The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
The Horse Race.
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 | II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
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The Horse Race.
I own the Simile is trite,
But then it is correctly right;
For ev'ry learned Critic knows
That on all-fours it glibly goes,
When the ever-varying strife
That gives activity to Life,
Is in its proper time and place,
Compar'd to what is call'd a Race.
For when we see each high-bred Horse
Stretching for Conquest on the Course,
What does he but man's toil display
Through ev'ry hour of ev'ry day.
—But we postpone the moral strain,—
And call the Reader to the Plain,
Where the assembled croud are met
To wrangle, jangle, and to bet.
But then it is correctly right;
For ev'ry learned Critic knows
That on all-fours it glibly goes,
When the ever-varying strife
That gives activity to Life,
Is in its proper time and place,
Compar'd to what is call'd a Race.
For when we see each high-bred Horse
Stretching for Conquest on the Course,
What does he but man's toil display
Through ev'ry hour of ev'ry day.
—But we postpone the moral strain,—
And call the Reader to the Plain,
Where the assembled croud are met
To wrangle, jangle, and to bet.
246
'Tis not to see the noble Steed
Pace o'er the Down with matchless speed;
'Tis not to view the Rider's art
When from the Goal he's call'd to start;
Or where the contest may begin,
That makes it doubtful who shall win;—
'Tis who, in honourable way,
Shall of his neighbour make a prey:
For this same curious, motly meeting
Is somewhat of a Race for cheating.
Pace o'er the Down with matchless speed;
'Tis not to view the Rider's art
When from the Goal he's call'd to start;
Or where the contest may begin,
That makes it doubtful who shall win;—
'Tis who, in honourable way,
Shall of his neighbour make a prey:
For this same curious, motly meeting
Is somewhat of a Race for cheating.
Jack Trimbush, in the country bred,
To nothing useful turn'd his head;
Cock-fighting, Racing, and the Games
That sober Prudence never names,
He long had practis'd, and was able
To figure at a Billiard Table.
An Uncle left him an estate
That was not either small or great;
But it was thought to bring him clear,
At least a thousand pounds a year;—
And, as 'twould be unjust to spare
The praise where he can claim a share,
Of that he took especial care.
He sav'd what others give in bounty,
And though he gambled round the county,
'Twas thought the conscientous sinner,
Somehow contriv'd to be a winner.
To nothing useful turn'd his head;
Cock-fighting, Racing, and the Games
That sober Prudence never names,
He long had practis'd, and was able
To figure at a Billiard Table.
An Uncle left him an estate
That was not either small or great;
But it was thought to bring him clear,
At least a thousand pounds a year;—
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The praise where he can claim a share,
Of that he took especial care.
He sav'd what others give in bounty,
And though he gambled round the county,
'Twas thought the conscientous sinner,
Somehow contriv'd to be a winner.
Now Jack was making to the Post
The busy scene of Won and Lost,
When to all those he saw around,
He cried, “I offer fifty pound,
“That to yon gambling place I get
“Before you all.”—Death took the Bet.
The 'Squire's Mare was Merry Joan,
And Death rode, Scrambling Skeleton.
They started, nor much time they lost
Before they reach'd the gambling Host:
But e'er they pass'd the betting Pole,
Which was the terminating Goal,
O'er a blind Fiddler Joan came down;
With fatal force poor Jack was thrown,
When a stone, on the verdure laid,
Prov'd harder than the Rider's head.
—Death wav'd aloft his dart, and fled.
The busy scene of Won and Lost,
When to all those he saw around,
He cried, “I offer fifty pound,
“That to yon gambling place I get
“Before you all.”—Death took the Bet.
The 'Squire's Mare was Merry Joan,
And Death rode, Scrambling Skeleton.
They started, nor much time they lost
Before they reach'd the gambling Host:
But e'er they pass'd the betting Pole,
Which was the terminating Goal,
O'er a blind Fiddler Joan came down;
With fatal force poor Jack was thrown,
248
Prov'd harder than the Rider's head.
—Death wav'd aloft his dart, and fled.
Upon the ground Jack senseless lay,
And turn'd the bus'ness of the day:
Horses and Jockies were forgot,
'Twas whether He would live or not.
Says High-Game, “I'll lay five to one,
“And who, among you, answers—Done?
“That with Jack Trimbush 'tis all over,
“And that he never will recover.”
Cries Blacklegs, “Why, I'll take the Bet,
“I think that He'll recover yet,
“But then I must assistance get.”
“I bar all aid,” exclaims the other;
“No Doctor, if He were my Brother:
“If a lancet breathes a vein
“I recall my Bet again.”
Such was the language round the Post,
Till Trimbush yielded up the Ghost.
And turn'd the bus'ness of the day:
Horses and Jockies were forgot,
'Twas whether He would live or not.
Says High-Game, “I'll lay five to one,
“And who, among you, answers—Done?
“That with Jack Trimbush 'tis all over,
“And that he never will recover.”
Cries Blacklegs, “Why, I'll take the Bet,
“I think that He'll recover yet,
“But then I must assistance get.”
“I bar all aid,” exclaims the other;
“No Doctor, if He were my Brother:
“If a lancet breathes a vein
“I recall my Bet again.”
Such was the language round the Post,
Till Trimbush yielded up the Ghost.
249
The racing o'er, a Party met
Neither to gamble nor to bet,
But to enjoy the flow of soul
Around the full, capacious Bowl.
There was, howe'er, a dismal dearth,
That evening, of their usual mirth:
For Trimbush, and his fractur'd scull,
Somehow or other, made them dull;
Till thus Sir Jeffrey Graveairs spoke.
“Since we are not dispos'd to joke,
“I, who to-night possess the chair,
“Call on our Friend the Doctor there,
“To give us, nor will he refuse,
“Some Ditty from his moral Muse.
“'Twill be a lack and well-a-day,
“Which we to poor Jack's mem'ry pay.”
—The Doctor smil'd consent, and soon
Began his sentimental tune.
Neither to gamble nor to bet,
But to enjoy the flow of soul
Around the full, capacious Bowl.
There was, howe'er, a dismal dearth,
That evening, of their usual mirth:
For Trimbush, and his fractur'd scull,
Somehow or other, made them dull;
Till thus Sir Jeffrey Graveairs spoke.
“Since we are not dispos'd to joke,
“I, who to-night possess the chair,
“Call on our Friend the Doctor there,
“To give us, nor will he refuse,
“Some Ditty from his moral Muse.
“'Twill be a lack and well-a-day,
“Which we to poor Jack's mem'ry pay.”
—The Doctor smil'd consent, and soon
Began his sentimental tune.
SONG.
Nor Humour, nor Wit, I pretend to rehearse,
My strain is all moral, and sober my verse;
A subject to suit you, my song shall embrace;
I sing of the Jockies in Life's busy race.
Derry down, &c.
My strain is all moral, and sober my verse;
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I sing of the Jockies in Life's busy race.
Derry down, &c.
The Croud of Mankind in Contention we see,
The High and the Low, of ev'ry degree;
The King and the Beggar, the weak and the strong,
E'en the blind grope their way, and the lame halt along.
The High and the Low, of ev'ry degree;
The King and the Beggar, the weak and the strong,
E'en the blind grope their way, and the lame halt along.
Ambition high mounted on Courser so fair,
Who pants with impatience, and snuffs up the air;
As he strains for the prize, behold, with a flirt,
He falls from his horse, and is laid in the dirt.
Who pants with impatience, and snuffs up the air;
As he strains for the prize, behold, with a flirt,
He falls from his horse, and is laid in the dirt.
Great monarchs contend in destruction and wars,
And strive for the Laurels and glory of Mars;
But how oft, as they run through this perilous strife,
This loses his Crown, and that loses his Life.
And strive for the Laurels and glory of Mars;
But how oft, as they run through this perilous strife,
This loses his Crown, and that loses his Life.
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The Miser now trembling, now sturdy and bold,
As he thinks he shall lose, or may add to his gold,
While heaping up treasure, he sinks 'neath the toil;
And some profligate Spendthrift runs off with the spoil.
As he thinks he shall lose, or may add to his gold,
While heaping up treasure, he sinks 'neath the toil;
And some profligate Spendthrift runs off with the spoil.
The Sage who, in Schools and Academies bred,
With store of deep learning has furnish'd his head,
If he lets it not forth to embellish mankind,
The Dunce and the Blockhead will leave him behind.
With store of deep learning has furnish'd his head,
If he lets it not forth to embellish mankind,
The Dunce and the Blockhead will leave him behind.
The Virgin who full of her smiles and her charms,
As she glides smoothly on scatters Love and alarms;
Assisted by Prudence, should hold tight the rein,
Or her charms and her beauty will conquer in vain.
As she glides smoothly on scatters Love and alarms;
Assisted by Prudence, should hold tight the rein,
Or her charms and her beauty will conquer in vain.
252
Tho' the young boast their strength, and the wealthy their gold;
Tho' the Hero looks big 'cause He's valiant and bold;
Tho' Kings wave their sceptres, Death strides on apace,
And sooner or later will finish the Race.
Tho' the Hero looks big 'cause He's valiant and bold;
Tho' Kings wave their sceptres, Death strides on apace,
And sooner or later will finish the Race.
Where Reason directs let us haste on our way,
When Discretion commands, let us wisely obey;
And though, as we run, we may sometimes be past,
We shall certainly win the best prize at the last.
When Discretion commands, let us wisely obey;
And though, as we run, we may sometimes be past,
We shall certainly win the best prize at the last.
Then let not the contests that happen in life,
Engender Confusion, Disorder and Strife;
Let us run where bright Virtue distributes the prize;
Tho' we lose it on earth, 'twill be found in the skies.
Derry down, &c.
Engender Confusion, Disorder and Strife;
Let us run where bright Virtue distributes the prize;
Tho' we lose it on earth, 'twill be found in the skies.
Derry down, &c.
| The English Dance of Death | |