CANTO I.
‘Turn, farmer, turn thy horse's head,
And taste my ale so bright,’
Cried Boniface, whose sign display'd
The lion in his might.
Yet how unlike the royal beast,
Who for his phiz ne'er sat?
Wherefore deriding tongues did call
The sign, the Old Red Cat!
Yea, much unlike indeed was it!
Jove's eagle and a gander,
Matthias and the tuneful Pope,
Lord Rolle and Alexander.
‘Who boasts such ale?’ quoth Boniface;
‘No landlord that draws breath.
A gallon I could fairly drink,
Ev'n in the pangs of death!’
Young Orson from his horse leap'd off,
And shook the landlord's hand,
Then sought a room to taste this ale,
The best in all the land.
The landlord had a red round face,
Which some folks said, in fun,
Resembled his Red Lion's phiz;
And some, the rising sun.
Large slices from his cheeks and chin,
Like beef-steakes, one might cut;
And then his paunch, for goodly size,
Beat any brewer's butt.
This landlord was a boozer stout,
A snuff-taker and smoker;
And 'twixt his eyes a nose did shine
Bright as a red-hot poker.
Were gunpowder put on his snout,
Nor flint it would require,
And steel, to make the sable grains
Flash off in sudden fire.
Thus when we see a nose so red,
It is as day-light clear,
That ruby nose is not maintain'd
On water or small beer.
Young Orson was a comely youth,
Stout as an oaken tree;
A farm he had in Taunton Vale
And money, too, had he!
Whene'er he spied a buxom lass,
His chops began to water;
And as the kites on pigeons pounce,
The rogue was sure to pat her.
But he his neck to wedlock's yoke
Would not consent to bow;
Quoth he, ‘The man who milk can buy,
Should never keep a cow!’
Of lovely maids at least a score
Did rue his wanton tricks!
A mournful band! a sable list!
Like moles between cleft sticks!
Now at the table Boniface
And Orson sat them both,
While 'twixt the twain a pewter-pot,
Did mantling foam with froth.
Now Orson rais'd the pewter-pot,
And blew the froth away:
And having drank, he smack'd his lips,
And cheerily did say;
‘Old Boniface, thou'rt in the right!
Thy taste is sound enough;
I wish my cellar now could boast
A tun of such rare stuff!
Sweet Ellen gave the pot with hands
That might with thousands vie;
Her face, like veal, was white and red,
And sparkling was her eye.
Her shape the poplar's easy form,
Her neck the lily's white,
Soft heaving, like the summer wave,
And lifting rich delight.
And o'er this neck of globe-like mould,
In ringlets wav'd her hair:
Ah, what sweet contrast for the eye,
The jetty and the fair!
Her lips like cherries moist with dew,
So pretty, plump, and pleasing!
And like the juicy cherry, too,
Did seem to ask for squeezing.
Yet Ellen modest was withal,
And kept her charms in order;
For beauty is a dangerous gift,
And apt to breed disorder.
Yet what is beauty's use, alack!
To market can it go?
Say, will it buy a loin of veal,
Or rump of beef? No, no.
Will butchers say, ‘Choose what you please,
Miss Nancy and Miss Betty?’
Or gard'ners, ‘Take my beans and peas,
Because ye are so pretty?’
Too oft, alas! a daughter's charms
Increase a parent's cares;
For daughters and dead fish, we find,
Were never keeping wares.
Yet spotless was this virgin's heart—
Quite spotless, too, her fame!
And if a swain but kiss'd her neck,
It show'd the blush of shame!
For once a saucy Oxford youth
Dar'd kiss it to a glow—
How like the modest blush of morn
Upon a hill of snow!
Yet blushes are exceeding scarce;
The great folk scorn to name 'em,
Since Fashion, ruling with strong sway,
Has bid all courts disclaim 'em.
Yes, yes! a blush is vastly scarce!
O fie, O fie upon't!
And when it glows, lo! Fashion calls
The virtue, mauvaise honte!
Oh! can the great for modesty
Not care a single rush!
Ah! never be a British maid
A stranger to a blush!
Ah! who can pierce the simple heart,
Give modesty a fear—
Raise with rude hands the burning blush,
And force the pearly tear?
Yet there are demons who delight
Her panting heart to wound,
Darken with Sorrow's cloud her eye,
And force the groan profound.
Ah! wanton Fashion, thou loose dame,
Who biddest ev'ry man see
The charms which darkness should conceal,
And man should only fancy.
The ankle, nay, the knee and thigh,
Are secrets now no more!
God bless us! every day of each
A man may see a score!
The bishop was not in the wrong,
But really in the right,
Who at the opera saw such things
As shock'd his holy sight.
Yet some have said, yea, loudly said,
With many a scornful jeer—
‘A poor old wither'd blinking fool,
What business had he there?’
‘If bishops and their wives will leave
Their church for wanton places;
'Tis rank hypocrisy to make
A set of prudish faces.’
Now Orson's eyes forsook the pot,
And mark'd the maid with fire;
For Ellen's fair and artless look
Did kindle high desire.
For beauty doth possess the charm
To pull abroad men's eyes,
And wake the wishes of the soul,
And bid the passions rise.
For why? Because 'tis Nature's plan
The world should be supported;
Therefore, wherever Beauty smiles,
It will be press'd and courted.
Thus amber doth attract the straws,
The loadstone draws the needle;
And drawn too are the female heels
By tabor, pipe, and fiddle.
Now Orson whisper'd to himself,
‘Gad's bob! if things go right,
With that nice girl who gave the pot
I'll sleep this very night!’
O monstrous thought! O wicked wish!
O soul-destroying sin!
Yet for his soul (O graceless youth!)
He did not care one pin.
Thus on the dolphin's beauteous scale,
The shark he opes his jaw!
Poor fish! who, ere he danger feels,
Is in the tyrant's maw.
Thus spiders when they see a fly
How bailiff-like they watch it!
And ere, poor imp, he thinks of harm,
The grimly rascals catch it.
