NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.
Sir,
Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote
told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering
a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of
an ass at the door. “What noise is that?” asked the angry judge. “Only
an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord,” answered one of the
counsel.
As there are a number of such “extraordinary echoes” abroad just now,
you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following
few lines suggested by them.
Yours, &c. S.
Huc coeamus
, ait; nullique libentius unquam
Responsura sono, Coeamus, retulit echo.
Ovid.
There are echoes, we know, of all sorts,
From the echo, that “dies in the dale,”
To the “airy-tongu'd babbler,” that sports
Up the tide of the torrent her “tale.”
There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,
With the latest smart mot they have heard;
There are echoes, extremely like shrews,
Letting nobody have the last word.
In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too,
Certain “talented” echoes
there dwell,
Who, on being ask'd, “How do you do?”
Politely reply, “Pretty well.”
But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashion'd echoes as these,
When Britain has new ones in store,
That transcend them by many degrees?
For, of all repercussions of sound,
Concerning which bards make a pother,
There's none like that happy rebound
When one blockhead echoes another;—
When K---ny---n commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay,
R---thd---ne brays, with interest, back;—
And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers
pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.
Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,
Who can name all the echoes there are
From Benvoirlich to bold Ben-venue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;
I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the chief Neddy, K---ny---n, again;
Might tell how it roar'd in R---thd---ne,
How from D---ws---n it died off genteelly—
How hollow it rung from the crown
Of the fat-pated Marquis of E---y;
How, on hearing my Lord of G---e,
Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way,
Outdone, in their own special line,
By the forty-ass power of his bray!
But, no—for so humble a bard
'Tis a subject too trying to touch on;
Such noblemen's names are too hard,
And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.
Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,
Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves;
If, in spite of Narcissus, you still
Take to fools who are charm'd with themselves,
Who knows but, some morning retiring,
To walk by the Trent's wooded side,
You may meet with N---wc---stle, admiring
His own lengthen'd ears in the tide!
Or, on into Cambria straying,
Find K---ny---n, that double tongu'd elf,
In his love of ass-cendency, braying
A Brunswick duet with himself!
