University of Virginia Library

A LITERARY “CAUSE CÉLÈBRE.

Here he comes! The paper, Mary. Ah, good morning, Dudley James.
'Ave you read this libel haction—this 'ere case of—what's their names?
Oh, Buchanan vussus Taylor—there's a lesson, lad, for you
In them singerlar proceedins; take and read 'em, Dudley, do.
You who've caused so much disquiet both to me and to your ma,
Not to say your aunt Jemima, where your expectations are.
Yes, you know you 'ave, my boy; it's gettin' on for nigh a year
Since you took to dress in velvet and knocked off your dinner-beer,
Took to wear your collars lower and asoomed a moody stare;
'Ad a row with Snipp's assistant when he come to cut your 'air;
Took to moonin' round the counter, muttrin' “lines to” doose knows what,
Hodes and sonnicks, songs and ballids—and the other rhymin' rot;
Changed your short black cutty for a dangling German chaney pipe
And refused to join the fam'ly at the evenin' meal of tripe;
Wouldn't take your ma o' Sundays to the “Welsh Harp” in the shay,
But remained at home to finish your “Romaunt of Pegwell Bay.”
Yes, my laddie, I have watched you—I have seen your little game,
I've observed your haspirations after a poetic fame—
“Fame himmortal,” if you please—for nothing short of that will do.
Trade is low and butter vulgar—poetry's the line for you!
Now, my boy, just read that haction—that'll tell you what they are,
These 'ere poets that are soarin' o'er our 'eads so jolly far.
Parts of it I 'ardly follered, but its English seems to be,
Messrs Swinbun and Buchanan can't agree to disagree.
Mr B. he wrote a satter, — droppin' down on Mr S.,
And complainin' as his werses were a little too “undress.”
Well, this put, you may imagine, Mr S. upon his mettle.
“What! you call my werse indecent? Gammon! it's the pot and kettle.”
So he ups and slates Buchanan, calls him all the 'orrid names
He can take and lay his tongue to—which is plenty, Dudley James—
Treats the hother as a hinsect, looked at thro' the microscope
By a far superior being — which is funny, let us 'ope.
That, of course, annoys Buchanan, and he “counters” with a will,
Calling Mr S. a “monkey” — which, let's 'ope, is funnier still.
Then they drops it for a season (this occurred in '71).
But you don't know much of poets if you think the war was done.
Last year comes out “Jonas Fisher,” pokin' up the “Fleshly School”
Once again: “Oho!” says Swinbun, keepin' very calm and cool,
“Here's that hodious Buchanan at his dirty game again
Sure as death. There can't be no one else among the race of men
Who could think my werse indecent.” So he lets him 'ave it 'ot;
Shied the mud he'd shied before, and shied some more that he had not.
When Buchanan's all bespattered, then—most 'orrible of sells—
Lo be'old yer! “Jonas Fisher” proves to be by summun else.
'Ence the haction which that plucky Mr Peter Taylor fights.
That you see's what comes of printin' what a hangry poet writes.
Lor! what larks to see them lawyers overaul Buchanan's lines,
Dippin' in their scoops to try 'em like my cheeses, through the rines!
Tastin' this and smellin' t'other. “Isn't this a little strong?”
“Call that pure?” “Well, what of this now, for a hammatory song?”
Yes, by George, I never laughed so 'earty, nor I never shall,
As at earin' Mr 'Awkins read about that Injin gal,
And the cuddlin' in the forest! Well, per'aps it meant no harm,
Still the author owned hisself the scene was just a trifle warm.
Then, of course, Buchanan's counsel—he was not agoin' to fail;
So he dropped upon the “fleshlies” right and left and tooth and nail!
“Grossly senshal,” “most indecent,” “hanimal passion consecrated.”
Says the judge, “A style of poitry 'ighly to be deprecated!”
Well, the upshot was Buchanan gets his verdict safe and sound,
And he comes on Mr Taylor for a hundern-fifty pound.
But, Lord love you, my dear Dudley, what a foolish price to pay!
What a terrible exposy for the poets of the day!
I dun know about their poems, which is dirty, which is clean;
As to Mr Swinbun's “Ballids”—blowed if I know what they mean!
So I gev my Jane a copy on her birthday last July
Bound as natty as you please in blue morocker—for, says I,
If my gal finds them corruptin', as some people says they are,
She's a doosed sight more 'andy guessin' riddles than her Pa!
But to think of them two poets showin' up each other's lines
For the benefit of us the—what d'you call it?—Philistines.
Passion, fancy, light and sweetness — well, maybe they've got 'em all;
But they've one thing undeweloped — gumption: that's uncommon small!
Why, when Briggs in hopen westry cheeked me—you remember, Dud,
Makin' insolent allusions to my butter as Thames mud—
Did I go to lawr about it—hugly-tempered as I am?
Did I sue old Briggs for libel, defamation? Not for Sam!
No, I knew old Briggs's counsel—he'd contrive to 'ave his fling,
And my butter—well mud's 'umbug, but — 'taint always quite the thing!
And although I know a thing or two about old Briggs's tea,
“Boshy butter” don't get nicer by denouncin' “dirt-Bohea.”
What's the good of each exposin' t'other's tricks of trade on hoath?
Plaintiff wins, or p'raps defendant, but the neighbours laugh at both;
Yet you find the “'igher intlek” blind to facs as plain as this—
Facs which any common tradesman's too much common-sense to miss.
Yes, my boy, this ought to cure you—reverations such as these.
You will stick to butter, Dudley—butter, bacon, heggs, and cheese,
Rather than become a poet like them two as lately fought,
Bringin' out their little wash-tubs, stupid-like, in hopen court;
And—to dab each other's faces with the soapy froth and foam—
Washed their dirty clothes in public, which they might have washed at 'ome!