THE DOUBLE BARREL.
BY FATHER PROUT.
Duo quisque Alpina coruscat
Gæsa manu.—Æneid. lib. 8.
Παν πραγμα δυας εχει λαβας.—Epictetus.
September the first on the moorland hath burst,
And already with jocund carol
Each Nimrod of nouse hurries off to the grouse,
And has shouldered his double barrel;
For well doth he ken, as he hies through the glen,
That scanty will be his laurel
Who hath not
On the spot
(Should he miss a first shot)
Some resource in a double barrel.
'Twas the Goddess of Sport, in her woodland court,
Diana, first taught this moral,
Which the Goddess of Love soon adopted, and strove
To improve on the "double barrel."
Hence her Cupid, we know, put two strings to his bow;
And she laughs, when two lovers quarrel,
At the lot
Of the sot
Who, to soothe him, han't got
The resource of a double barrel.
Nay, the hint was too good to lie hid in the wood,
Or to lurk in two lips of coral;
Hence the God of the Grape (who his betters would ape)
Knows the use of a double barrel.
His escutcheon he decks with a double XX,
And his blithe October carol
Follows up
With the sup
Of a flowing ale-cup
September's double barrel.
Water-grass-hill, Kal. VIIbres.
GENIUS; OR, THE DOG'S-MEAT DOG.
BEING A SECOND "TAILED SONNET," IN THE ITALIAN MANNER. [10]
BY EGERTON WEBBE.
"Hal, thou hast the most unsavoury similes."—Falstaff.
Since Genius hath the immortal faculty
Of bringing grist to other people's mills,
While for itself no office it fulfils,
And cannot choose but starve amazingly,
Methinks 'tis very like the dog's-meat dog,
That 'twixt Black Friars and White sometimes I've seen,—
Afflicted quadruped, jejune and lean,
Whom none do feed, but all do burn to flog.
For why? He draws the dog's-meat cart, you see,—
Himself a dog. All dogs his coming hail,
Long dogs and short, and dogs of various tail,
Yea truly, every sort of dogs that be.
Where'er he cometh him his cousins greet,
Yet not for love, but only for the meat,—
In Little Tower Street,
Or opposite the pump on Fish-street Hill,
Or where the Green Man is the Green Man still,
Or where you will:—
It is not he, but, ah! it is the cart
With which his cousins are so loth to part;
(That's nature, bless your heart!)
And you'll observe his neck is almost stiff
With turning round to try and get a sniff,
As now and then a whiff,
Charged from behind, a transient savour throws,
That curls with hope the corners of his nose,
Then all too quickly goes,
And leaves him buried in conjectures dark,
Developed in a sort of muffled bark.
For I need scarce remark
That that sagacious dog hath often guess'd
There's something going on of interest
Behind him, not confest;
And I have seen him whisk with sudden start
Entirely round, as he would face the cart,
Which could he by no art,
Because of cunning mechanism. Lord!
But how a proper notion to afford?
How possibly record,
With any sort of mental satisfaction,
The look of anguish—the immense distraction—
Pictured in face and action,
When, whisking round, he hath discovered there
Five dogs,—all jolly dogs—besides a pair
Of cats, most debonair,
In high assembly met, sublimely lunching,
Best horse's flesh in breathless silence munching,
While he, poor beast! is crunching
His unavailing teeth?—You must be sensible
'Tis aggravating—cruel—indefensible—
Incomprehensible.
And to his grave I do believe he'll go,
Sad dog's-meat dog, nor ever know
Whence all those riches flow
Which seem to spring about him where he is,
Finding their way to every mouth but his.—
I know such similes
By some are censured as not being savoury;
But still it's better than to talk of "knavery,"
And "wretched authors' slavery,"
With other words of ominous import.
I much prefer a figure of this sort.
And so, to cut it short,
(For I abhor all poor rhetoric fuss,)
Ask what the devil I mean—I answer thus,
That dog's a Genius.
Oliver claimed by his Affectionate Friends
OLIVER TWIST;
OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
BY BOZ.
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.