HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.
We have taken a slice, or rather, four cuts, from Mr. Hood's facetious volume. Their fun needs not introduction, for the effect of wit is instantaneous. To talk about them would be like saying "see how droll they are." We omitted the Conditions drawn up by the Provisional Government, (the baker, butcher, publican, &c.) in our account of the revolutionary stir, or as the march-of-mind people call a riot, "the ebullition of popular feeling," at Stoke Pogis. Here they are, worthy of any Vestry in the kingdom, Select or otherwise.
"Conditions.
"1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed their thirds, and Novembers their fifths.
"2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and their persons respected.
"3. That no arson be allowed, but all bon-fires shall be burnt by the common hangman.
"4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the place.
"5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame Hengler, in a cartridge-box.
"6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.
"7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorized to stand no nonsense.
"8. That his Majesty's mail be permitted to pass on the night in question.
"9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish expense.
"10. That the ashes of old bon-fires be never raked up.
" (Signed) {WAGSTAFF, High Constable. {WIGSBY."
Our next quotations are two comico-serio Ballads:—
FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
"Good Heaven! why even the little children in France speak French!" ADDISON.
I.
Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo,
If you do, like me,
You will repent by jingo,
Staring like a fool
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy.
II.
Chaises stand for chairs,
They christen letters Billies,
They call their mothers mares,
And all their daughters fillies;
Strange it was to hear,
I'll tell you what's a good 'un,
They call their leather queer,
And half their shoes are wooden.
III.
Signs I had to make
For every little notion,
Limbs all going like
A telegraph in motion.
For wine I reel'd about,
To show my meaning fully,
And made a pair of horns.
To ask for "beef and bully."
IV.
Moo! I cried for milk;
I got my sweet things snugger,
When I kissed Jeannette,
'Twas understood for sugar.
If I wanted bread.
My jaws I set a-going,
And asked for new-laid eggs
By clapping hands and crowing.
V.
If I wished a ride,
I'll tell you how I got it:
On my stick astride,
I made believe to trot it;
Then their cash was strange,
It bored me every minute,
Now here's a hog to change,
How many sows are in it.
VI.
Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo;
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo;
Staring like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy.
THE DUEL.
A SERIOUS BALLAD.
"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."
In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray.
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell—
I'll pop it into you.
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray.
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes
May chance to hit a sheep's.
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend a-piece,
This pleasant thought to give—
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands.
Fear made them tremble so they found
They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral now,
Be doom'd to have a ball.
I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?
Said Mr. B. I do agree—
But think of Honour's Courts!
If We go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports
But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above, as if
We had call'd out the sun?
So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end.
CUTS FROM HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.
We next quote brief illustrations of the Cuts on the opposite page. It may be observed that the articles themselves have but little esprit, and that, unlike most occasions, the wit lies in the wood.
First is a Sonnet accompanying the cut "Infantry at Mess."
"Sweets to the sweet—farewell."—Hamlet.
Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough;
All human children have a sweetish tooth—
I used to revel in a pie or puff,
Or tart—we all are tarters in our youth;
To meet with jam or jelly was good luck,
All candies most complacently I cramped.
A stick of liquorice was good to suck,
And sugar was as often liked as lumped;
On treacle's "linked sweetness long drawn out,"
Or honey, I could feast like any fly,
I thrilled when lollipops were hawk'd about,
How pleased to compass hardbake or bull's eye,
How charmed if fortune in my power cast,
Elecampane—but that campaign is past.
"Picking his way," belongs to a day (April 17) in a "Scrape Book," with the motto of "Luck's all:"
"17th. Had my eye pick'd out by a pavior, who was axing his way, he didn't care where. Sent home in a hackney-chariot that upset. Paid Jarvis a sovereign for a shilling. My luck all over!"
The Schoolmaster's Motto, accompanying "Palmam qui meruit ferat!" is too long for extract.
The chief fun of the countryman and his Pigs lies in the cut.