“A Skeltonical salutation
Or condign gratulation,
At the just vexation
Of the Spanish nation,
That in a bravado
Spent many a crusado
In setting forth an Armado
England to invado.
Pro cujus memoria
Ye may well be soria,
Full small may be your gloria
When ye shall hear this storia,
Then will ye cry and roria,
We shall see her no moria.
O king of Spaine!
Is it not a paine
To thy hearte and braine,
And every vaine,
To see thy traine
For to sustaine
Withouten gaine,
The world’s disdaine;
Which despise
As toies and lies,
With shoutes and cries,
Thy enterprise;
As fitter for pies
And butterflies
Then men so wise?
O waspish king!
Where’s now thy sting.
The darts or sling,
Or strong bowstring,
That should us wring,
And under bring?
Who every way
Thee vexe and pay
And beare the sway
By night and day,
To thy dismay
In battle array,
And every fray?
O pufte with pride!
What foolish guide
Made thee provide
To over-ride
This land so wide,
From side to side;
And then untride,
Away to slide,
And not to abide;
But all in a ring
Away to fling?”
&c. &c.

Epitaph on Dr. William Maginn.

“Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn,
Who with genius, wit, learning, life’s trophies to win,
Had neither great lord, nor rich cit of his kin,
Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin;
So his portion soon spent, like the poor heir of Lynn,
He turned author, ere yet there was beard on his chin;
And whoever was out, or whoever was in,
For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin;
Who received prose and verse with a promising grin,
‘Go a-head, you queer fish, and more power to your fin!’
But to save from starvation stirr’d never a pin.
Light for long was his heart, tho’ his breeches were thin,
Else his acting, for certain, was equal to Quin:
But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin:
(All the same to the doctor, from claret to gin!)
Which led swiftly to gaol, with consumption therein.
It was much, when the bones rattled loose in the skin,
He got leave to die here, out of Babylon’s din.[8]
Barring drink and the girls, I ne’er heard of a sin,—
Many worse, better few, than bright, broken Maginn!”

The Musical Ass.

“The fable which I now present,
Occurred to me by accident:
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.
A stupid ass this morning went
Into a field by accident:
And cropped his food, and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffing it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
‘Hurrah, hurrah!’ exclaimed the brute,
‘How cleverly I play the flute!’
A fool, in spite of nature’s bent,
May shine for once,—by accident.”

The above is a translation from the “Fabulas Litterarias” of Tomaso de Yriarte (1750-1790). Yriarte conceived the idea of making moral truths the themes for fables in the style of Æsop, and these he composed in every variety of verse which seemed at all suitable. Even when the leading idea presents no remarkable incident, Yriarte’s fables please by their simplicity.

Boxiana.

“I hate the very name of box;
It fills me full of fears;
It minds me of the woes I’ve felt
Since I was young in years.
They sent me to a Yorkshire school,
Where I had many knocks;
For there my schoolmates box’d my ears,
Because I could not box.
I packed my box; I picked the locks,
And ran away to sea;
And very soon I learnt to box
The compass merrily.
I came ashore; I called a coach
And mounted on the box:
The coach upset against a post,
And gave me dreadful knocks.
I soon got well; in love I fell,
And married Martha Box;
To please her will, at famed Box Hill
I took a country box.
I had a pretty garden there,
All bordered round with box;
But ah! alas! there lived next door
A certain Captain Knox.
He took my wife to see the play;—
They had a private box:
I jealous grew, and from that day
I hated Captain Knox.
I sold my house; I left my wife;
And went to Lawyer Fox,
Who tempted me to seek redress
All from a jury-box.
I went to law, whose greedy maw
Soon emptied my strong box;
I lost my suit, and cash to boot,
All through that crafty Fox.
The name of box I therefore dread,
I’ve had so many shocks;
They’ll never end; for when I’m dead
They’ll nail me in a box.”

The Ruling Power.

“Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old,
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Good or bad, a thousandfold!”
—T. Hood.