A frog he would a-wooing go—
Heigh ho! says Rowley—
Whether his mother would let him or no—
With a rowly-powly, gammon and spinach.
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.
This to him is poetry. Everything is lifted above the commonplace. The frog is no cousin to the vulgar hop-toad, whose presence in the garden, in spite of his usefulness, is an affront. He is a creature of romance; he is going a-wooing,—whatever that may be;—he only knows that it is something dangerous. And what a glorious line that is,—
Whether his mother would let him or no.
It thrills him like the sound of a trumpet. And great, glorious Anthony Rowley! It needs no footnote to tell about him. It is enough to know that Rowley is a great, jovial soul, who, when the poetry is going to his liking, cries, "Heigh ho!"—and when Rowley cries, "Heigh ho!" my Philosopher cries, "Heigh ho!" too, just to keep him company. And so the poem goes on "with a rowly-powly, gammon and spinach," and nobody knows what it means. That's the secret.
Now I should not wish my Philosopher always to look upon "A frog he would a-wooing go" as the high-water mark of poetical genius; but I should wish him to bring to better poetry the same hearty relish he brings to this. The rule should be,—
Now good digestion wait on appetite,