Sophia's Letter to the B---r---n Ger---b or Whiskers in the Dumps. With Old Sighs Set to New Tunes. A Poem [by George Daniel] |
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 | Sophia's Letter to the B---r---n Ger---b |  |
1
“His glaring eyes began to roll,
“His hair stood stiff upon his poll,
“His whiskers red as burning coal,
“Turn'd grey, and horror fill'd his soul,
“To make the heart of you or I burn;
“His head he shook, though nought was in't,
“Like some poor wretch we see in print,
“Bound to the Marshalsea, or Mint,
“Or on a pilgrimage to Tyburn.”
“His hair stood stiff upon his poll,
“His whiskers red as burning coal,
“Turn'd grey, and horror fill'd his soul,
“To make the heart of you or I burn;
“His head he shook, though nought was in't,
“Like some poor wretch we see in print,
“Bound to the Marshalsea, or Mint,
“Or on a pilgrimage to Tyburn.”
3
A POEM &c.
Night round the globe her curtains spread,
And ghosts all cloath'd in white and red,
As stories tell, and old romances,
Began their evening country dances.
The fox, for ever on his guard,
Plays havoc in the farmer's yard;
And fond, no doubt, of pretty pickings,
Snaps up by wholesale geese and chickens.
The miser now unlocks his store,
And counts his precious guineas o'er,
While some poor bard from bailiffs snug,
Writes pastorals beneath a rug.
Now wolves and bears desert their caverns,
And bucks, and bloods reel out from taverns,
Flush'd with the juice of Tuscan grape,
Ripe for a watchouse, or a rape.—
In short, to make my story plain,
(For much I love a simple strain,)
Each honest man had turn'd his lock,
And watchmen bawl'd out “Twelve o'clock.”
And ghosts all cloath'd in white and red,
As stories tell, and old romances,
Began their evening country dances.
The fox, for ever on his guard,
Plays havoc in the farmer's yard;
And fond, no doubt, of pretty pickings,
Snaps up by wholesale geese and chickens.
The miser now unlocks his store,
And counts his precious guineas o'er,
While some poor bard from bailiffs snug,
Writes pastorals beneath a rug.
Now wolves and bears desert their caverns,
And bucks, and bloods reel out from taverns,
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Ripe for a watchouse, or a rape.—
In short, to make my story plain,
(For much I love a simple strain,)
Each honest man had turn'd his lock,
And watchmen bawl'd out “Twelve o'clock.”
In a snug room beside the fire,
Pensive, and musing on Sophia,
Sat that important chief, Ge---b!!
To Mars, great god of war, bound 'prentice,
Who mow'd down all his foes by twenties,
Though now as gentle as a lamb.
Pensive, and musing on Sophia,
Sat that important chief, Ge---b!!
To Mars, great god of war, bound 'prentice,
Who mow'd down all his foes by twenties,
Though now as gentle as a lamb.
His cup of coffee first he blew,
Then penn'd a tender billet doux,
Then call'd Von Tromp, who sat beside him,
To read that dire tremendous list,
Of all he'd kill'd, and all he'd miss'd,
Of bravos bold who had defied him.
Then penn'd a tender billet doux,
Then call'd Von Tromp, who sat beside him,
To read that dire tremendous list,
Of all he'd kill'd, and all he'd miss'd,
Of bravos bold who had defied him.
His wand'ring eyes with looks profound,
Now sought the sky, and now the ground,
And now he grinn'd, and now he frown'd,
Look'd wond'rous dull, and wond'rous witty;
Oft did he heave a bitter sigh,
And call Von Tromp he knew not why,
And cast a fond enquiring eye,
O'er some love tale, or plaintive ditty.
Now sought the sky, and now the ground,
And now he grinn'd, and now he frown'd,
Look'd wond'rous dull, and wond'rous witty;
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And call Von Tromp he knew not why,
And cast a fond enquiring eye,
O'er some love tale, or plaintive ditty.
“Von Tromp,” he cried, “to ease my mind,
To sorrow, Ah! how much inclin'd,
Read something, t'will afford relief.”
Von Tromp obey'd, and chose this story,
Which, reader, I will lay before ye,
A pretty story—pert and brief.
To sorrow, Ah! how much inclin'd,
Read something, t'will afford relief.”
Von Tromp obey'd, and chose this story,
Which, reader, I will lay before ye,
A pretty story—pert and brief.
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THE TALE.
In Germany each lass they meet
Prowling for lovers in the street,
Ugly or fair, it makes no odds;
She on a scaffold high is plac'd,
And there indeed severely lac'd
With birchin rods.
Prowling for lovers in the street,
Ugly or fair, it makes no odds;
She on a scaffold high is plac'd,
And there indeed severely lac'd
With birchin rods.
A pretty girl, a young beginner,
Not quite a profligate, but yet a sinner,
Was caught by keen ey'd Justice tripping,
And sentenc'd to receive a whipping.
Not quite a profligate, but yet a sinner,
Was caught by keen ey'd Justice tripping,
And sentenc'd to receive a whipping.
She supplicates aloud for mercy—
The judge replies “You hussey, curse ye,
Confess your lovers or I'll skin ye,
Come, Jack, I pray thee be alert in
A sport so verily diverting,
Sweet miss, what obstinacy's in ye?”
The judge replies “You hussey, curse ye,
Confess your lovers or I'll skin ye,
Come, Jack, I pray thee be alert in
A sport so verily diverting,
Sweet miss, what obstinacy's in ye?”
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O wretch! (for let me thus reprove thee)
Could not her charms, or soft entreaties move thee?
For none in either e'ereclips'd her;
Thou, who art itching all the time
To make the lass repeat the crime,
For which thou whip'st her!
Could not her charms, or soft entreaties move thee?
For none in either e'ereclips'd her;
Thou, who art itching all the time
To make the lass repeat the crime,
For which thou whip'st her!
Thank Heav'n! in this our happy island,
From rural Hammersmith to Mile End,
No fair need dread a judge or jury;
Witness the tall majestic dames,
Who haunt the purlieus of St. James,
Down to the hundreds of Old Drury.
From rural Hammersmith to Mile End,
No fair need dread a judge or jury;
Witness the tall majestic dames,
Who haunt the purlieus of St. James,
Down to the hundreds of Old Drury.
Now for our tale—this cruel Jack
Plays St. Bartholomew upon her back,
All with his birchin rods so taper:—
When thus the girl—“Had I the rod,
And were thy b---tt---ks bare, by G---d!
I'd teach your worship how to caper.
Plays St. Bartholomew upon her back,
All with his birchin rods so taper:—
When thus the girl—“Had I the rod,
And were thy b---tt---ks bare, by G---d!
I'd teach your worship how to caper.
“Yes, monster! but since non-confession
Adds to the weight of my transgression,
I will disclose aloud such fine tales,
That Justice with a frown imperious,
Shall soon transfer to thy posteriors
The cat o'nine-tails.
Adds to the weight of my transgression,
I will disclose aloud such fine tales,
That Justice with a frown imperious,
Shall soon transfer to thy posteriors
The cat o'nine-tails.
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“Lords are my lovers, none e'er grudges
To ask my favors, I assure ye?
Why, in the number I have judges,
Lawyers, and gemmen of the jury.”
To ask my favors, I assure ye?
Why, in the number I have judges,
Lawyers, and gemmen of the jury.”
“'Tis false,” the judge replies, “thou trollop,
Thy very look's a dose of julap!—
But did they touch ye? tell me is it true,
Men who appear'd to me sagacious;
Touch an abandon'd wretch like you,
Good gracious!!
But Jack, whip on, perhaps there is a lover,
Some rogue whom she will not discover.”
Thy very look's a dose of julap!—
But did they touch ye? tell me is it true,
Men who appear'd to me sagacious;
Touch an abandon'd wretch like you,
Good gracious!!
But Jack, whip on, perhaps there is a lover,
Some rogue whom she will not discover.”
“Well,” cries the lass, “that lover I'll confess,
A judge he is, a vile inhuman elf;—
And if you ask his name, I can't do less
Than to declare that lover is—yourself.”
A judge he is, a vile inhuman elf;—
And if you ask his name, I can't do less
Than to declare that lover is—yourself.”
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Thus ends the tale—but not a word,
The awful Whiskerandos heard,
For Von Tromp's voice, so gruff and deep
Had lull'd the B---n fast to sleep.
When lo! a rap assail'd the door,
Which rous'd our hero from his pallet;
Out rush'd Von Tromp, that trusty valet,
But soon return'd with tidings sore.
The awful Whiskerandos heard,
For Von Tromp's voice, so gruff and deep
Had lull'd the B---n fast to sleep.
When lo! a rap assail'd the door,
Which rous'd our hero from his pallet;
Out rush'd Von Tromp, that trusty valet,
But soon return'd with tidings sore.
“Vat news, Von Tromp,” the B---n cried—
“Von note”—the valet straight replied—
“From some great lord me tink it is;”
But O! assist, ye tuneful tribe,
While I in glowing verse describe
The chop-fall'n B---n's alter'd phiz.
“Von note”—the valet straight replied—
“From some great lord me tink it is;”
But O! assist, ye tuneful tribe,
While I in glowing verse describe
The chop-fall'n B---n's alter'd phiz.
His glowing eyes began to roll,
His hair stood stiff upon his poll,
His whiskers red as burning coal,
Turn'd grey, and horror fill'd his soul,
To make the heart of you or I burn;
His head he shook, though nought was in't,
Like some poor wretch we see in print,
Bound to the Marshalsea or Mint,
Or on a pilgrimage to Tyburn.
His hair stood stiff upon his poll,
His whiskers red as burning coal,
Turn'd grey, and horror fill'd his soul,
To make the heart of you or I burn;
His head he shook, though nought was in't,
Like some poor wretch we see in print,
Bound to the Marshalsea or Mint,
Or on a pilgrimage to Tyburn.
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“Von Tromp,” he cried, “my faithful varlet,
Read this, and be consum'd with ire!—
Oh! most adorable Sophia,
What dæmon made thee play the harlot?
Read this, and be consum'd with ire!—
Oh! most adorable Sophia,
What dæmon made thee play the harlot?
“But read, I say! enough! enough!”
Von Tromp then took a pinch of snuff—
Then to the B---n read the letter:
And, reader, with convenient speed
The sad epistle thou shalt read,
To understand its meaning better.
Von Tromp then took a pinch of snuff—
Then to the B---n read the letter:
And, reader, with convenient speed
The sad epistle thou shalt read,
To understand its meaning better.
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SOPHIA's LETTER TO THE B---N.
False B---n, whose imperial bristles
Resemble much a bunch of thistles,
Whom once I lov'd with love most fervent;
Thy person now hath lost its charms,
I'm destin'd for another's arms,
And so remain your humble servant.
Resemble much a bunch of thistles,
Whom once I lov'd with love most fervent;
Thy person now hath lost its charms,
I'm destin'd for another's arms,
And so remain your humble servant.
I've heard, no matter right or wrong,
That one rich maid, Miss T---y L---g,
To whom a D---ke once made his offers,
Not for her beauty but her coffers,
Did o'er thy heart her empire sway,
And thou did'st fix the wedding day—
But spite of all thy am'rous speeches,
Thy huge jack boots, embroider'd breeches,
Thy coat all cover'd o'er with furs,
And those enormous pair of spurs;
That one rich maid, Miss T---y L---g,
To whom a D---ke once made his offers,
Not for her beauty but her coffers,
Did o'er thy heart her empire sway,
And thou did'st fix the wedding day—
But spite of all thy am'rous speeches,
Thy huge jack boots, embroider'd breeches,
Thy coat all cover'd o'er with furs,
And those enormous pair of spurs;
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The nymph declar'd upon her soul,
(For maids in wedding matters dare crow,)
She'd rather wed, good lack! a Pole,
Than such a formidable scare-crow.
(For maids in wedding matters dare crow,)
She'd rather wed, good lack! a Pole,
Than such a formidable scare-crow.
Go, follow in thy wayward fancies,
The knights and giants of romances,
Rival Munchausen's deeds of wonder,
Turn quack—thy physic, on my word,
Will prove morefatal than thy sword,
Nay, try the law, and live by plunder.
The knights and giants of romances,
Rival Munchausen's deeds of wonder,
Turn quack—thy physic, on my word,
Will prove morefatal than thy sword,
Nay, try the law, and live by plunder.
Yet I declare, I lov'd you more
Than ever woman lov'd before,
I did, by jingo!
Better than Sh---y loves old port,
Or Th---n---n's dame the rural sport,
Or Cu---t---s stingo.
Than ever woman lov'd before,
I did, by jingo!
Better than Sh---y loves old port,
Or Th---n---n's dame the rural sport,
Or Cu---t---s stingo.
Better than aldermen love turtle,
Or botanists a sprig of myrtle,
Or Scotchmen highland reels so frisky;
Better than poet loves his muse,
Or cunning Lucifer the Jews,
Or Irishmen a glass of whiskey.
Or botanists a sprig of myrtle,
Or Scotchmen highland reels so frisky;
Better than poet loves his muse,
Or cunning Lucifer the Jews,
Or Irishmen a glass of whiskey.
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Better than W---th---n loves long speeches,
Or Hu---g---n his leather breeches,
Or hot Sir Fr---s rant and roaring;
Better than satyrists love slander,
Or fair Roxana Alexander,
Or Osn---gh's grave B---h---p wh---g.
Or Hu---g---n his leather breeches,
Or hot Sir Fr---s rant and roaring;
Better than satyrists love slander,
Or fair Roxana Alexander,
Or Osn---gh's grave B---h---p wh---g.
Yes, by the gods above, I vow,
Ne'er Billingsgate so lov'd a row,
Or lawyer fee, sir;
Nor sneaking L---l his pension,
Nor vile reforming I---s contention,
As I lov'd thee, sir!—
Ne'er Billingsgate so lov'd a row,
Or lawyer fee, sir;
Nor sneaking L---l his pension,
Nor vile reforming I---s contention,
As I lov'd thee, sir!—
Yes, I did love thee, by my soul,
More than a rabbit loves his hole,
More than a scraper loves his fiddle;
More than a miser loves his pelf,
More than an epicure himself,
Or Lady's Magazine a riddle.
More than a rabbit loves his hole,
More than a scraper loves his fiddle;
More than a miser loves his pelf,
More than an epicure himself,
Or Lady's Magazine a riddle.
More than a doctor loves his fees,
More than a Welchman toasted cheese,
More than an auctioneer his hammer;
More than poor famish'd cats a mouse,
More than a taylor loves his louse,
Or Lindlay Murray, Euglish grammar.
More than a Welchman toasted cheese,
More than an auctioneer his hammer;
More than poor famish'd cats a mouse,
More than a taylor loves his louse,
Or Lindlay Murray, Euglish grammar.
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More than the ladies love their dress,
Or hungry officers their mess,
Or prudent housewives good economy;
More than a Frenchman loves his frog,
Or brave Jack Tars a can of grog,
Or poring star-gazers astronomy.
Or hungry officers their mess,
Or prudent housewives good economy;
More than a Frenchman loves his frog,
Or brave Jack Tars a can of grog,
Or poring star-gazers astronomy.
More than a parson loves his pig,
Or some grave counsellor his wig,
More than a soldier fray or battle;
More than a glutton knife and fork,
More than a woman loves to talk,
Or simpletons to hear her prattle.
Or some grave counsellor his wig,
More than a soldier fray or battle;
More than a glutton knife and fork,
More than a woman loves to talk,
Or simpletons to hear her prattle.
More than a beau his powder'd crop,
More than a school-boy loves his top,
More than a Dutchman loves Virginia;
More than a tippler loves his glass,
More than the Great Mogul his lass,
Or sharp recruits the marching guinea.
More than a school-boy loves his top,
More than a Dutchman loves Virginia;
More than a tippler loves his glass,
More than the Great Mogul his lass,
Or sharp recruits the marching guinea.
Sooner I thought than we should part,
Stuffing would leave a bullock's heart,
And bards desert their lofty garrets;
Grave politicians burn their papers,
Old maids forget to have the vapours,
Boil'd mutton be divorc'd from capers,
And smoking round of beef from carrots.
Stuffing would leave a bullock's heart,
And bards desert their lofty garrets;
Grave politicians burn their papers,
Old maids forget to have the vapours,
Boil'd mutton be divorc'd from capers,
And smoking round of beef from carrots.
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Sooner I thought (but was mistaken)
Eggs should no more be fried with bacon,
Pudding and plumbs be torn asunder;
A jockey cease to love his horse,
Goose be depriv'd of apple sauce,
And lawyers all relinquish plunder.
Eggs should no more be fried with bacon,
Pudding and plumbs be torn asunder;
A jockey cease to love his horse,
Goose be depriv'd of apple sauce,
And lawyers all relinquish plunder.
Sooner I thought than I could hate,
Th---ll would quit his warm debate,
And C---b---tt, that rebellious sinner,
Turn honest in his own despite,
Or W---r S---tt forget to write,
Or churchwardens forego their dinner.
Th---ll would quit his warm debate,
And C---b---tt, that rebellious sinner,
Turn honest in his own despite,
Or W---r S---tt forget to write,
Or churchwardens forego their dinner.
But what are all our resolutions,
What, but mechanical confusions?—
Noise, idle noise, from empty drums;
Ah! who time's spectacles can borrow,
Ah! who shall say “To-day's to-morrow?”
When p'raps to-morrow never comes.
What, but mechanical confusions?—
Noise, idle noise, from empty drums;
Ah! who time's spectacles can borrow,
Ah! who shall say “To-day's to-morrow?”
When p'raps to-morrow never comes.
The pudding boils within the pot,
For why,—because the water's hot—
If nought we have, why nought we care for;
But man, for ever prone to evil,
Runs blindly headlong to the devil,
Alas! he knows not why or wherefore.
For why,—because the water's hot—
If nought we have, why nought we care for;
But man, for ever prone to evil,
Runs blindly headlong to the devil,
Alas! he knows not why or wherefore.
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So fare thee well, thou Bully Hector!
Sophia seeks a new protector,
Nor shall the world inconstant call her;—
Born of a braver nobler line,
And with a heart as stout as thine,
Though, faith, with whiskers something smaller.”
Sophia seeks a new protector,
Nor shall the world inconstant call her;—
Born of a braver nobler line,
And with a heart as stout as thine,
Though, faith, with whiskers something smaller.”
Say, reader, hast thou seen Grimaldi,
Renown'd for making faces all day?
For if thou hast the Muse will vouch O!
Thou seest the B---n's visage fair,—
'Twas horrible, past all compare,
Much like the phiz of Russian bear,
Or that fam'd hero Scaramoucho.
Renown'd for making faces all day?
For if thou hast the Muse will vouch O!
Thou seest the B---n's visage fair,—
'Twas horrible, past all compare,
Much like the phiz of Russian bear,
Or that fam'd hero Scaramoucho.
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“Ye sprites,” (he cried) “ye fiends, ye devils,
Who in hell's chambers hold your revels!
As you expect my love and favour,
Broil that infernal jade Sophia,
In Satan's fiercest hottest fire,
And bury her in Etna's lava!!!
Who in hell's chambers hold your revels!
As you expect my love and favour,
Broil that infernal jade Sophia,
In Satan's fiercest hottest fire,
And bury her in Etna's lava!!!
“Have I not out of pure humanity—
(Which some vile cowards, call'd insanity,)
Plung'd in the Danube's roaring tide, sir?
Ran races up the burning mountains,
Shed hostile blood, egad in fountains—
And play'd a hundred tricks beside, sir?—
(Which some vile cowards, call'd insanity,)
Plung'd in the Danube's roaring tide, sir?
Ran races up the burning mountains,
Shed hostile blood, egad in fountains—
And play'd a hundred tricks beside, sir?—
“Whose whiskers shall with mine compare,
Zounds! who can boast of such a pair?
Not Sk---ff---n, nor barber R---ss, sir:—
And though your British wits may quiz,
By Jove! you will not match my phiz,
From Aldgate Pump, to Charing Cross, sir.
Zounds! who can boast of such a pair?
Not Sk---ff---n, nor barber R---ss, sir:—
And though your British wits may quiz,
By Jove! you will not match my phiz,
From Aldgate Pump, to Charing Cross, sir.
“Had fair Calista, am'rous goddess,
(Array'd in stomacher and boddice,)
Beheld my person, light and airy O!
She would not once have turn'd her eye
(And all will guess the reason why,)
To view that powder'd prig Lothario.”
(Array'd in stomacher and boddice,)
Beheld my person, light and airy O!
She would not once have turn'd her eye
(And all will guess the reason why,)
To view that powder'd prig Lothario.”
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Von Tromp stood trembling, where's the wonder?
To see the B---n rave like thunder,
To see him start, and shake, and wince,
Like Hamlet, Denmark's frighted prince,
Who when he sees his father's sprite
All clad in polish'd armour bright,
And hears his story, let me tell ye,
Shakes like a glass of calf's-foot jelly.
His eyes he roll'd, and swore with fury,
Like nymph from Billingsgate or Drury;
He gnash'd his teeth in dreadful dolour,
And stamp'd his foot like any stroller,
Who blest with genius economical,
Makes tragedy most vastly comical.
To see the B---n rave like thunder,
To see him start, and shake, and wince,
Like Hamlet, Denmark's frighted prince,
Who when he sees his father's sprite
All clad in polish'd armour bright,
And hears his story, let me tell ye,
Shakes like a glass of calf's-foot jelly.
His eyes he roll'd, and swore with fury,
Like nymph from Billingsgate or Drury;
He gnash'd his teeth in dreadful dolour,
And stamp'd his foot like any stroller,
Who blest with genius economical,
Makes tragedy most vastly comical.
But, like a hurricane so strong,
That cannot hold its fury long,
His passion soon resign'd its reign,
And reason blest the B---n's brain.
That cannot hold its fury long,
His passion soon resign'd its reign,
And reason blest the B---n's brain.
He sat him down beside the fire,
And penn'd an answer to Sophia;
If 'twas a kind, or angry strain,
Some future doggrel may explain—
And penn'd an answer to Sophia;
If 'twas a kind, or angry strain,
Some future doggrel may explain—
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Suffice it that I tell the world,
The B---n bold outliv'd the fray,
And rose next morning blythe and gay,
To dress, and have his Whiskers curl'd.
The B---n bold outliv'd the fray,
And rose next morning blythe and gay,
To dress, and have his Whiskers curl'd.
The End.
| Sophia's Letter to the B---r---n Ger---b | |