Argument.
This poem is addressed to the Maid of "the Rainbow" (in Fleet Street), where Ossian is enjoying his Whisky and Cigar. The Phlaruppe here spoken of is the same as the Aquævadius mentioned so frequently in Police History, and who in the year '40 headed an expedition against the Knockers of Cockaigne, and was repulsed by "the force" under the command of Rowan, the chief of Scotland (Yard), though not until Phlaruppe had routed several of his "Divisions." Tradition assigns the date of this event to the year '42, but on searching the pages of the historian Hodder, we find no mention made of the circumstance in his valuable work entitled, "Sketches of Life and Character taken at Bow Street."
Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen of steel! The mountain-dew sparkles in Ossian's brain, and it is brilliant with song. As is the black reviver to the garment whose seams are white with age, so is the cream of the valley to the seedy soul of the bard. It brings back the freshness of youth.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
The draught of the waters of Kinahan wakens the memory of the past. The odour of thy weeds, mild Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the brow of Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou daughter of the Rainbow! to the deeds of the superior classes.
A tale of high life!
Fair is thy Garden, O Covent! Green are its paths with the leaves of the cabbage. There the cauliflower of Fulham rests its white head, and the pine of Jamaica perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin are there laden with Pippins of gold. Near are the halls of Evans. Music is heard in them by night. The morning dawns in song. The voice of Llewellyn of Wales gladdens the feast! and Sloman, the son of Israel, pours forth his numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad are the halls of Evans! It is the abode of Joy!
Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to the voice of Ossian? My soul is bursting with song. The collars of my Corazza droop like the ears of the Greyhound, and my eye in a fine frenzy rolls. Thus the mighty Bunn appears when he dreams that he dwells in marble halls. Dost thou not behold, bright maid! the head of a lion in Ossian's hand? A ring of iron depends from its mouth, and its face wears a look of rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgravia, tore away. Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength of his arm. Listen, then, daughter of the Rainbow! to the tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
What sound is that kisses the ear? Across thy Garden, sweet Covent! it comes dancing along the breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing the sky? But the lark wakes not the night with his notes; and bright burns the gas in the lamp of the Tavistock. 'Tis the voice of Von Joel, the toothless, gladdening the halls of Evans. Of Evans, the son of Thespis.
The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast is spread around. The strong waters of Hodges and Betts sparkle on the board. A thousand Havannahs perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam with the nectar of Barclay. There is the ripe fruit of Erin, and the rabbit of Wales is there.