"THE WHIPPIAD."
(Vol. vii., pp. 393. 417.)
Perhaps a few lines from a fellow-collegian of Reginald Heber, during his last years of residence at Brazenoze College, may throw light on this discussion.
My contemporary MS. copy of The Whippiad contains Heber's own notes, additional ones by myself, explanatory of places and persons mentioned, autographs of the latter, and Blackwood's printed copy (the subject of inquiry), No. 333., July, 1843.
The notes subjoined to Blackwood's printed copy are Heber's notes, varying only from my MS. copy in immaterial points.
As to the epigram mentioned in p. 417., the two first stanzas were by Heber, and written (as I think) after his election to All Souls. The third was attributed to Mr. Wilson, the learned High Master of Clithero School.
Very many jeux d'esprit by Heber, relative to convivialities and passing events in Brazenoze and All Souls, live in the memory and MSS. of his surviving friends; but their amiable author would doubtless have wished them to be forgotten, with the subjects to which they related. The forbearance of Mr. Halliwell made him vainly anxious for the suppression of The Whippiad.
I subjoin from Heber's autograph a Song for a Bow Meeting, near St. Asaph, in or about 1808. It has an airy freshness, and is (as I believe) unpublished.
Lancastriensis.
I.
The Soldier loves the laurel bright,
The Bard the myrtle bough,
And smooth shillalas yield delight
To many an Irish brow.
The Fisher trims the hazel wand,
The Crab may tame a shrew,
The Birch becomes the pedant's hand,
But Bows are made of yew.
CHORUS.
The yew, the yew, the hardy yew!
Still greenly may it grow,
And health and fun
Have everyone
That loves the British Bow.
II.
'Tis sweet to sit by Beauty's side
Beneath the hawthorn shade;
But Beauty is more beautiful
In green and buff array'd.
More radiant are her laughing eyes,
Her cheeks of ruddier glow,
As, hoping for the envied prize,
She twangs the Cambrian bow.
The yew, the yew, &c.
III.
The Fop may curl his Brutus wig,
And sandy whiskers stain,
And fold his cravat broad and big;
But all his arts are vain.
His nankeen trowsers we despise,
Unfit for rain or dew,
And, pinch'd in stays, he vainly tries
His strength against the yew.
The yew, the yew, &c.
IV.
The heiress, once, of Bowdale Hall,
A lovely lass, I knew—
A Dandy paid his morning call,
All dizen'd out to woo.
I heard his suit the Coxcomb ply;
I heard her answer—"No;"
A true love knot he ne'er could tie,
Who could not bend a bow.
The yew, the yew, &c.