The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe

by Unknown

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.* FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN. 1797

For one long term, or e'er her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!

*INSCRIPTION BY SOUTHEY

FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN, THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS.

For thirty years, secluded from mankind,
Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison: not to him
Did Nature's fair varieties exist;
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sad
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT
In JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd.

SONG [Footnote: There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.]

SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF "THE ROVER." FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798. CANNING. I.

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his
eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—]

II.
Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda THEN was true!
At least I thought so at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.]

III.
Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat post-wagon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish'd at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.

IV.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.

V.
There first for thee my psssion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu—
—tor, law professor at the U—
—niversity at Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.

VI.
Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water gru—
—el, never shall I see the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]

THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

She held a CUP AND BALL of ivory white,
LESS WHITE the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in INNOCENT delight,
Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE SIGHT,
Now on the pointed end INFIXED its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.
Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like THAT should be her pride!)
And the KEEN POINT which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's DART;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who ON THAT DART IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

II.

THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA.

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:
HER ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My GODDESS-MAID, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR.
FOR LOVE ANNIHILATES THE WORLD TO ME!
And when the weary SOL AROUND HIS BED
CLOSES THE SABLE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT,
SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When EVERY SOUND IS DEAD,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to ROLL
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my BODY drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I EXIST A SOUL!

III.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES,
And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!

THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare?
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine.
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near,
Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein;
And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind,
It only served a moment's qualm to move;
For thefts like this it could not be designed—
THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!
Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!
Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw,
That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze,
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,
And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,
SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane
For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

II.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays
Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride,
Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise,
I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate,
My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,
In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings;
And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care,
The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.

III.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!
Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise!
Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth,
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.

Let universal Chaos now return,
Now let the central fires their prison burst,
And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn,
For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,
Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;
Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight,
And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,
When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;
What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love?
What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;
Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go!
Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,
ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!
Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,
That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die,
May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL.

Last night—Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer!
The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear
ONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY!

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight,
And I will STOP HIM on his restless way;
Omnipotent in love's resistless might,
I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair,
My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve,
I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair,
And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would at that instant o'er my thread
The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then;
And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,
And while my heart with transport parted big,
She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried,
"You stupid puppy—you have spoiled my wig!"

[Illustration: WILLIS]

THE BABY'S DEBUT. [Footnote: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ALICE FELL, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.—REJECTED ADDRESSES JAMES SMITH.

Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New-year's-day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is—
He thinks mine came to more than his;
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,
And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlor-door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt:
No Drury Lane for you to-day!"
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"
Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney-coach,
And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,
Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber-room:
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
(I always talk to Sam:)
So what does he, but takes, and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall and not so thick
As these; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good
As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound;
And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
umbob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, "Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisper,
hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;
Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? O there they sit!
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,
To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsy like a pretty miss,
And if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blow a kiss, and exit.]

PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS. A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES. JAMES SMITH

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?
I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey
To carry to the mart her crockery-ware,
And when that donkey looked me in the face,
His face was sad I and you are sad, my Public.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
Again assembles us in Drury Lane.
Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,
Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
As along Charles-street I prepared to walk.
Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,
I heard a trowel tick against a brick.
I looked me up, and straight a parapet
Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.
Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:
He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall
In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied
That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,
Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,
Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour,
As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's
Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.
They had a plan to render less their labors;
Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder
With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole
From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley
Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;
To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks
Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,
And in the empty basket workmen twain
Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people
Who watched the work, express their various thoughts!
While some believed it never would be finished,
Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane
Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work,
A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.
One of the morning papers wished that front
Cemented like the front in Brydges-street;
As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid,
A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street,
The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;
Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables
Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;
White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street,
The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,
Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir!
I think you should have built a colonnade;
When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,
Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower,
And draws the tippet closer round her throat,
Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,
And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud
Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,
She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa
Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!"
To build no portico is penny wise:
Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters!
What is the Regency in Tottenham-street,
The Royal Amphitheater of Arts,
Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,
Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed
Back from the narrow street that christened thee,
I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.
Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,
It grieves me much to see live animals
Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,
Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;
Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist
Of former Drury, imitated life
Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard,
Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis
As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba.
[Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in
Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over
Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor
animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the
pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house,
exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better
elephant than that!">[

Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands
I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee,"
And spares the lash. When I behold a spider
Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,
Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife
Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,
Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!
[EXIT HASTILY.]

THE THEATER. [Footnote: "'The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author. * * * It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description."—Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CEABBE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.] JAMES SMITH.

Interior of a Theater described.—Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.—Pit full.—The Orchestra tuned.—One Fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a Play-bill.—Its final Settlement on the Spikes.—The Gods taken to task—and why.— Motley Group of Play-goers.—Holywell-street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice—not in London—and why.—Episode of the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start;
To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane
Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane;
While gradual parties fill our widened pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,
Distant or near, they settle where they please;
But when the multitude contracts the span,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late comers doom
No room for standing, miscalled STANDING-ROOM.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks he takes;
Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,
Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair—
Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair!
In unison their various tones to tune,
Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon;
In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,
Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp
Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in,
Attunes to order the chaotic din.
Now all seems hushed—but, no, one fiddle will
Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
Foiled in his clash, the leader of the clan
Reproves with frowns the dilatory man:
Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,
Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!"
And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,
Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love
Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;
Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes,
And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?
Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs?
He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots,
Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!
Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
With pence twice five—they want but twopence more;
Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares,
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,
But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary,
That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,
Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb's shoes.
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
Up as a corn-cutter—a safe employ;
In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down.
Pat was the urchin's name-a red haired youth,
Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe,
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat:
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."
"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line."
"Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine."
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band—
Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE [Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to select—It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr. Scott's admirable romances."—Quarterly Review. "'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so ventureously assumed by the describer"—Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT'S METRICAL ROMANCES. REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH.

[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.]

Survey this shield, all bossy bright—
These cuisses twin behold!
Look on my form in armor dight
Of steel inlaid with gold;
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belonged to sable prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valor tart as pungent quince,
He slew the vaunting Gaul.
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees
Flittered the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it past,
Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then reassumed its still array;
When as night's lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome, and turret height,
Appear'd to slumber in the light.
From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought, who gazed around
Amid a silence so profound,
It made the senses thrill,
That't was no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead
All was so hushed and still.

THE BURNING.

As chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flashed upon her eyes
So London's sons in night-cap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames;
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke
"The playhouse is in flames!"
And, lo! where Catharine street extends,
A fiery tail its luster lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell;
The Tennis-Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The ticket-porters' house of call.
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrowed luster seemed to sham
The rose of red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise,
It seemed that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Showed foreman of the British gang—
His name was Higginbottom. Now
'Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view:
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun.
Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,
The Exchange, where old insurers run,
The Eagle, where the new;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,
Crump from St. Giles's Pound:
Whitford and Mitford joined the train,
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,
And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain
Before the plug was found.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap
For both were in the Donjon Keep
Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!
E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed,
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo "Heads below!"
Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof would fall.
Back, Robins, back; Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from th' astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When, lo! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradually a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew
'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
"A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"
And poured the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He tottered, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succor one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire),
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke
before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight o'erwhelmed him quite,
He sunk to rise no more.
Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,
Why are you in such doleful dumps?
A fireman, and afraid of bumps!—
What are they fear'd on? fools: 'od rot 'em!"
Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,
"Joy to the managing committee!"
Eat we and drink we, join to rum
Roast beef and pudding of the plum;
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,
For this is Drury's gay day:
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
Crisp parliament with lollypops,
And fingers of the Lady.
Didst mark, how toiled the busy train,
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leaped like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod;
To realize bold Wyatt's plan
Rushed may a howling Irishman;
Loud clattered many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan,
With trowel and with hod.
Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
She "wings the midway air," elate,
As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears.
No pendant portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears
Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread,
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,
You might have deemed her walls so thick,
Were not composed of stone or brick,
But all a phantom, all a trick,
Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick,
So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

DRURY'S DIRGE. [BY LAUBA MATILDA.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH.

"You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force,
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:
We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atone
For that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"—GIFFORD.

Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus' summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury
O'er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto's sister-fury
Softly slumbering sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos, limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Oytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness,
Mercy holds the vail to Truth.

See Erostratus the second
Fires again Diana's fane;
By the Fates from Orcus beckoned,
Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
Hand in hand reluctant dance:
While the god fulfills his mission,
Chivarly, resign thy lance.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds disheveled lie,
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.

See the bird of Ammon sailing,
Perches on the engine's peak,
And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
Soothes them with its bickering beak.

Juno saw, and mad with malice,
Lost the prize that Paris gave;
Jealousy's ensanguined chalice,
Mantling pours the orient wave.

Pan beheld Patrocles dying,
Nox to Niobe was turned;
From Busiris Bacchus flying,
Saw his Semele inurned.

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,
Leveled with the shuddering stones
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

Hark! what soft Aeolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet, and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.

Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart,
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never, let us part!

WHAT IS LIFE BY "ONE OF THE FANCY." BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?"
And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?"
My muse and I are not at strife,
So listen, lady, to my measure:—
Listen amid thy graceful leisure,
To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure.
'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stain
With sallow light the window-pane:
To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,
With large pearl buttons all afloat
Upon the waves of plush: to tie
A kerchief of the King-cup dye
(White spotted with a small bird's-eye)
Around the neck, and from the nape
Let fall an easy fan-like cape:
To quit the house at morning's prime,
At six or so—about the time
When watchmen, conscious of the day
Puff out their lantern's rush-light ray;
Just when the silent streets are strewn
With level shadows, and the moon
Takes the day's wink and walks aside
To nurse a nap till eventide.
'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable,
Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL,
And mount a gig that had a spring
Some summer's back: and then take wing
Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue)
A jade whose "withers are unwrung;"
Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,
And from a HALF-PAY life of corn,
Showing as many POINTS each way
As Martial's Epigrammata,
Yet who, when set a-going, goes
Like one undestined to repose.
'Tis LIFE to revel down the road,
And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load,
To rave and rattle at the GATE,
And shower upon the gatherer's pate
Damns by the dozens, and such speeches
As well betokens one's SLANG riches:
To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKED
A glass or so—'tis LIFE to take it!
To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;
Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;
Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being led
Into the yard, and clean'd and fed);
Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis
(The last a fighting rara avis),
And, half in secret, scheme a plan
For trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN.
'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry,
With boon companions, wild and merry,
And see the ring upon the Hurst
With carts encircled—hear the burst
At distance of the eager crowd.
Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proud
And dauntless man step, full of hopes,
Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,
Throw in his hat, and with a spring,
Get gallantly within the ring;
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,
Taking all cheerings with a smile:
To see him skip—his well-trained form,
White, glowing, muscular, and warm,
All beautiful in conscious power,
Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;
His glossy and transparent frame,
In radiant plight to strive for fame!
To look upon the clean shap'd limb
In silk and flannel clothed trim;
While round the waist the 'kerchief tied,
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.
'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him hold
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,
Over his second's, and to clasp
His rival's in a quiet grasp;
To watch the noble attitude
He takes—the crowd in breathless mood:
And then to see, with adamant start,
The muscles set, and the great heart
Hurl a courageous splendid light
Into the eye-and then-the FIGHT!

FRAGMENTS. [BY A FREE-LOVER.] BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823

They were not married by a muttering priest,
With superstitious rites, and senseless words,
Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book,
In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen)
Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH!
THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth—
The starry empyrean their vast temple—
Their book each other's eyes—and Love himself
Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!—
Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy
The spirit of the universe.—In sooth
There was a sort of drizzling rain that day,
For I remember (having left at home
My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA,
Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter
Under an entry not twelve paces off
(It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop
For half an hour or more, and there I mused
(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,
That hurried as a het'rogenous mass
To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir),
I mused upon the running stream of LIFE!
But that's not much to the purpose—I was telling
Of these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair!
Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains
About the yielding mind of credulous youth,
Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies,
Your unsophisticated impulses,
Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules
Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He
Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth
Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch!
With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit
Held no communion.—'T was well done, fair creature!
T' assert the independence of a mind
Created-generated I would say—
Free as "that chartered libertine, the air."
Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange!
Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew
Your kindred souls by * * * *
* * * * * *
There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure,
Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt
In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,
Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now
Into and with the all-absorbing frame
Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life,
While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones,
My thoughts and feelings like electric flame
Shot through the solid mass, toward the source,
And blended with the general elements,
When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung
Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds
(Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays—
Dull joys of prejudice and superstition
And vulgar decencies begirt thee round;
And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds
Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail
Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.—
But reason came-and firm philosophy,
And mild philanthropy, and pointed out
The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame,
To curb within a little paltry pale
The love that over all created things
Should be diffusive as the atmosphere.
Then did thy boundless tenderness expand
Over all space—all animated things
And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,
A ready tear for all.—The dying whale,
Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber
By Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pig
Slain for his riot.—The down-trampled flower
Crushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALL
Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then—
(SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE)
Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing
That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim,
As her just right, support and love from THEE—
Then didst thou * * * *
* * * * * * *

THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

There's somewhat on my breast father,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The live-long day I sigh, father,
At night I can not rest;
I can not take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so,
A weary weight oppresseth me—
The weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father
Nor lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief,
But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast—
Its that confounded cucumber
I've ate, and can't digest.

THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY. THOMAS MOORE.

With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back,
In awful prescience of the impending THWACK,
Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood—and
with prelusive SPAR,
And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war!
The One, in bloom of youth—a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE—
The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made,
Express, by Nature for the hammering trade;
But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much,
And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch.

Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came,
While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame,
And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT,
Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and felt
With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd,
Round LUGS and OGLES [Footnote: Ears and Eyes.] flew the frequent fist;
While showers of FACERS told so deadly well,
That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell!
But firmly stood ENTELLUS—and still bright,
Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY'S light,
STOPP'D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fire
The Immortal FANCY could alone inspire!

While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought,
An opening to the COVE'S huge carcase sought
(Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour,
When on ONE leg he hopp'd to—take the Tower!)
And here, and there, explored with active FIN [Footnote: Arm.]
And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win,
And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN.
And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann'd
PUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand,
But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spied
His shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside—
So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain NOBBER pass'd
Through empty air; and He, so high, so vast,
Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground
Not B—CK—GH—M himself, with bulkier sound,
Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories,
Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish'd Tories!
Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yells
From Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLS
Fill'd the wide heaven—while, touch'd with grief to see
His PAL, [Footnote: Friend] well-known through many a LARK and SPREE,
[Footnote: Party of pleasure and frolic]
Thus RUMLY FLOOR'D, the kind ACESTES ran,
And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man,
Uncow'd, undamaged to the SPORT he came,
His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame.
The memory of his MILLING glories past,
The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS'D,
All fired the veteran's PLUCK—with fury flush'd,
Full on his light-limb'd CUSTOMER he rush'd—
And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing,
RUFFIAN'D the reeling youngster round the RING—
Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given,
But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven
Beats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL'S SHOT
[Footnote: A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL'S, so called.]
Around the Trojan's LUGS flew peppering hot!
Till now AENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread,
Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred
Preserved alike the peace and DARES' head,
BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK—
Then kindly thus the PUNISH'D youth bespake:
Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impel
So RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL?
Sees't thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid,
Herself descends to this great HAMMERER'S aid,
And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers,
Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS?
Then, yield thee, youth—nor such a SPOONEY be,
To think mere man can MILL a Deity!"

Thus spoke the Chief—and now, the SCRIMAGE o'er,
His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES bore
Back to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart,
And MUNS and NODDLE PINK'D in every part.
While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush'd,
And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush'd,
Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd!

NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT.
[PARODY ON WOLFE'S "BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE.">[
R. HARRIS BARHAM

Not a SOUS had he got—not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning;
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his MARSHALL cloak around him.

"The Doctor's as drunk as the d——," we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head
Whould "consumedly ache" on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.—

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory!!

RAISING THE DEVIL. A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"And hast thou nerve enough?" he said,
That gray Old Man, above whose head
Unnumbered years have roll'd—
"And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,
"The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!—
— Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst Thou, with unshrinking gaze,
Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze
Of that unearthly eye,
That blasts where'er it lights—the breath
That, like the Simoom, scatters death
On all that yet CAN die!

—"Darest thou confront that fearful form,
That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,
In wild unholy revel!—
The terrors of that blasted brow,
Archangel's once—though ruin'd now—
—Ay—dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"—

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,
And placed him by that Old Man's side,
In fierce and frantic glee,
Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb
—"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM!
—THE DEVIL I-I fain would see!—

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad,
His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad
Rejoined in reckless tone.—
—"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said,
And sigh'd and shook his hoary head,
With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound,
With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around;
He traced full many a sigil there;
He mutter'd many a backward pray'r,
That sounded like a curse—

"He comes !"—he cried with wild grimace,
"The fellest of Apollyon's race!"
—Then in his startled pupil's face
He dash'd-an EMPTY PURSE!!

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY;
[Footnote: see footnote to SONG by Canning.]
OR, STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS.

AN ODE TO BE PERFORMED ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW COLLEGE. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Whene'er with pitying eye I view
Each operative sot in town,
I smile to think how wondrous few
Get drunk who study at the U-
niversity we've Got in town—
niversity we've Got in town.

What precious fools "The People" grew, Their alma mater not in town; The "useful classes" hardly knew Four was composed of two and two, Until they learned it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

But now they're taught by JOSEPH HU- ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town, Their ITEMS and their TOTTLES too; Each may dissect his sister Sue, From his instructions at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Then L——E comes, like him how few Can caper and can trot in town, In PIROUETTE or PAS DE DEUX— He beats the famed MONSIEUR GIROUX, And teaches dancing at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

And GILCHRIST, see, that great Geentoo-
Professor, has a lot in town
Of Cockney boys who fag Hindoo,
And LARN JEM-NASTICS at the U-
niversity we've Got in town—
niversity we've Got in town.

SAM R—- corpse of vampire hue,
Comes from its grave to rot in town;
For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew,
And chants, the Pleasures of the U-
niversity we've Got in town—
niversity we've Got in town.

FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,— Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,— Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue And yellow, d—ns the other two, But lauds the ever-glorious U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Great BIRBECK, king of chips and glue, Who paper oft does blot in town, From the Mechanics' Institu- tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw, Lever and axle at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

LORD WAITHAM, who long since withdrew From Mansion House to cot in town; Adorn'd with chair of ormolu, All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo, Lectures on FREE TRADE at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Fat F——, with his coat of blue, Who speeches makes so hot in town, In rhetoric, spells his lectures through, And sounds the V for W, The VAY THEY SPEAKS it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Then H——E comes, who late at New- gate Market, sweetest spot in town! Instead of one clerk popp'd in two, To make a place for his ne-phew, Seeking another at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

There's Captain ROSS, a traveler true, Has just presented, what in town- 's an article of great VIRTU (The telescope he once peep'd through, And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe On Croker Mountains), to the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew, Where Whigs might eat and plot in town, And swill his port, and mischief brew— Poor CREEVY sips his water gru- el as the beadle of the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town,

There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew, Names ne'er to be forgot in town, In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue— Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew, Come trooping on to join the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

To crown the whole with triple queue— Another such there's not in town, Twitching his restless nose askew, Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.

GRAND CHORUS:

Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH-
AM! Law Professor at the U-
niversity we've Got in town—
niversity we've Got in town.

DOMESTIC POEMS. THOMAS HOOD. I.

GOOD-NIGHT.

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 closed around, so dear to fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmured in my ear, "My love, we're out of coals.

"That Mister Bond has called 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 milk, 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, goodnight!"

II.

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,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—
(Good heavens! 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 afire!)
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 every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumb!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint—
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—
(He's got a knife!)

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 can not write, unless he's sent above!)

III.

A SERENADE.

"LULLABY, O, lullaby!"
Thus I heard a father cry,
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids, or open mine!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
What the devil makes him cry?
Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Still he stares—I wonder why,
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from their birth?"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!"
Thus I heard the father cry;
"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try!—
Hush, O, hush, for mercy's sake—
The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie!
Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Two such nights and I shall die!
Lullaby, O, lullaby!
He'll be bruised, and so shall I—
How can I from bed-posts keep,
When I'm walking in my sleep!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny—
Lullaby, O, lullaby!
Nature soon will stupefy—
My nerves relax—my eyes grow dim—
Who's that fallen—me or him?"

ODE TO PERRY, THE INVENTOR OF THE STEEL PEN. THOMAS HOOD

"In this good work, Penn appears the greatest, usefullest of God's instruments. Firm and unbending when the exigency requires it—soft and yielding when rigid inflexibility is not a desideratum—fluent and flowing, at need, for eloquent rapidity—slow and retentive in cases of deliberation—never spluttering or by amplification going wide of the mark—never splitting, if it can be helped, with any one, but ready to wear itself out rather in their service—all things as it were with all men—ready to embrace the hand of Jew, Christian, or Mohammedan—heavy with the German, light with the Italian, oblique with the English, upright with the Roman, backward in coming forward with the Hebrew—in short, for flexibility, amiability, constitutional durability, general ability, and universal utility, It would be hard to find a parallel to the great Penn." —Perry's CHARACTERISATION OF A SETTLER.

O! Patent Pen-inventing Perrian Perry!
Friend of the goose and gander,
That now unplucked of their quill-feathers wander,
Cackling, and gabbling, dabbling, making merry,
About the happy fen,
Untroubled for one penny-worth of pen,
For which they chant thy praise all Britain through,
From Goose-Green unto Gander-Cleugh!—

Friend to all Author-kind—
Whether of Poet or of Proser—
Thou art composer unto the composer
Of pens—yea, patent vehicles for Mind
To carry it on jaunts, or more extensive
PERRYgrinations through the realms of thought;
Each plying from the Comic to the Pensive,
An Omnibus of intellectual sort;

Modern improvements in their course we feel,
And while to iron railroads heavy wares,
Dry goods and human bodies, pay their fares,
Mind flies on steel
To Penrith, Penrhyn, even to Penzance;
Nay, penetrates, perchance,
To Pennsylvania, or, without rash vaunts,
To where the Penguin haunts!

In times bygone, when each man cut his quill,
With little Perryan skill,
What horrid, awkward, bungling tools of trade
Appeared the writing implements home-made!
What Pens were sliced, hewed, hacked, and haggled out,
Slit or unslit, with many a various snout,
Aquiline, Roman, crooked, square, and snubby.
Stumpy and stubby;
Some capable of ladye-billets neat,
Some only fit for ledger-keeping clerk,
And some to grub down Peter Stubbs his mark,
Or smudge through some illegible receipt;
Others in florid caligraphic plans,
Equal to ships, and wiggy heads, and swans!

To try in any common inkstands, then,
With all their miscellaneous stocks,
To find a decent pen,
Was like a dip into a lucky box:
You drew—and got one very curly,
And split like endive in some hurly-burly;
The next unslit, and square at end, a spade,
The third, incipient pop-gun, not yet made;
The fourth a broom; the fifth of no avail,
Turned upward, like a rabbit's tail;
And last, not least, by way of a relief,
A stump that Master Richard, James or John,
Had tried his candle-cookery upon,
Making "roast-beef!"

Not so thy Perryan Pens!
True to their M's and N's,
They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split,
Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit,
Or drop large dots,
Hugh full-stop blots,
Where even semicolons were unfit.

They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudge
In sable sludge—
Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops,
They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stops
Compose both prose and verse, the sad and merry—
For when the editor, whose pains compile
The grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile,
Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's,
But lays "by the most celebrated Pens,"
What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry?

Pleasant they are to feel!
So firm! so flexible! composed of steel
So finely tempered—fit for tenderest Miss
To give her passion breath,
Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death—
But their supremest merit still is this,
Write with them all your days,
Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays—
(No dramatist should ever be without 'em)—
And, just conceive the bliss—
There is so little of the goose about 'em,
One's safe from any hiss!
Ah! who can paint that first great awful night,
Big with a blessing or a blight,
When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret,
Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright,
Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness—more f's yet:
Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat,
Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that,
Funeral, fate-foreboding—sits in doubt,
Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage
To see his play upon the stage come out;
No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage,
And he is sitting on the spikes behind it,
Striving to look as if he didn't mind it!

Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat
His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt
He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat,
Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt,
That went a beaver in, comes out a rat!

Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright,
Upon Rienzi's night,
Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag,
Quite to a rag.
Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life,
Afraid of his own "Wife;"
Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail
Of water backing him, all down his spine—
"The ice-brook's temper"—pleasant to the chine!
For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail.
Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer,
Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where?
Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth,
While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck,
Squeeze out and suck
More oranges with his one fevered mouth
Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south?
Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet,
Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice,
From his best friend, an ice,
Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet.
Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points
Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints,
During their trial?
'Tis past denial.
And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock,
All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock?
And does not Planche, tremulous and blank,
Meanwhile his personages tread the boards,
Seem goaded by sharp swords,
And called upon himself to "walk the plank?"
As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot,
What have they more
Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot,
Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!

Thus pending—does not Matthews, at sad shift
For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?—
Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?—
And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?—
Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note
Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple
About his arms, and Adam's apple
Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat?
Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire
Or not to take a jump into the fire?
Did Wade feel as composed as music can?
And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man?
Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf,
Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater,
And ere its changes ring transform himself?
A frightful mug of human delf?
A spirit-bottle—empty of "the cratur"?
A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?
A thunderstruck dumb-waiter?

To clench the fact,
Myself, once guilty of one small rash act,
Committed at the Surrey,
Quite in a hurry,
Felt all this flurry,
Corporal worry,
And spiritual scurry,
Dram-devil—attic curry!
All going well,
From prompter's bell,
Until befell
A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce—
There's no denying
I felt in all four elements at once!
My head was swimming, while my arms were flying!
My legs for running—all the rest was frying!

Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use,
Thy pens so innocent of goose!
For this shall dramatists, when they make merry,
Discarding port and sherry,
Drink—"Perry!"
Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose
To distant lands,
Perry, admitted on all hands,
Text, running, German, Roman,
For Patent Perryans approached by no man!
And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!
Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower,
Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!
And Penury itself shall club its penny
To raise thy monument in lofty place,
Higher than York's or any son of War;
While time all meaner effigies shall bury,
On due pentagonal base
Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry,
Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!

A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY. CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent,
A famed tragedian—one of tuneful tongue—
Appeared for that night only—'t was Charles Young.
As Rolla he. And as that Innocent,
The Child of hapless Cora, on there went
A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung
A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among—
So light she seem'd, and so intelligent!
That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap:
Snatching the creature by her tiny gown,
He plants her on his shoulder,—All, all clap!
While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown,
She lisps in Rolla's ear,—"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP,
OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!"

SIDDONS AND HER MAID. W. S. LANDOR

SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast;
The herb of China is its crown at last.
Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear?
MAID. Yes, missus, yes.
SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here,
With penetrated, penetrating eyes.
MAID. Mine? missus! are they?
SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise,
Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.
MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!
SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led
Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?
MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I,
Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.
SIDDENS. Fond maiden!
MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam!
If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.
SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain
That Shakspeare's language germinates again.

THE SECRET SORROW. PUNCH

Oh! let me from the festive board
To thee, my mother, flee;
And be my secret sorrow shared
By thee—by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;
Let others seek enjoyment there,
To me 'tis only pain.

There WAS a word of kind advice—
A whisper soft and low,
But oh! that ONE resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear.
Do I impute to YOU,
But since I ate that currant tart
I don't know what to do!

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS. AFTER SCHILLER. PUNCH.

Four be the elements,
Here we assemble 'em,
Each of man's world
And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon
The slow flowing juices—
Bitter is life
In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps—
Nature intended
Her sweet and severe
To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water—
Unwarning by sound,
Eternity's ocean
Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit,
The life of the bowl—
Man is an earth-clod
Unwarmed by a soul!

Drink of the stream
Ere its potency goes!—
No bath is refreshing
Except while it glows!

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND. PUNCH.

She's not what fancy painted her—
I'm sadly taken in:
If some one else had won her, I
Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e'er could be;
I wonder how she ever could
Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cluster round and shake my hand—
They tell me I am blest:
My case they do not understand—
I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair—
They drive me mad and madder.
What do they mean by it? I swear
I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall;
What would they say to see the box
In which she keeps them all?
Her taper fingers, it is true,
'Twere difficult to match:
What would they say if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?

TEMPERANCE SONG. PUNCH. AIR—FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

Friend of my soul, this water sip,
Its strength you need not fear;
Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,
Nor half so strong as beer.
Like Jenkins when he writes,
It can not touch the mind;
Unlike what he indites,
No nausea leaves behind.