The songs of the Wilsons With a memoir of the Family, and several additional songs never before published. Edited by John Harland |
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THE POET'S CORNER. |
 | The songs of the Wilsons |  |
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THE POET'S CORNER.
By Mr Alexander Wilson.
70
When the Sun shines so brightly, both daily and nightly,
And glasses drink lightly 'mid poësy and glee,
We sing and we laugh it, and merrily quaff it,
For sons of bright Phœbus and Momus are we.
Then empty the bottle, and moisten your throttle,
Till mind and not mottle appears to the view;
The rosy god o'er us, choice spirits before us,
Come join me in chorus, ye kindred crew.
And glasses drink lightly 'mid poësy and glee,
We sing and we laugh it, and merrily quaff it,
For sons of bright Phœbus and Momus are we.
Then empty the bottle, and moisten your throttle,
Till mind and not mottle appears to the view;
The rosy god o'er us, choice spirits before us,
Come join me in chorus, ye kindred crew.
CHORUS.
Then fill up a thumper, a classical bumper,To tragedy, comedy, Byron, and Burns;
To Milton and Moore, to their genius and lore,
To the ever-green laurels entwining their urns!
The Sun is a school where the wit or the fool
May improve him by rule, both by night and by morn;
Lit up by a Bamford,
the Radical gaslight,
Whose flame will shed lustre on ages unborn.
There 's Elijah the bellman, who, self-taught and well, man,
I'm happy to tell, man, hath courted the muse;
He 'll quote and recite, for a day and a night, man,
From “Tim Bobbin,” or Shakespeare, at “Owd Willy Booth's.”
May improve him by rule, both by night and by morn;
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Whose flame will shed lustre on ages unborn.
There 's Elijah the bellman, who, self-taught and well, man,
I'm happy to tell, man, hath courted the muse;
He 'll quote and recite, for a day and a night, man,
From “Tim Bobbin,” or Shakespeare, at “Owd Willy Booth's.”
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Our scholars are sons, too, of all the great guns, too,—
We 've three of Will's-sons but they 're not very tall;
We 've Roger's-son, chairman, and Richard's-son there, man,
And John Dickin's-son, who binds books for us all,
Our host drinks your health, your good fortune, and wealth,—
We 've a whole host of others, including an elf,
Who sings, plays, and writes—paints, and acts Taglioni,—
The gay Moses Mills, a whole host in himself.
We 've three of Will's-sons but they 're not very tall;
We 've Roger's-son, chairman, and Richard's-son there, man,
And John Dickin's-son, who binds books for us all,
Our host drinks your health, your good fortune, and wealth,—
We 've a whole host of others, including an elf,
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The gay Moses Mills, a whole host in himself.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Mr Whack,
the schoolmaster, is no poetaster,
And none teaches faster, and then he 's so kind,
That happen what may, come dessert or disaster,
You 've food for the body as well as the mind.
We 've a Rose for whose prose even poetry flows,
We 've “Rhyme and Romance,” and we 've “Revery” and all,
And then through the season, this fine feast of reason,
Is graced by a learn'd and poetical Ball.
And none teaches faster, and then he 's so kind,
That happen what may, come dessert or disaster,
You 've food for the body as well as the mind.
We 've a Rose for whose prose even poetry flows,
We 've “Rhyme and Romance,” and we 've “Revery” and all,
And then through the season, this fine feast of reason,
Is graced by a learn'd and poetical Ball.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've publicans, sinners, cork-cutters,
and dinners,
A Harper who tunes, a Repealer in Corn;
With Lawyers and Procters, Engravers and Doctors,
And a Prince of more worth than the prince lately born:
We 've a beautiful Swain,
as e'er traversed the plain;
We 've Rogerson's fiddle, his harp, and his lute,
With Whig agitators and Tory debaters,
A Scully, a Stott, and Tim Bobbin to boot.
A Harper who tunes, a Repealer in Corn;
With Lawyers and Procters, Engravers and Doctors,
And a Prince of more worth than the prince lately born:
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We 've Rogerson's fiddle, his harp, and his lute,
With Whig agitators and Tory debaters,
A Scully, a Stott, and Tim Bobbin to boot.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've Gaspey,
who first eulogises Sir Robert,
Then melodies gives on Sir Robert's poor-law;
And Scholes, with his subjects remarkably touching,
Especially that on a bailiff's dread paw;
We 've songs by a Story, who sings like a Tory;
A Taylor, so warm and so wanton it seems,
He admires all the “maidens” he meets in a “snow”-drift,
And eke poetises on “girls” in their “dreams.”
Then melodies gives on Sir Robert's poor-law;
And Scholes, with his subjects remarkably touching,
Especially that on a bailiff's dread paw;
We 've songs by a Story, who sings like a Tory;
A Taylor, so warm and so wanton it seems,
He admires all the “maidens” he meets in a “snow”-drift,
And eke poetises on “girls” in their “dreams.”
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
They tell of a corner, and little Jack Horner,
And Bell's noted corner for fistics and fun;
Whose glories so shorn are, whose pages forlorn are,—
The great Poet's Corner 's the sign of the “Sun!”
We have bards of all colours—blues, reds, and black-yellows,—
The best of good fellows you 'll know by his fleece;
Though not quite so fair, he 's a second Lord Byron,
He 's never content but in Turkey and grease.
And Bell's noted corner for fistics and fun;
Whose glories so shorn are, whose pages forlorn are,—
The great Poet's Corner 's the sign of the “Sun!”
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The best of good fellows you 'll know by his fleece;
Though not quite so fair, he 's a second Lord Byron,
He 's never content but in Turkey and grease.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Like birds of a feather, we flock all together,
Nor heed we the Falconer, mentally strong,
Who bags us diurnal, in Bradshaw's famed “Journal,”
The flights of our wing, and our warblings of song:
There 's Tidmarsh, he 's sighing, for Mary he 's dying,
And Grimshaw, he 's spinning a yarn unto Spring.
Have you had song enough? If it 's not long enough,
Poets I 've plenty, like nuts on a string.
Nor heed we the Falconer, mentally strong,
Who bags us diurnal, in Bradshaw's famed “Journal,”
The flights of our wing, and our warblings of song:
There 's Tidmarsh, he 's sighing, for Mary he 's dying,
And Grimshaw, he 's spinning a yarn unto Spring.
Have you had song enough? If it 's not long enough,
Poets I 've plenty, like nuts on a string.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've a Howard
whose name for philanthropy passes;
A Lord who despises the follies of France;
And a Hill that is worthy as that of Parnassus,
Who fosters the genius of art and romance:
We 've pipes and we 've Porter,
we 've brandy and water,
We 've wine from the vine, and we 've Woodville cigars;
You must travel, and soon, like the man in the Moon,
To the Sun, if you wish to commune with the Stars.
A Lord who despises the follies of France;
And a Hill that is worthy as that of Parnassus,
Who fosters the genius of art and romance:
75
We 've wine from the vine, and we 've Woodville cigars;
You must travel, and soon, like the man in the Moon,
To the Sun, if you wish to commune with the Stars.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Some with audacity, stake their veracity,
Poetry lives not in Manchester town—
The dwelling ten paces from our happy faces
To Ainsworth gave birth, of “Jack Sheppard” renown;
O Ainsworth, your glory, in graphical story,
Of deeds so unworthy sustaineth a brand;
Abandon Saint Giles', sir, for Westminster guile, sir,
And lash the Dick Turpins who filch from the land.
Poetry lives not in Manchester town—
The dwelling ten paces from our happy faces
To Ainsworth gave birth, of “Jack Sheppard” renown;
O Ainsworth, your glory, in graphical story,
Of deeds so unworthy sustaineth a brand;
Abandon Saint Giles', sir, for Westminster guile, sir,
And lash the Dick Turpins who filch from the land.
CHORUS.
Then fill up a thumper, a classical bumper,To tragedy, comedy, Byron, and Burns;
To Milton and Moore, to their genius and lore,
To the evergreen laurels entwining their urns.
Let us claim your alliance, or tell us for why hence,
We place our reliance on friends for a call;
Come visit and try hence, our new “Hall of Science,”
And add to the gems of the “Socialists all.”
| The songs of the Wilsons | |