 | Songs, comic and satyrical |  |
69
THE WHIM.
That the world is a stage, and the stage is a school,
Where some study knaves parts, and some play the fool,
Was said, and again so we say;
For as the world's round, and rolls round about,
Old fashions come in, and new fashions go out,
As vanity dresses the play.
Where some study knaves parts, and some play the fool,
Was said, and again so we say;
For as the world's round, and rolls round about,
Old fashions come in, and new fashions go out,
As vanity dresses the play.
Do not seriously think of these whimsical times,
But sing or say something in whimsical rhimes,—
The world's but a whim, and all that;
I mean not the world which revolves on the poles,
But the animal world, that's made up of odd souls,
The sons and the daughters of chat.
But sing or say something in whimsical rhimes,—
The world's but a whim, and all that;
I mean not the world which revolves on the poles,
But the animal world, that's made up of odd souls,
The sons and the daughters of chat.
For a new exhibition their portraits we'll plan,
And pen and ink likenesses sketch if we can,
Where all may their semblances see;
Tho' folks of fine breeding, immensely polite,
Their own faces finish, with rouge and flake white,
So leave no employment for me.
And pen and ink likenesses sketch if we can,
Where all may their semblances see;
Tho' folks of fine breeding, immensely polite,
Their own faces finish, with rouge and flake white,
So leave no employment for me.
Let us tenderly take off those masks, and their cures
Attempt, by exposing such caricatures
In Impartiality's hall;
But if the gall'd sinner shou'd wince at a line,
And cry, “Curse the fellow!—the picture's not mine,”
The prime-serjeant painter I call.
Attempt, by exposing such caricatures
In Impartiality's hall;
But if the gall'd sinner shou'd wince at a line,
And cry, “Curse the fellow!—the picture's not mine,”
The prime-serjeant painter I call.
Come, Satyr, assist me, my project is new.—
The demi-beast, grinning, his range of reeds blew,
And this was his symphony's song:—
“Shou'd I sing of these times, or in prose or in verse,
“Weak things, but not wicked ones I shou'd rehearse,
A medley betwixt right and wrong.
The demi-beast, grinning, his range of reeds blew,
And this was his symphony's song:—
“Shou'd I sing of these times, or in prose or in verse,
“Weak things, but not wicked ones I shou'd rehearse,
A medley betwixt right and wrong.
70
“This æra is much too insipid for me,
“Futility's only in practice I see,
“Unworthy one stroke of my Iash;
“The fashion is Folly, let Folly go on,
“To shew Sense subsides, and true taste to Bon Ton,
“And Genius is banish'd for Trash.”
“Futility's only in practice I see,
“Unworthy one stroke of my Iash;
“The fashion is Folly, let Folly go on,
“To shew Sense subsides, and true taste to Bon Ton,
“And Genius is banish'd for Trash.”
Disdain frown'd his brow, redd'ning Rage his eyes cast,
Contempt o'er his countenance spread as he past,
No more Dissipation he'll school.
We'll be quite the thing then, as life's but a toy,
A bubble in which we can enly enjoy
The pleasure of playing the fool.
Contempt o'er his countenance spread as he past,
No more Dissipation he'll school.
We'll be quite the thing then, as life's but a toy,
A bubble in which we can enly enjoy
The pleasure of playing the fool.
| Songs, comic and satyrical | |