 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
208
FAMILY POETRY.
Dick's Long-Tailed Coat.
“Modo sumpta veste virili.”—Horace.
Zooks! I must woo the muse to-day,
Though line before I'd never wrote.
Ask you what theme demands the lay?—
Our Dick has got a Long-tail'd Coat!
Though line before I'd never wrote.
Ask you what theme demands the lay?—
Our Dick has got a Long-tail'd Coat!
Not the coatee which soldiers wear,
Tight button'd up beneath the throat,
But easy,—flowing,—debonnaire;—
In short, a civil Long-tail'd Coat!
Tight button'd up beneath the throat,
But easy,—flowing,—debonnaire;—
In short, a civil Long-tail'd Coat!
One smarter you'll not find in town,
Cut by Nugee, that Snip of note;—
A very quiet olive-brown
's the colour of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat!
Cut by Nugee, that Snip of note;—
A very quiet olive-brown
's the colour of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat!
Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,
The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,
Yet Esterhazy, on the whole,
Looks smartest in a Long-tail'd Coat.
The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,
Yet Esterhazy, on the whole,
Looks smartest in a Long-tail'd Coat.
209
Lord Byron most admired, we know,
The Albanian dress, or Suliote;
But he lived much abroad, and so
He never saw Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
The Albanian dress, or Suliote;
But he lived much abroad, and so
He never saw Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
Or else that noble Poet's theme
Had never been the “White Capote,”
Had he once view'd, in Fancy's dream,
The glories of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
Had never been the “White Capote,”
Had he once view'd, in Fancy's dream,
The glories of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
We also know on Highland Kilt
Poor dear Glengarry used to dote,
And had esteem'd it actual guilt
I' the Gael to wear a Long-tail'd Coat.
Poor dear Glengarry used to dote,
And had esteem'd it actual guilt
I' the Gael to wear a Long-tail'd Coat.
And well it might his eyes annoy;
Monkbarns himself could never quote
“Sir Robert Sibbald,” “Gordon,” “Roy,”
Or “Stukely,” for a Long-tail'd Coat!
Monkbarns himself could never quote
“Sir Robert Sibbald,” “Gordon,” “Roy,”
Or “Stukely,” for a Long-tail'd Coat!
But though the fleet red deer to chase,
Or guide o'er Highland loch the boat,
A jacket's well enough—for grace
There's nothing like Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
Or guide o'er Highland loch the boat,
A jacket's well enough—for grace
There's nothing like Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
210
Of course, in climbing up a tree,
On terra firma, or afloat,
To mount the giddy topmast, he
Would doff awhile his Long-tail'd Coat.
On terra firma, or afloat,
To mount the giddy topmast, he
Would doff awhile his Long-tail'd Coat.
Then whence that supercilious sneer?—
From out your own eye pull the mote,
Fastidious Critic!—did you ne'er
In youth admire your Long-tail'd Coat?
From out your own eye pull the mote,
Fastidious Critic!—did you ne'er
In youth admire your Long-tail'd Coat?
Oh, “Dick's scarce old enough,” you mean?
Why, though too young to have a vote,
Or make a will, yet sure Fifteen
's a ripe age for a Long-tail'd Coat!
Why, though too young to have a vote,
Or make a will, yet sure Fifteen
's a ripe age for a Long-tail'd Coat!
What!—would you have him sport a chin
Like Colonel Sibthorp, or a goat,
Before you think he should begin
To figure in a Long-tail'd Coat?
Like Colonel Sibthorp, or a goat,
Before you think he should begin
To figure in a Long-tail'd Coat?
Suppose he visits France—can he
Sit down at any table-d'bôte
With any sort of decency,
Unless he's got a Long-tail'd Coat.
Sit down at any table-d'bôte
With any sort of decency,
Unless he's got a Long-tail'd Coat.
E'en Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,
There soon may be a sans-culotte,
And Nugent's self must then admit
The advantage of a Long-tail'd Coat.
There soon may be a sans-culotte,
And Nugent's self must then admit
The advantage of a Long-tail'd Coat.
211
Things are not now as when, of yore,
In tower encircled by a moat,
Each lion-hearted chieftain wore
A corslet—not a Long-tail'd Coat.
In tower encircled by a moat,
Each lion-hearted chieftain wore
A corslet—not a Long-tail'd Coat.
Chain-mail his portly form embraced,
Not like a weazel or a stoat,
“Cribb'd and confined” about the waist,
And pinch'd in like Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
Not like a weazel or a stoat,
“Cribb'd and confined” about the waist,
And pinch'd in like Dick's Long-tail'd Coat.
With beaming spear or biting axe
To right and left he thrust and smote.
Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
Fall from a modern Long-tail'd Coat!
To right and left he thrust and smote.
Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
Fall from a modern Long-tail'd Coat!
To stalwart knights, a puny race
Succeeds,—with locks en papillote,—
While cuirass, cuisses, greaves, give place
To silk-net “Tights” and Long-tail'd Coat!
Succeeds,—with locks en papillote,—
While cuirass, cuisses, greaves, give place
To silk-net “Tights” and Long-tail'd Coat!
Worse changes still! now, well-a-day!
A few cant phrases learnt by rote,
Each beardless booby spouts away,
A Solon in a Long-tail'd Coat!
A few cant phrases learnt by rote,
Each beardless booby spouts away,
A Solon in a Long-tail'd Coat!
Prates of the “March of Intellect,”
The “Schoolmaster”—a Patriote
So noble who could e'er suspect
Had just put on his Long-tail'd Coat!
The “Schoolmaster”—a Patriote
So noble who could e'er suspect
Had just put on his Long-tail'd Coat!
212
Alack! alack! that every thick-skull'd
lad must find an antidote
For England's woes, because, like Dick,
He has put on a Long-tail'd Coat!
lad must find an antidote
For England's woes, because, like Dick,
He has put on a Long-tail'd Coat!
But, lo! my rhymes begin to fail,
Nor dare I longer time devote!
Thus Rhyme and Time cut off the tale—
The long tale—of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat!
Nor dare I longer time devote!
Thus Rhyme and Time cut off the tale—
The long tale—of Dick's Long-tail'd Coat!
Macdonnell of Glengarry, popularly called ``the last of the chiefs,” from his adherence to the old state and costume.
218
The Country Seat.
[_]
Summer Hill—near Tunbridge, the seat formerly of the Lord Muskerry, and now (1833) of James Alexander, Esq. The noble proprietor (Muskerry, not Alexander) entertained Charles the Second and his whole court here—teste John Britton, whose valuable history of Tunbridge Wells consult for an account of Lord Chancellor Mansfield, and the inhuman Judge Jeffries, who disgraced himself so at the trial of Charles the First, as the worthy antiquary asserts, in direct contradiction to those who maintain that the name of the regicide president was Bradshaw, and that he was afterwards married to Miss Mary Anne Tree, of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.—(T. I.)
O Summer Hill! if thou wert mine
I'd order in a pipe of wine,
And ask a dozen friends to dine!
I'd order in a pipe of wine,
And ask a dozen friends to dine!
In faith, I would not spare the guineas,
But send for Pag—and other—ninnies,
Flutes, hautboys, fiddles, pipes, and tabors,
Hussars with moustaches and sabres,
Quadrilles, and that grand waltz of Weber's,
And give a dance to all my neighbours;
And here I'd sit and quaff my fill
Among the trees of Summer Hill.
But send for Pag—and other—ninnies,
Flutes, hautboys, fiddles, pipes, and tabors,
Hussars with moustaches and sabres,
219
And give a dance to all my neighbours;
And here I'd sit and quaff my fill
Among the trees of Summer Hill.
Then, with pleased eye, careering slowly
O'er beech-crown'd ridge and valley lowly,
We'd drain a cup to thee, Old Rowley!—
To thee, and to thy courtly train,
Once tenants of this fair domain,
Soft Stewart, haughtiest Castlemaine.
Pert Nelly Gwynne, gay Molly Davis,
And many another Rara Avis.
E'en now, 'midst yonder leafy glade,
Methinks I see thy royal shade
In amplitude of wig array'd;
Near thee, thy rival in peruke,
Stands Buckingham's uproarious Duke,
With Tory Hamilton and Killegrew,
And Rochester, that rake till ill he grew;
When, to amend his life and turn it,
He firmly promised Dr. Burnet—
In time, let's hope, to make old Nicholas,
Still watching for our sins to tickle us,
Lose all his pains, and look ridiculous.
With visage rather grave than merry,
See, too, thy noble host Muskerry
Leads forth,—to crown and end the stanza,
Thy consort, Catharine of Braganza.
O'er beech-crown'd ridge and valley lowly,
We'd drain a cup to thee, Old Rowley!—
To thee, and to thy courtly train,
Once tenants of this fair domain,
Soft Stewart, haughtiest Castlemaine.
Pert Nelly Gwynne, gay Molly Davis,
And many another Rara Avis.
E'en now, 'midst yonder leafy glade,
Methinks I see thy royal shade
In amplitude of wig array'd;
Near thee, thy rival in peruke,
Stands Buckingham's uproarious Duke,
With Tory Hamilton and Killegrew,
And Rochester, that rake till ill he grew;
When, to amend his life and turn it,
He firmly promised Dr. Burnet—
In time, let's hope, to make old Nicholas,
Still watching for our sins to tickle us,
Lose all his pains, and look ridiculous.
220
See, too, thy noble host Muskerry
Leads forth,—to crown and end the stanza,
Thy consort, Catharine of Braganza.
Oh, Alexander! loftier far
Now culminates thy natal star,
Than his of old, mine ancient crony,
Thy namesake, erst of Macedony
(Unrivall'd,—save, perhaps, by Boney).
Oh, happier far, in thy degree,
Art thou, although a conqueror he,
Whilst thou art but an Ex-M.P.
Oh, happier far! propitious Fate,
Making thee lord of this estate,
Dubb'd thee in verity “The Great;”
Yea, far more blest, my Alexander,
Art thou than that renowned commander!
Now culminates thy natal star,
Than his of old, mine ancient crony,
Thy namesake, erst of Macedony
(Unrivall'd,—save, perhaps, by Boney).
Oh, happier far, in thy degree,
Art thou, although a conqueror he,
Whilst thou art but an Ex-M.P.
Oh, happier far! propitious Fate,
Making thee lord of this estate,
Dubb'd thee in verity “The Great;”
Yea, far more blest, my Alexander,
Art thou than that renowned commander!
Thou ne'er was led through wanton revelling
Those sylvan scenes to play the devil in,
And I, for one, shouldst thou invite us,
Would never dread the fate of Clytus;
For midst these shades, so loved by Grammont,
Thou never yet thy friends did gammon,
By calling of thyself “Young Ammon.”
No frolic dame of easy virtue,
E'er made you drink enough to hurt you;
And then, with impudence amazing,
Bade you set house and all a-blazing
('Tis hard to say which works the quicker
To make folks noodles—love or liquor;
But oh, it is a fearsome thing,
When both combine to make a king
Descend to play the part of Swing!)
I dare be sworn thou dost not sigh,
Much less put finger in thine eye,
For other worlds,—no, Alexander,
I know thou art not such a gander;
This is thy globe—here “toujours gai,”
Thy motto still—though, well-a-day!
Old Sarum's put in Schedule A.
Those sylvan scenes to play the devil in,
And I, for one, shouldst thou invite us,
Would never dread the fate of Clytus;
For midst these shades, so loved by Grammont,
Thou never yet thy friends did gammon,
By calling of thyself “Young Ammon.”
221
E'er made you drink enough to hurt you;
And then, with impudence amazing,
Bade you set house and all a-blazing
('Tis hard to say which works the quicker
To make folks noodles—love or liquor;
But oh, it is a fearsome thing,
When both combine to make a king
Descend to play the part of Swing!)
I dare be sworn thou dost not sigh,
Much less put finger in thine eye,
For other worlds,—no, Alexander,
I know thou art not such a gander;
This is thy globe—here “toujours gai,”
Thy motto still—though, well-a-day!
Old Sarum's put in Schedule A.
O Summer, Summer, Summer Hill!
Fain would I gaze and linger still—
But, ah! the moon her silver lamp
Uprears, the grass is getting damp—
And hark! the curfew's distant knell,
Is told by Doctor Knox's bell—
I go, to join my wife and daughters,
Drinking those nasty-tasted waters.
O Summer Hill! retreat divine!
Ah me! I cannot but repine
Thou art not,—never will be mine—
I haven't even got the wine!
Fain would I gaze and linger still—
But, ah! the moon her silver lamp
Uprears, the grass is getting damp—
And hark! the curfew's distant knell,
Is told by Doctor Knox's bell—
I go, to join my wife and daughters,
Drinking those nasty-tasted waters.
222
Ah me! I cannot but repine
Thou art not,—never will be mine—
I haven't even got the wine!
Tunbridge Wells, Sept. 30, 1833.
The Sheriff's Ball.
“Raphael, the sociable spirit.”—Milton.
“Here's glorious news!” cried Cousin Jack,
One Sunday, in a morning call
He made about a twelvemonth back—
“The Sheriff's going to give a Ball!”
One Sunday, in a morning call
He made about a twelvemonth back—
“The Sheriff's going to give a Ball!”
Up started Jane, and I, and Bess;
One general rapture seized us all;
“Pink satin shoes,”—“kid gloves,”—“lace dress,”—
“That angel, Raphael, gives a Ball!”
One general rapture seized us all;
“Pink satin shoes,”—“kid gloves,”—“lace dress,”—
“That angel, Raphael, gives a Ball!”
The ‘Sunday Times’ has got it in,
The ‘John Bull,’ too, in pica small,
The ‘Age,’ th' ‘Observer,’ all begin
To talk of Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
The ‘John Bull,’ too, in pica small,
The ‘Age,’ th' ‘Observer,’ all begin
To talk of Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
223
And Pa's a livery-man, you know,
Of Bassishaw by London Wall,
And so, of course, we all shall go
To Mister Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
Of Bassishaw by London Wall,
And so, of course, we all shall go
To Mister Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
Next day Ma sent our porter, Bill,
To call a coach to take us all
To Ellis's on Ludgate Hill,
To shop for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
To call a coach to take us all
To Ellis's on Ludgate Hill,
To shop for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
There she, resolving to look nice,
Bought for herself a Cashmere shawl,
A Toque, and Bird of Paradise,
To wear at Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
Bought for herself a Cashmere shawl,
A Toque, and Bird of Paradise,
To wear at Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
And Betsey bought the sweetest things,
The last consignment from Bengal,
All green-and-gold and beetles' wings,
To be the pride of Raphael's Ball!
The last consignment from Bengal,
All green-and-gold and beetles' wings,
To be the pride of Raphael's Ball!
And Jane, a new white satin slip,
And I, because I'm rather tall,
A sky-blue China crape, to trip
Away in at the Sheriff's Ball!
And I, because I'm rather tall,
A sky-blue China crape, to trip
Away in at the Sheriff's Ball!
And Cousin Jack, who's so genteel,
Before he went, engaged us all
To dance with him the new quadrille,
And waltz, at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
Before he went, engaged us all
To dance with him the new quadrille,
And waltz, at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
224
Oh how we teased Madame de Lolme,
And Ma'amselle Victorine St. Paul,
“—Pray don't forget to send all home,
In time for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!”
And Ma'amselle Victorine St. Paul,
“—Pray don't forget to send all home,
In time for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!”
'Twas all prepared—gloves, bouquets, shoes,
And dresses—Jane's a thought too small;—
But ah! no Jack announced the news,
“To-morrow's Sheriff Raphael's Ball!”
And dresses—Jane's a thought too small;—
But ah! no Jack announced the news,
“To-morrow's Sheriff Raphael's Ball!”
At length he comes! in eager haste
His stock and plaited frill we maul—
Never was man so close embraced—
O, Jack! when's Sheriff Raphael's Ball?”
His stock and plaited frill we maul—
Never was man so close embraced—
O, Jack! when's Sheriff Raphael's Ball?”
“Why, really—I—that is—the day
Precisely”—with his Bond Street drawl
Cries Jack—“I can't exactly say
What day is fixed for Raphael's Ball;
Precisely”—with his Bond Street drawl
Cries Jack—“I can't exactly say
What day is fixed for Raphael's Ball;
“But he who fills the civic chair,
I find, has promised him Guildhall,
So ten to one the new Lord Mayor
Will dance at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
I find, has promised him Guildhall,
So ten to one the new Lord Mayor
Will dance at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
For though my Lord's a Tory true,
And Raphael's but a Radi-cal,
Yet politics have nought to do,
You know, with any Sheriff's Ball!
And Raphael's but a Radi-cal,
Yet politics have nought to do,
You know, with any Sheriff's Ball!
225
And Mr. Pearson
will be there,
With Galloway from Codger's Hall,
And all the Lumber Troop,”—“Oh dear!
I long for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
With Galloway from Codger's Hall,
And all the Lumber Troop,”—“Oh dear!
I long for Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
“For there will be Sir John,
whose son
At sixteen thought for place too small,
Grew up, in one night, to twenty-one,—
He'll come to Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
At sixteen thought for place too small,
Grew up, in one night, to twenty-one,—
He'll come to Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
“And Michael Scales will doff his steel,
And quit his snug Whitechapel stall,
Blue apron, block, and donkey veal,
To dance at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.”
And quit his snug Whitechapel stall,
Blue apron, block, and donkey veal,
To dance at Sheriff Raphael's Ball.”
At morn, at eve, that livelong week,
And e'en when night her sable pall
Had spread around, no tongue could speak
Of aught save Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
And e'en when night her sable pall
Had spread around, no tongue could speak
Of aught save Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
226
Nay, not our waking thoughts alone,
Our midnight dreams could we recall,
Ma, Jane, and Betsey, all would own,
They were of Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
Our midnight dreams could we recall,
Ma, Jane, and Betsey, all would own,
They were of Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
Time flies—three months are gone—again
Our Cousin Jack repeats his call—
“What news?” exclaims th' impatient train,
“What news of Sheriff Raphael's Ball?”
Our Cousin Jack repeats his call—
“What news?” exclaims th' impatient train,
“What news of Sheriff Raphael's Ball?”
Jack shakes his head—“Alack!” cries he,
—His tones our very hearts appal—
“He's striving to become M.P.,
And must perforce put off his Ball!”
—His tones our very hearts appal—
“He's striving to become M.P.,
And must perforce put off his Ball!”
Spring flies away—and summer, then
The autumn leaves begin to fall,
“O Jack! in pity tell us, when,
Oh when is Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
The autumn leaves begin to fall,
“O Jack! in pity tell us, when,
Oh when is Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
“O'er Jane's white slip a bilious hue
By slow degrees begins to crawl—
A yellowish tint invades my blue—
'Twill fade ere Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
By slow degrees begins to crawl—
A yellowish tint invades my blue—
'Twill fade ere Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
“And poor Mamma!—although her part
The philosophic Ma'am de Staël
Could not more firmly play—her heart
In secret yearns for Raphael's Ball.”
The philosophic Ma'am de Staël
Could not more firmly play—her heart
In secret yearns for Raphael's Ball.”
227
On leaden wings November flies,
And more disasters still befall.
In rushes Jack—“Alas!” he cries,
“No hopes of Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
And more disasters still befall.
In rushes Jack—“Alas!” he cries,
“No hopes of Sheriff Raphael's Ball!
“For oh! there has been such a breeze,
A breeze that, freshening to a squall,
Became a hurricane.—Agrees
A whirlwind with a Sheriff's Ball?
A breeze that, freshening to a squall,
Became a hurricane.—Agrees
A whirlwind with a Sheriff's Ball?
“Jane! Betsey! Sue!—that shocking man—
He with the tail—who loves a brawl!
That horrid, ranting, roaring Dan,
Has upset Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
He with the tail—who loves a brawl!
That horrid, ranting, roaring Dan,
Has upset Sheriff Raphael's Ball.
“The ‘blunt’—the ‘stuff’—the ‘rhino’—ay,
Two thousand pounds! a glorious haul!
A sum which had gone near to pay
The whole expense of Raphael's Ball!!”
Two thousand pounds! a glorious haul!
A sum which had gone near to pay
The whole expense of Raphael's Ball!!”
228
“But 'tis done—all words are idle!”
(So sang Byron in his yawl)
And we now perforce must bridle
Each fond wish for Raphael's Ball!
(So sang Byron in his yawl)
And we now perforce must bridle
Each fond wish for Raphael's Ball!
And yet the Gloves—the Crape—the Toque—
The spangled muslin from Nepaul!
—Oh, it would e'en a saint provoke
Thus diddled out of Raphael's Ball!
The spangled muslin from Nepaul!
—Oh, it would e'en a saint provoke
Thus diddled out of Raphael's Ball!
Shame on their heads! but Dan on thine
Our heaviest maledictions fall—
Pa's, Ma's, Jane's, Betsey's, Jack's, and mine,
Thou Thalaba of Raphael's Ball!!
Our heaviest maledictions fall—
Pa's, Ma's, Jane's, Betsey's, Jack's, and mine,
Thou Thalaba of Raphael's Ball!!
Sir John Key,—twice Lord Mayor of London,—who had recently fallen into some trifling error in the computation of his son's age.
An allusion to a practical joke (not generally appreciated) perpetrated by the worthy Alderman, who killed, dressed, and exposed in his shop a jackass, and pleasantly passed it off as veal.
In 1835, the elections for the county of Carlow having been declared void, Mr. Raphael bargained with O'Connell for a seat at the price of £2000; the latter assuring that he would never again meet with so safe a speculation. The particulars of the engagement were made public in consequence of a quarrel which took place between O'Connell and the candidate, who was unseated on petition, and whose defence was abandoned—contrary to the agreement, as he averred—by the “Liberator.”
230
The Drawing Room.
Oh! we're a' nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! we're a' nodding at our house to-day;
There's my wife and my daughter,
My sister and my mother,
They're a' deck'd out in plumes,
And they're nodding at each other,
For the Birthday's come,
And her Majesty the Queen
Holds a Drawing Room, and all of us
Are anxious to be seen;
And we're a' nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! we're a' nodding at our house to-day.
Oh! we're a' nodding at our house to-day;
There's my wife and my daughter,
My sister and my mother,
They're a' deck'd out in plumes,
And they're nodding at each other,
For the Birthday's come,
And her Majesty the Queen
Holds a Drawing Room, and all of us
Are anxious to be seen;
And we're a' nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! we're a' nodding at our house to-day.
There's plump Mrs. Jukes,
From Great St. Helen's Place,
Has got a dress of Llama, richly
‘Trimm'd with Urling's lace.’
Miss Jones has got a ‘Colonnade
Dress,’ ending in a flounce,
Superbly trimm'd with silver spangles,
Half-a-crown an ounce!
And they're both nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! they're both nodding at our house to-day.
From Great St. Helen's Place,
Has got a dress of Llama, richly
‘Trimm'd with Urling's lace.’
Miss Jones has got a ‘Colonnade
Dress,’ ending in a flounce,
Superbly trimm'd with silver spangles,
Half-a-crown an ounce!
And they're both nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! they're both nodding at our house to-day.
231
Lady Sims has got a ‘white tulle dress’
Adorn'd with ‘flowers and blonde,’
Above a ‘satin petticoat’
‘With sleeves to correspond,’
‘A coronet of feathers, with
Blonde lappets,’ on her head,
And she looks just like a shuttlecock
Upon a feather bed!
And she's nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! she's nodding at our house to-day.
Adorn'd with ‘flowers and blonde,’
Above a ‘satin petticoat’
‘With sleeves to correspond,’
‘A coronet of feathers, with
Blonde lappets,’ on her head,
And she looks just like a shuttlecock
Upon a feather bed!
And she's nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! she's nodding at our house to-day.
Mrs. Snooks has got a robe,
‘Fitted nicely to her shape,’
With charming ‘silver sprigs,’ all
‘Embroider'd on white crape;’
Sally Wilkins sports a train,
All so gorgeous to behold,
Of ‘vapeur terre velvet,’ and
‘Embroider'd round with gold;’
And they're nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! they too are nodding at our house to-day.
‘Fitted nicely to her shape,’
With charming ‘silver sprigs,’ all
‘Embroider'd on white crape;’
Sally Wilkins sports a train,
All so gorgeous to behold,
Of ‘vapeur terre velvet,’ and
‘Embroider'd round with gold;’
And they're nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! they too are nodding at our house to-day.
There's Sir Claudius, with his chain
Twisted twice about his throat,
And very odd it looks upon
A Colonel's scarlet coat;
There's my Lord Mayor, Key,
With his collar, but no gown,
His sword has got between his legs,
Oh, dear! he'll tumble down!
For he's nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! he too is nodding at our house to-day.
Twisted twice about his throat,
And very odd it looks upon
A Colonel's scarlet coat;
232
With his collar, but no gown,
His sword has got between his legs,
Oh, dear! he'll tumble down!
For he's nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! he too is nodding at our house to-day.
Come, they're all off at last
To St. James's, in their carriages,
I hope they won't come back again
To our house to-day;
For my head's completely bothered with
‘Presentations,’ ‘Court,’ and ‘Marriages,’
I'm sure I cannot understand
One half of what they say!
For they call it ‘Coming out,’
When I thought 'twas ‘Going in,’
And they talk of ‘Lamas,’ ‘Tulle,’ and ‘Toque,’
‘Brocade,’ and ‘Pelerine;’
Of ‘Blonde, Drap à la Sévigné,’
‘Mantillas,’ and ‘Manteaus,’
And ‘garnitures of rich Chenille,’
And ‘Slips couleur de rose;’
And we're all bother'd, both-both-bother'd,
Oh! we're all bother'd at our house to-day.
To St. James's, in their carriages,
I hope they won't come back again
To our house to-day;
For my head's completely bothered with
‘Presentations,’ ‘Court,’ and ‘Marriages,’
I'm sure I cannot understand
One half of what they say!
For they call it ‘Coming out,’
When I thought 'twas ‘Going in,’
And they talk of ‘Lamas,’ ‘Tulle,’ and ‘Toque,’
‘Brocade,’ and ‘Pelerine;’
Of ‘Blonde, Drap à la Sévigné,’
‘Mantillas,’ and ‘Manteaus,’
And ‘garnitures of rich Chenille,’
And ‘Slips couleur de rose;’
And we're all bother'd, both-both-bother'd,
Oh! we're all bother'd at our house to-day.
233
Now, what's the ‘couleur immortelle,’
I'm sure I cannot guess,
Though I dare say there'll be plenty at
The Opera to-night,
With ‘corsages trimm'd à la cour,’
And ‘Cherry tissue dress,’
And ‘Beret sleeves, with blond sabets,’
And ‘vert pomme, over white;’
There's Polly Sprigs, dress'd à la Grecque,
With ‘grenat velvet train’
And ‘epaulettes,’ will never speak
To Peter Dobbs again;
While Sally Maggs, in satin ‘torsad,’
Will not give a nod
To Mister Perkins, in the pit,
Who thinks it very odd;
For he'll keep nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! he'll keep nodding at the Opera to-night.
I'm sure I cannot guess,
Though I dare say there'll be plenty at
The Opera to-night,
With ‘corsages trimm'd à la cour,’
And ‘Cherry tissue dress,’
And ‘Beret sleeves, with blond sabets,’
And ‘vert pomme, over white;’
There's Polly Sprigs, dress'd à la Grecque,
With ‘grenat velvet train’
And ‘epaulettes,’ will never speak
To Peter Dobbs again;
While Sally Maggs, in satin ‘torsad,’
Will not give a nod
To Mister Perkins, in the pit,
Who thinks it very odd;
For he'll keep nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! he'll keep nodding at the Opera to-night.
I'm sure I shall be very glad
When once they're all undrest,
And their ‘Pomeran velours épinglé
Trains' are stow'd away;
These ‘ruches,’ ‘manches,’ ‘slips,’ and ‘toques,’
Have rather broke my rest;
For though they're all ‘so cheap,’ I doubt
There'll be a deal to pay.
But my wife says “No!
We can't always stay at home,
And we must do as Romans do
Whenever we're at Rome!”
And her head keeps nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! her head keeps nodding at me, till she has her way.
When once they're all undrest,
And their ‘Pomeran velours épinglé
Trains' are stow'd away;
These ‘ruches,’ ‘manches,’ ‘slips,’ and ‘toques,’
Have rather broke my rest;
234
There'll be a deal to pay.
But my wife says “No!
We can't always stay at home,
And we must do as Romans do
Whenever we're at Rome!”
And her head keeps nodding, nid-nid-nodding,
Oh! her head keeps nodding at me, till she has her way.
To Jerry
Jerry, my cat,
What the deuce are you at?
What makes you so restless? You're sleek and you're fat,
And you've everything cosy about you—now that
Soft rug you are lying on beats any mat;
Your coat's smooth as silk,
You've plenty of milk,
You've the fish-bones for dinner, and always o' nights
For supper you know you've a penn'orth o' lights!
Jerry, my cat,
What the deuce are you at?
What is it, my Jerry, that fidgets you so?
What is it you're wanting?
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
What the deuce are you at?
What makes you so restless? You're sleek and you're fat,
And you've everything cosy about you—now that
Soft rug you are lying on beats any mat;
Your coat's smooth as silk,
You've plenty of milk,
You've the fish-bones for dinner, and always o' nights
For supper you know you've a penn'orth o' lights!
Jerry, my cat,
What the deuce are you at?
What is it, my Jerry, that fidgets you so?
What is it you're wanting?
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
235
Oh, don't talk to me of such nonsense as that!
You've been always a very respectable cat;
As the Scotch would say, “Whiles”
You've been out on the tiles;
But you've sown your wild oats, and you very well know
You're no longer a kitten.
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
You've been always a very respectable cat;
As the Scotch would say, “Whiles”
You've been out on the tiles;
But you've sown your wild oats, and you very well know
You're no longer a kitten.
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
Well, Jerry, I'm really concerned for your case;
I've been young, and can fancy myself in your place:
Time has been I've stood
By the edge of the wood,
And have mew'd—that is, whistled, a sound just as good;
But we're both of us older, my cat, as you know,
And I hope are grown wiser.
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
I've been young, and can fancy myself in your place:
Time has been I've stood
By the edge of the wood,
And have mew'd—that is, whistled, a sound just as good;
But we're both of us older, my cat, as you know,
And I hope are grown wiser.
(Jerry) Moll roe! Moll roe!
Lines on the Tom Cat.
Of all sorts of nuisances people complain,
Of a pewterer's shop, of a soap-cart, or drain,
But no such annoyance I've heard of or read,
As a nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head.
Of a pewterer's shop, of a soap-cart, or drain,
But no such annoyance I've heard of or read,
As a nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head.
236
For all the day long he is coughing and sneezing,
He makes believe purr, but it's only a wheezing,
And you hear too at night, snuffling under your bed,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
He makes believe purr, but it's only a wheezing,
And you hear too at night, snuffling under your bed,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
He mews in the morning for muffin and milk,
He sniffs upon cotton, he sniffs upon silk,
He jumps on the table and sniffs on the bread,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
He sniffs upon cotton, he sniffs upon silk,
He jumps on the table and sniffs on the bread,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
He cocks up his tail and he gives it a lick,
And he makes such a noise that he makes himself sick.
Oh Tom! such proceedings are very ill bred,
You nasty Tom Cat with a cold in your head!
And he makes such a noise that he makes himself sick.
Oh Tom! such proceedings are very ill bred,
You nasty Tom Cat with a cold in your head!
If you happen to ask who's been licking that dish,
Who has upset the butter, or stolen the fish,
Mary Anne will inform you, and so too will Ned,
“'Tis that nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!”
Who has upset the butter, or stolen the fish,
Mary Anne will inform you, and so too will Ned,
“'Tis that nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!”
At night he is sure to jump up in a chair,
And he rubs on your knees till he makes them all hair;
For his hair once a month all the year through is shed,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
And he rubs on your knees till he makes them all hair;
For his hair once a month all the year through is shed,
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
The people all call him a beast and a bore,
They call “Hiss! Tom, get out,” and they open the door,
And when Tom galloped off every one of them said,
“Get out, you Tom Cat, with a cold in your head!”
They call “Hiss! Tom, get out,” and they open the door,
And when Tom galloped off every one of them said,
“Get out, you Tom Cat, with a cold in your head!”
237
In the winter he squats down in front of the fire,
And he tries all he can to get nigher and nigher,
And he sniffs at the fender—I wish he were dead!
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
And he tries all he can to get nigher and nigher,
And he sniffs at the fender—I wish he were dead!
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
At present he's lying full length on my knee,
Now licking his coat, and now catching a flea,
Go get me a gun, some powder, and lead,
I'll shoot that Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
Now licking his coat, and now catching a flea,
Go get me a gun, some powder, and lead,
I'll shoot that Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
He cocks up his ear when you talk of a gun,
And doesn't believe you, but thinks you're in fun,
You'll find out the difference, sir, when you're bled,
You nasty Tom Cat with a cold in your head!
And doesn't believe you, but thinks you're in fun,
You'll find out the difference, sir, when you're bled,
You nasty Tom Cat with a cold in your head!
But here he keeps lying, as cool as you please,
I never saw Pussy Cat more at his ease;
Of your gun it is clear he don't feel any dread—
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
I never saw Pussy Cat more at his ease;
Of your gun it is clear he don't feel any dread—
That nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
And now one more stanza I think is enough,
I'll make up the dozen and all of them stuff,
In vain I seek rhymes, they're all of them fled,
With that nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
I'll make up the dozen and all of them stuff,
In vain I seek rhymes, they're all of them fled,
With that nasty Tom Cat with a cold in his head!
238
A Medley.
(FOR A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.)
Here's a pretty dilemma!
The cruel Miss Emma
Insists upon verses, insists upon verses,
While Apollo refuses,
Nor one of the Muses
Assistance disburses, assistance disburses.
How can I escape
From this terrible scrape?
What! an album's petition, an album's petition!
No prospect I can see,
Unless Madam Fancy
Vouchsafes me a vision, a vision, a vision!
The cruel Miss Emma
Insists upon verses, insists upon verses,
While Apollo refuses,
Nor one of the Muses
Assistance disburses, assistance disburses.
How can I escape
From this terrible scrape?
What! an album's petition, an album's petition!
No prospect I can see,
Unless Madam Fancy
Vouchsafes me a vision, a vision, a vision!
Stay, methinks I see Phœbus,
To make me a rebus
Has laid down his fiddle, has laid down his fiddle,
When in comes Judge Park
With Sir Charles Mansfield Clark,
And runs off with the riddle, the riddle, the riddle!
Up starts Mrs. Hughes
When she hears the news,
And calling a Jarvey, and calling a Jarvey,
Drives after them straightway,
Through Lincoln's Inn gateway,
With Dan Whittle Harvey, with Dan Whittle Harvey!
To make me a rebus
Has laid down his fiddle, has laid down his fiddle,
When in comes Judge Park
With Sir Charles Mansfield Clark,
And runs off with the riddle, the riddle, the riddle!
Up starts Mrs. Hughes
When she hears the news,
239
Drives after them straightway,
Through Lincoln's Inn gateway,
With Dan Whittle Harvey, with Dan Whittle Harvey!
The special attorney
Stops short on the journey,
Not liking the weather, the weather, the weather;
So quitting the coach
At Lord Melbourne's approach,
They both begin waltzing together, together!
While stout Mr. Bentley
Trips after them gently,
Assisted by Colborn, assisted by Colborn,
Till Prince Esterhazy
Runs off with his jasey,
And pawns it in Holborn, in Holborn, in Holborn!
Stops short on the journey,
Not liking the weather, the weather, the weather;
So quitting the coach
At Lord Melbourne's approach,
They both begin waltzing together, together!
While stout Mr. Bentley
Trips after them gently,
Assisted by Colborn, assisted by Colborn,
Till Prince Esterhazy
Runs off with his jasey,
And pawns it in Holborn, in Holborn, in Holborn!
Charles Kemble in vain
Tries to get it again,
And taps at the wicket, and taps at the wicket;
But Little John Russell
Contrives in the bustle
To purloin the ticket, the ticket, the ticket!
Colonel Evans comes up,
And invites him to sup
At the “Carlton,” with Lockhart, and Croker, and Croker,
Where the ghost of Horne Tooke
Blackballs Theodore Hook
For being a joker, a joker, a joker!
Tries to get it again,
And taps at the wicket, and taps at the wicket;
But Little John Russell
Contrives in the bustle
To purloin the ticket, the ticket, the ticket!
Colonel Evans comes up,
And invites him to sup
240
Where the ghost of Horne Tooke
Blackballs Theodore Hook
For being a joker, a joker, a joker!
Then in comes Earl Grey,
In his dignified way,
Saying, “Dress me some dumplings with dripping, with dripping,”
And ends by observing
To Washington Irving,
That Harrington's whiskers want clipping, want clipping;
Unable to read, he
Turns round to Macready,
And tells him that yawning is catching, is catching;
While the Duke of Buccleugh
Assures Rothschild the Jew
That Solomon's Temple wants thatching, wants thatching!
In his dignified way,
Saying, “Dress me some dumplings with dripping, with dripping,”
And ends by observing
To Washington Irving,
That Harrington's whiskers want clipping, want clipping;
Unable to read, he
Turns round to Macready,
And tells him that yawning is catching, is catching;
While the Duke of Buccleugh
Assures Rothschild the Jew
That Solomon's Temple wants thatching, wants thatching!
So, locking his desk, he
Roars out to Fieschi
To shoot the Lord Mayor through the body, the body;
For Lord Alvanley's groom,
With Ducrow and Joe Hume,
Are quaffing gin toddy, gin toddy, gin toddy.
“Look here,” says Tom Moore;
“I've a chop on a skewer,
Which I mean to get dress'd for my dinner, my dinner,
Since Lord Holland says Rogers
And I are queer codgers,
And calls Sydney Smith an old sinner, old sinner!”
Roars out to Fieschi
To shoot the Lord Mayor through the body, the body;
For Lord Alvanley's groom,
With Ducrow and Joe Hume,
Are quaffing gin toddy, gin toddy, gin toddy.
241
“I've a chop on a skewer,
Which I mean to get dress'd for my dinner, my dinner,
Since Lord Holland says Rogers
And I are queer codgers,
And calls Sydney Smith an old sinner, old sinner!”
Then mounting his horse he
Rides off with Count D'Orsay
To call on Beau Brummel at Calais, at Calais,
Where Little Bob Keeley
And young D'Israeli
Have opened a splendid gin-palace, gin-palace!
Below stairs John Britton
Is teaching a kitten
To lap all the cream in the dairy, the dairy,
And tells Sir John Soane
That her mother is grown
A profound antiquary, profound antiquary!
Rides off with Count D'Orsay
To call on Beau Brummel at Calais, at Calais,
Where Little Bob Keeley
And young D'Israeli
Have opened a splendid gin-palace, gin-palace!
Below stairs John Britton
Is teaching a kitten
To lap all the cream in the dairy, the dairy,
And tells Sir John Soane
That her mother is grown
A profound antiquary, profound antiquary!
But stay, Mrs. Hughes
Will fall foul of my Muse,
And call her a gipsy, and call her a gipsy;
For says she, “Only look
How you're spoiling the book!
Why, you're certainly tipsy, certainly tipsy!”
And the man in the moon,
Taking snuff with a spoon,
Cries, “For shame! Have some conscience, some conscience, some conscience.”
So I drop my pen gaily,
And challenge Haynes Bayly
To write in eight stanzas more nonsense, more nonsense
Will fall foul of my Muse,
And call her a gipsy, and call her a gipsy;
For says she, “Only look
How you're spoiling the book!
Why, you're certainly tipsy, certainly tipsy!”
242
Taking snuff with a spoon,
Cries, “For shame! Have some conscience, some conscience, some conscience.”
So I drop my pen gaily,
And challenge Haynes Bayly
To write in eight stanzas more nonsense, more nonsense
My Dream
Absurd as it seems
To talk about dreams,
Many persons there are who delight in such themes;
More believe in them, too, than would like to be known,
For whose edification hear one of my own.
To talk about dreams,
Many persons there are who delight in such themes;
More believe in them, too, than would like to be known,
For whose edification hear one of my own.
Methought before dark
I walked in the Park,
When in run three roysterers bent on a lark,—
Lord Abinger, Wallack, and Poole,—who like bucks
Began pulling the shrubs up and pelting the ducks.
I walked in the Park,
When in run three roysterers bent on a lark,—
Lord Abinger, Wallack, and Poole,—who like bucks
Began pulling the shrubs up and pelting the ducks.
243
With his wig and his mace,
And a very long face,
Came the Speaker, and bade them get out of the place;
So they went to the Quadrant, where Louis Philippe
Had just been detected in killing a sheep.
And a very long face,
Came the Speaker, and bade them get out of the place;
So they went to the Quadrant, where Louis Philippe
Had just been detected in killing a sheep.
As he could not find bail,
He was taken to jail,
But the Lord Mayor of Dublin stood there with his tail,
Saying, “Take him elsewhere, for we've really no room,
The last cell we had's just engaged by Lord Brougham.”
He was taken to jail,
But the Lord Mayor of Dublin stood there with his tail,
Saying, “Take him elsewhere, for we've really no room,
The last cell we had's just engaged by Lord Brougham.”
Then they call'd for a cab,
When a dirty-faced drab,
Whom Lord Waterford said was the fairy Queen Mab,
Jumped up on the dickey, and seizing the reins,
Drove over Sam Rogers, and knock'd out his brains.
When a dirty-faced drab,
Whom Lord Waterford said was the fairy Queen Mab,
Jumped up on the dickey, and seizing the reins,
Drove over Sam Rogers, and knock'd out his brains.
At this terrible sight
They were all in affright,
And called Mr. Wakley to set matters right,
Who proceeded forthwith to impanel a jury,
To sit on the body, in Perkins's Brewery.
They were all in affright,
And called Mr. Wakley to set matters right,
Who proceeded forthwith to impanel a jury,
To sit on the body, in Perkins's Brewery.
244
Mrs. Trollope was there,
And was urged to declare
All she knew of this very distressing affair;
But the lady was cautious, declining to mix
Up herself, as she said, in so handsome a fix.
And was urged to declare
All she knew of this very distressing affair;
But the lady was cautious, declining to mix
Up herself, as she said, in so handsome a fix.
Upon which Richard Shiel
Swore he knew that Tom Steele
Had pulled out the lynch-pin that fastened the wheel,
While Archdeacon Wilberforce offered to bet
The policeman a crown that the cab had upset.
Swore he knew that Tom Steele
Had pulled out the lynch-pin that fastened the wheel,
While Archdeacon Wilberforce offered to bet
The policeman a crown that the cab had upset.
—But Mamma, with a wink,
Says, “Really I think
You're wasting a great deal of paper and ink,
So finish your verses—if verses you style 'em—
Or off you both go to the Hanwell Asylum!”
Says, “Really I think
You're wasting a great deal of paper and ink,
So finish your verses—if verses you style 'em—
Or off you both go to the Hanwell Asylum!”
245
To Mrs. Scoones.
A BIRTHDAY ODE.
When I was young,
Full oft I've sung
Gay birthday odes to birthday tunes,
Nor shall my muse
E'en now refuse
One little stave to Mrs. Scoones.
Full oft I've sung
Gay birthday odes to birthday tunes,
Nor shall my muse
E'en now refuse
One little stave to Mrs. Scoones.
No! though Time runs,
And fifty suns
(Of course thirteen times fifty moons)
Have made me grey,
This latest lay
I'll venture yet for Mrs. Scoones.
And fifty suns
(Of course thirteen times fifty moons)
Have made me grey,
This latest lay
I'll venture yet for Mrs. Scoones.
In days of yore
Folks rose by Four,
Our mornings were their afternoons;
'Tis Twelve at best
Ere I am drest,
For which I am blamed by Mrs. Scoones.
Folks rose by Four,
Our mornings were their afternoons;
'Tis Twelve at best
Ere I am drest,
For which I am blamed by Mrs. Scoones.
246
Up with the sun
They dined at One;
While we, alas! far lazier loons,
Can hardly fix
To dine at Six;—
(The hour, I think, of Mrs. Scoones.)
They dined at One;
While we, alas! far lazier loons,
Can hardly fix
To dine at Six;—
(The hour, I think, of Mrs. Scoones.)
Thus Seven was past
Ere our repast,
With cloth and knives and forks and spoons,
Was cleared away
And I could say—
“One bumper now to Mrs. Scoones!”
Ere our repast,
With cloth and knives and forks and spoons,
Was cleared away
And I could say—
“One bumper now to Mrs. Scoones!”
The toast went round—
“May joys abound,
Long life and health—that best of boons!”
Ned, Mary Anne,
And chattering Fan
All joined in—“God bless Mrs. Scoones!”
“May joys abound,
Long life and health—that best of boons!”
Ned, Mary Anne,
And chattering Fan
All joined in—“God bless Mrs. Scoones!”
The postman's bell,
That horrid knell
That frights one into fits and swoons,
Had passed our door
An hour before,—
Too late to write to Mrs. Scoones!
That horrid knell
That frights one into fits and swoons,
Had passed our door
An hour before,—
Too late to write to Mrs. Scoones!
247
And Time's rude knife
In middle life
Fair Fancy's wings so closely prunes,
One can't essay
To write a lay
In half an hour to Mrs. Scoones.
In middle life
Fair Fancy's wings so closely prunes,
One can't essay
To write a lay
In half an hour to Mrs. Scoones.
Would wishes bear
Us through the air—
Ah! wishes are not air balloons—
Beyond all doubt,
We had set out
To whisper thus to Mrs. Scoones:
Us through the air—
Ah! wishes are not air balloons—
Beyond all doubt,
We had set out
To whisper thus to Mrs. Scoones:
“May years of joy
Without alloy
Roll on,—the months all Mays and Junes;
While Halbar, Phil,
Jane, Frank, and Will
Spring up like flowers round Mrs. Scoones!”
Without alloy
Roll on,—the months all Mays and Junes;
While Halbar, Phil,
Jane, Frank, and Will
Spring up like flowers round Mrs. Scoones!”
248
A Phrenological Fragment.
Oh, my head! my head! my head!
Alack! for my poor unfortunate head!
Mister Deville
Has been to feel,
And what do you think he said?
He felt it up, and he felt it down,
Behind the ears and across the crown,
Sinciput, occiput, great and small,
Bumps and organs, he tickled 'em all;
And he shook his own, as he gravely said,
“Sir, you really have got a most singular head!
Alack! for my poor unfortunate head!
Mister Deville
Has been to feel,
And what do you think he said?
He felt it up, and he felt it down,
Behind the ears and across the crown,
Sinciput, occiput, great and small,
Bumps and organs, he tickled 'em all;
And he shook his own, as he gravely said,
“Sir, you really have got a most singular head!
“Why here's a bump,
Only feel what a lump;
Why the organ of ‘Sound’ is an absolute hump!
And only feel here,
Why, behind each ear,
There's a bump for a butcher or a bombardier;
Such organs of slaughter
Would spill blood like water;
Such ‘lopping and topping’ of heads and of tails—
Why, you'll cut up a jackass with Alderman Scales,
Such destructiveness, surely, never I
Saw, save in Thurtell or little Frank Jeff-e-ry!”
It will do, it will do
For a slashing review—
Cætera desunt.
Only feel what a lump;
Why the organ of ‘Sound’ is an absolute hump!
And only feel here,
Why, behind each ear,
There's a bump for a butcher or a bombardier;
Such organs of slaughter
Would spill blood like water;
Such ‘lopping and topping’ of heads and of tails—
Why, you'll cut up a jackass with Alderman Scales,
249
Saw, save in Thurtell or little Frank Jeff-e-ry!”
It will do, it will do
For a slashing review—
Moral Reflections.
Glean from the brute creation,
Thou vain and haughty man!
That lore thy vaunted reason
Is all too weak to scan!
Thou vain and haughty man!
That lore thy vaunted reason
Is all too weak to scan!
Of virtue and of prudence
Rich lessons they will grant,
Thou need'st not seek thine ‘Uncle,’
Wouldst thou but heed the Ant!
Rich lessons they will grant,
Thou need'st not seek thine ‘Uncle,’
Wouldst thou but heed the Ant!
Thou careless, reckless idler,
Who mak'st of time a mock,
Observe yon thoughtful parrot
Still ask thee—“What's o'clock?'
Who mak'st of time a mock,
Observe yon thoughtful parrot
Still ask thee—“What's o'clock?'
250
Or should unkind Apollo,
Fond bard, his aid refuse,
Go stroke yon sleek Grimalkin—
'Tis thus thou'lt court the mews!
Fond bard, his aid refuse,
Go stroke yon sleek Grimalkin—
'Tis thus thou'lt court the mews!
Wouldst learn the faithful friendship
That knows not to decay,
Go ask yon simple shepherd,
He'll smile, and point to Tray!
Etc.
That knows not to decay,
Go ask yon simple shepherd,
He'll smile, and point to Tray!
Etc.
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