Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
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TO MY PEN. |
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
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!
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.
(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.
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?
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.
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, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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!
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?
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!
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
'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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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