A LETTER
FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD. JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL
Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.—H. B.
Dear Sir—You wish to know my notions
On sartin pints thet rile the land;
There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns
Es bein' mum or underhand;
I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur
Thet blurts right out wut's in his head,
An' ef I've one pecooler feetur,
It is a nose thet wunt be led.
So, to begin at the beginnin';
An' come directly to the pint,
I think the country's underpinnin'
Is some consid'ble out o' jint;
I aint agoin' to try your patience
By tellin' who done this or thet,
I don't make no insinooations,
I jest let on I smell a rat.
Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so,
But, ef the public think I'm wrong
I wunt deny but wut I be so—
An', fact, it don't smell very strong;
My mind's tu fair to lose its balance
An' say wich party hez most sense;
There may be folks o'greater talence
Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.
I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin'
'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth;
I leave a side thet looks like losin',
But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both;
I stan' upon the Constitution,
Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned
A way to git the most profusion
O' chances ez to ware they'll stand.
Ez fer the war, I go agin it—
I mean to say I kind o' du—
Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,
The best way wuz to fight it thru;
Not but wut abstract war is horrid,
I sign to thet with all my heart—
But civlyzation doos git forrid
Sometimes upon a powder-cart.
About thet darned Proviso matter
I never hed a grain o' doubt,
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter
So's no one couldn't pick it out;
My love fer North an' South is equil,
So I'll just answer plump an' frank,
No matter wut may be the sequil—
Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.
Ez to the answerin' o' questions,
I 'am an off ox at bein' druv,
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns
I'll give our folks a helpin' shove;
Kind o' promiscoous I go it
Fer the holl country, an' the ground
I take, ez nigh ez I can show it,
Is pooty gen'ally all round.
I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;
You'd ough' to leave a feller free,
An' not go knockin' out the wedges
To ketch his fingers in the tree;
Pledges air awfle breachy cattle
Thet preudent farmers don't turn out—
Ez long'z the people git their rattle,
Wut is there fer'm to grout about?
Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion
In MY idees consarnin' them—
I think they air an Institution,
A sort of—yes, jest so—ahem:
Do I own any? Of my merit
On thet pint you yourself may jedge;
All is, I never drink no sperit,
Nor I haint never signed no pledge.
Ez to my principles, I glory
In hevin' nothin' o' the sort;
I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,
I'm jest a candidate, in short;
Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler,
But, ef the Public cares a fig
To hev me an' thin' in particler.
Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.
P. S.
Ez we're a sort o' privateerin',
O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer
An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'
I'll mention in YOUR privit ear;
Ef you git ME inside the White House,
Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint
By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house
Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint
An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'
At bein' scrouged from off the roost,
I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin'
An' give our side a harnsome boost—
Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question
I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth;
This gives you a safe pint to rest on,
An' leaves me frontin' South by North.
THE CANDIDATE'S CREED. (BIGLOW PAPERS.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
I du believe in Freedom's cause,
Ez fur away ez Paris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Pharisees;
It's wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves and triggers,—
But libbaty's a kind o' thing
Thet don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas and coffees,
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—
Purvidin' I'm in office;
For I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
An' Uncle Sam I reverence,
Partic'larly his pockets.
I du believe in ANY plan
O' levyin' the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest wut I axes:
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,
Because it kind o' rouses
The folks to vote—and keep us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise an' good
To sen' out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An' orthydox conditions;—
I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,
Nine thousan' more fer outfit,
An' me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways
O' prayin' an' convartin';
The bread comes back in many days,
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;—
I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An' in convartin' public trusts
To very privit uses.
I do believe hard coin the stuff
Fer 'lectioneers to spout on;
The people's ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An' gives a good-sized junk to all—
I don't care HOW hard money is,
Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An' in the traces lead 'em:
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin',
An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov'ment printin'!
I du believe thet I should give
Wut's his'n unto Caesar,
Fer it's by him I move an' live,
From him my bread an' cheese air
I du believe thet all o' me
Doth bear his souperscription,—
Will, conscience, honor, honesty,
An' things o' thet description.
I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him thet hez the grantin'
O' jobs—in every thin' thet pays,
But most of all in CANTIN';
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o' sin to rest—
I DON'T believe in princerple,
But, O, I DU in interest.
I du believe in bein' this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way, or t' other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin';
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudent course is steadied—
I scent wich pays the best, an' then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin' slaves
Comes nat'ral tu a President,
Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves
To have a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I could'nt ax with no face,
Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet,
The unrizziest kind o' doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
'll keep the people in blindness,—
Thet we the Mexicans can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness—
Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball
Air good-will's strongest magnets—
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it's a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An' this'll keep the people green
To feed ez they have fed me.
THE COURTIN'. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru the winder,
An there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,
An' in among 'em rusted
The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles out
Toward the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle fires danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
The very room, coz she wuz in,
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'.
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'.
She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu,
Araspin' on the scraper—
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle of the seekle:
His heart kep' goin' pitypat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
A SONG FOR A CATARRH. PUNCH
By Bary ALLe is like the suL,
WheL at the dawL it fliLgs
Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL
Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs.
IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL
FroB her a scorLful frowL,
But sooL as I By prayers begiL,
She cries O Lo! begoLe,
Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg
Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!
By Bary ALLe is like the mooL,
WheL first her silver sheeL
Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe,
That else had sileLt beeL.
But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light,
OL be, alas! looks dowL;
Her sBiles oL others beaB their light,
Her frowLs are all By owL.
I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg—
Her frowLs are all By owL.
EPITAPH ON A CANDLE. PUNCH.
A WICKED one lies buried here,
Who died in a DECLINE;
He never rose in rank, I fear,
Though he was born to SHINE.
He once was FAT, but now, indeed,
He's thin as any griever;
He died—the Doctors all agreed,
Of a most BURNING fever.
One thing of him is said with truth,
With which I'm much amused;
It is—that when he stood, forsooth,
A STICK he always used.
Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made,
But this was not enough,
For finding it a poorish trade,
He also dealt in SNUFF.
If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray,"
He much ill nature show'd;
On such occasions he would say,
"Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"
In this his friends do all agree,
Although you'll think I'm joking,
When GOING OUT 'tis said that he
Was very fond of SMOKING.
Since all religion he despised,
Let these few words suffice,
Before he ever was baptized
They DIPP'D him once or twice.
POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE. A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER. PUNCH.
On going forth last night, a friend to see,
I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B;
Reeling along the path he held his way.
"Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K"
Then thus to him—"Were it not better, far,
You were a little s-o-b-e-R?
'T were happier for your family, I guess,
Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S.
Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,
Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M."
'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you
You want to kick up a blest r-o-W.
Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,
If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!)
I've just return'd from a tee-total party,
Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P.
The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye,
He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E.
He'd taken so much lush into his belly,
I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E.
A pair on 'em—hisself and his good lady;—
The gin had got into her h-e-A-D.
(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are;
They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!)
But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy)
All day to weak imperial p-O-P.
And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin',
Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"
ON A REJECTED NOSEGAY, OFFERED BY THE AUTHOR TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, WHO RETURNED IT. PUNCH.
What! then you won't accept it, wont you? Oh!
No matter; pshaw! my heart is breaking, though.
My bouquet is rejected; let it be:
For what am I to you, or you to me?
'Tis true I once had hoped; but now, alas!
Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass.
I was a fool—perchance I am so still;
You won't accept it! Let me dream you will:
But that were idle. Shall we meet again?
Why should we? Water for my burning brain?
I could have loved thee—Could! I love thee yet
Can only Lethe teach me to forget?
Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find!
Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind?
Or is it?—ha! at last I see it come;
Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum.
A SERENADE. PUNCH.
Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT?
CONFOUND THE CAT!)—
Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestow
On him who sadly waits below,
To catch—(A VILLAIN UP ABOVE
HAS THROWN SOME WATER ON ME, LOVE!)
To catch one token—
(OH, LORD! MY HEAD IS BROKEN;
THE WRETCH WHO THREW THE WATER DOWN,
HAS DROPPED THE JUG UPON MY CROWN)—
To catch one token, which shall be
As dear as life itself to me.
List, lady, then; while on my lute
I breathe soft—(NO! I'LL NOT BE QUIET;
HOW DARE YOU CALL MY SERENADE A RIOT?
I DO DEFY YOU)—while upon my lute
I breathe soft sighs—(YES, I DISPUTE
YOUR RIGHT TO STOP ME)—breathe soft sighs.
Grant but one look from those dear eyes—
(THERE, TAKE THAT STUPID NODDLE IN AGAIN;
CALL THE POLICE!—DO! I'LL PROLONG MY STRAIN),
We'll wander by the river's placid flow—
(UNTO THE STATION-HOUSE!—NO, SIR, I WON'T GO;
LEAVE ME ALONE!)—and talk of love's delight.
(OH, MURDER!—HELP! I'M LOCKED UP FOR THE NIGHT!)
RAILROAD NURSERY RHYME.
PUNCH.
Air—"Ride a Cock Horse."
Fly by steam force the country across,
Faster than jockey outside a race-horse:
With time bills mismanaged, fast trains after slow,
You shall have danger wherever you go.
AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS PUNCH.
I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,
I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub-breed;
Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,
And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.
I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song
Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale;
Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long
Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.
You shall pip-pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke
With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole;
But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear with
your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!
You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,
You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately racoon;
And then did-did-dear, together we'll stray
To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.
You wished (I r-r-remember it well,
And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish)
To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel-
ican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!
THE PEOPLE AND THEIR PALACE. IMPROVISED BY A FINE GENTLEMAN. PUNCH.
Oh dem that absawd Cwystal Palace! alas,
What a pity they took off the duty on glass!
It's having been evaw ewected, in fact,
Was en-ti-a-ly owing to that foolish act.
Wha-evew they put it a cwowd it will dwaw,
And that is the weason I think it a baw;
I have no gweat dislike to the building, as sutch;
The People is what I object to sa mutch.
The People!—I weally am sick of the wawd:
The People is ugly, unpleasant, absawd;
Wha-evaw they go, it is always the case,
They are shaw to destroy all the chawm of the place.
Their voices are loud, and their laughter is hawse;
Their fealyaws are fabsy, iwegulaw, cause;
How seldom it is that their faces disclose,
What one can call, pwopally speaking, a nose!
They have dull heavy looks, which appeaw to expwess
Disagweeable stwuggles with common distwess;
The People can't dwess, doesn't know how to walk.
And would uttaly wuin a spot like the Pawk.
That I hate the People is maw than I 'll say;
I only would have them kept out of my way,
Let them stay at the pot-house, wejoice in the pipe,
And wegale upon beeaw, baked patatas, and twipe.
We must have the People—of that tha's no doubt—
In shawt they could not be, pahaps, done without.
If'twa not faw the People we could not have Boots
Tha's no doubt that they exawcise useful pasuits.
They are all vewy well in their own pwopa spheeaw
A long distance off; but I don t like them neeaw;
The slams is the place faw a popula show;
Don't encouwage the people to spoil Wotten Wow.
It is odd that the DUKE OF AWGYLL could pasue,
So eccentwic a cawse, and LAD SHAFTESBUWY too,
As to twy and pwesawve the Glass House on its site,
Faw no weason on awth but the People's delight.
A "SWELL'S" HOMAGE TO MRS. STOWE PUNCH.
A must wead Uncle Tom—a wawk
Which A'm afwaid's extwemely slow,
People one meets begin to talk
Of Mrs. HARWIETBEECHASTOWE.
'Tis not as if A saw ha name
To walls and windas still confined;
All that is meawly vulga fame:
A don't wespect the public mind.
But Staffa'd House has made haw quite
Anotha kind a pawson look,
A Countess would pasist, last night,
In asking me about haw book.
She wished to know if I admiawd
EVA, which quite confounded me;
And then haw Ladyship inqwaw'd
Whethaw A did'nt hate LEGWEE?
Bai JOVE! A was completely flaw'd;
A wish'd myself, or haw, at Fwance;
And that's the way a fella's baw'd
By ev'wy gal he asks to dance.
A felt myself a gweat a fool
Than A had evaw felt befaw;
A'll study at some Wagged School
The tale of that old Blackamaw!
THE EXCLUSIVE'S BROKEN IDOL. PUNCH.
A don't object at all to War
With a set a fellas like the Fwench,
But this dem wupcha with the Czar,
It gives one's feeling quite a wench.
The man that peace in Yawwup kept
Gives all his pwevious life the lie;
A fina fella neva stepped,
Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!
He cwushed those democwatic beasts;
He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew,
Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests,
Most likely vewy pwoppa too.
To think that afta such a cawce,
Which nobody could eva blame,
The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce
Against this countwy just the same!
We all consida'd him our fwiend,
But in a most erwoneus light,
In shawt, it seems you can't depend
On one who fancies might is wight.
His carwacta is coming out;
His motives—which A neva saw—
Are now wevealed beyond a doubt,
And we must fight—but what a baw!
THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY.
PUNCH.
Air—"Weber's Last Waltz."
My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw,
And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw!
No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot,
In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.
Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell!
Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell;
I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw,
And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.
Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm
That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm;
Fahwell the gauze and muslin—doomed to load the Hebwew's bags;
Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went—just fancy—as old wags!
That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue,
And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to;
How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold
Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.
THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE
[Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab
fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.]
PUNCH.
Wot's this?—wot hever is this 'ere?
Eh?—arf a suvrin!—feels like vun—
Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer!
Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!—
No—that ain't right—
The yaller's turned wite!
Ha, ha, ho!—he's sold and done—
Come, I say!—I won't stand that—
'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN!
Over the left and all round my hat,
As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.
Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH
LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART,
Old Spooney, to be sure—
Between you and me and the old blind oss
And the doctor says there ain't no cure.
D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?—
From Temple Bar to Charing Cross?
Two mile and better—arf a crown—
Talk of screwing a feller down!
As for poor BILL, it's broke his art.
Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!—
That's—how much?—
A farthin' touch!
Now as we can't demand back fare.
But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?—
The fare of a himperial carridge?
You don't mean all this 'ere for me!
In course you ain't heerd about my marridge—
I feels so precious keveer!
How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed?
I've ad a slight hindisposition
But a Beak ain't no Physician.
Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere?
You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob!
He wasn't bled:
And I was let in for forty bob,
Or a month, instead:
And I caught the lumbago in the brain—
I've been confined—
But never you mind—
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.
Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell?
It sets my ed a spinnin—
The QUEEN'S eye winks—it ain't no sell—
The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin:
Ha, ha! 't was guv
By the cove I druv—
I vunders for wot e meant it!
For e sez to me,
E sez, sez e,
As I ort to be contented!
Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say?
My fare!—wot, that!
Yer knocks me flat.
Hit in the vind!—I'm chokin—give us air—
My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?
Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile?
I ain't hinsane—not yet—not yet avile!
Wot makes yer smile?
My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner!
Wot's this I've got?
Show us a light—
This 'ere is—wot?—
There's sunthin the matter with my sight—
It is—yes!—No!—
'Tis, raly, though—
Oh, blow! blow! blow!—
Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!
ALARMING PROSPECT
PUNCH.
To the Editor of "PUNCH."
SIR—You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets.
I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin.
The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following
AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES).
Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1]
Joan and Colin took their way,
While each flower the dew was swigging, [2]
In the jocund month of May.
Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter;
Colin youth's most nutty [4] son;
Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her—
Him full many a spicy [6] one.
She her faithful bosom's jewel
Did unto this young un' [7] plight;
But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel,
Said as how he'd never fight. [9]
Soon as e'er the lark had risen,
They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10]
And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12]
Gone to roam as lovers use.
In a crack [13] the youth and maiden
To a flowery bank did come,
Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden,
Not without melodious hum.
Down they squatted [15] them together,
"Lovely Joan," said Colin bold,
"Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whether
Thou dost dear thy Colin hold?"
"Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic,
Cried the young and ardent maid;
"Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic,
Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said.
"Bolt?" she falter'd, "from the gov'nor?
Oh! my Colin, that won't pay; [20]
He will ne'er come down, [21] my love, nor
Help us, if we run away."
"Shall we then be disunited?"
Wildly shrieked the frantic cove; [22]
"Mull'd [23] our happiness! and blighted
In the kinchin-bud [24] our love!
"No, my tulip! [25] let us rather
Hand in hand the bucket kick; [26]
Thus we'll chouse [27] your cruel father—
Cutting from the world our stick!" [28]
Thus he spoke, and pull'd a knife out,
Sharp of point, of edge full fine;
Pierc'd her heart, and let the life out—
"Now," he cried, "here's into mine!" [29]
But a hand unseen behind him
Did the fatal blow arrest.
Oh, my eye! [30] they seize and bind him—
Gentle Mure, conceal the rest!
In the precints of the prison,
In his cold crib [31] Colin lies;
Mourn his fate all you who listen,
Draw it mild, and mind your eyes! [32]
1. "Prigging," stealing; as yet exclusively applied to petty larceny. "Stealing" is as well known to be a poetical term as it is to be an indictable offense; the Zephyr and the Vesper Hymn, cum multis aliis, are very prone to this practice. 2. "Swigging," drinking copiously—of malt liquor in particular. "Pearly drops of dew we drink."—OLD SONG. 3. "Plummiest," the superlative of "plummy," exquisitely delicious; an epithet commonly used by young gentlemen in speaking of a bonne bouche or "tit bit," as a mince pie, a preserved apricot, or an oyster patty. The transference of terms expressive of delightful and poignant savor to female beauty, is common with poets. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath."—SHAKESPEARE. "Charley loves a pretty girl, AS SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY."—ANON. 4. "Nutty," proper—in the old English sense of "comely," "handsome." "Six PROPER youths, and tall."—OLD SONG. 5. "Nob," a person of consequence; a word very likely to be patronized, from its combined brevity and significancy. 6. "Spicy," very smart and pretty; it has the same recommendation, and will probably supplant the old favorite "bonny." "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride."—HAMILTON. 7. "Young'un," youth, young man. "A YOUTH to fortune and to fame unknown."—GRAY. 8. "Gov'nor," or "guv'nor," a contraction of "governor," a father. It will, no doubt, soon supersede sire, which is at present the poetical equivalent for the name of the author of one's existence. See all the poets, passim. 9. "Said as how he'd never fight," the thing was out of the question; a metaphorical phrase, though certainly, at present, a vulgar one. 10. "Snooze," slumber personified, like "Morpheus," or "Somnus." 11. "Daddle."—Q. from daktulos, a finger—pars pro toto!—Hand, the only synonym for it that we have, except "Paw," "Mawley," &c., which are decidedly generis ejusdem.12. "His'n," his own; corresponding to the Latin suus, his own and nobody else's, so frequently met with in OVID and others. 13. "Crack," a twinkling, an extremely short interval of time, which was formerly expressed, in general, by a periphrasis; as, "Ere the leviathan can swim a league!"—SHAKESPEARE. 14. "Cut," sped. A synonym. 15. "Squatted," sat. Id. 16. "Davy," affidavit, solemn oath. Significant and euphonious, therefore alluring to the versifier. 17. "Don't I, just?" A question for a strong affirmation, as, "Oh, yes, indeed I do;" a piece of popular rhetoric, pithy and forcible and consequently almost sure to be adopted—especially by the pathetic writers. 18. "Bolt," ran away. Syn. 19. "Bumptious," fearless, bold, and spirited; a very energetic expression such as those rejoice in who would fair "DENHAM'S strength with Waller's sweetness join." 20. "That won't pay," that plan will never answer. Metaph. 21. "Come down," disburse; also rendered in the vernacular by "fork out." etc. Id. 22. "Cove," swain. "Alexis shunn'd his fellow SWAINS."—PRIOR. See also SHENSTONE PASSIM. 23. "Mull'd," equivalent to "wreck'd," a term of pathos. 24. "Kinchin-bud," infant-bud. Metaph.; moreover, very tender, sweet, and touching, as regards the idea. 25. "My tulip," a term of endearment. "Fairest FLOWER, all flowers excelling." ODE TO A CHILD: COTTON. 26. "The bucket kick," pleonasm for die; as, "to breathe life's latest sigh."—"To yield the soul,"—"the breath,"—or, UT APUD ANTIQ. "Animam expirare," seu "efflare," etc. 27. "Chouse," cheat. Syn. 28. "Cutting . . . our stick." Pleon. ut supra. 29. "Here's unto mine!" A form of speech analogous to "Have at thee."—SHAKESPEARE, and the dramatists generally. 30. "Oh, my eye!" an interjectional phrase, tantamount to "Oh, heavens!" "Merciful powers!" etc. 31. "Cold crib," cold bed. "Go to thy cold bed and warm thee."—SHAK. 32. "Draw it mild," etc. Metaph. for "Rule your passions, and beware!"
I doubt not that it will be admitted by your judicious readers that I have substantiated my case. Our monarchical institutions may preserve our native tongue for a time, but if it does not become, at no very distant period, as strange a medley as that of the American is at present—to use the expressive but peculiar idiom of that people—"IT'S A PITY." I am, sir, etc., P.
EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE. BY THE SOLE SURVIVOR OF A DEPLORABLE ACCIDENT (NO BLAME TO BE ATTACHED TO ANY SERVANTS OF THE COMPANY). PUNCH.
Collisions four
Or five she bore,
The Signals wor in vain;
Grown old and rusted,
Her biler busted,
And smash'd the Excursion Train.
"HER END WAS PIECES."
THE TICKET OF LEAVE. [AS SUNG BY THE HOLDER, AMID A CONVIVIAL CIRCLE IN THE SLUMS.] PUNCH.
Ven a prig has come to grief,
He's no call for desperation;
Though I'm a conwicted thief,
Still I've opes of liberation.
The Reverend Chapling to deceive
A certain dodge and safe resource is,
Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave,
And then resumes your wicious courses.
(SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary, 'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and 'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first, mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson.
"Ven a prig," etc.
Them parsons is so jolly green,
They're sure to trust in your conwersion,
Which they, in course, believes 'as been
The consequence of their exertion.
You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes,
And they takes that to be repentance;
Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs,
By reason only of your sentence.
(SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man," he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe: "thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more 'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make." "'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER: if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine—and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER—I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself— "Ven a prig," etc
In the chapel hof the Jug,
Then I did the meek and lowly,
Pullin' sitch a spoony mug
That I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly.
As loud as ever I could shout,
All the responses too I hutter'd,
Well knowing what I was about:
So the reverend Gent I buttered.
(Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up. But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that—and p'raps 'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the Chapling—Cos vy? "Ven a prig," etc. So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing.
(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc.
A POLKA LYRIC. BARCLAY PHILLIPS
Qui nunc dancere vult modo,
Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!
Discere debet—ought to know,
Kickere floor cum heel and toe,
One, two, three,
Hop with me,
Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.
Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,
Will you join the polka, miss?
Liberius—most willingly,
Sic agimus—then let us try:
Nunc vide,
Skip with me,
Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.
Turn laeva cito, tum dextra,
First to the left, and then t' other way;
Aspice retro in vultu,
You look at her, and she looks at you.
Das palmam
Change hands, ma'am;
Celere—run away, just in sham.