The Illiberal! Verse and Prose from the North!! ... Dedicated to my Lord Byron in the South!! N.B. To be continued occasionally!! viz. as a supplement to each number of The Liberal [by William Gifford] |
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 | The Illiberal! Verse and Prose from the North!! |  |
5
LINES ON THE PAST.
LORD B.(Solus. Takes up a Pen and Writes.)
How have I spent the moments of my life!
I have deserted Home, Friends, Child, and Wife,
(Oh! melancholy retrospective view,)
They've felt some pain, and I have felt some too:
Besides, I fear I've been some people's ruin,
By writing that immoral work, Don Juan!
I do repent............
(Interrupted by a smart rap at the door. Enter Mr. H.
SONNET.
[From Hampstead I have look'd upon St. Paul]
MR. H.(Hemming, begins to read.)
From Hampstead I have look'd upon St. Paul,
When Sol shone bright,
O! pleasing sight,
To see the glittering of the Cross and Ball.
And though about me every thing was mum,
Around St. Paul there was a busy hum.
Porters and Jarvies swearing, people squalling;
Carts, Hacks, and Stages, rattling o'er the stones;
And when the way is stopp'd, you'll hear them bawling;
“If you don't move your cart, I'll break your bones.”
“I shan't,” he cries!...“O, won't you, Mr. Prime,
“Why then I'll move it for you, so here goes.”
They 'gin to quarrel, and it ends in blows:...
And thus the folk in London spent their time.
9
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD CASTLEREAGH.
[_]
We hope we do not wrong his Lordship in attributing these Morceaux to the Nursery.
Epigrams on Lord Castlereagh.
Oh, Castlereagh! thou art a Patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so didst thou;
He perished rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cut'st thy throat, that Britain may be saved.
So Castlereagh has cut his throat!...The worst
Of this is...that his own was not the first.
So He has cut his throat at last!...He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.
Cato died for his country, so didst thou;
He perished rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cut'st thy throat, that Britain may be saved.
So Castlereagh has cut his throat!...The worst
Of this is...that his own was not the first.
So He has cut his throat at last!...He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.
Vide the Liberal, p. 164.
(takes up the paper and reads.)
Lord Castlereagh is dead and gone,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
And he has left us all alone,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
And he has left us all alone,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
When he was alive...oh! then,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
They say he was a naughty man,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
They say he was a naughty man,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
He made a law to keep rogues quiet,
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
But now he's dead...we'll make such riot!
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle;
10
Sing doodle, doodle, doodle.
AN ODE ON MAMMA's LAP-DOG.
LITTLE AITCH.(Reads.)
There's dear little Phillis, she makes such a noise,
When she bites our heels, and cries bow-wow,
Bow-wow, bow-wow...Oh! look at her now;
She's tearing Mamma's ridicúle I vow;
O, the dear little darling, she is my delight.
When she bites our heels, and cries bow-wow,
Bow-wow, bow-wow...Oh! look at her now;
She's tearing Mamma's ridicúle I vow;
O, the dear little darling, she is my delight.
Her great, great, great grand-dam belong'd to King Charles,
Her great, great, great grand-pa was his too, mayhap;
Yap yap, yap yap,—he still in my lap,
O, Phillis, she has such a musical yap,
And her breeding is quite à la “je ne scais quoi.”
Her great, great, great grand-pa was his too, mayhap;
Yap yap, yap yap,—he still in my lap,
O, Phillis, she has such a musical yap,
And her breeding is quite à la “je ne scais quoi.”
Then, when I get up in the morning betimes,
Taking my Phillis to sport on the grass;
On the grass, on the grass—her capers surpass,
The goats on the Alps, “or the sly little lass,”
And she makes the “kids dance and the sheep also.”
Taking my Phillis to sport on the grass;
On the grass, on the grass—her capers surpass,
The goats on the Alps, “or the sly little lass,”
And she makes the “kids dance and the sheep also.”
12
When she steals in the garden, as sometimes she does,
She runs o'er the beds of most beautiful flowers—
The roses, the roses...she tears from the bowers;
And such havoc she makes, that I'm weeping for hours,
And thus little Phillis she passes her time.
She runs o'er the beds of most beautiful flowers—
The roses, the roses...she tears from the bowers;
And such havoc she makes, that I'm weeping for hours,
And thus little Phillis she passes her time.
18
[[A letter from a Spectre! ... Why 'tis the hand of Shelly]]
LORD B.[Breaks it open and reads.]
My dearest Lord, O Lord! I scarce can write,
I have such horrid images in sight:
You'll grieve to hear, I now am doom'd to dwell
In deepest Hades—which is yclep'd Hell.
By fiends tormented, and I fear, indeed,
Unless you alter, that it is decreed,
Bad as I'm us'd, your fate will be much worse
Than e'er befel mule, ass, or hackney horse.
I'll pass o'er that which me, at sea, befel,
Because from newspapers you know it well.
Suffice it that our boat perchance was wreck'd,
And I with all my sins to Hades pack'd;
You know I had but little faith in Heaven,
And, therefore, could not hope to be forgiven:
But, if you would avoid my hapless fate,
Seek, seek forgiveness, ere it be too late.
I died—and Charon took me in his boat,
To pass me o'er the Styx; we got afloat,
To go, I knew not where....he kept his course;
His boat went downwards, though he plied no force.
19
It seem'd as it were drawn by mere attraction,
Till we had pass'd the dark unfathom'd lake,
When I beheld what tongue can never speak.
God help me! I exclaim'd in supplication,—
It was a kind of prayer, ejaculation;
The first that ever from my lips had flown;
For, when on Earth, I never God had known.
I, too, rejected Christ, and all his works!
And had as little faith as Jews or Turks;
And thus bequeathed myself, without restriction,
“The eternity of Hell's hot jurisdiction.”
As we drew near, I look'd with eager sight,
And, oh! what scenes of horror did affright;
All kinds of reptiles, mingled in a mass,
Were spread upon the shore I had to pass;
And fiends of a most horrid aspect stood,
Ready to hurl me in this living flood
Of serpents, vipers, all the venom'd breed,
That swim in water, or on earth that feed.
Then Charon forced me on the horrid shore,
And yelling fiends, with castigation, bore
Me onward, howling, till at length we came
To an abyss which spouted massive flame;
Then hurl'd me in—and I endure such ill,
As, though it tortures me, will never kill!
Such is my fate, and will be of that man,
Who does reject Jehovah's mighty plan.
And 'tis permitted thus...that I to thee,
A Warning and a Monitor should be.
| The Illiberal! Verse and Prose from the North!! | |