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4. POETICAL PARODIES.
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1. WATER.
AN ODE DEDICATED TO THE TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.
“Water is the best of elements.”
Well sung, and truly, thou old “bird of Jove,”
A proverb hast thou wove, for all good people;
Arthur and I around the world might rove,
From high Acropolis to St. Paul's steeple,
Nor find such well epitomized sobriety,
To paint upon the flag of our society.
“Hoc signo vinces,” Hale, unfurl the banner;
Let it flaunt up, and flout the gin-swoln clouds;
Shout now, a long, and clear, and bold Hosannah,
And herald life to the pale, Styx-like crowds,
Of “Five-points” wretches, dying! by the Mass!
Of “the best of liquors, at three cents per glass!”
Not death, but life our bloodless triumphs yield,
Crowned with the joy of souls redeemed from slavery;
But could we tempt the old jailor to the field,
There were a desperate fight for brother Avery—
Gods! how he'd stamp his heel into his head,
And crush, even when the monster was stone dead;
A proverb hast thou wove, for all good people;
Arthur and I around the world might rove,
From high Acropolis to St. Paul's steeple,
Nor find such well epitomized sobriety,
To paint upon the flag of our society.
“Hoc signo vinces,” Hale, unfurl the banner;
Let it flaunt up, and flout the gin-swoln clouds;
Shout now, a long, and clear, and bold Hosannah,
And herald life to the pale, Styx-like crowds,
Of “Five-points” wretches, dying! by the Mass!
Of “the best of liquors, at three cents per glass!”
Not death, but life our bloodless triumphs yield,
Crowned with the joy of souls redeemed from slavery;
But could we tempt the old jailor to the field,
There were a desperate fight for brother Avery—
Gods! how he'd stamp his heel into his head,
And crush, even when the monster was stone dead;
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The dragon thief, that steals away men's brains;—
Good Lot first cursed him, and vine-desser Noah;
The brothel's god, e'er since, confessed he reigns,
Leading the nightly Bacchanalian roar.
Dread devil! hear him chuckling at the banquet,
Say, wilt thou not a single gentleman quit?
“The glasses sparkle on the board,” and song,
And merry joke, and jest they wanton banter;—
And he is there. See, see him push along
With busy speed, the just refilled decanter;
“Drink, drink boys, drink, and drown grim Care, and Sorrow,
Be drunk to night, and sober on the morrow.”
The clock strikes three. The gentle breath of morning
Fans the hot cheek of a zig-zag street walker;
Why is that mud his spattered coat adorning?
What dialect affects our late glib talker?
Strange! vest unbuttoned—pockets turned outside—
Hat pyramidical—soiled cravat untied!
These be thy half cooked dinners, old Constrictor,
Thy victims, ready buttered with saliva,
Soon to be mashed and munched, as in the picture
Of fated Laocoon—pained, fruitless striver;
Have pity! wretch! Gloat not so on thy ration,
Or moderate, at least, thy tight squassation.
O, for the early days, that knew not art!
When, at the well, Bethuel's gentle daughter
Confessed her love, and pledged her virgin heart,
In a pure bowl of dimpling-cold spring water.
Good Lot first cursed him, and vine-desser Noah;
The brothel's god, e'er since, confessed he reigns,
Leading the nightly Bacchanalian roar.
Dread devil! hear him chuckling at the banquet,
Say, wilt thou not a single gentleman quit?
“The glasses sparkle on the board,” and song,
And merry joke, and jest they wanton banter;—
And he is there. See, see him push along
With busy speed, the just refilled decanter;
“Drink, drink boys, drink, and drown grim Care, and Sorrow,
Be drunk to night, and sober on the morrow.”
The clock strikes three. The gentle breath of morning
Fans the hot cheek of a zig-zag street walker;
Why is that mud his spattered coat adorning?
What dialect affects our late glib talker?
Strange! vest unbuttoned—pockets turned outside—
Hat pyramidical—soiled cravat untied!
These be thy half cooked dinners, old Constrictor,
Thy victims, ready buttered with saliva,
Soon to be mashed and munched, as in the picture
Of fated Laocoon—pained, fruitless striver;
Have pity! wretch! Gloat not so on thy ration,
Or moderate, at least, thy tight squassation.
O, for the early days, that knew not art!
When, at the well, Bethuel's gentle daughter
Confessed her love, and pledged her virgin heart,
In a pure bowl of dimpling-cold spring water.
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“Drink, drink my Lord,” the maiden to the camel-driver
said,
But not a drop she gave him that could get into his head.
And thou, Castalia, where is now thy fount,
Whose chrystal, erst, threw back young Poets' faces,—
Up, on the top of the Parnassian mount,—
The Muses' home, the loved haunt of the Graces?
Is't true that Adrian filled thee up with stones?
The drunken Vandal! Curses on his bones!
Home of my fathers! can I e'er forget
The pearly gem, set in thy sloping hill?
The heated willows bending down, to wet
Their fanning branches in the pebbled rill?
The swallow, o'er the mirror skimming—dipping—
And now and then a stray mosquito nipping?
Oh water, wave, spring, rivulet, well, stream!
When art thou most the idol of my praise?
Still art thou Castaly.—In sooth, I deem
Even Woodworth might a decent stanza raise,
Inspired by thee;—yes, yes;—I'll wage a ducat,—
Even he might feel the God, and sing some rotten bucket.
The diamond dripping from the brimming bowl,
The clear, deep streamlet, kissing its green sides,
The swelling river's proud and lordly roll,
Old ocean's bosom. and his rushing tides,
Rich sources are of holy contemplation;—
Diviner, boasted not the famed old Roman nation.
But not a drop she gave him that could get into his head.
And thou, Castalia, where is now thy fount,
Whose chrystal, erst, threw back young Poets' faces,—
Up, on the top of the Parnassian mount,—
The Muses' home, the loved haunt of the Graces?
Is't true that Adrian filled thee up with stones?
The drunken Vandal! Curses on his bones!
Home of my fathers! can I e'er forget
The pearly gem, set in thy sloping hill?
The heated willows bending down, to wet
Their fanning branches in the pebbled rill?
The swallow, o'er the mirror skimming—dipping—
And now and then a stray mosquito nipping?
Oh water, wave, spring, rivulet, well, stream!
When art thou most the idol of my praise?
Still art thou Castaly.—In sooth, I deem
Even Woodworth might a decent stanza raise,
Inspired by thee;—yes, yes;—I'll wage a ducat,—
Even he might feel the God, and sing some rotten bucket.
The diamond dripping from the brimming bowl,
The clear, deep streamlet, kissing its green sides,
The swelling river's proud and lordly roll,
Old ocean's bosom. and his rushing tides,
Rich sources are of holy contemplation;—
Diviner, boasted not the famed old Roman nation.
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Come; enter this green lane; the sun is hot;—
Here shielded, thank the closely dove-tailed trees;
Stoop, stoop, and drink—this is Egeria's grot.
Fall, man, upon thy bended hands, and knees,
And cool thy lip, and bless this happy minute—
Stay—wilt thou have “a little brandy” in it?
No! poison not the wholesome living streams,
Nor turn their waves, into the dead Red Sea,
Putrid with Pharoah's army; where, it seems,
No bird may live, nor shrub or floweret be;—
Where the chance pilgrim, thinks it providential,
If he survive the brazen sky, and simoon pestilential.
Oblivious are years, since Bacchus, flushed
With Chian, urged the lion-mated Tiger,
Impetuous; and on to triumph rushed,
From farthest Ind to heavy rolling Niger;
With syren, music, madness, thyrsus, cymbal,
Satyr, and Faun, Silenus, Pan, and vine wreathed pipe and timbrel,
A drunken multitude. But times are changed;
The insolvent God here claims no sacred shrines;
Save, where by grateful Aldermen, are ranged
Long promised shambles, to retail “high wines.”
O! provident regard for cheap fruition!
Erin-nys staggering, thanks ye for the licensed imbibition.
Save, that in yonder secret Alms-house cellar,
The rusty key turns seldom, on that rare
Here shielded, thank the closely dove-tailed trees;
Stoop, stoop, and drink—this is Egeria's grot.
Fall, man, upon thy bended hands, and knees,
And cool thy lip, and bless this happy minute—
Stay—wilt thou have “a little brandy” in it?
No! poison not the wholesome living streams,
Nor turn their waves, into the dead Red Sea,
Putrid with Pharoah's army; where, it seems,
No bird may live, nor shrub or floweret be;—
Where the chance pilgrim, thinks it providential,
If he survive the brazen sky, and simoon pestilential.
Oblivious are years, since Bacchus, flushed
With Chian, urged the lion-mated Tiger,
Impetuous; and on to triumph rushed,
From farthest Ind to heavy rolling Niger;
With syren, music, madness, thyrsus, cymbal,
Satyr, and Faun, Silenus, Pan, and vine wreathed pipe and timbrel,
A drunken multitude. But times are changed;
The insolvent God here claims no sacred shrines;
Save, where by grateful Aldermen, are ranged
Long promised shambles, to retail “high wines.”
O! provident regard for cheap fruition!
Erin-nys staggering, thanks ye for the licensed imbibition.
Save, that in yonder secret Alms-house cellar,
The rusty key turns seldom, on that rare
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Old private stock—from Lynch's—soft, and mellow,—
Peters can tell how long it ripened there.—
The rest of us all sip our thin Burgundy,
Abuse the booths, and preach reform, the coming anno mundi.
Peters can tell how long it ripened there.—
The rest of us all sip our thin Burgundy,
Abuse the booths, and preach reform, the coming anno mundi.
2. BANK MELODY—No. I.
A lament of a wig temperance man on being invited to the corporation
dinner on the 4th of July.
The gushing wine is calling me,
With its merry, gleesome flow;
And our party all are hauling me,
Where bright their glasses glow;
I may not go, I must not go,
Where punch, pale ale, and sherry flow;
Where flutenists and flowers blow;—
I must stay here with my wife and daughter,
And sip the insipid Knapp's spring water;—
Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on;
That vow for me has the business done!
The sharp-set carver, through the round
Goes cutting, with its hungry sound;
And over the blade spiced gravies flow
Into the steamy dish below;
And fast and full the soup plates go
To Bull, Fred. Talmadge, and Munro;
With its merry, gleesome flow;
And our party all are hauling me,
Where bright their glasses glow;
I may not go, I must not go,
Where punch, pale ale, and sherry flow;
Where flutenists and flowers blow;—
I must stay here with my wife and daughter,
And sip the insipid Knapp's spring water;—
Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on;
That vow for me has the business done!
The sharp-set carver, through the round
Goes cutting, with its hungry sound;
And over the blade spiced gravies flow
Into the steamy dish below;
And fast and full the soup plates go
To Bull, Fred. Talmadge, and Munro;
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And all the way
They murmuring say
“Oh, fool! why thou art far away?
Come up to the City Hall to-day,
And with us the figure go.”
I may not go, I may not go,
Where brilliant Hock's green waters run
All glided with reflected fun;
Where leaps Champagne, from the bottle, below,
Into a whirl of boiling snow,
And the rabble gape as they see it go;
I must stay here
In prison drear;
Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on;
Would God that thou wert done!—
The fat head cook, good wig, goes by,
Arranging syllabub and viand,
And Sambo Ganymedes swift fly,
To help good fellows as get dry, and
Madeira makes them all rejoice,
And even old Hays with gentle voice,
Calls me away,
With the wigs to stay,
To keep the day
Which the Democrats say
Is their own blessed anniversary.
I may not go—I may not go,
Where the sweet winds over fresh salmon blow;
They murmuring say
“Oh, fool! why thou art far away?
Come up to the City Hall to-day,
And with us the figure go.”
I may not go, I may not go,
Where brilliant Hock's green waters run
All glided with reflected fun;
Where leaps Champagne, from the bottle, below,
Into a whirl of boiling snow,
And the rabble gape as they see it go;
I must stay here
In prison drear;
Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on;
Would God that thou wert done!—
The fat head cook, good wig, goes by,
Arranging syllabub and viand,
And Sambo Ganymedes swift fly,
To help good fellows as get dry, and
Madeira makes them all rejoice,
And even old Hays with gentle voice,
Calls me away,
With the wigs to stay,
To keep the day
Which the Democrats say
Is their own blessed anniversary.
I may not go—I may not go,
Where the sweet winds over fresh salmon blow;
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Where the spicy pregnant clouds float by
The original Stillwell's dreamy eye;
Nor where the soup, warm, rich, and black,
Runs gurgling 'mid the busy clack,
Like a sweet bird singing upon a hill,
To the splashing wheel of the village mill—
I must stay here,
With my wedded dear,
And munch roast clams like Cotton Mather,
And keep my vow to our good King Arthur.
O could I go, unknown, unseen,
And rapturous dip in the deep tureen,
And be the boy I would have been,
But for that cursed vow!
Charles King and Root, and I and Noah,
Would make the old[1] Sessions ceiling roar,
And K—g get R—t upon the floor,
“As drunk as David's sow.”
The original Stillwell's dreamy eye;
Nor where the soup, warm, rich, and black,
Runs gurgling 'mid the busy clack,
Like a sweet bird singing upon a hill,
To the splashing wheel of the village mill—
I must stay here,
With my wedded dear,
And munch roast clams like Cotton Mather,
And keep my vow to our good King Arthur.
O could I go, unknown, unseen,
And rapturous dip in the deep tureen,
And be the boy I would have been,
But for that cursed vow!
Charles King and Root, and I and Noah,
Would make the old[1] Sessions ceiling roar,
And K—g get R—t upon the floor,
“As drunk as David's sow.”
3. BANK MELODY—No. II.
Air—“Fallen is thy throne.”
Fallen is thy throne, O Nicholas!
Silence is o'er thy Bank,
No more thy discounts tickle us,
Thy lawyers all are lank.
Silence is o'er thy Bank,
No more thy discounts tickle us,
Thy lawyers all are lank.
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Where are the boys that hanker,
For notes approved and “done,”
Who vote for the old banker,
Whenever they're hard run.
Clay! thou did'st love Nick Biddle,
Once he was all thine own;
Thy harp, thy flute, thy fiddle
Which thou did'st play upon;
Till Jackson came and blighted
Thy long loved olive tree,
And the Banking House was lighted,
For other kings than thee.
Then sunk the sun of Nicholas,
Then set his Evening Star,
And got into a pickle as
Bad as Duane's papa,
When wrapped in wrath and wonder,
He frowned upon his son,
And lectured him like thunder
For what he had not done.
For notes approved and “done,”
Who vote for the old banker,
Whenever they're hard run.
Clay! thou did'st love Nick Biddle,
Once he was all thine own;
Thy harp, thy flute, thy fiddle
Which thou did'st play upon;
Till Jackson came and blighted
Thy long loved olive tree,
And the Banking House was lighted,
For other kings than thee.
Then sunk the sun of Nicholas,
Then set his Evening Star,
And got into a pickle as
Bad as Duane's papa,
When wrapped in wrath and wonder,
He frowned upon his son,
And lectured him like thunder
For what he had not done.
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4. BANK MELODY—No. III.
Air.—“Said a smile to a tear.”
Said Noah to Stone,
When the meeting was done,
And his heart bounded light as a feather,
While sipping his beer,
“In sooth, it is queer
That we should be both here together.
“I come here to thank
My good mistress, the bank,
For teaching me sound aristocracy.”
“And I,” said the Colonel,
“To curse the infernal
Old demon of Jackson democracy.”
“O, ho!” chuckled Noah,
“Dear Stone say no more,
We are twins; an't it wonderful funny?
And how glorious the cause,
Which support from us draws
And fills both our pockets with money!”
When the meeting was done,
And his heart bounded light as a feather,
While sipping his beer,
“In sooth, it is queer
That we should be both here together.
“I come here to thank
My good mistress, the bank,
For teaching me sound aristocracy.”
“And I,” said the Colonel,
“To curse the infernal
Old demon of Jackson democracy.”
“O, ho!” chuckled Noah,
“Dear Stone say no more,
We are twins; an't it wonderful funny?
And how glorious the cause,
Which support from us draws
And fills both our pockets with money!”
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5. BANK MELODY—No. IV.
Air.—Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour.”
[“To be sung by Mr. H-x-e, after the Election.”]
Farewell! but whenever you think of the hour
That gave to old Tammany honor and power,
Then think of the discounts, which we have had too,
And the loans, dearest Webster, we've made Clay, and you,
Our debts will press heavy! no hope will remain!
And Nick will surrender his office with pain!
But he ne'er will forget the free discounts, that threw
Their enchantments, my Webb, around Noah, and you.
Let fate do her worst! we have laid up enough;
Our hay is all made, and the storm may blow rough,
We care not; why should we? we've had out our fun,
And never again can they say we're hard run.
Long, long may our hearts with such comforts be stored,
Like pockets wherein jingling coin has been poured.
You may break, you may ruin the Bank, if you will,
But the notes and the specie, will hang round us still.
That gave to old Tammany honor and power,
Then think of the discounts, which we have had too,
And the loans, dearest Webster, we've made Clay, and you,
Our debts will press heavy! no hope will remain!
And Nick will surrender his office with pain!
But he ne'er will forget the free discounts, that threw
Their enchantments, my Webb, around Noah, and you.
Let fate do her worst! we have laid up enough;
Our hay is all made, and the storm may blow rough,
We care not; why should we? we've had out our fun,
And never again can they say we're hard run.
Long, long may our hearts with such comforts be stored,
Like pockets wherein jingling coin has been poured.
You may break, you may ruin the Bank, if you will,
But the notes and the specie, will hang round us still.
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6. BANK MELODY—No. V.
Air.—“John Anderson, my jo, John.”
Nick Biddle, O! my auld Nick,
When we were first acquent,
The Bank had full five years to run,
The fees were freely lent;
But now the Bank is winding up,
The cash don't come so thick
But blessings on your silver pow,
Nick Biddle, my auld Nick!
Nick Biddle, O! my auld Nick,
We've had our fun thegither,
Money and canty days, Nick,
We've spent wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, Nick,
But hand in hand we'll stick,
And growl thegither at the foot,
Nick Biddle, oh! my Nick.
When we were first acquent,
The Bank had full five years to run,
The fees were freely lent;
But now the Bank is winding up,
The cash don't come so thick
But blessings on your silver pow,
Nick Biddle, my auld Nick!
Nick Biddle, O! my auld Nick,
We've had our fun thegither,
Money and canty days, Nick,
We've spent wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, Nick,
But hand in hand we'll stick,
And growl thegither at the foot,
Nick Biddle, oh! my Nick.
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7. BANK MELODY—No. VI.
GULIAN'S FEAST.
“Fill the goblet again; for I never before
Felt the joy, that now kindles my heart to its core;
Let us drink:—who would not? since through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone, no deception is found.”
Felt the joy, that now kindles my heart to its core;
Let us drink:—who would not? since through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone, no deception is found.”
—Byron.
'T WAS at the Castle feast, of beer, and fun,
That great Verplanck had won.
High on a stage of cedar,
Sat the elected leader,
Beneath a tow cloth canopy, to ward the sun;
A shining steeple;
A moral weathercock, above the gaping people.
Phil H—ne, and Webb, and Glentworth stood around,
Their skulls, with wigs, and scalps, and scratches bound:
So should success in politics be crowned.
The new appointed street inspectors,
Mix'd, hob-a-nob, with bank directors;
While smirking, honest Mr. Bull
Of pleasure filled the chalice full.—
Happy, happy, happy Mayor?
None but the wigs,
None but the wigs,
None but the wigs surround thy chair!
That great Verplanck had won.
High on a stage of cedar,
Sat the elected leader,
Beneath a tow cloth canopy, to ward the sun;
A shining steeple;
A moral weathercock, above the gaping people.
Phil H—ne, and Webb, and Glentworth stood around,
Their skulls, with wigs, and scalps, and scratches bound:
So should success in politics be crowned.
The new appointed street inspectors,
Mix'd, hob-a-nob, with bank directors;
While smirking, honest Mr. Bull
Of pleasure filled the chalice full.—
Happy, happy, happy Mayor?
None but the wigs,
None but the wigs,
None but the wigs surround thy chair!
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Joe Hoxie mid the throng,
High pitch'd his tuneful voice,
And warbled many a song,
Appropriate, and choice.
The trembling notes, like Nick's pervade the land,
And win for Joe the vote of many a hand.
He sung Kentucky's trump-card son,
Who, tonguey, went to Washington;—
Such is the power of mighty gold
On lawyers getting old!
A Senator's grave form belied the attorney;
Sublime, on rail road cars, he took his journey,
When first he woed the beauteous Bank,
And lowly bending, knelt to thank
The generous hand that images had sent him,
Sovereigns that reign o'er all the world had lent him!
The listening wigs look on with kindling eye;
“Hurra for Clay! hurrah! hurrah!” they cry:
“The day is ours! Verplanck and Victory!”
With tickled ears
The chairman hears,
And drinks the sound
That floats around,
As if it were the music of the spheres.
The praise of Webster next,
Joe pitched on for his text,
The god-like man is hovering here!
A foaming bumper now of beer!
Hand around the mugs there, Stillwell,
See that all the wig boys fill well.
High pitch'd his tuneful voice,
And warbled many a song,
Appropriate, and choice.
The trembling notes, like Nick's pervade the land,
And win for Joe the vote of many a hand.
He sung Kentucky's trump-card son,
Who, tonguey, went to Washington;—
Such is the power of mighty gold
On lawyers getting old!
A Senator's grave form belied the attorney;
Sublime, on rail road cars, he took his journey,
When first he woed the beauteous Bank,
And lowly bending, knelt to thank
The generous hand that images had sent him,
Sovereigns that reign o'er all the world had lent him!
The listening wigs look on with kindling eye;
“Hurra for Clay! hurrah! hurrah!” they cry:
“The day is ours! Verplanck and Victory!”
With tickled ears
The chairman hears,
And drinks the sound
That floats around,
As if it were the music of the spheres.
The praise of Webster next,
Joe pitched on for his text,
The god-like man is hovering here!
A foaming bumper now of beer!
Hand around the mugs there, Stillwell,
See that all the wig boys fill well.
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Again! again! fill—fill!
Nick Biddle pays the bill.
'T was honest Wester's patriotic voice
Approved it vile, and wicked to rejoice
At the victories won by soldier and tar,
In a shameful immoral war.
Warmed by the song, Verplanck grew vain,
Fought all the election o'er again,
And thrice he proved that loss of votes, was most undoubted gain.
Joe marked the Wig Mayor getting “high;”
His threatening arm, his bloodshot eye;
And prudently, therefore, changed the tune,
To the mournful air of “Bonnie Doon.”
He sang John Quincy great and learned!
By too severe a fate
Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate,
By fickle fortune spurned!
Gone his light houses in the skies,
He pleads distress, and groans and sighs.
Nor e'en a barren, solitary hope has,
Nor boasts his once loved Ebony and Topaz.
“Enough—forbear,”
Sung out the Mayor,
Getting into a huff;
“We had quite enough
Of that sorrowful stuff,
Give us something funny, like `Barney Brallaghan,'
I've called for that once—shall I have, sir, to call again?”
Nick Biddle pays the bill.
'T was honest Wester's patriotic voice
Approved it vile, and wicked to rejoice
At the victories won by soldier and tar,
In a shameful immoral war.
Warmed by the song, Verplanck grew vain,
Fought all the election o'er again,
And thrice he proved that loss of votes, was most undoubted gain.
Joe marked the Wig Mayor getting “high;”
His threatening arm, his bloodshot eye;
And prudently, therefore, changed the tune,
To the mournful air of “Bonnie Doon.”
He sang John Quincy great and learned!
By too severe a fate
Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate,
By fickle fortune spurned!
Gone his light houses in the skies,
He pleads distress, and groans and sighs.
Nor e'en a barren, solitary hope has,
Nor boasts his once loved Ebony and Topaz.
“Enough—forbear,”
Sung out the Mayor,
Getting into a huff;
“We had quite enough
Of that sorrowful stuff,
Give us something funny, like `Barney Brallaghan,'
I've called for that once—shall I have, sir, to call again?”
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Joe liked not this wipe,
But he pitched his pipe,
Like a dutiful wig, to the praise of beer,
And comfort poured on the wig Mayor's ear;
'T was but a kindred spirit to beget,
For heavy sorrow always loves a wet.
Jews harp like, in Yankee measures,
Soon he twanged his soul to pleasures.
Office he sung, is, toil, and trouble,
Honor but an empty bubble
Soon the official term is out,
And then you're back with the rabble rout.
If in office there's no comfort,
Kill your care, by taking rum for't!
There the bottle stands, beside thee,
Take the goods the Gods provide thee.
The listening clerks “encore” and cry “bravo,”
“Well sung, hurrah! bravo! hurrah for Joe!”
The Mayor unable to resist,
Took the decanter in his fist,
And pulled and breathed, pulled and breathed,
Pulled and breathed, and pulled again:
At length, when he had got enough of liquor, he
Fell prostrate on the stage, and tumbling cursed old Hickory!
Now at him, Joe, again!
Scream it you cripple, with a savage strain!
Tell him the Bank is broke;—the Bank!
Nick Biddle's “burst”! awake Verplanck!
But he pitched his pipe,
Like a dutiful wig, to the praise of beer,
And comfort poured on the wig Mayor's ear;
'T was but a kindred spirit to beget,
For heavy sorrow always loves a wet.
Jews harp like, in Yankee measures,
Soon he twanged his soul to pleasures.
Office he sung, is, toil, and trouble,
Honor but an empty bubble
Soon the official term is out,
And then you're back with the rabble rout.
If in office there's no comfort,
Kill your care, by taking rum for't!
There the bottle stands, beside thee,
Take the goods the Gods provide thee.
The listening clerks “encore” and cry “bravo,”
“Well sung, hurrah! bravo! hurrah for Joe!”
The Mayor unable to resist,
Took the decanter in his fist,
And pulled and breathed, pulled and breathed,
Pulled and breathed, and pulled again:
At length, when he had got enough of liquor, he
Fell prostrate on the stage, and tumbling cursed old Hickory!
Now at him, Joe, again!
Scream it you cripple, with a savage strain!
Tell him the Bank is broke;—the Bank!
Nick Biddle's “burst”! awake Verplanck!
226
Hark! Hark!—The horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed he stares around!
To the Arsenal! red Fisher cries—
See Erinnys arise!
No wig does she wear,
But her natural hair,
Blast her eyes!
Behold a ghastly band
With shillalah each in hand!
These are Irish ghosts that fell by the dirks
Of the valiant Merchant' clerks!
Be ready to fly
If they catch your eye;
Behold! how they brandish their clubs on high,
How they point to the old sixth ward,
And the bristling arsenal yard!
They come! They come! the spirit crew—
Stop singing, Joe!—what the Devil shall we do!
“I'm off,” said the Mayor, “if wrong I ask pardon;”—
And so broke up the feast at Castle Garden.
Has raised up his head,
As awaked from the dead,
And amazed he stares around!
To the Arsenal! red Fisher cries—
See Erinnys arise!
No wig does she wear,
But her natural hair,
Blast her eyes!
Behold a ghastly band
With shillalah each in hand!
These are Irish ghosts that fell by the dirks
Of the valiant Merchant' clerks!
Be ready to fly
If they catch your eye;
Behold! how they brandish their clubs on high,
How they point to the old sixth ward,
And the bristling arsenal yard!
They come! They come! the spirit crew—
Stop singing, Joe!—what the Devil shall we do!
“I'm off,” said the Mayor, “if wrong I ask pardon;”—
And so broke up the feast at Castle Garden.
227
8. BANK MELODY—No. VII.
AN ODE TO YOUNG NICK.
“Quo, inter syngrapha,
Premis, insoluta—”
Cyp. Torrent. Carm. XXII.[2]
Whither, midst falling due
And unpaid notes of Webster, Sprague, and Clay,
Far, through thy subject states, dost thou pursue
Thy autocratic way?
Vainly, the pauper's prayers
Borne on the winds unsavory arise;
What matter is it how the rascal fares?
No; laugh, and d—n his eyes.
See'st thou the palace proud,
And princely towers frowning on the lea,
And Mammon throned, with serfs, a lowly crowd,
Bending the trembling knee?
There is a power, whose care,
Blood-bought, upholds thee tyrant of the land,
And he has tamed, O Nick! the prince of air—
Behemoth, to thy hand.
And unpaid notes of Webster, Sprague, and Clay,
Far, through thy subject states, dost thou pursue
Thy autocratic way?
Vainly, the pauper's prayers
Borne on the winds unsavory arise;
What matter is it how the rascal fares?
No; laugh, and d—n his eyes.
See'st thou the palace proud,
And princely towers frowning on the lea,
And Mammon throned, with serfs, a lowly crowd,
Bending the trembling knee?
There is a power, whose care,
Blood-bought, upholds thee tyrant of the land,
And he has tamed, O Nick! the prince of air—
Behemoth, to thy hand.
228
Long years, thy rod hath ruled
The meagre fortunes of the rabble rout,
And still thy ingrate enemies are fooled,
Although thy lease is out.
But soon that reign shall cease;
Soon shall thy paper sceptre pass away,
Soon shalt thou hear the cry, “I'll have my lease,
And bond,” and curse the day.
The meagre fortunes of the rabble rout,
And still thy ingrate enemies are fooled,
Although thy lease is out.
But soon that reign shall cease;
Soon shall thy paper sceptre pass away,
Soon shalt thou hear the cry, “I'll have my lease,
And bond,” and curse the day.
[2]
Cyprianus Torrentius, was a lyric poet of great merit, though little
noticed, who flourished about 200, A. C. His works are all lost except the
Ode, of which the above is a literal translation. This is fortunately preserved
in the treatise of Tertullianus “de Lyricis,” written shortly after
his conversion to christiany. The commencement of it may be found in
St. Jerome's famous letter to Tertullian, where it is quoted with ecomiastic
comment. Bryant has transferred the thought and style of the poem
to his “Ode to a Water Fowl,” without giving credit to the original.
This was, no doubt, an accidental omission, or else, perhaps, it is another
proof of the truth of the old maxim, that “good poets hire out their souls
to the same sort of tenants.”
9. BANK MELODY—No. VIII.
Ye seamen of Columbia
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, and triumphed in
The battle and the breeze!
Your own good Standard now run up
To match another foe!
And roll to the poll
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow!
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, and triumphed in
The battle and the breeze!
Your own good Standard now run up
To match another foe!
And roll to the poll
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow!
229
The spirits of your fathers
Are calling you to rise!
Your country's ship thumps on a Bank,
And loud your captain cries!
The shade of gallant Lawrence, men,
Will make each bosom glow;
As you roll to the poll
While Nick Biddle's lawyers blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And old Nick's lawyers blow.
Columbia needs no monarch,
No banks along her coast;
She owns no pampered money king,
For freedom is her boast?
For Lawrence, then, blue jackets all,
Against the Bank we'll row,
And they'll roar, on the shore,
When they see Nick puff and blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow.
The stars and stripes of freedom
Shall yet terriffic float—
Your standard sheet shall stream until
You've sunk Nick Biddle's boat.
Then, then, ye ocean-voters
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When old Nick has ceased to blow
When the Tory cry is heard no more,
And the bank has ceased to blow.
Are calling you to rise!
Your country's ship thumps on a Bank,
And loud your captain cries!
The shade of gallant Lawrence, men,
Will make each bosom glow;
As you roll to the poll
While Nick Biddle's lawyers blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And old Nick's lawyers blow.
Columbia needs no monarch,
No banks along her coast;
She owns no pampered money king,
For freedom is her boast?
For Lawrence, then, blue jackets all,
Against the Bank we'll row,
And they'll roar, on the shore,
When they see Nick puff and blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow.
The stars and stripes of freedom
Shall yet terriffic float—
Your standard sheet shall stream until
You've sunk Nick Biddle's boat.
Then, then, ye ocean-voters
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When old Nick has ceased to blow
When the Tory cry is heard no more,
And the bank has ceased to blow.
230
10. BANK MELODY—No. IX.
BURIAL OF THE RIGHT HON. MRS. BANK.
Not a speech was heard, not a Lawyer's tongue,
As we raised the shrunk corse to our shoulders;
Not a stave of distress, not a melody sung
O'er the ditch where the old lady moulders.
We buried her privately, late at night,
In a lone bye place; Major Downing
“Vow'd by jings, that he never yet see such a sight,”
And he called it “a judgment crownen.”
No heaped up mound, nor vault we tricked;
But splash! in the water we pitched her,
And she raised up her head, and grunted, and kicked,
As if the old boy had bewitched her.
Hal Clay said a prayer; it was rather brief;
He was so overcome with sorrow;
And we all more or less, had a touch of grief,
For we knew what would come on the morrow.
We knew—as we laid the old woman down,
For the mummies and eels to feed on—
That her goods and effects were to go to the town,
As had early in life been agreed on.
As we raised the shrunk corse to our shoulders;
Not a stave of distress, not a melody sung
O'er the ditch where the old lady moulders.
We buried her privately, late at night,
In a lone bye place; Major Downing
“Vow'd by jings, that he never yet see such a sight,”
And he called it “a judgment crownen.”
No heaped up mound, nor vault we tricked;
But splash! in the water we pitched her,
And she raised up her head, and grunted, and kicked,
As if the old boy had bewitched her.
Hal Clay said a prayer; it was rather brief;
He was so overcome with sorrow;
And we all more or less, had a touch of grief,
For we knew what would come on the morrow.
We knew—as we laid the old woman down,
For the mummies and eels to feed on—
That her goods and effects were to go to the town,
As had early in life been agreed on.
231
We knew that we all had to settle our loans,
That the time had gone by for renewal,
That the Demos would laugh at our sighs and groans,
And the sheriff be callous and cruel.
We had just got done, and we stood in the damp,
And were talking about absconding;
When we heard the deputy tipstaff's tramp,
And the marshal's voice resounding.
Quicker than lightning, we all cleared out,
And we cursed every Troglodyte Tory;
Not a line did we write, not a speech did we spout.
But we left her all alone with her glory.
That the time had gone by for renewal,
That the Demos would laugh at our sighs and groans,
And the sheriff be callous and cruel.
We had just got done, and we stood in the damp,
And were talking about absconding;
When we heard the deputy tipstaff's tramp,
And the marshal's voice resounding.
Quicker than lightning, we all cleared out,
And we cursed every Troglodyte Tory;
Not a line did we write, not a speech did we spout.
But we left her all alone with her glory.
END OF VOL. II.
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| Sporting scenes and sundry sketches | |