Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
And tastes of flesh, and fowl, and fish;
Tells all their names, lays down the law,
"Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!
That jelly's rich, this malmsey's healing,
Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in!"
Was ever such a happy swain—
He stuffs, and sips, and stuffs again!
"I'm quite ashamed—'tis mighty rude
To eat so much—all is so good."
But as he spoke, bounce from the hall
Rushed chaplain, butler, dogs, and all.
Oh! for the heart of Homer's mice
Or gods, to save them in a trice;
It was by miracle they think,
For Roman stucco has no chink.
"But, please your honour," said the peasant,
"This same dessert is not so pleasant:
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread, and liberty!"
The Magpie and her Brood.
From the Tales of Bonaventura des Periers, Servant to Marguerite of Valois, Queen of Navarre. By Horace Lord Orford.
How anxious is the pensive parents' thought,
How blest the lot of fondlings, early taught;
Joy strings her hours on pleasure's golden twine,
And fancy forms it to an endless line.
But ah! the charm must cease, or soon or late,
When chicks and misses rise to woman's state;
The little tyrant grows in turn a slave,
And feels the soft anxiety she gave.
This truth, my pretty friend, an ancient sage,
Who wrote in tale and legend many a page,
Couch'd in that age's unaffected guise,
When fables were the wisdom of the wise.
To careless notes I've tuned his Gothic style,
Content, if you approve, and Laura smile.
Once on a time a magpie led
Her little family from home,
To teach them how to win their bread,
When she afar would roam:
She pointed to each worm and fly,
Inhabitants of earth and sky,
Or where the beetle buzzed, she called;
But indications all were vain,—
They would not budge—the urchin train,
But cawed, and cried, and squalled;
They wanted to return to nest,
To nestle to mamma's warm breast,
And thought that she should seek the meat
Which they were only born to eat—
But Madge knew better things:
"My loves," said she, "behold the plains,
Where stores of food, where plenty reigns;
I was not half so big as you,
When me my honoured mother drew
Forth to the groves and springs—
She flew away, before aright
I knew to read or knew to write,
Yet I made shift to live:
So must you too—come, hop away—
Get what you can—steal what you may,
For industry will thrive."
"But, bless us!" cried the peevish chits,
"Can babes like us live by our wits?
With perils compassed round, can we
Preserve our lives and liberty?
Ah! how escape the fowler's snare,
And gard'ner with his gun in air,
Who, if we pilfer plums or pears,
Will scatter lead about our ears?
And you would drop a mournful head
To see your little pies lie dead!"
"My dears," she said, and kissed their bills,
"The wise by foresight baffle ills,
A wise descent you claim;
To bang a gun off takes some time,—
A man must load, a man must prime,
A man must take an aim—
He lifts the tube, he shuts one eye,—
'Twill then be time enough to fly;
You, out of reach, may laugh and chatter:
To cheat a man is no great matter."
"Ay, but"—"But what?" "Why, if the clown
Should take a stone to knock us down?"
"Why, if he do—you flats!
Must he not stoop to raise the stone?
The stooping warns you to be gone;
Birds are not killed like cats."
"But, dear mamma, we yet are scared,
The rogue, you know, may come prepared
A big stone in his fist!"
"Indeed, my darlings," Madge replies,
"If you already are so wise:
Go, cater where you list."
THE THREE WARNINGS:
Mrs. Thrale.
The tree of deepest root is bound
With most tenacity to earth;
'Twas therefore thought by ancient sages,
That with the ills of life's last stages
The love of life increased, with dearth
Of fibres rooting it to ground.
It was young Dobson's wedding-day,
Death summoned him, the happy groom,
Into a sombre private room,
From marriage revelries away;
And, looking very grave, said he:
"Young Dobson, you must go with me."
"Not if I know it," Dobson cried;
"What! leave my Susan,—quit my bride?
I shan't do any such a thing:
Besides I'm not at all prepared,—
My thoughts are all upon the wing.
I'm not the fellow to be scared,
Old Death, by you and those pale awnings:
I have a right to my three warnings."
And Death, who saw that of the jobs on
His hand, just then, tough was this Dobson,
Agreed to go and come again;
So, as he re-adjusted awnings
About his brows, agreed three warnings
Should be allowed; and Dobson, fain
To go back to the feast, agreed
Next time to do as was decreed:
And so they parted, with by-byes,
And "humble servants," "sirs," and "I's."
And years ran by right cheerily:
Susan was good, and children three,—
All comforts of his days—they reared;
So Dobson tumbled, unawares,
Upon the bourn of fourscore years,
And Death then reappeared—
And Dobson said, with look of wonder,
"Holloa, old Death—another blunder!
You may go back again: you see
You promised me three warnings—three;
Keep word of honour, Death!"
"Ay, ay," said Death, and raised his veil,
"I'm joyed to see you stout and hale;
I'm glad to see you so well able
To stump about from farm to stable,
All right in limb and breath."
"So, so—so, so!"—old Dobson sighed—
"A little lame though." Death replied:
"Ay, lame; but then you have your sight?"
But Dobson said—"Not quite, not quite."
"Not quite; but still you have your hearing?"
But Dobson said, "Past all repairing,
Ears gone downright!"
Death on his brow then dropped the awnings,
And said—"Friend you can't stay behind:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You have had your three sufficient warnings."