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1

LEVITIES AND COMIC TALES.

3

TO MY PEN.

Come, my worn pen; companion—friend!
Whom, like myself, there's cause to mend;
I, for a subject at wit's end,
To save brains' rack,
Thee with the rhyme thou render'st blend,
Poor jaded hack!
O, would thou wert of that high breed
(All strangers to the sons of need)
Which write, what all delighted read,
Who are to share it,
“Pay to the bearer”—why proceed?
We mustn't bear it.
4

No; thou wert ne'er, when meant for use,
Pluck'd from the wing of golden goose;
Tho' golden rules thou might'st produce,
In rhyme or prosing;
Which, found too trifling or abstruse,
Might set folk dozing.
Thou, on a lonely common-way,
Wert from a grey goose dropt—a stray,
And in the beaten foot-path lay
Long unregarded;
When I upcaught thee, on a day;
And how rewarded?
I caught thee—cut thee to a pen;
And should, were it to do again;
And in the standish dipping then
Thy nib, for priming,
Sat down, no matter where or when,
And fell to rhyming.
5

Since then, together how we've toil'd;
Oft, haply, but pure paper soil'd,
And many a point and fancy spoil'd
With bungling metre;
While critics' blood has sorely boil'd
Our Muse to beat her.
Oft have we told a tale of woe;
If any wept, not ours to know:
We've tried to raise a laugh or so:
These haply gat us
A tear—to pity us—or, lo!
A snigger at us.
Sometimes we've urg'd the strain of lore
Which treats of purest wisdom's store;
And verse or prose is curs'd at core,
That impress wanting:
Yet haply we've been deem'd a bore,
And quizz'd for canting.
6

Like many more, we've tried all ways,
With poems, novels, songs, and plays,
Et cet. To fame, for pelf or praise,
The hat we'd doff it;
Ofttimes obtaining birch for bays,
And plague for profit.
Well, patience! we must hope and trust;
Rub on—for rubbing wears off rust:
To living bards we'll still be just,
Long thrive all!
All praise the bards who sleep in dust—
They've ceas'd to rival.
We'll praise the living—yet, dear me!
To name them, one by one, would be
A task like that at school learn we,
As long's a cable;
“Units, tens, hundreds, thousands”—see
Num'ration-table.
7

“But might we not, O, master mine,
Select the few whose glories shine
With all the graces of the Nine?”
Few? no—depend on't—
Write many—large, or blot the line;
Or, mark the end on't:
The many if by name we score,
Leaving out all the many more;
All these indignantly would roar
At such rude dealings:
“A worm will turn;” 'tis ill, therefore,
To hurt fine feelings.
A dwarf, in mind is six feet high;
The frog and ox life's scenes supply;
So frog and dwarf to please we'll try,
With subtle function;
And let them “to their souls apply
The flattering unction.”
8

We'll use initials when we praise,
And self-approving smirkings raise
In every lab'rator of lays,
Who will opine,
“This critic tact acute displays;
The initial's mine.”
Byron and Bavius both claim B;
M, Moore and Mævius marks; and C
Campbell & Co., and Cuckoo.—“D
How cribb'd in?”
Critics may level that at me—
“D.—dunce and Dibdin.”
Rogers and Southey's R and S
May many a like initial bless;
Howe'er prais'd those, these won't claim less,
Their pride increscent;
Wigsby may Wordsworth's W press—
Et cætera desunt.
9

For, willing pen, if we should flit
Thro' all the alphabet, wer't fit?
Patience on corking pins would sit,
So long the ditty;
So—brevity the soul of wit—
Let's once be witty.
Of bards, we've some like oaks that grow;
Like vines some spread; like flowers some blow;
Some shoot like mushrooms, how none know,
In short-lived masses;
Others no sooner come than go—
Ephemeral classes!
There are—apply who please the flout—
Some who, like earth-pent fires, make rout,
Then burst; as if its lava out
Volcano spat;
One must n't laugh, yet fain would shout,
What are you at?
10

There are—like one now pass'd away!
Of whom least said is best to say—
Who labour hard to darken day
With direful scope;
To rob the mind of heaven's own ray—
Salvation's hope!
Ye cruel! think, when Abel bled,
Cain only wish'd the body dead;
To slay the soul, a deed so dread!
He'd ne'er in view;
Yet vengeance dire hung o'er his head:
What hangs o'er you?
When Genius, though with Jubal's lyre,
And Miriam's voice, and David's fire,
Pours strains that kindle mad desire,
Ingenuous youth,
List not—the syren's song was dire,
Though sweet, like truth.
11

Ye tribe, who nightshade love to twine
With the sweet rose and racy vine,
In graceful pity for hope's mine,
(Young son and daughter),
Veil pretty love; put in your wine
Some holy water.
All ye, for whom fame's peal has rung;
All ye, whose hopes on fame have hung;
O, deem your proper praises sung,
No name though bringing;
“Expressive silence” has a tongue,
Suppose her singing.
Pen, to all claiming our regard,
Or English, Scotch, or Irish bard,
Do, all-politely, write a card:
Yet few may read 'em;
And Scotch reviewers jerk us hard
For such strange freedom.
12

John Bull, shall Scots, and thou stand cool,
The British bardic circle rule?
Write on thy cap of freedom, “Fool
And ninny-hammer?”
Must British bards in Scottish school
Learn English grammar?
Can warmer “souls of fire” arise
Beneath the north's inclement skies,
Than southern kindly clime supplies,
To weigh thy knowledge?
Shall Cam and Isis yield the prize
To Tweedside College?
Yet Scotia must our plaudits claim,
For many a true poetic name,
Parnassian lads of deathless fame;
Some 'yont the moon,
And one who caught the sacred flame
On banks of Doon.
13

Ayont the moon—ah! need I sing
Allan and Fergusson? or bring
Thomson, the bard of lovely Spring,
And every season;
Beattie, who woke the “Minstrel” string?
'Twere little reason.
No alma mater hail'd Burns' son,
Yet genius' mantle he had won;
And more have proved what that has done,
Untagg'd by Greek:
At learning, sirs, a tilt to run
Ne'er deem I seek.
Is genius found in learning's fold?
'Tis as a gem in purest gold;
A comet, wondrous to behold,
Or beacon fire:
Yet Shakspeare had no college mould,
And who soar'd higher?
14

I quarrel with the proud pretence,
Built on mere learn'd impertinence;
Which, blind to genius as to sense,
Thinks alma mater
Alone can bardic fire dispense:
The spark's in nature.
Burns, thy terse rhyme with zeal I trace,
Where genius shows meridian face;
And yet thy muse prov'd lack o' grace,
The waur her want!
But I, like thee, could kick frae th' place
Auld crooning cant.
Of living bards, there's Ettrick's pride;
And he who sails with fashion's tide;
Whose “Lays” and novels far and wide
Find shelves and niches—
Then he's a baronet beside,
And full o'riches!
15

If England's bards I scarcely name,
Why should I interfere with Fame,
Who never ceases to proclaim
The debts we owe 'em?
Well as her ocean and her Thame
E'en children know 'em.
Though names I pass, I'd not offend;
An humble brother, fervid friend,
To bardic race, while life 's to spend
I'll boast its glory—
But, Pen, we'd better make an end
Of this long story.
Pure, white, and tap'ring wert thou, when
A quill I found thee: now, a pen,
Thou never wilt look white again,
Thy toil ne'er slacken'd;
But, ink-dyed slave, thou 'lt find, by men,
Best friends oft blacken'd.
16

But hast thou been by me debased;
By party rancour e'er disgraced;
Or made the tool of sensual taste,
Or int'rest's pander?—
“Hold, egotist!” you cry, “be chaste,
Nor let wit wander.”
Are there who dip their pens in spleen;
Or dregs where Scandal's dram hath been;
Or philter'd ink of wit obscene;
Or sceptics' dribble?
Fools! knaves! or madmen! are, I ween,
On such no libel.
“Would you be scurrilous?” you cry—
No: I would but a hint supply,
If such there be, should such be nigh,
That such may weigh it;
For there'll be reck'ning by and by,
And wit won't pay it.
17

THE ORNITHOLOGICAL REVIEW.

When Vanity sits judge of Wit,
Unsafe from blame is Holy Writ.
The Owl, through being part ('tis said)
Of Pallas' helmet, not her head,
Puff'd with conceit and pedant's pride,
Resolved the helm of wit to guide.
Some craniologist ('twas guess'd)
Found on his noddle wisdom's test;
And, though his head seem'd one dull lump,
Saw brains through some congenial bump,
And technically gave assent
'Twas judgment's true development.
But many a head has thus been tried,
And wit's abundance found—outside:
18

This test gain'd Bubo a degree,
Not A.S.S. but LL.D.,
Which the “half-reasoning” Parrot said
Meant Dealer in lucubrative Lead.
Bub. by diploma thus illumed,
The critic's awful we assumed;
The Daw, or General Advertiser,
Was of the project the apprizer:
Each lay the ordeal must go through
O'th' Microscope, or Owl's Review;
And not one strain by fame be blest
'Till sanctioned by Probatum est.
(The microscope, 'tis known enough,
Proves the “smooth alabaster” rough;
And well with hidden faults it grapples,
Since it can atoms swell to apples).
The birds, apprized, now sang in fear,
Except morn's clarion, Chanticleer,
19

Who, having read the announcement through,
Shrill “sang out” Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The Nightingale submits her lay,
And thus the critic of the day:—
“This whining, tedious, doleful ditty,
Would raise and must excite our pity!
Jug by her manner may be known,
'Tis all alike, and all her own!
Apollo ne'er inspired her tune,
'Tis only fit to ‘bay the moon.’
(Similes, proved by dictum high,
Need not in all their parts apply).
Such moaning melodies may move,
In lurid groves, lamenting love;
But shall such carols ‘wake the morn?’
Forbid it tact! forbid it scorn!
They may have claims, we can't divine 'em,
So to congenial groves consign 'em:
20

Such groves with nature may agree,
But cannot academic be.”
The morning songster came—the Lark:—
“We've studied long, and in the dark,
To find the merit of this song,
Which may delight the rustic throng
While plodding to their early toil;
It seems ‘a seizen of the soil.’
We've found no tact, for here in vain
We seek the sweetly plaintive strain
Which charms at eve; and for the morn
The cock with bolder notes was born:
Vainly the lark's weak trillings float,
Drown'd by his rival's flood of note.
So thus, presumption to requite,
We bid the bird of morn good night!”
Critics will sometimes playful be;
There's more than wisdom meant by we.
21

The dulcet Linnet's warbling lay
Thus had its graces growl'd away:—
“This ballad-singer of the bush
Wants the bold tone that marks the thrush;
Her song's nor ballad nor bravura,
Mere trilling and opogiatura;
'Tis not the organ but the spinnet:
Just what one look'd for from—a Linnet.”
The lavish Thrush's lays gain this:—
“Here we the Finch's sweetness miss;
'Tis bold we own, and fit, we hold,
For rustic ears of vulgar mould;
But never let such notes presume
To shock the modish drawing-room;
Where the Canary audience gains,
While polish'd ears devour his strains.”
“Safe,” the Canary thought, “am I;
My song he cannot now decry.”
22

The censor ponder'd, wisely wary,
And thus opin'd of the Canary:—
“Is this the tender plaintive strain
In which the pensive griefs complain;
The elegiac lays that move
When ‘Philomel laments her love?’
Is this the Woodlark's cheering lay?
Thus does the piping Bullfinch play?
This fantasy, or wild effusion,
Some may call dulcet: we delusion.
Let him not in the choir engage,
But, driven from concerts, seek the cage;
There let him solus sing his blisses,
To charm old maids and maudlin misses.”
Thus, most, though true to nature's rules,
He proved at variance with the schools,
For wanting what had they possess'd
Nature's just law it had transgress'd;
Forgot the Nightingale was born
For eve, as was the Lark for morn;
23

But great wits oft are absent—grinner,
Sir Isaac once forgot his dinner!
Yet some he praised—“The Magpie's theme
Is fancy's rich, delicious dream!
The vigorous song of Chanticleer
Is more than music to the ear;
The mind how vivid he can keep!
Let him sing out, and who can sleep?
Observe of harmony profuse,
E'en to redundancy, the Goose;
Alike her spirit and her grace,
The Sappho of the feather'd race:
Fame, sound her praise to endless date,
Whose siren-song preserved a state!
We trace the Ovid of the grove
Through all the Cuckoo's lay of love;
Untuneful oft to married ear,
But nought to us untuneful here:
Avaunt all senseless, idle, trilling!
These are the strains that set us thrilling;
24

Let fools fastidious, in dolore,
Condemn, we hail them con amore;
Such, though to egotize were wrong,
Approach to true Bubonian song.”
To nature true, review or write,
Fools will be fools in reason's spite.
25

TOM AND DICK.

AN URBIAD, OR TOWN ECLOGUE.

The sun declining cast a golden glaze,
Kennels and casements glittered with his rays;
The daily bustle of the street was o'er,
And lazy shopmen lounged at many a door.
Beneath a window, graced with curtains red,
(The tap-room window of the Royal Head),
A bench there was; a table stood before,
Which two bright pots of frothy porter bore—
Porter! for Oh! in those arcadian days
Porter was porter, and the theme of praise;
What now 'tis none have knowledge, nor can guess:
The price is greater and the praise is less!
Behind the table, on the bench, reposed
Two love-sick swains, whose daily toil was closed:—
26

One, Tom the carman, t' other, cooper Dick,
Who to their beauties as their beer would stick.
They talk'd of sweethearts—toasted each his own—
And toasted oft, as by the score was shown.
Brimful, at length, of beauty and of beer,
Each challenged each to sing the maid most dear;
Each staked a gage that he'd his mistress prove
Fairest and truest, and sing best of love.
Then Tom, the lengthy, first in numbers tried,
And Dick, the dumpy, to the strain replied;
Then with alternate measures they proceed:
To hear had heavenly been! sublime to read!
Thus Tom began, while listeners throng'd around,
And when sense fail'd were gratified by sound.
Tom.
This whalebone whip, by rings of white embraced,
And knotted cord upon its apex placed,
Bought but to-day, and yet uncrack'd, I stake,
With friendly challenge, for my Sukey's sake.

27

Dick.
This polish'd adze—how dull to Lucy's eyes!
Keen as her tongue—I offer for a prize
Of rival triumph: never hoop it cut;
But carved her name upon a beechen butt;
Freely I stake it, to contend with thee,
And Ben the potboy shall the umpire be.

Tom.
O, Dick! agreed; for Ben's a boy of mind,
Clean as his pots, and as his porter kind;
More brains has Ben than half who bid him wait;
His legs are bandy—but his ways are straight:
With lips impartial he'll decide no doubt—

“I will,” cried Ben, “so now, my bucks, sing out.”
Tom.
The lovely Sukey, object of my wish,
Surpasses all who trace the streets with fish;
None can with such an air the price reveal,
Displace an oyster, or undress an eel;
28

Like salmon dainty, and no sole more sweet;
No lily muscles with her skin compete;
Her lips like prawns; red mullet is a foil
To cheeks that shame the lobster fresh from boil;
Sound as a roach; the whiting of her trade,
And never thornback match'd my beauteous maid;
Nor trout nor smelt so delicate can prove:
The loveliest white-bait for the feast of love!

Dick.
Through London streets her trade my Lucy plies,
Impels a barrow, and “Choice fruit!” she cries;
That barrow's shafts how oft I've wish'd to be,
Clasp'd by those hands, and press'd, dear maid! by thee;
The ruddy apple by her cheek looks pale;
To match her lips ripe red-heart cherries fail;
Those lips for richness melting peaches shame,
And, to her kisses, figs no sweetness claim.
When sloes she sells, but “fine ripe damsons” cries,
The sloes are brown, compared with her black eyes;
“Cherries” she cries, when those to sell are best,
“Fine bleeding hearts!” and mine among the rest;
29

And when she cries 'em, how each accent swells!
Her voice is primer than the fruit she sells.

Tom.
When, in the season, Sukey “Oysters!” cries,
'Tis like the mermaid's voice from seas that rise;
From seas that rise, and those who listen dish,
And those on fish who fed make food for fish:
Her various voice abounds in sharps and flats—
O could you hear her when she's crying “Sprats!”

Dick.
One day were nuts in Lucy's barrow laid,
And I stood by, soft-gazing on the maid;
A nut she crack'd—her teeth such jobs can do,
Since they ne'er ache, for Lucy she loves true—
A nut she crack'd—her teeth can crack 'em well—
A double kernel nestled in the shell;
One half she ate, then, sweetly tender, she
Kiss'd t' other half, and smiling gave it me.

Tom.
One day, when Sukey op'ning oysters stood,
Her blue eyes bright'ning with a mirthful mood,
30

She open'd one, and, 'tis my bliss to tell,
She ate the oyster and gave me the shell:
To share twin kernels custom maids will move,
But none play tricks save with the lad they love.

Dick.
Young Joe the footman, once at Peckham fair,
When he, and I, and lovely Luce were there,
A fairing bought her; I had bought one too;
His a red top-knot, mine a 'kerchief blue;
When both were offer'd, with a bashful look,
She waived the top-knot and the 'kerchief took;
Doubted I had, this set my heart at rest;
Mine she preferr'd, though, surely, 'twas the best:
Yet knots, for fairings when accepted, prove
Hints of true lovers' knots and wedded love.

Tom.
I've bought my Sukey fairings by the score,
She always took them, and then spelt for more;
Her hints were answer'd: woman's wish beguiles;
And each new present brought more winning smiles.
31

Like her own oysters is my beauteous Suke,
The more you feed them they more lovely look.
Young Tim, the drayman, offer'd her his arm—
Tim, who chants songs that must a dray-horse charm—
His arm away, with scornful twist, she flung;
She lost her temper, but she found her tongue:
Tim cursed her clapper! so I knock'd him down;
All are my foes on whom my fair may frown.
Her clapper, Dick! yet in her praise it tells;
What more melodious than a peal of bells?

Dick.
On May-day last—the morning wore her best—
Neat as a new-made firkin I was dress'd;
Luce, tempting as her barrow dress'd to sell
Prime fruit, appear'd a perfect nonpareil;—
We went a Maying—Oh! what fun we had—
Nay Tom, ne'er smile, we nothing did was bad;
But on that morning 'twas, O Tom! my bliss
Box'd ears to catch, because I caught a kiss:
My ears look'd red; how pain'd appear'd her heart!
A kiss she gave me to relieve my smart;
32

And from that day—my heart how transports swell!
Thomas—but, mum!—'tis wrong to kiss and tell.

Tom.
Dick, between friends, it isn't right to boast,
But Sukey's kisses long have I engross'd:
Sweeter her kisses than the sugar'd loads
I daily cart to grocers' throng'd abodes;
Sweeter her breath than new hay from the mart,
Which feeds the cattle that adorn my cart.

Dick.
My Lucy's kisses—O the rich regale!
Sweeter than sweetwort are of home-brew'd ale,
For which new casks I form; to cheer my toil
On Luce I think, and many a stave I spoil.
A cask I made her, fruit to store, and this
Procured, O Thomas! the consenting kiss.
O, had you seen her round me, blushing, fling
Her willing arms, while whisp'ring, “Buy the ring!”
The ring I bought, next door to the Three Cans,
And on next Sunday we put up the bans.

33

Tom.
Fortune to me superior luck has cast;
Our bans were put up, Dick, on Sunday last:
Own then, dear Dick, my happy lot the best,
Who one week sooner shall than you be bless'd.

Dick.
Wedlock's a lott'ry, Tom; I fortune thank!
A prize I've drawn; may you ne'er draw a blank!
My heart misgives me, and my tongue rebels;
But friendship's fervour heart and tongue repels.
Beware, O Tom!—I saw, but three days back,
Young Tim the brewer, dress'd genteel, in black;
Upon his arm hung Sue, in white; O, think!
Green was her bonnet, and the lining pink;
Before, black feathers flutter'd in the wind;
A flower'd silk shawl fell all in folds behind;
They're all the fashion now; and Tim, I know,
Bought it last week: laughing, I saw them go
O'er Hornsey fields; not once the sight I miss'd;
I saw him kiss her—

34

Tom.
Kiss her?

Dick.
Yes, they kiss'd.

Tom.
Pshaw! Dick, you're dreaming: you but saw behind;
Mistook her person, as you wrong her mind;
'Twas Jane, the milk-girl,—they're alike in shapes;
Tim courted Jane on finding Sue sour grapes.
But I had dumb been till the day of death—
In others' matters I ne'er waste my breath—
Had you not spoken thus; 'tis now my place:
Your Lucy's caught by Joey's liv'ry lace—
Nay, t' other night I watch'd 'em to the play;
Saw them return, returning I that way;
Then saw them, fondly cooing, both go in
The wine vaults, where, no doubt, they drank:—no sin
In drinking, Dick; but genteel manners prove
That maids scorn drams but with the man they love.

35

Dick.
“O, Tom! unpossible—you can but joke.”
Here interposing, bandy Ben thus spoke:—

Ben.
“Well have you sung; but now your lays decline;
And ‘list, O list,’ contending swains, to mine:
Rude is my voice, more harsh may be my lay;
Yet hear me sing, or, more correctly, say—
Yet saying's singing in poetic bowers;
Why not in strects poetical as ours?
Tom may be right, and Dick no wrong may hold;
Dick has told truth, and Tom no falsehood told;
I heard both tales, and more, which I'll impart,—
All fact, no fiction—though it grieves my heart.
Alas! to-morrow Lucy weds with Joe;
And Sukey married Tim a week ago!
Then bear misfortune as brave heroes do,
And keep your tempers and your wagers too.”
36

Thus Ben the matter prudently ne'er minced,
Each stared, confounded; and both sigh'd, convinced;
Shook hands and parted, too o'erwhelm'd to speak,
And—got new sweethearts by that same day week.

37

THE WIG; OR THE JUDGE AND HIS LADY.
[_]

This tale appeared in a novel called “Isn't it Odd?” written by the same author.

There was a Judge at nisi prius,
Who ne'er from common sense felt bias,
Nisi law cause could show:
For, some say, law (I know not whence)
Can rule or o'errule common sense,
As equity can show.
To Justice's entire content,
This learned Judge each circuit went
To nonsuit captious strife.
Judges (for state) alone should ride,
Yet, since but one are spouse and bride,
He ofttimes took his wife.
38

It chanced my lady,—not that she
Was weakly prone to vanity—
She loved, as ladies do,
Smartness; but yet (a purpose wise),
Lovely to look in hubby's eyes—
As, ladies, practise you.
Hence in the chariot would be placed
Band-boxes fill'd with proofs of taste,
Till, almost smother'd, he
Cried, “Madam, such things might be put,
In private, coram nobis, but
Non coram judice.”
Said she, “Destruction they would find
If pack'd within the trunk behind—
They're caps.” “What then?” quo' he,
“No rule of court can practice show
That judges who on circuit go
Should go thus cap-a-pied.”
39

One time, for leave though she applied,
He vow'd no box with him should ride,
Though many a plea she found.
Resolved no longer to be fool'd,
He every point and plea o'erruled,
And turn'd my lady round.
They rode along, with little chat;
She fretting, he revolving, sat;
When, in brown study, lo!
Against a box, while stretching out
His legs, to ease some twinge of gout,
His lordship kick'd his toe.
“What's this?” he cried, and, looking down,
He saw a band-box, (from the town
They sought 'twas miles a score).
“Hah, hah!” cried he, the glass he dropp'd,
“We'll clear the court,” and out he popp'd
The box, and said no more.
40

While nothing said his lady gay,
(She thought 'twas little use to say),
Which caused him some surprise.
At length the carriage put them down
By sound of trumpet in the town
Where held was the assize.
The Judge, as he to church must go,
Put on his scarlet, comme il faut,
And look'd importance big.
“Humphrey,” said he, “'tis getting late,
We mustn't make the parson wait:
Go, Humphrey, fetch my wig.”
Then Humphrey, like true serving-man,
To get the jasey quickly ran;
But fortune deals in sport:
Removed each package small or big,
Non est inventus was the wig,
In full contempt of court.
41

“A horse! a horse!” cried Richard Rex—
“A wig! a wig!” the Judge, “'twould vex
A saint this law's delay;”
When Humphrey cried—(a comic prig)—
“Without a rule your worship's wig
Has traversed term to-day.”
“Not find my wig?” the Judge, and stared;
Foam'd at the mouth, his eye-balls glared;
When in came sword and mace.
“Will't please your lordship to proceed?
All's ready now, and we will lead,
As is our proper place.”
The Judge. “Proceed? I cannot budge;
Without a wig what is a Judge?
My wig! my wig!” he cries:
And cried his wife, with glad retort,
“Why, when your ludship clear'd the court,
You clear'd the wig likewise.”
42

The Judge, nonsuited, said—but what
He said, deponent knoweth not,
And what he did's not certain;
But Mace to budge deem'd this his cue,
And Sword to shield himself withdrew,
And Humphrey—drew the curtain.
43

PAT AND POP;

OR, THE IRISHMAN'S DOG.

[_]

[Founded on fact.]

There is a maxim, old and just,
“Never to mere appearance trust;”
Like boys who think ice firm that's thin,
And, rashly sliding, tumble in
The stream below. I'd next enforce
A maxim pertinent as coarse—
“The saddle put o' th' proper horse.”
An Irishman, who lov'd a drop,
A faithful terrier had, call'd Pop;
Pat's looks, together as they'd jog,
Said plainly, “Love me, love my dog;”
44

And Pop's, in comfort or disaster,
As plainly “Love me, love my master.”
A constant friendship seem'd to bind 'em,
And ever cheek-by-jowl you'd find 'em;
As Patrick call'd it—that's, d'ye mind,
Paddy before, and Pop behind;
Or Pat behind and Pop before.
Pat's food Pop oft in basket bore;
What time at morn to work Pat went,
(A bricklayer he) and Pop, intent
Still on his charge, while Pat work'd hard,
Stood o'er his master's dinner guard,
'Till meal-time came; then, goes the story,
They din'd together con amore.
As Pat was strolling once with Pop,
Approaching an old iron shop,
A bright brass collar caught his eye,
Which he resolv'd for Pop to buy:
With red Morocco lining grac'd;
It's smartness prov'd Pat's love and taste.
45

Pat a small blunder made indeed,
As he'd done once before; how, read:
A milkman with his cows he meets—
Common the sight in London streets—
Who, “New milk from the cow,” his cry,
Milk'd it before who came to buy.
To Pat one said,—“Now, that's all fair;
That's all neat milk,—no water there.”
Said Pat, “You're hoax'd, I'll state the case;
He milks the cows before your face—
What then? a wager lay I durst,
He makes the cows drink water first.”
Pat a small blunder made indeed,
As Pat no more than Pop could read.
The collar, which some dog before
Had worn, this plain inscription bore,
“John Snoltz, Esq. 4, Brompton Row.”
Its meaning Pat ne'er ask'd to know:
But, having for the collar paid,
He with it more distinguish'd made
Pop, who one ev'ning from him stray'd,
46

While Pat, who never once miss'd Pop,
Had saunter'd to a liquor shop:
Alas! 'tis often prov'd that drinking
Destruction is to sober thinking;
Though some think not, as practice tells.—
I recollect, at Sadler's Wells,
(A place which all the world must know),
A fact which here in proof shall go:—
A man who, in the gallery, sold
Refreshments, to keep out the cold,
Or heat, whene'er the curtain dropp'd
Between the acts, still forward popp'd
To sell his stores; his fruit in pottles;
His cakes in baskets; beer in bottles;
And loudly cried (from shame ne'er shrinking)
“Come, ladies, give your minds to drinking.”
Proh pudor! but return we now
To Paddy's truanting bow-wow,
Which stray'd: how tempted, proof there's not;
By chance, in Paul's Church-yard, he got
47

Into a shop; remark was made—
“This is some fav'rite terrier, stray'd;
To lose our pug how we should grieve!
Alone the house he shall not leave,
For back the way he may not know,
At night, so far as Brompton Row;
To-night a welcome guest we'll make him;
To-morrow, William, you shall take him
To Brompton Row; 'tis out of town,
So, doubtless, you'll get half-a-crown.”
Next day a ribbon William tied
To Pop's gay collar, lest aside
His charge should slip, when off his guard,
And negligence preclude reward.
Thus on they trotted, comme il faut,
Till safe they came to Brompton Row;
At number 4, pleas'd, William knock'd;
A cautious hand the door unlock'd;
A sharp-fac'd woman William scann'd,
And cried, “Your business?” door in hand.
48

William responded, “Here I'm come
To know—is Mr. Snoltz at home?
I've brought his dog.”—She, cross in grain,
“Then you may take it back again.”
“Why?” he, “from Paul's Church-yard I come;
Tell me, is Mr. Snoltz at home?”
“He may be (she) for aught I know;
He left this house six months ago;
But may, if found at home, be seen
Six, Chester place, by Bethnal Green.”
Then, the door shutting in his face,
Left Will, who, grumbling, left the place;
But, order'd to find out Pop's master,
And half a crown expecting, faster
He trudg'd with Pop; resolved, by th' by,
His trouble so to magnify,
And work so well on Snoltz's feelings,
That haply he might get five shillings.
To Bethnal Green, with briskest pace,
He went, and found out Chester Place:
49

Found No. 6, and found—a bore!—
Another name upon the door;
Not Mr. Snoltz, but Mr. Podger—
Thought he, “this Snoltz must be a lodger.”
He knock'd, a surly man out came,
Growl'd, “What d'ye want? and what's your name?”
“My name's no matter,” Will began:
“Is Mr. Snoltz at home?” The man—
“There was a Mr. Snoltz lived here.”
“And don't he now?” cried Will, with fear
Of losing all his hoped reward;
“Why, no!” the man, “but we've his card:
You'll find him with one Mr. Warner,
Next door but one to Hyde Park Corner.”
Imagine Will's extreme vexation
At this appalling information;
Conceive him grumbling on his way
To Hyde Park Corner:—hot the day;
His face just like a window pane
After a shower of April rain;
50

Parching with thirst; while, by the by,
Except his mouth no place was dry.
Think Hyde Park Corner in his view,
And judge his joy—the address was true!
He gave ('tween joy and apprehension)
A knock commanding quick attention;
And ask'd, 'twixt eager hope and fear,
“Pray, sir, does Mr. Snoltz live here?”
The footman, “Yes.” Will brighten'd fast,
O'erjoyed to be in luck at last.
“Is he at home?”—No.”—“I can wait,”
Said Will. “Your patience must be great,”
The footman said: “Bath's now his home;
He'll not be back three months to come.”
“Provoking!” Will rejoin'd. “All day
I've sought him; who my time will pay?
About his business told to go,
From Paul's Church-yard to Brompton Row;
From there to Bethnal Green; from there
To here; and he's at Bath: such fare
'S enough to make a parson swear.”
51

Said John, “What bus'ness made you jog?”
Said Will, “I've found your master's dog.”
Said John, “Good friend, you'll me excuse,
But master had no dog to lose.”
Cried Will, “This collar says not so—
‘John Snoltz, esquire, 4, Brompton Row.’
All day I've led the dog about,
To find his tiresome master out.”
“He had a dog,” Mess John replied,
“Which wore that collar, but he died:
I sold that collar to a Jew;
Good morning, I've my work to do.”
The door was closed, and Will—'twas hard—
Enraged, went back to Paul's Church-yard;
His story told in woful strains,
And got well laugh'd at for his pains:
A half-crown sooth'd him, and poor Pop
Was enter'd inmate of the shop;
Well fed, well slept, made sleek and fat,
To Pug devoted, lost to Pat;
52

Who, though the loss had grieved his heart,
Reflected that “best friends must part,”
And thought on't little after that;
While Pop as little thought of Pat.
It chanced the house, while Pop was there,
Wanted, as houses will, repair:
Pat's master undertook to do it,
And brought Pat with him to review it.
The moment Pat stalk'd into th' shop,
“Hurrah!” cried Pat; “Bow-wow!” cried Pop:
Pat flew to Pop, Pop jump'd on Pat;
“Fait, Pop,” cried he, “come out o' that.”
“Know you that dog?” Will's master said.
“Know him!” cried Pat, and scratch'd his head,
“He's mine: one day I lost him, mind me,
“And see, he's overjoyed to find me.”
Will's master: “If the dog you claim,
On's collar why another's name?
The owner of that name I sought;
And had he but in town been caught,
53

And own'd the dog, I had resign'd him.”
Said Pat, “All's right; I'm glad to find him;
“He's mine; I bought the collar.” “Why
Not 'rase the name then?” the reply—
Twirling his thumbs, “The name!” cried Pat;
“Och, hone! I never thought of that:
But then, what matters? Pop when shown him,
That man, if honest, wouldn't own him;
Though, if a rogue, he Pop had claim'd,
Whoever on the brass was named:
Call Pop by any name that's known,
He'll only answer to his own;
And on his neck whatever name
'Twould be to Poppy all the same,
He couldn't rade it; so, 'tis plain,
If lost, to find himself again,
As he the name could never know,
To that man's house he'd never go;
But if you took him there 'tis sign
The fault was neither his nor mine.”
54

Pat's cogent reasoning raised i' th' minute
A general laugh, and Pat join'd in it.
His heart, relieved, was light as feather;
And Pat and Pop went home together.
55

THE PRACTICAL BULL.

A FACT.

Monopoly all men unite to decry,
Though practice will often profession belie.
All should share in life's blessings, nor one stingy elf
Be allow'd to engross the good things to himself:
What is mine may be yours if occasion there be,
And you profit without a privation to me;
An umbrella in rain for an instance will do;
Though invested in one, 'twill accommodate two.
But let us, while moved by this recommendation,
The fitness regard of appropriation;
Nor lend four feet six, if uncloak'd he should be,
The great coat of a man rising full six feet three;
Or, if on a door-plate your name you'd have shown,
Don't borrow your neighbour's to pass for your own.
56

A sailor once died near a desolate strand,
And his messmates resolved, since so close to the land,
“Earth to earth,” like a christian, his corpse should be given,
Nor, sew'd up, down the throat of a shark should be driven.
They row'd him on shore, by two boats'-crews attended,
As good Irish hearts as ere messmate befriended.
They landed: for priest, at their head was Mich. Rooney;
And gravely they brought to his grave poor Pat Mooney.
The pray'rs read as well as Mich.'s learning permitted,
The body of Pat to the ground was committed;
They fill'd up the grave, and a turf o'er it spread,
But thought that some token should stand at its head:
“A grave-stone,” Mich. said, “was a capital idee,
With an epithalamium.” (Epitaph, vide).
57

But no stone could they find which the purpose would suit,
And a trifling occurrence forbad it, to boot;
For a stone had they found, they'd nor genius, nor tools,
Nor time, to engrave it; so, looking like fools,
And scratching their heads, disappointed and glum,
On board they resolved to drown sorrow in rum;
When a lucky invention struck one of the crew:
“I've hit it, my honies,” cried Teddy; “'twill do:”—
By the by, let me tell you, some ten years before,
An old bo'son, named North, was interr'd on this shore;
O'er whose grave a rude stone said,
“Here lies Bo'son North;
Who was born, so and so; and who died, and so forth.”
Teddy thought of the bo'son, and thence took his tone,
“There's old bo'son North on himself has a stone;
He has been so long dead that what's left of him's not him,
And no soul that remembers him now but's forgot him:
58

Then sarrah the use is the thing to the elf;
And why should he have all the stone to himself?
For sailors together should share smooth and rough,
And the bo'son his spell of it's had long enough;
So let's borrow the loan of the stone for our mate,
And the epithalamium's cut ready, all nate.”
“By the powers, 'tis the thing!” cried, in rapture, Mich. Rooney:
So, “Here lies bo'son North,” was placed over Pat Mooney.
61

ROBERT AND BOB;

OR, THE POLITIC PUBLICAN.

“Life's full of deception,” the sages have said,
But to prove it requires not a Solomon's head;
'Tis a vice so familiar, that some have believed
We but live for deceiving and being deceived;
But, while with keen practice we trick other elves,
'Tis no more than completely deceiving ourselves.
A publican once—'tis a fact I advance—
Whose politics always embraced the main chance,
Two taps in his cellar had ever at call;
The one fill'd with strong beer, the other with small.
His custom was good, though bad customs had he,
And one of those customs my subject shall be.
While his guests in their sober perceptions were clear,
He gave them the best, when they call'd for their beer;
62

But when they got fluster'd, and judgment went wrong,
He managed to put off the small for the strong;
And did it adroitly; but how no one dream'd,
For all “fair and above board” his management seem'd;
No whisp'ring to wife, or the pot-boy, he used,
Nor perceptible mean which men's reason abused,
To convey his intent, at each thirsty soul's call,
Whether beverage strong should be brought him, or small.
A pot-boy he had, quite expert at a job;
His appellative Robert—diminutive, Bob.
He instructed this lad, when he call'd—lucky thought!—
“A pot of beer, Robert,” the strong should be brought;
But a “pot of beer, Bob,” if he heard mine host call,
He was then to the drinker to carry the small.
One night, when a club—noble fellows to cram—
Had supp'd on salt-herrings and fine bacon-ham,
63

They call'd for drink plenty, each soul was so dry,
And Robert or Bob was each minute the cry;
Till “mine host,” finding all were full primed, from their talk,
To double the profit on each double chalk,
Bethought him that Robert had had a hard job;
So resolved all the rest should be managed by Bob.
Bob! Bob! Bob! resounded, and pot followed pot,
The guests were so dry, and the night was so hot.
At length cried a toper, “Here, landlord, come here,
And take a good tug at your own humming beer.”
The landlord, at Highgate once sworn, thought it wrong
To tipple small beer (as he thought it) for strong;
But, “need must when”—et cet'ra—he drank—sad mishap!
And found it was Robert had been at the tap.
He grinn'd, shook his head; when a man call'd for beer,
And mine host bawl'd out, “Bob, you young monkey, come here.”
64

His wife came instead, his fierce wrath to abate,
And save hapless Bob from a knock on the pate.
He cried, “I want Bob, for this gem man wants drink.”
He glanced at the guests, and then gave her a wink,
Which, being translated, meant, “here's a fine job!
They're all drinking Robert, though I call'd for Bob.”
His wife took the pot, rather posed what to do;
When he, in a passion, cried, “Who sent for you?
Fetch Bob”—when she answer'd him, “Don't be a bore;
Why, Bob has been out for this hour or more.”
65

FARE AND FEED;

OR, THE HACKNEY COACHMAN.

“An honest man's the noblest work of God,”
Said Pope. “A rogue's his own eventual rod,”
Experience says. All those from right path running
Take for associate th' impostor Cunning;
Time out of mind who for a wit has pass'd,
But proves too knowing for himself at last.
An hackney driver, honest and so forth—
“Whose word would pass for more than he was worth,”
If it would pass for aught—came home one night,
Put up his horses, and, by lantern's light,
Counted his whole day's fares upon the manger;
Conceiving of detection little danger.
Why did he dread it? ask you: 'twas his way
To halve the hackney-harvest of the day;
66

For Jarvis, whether fares were great or small,
Thought it bad practice to give master all.
Now it occurr'd, his master, who had oft
Suspected him, was hidden in the loft;
Look'd down the rack while coachee with precision
Thus conscientiously pursued division—
First peering round, if all were safe to see—
“This shilling for my master first,” said he;
“Then this for me; for master now another;
And to myself, by right, belongs its brother.”
Thus he went on, light-finger'd and light-hearted,
Till ev'ry shilling honestly was parted;
When an odd sixpence puzzled him, to know
To which, himself or master, it should go.
Conscience cried, Give it to your master, elf;
Interest whisper'd, Keep it, fool, yourself.
“Pity,” he cried, “it cannot be divided!”
A lucky thought, at length, its fate decided.
“I'll toss,” cried he; “dispute nought settles faster;
Heads for myself and woman for my master.”
67

He toss'd, with jerk 'mong cunning rogues quite common,
To make it come down heads; a voice cried, “woman!”
“Heads, be you who you may,” the tosser cried,
And saw his master grinning at his side;
Who coolly said, “I think the fairest course is,
Give me the sixpence, as I keep the horses.”
68

IRREGULAR ODES;

OR, THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER.

“How hard is the fate to which genius is born—
The mark of neglect, and the victim of scorn!”
Cried a poet enraged, who, on fame when he counted,
By mistake, some poor hack, for a Pegasus, mounted;
And, your hacks having often more devil than fire,
Is it wonderful his left his man in the mire?
Yet, surely, your poets of grief have their share;
But others have theirs; so, content, all must bear:
Tho' none more than poets are cut up and cross'd,
Till patience, o'erbaited, in frenzy is lost;
Yet patience, or stoical calmness, ye bards,
Are the teachers to copy when playing your cards.
One cavils at this style, another at that;
This sense isn't pointed; that rhyme isn't pat;
69

One measure wants harmony, t'other i'n't terse;
This rhyme's measured prose, and that prose broken verse;
The sense is involved, or the rhythm don't blend;
The theme wants beginning, a middle, and end:
Hence he who begins one—ere play'd on, like fiddle—
Had better, for peace, make an end in the middle.
A pun!—there's no pardon; so cavillers rake 'em!
But they hate puns most who're least able to make 'em.
Puns, when in right places, are things that may pass;
When misplaced, they're like senna, for wine, in your glass;
In trifles who scout 'em are classical Huns;
“Nunc ridendum” the motto, allow a few puns.
A Poet, whose lyre might be rustily strung;
Whose voice might be crack'd, though he'd finger and tongue;
As well as these let him, he play'd and he sung:
Or, metaphor dropping, of rhyming he'd knack,
But could boast no more muses than coats to his back;
70

Not so many, perhaps; for he'd one coat's adorning,
Which once had been black, but had gone out of mourning;
And the critics they stuck in the skirts of the elf;
Which proved they'd bad habits as well as himself.
This Poet, hard fagging, completed an ode,
And, in hope of a dinner, triumphantly strode
To a publisher's shop; a Mecænas, whose spirit
Was far more excited by money than merit:
Whose head on good bargains for ever was running;
Whose folly was folio; quarto his cunning;
Octavo his blund'ring; his modesty twelves;
And he'd more bound in calf than the books on his shelves.
To him went the bard; and 'twas fix'd he should touch
For his verses, at so much per line—but not much.
The money paid down the bard hasten'd to seize on:
The money was short, and the bard ask'd the reason;
“The reason?” cried Vampem; “at so much per line,
To so much it comes; and, good master of mine,
71

If I pay by the line, 'twould be foolish, or funny,
Not to get the full length of a line for my money.
Your lines a'n't all even; and tell me, good brother,
Could you walk firm if one leg was shorter than t'other?
You'd go lame, like your ode, where your lines are uneven;
And of those that are short there's at least three in seven;
For these I deducted; my reasons are strong ones;
And you'll find I have paid you full price for the long ones.”
The Poet, in sad tribulation, then show'd
'Twas what critics had term'd an Irregular Ode;
Cried Vampem, “Irregular? sir, let me say,
My business I do in a regular way;
And I'll have rhyme or reason, or else I won't pay.
So, in odes, when per line is o'th' bargain the strength,
I insist on the lines being all of one length.”
72

GENIUS AND JOCKEYSHIP;

OR, THE SPORTSMAN AND PAINTER.

Speculation's a confident hypocrite, who,
When the fancy's o'erweening and judgment untrue,
Leads you into a scrape from th' adventure you chose,
And there leaves you to cope with what barriers oppose
Him who, shutting his eyes, only follows his nose.
Make your contract at first with the man who's to pay,
Or in vain you may work, while your fancy's at play.
A knight of the turf had a favourite horse,
Call'd Ball, that stood high on the scale of the course;
He had won many cups, balk'd the knowing ones all,
And, hence, on the turf he was call'd Cup and Ball.
Tim Straddle, his groom (with an artist acquainted)
Persuaded his master to have the horse painted.
73

His master consented: said Tim, “I have found
A painter who'll touch off a horse for ten pound.”
The painter was summon'd, retain'd in a trice,
And, since for a horse Tim had stated the price,
The terms were not canvass'd—the point is of force—
The sportsman engaged him to copy a horse,
Supposing ten pounds would be all he should pay;
But the artist supposed in a different way:
That, as price wasn't mention'd, a man so high-bred
Wouldn't stick for a trifle: thus being misled—
Speculation his prompter, and interest decider—
He resolved to give Ball both a saddle and rider.
Horse, saddle, and Tim, all from nature were done;
And three likenesses taken, though order'd but one.
When done—taken home—as friend Brush went his rounds,
The sportsman was pleased, and presented ten pounds.
“Ten pounds! 'tis fifteen,” said the artist so able;
“I charge ten for a horse as he stands in the stable,
Undress'd and unmounted—the point's rather nice—
You order'd a picture, nor mention'd the price;
74

A horse is ten pounds, let the turf be decider,
And here you've the saddle, the horse and his rider.
This saddle is leather itself, and Tim Straddle
Looks life: one would swear he could jump from the saddle.”
“Then out let him jump,” said the sportsman, “and sell
The saddle wherever they 'll buy 't—I repel
Your charge. There's ten pound; I your price knew before
For a horse, and I order'd a horse and no more;
I'm no colt on the turf; and my brain's not so addled
As, wanting a horse, to be jockied and saddled.”
75

HORSES' BELLS;

OR, CUSTOM'S PREJUDICE.

Custom controls each human creature,
And ancient use is second nature.
Pope once declared, “I grieve to see
A post, though ere so old it be,
With which I've long acquainted been,
Displaced, howe'er improved the scene.”
Old customs have more meaning in 'em
Than half the whims imposed to thin 'em:
They sweet associations bring
To minds whence social feelings spring.
Let innovation, year by year,
With ancient custom interfere;
For gaining ground mistake mere movement,
And dub improvidence improvement;
76

Give me, for comfort, till life ends,
Old wine, old customs, and old friends.
A farmer once, as story tells,
Aversion had to horses' bells;
Which, as the rustic team draws near,
Tingling in every road you hear:
Such music always sounds to me
Like symphonies of industry;
While every horse, as bell strikes louder,
See-saws his head, both sprack and prouder;
(Sprack is provincial, reader, know,
And means as much as comme il faut);
While John the carter joy gives vent,
Whistling ad lib. accomp'niment;
Or, haply, wedlock's joys is singing,
While jangling bells response are ringing.
The man of whom my theme discourses
Banish'd the bells from all his horses;
77

While John, his carter, who demurr'd,
Thought horses without bells absurd;
Such music, to his rustic ears,
Was mundane “music of the spheres;”
He said fools only e'er could flout 'em,
And vow'd he ne'er drove well without 'em;
Thought it was antichristian art
From ancient customs to depart;
Ne'er to break one himself was known,
Which had from usage sacred grown;
Among them one which labouring men
Have sacred kept from long ere then,
Strictly as some keep church on Sunday,
Namely, to get drunk ev'ry Monday.
Of ancient customs thus tenacious,
John in their praise would prove loquacious;
And often hinted to his master,
That bells made horses travel faster;
But ne'er permission could obtain
To use “the bonny bells” again;
78

Which made him, though he “bore the brunt,”
For grief to sigh, or, rather, grunt;
But yet resolve (as he'd fain thrive),
Since lead he could not, still he'd drive,
But not a moment longer than
Th' year's end, which left him “his own man.”
Besides (which reconciled the hind
Somewhat), he found his master kind;
And gen'rous was his mistress too;
For, though suspected as a shrew,
To no one servant was't disaster—
She only ruled her lord and master.
John's year expired: the farmer said,
“Well, John, you 've such attention paid,
No fault I find, but justly praise,
And hence, next year, your hire I'll raise;
To stay then must be your election,
I think you can have no objection.”
“Habjection?” John replied, “to you
I can't ha' none; nor missus too;
79

You're both so koin'd, I'd like to stay,
But then, I doant knaw what to say.”
“Not know!” rejoin'd the master.—“Why,”
Said John, “I'd not offend, not I;
But there's a summat I doant like,
And, though main sorry, I mun strike.”
“Strike?” cried the farmer, with surprise;
“Ees, sir,” said John; “the matter lies
I' this'n: I's a simple chap,
But then I knaws what's what, may hap,
Will drive a team wi' ony he,
But, then, things decent like mun be.
My heart wi' sheer vexation swells
To drive a team without the bells;
So dunsh without 'em t' horses seem,
It's all like driving in a dream;
So, if you bells refuse, which strange is,
Why, I mysel' mun ring the changes.”
'Tween interest and inclination,
John's master suffer'd keen vexation;
80

To grant the bells annoy'd him sore,
But John to lose annoy'd him more.
“Well, John,” he cried, “I'll not deny 'em;
To-morrow you shall go and buy 'em.”
“Thank ye,” cried John, with joyful heart;
“Now you and I will never part.”
He bought the bells, and dress'd his team,
While master's kindness was his theme:
The hour was two, the weather storming,
The season, some call night, some morning;
For night, with those whom fashion wins,
When labour's morning wakes begins.
Four horses for the team John dress'd,
While his warm bed the farmer press'd—
For John and Giles, a boyish clown,
Had in the dark to drive to town—
The horses in their gear he decks,
Their leathern belfries graced their necks;
But John, to town ere he'd away,
Thought he a duty had to pay;
81

And was to show his master moved
How bells the horses' looks improved;
So brought 'em to the farmer's door,
And waked him up with knocks and roar.
The night was bitter cold; his master,
Dreaming no doubt of some disaster,
Leap'd, in his shirt, from sleep and bed,
And through the casement thrust his head—
“John, what's the matter?” trembling cried—
“Look, zur, now look'ee,” John replied:
“Look?” cried the farmer, “look at what?”
“At th' horses,” John rejoin'd; “I've got
'Em dress'd, and of 'em you may crack;
You never zeed nought half so sprack.”
“Blockhead!” the shiv'ring farmer said,
The window closed and jump'd in bed,
Like a large lump of ice, so cold,
That, touching Mrs. Farmer, she
(Who dreaming was of scalding tea),
Waked at the touch; yet could not scold,
82

But jump'd clean out of bed:—it hit her,
(She after own'd) Jack Frost had bit her.
Well, John and Giles trudged on, both singing,
The horses neighing, bells all ringing,
Through frost and snow for four long miles,
And cheek by jowl went John and Giles.
Close by the leader's head they walk'd,
And oft of master's whimsies talk'd.
John so delighted was to hear
The bells again “salute his ear,”
He scarce had known that night throughout,
For rapture, what he'd been about;
And Giles, who'd imitate John's courses,
Thought, too, of nothing but the horses.
Said John, “Our measter brains mun lack,
To see the team so vary sprack,
And never to show satisfaction,
But call I blockhead; 'twere an action
That stoundies me; but, never mind,
I'ze sure i' th' county you 'll not find
83

Four nicer cattle; how they draw!
The cart to them seems like a straw,
Though loaded up tip-top; that tells
The sarvice, Giles, o' horses' bells.”
“We'll soon reach town at this fair trot.”
Said Giles (who now i' th' rear had got),
“The horses may, friend John, add rot un!
But for the cart, why, we've forgot un.”
85

THE ASTROLOGER;

OR, PLANETARY PROPHECY.

Could the veil of futurity ever be drawn,
Discov'ring our hits and mischances,
How wretched were life, since no morning could dawn
Meeting Hope's sweet enlivening glances!
Some seek in their tea grounds life's downs and its ups.
And others in cards; it must grieve us:
Of the first we may say, they are all in their cups;
To the others, e'en trumps may deceive us.
To the stars others go: 'tis a long way to fly;
To such we'll this caution deliver;
A boy with wax'd pinions, once soaring too high,
Had them molten, and fell in the river.
85

An astrologer, proud of conversing with stars,
And full of prophetical knowledge,
Profess'd to discover fate's blessings and bars,
Like a doctor of sideral college.
He wanted to marry, and wishing to know
If the planets had any objection—
For, if they were averse, 'twere away time to throw
To convince him he'd any election—
So a figure he cast; saw the planets incline
To favour his views in their answer;
But attach'd to his marriage I know not the sign,
Whether Capricorn, Aries, or Cancer.
Next, he wanted to know—'twas a pertinent view—
Whether constancy's gift were his spouse's;
So he call'd on the stars—as I'd call upon you,
I suppose; as they say stars have houses.
86

Whate'er his instructions I cannot impart,
My knowledge by ignorance parried;
But he chose out a damsel—young, buxom, and smart;
And, his time being come, they were married.
The honey-moon pass'd amid fondling and jars,
And his wife, who had no common breeding,
Like Hubby, was partial to reading the stars,
Which proves she was fond of light reading.
Hence it chanced, on a time, that his wife ran away;
Which made people whisper and wonder
That he, who of others the fates could pourtray,
In his own should have made such a blunder.
He had call'd on the stars—at their houses, no doubt,
And their followers, sure, they'd not flout 'em—
But, perhaps, when he call'd all the stars were gone out,
So, impatient, he married without 'em.
87

When his wife ran away he was watching the stars;
To watch her had been better, between us:
He said his misfortune was owing to Mars,
And her flight was the Transit of Venus.
88

PREJUDICE;

OR, THE WITCH.

As twines the thick ivy around the hale oak,
Or spreads round the cottage with tangled embrace,
While the cot swarms with vermin that patience provoke,
And the tree's native vigour to sickness gives place:
As the frost binds the stream, and the blight mars the flower;
As the steel is enchain'd by the magnet's charm'd power;
So prejudice man's boasted reason annoys;
Indurates his affections; distempers his joys;
The social distracts; mutual confidence blights;
And holds in a chain half humanity's rights.
89

A harmless old woman, with long nose and chin,
Which, approaching each other, proved creatures akin;
Who was “marvellous poor,” and to muttering prone,
Once lived in a hut, save her cat, all alone;
No acquaintance or gossip would own the poor elf;
None with her would talk, so she talk'd to herself:
Besides, this old woman, who older still grew,
Was wicked enough to be seventy-two.
These significant signs proved the pegs where to hitch
On that reprobate character call'd an old witch.
Not only cross'd straws, as in times heretofore,
But ev'ry cross matter was laid at her door;
If she cross'd people's path they would hoot her or pelt her,
Or, like friends from calamity, run helter skelter.
“Alas!” cried poor Goody, “what harm can I do?
What a sin to be poor, lone, and seventy-two!”
None would pass near her hovel at night, for 'twas said,
The father of witches call'd there for a bed;
90

Some declared they had seen him—not certain were—but,
All vow'd that strange noises they'd heard in the hut;
Oft a sound heard like bagpipes; but some would suppose
'Twas her guest singing witch-spells, and sung through his nose.
The villagers, swearing to oust the old lass,
One night (as none durst go alone) went en masse,
The clerk at their head; for the parson was out—
Of the secret, and notions of witchcraft he'd scout;
Which made some suspect that the justice and he
Were not what orthodox Christians should be;
Since (from ducking which saved her) these thought—so may you—
'Twas no sin to be poor, lone, and seventy-two.
Approaching the hovel, they heard the pipes play;
And most were for dancing—that's dancing away;
But one through a crack, having courage, peep'd in,
Saw a piper, and one man in black, tall and thin;
91

Before 'em sat Goody:—they cried, “The old viper!
He in black is old Nick, and the other his piper.”
The door they had burst; but, “there'll then be,” thought they,
“Not the piper alone, but another to pay.”
Some ran to the justice; their zeal begg'd he'd back it;
He humour'd the joke, and then help'd them to crack it;
Walk'd into the hut, when, “His worship,” they said,
“So ventersome, couldn't be right in his head.”
The justice discover'd their sable annoyer,
Though for Lucifer taken, was only a lawyer!—
“A chip of th' old block,” here if prejudice cry,
“There are chips of all sorts—prenez garde,” I reply.
'Twas the lawyer's first visit, not so with the other,
(The piper) for he proved the witch's own brother.
The lawyer (from London) had travell'd miles round,
Ere his object of search (the old woman) he found;
A brother, long lost, from the Indies had come;
Died, through eating ripe peaches, but left half a plum,
92

'Tween his brother and sister, if found;—for 'twas said,
He knew not if either were living or dead.
The crowd heard the tale:—what it is to be rich!
They thought she might possibly not be a witch.
One, who'd seen her broom-riding, and swore to the sight,
Thought it likely he might be mistaken—'twas night,
And so thick was the fog, being past twelve o'clock,
That he ran his own head 'gainst its brother—a block.
In short, a douceur shared among them to drink
Was “a word to the wise,” and the wise always think:
They thought—alias drank—at each draught grew more wise;
And jug after jug wider open'd their eyes;
Till prejudice vanish'd, suspicion turn'd tail,
And conviction came in with the last jug of ale:
Her pardon they begg'd, 'twas the least they could do,
And no more teased a woman of seventy-two.
93

CHINA AND CROCKERY WARE;

OR, POTTERY AND POINT.

Pride, thou'rt a very devil—nasty puss!
To see thee mortified I dearly love,
Thou'rt so contemptible; thy type's a goose,
Strutting and stretching out its giblet neck;
Hissing at all who in its path may move,
Silly as saucy; while all laugh to see
Its emptiness; so, pride, who at thy beck
Conceivest all should be,
All laugh at thee.
Thou art inferior to a goose, thou Hun;
For geese have souls, and thou, mean thing, hast none.
Thou art a very fool, and that wise elf,
Hight Solomon, whose golden rules
Are sterling, says, concerning fools,
“A fool he swalloweth up himself.”
94

“Pride was not made for man”—the saw is common;
But once a lady, badly taught,
Reading this pithy proverb, thought,
Though not for man, it haply might for woman.
This wise conclusion on her habits stealing,
Her manners were its moral; once
Her feelings wounded were—pshaw! I'm a dunce:
Pride and presumption have no feeling.
This lady, then, who both possess'd,
With “happy ignorance,” contempt express'd
For poverty, and always spoke with scorn
Of those who by their lot were born
To labour;
Forgetting, poor misguided soul,
That, rich or poor, from pole to pole,
Each human being was her neighbour;
And that command came from above
Her neighbour as herself to love.
95

When she the human race survey'd,
Marking 'tween rich and poor the difference,
She reason'd somewhat in this way,—
“When Heaven created men from clay,
From divers sorts sure different ranks were made;
The best to mould the rich from having preference.”
Concluding thus:—“The common train,”
She said, with pride's sarcastic mockery,
Received their birth
From common earth,
Like delft or crockery;
While rich and great
Were made, for state,
From purest, richest, porcelain.”
Once, in a circle of her friends
She so discoursed; the footman hearing,
While waiting on the china ware,
Flush'd indignation, while appearing
96

To pass it off
By studied cough;
But mortally, like vulgar delft, he sware
To make his mistress full amends;
And John, believe me, was no zany.
My lady said, in tone not mild,
“John, call the maid down with my child.”
John jarr'd the door, and scorning fear,
Bawl'd to the nursery maid, that all might hear,
“Here, Crockery, bring down young Chaney.”
97

THE ASS AND THE MULE;

OR, TRYING EXPERIMENTS.

A mule and an ass with their packages full,
The mule carried salt and the ass carried wool,
Once pleasantly jogg'd on together;
They'd to ford a small river, and when it was cross'd
The mule frisk'd about, and his head up he toss'd,
For, somehow, most part of his load he had lost,
And his heart was as light as a feather.
Said the ass, as the mule made light of the road,
“Pray, how, my good friend, have you lighten'd your load;
For, somehow, we can't keep together?”
Said the mule, “In the river I made a long halt,
Stoop'd down, and the water dissolved half the salt:”
Replied Jack, “At next river I won't be at fault,
Then my heart will be light as a feather.”
98

Poor Jack chuckled much at the thought of the plan,
And, reaching the river, to try it began,
Went in with heart light as a feather:
The wool, sucking water, augmented its weight;
The ass, overburthen'd, learn'd wisdom too late,
And, dropping, bewailing his folly and fate,
His labour and life lost together.
99

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH.

A FABLE, FROM ÆSOP.

A fox was going to die one day,
And a sly old fox was he;
His friends and relations, respect to pay,
All flock'd old reynard to see.
“Alas!” said he, “I'm going to die,
And conscience in my face will fly;
For I never to conscience paid regard,
But gobbled up all in the poultry yard:
Of cocks and hens,
By twenties and tens,
I now see the ghosts—O, the dickens!—
With a chirping young fry,
For, so cruel was I,
I ate all the dear little chickens.
100

“My sons, remember my last words these,”
Said the fox, “if in peace you'd die;
Eat grass and green gooseberries if you please”—
Said one of his sons, “Not I.”
“Avoid poultry like snakes,” the fox—“O, la!”
Another son cried; “My dear papa,
You're in the blue devils, but were you well
I'm certain a different tale you'd tell—
Of cocks and hens,
By twenties and tens,
I hear very plainly the clickings”—
“The devil you do!”
Said reynard, “Go to,
But, pray, spare the dear little chickens.”
“A fowl, papa,” his son replied,
“Will cure you much sooner than physic;
Hens are hard of digestion, a cock's tough hide
Would certainly give you the 'tysic:
101

A nice little chick recommend would I”—
Said the fox, “Naughty boy, O, fie! O, fie!
But you'll want to dine, tho' I've appetite none,
So run, or the poultry will all be gone:
But cocks and hens,
By twenties and tens,
Don't kill—half the number's good pickings;
And, as I've had long fast,
And it may be my last,
Bring me one of the dear little chickens.”
102

THE STAG AND THE LION.

A FABLE.

A stag from the herd went astray,
Ne'er dreaming the hunters were nigh;
The hounds, who were eager for prey,
Caught scent and went off in full cry:
A lion repos'd in his cave, down a glen,
And the stag, a retreat to explore,
Alas! silly fool, he went into the den,
But he never came out any more.
The lion roar'd savage delight;
The stag was repentant too late;
The dogs scamper'd off in a fright,
And left the poor fool to his fate:
“Ah, why came I here?” cried the stag in despair;
Said the lion, elating each lid,
“I really don't know, and as little I care,
But am monstrously glad that you did.”
103

THE FOX THAT LOST HIS TAIL.

A FABLE.

A fox lost his tail in a trap;
“I' faith, I look silly,” quoth he;
“But spite of this awkward mishap,
Best made of bad bargain must be:
The foxes to jeer me won't fail;
So, with envy and rage though I burn,
On the brush I'll affect to turn tail,
Who haven't a tail to turn.”
The fox, bent to brazen it out,
“Joy wish me, good brothers,” said he
To the foxes assembled about,
“My brush I have dock'd, as you see:
Its weight in the chase made me fail;
Now, like lightning, I fly o'er the fern;
Besides, I can never turn tail
Who haven't a tail to turn.”
104

The fox advised all to be dock'd—
“Hold! hold!” a sly reynard said he,
“Old friend, in some trap you've been lock'd,
And ‘thereby hangs a tale’ I can see.
We know your sly tricks: when you rail,
‘Sour grapes’ is the moral we learn;
And you're wise on the brush to turn tail
Who haven't a tail to turn.”
105

THE APE AND HER YOUNG ONES.

A FABLE.

An ape, by the fable 'tis proved,
Had a couple of sweet little dears;
One better than t' other she loved,
And its safety perplex'd her with fears;
She'd pat it, and kiss its dear little pug nose;
But people who pet
Should never forget
That, sweet as it is, there's a thorn in the rose.
This ape was alarm'd on a day,
And scamper'd away to a wood;
But caught up her pet by the way,
Leaving t' other to shift as it could;
106

Which jump'd on her back, while she hugg'd in repose
Her darling, and kiss'd its dear little pug nose:
The moral bears yet,
'Tis “never forget
That, sweet as it is, there's a thorn in the rose.”
The ape, as she fled from alarms,
Tripp'd up, 'mong a parcel of stones;
So fell with her pet in her arms,
And broke all its dear little bones:
While t' other escaped all the bruises and blows,
And cock'd up, in triumph, its little pug nose;
While the ape, left to fret
For the fate of her pet,
Found, sweet as it is, there's a thorn in the rose.
107

CONCEIT;

OR, THE COCK AND THE HORSES.

Once said a rocket to a star,
“My rays than thine more brilliant are:
See how my glories spread about!”
The star shone on, the squib went out.
A game-cock, of the poultry yard
At once the despot and the guard;
Who at the turkey-cock would fly,
Ne'er let a pig or dog pass by
Uncheck'd, but if they snapp'd he flew
Instant to perch and, taunting, crew;
Who oft had fought, and ever beat;
Whose strut disclosed his vast conceit;
Once in a stable chanced to stray
While the whole team enjoy'd their hay.
108

The straw they trampled he bereft
Of casual grain, by thresher left;
But, venturing 'mid their pond'rous feet,
At his life's hazard sought the meat,
Driv'n by their hoofs from side to side.
By danger warn'd, yet stung by pride,
Urg'd by conceit, he rais'd his head,
And, crowing, to the near horse said,
“There's danger here; take care, good brother,
Else we may tread upon each other.”
109

ANECDOTE OF DANIEL FRANCIS VOISIN,

Minister of State and Chancellor to Louis XIV.

When his Chancellor Voisin, once, Louis fourteen
A pardon commanded to seal,
For a wretch who for pardon too guilty had been,
He refus'd; nor his scorn could conceal.
The king snatch'd the seals, and the pardon impress'd,
Then to Voisin return'd them, the king who address'd,
“Forgive me, dread sire, if the seals I refuse,
Such contamination the act must excuse.”
Louis, struck by his firmness, could only admire,
And the pardon instinctively threw in the fire;
Voisin took back the seals, when 'twas burnt to a spark,
“Fire purifies every thing”—all his remark.
110

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Two spendthrifts, sons of wealthy cits,
Cramp'd by their sires in cash, one day
Stopp'd at a book-stall, being wits,
But nought there pleas'd 'em—by the way,
The vender knew them (as fame gathers);
“I've not the thing you want,” he cried;
“What is't we want?” the pair replied:
He—“An abridgment of the fathers.”
111

FIRE AND FROST;

OR, IRISH REASONING.

An Irishman, the house in flames
One piercing winter's night,
Upstarted from delightful dreams,
And ran out in a fright.
Out in the snow half naked ran,
And tried the flames to slake,
To chatter till his teeth began,
And all his frame to shake.
Cried he, “I'd not stand here for hire;
With ague I'm kilt dead;
I'll leave you to put out the fire,
And I'll go back to bed.”
112

And off he ran, i' th' self-same breath,
Crying, while him they'd hold,
“I may as well be burnt to death
As starved to death with cold.”
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