The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill ... A New Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
TO MIRA,
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| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill |  |
54
TO MIRA,
WITH A BOTTLE OF IRISH USQUEBAUGH.
Sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus.
In spite of all that poets tell us,
(For poets are but lying fellows)
Of Cupid's flames, and Cupid's darts,
And all his soft bewitching arts,
That teach the stubborn heart to move,
And tune the rudest speech to love,
I cannot say (with all respect
For powerful Love) I recollect
One single instance—on my honour!
Where prudence, with love's pangs upon her,
Or sprightly humour, wit, or sense,
Far less the flow of eloquence,
Adorned the swain, whose heart and liver
Throbbed with the darts from Cupid's quiver.
For me (should love-sick qualms attack us),
I've much more faith in honest Bacchus,
And can't help thinking master Cupid
Oft makes us mad; but oftner stupid:
At least, if one may judge from action,
And looks that border on distraction,
The man who really feels love's passion,
Acts, speaks, and reasons—out of fashion.
‘This may be true,’ I hear you cry,
‘Yet bards, you say, can sometimes lie;
And since you choose the present time
To vent 'gainst love your spleen, in rhime,
Produce some proofs, or cease to rail.’—
With all my heart!—I'll tell a tale.
(For poets are but lying fellows)
Of Cupid's flames, and Cupid's darts,
And all his soft bewitching arts,
That teach the stubborn heart to move,
And tune the rudest speech to love,
I cannot say (with all respect
For powerful Love) I recollect
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Where prudence, with love's pangs upon her,
Or sprightly humour, wit, or sense,
Far less the flow of eloquence,
Adorned the swain, whose heart and liver
Throbbed with the darts from Cupid's quiver.
For me (should love-sick qualms attack us),
I've much more faith in honest Bacchus,
And can't help thinking master Cupid
Oft makes us mad; but oftner stupid:
At least, if one may judge from action,
And looks that border on distraction,
The man who really feels love's passion,
Acts, speaks, and reasons—out of fashion.
‘This may be true,’ I hear you cry,
‘Yet bards, you say, can sometimes lie;
56
To vent 'gainst love your spleen, in rhime,
Produce some proofs, or cease to rail.’—
With all my heart!—I'll tell a tale.
When sprightly Daphne went a maying,
And all the loves and graces playing
Around her beauteous face were seen
To deck the bloom of fair nineteen,
Young Strephon met her on the green.
Struck with her charms—to speak afraid,
By love enthralled, by love dismayed—
The senseless Strephon (keep from laughter!)
Had not the power to follow after;
But gazed, and gaped, with transports swelling,
Nor asked her name, nor marked her dwelling.
Six months, six torturing months and more,
Did Strephon loud his loss deplore;
And often rang'd the fields, in vain,
To find the lovely maid again;
And often cursed his fluttering folly,
And often groaned with melancholy;
When Love and Fun one night agree,
The youthful pair should meet at—tea.
And all the loves and graces playing
Around her beauteous face were seen
To deck the bloom of fair nineteen,
Young Strephon met her on the green.
Struck with her charms—to speak afraid,
By love enthralled, by love dismayed—
The senseless Strephon (keep from laughter!)
Had not the power to follow after;
But gazed, and gaped, with transports swelling,
Nor asked her name, nor marked her dwelling.
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Did Strephon loud his loss deplore;
And often rang'd the fields, in vain,
To find the lovely maid again;
And often cursed his fluttering folly,
And often groaned with melancholy;
When Love and Fun one night agree,
The youthful pair should meet at—tea.
Soon as our love-struck swain had entered
The dazzling spot where beauties centred,
And caught his Daphne's well known charms,
He lost the power of legs and arms.
That foot, which Downie taught with pride,
Graceful to bow, smoothly to slide,
Now aukward strikes his falling cane,
Which, trying to obtain again,
His luckless skull salutes a chair;—
The ladies scream—the ladies stare!
Abashed—confused, he drops his hat,
Then broiling on his chair he sat.
Behold now Strephon in his place,
With ‘blushing honours’ on his face;
The tea's to hand;—he cannot fail
To tread on harmless Tabby's tail:
To ease her pain, puss squalls and kicks,
And in his leg her talons sticks;
And tears the hose, and eke the skin,
Till streams run down poor Strephon's shin:
Stung with his smart, I do assure ye,
He roared and capered like a fury;
And in his gambols (dire mishap!)
Dropt cup and tea in Daphne's lap.
The dazzling spot where beauties centred,
And caught his Daphne's well known charms,
He lost the power of legs and arms.
That foot, which Downie taught with pride,
Graceful to bow, smoothly to slide,
58
Which, trying to obtain again,
His luckless skull salutes a chair;—
The ladies scream—the ladies stare!
Abashed—confused, he drops his hat,
Then broiling on his chair he sat.
Behold now Strephon in his place,
With ‘blushing honours’ on his face;
The tea's to hand;—he cannot fail
To tread on harmless Tabby's tail:
To ease her pain, puss squalls and kicks,
And in his leg her talons sticks;
And tears the hose, and eke the skin,
Till streams run down poor Strephon's shin:
Stung with his smart, I do assure ye,
He roared and capered like a fury;
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Dropt cup and tea in Daphne's lap.
You loath the sot with liquor muddy,
Eyes all inflamed, and face all ruddy;
Yet never once conclude with me
That Strephon was as drunk as he;
The man who speaks things out of season,
Or acts as if bereft of reason,
I must consider just as bad
As he who's drunk, or he who's mad.
‘Pray, sir, a truce with moralizing,
And answer this without disguising:
Did Strephon e'er his flame discover?’
No—never while a true-true lover.
In vain each night he frames with art
Some speech to melt his Daphne's heart;
Whene'er he tries to ope his lips,
Away! each soft idea skips,
And leaves him nought but hems and haws,
And stammerings to fill up each pause;
And blushes, groans, and palpitation—
(A pretty kind of conversation!)
‘Was nothing then devised to win her?’
Nothing, till one blest day at dinner.—
‘At dinner, say you—how—when—where?’—
How keenly curious women are!
I would be brief—I hate great talkers—
You're so particular!—well!—at Walker's .
One morning, Strephon's asked to dine,
To meet at four, to part at nine:
The party choice!—for reasons shown him
He went, and drank his magnum bonum .
Eyes all inflamed, and face all ruddy;
Yet never once conclude with me
That Strephon was as drunk as he;
The man who speaks things out of season,
Or acts as if bereft of reason,
I must consider just as bad
As he who's drunk, or he who's mad.
‘Pray, sir, a truce with moralizing,
And answer this without disguising:
Did Strephon e'er his flame discover?’
No—never while a true-true lover.
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Some speech to melt his Daphne's heart;
Whene'er he tries to ope his lips,
Away! each soft idea skips,
And leaves him nought but hems and haws,
And stammerings to fill up each pause;
And blushes, groans, and palpitation—
(A pretty kind of conversation!)
‘Was nothing then devised to win her?’
Nothing, till one blest day at dinner.—
‘At dinner, say you—how—when—where?’—
How keenly curious women are!
I would be brief—I hate great talkers—
You're so particular!—well!—at Walker's .
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To meet at four, to part at nine:
The party choice!—for reasons shown him
He went, and drank his magnum bonum .
Behold him now, a jovial boy!
No fluttering fears!—no trembling joy!
And, all his groans and blushes over,
He tries once more to play the lover.
No fluttering fears!—no trembling joy!
And, all his groans and blushes over,
He tries once more to play the lover.
Struck with amaze, sweet Daphne hears
New accents reach her ravished ears:
‘And, fairest of thy sex!’ he cries,
(While passion sparkles in his eyes)
‘O source of every chaste delight!
My thought by day; my dream by night;
My every hope; my every care;
My joy; my comfort; my—despair:
Ah! wherefore should I still conceal
‘What all can feign, but few can feel !’
Since first these heavenly charms were seen
By luckless Strephon on the green;
Since first with smiles and spirits gay
You hailed the merry morn of May,
What fluttering hopes have fired my brain!
What fears of torture, doubts of pain!
What pangs, what sorrows, ne'er to find
By speech, or look, my Daphne kind,
But cold and senseless to my anguish,
Still left a wretch to droop and languish!’
‘My God!’ the wondering fair replies
(While tears of rapture fill her eyes),
‘How, how could Daphne ever know
Her Strephon's love; her Strephon's woe!
Till this soft tale, so sweetly sung!
I never heard your tuneful tongue;
Till this fond hour, I never found
These eyes but downcast on the ground;—
You still were silent, absent, cool:—
I took you, Strephon, for—a fool.’
New accents reach her ravished ears:
‘And, fairest of thy sex!’ he cries,
(While passion sparkles in his eyes)
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My thought by day; my dream by night;
My every hope; my every care;
My joy; my comfort; my—despair:
Ah! wherefore should I still conceal
‘What all can feign, but few can feel !’
Since first these heavenly charms were seen
By luckless Strephon on the green;
Since first with smiles and spirits gay
You hailed the merry morn of May,
What fluttering hopes have fired my brain!
What fears of torture, doubts of pain!
What pangs, what sorrows, ne'er to find
By speech, or look, my Daphne kind,
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Still left a wretch to droop and languish!’
‘My God!’ the wondering fair replies
(While tears of rapture fill her eyes),
‘How, how could Daphne ever know
Her Strephon's love; her Strephon's woe!
Till this soft tale, so sweetly sung!
I never heard your tuneful tongue;
Till this fond hour, I never found
These eyes but downcast on the ground;—
You still were silent, absent, cool:—
I took you, Strephon, for—a fool.’
Now, Mira, that my tale is ended,
I hope I've proved what I intended,
Namely, that, without generous wine,
A youth may sigh, and groan, and whine,
But never talk in strains divine.
For what is love, or what is beauty,
If lovers' tongues can't do their duty?
Or what are flames, or inclination,
Without the fire of inspiration?—
All, all must end in strange confusion,
Without the gift of elocution.
For me, who never had much brass,
I find vast courage in a glass;
And now that blushing's out of fashion,
Or drink I must, or breathe no passion.
And sure, if strains like mine have charmed one
When half-seas o'er, there's no great harm done.
And yet last night, when first we met,
You frowned and fretted in a pet,
Withdrew your hand, with face averted,
And thrice for me your chair deserted;
But, warmed by wine, I well remember,
Unchilled by looks, cold as December,
I prattled wit from jovial quaffing,
Till quite o'ercome, at length, with laughing,
You pardon sealed; and, generous-hearted,
Gave me your hand before we parted;
Nay, once delighted, almost swore
I ne'er talked half so well before.
I hope I've proved what I intended,
64
A youth may sigh, and groan, and whine,
But never talk in strains divine.
For what is love, or what is beauty,
If lovers' tongues can't do their duty?
Or what are flames, or inclination,
Without the fire of inspiration?—
All, all must end in strange confusion,
Without the gift of elocution.
For me, who never had much brass,
I find vast courage in a glass;
And now that blushing's out of fashion,
Or drink I must, or breathe no passion.
And sure, if strains like mine have charmed one
When half-seas o'er, there's no great harm done.
65
You frowned and fretted in a pet,
Withdrew your hand, with face averted,
And thrice for me your chair deserted;
But, warmed by wine, I well remember,
Unchilled by looks, cold as December,
I prattled wit from jovial quaffing,
Till quite o'ercome, at length, with laughing,
You pardon sealed; and, generous-hearted,
Gave me your hand before we parted;
Nay, once delighted, almost swore
I ne'er talked half so well before.
Charmed with the good effects of wine,
I next day hurried to Gavine ,
And straightway bought (ne merveille pas!)
A bottle of his Usquebaugh.
Which now I send you, with this rule,
That when I'm silent, like a fool,
Or stupid grow, or lose my temper,
For God's sake! fill me up a bumper!
Till head, and heart, and tongue improve,
And make me say whate'er you love!
I next day hurried to Gavine ,
66
A bottle of his Usquebaugh.
Which now I send you, with this rule,
That when I'm silent, like a fool,
Or stupid grow, or lose my temper,
For God's sake! fill me up a bumper!
Till head, and heart, and tongue improve,
And make me say whate'er you love!
O could its virtues but inspire
This breast with true poetic fire,
To sing, in numbers strong and clear,
Thy friendship, ardent, and sincere;
Thy humour, sprightly, social, free,
Thy temper's blest serenity!
O! could its virtues but impart
The language of thy feeling heart,
To paint in accents sweetly mild
The duties of a tender child!
And every art and virtue rare
That sooths an aged father's care;
In faith! dear Mira, to be plain,
(Though much I dread your cold disdain)
In spite of all you'd think or say,
I'd drink till tipsy every day.
This breast with true poetic fire,
To sing, in numbers strong and clear,
Thy friendship, ardent, and sincere;
Thy humour, sprightly, social, free,
Thy temper's blest serenity!
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The language of thy feeling heart,
To paint in accents sweetly mild
The duties of a tender child!
And every art and virtue rare
That sooths an aged father's care;
In faith! dear Mira, to be plain,
(Though much I dread your cold disdain)
In spite of all you'd think or say,
I'd drink till tipsy every day.
| The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | |