On saying this I turned away,
Feeling adown the small-o'-the back
That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW
We have said a good thing;
Knowing it better than the vain world
Ever can or ever will
Reader, I have sung my song!
The BOA AND THE B——, like new-found star,
Is mine no longer; but the world's!—
Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note?
With note akin that immortal bard
The snow-white Swan of Avon?
Or haply, to that
—RARA AVIS,
—That has
—"Tried WARREN'S?"
THE DILLY AND THE D'S.
[Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee,"
published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.]
[AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.]
BY S—L W—RR—N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S
PUNCH.
PART FIRST.
Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature,
Alien to Law!
Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS,
Whither away?—Away!
Far from my brief—Brief with a fee upon it,
Tremendous!
And probably—before my business is concluded—
A REFRESHER—nay, several!!
Whither whirlest thou thy thrall?
Thy willing thrall?
"NOW AND THEN;"
But not just at this moment,
If you please, Spirit!
No, let me read and ponder on
THE PLEADINGS.
Declaration!
Plea!!
Replication!!!
Rejoinder!!!!
Surrejoinder!!!!!
Rebutter!!!!!!
Surrebutter!!!!!!!
ETC! ETC!! ETC!!!
It may not be. The Muse—
As ladies often are—
Though lovely, is obstinate,
And will have her own way!
* * * *
And am I not
As well as a Q.S.,
An F.R.S.
And LL.D.?
Ask BLACKWOOD
The reason why, and he will tell you,
So will the Mayor—
The MAYOR OF HULL!
I obey, Spirit.
Hang my brief—'tis gone!—
To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court.
Whither away? Where am I?
What is it I behold?
In space, or out of space? I know not.
In fact
I've not the least idea if I'm crazy.
Or sprung—sprung?
I've only had a pint of Port at dinner
And can't be sprung—
Oh, no!—Shame on the thought!
I see a coach!—
Is it a coach?
Not exactly.
Yet it has wheels—
Wheels within wheels—and on the box
A driver, and a cad behind,
And Horses—Horses?—
Bethink thee—Worm!—
Are they Horses? or that race
Lower than Horses, but with longer ears
And less intelligence—
In fact—"EQUI ASINI,"
Or in vernacular
JACKASSES?
'Tis not a coach exactly—
Now I see on the panels—
Pricked out and flourished—
A word! A magic word—
"THE DILLY!"—"THE DERBY DILLY!"
Oh Dilly! Dilly!—all thy passengers
Are outsiders—
The road is rough and rutty—
And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son—
Driveth
Furiously!
And the cad upon the monkey-board
The monkey-board behind,
Scorneth the drag—but goes
Downhill like mad.
He hath a Caucasian brow!
A son of SHEM, is he,
Not of HAM—
Nor JAPHETH—
In fact a Jew—
But see, the pace
Grows faster—and more fast—in fact—
I may say
A case of Furious driving!
Take care, you'll be upset—
Look out!
Holloa!
* * * *
Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!!
The Dilly—
With all its precious freight
Of men and Manners—
Is gone!
Gone to immortal
SMASH!
Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes!
Oh Muse—lend me my scroll
To do it with, for I have lost
My wipe!
PART SECOND
* * * Again upon the road
The road to where?
To nowhere in particular!
Ah, no—I thank thee, Muse—
That hint—'tis a finger-post,
And "he that runs may read"—
He that runs?
But I am not running—
I am riding—
How came I here?—what am I riding on?
Who are my fellow-passengers?
Ah, ha!
I recognize them now!
The Coach—
The Box—
The Driver—
And the Cad—
I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again
And now I see
That finger-post!
It saith
"To Oxford
Fifty-two miles."
And, hark! a chorus!
From all the joyous load,
Driver and cad, and all!
"We go," they sing—
To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED."
To be Doctored?
Then, wherefore
Are ye so cheerful?
I was not cheerful in my early days—
Days of my buoyant boyhood—
When, after inglutition
Of too much
Christmas pudding,
Or Twelfth cake saccharine,
I went, as we go now,
To be Doctored!
Salts!
Senna and Rhubarb!!
Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!!
And Antimonial Wine!!!!
"WORM!
IDIOT!!
DONKEY!!!"
Said the free-spoken Muse
"With them thou goest to be doctored, too,
Not in medicine—but in Law—
All these—and thou—
Are going to be made
HONORARY
LL.D.s!
Behold!
And know thy company
Be thou familiar with them,
But by no means vulgar—
For familiarity breeds contempt;
And no man is a hero
To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE!
So ponder and perpend."
DERBY!
The wise, the meek, the chivalrous—
Mirror of knightly graces
And daily dodges;
Who always says the right things
At the right time,
And never forgets himself as others—
Nor changes his side
Nor his opinion—
A STANLEY to the core, as ready
To fight
As erst on FLODDEN FIELD
His mail-clad ancestor.—
See the poem
Of MARMION,
By SIR WALTER SOOTT!
DIZZY!
Dark—supple—subtle—
With mind lithe as the limbs
Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors—
With tongue sharp as the spear
That o'er Sahara
Flings the blue shadow
Of the crown of ostrich feathers—
As described so graphically
By LAYARD, in his recent book
On Nineveh!
With tongue as sharp
As aspic's tooth of NILUS,
Or sugary
Upon the occasion
As is the date
Of TAFILAT.
DIZZY, the bounding Arab
Of the political arena—
As swift to whirl
Right about face—
As strong to leap
From premise to conclusion—
As great in balancing
A budget—
Or flinging headlong
His somersets
Over sharp swords of adverse facts,
As were his brethren of EL-ARISH,
Who
Some years ago exhibited—
With rapturous applause—
At Astley's Amphitheater—
And subsequently
At Vauxhall Gardens!
* * * * *
Clustering, front and back
On box and knife-board,
See, petty man;
Behold! and thank thy stars
That led thee—Worm—
THEE, that art merely a writer
And a barrister,
Although a man of elegant acquirements,
A gentleman and a scholar—
Nay, F.R.S. to boot—
Into such high society,
Among such SWELLS,
And REAL NOBS!
Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end
Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers!
Oh! happy, happy, happy,
Oh, happy SAM!
Say, isn't this worth, at the least
"TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!"
* * * * *
And these are all, to day at least—-
Thy fellows!
Going to be made
LL.D.s, even as thyself—
And thou shalt walk in silk attire.
And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth,
And lunch in Hall—
In Hall!
Where lunched before thee,
But on inferior grub,
That first great SAM—
SAM JOHNSON!
And LAUD, and ROGER BACON,
And CRANMER, LATIMER,
And RIDLEY,
And CYRIL JACKSON—and a host besides,
Whom at my leisure
I will look up
In WOOD'S
"ATHENAE OXONIENSES"
Only to think!
How BLACKWOOD
Is honored!
ALISON! AYTOUN!
BULWER!!!
And last, not least
The great SAM GANDERAM!!!!
Oh EBONY!
Oh MAGA!
And oh
Our noble selves!
"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.
The partial power that to the female race
Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace,
With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one,
And to another gives as good as none:
But woman still for nature proves a match,
And grace by her denied, from art will snatch.
Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales;
Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales;
To this we must refer the use of stays;
Nor less the bustle of more modern days.
Artful device! whose imitative pad
Into good figures roundeth off the bad—
Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen,
Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline—
How oft to thee the female form doth owe
A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow,
Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!
There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame,
Who had a friend—JAMES TAYLOR was his name.
He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade
And still saved up the profits that he made,
Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed,
The father in the savings-bank was led
In his child's name a small sum to invest,
From which he drew the legal interest.
Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went,
Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent,
Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds,
The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.