes,"

"Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."

XXII.

Down went the wind, down went the wave,

Fear quitted the most finical;

The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,

And Hope was at the pinnacle:

When rose on high a frightful cry—

"The Devil's in the binnacle!"

XXIII.

"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried,

His voice with quite a falter—

"Steady's my helm, but every look

The needle seems to alter;

God only knows where China lies,

Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"

XXIV.

The captain stared aghast at mate,

The pilot at th' apprentice;

No fancy of the German Sea

Of Fiction the event is:

But when they at the compass look'd,

It seem'd non compass mentis.

XXV.

Now north, now south, now east, now west,

The wavering point was shaken,

'Twas past the whole philosophy

Of Newton, or of Bacon;

Never by compass, till that hour,

Such latitudes were taken!

XXVI.

With fearful speech, each after each

Took turns in the inspection;

They found no gun—no iron—none—

To vary its direction;

It seem'd a new magnetic case

Of Poles in Insurrection!

XXVII.

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives,

And all their household riches;

Oh! while they thought of girl or boy,

And dear domestic niches,

All down the side which holds the heart,

That needle gave them stitches.

XXVIII.

With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed

To see them so white-livered:

And walked abaft the binnacle,

To know at what they shivered;

But when he stood beside the card,

St. Josef! how it quivered!

XXIX.

No fancy-motion, brain-begot,

In eye of timid dreamer—

The nervous finger of a sot

Ne'er showed a plainer tremor;

To every brain it seemed too plain,

There stood th' Infernal Schemer!

XXX.

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew,

Just like a pullet's gizzard;

Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit,

From tacking like an izzard,

Bore down in this plain course at last,

"It's Michael Scott—the Wizard!"

XXXI.

A smile passed o'er the ruddy face:

"To see the poles so falter

I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you,

For with no fiends I palter!

Michael I'm not—although a Scott—

My Christian name is Walter."

XXXII.

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell

On all the fearful faction;

The captain's head (for he had read)

Confess'd the needle's action,

And bow'd to Him in whom the North

Has lodged its main attraction!

[THE GHOST.]

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

"I'll be your second."—LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago,

There lived one Mr. Brown;

And many folks considered him

The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both 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 manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;

The thing came thus 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

Against 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!

"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!

Are these your sorrow's deeds,

Already getting up a flame,

To burn your widows' 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;

O Bess! upon my very soul

It struck 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 went,

Like fowling-piece at cock!

[THE FALL.]

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep."

Count Fathom.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,

Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;

Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope,

And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope;

While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave

Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;

And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss;

One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!

Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme,

To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!

In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,

I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might:

On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rush'd in force,

And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course.

My eyes I closed—I dared not look the way towards the goal;

But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.

Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore!

And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by for evermore;

Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound,

The torrent's voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round.

Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet:

Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.

With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge,

Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge,

From crag to crag,—in speechless pain,—from midnight deep to deep;

I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.

How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find:

At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;

And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds

Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:

"It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares!

He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[OUR VILLAGE.]

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford'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 green, 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 common law lease,

And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.

Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling 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 pigsties, 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 reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise

A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle "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, a little Methodist Chapel of Ease;

And close by the churchyard, 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; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;

For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.

I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;

But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always there 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 everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;

But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything 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 papered inside as out,

For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.

That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;

A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.

As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;

But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!

There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the chief—

With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped 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 odd chimneys that never smokes,

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-bearded, 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 greengrocer's, and a baker,

But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;

And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with 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 cobbler, 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!

[A PUBLIC DINNER.]

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide."

Arabian Nights.

At seven 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 stewards' assistance

Has placed you at distance,

And, thanks to arrangers,

You sit amongst strangers,

But too late for mending;

Twelve sticks come attending

A stick of a Chairman,

A little dark spare man,

With bald, shining nob,

'Mid committee swell-mob;

In short, a short figure,—

You thought the Duke bigger.

Then silence is wanted,

Non Nobis 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,

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,

Knives 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 off

With somebody—nine off;

Bucellas made handy,

With Cape and bad Brandy,

Of 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,

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 honor;

Mr. Clark, when at leisure,

Will really feel pleasure;

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,

You see silver dishes,

With those little fishes,

The whitebait delicious,

Borne past you officious;

And hear rather plainish

A sound that's champagnish,

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 butter'd,

While dames in the gallery,

All 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. Tinney—

"Mr. Benbow, one guinea;

Mr. Frederick Manual,

One guinea—and annual."

Song—Jocky and Jenny,

"Mr. Markham, one guinea."

"Have you all filled your glasses?"

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,

Mr. Merrington—twenty,"

Rough music, in plenty.

Away toddles Chairman,

The 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 fever'd

Wet-footed, spoilt-beaver'd,

Eyes aching in socket,

Ten pounds out of pocket,

To Brook Street the Upper

You haste home to supper.

[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.

"Oh! 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,

For where's the trowsers blue?

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 soems 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

Effected 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 can't walk, for, oh! 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!"

[ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.][33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill."—SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green."—BEWICK.

O Andrew Fairservice,—but I beg pardon,

You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden,

On curly kale and cabbages intent,—

Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,—

You are a Christian—I would be the same,

Although we differ, and I'll tell you why,

Not meaning to make game,

I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will,

About your bill,

They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,

That, if you had your way,

You'd make the seventh day

As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.

Talk of converting Blacks—

By your attacks,

You make a thing so horrible of one day,

Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy,

Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday,

Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak,

Who, once a week,

P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers,

Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers,

And revel in a bloom

That is not of the loom,

Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees,

A Chapel of Ease.

Whereas, as you would plan it,

Wall'd in with hard Scotch granite,

People all day should look to their behaviors;—

But though there be, as Shakspeare owns,

"Sermons in stones,"

Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviors?

Spontaneous is pure devotion's fire;

And in a green wood many a soul has built

A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire,

Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt,

Better than if an architect the plan drew;

We know of old how medicines were back'd,

But true Religion needs not to be quack'd

By an Un-merry Andrew!

Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf

At Primrose-hill would renovate himself,

Or drink (and no great harm)

Milk genuine at Chalk Farm,—

The innocent intention who would balk,

And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink?

For my part, for my life, I cannot think

A walk on Sunday is "the Devil's Walk."

But there's a sect of Deists, and their creed

Is D——ing other people to be d——d,—

Yeas, all that are not of their saintly level,

They make a pious point

To send, with an "aroint,"

Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil.

To such, a ramble by the River Lea

Is really treading on the "Banks of D——."

Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers,

And say unto the sea, as Canute did,

(Of course the sea will do as it is bid,)

"This is the Sabbath—but there be no Breakers!"

Seek London's Bishop, on some Sunday morn,

And try him with your tenets to inoculate,—

Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn,

"This is not Churchman's Chocolate!"

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal,

And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages,

And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal,

Shout out with holy zeal,—

"These are not Chappet's sassages!"

Suppose your Act should act up to your will,

Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy,

To hear you saying of this pious bill,

"It works well—on a Sunday!"

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late,

Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;—

You might have done some good, and chang'd our fate,

Could you have upset that, which ruined Adam!

'Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs,

Or lay post-horses under legal fetters,

While Tattersall's on Sunday stirs its Legs,

Folks look for good examples from their Betters!

Consider,—Acts of Parliament may bind

A man to go where Irvings are discoursing—

But as for forcing "proper frames of mind,"

Minds are not framed, like melons, for such forcing!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator,

The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator;

Meaning one need not ever be sojourning

In a long Sermon Lane without a turning.

Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia

May like discourses with a skein of threads,

And love a lecture for its many heads,

But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo:

Right know I am no minister you be,

For you would say your service, sir, to me,

Till I should say, "My service, sir, to you."

Six days made all that is, you know, and then

Came that of rest—by holy ordination,

As if to hint unto the sons of men,

After creation should come re-creation.

Read right this text, and do not further search

To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.

[THE LOST HEIR.]

"Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonny laddie gone?"

Old Song.

One day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened High,

I heard a loud and sodden cry,

That chill'd my very blood;

And lo! from out a dirty alley,

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,

I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaub'd with grease and mud.

She turn'd her East, she turn'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 right hand held a frying pan,

The left a lump of beef.

At last her frenzy seemed to reach

A point just capable of speech,

And with a tone almost a screech,

As wild as ocean bird's,

Or female Banter mov'd to preach,

She gave her "sorrow-words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall

go stick stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets

like a crying 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 to him, you

know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.

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,

He'll 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;

O Sergeant 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

He'd a very good jacket, for certain,

for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;

And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd,

and red plush, they was once his Father'

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,

some 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 Monkey and an Organ:

O my Billy—my head will turn right round—if

he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians,

They'll make him a plaster parish image boy,

they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions.

Billy—where are you, Billy?—I'm as hoarse as a crow,

with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!

And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't,

for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.

O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my

life won't be of no more vally,

If I'm to see other folk's 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 coaches and horses of, and

there ain't no Billy there!

I would run all the wide world over to find him,

if I only know'd where to run,

Little Murphy, now I remember, was 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 called 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 washed 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.

He'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 O, I never never shall see him no more!

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing

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.

And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us

all and, drat 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 fetched to find a lost child,

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,

And went 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!

[THE FOX AND THE HEN.]

A FABLE.

Speaking within compass, as to fabulousness I prefer

Southcote to Northcote.

PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when,

Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad

Right on the body of a speckled Hen,

Determined upon taking all she had;

And like a very bibber at his bottle,

Began to draw the claret from her throttle;

Of course it put her in a pretty pucker,

And with a scream as high

As she could cry,

She call'd for help—she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream

Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream,

And, with a savage growl

In answer to the fowl,

He bounded forth against the prowling sinner,

And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom,

Thought, self-deceived,

He should not be perceived,

Hiding his brush within a neighboring broom!

But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare,

And caught in copper noose,

And looking like a goose,

Found that his fate had "hung upon a hare";

His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him,

And worst of all he saw old surly Tray

Coming to play

Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable,

Under his Master, a most special constable,

Instead of killing Reynard in a fury,

Seized him for legal trial by a Jury;

But Juries—Æsop was a sheriff then—

Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body—

I mean the Hen—and proved that she was dead,

To the veriest fool's head

Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill

Quite true enough to kill,

And then the Owl was call'd,—for, mark,

The Owl can witness in the dark.

To make the evidence more plain,

The Lynx connected all the chain.

In short there was no quirk or quibble

At which a legal Rat could nibble;

The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds.

As if the Jury had been packed—of hounds.

Reynard, however, at the utmost nick,

Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick;

Accordingly our cunning Fox,

Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd

A friendly Camel got into the box,

When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law,

If Jurors should withdraw,

They are to have no eating and no drinking,

Till all are starved into one way of thinking.

Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree,

Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock,

Till every Beast that only had one stomach,

Bent to the Camel, who was blest with three.

To do them justice, they debated

From four till ten, while dinner waited,

When thirst and hunger got the upper,

And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper:

"Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox

Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance

But that the Solon is a sorry Solon,

Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence

Depend upon a Colon?

[THE POACHER.]

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man,

And drove the Bury coach;

But bad companions were his bane,

And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,

And how to noose the hare;

And with a wiry terrier,

He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,

To park, preserve, and wood

He went, and kept the game alive,

By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore

That he had this demerit—

Give him an inch of warren, he

Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;

And many, large and small,

Without Hall's powder, without lead,

Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer

From forest, park, or lawn;

And without courting lord or duke,

Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares—

His course they could not stop:

No barber he, and yet he made

Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,

He tried the keepers' nerves;

They swore he never seem'd to have

Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found

No sporting worth a pin,

Unless he tried the covers made

Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,

In Surrey not a button;

The Speaker said he often tried

The Manors about Button.

No county from his tricks was safe;

In each he tried his lucks,

And when the keepers were in Beds,

He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas!

They always came to Herts;

And even Oxon used to wish

That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants,

Old Cheshire laid his plots:

He got entrapp'd by legal Berks,

And lost his life in Notts.

[A WATERLOO BALLAD.]

To 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 sorry March 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."

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 picked out Peter Stone,

Half turned into a corse;

A cannon was his bolster, 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 open'd me.

"Its billet every 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 steel'd his breast.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance,

Began to thrust away;

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;—

O Patty dear, it was no joke,

Although 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 balls and blows,

I throb and ache all over;

I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars

Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn

For any royal Guelph?

I 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 coffin I shall lie

And sleep my sleep eternal:

Not ev'n a shell—my only chance

Of being made a Kernel!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells

Will never ring at Chester!

Here I must lie in Honor's bed,

That isn't worth a tester!

"Farewell, my regimental mates,

With whom I used to dress!

My corps is changed, and I am now

In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have

No dying consolations,

Except, when I am dead, you'll go

And see th' Illuminations."

[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 with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born,

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 skin,

Then called me "ugly little sin?"

My Mother.

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" would boast,

"He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

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 sympathized with grief,

Or shared my joy—my sole relief?

Myself.

[THE SWEEPS 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 peep, peep, of a young sparrow."
—ESSAYS OF ELIA.

——"A voice cried Sweep no more!

Macbeth hath murdered sweep."

SHAKSPEARE.

One 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 above five feet.

A mongrel tint he seemed to take,

Poetic simile to make,

DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break,

White overcoming jet.

From side to side he crossed oblique,

Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,

And yet no English word can speak,

He walked upon the fret:

And while he sought the dingy job

His lab'ring breast appeared to throb,

And half a hiccup half a sob

Betray'd internal woe.

To cry amain he had by rote

He yearn'd, but law forbade the note,

Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,

He gaped—but not a crow!

I watched him and the glimpse I snatched

Disclosed his sorry 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 betray—

And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!

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 regularly mum.

But they can't undo natur—as sure as ever the morning 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 suppressed 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 sympathize 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 our callings?

I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.

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 unpartial 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 seeking 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;

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 mischance;

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 crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother.

They havn'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.

Climbing'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.

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 ain'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 we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin,

And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon?

But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves,

Everything, 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-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly,

For when we were 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 chimbley.

[THE DESERT-BORN][34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."—LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,—

To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!—

My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,

I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,

The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,—

When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud,

And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,

Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow;

A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below,

And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear;

In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;

Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk

Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk;

Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath

A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath,

Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet—

And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!

Of course I bowed my lowest bow—of all the things on earth,

The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,

To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon,

A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman!

Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd,

Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;

There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,

Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!

With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,

I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand;

And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,

Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face,

She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;

"Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;

"It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet!

Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,

This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!"

Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,

A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands,

Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face

They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.

"Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof,

"Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!

Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,

And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth."

Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,

She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL—for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee,

But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free,

And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride,

Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side;

Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,

Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,

A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist

Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.

Methought—but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,

Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!

To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,

The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse:

Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,

Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,

I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds

Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;—

As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero,

Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,

Tempestuous tail—to picture him description vainly begs!

His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath—

Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?

Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine

To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign

To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:

"Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,

Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,

So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born,

Or any of its ridings, this would be a blessed morn;

But, hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse

That I can always honor, but I never could endorse—

To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite

Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight:

In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,

I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;

Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle

On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle.

In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low,

"I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies,

And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;

"Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,

There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend,

That tells me you're of Arab race,—whatever spot of earth,

Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth,

The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse

By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;

But this—these desert sands—these palms, and cedars waving wild,

All, all, adopt thee as their own—an oriental child—

The cloud may hide the sun awhile—but soon or late, no doubt,

The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!

I read the starry characters—and lo! 'tis written there,

Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,

A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould,

Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly—I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom

Had stifled her!—the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom;

With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance,

I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,

And felt myself, and saw myself—the phantasy was horrid!—

Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!

On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r,

I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear;

I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife,

And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life;

"Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit,

Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit,

Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,

Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will."

Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,

The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!

"Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain,

Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;

Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,

And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!

As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild

But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I—(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth,

'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!

A playful child,—so full of life!—a little fair-haired boy,

His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy!

Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now!

That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;

A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse,

That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!"

Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now!

A chill ran all my marrow through—the drops were on my brow!

I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,

And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air.

How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail;

While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!

How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky,

As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!

While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave

My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play—

Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh—

Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch—

Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,—

I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small,

To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!

For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast,

Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last!

In agony I shook,—and yet, although congealed by fears,

My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;

I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair,

Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir—I could not speak—I could not even see—

A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,

I tried to pray, but found no words—tho' ready ripe to weep,

No tear would flow,—o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,—

When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,

Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front,

And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,

I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight

Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight;

Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,—

"Off with the bridle—quick!—and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,—and starting with a bound,

The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground;

And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,

Away we flew—away! away! across the shifting sands!

My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,

But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,

For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force

Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course—

One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,

The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!

And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,

Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,

A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!

What tongue could tell,—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride?

Now off—now on—now up—now down,—and flung from side to side!

I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone—

My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan—

My joints were racked—my back was strained, so firmly I had clung—

My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue—

When lo!—farewell all hope of life!—she turn'd and faced the rocks,

None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!

So thought I,—but I little knew the desert pride and fire,

Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;

Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,

Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;—

Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length

Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength—

My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!

She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;

Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,

I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing—

But oh! the crash!—the hideous shock!—the million sparks around!

Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth,

One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

---

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,

And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;

For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,

The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.

My heart was still—my pulses stopp'd—midway 'twixt life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,

Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,

Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die.

Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife—

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—

But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast?

Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

[AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.]

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning—service done—

'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,

A knot of bumpkins stood to chat

Of that and this, and this and that;

What people said of Polly Hatch—

Which side had won the-cricket match;

And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;—

How barley, beans, and 'taters sold—

What men could swallow at a meal—

When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal—

And who was taken off to jail—

And where they brew'd the strongest ale—

At last this question they address,

"What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,

It be the fancy farming line,

Like yonder gemman,—him I mean,

As took the Willa nigh the Green,—

And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;

And gave his porkers hay to eat;

And sent his footman up to town,

To ax the Lonnon gentry down,

To be so kind as make his hay,

Exactly on St. Swithin's day;—

With consequences you may guess—

That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg

Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;

But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,

As if he twigg'd the reason why,

And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance,

He didn't give the noose a chance;

So Master Blogg at last lays off,

And shams a rattle at the trough,

When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog

Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,

And flops him down in all the muck,

As hadn't been swept up by luck—

Now that, accordin' to my guess,

Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat;

I'ze bring a worser case nor that!"

"Last Friday week, I takes a start

To Reading, with our horse and cart;

Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down,

I meets a crony at the Crown;

And what betwixt the ale and Tom,

It's dark afore I starts for home;

So whipping hard, by long and late,

At last we reaches nigh the gate,

And, sure enough, there Master stand,

A lantern flaring in his hand,—

'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear?

Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear!

He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!'

There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB.

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap!

A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,

Only to fetch his milking-pails,

When up he shies like head or tails;

Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,

Till he had toss'd the best o' three;—

And there lies Tom with broken bones,

A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones;

Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,

'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,—

Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case,

For that will keep the ribs in place;'

But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,

Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw?

That's summut to the pint—yes, yes,

That's Hagricultural Distress!"

SIMON.

"Well, turn and turn about is fair:

Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare;

But nothing to my load of hay—

You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,

And cash was wanted for the rent;

So up to Lonnon I was sent,

To sell as prime a load of hay,

As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,

A chap comes up to buy my load,

And looks, and looks about the cart,

Pretending to be 'cute and smart;

But no great judge, as people say,

'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.

Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,

He'll give a simple price mayhap,

Such buyers comes but now and then,

So slap I axes nine pun' ten.

'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick

He taps his leathers with his stick.

'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay,

Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.

So in we goes, my chap and me;

He drinks to I, and I to he;

At last, says I, a little gay,

'It's time to talk about that hay,'

'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man,

Live, and let live—for that's my plan.'

'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say,

It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,'

And so we chaffers for a bit,

At long and last the odds we split;

And off he sets to show the way,

Where up a yard I leaves the hay.

Then, from the pocket of his coat,

He pulls a book, and picks a note.

'That's Ten,' says he—'I hope to pay

Tens upon tens for loads of hay.'

'With all my heart, and soon,' says I,

And feeling for the change thereby;

But all my shillings com'd to five—

Says he, 'No matter, man alive!

There's something in your honest phiz

I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;—

You'll pay next time you come to town.'

'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.'

'All right,' says he.—Thinks I 'huzza!

He's got no bargain of the hay!'

"Well, home I goes, with empty cart,

Whipping the horses pretty smart,

And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,

To think how well I'd sold the hay—

And just cotch'd Master at his greens

And bacon, or it might be beans,

Which didn't taste the worse surely,

To hear his hay had gone so high.

But lord! when I laid down the note,

It stuck the victuals in his throat,

And chok'd him till his face all grew

Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;

With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!

They seem'd a-coming out like snails!

'A note,' says he, half mad with passion,

'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!'

Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?

That's Hagricultural Distress."

COLIN.

"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing!

You only argy in a ring;

'Cause why? You never cares to look,

Like me, in any larned book;

But schollards know the wrong and right

Of every thing in black and white.

"Well, Farming, that's its common name,

And Agriculture be the same:

So put your Farming first, and next

Distress, and there you have your text.

But here the question comes to press,

What farming be, and what's distress?

Why, farming is to plough and sow,

Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow,

Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed

The proper stock to fat and feed.

Distress is want, and pain, and grief,

And sickness,—things as wants relief;

Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;

In short, ax any overseer,—

Well, now, the logic for to chop,

Where's the distress about a crop?"

"There's no distress in keeping sheep,

I likes to see 'em frisk and leap;

There's no distress in seeing swine

Grow up to pork and bacon fine;

There's no distress in growing wheat

And grass for men or beasts to eat;

And making of lean cattle fat,

There's no distress, of course, in that.

Then what remains?—But one thing more,

And that's the Farming of the Poor!"

HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.

"Yea!—aye!—surely!—for sartin!—yes!—

That's Hagricultural Distress!"

[DOMESTIC POEMS.]

"It's hame, hame, hame."—A. CUNNINGHAM.

"There's no place like home."—CLARI.

I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!

When I look back at Hymen's dear day,

Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife,

Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!

But as liquid as stars in a pool;

Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,

Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair;

Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now,

As if time, when those furrows were made by the share,

Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,

When a Venus demanded their skill;

Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose,

But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,

Such a nectar there hung on each lip;

Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,

Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts,

From its dimple he could not get loose;

Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,

Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,

With their ringlets of auburn so deep!

Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,

By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,

While in whiteness it vied with your arms;

Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place,

To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,

Though it now has two twists from upright—

But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!

Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West.

My daily labors past;

On Anna's soft and gentle breast

My head reclined at last;—

The darkness clos'd around, so dear

To fond congenial souls,

And thus she murmur'd at my ear,

"My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,

Insisting on his rent;

And all the Todds are coming up

To see us, out of Kent;—

I quite forgot to tell you John

Has had a tipsy fall;—

I'm sure there's something going on

With that vile Mary Hall!—"

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,

And I have bought the rest—

Of course, if we go out of town,

Southend will be the best.—

I really think the Jones's house

Would be the thing for us;—

I think I told you Mrs. Pope

Had parted with her nus—

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day,

To bid me suit myself—

And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed

The victuals on the shelf.—

And, lord! there's such a letter come,

Inviting you to fight!

Of course you don't intend to go—

God bless you, dear, good night!"

III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin—

(Good heav'ns! 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!)

Thou cherub—but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey

From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,

(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint—

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, 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!)

Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life—

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

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!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South,

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—

(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—

(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV. A SERENADE.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

Thus I heard a father cry,

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

The brat will never shut an eye;

Hither come, some power divine!

Close his lids, or open mine!

"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;

"Lullaby, 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-syrup 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 walking in my sleep?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Sleep his very looks deny—

Lullaby, oh, lullaby;

Nature soon will stupefy—

My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim—

Who's that fallen—me or him?"

[THE GREEN MAN.]

Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man

As ever lived—at least at number Four,

In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown'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—

Or 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.

Once in the company of merry mates,

In spite of Temperance's if's and buts,

So sure as Eating is set off with plates,

His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!

Howbeit, such Bacchanalian 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 Strasburg'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 Ruby-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 wound 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 within 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,

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 color 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-colored 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 feller, 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 green.

Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown

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-night of course—"Harm watch, harm catch,"

From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

So, liberty or not,—

Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in

A suicidal coffin—

The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;

Appearance,—"fiddle-sticks!" 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 pint 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 horses' 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—"

Hereat 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 sigh of deep dejection,

While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief

Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.

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 Hic Jacet.

He took a seat beside the patient's bed,

Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,—

Poked, strok'd, 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 green glass,

Or dined at City Festivals, whereat

There's turtle, and green fat?"

To all of which, with 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 anything "Particular."

The Doctor was at fault;

A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.

Cases of other colors 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 Poet spoke,

As "rashes growing green"—

"Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green!

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 rumors,

The modern miracle was buzz'd about,

By people of all humors,

Native or foreign in their dialecticals;

Till all the neighborhood, as if their noses

Had taken the odd gross from little Moses,

Seemed looking thro' green spectacles.

"Green faces!" so they all began to comment—

"Yes—opposite to Druggists' lighted shops,

But that's a flying color—never stops—

A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment.

Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,

Nothing at all to match the present piece;

Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind—

Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!"

The oldest Supercargoes or 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!

It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,—

As brought home Mister 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!"

[HIT OR MISS.]

"Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,

Forgather'd ance upon a time."—BURNS.

One morn—it was the very morn

September's sportive month was born—

The hour, about the sunrise, early;

The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly,

With sundry orange streaks and tinges

Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges:

The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool,

As if just skimm'd from off a pool;

The scene, red, russet, yellow, laden,

From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden,

Save here and there a turnip patch,

Too verdant with the rest to match;

And far a-field a hazy figure,

Some roaming lover of the trigger.

Meanwhile the level light perchance

Pick'd out his barrel with a glance;

For all around a distant popping

Told birds were flying off or dropping.

Such was the morn—a morn right fair

To seek for covey or for hare—

When, lo! too far from human feet

For even Ranger's boldest beat,

A Dog, as in some doggish trouble,

Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble,

With dappled head in lowly droop,

But not the scientific stoop;

And flagging, dull, desponding ears,

As if they had been soak'd in tears,

And not the beaded dew that hung

The filmy stalks and weeds among.

His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know

An errand, why, or where to go,

To trot, to walk, or scamper swift—

In short, he seem'd a dog adrift;

His very tail, a listless thing,

With just an accidental swing,

Like rudder to the ripple veering,

When nobody on board is steering.

So, dull and moody, canter'd on

Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don;

When, rising o'er a gentle slope,

That gave his view a better scope,

He spied, some dozen furrows distant,

But in a spot as inconsistent,

A second dog across his track,

Without a master to his back;

As if for wages, workman-like,

The sporting breed had made a strike,

Resolv'd nor birds nor puss to seek,

Without another paunch a week!

This other was a truant curly,

But, for a spaniel, wondrous surely;

Instead of curvets gay and brisk,

He slouch'd along without a frisk,

With dogged air, as if he had

A good half mind to running mad;

Mayhap the shaking at his ear

Had been a quaver too severe;

Mayhap the whip's "exclusive dealing"

Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling,

Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain

He did not mean to come again.

Of course the pair soon spied each other;

But neither seem'd to own a brother;

The course on both sides took a curve,

As dogs when shy are apt to swerve;

But each o'er back and shoulder throwing

A look to watch the other's going,

Till, having clear'd sufficient ground,

With one accord they turn'd them round,

And squatting down, for forms not caring,

At one another fell to staring;

As if not proof against a touch

Of what plagues humankind so much,

A prying itch to get at notions

Of all their neighbor's looks and motions.

Sir Don at length was first to rise—

The better dog in point of size,

And, snuffing all the ground between,

Set off, with easy jaunty mien;

While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him,

And made a dozen steps to meet him—

Their noses touch'd, and rubb'd awhile

(Some savage nations use the style),

And then their tails a wag began,

Though on a very cautious plan,

But in their signals quantum suff.

To say, "A civil dog enough."

Thus having held out olive branches,

They sank again, though not on haunches,

But couchant, with their under jaws

Resting between the two forepaws,

The prelude, on a luckier day,

Or sequel, to a game of play:

But now they were in dumps, and thus

Began their worries to discuss,

The Pointer, coming to the point

The first, on times so out of joint.

"Well, Friend,—so here's a new September,

As fine a first as I remember;

And, thanks to such an early Spring,

Plenty of birds, and strong on wing."

"Birds!" cried the little crusty chap,

As sharp and sudden as a snap,

"A weasel suck them in the shell!

What matter birds, or flying well,

Or fly at all, or sporting weather,

If fools with guns can't hit a feather!"

"Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don,

Putting his gravest visage on;

"In vain we beat our beaten way,

And bring our organs into play,

Unless the proper killing kind

Of barrel tunes are play'd behind:

But when we shoot,—that's me and Squire—

We hit as often as we fire."

"More luck for you!" cried little Woolly,

Who felt the cruel contrast fully;

"More luck for you, and Squire to boot!

We miss as often as we shoot!"

"Indeed!—No wonder you're unhappy!

I thought you looking rather snappy;

But fancied, when I saw you jogging,

You'd had an overdose of flogging;

Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried

While you were ranging rather wide."

"Me! running—running wide—and hit!

Me shot! what, pepper'd?—Deuce a bit!

I almost wish I had! That Dunce,

My master, then would hit for once!

Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds!

He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!"

"Well, that must be a case provoking.

What, never—but, you dog, you're joking!

I see a sort of wicked grin

About your jaw you're keeping in."

"A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter

Would be as much a joking matter.

To tell the truth, that dog-disaster

Is just the type of me and master,

When fagging over hill and dale,

With his vain rattle at my tail,

Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run,

But leading nothing but his gun—

The very shot I fancy hisses,

It's sent upon such awful misses!"

"Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is

Your master's hand is out of practice!"

"Practice?—No doctor, where you will,

Has finer—but he cannot kill!

These three years past, thro' furze and furrow,

All covers I have hunted thorough;

Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors;

And put up hares by scores and scores;

Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;—

Yes, game enough to send in presents

To ev'ry friend he has in town,

Provided he had knock'd it down:

But no—the whole three years together,

He has not giv'n me flick or feather—

For all that I have had to do

I wish I had been missing too!"

"Well,—such a hand would drive me mad;

But is he truly quite so bad?"

"Bad!—worse!—you cannot underssore him;

If I could put up, just before him,

The great Balloon that paid the visit

Across the water, he would miss it!

Bite him! I do believe, indeed,

It's in his very blood and breed!

It marks his life, and, run all through it;

What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it.

Last Monday he came home to Tooting,

Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting,

And kicks at me to vent his rage—

'Get out!' says he—'I've miss'd the stage!'

Of course, thought I—what chance of hitting?

You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!"

"Why, he must be the country's scoff!

He ought to leave, and not let, off!

As fate denies his shooting wishes,

Why don't he take to catching fishes?

Or any other sporting game,

That don't require a bit of aim?"

"Not he!—Some dogs of human kind

Will hunt by sight, because they're blind.

My master angle!—no such luck!

There he might strike, who never struck!

My master shoots because he can't,

And has an eye that aims aslant;

Nay, just by way of making trouble,

He's changed his single gun for double;

And now, as girls a-walking do,

His misses go by two and two!

I wish he had the mange, or reason

As good, to miss the shooting season!"

"Why yes, it must be main upleasant

To point to covey, or to pheasant,

For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,

Think letting fly as good as shooting!"

"Snobs!—if he'd wear his ruffled shirts,

Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,

Or trowsers in the place of smalls,

Or those tight fits he wears at balls,

Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,

Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,

And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,

And none would stare, unless we hit.

But no—to make the more combustion,

He goes in gaiters and in fustian,

Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,

And deuce a miss but some one marks!

For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,

Dog us about like common poachers!

Many's the covey I've gone by,

When underneath a sporting eye;

Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her—

I miss 'em to prevent my master!"

"And so should I, in such a case!

There's nothing feels so like disgrace,

Or gives you such a scurvy look—

A kick and pail of slush from Cook,

Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one,

As standing to a missing gun!

It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound,

To catch your bird before the ground:

But no—a pump and ginger pop

As soon would get a bird to drop!

So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,

Till all your tail is gone to sleep;

A sort of stiffness in your nape,

Holding your head well up to gape;

While off go birds across the ridges,

First small as flies, and then as midges,

Cocksure, as they are living chicks,

Death's Door is not at Number Six!"

"Yes! yes! and then you look at master,

The cause of all the late disaster,

Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath

At gun, or birds, or maybe both;

P'rhaps curses you, and all your kin,

To raise the hair upon your skin!

Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps,

To go and hunt for more miss-haps!"

"Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel

But one long wish to go to heel;

You cannot scent for cutting mugs—

Your nose is turning up, like Pug's;

You can't hold up, but plod and mope;

Your tail like sodden end of rope,

That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side

Has soak'd in harbor, tide and tide.

On thorns and scratches, till that moment

Unnoticed, you begin to comment;

You never felt such bitter brambles,

Such heavy soil, in all your rambles!

You never felt your fleas so vicious!

Till, sick of life so unpropitious,

You wish at last, to end the passage,

That you were dead, and in your sassage!"

"Yes! that's a miss from end to end!

But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend,

You've made me shiver, skin and gristle,

As if I heard my master's whistle!

Though how you came to learn the knack—

I thought your Squire was quite a crack!"

"And so he is!—He always hits—

And sometimes hard, and all to bits.

But ere with him our tongues we task,

I've still one little thing to ask;

Namely, with such a random master,

Of course you sometimes want a plaster?

Such missing hands make game of more

Than ever pass'd for game before—

A pounded pig—a widow's cat—

A patent ventilating hat—

For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick,

Will find a coat whereon to stick!"

"What! accidentals, as they're term'd?

No never—none—since I was worm'd—

Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,—

My master does not miss by halves!

His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd

Abroad upon the whole wide world,—

But whether they be blown to dust,

As often-times I think they must,

Or melted down too near the sun,

What comes of them is known to none—

I never found, since I could bark,

A Barn that bore my master's mark!"

"Is that the case?—Why then, my brother,

Would we could swap with one another!

Or take the Squire, with all my heart,

Nay, all my liver, so we part!

He'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge)

He'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge;

He'll hit a snipe; he'll hit a pheasant;

He'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present;

He'll always hit,—as that's your wish—

His pepper never lacks a dish!"

"Come, come, you banter,—let's be serious;

I'm sure that I am half delirious,

Your picture set me so a-sighing—

But does he shot so well—shoot flying?"

"Shoot flying? Yes—and running, walking—

I've seen him shoot two farmers talking—

He'll hit the game, whene'er he can,

But failing that he'll hit a man,—

A boy—a horse's tail or head—

Or make a pig a pig of lead,—

Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet,

However hot, was known to sweat,

But sure I am that I perspire

Sometimes before my master's fire!

Misses! no, no, he always hits,

But so as puts me into fits!

He shot my fellow dog this morning,

Which seemed to me sufficient warning!"

"Quite, quite, enough!—So that's a hitter!

Why, my own fate I thought was bitter,

And full excuse for cut and run;

But give me still the missing gun!

Or rather, Sirius! send me this,

No gun at all, to hit or miss,

Since sporting seems to shoot thus double,

That right or left it brings us trouble!"

So ended Dash;—and Pointer Don

Prepared to urge the moral on;

But here a whistle long and shrill

Came sounding o'er the council hill,

And starting up, as if their tails

Had felt the touch of shoes and nails,

Away they scamper'd down the slope,

As fast as other pairs elope,—

Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets,

To beg, or dance in fancy jackets;

At butchers' shops to try their luck;

To help to draw a cart or truck;

Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most

Who would but hit or miss a post.

[THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.][35]

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY.

"Vell! Here I am—no Matter how it suits

A-keeping Company vith 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 Year of keepin Sheep,

The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks,

And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

"If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out

To only Baa! and Botanize about,

I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pull,

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 haye 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 London 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 sheepish 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 Pocket nor a Pus.

"But folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick

To dumb brute 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 Gemman's Vipe?"

[LIEUTENANT LUFF.]

All you that are too fond of wine,

Or any other stuff,

Take warning by the dismal fate

Of one Lieutenant Luff.

A sober man he might have been,

Except in one regard,

He did not like soft water,

So he took to drinking hard!

Said he, "Let others fancy slops,

And talk in praise of Tea,

But I am no Bohemian,

So do not like Bohea.

If wine's a poison, so is Tea,

Though in another shape:

What matter whether one is kill'd

By canister or grape!"

According to this kind of taste

Did he indulge his drouth,

And being fond of Port, he made

A port-hole of his mouth!

A single pint he might have sipp'd

And not been out of sorts,

In geologic phrase—the rock

He split upon was quarts!

To "hold the mirror up to vice"

With him was hard, alas!

The worse for wine he often was,

But not "before a glass."

No kind and prudent friend had he

To bid him drink no more,—

The only chequers in his course

Where at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this

His frame began to show,

For that old enemy the gout

Had taken him in toe!

And join'd with this an evil came

Of quite another sort—

For while he drank, himself, his purse

Was getting "something short."

For want of cash he soon had pawn'd

One half that he possessed,

And drinking showed him duplicates

Beforehand of the rest!

So now his creditors resolved

To seize on his assets;

For why,—they found that his half-pay

Did not half pay his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode

His creditors to chouse;

For his own execution he

Put into his own house!

A pistol to the muzzle charged

He took devoid of fear;

Said he, "This barrel is my last,

So now for my last bier!"

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,

And not against his brain,

So he blew out his lights—and none

Could blow them in again!

A Jury for a Verdict met,

And gave in it these terms:—

"We find as how as certain slugs

Has sent him to the worms!"

[MORNING MEDITATIONS.]

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy

How well to rise while nights and larks are flying—

For my part getting up seems not so easy

By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,

Soaring beyond the sight to find him out—

Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,

The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime—

Only lee long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,

His steeds that paw impatiently about,—

Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear

Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl;

What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,

And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs

"Wherefore should master rise before the hens

Have laid their eggs?"

Why from a comfortable pillow start

To see faint flushes in the east awaken?

A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,

Who used to haste the dewy grass among,

"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"—

Well—he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,

And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;

But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be

"All up—all up!"

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,

Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;—

A man that's fond precociously of stirring,

Must be a spoon.

[A PLAIN DIRECTION.]

"Do you never deviate?"

John Bull.

In London once I lost my way

In faring to and fro,

And ask'd a little ragged boy

The way that I should go;

He gave a nod, and then a wink,

And told me to get there

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I box'd his little saucy ears,

And then away I strode;

But since I've found that weary path

Is quite a common road.

Utopia is a pleasant place,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a famous town

That drove a famous trade,

Where Whittington walk'd up and found

A fortune ready made.

The very streets are paved with gold;

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a Fairy Land,

In some romantic tale,

Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive

And wicked Giants fail.

My wish is great, my shoes are strong,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard about some happy Isle,

Where ev'ry man is free,

And none can lie in bonds for life

For want of L. S. D.

Oh that's the land of Liberty!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square,"

I've dreamt about some blessed spot,

Beneath the blessed sky,

Where Bread and Justice never rise

Too dear for folks to buy.

It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is an ancient House,

As pure as it is old,

Where Members always speak their minds

And votes are never sold.

I'm fond of all antiquities,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Royal Court

Maintain'd in noble state,

Where ev'ry able man, and good,

Is certain to be great!

I'm very fond of seeing sights,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Temple too,

Where Christians come to pray;

But canting knaves and hypocrites,

And bigots keep away.

Oh that's the parish church for me!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Garden fair,

That's haunted by the dove,

Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse

The golden light of love—

The place must be a Paradise,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land

For public spirit known—

Whose Patriots love its interests

Much better than their own.

The Land of Promise sure it is!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate,

A Mansion large and strong;

A view all over Kent and back,

And going for a song.

George Robins knows the very spot,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a Company

All formal and enroll'd,

Will take your smallest silver coin

And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb'd,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant Land,

Where omelettes grow on trees,

And roasted pigs run crying out,

"Come eat me, if you please."

My appetite is rather keen,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

[THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION.][36]

"Now's the time and now's the hour,"—BURNS.

"Seven's the main."—CROCKFORD.

Pity 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.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,

We venerate our Glorious Constitution;

We joy King William's advent should have been,

And only want a Counter Revolution.

'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,

The 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 the Church—but hang the cloth!

We love her ministers—but curse the lawn!

We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss!

We 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!

"That custom is"—say custom after seven—

"More honor'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 Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, 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 morn 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.

[THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.]

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd,

My curtains drawn and all is snug;

Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,

And Tray is sitting on the rug.

Last night I had a curious dream,

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well,

I could but woo and she was won,

Myself in blue, the bride in white,

The ring was placed, the deed was done!

Away we went in chaise-and-four,

As fast as grinning boys could flog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

What loving tête-à-têtes to come!

But tête-à-têtes must still defer!

When Susan came to live with me,

Her mother came to live with her!

With sister Belle she couldn't part,

But all my ties had leave to jog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll—

A monkey too, what work he made!

The sister introduced a Beau—

My Susan brought a favorite maid.

She had a tabby of her own,

A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The Monkey bit—the Parrot scream'd

All day the sister strumm'd and sung;

The petted maid was such a scold!

My Susan learn'd to use her tongue:

Her mother had such wretched health,

She sate and croak'd like any frog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love,

I soon came down to simple "M!"

The very servants cross'd my wish,

My Susan let me down to them.

The poker hardly seem'd my own,

I might as well have been a log—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape!

Such coats and hats she never met!

My ways they were the oddest ways!

My friends were such a vulgar set!

Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd—

She could not bear that Mister Blogg—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, My Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then

Mamma must mingle in the song—

The sister took a sisters part—

The Maid declared her Master wrong—

The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!"

My life was like a London fog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine,

As proved by bills that had no end—

I never had a decent coat—

I never had a coin to spend!

She forced me to resign my Club,

Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout

To fops and flirts, a pretty list;

And when I tried to steal away,

I found my study full of whist!

Then, first to come and last to go,

There always was a Captain Hogg—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream

For one who single is and snug—

With Pussy in the elbow-chair

And Tray reposing on the rug?—

If I must totter down the hill,

'Tis safest done without a clog—

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

[RURAL FELICITY.]

Well, 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 corn.

It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down,

Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes one 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 about a dairy farm, with its different kinds 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 very 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 bye, 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.

Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at 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 flow'rs, 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;

Besides 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's Lane;

And while you're running all ducked and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops,

"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing show'r 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 gathering 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 over a ditch, when they're morally 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, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face.

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 the duckweed pond:

Or perhaps when I've pully-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 gown—

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 such a shrill piece of work!

And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived upon nothing 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 pies of the rooks?

Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree when it's down,

But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to look for champagne 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 fetched 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 rake.

I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with 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 hands 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 screeching at night.

Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing—

In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the most happiest thing;

For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before as endur'd 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 moskitoes 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 had upon Holborn Hill?

And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter wherever you will?

And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?

So one isn't so very 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, when London is all burnt down!

[A FLYING VISIT.]

"A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine—find out moonshine!"—Midsummer Night's Dream.

I.

The by-gone September,

As folks may remember,

At least if their memory saves but an ember,

One fine afternoon,

There went up a Balloon,

Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

II.

For, nearing the sky,

At about a mile high,

The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;

So cutting his string,

In a Parasol thing

Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

III.

Meanwhile, thus adrift,

The Balloon made a shift

To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;

It got very small,

Then to nothing at all;

And then rose the question of where it would fall?

IV.

Some thought that, for lack

Of the man and his pack,

'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack;

Some held, but in vain,

With the first heavy rain

'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

V.

But still not a word

For a month could be heard

Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird;

The firm Gye and Hughes,

Wore their boots out and shoes,

In running about and inquiring for news.

VI.

Some thought it must be

Tumbled into the Sea;

Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie

For Germans, as shown

By their writings, 'tis known

Are always delighted with what is high-flown.

VII.

Some hinted a bilk,

And that maidens who milk,

In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:

Some swore that it must,

"As they said at the fust,

Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!"

VIII.

However, at last,

When six weeks had gone past,

Intelligence came of a plausible cast;

A wondering clown,

At a hamlet near town,

Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down.

IX.

Soon spread the alarm,

And from cottage and farm,

The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;

And off ran the folk,—

It is such a good joke

To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

X.

And lo! the machine,

Dappled yellow and green,

Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:

"Yes, yes," was the cry,

"It's the old one, surely,

Where can it have been such a time in the sky?"

XI.

"Lord! where will it fall?

It can't find out Vauxhall,

Without any pilot to guide it at all!"

Some wager'd that Kent

Would behold the event,

Debrett had been posed to predict its descent.

XII.

Some thought it would pitch

In the old Tower Ditch,

Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch;

And Farmers cried "Zounds!

If it drops on our grounds,

We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds."

XIII.

But still to and fro

It continued to go,

As if looking out for soft places below;

No difficult job,

It had only to bob

Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

XIV.

Who, too apt to stare

At some castle in air,

Forget that the earth is their proper affair;

Till, watching the fall

Of some soap-bubble ball,

They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.

XV.

Meanwhile, from its height

Stooping downward in flight,

The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:

Still bigger and bigger,

And strike me a nigger

Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!

XVI.

Yes, plain to be seen,

Underneath the machine,

There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;

Some mason could spy;

Others named Mr. Gye;

Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.

XVII.

'Twas Graham the flighty,

Whom the Duke high and mighty

Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;

'Twas Hampton, whose whim

Was in Cloudland to swim,

Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him!

XVIII.

But all were at fault;

From the heavenly vault

The falling balloon came at last to a halt;

And bounce! with the jar

Of descending so far,

An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!

XIX.

At first with the jolt

All his wits made a bolt,

As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;

And while in his faint,

To avoid all complaint,

The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint.

XX.

The face of this elf,

Round as platter of delf,

Was pale as if only a cast of itself;

His head had a rare

Fleece of silvery hair,

Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.

XXI.

His eyes they were odd,

Like the eyes of a cod,

And gave him the look of a watery God.

His nose was a snub;

Under which, for his grub,

Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.

XXII.

His person was small,

Without figure at all,

A plump little body as round as a ball:

With two little fins,

And a couple of pins,

With what has been christened a bow in the shins.

XXIII.

His dress it was new,

A full suit of sky-blue—

With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—

Thus painted complete,

From his head to his feet,

Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.

XXIV.

Fine text for the crowd!

Who disputed aloud

What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud—

"He's come from o'er seas,

He's a Cochin Chinese—

By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!"

XXV.

"Don't nobody know?"

"He's a young Esquimaux,

Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow."

"Some angel, my dear,

Sent from some upper spear

For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!"

XXVI.

Meanwhile with a sigh,

Having open'd one eye,

The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;

And finding his tongue,

Thus he said, or he sung,

"Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!"

XXVII.

"Lord! what does he speak?"

"It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!"

"It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!"

"It's no like the Scotch,"

Said a Scot on the watch,

"Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!"

XXVIII.

"It's not parly voo,"

Cried a schoolboy or two,

"Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew.

Some held it was sprung

From the Irvingite tongue,

The same that is used by a child very young.

XXIX.

Some guess'd it high Dutch,

Others thought it had much

In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;

But none could be poz,

What the Dickins! (not Boz)

No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!

XXX.

When who should come pat,

In a moment like that,

But Bowring, to see what the people were at—

A Doctor well able,

Without any fable,

To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.

XXXI.

So just drawing near,

With a vigilant ear,

That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,

Before one could sip

Up a tumbler of flip,

He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!

XXXII.

Then stretching his hand,

As you see Daniel stand,

In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!

Without more delay,

In the Hamilton way

He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.

XXXIII.

"Krak kraziboo ban,

I'm the Lunatick Man,

Confined in the Moon since creation began—

Sit muggy bigog,

Whom except in a fog

You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog."

XXXIV.

"Lang sinery lear,

For this many a year,

I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,—

Och, pad-mad aroon

Till one fine afternoon,

I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon."

XXXV.

"Cush quackery go,

But, besides you must know,

I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;

Big botherum blether,

Who pretended to gather

The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather."

XXXVI.

"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."

XXXVII.

"Fiz bobbery pershal

Besides aims commercial,

Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel,

Cum puddin and tame,

It's inscribed to his name,

Which is now at the full in celestial fame."

XXXVIII.

"Wept wepton 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.

XXXIX.

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.

XL.

And hard he had fared,

But the people were scared

By what the Interpreter roundly declared;

"You ignorant Turks!

You will be your own Burkes—

He holds all the keys of the lunary works!"

XLI.

"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!"

XLII.

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.

XLIII.

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 bi gar!"

That is,—"What a sad set of villains you are!"

XLIV.

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!

[QUEEN MAB.]

A little fairy comes at night,

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,

With silver spots upon her wings,

And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,

And when a good child goes to bed

She waves her wand from right to left,

And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,

Of fountains filled with fairy fish,

And trees that bear delicious fruit,

And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents

From lovely flowers that never fade;

Bright flies that glitter in the sun,

And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues,

For singing songs and telling tales,

And pretty dwarfs to show the way

Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,

From left to right she weaves her rings,

And then it dreams all through the night

Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,

And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,

And ogres draw their cruel knives,

To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,

Or raging flames come scorching round,

Fierce dragons hover in the air,

And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep,

And wish the long black gloom away;

But good ones love the dark, and find

The night as pleasant as the day.

[TO HENRIETTA,][37]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,

They will not just be treated as they used to be at home;

So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,

Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief,

They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,

With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,

And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,

And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;

And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,

For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,

But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;

For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)

In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girls,

In scraps of Galignani they'll screw up your little curls;

And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,

And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing

To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring;

That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;

Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch,

But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch,

With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,

You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,

No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!"

So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew

Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "Tant mi—eux!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,

They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;

So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,

Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

[A PARTHIAN GLANCE.]

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,

Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."—ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,

And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;

Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,

That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,

And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,

Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!

And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,

Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,

On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin—

Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,

Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong—infant pleasures as weak—

But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note;

Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"

Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce

"Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin—I see myself urchin indeed—

With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight;

Why should weeks have an end?—I am sure there was need

Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?

Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?

Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub,

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy—my tailor was nothing in fault,

For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,—

But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt"

That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!

With a lanky right leg duly planted before;

Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke,

And extended my arms as "the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover—Oh! say, were you ever in love?

With a lady too cold—and your bosom too hot?

Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,

Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,

Did you walk up the aisle—the genteelest of men?

When I think of that beautiful vision anew,

Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care,

And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;

Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,

And I'm seeking to hide it—by writing for bays!

[A TRUE STORY.]

Of 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 lets 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 a universal sting;

One touch of that ecstatic stump

Could jerk his limbs and make him jump,

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 achers still to achers!

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 paying for a blank at last;

So Hunks went on from week to week,

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 truly 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 to string by some firm thing,

He could not draw it, do his best,

By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest.

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,

While eyes and mouth together gushed;

At last arrived our hero's turn,

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 cord 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—

'Tis you are out, to argue so;

I'm none of your before-hand tippers.

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 favor of his wit

How well a dentist had been bit

By one old stump, and that a loose one!

The thing was worth a laugh, 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 a stile,

There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney,

A vagrant reaper, Irish born,

That helped to reap our miser's corn,

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 observers 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 words 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 Mahoney to the scamper.

But still compassion met a damper;

There lay the severed nose, alas!

Beside the daisies on the grass,

"Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they,

According to the poet's lay:

And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter.

Away went Hodge to get assistance,

With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after,

But somewhat at unusual distance.

In many a little country place

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-decoctor;

Thus Hunks was forced to go once more

Where he had ta'en his to t' 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.

"Oh! hum—ha—yes—I understand."

But then arose a long demur,

For not a finger would he stir

Till he was paid his fee in hand;

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 drawerful—

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 fury seemed above controlling,

He bellowed like a hunted ox:

"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 upwards 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 farther,

For with his other ways of pinching,

Hunks had a miser's love of snuff.

A recollection strong enough

To cause a very serious 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 so horrid),

And white just like an naked 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 din of rag and lint,

The part was bandaged up and muffled.

The chair unfastened, Hunks rose,

And shuffled off, for once unshuffled;

And as he went, these words he snuffled—

"Well, this is 'paying thro' the nose.'"

[THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.][38]

"Alas! what perils do environ

That man who meddles with a siren!"—Hudibrus.

On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,

And the sentimental reads;

Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes

Like the ocean—to cast her weeds;—

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,

And the Cit to spy at the ships,—

Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,—

And the Chandler for watery dips;—

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,

As lovely and fair as sin!

But woe, deep water and woe to him,

That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,

And her locks are golden loose,

And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,

To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them well,

With a sea-shark's prickly jaw;

And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell,

The fairest that man e'er saw!

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be

Hath planted his seat by her side;

"Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea,

To make thee so watch the tide?"

She turned about with her pearly brows,

And clasped him by the hand;

"Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house

On the golden Goodwin sand."

And then she gave him a siren kiss,

No honeycomb e'er was sweeter;

Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this

That Peter should be salt-Peter:

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt,

Not walking, as damsels do,

With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept,

But she hopped like a Kangaroo;

One plunge, and then the victim was blind,

Whilst they galloped across the tide;

At last, on the bank he waked in his mind,

And the Beauty was by his side

One half on the sand, and half in the sea,

But his hair began to stiffen;

For when he looked where her feet should be,

She had no more feet than Miss Biffen!

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth,

In the dabbling brine did soak:

At last she opened her pearly mouth,

Like an oyster, and thus she spoke:

"You crimpt my father, who was a skate,—

And my sister you sold—a maid;

So here remain for a fish'ry fate,

For lost you are, and betrayed!"

And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream,

And a splash of her saucy tail;

In a moment he lost the silvery gleam

That shone on her splended mail!

The sun went down with a blood-red flame,

And the sky grew cloudy and black,

And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came,

Each over the other's back!

Ah me! it had been a beautiful scene,

With the safe terra-firma round;

But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him

Like those in a churchyard ground;

And Christians love in the turf to lie,

Not in watery graves to be;

Nay, the very fishes will sooner die

On the land than in the sea.

And whilst he stood, the watery strife

Encroached on every hand,

And the ground decreased,—his moments of life

Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand;

And still the waters foamed in, like ale,

In front, and on either flank,

He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail,

There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more,

The surges came tumbling in,

He sang the evening hymn twice o'er,

And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart,

As cold as his marble slab;

And he thought he felt, in every part,

The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled,

And the little potted shrimps,

All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled,

Gnawed into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro,

And the glorious sun was sunk,

And Day, getting black in the face, as though

Of the nightshade she had drunk!

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift,

One tub, or keg, to be seen,

It might have given his spirits a lift

Or an anker where Hope might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat,

To raft him from that sad place;

Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat,

Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,

He saw a sail and a mast,

And called "Ahoy!"—but it was not a hoy,

And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing that flapped in his face,

The wild bird about him flew,

With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case,

"Why, thou art a sea-gull too!"

And lo! the tide was over his feet;

Oh! his heart began to freeze,

And slowly to pulse:—in another beat

The wave was up to his knees!

He was deafened amidst the mountain tops,

And the salt spray blinded his eyes,

And washed away the other salt drops

That grief had caused to arise:—

But just as his body was all afloat,

And the surges above him broke,

He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat

Of Deal—(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay,

And chafed his shivering skin;

And the Angel returned that was flying away

With the spirit of Peter Fin!

[A FAIRY TALE.]

On 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 white, the window-shutters green,—

Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West

(Though now at rest),

On which it used to wander to and fro,

Because its master ne'er maintained 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 loved the ground because 'twas common,

And so he might impale a strip of soil

That furnished, 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 turned themselves, like other folks, to reading;

But setting out where others nigh have done,

And being ripened 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 Whittington,

Or Valentine and Orson—

But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,

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 revealed to him,

She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons,

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 parlor door,

A hideous roar

Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horned, 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 nether 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,

Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;

And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, a

Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa,

Leapt o'er the tiny pale,—

Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable,

And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail

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 peruse,—who could?—two tales at once;

And being huffed

At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft;

Banged-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!

Just 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 turned, till home had turned a corner, 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!

No house!

The change was quite amazing;

It made her senses stagger for a minute,

The riddle's explication seemed to harden;

But soon her superannuated nous

Explain'd the horrid mystery;—and raising

Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,

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!"

[CRANIOLOGY.]

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,

Man—with his bumps upon his sconce,

Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge 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 poll-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 grinders,

Still there turned 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

Indicative of human habits,

All burrowing 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 neighbor Computation,

Who taught the eyebrows numeration.

The science thus—to speak in fit

Terms—having struggled from its nit,

Was seized 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 broth they smatter

By bobbing twenty things in water:

These men, I say, made 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 bodles,

As analysing their own 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 Capulet'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 hated in their souls!

For Presbyterians hear with passion

Of organs joined 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 skull of oily scullion.

No great man died but this they did do,

They begged his cranium of his widow:

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 mastered 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 Malthas 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 entered 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:

How Music suffers, par 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 th' Amative;

If falls from scaffolds make us less

Inclined to all Constructiveness:

With more such matters, all applying

To heads—and therefore head-ifying.

[THE WEE MAN.]

A ROMANCE.

It was a merry company,

And they were just afloat,

When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,

Came up and hailed the 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 laughed to see his little hat,

With such a narrow brim;

They laughed 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 grew stout, and soon plumped 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 swelling too!

And lo! where room had been for seven,

For six there scarce was space!

For five!—for four!—for three!—not more

Than two could find a place!

There was not even room for one!

They crowded by degrees—

Ay—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 stirred,

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 neighbor 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 dewdrop stood,

They grew so scared and hot,—

"I' the name of all that's great and tall,

Who are ye, sir, and what?"

Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh

As loud as giant's roar—

"When first I came, my proper name

Was Little—now I'm Moore!"[39]

[THE PROGRESS OF ART.]

Oh happy time!—Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,

And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and few,

So easily and swift I drew,

Sufficed for my design;

My sketchy, superficial hand

Drew solids at a dash—and spanned

A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content,

But grew more critical—my bent

Essayed a higher walk;

I copied leaden eyes in lead—

Rheumatic hands in white and red,

And gouty feet—in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days

Kept making faces—happy phrase,

For faces such as mine!

Accomplished in the details then,

I left the minor parts of men,

And drew the form divine.

Old Gods and Heroes—Trojan—Greek,

Figures—long after the antique,

Great Ajax justly feared;

Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,

And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt

Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,

A Pallas that out-stared her owl,

A Vulcan—very lame;

A Dian stuck about with stars,

With my right hand I murdered Mars—

(One Williams did the same).

But tired of this dry work at last,

Crayon and chalk aside I cast,

And gave my brush a drink!

Dipping—"as when a painter dips

In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"—

That is—in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose,

Crested with soot, and not with snows:

What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penned,

I fear the distance did not "lend

Enchantment to the view."

Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design

Black Forests half so black as mine,

Or lakes so like a pall;

The Chinese cake dispersed a ray

Of darkness, like the light of Day

And Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still,

I gazed on all with right good will,

And spread the dingy tint;

"No holy Luke helped me to paint,

The devil surely, not a Saint,

Had any finger in't!"

But colors came!—like morning light,

With gorgeous hues, displacing night,

Or Spring's enlivened scene:

At once the sable shades withdrew;

My skies got very, very blue;

My trees extremely green.

And washed by my cosmetic brush,

How Beauty's cheek began to blush;

With lock of auburn stain—

(Not Goldsmith's Auburn)—nut-brown hair,

That made her loveliest of the fair;

Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Her lips were of vermilion hue:

Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,

Set all my heart in flame!

A young Pygmalion, I adored

The maids I made—but time was stored

With evil—and it came!

Perspective dawned—and soon I saw

My houses stand against its law;

And "keeping" all unkept!

My beauties were no longer things

For love and fond imaginings;

But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?

Why did I get more artist wise?

It only serves to hint,

What grave defects and wants are mine;

That I'm no Hilton in design—

In nature no De Wint!

Thrice happy time!—Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,

And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

[THOSE EVENING BELLS.]

Those evening bells, those evening bells,

How many a tale their music tells,—

Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,

And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away,

The Postman gone—and I must pay,

For down below Deaf Mary dwells,

And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so 'twill be when she is gone,

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

And other maids with timely yells

Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

[THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.]

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,

Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;

And whiles His flatterynge Vowes 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!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,

That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,

She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe

Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde

With Shrikes that Echo answered round—

O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde

The Momente that her Care was drownd!

[DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.]

"I really take it very kind,

This visit, Mrs. Skinner!

I have not seen you such an age—

(The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls—

What heads for painters' easels!

Come here and kiss the infant, dears—

(And give it p'rhaps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home

From Reverend Mr. Russell's;

'Twas very kind to bring them both—

(What boots for my new Brussels!)

"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 better for our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat—I long to hear

About Matilda's marriage;

You're come of course to spend the day!

(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)

"What! must you go? next time I hope

You'll give me longer measure;

Nay—I shall see you down the stairs—

(With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,

Next time you'll take your dinners!

(Now, David, mind I'm not at home

In future to the Skinners!")

[SHOOTING PAINS.]

"The charge is prepar'd."—Macheath.

If I shoot any more I'll be shot,

For ill-luck seems determined to star me,

I have march'd the whole day

With a gun,—for no pay—

Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave;

To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!

With confidence fraught

My two pointers I brought,

But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice!

Of my course he has been a nice chalker,

Not far, were his words,

I could go without birds:

If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—

My appointments are modern and Mantony;

And I've brought my own man,

To mark down all he can,

But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!

The partridges,—where can they lie?

I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas,

As the least I could do;

But without even two

To brace me,—I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants—how well they're preserv'd!—

My sport's not a jot more beholden,

As the birds are so shy,

For my friends I must buy,

And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,

Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,

With toil unrelax'd,

Till my patience is tax'd,

But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats,

In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;

But still vainly I court

The percussioning sport,

I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock,—this month is the time,—

Right and left I've made ready my lock for,

With well-loaded double,

But 'spite of my trouble,

Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise,

But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;

This day's the eleventh,

It is not the seventh,

But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh,

And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!

Mine is not the luck,

To obtain thee, O Duck,

Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,

Large or small I am never to sack bird,

Not a thrush is so kind

As to fly, and I find

I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,

Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,

And so weary an elf,

I am sick of myself,

And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's,

And look out for a cock or a hen there;

I have search'd round and round,

All the Baronet's ground,

But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,

But for nightcaps they set me desiring,

And it's really too bad,

Not a shot I have had

With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."

If this is what people call sport,

Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense;

And there still remains one

More mischance on my gun—

"Fined for shooting without any licence."

[JOHN DAY.]

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"A Day after the Fair."—Old Proverb.

John Day he was the biggest man

Of all the coachman kind,

With back too broad to be conceived

By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his 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 armor can avail?

Soon Cupid sent an arrow through

His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,

From whom he never ranged,

For though 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 Coventry,

While on his way to Stroud.

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.

O 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,

He 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!

[HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.]

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—

Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains,

For all that tend on sheep as drovers

Are turned to songsters or to lovers,

Each of the lass he call'd his dear,

Began to carol loud and clear.

First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,

In the way of ancient shepherd men;

Who thus alternate hitched in song,

"All things by turns, and nothing long."

HUGGINS.

Of all the girls about our place,

There's one beats all in form and face;

Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead,

You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

DUGGINS.

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!

HUGGINS.

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.

DUGGINS.

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 the king!"

HUGGINS.

My Peggy does all nymphs excel,

And all confess she bears the bell,—

Where'er she goes swains flock together,

Like sheep that follow the bell wether.

DUGGINS.

Sally is tall and not too straight,—

Those very poplar shapes I hate;

But something twisted like an S,—

A crook becomes a shepherdess.

HUGGINS.

When Peggy's dog her arms empris'n

I often wish my lot was hisn;

How often I should stand and turn,

To get a pat from hands like hern.

DUGGINS.

I tell Sall'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!

HUGGINS.

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—

Beneath her smile the garden grows;

Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,

'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

DUGGINS.

Where Sally goes it's always Spring,

Her presence brightens everything;

The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,

It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

HUGGINS.

For Peggy I can have no joy,

She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,

And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,

As comfortless as sheep with ticks!

DUGGINS.

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.

HUGGINS.

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!

DUGGINS.

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.

[THE CHINA-MENDER.]

Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another 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 on 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.

Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads—

Such bronzes, 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 frightfuller they 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 touched 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 greatcoat flaps.

Must go and sit down on the Dresd'n shepherdesses' laps,

As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room!

I couldn't have made a greater 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 meat 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! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;

I could find it 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 Chaney!

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.

Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my 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 bow-pot 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 may 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 banns 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, Mr. 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.

[DOMESTIC DIDACTICS.]

BY AN OLD SERVANT.

I.

THE BROKEN DISH.

What'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!

Walking about their groves of trees,

Blue bridges and blue rivers,

How little thought them two Chinese,

They'd both be smashed to shivers!

II.

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell—

But stop, for there's the bell.

Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches

On Wednesday, when there's very few

In loft or pew—

Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's.

Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage—

Hush! there's a carriage.

Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods—

The five Miss Woods!

Oh Peace! thou art the goddess I adore—

There come some more.

Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet—

That's Lord Dunn's footman, for he loves a riot!

Oh Peace!

Knocks will not cease.

Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd—

That's Weippert's band.

Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches—

I hear the sound of coaches.

Oh Peace! oh Peace! another carriage stops—

It's early for the Blenkinsops.

Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander,

But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander,

And now I've seen her up the stair,

Oh Peace!—but here comes Captain Hare.

Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind,

Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,—

If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken,

Alderman Gobble won't be far behind.

Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,—

Make way there for his Serene Highness!

Oh Peace! if you do not disdain

To dwell amongst the menial train,

I have a silent place and lone,

That you and I may call our own;

Where tumult never makes an entry—

Susan! what business have you in my pantry?

Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk,

At variance with his wife—Oh Peace!

And that great German, Vander Trunk,

And that great talker, Miss Apreece;

Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills—

Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;

I wonder where I put my waiter—

Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease,

I have no peace to write of Peace!

III.

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense,

While years and years run on,

How soon I may be summoned hence—

There's cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,

On sand and not on rocks,

We're hourly standing at Death's door—

There's some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms,

Our fates we cannot force;

This flesh of mine will feed the worms—

They're come to lunch of course!

And when my body's turned to clay,

And dear friends hear my knell,

Oh let them give a sigh and say—

I hear the upstairs bell!

IV.

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mary, you know I've no love nonsense,

And though I pen on such a day,

I don't mean flirting, on my conscience,

Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature,

It saves you p'rhaps from being vain,

And many a poor unhappy creature

May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch,

Although your shape was two foot taller,

And wisely you let others pinch

Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands

From getting red by household duty,

But doing all that it commands,

Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms,

And at your old legs sneer and scoff,

But let her laugh, for you have charms

That nobody knows nothing of.

[LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.][41]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,

All chivalrous romantic work

Is ended now and past!—

That iron age—which some have thought

Of metal rather overwrought—

Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights

Of old—those armadillo wights

Who wore the plated vest?—

Great Charlemagne and all his peers

Are cold—enjoying with their spears

An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;

So sleep his knights who gave that Round

Old Table such éclat!

Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!

And none engage at tourneys now

But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,

And Guy is nothing but a Guy,

Orlando lies forlorn!—

Bold Sidney, and his kidney—nay,

Those "early champions"—what are they

But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres,

Like those of old, in breaking spears—

The name is now a lie!—

Surgeons, alone, by any chance,

Are all that ever couch a lance

To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick,

That cut the Moslems to the quick,

His weapon lies in peace:

Oh, it would warm them in a trice,

If they could only have a spice

Of his old mace in Greece!

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold,

And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,

That scaled the holy wall!

No Saracen meets Paladin,

We hear of no great Saladin,

But only grow the small!

Our Cressys, too, have dwindled since

To penny things—at our Black Prince[42]

Historic pens would scoff:

The only one we moderns had

Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,

And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans,

Their pikes, and bills, and partisans,

Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?

A battle was a battle then,

A breathing piece of work; but men

Fight now—with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date;

The good old crossbow bends—to Fate;

'Tis gone, the archer's craft!

No tough arm bends the spinning yew,

And jolly draymen ride, in lieu

Of Death, upon the shaft!

The spear,—the gallant tilter's pride,

The rusty spear, is laid aside,—

Oh, spits now domineer!

The coat of mail is left alone,—

And where is all chain armor gone?

Go ask at Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists,

Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,

A low and vulgar art!—

No mounted man is overthrown:

A tilt!—it is a thing unknown—

Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb,

Clad like his Chief in steely garb,

For warding steel's appliance!

Methinks I hear the trumpet stir!

'Tis but the guard, to Exeter,

That bugles the "Defiance"!

In cavils when will cavaliers

Set ringing helmets by the ears,

And scatter plumes about?

Or blood—if they are in the vein?

That tap will never run again—

Alas! the Casque is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored

By dint of battle-axe or sword,

To find a vital place—

Though certain doctors still pretend,

Awhile, before they kill a friend,

To labor through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might!

Crusader, errant squire, and knight!

Our coats and customs soften;

To rise would only make you weep—

Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,

As in a safety coffin!

[PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.]

"Who'll serve the King?"

What little urchin is there never

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 neighbor still,

Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,

To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,

In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!"

Come, who will serve the king,

And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,

And cut off Bonyparty'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

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 dark "Jamaeky Forde!"

And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes,"

Our captain always 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,

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 Cockey Hawes's sword

Is seen upon a broker's board:

And as for "Fighting Jim,"

In Bishopsgate, 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!

[MARY'S GHOST.]

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

'Twas in the middle of the night,

To sleep young William tried,

When Mary's ghost came stealing in,

And stood at his bedside.

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 though 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;

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 boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm

Is took to Dr. Vyse;

And both my legs are gone to walk

The hospital at Guy's.

I vowed that you should have my hand,

But fate gives us denial;

You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's,

In spirits and a phial.

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.

I can't tell where my head is gone,

But Doctor Carpue can;

As for my trunk, it's all packed up

To go by Pickford's van.

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.

The cock it crows—I must be gone!

My William, we must part!

But I'll be yours in death, altho'

Sir Astley has my heart.

Don't go to weep upon my grave,

And think that there I be;

They haven't left an atom there

Of my anatomie.

[THE WIDOW.]

One 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 together—why,

Three widows are good company!

If four should meet by any chance,

Four is a number very nice,

To have a rubber in a trice—

But five will up and have a dance!

Poor 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";

For she had lately buried then

A man, the "very best of men,"

A lingering truth, discovered 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,

As if "to wet a widows' 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 seemed 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 locked that ought to flow—

In England or in widow-woman—

As those that watch the weather know,

Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

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,

"Encompassed in an angel's frame."

He looked quite sad and quite deprived,

His head was nothing but a hat-band;

He looked so lone, and so unwived,

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' sorrow's sluices—

Tear after tear too fast to wipe,

Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again—

No leak in sorrow's private pipe,

But like a bursting on the main!

Whoe'er has watched 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 fared 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 shortish story shorter,

Conceive them sitting tête-à-tête—

Two cups—hot muffins on a plate—

With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for awhile

Had lectured in an easy song,

Like Abernethy,—on the bile—

The scalded herb was getting strong;

All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,

To have a cosy 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 ripped 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 talked and reckoned

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 think my conduct odd—

But here my hopes no more may linger;

I thought you had a wedding-finger,

But oh!—it is a curtain-rod!"

[AN OPEN QUESTION.]

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."—BUNYAN.

What! 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 Monday—

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 other 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?

Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note

The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?—

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What 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?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,

As if transmuted by some spell organic?

Turns fell Hyæna 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 are 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 guinea?

Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult

The 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?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing?

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 prey'd extempore as well

As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday—

But what is your opinion, Mrs. 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, Mrs. 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 bakin' on a Sunday—

But what is your opinion, 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. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven?

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 Monday

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 own'd 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 burn 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 among 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 that the Papists, like some fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed 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 sad, and sour, and snubbish,

But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,

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—

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

[A BLACK JOB.]

"No doubt the pleasure is as great,

Of being cheated as to cheat."—HUDIBRAS.

The history of human-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 Mississippi 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 modern 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 subscribe for soap!

Soap!—it reminds 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!

However, as is usual in our city,

They had a sort of managing Committee,

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, tho' they sang like Saints!

The thing was undeniable!

They wanted washing! not that slight ablution

To which the skin of the White Man is liable,

Merely removing transient pollution—

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—hottish 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 shivery,

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!

Moved by this 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 blacks," or foes to whites,

"Trifles," and "offerings," and "widows' 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 endeavor,

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 office 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!

In fact in his perennial speech,

The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach,

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 time 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;

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 color of the bird that caws—

Only some very aged souls

Showing a little gray upon their polls,

Like daws!

However, nothing clashed

By such repeated failures, or abashed,

The Court still met;—the Chairman and Directors,

The Secretary, 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,

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 stumps—would never serve again—

The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds,

The towels worn to threads,

The tubs and pails too shattered to be mended—

And what was added with a deal of pain,

But as accounts correctly would explain,

Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended—

The Blackamoors had still been wash'd in vain!

"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 jump'd a little, lemon-colored man,

And with an eager stammer, thus began,

In angry earnest, though it sounded funny:

"What! More 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,

More money?"

"Why!" said the Chairman, with an accent bland,

And gentle waving 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,

Because Humanity declares we must!

We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'em,

And finding that we cannot wash them white,

But still their nigritude offends the sight,

We mean to gild 'em!"

[ETCHING MORALISED.]

TO A NOBLE LADY.

"To point a moral."—JOHNSON.

Fairest Lady and Noble, for once on a time,

Condescend to accept, in the humblest of rhyme,

And a style more of Gay than of Milton,

A few opportune verses design'd to impart

Some didactical hints in a Needlework Art,

Not described by the Countess of Wilton.

An Art not unknown to the delicate hand

Of the fairest and first in this insular land,

But in Patronage Royal delighting;

And which now your own feminine fantasy wins,

Tho' it scarce seems a lady-like work, that begins

In a scratching and ends in a biting!

Yet oh! that the dames of the Scandalous School

Would but use the same acid, and sharp-pointed tool,

That are plied in the said operations—

Oh! would that our Candours on copper would sketch!

For the first of all things in begining to etch

Are—good grounds for our representations.

Those protective and delicate coatings of wax,

Which are meant to resist the corrosive attacks

That would ruin the copper completely;

Thin cerements which whoso remembers the Bee

So applauded by Watts, the divine LL.D.,

Will be careful to spread very neatly.

For why? like some intricate deed of the law,

Should the ground in the process be left with a flaw,

Aqua-fortis is far from a joker;

And attacking the part that no coating protects,

Will turn out as distressing to all your effects

As a landlord who puts in a broker.

Then carefully spread the conservative stuff,

Until all the bright metal is cover'd enough,

To repel a destructive so active;

For in Etching, as well as in Morals, pray note

That a little raw spot, or a hole in a coat,

Your ascetics find vastly attractive.

Thus the ground being laid, very even and flat,

And then smoked with a taper, till black as a hat,

Still from future disasters to screen it,

Just allow me, by way of precaution, to state,

You must hinder the footman from changing your plate,

Nor yet suffer the butler to clean it.

Nay, the housemaid, perchance, in her passion to scrub,

May suppose the dull metal in want of a rub,

Like the Shield which Swift's readers remember—

Not to mention the chance of some other mishaps,

Such as having your copper made up into caps

To be worn on the First of September.

But aloof from all damage by Betty or John,

You secure the veil'd surface, and trace thereupon

The design you conceive the most proper:

Yet gently, and not with a needle too keen,

Lest it pierce to the wax through the paper between,

And of course play Old Scratch with the copper.

So in worldly affairs, the sharp-practising man

Is not always the one who succeeds in his plan,

Witness Shylock's judicial exposure;

Who, as keen as his knife, yet with agony found,

That while urging his point he was losing his ground,

And incurring a fatal disclosure.

But, perhaps, without tracing at all, you may choose

To indulge in some little extempore views,

Like the older artistical people;

For example, a Corydon playing his pipe,

In a Low Country marsh, with a Cow, after Cuyp,

And a Goat skipping over a steeple.

A wild Deer at a rivulet taking a sup,

With a couple of Pillars put in to fill up,

Like the columns of certain diurnals;

Or a very brisk sea, in a very stiff gale,

And a very Dutch boat, with a very big sail—

Or a bevy of Retzsch Infernals.

Architectural study—or rich Arabesque—

Allegorical dream—or a view picturesque,

Near to Naples, or Venice, or Florence;

Or "as harmless as lambs and as gentle as doves,"

A sweet family cluster of plump little Loves,

Like the Children by Reynolds or Lawrence.

But whatever the subject, your exquisite taste

Will ensure a design very charming and chaste,

Like yourself, full of nature and beauty—

Yet besides the good points you already reveal,

You will need a few others—of well-temper'd steel,

And especially form'd for the duty.

For suppose that the tool be imperfectly set,

Over many weak lengths in your line you will fret,

Like a pupil of Walton and Cotton,

Who remains by the brink of the water, agape,

While the jack, trout, or barbel effects its escape

Thro' the gut or silk line being rotten.

Therefore, let the steel point be set truly and round,

That the finest of strokes may be even and sound,

Flowing glibly where fancy would lead 'em.

But alas! for the needle that fetters the hand,

And forbids even sketches of Liberty's land

To be drawn with the requisite freedom!

Oh! the botches I've seen by a tool of the sort,

Rather hitching than etching, and making, in short,

Such stiff, crabbed, and angular scratches,

That the figures seem'd statues or mummies from tombs,

While the trees were as rigid as bundles of brooms,

And the herbage like bunches of matches!

The stiff clouds as if carefully iron'd and starch'd,

While a cast-iron bridge, meant for wooden, o'er-arch'd

Something more like a road than a river.

Prythee, who in such characteristics could see

Any trace of the beautiful land of the free—

The Free-Mason—Free-Trader—Free-Liver!

But prepared by a hand that is skilful and nice,

The fine point glides along like a skate on the ice,

At the will of the Gentle Designer,

Who impelling the needle just presses so much,

That each line of her labor the copper may touch,

As if done by a penny-a-liner.

And behold! how the fast-growing images gleam!

Like the sparkles of gold in a sunshiny stream,

Till perplex'd by the glittering issue,

You repine for a light of a tenderer kind—

And in choosing a substance for making a blind,

Do not sneeze at the paper call'd tissue.

For, subdued by the sheet so transparent and white,

Your design will appear in a soberer light,

And reveal its defects on inspection,

Just as Glory achieved, or political scheme,

And some more of our dazzling performances seem,

Not so bright on a cooler reflection.

So the juvenile Poet with ecstasy views

His first verses, and dreams that the songs of his Muse

Are as brilliant as Moore's and as tender—

Till some critical sheet scans the faulty design,

And alas! takes the shine out of every line

That had form'd such a vision of splendor;

Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch,

Which, design'd by a hand unaccustom'd to etch,

With a luckless result may be branded;

Wherefore add this particular rule to your code,

Let all vehicles take the wrong side of the road,

And man, woman, and child, be left-handed.

Yet regard not the awkward appearance with doubt,

But remember how often mere blessings fall out,

That at first seem'd no better than curses;

So, till things take a turn, live in hope, and depend

That whatever is wrong will come right in the end,

And console you for all your reverses.

But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth

Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth,

Of that Club (may all honor betide it!)

Which, tho' dealing in copper, by genius and taste,

Has accomplish'd a service of plate not disgraced

By the work of a Goldsmith beside it.[43]

So your sketch superficially drawn on the plate,

It becomes you to fix in a permanent state,

Which involves a precise operation,

With a keen biting fluid, which eating its way—

As in other professions is common they say—

Has attain'd an artistical station.

And it's, oh! that some splenetic folks I could name

If they must deal in acids would use but the same,

In such innocent graphical labors!

In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith—

Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith—

They keep biting the backs of their neighbors!

But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch,

You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which

You may pour the dilute aqua-fortis.

For if raw like a dram, it will shock you to trace

Your design with a horrible froth on its face,

Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure

From the use of strong waters, without any pure,

A vile practice, most sad and improper!

For, from painful examples, this warning is found,

That the raw burning spirit will take up the ground,

In the churchyard, as well as on copper!

But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites

Only just where the visible metal invites,

Like a nature inclined to meet troubles;

And behold! as each slender and glittering line

Effervesces, you trace the completed design

In an elegant bead-work of bubbles!

And yet constantly secretly eating its way,

The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey,

Like some sorrow beyond inquisition,

Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while

That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile,

And the wit is in bright ebullition.

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff

Has corroded and deepen'd some portions enough—

The pure sky, and the waters so placid—

And these tenderer tints to defend from attack,

With some turpentine varnish and sooty lamp-black

You must stop out the ferreting acid.

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed,

Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed

From the other less innocent liquor—

After which, on whatever you want to protect,

Put a coat that will act to that very effect,

Like the black one which hangs on the Vicar.

Then—the varnish well dried—urge the biting again,

But how long at its meal the eau forte may remain,

Time and practice alone can determine:

But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill,

The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will,

Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap,

With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap,

Is consider'd as rather Rembrandty;

And that very black cattle and very black sheep,

A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep,

Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name,

All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,

From our birth to our final adjourning—

Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!

What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black

As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch,

While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich,

More transparent than ebony shutters,

Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say,

Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away,

As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat,

Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti or sweet,

For your hand a performance scarce proper—

So some careful professional person secure—

For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur—

To assist you in cleaning the copper.

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job,

To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob—

Though as sure of an instant forgetting,

When—as after the dark clearing-off of a storm—

The fair Landscape shines out in a lustre as warm

As the glow of the sun, in its setting!

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint,

That with certain assistance from paper and print,

Which the proper Mechanic will settle,

You may charm all your Friends—without any sad tale

Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale—

With a fine India Proof of your Metal.

[A TALE OF A TRUMPET.]

"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing?

Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing."

Old Ballad.

Of 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,

But for any purpose of ears in a parley,

They heard no more than ears 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 asked 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,

Sermon, 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,

Which 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!

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 was 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,

Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics.

She was deaf as a nail—that you cannot hammer

A meaning into for all your clamor—

There never was such a deaf old Gammer!

So formed to worry

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!

In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke,

Or all the Deafness in Yearsley's work,

Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing,

Boring, blasting, and pioneering,

To give the dunny organ a 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 Tringham—

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 Murphys 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 parlor 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 Pope?

And how the Grubbs were off for soap?

If the Snobbs had furnish'd their room upstairs,

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?

In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies

Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys,

By courtesy called Statistical Fellows—

A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,

Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan,

Jotting the Laboring Class's riches;

And after poking in pot and pan,

And routing garments in want of stitches,

Have ascertained 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 Mrs. An 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,

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 nicking,

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 than 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—

The last New Patent—and nothing 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 couldn'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, you'll find on reflection

You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection;

For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth,

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—

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 musn'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' keg-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 not 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.)

"Try it again! no harm in trying!

A pound's a pound there's no denying;

But think what thousands and thousands of pounds

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-tong-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,

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 in the river!

And then with a shout, like Pat in a riot,

Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet!

Or a tradesman comes—as tradesmen will—

Short and crusty about his bill,

Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner,

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 corner!

Come—speak your mind—it's 'No or Yes,'"

("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.)

"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 Glamorgan

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, instead 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

If 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 Madam, 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!"

"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!

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 with 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 Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,—

Infallible Pills for the human frame,

Or Rowland's O-don't-o (an ominous name),

A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits

That it beats all others into fits;

A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn,

Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-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 pro and con,

And how Society's going on,

Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John,

And all for want of this sine quâ non;

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,

In 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,

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 rumors, 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 dropped 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,

Like old Dame Trot, but without her cat,

The Gossip was hunting all Tringham thorough,

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 ripped up more depravity!

Depravity! 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 Truth,

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,

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, or a window agape,

To catch the sounds they allow'd to escape,

Those sounds belonged 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 quarrel,

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 turn'd the horn,

To the highly bred, or the lowly born,

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"—

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 of 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 fill'd or stirr'd

Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard,

As blacken'd their neighbors of either gender,

Especially that, which is call'd the Tender,

But, instead of the softness we fancy therewith,

Was harden'd in vice as the vice of a smith.

Women! the wretches! had soil'd and marr'd

Whatever to womanly nature belongs;

For the marriage tie they had no regard,

Nay, sped their mates to the sexton's yard,

(Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches

Kept cutting off her L by inches)—

And as for drinking, they drank so hard

That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!

The men—they fought and gambled at fairs;

And poach'd—and didn't respect gray 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 amore,

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 mote,

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 Partlet 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,

Who find a comfort in "hearing the 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 wherever they came,

That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame!

For although it required such loud discharges,

Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear,

To turn 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 neighbors the village through,

Look'd at each other as yellow and blue,

As any electioneering crew

Wearing the colors of Whigs and Tories.

Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth,

That "whispering tongues can poison Truth,"—

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 wring '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,

And spar, and jar—and breezes as stiff

As ever upset a friendship—or skiff!

The plighted 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 planned,

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 proper 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 blown!

---

'Tis a day in November—a day of fog—

But the Tringham people are all agog;

Fathers, Mothers, and Mother's Sons,—

With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,—

As if in pursuit of a rabid dog;

But their voices—raised to the highest pitch—

Declare that the game is "a Witch!—a Witch!"

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!

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! and more than enough;—

Twenty impatient hands and rough,

By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff,

Apron, 'kerchief, gown of stuff—

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 hawbuck, 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.!

As if she were only a sack of barley!

Or gives her credit for greater might

Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night

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 down;

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!

MORAL.

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!

[THE FORGE.][44]

A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE.

"Who's here, beside foul weather?"—KING LEAR.

"Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me,

Should have stood that night against my fire"

—CORDELIA

PART I

Like a dead man gone to his shroud,

The sun has sunk in a copper cloud,

And the wind is rising squally and loud

With many a stormy token,—

Playing a wild funereal air

Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare,

To the dead leaves dancing here and there—

In short, if the truth were spoken,

It's an ugly night for anywhere,

But an awful one for the Brocken!

For oh! to stop

On that mountain top,

After the dews of evening drop,

Is always a dreary frolic—

Then what must it be when nature groans,

And the very mountain murmurs and moans

As if it writhed with the cholic—

With other strange supernatural tones,

From wood, and water, and echoing stones,

Not to forget unburied bones—

In a region so diabolic!

A place where he whom we call Old Scratch,

By help of his Witches—a precious batch—

Gives midnight concerts and sermons,

In a Pulpit and Orchestra built to match,

A plot right worthy of him to hatch,

And well adapted, he knows, to catch

The musical, mystical Germans!

However it's quite

As wild a night

As ever was known on that sinister height

Since the Demon-Dance was morriced—

The earth is dark, and the sky is scowling,

And the blast through the pines is howling and growling,

As if a thousand wolves were prowling

About in the old BLACK FOREST!

Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves

Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves,

And bursts on the rocks in windy waves,

Like the billows that roar

On a gusty shore

Mourning over the mariners' graves—

Nay, more like a frantic lamentation

From a howling set

Of demons met

To wake a dead relation.

Badly, madly, the vapors fly

Over the dark distracted sky,

At a pace that no pen can paint!

Black and vague like the shadows of dreams,

Scudding over the moon that seems,

Shorn of half her usual beams,

As pale as if she would faint!

The lightning flashes,

The thunder crashes,

The trees encounter with horrible clashes,

While rolling up from marsh and bog,

Rank and rich,

As from Stygian ditch,

Rises a foul sulphureous fog,

Hinting that Satan himself is agog,—

But leaving at once this heroical pitch,

The night is a very bad night in which

You wouldn't turn out a dog.

Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm,

And whenever by chance

The moon gets a glance,

She spies the Traveller's lonely form,

Walking, leaping, striding along,

As none can do but the super-strong;

And flapping his arms to keep him warm,

For the breeze from the North is a regular starver,

And to tell the truth,

More keen, in sooth,

And cutting than any German carver!

However, no time it is to lag,

And on he scrambles from crag to crag,

Like one determined never to flag—

Now weathers a block

Of jutting rock,

With hardly room for a toe to wag;

But holding on by a timber snag,

That looks like the arm of a friendly hag;

Then stooping under a drooping bough,

Or leaping over some horrid chasm,

Enough to give any heart a spasm!

And sinking down a precipice now,

Keeping his feet the Deuce knows how,

In spots whence all creatures would keep aloof,

Except the Goat, with his cloven hoof,

Who clings to the shallowest ledge as if

He grew like the weed on the face of the cliff!

So down, still down, the Traveller goes,

Safe as the Chamois amid his snows,

Though fiercer than ever the hurricane blows,

And round him eddy, with whirl and whizz,

Tornadoes of hail, and sleet, and rain,

Enough to bewilder a weaker brain,

Or blanch any other visage than his,

Which spite of lightning, thunder and hail,

The blinding sleet and the freezing gale,

And the horrid abyss,

If his foot should miss,

Instead of tending at all to pale,

Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright—

Remains the very reverse of white!

His heart is granite—his iron nerve

Feels no convulsive twitches;

And as to his foot, it does not swerve,

Tho' the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve

For parrots to Brocken Witches!

Nay, full in his very path he spies

The gleam of the Were Wolf's horrid eyes;

But if his members quiver—

It is not for that—no, it is not for that—

Nor rat,

Nor cat,

As black as your hat,

Nor the snake that hiss'd, nor the toad that spat,

Nor glimmering candles of dead men's fat,

Nor even the flap of the Vampire Bat,

No anserine skin would rise thereat,

It's the cold that makes Him shiver!

So down, still down, through gully and glen,

Never trodden by foot of men,

Past the Eagle's nest and the She-Wolf's den,

Never caring a jot how steep

Or how narrow the track he has to keep,

Or how wide and deep

An abyss to leap,

Or what may fly, or walk, or creep,

Down he hurries through darkness and storm,

Flapping his arms to keep him warm—

Till threading many a pass abhorrent,

At last he reaches the mountain gorge,

And takes a path along by a torrent—

The very identical path, by St. George!

Down which young Fridolin went to the Forge,

With a message meant for his own death-warrant!

Young Fridolin! young Fridolin!

So free from sauce, and sloth, and sin,

The best of pages

Whatever their ages,

Since first that singular fashion came in—

Not he like those modern and idle young gluttons

With little jackets, so smart and spruce,

Of Lincoln green, sky-blue, or puce—

A little gold lace you may introduce—

Very showy, but as for use,

Not worth so many buttons!

Young Fridolin! young Fridolin!

Of his duty so true a fulfiller—

But here we need no farther go

For whoever desires the Tale to know,

May read it all in Schiller.

Faster now the Traveller speeds,

Whither his guiding beacon leads.

For by yonder glare

In the murky air,

He knows that the Eisen Hutte is there!

With its sooty Cyclops, savage and grim

Hosts, a guest had better forbear,

Whose thoughts are set upon dainty fare—

But stiff with cold in every limb,

The Furnace Fire is the bait for Him!

Faster and faster still he goes.

Whilst redder and redder the welkin glows,

And the lowest clouds that scud in the sky

Get crimson fringes in flitting by.

Till lo! amid the lurid light,

The darkest object intensely dark,

Just where the bright is intensely bright,

The Forge, the Forge itself is in sight,

Like the pitch-black hull of a burning bark,

With volleying smoke, and many a spark,

Vomiting fire, red, yellow, and white!

Restless, quivering tongues of flame!

Heavenward striving still to go,

While others, reversed in the stream, below,

Seem seeking a place we will not name,

But well that Traveller knows the same,

Who stops and stands,

So rubbing his hands,

And snuffing the rare

Perfumes in the air,

For old familiar odors are there,

And then direct by the shortest cut,

Like Alpine Marmot, whom neither rut,

Rivers, rocks, nor thickets rebut,

Makes his way to the blazing Hut!

PART II.

Idly watching the Furnace-flames,

The men of the stithy

Are in their smithy,

Brutal monsters, with bulky frames,

Beings Humanity scarcely claims,

But hybrids rather of demon race,

Unbless'd by the holy rite of grace,

Who never had gone by Christian names,

Mark, or Matthew, Peter, or James—

Naked, foul, unshorn, unkempt,

From touch of natural shame exempt,

Things of which Delirium has dreamt—

But wherefore dwell on these verbal sketches,

When traced with frightful truth and vigor,

Costume, attitude, face, and figure,

Retsch has drawn the very wretches!

However, there they lounge about,

The grim, gigantic fellows,

Hardly hearing the storm without,

That makes so very dreadful a rout,

For the constant roar

From the furnace door.

And the blast of the monstrous bellows!

Oh, what a scene

That Forge had been

For Salvator Rosa's study!

With wall, and beam, and post, and pin,

And those ruffianly creatures, like Shapes of Sin,

Hair, and eyes, and rusty skin,

Illumed by a light so ruddy

The Hut, and whatever there is therein,

Looks either red-hot or bloody!

And, oh! to hear the frequent burst

Of strange, extravagant laughter,

Harsh and hoarse,

And resounding perforce

From echoing roof and rafter!

Though curses, the worst

That ever were curst,

And threats that Cain invented the first,

Come growling the instant after!

But again the livelier peal is rung,

For the Smith, hight Salamander,

In the jargon of some Titanic tongue,

Elsewhere never said or sung,

With the voice of a Stentor in joke has flung

Some cumbrous sort

Of sledge-hammer retort

At Red Beard, the crew's commander.

Some frightful jest—who knows how wild,

Or obscene, from a monster so defiled,

And a horrible mouth, of such extent,

From flapping ear to ear it went,

And show'd such tusks whenever it smiled—

The very mouth to devour a child!

But fair or foul the jest gives birth

To another bellow of demon mirth,

That far outroars the weather,

As if all the Hyænas that prowl the earth

Had clubb'd their laughs together!

And lo! in the middle of all the din,

Not seeming to care a single pin,

For a prospect so volcanic,

A Stranger steps abruptly in,

Of an aspect rather Satanic:

And he looks with a grin at those Cyclops grim,

Who stare and grin again at him

With wondrous little panic.

Then up to the Furnace the Stranger goes,

Eager to thaw his ears and nose,

And warm his frozen fingers and toes—

While each succeeding minute,

Hotter and hotter the Smithy grows,

And seems to declare,

By a fiercer glare,

On wall, roof, floor, and everywhere,

It knows the Devil is in it!

Still not a word

Is utter'd or heard,

But the beetle-brow'd Foreman nods and winks,

Much as a shaggy old Lion blinks,

And makes a shift

To impart his drift

To a smoky brother, who, joining the links,

Hints to a third the thing he thinks;

And whatever it be,

They all agree

In smiling with faces full of glee,

As if about to enjoy High Jinks.

What sort of tricks they mean to play

By way of diversion, who can say,

Of such ferocious and barbarous folk,

Who chuckled, indeed, and never spoke

Of burning Robert the Jäger to coke,

Except as a capital practical joke!

Who never thought of Mercy, or heard her,

Or any gentle emotion felt;

But hard as the iron they had to melt,

Sported with Danger and romp'd with Murder!

Meanwhile the Stranger—

The Brocken Ranger,

Besides another and hotter post,

That renders him not averse to a roast,—

Creeping into the Furnace almost,

Has made himself as warm as a toast—

When, unsuspicious of any danger,

And least of all of any such maggot

As treating a body like a faggot,

All at once he is seized and shoven

In pastime cruel,

Like so much fuel,

Headlong into the blazing oven!

In he goes! with a frightful shout

Mock'd by the rugged ruffianly band,

As round the Furnace mouth they stand,

Bar, and shovel, and ladle in hand,

To hinder their Butt from crawling out,

Who making one fierce attempt, but vain,

Receives such a blow

From Red-Beard's crow

As crashes the skull and gashes the brain,

And blind, and dizzy, and stunn'd with pain,

With merely an interjectional "oh!"

Back he rolls in the flames again.

"Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!" That second fall

Seerns the very best joke of all,

To judge by the roar,

Twice as loud as before,

That fills the Hut, from the roof to the floor,

And flies a league or two out of the door,

Up the mountains and over the moor—

But scarcely the jolly echoes they wake

Have well begun

To take up the fun,

Ere the shaggy Felons have cause to quake,

And begin to feel that the deed they have done,

Instead of being a pleasant one,

Was a very great error—and no mistake.

For why?—in lieu

Of its former hue,

So natural, warm, and florid,

The Furnace burns of a brimstone blue,

And instead of the couleur de rose it threw,

With a cooler reflection,—justly due—

Exhibits each of the Pagan crew,

Livid, ghastly, and horrid!

But vainly they close their guilty eyes

Against prophetic fears;

Or with hard and horny palms devise

To dam their enormous ears—

There are sounds in the air,

Not here or there,

Irresistible voices everywhere,

No bulwarks can ever rebut,

And to match the screams

Tremendous gleams,

Of Horrors that like the Phantoms of dreams,

They see with their eyelids shut!

For awful coveys of terrible things,

With forked tongues and venomous stings,

On hagweed, broomsticks, and leathern wings,

Are hovering round the Hut!

Shapes, that within the focus bright

Of the Forge, are like shadows and blots;

But farther off, in the shades of night,

Clothed with their own phosphoric light,

Are seen in the darkest spots.

Sounds! that fill the air with noises,

Strange and indescribable voices,

From Hags, in a diabolical clatter—

Cats that spit curses, and apes that chatter

Scraps of cabalistical matter—

Owls that screech, and dogs that yell—

Skeleton hounds that will never be fatter—

All the domestic tribes of Hell,

Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter,

Bones to shatter,

And limbs to scatter,

And who it is that must furnish the latter

Those blue-looking Men know well!

Those blue-looking men that huddle together,

For all their sturdy limbs and thews

Their unshorn locks, like Nazarene Jews,

And buffalo beards, and hides of leather,

Huddled all in a heap together,

Like timid lamb, and ewe, and wether,

And as females say,

In a similar way,

Fit for knocking down with a feather!

In and out, in and out,

The gathering Goblins hover about,

Ev'ry minute augmenting the rout;

For like a spell

The unearthly smell

That fumes from the Furnace, chimney and mouth,

Draws them in—an infernal Legion

From East, and West, and North, and South,

Like carrion birds from ev'ry region,

Till not a yard square

Of the sickening air

But has a Demon or two for its share,

Breathing fury, woe, and despair,

Never, never was such a sight!

It beats the very Walpurgis Night,

Displayed in the story of Doctor Faustus,

For the scene to describe

Of the awful tribe,

If we were two Göthes, would quite exhaust us!

Suffice it, amid that dreary swarm,

There musters each foul repulsive form

That ever a fancy overwarm

Begot in its worst delirium;

Besides some others of monstrous size,

Never before revealed to eyes,

Of the genus Megatherium!

Meanwhile the demons, filthy and foul,

Gorgon, Chimera, Harpy, and Ghoul,

Are not contented to jibber and howl

As a dirge for their late commander;

But one of the bevy—witch or wizard,

Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard,

Springs on the grisly Salamander,

Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks.

And tries the best of his wrestling tricks,

No paltry strife,

But for life, dear life.

But the ruthless talons refuse to unfix,

Till far beyond a surgical case,

With starting eyes, and black in the face,

Down he tumbles as dead as bricks!

A pretty sight for his mates to view!

Those shaggy murderers looking so blue,

And for him above all,

Red-bearded and tall,

With whom, at that very particular nick,

There is such an unlucky crow to pick,

As the one of iron that did the trick

In a recent bloody affair—

No wonder feeling a little sick,

With pulses beating uncommonly quick,

And breath he never found so thick,

He longs for the open air!

Three paces, or four,

And he gains the door;

But ere he accomplishes one,

The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull,

And clasping his fingers round his skull—

However the deed was done,

That gave him that florid

Red gash on the forehead—

With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid,

There's a tremulous quiver,

The last death-shiver,

And Red-Beard's course is run!

Halloo! Halloo!

They have done for two!

But a heavyish job remains to do!

For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand,

Like elder Sons of Giant Despair,

A couple of Cyclops make a stand,

And fiercely hammering here and there,

Keep at bay the Powers of Air—

But desperation is all in vain!—

They faint—they choke,

For the sulphurous smoke

Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain,

They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother.

One for a moment survives his brother,

Then rolls a corpse across the other!

Halloo! Halloo!

And Hullabaloo!

There is only one more thing to do—

And seized by beak, and talon, and claw,

Bony hand, and hairy paw,

Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw,

The four huge Bodies are haul'd and shoven

Each after each in the roaring oven!

---

That Eisen Hutte is standing still,

Go to the Hartz whenever you will,

And there it is beside a hill,

And a rapid stream that turns many a mill;

The self-same Forge,—you'll know it at sight—

Casting upward, day and night,

Flames of red, and yellow, and white!

Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge,

There it is, the famous Forge,

With its Furnace,—the same that blazed of yore,—

Hugely fed with fuel and ore;

But ever since that tremendous Revel,

Whatever Iron is melted therein,—

As Travellers know who have been to Berlin—

Is all as black as the Devil!

[THE UNIVERSITY FEUD.][45]

"A plague o' both the houses!"—MERCUTIO.

As 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-cry,

Such as used in times gone by

To scare the British border;

When foes from North and South of Tweed—

Neighbors—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 gazer, beetle-brow'd,

The cause of such disquiet.

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 Garmany,

And what is worse, 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!

Lord knows their names, I'm sure I don't, no more than any yokel,

But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal;

Nay, some do say, although of course the public rumor 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 Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their composing;

And 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 Donkey."

Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither,

No ballad—worth a ha'penny—has ever 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 neighborhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses,

Who 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 touters;

And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried,

You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married;

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

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 they call each other—for I've heard 'em in the street—

Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judasses, and Vipers and what not,

For Pasley and his divers ain't so blowing-up a lot.

And then such awful swearing!—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 they'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 polities in plenty for our splits to be about,—

Why, a cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows,

For to furnish 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 coach,

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,

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

May 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 honor 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 Muffincaps, 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, and as far as they can compass,

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 after all?

Whether Harmony will ever make the "Arms" her House of call,

Or whether this here mobbing—as some longish heads foretell 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 I 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 makes 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!