I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin.
The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following
AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES).
Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1]
Joan and Colin took their way,
While each flower the dew was swigging, [2]
In the jocund month of May.
Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter;
Colin youth's most nutty [4] son;
Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her—
Him full many a spicy [6] one.
She her faithful bosom's jewel
Did unto this young un' [7] plight;
But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel,
Said as how he'd never fight. [9]
Soon as e'er the lark had risen,
They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10]
And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12]
Gone to roam as lovers use.
In a crack [13] the youth and maiden
To a flowery bank did come,
Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden,
Not without melodious hum.
Down they squatted [15] them together,
"Lovely Joan," said Colin bold,
"Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whether
Thou dost dear thy Colin hold?"
"Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic,
Cried the young and ardent maid;
"Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic,
Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said.