Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well!
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel—
Show them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn!
Go on! addressing pits in prose—and worse!
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that’s gloved—
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,
Go on—and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King—
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope’s favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
SHOOTING PAINS.
“The charge is prepared.”—Macheath.
F I shoot any more I’ll be shot,
For ill-luck seems determined to star me,
I have march’d the whole day
With a gun—for no pay—
Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!
What matters Sir Christopher’s leave?
To his manor I’m sorry I came yet!
With confidence fraught,
My two pointers I brought,
But we are not a point towards game yet!
And that gamekeeper too, with advice!
Of my course he has been a nice chalker,
Not far, were his words,
I could go without birds:
If my legs could cry out, they’d cry “Walker!”
Not Hawker could find out a flaw,—
My appointments are modern and Mantony,
And I’ve brought my own man,
To mark down all he can,
But I can’t find a mark for my Antony!
The partridges,—where can they lie?
I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,
As the least I could do;
But without even two
To brace me,—I’m getting quite nervous!