And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning 'em, "Sir Hopkins," "Sir Popkins," "Sir Gage," and "Sir Jerningham," All Preux Chevaliers, in friendly rivalry Who should best bring back the glory of Chi-valry.— —(Pray be so good, for the sake of my song, To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long; Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry, "The word 'Chivalry' is but a 'rhyme to the eye.'" And I own it is clear A fastidious ear Will be, more or less, always annoy'd with you when you insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine. As to pleasing the "eye," 'Tisn't worth while to try, Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit "Spinach" Is perfectly antiphonetic to "Greenwich.")— But stay!—I say! Let me pause while I may— This digression is leading me sadly astray From my object—A grave for my poor dog Tray!
I would not place him beneath thy walls, And proud o'ershadowing dome, St. Paul's! Though I've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren, As an architect, one of the greatest of men; And,—talking of Epitaphs,—much I admire his, "Circumspice, si Monumentum requiris;" Which an erudite Verger translated to me, "If you ask for his monument, Sir-come-spy-see!—" No!—I should not know where To place him there; I would not have him by surly Johnson be;— Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby;— Or those ugly minxes The sister Sphynxes, Mix'd creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo, (Denon says), the emblems of Leo and Virgo; On one of the backs of which singular jumble, Sir Ralph Abercrombie is going to tumble, With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him, If the Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him.
No! I'd not have him there,—nor nearer the door, Where the man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore,[6] And are quietly letting him down through the floor, By Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore, Alone from the row;— Neither he, nor Lord Howe Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow. No, Tray, we must yield, And go further a-field; To lay you by Nelson were downright effront'ry;— —We'll be off from the City, and look at the country.
It shall not be there, In that sepulchred square, Where folks are interr'd for the sake of the air, (Though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse To Tray what they grant to Thuggs, and Hindoos, Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews,) Where the tombstones are placed In the very best taste, At the feet and the head Of the elegant Dead, And no one's received who's not "buried in lead:" For, there lie the bones of Deputy Jones, Whom the widow's tears, and the orphan's groans Affected as much as they do the stones His executors laid on the Deputy's bones; Little rest, poor knave! Would Tray have in his grave; Since Spirits, 'tis plain, Are sent back again, To roam round their bodies,—the bad ones in pain,— Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain; Whenever they met, alarm'd by its groans, his Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's.
Nor shall he be laid By that cross Old Maid, Miss Penelope Bird,—of whom it is said All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid. He must not be placed By one so strait-laced In her temper, her taste, and her morals, and waist. For, 'tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St. Peter, Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her, She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature, And bade him "Get out for a horrid Male Creature!" So, the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her, Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her, And not being willing,—or able,—to beat her, Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter, With an epithet—which I decline to repeat here. No,—if Tray were interr'd By Penelope Bird, No dog would be e'er so be "whelp"'d and be-"cur"r'd— All the night long her cantankerous Sprite Would be running about in the pale moon-light, Chasing him round, and attempting to lick The ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick.
Stay!—let me see!— Ay—here it shall be At the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree, Where Tray and I Would often lie, And watch the bright clouds as they floated by In the broad expanse of the clear blue sky, When the sun was bidding the world good b'ye; And the plaintive Nightingale, warbling nigh, Pour'd forth her mournful melody; While the tender Wood-pigeon's cooing cry Has made me say to myself, with a sigh, "How nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!" Ay, here it shall be!—far, far from the view Of the noisy world and its maddening crew. Simple and few, Tender and true The lines o'er his grave.—They have, some of them, too, The advantage of being remarkably new.
Epitaph.
Affliction sore Long time he bore, Physicians were in vain!— Grown blind, alas! he'd Some Prussic Acid, And that put him out of his pain!
Note, page 71.
In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of that gallant officer might have been the production of Lord Byron's Muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a soi-disant "Doctor Marshall," who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth his pretensions, to what he averred was the only "true and original" version, viz.:—