 | BANK MELODY—No. VI. Sporting scenes and sundry sketches |  |
222
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!
223
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.
224
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?”
225
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.
| BANK MELODY—No. VI. Sporting scenes and sundry sketches | |