The works of Thomas Hood Comic and serious: In prose and verse. Edited, with notes, by his son |
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 | IV. | VOLUME IV. |
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 | The works of Thomas Hood |  |
IV. VOLUME IV.
124
1835.
SONNET TO OCEAN.
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth?
Yet didst thou ne'er restore my fainting health?—
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me?—
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
Coblenz, May, 1835.
125
TO ---.
COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM.
I gaze upon a city,—
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam!
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam!
Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Tall houses with quaint gables,
Where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges,
And trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels
From western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England,
But I'm in Rotterdam.
Where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges,
And trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels
From western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England,
But I'm in Rotterdam.
126
Those sailors, how outlandish
The face and form of each!
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
The face and form of each!
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
And now across a market
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue,
The Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus
I offer my salaam;
Who tells me you're in England
But I'm at Rotterdam.
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue,
The Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus
I offer my salaam;
Who tells me you're in England
But I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open—
I mingle in its crowd,—
The dominos are noisy—
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavour, none of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
I mingle in its crowd,—
The dominos are noisy—
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavour, none of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Then here it goes, a bumper—
The toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine;
It well deserves the brightest,
Where sunbeam ever swam—
“The Girl I love in England”
I drink at Rotterdam!
The toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine;
127
Where sunbeam ever swam—
“The Girl I love in England”
I drink at Rotterdam!
March, 1835.
SONNET.
[Think, sweetest, if my lids are not now wet]
Think, sweetest, if my lids are not now wet,The tenderest tears lie ready at the brim,
To see thine own dear eyes—so pale and dim,—
Touching my soul with full and fond regret,
For on thy ease my heart's whole care is set;
Seeing I love thee in no passionate whim,
Whose summer dates but with the rose's trim,
Which one hot June can perish and beget,—
Ah, no! I chose thee for affection's pet,
For unworn love, and constant cherishing—
To smile but to thy smile—or else to fret
When thou art fretted—rather than to sing
Elsewhere. Alas! I ought to soothe and kiss
Thy dear pale cheek while I assure thee this!
128
LINES ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN THE SAME CHAMBER.
And has the earth lost its so spacious round,The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heaven—my universe of love!
All that my God can give me, or remove,
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.
Sweet that in this small compass I behove
To live their living and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh,
We might resign all mundane care and strife,
And seek together that transcendent sky,
Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!
Coblenz, Nov., 1835.
STANZAS.
[Is there a bitter pang for love removed]
Is there a bitter pang for love removed,
Oh God! The dead love doth not cost more tears
Than the alive, the loving, the beloved—
Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes and fears!
Would I were laid
Under the shade
Of the calm grave, and the long grass of years,—
Oh God! The dead love doth not cost more tears
Than the alive, the loving, the beloved—
Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes and fears!
129
Under the shade
Of the calm grave, and the long grass of years,—
That love might die with sorrow:—I am sorrow;
And she, that loves me tenderest, doth press
Most poison from my cruel lips, and borrow
Only new anguish from the old caress;
Oh, this world's grief,
Hath no relief,
In being wrung from a great happiness.
And she, that loves me tenderest, doth press
Most poison from my cruel lips, and borrow
Only new anguish from the old caress;
Oh, this world's grief,
Hath no relief,
In being wrung from a great happiness.
Would I had never filled thine eyes with love,
For love is only tears: would I had never
Breathed such a curse-like blessing as we prove;
Now, if “Farewell” could bless thee, I would sever!
Would I were laid
Under the shade,
Of the cold tomb, and the long grass for ever!
For love is only tears: would I had never
Breathed such a curse-like blessing as we prove;
Now, if “Farewell” could bless thee, I would sever!
Would I were laid
Under the shade,
Of the cold tomb, and the long grass for ever!
136
1836.
A TOAST.
Come! a health! and it's not to be slighted with sips,
A cold pulse, or a spirit supine—
All the blood in my heart seems to rush to my lips,
To commingle its flow with the wine.
A cold pulse, or a spirit supine—
All the blood in my heart seems to rush to my lips,
To commingle its flow with the wine.
Bring a cup of the purest and solidest ware,—
But a little antique in its shape;
And the juice,—let it be the most racy and rare,
All the bloom, with the age, of the grape!
But a little antique in its shape;
And the juice,—let it be the most racy and rare,
All the bloom, with the age, of the grape!
Even such is the love I would celebrate now,
At once young, and mature, and in prime,—
Like the tree of the orange, that shows on its bough
The bud, blossom and fruit at one time!
At once young, and mature, and in prime,—
Like the tree of the orange, that shows on its bough
The bud, blossom and fruit at one time!
Then with three, as is due, let the honours be paid,
Whilst I give with my hand, heart, and head,
“Here's to her, the fond mother, dear partner, kind maid,
Who first taught me to love, woo, and wed!”
Whilst I give with my hand, heart, and head,
“Here's to her, the fond mother, dear partner, kind maid,
Who first taught me to love, woo, and wed!”
137
SONG FOR THE NINETEENTH.
The morning sky is hung with mist,
The rolling drum the street alarms,
The host is paid, his daughter kiss'd,
So now to arms, so now to arms.
The rolling drum the street alarms,
The host is paid, his daughter kiss'd,
So now to arms, so now to arms.
Our evening bowl was strong and stiff,
And may we get such quarters oft,
I ne'er was better lodged, for if
The straw was hard, the maid was soft.
And may we get such quarters oft,
I ne'er was better lodged, for if
The straw was hard, the maid was soft.
So now to arms, to arms, to arms,
And fare you well, my little dear,
And if they ask who won your charms,
Why say 'twas in your Nineteenth Year.
And fare you well, my little dear,
And if they ask who won your charms,
Why say 'twas in your Nineteenth Year.
146
1837.
THE BLUE BOAR.
'Tis known to man, 'tis known to woman,
'Tis known to all the world in common,
How politics and party strife
Vex public, even private, life;
But, till some days ago, at least
They never worried brutal beast.
'Tis known to all the world in common,
How politics and party strife
Vex public, even private, life;
147
They never worried brutal beast.
I wish you could have seen the creature,
A tame domestic boar by nature,
Gone wild as boar that ever grunted,
By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted.
His back was up, and on its ledge
The bristles rose like quickset hedge;
His eye was fierce and red as coal,
Like furnace, shining through a hole,
And restless turn'd for mischief seeking;
His very hide with rage was reeking;
And oft he gnash'd his crooked tusks,
Chewing his tongue instead of husks,
Till all his jaw was white and yesty,
Showing him savage, fierce, and resty.
A tame domestic boar by nature,
Gone wild as boar that ever grunted,
By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted.
His back was up, and on its ledge
The bristles rose like quickset hedge;
His eye was fierce and red as coal,
Like furnace, shining through a hole,
And restless turn'd for mischief seeking;
His very hide with rage was reeking;
And oft he gnash'd his crooked tusks,
Chewing his tongue instead of husks,
Till all his jaw was white and yesty,
Showing him savage, fierce, and resty.
And what had caused this mighty vapour?
A dirty fragment of a paper,
That in his rambles he had found,
Lying neglected on the ground;
A relic of the Morning Post,
Two tattered columns at the most,
But which our irritated swine
(Derived from Learned Toby's line)
Digested easy as his meals,
Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel's.
A dirty fragment of a paper,
That in his rambles he had found,
Lying neglected on the ground;
A relic of the Morning Post,
Two tattered columns at the most,
But which our irritated swine
(Derived from Learned Toby's line)
Digested easy as his meals,
Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel's.
He read, and mused, and pored and read,
His shoulders shrugg'd, and shook his head;
Now at a line he gave a grunt,
Now at a phrase took sudden stunt,
And snorting turn'd his back upon it,
But always came again to con it;
In short he petted up his passion,
After a very human fashion,
When Temper's worried with a bone
She'll neither like nor let alone.
At last his fury reach'd the pitch
Of that most irritating itch,
When mind and will, in fever'd faction,
Prompt blood and body into action;
No matter what, so bone and muscle
May vent the frenzy in a bustle;
But whether by a fight or dance
Is left to impulse and to chance.
So stood the Boar, in furious mood
Made up for any thing but good;
He gave his tail a tighter twist,
As men in anger clench the fist,
And threw fresh sparkles in his eye
From the volcano in his fry—
Ready to raze the parish pound,
To pull the pigsty to the ground,
To lay Squire Giles, his master, level,
Ready, indeed, to play the devil.
His shoulders shrugg'd, and shook his head;
Now at a line he gave a grunt,
Now at a phrase took sudden stunt,
148
But always came again to con it;
In short he petted up his passion,
After a very human fashion,
When Temper's worried with a bone
She'll neither like nor let alone.
At last his fury reach'd the pitch
Of that most irritating itch,
When mind and will, in fever'd faction,
Prompt blood and body into action;
No matter what, so bone and muscle
May vent the frenzy in a bustle;
But whether by a fight or dance
Is left to impulse and to chance.
So stood the Boar, in furious mood
Made up for any thing but good;
He gave his tail a tighter twist,
As men in anger clench the fist,
And threw fresh sparkles in his eye
From the volcano in his fry—
Ready to raze the parish pound,
To pull the pigsty to the ground,
To lay Squire Giles, his master, level,
Ready, indeed, to play the devil.
So, stirr'd by raving demagogues,
I've seen men rush, like rabid dogs,
Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle,
And like his Boarship, in a bristle,
Resolved unanimous on rumpus
From any quarter of the compass;
But whether to duck Aldgate Pump,
(For wits in madness never jump)
To liberate the beasts from Cross's;
Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross's;
On Waithman's column hang a weeper;
Or tar and feather the old sweeper;
Or break the panes of landlord scurvy,
And turn the King's Head topsy-turvy;
Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall;
Or take his cross from old Saint Paul;
Or burn those wooden Highland fellows,
The snuff-men's idols, 'neath the gallows!
None fix'd or cared—but all were loyal
To one design—a battle royal.
I've seen men rush, like rabid dogs,
Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle,
And like his Boarship, in a bristle,
Resolved unanimous on rumpus
From any quarter of the compass;
But whether to duck Aldgate Pump,
(For wits in madness never jump)
149
Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross's;
On Waithman's column hang a weeper;
Or tar and feather the old sweeper;
Or break the panes of landlord scurvy,
And turn the King's Head topsy-turvy;
Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall;
Or take his cross from old Saint Paul;
Or burn those wooden Highland fellows,
The snuff-men's idols, 'neath the gallows!
None fix'd or cared—but all were loyal
To one design—a battle royal.
Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood,
Trampling the Morning Post to mud,
With tusks prepared to run a muck;—
And sorrow for the mortal's luck
That came across him Whig or Tory,
It would have been a tragic story—
But fortune interposing now,
Brought Bessy into play—a Sow;—
A fat, sleek, philosophic beast,
That never fretted in the least,
Whether her grains were sour or sweet,
For grains are grains, and she could eat.
Absorb'd in two great schemes capacious,
The farrow, and the farinaceous,
If cares she had, they could not stay,
She drank, and wash'd them all away.
In fact this philosophic sow
Was very like a German frow;
In brief—as wit should be and fun,—
If sows turn Quakers, she was one;
Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab,
In bran-new muddy suit of drab.
To still the storm of such a lubber,
She came like oil—at least like blubber—
Her pigtail of as passive shape
As ever droop'd o'er powder'd nape;
Her snout, scarce turning up—her deep
Small eyes half settled into sleep;
Her ample ears, dependent, meek,
Like fig-leaves shading either cheek;
Whilst, from the corner of her jaw,
A sprout of cabbage, green and raw,
Protruded,—as the Dove, so stanch
For Peace, supports an olive branch,—
Her very grunt, so low and mild,
Like the soft snoring of a child,
Inquiring into his disquiets,
Served like the Riot Act, at riots,—
He laid his restive bristles flatter,
And took to arguefy the matter.
Trampling the Morning Post to mud,
With tusks prepared to run a muck;—
And sorrow for the mortal's luck
That came across him Whig or Tory,
It would have been a tragic story—
But fortune interposing now,
Brought Bessy into play—a Sow;—
A fat, sleek, philosophic beast,
That never fretted in the least,
Whether her grains were sour or sweet,
For grains are grains, and she could eat.
Absorb'd in two great schemes capacious,
The farrow, and the farinaceous,
If cares she had, they could not stay,
She drank, and wash'd them all away.
In fact this philosophic sow
Was very like a German frow;
In brief—as wit should be and fun,—
If sows turn Quakers, she was one;
150
In bran-new muddy suit of drab.
To still the storm of such a lubber,
She came like oil—at least like blubber—
Her pigtail of as passive shape
As ever droop'd o'er powder'd nape;
Her snout, scarce turning up—her deep
Small eyes half settled into sleep;
Her ample ears, dependent, meek,
Like fig-leaves shading either cheek;
Whilst, from the corner of her jaw,
A sprout of cabbage, green and raw,
Protruded,—as the Dove, so stanch
For Peace, supports an olive branch,—
Her very grunt, so low and mild,
Like the soft snoring of a child,
Inquiring into his disquiets,
Served like the Riot Act, at riots,—
He laid his restive bristles flatter,
And took to arguefy the matter.
“O Bess, O Bess, here's heavy news!
They mean to 'mancipate the Jews!
Just as they turn'd the blacks to whites,
They want to give them equal rights,
And, in the twinkling of a steeple,
Make Hebrews quite like other people.
Here, read—but I forget your fetters,
You've studied litters more than letters.”
They mean to 'mancipate the Jews!
Just as they turn'd the blacks to whites,
They want to give them equal rights,
And, in the twinkling of a steeple,
Make Hebrews quite like other people.
Here, read—but I forget your fetters,
You've studied litters more than letters.”
“Well,” quoth the Sow, “and no great miss,
I'm sure my ignorance is bliss;
Contentedly I bite and sup,
And never let my flare flare-up;
Whilst you get wild and fuming hot—
What matters Jews be Jews or not?
Whether they go with beards like Moses,
Or barbers take them by the noses,
Whether they live, permitted dwellers,
In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars,
Or climb their way to civic perches,
Or go to synagogues or churches?”
I'm sure my ignorance is bliss;
151
And never let my flare flare-up;
Whilst you get wild and fuming hot—
What matters Jews be Jews or not?
Whether they go with beards like Moses,
Or barbers take them by the noses,
Whether they live, permitted dwellers,
In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars,
Or climb their way to civic perches,
Or go to synagogues or churches?”
“Churches!—ay, there the question grapples,
No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell's!”
No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell's!”
“To chapel—well—what's that to you?
A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew?
We pigs,—remember the remark
Of our old drover Samuel Slark,
When trying, but he tried in vain,
To coax me into Sermon Lane,
Or Paternoster's pious Row,—
But still I stood and grunted No!
Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner,
Till bolting off, at Amen Corner,
He cried, provoked at my evasion,
‘Pigs, blow 'em! ar'n't of no persuasion!’”
A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew?
We pigs,—remember the remark
Of our old drover Samuel Slark,
When trying, but he tried in vain,
To coax me into Sermon Lane,
Or Paternoster's pious Row,—
But still I stood and grunted No!
Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner,
Till bolting off, at Amen Corner,
He cried, provoked at my evasion,
‘Pigs, blow 'em! ar'n't of no persuasion!’”
“The more's the pity, Bess,—the more—”
Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar;
“If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans,
They'd make a sin of sage and onions;
The curse of endless flames endorse
On every boat of apple-sauce;
Give brine to Satan, and assess
Blackpuddings with bloodguiltiness;
Yea, call down heavenly fire and smoke
To burn all Epping into coke!”
Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar;
“If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans,
They'd make a sin of sage and onions;
The curse of endless flames endorse
On every boat of apple-sauce;
152
Blackpuddings with bloodguiltiness;
Yea, call down heavenly fire and smoke
To burn all Epping into coke!”
“Ay,” cried the Sow, extremely placid,
In utter contrast to his acid,
“Ay, that would be a Sect indeed!
And every swine would like the creed,
The sausage-making curse and all;
And should some brother have a call,
To thump a cushion to that measure,
I would sit under him with pleasure;
Nay, put down half my private fortune
T' endow a chapel at Hog's Norton.—
But what has this to do, my deary,
With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?”
In utter contrast to his acid,
“Ay, that would be a Sect indeed!
And every swine would like the creed,
The sausage-making curse and all;
And should some brother have a call,
To thump a cushion to that measure,
I would sit under him with pleasure;
Nay, put down half my private fortune
T' endow a chapel at Hog's Norton.—
But what has this to do, my deary,
With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?”
“Sow that you are! this Bill, if current,
Would be as good as our death-warrant;—
And, with its legislative friskings,
Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins!
Unjew the Jews, what follows then?
Why, they'll eat pork like other men,
And you shall see a Rabbi dish up
A chine as freely as a Bishop!
Thousands of years have pass'd, and pork
Was never stuck on Hebrew fork;
But now, suppose that relish rare
Fresh added to their bill of fare,
Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine,
Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin,
And then, beyond all goose or duckling”—
“Yes, yes—a little tender suckling!
It must be held the aptest savour
To make the eager mouth to slaver!
Merely to look on such a gruntling,
A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling,
It makes one—ah! remembrance bitter!
It made me eat my own dear litter!”
Would be as good as our death-warrant;—
And, with its legislative friskings,
Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins!
Unjew the Jews, what follows then?
Why, they'll eat pork like other men,
And you shall see a Rabbi dish up
A chine as freely as a Bishop!
Thousands of years have pass'd, and pork
Was never stuck on Hebrew fork;
But now, suppose that relish rare
Fresh added to their bill of fare,
Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine,
Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin,
And then, beyond all goose or duckling”—
153
It must be held the aptest savour
To make the eager mouth to slaver!
Merely to look on such a gruntling,
A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling,
It makes one—ah! remembrance bitter!
It made me eat my own dear litter!”
“Think, then, with this new waken'd fury,
How we should fare if tried by Jewry!
A pest upon the meddling Whigs!
There'll be a pretty run on pigs!
This very morn a Hebrew brother,
With three hats stuck on one another,
And o'er his arm a bag, or poke,
A thing pigs never find a joke,
Stopp'd,—rip the fellow!—though he knew
I've neither coat to sell nor shoe,
And cock'd his nose—right at me, lovey!
Just like a pointer at a covey!
How we should fare if tried by Jewry!
A pest upon the meddling Whigs!
There'll be a pretty run on pigs!
This very morn a Hebrew brother,
With three hats stuck on one another,
And o'er his arm a bag, or poke,
A thing pigs never find a joke,
Stopp'd,—rip the fellow!—though he knew
I've neither coat to sell nor shoe,
And cock'd his nose—right at me, lovey!
Just like a pointer at a covey!
To set our only friends agin us!
That neither care to fat nor thin us!
To boil, to broil, to roast, or fry us,
But act like real Christians by us!—
A murrain on all legislators!
Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten 'taters!
A bulldog at their ears and tails!
The curse of empty troughs and pails
Famish their flanks as thin as weasels!
May all their children have the measles;
Or in the straw untimely smother,
Or make a dinner for the mother!
A cartwhip for all law inventors!
And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters!
Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch in,
And parish pounds to pine the flitch in,
Cold, and high winds, the Devil send 'em—
And then may Sam the Sticker end 'em!”
That neither care to fat nor thin us!
To boil, to broil, to roast, or fry us,
But act like real Christians by us!—
A murrain on all legislators!
Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten 'taters!
A bulldog at their ears and tails!
The curse of empty troughs and pails
Famish their flanks as thin as weasels!
May all their children have the measles;
Or in the straw untimely smother,
Or make a dinner for the mother!
154
And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters!
Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch in,
And parish pounds to pine the flitch in,
Cold, and high winds, the Devil send 'em—
And then may Sam the Sticker end 'em!”
'Twas strange to hear him how he swore!
A Boar will curse, though like a boar,
While Bess, like Pity, at his side
Her swine-subduing voice supplied!
She bade him such a rage discard;
That anger is a foe to lard;
'Tis bad for sugar to get wet,
And quite as bad for fat to fret;
“Besides,”—she argued thus at last—
“The Bill you fume at has not pass'd,
For why, the Commons and the Peers
Have come together by the ears:
Or rather, as we pigs repose,
One's tail beside the other's nose,
And thus, of course, take adverse views
Whether of Gentiles or of Jews.
Who knows? They say the Lords' ill-will
Has thrown out many a wholesome Bill,
And p'rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitious
May swamp a measure so Jew-dish-us!”
A Boar will curse, though like a boar,
While Bess, like Pity, at his side
Her swine-subduing voice supplied!
She bade him such a rage discard;
That anger is a foe to lard;
'Tis bad for sugar to get wet,
And quite as bad for fat to fret;
“Besides,”—she argued thus at last—
“The Bill you fume at has not pass'd,
For why, the Commons and the Peers
Have come together by the ears:
Or rather, as we pigs repose,
One's tail beside the other's nose,
And thus, of course, take adverse views
Whether of Gentiles or of Jews.
Who knows? They say the Lords' ill-will
Has thrown out many a wholesome Bill,
And p'rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitious
May swamp a measure so Jew-dish-us!”
The Boar was conquer'd: at a glance,
He saw there really was a chance—
That as the Hebrew nose is hooked,
The Bill was equally as crooked;
And might outlast, thank party embers,
A dozen tribes of Christian members;—
So down he settled in the mud,
With smoother back, and cooler blood,
As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar,
As any over tavern-door.
He saw there really was a chance—
That as the Hebrew nose is hooked,
The Bill was equally as crooked;
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A dozen tribes of Christian members;—
So down he settled in the mud,
With smoother back, and cooler blood,
As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar,
As any over tavern-door.
MORAL.
The chance is small that any measureWill give all classes equal pleasure;
Since Tory Ministers or Whigs,
Sometimes can't even “please the Pigs.”
LOVE LANE.
If I should love a maiden more,
And woo her ev'ry hope to crown,
I'd love her all the country o'er,
But not declare it out of town.
And woo her ev'ry hope to crown,
I'd love her all the country o'er,
But not declare it out of town.
One even, by a mossy bank,
That held a hornet's nest within,
To Ellen on my knees I sank,—
How snakes will twine around the shin!
That held a hornet's nest within,
To Ellen on my knees I sank,—
How snakes will twine around the shin!
A bashful fear my soul unnerved,
And gave my heart a backward tug;
Nor was I cheer'd when she observed,
Whilst I was silent,—“What a slug!”
And gave my heart a backward tug;
Nor was I cheer'd when she observed,
Whilst I was silent,—“What a slug!”
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At length my offer I preferr'd,
And Hope a kind reply forebode—
Alas! the only sound I heard
Was, “What a horrid ugly toad!”
And Hope a kind reply forebode—
Alas! the only sound I heard
Was, “What a horrid ugly toad!”
I vow'd to give her all my heart,
To love her till my life took leave,
And painted all a lover's smart—
Except a wasp gone up his sleeve!
To love her till my life took leave,
And painted all a lover's smart—
Except a wasp gone up his sleeve!
But when I ventured to abide
Her father's and her mother's grants—
Sudden, she started up, and cried,
“O dear! I am all over ants!”
Her father's and her mother's grants—
Sudden, she started up, and cried,
“O dear! I am all over ants!”
Nay, when beginning to beseech
The cause that led to my rebuff,
The answer was as strange a speech,
“A Daddy-Longlegs sure enough!”
The cause that led to my rebuff,
The answer was as strange a speech,
“A Daddy-Longlegs sure enough!”
I spoke of fortune—house,—and lands,
And still renew'd the warm attack,—
'Tis vain to offer ladies hands
That have a spider on the back!
And still renew'd the warm attack,—
'Tis vain to offer ladies hands
That have a spider on the back!
'Tis vain to talk of hopes and fears,
And hope the least reply to win,
From any maid that stops her ears
In dread of earwigs creeping in!
And hope the least reply to win,
From any maid that stops her ears
In dread of earwigs creeping in!
'Tis vain to call the dearest names
Whilst stoats and weazels startle by—
As vain to talk of mutual flames,
To one with glow-worms in her eye!
Whilst stoats and weazels startle by—
As vain to talk of mutual flames,
To one with glow-worms in her eye!
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What check'd me in my fond address,
And knock'd each pretty image down?
What stopp'd my Ellen's faltering Yes?
A caterpillar on her gown!
And knock'd each pretty image down?
What stopp'd my Ellen's faltering Yes?
A caterpillar on her gown!
To list to Philomel is sweet—
To see the Moon rise silver-pale,—
But not to kneel at Lady's feet
And crush a rival in a snail!
To see the Moon rise silver-pale,—
But not to kneel at Lady's feet
And crush a rival in a snail!
Sweet is the eventide, and kind
Its zephyr, balmy as the south;
But sweeter still to speak your mind
Without a chafer in your mouth!
Its zephyr, balmy as the south;
But sweeter still to speak your mind
Without a chafer in your mouth!
At last, embolden'd by my bliss,
Still fickle Fortune play'd me foul,
For when I strove to snatch a kiss
She scream'd—by proxy, through an owl!
Still fickle Fortune play'd me foul,
For when I strove to snatch a kiss
She scream'd—by proxy, through an owl!
Then, Lovers, doom'd to life or death,
Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats,
Lest you should have in selfsame breath
To bless your fate—and curse the gnats!
Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats,
Lest you should have in selfsame breath
To bless your fate—and curse the gnats!
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DRINKING SONG.
BY A MEMBER OF A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY, AS SUNG BY MR. SPRING, AT WATERMAN'S HALL.
Come, pass round the pail, boys, and give it no quarter,
Drink deep, and drink oft, and replenish your jugs,
Fill up, and I'll give you a toast to your water—
The Turncock for ever! that opens the plugs!
Then hey for a bucket, a bucket, a bucket,
Then hey for a bucket, filled up to the brim!
Or, best of all notions, let's have it by oceans,
With plenty of room for a sink or a swim!
Drink deep, and drink oft, and replenish your jugs,
Fill up, and I'll give you a toast to your water—
The Turncock for ever! that opens the plugs!
Then hey for a bucket, a bucket, a bucket,
Then hey for a bucket, filled up to the brim!
Or, best of all notions, let's have it by oceans,
With plenty of room for a sink or a swim!
Let topers of grape-juice exultingly vapour,
But let us just whisper a word to the elves,
We water roads, horses, silks, ribands, bank-paper,
Plants, poets, and muses, and why not ourselves?
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
But let us just whisper a word to the elves,
We water roads, horses, silks, ribands, bank-paper,
Plants, poets, and muses, and why not ourselves?
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
The vintage they cry, think of Spain's and of France's,
The jigs, the boleros, fandangos, and jumps;
But water's the spring of all civilised dances,
We go to a ball not in bottles, but pumps!
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
The jigs, the boleros, fandangos, and jumps;
But water's the spring of all civilised dances,
We go to a ball not in bottles, but pumps!
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Let others of Dorchester quaff at their pleasure,
Or honour old Meux with their thirsty regard—
We'll drink Adam's ale, and we get it pool measure,
Or quaff heavy wet from the butt in the yard!
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Or honour old Meux with their thirsty regard—
We'll drink Adam's ale, and we get it pool measure,
Or quaff heavy wet from the butt in the yard!
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
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Some flatter gin, brandy, and rum, on their merits,
Grog, punch, and what not, that enliven a feast:
Tis true that they stir up the animal spirits,
But may not the animal turn out a beast?
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Grog, punch, and what not, that enliven a feast:
Tis true that they stir up the animal spirits,
But may not the animal turn out a beast?
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
The Man of the Ark, who continued our species,
He saved us by water,—but as for the wine,
We all know the figure, more sad than facetious,
He made after tasting the juice of the vine.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
He saved us by water,—but as for the wine,
We all know the figure, more sad than facetious,
He made after tasting the juice of the vine.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
In wine let a lover remember his jewel
And pledge her in bumpers fill'd brimming and oft;
But we can distinguish the kind from the cruel,
And toast them in water, the hard or the soft.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
And pledge her in bumpers fill'd brimming and oft;
But we can distinguish the kind from the cruel,
And toast them in water, the hard or the soft.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Some cross'd in their passion can never o'erlook it,
But take to a pistol, a knife, or a beam;
Whilst temperate swains are enabled to brook it
By help of a little meandering stream.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
But take to a pistol, a knife, or a beam;
Whilst temperate swains are enabled to brook it
By help of a little meandering stream.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Should fortune diminish our cash's sum-total,
Deranging our wits and our private affairs,
Though some in such cases would fly to the bottle,
There's nothing like water for drowning our cares.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Deranging our wits and our private affairs,
Though some in such cases would fly to the bottle,
There's nothing like water for drowning our cares.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
See drinkers of water, their wits never lacking,
Direct as a railroad and smooth in their gaits;
But look at the bibbers of wine, they go tacking,
Like ships that have met a foul wind in the straits.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Direct as a railroad and smooth in their gaits;
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Like ships that have met a foul wind in the straits.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
A fig then for Burgundy, Claret, or Mountain,
A few scanty glasses must limit your wish,
But he's the true toper that goes to the fountain,
The drinker that verily “drinks like a fish!”
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
A few scanty glasses must limit your wish,
But he's the true toper that goes to the fountain,
The drinker that verily “drinks like a fish!”
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
THE DESERT-BORN.
“Fly to the desert, fly with me.”
—Lady Hester Stanhope.
'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,—
To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!—
My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,
I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,
The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,—
When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud,
And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,—
Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!
To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!—
My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,
I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,
The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,—
When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud,
And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,—
Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!
The turban on her head was white as any driven snow;
A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below,
And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear;
In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;
Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a Turkish robe of silk
Enveloped her in drapery the colour of new milk;
Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath
A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath,
Compell'd by clasps of costly pearl around her neck to meet—
And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!
A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below,
And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear;
In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;
Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a Turkish robe of silk
Enveloped her in drapery the colour of new milk;
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A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath,
Compell'd by clasps of costly pearl around her neck to meet—
And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!
Of course I bow'd my lowest bow—of all the things on earth,
The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,
To power, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon,
A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman!
Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefined,
Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;
There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,
Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!
With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,
I bow'd my forehead to the earth, and kiss'd the arid sand;
And then I touch'd her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,
Predestinated (so I felt) for ever to her service.
The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,
To power, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon,
A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman!
Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefined,
Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;
There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,
Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!
With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,
I bow'd my forehead to the earth, and kiss'd the arid sand;
And then I touch'd her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,
Predestinated (so I felt) for ever to her service.
Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face,
She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;
“Welcome!” she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;
“It was ordain'd that you and I should in this desert meet!
Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,
This interview was promised in the language of the stars!”
Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,
A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands,
Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face
They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.
She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;
“Welcome!” she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;
“It was ordain'd that you and I should in this desert meet!
Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,
This interview was promised in the language of the stars!”
Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,
A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands,
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They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.
“Fear nought,” exclaim'd the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof,
“Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!
Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,
And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth.”
Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,
She cried, “Go bring the Beautiful—for lo! the Man is here!”
“Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!
Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,
And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth.”
Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,
She cried, “Go bring the Beautiful—for lo! the Man is here!”
Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee,
But Fancy fond out-raced them all, with bridle loose and free,
And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride,
Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side;
Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,
Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,
A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist
Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.
Methought—but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,
Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!
To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,
The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse:
Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,
Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,
I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds
Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;—
As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero,
Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.
With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,
Tempestuous tail—to picture him description vainly begs!
His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath—
Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?
Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine
To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign
To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:
“Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!”
Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,
Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,
So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.
But Fancy fond out-raced them all, with bridle loose and free,
And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride,
Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side;
Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,
Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,
A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist
Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.
Methought—but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,
Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!
To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,
The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse:
Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,
Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,
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Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;—
As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero,
Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.
With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,
Tempestuous tail—to picture him description vainly begs!
His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath—
Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?
Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine
To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign
To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:
“Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!”
Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,
Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,
So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.
“Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born,
Or any of its Ridings, this would be a blessed morn:
But, hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse
That I can always honour, but I never could endorse.
To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite
Averse to running long, and apt to be paid-off at sight:
In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,
I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;
Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle
On any horse without ‘a want of keeping’ in the saddle.
In short,” and here I blush'd, abash'd, and held my head full low,
“I'm one of those whose infant years have heard the chimes of Bow!”
Or any of its Ridings, this would be a blessed morn:
But, hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse
That I can always honour, but I never could endorse.
To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite
Averse to running long, and apt to be paid-off at sight:
In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,
I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;
Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle
On any horse without ‘a want of keeping’ in the saddle.
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“I'm one of those whose infant years have heard the chimes of Bow!”
The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies,
And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;
“Stranger,” she said, “or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,
There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend,
That tells me you're of Arab race,—whatever spot of earth,
Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honour of your birth,
The East it is your country! Like an infant changed at nurse
By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;
But this—these desert sands—these palms, and cedars waving wild,
All, all, adopt thee as their own—an oriental child—
The cloud may hide the sun awhile—but soon or late, no doubt,
The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!
I read the starry characters—and lo! 'tis written there,
Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,
A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould,
Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!”
And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;
“Stranger,” she said, “or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,
There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend,
That tells me you're of Arab race,—whatever spot of earth,
Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honour of your birth,
The East it is your country! Like an infant changed at nurse
By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;
But this—these desert sands—these palms, and cedars waving wild,
All, all, adopt thee as their own—an oriental child—
The cloud may hide the sun awhile—but soon or late, no doubt,
The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!
I read the starry characters—and lo! 'tis written there,
Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,
A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould,
Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!”
And truly—I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom
Had stifled her!—the Mare herself appear'd to mock my doom;
With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance,
I fear'd indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,
And felt myself, and saw myself—the phantasy was horrid!—
Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!
On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands upraised in prayer,
I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear;
I painted weeping orphan babes around a widow'd wife,
And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life.
“Behold,” I said, “a simple man, for such high feats unfit,
Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit,
Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,
Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will.”
Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,
The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!
Had stifled her!—the Mare herself appear'd to mock my doom;
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I fear'd indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,
And felt myself, and saw myself—the phantasy was horrid!—
Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!
On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands upraised in prayer,
I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear;
I painted weeping orphan babes around a widow'd wife,
And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life.
“Behold,” I said, “a simple man, for such high feats unfit,
Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit,
Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,
Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will.”
Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,
The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!
“Fear nothing,” said the smiling Fate, “when human help is vain,
Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;
Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,
And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!
As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild
But for a Mare of such descent would barter wife and child.”
Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;
Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,
And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!
As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild
But for a Mare of such descent would barter wife and child.”
“Nay then,” cried I—(heav'n shrive the lie!) “to tell the secret truth,
'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!
A playful child,—so full of life!—a little fair-hair'd boy,
His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy!
Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now!
That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;
A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse,
That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!”
'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!
A playful child,—so full of life!—a little fair-hair'd boy,
His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy!
Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now!
That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;
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That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!”
Good heaven! to see the angry glance that flash'd upon me now!
A chill ran all my marrow through—the drops were on my brow!
I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,
And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air.
How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail;
While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!
How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky,
As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!
While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave
My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!
A chill ran all my marrow through—the drops were on my brow!
I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,
And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air.
How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail;
While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!
How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky,
As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!
While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave
My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!
And I, that ne'er could calmly bear a horse's ears at play,
Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh—
Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch—
Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,—
I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small
To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!
For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast,
Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last!
Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh—
Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch—
Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,—
I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small
To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!
For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast,
Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last!
In agony I shook,—and yet, although congeal'd by fears,
My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;
I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair,
Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.
I could not stir—I could not speak—I could not even see—
A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,—
I tried to pray, but found no words—tho' ready ripe to weep,
No tear would flow,—o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,—
When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,
Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front,
And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,
I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!
My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;
167
Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.
I could not stir—I could not speak—I could not even see—
A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,—
I tried to pray, but found no words—tho' ready ripe to weep,
No tear would flow,—o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,—
When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,
Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front,
And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,
I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!
Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight
Was felt upon her back, as if exulting in her freight;
Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,—
“Off with the bridle—quick!—and leave his guidance to his star!”
Was felt upon her back, as if exulting in her freight;
Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,—
“Off with the bridle—quick!—and leave his guidance to his star!”
“Allah! il Allah!” rose the shout,—and starting with a bound,
The dreadful Creature clear'd at once a dozen yards of ground;
And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,
Away we flew—away! away! across the shifting sands!
My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,
But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,
For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force
Rush'd like a torrid hurricane still adverse to our course—
One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,
The next it only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!
And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,
Oh, ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!
What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,
A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!
What tongue could, tell—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride?
Now off—now on—now up—now down,—and flung from side to side!
I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone—
My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan—
My joints were rack'd—my back was strain'd, so firmly I had clung—
My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue—
When lo!—farewell all hope of life!—she turn'd and faced the rocks,
None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!
So thought I,—but I little knew the desert pride and fire,
Derived from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;
Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,
Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;—
Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge grey rock at length
Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength—
My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!
She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;
Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,
I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing—
But oh! the crash!—the hideous shock!—the million sparks around!
Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!
Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth,
One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!
How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,
The dreadful Creature clear'd at once a dozen yards of ground;
And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,
Away we flew—away! away! across the shifting sands!
My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,
But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,
For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force
Rush'd like a torrid hurricane still adverse to our course—
One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,
The next it only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!
And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,
Oh, ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!
168
A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!
What tongue could, tell—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride?
Now off—now on—now up—now down,—and flung from side to side!
I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone—
My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan—
My joints were rack'd—my back was strain'd, so firmly I had clung—
My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue—
When lo!—farewell all hope of life!—she turn'd and faced the rocks,
None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!
So thought I,—but I little knew the desert pride and fire,
Derived from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;
Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,
Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;—
Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge grey rock at length
Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength—
My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!
She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;
Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,
I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing—
169
Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!
Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth,
One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!
And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;
For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,
The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.
My heart was still—my pulses stopp'd—midway 'twixt life and death,
With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,
Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,
Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die.
Oh, slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,
Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!
I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife—
A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—
But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his labouring breast?
Why any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.
170
ODE TO DOCTOR HAHNEMANN,
THE HOMŒOPATHIST.
Well, Doctor,
Great concoctor
Of medicines to help in man's distress;
Diluting down the strong to meek,
And making ev'n the weak more weak,
“Fine by degrees, and beautifully less”—
Founder of a new system economic,
To druggists anything but comic;
Framed the whole race of Ollapods to fret,
At profits, like thy doses, very small;
To put all Doctors' Boys in evil case,
Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of place,—
And show us old Apothecaries' Hall
“To Let.”
Great concoctor
Of medicines to help in man's distress;
Diluting down the strong to meek,
And making ev'n the weak more weak,
“Fine by degrees, and beautifully less”—
Founder of a new system economic,
To druggists anything but comic;
Framed the whole race of Ollapods to fret,
At profits, like thy doses, very small;
To put all Doctors' Boys in evil case,
Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of place,—
And show us old Apothecaries' Hall
“To Let.”
How fare thy Patients? are they dead or living,
Or, well as can expected be, with such
A style of practice, liberally giving
“A sum of more to that which had too much?”
Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it?
Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not?
Do fevers yield to anything that's hot?
Or hearty dinners neutralise a surfeit?
Is't good advice for gastronomic ills,
When Indigestion's face with pain is crumpling,
To cry “Discard those Peristaltic Pills,
Take a hard dumpling?”
Or, well as can expected be, with such
A style of practice, liberally giving
“A sum of more to that which had too much?”
Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it?
Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not?
Do fevers yield to anything that's hot?
Or hearty dinners neutralise a surfeit?
Is't good advice for gastronomic ills,
When Indigestion's face with pain is crumpling,
To cry “Discard those Peristaltic Pills,
Take a hard dumpling?”
171
Tell me, thou German Cousin,
And tell me honestly without a diddle,
Does an attenuated dose of rosin
Act as a tonic on the old Scotch fiddle?
Tell me, when Anhalt-Coethen babies wriggle,
Like eels just caught by sniggle,
Martyrs to some acidity internal,
That gives them pangs infernal,
Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges;
Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm,
Thanks to that soothing homœopathic balm,
The half of half, of half, a drop of “varges?”
And tell me honestly without a diddle,
Does an attenuated dose of rosin
Act as a tonic on the old Scotch fiddle?
Tell me, when Anhalt-Coethen babies wriggle,
Like eels just caught by sniggle,
Martyrs to some acidity internal,
That gives them pangs infernal,
Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges;
Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm,
Thanks to that soothing homœopathic balm,
The half of half, of half, a drop of “varges?”
Suppose, for instance, upon Leipzig's plain,
A soldier pillow'd on a heap of slain,
In urgent want both of a priest and proctor;
When lo! there comes a man in green and red,
A featherless cock'd-hat adorns his head,
In short a Saxon military doctor—
Would he, indeed, on the right treatment fix,
To cure a horrid gaping wound,
Made by a ball that weigh'd a pound,
If he well pepper'd it with number six?
A soldier pillow'd on a heap of slain,
In urgent want both of a priest and proctor;
When lo! there comes a man in green and red,
A featherless cock'd-hat adorns his head,
In short a Saxon military doctor—
Would he, indeed, on the right treatment fix,
To cure a horrid gaping wound,
Made by a ball that weigh'd a pound,
If he well pepper'd it with number six?
Suppose a felon doom'd to swing
Within a rope,
Might friends not hope
To cure him with a string?
Suppose his breath arrived at a full stop,
The shades of death in a black cloud before him,
Would a quintillionth dose of the New Drop
Restore him?
Within a rope,
Might friends not hope
To cure him with a string?
Suppose his breath arrived at a full stop,
The shades of death in a black cloud before him,
Would a quintillionth dose of the New Drop
Restore him?
172
Fancy a man gone rabid from a bite,
Snapping to left and right,
And giving tongue like one of Sebright's hounds,
Terrific sounds,
The pallid neighbourhood with horror cowing,
To hit the proper homœopathic mark;
Now, might not “the last taste in life” of bark,
Stop his bow-wow-ing?
Nay, with a well-known remedy to fit him,
Would he not mend, if with all proper care,
He took “a hair
Of the dog that bit him?”
Snapping to left and right,
And giving tongue like one of Sebright's hounds,
Terrific sounds,
The pallid neighbourhood with horror cowing,
To hit the proper homœopathic mark;
Now, might not “the last taste in life” of bark,
Stop his bow-wow-ing?
Nay, with a well-known remedy to fit him,
Would he not mend, if with all proper care,
He took “a hair
Of the dog that bit him?”
Picture a man—we'll say a Dutch Meinheer—
In evident emotion,
Bent o'er the bulwark of the Batavier,
Owning those symptoms queer—
Some feel in a Sick Transit o'er the ocean,
Can anything in life be more pathetic
Than when he turns to us his wretched face?—
But would it mend his case
To be decillionth-dosed
With something like the ghost
Of an emetic?
In evident emotion,
Bent o'er the bulwark of the Batavier,
Owning those symptoms queer—
Some feel in a Sick Transit o'er the ocean,
Can anything in life be more pathetic
Than when he turns to us his wretched face?—
But would it mend his case
To be decillionth-dosed
With something like the ghost
Of an emetic?
Lo! now a darken'd room!
Look through the dreary gloom,
And see that coverlet of wildest form,
Tost like the billows in a storm,
Where ever and anon, with groans, emerges
A ghastly head!
While two impatient arms still beat the bed,
Like a strong swimmer's struggling with the surges;
There Life and Death are on their battle-plain,
With many a mortal ecstasy of pain—
What shall support the body in its trial,
Cool the hot blood, wild dream, and parching skin,
And tame the raging malady within—
A sniff of Next-to-Nothing in a phial?
Look through the dreary gloom,
And see that coverlet of wildest form,
Tost like the billows in a storm,
Where ever and anon, with groans, emerges
A ghastly head!
While two impatient arms still beat the bed,
Like a strong swimmer's struggling with the surges;
173
With many a mortal ecstasy of pain—
What shall support the body in its trial,
Cool the hot blood, wild dream, and parching skin,
And tame the raging malady within—
A sniff of Next-to-Nothing in a phial?
Oh! Doctor Hahnemann, if here I laugh,
And cry together, half and half,
Excuse me, 'tis a mood the subject brings,
To think, whilst I have crow'd like chanticleer,
Perchance, from some dull eye the hopeless tear
Hath gush'd, with my light levity at schism,
To mourn some Martyr of Empiricism!
Perchance, on thy own system, I have given
A pang superfluous to the pains of Sorrow,
Who weeps with Memory from morn till even;
Where comfort there is none to lend or borrow,
Sighing to one sad strain,
“She will not come again,
To-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow!”
And cry together, half and half,
Excuse me, 'tis a mood the subject brings,
To think, whilst I have crow'd like chanticleer,
Perchance, from some dull eye the hopeless tear
Hath gush'd, with my light levity at schism,
To mourn some Martyr of Empiricism!
Perchance, on thy own system, I have given
A pang superfluous to the pains of Sorrow,
Who weeps with Memory from morn till even;
Where comfort there is none to lend or borrow,
Sighing to one sad strain,
“She will not come again,
To-morrow, nor to-morrow, nor to-morrow!”
Doctor, forgive me, if I dare prescribe
A rule for thee thyself, and all thy tribe,
Inserting a few serious words by stealth;
Above all price of wealth
The Body's Jewel,—not for minds profane,
Or hands, to tamper with in practice vain—
Like to a Woman's Virtue is Man's Health.
A heavenly gift within a holy shrine!
To be approach'd and touch'd with serious fear,
By hands made pure, and hearts of faith severe,
Even as the Priesthood of the ONE divine!
But, zounds! each fellow with a suit of black.
And, strange to fame,
With a diploma'd name,
That carries two more letters pick-a-back,
With cane, and snuff-box, powder'd wig, and block,
Invents his dose, as if it were a chrism,
And dares to treat our wondrous mechanism,
Familiar as the works of old Dutch clock;
Yet, how would common sense esteem the man,
Oh how, my unrelated German cousin,
Who having some such time-keeper on trial,
And finding it too fast, enforced the dial,
To strike upon the Homœopathic plan
Of fourteen to the dozen?
A rule for thee thyself, and all thy tribe,
Inserting a few serious words by stealth;
Above all price of wealth
The Body's Jewel,—not for minds profane,
Or hands, to tamper with in practice vain—
Like to a Woman's Virtue is Man's Health.
A heavenly gift within a holy shrine!
To be approach'd and touch'd with serious fear,
By hands made pure, and hearts of faith severe,
Even as the Priesthood of the ONE divine!
174
And, strange to fame,
With a diploma'd name,
That carries two more letters pick-a-back,
With cane, and snuff-box, powder'd wig, and block,
Invents his dose, as if it were a chrism,
And dares to treat our wondrous mechanism,
Familiar as the works of old Dutch clock;
Yet, how would common sense esteem the man,
Oh how, my unrelated German cousin,
Who having some such time-keeper on trial,
And finding it too fast, enforced the dial,
To strike upon the Homœopathic plan
Of fourteen to the dozen?
Take my advice, 'tis given without a fee,
Drown, drown your book ten thousand fathoms deep
Like Prospero's beneath the briny sea,
For spells of magic have all gone to sleep!
Leave no decillionth fragment of your works,
To help the interests of quacking Burkes;
Aid not in murdering even widow's mites,—
And now forgive me for my candid zeal,
I had not said so much, but that I feel
Should you take ill what here my Muse indites,
An Ode-ling more will set you all to rights.
Drown, drown your book ten thousand fathoms deep
Like Prospero's beneath the briny sea,
For spells of magic have all gone to sleep!
Leave no decillionth fragment of your works,
To help the interests of quacking Burkes;
Aid not in murdering even widow's mites,—
And now forgive me for my candid zeal,
I had not said so much, but that I feel
Should you take ill what here my Muse indites,
An Ode-ling more will set you all to rights.
175
AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.
A PASTORAL REPORT.
One Sunday morning—service done—
'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch—
Which side had won the cricket match;
And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;—
How barley, beans, and 'taters sold—
What men could swallow at a meal—
When Bumstead Youths would ring a peal—
And who was taken off to jail—
And where they brew'd the strongest ale—
At last this question they address,
“What's Agricultural Distress?”
HODGE.'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch—
Which side had won the cricket match;
And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;—
How barley, beans, and 'taters sold—
What men could swallow at a meal—
When Bumstead Youths would ring a peal—
And who was taken off to jail—
And where they brew'd the strongest ale—
At last this question they address,
“What's Agricultural Distress?”
“For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,
It be the fancy farming line,
Like yonder gemman,—him I mean,
As took the Willa nigh the Green,—
And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;
And gave his porkers hay to eat;
And sent his footman up to town,
To ax the Lonnon gentry down,
To be so kind as make his hay
Exactly on St. Swithin's day;—
176
That's Hagricultural Distress.”
DICKON.
“Last Monday morning, Master Blogg
Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;
But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,
As if he twigg'd the reason why,
And dodged and dodged 'un such a dance,
He didn't give the noose a chance;
So Master Blogg at last lays off,
And shams a rattle at the trough,
When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog
Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,
And flops him down in all the muck,
As hadn't been swept up by luck—
Now that, accordin' to my guess,
Be Hagricultural Distress.”
GILES.
“No, that arn't it, I tell'ee flat;
I'ze bring a worser case nor that!
Last Friday week, I takes a start
To Reading, with our horse and cart;
Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down.
I meets a crony at the Crown;
And what betwixt the ale and Tom,
It's dark afore I starts for home;
So whipping hard, by long and late,
At last we reaches nigh the gate,
And, sure enough, there Master stand,
A lantern flaring in his hand,—
177
Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear!
He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!’
There's Hagricultural Distress?”
HOB.
“That's nothin' yet, to Tom's mishap!
A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,
Only to fetch his milking-pails,
When up he shies like head or tails;
Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,
Till he had toss'd the best o' three;—
And there lies Tom with broken bones.
A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones;
Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,
‘There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,—
Eat well,' says he, ‘stuff out your case,
For that will keep the ribs in place;’
But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,
Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw?
That's summut to the pint—yes, yes,
That's Hagricultural Distress?’
SIMON.
“Well, turn and turn about is fair:
Tom's bad anough, and so's the mare;
But nothing to my load of hay.
You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,
And cash was wanted for the rent;
So up to Lonnon I was sent,
To sell as prime a load of hay
As ever dried on summer's day.
“Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,
A chap comes up to buy my load,
And looks, and looks about the cart,
Pretending to be 'cute and smart;
But no great judge, as people say,
'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.
Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,
He'll give a simple price mayhap,
Such buyers comes but now and then,
So slap I axes nine pun' ten.
‘That's dear,’ says he, and pretty quick
He taps his leathers with his stick.
‘Suppose,’ says he, ‘we wet our clay,
Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.’
So in we goes, my chap and me;
He drinks to I, and I to he;
At last, says I, a little gay,
‘It's time to talk about that hay.’
‘Nine pund,’ says he, ‘and I'm your man,
Live, and let live—for that's my plan.’
‘That's true,’ says I, ‘but still I say,
It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay.’
And so we chaffers for a bit,
At long and last the odds we split;
And off he sets to show the way,
Where up a yard I leaves the hay.
Then, from the pocket of his coat,
He pulls a book, and picks a note.
‘That's Ten,’ says he—‘I hope to pay
Tens upon tens for loads of hay.’
‘With all my heart, and soon,’ says I,
And feeling for the change thereby;
But all my shillings com'd to five—
Says he, ‘No matter man alive!
There's something in your honest phiz
I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;—
You'll pay next time you come to town.’
‘As sure,’ says I, ‘as corn is brown.’
‘All right,’ says he.—Thinks I ‘huzza!
He's got no bargain of the hay!’
Tom's bad anough, and so's the mare;
But nothing to my load of hay.
You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,
And cash was wanted for the rent;
So up to Lonnon I was sent,
To sell as prime a load of hay
As ever dried on summer's day.
178
A chap comes up to buy my load,
And looks, and looks about the cart,
Pretending to be 'cute and smart;
But no great judge, as people say,
'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.
Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,
He'll give a simple price mayhap,
Such buyers comes but now and then,
So slap I axes nine pun' ten.
‘That's dear,’ says he, and pretty quick
He taps his leathers with his stick.
‘Suppose,’ says he, ‘we wet our clay,
Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.’
So in we goes, my chap and me;
He drinks to I, and I to he;
At last, says I, a little gay,
‘It's time to talk about that hay.’
‘Nine pund,’ says he, ‘and I'm your man,
Live, and let live—for that's my plan.’
‘That's true,’ says I, ‘but still I say,
It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay.’
And so we chaffers for a bit,
At long and last the odds we split;
And off he sets to show the way,
Where up a yard I leaves the hay.
Then, from the pocket of his coat,
He pulls a book, and picks a note.
‘That's Ten,’ says he—‘I hope to pay
Tens upon tens for loads of hay.’
‘With all my heart, and soon,’ says I,
And feeling for the change thereby;
179
Says he, ‘No matter man alive!
There's something in your honest phiz
I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;—
You'll pay next time you come to town.’
‘As sure,’ says I, ‘as corn is brown.’
‘All right,’ says he.—Thinks I ‘huzza!
He's got no bargain of the hay!’
“Well, home I goes, with empty cart,
Whipping the horses pretty smart,
And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,
To think how well I'd sold the hay—
And just cotch'd Master at his greens
And bacon, or it might be beans,
Which didn't taste the worse surely,
To hear his hay had gone so high.
But lord! when I laid down the note,
It stuck the victuals in his throat,
And choked him till his face all grew
Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;
With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!
They seem'd a-coming out like snails'!
‘A note,’ says he, half mad with passion,
‘Why, thou dom'd fool? thou'st took a flash 'un!’
Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?
That's Hagricultural Distress.”
Whipping the horses pretty smart,
And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,
To think how well I'd sold the hay—
And just cotch'd Master at his greens
And bacon, or it might be beans,
Which didn't taste the worse surely,
To hear his hay had gone so high.
But lord! when I laid down the note,
It stuck the victuals in his throat,
And choked him till his face all grew
Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;
With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!
They seem'd a-coming out like snails'!
‘A note,’ says he, half mad with passion,
‘Why, thou dom'd fool? thou'st took a flash 'un!’
Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?
That's Hagricultural Distress.”
COLIN.
“Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing!
You only argy in a ring;
'Cause why? You never cares to look,
Like me, in any larned book;
But schollards know the wrong and right
Of every thing in black and white.
You only argy in a ring;
'Cause why? You never cares to look,
Like me, in any larned book;
180
Of every thing in black and white.
“Well, Farming, that's its common name,
And Agriculture be the same:
So put your Farming first, and next
Distress, and there you have your text.
But here the question comes to press,
What farming be, and what's distress?
Why, farming is to plough and sow,
Weed, harrow, harvest, reap and mow,
Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed
The proper stock to fat and feed.
Distress is want, and pain, and grief,
And sickness,—things as wants relief;
Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;
In short, ax any overseer,—
Well, now, the logic for to chop,
Where's the distress about a crop?
There's no distress in keeping sheep,
I likes to see 'em frisk and leap;
There's no distress in seeing swine
Grow up to pork and bacon fine;
There's no distress in growing wheat
And grass for men or beasts to eat;
And making of lean cattle fat,
There's no distress, of course, in that.
Then what remains?—But one thing more,
And that's the Farming of the Poor!”
And Agriculture be the same:
So put your Farming first, and next
Distress, and there you have your text.
But here the question comes to press,
What farming be, and what's distress?
Why, farming is to plough and sow,
Weed, harrow, harvest, reap and mow,
Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed
The proper stock to fat and feed.
Distress is want, and pain, and grief,
And sickness,—things as wants relief;
Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;
In short, ax any overseer,—
Well, now, the logic for to chop,
Where's the distress about a crop?
There's no distress in keeping sheep,
I likes to see 'em frisk and leap;
There's no distress in seeing swine
Grow up to pork and bacon fine;
There's no distress in growing wheat
And grass for men or beasts to eat;
And making of lean cattle fat,
There's no distress, of course, in that.
Then what remains?—But one thing more,
And that's the Farming of the Poor!”
HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.
“Yea!—aye!—surely!—for sartin!—yes!—
That's Hagricultural Distress!”
181
ODE TO MESSRS. GREEN, HOLLOND, MONCK MASON,
ON THEIR LATE BALLOON EXPEDITION.
“Here we go up, up, up,—and there we go down, down, downy.”
Old Ballad.
O lofty-minded men!
Almost beyond the pitch of my goose pen!
And most inflated words!
Delicate Ariels! ethereals!—birds
Of passage! fliers! angels without wings!
Fortunate rivals of Icarian darings!
Male-witches, without broomsticks,—taking airings!
Kites—without strings!
Volatile spirits! light mercurial humours!
O give us soon your sky adventures truly,
With full particulars, correcting duly
All flying rumours!
Almost beyond the pitch of my goose pen!
And most inflated words!
Delicate Ariels! ethereals!—birds
Of passage! fliers! angels without wings!
Fortunate rivals of Icarian darings!
Male-witches, without broomsticks,—taking airings!
Kites—without strings!
Volatile spirits! light mercurial humours!
O give us soon your sky adventures truly,
With full particulars, correcting duly
All flying rumours!
Two-legg'd high-fliers!
What upper-stories you must have to tell!
And nobody can contradict you well,
Or call you liars!
Your Region of Romance will many covet;
Besides that, you may scribble what you will,
And this great luck will wait upon you, still
All criticism, you will be above it!
Write, then, Messrs. Monck Mason, Hollond, Green!
And tell us all you have, or havn't seen!—
What upper-stories you must have to tell!
And nobody can contradict you well,
Or call you liars!
Your Region of Romance will many covet;
Besides that, you may scribble what you will,
And this great luck will wait upon you, still
All criticism, you will be above it!
Write, then, Messrs. Monck Mason, Hollond, Green!
And tell us all you have, or havn't seen!—
132
['Twas kind, when the balloon went out of town,
To take Monck Mason up and set him down,
For when a gentleman is at a shift
For carriage—talk of carts and gigs, and coaches!
Nothing to a balloon approaches,
For giving one a lift!]
O say, when Mr. Frederick Gye
Seem'd but a speck—a mote—in friendship's eye,
Did any tongue confess a sort of dryness
Seeming the soaring rashness to rebuke;
Or did each feel himself, like Brunswick's Duke,
A most serene Highness!
To take Monck Mason up and set him down,
For when a gentleman is at a shift
For carriage—talk of carts and gigs, and coaches!
Nothing to a balloon approaches,
For giving one a lift!]
O say, when Mr. Frederick Gye
Seem'd but a speck—a mote—in friendship's eye,
Did any tongue confess a sort of dryness
Seeming the soaring rashness to rebuke;
Or did each feel himself, like Brunswick's Duke,
A most serene Highness!
Say, as you cross'd the Channel,
Well clothed in well air'd linen and warm flannel,
How did your company, perceived afar,
Affect the tar?
Methinks I see him cock his weather eye
Against the sky,
Turning his ruminating quid full oft,
With wonder sudden taken all aback—
“My eyes!” says he,
“I'm blow'd if there arn't three!
Three little Cherubs smiling up aloft,
A-watching for poor Jack!”
Well clothed in well air'd linen and warm flannel,
How did your company, perceived afar,
Affect the tar?
Methinks I see him cock his weather eye
Against the sky,
Turning his ruminating quid full oft,
With wonder sudden taken all aback—
“My eyes!” says he,
“I'm blow'd if there arn't three!
Three little Cherubs smiling up aloft,
A-watching for poor Jack!”
Of course, at such a height, the ocean
Affected no one by its motion—
But did internal comfort dwell with each,
Quiet and ease each comfortable skin in?
Or did brown Hollond of a sudden bleach
As white as Irish linen?
Changing his native hue,
Did Green look blue?—
In short was any air-sick? P'rhaps Monck Mason
Was forc'd to have an air-pump in a bason?
Affected no one by its motion—
But did internal comfort dwell with each,
Quiet and ease each comfortable skin in?
Or did brown Hollond of a sudden bleach
As white as Irish linen?
183
Did Green look blue?—
In short was any air-sick? P'rhaps Monck Mason
Was forc'd to have an air-pump in a bason?
Say, with what sport, or pleasure,
Might you fill up your lofty leisure?
Like Scotchman, at High jinks?
(High-spy was an appropriate game methinks)
Or cards—but playing very high;—
Or skying coppers, almost to the sky;—
Or did you listen, the first mortal ears
That ever drank the music of the spheres?—
Or might you into vocal music get,
A trio—highly set?
Or, as the altitude so well allow'd,
Perchance, you “blew a cloud.”
Say, did you find the air
Give you an appetite up there?
Your cold provisions—were you glad to meet 'em?
Or did you find your victuals all so high,—
Or blown so by your fly—
You couldn't eat 'em?
Might you fill up your lofty leisure?
Like Scotchman, at High jinks?
(High-spy was an appropriate game methinks)
Or cards—but playing very high;—
Or skying coppers, almost to the sky;—
Or did you listen, the first mortal ears
That ever drank the music of the spheres?—
Or might you into vocal music get,
A trio—highly set?
Or, as the altitude so well allow'd,
Perchance, you “blew a cloud.”
Say, did you find the air
Give you an appetite up there?
Your cold provisions—were you glad to meet 'em?
Or did you find your victuals all so high,—
Or blown so by your fly—
You couldn't eat 'em?
Of course, you took some wine to sup,
Although the circumstance has not been stated;
I envy you the effervescing cup!
Warn't your champagne well up?
Nay, you, yourselves, a little elevated?
Although the circumstance has not been stated;
I envy you the effervescing cup!
Warn't your champagne well up?
Nay, you, yourselves, a little elevated?
Then, for your tea and breakfast, say,
Was it not something delicately new,
To get sky-blue
Right genuine from the real milky way?
Was it not something delicately new,
184
Right genuine from the real milky way?
Of course, you all agreed,
Whate'er your conversation was about,
Like friends indeed,—
And faith! not without need,
'Twas such an awkward place for falling-out!
Whate'er your conversation was about,
Like friends indeed,—
And faith! not without need,
'Twas such an awkward place for falling-out!
Say, after your gastronomy,
Kept you a watch all night,
Marking the planets bright,
Like three more Airys, studying astronomy;
Or near the midnight chime,
Did some one haul his nightcap on his head,
Hold out his mounted watch, and say “high time
To go to bed?”
Kept you a watch all night,
Marking the planets bright,
Like three more Airys, studying astronomy;
Or near the midnight chime,
Did some one haul his nightcap on his head,
Hold out his mounted watch, and say “high time
To go to bed?”
Didn't your coming scare
The sober Germans, until every cap
Rose lifted by a frighten'd fell of hair;
Meanwhile the very pipe, mayhap,
Extinguish'd, like the vital spark in death,
From wonder locking up the smoker's breath!
Didn't they crouch like chickens, when the kite
Hovers in sight,
To see your vehicle of huge dimension
Aloft, like Gulliver's Laputa—nay,
I'd better say,
The Island of Ascension?
The sober Germans, until every cap
Rose lifted by a frighten'd fell of hair;
Meanwhile the very pipe, mayhap,
Extinguish'd, like the vital spark in death,
From wonder locking up the smoker's breath!
Didn't they crouch like chickens, when the kite
Hovers in sight,
To see your vehicle of huge dimension
Aloft, like Gulliver's Laputa—nay,
I'd better say,
The Island of Ascension?
Well was it plann'd
To come down thus into the German land,
Where Honours you may score by such event,—
For, if I read the prophecy aright,
You'll have the Eagle-Order for your flight,
And all be Von'd, because of your descent!
To come down thus into the German land,
185
For, if I read the prophecy aright,
You'll have the Eagle-Order for your flight,
And all be Von'd, because of your descent!
223
ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQ.
“Close, close your eyes with holy dread,
And weave a circle round him thrice;
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.”
—Coleridge.
And weave a circle round him thrice;
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.”
—Coleridge.
“It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be.”
—Old Ballad.
Won't let a body be.”
—Old Ballad.
A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land,
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
Where rolls between us the eternal sea,
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,—
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall;
Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call;
Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd,
A friendly missive warns me of a stricture,
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd,
And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd,
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
Where rolls between us the eternal sea,
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,—
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall;
Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call;
Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd,
A friendly missive warns me of a stricture,
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd,
And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd,
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.
I guess the features:—in a line to paint
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint.
Not one of those self-constituted saints,
Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls,
Censors who sniff out mortal taints,
And call the devil over his own coals—
Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God,
Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd;
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,
Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd,
But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax—
Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd
Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint.
Not one of those self-constituted saints,
Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls,
224
And call the devil over his own coals—
Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God,
Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd;
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,
Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd,
But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax—
Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd
Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!
Of such a character no single trace
Exists, I know, in my fictitious face;
There wants a certain cast about the eye;
A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
A certain curling of the nether lip,
In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;
In brief it is an aspect deleterious,
A face decidedly not serious,
A face profane, that would not do at all
To make a face at Exeter Hall,—
That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray,
And laud each other face to face,
Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray
Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace
Exists, I know, in my fictitious face;
There wants a certain cast about the eye;
A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
A certain curling of the nether lip,
In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;
In brief it is an aspect deleterious,
A face decidedly not serious,
A face profane, that would not do at all
To make a face at Exeter Hall,—
That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray,
And laud each other face to face,
Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray
Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace
Well!—be the graceless lineaments confest!
I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth;
And dote upon a jest
“Within the limits of becoming mirth;”—
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious—
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
I pray for grace—repent each sinful act—
Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible;
And love my neighbour far too well, in fact,
To call and twit him with a godly tract
That's turn'd by application to a libel.
My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven,
All creeds I view with toleration thorough,
And have a horror of regarding heaven
As anybody's rotten borough.
I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth;
And dote upon a jest
“Within the limits of becoming mirth;”—
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious—
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
225
Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible;
And love my neighbour far too well, in fact,
To call and twit him with a godly tract
That's turn'd by application to a libel.
My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven,
All creeds I view with toleration thorough,
And have a horror of regarding heaven
As anybody's rotten borough.
What else? no part I take in party fray,
With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars,
I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest play
At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs!
I own I laugh at over-righteous men,
I own I shake my sides at ranters,
And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters,
I even own, that there are times—but then
It's when I've got my wine—I say d--- canters!
With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars,
I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest play
At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs!
I own I laugh at over-righteous men,
I own I shake my sides at ranters,
And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters,
I even own, that there are times—but then
It's when I've got my wine—I say d--- canters!
I've no ambition to enact the spy
On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry—
'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses,
Who thrust them into matters none of theirs;
And tho' no delicacy discomposes
Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs
Amongst the privatest of men's affairs.
On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry—
'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses,
Who thrust them into matters none of theirs;
And tho' no delicacy discomposes
Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs
Amongst the privatest of men's affairs.
I do not hash the Gospel in my books,
And thus upon the public mind intrude it,
As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks,
No food was fit to eat till I had chew'd it.
On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk;
Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk,—
For man may pious texts repeat,
And yet religion have no inward seat;
'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,
A man has got his belly full of meat
Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!
And thus upon the public mind intrude it,
As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks,
No food was fit to eat till I had chew'd it.
226
Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk,—
For man may pious texts repeat,
And yet religion have no inward seat;
'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,
A man has got his belly full of meat
Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!
Mere verbiage,—it is not worth a carrot!
Why, Socrates—or Plato—where's the odds?—
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
Why, Socrates—or Plato—where's the odds?—
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is
Not a whit better than a Mantis,—
An insect, of what clime I can't determine,
That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence,
By simple savages—thro' sheer pretence—
Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin.
Not a whit better than a Mantis,—
An insect, of what clime I can't determine,
That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence,
By simple savages—thro' sheer pretence—
Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin.
But where's the reverence, or where the nous,
To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby,
Whether a stalking-horse or hobby,
To show its pious paces to “the House?”
To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby,
Whether a stalking-horse or hobby,
To show its pious paces to “the House?”
I honestly confess that I would hinder
The Scottish member's legislative rigs,
That spiritual Pinder,
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs.
That must be lash'd by law, wherever found.
And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound.
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,
I view that grovelling idea as one
Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son,
A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle.
The Scottish member's legislative rigs,
That spiritual Pinder,
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs.
That must be lash'd by law, wherever found.
And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound.
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,
I view that grovelling idea as one
227
A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle.
On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd
How much a man can differ from his neighbour:
One wishes worship freely giv'n to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labour—
The broad distinction in a line to draw,
As means to lead us to the skies above,
You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I—the Saviour with his law of love.
How much a man can differ from his neighbour:
One wishes worship freely giv'n to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labour—
The broad distinction in a line to draw,
As means to lead us to the skies above,
You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I—the Saviour with his law of love.
Spontaneously to God should tend the soul,
Like the magnetic needle to the Pole;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,
Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge,
Fresh from St. Andrew's College,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
Like the magnetic needle to the Pole;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,
Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge,
Fresh from St. Andrew's College,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
I do confess that I abhor and shrink
From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly—
My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord
The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord
Of this world's aristocracy.
It will not own a notion so unholy,
As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly
Must work their passage, as they do in ships.
From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly—
My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord
The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord
Of this world's aristocracy.
It will not own a notion so unholy,
As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly
Must work their passage, as they do in ships.
228
One place there is—beneath the burial sod
Where all mankind are equalised by death;
Another place there is—the Fane of God,
Where all are equal, who draw living breath;—
Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust
One even measure of immortal hope—
He who can stand within that holy door,
With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,—
Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil!
Where all mankind are equalised by death;
Another place there is—the Fane of God,
Where all are equal, who draw living breath;—
Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust
One even measure of immortal hope—
He who can stand within that holy door,
With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,—
Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil!
Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae,
In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage,
Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say
I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless savage;
A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,—
A Scoffer, always on the grin,
And sadly given to the mortal sin
Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!
In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage,
Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say
I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless savage;
A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,—
A Scoffer, always on the grin,
And sadly given to the mortal sin
Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!
The humble records of my life to search,
I have not herded with mere pagan beasts;
But sometimes I have “sat at good men's feasts,’
And I have been “where bells have knoll'd to church.”
Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells
When on the undulating air they swim!
Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells!
And trembling all about the breezy dells
As flutter'd by the wings of Cherubim.
Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn;
And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above
Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,—
With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon;—
O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels and Doubters!
If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion,
Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?
I have not herded with mere pagan beasts;
But sometimes I have “sat at good men's feasts,’
And I have been “where bells have knoll'd to church.”
Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells
When on the undulating air they swim!
Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells!
And trembling all about the breezy dells
229
Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn;
And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above
Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,—
With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon;—
O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels and Doubters!
If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion,
Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?
A man may cry “Church! Church!” at ev'ry word,
With no more piety than other people—
A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.
The Temple is a good, a holy place,
But quacking only gives it an ill savour;
While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace,
And bring religion's self into disfavour!
With no more piety than other people—
A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.
The Temple is a good, a holy place,
But quacking only gives it an ill savour;
While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace,
And bring religion's self into disfavour!
Behold you servitor of God and Mammon,
Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger,
Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon,
A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger,
Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak
Against the wicked remnant of the week,
A saving bet against his sinful bias—
“Rogue that I am,” he whispers to himself,
“I lie—I cheat—do anything for pelf,
But who on earth can say I am not pious?”
Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger,
Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon,
A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger,
Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak
Against the wicked remnant of the week,
A saving bet against his sinful bias—
“Rogue that I am,” he whispers to himself,
“I lie—I cheat—do anything for pelf,
But who on earth can say I am not pious?”
In proof how over-righteousness re-acts,
Accept an anecdote well based on facts.
One Sunday morning—(at the day don't fret)—
In riding with a friend to Ponder's End
Outside the stage, we happen'd to commend
A certain mansion that we saw To Let.
“Ay,” cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple,
“You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it
'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel,
And master wanted once to buy it,—
But t'other driv the bargain much too hard—
He ax'd sure-ly a sum purdigious!
But being so particular religious,
Why, that, you see, put master on his guard!”
Accept an anecdote well based on facts.
230
In riding with a friend to Ponder's End
Outside the stage, we happen'd to commend
A certain mansion that we saw To Let.
“Ay,” cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple,
“You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it
'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel,
And master wanted once to buy it,—
But t'other driv the bargain much too hard—
He ax'd sure-ly a sum purdigious!
But being so particular religious,
Why, that, you see, put master on his guard!”
Church is “a little heav'n below,
I have been there and still would go,”—
Yet I am none of those, who think it odd
A man can pray unbidden from the cassock,
And, passing by the customary hassock,
Kneel down remote upon the simple sod,
And sue in formâ pauperis to God.
I have been there and still would go,”—
Yet I am none of those, who think it odd
A man can pray unbidden from the cassock,
And, passing by the customary hassock,
Kneel down remote upon the simple sod,
And sue in formâ pauperis to God.
As for the rest,—intolerant to none,
Whatever shape the pious rite may bear,
Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun
I would not harshly scorn, lest even there
I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r—
An aim, tho' erring, at a “world ayont”—
Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility,
A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed
That very thing so many Christians want—
Humility.
Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks,
Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!)
Such, may it please you, is my humble faith;
I know, full well, you do not like my works!
I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land,
As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother,
The Bible in one hand,
And my own common-place-book in the other—
But you have been to Palestine—alas!
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather,
Resemble copper wire, or brass,
Which gets the narrower by going farther!
Worthless are all such Pilgrimages—very!
If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive
The human heats and rancour to revive
That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury.
A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on,
To see a Christian creature graze at Sion,
Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full,
Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke,
At crippled Papistry to butt and poke,
Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull
Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!
Whatever shape the pious rite may bear,
Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun
I would not harshly scorn, lest even there
I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r—
An aim, tho' erring, at a “world ayont”—
Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility,
A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed
That very thing so many Christians want—
Humility.
231
Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!)
Such, may it please you, is my humble faith;
I know, full well, you do not like my works!
I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land,
As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother,
The Bible in one hand,
And my own common-place-book in the other—
But you have been to Palestine—alas!
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather,
Resemble copper wire, or brass,
Which gets the narrower by going farther!
Worthless are all such Pilgrimages—very!
If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive
The human heats and rancour to revive
That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury.
A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on,
To see a Christian creature graze at Sion,
Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full,
Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke,
At crippled Papistry to butt and poke,
Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull
Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!
Why leave a serious, moral, pious home,
Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old,
Far distant Catholics to rate and scold
For—doing as the Romans do at Rome?
With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit
The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers,
About the graceless images to flit,
And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers,
Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?—
People who hold such absolute opinions
Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions,
Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.
Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old,
Far distant Catholics to rate and scold
For—doing as the Romans do at Rome?
With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit
The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers,
About the graceless images to flit,
And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers,
232
People who hold such absolute opinions
Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions,
Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.
Gifted with noble tendency to climb,
Yet weak at the same time,
Faith is a kind of parasitic plant,
That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings;
And as the climate and the soil may grant,
So is the sort of tree to which it clings.
Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo,
You aim your club at any creed on earth,
That, by the simple accident of birth,
You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.
Yet weak at the same time,
Faith is a kind of parasitic plant,
That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings;
And as the climate and the soil may grant,
So is the sort of tree to which it clings.
Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo,
You aim your club at any creed on earth,
That, by the simple accident of birth,
You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.
For me—thro' heathen ignorance perchance,
Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feel
None of that griffinish excess of zeal,
Some travellers would blaze with here in France.
Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array,
Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker
Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play,
If their “offence be rank,” should mine be rancour?
Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan
To cure the dark and erring mind;
But who would rush at a benighted man,
And give him two black eyes for being blind?
Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feel
None of that griffinish excess of zeal,
Some travellers would blaze with here in France.
Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array,
Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker
Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play,
If their “offence be rank,” should mine be rancour?
Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan
To cure the dark and erring mind;
But who would rush at a benighted man,
And give him two black eyes for being blind?
Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop
Around a canker'd stem should twine,
What Kentish boor would tear away the prop
So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?
The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd,
With gauds and toys extremely out of season;
The carving nothing of the very best,
The whole repugnant to the eye of reason,
Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason—
Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect
One truly Catholic, one common form,
At which uncheck'd
All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.
Around a canker'd stem should twine,
What Kentish boor would tear away the prop
So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?
233
With gauds and toys extremely out of season;
The carving nothing of the very best,
The whole repugnant to the eye of reason,
Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason—
Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect
One truly Catholic, one common form,
At which uncheck'd
All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.
Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss,
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot—
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base
The blue significant Forget-me-not?
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitch'd upon the verge
Of a delicious slope,
Giving the eye much variegated scope;—
“Look round,” it whisper'd “on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair,
But”—(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!)
“Priez pour les Malheureux.”
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot—
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base
The blue significant Forget-me-not?
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitch'd upon the verge
Of a delicious slope,
Giving the eye much variegated scope;—
“Look round,” it whisper'd “on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair,
But”—(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!)
“Priez pour les Malheureux.”
With sweet kind natures, as in honey'd cells,
Religion lives, and feels herself at home;
But only on a formal visit dwells
Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.
Shun pride, O Rae!—whatever sort beside
You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!
A pride there is of rank—a pride of birth,
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,
A London pride—in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse;
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.
Religion lives, and feels herself at home;
But only on a formal visit dwells
Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.
234
You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!
A pride there is of rank—a pride of birth,
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,
A London pride—in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse;
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.
To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard.
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt “the eyes of Europe” on his tail!
As for the humble breed retain'd by man,
He scorns the whole domestic clan—
He bows, he bridles,
He wheels, he sidles,
At last, with stately dodgings in a corner
He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her
Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!
“Look here,” he cries (to give him words),
“Thou feather'd clay—thou scum of birds!”
Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,—
“Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,
Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner,
Behold these lovely variegated dyes!
These are the rainbow colours of the skies,
That Heav'n has shed upon me con amore—
A Bird of Paradise?—a pretty story!
I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!
Look at my crown of glory!
Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill!”
And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick,
With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!
That little simile exactly paints
How sinners are despised by saints.
By saints!—the Hypocrites that ope heav'n's door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches—
But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd poor,
In parish stocks instead of breeches.
Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard.
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt “the eyes of Europe” on his tail!
As for the humble breed retain'd by man,
He scorns the whole domestic clan—
He bows, he bridles,
He wheels, he sidles,
At last, with stately dodgings in a corner
He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her
Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!
“Look here,” he cries (to give him words),
“Thou feather'd clay—thou scum of birds!”
Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,—
“Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,
Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner,
Behold these lovely variegated dyes!
These are the rainbow colours of the skies,
That Heav'n has shed upon me con amore—
A Bird of Paradise?—a pretty story!
I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!
Look at my crown of glory!
235
And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick,
With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!
That little simile exactly paints
How sinners are despised by saints.
By saints!—the Hypocrites that ope heav'n's door
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches—
But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd poor,
In parish stocks instead of breeches.
The Saints!—the Bigots that in public spout,
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,
And go like walking “Lucifers” about
Mere living bundles of combustion.
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,
And go like walking “Lucifers” about
Mere living bundles of combustion.
The Saints!—the aping Fanatics that talk
All cant and rant, and rhapsodies highflown—
That bid you baulk
A Sunday walk,
And shun God's work as you should shun your own.
All cant and rant, and rhapsodies highflown—
That bid you baulk
A Sunday walk,
And shun God's work as you should shun your own.
The Saints!—the Formalists, the extra pious,
Who think the mortal husk can save the soul,
By trundling with a mere mechanic bias,
To church, just like a lignum-vitæ bowl!
Who think the mortal husk can save the soul,
By trundling with a mere mechanic bias,
To church, just like a lignum-vitæ bowl!
The Saints!—the Pharisees, whose beadle stands
Beside a stern coercive kirk.
A piece of human mason-work,
Calling all sermons contrabands,
In that great Temple that's not made with hands!
Thrice blessed, rather, is the man, with whom
The gracious prodigality of nature,
The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,
The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature,
Recall the good Creator to his creature,
Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome!
To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells;
The jubilate of the soaring lark
Is chant of clerk;
For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet;
The sod's a cushion for his pious want;
And, consecrated by the heav'n within it,
The sky-blue pool, a font.
Each cloud-capp'd mountain is a holy altar;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!
Beside a stern coercive kirk.
A piece of human mason-work,
Calling all sermons contrabands,
In that great Temple that's not made with hands!
236
The gracious prodigality of nature,
The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,
The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature,
Recall the good Creator to his creature,
Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome!
To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells;
The jubilate of the soaring lark
Is chant of clerk;
For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet;
The sod's a cushion for his pious want;
And, consecrated by the heav'n within it,
The sky-blue pool, a font.
Each cloud-capp'd mountain is a holy altar;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!
Sufficiently by stern necessitarians
Poor Nature, with her face begrimed by dust,
Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked; but must
Religion have its own Utilitarians,
Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries,
To make the road to heav'n a railway trust,
And churches—that's the naked fact—mere factories?
Poor Nature, with her face begrimed by dust,
Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked; but must
Religion have its own Utilitarians,
Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries,
To make the road to heav'n a railway trust,
And churches—that's the naked fact—mere factories?
Oh! simply open wide the Temple door,
And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet,
With Voluntaries meet,
The willing advent of the rich and poor!
And while to God the loud Hosannas soar,
With rich vibrations from the vocal throng—
From quiet shades that to the woods belong,
And brooks with music of their own,
Voices may come to swell the choral song
With notes of praise they learn'd in musings lone.
And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet,
With Voluntaries meet,
The willing advent of the rich and poor!
And while to God the loud Hosannas soar,
237
From quiet shades that to the woods belong,
And brooks with music of their own,
Voices may come to swell the choral song
With notes of praise they learn'd in musings lone.
How strange it is while on all vital questions,
That occupy the House and public mind,
We always meet with some humane suggestions
Of gentle measures of a healing kind,
Instead of harsh severity and vigour,
The Saint alone his preference retains
For bills of penalties and pains,
And marks his narrow code with legal rigour!
Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,
What men of all political persuasion
Extol—and even use upon occasion—
That Christian principle, Conciliation?
But possibly the men who make such fuss
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,
Attach some other meaning to the term,
As thus:
That occupy the House and public mind,
We always meet with some humane suggestions
Of gentle measures of a healing kind,
Instead of harsh severity and vigour,
The Saint alone his preference retains
For bills of penalties and pains,
And marks his narrow code with legal rigour!
Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,
What men of all political persuasion
Extol—and even use upon occasion—
That Christian principle, Conciliation?
But possibly the men who make such fuss
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,
Attach some other meaning to the term,
As thus:
One market morning, in my usual rambles,
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,
I had to halt awhile, like other folks,
To let a killing butcher coax
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,
I had to halt awhile, like other folks,
To let a killing butcher coax
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.
A sturdy man he look'd to fell an ox,
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
Of well-greased hair down either cheek,
As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks
Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle—
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd,
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd
And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
238
As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks
Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle—
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd,
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd
And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.
Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt,
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,—
And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt
Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it.
At last there came a pause of brutal force,
The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool,
The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse.
The time was ripe for mild expostulation,
And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by—
“Zounds!—my good fellow,—it quite makes me—why,
It really—my dear fellow—do just try
Conciliation!”
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,—
And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt
Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it.
At last there came a pause of brutal force,
The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool,
The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse.
The time was ripe for mild expostulation,
And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by—
“Zounds!—my good fellow,—it quite makes me—why,
It really—my dear fellow—do just try
Conciliation!”
Stringing his nerves like flint,
The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,—
At least he seized upon the foremost wether,—
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop
Just nolens volens thro' the open shop—
If tails come off he didn't care a feather,—
Then walking to the door and smiling grim,
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together—
“There!—I have conciliated him!”
Again—good-humouredly to end our quarrel—
(Good humour should prevail!)
I'll fit you with a tale,
Whereto is tied a moral.
The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,—
At least he seized upon the foremost wether,—
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop
Just nolens volens thro' the open shop—
If tails come off he didn't care a feather,—
Then walking to the door and smiling grim,
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together—
“There!—I have conciliated him!”
239
(Good humour should prevail!)
I'll fit you with a tale,
Whereto is tied a moral.
Once on a time a certain English lass
Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The Doctors gave her over—to an ass.
Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl
Of asinine new milk,
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal
Which got proportionably spare and skinny—
Meanwhile the neighbours cried “poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!”
When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny
The one that died was the poor wetnurse Jenny.
Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The Doctors gave her over—to an ass.
Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl
Of asinine new milk,
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal
Which got proportionably spare and skinny—
Meanwhile the neighbours cried “poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can!”
When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny
The one that died was the poor wetnurse Jenny.
To aggravate the case,
There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-ear'd creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.
No matter: at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on its back,—
“Your sarvant, Miss,—a werry spring-like day,—
Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss,—but I'ze brought ye Jack,
He doesn't give no milk—but he can bray.”
So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness—
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?
There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-ear'd creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.
No matter: at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on its back,—
“Your sarvant, Miss,—a werry spring-like day,—
Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss,—but I'ze brought ye Jack,
He doesn't give no milk—but he can bray.”
240
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness—
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?
242
1838.
245
THE GREEN MAN.
Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man
As ever lived—at least at number Four,
In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor,
At fifty pounds,—or thereabouts,—per ann.
The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers,
His rent so punctually paid each quarter,—
He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers—
Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers—
Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter,—
Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable—
Still on one failing tenderly to touch,
The Gentleman did like a drop too much,
(Tho' there are many such)
And took more Port than was exactly portable.
In fact,—to put the cap upon the nipple,
And try the charge,—Tom certainly did tipple.
He thought the motto was but sorry stuff
On Cribb's Prize Cup—Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter—
That “D---d be he who first cries Hold Enough!”
The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.
And so to set example in the eyes
Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them,
All his cups were of such ample size
That he got into them.
As ever lived—at least at number Four,
In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor,
At fifty pounds,—or thereabouts,—per ann.
The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers,
His rent so punctually paid each quarter,—
He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers—
Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers—
Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter,—
Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable—
Still on one failing tenderly to touch,
The Gentleman did like a drop too much,
(Tho' there are many such)
And took more Port than was exactly portable.
In fact,—to put the cap upon the nipple,
And try the charge,—Tom certainly did tipple.
He thought the motto was but sorry stuff
On Cribb's Prize Cup—Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter—
That “D---d be he who first cries Hold Enough!”
The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.
And so to set example in the eyes
Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them,
246
That he got into them.
Once in the company of merry mates,
In spite of Temperance's ifs and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with plates,
His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!
In spite of Temperance's ifs and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with plates,
His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!
Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.
Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasbourg's regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies—
Or out of depth the head begins to swim—
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
'Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,—
Like Baxter, who so “went beyond his last”—
One bottle more, and then one bottle more,
Till, oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass'd!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,
For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,
To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.
Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasbourg's regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies—
Or out of depth the head begins to swim—
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
'Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,—
Like Baxter, who so “went beyond his last”—
One bottle more, and then one bottle more,
Till, oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass'd!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,
For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,
To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.
Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,
And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter,
Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:
The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's,
Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up—
An awkward circumstance enough for elves
Who shave themselves;
And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it,
When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass—
He jump'd—and who alive would fail to do it?—
To see, however it had come to pass,
One section of his face as green as grass!
In vain each eager wipe,
With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,
Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,—
But verdant and not brown,—
What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?
Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face.
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.
And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter,
Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:
The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's,
Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up—
247
Who shave themselves;
And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it,
When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass—
He jump'd—and who alive would fail to do it?—
To see, however it had come to pass,
One section of his face as green as grass!
In vain each eager wipe,
With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,
Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,—
But verdant and not brown,—
What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?
Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face.
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.
“All claret marks,”—thought he—Tom knew his forte—
“Are red—this colour cannot come from Port!”
“Are red—this colour cannot come from Port!”
One thing was plain; with such a face as his,
'Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho' 'twas such a parti-coloured phiz!
As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please—
Unless it comes too high—
Vere ought a fellow, now, to go to buy
The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?”
His mind recoil'd—so he tied up his head,
As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;
Of course with feelings far from the serene,
For all his future prospects seemed to be,
To match his customary tea,
Black, mixt with green.
'Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho' 'twas such a parti-coloured phiz!
As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With “Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please—
Unless it comes too high—
Vere ought a fellow, now, to go to buy
The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?”
248
As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;
Of course with feelings far from the serene,
For all his future prospects seemed to be,
To match his customary tea,
Black, mixt with green.
Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown
Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down,
And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;
To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,
Returned an answer so mysterious
That curiosity began to fry;
The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch
By peeping in upon the patient's bed,
Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,
Got over-night of course—“Harm watch, harm catch,”
From Watchmen in a boxing-match.
Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down,
And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;
To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,
Returned an answer so mysterious
That curiosity began to fry;
The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch
By peeping in upon the patient's bed,
Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,
Got over-night of course—“Harm watch, harm catch,”
From Watchmen in a boxing-match.
So, liberty or not,—
Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in
A suicidal coffin—
The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;
“Appearance,—fiddlesticks!” should not deter
From going to the bed,
And looking at the head:
“La! Mister S---, he need not care for her!
A married woman that had had
Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad—
Her own dear late would come home late at night,
And liquor always got him in a sight.
She'd been in hospitals—she wouldn't faint
At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;
She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't—
Turlington's Drops she made a p'int to keep.
Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand—
Such skulls japann'd—she meant to say trepann'd!
Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle,
And hadn't hours to live,
From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle,
Shamefully over-driv!—
Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,
To get the brains to stop.
At imputations of the legs she'd been,
And neither screech'd nor cried—
Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside,
And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen—
“Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!”
Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in
A suicidal coffin—
The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;
“Appearance,—fiddlesticks!” should not deter
From going to the bed,
And looking at the head:
“La! Mister S---, he need not care for her!
A married woman that had had
Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad—
Her own dear late would come home late at night,
And liquor always got him in a sight.
She'd been in hospitals—she wouldn't faint
At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;
249
Turlington's Drops she made a p'int to keep.
Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand—
Such skulls japann'd—she meant to say trepann'd!
Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle,
And hadn't hours to live,
From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle,
Shamefully over-driv!—
Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,
To get the brains to stop.
At imputations of the legs she'd been,
And neither screech'd nor cried—
Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside,
And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen—
“Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!”
Alas! through Simpson's brain
Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;
It tallied truly with his own misgiving,
And brought a groan,
To move a heart of stone—
A sort of farewell to the land of living!
And as the case was imminent and urgent,
He did not make a shadow of objection
To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a “surgent,”
But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection,
While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief
Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.
Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;
It tallied truly with his own misgiving,
And brought a groan,
To move a heart of stone—
A sort of farewell to the land of living!
And as the case was imminent and urgent,
He did not make a shadow of objection
To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a “surgent,”
But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection,
While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief
Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.
Swift flew the summons,—it was life or death!
And in as short a time as he could race it,
Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath,
To try his Latin charms against Hic Jacet.
He took a seat beside the patient's bed,
Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,—
Poked, stroked, pinch'd, kneaded it—hemm'd—shook his head—
Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,
(Thinking, it seem'd, in Greek,)
Then ask'd—'twas Christmas—“Had he eaten grass,
Or greens—and if the cook was so improper
To boil them up with copper,
Or farthings made of brass;
Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,
Or dined at City Festivals, whereat
There's turtle, and green fat?”
To all of which, with serious tone of woe,
Poor Simpson answered “No.”
Indeed he might have said in form auricular,
Supposing Puddicome had been a monk—
He had not eaten (he had only drunk)
Of any thing “Particular.”
The Doctor was at fault;
A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.
Cases of other colours came in crowds,
He could have found their remedy, and soon;
But green—it sent him up among the clouds,
As if he had gone up with Green's balloon!
And in as short a time as he could race it,
Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath,
To try his Latin charms against Hic Jacet.
250
Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,—
Poked, stroked, pinch'd, kneaded it—hemm'd—shook his head—
Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,
(Thinking, it seem'd, in Greek,)
Then ask'd—'twas Christmas—“Had he eaten grass,
Or greens—and if the cook was so improper
To boil them up with copper,
Or farthings made of brass;
Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,
Or dined at City Festivals, whereat
There's turtle, and green fat?”
To all of which, with serious tone of woe,
Poor Simpson answered “No.”
Indeed he might have said in form auricular,
Supposing Puddicome had been a monk—
He had not eaten (he had only drunk)
Of any thing “Particular.”
The Doctor was at fault;
A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.
Cases of other colours came in crowds,
He could have found their remedy, and soon;
But green—it sent him up among the clouds,
As if he had gone up with Green's balloon!
Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin;
From Yellow Jaundice yellow,
From saffron tints to sallow;—
Then retrospective memory lugg'd in
Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town—
East Indians, without number,
He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown,
From tan to a burnt umber,
Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen
Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke,
As “rashes growing green!”
“Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green!
Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!’
Then as to flaming visages, for those
The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose—
But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke!
Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage,
In common practice he had really seen;
But Green—he was too old, and grave, and sage,
To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!
From Yellow Jaundice yellow,
From saffron tints to sallow;—
Then retrospective memory lugg'd in
Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town—
East Indians, without number,
251
From tan to a burnt umber,
Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen
Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke,
As “rashes growing green!”
“Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green!
Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!’
Then as to flaming visages, for those
The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose—
But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke!
Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage,
In common practice he had really seen;
But Green—he was too old, and grave, and sage,
To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!
So matters stood in-doors—meanwhile without,
Growing in going like all other rumours,
The modern miracle was buzz'd about,
By people of all humours,
Native or foreign in their dialecticals;
Till all the neighbourhood, as if their noses
Had taken the odd gross from little Moses,
Seem'd looking thro' green spectacles.
“Green faces!” so they all began to comment—
“Yes—opposite to Druggist's lighted shops,
But that's a flying colour—never stops—
A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment.
Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,
Nothing at all to match the present piece;
Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind—
Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!”
The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors
Of such a case had never heard,
From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd;
“Or Greenland!” cried the whalers.
All tongues were full of the Green man, and still
They could not make him out, with all their skill;
No soul could shape the matter, head or tail—
But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.
Growing in going like all other rumours,
The modern miracle was buzz'd about,
By people of all humours,
Native or foreign in their dialecticals;
Till all the neighbourhood, as if their noses
Had taken the odd gross from little Moses,
Seem'd looking thro' green spectacles.
“Green faces!” so they all began to comment—
“Yes—opposite to Druggist's lighted shops,
But that's a flying colour—never stops—
A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment.
Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,
Nothing at all to match the present piece;
Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind—
Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!”
The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors
Of such a case had never heard,
252
“Or Greenland!” cried the whalers.
All tongues were full of the Green man, and still
They could not make him out, with all their skill;
No soul could shape the matter, head or tail—
But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.
A long half hour, in needless puzzle,
Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle;
He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought—
And still it came to nought,
When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers,
“Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door!
It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,—
As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars,
And says there's nothing but a simple case—
He got that 'ere green face
By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!”
Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle;
He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought—
And still it came to nought,
When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers,
“Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door!
It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,—
As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars,
And says there's nothing but a simple case—
He got that 'ere green face
By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!”
HIT OR MISS.
“Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.”
—Burns.
Forgather'd ance upon a time.”
—Burns.
One morn—it was the very morn
September's sportive month was born—
The hour, about the sunrise, early:
The sky grey, sober, still, and pearly,
With sundry orange streaks and tinges
Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges;
The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool,
As if just skimm'd from off a pool;
The scene, red, russet, yellow, leaden,
From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden,
Save here and there a turnip patch,
Too verdant with the rest to match;
And far a-field a hazy figure,
Some roaming lover of the trigger.
Meanwhile the level light perchance
Pick'd out his barrel with a glance;
For all around a distant popping
Told birds were flying off or dropping.
Such was the morn—a morn right fair
To seek for covey or for hare—
When, lo! too far from human feet
For even Ranger's boldest beat,
A Dog, as in some doggish trouble,
Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble,
With dappled head in lowly droop,
But not the scientific stoop;
And flagging, dull, desponding ears,
As if they had been soaked in tears,
And not the beaded dew that hung
The filmy stalks and weeds among.
His pace, indeed, seemed not to know
An errand, why, or where to go,
To trot, to walk, or scamper swift—
In short, he seemed a dog adrift;
His very tail, a listless thing,
With just an accidental swing,
Like rudder to the ripple veering,
When nobody on board is steering.
So, dull and moody, cantered on
Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don;
When, rising o'er a gentle slope,
That gave his view a better scope,
He spied, some dozen furrows distant,
But in a spot as inconsistent,
A second dog across his track,
Without a master to his back;
As if for wages, workman-like,
The sporting breed had made a strike,
Resolved nor birds nor puss to seek,
Without another paunch a week!
September's sportive month was born—
The hour, about the sunrise, early:
The sky grey, sober, still, and pearly,
With sundry orange streaks and tinges
Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges;
253
As if just skimm'd from off a pool;
The scene, red, russet, yellow, leaden,
From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden,
Save here and there a turnip patch,
Too verdant with the rest to match;
And far a-field a hazy figure,
Some roaming lover of the trigger.
Meanwhile the level light perchance
Pick'd out his barrel with a glance;
For all around a distant popping
Told birds were flying off or dropping.
Such was the morn—a morn right fair
To seek for covey or for hare—
When, lo! too far from human feet
For even Ranger's boldest beat,
A Dog, as in some doggish trouble,
Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble,
With dappled head in lowly droop,
But not the scientific stoop;
And flagging, dull, desponding ears,
As if they had been soaked in tears,
And not the beaded dew that hung
The filmy stalks and weeds among.
His pace, indeed, seemed not to know
An errand, why, or where to go,
To trot, to walk, or scamper swift—
In short, he seemed a dog adrift;
His very tail, a listless thing,
With just an accidental swing,
Like rudder to the ripple veering,
When nobody on board is steering.
254
Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don;
When, rising o'er a gentle slope,
That gave his view a better scope,
He spied, some dozen furrows distant,
But in a spot as inconsistent,
A second dog across his track,
Without a master to his back;
As if for wages, workman-like,
The sporting breed had made a strike,
Resolved nor birds nor puss to seek,
Without another paunch a week!
This other was a truant curly,
But, for a spaniel, wondrous surly;
Instead of curvets gay and brisk,
He slouched along without a frisk,
With dogged air, as if he had
A good half mind to running mad;
Mayhap the shaking at his ear
Had been a quaver too severe;
Mayhap the whip's “exclusive dealing”
Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling,
Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain
He did not mean to come again.
But, for a spaniel, wondrous surly;
Instead of curvets gay and brisk,
He slouched along without a frisk,
With dogged air, as if he had
A good half mind to running mad;
Mayhap the shaking at his ear
Had been a quaver too severe;
Mayhap the whip's “exclusive dealing”
Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling,
Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain
He did not mean to come again.
Of course the pair soon spied each other;
But neither seemed to own a brother;
The course on both sides took a curve,
As dogs when shy are apt to swerve;
But each o'er back and shoulder throwing
A look to watch the other's going,
Till, having cleared sufficient ground,
With one accord they turned them round,
And squatting down, for forms not caring
At one another fell to staring;
As if not proof against a touch
Of what plagues humankind so much,
A prying itch to get at notions
Of all their neighbour's looks and motions.
Sir Don at length was first to rise—
The better dog in point of size,
And, snuffing all the ground between,
Set off, with easy jaunty mien;
While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him,
And made a dozen steps to meet him—
Their noses touch'd, and rubbed awhile
(Some savage nations use the style),
And then their tails a wag began,
Though on a very cautious plan,
But in their signals quantum suff.
To say, “A civil dog enough.”
But neither seemed to own a brother;
The course on both sides took a curve,
As dogs when shy are apt to swerve;
But each o'er back and shoulder throwing
A look to watch the other's going,
255
With one accord they turned them round,
And squatting down, for forms not caring
At one another fell to staring;
As if not proof against a touch
Of what plagues humankind so much,
A prying itch to get at notions
Of all their neighbour's looks and motions.
Sir Don at length was first to rise—
The better dog in point of size,
And, snuffing all the ground between,
Set off, with easy jaunty mien;
While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him,
And made a dozen steps to meet him—
Their noses touch'd, and rubbed awhile
(Some savage nations use the style),
And then their tails a wag began,
Though on a very cautious plan,
But in their signals quantum suff.
To say, “A civil dog enough.”
Thus having held out olive branches,
They sank again, though not on haunches,
But couchant, with their under jaws
Resting between the two forepaws,
The prelude, on a luckier day,
Or sequel, to a game of play:
But now they were in dumps, and thus
Began their worries to discuss,
The Pointer, coming to the point
The first, on times so out of joint.
“Well, Friend,—so here's a new September,
As fine a first as I remember;
And, thanks to such an early Spring,
Plenty of birds, and strong on wing.”
They sank again, though not on haunches,
But couchant, with their under jaws
Resting between the two forepaws,
The prelude, on a luckier day,
Or sequel, to a game of play:
But now they were in dumps, and thus
Began their worries to discuss,
The Pointer, coming to the point
The first, on times so out of joint.
“Well, Friend,—so here's a new September,
As fine a first as I remember;
256
Plenty of birds, and strong on wing.”
“Birds!” cried the little crusty chap,
As sharp and sudden as a snap,
“A weasel suck them in the shell!
What matter birds, or flying well,
Or fly at all, or sporting weather,
If fools with guns can't hit a feather!”
As sharp and sudden as a snap,
“A weasel suck them in the shell!
What matter birds, or flying well,
Or fly at all, or sporting weather,
If fools with guns can't hit a feather!”
“Ay, there's the rub, indeed,” said Don,
Putting his gravest visage on;
“In vain we beat our beaten way,
And bring our organs into play,
Unless the proper killing kind
Of barrel tunes are played behind:
But when we shoot—that's me and Squire—
We hit as often as we fire.”
Putting his gravest visage on;
“In vain we beat our beaten way,
And bring our organs into play,
Unless the proper killing kind
Of barrel tunes are played behind:
But when we shoot—that's me and Squire—
We hit as often as we fire.”
“More luck for you!” cried little Woolly,
Who felt the cruel contrast fully;
“More luck for you, and Squire to boot!
We miss as often as we shoot!”
Who felt the cruel contrast fully;
“More luck for you, and Squire to boot!
We miss as often as we shoot!”
“Indeed!—No wonder you're unhappy!
I thought you looking rather snappy;
But fancied, when I saw you jogging,
You'd had an overdose of flogging;
Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried
While you were ranging rather wide.”
I thought you looking rather snappy;
But fancied, when I saw you jogging,
You'd had an overdose of flogging;
Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried
While you were ranging rather wide.”
“Me! running—running wide—and hit!
Me shot! what pepper'd?—Deuce a bit!
I almost wish I had! That Dunce,
My master, then would hit for once!
Hit me! Lord how you talk! why zounds!
He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!”
Me shot! what pepper'd?—Deuce a bit!
257
My master, then would hit for once!
Hit me! Lord how you talk! why zounds!
He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!”
“Well, that must be a case provoking.
What never—but, you dog, you're joking!
I see a sort of wicked grin
About your jaw you're keeping in.”
“A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter
Would be as much a joking matter.
To tell the truth, that dog-disaster
Is just the type of me and master,
When fagging over hill and dale,
With his vain rattle at my tail.
Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run,
But leading nothing but his gun—
The very shot, I fancy, hisses,
It's sent upon such awful misses!”
What never—but, you dog, you're joking!
I see a sort of wicked grin
About your jaw you're keeping in.”
“A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter
Would be as much a joking matter.
To tell the truth, that dog-disaster
Is just the type of me and master,
When fagging over hill and dale,
With his vain rattle at my tail.
Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run,
But leading nothing but his gun—
The very shot, I fancy, hisses,
It's sent upon such awful misses!”
“Of course it does! But perhaps the fact is
Your master's hand is out of practice!”
Your master's hand is out of practice!”
“Practice?—No doctor, where you will,
Has finer—but he cannot kill!
These three years past, thro' furze and furrow,
All covers I have hunted thorough;
Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors;
And put up hares by scores and scores;
Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;—
Yes, game enough to send in presents
To ev'ry friend he has in town,
Provided he had knock'd it down:
But no—the whole three years together,
He has not giv'n me flick or feather—
For all that I have had to do
I wish I had been missing too!”
Has finer—but he cannot kill!
These three years past, thro' furze and furrow,
All covers I have hunted thorough;
Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors;
And put up hares by scores and scores;
Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;—
Yes, game enough to send in presents
To ev'ry friend he has in town,
Provided he had knock'd it down:
258
He has not giv'n me flick or feather—
For all that I have had to do
I wish I had been missing too!”
“Well,—such a hand would drive me mad;
But is he truly quite so bad?”
But is he truly quite so bad?”
“Bad!—worse!—you cannot underscore him;
If I could put up, just before him,
The great Balloon that paid the visit
Across the water, he would miss it!
Bite him! I do believe, indeed,
It's in his very blood and breed!
It marks his life, and runs all through it;
What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it.
Last Monday he came home to Tooting,
Dog-tired, as if he'd been a-shooting,
And kicks at me to vent his rage—
‘Get out!’ says he—‘I've miss'd the stage!’
Of course, thought I—what chance of hitting?
You'd miss the Norwich waggon, sitting!”
If I could put up, just before him,
The great Balloon that paid the visit
Across the water, he would miss it!
Bite him! I do believe, indeed,
It's in his very blood and breed!
It marks his life, and runs all through it;
What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it.
Last Monday he came home to Tooting,
Dog-tired, as if he'd been a-shooting,
And kicks at me to vent his rage—
‘Get out!’ says he—‘I've miss'd the stage!’
Of course, thought I—what chance of hitting?
You'd miss the Norwich waggon, sitting!”
“Why, he must be the county's scoff!
He ought to leave, and not let, off!
As fate denies his shooting wishes,
Why don't he take to catching fishes?
Or any other sporting game,
That don't require a bit of aim?”
He ought to leave, and not let, off!
As fate denies his shooting wishes,
Why don't he take to catching fishes?
Or any other sporting game,
That don't require a bit of aim?”
“Not he!—Some dogs of human kind
Will hunt by sight, because they're blind.
My master angle!—no such luck!
There he might strike, who never struck!
My master shoots because he can't,
And has an eye that aims aslant;
Nay, just by way of making trouble,
He's changed his single gun for double;
And now, as girls a-walking do,
His misses go by two and two!
I wish he had the mange, or reason
As good, to miss the shooting season!”
Will hunt by sight, because they're blind.
259
There he might strike, who never struck!
My master shoots because he can't,
And has an eye that aims aslant;
Nay, just by way of making trouble,
He's changed his single gun for double;
And now, as girls a-walking do,
His misses go by two and two!
I wish he had the mange, or reason
As good, to miss the shooting season!”
“Why yes, it must be main unpleasant
To point to covey, or to pheasant;
For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,
Think letting fly as good as shooting!”
To point to covey, or to pheasant;
For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,
Think letting fly as good as shooting!”
“Snobs!—if he'd wear his ruffled shirts,
Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,
Or trowsers in the place of smalls,
Or those tight fits he wears at balls,
Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,
Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,
And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,
And none would stare, unless we hit.
But no—to make the more combustion,
He goes in gaiters and in fustian,
Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,
And deuce a miss but some one marks!
For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,
Dog us about like common poachers!
Many's the covey I've gone by,
When underneath a sporting eye;
Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her—
I miss 'em to prevent my master!”
Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,
Or trowsers in the place of smalls,
Or those tight fits he wears at balls,
Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,
Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,
And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,
And none would stare, unless we hit.
But no—to make the more combustion,
He goes in gaiters and in fustian,
Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,
And deuce a miss but some one marks!
For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,
Dog us about like common poachers!
Many's the covey I've gone by,
When underneath a sporting eye;
260
I miss 'em to prevent my master!”
“And so should I, in such a case!
There's nothing feels so like disgrace,
Or gives you such a scurvy look—
A kick and pail of slush from Cook,
Cleftsticks, or Kettle, all in one,
As standing to a missing gun!
It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound,
To catch your bird before the ground;
But no—a pump and ginger pop
As soon would get a bird to drop!
So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,
Till all your tail is gone to sleep;
A sort of stiffness in your nape,
Holding your head well up to gape;
While off go birds across the ridges,
First small as flies, and then as midges,
Cocksure, as they are living chicks,
Death's Door is not at Number Six!”
There's nothing feels so like disgrace,
Or gives you such a scurvy look—
A kick and pail of slush from Cook,
Cleftsticks, or Kettle, all in one,
As standing to a missing gun!
It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound,
To catch your bird before the ground;
But no—a pump and ginger pop
As soon would get a bird to drop!
So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,
Till all your tail is gone to sleep;
A sort of stiffness in your nape,
Holding your head well up to gape;
While off go birds across the ridges,
First small as flies, and then as midges,
Cocksure, as they are living chicks,
Death's Door is not at Number Six!”
“Yes! yes! and then you look at master,
The cause of all the late disaster,
Who gives a stamp, and raps an oath
At gun, or birds, or maybe both;
P'raps curses you, and all your kin,
To raise the hair upon your skin!
Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps,
To go and hunt for more miss-haps!”
The cause of all the late disaster,
Who gives a stamp, and raps an oath
At gun, or birds, or maybe both;
P'raps curses you, and all your kin,
To raise the hair upon your skin!
Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps,
To go and hunt for more miss-haps!”
“Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel
But one long wish to go to heel;
You cannot scent, for cutting mugs—
Your nose is turning up, like Pug's;
You can't hold up, but plod and mope;
Your tail like sodden end of rope,
That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side
Has soak'd in harbour, tide and tide.
On thorns and scratches, till, that moment
Unnoticed, you begin to comment;
You never felt such bitter brambles,
Such heavy soil, in all your rambles!
You never felt your fleas so vicious!
Till, sick of life so unpropitious,
You wish at last, to end the passage,
That you were dead, and in your sassage!”
But one long wish to go to heel;
261
Your nose is turning up, like Pug's;
You can't hold up, but plod and mope;
Your tail like sodden end of rope,
That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side
Has soak'd in harbour, tide and tide.
On thorns and scratches, till, that moment
Unnoticed, you begin to comment;
You never felt such bitter brambles,
Such heavy soil, in all your rambles!
You never felt your fleas so vicious!
Till, sick of life so unpropitious,
You wish at last, to end the passage,
That you were dead, and in your sassage!”
“Yes! that's a miss from end to end!
But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend,
You've made me shiver, skin and gristle,
As if I heard my master's whistle!
Though how you came to learn the knack—
I thought your squire was quite a crack!”
But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend,
You've made me shiver, skin and gristle,
As if I heard my master's whistle!
Though how you came to learn the knack—
I thought your squire was quite a crack!”
“And so he is!—He always hits—
And sometimes hard, and all to bits.
But ere with him our tongues we task,
I've still one little thing to ask;
Namely, with such a random master,
Of course you sometimes want a plaster?
Such missing hands make game of more
Than ever passed for game before—
A pounded pig—a widow's cat—
A patent ventilating hat—
For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick,
Will find a coat whereon to stick!”
And sometimes hard, and all to bits.
But ere with him our tongues we task,
I've still one little thing to ask;
Namely, with such a random master,
Of course you sometimes want a plaster?
Such missing hands make game of more
Than ever passed for game before—
A pounded pig—a widow's cat—
A patent ventilating hat—
262
Will find a coat whereon to stick!”
“What! accidentals, as they're term'd?
No never—none—since I was worm'd—
Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,—
My master does not miss by halves!
His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd
Abroad upon the whole wide world,—
But whether they be blown to dust,
As often-times I think they must,
Or melted down too near the sun,
What comes of them is known to none—
I never found, since I could bark,
A Barn that bore my master's mark!”
No never—none—since I was worm'd—
Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,—
My master does not miss by halves!
His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd
Abroad upon the whole wide world,—
But whether they be blown to dust,
As often-times I think they must,
Or melted down too near the sun,
What comes of them is known to none—
I never found, since I could bark,
A Barn that bore my master's mark!”
“Is that the case?—why then, my brother,
Would we could swap with one another!
Or take the Squire, with all my heart,
Nay, all my liver, so we part!
He'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge)
He'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge;
He'll hit a snipe—he'll hit a pheasant;
He'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present;
He'll always hit,—as that's your wish—
His pepper never lacks a dish!”
Would we could swap with one another!
Or take the Squire, with all my heart,
Nay, all my liver, so we part!
He'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge)
He'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge;
He'll hit a snipe—he'll hit a pheasant;
He'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present;
He'll always hit,—as that's your wish—
His pepper never lacks a dish!”
“Come, come, you banter,—let's be serious;
I'm sure that I am half delirious,
Your picture set me so a-sighing—
But does he shoot so well—shoot flying?”
“Shoot flying? Yes—and running, walking,—
I've seen him shoot two farmers talking—
He'll hit the game, whene'er he can,
But failing that he'll hit a man,—
A boy—a horse's tail or head—
Or make a pig a pig of lead,—
Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet,
However hot, was known to sweat,
But sure I am that I perspire
Sometimes before my master's fire!
Misses! no, no, he always hits,
But so as puts me into fits!
He shot my fellow dog this morning,
Which seemed to me sufficient warning!”
I'm sure that I am half delirious,
Your picture set me so a-sighing—
But does he shoot so well—shoot flying?”
263
I've seen him shoot two farmers talking—
He'll hit the game, whene'er he can,
But failing that he'll hit a man,—
A boy—a horse's tail or head—
Or make a pig a pig of lead,—
Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet,
However hot, was known to sweat,
But sure I am that I perspire
Sometimes before my master's fire!
Misses! no, no, he always hits,
But so as puts me into fits!
He shot my fellow dog this morning,
Which seemed to me sufficient warning!”
“Quite, quite, enough!—So that's a hitter!
Why, my own fate I thought was bitter,
And full excuse for cut and run;
But give me still the missing gun!
Or rather, Sirius! send me this,
No gun at all, to hit or miss,
Since sporting seems to shoot thus double,
That right or left it brings us trouble!”
Why, my own fate I thought was bitter,
And full excuse for cut and run;
But give me still the missing gun!
Or rather, Sirius! send me this,
No gun at all, to hit or miss,
Since sporting seems to shoot thus double,
That right or left it brings us trouble!”
So ended Dash;—and Pointer Don
Prepared to urge the moral on;
But here a whistle long and shrill
Came sounding o'er the council hill,
And starting up, as if their tails,
Had felt the touch of shoes and nails,
Away they scamper'd down the slope,
As fast as other pairs elope,—
Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets,
To beg, or dance in fancy jackets;
At butchers' shops to try their luck;
To help to draw a cart or truck;
Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most
Who would but hit or miss a post.
Prepared to urge the moral on;
But here a whistle long and shrill
Came sounding o'er the council hill,
And starting up, as if their tails,
Had felt the touch of shoes and nails,
Away they scamper'd down the slope,
As fast as other pairs elope,—
264
To beg, or dance in fancy jackets;
At butchers' shops to try their luck;
To help to draw a cart or truck;
Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most
Who would but hit or miss a post.
272
1839.
A TABLE OF ERRATA.
(Hostess loquitur.)
Well! thanks be to Heaven,
The summons is given;
It's only gone seven
And should have been six;
There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!
The summons is given;
It's only gone seven
And should have been six;
There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!
How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly
That John is so silly
And never will learn!
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn't burn.
I shake, willy-nilly
That John is so silly
And never will learn!
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn't burn.
Now then for some blunder,
For nerves to sink under;
I never shall wonder
Whatever goes ill.
That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle.
A Turbot! a fiddle!
It's only a Brill!
For nerves to sink under;
273
Whatever goes ill.
That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle.
A Turbot! a fiddle!
It's only a Brill!
It's quite over-boil'd too,
The butter is oil'd too,
The soup is all spoil'd too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby,
That Cook shall not stop!
The butter is oil'd too,
The soup is all spoil'd too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby,
That Cook shall not stop!
As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning—
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a fushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!
She gets a month's warning,
My orders for scorning—
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a fushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!
Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter
That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,—
I'm born to be vext!
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter
That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,—
I'm born to be vext!
274
The pudding brought on too!
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too,
The plague that he is?
He's off on some ramble:
And there is Miss Campbell,
Enjoying the scramble,
Detestable Quiz!
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too,
The plague that he is?
He's off on some ramble:
And there is Miss Campbell,
Enjoying the scramble,
Detestable Quiz!
The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,
An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on,
Converts to a button
Each drop of the fat.
But no one will try it,
An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on,
Converts to a button
Each drop of the fat.
The beef without mustard!
My fate's to be fluster'd,
And there comes the custard
To eat with the hare!
Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,
Such waiting and dishing,
I cannot help wishing
A woman might swear!
My fate's to be fluster'd,
And there comes the custard
To eat with the hare!
Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,
Such waiting and dishing,
I cannot help wishing
A woman might swear!
Oh dear! did I ever—
But no, I did never—
Well, come, that is clever,
To send up the brawn!
That cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her
That woodcocks are drawn!
But no, I did never—
Well, come, that is clever,
To send up the brawn!
275
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her
That woodcocks are drawn!
It's really audacious!
I cannot look gracious,
Lord help the voracious,
That came for a cram!
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the colour,
Were boil'd with the ham!
I cannot look gracious,
Lord help the voracious,
That came for a cram!
There's Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the colour,
Were boil'd with the ham!
Well, where is the curry?
I'm all in a flurry.
No, cook's in no hurry—
A stoppage again!
And John makes it wider,
A pretty provider!
By bringing up cider
Instead of champagne!
I'm all in a flurry.
No, cook's in no hurry—
A stoppage again!
And John makes it wider,
A pretty provider!
By bringing up cider
Instead of champagne!
My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,
And hardly can sit:
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d---ing
I'm off in a fit!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,
And hardly can sit:
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d---ing
I'm off in a fit!
276
This cooking?—it's messing!
The spinach wants pressing,
And salads in dressing
Are best with good eggs.
And John—yes, already—
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.
The spinach wants pressing,
And salads in dressing
Are best with good eggs.
And John—yes, already—
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.
How shall I get through it!
I never can do it,
I'm quite looking to it
To sink by and by.
Oh! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now
And have a good cry!
I never can do it,
I'm quite looking to it
To sink by and by.
Oh! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now
And have a good cry!
ALL ROUND MY HAT.
A NEW VERSION.
“Meditate—meditate I beseech you, upon Trim's hat.”
Tristram Shandy.
Come, my old hat, my steps attend!
However wags may sneer and scoff,
My castor still shall be my friend,
For I'll not be a caster-off.
So take again your olden place,
That always found you fit and pat,
Whatever mode might please the race
All round my hat, all round my hat!
However wags may sneer and scoff,
My castor still shall be my friend,
For I'll not be a caster-off.
So take again your olden place,
That always found you fit and pat,
Whatever mode might please the race
All round my hat, all round my hat!
277
All round the world while I've a head,
However I may chance to be
Without a home—without a shed,
My tile shall be a roof to me.
Black, rusty grey, devoid of pelt,
A shocking shape or beaten flat,
Still there are joys that may be felt
All round my hat, all round my hat!
However I may chance to be
Without a home—without a shed,
My tile shall be a roof to me.
Black, rusty grey, devoid of pelt,
A shocking shape or beaten flat,
Still there are joys that may be felt
All round my hat, all round my hat!
The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no salaam—
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.
All men in drab he calleth friends;
But there's a broader brim than that—
Give me the love that comprehends
All round my hat, all round my hat!
A hat that bows to no salaam—
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.
All men in drab he calleth friends;
But there's a broader brim than that—
Give me the love that comprehends
All round my hat, all round my hat!
The Monarch binds his brows in gold,
With gems and pearls to sparkle there;
But still a hat, a hat that's old,
They say is much more easy wear.
At regal state I'll not repine
For Kaiser, King, or Autocrat,
Whilst there's a golden sun to shine
All round my hat, all round my hat!
With gems and pearls to sparkle there;
But still a hat, a hat that's old,
They say is much more easy wear.
At regal state I'll not repine
For Kaiser, King, or Autocrat,
Whilst there's a golden sun to shine
All round my hat, all round my hat!
The Soldier seeks the field of death,
He fights, he fires, he faints, he falls,—
To gain an airy laurel wreath,
With berries made of musket balls.
No love have I for shot and shell,
With hissings sharp that end in flat—
Chafers and gnats sing just as well
All round my hat, all round my hat!
He fights, he fires, he faints, he falls,—
To gain an airy laurel wreath,
With berries made of musket balls.
278
With hissings sharp that end in flat—
Chafers and gnats sing just as well
All round my hat, all round my hat!
As yet, my hat, you've got a crown;
A little nap the brush can find;
You are not very, very brown,
Nor very much scrubb'd up behind.
As yet your brim is broad and brave,
I took some little care of that,
By not saluting ev'ry knave
All round my hat, all round my hat!
A little nap the brush can find;
You are not very, very brown,
Nor very much scrubb'd up behind.
As yet your brim is broad and brave,
I took some little care of that,
By not saluting ev'ry knave
All round my hat, all round my hat!
As yet, my hat, I've got a house,
And dine as other people do,
And fate propitious still allows
A home for me—a peg for you.
But say my bread were but a crumb,
Myself as poor as any rat—
Why, I could cry, “Good people, come
All round my hat, all round my hat!”
And dine as other people do,
And fate propitious still allows
A home for me—a peg for you.
But say my bread were but a crumb,
Myself as poor as any rat—
Why, I could cry, “Good people, come
All round my hat, all round my hat!”
As yet the best of womankind
Continues all that wife should be,
And in the self-same room I find,
Her bonnet and my hat agree.
But say the bliss should not endure,
That she should turn a perfect cat,
I'd trust to time to bring a cure
All round my hat, all round my hat!
Continues all that wife should be,
And in the self-same room I find,
Her bonnet and my hat agree.
But say the bliss should not endure,
That she should turn a perfect cat,
I'd trust to time to bring a cure
All round my hat, all round my hat!
279
No acres broad pertain to me
To furnish cattle, coal, or corn;
Like people that are born at sea,
There was no land, where I was born:—
Yet, when my flag of life is furl'd—
What landlord can do more than that?—
I'll leave my heir the whole wide world
All round my hat, all round my hat!
To furnish cattle, coal, or corn;
Like people that are born at sea,
There was no land, where I was born:—
Yet, when my flag of life is furl'd—
What landlord can do more than that?—
I'll leave my heir the whole wide world
All round my hat, all round my hat!
BEN BLUFF.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“Pshaw, you are not on a whaling voyage, where everything that offers is game.”
—The Pilot.
Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a day
Had chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay;
But time brought a change his diversion to spoil,
And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
Had chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay;
But time brought a change his diversion to spoil,
And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
He turn'd up his nose at the fumes of the coke,
And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke:
As to London he briefly deliver'd his mind,
“Sparma-city,” said he—but the City declined.
And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke:
As to London he briefly deliver'd his mind,
“Sparma-city,” said he—but the City declined.
So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff,
As soon as his Whales had brought profits enough,
And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,
But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
As soon as his Whales had brought profits enough,
And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,
But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
280
A big one she was, without figure or waist,
More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;
In fat she was lapp'd from her sole to her crown,
And, turn'd into oil would have lighted a town.
More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;
In fat she was lapp'd from her sole to her crown,
And, turn'd into oil would have lighted a town.
But Ben like a Whaler was charm'd with the match,
And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;
A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,
And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece.
And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;
A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,
And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece.
For Greenland was green in his memory still;
He'd quitted his trade, but retain'd the good-will;
And often, when soften'd by bumbo and flip,
Would cry—till he blubber'd—about his old ship.
He'd quitted his trade, but retain'd the good-will;
And often, when soften'd by bumbo and flip,
Would cry—till he blubber'd—about his old ship.
No craft like the Grampus could work through a floe,
What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow!
And then that rich smell he preferr'd to the rose,
By just nosing the hold without holding his nose!
What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow!
And then that rich smell he preferr'd to the rose,
By just nosing the hold without holding his nose!
Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night,
A snug Arctic Circle of friends to invite,
Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales,
And drank, and blew clouds that were “very like whales.”
A snug Arctic Circle of friends to invite,
Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales,
And drank, and blew clouds that were “very like whales.”
Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat
Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat;
And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the Gun-whale or not?
Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat;
And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the Gun-whale or not?
281
At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest,
By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess'd,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,
He heard something blow through two holes in its head!
By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess'd,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,
He heard something blow through two holes in its head!
“A start!” mutter'd Ben, in the Grampus afloat,
And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!
“Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone—
I look on that whale as already my own!”
And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!
“Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone—
I look on that whale as already my own!”
Then groping about by the light of the moon,
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
“Starn all!” he sang out, “as you care for your lives—
Starn all, as you hope to return to your wives—
Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!
Well done, my old iron, I've sent you right home!”
Starn all, as you hope to return to your wives—
Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!
Well done, my old iron, I've sent you right home!”
And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt upright
The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.
The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.
“Starn all!” echoed Ben, with a movement aback,
But too slow to escape from the creature's attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnish'd with nails,—
“You willin, I'll teach you that Women an't Whales!’
But too slow to escape from the creature's attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnish'd with nails,—
“You willin, I'll teach you that Women an't Whales!’
282
“Avast!” shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech,
“I've heard a Whale spouting, but here is a speech!”
“A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty,” said she;
“But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
“I've heard a Whale spouting, but here is a speech!”
“A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty,” said she;
“But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
“To go to pretend to take me for a fish!
You great Polar Bear—but I know what you wish—
You're sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks,—
You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!”
You great Polar Bear—but I know what you wish—
You're sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks,—
You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!”
“O dearest,” cried Ben, frighten'd out of his life,
“Don't think I would go for to murder a wife
I must long have bewail'd”—But she only cried “Stuff!
Don't name it, you brute, you've be-whaled me enough!”
“Don't think I would go for to murder a wife
I must long have bewail'd”—But she only cried “Stuff!
Don't name it, you brute, you've be-whaled me enough!”
“Lord, Polly!” said Ben, “such a deed could I do?
I'd rather have murder'd all Wapping than you!
Come, forgive what is passed.” “Oh you monster!” she cried,
“It was none of your fault that it passed of one side!”
I'd rather have murder'd all Wapping than you!
Come, forgive what is passed.” “Oh you monster!” she cried,
“It was none of your fault that it passed of one side!”
However, at last she inclined to forgive:
“But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live—
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale.”
“But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live—
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale.”
283
A PLAIN DIRECTION.
“Do you never deviate?”
—John Bull.
In London once I lost my way
In faring to and fro,
And ask'd a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
In faring to and fro,
And ask'd a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I box'd his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;
But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the square.”
And then away I strode;
But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the square.”
I've read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,
Where Whittington walk'd up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold;
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
That drove a famous trade,
Where Whittington walk'd up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold;
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
284
I've read about a Fairy Land,
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs, if good, are sure to thrive,
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs, if good, are sure to thrive,
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've heard about some happy Isle,
Where ev'ry man is free,
And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh that's the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
Where ev'ry man is free,
And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh that's the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've dreamt about some blessed spot,
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.
I'm fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.
285
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Royal Court
Maintain'd in noble state,
When ev'ry able man, and good,
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
Maintain'd in noble state,
When ev'ry able man, and good,
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.
O! that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.
O! that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Garden fair,
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love—
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love—
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
286
I've heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known—
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The Land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
For public spirit known—
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The Land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll'd,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb'd,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
All formal and enroll'd,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb'd,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've heard about a pleasant land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run, crying out,
“Come eat me, if you please.”
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run, crying out,
“Come eat me, if you please.”
287
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.
My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd,
My curtains drawn and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream;
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
My curtains drawn and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream;
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
She look'd so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo and she was won,
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
I could but woo and she was won,
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
But tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she couldn't part,
But all my ties had leave to jog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
But tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
288
But all my ties had leave to jog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
The mother brought a pretty Poll—
A monkey too,—what work he made!
The sister introduced a Beau—
My Susan brought a favourite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,—
A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
A monkey too,—what work he made!
The sister introduced a Beau—
My Susan brought a favourite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,—
A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
The Monkey bit—the Parrot scream'd,
All day the sister strumm'd and sung;
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learn'd to use her tongue:
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sate and croak'd like any frog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
All day the sister strumm'd and sung;
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learn'd to use her tongue:
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sate and croak'd like any frog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
No longer “Deary,” “Duck,” and “Love,”
I soon came down to simple “M!”
The very servants cross'd my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seem'd my own,
I might as well have been a log—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
I soon came down to simple “M!”
The very servants cross'd my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seem'd my own,
I might as well have been a log—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
289
My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd—
She could not bear that Mister Blogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd—
She could not bear that Mister Blogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song—
The sister took a sister's part—
The Maid declared her Master wrong—
The Parrot learn'd to call me “Fool!”
My life was like a London fog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Mamma must mingle in the song—
The sister took a sister's part—
The Maid declared her Master wrong—
The Parrot learn'd to call me “Fool!”
My life was like a London fog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
My Susan's taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end—
I never had a decent coat—
I never had a coin to spend!
She forced me to resign my Club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
As proved by bills that had no end—
I never had a decent coat—
I never had a coin to spend!
She forced me to resign my Club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away,
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away,
I found my study full of whist!
290
There always was a Captain Hogg—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug—
With Pussy in the elbow-chair
And Tray reposing on the rug?—
If I must totter down the hill,
'Tis safest done without a clog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
For one who single is and snug—
With Pussy in the elbow-chair
And Tray reposing on the rug?—
If I must totter down the hill,
'Tis safest done without a clog—
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?
RURAL FELICITY.
Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that's country born,
And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn.
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down.
Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes me more partial to town.
And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn.
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down.
Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes me more partial to town.
At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss,
For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss;
There's something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock,
That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock;
But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down,
And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.
For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss;
291
That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock;
But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down,
And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.
To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles,
If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in two,
If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through.
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles-down,
But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about town.
There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a lane,
And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again;
For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in the pound,
A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground?
And that, by-the-bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down,
Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in town.
Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew,
And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got wetted through;
My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,
That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!
As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,
But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;
Beside hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown,
One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows about town.
But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,
And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane;
And while you're running all duck'd and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops,
“Fine weather,” you hear the farmers say; “a nice growing shower for the crops!”
But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?
For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.
If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in two,
If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through.
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles-down,
But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about town.
There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a lane,
And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again;
For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in the pound,
A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground?
And that, by-the-bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down,
Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in town.
292
And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got wetted through;
My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,
That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!
As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,
But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;
Beside hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown,
One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows about town.
But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,
And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane;
And while you're running all duck'd and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops,
“Fine weather,” you hear the farmers say; “a nice growing shower for the crops!”
But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?
For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.
Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts,
And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.
Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt
To scramble through gaps, or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,—
For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case,
Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the ‘hooray!’ in their face.
And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.
293
To scramble through gaps, or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,—
For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case,
Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the ‘hooray!’ in their face.
There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond,
And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walked in the duckweed pond:
Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down,
As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town.
Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find,
But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind;
For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown—
And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town.
As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work!
And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived upon nothing but pork;
One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all countrified cooks!
Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks?
Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree when it's down,
But it served me right, like a gooseberry, fool to look for champagne out of town!
To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan,
And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can,
Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn,
And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn;
But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found it more easy to make,
But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the rake.
I'd a country dance, too, at harvest home, with a regular country clown,
But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town!
Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs.
The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs,
And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs.
I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down,
The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they're kept in cages in town!
Another thing is the nasty dogs—thro' the village I hardly can stir
Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;
And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down,
But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town.
Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright,
But instead of a family murder it proved an owl, that flies screeching at night.
Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing—
In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing;
For, besides all the troubles I've mentioned before, as endured for rurality's sake,
I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and once—ugh! I trod on a snake!
And as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin,
I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds, that drives the poor suicides in!
And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill?
And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles, and fresh butter wherever you will?
And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?
So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town.
Howsomever my mind's made up, and although I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext,
I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,
And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,
And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down
And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walked in the duckweed pond:
Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down,
As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town.
Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find,
But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind;
For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown—
And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town.
As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work!
And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived upon nothing but pork;
One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all countrified cooks!
Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks?
294
But it served me right, like a gooseberry, fool to look for champagne out of town!
To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan,
And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can,
Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn,
And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn;
But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found it more easy to make,
But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the rake.
I'd a country dance, too, at harvest home, with a regular country clown,
But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town!
Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs.
The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs,
And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs.
I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down,
The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they're kept in cages in town!
295
Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;
And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down,
But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town.
Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright,
But instead of a family murder it proved an owl, that flies screeching at night.
Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing—
In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing;
For, besides all the troubles I've mentioned before, as endured for rurality's sake,
I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and once—ugh! I trod on a snake!
And as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin,
I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds, that drives the poor suicides in!
And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill?
And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles, and fresh butter wherever you will?
And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?
So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town.
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I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,
And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,
And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down
A FLYING VISIT.
“A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine—find out moonshine!”
—Midsummer Night's Dream.
The by-gone September,
As folks may remember,
At least if their memory saves but an ember,
One fine afternoon,
There went up a Balloon,
Which did not return to the Earth very soon.
As folks may remember,
At least if their memory saves but an ember,
One fine afternoon,
There went up a Balloon,
Which did not return to the Earth very soon.
For, nearing the sky,
At about a mile high,
The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;
So cutting his string,
In a Parasol thing,
Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.
At about a mile high,
The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;
So cutting his string,
In a Parasol thing,
Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.
Meanwhile, thus adrift,
The Balloon made a shift
To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;
It got very small,
Then to nothing at all;
And then rose the question of where it would fall?
The Balloon made a shift
To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;
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Then to nothing at all;
And then rose the question of where it would fall?
Some thought that, for lack
Of the man and his pack,
'Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack;
Some held, but in vain,
With the first heavy rain,
'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!
Of the man and his pack,
'Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack;
Some held, but in vain,
With the first heavy rain,
'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!
But still not a word
For a month could be heard
Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird:
The firm Gye and Hughes,
Wore their boots out and shoes,
In running about and inquiring for news.
For a month could be heard
Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird:
The firm Gye and Hughes,
Wore their boots out and shoes,
In running about and inquiring for news.
Some thought it must be
Tumbled into the Sea;
Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie;
For Germans, as shown
By their writings, 'tis known
Are always delighted with what is high-flown.
Tumbled into the Sea;
Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie;
For Germans, as shown
By their writings, 'tis known
Are always delighted with what is high-flown.
Some hinted a bilk,
And that maidens who milk,
In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:
Some swore that it must,
“As they said at the fust,
Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!’
And that maidens who milk,
In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:
Some swore that it must,
“As they said at the fust,
Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!’
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However, at last,
When six weeks had gone past
Intelligence came of a plausible cast;
A wondering clown,
At a hamlet near town,
Had seen “like a moon of green cheese” coming down.
When six weeks had gone past
Intelligence came of a plausible cast;
A wondering clown,
At a hamlet near town,
Had seen “like a moon of green cheese” coming down.
Soon spread the alarm,
And from cottage and farm,
The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;
And off ran the folk,—
It is such a good joke
To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.
And from cottage and farm,
The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;
And off ran the folk,—
It is such a good joke
To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.
And lo! the machine,
Dappled yellow and green,
Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen
“Yes, yes,” was the cry,
“It's the old one, surely,
Where can it have been such a time in the sky
Dappled yellow and green,
Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen
“Yes, yes,” was the cry,
“It's the old one, surely,
Where can it have been such a time in the sky
“Lord! where will it fall?
It can't find out Vauxhall,
Without any pilot to guide it at all!”
Some wager'd that Kent
Would behold the event,
Debrett had been posed to predict its “descent.”
It can't find out Vauxhall,
Without any pilot to guide it at all!”
Some wager'd that Kent
Would behold the event,
Debrett had been posed to predict its “descent.”
Some thought it would pitch
In the old Tower Ditch,
Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch,
And Farmers cried “Zounds!
If it drops on our grounds,
We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds!”
In the old Tower Ditch,
Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch,
299
If it drops on our grounds,
We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds!”
But still to and fro
It continued to go,
As if looking out for soft places below—
No difficult job,
It had only to bob
Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:
It continued to go,
As if looking out for soft places below—
No difficult job,
It had only to bob
Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:
Who, too apt to stare
At some castle in air,
Forget that the earth is their proper affair;
Till, watching the fall
Of some soap-bubble ball,
They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.
At some castle in air,
Forget that the earth is their proper affair;
Till, watching the fall
Of some soap-bubble ball,
They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.
Meanwhile, from its height
Stooping downward in flight,
The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:
Still bigger and bigger,
And strike me a nigger
Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!
Stooping downward in flight,
The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:
Still bigger and bigger,
And strike me a nigger
Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!
Yes, plain to be seen,
Underneath the machine,
There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;
Some Mason could spy;
Others named Mr. Gye;
Or Hollond, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.
Underneath the machine,
There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green;
Some Mason could spy;
Others named Mr. Gye;
Or Hollond, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.
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'Twas Graham the flighty,
Whom the Duke high and mighty,
Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;
'Twas Hampton, whose whim
Was in Cloudland to swim,
Till e'en Little Hampton look'd little to him!
Whom the Duke high and mighty,
Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;
'Twas Hampton, whose whim
Was in Cloudland to swim,
Till e'en Little Hampton look'd little to him!
But all were at fault;
From the heavenly vault
The falling balloon came at last to a halt;
And bounce! with the jar
Of descending so far,
An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!
From the heavenly vault
The falling balloon came at last to a halt;
And bounce! with the jar
Of descending so far,
An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!
At first with the jolt
All his wits made a bolt,
As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;
And while in his faint,
To avoid all complaint,
The Muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint.
All his wits made a bolt,
As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;
And while in his faint,
To avoid all complaint,
The Muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint.
The face of this elf,
Round as platter of delf,
Was pale as if only a cast of itself:
His head had a rare
Fleece of silvery hair,
Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.
Round as platter of delf,
Was pale as if only a cast of itself:
His head had a rare
Fleece of silvery hair,
Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.
His eyes they were odd,
Like the eyes of a cod,
And gave him the look of a watery God.
His nose was a snub;
Under which for his grub,
Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.
Like the eyes of a cod,
And gave him the look of a watery God.
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Under which for his grub,
Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.
His person was small,
Without figure at all,
A plump little body as round as a ball:
With two little fins,
And a couple of pins,
With what has been christened a bow in the shins.
Without figure at all,
A plump little body as round as a ball:
With two little fins,
And a couple of pins,
With what has been christened a bow in the shins.
His dress it was new,
A full suit of sky-blue—
With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—
Thus painted complete,
From his head to his feet,
Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.
A full suit of sky-blue—
With bright silver buckles in each little shoe—
Thus painted complete,
From his head to his feet,
Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.
Fine text for the crowd!
Who disputed aloud
What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud—
“He's come from o'er seas,
He's a Cochin Chinese—
By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherookees!”
Who disputed aloud
What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud—
“He's come from o'er seas,
He's a Cochin Chinese—
By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherookees!”
“Don't nobody know?”
“He's a young Esquimaux,
Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow.’
“Some angel, my dear,
Sent from some upper spear
For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!”
“He's a young Esquimaux,
Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow.’
“Some angel, my dear,
Sent from some upper spear
For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!”
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Meanwhile, with a sigh,
Having open'd one eye,
The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;
And finding his tongue,
Thus he said, or he sung,
“Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!”
Having open'd one eye,
The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;
And finding his tongue,
Thus he said, or he sung,
“Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!”
“Lord! what does he speak!”
“It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!”
“It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!”
“It's no like the Scotch,”
Said a Scot on the watch,
“Phoo! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!”
“It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!”
“It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!”
“It's no like the Scotch,”
Said a Scot on the watch,
“Phoo! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!”
“It's not parly voo,”
Cried a schoolboy or two,
“Nor Hebrew at all,” said a wandering Jew.
Some held it was sprung
From the Irvingite tongue,
The same that is used by a child very young.
Cried a schoolboy or two,
“Nor Hebrew at all,” said a wandering Jew.
Some held it was sprung
From the Irvingite tongue,
The same that is used by a child very young.
Some guess'd it high Dutch,
Others thought it had much
In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;
But none could be poz,
What the Dickens (not Boz),
No mortal could tell what the Dickens it was!
Others thought it had much
In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;
But none could be poz,
What the Dickens (not Boz),
No mortal could tell what the Dickens it was!
When who should come pat,
In a moment like that,
But Bowring, to see what the people were at—
A Doctor well able,
Without any fable,
To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.
In a moment like that,
But Bowring, to see what the people were at—
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Without any fable,
To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.
So just drawing near,
With a vigilant ear,
That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,
Before one could sip
Up a tumbler of flip,
He knew the whole tongue from the root to the tip!
With a vigilant ear,
That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,
Before one could sip
Up a tumbler of flip,
He knew the whole tongue from the root to the tip!
Then stretching his hand,
As you see Daniel stand,
In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!
Without more delay,
In the Hamilton way
He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.
As you see Daniel stand,
In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!
Without more delay,
In the Hamilton way
He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.
“Krak kraziboo ban,
I'm the Lunatick Man,
Confined in the Moon since creation began—
Sit muggy bigog,
Whom, except in a fog,
You see with a Lantern, a Bush, and a Dog.
I'm the Lunatick Man,
Confined in the Moon since creation began—
Sit muggy bigog,
Whom, except in a fog,
You see with a Lantern, a Bush, and a Dog.
“Lang sinery lear,
For this many a year,
I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,—
Och, pad-mad aroon,
Till one fine afternoon,
I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon.
For this many a year,
I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,—
Och, pad-mad aroon,
Till one fine afternoon,
I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon.
304
“Cush quackery go,
But, besides you must know,
I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;
Big botherum blether,
Who pretended to gather
The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather.
But, besides you must know,
I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;
Big botherum blether,
Who pretended to gather
The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather.
“So Crismus an crash,
Being shortish of cash,
I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash—
Slik mizzle an smak,
So I'm come with a pack,
To sell to the trade, of my own Almanack.
Being shortish of cash,
I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash—
Slik mizzle an smak,
So I'm come with a pack,
To sell to the trade, of my own Almanack.
“Fiz, bobbery pershal,
Besides aims commercial,
Much wishing to honour my friend Sir John Herschel,
Cum puddin and tame,
It's inscribed to his name,
Which is now at the full in celestial fame.
Besides aims commercial,
Much wishing to honour my friend Sir John Herschel,
Cum puddin and tame,
It's inscribed to his name,
Which is now at the full in celestial fame.
“Wept wepton wish wept,
Pray this Copy accept”—
But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:
For why? a shrewd man
Had devis'd a sly plan
The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.
Pray this Copy accept”—
But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:
For why? a shrewd man
Had devis'd a sly plan
The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.
So plotted, so done—
With a fight as in fun,
While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,
A knave who could box,
And give right and left knocks,
Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.
With a fight as in fun,
While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,
305
And give right and left knocks,
Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.
And hard he had fared,
But the people were scared
By what the Interpreter roundly declared:
“You ignorant Turks!
You will be your own Burkes—
He holds all the keys of the lunary works!
But the people were scared
By what the Interpreter roundly declared:
“You ignorant Turks!
You will be your own Burkes—
He holds all the keys of the lunary works!
“You'd best let him go—
If you keep him below,
The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;
He left her at full,
And with such a long pull,
Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!”
If you keep him below,
The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;
He left her at full,
And with such a long pull,
Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!”
So awful a threat
Took effect on the set;
The fright, tho,' was more than their Guest could forget;
So taking a jump,
In the car he came plump,
And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.
Took effect on the set;
The fright, tho,' was more than their Guest could forget;
So taking a jump,
In the car he came plump,
And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.
Up soar'd the machine,
With its yellow and green;
But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,
Who cried from the car,
“Dam in yooman bi gar!”
That is,—“What a sad set of villains you are!”
With its yellow and green;
But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,
Who cried from the car,
“Dam in yooman bi gar!”
That is,—“What a sad set of villains you are!”
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Howbeit, at some height,
He threw down quite a flight
Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right—
And, thanks to the boon,
We shall see very soon
If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!
He threw down quite a flight
Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right—
And, thanks to the boon,
We shall see very soon
If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!
STANZAS.
[With the good of our country before us]
With the good of our country before us,
Why play the mere partisan's game?
Lo! the broad flag of England is o'er us,
And behold on both sides 'tis the same!
Why play the mere partisan's game?
Lo! the broad flag of England is o'er us,
And behold on both sides 'tis the same!
Not for this, not for that, not for any,
Not for these, not for those, but for all,—
To the last drop of blood—the last penny—
Together let's stand, or let's fall!
Not for these, not for those, but for all,—
To the last drop of blood—the last penny—
Together let's stand, or let's fall!
Tear down the vile signs of a fraction,
Be the national banner unfurl'd,—
And if we must have any faction,—
Be it “Britain against all the world.’
Be the national banner unfurl'd,—
And if we must have any faction,—
Be it “Britain against all the world.’
311
[Come all ye sable little girls and boys]
Come all ye sable little girls and boys,
Ye coal-black Brothers—Sooty Sisters, come!
With kitty-katties make a joyful noise;
With snaky-snekies, and the Eboe drum!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Play, Sambo, play,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Ye coal-black Brothers—Sooty Sisters, come!
With kitty-katties make a joyful noise;
With snaky-snekies, and the Eboe drum!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Play, Sambo, play,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Ye vocal Blackbirds, bring your native pipes,
Your own Moor's Melodies, ye niggers, bring;
To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes,
Sing “Possum up a gum-tree,”—roar and sing!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Chaunt, Sambo, chaunt,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Your own Moor's Melodies, ye niggers, bring;
To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes,
Sing “Possum up a gum-tree,”—roar and sing!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Chaunt, Sambo, chaunt,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Bring all your woolly pickaninnies dear—
Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang:
Stretch ev'ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear,
And let the driver in his whip go hang!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Grin, Sambo, grin,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang:
Stretch ev'ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear,
And let the driver in his whip go hang!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Grin, Sambo, grin,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Your working garb indignantly renounce;
Discard your slops in honour of the day—
Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce,
Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in May—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Dress, Sambo, dress,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Discard your slops in honour of the day—
Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce,
Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in May—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Dress, Sambo, dress,—and, Obadiah, groan!
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Come, join together in the dewy dance,
With melting maids in steamy mazes go;
Humanity delights to see you prance,
Up with your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Skip, Sambo, skip,—and, Obadiah, groan!
With melting maids in steamy mazes go;
Humanity delights to see you prance,
Up with your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Skip, Sambo, skip,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Kiss dark Diana on her pouting lips,
And take black Phœbe by her ample waist—
Tell them to-day is Slavery's eclipse,
And Love and Liberty must be embraced—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Kiss, Sambo, kiss,—and, Obadiah, groan!
And take black Phœbe by her ample waist—
Tell them to-day is Slavery's eclipse,
And Love and Liberty must be embraced—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Kiss, Sambo, kiss,—and, Obadiah, groan!
With bowls of sangaree and toddy come!
Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes,
Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum,
To toast the whitest date of modern times—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Drink, Sambo, drink,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes,
Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum,
To toast the whitest date of modern times—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Drink, Sambo, drink,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Talk, all together, talk! both old and young,
Pour out the fulness of the negro heart;
Let loose the now emancipated tongue,
And all your new-born sentiments impart—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Spout, Sambo, spout,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Pour out the fulness of the negro heart;
Let loose the now emancipated tongue,
And all your new-born sentiments impart—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Spout, Sambo, spout,—and, Obadiah, groan!
Huzza! for equal rights and equal laws;
The British parliament has doff'd your chain—
Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws,
And swear you never will be slaves again—
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Swear, Sambo, swear,—and, Obadiah, groan!
The British parliament has doff'd your chain—
Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws,
313
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Swear, Sambo, swear,—and, Obadiah, groan!
THE DOCTOR.
A SKETCH.
“Whatever is, is right.”
—Pope.
There once was a Doctor,
(No foe to the proctor,)
A physic concocter,
Whose dose was so pat,
However it acted,
One speech it extracted,—
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
(No foe to the proctor,)
A physic concocter,
Whose dose was so pat,
However it acted,
One speech it extracted,—
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
And first, all “unaisy,”
Like woman that's crazy,
In flies Mistress Casey,
“Do come to poor Pat
The blood's running faster!
He's torn off the plaster—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Like woman that's crazy,
In flies Mistress Casey,
“Do come to poor Pat
The blood's running faster!
He's torn off the plaster—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Anon, with an antic,
Quite strange and romantic,
A woman comes frantic—
“What could you be at?
My darling dear Aleck,
You've sent him oxalic!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Quite strange and romantic,
A woman comes frantic—
“What could you be at?
314
You've sent him oxalic!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Then in comes another,
Dispatch'd by his mother,
A blubbering brother,
Who gives a rat-tat—
“Oh, poor little sister
Has lick'd off a blister!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Dispatch'd by his mother,
A blubbering brother,
Who gives a rat-tat—
“Oh, poor little sister
Has lick'd off a blister!”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Now home comes the flunkey,
His own powder-monkey,
But dull as a donkey—
With basket and that—
“The draught for the Squire, Sir,
He chuck'd in the fire, Sir—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
His own powder-monkey,
But dull as a donkey—
With basket and that—
“The draught for the Squire, Sir,
He chuck'd in the fire, Sir—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
The next is the pompous
Head Beadle, old Bumpus—
“Lord! here is a rumpus:
That pauper, Old Nat,
In some drunken notion
Has drunk up his lotion—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
Head Beadle, old Bumpus—
“Lord! here is a rumpus:
That pauper, Old Nat,
In some drunken notion
Has drunk up his lotion—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
315
At last comes a servant,
In grief very fervent:
“Alas! Doctor Derwent,
Poor Master is flat!
He's drawn his last breath, Sir—
That dose was his death, Sir.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
In grief very fervent:
“Alas! Doctor Derwent,
Poor Master is flat!
He's drawn his last breath, Sir—
That dose was his death, Sir.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor,
“I meant it for that!”
THE VISION.
“Plague on't! the last was ill enough,
This cannot but make better proof.”
—Cotton.
This cannot but make better proof.”
—Cotton.
As I sate the other night,
Burning of a single light,
All at once a change there came
In the colour of the flame.
Burning of a single light,
All at once a change there came
In the colour of the flame.
Strange it was the blaze to view,
Blue as summer sky is blue:
One! two! three! four! five! six! seven!
Eight! nine! ten! it struck eleven!
Blue as summer sky is blue:
One! two! three! four! five! six! seven!
Eight! nine! ten! it struck eleven!
Pale as sheet, with stiffen'd hair,
Motionless in elbow chair—
Blood congealing—dead almost—
“Now,” thought I, “to see a ghost!”
Motionless in elbow chair—
Blood congealing—dead almost—
“Now,” thought I, “to see a ghost!”
316
Strange misgiving, true as strange!
In the air there came a change,
And as plain as mortals be,
Lo! a shape confronted me!
In the air there came a change,
And as plain as mortals be,
Lo! a shape confronted me!
Lines and features I could trace
Like an old familiar face,
Thin and pallid like my own,
In the morning mirror shown.
Like an old familiar face,
Thin and pallid like my own,
In the morning mirror shown.
“Now,” he said, and near the grate
Drew a chair for tête-à-tête,
Quite at odds with all decorum,—
“Now, my boys, let's have a jorum!”
Drew a chair for tête-à-tête,
Quite at odds with all decorum,—
“Now, my boys, let's have a jorum!”
“Come,” he cried, “old fellow, come,
Where's the brandy, where's the rum?
Where's the kettle—is it hot?
Shall we have some punch, or what?”
Where's the brandy, where's the rum?
Where's the kettle—is it hot?
Shall we have some punch, or what?”
“Feast of reason—flow of soul!
Where's the sugar, where's the bowl?
Lemons I will help to squeeze—
Flip, Egg-hot or what you please!”
Where's the sugar, where's the bowl?
Lemons I will help to squeeze—
Flip, Egg-hot or what you please!”
“Sir,” said I, with hectic cough,
Shock of nerves to carry off—
Looking at him very hard,
“Pray oblige me with a card.”
Shock of nerves to carry off—
Looking at him very hard,
“Pray oblige me with a card.”
317
“Card,” said he—“Phoo—nonsense—stuff!
We're acquainted well enough—
Still, my name if you desire,
Eighteen Thirty-Eight, Esquire.
We're acquainted well enough—
Still, my name if you desire,
Eighteen Thirty-Eight, Esquire.
“Ring for supper! where's the tray?
No great time I have to stay,
One short hour, and like a May'r,
I must quit the yearly Chair!”
No great time I have to stay,
One short hour, and like a May'r,
I must quit the yearly Chair!”
Scarce could I contain my rage—
O'er the retrospective page,
Looking back from date to date,
What I owed to Thirty-Eight.
O'er the retrospective page,
Looking back from date to date,
What I owed to Thirty-Eight.
Sickness here and sickness there,
Pain and sorrow, constant care;
Fifty-two long weeks to fall,
Nor a trump among them all!
Pain and sorrow, constant care;
Fifty-two long weeks to fall,
Nor a trump among them all!
“Zounds!” I cried, in quite a huff,
“Go—I've known you long enough.
Seek for supper where you please,
Here you have not bread and cheese.‘
“Go—I've known you long enough.
Seek for supper where you please,
Here you have not bread and cheese.‘
“Nay,” cried he, “were things so ill?
Let me have your pardon still—
What I've done to give you pain
I will never do again.”
Let me have your pardon still—
What I've done to give you pain
I will never do again.”
318
“As from others, so from you,
Let me have my honours due;
Soon the parish bells about
Will begin to ring me out.”
Let me have my honours due;
Soon the parish bells about
Will begin to ring me out.”
“Ring you out?—With all my heart!”
From my chair I made a start,
Pull'd the bell and gave a shout—
“Peter, show the Old Year out!”
From my chair I made a start,
Pull'd the bell and gave a shout—
“Peter, show the Old Year out!”
TO MY DAUGHTER.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smiled—
Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds—
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
“Thou hast a Child!”
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smiled—
Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds—
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
“Thou hast a Child!”
Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me, as Time:
It was not sorrow—not annoy—
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me, as Time:
319
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this—I wept.
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this—I wept.
MORNING MEDITATIONS.
Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying—
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying—
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out—
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out—
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime—
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime—
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
320
To me Dan Phœbus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,—
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!
His steeds that paw impatiently about,—
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl;
What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?
Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl;
What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
“Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?”
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
“Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?”
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
“To meet the sun upon the upland lawn”—
Well—he died young.
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
“To meet the sun upon the upland lawn”—
Well—he died young.
With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
“All up—all up!”
And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
“All up—all up!”
321
So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;—
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;—
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.
386
1840
UP THE RHINE
[Verse extracted from prose narrative.]
[Ye Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine]
Ye Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine,
Provided with passport, that requisite docket,
First listen to one little whisper of mine—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Provided with passport, that requisite docket,
First listen to one little whisper of mine—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Don't wash or be shaved—go like hairy wild men,
Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it,
But if you speak English, or look it, why then—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it,
But if you speak English, or look it, why then—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds,
Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket,
With thirty per cent. as a tax on your heads,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket,
With thirty per cent. as a tax on your heads,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll see old Cologne,—not the sweetest of towns,—
Wherever you follow your nose you will shock it;
And you'll pay your three dollars to look at three crowns,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Wherever you follow your nose you will shock it;
And you'll pay your three dollars to look at three crowns,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll count seven Mountains, and see Roland's Eck,
Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett;
But oh! to the tone of romance what a check,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett;
But oh! to the tone of romance what a check,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
387
Old Castles you'll see on the vine-covered hill,—
Fine ruins to rivet the eye in its socket—
Once haunts of Baronial Banditti, and still—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Fine ruins to rivet the eye in its socket—
Once haunts of Baronial Banditti, and still—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll stop at Coblenz, with its beautiful views,
But make no long stay with your money to stock it,
Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket?
But make no long stay with your money to stock it,
Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket?
A Fortress you'll see, which, as people report,
Can never be captured, save famine should block it—
Ascend Ehrenbreitstein—but that's not their forte,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Can never be captured, save famine should block it—
Ascend Ehrenbreitstein—but that's not their forte,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll see an old man who'll let off an old gun,
And Lurley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it;
But think that the words of the echo thus run,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
And Lurley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it;
But think that the words of the echo thus run,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
You'll gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the Vine!
Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock it—
P'raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wine—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock it—
P'raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wine—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Perchance you will take a frisk off to the Baths—
Where some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it;
But still mind the warning, wherever your paths—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Where some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it;
But still mind the warning, wherever your paths—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
And Friendships you'll swear, most eternal of pacts,
Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket;
But still, in the most sentimental of acts—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket;
But still, in the most sentimental of acts—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
388
In short, if you visit that stream or its shore,
Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it,
And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it,
And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore,—
Take care of your pocket!—take care of your pocket!
408
TO ***** WITH A FLASK OF RHINE WATER.
The old Catholic City was still,
In the Minster the vespers were sung,
And, re-echoed in cadences shrill,
The last call of the trumpet had rung;
While, across the broad stream of the Rhine,
The full Moon cast a silvery zone;
And, methought, as I gazed on its shine,
“Surely that is the Eau de Cologne.”
In the Minster the vespers were sung,
And, re-echoed in cadences shrill,
The last call of the trumpet had rung;
While, across the broad stream of the Rhine,
The full Moon cast a silvery zone;
And, methought, as I gazed on its shine,
“Surely that is the Eau de Cologne.”
409
I inquired not the place of its source,
If it ran to the east or the west;
But my heart took a note of its course,
That it flow'd towards Her I love best—
That it flow'd towards Her I love best,
Like those wandering thoughts of my own,
And the fancy such sweetness possess'd,
That the Rhine seemed all Eau de Cologne!
If it ran to the east or the west;
But my heart took a note of its course,
That it flow'd towards Her I love best—
That it flow'd towards Her I love best,
Like those wandering thoughts of my own,
And the fancy such sweetness possess'd,
That the Rhine seemed all Eau de Cologne!
417
THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE.
'Tis even—on the pleasant banks of Rhine
The thrush is singing, and the dove is cooing,
A youth and maiden on the turf recline
Alone—And he is wooing.
The thrush is singing, and the dove is cooing,
A youth and maiden on the turf recline
Alone—And he is wooing.
Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love
No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers,
Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender Spirit hovers!
No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers,
Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender Spirit hovers!
Untouch'd by lovely Nature and her laws,
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;—
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his caresses.
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;—
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his caresses.
Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave,
Bright eyes, and dainty lips, and tresses curly;
In outward loveliness a child of Eve,
But cold as Nymph of Lurley!
Bright eyes, and dainty lips, and tresses curly;
In outward loveliness a child of Eve,
But cold as Nymph of Lurley!
The more Love tries her pity to engross,
The more she chills him with a strange behaviour;
Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross
And Image of the Saviour.
The more she chills him with a strange behaviour;
Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross
And Image of the Saviour.
Forth goes the Lover with a farewell moan,
As from the presence of a thing inhuman;—
Oh! what unholy spell hath turn'd to stone
The young warm heart of Woman!
As from the presence of a thing inhuman;—
Oh! what unholy spell hath turn'd to stone
The young warm heart of Woman!
418
'Tis midnight—and the moonbeam, cold and wan,
On bower and river quietly is sleeping,
And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man
The Maiden fair is weeping.
On bower and river quietly is sleeping,
And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man
The Maiden fair is weeping.
In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,
No pressure answers to her hand so pressing;
In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.
No pressure answers to her hand so pressing;
In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.
Despairing, stunn'd by her eternal loss,
She flies to succour that may best beseem her;
But, lo! a frowning Figure veils the Cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer!
She flies to succour that may best beseem her;
But, lo! a frowning Figure veils the Cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer!
With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll,
Wherein she reads in melancholy letters,
The cruel fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.
Wherein she reads in melancholy letters,
The cruel fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.
“Wretch! Sinner! Renegade! to truth and God,
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!”
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last Martyr!
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!”
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last Martyr!
And side by side the hapless Lovers lie:
Tell me, harsh priest! by yonder tragic token,
What part hath God in such a Bond, whereby
Or hearts or vows are broken?
Tell me, harsh priest! by yonder tragic token,
What part hath God in such a Bond, whereby
Or hearts or vows are broken?
[“I like your German singers well]
“I like your German singers well,But hate them too, and for this reason,
Although they always sing in time,
They often sing quite out of season.”
| The works of Thomas Hood | |