TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.
“This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit.”
—Twelfth Night.
OSEPH! they say thou’st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannell’d ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife—
“Retired—[for Young would call it so]—
The world shut out”—in Pleasant Row!
And hast thou really wash’d at last
From each white cheek the red half-moon!
And all thy public Clownship cast,
To play the private Pantaloon?
All youth—all ages yet to be
Shall have a heavy miss of thee!
Thou didst not preach to make us wise—
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling—
Thou didst not “lure us to the skies”—
Thy simple, simple trade was—Fooling!
And yet, Heav’n knows! we could—we can
Much “better spare a better man!”
Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,
Or Southey, for our quiet’s sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid’s sage,
Or, damme! namby pamby Poole,—
Or any other clown or fool!
Go, Dibdin—all that bear the name,
Go Byeway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy—man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!
Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made
His grey hairs scarce in private peace—
Had Waithman sought a rural shade—
Or Cobbett ta’en a turnpike lease—
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill—
I think I could be cheerful still!
Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead-lion-kicking, like—a friend!—
Had long, long Irving gone his ways
To muse on death at Ponder’s End—
Or Lady Morgan taken leave
Of Letters—still I might not grieve!