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

by Unknown

SATIRICAL

THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS! SAMUEL BUTLER.

How various and innumerable
Are those who live upon the rabble!
'Tis they maintain the Church and State,
Employ the priest and magistrate;
Bear all the charge of government,
And pay the public fines and rent;
Defray all taxes and excises,
And impositions of all prices;
Bear all th' expense of peace and war,
And pay the pulpit and the bar;
Maintain all churches and religions,
And give their pastors exhibitions;
And those who have the greatest flocks
Are primitive and orthodox;
Support all schismatics and sects,
And pay them for tormenting texts;
Take all their doctrines off their hands,
And pay 'em in good rents and lands;
Discharge all costly offices,
The doctor's and the lawyer's fees,
The hangman's wages, and the scores
Of caterpillar bawds and whores;
Discharge all damages and costs
Of Knights and Squires of the Post;
All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders,
And pay for all their ropes and ladders;
All pettifoggers, and all sorts
Of markets, churches, and of courts;
All sums of money paid or spent,
With all the charges incident,
Laid out, or thrown away, or given
To purchase this world, Hell or Heaven.

THE CHAMELEON. MATTHEW PRIOR.

As the Chameleon who is known
To have no colors of its own:
But borrows from his neighbor's hue
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight:
As if the rainbow were in tail
Settled on him, and his heirs male;
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will or Tom's:
And equally, in truth is fit
To be a statesman or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad;
Admits him in among the gang:
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smear'd with the colors which they lend him,
Thus merely, as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
If haply he the sect pursues,
That road and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face:
He drinks his coffee without lace.
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
Or if it be his fate to meet
With folks who have more wealth than wit
He loves cheap port, and double bub;
And settles in the hum-drum club:
He earns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits!
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW. MATTHEW PRIOR.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear:
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held:
His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd.
With a grave look in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull:
Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak:
Your emble—(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense:
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how:
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit
I for this conduct had what I deserv'd;
And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.—
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.—
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much: think little; and talk less;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks;
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

JACK AND JOAN. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Stet quicunque volet potens
Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA.

Interr'd beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well;
If changing empires rose or fell;
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?
Why then they walk'd and eat again:
They soundly slept the night away;
They just did nothing all the day;
And having buried children four,
Would not take pains to try for more;
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seem'd just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree:
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespass'd on the other's ground,
Nor fame, nor censure they regarded;
They neither punish'd nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid;
So every servant took his course;
And bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder filled his table;
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.
Their beer was strong; their wine was port;
Their meal was large; their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate;
And took, but read not the receipt:
For which they claim their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.
No man's defects sought they to know;
So never made themselves a foe,
No man's good deeds did they commend;
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor;
That might decrease their present store:
Nor barn nor house did they repair;
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accompts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear or smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.
When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died, or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise:
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led—a kind of—as it were:
Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried:
And so they liv'd, and so they died.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill;
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighboring pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise, and harder fare,
Soon make my dame grow lank and spare
Her body light, she tries her wings,
And scorns the ground, and upward springs
While all the parish, as she flies,
Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay,
The third night's profits of his play;
His morning draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill:
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight?
Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat
What poet e'er could sing a note?
Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;
The steed, oppress'd, would break his
To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years' coat so smooth and
Through every thread it lets in air
With hungry meals his body pines
His guts and belly full of wind;
And like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case:
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Encumbrances of food and clothes;
And up he rises like a vapor,
Supported high on wings of paper.
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read,

II.

By disputing, I will never,
To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless
I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye:
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends
And continue special friends.

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT

When beasts could speak (the learned say
They still can do so every day),
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men.
It happen'd, when a plague broke out
(Which therefore made them more devout),
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean)
By proclamation gave command,
That every subject in the land
Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious Wolf begins:
Good father, I must own with shame,
That often I have been to blame:
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue
To prove I did my neighbor wrong;
Or ever went to seek my food,
By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess'd,
That in his heart he loved a jest:
A wag he was, he needs must own,
And could not let a dunce alone:
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
And might perhaps be too severe:
But yet the worst that could be said,
He was a wit both born and bred;
And, if it be a sin and shame,
Nature alone must bear the blame:
One fault he has, is sorry for't,
His ears are half a foot too short;
Which could he to the standard bring,
He'd show his face before the king:
Then for his voice, there's none disputes
That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd,
His shape and beauty made him proud:
In diet was perhaps too nice,
But gluttony was ne'er his vice:
In every turn of life content,
And meekly took what fortune sent:
Inquire through all the parish round,
A better neighbor ne'er was found;
His vigilance might some displease;
Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter,
How evil tongues his life bespatter;
Much of the censuring world complain'd.
Who said, his gravity was feign'd:
Indeed, the strictness of his morals
Engaged him in a hundred quarrels:
He saw, and he was grieved to see't,
His zeal was sometimes indiscreet;
He found his virtues too severe
For our corrupted times to bear;
Yet such a lewd licentious age
Might well excite stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace,
And first excused his youthful face;
Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd
('T was Nature's fault) without a beard.
'Tis true, he was not much inclined
To fondness for the female kind:
Not, as his enemies object,
From chance, or natural defect,
Not by his frigid constitution;
But through a pious resolution:
For he had made a holy vow
Of Chastity, as monks do now:
Which he resolved to keep forever hence,
And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find,
How just it suits with human kind.
Some faults we own; but can you guess?
—Why, virtue's carried to excess,
Wherewith our vanity endows us,
Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't)
He never squeezed a needy client;
And this he makes his constant rule,
For which his brethren call him fool;
His conscience always was so nice,
He freely gave the poor advice;
By which he lost, he may affirm,
A hundred fees last Easter term;
While others of the learned robe,
Would break the patience of a Job.
No pleader at the bar could match
His diligence and quick dispatch;
Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,
Above a term or two at most.

The cringing Knave, who seeks a place
Without success, thus tells his case.
Why should he longer mince the matter?
He fail'd, because he could not flatter:
He had not learn'd to turn his coat,
Nor for a party give his vote:
His crime he quickly understood;
Too zealous for the nation's good:
He found the ministers resent it,
Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he can not fawn,
Though it would raise him to the lawn
He pass'd his hours among his books;
You find it in his meager looks:
He might, if he were worldly wise,
Preferment get, and spare his eyes;
But owns he had a stubborn spirit,
That made him trust alone to merit;
Would rise by merit to promotion;
Alas! a mere chimeric notion.
The Doctor, if you will believe him,
Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!)
Call'd up at midnight, ran to save
A blind old beggar from the grave:
But see how Satan spreads his snares;
He quite forgot to say his prayers.
He can not help it, for his heart,
Sometimes to act the parson's part:
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,
That moves his patients to repentance;
And, when his medicines do no good,
Supports their minds with heavenly food:
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended;
And grown so bold behind his back,
To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a seat;
Says grace before and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His household twice a-day to prayers,
He shuns apothecaries' shops,
And hates to cram the sick with slops:
He scorns to make his art a trade;
Nor bribes my lady's favorite maid.
Old nurse-keepers would never hire,
To recommend him to the squire;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practiced to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer,
His fault is to be too sincere;
And having no sinister ends,
Is apt to disoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his master's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the schemes he had in view,
Yet he was seconded by few:
Though some had spread a thousand lies,
'T was he defeated the excise.
'T was known, though he had borne aspersion,
That standing troops were his aversion:
His practice was, in every station,
To serve the king, and please the nation.
Though hard to find in every case
The fittest man to fill a place:
His promises he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the spot;
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said he affected popularity;
'Tis true, the people understood.
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has tried;
No love is lost on either side.
He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out every year;
Must at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone:
O! if his majesty would please
To give him but a writ of ease,
Would grant him license to retire,
As it has long been his desire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound,
He owns, and hopes it is no sin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it base for men in stations,
To crowd the court with their relations:
His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother;
Through modesty or awkward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wisest man he could,
Without respect to friends or blood;
Nor ever acts on private views,
When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And well he might; for, to his cost,
By want of skill he always lost;
He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contrived a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a die,
And thus deceive the sharpest eye:
Nor wonder how his fortune sunk,
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk,

I own the moral not exact,
Besides, the tale is false, in fact;
And so absurd, that could I raise up,
From fields Elysian, fabling Aesop,
I would accuse him to his face,
For libeling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural powers,
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents every day.
The Ass was never known so stupid,
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
There to be stroked, and fed with pap,
As Aesop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles.
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist design'd
A compliment on human kind;
For here he owns, that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES. WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

[Footnote: The following foot-note's, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.]

To make a writer miss his end,
You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find
A simile* for womankind,
*[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile;
but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le.
In English, a likeness.]
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em.
[Footnote: Not to hurt them.]
Through every beast and bird I went,
I ransack'd every element;
And, after peeping through all nature,
To find so whimsical a creature,
A cloud* presented to my view,
*[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.]
And straight this parallel I drew:

Clouds turn with every wind about,
They keep us in suspense and doubt,
Yet, oft perverse, like womankind,
Are seen to scud against the wind:
And are not women just the same?
For who can tell at what they aim?
[Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]

Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.—Diog, Laert,

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,— Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?—Plat, de ira cohibenda.

I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.]

The husband dreads its loudness more
Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.
Clouds weep, as they do, without pain
And what are tears but women's rain?
The clouds about the welkin roam: [Footnote: Ramble.]
And ladies never stay at home.
The clouds build castles in the air,
A thing peculiar to the fair:
For all the schemes of their forecasting, [Footnote: Not vomiting.]
Are not more solid nor more lasting,
A cloud is light by turns, and dark,
Such is a lady with her spark;
Now with a sudden pouting [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,
[Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when
brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or
cheated.]
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they're wondrously alike,
(I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.]
Though in the darkest dumps* you view them,
*[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary,
invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]
Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,
[Footnote: Reflection of the sun.]
And frequently produce infection:
So Celia, with small provocation,
Blasts every neighbor's reputation.
The clouds delight in gaudy show,
(For they, like ladies, have their bow;)
The gravest matron* will confess,
*[Footnote: Motherly woman.]
That she herself is fond of dress.
Observe the clouds in pomp array'd,
What various colors are display'd;
The pink, the rose, the violet's dye,
In that great drawing-room the sky;
How do these differ from our Graces,*
*[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the
duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]
In garden-silks, brocades, and laces?
Are they not such another sight,
When met upon a birth-day night?
The clouds delight to change their fashion:
(Dear ladies be not in a passion!)
Nor let this whim to you seem strange,
Who every hour delight in change.
In them and you alike are seen
The sullen symptoms of the spleen;
The moment that your vapors rise,
We see them dropping from your eyes.
In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's case,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.
[Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I
mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were
not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against
the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.]
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow;
While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail,
*[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a
number of monkey-airs to catch men.]
Our ears on every side assail.
Clouds when they intercept our sight,
Deprive us of celestial light:
So when my Chloe I pursue,
No heaven besides I have in view.
Thus, on comparison,* you see,
*[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to
think these comparisons are odious.]
In every instance they agree;
So like, so very much the same,
That one may go by t'other's name,
Let me proclaim* it then aloud,
*[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and
rapparees.]
That every woman is a cloud.

ON A LAPDOG. JOHN GAY.

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more:
Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care.
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid!
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair
Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast,
No dread events upon this fate attend,
Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Though certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lions show the monarch's fate,
Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise?
Fo when a lapdog falls, no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground!
And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd:
"Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid,
Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd."

THE RAZOR SELLER. PETER PINDAR.

A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose;
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow BE a knave,
Provided that the razors SHAVE;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried—
All were imposters—"Ah," Hodge sighed!
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore,
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of OPPOSITION stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:
So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors! a damned, confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow—found him—and begun:
"P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't SHAVE."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my soul I never thought
That they would SHAVE."
"Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries:
"Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile—"to SELL."

THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS. PETER PINDAR.

A great law Chief, whom God nor demon scares,
Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers,
The devil behind him pleased and grinning,
Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder,
Declaring naught was ever bolder,
Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare,
Which proves what blood game infidels can dare;
Which to my memory brings a fact,
Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given,
For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven,
Particularly in a storm,
Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk,
Their souls are in a miserable funk,
Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform,
If in His goodness only once, once more,
He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs,
They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers
For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying,
"Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met
To hear the parson preach and pray,
All but a boy, who, willing to forget
That prayers were handing out, had stolen away,
And, thinking praying but a useless task,
Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon
The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out,
Gave him a clawing to some tune—
This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried,
"And save your d—-d young sinful soul."
He then the moral-mending cat applied,
And turned him like a badger from his hole

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him,
Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him
"Flog," cried the boy, "flog—curse me, flog away—
I'll go—but mind—G—d d—n me if I'll PRAY."

BIENSEANCE PETER PINDAR.

There is a little moral thing in France,
Called by the natives bienseance,
Much are the English mob inclined to scout it,
But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline,
In many cases;
To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces
When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity—
I deem it a most portable commodity,
A sort of magic wand,
Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity,
Although a utensil of much tenuity,
In place of something solid, it will stand

For verily I've marveled times enow
To see an Englishman, the ninny,
Give people for their services a guinea,
Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance
Much practiced too in that same France
Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity,
But as they pay their court to people's vanity,
Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go
The souls and faces of mankind like dough!
With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail
To folly—see the under-written tale:

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL

At Paris some time since, a murdering man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap,
Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into Justice's strong trap

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel,
On which the dullest fibers learn to feel,
His limbs secundum artem to be broke
Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more;
Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke,
The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant petit maitre skipping by,
Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry—
"Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel?
D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion;
I've naught to say about your situation;
But making such a hideous noise in France,
Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS. PETER PINDAR

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!
So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly,
And gambol in the royal eye;
And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose!
How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!
But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,
How altered instantly the courtier clan!
How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:
In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow
In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances—slumber brings the dream—
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;
Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:
But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,
Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:
Strive not to make your sovereign frown—but smile:
Sublime are royal nods—most precious things!—
Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder,
Becoming thus the royal arm upholder,
A heart of very stone must grow quite glad.
Oh! would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,
The excess of joy would nearly make me mad!
How on the honored garment I should dote,
And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms,
In fancy glittering with a thousand charms;
And show my children's children o'er and o'er;
"Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold
This coat—worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"—pointing to the shoulder—I should say,
"Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"—
Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter;
As—"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?
What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?
Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air,
And deem myself adorned with immortality:
Then should I make the children, calf-like stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.

Poor lost America, high honors missing,
Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing,
Knows naught of golden promises of kings;
Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings;
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs!
But vainly drops the penitential tear—
Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:
For food we bid her hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.

PRAYING FOR RAIN. PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind!
One or the other every moment MUTTERS:
This wants an eastern, that a western, wind:
A third, petition for a southern, utters.
Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow:
How can Heaven suit ALL palates?—I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved,
Indeed by all his flock BELOVED,
Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain.
The parson most devoutly prayed—
The powers of prayer were soon displayed;
Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay,
Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay:
Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring.
It happened too that Robin was from home;
But when he heard the story, in a foam
He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing!
A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing!
What! pray for RAIN before I SAVED my hay!
Oh! you re a cruel and ungrateful man!
I that forever help you all I can;
Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay,
Whenever we have something on the spit,
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken,
Whose bones you are so fond of picking;
And often too a cag of brandy!
YOU that were welcome to a treat,
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat;
Making my house so very handy!

"YOU, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick!
Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick.
What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With MY fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.—
Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!"
"Dear Mister Jay!" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas!
I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose—
Was not the field just underneath your NOSE?
This is a very pretty losing job!"—
"Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb
Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer,"—
"Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only SPORT:
What doth Cobb own that any rain can HURT?"
Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can LARN,
A few old houses only, and a barn;
As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to HIM?
Not Noah's flood could make HIS trumpery SWIM.

"Besides—why could you not for drizzle pray?
Why force it down in BUCKETS on the hay?
Would I have played with YOUR hay such a freak?
No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest,
I acted solely for the best;
I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed.
Your anger for this ONCE restrain,
I'll never bring a drop again
Till you and all the parish are AGREED."

APOLOGY FOR KINGS PETER PINDAR

As want of candor really is not right,
I own my satire too inclined to bite:
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup—
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things
From lofty folk, particularly kings?
Look on their poverty of education!
Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods,
And by their awful frowns and nods,
Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind,
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!
Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!
An instance take:—A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,
Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:
An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide;
Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side;
And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown,
And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,
Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:
Looking the frightened verger through and through,
And with his eye-glass—"Well, sir, who are you?
What, what, sir?—hey, sir?" deigned the king to say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king:
In this cathedral I do every thing;
Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."
"Hey? verger! verger!—you the verger?—hey?"
"Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE,"
The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer,
And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,
"Hey, hey—what, what—fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him—hey, my lord?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.]

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried:
"Sixpence would handsomely requite him."
"Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied:
"No, no, then, we won't knight him—no, won't knight him."
Now to the lofty roof the king did raise
His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise!
For thus his marveling majesty did speak:
"Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete;
High—high and lofty too, and clean, and neat:
What, verger, what? MOP, MOP it once a week?"

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops,
The verger answered, "we have got no mops
In Salisbury that will reach so high."
"Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king—
"No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing;
They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

MORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly show
That ignorance, a king too often lurches;
For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know
The natural history of mops and churches?

[Illustration with caption: BYRON.]

STORY THE SECOND.

From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand,
Returned the mighty ruler of the land—
"My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king.
"A few! beneath your royal notice, sir,"
Replied Lord Pembroke—"Sir, my lord, stir, stir;
Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing,

"Who's this? who's this?—who's this fine fellow here?
"Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer.
"Sir Sostris, hey?—Sir Sostris?—'pon my word!
Knight or a baronet, my lord?

One of my making?—what, my lord, my making?"
This, with a vengeance, was mistaking?

"SE-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied—
"A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old."
"Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried,
"I need not that—I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?"
"'Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer;
"Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey?
Cleaned stables!—cracked a lion like a flea;
Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him—
The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him."

Our moral is not merely water-gruel—
It shows that curiosity's a jewel!
It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell:
It shows that subjects must not give opinions
To people reigning over wide dominions,
As information to great folk is hell:

It shows that decency may live with kings,
On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs;
And shows (for numerous are the naked things)
That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.

ODE TO THE DEVIL. PETER PINDAR.

The devil is not so black as he is painted.

Ingratum Odi.

Prince of the dark abodes! I ween
Your highness ne'er till now hath seen
Yourself in meter shine;
Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere.
Sweet warbled on your smutty ear,
Before this Ode of mine.

Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,
Of potent verse afraid!
And yet I vow, in all my time,
I've not beheld a single rhyme
That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims—
John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns,
That chant of heavenly riches.
What have they done?—those heavenly strains,
Devoutly squeezed from canting brains,
But filled John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoe-black in the land,
So humbly at the world's command,
As thy old cloven foot;
Like lightning dost thou fly, when called,
And yet no pickpocket's so mauled
As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,
To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,
"The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made,
By men through rouguish tricks in trade,
Yet all to thee are owing—
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,
This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure,
No man can shun thee on that score;
The very best is thine:
With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,
And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely grieved at times to find,
The very instant thou art kind,
Some people so uncivil,
When aught offends, with face awry,
With base ingratitude to cry,
"I wish it to the Devil."

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife,
To be the torment of his life,
By one eternal yell—
The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds,
I'd give this moment twenty pounds
To see the jade in hell."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want
To make thee downright mad;
For, mind me, in their wishing mood,
They never offer thee what's good,
But every thing that's bad.

My honest anger boils to view
A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew,
So much thy humble debtors,
Rushing, on Sundays, one and all,
With desperate prayers thy head to maul,
And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week,
On thee their black abuse to wreak,
By whom their souls are fed
Each minute of the other six,
With every joy that heart can fix,
Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art
Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart,
And led my steps to joy—
The charms of beauty have been mine
And let me call the merit thine,
Who broughtst the lovely toy.

So, Satan—if I ask thy aid,
To give my arms the blooming maid,
I will not, though the nation all,
Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp)
A vile old good-for-nothing pimp,
But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."

Since truth must out—I seldom knew
What 'twas high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my heart—
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in every weather,
I never wished to part.

Yet when a child—good Lord! I thought
That thou a pair of horns hadst got,
With eyes like saucers staring!
And then a pair of ears so stout,
A monstrous tail and hairy snout,
With claws beyond comparing.

Taught to avoid the paths of evil,
By day I used to dread the devil,
And trembling when 'twas night,
Methought I saw thy horns and ears,
They sung or whistled to my fears,
And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed,
I sweated with a constant dread,
And crept beneath the rug;
There panting, thought that in my sleep
Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep,
And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine,
To suit both man and maid:
Thy wares they buy, with open eyes;
How cruel then, with constant cries,
To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath—
Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth,
Without thy aid, old sweeper;
So mawkish, few will put it down,
Even from the cottage to the crown,
Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer,
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear,
Black, red, or blue, or yellow;
Whatever hypocrites may say,
They think thee (trust my honest lay)
A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!)
To praise the bridge o'er which we pass
Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,
And damn it when they 're over.

Why art thou, then, with cup in hand,
Obsequious to a graceless band,
Whose souls are scarce worth taking;
O prince, pursue but my advice,
I'll teach your highness in a trice
To set them all a quaking.

Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy:
Lock up each charming fille de joie;
Give race-horses the glander—
The dice-box break, and burn each card—
Let virtue be its own reward,
And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I'll lay my life,
There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,
That will not glad agree,
If thou will chaim'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God for thee.

Tis now full time my ode should end:
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,
They can not do without thee.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE. PETER PINDAR.

In seventeen hundred seventy-eight,
The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite
The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!

For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,
Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work,
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,
To charm the God of mercy with their murther!

I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed,
In tapestry so rich, portrayed,
A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle:
Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;
In vain!—he could not o'er the palfry straddle!

Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained,
And every effort of the King disdained,
Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled,
And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.

Prodigious was the struggle of the day,
The horse attempted not to run away;
At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin,
And swore by every saint and holy martyr
He would not yield the traitor quarter,
Until he got possession of his skin.

Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight,
Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show,
Did with more valor stoutly fight,
And terrify each little squeaking foe;
When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray!
And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts of hay.

Not with more energy and fury
The beauteous street—walker of Drury
Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile,
Ah, me! her paramour beguile,
And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl,
And snails with silver traces deck the wall.

And now a cane, and now a whip he used,
And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised;
Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick,
Arid bore with Christian spirit whip and stick;
And what excessively provoked this prince,
The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.

Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow
To shoot the rebel like a sparrow;
And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force,
Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!

Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar,
With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore,
Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel,
Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell,
Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast;
Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound
He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his godlike ire,
He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!
Showing his pages round, poor trembling things,
How dangerous to resist the will of kings.

THE TENDER HUSBAND. PETER PINDAR

Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath—
Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger-nail,
She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep—
How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite—
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,
I thought he feared to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres;
No longer must those fingers play
"Britons strike home," that many a day
Hath soothed my ravished ears,

Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause-
How wonderful are nature's laws,
When ladies' breath retires,
Its fate the flaming passions share,
Supported by a little air,
Like culinary fires,

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,
And loud instructive lungs;
O Death, in her, though only one,
Are lost a thousand charms unknown,
At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh,
And saw her gently-closing eye,
How great was my surprise!
Yet have I not, with impious breath,
Accused the hard decrees of death,
Nor blamed the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair,
Since she'll be soon an angel fair?
Ah! why my bosom smite?
Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!—
But let me give such ravings o'er—
Whatever is, is right.

O doctor! you are come too late;
No more of physic's virtues prate,
That could not save my lamb:
Not one more bolus shall be given—
You shall not ope her mouth by heaven,
And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of boluses, poor heart,
And pills, she took, to load a cart,
Before she closed her eyes:
But now my word is here a law,
Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw,
She shall not seek the skies.

Good sir, good doctor, go away;
To hear my sighs you must not stay,
For this my poor lost treasure:
I thank you for your pains and skill;
When next you come, pray bring your bill
I'll pay it; sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom.
For God's sake gently tread the room,
Nor call her from the blessed—
In softest silence drop the tear,
In whispers breathe the fervent prayer,
To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream;
I can not bear a grief extreme—
Enough one little sigh—
Besides, the loud alarm of grief,
In many a mind may start belief,
Our noise is all a lie.
Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care;
Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare,
Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
Her mouth a magic tongue that held—
Whose softest tone, at times, compelled
To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake,
Of stoutest oak her coffin make—
I'd not be stingy, sure—
Procure of steel the strongest screws,
For who could paltry pence refuse
To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey,
With caution tread the doleful way,
Nor shake her precious head;
Since Fame reports a coffin tossed,
With careless swing against a post,
Did once, disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost!
Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,
That I again will woo—
By all our past delights, my dear,
No more the marriage chain I'll wear,
Deil take me if I do!

THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY. PETER PINDAR.

A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel,
To parry from his soul the wrath Divine,
That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple,
Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine;
Who every day is gorgeously decked out,
In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small,
Just like a fine young lady for a rout,
A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball.
At first the Soldier at a distance kept,
Begging her vote and interest in heaven—
With seeming bitterness the sinner wept,
Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven:
Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery!
Declared what miracles the dame could do,
Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe,
And such like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner,
Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her,
The mouth of history doth not mention,
And therefore I can't tell but by invention,

One day, as he was making love and praying,
And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying,
And sins so manifold confessing;
He drew, as if to whisper, very near,
And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear,
Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

Then off he set, with nimble shanks,
Nor once turned back to give her thanks:
A hue and cry the thief pursued,
Who, to his cost, soon understood
That he was not beyond the claw
Of that same long-armed giant, christened Law.

With horror did his judges quake—
As for the tender-conscienced jury,
They doomed him quickly to the stake,
Such was their devilish pious fury.

However, after calling him hard names,
They asked if aught he had in vindication,
To save his wretched body from the flames,
And sinful soul from terrible damnation.

The Soldier answered them with much sang froid,
Which showed, of sin, a conscience void,
That if they meant to kill him they might kill:
As for the diamond which they found about him,
He hoped they would by no means doubt him,
That madam gave it him from pure good-will.

The answer turned both judge and jury pale;
The punishment was for a time deferred,
Until his Holiness should hear the tale,
And his infallibility be heard.

The Pope, to all his counselors, made known
This strange affair—to cardinals and friars,
Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known
To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars.
The question now was banded to and fro,
If Mary had the power to GIVE, or NO.

That Mary COULD NOT give it, was to say
The wonder-working lady wanted power—
This was the stumbling-block that stopped the way—
This made Pope, cardinals, and friars lower.

To save the Virgin's credit,
And keep secure the diamonds that were left;
They said, she MIGHT, indeed, the gem bestow,
And consequently it might be no theft:
But then they passed immediately an act,
That every one discovered in the fact
Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand,
Or from the saints of any land,
Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter,
Flayed here, and fried eternally hereafter.

Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear
To need poetical assistance;
Which bids you not let men approach too near,
But keep the saucy fellows at a distance;
Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize
Jewels from ladies, even upon their knees!

A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY PETER PINDAR

A king of France upon a day,
With a fair lady of his court,
Was pleased at battledore to play
A very fashionable sport,

Into the bosom of this fair court dame,
Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame,
King Louis by odd mischance did knock
The shuttlecock,
Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves,
To nestle with the pretty little loves!
"Now, sire, pray take it out"—quoth she,
With an arch smile,—But what did he?
What? what to charming modesty belongs!
Obedient to her soft command,
He raised it—but not with his hand!
No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs,

What a chaste thought in this good king!
How clever!
When shall we hear agen of such a thing?
Lord! never,
Nor were our princes to be prayed
To such an act by some fair maid,
I'll bet my life not one would mind it:
But handy, without more ado,
The youths would search the bosom through,
Although it took a day to find it!

THE EGGS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

Beyond the sunny Philippines
An island lies, whose name I do not know;
But that's of little consequence, if so
You understand that there they had no hens;
Till, by a happy chance, a traveler,
After a while, carried some poultry there.
Fast they increased as any one could wish;
Until fresh eggs became the common dish.
But all the natives ate them boiled—they say—
Because the stranger taught no other way.
At last the experiment by one was tried—
Sagacious man!—of having his eggs fried.
And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains,
His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!
Another, now, to have them baked devised—
Most happy thought I—and still another, spiced.
Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!
Next, some one gave his friends an omelette.
"Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!"
But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts,
"I have it now—ye're all a pack of louts!—
With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed."
And the whole island thought the mode so good,
That they would so have cooked them to this day,
But that a stranger, wandering out that way,
Another dish the gaping natives taught,
And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse,
But how shall I be able to rehearse
All of the new, delicious condiments
That luxury, from time to time, invents?
Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet,
And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat:
In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle
Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle,
All had their day—the last was still the best
But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed
The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will,
These countless prodigies of gastric skill—
But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!"

Beyond the sunny Philippines
Our crowd of modern authors need not go
New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

"On good and bad an equal value sets
The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets,
And never fails to praise," With vile pretense,
The scurrilous author thus his trash excused.
A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense,
Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.

A Donkey's master said unto his beast,
While doling out to him his lock of straw,
"Here, take it—since such diet suits your taste,
And much good may it do your vulgar maw!"
Often the slighting speech the man repeated.
The Ass—his quiet mood by insult heated—

Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take,
Master unjust! but not because I choose it.
Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make
The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it."
Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed
How your defaults by false excuse you cover!
Fed upon straw—straw it may eat, indeed;
Try it with generous fare—'t will scorn the other.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED. WILLIAM COWPER.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mohammed's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part expressed,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarred;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These chose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mohammedans eat up the hog.
You laugh—'tis well—The tale applied
May make you laugh on t' other side.
Renounce the world—the preacher cries.
We do—a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;
Some love a concert, or a race;
And others shooting, and the chase.
Reviled and loved, renounced and followed,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed;
Each thinks his neighbor makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he;
With, sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. WILLIAM COWPER.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning;
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,
That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court—
Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one IF or BUT—
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight—Eyes should be shut!

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [Footnote: Kennedy gives the following account of the origin of "Holy Willie's Prayer;"—Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Clerk of Ayr, the Poet's friend and benefactor was accosted one Sunday morning by a mendicant, who begged alms of him. Not recollecting that it was the Sabbath, Hamilton set the man to work in his garden, which lay on lay on the public road, and the poor fellow was discovered by the people on their way to the kirk, and they immediately stoned him from the ground. For this offense, Mr. Hamilton was not permitted to have a child christened, which his wife bore him soon afterward, until he applied to the synod. His most officious opponent was William Fisher, one of the elders of the church: and to revenge the insult to his friend, Burns made him the subject of this humorous ballad.] ROBERT BURNS.

O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,
And no for ony giud or ill
They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might,
When thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here, afore thy sight.
For gifts an' grace,
A burnin' an' a shinin' light
To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation!
I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,
Whare damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample;
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, an example
To a' thy flock.

[O L—d, then kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singing there, and dancing here,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by thy fear,
Free frae them a'.]

But yet, O L—d! confess I must,
At times I 'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But thou remembers we are dust,
Defll'd in sin.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
'Cause he's sae gifted
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.
L—d, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But G-d confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

L—d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,
Wi' great and sma',
Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
O' laughin' at us;—
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.

L—d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, L—d, mak' it bare
Upo' their heads,
L—d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

O L—d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin'
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
And swat wi' dread,
While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin',
And hid his head.

L—d in the day of vengeance try him,
L—d, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r;
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, L—d, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
An' a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun—
Observe wha's standing wi him!

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance ye've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane!
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"—
MILTON.

O Thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,
Closed under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far:
An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'
Tirl in the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summon
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin',
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin',
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,
Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick—quack—
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain:
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill
An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip—wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thows dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction;
An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd
To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour.
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward,
In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.,
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)
An' gied the infant warld a shog,
Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
Au' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs an' botches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But ai your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'
To your black pit;
But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin',
An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Ev'n for your sake!!

THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

From his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug little farm of the World,
And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And he went over the plain;
And backward and forward he swish'd his tail
As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest?
Oh, he was in his Sunday's best
His coat was red and hia breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.

A lady drove by in her pride,
In whose face an expression he spied
For which he could have kiss'd her,
Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she,
With an eye as wicked as wicked can be,
I should take her for my Aunt, thought he,
If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree,
No matter what was his name;
Whose face with his own when he came to compare
The expression, the look, and the air,
And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair—
Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair
That it made the Devil start and stare.
For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there,
But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper,
On a dung-hill beside his stable;
Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind
Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse
Rode by on his vocation;
And the Devil thought of his old friend
Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility,
And he own'd with a grin
That his favorite sin,
Is pride that apes humility

He saw a pig rapidly
Down a river float;
The pig swam well, but every stroke
Was cutting his own throat;

And Satan gave thereat his tail
A twirl of admiration;
For he thought of his daughter War,
And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth.
And nothing the worse for the jest;
But this was only a first thought
And in this he did not rest:
Another came presently into his head,
And here it proved, as has often been said
That second thoughts are best

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide,
His way with such celerity,
And at every stroke the water dyed
With his own red blood, the Devil cried,
Behold a swinish nation's pride
In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely,
The streets were dirty and dim:
But there he saw Brothers the Prophet,
And Brothers the Prophet saw him,

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop;
Quoth he, we are both of one college,
For I myself sate like a Cormorant once
Upon the Tree of Knowledge.
As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd
At a solitary cell;
And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands
With a cordial tug and jerk;
Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move
When his heart is in his work.

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man
With little expedition;
And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade,
And the long debates and delays that were made,
Concerning its abolition.
He met one of his favorite daughters
By an Evangelical Meeting:
And forgetting himself for joy at her sight,
He would have accosted her outright,
And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried,
Avaunt! my name's Religion!
And then she turn'd to the preacher
And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he,
As the great Alexander now may be,
Whose fame not yet o'erpast is:
Or that new Scotch performer
Who is fiercer and warmer,
The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's.
Far famed his flock for frightning;
And thundering with his voice, the while
His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow,
Beats Alexander hollow;
Even when most tame
He breathes more flame
Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow

Another daughter he presently met;
With music of fife and drum,
And a consecrated flag,
And shout of tag and rag,
And march of rank and file,
Which had fill'd the crowded aisle
Of the venerable pile,
From church he saw her come.

He call'd her aside, and began to chide,
For what dost thou here? said he,
My city of Rome is thy proper home,
And there's work enough there for thee

Thou hast confessions to listen,
And bells to christen,
And altars and dolls to dress;
And fools to coax,
And sinners to hoax,
And beads and bones to bless;
And great pardons to sell For those who pay well,
And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post,
She answered; and thou wilt allow,
That the great Harlot,
Who is clothed in scarlet,
Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here,
That we may extend our powers:
Whatever lets down this church that we hate,
Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat!
That I spend my time in fooling;
Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire,
And I must leave none of them cooling;
For you must know state-councils here,
Are held which I bear rule in.
When my liberal notions,
Produce mischievous motions,
There's many a man of good intent,
In either house of Parliament,
Whom I shall find a tool in;
And I have hopeful pupils too
Who all this while are schooling,

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions,
My Utilitarians,

My all sorts of—inians
And all sorts of—arians;
My all sorts of—ists,
And my Prigs and my Whigs
Who have all sorts of twists
Train'd in the very way, I know,
Father, you would have them go;
High and low,
Wise and foolish, great and small,
March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day
When the caldron of mischief boils,
And I bring them forth in battle array
And bid them suspend their broils,
That they may unite and fall on the prey,
For which we are spreading our toils.
How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call,
Hark away! hark away to the spoils!
My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks,
My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells,
My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney,
My Humes and my Broughams,
My merry old Jerry,
My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great
The Devil's pleasure grew,
That with a joyful swish he rent
The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment
When he felt the stitches go;
Ah! thought he, there's a job now
That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman;
The Devil said, Stop, let me see!
Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil,
The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news
At all for his money he had.
Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!
But it's some satisfaction, my lad
To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick,
For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head
By oracular inspiration,
That what he had seen and what he had said
In the course of this visitation,
Would be published in the Morning Post
For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw
The place and the manner and time,
In which this mortal story
Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets
Should on a time be met,
In the town of Nether Stowey,
In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving
Would he the song begin;
And the other when he heard it at breakfast,
In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other,
Two heads being better than one;
And the phrase and conceit
Would in unison meet,
And so with glee the verse flow free,
In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme,
Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor,
Not to the lute or harp,
Therefore it was that the fancy
Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself
As for that said beginner,
Against my infernal Majesty,
There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads
With libelous pictures for sale;
He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns,
And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find
I am not a safe subject for whim;
For I'll set up a School of my own,
And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,
And there he had soy in his dish;
Having ordered some soles for his dinner,
Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he,
And now guess the reason who can,
Why no bait should be better than place,
When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things,
He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself in this line,
And his business, between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap,
Which he will not attempt to deny,
When I see him at my fish-market,
I warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand
Between three in the morning and four
He observed a queer-looking person
Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over
In vain for a man you might seek,
Who could drink more like a Trojan
Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied
It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,
And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
The erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;
A pretty mistake I opine!
I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth,
He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson
These best of all verses belong,
He is an untruth-telling whore-son,
And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,
Any one else should put in a claim,
In this comical competition;
That excellent poem will prove
A man-trap for such foolish ambition,
Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg,
And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road,

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;
So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house,
And that will do as well;
But just before he could get to the door
A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,
He came upon General ——'s burning face;
And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way did he take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake
'Twas the general conflagration.

CHURCH AND STATE. THOMAS MOORE.

When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become—
If't is not civil to say OLD—
At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"—quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoy'd a masquerading joke—
"I say, suppose, my good old father,
You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented—little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted, too,
By a laced coat he got in stead,

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows—shiver'd lamps to smash,
And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke
Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,"
Except that 't was Religion's cloak
The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the laced coat, grew frisky too—
Look'd big—his former habits spurn'd—
And storm'd about as great men do—

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses—
Said "Damn you," often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With, this proviso—Should they be
Restored in due time to their senses,
They both must give security
In future, against such offenses—

Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke—
But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too.

LYING. THOMAS MOORE.

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes!
Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours;
But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!

THE MILLENNIUM. SUGGESTBD BY THE LATE WORK OF THE KEVEKEND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." THOMAS MOORE.

Millennium at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it—
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us, all starving or near it,
A good rich millennium will come A PROPOS.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags—

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound—
A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian,
Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision
Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at eaoh;—

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we
May, even in our times a jubilee share,
Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee,
And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been
All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;—

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

There was also—but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng,

Go on, mighty man—doom them all to the shelf—
And, when next thou with prophecy tronblest thy sconce,
Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL THOMAS MOORE

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old—
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut—as near as can be reckoned—
Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND,
Chronologers and verses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary
We only know the important truth—
His Majesty HAD cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted,
As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby
As he was there by Eight Divine
(What lawyers call Jure Divino
Meaning a right to yours and mine,
And everybody's goods and rhino)—
Of course his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succors—
Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye gods, what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles?
But no—if Thibet NAD M.P.s,
They were far better bred than these,
Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm; for, just when he
Had reach'd the alarming age of three,
When royal natures—and, no doubt
Those of ALL noble beasts—break out,
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh—
Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,
And trod on the old General's toes—
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the city maces,
And shot, from little devilish guns,
Hard peas into his subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he play'd,
And grew so mischievous (God bless him!)
That his chief Nurse—though with the aid
Of an Archbishop—was afraid,
When in these moods, to comb or dress him;
And even the persons most inclined
For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle,
Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind
Which they did NOT) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords—a breed
Of animals they have in Thibet,
Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,
For folks like Pidcock to exhibit—
Some patriot lords, seeing the length
To which things went, combined their strength,
And penn'd a manly, plain and free
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
In which, protesting that they yielded,
To none, that ever went before 'em—
In loyalty to him who wielded
The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em—That, as for treason, 't was a
thing
That made them almost sick to think of—
That they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!—
But still—though much admiring kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings)—
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes;
But that, of late, such pranks and tricks,
And freaks occurr'd the whole day long,
As all, but men with bishoprics,
Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong—
Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd
That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desired to see;—
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping—
They ventured humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read—no Congreve rocket
Discharged into the Gallic trenches,
E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it
Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches.
The Bishops, who, of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss—
"What, whip a Lama!—suffer birch
To touch his sacred—-infamous!
Deistical!—assailing thus
The fundamentals of the Church!
No—no—such patriot plans as these
(So help them Heaven—and their sees!)
They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread through the land, till, such a pother
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met—
The little Lama call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal MartyrDom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
'Tis said her little Lamas since
Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.

ETERNAL LONDON. THOMAS MOORE.

And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As—"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear—
The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast—(what! higher still?)—
And—(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)—
Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"

Go where we may—rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still,
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch—
And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH—
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And if this rage for traveling lasts,
If Cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
WILL leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands—
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees—-
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids—
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home"
Among the BLACKS of Carolina—
Or, flying to the eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China.

OF FACTOTUM NED. THOMAS MOORE.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last:
Long as he breath'd the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd
In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT—
Whatever statesmen did or said—
If not exactly brought about,
Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Czar—
(Vide his pamphlet—price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo—
As all, but Frenchmen, think she was—
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news—no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it—
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names one's ear to buzz in—
From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd—who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright SEEN the King,
He sent such hints through Viscount THIS,
To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,
The drama, books, MS. and printed—
Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there, infused some soul in 't—
Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had—odd enough—a dangerous hole in't.

'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In THAT Ned—trust him—had his finger.

LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY—IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad naughty girl—
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!—there's no language expresses,
Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd—I forget—a la—something which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.—
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise,
With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera—mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one
"This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS,
For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!"
Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out),
'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about;
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it!
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it!
No—never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear;
So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing—ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca—
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty—such grace—oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if SHE has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora—dear creature!—you'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven?
Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,
So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then—YOU'VE a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in),
They call it the Play-house—I think—of Saint Martin:
Quite charming—and VERY religious—what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly
And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;—
Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path,
As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath
In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC!

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we're at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where—I doubt
If I well can describe—there are cars that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down, Doll—you hardly know where.
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO.
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether
You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a match;
In an instant you're seated, and down both together
Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch;
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,
That there came up—imagine, dear Doll, if you can—
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man,
With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft),
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft
As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or
A something between Abelard and old Bincher!
Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,
"Ah! my dear—if Ma'maelle vil be so very good—
Just for von little course"—though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set—and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,
For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together—
Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.
And oh! as I gazed on the features and air
Of the man, who for me all this peril defied,
I could fancy almost he and I were a pair
Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side,
Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a
Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about,
Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker
And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out
With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre.
Now, hear me—this stranger—it may be mere folly—
But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who's here now incog.—he, who made such a fuss, you
Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!
Pa says he's come here to look after his money
(Not taking things now as he used under Boney),
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief
Should—unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push—
Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief
By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu—only think, Dolly, think
If this SHOULD be the King—I have scarce slept a wink
With imagining how it will sound in the papers,
And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,
When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors,
Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he—
For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see,
In the way he went poising, and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

SECOND LETTER.

Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature!
But DON'T you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in 't—
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't.
At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own,
If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE—
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,
Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere,
While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing,
"I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King;
As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie,
Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch,
That a Brandenburg—(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)—
Would be, after all, no such very great catch,
If the R—G—T, indeed—" added he, looking sly—
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopp'd him—"La, Pa, how CAN you say so,
When the R—G—T loves none but old women, you know!"
Which is fact, my dear Dolly—we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen;
And would like us much better as old—ay, as old
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told
That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,
Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear—
You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

Let me see—'t was on Saturday—yes, Dolly, yes—
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage,
"Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly;
And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through,
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois—
And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!
The gardens seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we view'd—stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—
"LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think,
Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"

But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing LIKE a man was—no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past,
To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,
But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given,
For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"
Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody,
Something about the "green spot of delight,"
(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day)
Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;
Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine)
Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty;
Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief,
I have always found eating a wondrous relief;
And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE—
"My sighs," said he "ceased with the first glass I drank you,
The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light,
And now that's all o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"

To MY great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery—Bobby, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;
And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,
The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it—
What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst
If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!"
'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,
And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis,
When sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—
That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's!
We enter'd—and scarcely had Bob, with an air,
For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters,
When, oh! Dolly, I saw him—my hero was there
(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh Dolly, these heroes—what creatures they are!
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter;
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car
As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water!
He joined us—imagine, dear creature my ecstasy—
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE,
And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd)
Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."—
How pretty!—though oft (as, of course, it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did:
And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather,
We all would set off in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau.
His card then he gave us—the NAME, rather creased—
But 't was Calicot—something—a colonel, at least!
After which—sure there never was hero so civil—he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threw
A soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"how do you do?"

But, Lord—there's Papa for the post—-I'm so vex'd—
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.
That dear Sunday night!—I was charmingly dress'd,
And—SO providential—was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,
You've no notion how rich—(though Pa has by the bills)—
And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flowers in my bonnet—but, la, it's in vain—
So, good by, my sweet Doll—I shall soon write again,

R.F.

Nota bene—our love to all neighbors about—
Your papa in particular—how is his gout?

P. S.—I 've just open'd my letter to say,
In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, pray
For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz)
What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is.

THIRD LETTER.

At last, DOLLY—thanks to a potent emetic
Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss
Of an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses—
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'S
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But love, DOLLY, love is the theme I pursue;
With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies
Any imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at HIS do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine EXPRESS—
Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and there
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet!
And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs,
As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse,
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but ONE drawback—-at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB:
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so,
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S—
Served with him, of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies;
So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass
Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass,
It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example—misled by the names. I dare say—
He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH,
And—such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know
All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!—
"'T was there," said he—not that his WORDS I can state—
'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;—
But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,
Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure,
Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?-
Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!"
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!
Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions,
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said—
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)—
"'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY,
(Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day),
That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd,
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd ne, with eagerness—who made my gown?
The question confused me—for, DOLL, you must know,
And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI,
But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who—deuce take her—
It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker—
I mean OF HIS PARTY—and, though much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.

Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammer'd out something—nay, even half named
The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
"Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen
It was made by that B*rb*n**t b—h, VIOTORINE!"
What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were,
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us—
The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"—
Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain,
They can only be felt in their fullness divine
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre—"for THERE is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!
Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true,
O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue
For the FLESH of the VERYS—I'll visit their BONES!"
He insists upon MY going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie
Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—Good-by.
B. F.

Four o'clock.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never;
To think of the wretch!—what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die!
My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!
Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!
'Tis true as I live—I had coax'd brother BOB so
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so),
For some little gift on my birth-day—September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach
(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove),
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love—
(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—
And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop,
But—ye gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—
There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt—
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh—Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear—
'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And when THAT too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worship'd—vile treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam round—the wretch smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive—
I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seem'd to wither,
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!

I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said—"Curse the Kiddy,
A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!"
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE!
What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!
What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!
It will spread through the country—and never, oh never
Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—
And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge
To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend,
BIDDY FUDGE

Nota Bene,—I'm sure you will hear with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night
A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

[Illustration: POPE.]

THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A lettered gossip and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.
Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies,
A checkered wreck of notable and wise,
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinished here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.
There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare.
A scene she now projects, and now a dish;
Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

NETLEY ABBEY.
[Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.]
R. HARRIS RARHAM

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow,
And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen
With its mantle of green
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovehly bright
In that glorious light,
And I felt 't was holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time—
The days of thy monks of old,—
When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pass'd
Across my mental eye;
And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white vails, went by;
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,—
—But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell,
And "dear linen souls,"
In clean linen stoles,
Swinging their censers, and making a smell.—
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear
With front severe
And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chants the responses too late or too soon,
Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.
(Then you know
They'd a "movable Do,"
Not a fix'd one as now—and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)
It was, in sooth, a comely sight,
And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"
My spirit—a change of fear—
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall—
For an oven too big,—for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks
All ready to fix,
And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!—
That horrible hole!—it seems to say,
'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"
And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad—
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!—'tis sad to think
That maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink,
Or be closed for aye
In this kind of way,
Shut out forever from wholesome day,
Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light,—no air,—no victuals,—no drink!—
And that maiden's lip,
Which was made to sip,
Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
—That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!—
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,
"Well, I can't understand
How any man's hand
COULD wall up that hole in a Christian land!
Why, a Mussulman Turk
Would recoil from the work,
And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back
And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'
Oh! a saint 't would vex
To think that the sex
Should be no better treated than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls
Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,—
If e'er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit, for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!—the tempest lowers,—
It bursts on thy devoted towers;
Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
Rides on the blast, and guides the storm
I hear the sacrilegious cry,
"Down—with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come—a fearful fall—
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown—
Moldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown
Bombazeen gown,
Miter, and crosier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that gray and moldering wall.
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!—
They "come like shadows, so depart"—
I see thee as thou wert—and art—

Sublime in ruin!—grand in woe!
Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!
No sound—good gracious!—what was that?
Was it the moan,
The parting groan
Of her who died forlorn and alone,
Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?—
Full and clear
On my listening ear
It comes—again—near and more near—
Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer
—I rush to the door—
I tread the floor,
By abbots and abbesses trodden before,
In the good old chivalric days of yore,
And what see I there?—
In a rush-bottom'd chair
A hag surrounded by crockery-ware,
Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng
A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,—
And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"
Are screeching away, for the life!—for the life!
Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."

Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,
Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!—
Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns,
Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"
Two or three damsels, frank and free,
Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.
Parties below, and parties above,
Some making tea, and some making love.
Then the "toot—toot—toot"
Of that vile demi-flute,—
The detestable din
Of that cracked violin,
And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!
"—Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!"
And I said to the person who drove my "shay"
(A very intelligent man, by the way),
"This, all things considered, is rather too gay!
It don't suit my humor,—so take me away!
Dancing! and drinking!—cigar and song!
If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'
And I really consider it all very wrong.—
—Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"—
He paus'd, and said,
Scratching his head,
"Why I really DO think he's a little to blame,
But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!"

"Well—well!" quoth I,
As I heaved a sigh,
And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,
"My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find it out,
Should he come in your way,
Or ride in your 'shay'
(As perhaps he may),
Be so good as to say
That a Visitor whom you drove over one day,
Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,
And thus of their owner to speak began,
As he ordered you home in haste,
No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,
But—'I CAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'"

FAMILY POETRY. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day,
Though line before I never wrote!
"On what occasion?" do you say?
Our Dick has got a long-tail'd coat!!

Not a coatee, which soldiers wear
Button'd up high about the throat,
But easy, flowing, debonair,
In short a CIVIL long-tail'd coat.

A smarter you'll not find in town,
Cut by Nugee, that snip of note;
A very quiet olive brown
's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,
The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,
Yet Esterhazy, on the whole
Looks best when in a long-tail'd coat

Lord Byron most admired, we know,
The Albanian dress, or Suliote,
But then he died some years ago,
And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat;

Or past all doubt the poet's theme
Had never been the "White Capote,"
Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream,
The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat!

We also know on Highland kilt
Poor dear Glengarry used to dote,
And had esteem'd it actual guilt
I' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat!

No wonder 'twould his eyes annoy,
Monkbarns himself would never quote
"Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray,"
Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat.

Jackets may do to ride or race,
Or row in, when one's in a boat,
But in the boudoir, sure, for grace
There's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd cost,

Of course in climbing up a tree,
On terra-firma, or afloat,
To mount the giddy topmast, he
Would doff awhile his long-tail'd coat.

What makes you simper, then, and sneer?
From out your own eye pull the mote!
A PRETTY thing for you to jeer—
Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat?

Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean.
Why, though too young to give a note,
Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen
's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin
Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat
O' German Mahon, ere begin
To figure in a long-tail'd coat?

Suppose he goes to France—can he
Sit down at any table d' hote,
With any sort of decency,
Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,
There soon may be a sans culotte,
And Nugent's self may then admit
The advantage of a long-tail'd coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore,
In tower encircled by a moat,
The lion-hearted chieftain wore
A corselet for a long-tail'd coat;

Then ample mail his form embraced,
Not like a weasel or a stoat,
"Cribb'd and confined" about the waist,
And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat

With beamy spear or biting ax,
To right and left he thrust and smote—
Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
Fall from a modern long-tail'd coati

More changes still! now, well-a-day!
A few cant phrases learned by rote,
Each beardless booby spouts away,
A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!

Prates of the "March of Intellect"—
"The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTE
So noble, who could e'er suspect
Had just put on a long-tail'd coat?

Alack! alack! that every thick-
Skull'd lad must find an antidote
For England's woes, because, like Dick,
He has put on a long-tail'd coat!

But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail,
Nor can I longer time devote;
Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE,
The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

THE SUNDAY QUESTION. THOMAS HOOD.

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

What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate!
Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket!
And hang a wooden notice up to state,
On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!
The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race,
Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens—so unlike the ones we dub
Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses—
Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub—
Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?
No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head—
No rum—nor gin—not even of a Monday—
The Lion is not carved—or gilt—or red,
And does not send out porter of a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks!
As if his spots would give contagious fevers!
The Beaver close as hat within its box;
So different from other Sunday beavers!
The Birds invisible—the Gnaw-way Rats—
The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday—
The Monkey tribe—the Family of Cats—
We visit other families on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy

What is the brute profanity that shocks
The super-sensitively serious feeling?
The Kangaroo—is he not orthodox
To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?
Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,
Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi?
Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note
The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set?
What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret?
One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday—
But then the beasts are pious on these points,
For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?
Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race?
The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?
Do Irish minds—(whose theory allows
That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)—
Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows
Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few,
Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,
And think when they are dismal they are pious:
Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun
Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?—
Or perhaps some animal, no serious one,
Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offense have serious Fellows found
To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?
Were charitable boxes handed round,
And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?
Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt
The feathers in her head—at least till Monday;
Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt
A tract presented to be read on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?
Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing?
Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well
As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious—
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk
About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,
If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion,
I cannot think it is a mortal sin—
(Unless he's loose)—to look upon a lion.
I really think that one may go, perchance,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday—
(That is, provided that he did not dance)—
Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
I can not think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor—
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?
The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven?
The tender Love-Bird—or the filial Stork?
The punctual Crane—the providential Raven?
The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
That feathered marvel with a human tongue,
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd—
That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,
The horned Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard—
The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand
Are surely sights for better days than Monday—
The Elephant, although he wears no band,
Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature,
Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,
And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?"
Better it were if, in his best of suits,
The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,
Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes,
Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)
But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus
Had somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology?
Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo god at home—
A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?—
Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough
To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE
[Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's
verses as "profaneness and ribaldry.">[
THOMAS HOOD.

"Close, close your eyes with holy dread,
And weave a circle round him thrice;
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise!"—Coleridge.

"It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be."—Old Ballad.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land,
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
Where rolls between us the eternal sea,
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand—
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall;
Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call;
Across the wavy waste between us stretched,
A friendly missive warns me of a stricture,
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched,
And though I have not seen the shadow sketched,
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:—in a line to paint
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint,
Not one of those self-constituted saints,
Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls,
Censors who sniff out moral taints,
And call the devil over his own coals—
Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God,
Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed:
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,
Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed,
But endless flames, to scorch them like flax—
Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed
The impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace
Exists, I know, in my fictitious face;
There wants a certain cast about the eye;
A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
A certain curling of the nether lip,
In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;
In brief, it is an aspect deleterious,
A face decidedly not serious,
A face profane, that would not do at all
To make a face at Exeter Hall—
That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray,
And laud each other face to face,
Till every farthing-candle RAY
Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace!

Well!—be the graceless lineaments confest
I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth;
And dote upon a jest
"Within the limits of becoming mirth;"—
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious—
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull,
I pray for grace—repent each sinful act—
Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible;
And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact,
To call and twit him with a godly tract
That's turned by application to a libel.
My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven,
All creeds I view with toleration thorough,
And have a horror of regarding heaven
As any body's rotten borough.

What else? No part I take in party fray,
With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars,
I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest play
At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs!
I own I laugh at over-righteous men,
I own I shake my sides at ranters,
And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters,
I even own, that there are times—but then
It's when I 've got my wine—I say d—— canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy
On fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry—
'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses
Who thrust them into matters none of theirs
And, though no delicacy discomposes
Your saint, yet I consider faith and prayers
Among the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books,
And thus upon the public mind intrude it,
As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks,
No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk;
Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk—
For man may pious texts repeat,
And yet religion have no inward seat;
'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,
A man has got his belly full of meat
Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage—it is not worth a carrot!
Why, Socrates or Plato—where 's the odds?—
Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is
Not a whit better than a Mantis—
An insect, of what clime I can't determine,
That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence,
By simple savages—through sheer pretense—
Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin.
But where's the reverence, or where the nous,
To ride on one's religion through the lobby,
Whether as stalking-horse or hobby,
To show its pious paces to "the house."

I honestly confess that I would hinder
The Scottish member's legislative rigs,
That spiritual Pindar,
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs,
That must be lashed by law, wherever found,
And driven to church as to the parish pound.

I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,
I view that groveling idea as one
Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son,
A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle.
On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd
How much a man can differ from his neighbor,
One wishes worship freely given to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labor—
The broad distinction in a line to draw,
As means to lead us to the skies above,
You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I—the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul,
Like the magnetic needle to the Pole;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,
Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge,
Fresh from St. Andrew's college,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
I do confess that I abhor and shrink
Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly—
My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord
The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord
Of this world's aristocracy,
It will not own a nation so unholy,
As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly
Must work their passage as they do in ships.

One place there is—beneath the burial-sod,
Where all mankind are equalized by death;
Another place there is—the Fane of God,
Where all are equal who draw living breath;—
Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to every pinch of human dust
One even measure of immortal hope—
He who can stand within that holy door,
With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,—
Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae,
In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage,
Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say
I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage;
A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,—
A scoffer, always on the grin,
And sadly given to the mortal sin
Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search,
I have not herded with mere pagan beasts:
But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts,"
And I have been "where bells have knolled to church."
Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells
When on the undulating air they swim!
Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells!
And trembling all about the breezy dells,
As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim.
Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn;
And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above
Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,
With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:—
O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters!
If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion,
Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry Church! Church! at every word,
With no more piety than other people—
A daw's not reckoned a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple;
The Temple is a good, a holy place,
But quacking only gives it an ill savor;
While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace,
And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon,
Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger,
Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon,
A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger,
Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak,
Against the wicked remnant of the week,
A saving bet against, his sinful bias—
"Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself,
"I lie—I cheat—do any thing for pelf,
But who on earth can say I am not pious!"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts,
Accept an anecdote well based on facts;
On Sunday morning—(at the day don't fret)—
In riding with a friend to Ponder's End
Outside the stage, we happened to commend
A certain mansion that we saw To Let.
"Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple,
"You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it!
'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel,
And master wanted once to buy it,—
But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,—
He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious!
But being so particular religious,
Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!"
Church is "a little heaven below,
I have been there and still would go,"
Yet I am none of those who think it odd
A man can pray unbidden from the cassock,
And, passing by the customary hassock
Kneel down remote upon the simple sod,
And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,—intolerant to none,
Whatever shape the pious rite may bear,
Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun
I would not harshly scorn, lest even there
I spurned some elements of Christian prayer—
An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"—
Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility,
A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed
That very thing so many Christians want—
Humilty.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks,
Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!)
Such, may it please you, is my humble faith;
I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land,
As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother,
The Bible in one hand,
And my own common-place-book in the other—
But you have been to Palestine—alas
Some minds improve by travel—others, rather,
Resemble copper wire or brass,
Which gets the narrower by going further!

Worthless are all such pilgrimages—very!
If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive
The humans heats and rancor to revive
That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury.
A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on,
To see a Christian creature graze at Sion,
Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full,
Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke,
At crippled Papistry to butt and poke,
Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull
Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home,
Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old,
Far distant Catholics to rate and scold
For—doing as the Romans do at Rome?
With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit
The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers,
About the graceless images to flit,
And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers,
Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?—
People who hold such absolute opinions
Should stay at home in Protestant dominions,
Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb,
Yet weak at the same time,
Faith is a kind of parasitic plant,
That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings;
And as the climate and the soil may grant,
So is the sort of tree to which it clings.
Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo,
You aim your club at any creed on earth,
That, by the simple accident of birth,
YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.

For me—through heathen ignorance perchance,
Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feel
None of that griffinish excess of zeal,
Some travelers would blaze with here in France.
Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array,
Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker
Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play,
If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan
To cure the dark and erring mind;
But who would rush at a benighted man,
And give him, two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop
Around a cankered stem should twine,
What Kentish boor would tear away the prop
So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed,
With gauds and toys extremely out of season;
The carving nothing of the very best,
The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason,
Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason—
Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect
One truly CATHOLIC, one common form,
At which unchecked
All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot—
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trailed around its base
The blue significant Forget-Me-Not?
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitched upon the verge
Of a delicious slope,
Giving the eye much variegated scope!—
"Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair,
But"—(how the simple legend pierced me through!)
"PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells,
Religion lives and feels herself at home;
But only on a formal visit dwells
Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.

Shun pride, O Rae!—whatever sort beside
You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!
A pride there is of rank—a pride of birth,
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,
A London pride—in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse;
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard.
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail!
As for the humble breed retained by man,
He scorns the whole domestic clan—
He bows, he bridles,
He wheels, he sidles,
As last, with stately dodgings in a corner,
He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her
Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

"Look here," he cries (to give him words),
"Thou feathered clay—thou scum of birds!"
Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes—
"Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,
Doomed to be roasted for a dinner,
Behold these lovely variegated dyes!
These are the rainbow colors of the skies,
That heaven has shed upon me con amore—
A Bird of Paradise?—a pretty story!
I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!
Look at my crown of glory!
Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!"
And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick,
With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints
How sinners are despised by saints.
By saints!—the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches—
But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor,
In parish stocks, instead of breeches.

The Saints?—the Bigots that in public spout,
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,
And go like walking "Lucifers" about—
Mere living bundles of combustion.

The Saints!—the aping Fanatics that talk
All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown—
That bid you balk
A Sunday walk,
And shun God's work as you should shun your own.

The Saints!—the Formalists, the extra pious,
Who think the mortal husk can save the soul,
By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias,
To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!

The Saints!—the Pharisees, whose beadle stands
Beside a stern coercive kirk,
A piece of human mason-work,
Calling all sermons contrabands,
In that great Temple that's not made with hands!

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom
The gracious prodigality of nature,
The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,
The bounteous providence in every feature,
Recall the good Creator to his creature,
Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome!
To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells;
The jubilate of the soaring lark
Is chant of clerk;
For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet;
The sod's a cushion for his pious want;
And, consecrated by the heaven within it,
The sky-blue pool, a font.
Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the fall heart's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians
Poor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust,
Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked: but must
Religion have its own Utilitarians,
Labeled with evangelical phylacteries,
To make the road to heaven a railway trust,
And churches—that's the naked fact—mere factories?

O! simply open wide the temple door,
And let the solemn, swelling organ greet,
With VOLUNTARIES meet,
The WILLING advent of the rich and poor!
And while to God the loud Hosannas soar,
With rich vibiations from the vocal throng—
From quiet shades that to the woods belong,
And brooks with music of their own,
Voices may come to swell the choral song
With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is, while on all vital questions,
That occupy the House and public mind,
We always meet with some humane suggestions
Of gentle measures of a healing kind,
Instead of harsh severity and vigor,
The saint alone his preference retains
For bills of penalties and pains,
And marks his narrow code with legal rigor!
Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,
What men of all political persuasion
Extol—and even use upon occasion—
That Christian principle, conciliation?
But possibly the men who make such fuss
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,
Attach some other meaning to the term,
As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles,
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,
I had to halt a while, like other folks,
To let a killing butcher coax
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.
A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox,
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
Of well-greased hair down either cheek,
As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks
Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle—
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped,
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped
And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt,
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it—
And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt
Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it.
At last there came a pause of brutal force;
The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool;
The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse,
The time was ripe for mild expostulation,
And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by—
"Zounds!—my good fellow—it quite makes me—why
It really—my dear fellow—do just try
Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint,
The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint—
At least he seized upon the foremost wether—
And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop
Just nolens volens through the open shop—
If tails come off he didn't care a feather—
Then walking to the door, and smiling grim,
He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together—
"There!—I've CONciliated him!"

Again—good-humoredly to end our quarrel—
(Good humor should prevail!)
I'll fit you with a tale
Whereto is tied a moral.
Once on a time a certain English lass
Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The doctors gave her over—to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl
Of assinine new milk,
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal
Which got proportionably spare and skinny—
Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!"
When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny,
The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case,
There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-eared creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.
No matter: at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back—
"Your sarvant, Miss—a werry spring-like day—
Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss—but I'ze brought ye Jack—
He doesn't give no milk—but he can bray."

So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness;
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?

DEATH'S RAMBLE. THOMAS HOOD.

One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank;
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh
(For the man was a coffin-maker),
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once—for he knew
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach
So slow that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the QUICK.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. THOMAS HOOD.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,
My curtains drawn and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream,
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo and she was won;
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog—
What d'ye think of that my cat?
What d'ye think of that my dog?

What loving tete-a-tetes to come!
What tete-a-tetes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she couldn't part,
But all MY ties had leave to jog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll—
A monkey, too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a beau—
My Susan brought a favorite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,—
A snappish mongrel christened Grog,—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The monkey bit—the parrot screamed,
All day the sister strummed and sung,
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learned to use her tongue;
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sat and croaked like any frog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,
I soon came down to simple "M!"
The very servants crossed my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seemed my own,
I might as well have been a log—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed,
She could not bear that Mister Blogg—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song—
The sister took a sister's part—
The maid declared her master wrong—
The parrot learned to call me "Fool!"
My life was like a London fog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end;
I never had a decent coat—
I never had a coin to spend!
She forced me to resign my club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come, and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug—
With Pussy in the elbow-chair,
And Tray reposing on the rug?—
If I must totter down the hill
'Tis safest done without a clog—
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

ON SAMUEL ROGERS. LORD BYRON.

Question.

Nose and chin would shame a knocker,
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker:
Mouth which marks the envious scorner,
With a scorpion in each corner,
Turning its quick tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you:
Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy;
Carcass picked out from some mummy
Bowels (but they were forgotten,
Save the liver, and that's rotten);
Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden—
Form the Devil would frighten God in.
Is't a corpse stuck up for show,
Galvanized at times to go
With the Scripture in connection,
New proof of the resurrection?
Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it.

Answer.

Many passengers arrest one,
To demand the same free question.
Shorter's my reply, and franker—
That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker.
Yet if you could bring about,
Just to turn him inside out,
Satan's self would seem less sooty,
And his present aspect—Beauty.
Mark that (as he masks the bilious
Air, so softly supercilious)
Chastened bow, and mock humility,
Almost sickened to servility;
Hear his tone, (which is to talking
That which creeping is to walking—
Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe),
Hear the tales he lends his lip to;
Little hints of heavy scandals,
Every friend in turn he handles;
All which women or which men do,
Glides forth in an innuendo,
Clothed in odds and ends of humor—
Herald of each paltry rumor.
From divorces down to dresses,
Women's frailties, men's excesses,
All which life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel.
You're his foe—for that he fears you,
And in absence blasts and sears you:
You're his friend—for that he hates you,
First caresses, and then baits you,
Darting on the opportunity
When to do it with impunity:
You are neither—then he'll flatter
Till he finds some trait for satire;
Hunts your weak point out, then shows it
Where it injures to disclose it,
In the mode that's most invidious,
Adding every trait that's hideous,
From the bile, whose blackening river
Rushes through his Stygian liver.
Then he thinks himself a lover:
Why I really can't discover
In his mind, age, face, or figure:
Viper-broth might give him vigor.
Let him keep the caldron steady,
He the venom has already.
For his faults, he has but ONE—
'Tis but envy, when all's done.
He but pays the pain he suffers;
Clipping, like a pair of snuffers,
Lights which ought to burn the brighter
For this temporary blighter.
He's the cancer of his species,
And will eat himself to pieces;
Plague personified, and famine;
Devil, whose sole delight is damning!

For his merits, would you know 'em?
Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

MY PARTNER. W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
I danced, last year, my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels:—"Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming,
And "Almack's" infinitely gay,
And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere" was chastely told.
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy;"
I vowed the last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said—"I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzo would come back again,
And criticized Paccini;
I wished the chorus singers dumb.
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's APLOMB
And voted Paul "terrific."
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed,
"We MUST have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal;
What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds
And Jane take up her Handel;
Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her;
Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anne her false lover;
How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together;
My shuddering partner cried—"Oh, God!
How could they in such weather?"

Was she a blue?—I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir pedant?—I discussed
The toga and the fasces;
A cockney-muse?—I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion:
A saint?—I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician?—It was vain
To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.

Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And when my worship was most warm,
She "never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.
But to be linked for life to her!—
The desperate man who tried it,
Might marry a barometer,
And hang himself beside it!

THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Years—years ago—ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;
Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly:
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a country ball;
There when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall,
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that sets young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And when she danced—oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought't was Venus from her isle,
I wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd of politics or prayers;
Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;
Of daggers or of dancing bears,
Of battles, or the last new bonnets;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,
To me it matter'd not a tittle,
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frown'd; but how should gout
Find any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother just thirteen.
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother, for many a year,
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents,
And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes and rents,
Oh! what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the stocks,
As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;
She botanized; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading;
She warbled Handel; it was grand—
She made the Catalina jealous;
She touch'd the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fill'd with all an album's glories;
Paintings of butterflies and Rome,
Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter;
And autographs of Prince Laboo,
And recipes of elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored,
Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted,
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,
As if the opera were demolishd.

She smil'd on many just for fun—
I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first the only one
Her heart thought of for a minute;
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely molded;
She wrote a charming hand, and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves—
A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,
And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows—and then we parted.

We parted—months and years roll'd by;
We met again for summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh—
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;
For in my heart's most secret cell,
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room belle,
But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers.

SORROWS OF WERTHER. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled.
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found THAT NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty.">[—Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee volunteers!
It makes my bosom bleed
When I your story read,
Though oft 'tis told one.
So—in both hemispheres
The woman are untrue,
And cruel in the New,
As in the Old one!

What—in this company
Of sixty sons of Mars,
Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,
With fife and horn,
Nine tenths of all we see
Along the warlike line
Had but one cause to join
This Hope Folorn?

Deserters from the realm
Where tyrant Venus reigns,
You slipped her wicked chains,
Fled and out-ran her.
And now, with sword and helm,
Together banded are
Beneath the Stripe and Star-
embroidered banner!

And so it is with all
The warriors ranged in line,
With lace bedizened fine
And swords gold-hilted—
Yon lusty corporal,
Yon color-man who gripes
The flag of Stars and Stripes—
Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line,
The privates strong and tall,
"The pioneers and all,"
The fifer nimble—
Lieutenant and Ensign,
Captain with epaulets,
And Blacky there, who beats
The clanging cymbal—

O cymbal-beating black,
Tell us, as thou canst feel,
Was it some Lucy Neal
Who caused thy ruin?
O nimble fifing Jack,
And drummer making din
So deftly on the skin,
With thy rat-tattooing.

Confess, ye volunteers,
Lieutenant and Ensign,
And Captain of the line,
As bold as Roman—
Confess, ye grenadiers,
However strong and tall,
The Conqueror of you all
Is Woman, Woman!

No corselet is so proof,
But through it from her bow,
The shafts that she can throw
Will pierce and rankle.
No champion e'er so tough,
But's in the struggle thrown,
And tripped and trodden down
By her slim ankle.

Thus, always it has ruled,
And when a woman smiled,
The strong man was a child,
The sage a noodle.
Alcides was befooled,
And silly Samson shorn,
Long, long ere you were born,
Poor Yankee Doodle!

COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. A POEM, IN TWO CANTOS. PUNCH.

CANTO THE FIRST.

COURTSHIP.

Fairest of earth! if thou wilt hear my vow,
Lo! at thy feet I swear to love thee ever;
And by this kiss upon thy radiant brow,
Promise afiection which no time shall sever;
And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now,
To be extinguished—never, dearest, never!
Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign?
CATHERINE! my own sweet Kate! wilt thou be mine?

Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair—
Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring,
And we will live in solitude, nor care
For aught save for each other. We will fling
Away all sorrow—Eden shall be there!
And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king!
Still coy, and still reluctant? Sweetheart say,
When shall we monarchs be? and which the day?

CANTO THE SECOND.

MATRIMONY.

Now MRS. PRINGLE, once for all, I say
I will not such extravagance allow!
Bills upon bills, and larger every day,
Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow!
Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash—nay, nay,
Tears, MRS. PRINGLE, will not gull me now—
I say I won't allow ten pounds a week;
I can't afford it; madam, do not speak!

In wedding you I thought I had a treasure;
I find myself most miserably mistaken!
You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure;—
In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken.
Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure;
Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken!
I seek retirement, and I find—a riot;
Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet!

CONCERNING SISTERS-IN-LAW. PUNCH. I.

They looked so alike as they sat at their work,
(What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk!)
The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts,
The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the same hearts
The same irresistible cut in their jibs,
The same little jokes, and the same little fibs—
That I thought the best way to get out of my pain
Was by—HEADS for Maria, and WOMAN for Jane;
For hang ME if it seemed it could matter a straw,
Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.

II.

But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined
To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind;
And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one,
That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one.
Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool;
Never calls me a monster—not even a fool;
All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up,
And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:—
Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished—Heav'n forgive me the flaw!—
That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.

III.

Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing!
The daily comparisons, too, she will bring!
Wife—curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed;
She—ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;"
Wife—sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating;
She—merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting:
Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows
To the happy half-way between mother and spouse.
In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw,
He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.

IV.

That no good upon earth can be had undiluted
Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted;
And preachers and poets have proved it is so
With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos.
Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn,
The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn,
There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun—
In short, they've used all illustrations—but one;
And have left it to me the most striking to draw—
Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW.

THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH.

As a young Lobster roamed about,
Itself and mother being out,
Their eyes at the same moment fell
On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell
"Look," said the younger; "is it true
That we might wear so bright a hue?
No coral, if I trust mine eye,
Can with its startling brilliance vie;
While you and I must be content
A dingy aspect to present."
"Proud heedless fool," the parent cried;
"Know'st thou the penalty of pride?
The tawdry finery you wish,
Has ruined this unhappy fish.
The hue so much by you desired
By his destruction was acquired—
So be contented with your lot,
Nor seek to change by going to pot."

TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY. PUNCH.

Silence, all! ye winged choir;
Let not yon right reverend sire
Hear your happy symphony:
'Tis too good for such as he.

On the day of rest divine,
He poor townsfolk would confine
In their crowded streets and lanes,
Where they can not hear your strains.

All the week they drudge away,
Having but one holiday;
No more time for you, than that—
Unlike bishops, rich and fat.

Utter not your cheerful sounds,
Therefore, in the bishop's grounds;
Make him melody no more,
Who denies you to the poor.
Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush!
Throstle, be a songless thrush;
Nightingale and lark, be mute,
Never sing to such a brute.

Robin, at the twilight dim,
Never let thine evening hymn,
Bird of red and ruthful breast,
Lend the bishop's Port a zest.

Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours,
Keeping us from fields and flowers,
Who to pen us tries, instead,
'Mong the intramural dead.

Only let the raven croak
At him from the rotten oak;
Let the magpie and the jay
Chatter at him on his way.
And when he to rest has laid him,
Let his ears the screech-owl harry;
And the night-jar serenade him
With a proper charivari.

THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH.

Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid
Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite;
Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid
To paint the sufferings they can not write:

Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts,
Let slender youths in agony expire;
Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts
Roast at some fierce imaginary fire.

Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower
Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes,
See her own ALFRED to the old church tower
Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses;
Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal,
Wherein two doves their little bills entwine;
(A vile device, which always makes me feel
Marriage would only add your bills to mine.)

For arts like these I've neither skill nor time;
But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid,
And share my fortune in that happier clime,
Your berth is taken, and your passage paid.
For reading, lately, in my list of things,
"Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too!
The horrid host of buttons and of strings
Flashed on my spirit, and I thought—of you.

"Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived—
That vast receptacle of all things known—
"To teach this truth my outfit was contrived,
It is not good for man to be alone!"
Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore
(Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons),
And though she's nearly full, can take some more
Dry goods, by measurement—say GREEN and SONS.

Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind,
We might have married, and been happy HERE;
But since young married folks the means must find
The eyes of stern society to cheer,
And satisfy its numerous demands,
I think 'twill save us many a vain expense,
If on our wedding cards this Notice stands,
"At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"

A SCENE ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONTIER. PUNCH.

"Dey must not pass!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinel
To one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well
"Thev must not pass? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried;
"No English book can pass mit me;" the sentinel replied.
The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hope
There are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope;
But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell—"
"Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pass!" said the startled sentinel.

"This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY,
Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry;
If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever tried
To find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide?
This map, again, of Switzerland—nay, man, you needn't start or
Look black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta;
I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury—
We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye
(Uri)."

"Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles!
Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles?
I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had,
For now Ich kann nicht let him pass, for fear he should be bad.
Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and den
Die Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men;
Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well;
Hoch Himmel! here he most not pass:" said the learned sentinel.

"Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land,
He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand."
"My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way to
Quite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO.
My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long,
And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong;
So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well."
"Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel.

ODE TO THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT ON HIS WONDERFUL REAPPEARANCE. PUNCH.

From what abysses of the unfathom'd sea
Turnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then,
If we may venture to believe in thee,
And affidavits of sea-faring men?

What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home!
Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell?
If—like the mermaid, with her glass and comb—
Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell.

Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham?
Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel,
An entity, though modified by flam,
A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal?

I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art;
I can not say a reptile of the deep,
Because thou dost not play a reptile's part;
Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep.

The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE,
I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seen
And him who says he saw thee t'other day,
I will not bid address the corps marine.

Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not?
What sort of snake may be thy class and style?
That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot,
And mentioned—rather often—by CARLYLE?

Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind?
Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again—
A serpent of the visionary kind,
Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain?

Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp,
And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail?
If of the Boa species, couldst thou clasp
Within thy fold, and suffocate, a whale?

How long art thou?—Some sixty feet, they say,
And more—but how much more they do not know:
I fancy thou couldst reach across a bay
From head to head, a dozen miles or so.

Scales hast thou got, of course—but what's thy weight?
On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin,
A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state,
A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin.

If I could clutch thee—in a giant's grip—
Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime?
Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip,
Being all over glazed with fishy slime?

Hast thou a forked tongue—and dost thou hiss
If ever thou art bored with Ocean's play?
And is it the correct hypothesis
That thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way?

What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin,
Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear?
What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin?—
A set that probably would make one stare.

What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoal
Of herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and room
To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole,
By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume?

Art thou alone, thou serpent, on the brine,
The sole surviving member of thy race?
Is there no brother, sister, wife, of thine,
But thou alone, afloat on Ocean's face?

If such a calculation may be made,
Thine age at what a figure may we take?
When first the granite mountain-stones were laid,
Wast thou not present there and then, old Snake?

What fossil Saurians in thy time have been?
How many Mammoths crumbled into mold?
What geologic periods hast thou seen,
Long as the tail thou doubtless canst unfold?

As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead,
Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike;
And, so far, none will question what they said,
That thou unto a whale wast very like.

A flock of birds a record, rather loose,
Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull;
Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose,
And also several of the genus Gull.

THE FEAST OF VEGETABLES, AND THE FLOW OF WATER. PUNCH.

New Year comes,—so let's be jolly;
On the board the Turnip smokes,
While we sit beneath, the holly,
Eating Greens and passing jokes

How the Cauliflower is steaming,
Sweetest flower that ever blows.
See, good old Sir Kidney, beaming,
Shows his jovial famed red nose.

Here behold the reign of Plenty,—
Help the Carrots, hand the Kail;
Roots how nice, and herbs how dainty,
Well washed down with ADAM'S Ale!

Feed your fill,—untasted only
Let the fragrant onion go;
Or, amid the revels lonely,
Go not nigh the mistletoe!

KINDRED QUACKS. PUNCH.

I overheard two matrons grave, allied by close affinity
(The name of one was PHYSIC, and the other's was DIVINITY),
As they put their groans together, both so doleful and lugubrious:

Says PHYSIC, "To unload the heart of grief, ma'am, is salubrious:
Here am I, at my time of life, in this year of our deliverance;
My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence.
But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,—
Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am;
I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am.
I've some, as well,—no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't,
ma'am,
Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am."

"There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "I've those that teach that Heaven's beatitudes
Are to be earned by postures, genuflexions, bows, and attitudes."

"My good-for-nothing sons," says PHYSIC, "some have turned hydropathists, Some taken up with mesmerism, or joined the homoeopathists."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "pursue a system of gimcrackery,
Called Puseyism, a pack of stuff, and quite as arrant quackery."

Says PHYSIC, "Mine have sleep-walkers, pretending through the hide of
you,
To look, although their eyes are shut, and tell you what's inside of
you."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "so mine, with quibbling and with caviling, Would have you, ma'am, to blind yourself, to see the road to travel in."

"Mine," PHYSIC says, "have quite renounced their good old pills and potions, ma'am, For doses of a billionth of a grain, and such wild notions, ma'am."

"So," says DIVINITY, "have mine left wholesome exhortation, ma'am,
For credence-tables, reredoses, rood-lofts, and maceration, ma'am."

"But hospitals," says PHYSIC, "my misguided boys are founding, ma'am."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "of mine, the chapels are abounding, ma'am."

"Mine are trifling with diseases, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "not attacking them."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "instead of curing souls, are quacking them."

"Ah, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "I'm to blame, I fear, for these absurdities."

"That's my fear too," DIVINITY says; "ma'am, upon my word it is."

Says PHYSIC, "Fees, not science, have been far too much my wishes,
ma'am."

"Truth," says DIVINITY, "I've loved much less than loaves and fishes,
ma'am."

Says each to each, "We're simpletons, or sad deceivers, some of us;
And I am sure, ma'am, I don't know whatever will become of us."

THE RAILWAY TRAVELER'S FAREWELL TO HIS FAMILY. PUNCH.

'T was business call'd a Father to travel by the Rail;
His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale.
He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee;
And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast and
free.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears—ELIZA, love, don't cry—
Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by.
I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea,
And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss;
And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss;
And in an instant, quick as thought—before you could cry "Ah!"
An accident occurs, and—say good-by to poor Papa!

Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink,
And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think.
The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks,
And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and every body's necks.

Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin—
Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in;
And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remain
Confined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train.

If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright,
When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white;
Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash,
If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash.

Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day,
Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay;
Over and over goes the train—the engine off the rail,
And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale.

And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life,
May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife—
With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace,
And present to you, unalter'd, every feature of his face.

I hope I shall come back, my dears—but, mind, I am insured—
So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured.
An action then will also lie for you and your Mamma—
And don't forget to bring it—on account of poor Papa.

A LETTER AND AN ANSWER. PUNCH.

THE PRESBYTERS TO PALMERSTON.

The Plague has come among us,
Miserable sinners!
Fear and remorse have stung us,
Miserable sinners!
We ask the State to fix a day,
Whereon all men may fast and pray,
That Heaven will please to turn away
The Plague that works us sore dismay,
Miserable sinners!

PALMERSTON TO THE PRESBYTERS.

The Plague that comes among you,
Miserable sinners!
To effort hath it strung you?
Miserable sinners!
You ask that all should fast and pray;
Better all wake and work, I say;
Sloth and supineness put away,
That so the Plague may cease to slay;
Miserable sinners!

For Plagues, like other evils,
Miserable sinners!
Are GOD'S and not the Devil's,
Miserable sinners!
Scourges they are, but in a hand
Which love and pity do command:
And when the heaviest stripes do fall,
'Tis where they're wanted most of all,
Miserable sinners!

Look round about your city,
Miserable sinners!
Arouse to shame and pity,
Miserable sinners!
Pray: but use brush and limewash pail;
Fast: but feed those for want who fail;
Bow down, gude town, to ask for grace
But bow with cleaner hands and face,
Miserable sinners!

All Time GOD'S Law hath spoken,
Miserable sinners!
That Law may not be broken,
Miserable sinners!
But he that breaks it must endure
The penalty which works the cure.
To us, for GOD'S great laws transgressed,
Is doomsman Pestilence addressed,
Miserable sinners!

We can not juggle Heaven,
Miserable sinners!
With one day out of seven,
Miserable sinners!
Shall any force of fasts atone
For years of duty left undone?
How expiate with prayer or psalm,
Deaf ear, blind eye, and folded palm?
Miserable sinners!

Let us be up and stirring,
Miserable sinners!
'Mong ignorant and erring,
Miserable sinners!
Sloth and self-seeking from us cast,
Believing this the fittest fast,
For of all prayers prayed 'neath the sun
There is no prayer like work well done,
Miserable sinners!

PAPA TO HIS HEIR, A FAST MINOR. PUNCH.

My son, a father's warning heed;
I think my end is nigh:
And then, you dog, you will succeed
Unto my property.

But, seeing you are not, just yet.
Arrived at man's estate,
Before you full possession get,
You'll have a while to wait.

A large allowance I allot
You during that delay;
And I don't recommend you not
To throw it all away.

To such advice you'd ne'er attend;
You won't let prudence rule
Your courses; but, I know, will spend
Your money like a fool.

I do not ask you to eschew
The paths of vice and sin;
You'll do as all young boobies, who
Are left, as you say, tin.

You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green,
At all that's right you'll joke;
Your life will be a constant scene
Of billiards and of smoke.

With bad companions you'll consort
With creatures vile and base,
Who'll rob you; yours will be, in short,
The puppy's common case.

But oh, my son! although you must
Through this ordeal pass,
You will not be, I hope—I trust—
A wholly senseless ass.

Of course at prudence you will sneer,
On that theme I won't harp;
Be good, I won't say—that's severe;
But be a little sharp.

All rascally associates shun
To bid you were too much,
But, oh I beware, my spooney son,
Beware one kind of such.

It asks no penetrative mind
To know these fellows: when
You meet them, you, unless you're blind,
At once discern the men.

The turgid lip, the piggish eye,
The nose in form of hook,
The rings, the pins, you tell them by,
The vulgar flashy look.

Spend every sixpence, if you please,
But do not, I implore,
Oh! I do not go, my son, to these
Vultures to borrow more.

Live at a foolish wicked rate,
My hopeful, if you choose,
But don't your means anticipate
Through bill-discounting Jews.

[Illustration: CHAUCER]

SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE. PUNCH.

Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green,
Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene,
Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge
On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge.
Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas
Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees.
Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose.
Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete—except the nose.
Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream,
Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream.
Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries—A Pair of Sylphide's Wings;
Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings).
Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen—Three Services of Plate
In real papier mache—all in a decent state;
One of these services includes—its value to increase—
A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece.
Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed,
Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught.
Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts,
Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts.
Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent.
Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig—in wool—of Bide-the-Bent.
Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish—Soles, Cod, and Dace—
For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place.
Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear.
Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings—at per pair.
Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat,
And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet.
Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white,
Warranted equal to Cashmere—upon the stage at night—
With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back;
The tails of twisted worsted—pale yellow, tipped with black.
Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare—
The Crown of Semiramide—complete, with false back hair;
The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to fling
His sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king.
Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song.
Lot Sixty-two, A Document. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong.
Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array,
Beginning at the Druids down to the present day.
Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls.
Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls.
Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room,
Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb.
Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill.
Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will.
Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow.
Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow.
Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat;
Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat.
Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower.
Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower.
Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks.
Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box.

WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE. PUNCH.

Our gracious Queen—long may she fill her throne—
Has been to see Louis Napoleon.
The Majesty of England—bless her heart!—
Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte;
And Cousin Germans have survived the view
Of Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud.

In our young days we little thought to see
Such legs stretched under such mahogany;
That British Royalty would ever share
At a French Palace, French Imperial fare:
Nor eat—as we should have believed at school—
The croaking tenant of the marshy pool.
At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then,
As we have since, and hope to do again.

This great event of course could not take place
Without fit prodigies for such a case;
The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third
Thrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd,
Then rose on end, and stood so all day long,
Amid the cheers of an admiring throng.
In every lawyer's office Eldon shed
From plaster nose three heavy drops of red.
Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the point
Of its proboscis—was that out of joint?
While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear,
And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!"

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

It may be so—perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart;
I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,—
In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,—among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue;—
No matter,—if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth—that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,—
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,—
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,—
Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain:
She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see
That picture torn away;
It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,
Upon its long-deserted hook
The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,
And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,—
Perchance I never may;
It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,
Sure I can take my Bible oath
I've seen that face before.

MY AUNT. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
I know it hurts her—though she looks
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?

Her father—grandpapa! forgive
This erring lip its smiles—
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;
He sent her to a stylish school;
'T was in her thirteenth June;
And with her, as the rules required,
"Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small.
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;—
O never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,
Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

COMIC MISERIES. JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,—
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,—
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain—
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse,—
You think you 've got him—when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about
The old authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While every body marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,—
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine),
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of
And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose—
A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

IDEES NAPOLEONIENNES. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.—TRANSLATOR.

Come, listen all who wish to learn
How nations should be ruled,
From one who from his youth has been
In such-like matters school'd;
From one who knows the art to please,
Improve and govern men—
Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees,
Napoleoniennes!

To keep the mind intently fixed
On number One alone—
To look to no one's interest,
But push along your own,
Without the slightest reference
To how, or what, or when—
Eh bien! c'est la premiere Idee
Napoleonienne.

To make a friend, and use him well,
By which, of course, I mean
To use him up—until he's drain'd
Completely dry and clean
Of all that makes him useful, and
To kick him over then
Without remorse—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To sneak into a good man's house
With sham credentials penn'd—
to sneak into his heart and trust,
And seem his children's friend—
To learn his secrets, find out where
He keeps his keys—and then
To bone his spoons—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To gain your point in view—to wade
Through dirt, and slime, and blood—
To stoop to pick up what you want
Through any depth of mud.
But always in the fire to thrust
Some helpless cat's-paw, when
Your chestnuts burn—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To clutch and keep the lion's share—
To kill or drive away
The wolves, that you upon the lambs
May, unmolested, prey—
To keep a gang of jackals fierce
To guard and stock your den,
While you lie down—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To bribe the base, to crush the good,
And bring them to their knees—
To stick at nothing, or to stick
At what or whom you please—
To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,
Forswear, and swear again—
To rise—Ah! voia des Idees
Napoleoniennes.

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN

Air—"The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes, strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way—
"Why you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood—
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know.
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.