OF PUNNING ON SURNAMES.
Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate,
(You all may from history worm it:)
There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.
But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames
Seem given by the rule of contraries.
Mr. Fox, though provoked, never doubles his fist,
Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,
Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist,
Mr. Coward was wing'd in a duel.
Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a Whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.
Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram,
Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,
And meek Mr. Lyon let fierce Mr. Lamb
Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,
(A conduct well worthy of Nero,)
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero.
Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her:
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut,
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock,
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers,
Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him;
Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.
Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three,
Mr. Makepiece was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardner can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wilde with timidity draws back;
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.
Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won,
Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health,
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.
Mr. Cruickshank stept into three thousand a-year
By showing his leg to an heiress:—
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear
Surnames ever go by contraries.
New Monthly Magazine.
AN EPITAPH,
OR
PUNNING RUN MAD.
Here lies old John Magee, late the landlord at the Sun,
He never had an ail, unless when all his ale was done:
The Sun was on the sign, tho' what sign his sun was on,
No studier of the Zodiac could ever hit upon.
Some said it was Aquarius, so queerious he'd get;
But he declared no soda-hack should ever share his whet.
His burnish'd sun was sol-o, soul-heart'ning was his cheer,
And quaffing of good porter long kept him from his bier.
As draughtsman he'd no equal, his drawings were so good,
And many a noble draught has he taken from the wood,—
Rare spirited productions, with tasty views near Cork;
And then he had a score or two rum characters in chalk.
Above the mantel-taillee his tally it was nail'd,
And though he had lost one eyesight, his hop-ticks never fail'd.
Good ale and cider sold here, oft made the soldier halt,
And sailor Jack, his sail aback, would hoist aboard his malt;
Most cordially he'd pour out a cordial for the fair,
Whose peeper meant to ogle the peppermint so rare;
While buxom Jean would toss off the juniper so gay,
And swear it was both sweet and nice as any shrub in May.
At last John took to drinking, and drank till drunk with drink;
His stuffing he would stuff in till stuff began to shrink;
Tho' mistress shook her hand high, he suck'd the sugar-candy,
And often closed his brand eye by tippling of the brandy.
His servants always firking, his firkins ran so fast,
And staggering round his bar-rails, his barrels breathed their last;
And when he treated all hands his Hollands ran away,
Nor reap'd he fruit from any seed for aniseed to pay.
And though he drank the bitters, his bitters still increas'd,
He puff'd the more parfait au cœur till all his efforts ceas'd.
The storm, alas! was brewing, the brewer drew his till,
And Mrs. Figg, for 'bacca, to back her brought her bill.
Distillers still'd his spirits, but couldn't still his mind;
He told the bailiff he would try a bail if he could find;
But fumbling round the tap-room, Death tapp'd him on the head,
So here he lies quite flat and stale, because, d'ye see, he's dead.
Literary Gazette.
