Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Needy Knifegrinder! whither art thou going?
Rough is the road; thy wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches.

“Weary knifegrinder, little know the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissors to grind O.’

“Tell me, Knifegrinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the 'squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

“Was it the 'squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes destraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man’ by Tom Paine?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”

Knifegrinder.

“Story! God bless you? I have none to tell, sir;
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”

Friend of Humanity.
“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first,
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast.”

[“Busy, curious, thirsty fly]

[_]

Written extempore by a Gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup.

“Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and fades away.
“Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one!

Young Lady.

Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thy soul is too pure,
And thy face too fair,
To dwell with creatures
Of mortal mould,
Whose lips are warm
As their hearts are cold.
Roam, Roam
To our fairy home.
Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thou shalt dance
With the Fairy Queen
O' summer nights
On the moon-lit green,
To music murmuring
Sweeter far
Than ever was heard
'Neath the morning star.
Roam, roam, &c.

Myself.

Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheek with care,
Because another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery fields in May;
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pine,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with such goodness blest
As may gain her name of Best:
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
When they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair—
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
If she be not made for me,
What care I for whom she be?

Song by Ben Jonson.

Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow,
Which thy rozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in these icy chains by thee.

Song: The Glasses sparkle.

The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright;
The reign of pleasure is restored,
Of ease and gay delight:
The day is gone; the night's our own,
Then let us feast the soul;
Should any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.

This world they say's a world of wo;
But that I do deny;
Can sorrow from the goblet flow?
Or pain from beauty's eye?
The wise are fools with all their rules,
Who would our joys control—
If life's a pain, I say't again,
Why drown it in the bowl.

That time flies fast the poet sings,
Then surely 'twould be wise
In rosy wine to dip his wings,
And catch him as he flies.
This night is ours: then strew with flow'rs
The moments as they roll;
If any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.

The Widow to her Dying Child—by Matthew Child.

That sigh's for thee, thou precious one; life's tide is ebbing fast,
And o'er thy once all-joyous face death's sickly hue is cast.
Thine azure eye hath lost its ray, thy voice its buoyant tone,
And, like a flower the storm has crush'd, thy beauty's past and gone.

Another pang, and all is o'er—the pulseless heart is still,
Meekly, though sad, thy mother bows to the Almighty's will;
Grief presses heavy on my heart, my tears fall thick and fast,
But thou—thou art in heaven, my child, life's chequer'd dream is past.

The busy feet that gladly ran thy mother's smile to greet;
The prattling tongue that lisp'd her name in childhood's accents sweet;
The glossy curl that beam'd like gold upon thy snowy brow;
The lip, meet rival of the rose, O Death! where are they now?

Wither'd beneath thine icy touch; lock'd in thy dull cold sleep;
While all the joy a mother knows is silently to weep;
Or start as Fancy's echo wakes thy voice to mock her pain,
Then turn to gaze upon thy corse, and feel her grief is vain.

The grave, the dark cold grave, full soon will hide thee from my view,
While I my weary way through life in solitude pursue;
My early and my only love is number'd with the dead,
And thou—my last sole joy on earth—thou too, my boy, hast fled.

Three Goblets of Wine.

Three goblets of wine
Alone should comprise
The extent of the tipple
Of those that are wise.

The first is for health;
And the second I measure,
To be quaffed for the sake
Of love, and of pleasure.

The third is for sleep;
And, while it is ending,
The prudent will homeward
Be thinking of wending.

The fourth, not our own,
Makes insolence glorious;
And the fifth ends in shouting,
And clamour uproarious

And those who a sixth
Down their weasands are pouring.
Already are bruising,
And fighting, and flooring.

Oh! the tight little vessel,
If often we fill it,
How it trips up the heels
Of those who may swill it!

Indy Callaghan.

I

'Twas on a windy night,
About two o'clock in the morning,
An Irish lad so tight,
All wind and weather scorning,
At Judy Callaghan's door,
Sitting upon the palings,
His love-tale he did pour,
And this in part his wailings:
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

II

Oh! list to what I say,
Charms you've got like Venus;
Own your love you may,
There's the wall between us.
You lie fast asleep,
Snug in bed a-snoring;
Round the house I creep,
Your hard heart imploring.
Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

III

I've got a pig and a sow,
I've got a stye to sleep 'em,
A calf and a brindled cow,
And cabin, too, to keep 'em;
Sunday hat and coat,
An old gray mare to ride on;
Saddle and bridle to boot,
That you may ride astride on.
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

IV

I've got an acre of ground,
I've got it set with praties;
I've got of 'baccy a pound,
I've got some tea for ladies:
I've got the ring to wed,
Whiskey to make us gaily;
I've got a feather bed,
And handsome new shilelagh.
Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

V

You've got a charming eye;
You've got spelling and reading,
You've got, and so have I,
A taste for gentle breeding;
You're rich, and fair, and young,
As every body's knowing,
You've got a dacent tongue
Whene'er 'tis set a-going.
Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

VI

For a wife till death,
I am willing to take ye

But, och, I waste my breath,
The devil sure can't wake ye.
'Tis just beginning to rain,
So I'll get under cover;
To-morrow I'll come again,
And be your constant lover.
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

Monsieur Indas.

Here Judas, with a face where shame
Or honor ne'er was known to be,
Maintaining he is still the same,
That he ne'er rattled—no—not he.
But we must spurn the grovelling hack,
To-day all white—to-morrow black,
But hush! he'll hear,
He'll hear, he'll hear;
Iscariot's near—Iscariot's near!

The moral Surface swears to-day
Defiance to the priest and Pope;
To-morrow, ready to betray
His brother churchmen to the rope.
But let us trust the hangman's string
Is spun for him—the recreant thing!
But hush! he'll hear,
He'll hear, he'll hear;
Iscariot's near—Iscariot's near!

All character that knave has lost;—
Soon will the Neophyte appear,
By priestly hands bedipp'd, be-cross'd,
Begreased, bechrism'd, with holy smear,
Soon may he reach his final home,
“A member of the Church of Rome.”
But hush! he'll hear,
He'll hear, he'll hear;
Iscariot's near—Iscariot's near!

Now from his mouth polluted flows—
Snuffled in Joseph Surface tone—
Laments o'er hapless Ireland's woes,
O'er England's dangerous state a groan.
Ere long beneath the hands of Ketch,
Sigh for thyself, degraded wretch!
But hush! he'll hear,
He'll hear, he'll hear;
Iscariot's near—Iscariot's near!

Judas! till then the public fleece,
For kin and cousins scheme and job,
Rail against watchmen and police,
Inferior swindlers scourge or rob.
At last, another crowd before,
Thou shalt speak once—and speak on more!
But hush! he'll hear,
He'll hear, he'll hear;
Iscariot's near—Iscariot's near!

Roger Goodfellow.

A SONG.

[_]

To be song to all sorry rascals.

1

Small sirs, so melancholy
In patriotic wo,—
To cure your carking folly
Comes Roger Goodfellow;
To live as best it list him,
To scorn who does not so—
Ha, ha, this is the system
Of Roger Goodfellow.

2

At field the earliest whistling;
At kirk the doucest seen;
On holydays a-wrestling
The stoutest on the green;
Thus on in frank enjoyment
And grateful glee to go—
Ha, ha, 'tis the employment
Of Roger Goodfellow.

3

Round Roger's cabin dangle,
From curious carved pins,
All wonders of the angle,
All mysteries of gins;
While in his cupboard niche, is
A pewter pot or so—
Ha, ha, these are the riches
Of Roger Goodfellow.

4

To know the wind and weather
Will make the salmon spring;
To know the spot of heather
That hides the strongest wing;

To tell the moon's compliance
With hail, rain, wind, and snow—
Ha, ha, this is the science
Of Roger Goodfellow.

5

For wine to think nought of it,
With jolly good ale when lined;
Nor ma'am my lady covet,
So housewife Joan be kind;
While of each old state-housewife he
Doth nothing ask to know—
Ha, ha, 'tis the philosophy
Of Roger Goodfellow.

6

To say, “O mighty Maker,
I bless thee, that thou here
Hast made me thus partaker
Of love and lusty cheer:
As older still, oh, gayer,
And jollier may I grow,”—
Ha, 'tis a worthy prayer
Of Roger Goodfellow.

7

Ho, ho, ye wheezing whiners;
Ye kill-joys of the land!
State-malady-diviners;
Yarns-pinners out of sand!
On common-sense who'd trample,
And lay religion low;
For God's sake take example
By Roger Goodfellow.

Backe and Side go Bare, go Bare.

1.

Backe and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hande go colde:
But, bellye, God sende thee good ale yenough,
Whether it be newe or olde.
I cannot eat but lytle meate.
My stomacke is not good;
But sure I thinke that I can drynke
With him that weares a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a colde;
I stuff my skyn so full within,
Of jolly good ale and olde.
Backe and side go bare, go bare,
Both foote and hande go colde;
But, bellye, God sende thee good ale enoughe,
Whether it be newe or olde.

2.

I love no rost, but a nut-browne toste,
And a crab laid in the fyre;
A little breade shall do me stead,
Much breade I not desyre.
No frost nor snow, nor winde, nor trowe,
Can hurt me if I wolde;
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt,
Of jolly good ale and olde,
Backe and side go bare, &c.

3.

And Tyb, my wyfe, that, as her lyfe,
Loveth well good ale to seeke;
Full of drynkes shee, tyll ye may see
The teares run down her cheeke:

Then dowth she trowle to mee the boule,
Even as a mault-worme shuld;
And sayth, “Sweete hart, I took my parte
Of this jolly good ale and olde.”
Backe and side go bare, &c.

4.

Now let them drynke, till they nod and wynke,
Even as good felowes should doe:
They shall not mysse to have the blysse
Good ale doth bringe men to.
And all poore soules that have scrowr'd boules,
Or have them lustely trolde,
God save the lyves of them and their wyves,
Whether they be yonge or old.
Backe and syde go bare, &c.

At my Time of Day.

At my time o' day
It were proper, in truth,
If I could be less gay
Than your frolicsome youth,
And now, old and gray
To plod on my way
Like a senior, in sooth.
I wish my old tricks
I could wholly forget;
But the apple here sticks,
Undigested as yet.
Let the good folks who will
With my plan disagree,
They may scold me their fill,
If I only am free
To retain in full glee
All my good humor still.

Farewell, Beggarly Scotland.

1

Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland.
Cold and beggarly poor countrie;
If ever I cross thy border again,
The muckle deil must carry me.
There's but one tree in a' the land,
And that's the bonny gallows tree;
The very nowte look to the south,
And wish that they had wings to flee.

2

Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,
Brose and Bannocks, crowdy and kale!
Welcome, welcome, jolly old England,
Laughing lasses and foaming ale!

'Twas when I came to merry Carlisle,
That out I laughed loud laughters three,
And if I cross the Sark again,
The muckle deil maun carry me.

3

Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,
Kilted kimmers, wi' carroty hair,
Pipers, who beg that your honors would buy
A bawbee's worth of their famished air.
I'd rather keep Cadwallader's goats,
And feast upon toasted cheese and leeks,
Than go back again to the beggarly North,
To herd 'mang loons with bottomless breeks.

French Slang Song from Vidocq.

As from ken

Ken—shop, house.

to ken I was going,
Doing a bit on the prigging lay;

Prigging lay—thieving business.

Who should I meet but a jolly blowen,

Blowen—girl, strumpet, sweetheart.

Tol lol, lol lol, tol derol, ay;
Who should I meet but a jolly blowen,
Who was fly

Fly—(contraction of flash) awake, up to, practised in.

to the time o' day.

Time o' day—knowledge of business, thieving, &c.

Who should I meet but a jolly blowen,
Who was fly to the time o' day;
I pattered in flash

Pattered in flash—spoke in slang.

like a covey,

Covey—man.

knowing,
Tol lol, &c.
“Ay, bub or grubby,

Bub, grub—drink, food.

I say.”

I pattered in flash, like a covey, knowing,
“Ay, bub or grubby, I say.”—

“Lots of gatter,”

Gatter—porter.

quo she, “are flowing,
Tol lol, &c.
Lend me a lift in the family way.

Family—the thieves in general. The Family Way—the thieving line.

“Lots of gatter,” quo she, “are flowing,
Lend me a list in the family way.
You may have a crib

Crib—bed.

to stow in,
Tol lol, &c.
Welcome, my pal,

Pal—friend, companion, paramour.

as the flowers in May.

“You may have a bed to stow in;
Welcome, my pal, as the flowers in May.”
To her ken at once I go in,
Tol lol, &c.
Where in a corner out of the way.

To her ken at once I go in,
Where in a corner out of the way,
With his smeller,

Smeller—nose. Trumpet blowing here is not slang, but poetry for snoring.

a trumpet blowing,
Tol lol, &c.
A regular swell-cove

Swell cove—gentleman, dandy.

lushy

Lushy—drunk.

lay.

With his smeller a trumpet blowing,
A regular swell-cove lushy lay:

To his clies

Clies—pockets.

my hooks

Hooks—fingers; in full, thieving hooks.

I throw in,
Tol lol, &c.
And collar his dragons

Collar his dragons—take his sovereigns; on the obverse of a sovereign is, or was, a figure of St. George and the dragon. The etymon of collar is obvious to all persons who know the taking-ways of Bow-street, and elsewhere. It is a whimsical coincidence, that the motto of the Marquis of Londonderry is “Metuenda coralla draconis.” Ask the city of London, if “I fear I may not collar the dragons,” would not be a fair translation.

clear away.

To his clies my hooks I throw in,
And collar his dragons clear away;
Then his ticker

Ticker—watch. The French slung is tocquanta.

I set agoing,
Tol lol, &c.
And his onions,

Onions—seals.

chain, and key.

Then his ticker I set agoing,
With his onions, chain, and key.
Next slipt off his bottom clo'ing,
Tol lol, &c.
And his gingerbread topper gay.

Next slipt off his bottom clo'ing,
And his gingerbread topper gay,

Then his other toggery

Toggery—clothes [from toga.]

stowing,
Tol lol, &c.
All with the swag,

Swag—plunder.

I sneak away.

Then his other toggery stowing,
All with the swag I sneak away.
“Tramp it, tramp it, my jolly blowen,
Tol lol, &c.
Or be grabbed

Grabbed—taken.

by the beaks

Beaks—police-officers.

we may.

“Tramp it, tramp it, my jolly blowen,
Or be grabbed by the beaks we may;
And we shall caper a-heel-and-toeing,
Tol lol, &c.
A Newgate hornpipe some fine day.

“And we shall caper a-heel-and-toeing,
A Newgate hornpipe some fine day;
With the mots,

Mots—girls.

their ogles

Ogles—eyes.

throwing,
Tol lol, &c.
And old Cotton

Old Cotton—then Ordinary of Newgate.

humming his pray.

Humming his pray—saying his prayers.

“With the mots their ogles throwing,
And old Cotton humming his pray;
And the sogle-hunters

Fogle-hunters—pickpockets.

doing,
Tol lol, &c.
Their morning fake

Morning fake—morning thievery.

in the prigging lay.

CHILD DANIEL.

In Fancy-land there is a burst of wo,
The spirit's tribute to the fallen; see
On each scarr'd front the clouds of sorrow grow,
Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he
For whom grief's mighty butt is broach'd so free?

Were his brows shadow'd by the awful crown,
The Bishop's mitre, or high plumery
Of the mail'd warrior? Won he his renown
On pulpit, throne, or field, whom death hath now struck down?

He won it in the field where arms are none,
Save those the mother gives to us. He was
A climbing star which had not fully shone,
Yet promised in its glory to surpass
Our champion star ascendant; but alas!
The sceptred shade that values earthly might,
And pow'r and pith, and bottom, as the grass,
Gave with his fleshless fist a buffet slight;—
Say, bottle-holding Leach, why ends so soon the fight?

What boots t' inquire?—'Tis done. Green mantled Erin
May weep her hopes of milling sway past by,
And Cribb, sublime, no lowlier rival fearing,
Repose, sole Ammon of the fistic sky,
Conceited, quaffing his blue ruin high,
Till comes the Swell, that come to all men must,
By whose foul blows Sir Daniel low doth lie,
Summons the Champion to resign his trust,
And mingles his with Kings, Slaves, Chieftains, Beggars' dust!

SORROW IS DRY.

[_]

Being a New Song, by Dr. James Scott.

When to Peggy Bauldie's daughter, first I told Sir Daniel's death,
Like a glass of soda-water it took away her breath;
It took away your breath, my dear, and it sorely dimm'd your sight,
And ay ye let the salt, salt tear, down fall for Erin's knight;
For he was a knight of glory bright, the spur ne'er deck'd a bolder,
Great George's blade itself was laid upon Sir Daniel's shoulder.
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

I took a turn along the street, to breathe the Trongate air,
Carnegie's lass I chanced to meet, with a bag of lemons fair;

Says I, “Gude Meg, ohon! ohon! you've heard of Dan's disaster—
If I'm alive, I'll come at five, and feed upon your master—
A glass or two no harm will do to either saint or sinner,
And a bowl with friends will make amends for a so so sort of dinner.”
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

I found Carnegie in his nook, upon the old settee,
And dark and dismal was his look, as black as black might be,
Then suddenly the blood did fly, and leave his face so pale,
That scarce I knew, in alter'd hue, the bard of Largo's vale;
But Meg was winding up the jack, so off flew all my pains,
For, large as cocks, two fat earocks I knew were hung in chains.
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

Nevertheless, he did express his joy to see me there—
Meg laid the cloth, and, nothing loath, I soon pull'd in my chair;
The mutton broth and bouilli both came up in season due—
The grace is said—when Provan's head at the door appears in view—
The bard at work like any Turk, first nods an invitation;
For who so free as all the three from priggish botheration?
Sing, Hey, ho, the Sneddon, &c.

Ere long the Towddies deck the board with a cod's head and shoulders,
And the oyster-sauce it surely was great joy to all beholders.
To George our king a jolly cann of royal port is poured—
Our gracious king, who knighted Dan with his own shining sword—
The next we sip with trembling lip—'tis of the claret clear—
To the hero dead that cup we shed, and mix it with a tear.
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

'Tis now your servant's turn to mix the nectar of the bowl:
Still on the Ring our thoughts we fix, while round the goblets roll,
Great Jackson, Belcher, Scroggins, Gas, we celebrate in turns,
Each Christian, Jew, and Pagan, with the Fancy's flame that burns;
Carnegie's finger on the board a mimic circle draws,
And, Egan-like, h' expounds the rounds, and pugilistic laws.
Sing, Hey ho the Sneddon, &c.

'Tis thus that worth heroic is suitably lamented.—
Great Daniel's shade, I know it, dry grief had much resented—
What signify your tear and sigh?—A bumper is the thing
Will gladden most the generous ghost of a champion of the King,
The tear and sigh from voice and eye must quickly pass away,
But the bumper good may be renewed until our dying day!
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

EXTRACT FROM MY GREAT AUTO-BIOGRAPHICAL POEM.

It is most veritable,—that sage law
Which tells that, at the wane of mightiness,
Yea even of colossal guilt, or power
That, like the iron man by poets feign'd,
Can with uplifted arm draw from above
The ministering lightnings, all insensible
To touch of other feeling, we do find
That which our hearts have cherish'd but as fear,
Is mingled still with love; and we must weep
The very loss of that which caused our tears.—
E'en so it happeneth when Donnelly dies.
Cheeks are besullied with unused brine,
And eyes disguis'd in tumid wretchedness,
That oft have put such seeming on for him,
But not at Pity's bidding!—Yea, even I,
Albeit, who never “ruffian'd” in the ring,
Nor know of “challenge,” save the echoing hills;
Nor “fibbing,” save that poesy doth feign;

Nor heard his fame, but as the mutterings
Of clouds contentious on Helvellyn's side,
Distant, yet deep, agnize a strange regret,
And mourn Donnelly—Honourable Sir Daniel:—
(Blessings be on them, and eternal praise,
The Knighter and the Knighted.) Love doth dwell
Here in these solitudes, and our corporal clay
Doth for its season bear the self-same fire,
Impregnate with the same humanities,
Moulded and mixed like others.

I remember,
Once on a time,—'twas when I was a boy,
For I was childish once, and often since
Have, with a cheerful resignation, learned
How soon the boy doth prophecy the man,—
I chanced, with one whom I could never love,
Yet seldom left, to thread a thorny wood,
To seek the stock-doves' sacred domicile;—
Like thieves, we did contend about our crime,
I and that young companion. Of that child
His brief coevals still had stood in awe,
And Fear did do him menial offices,
While Silence walk'd beside, and word breath'd none.
Howbeit, mine arm, which oft in vassal wise
Had borne his satchel, and but ill defended
From buffets, half in sport, half tyrannous,
With which I was reguerdon'd,—chanced prevail.

His soul was then subdued, and much and sore
He wept, convulsive; nay, his firm breast heav'd,
As doth the bosom of the troublous lake
After the whirlwind goeth; and so sad
Did seem the ruins of his very pride,
I could not choose but weep with him, so long
We sobb'd together, till a smile 'gan dry
The human rain, and he once more was calm;—
For sorrow, like all else, hath end. Albeit,
Those tears, however boyish, were more fit,
Since nature's self did draw them from their source,
Than aught that cunning'st poet can distil,
By potent alchemy, from human eye,
To consecrate Donnelly's grave. Even so;
For they discours'd with a dumb eloquence,

Beyond the tongue of dirge or epitaph,
Of that which passeth in man's heart, when Power,
Like Babylon, hath fall'n, and pass'd away.

SIR DANIEL DONNELLY.—A BALLAD.

I came down to breakfast—And why all this sobbing,
This weeping and wailing? I hastily cried;
Has Grimalkin, my boy, ta'en away your tame Robin?
Has Duckling, or Pullet, or White Coney died?

'Twas thus the short list of his joys I ran over,
While the tears were fast coursing down Timothy's face,
And strove the small darling his red cheek to cover.—
What is this?—thought my soul—Is it grief or disgrace?

I looked on the Courier, my weekly newspaper,
For I felt that the cause of his sorrow was there;
So quick is grief's eye that no word could escape her—
“Dead is Daniel, the hero of Donnybrooke fair!”

O mournful was then the low song of the kettle,
And long look'd my face in the bright polish'd grate;
Dull, dull clank'd the tongs, though composed of true metal,
They seemed to my fancy the long shears of fate.

I sought the fresh air, but the sun, like a firebrand
In my dark bosom kindled grief's faggotty pile:
Ah, me! ye five Catholic millions of Ireland,
What now will become of your bull-breeding isle?

Mine eyes met the earth, in their wand'ring uneasy;
And I thought, as I saw through the vanishing snow
The flower of Sir Daniel, the bright shining Daisy,
On that beautiful poem I wrote long ago.

By the stroke of the thunder-stone split in its glory,
On the earth lay extended a green-crested pine;
Then I dreamt, poor Sir Dan, of thy pitiful story,
For the trunk was as straight and as knotty as thine!

Thus sun, flower, and tree all, in blaze, blight, or blossom,
The same sombre image of sorrow supplied,
While Nature breath'd forth from her mountainous bosom,
‘Weep, weep for the day when Dan Donnelly died!”

ODONNELLY, AN ODE BY MORGAN ODOHERTY.

I.

When green Erin laments for her hero, removed
From the Isle where he flourished, the Isle that he loved,
Where he entered so often the twenty foot lists,
And, twinkling like meteors, he flourished his fists,
And gave to his foes more set downs and toss overs,
Than ever was done by the greatest philosophers,
In folio, in twelves, or in quarto,
Shall the harp of Odoherty silent remain,
And shall he not waken its music again?
Oh! yes, with his soul and his heart too!

II.

Majestic Odonnelly! proud as thou art,
Like a cedar on top of Mount Hermon,
We lament that death shamelessly made thee depart,
In the gripes, like a blacksmith or chairman.
Oh! hadst thou been felled by Tom Cribb in the ring,
Or by Carter been milled to a jelly,
Oh! sure that had been a more dignified thing,
Than to kick for a pain in your belly!

III.

A curse on the belly that robbed us of thee,
And the bowels unfit for their office;
A curse on the potyeen you swallowed too free,
For a stomach complaint, all the doctors agree,
Far worse than a headach or cough is.
Death, who like a cruel and insolent bully, drubs
All those he thinks fit to attack,
Cried Dan, my tight lad, try a touch of my mulligrubs,
Which soon laid him flat on his back!

IV.

Great Spirits of Broughton, Jem Belcher, and Fig,
Of Corcoran, Pierce, and Dutch Sam;
Whether up stairs or down, you kick up a rig,
And at intervals pause your blue ruin to swig,
Or with grub, your bread baskets to cram.
Or, whether for quiet you're placed all alone
In some charming retired little heaven of your own,
Where the turf is elastic, in short just the thing
That Bill Gibbons would choose when he's forming a ring,
That wherever you wander you still may turn to,
And thrash and be thrashed till you're all black and blue;
Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,
And you eat and you drink, and you fight all the year;
Ah! receive then to join in your milling delight,
The shade of Sir Daniel Donnelly, knight;
With whom a turn up is no frolic;
His is no white or cold liver,
For he beat Oliver,
Challenged Carter, and died of the colic.

V.

Bad luck to my soul,
But I'll fill the punch bowl,
To the brim with good stingo; and so, Nelly,
Don't let the toast pass you,
But fill up your glass to
Demolishing Daniel Donnelly.

[Mourn Erin, sons of Erin mourn]

[_]

Translated by the Rev. E. Hincks, F. T. C. D.

1

Mourn Erin, sons of Erin mourn,
Give utterance to the inward throe,
As wails of her first love forlorn,
The virgin clad in robes of wo.

2

Mourn for our Champion snatched away
From the fair Currag's verdant ring;
Mourn for his fist now wrapt in clay,
No more the ponderous thump to fling.

3

Mourn for the daisy flower that went,
Ere half disclosed its boxing powers;
Mourn the green bud so rudely rent
From Ireland's pngilistic bowers.

4

Mourn for the universal wo,
With solemn dirge and faltering tongue,
For Ireland's champion is laid low,
So stout, so hearty, and so strong.

9

Mourn for old Ireland's hopes decayed,
Her bruisers weep in mournful strain,
Their fair example prostrate laid,
By seven-and-forty tumblers slain.

11

Long as the Commons-hall is trod,
Will I the yearly dirge renew,
Mourn for the nursling of the sod,
Our darling hurried from our view.

12

The proud shall pass forgot; the chill,
Damp, trickling vault their only mourner,
Not so our daisy; no, that still
Clings to the breast which first had worn her.

A DIRGE OVER SIR DANIEL DONNELLY; BY THOMAS JENNINGS.

[_]

Tune—“Molly Astore.”

1

As down Exchequer Street I strayed,
A little time ago,
I chanced to meet an honest blade,
His face brimful of wo;
I asked him why he seemed so sad,
Or why he sighed so sore;
O Grammachree, och Tom, says he,
Sir Daniel is no more!

2

With that he took me straight away,
And pensively we went,
To where poor Daniel's body lay,
In wooden waistcoat pent;
And many a yard before we reached
The threshold of his door,
We heard the keeners as they screeched,
Sir Daniel is no more!

3

We entered soft, for feelings sad
Were stirring in our breast,
To take our farewell of the lad,
Who now was gone to rest;

We took a drop of Dan's potheen,
And joined the piteous roar;
O, where shall be his fellow seen,
Since Daniel is no more!

4

His was the fist whose weighty dint
Did Oliver defeat,
His was the fist that gave the hint
It need not oft repeat,
His was the fist that overthrew
His rivals o'er and o'er;
But now we cry in pillalu,
Sir Daniel is no more!

5

Cribb, Cooper, Carter, need not fear
Great Donnelly's renown,
For at his wake we're seated here,
While he is lying down;
For Death, that primest swell of all,
Has laid him on the floor,
And left us here, alas! to bawl,
Sir Daniel is no more!

EPITAPH.

Here lies Sir Daniel Donnelly,
A pugilist of fame;
In Ireland bred and born was he,
And he was genuine game;
Then if an Irishman you be,
When you have read this o'er,
Go home and drink the memory
Of him who is no more.

[Underneath this pillar high]

Underneath this pillar high
Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly;
He was a stout and handy man,
And people called him “Buffing Dan;”
Knighthood he took from George's sword,
And well he wore it, by my word!
He died at last from forty-seven
Tumblers of punch he drank one even;
O'erthrown by punch, unharmed by fist,
He died unbeaten Pugilist!
Such a buffer as Donnelly,
Ireland never again will see.

Obiit xiiio Kal. Martii mdcccxx.

[“What is it ails you, ye beauteous people]

[_]

A New Song, to the tune of the Groves of Blarney, being in Lamentation for the unhappy death of Sir Daniel Donnelly, Kt. C. I. By Richard Dowden.

1

“What is it ails you, ye beauteous people
Why are ye dropping the salt, salt tear,
Why does your tipple stand like a steeple,
None of ye stirring about the beer?”
'Twas thus I spoke to some honest fellows,
Sitting in grief in Cork's own town,
At Judy Kelly's, sign of the bellows,
Over the best of Beamish's brown.
Hulla, hulla, hulla, hulla, hulla, mulla-gone.

2

'Twas they that answered me in a minute,
“Where do you come from, my honest man?
If from Ireland, the devil's in it
If you don't know 'tis all for Dan!
For brave Sir Daniel, that was no spaniel,
But a true bull-dog of Irish game,
Who laid his whacks on the bullying Saxon
All for the honour of Ireland's name.
Hulla, hulla, &c.

3

“He treated Oliver, just as Gulliver
Treated the Lilliputian's house;
For he was a buffer that would not suffer
Crossbuttock, cuff, or thump like a mouse;
But like a lion, or bright Orion,
Or ould King Brian, surnamed Boro',
Who made the Danes, Sir, quit Clontarf's plains, Sir,
As fast as Boney quit Waterloo.
Hulla, hulla, &c.

4

“Our worthy Regent was so delighted
With the great valour he did evince,
That Dan was cited, ay, and invited
To come be knighted by his own Prince;
Sir Richard Phillips, or Sir Bob Wilson,
Could not compare with him in worth:
For this transaction, may satisfaction
Crown every action of George the Fourth.
Hulla, hulla, &c.

5

“Was I a poet, 'tis I would show it,
And all should know it this cruel night;
I'd give the nation a bold oration
In declamation and letters bright
From Cork and Kerry to Londonderry
A mullagone I'd sadly roar,
With sweet Poll Cleary, and Judy Leary,
The blood-relations of my Lord Donoughmore.
Hulla, hulla, &c.

6

“O Counsellor Connell, Æneas M'Donnel,
And Charley Phillips, my speaking man,

How you would swagger in trope and figure,
If you were paid for praising Dan!
But without money, none of 'em, honey,
Can bear to wag their humbugging jaw;
They're not worth naming, the set of scheming,
Roguish, make-gaming limbs of the law.”
Hulla, hulla, &c.

7

So sung this sporter, over his porter,
Chanting as sweet as a nightingale;
Even Nebuchadnezzar, or Julius Cæsar,
Would gladly stay Sir, to hear the tale.
I bet a penny, that Mr. Rennie,
And Mr. Davy, himself beside,
Wouldn't make a ditty one half so pretty,
On brave Sir Daniel, our Irish pride,
Hulla, hulla, &c.

The Embalmer.

I. VERSE OF “TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE.”

[_]

Sung by Iago in the Second Act of Othello.

King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all too dear,
And so he call'd the tailor loon.
He was a king, and wore a crown,
Thou art a squire of low degree;
'Tis pride that pulls the country down,
So take thy old cloak about thee.

II. VERSES OF JULY THE FIRST, THE GREAT ORANGE SONG IN IRELAND.

July the first, in old Bridge town,
There was a grievous battle,—

Where many a man lay on the ground,
And the cannon they did rattle.
King James, he pitch'd his tents between,
His lines for to retire,
But William threw his bomb-balls in,
And set them all on fire.

The horse and cannon cross'd the stream,
And the foot came following a'ter,
But brave Duke Schomberg lost his life
In crossing the Boyne Water.

A bullet from the Irish came,
And grazed King William's arm—
They thought his majesty was slain,
But it did him little harm.

The Protestants of Drogheda
Have reason to be thankful,
That they were all preserved that day,
Though they were but a handful.

III. GROVES OF BLARNEY.

The groves of Blarney they are most charming—
Blarnæi nemora sunt jucundissima visu.

'Tis lady Jeffries, that owns this station,
Like Alexander or Helen fair;
There is no lady in all the nation
For emulation can with her compare.
She has castles round her, that no nine-pounder
Can dare to plunder her place of strength,
But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel,
And made a hole in her battlement.

IV. VERSE OF MARY AMBREE.

When our brave commanders, whom death could not daunt,
March'd off to the siege of the city of Gaunt;
They counted their forces by two and by three,
But the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.

V. VERSE OF SIR TRISTREM.

[_]

[I have translated the entire poem.]

Geten and born was so,
The child was fair and white,
Nas never Rohand so wo,
He wist not what to wite;
To childbed ded he go,
His owhen wiif al so tite,
Said he had children to,
On hem was his delite,
Bi Crist,
In court men cleped him so,
Tho Tram bifor the Trist.

100

VI. ON SIR P. SARSFIELD.

Oh! Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland's wonder,
Who fought in field like any thunder,
One of King James's chief commanders,
Now lies the food of crows in Flanders.
Ohone!

VII. ON JOHN, DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

By Doctor Evans.

Here lies John, Duke of Marlborough,
Who ran the Frenchman thorough and thorough;
Married Sarah Jennings, spinster,
Died in Saint James's, and was buried in Westminster.

VIII. CONCLUSION OF THE EPITAPH ON HENRY, DUKE OF GRAFTON, SON OF CHARLES II. KILLED AT THE SIEGE OF CORK, 1690.

Yet a bullet of Cork
It did his work,

101

Unhappy pellet!
With grief I tell it,
It has undone
Great Cæsar's son!
A statesman's spoil'd;
A soldier foil'd;
God rot him
Who shot him,—
A son of a—,
I say no more.
Here lies Henry, the Duke of Grafton!

IX. ON ROBIN HOOD.

Underneath this little stone,
Lies Robert, Earl of Huntingdon;
He was in truth an archer good,
And people call'd him Robin Hood.
Such outlaws as he and his men
England never will see again.

102

X. ON SIR DANIEL DONNELLY, C. I.

Underneath this pillar high,
Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly;
He was a stout and handy man,
And people call'd him buffing Dan.
Knighthood he took from George's sword,
And well he wore it by my word!
He died at last, from forty-seven
Tumblers of punch he drank one even.
O'erthrown by punch, unharm'd by fist,
He died unbeaten pugilist.
Such a buffer as Donnelly,
Ireland never again will see.

103

Irish Melodies.

107

Song I. SAINT PATRICK.

108

1

A fig for St. Dennis of France,
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers,
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

2

He came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steam-boat he beat to a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted:
Says he, “The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty,
So bring me a flagon of drink,
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a saint.”

3

He preach'd then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;
With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,
“For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”
The people, with wonderment struck,

109

At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaim'd “We're for you, my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below.”

4

This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the saint, “This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,
So give me a pull at the pot.”

5

The pewter he lifted in sport,
(Believe me, I tell you no fable,)
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then planted it full on the table.
“A miracle!” every one said,
And they all took a haul at the stingo;
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.

6

Next day quoth his host, “'Tis a fast,
But I've nought in my larder but mutton,
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?”
Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon!”
And the leg most politely complied.

7

You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes in a manner most antic,
He march'd to the county Mayo,
And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink
The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick has fill'd it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.

110

8

O! he was an elegant blade,
As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper,
And though under the sod he is laid,
Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish—
Because all the liquor is out!

Song II. LAMENT OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER.

[_]

Air.—Lamentation over Sir Dan.

1

I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
I'd not care who 'twas with, nor what it was for:
With the French, or the Yankees—or, better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain!

2

My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.

3

When he, who, God rest him! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas, commanded the Fighting Brigade;

111

And the Rangers of Connaught—to see them was life—
Made game of the Frenchmen, and gave them the knife.

4

When abroad and at home we had sport and content—
Who cared then a damn for tithe, taxes, or rent?
When each dashing fine fellow who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.

5

Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft—
The soldier's discharged,—and the sailor adrift,—
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,
And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord!

6

And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or shears;
Or if, just out of fun, we would venture a snap
At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.

7

So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face;
And I wish to St. Patrick we had a new war,
Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it is for!

Song III. RAFFERTY'S ADVICE.

[_]

Air.—Limerick Glove.

112

1

When you go courting a neat or a dainty lass,
Don't you be sighing or ready to faint, alas!
Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,
And to Old Nick she would send you a wandering.
But, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee!
Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Rafferty.

2

Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her;
Kiss her before she'd have time to say Christopher;
She may cry out, “You're an impudent fellow, sir!”
But her eye will unsay what her tongue it may tell you, sir.
Oh, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

3

Give her another, or rather a score of 'em,
Still you will find her ready for more of 'em;
Press her, caress her, my dear, like a stylish man,
For that is the way to go court like an Irishman.
Oh, you, &c.

4

Pitch to the devil sighings and “well-a-days,”
Oglings and singing of piperly melodies;
When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir,
Her heart it will melt like a lump of fresh butter, sir!
Oh, you, &c.

5

Oh, the dear creatures—sure I am kill'd with 'em!
My heart, was it big as the sea, would be fill'd with 'em;
Far have I truff'd it, and surely where'er I went,
'Twas with the girls I had fun and merriment.
Oh, you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

113

Song IV. THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS.

[_]

Tune—Groves of the Pool.

1

Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come, let us be off to the fair,
For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there;
Says they, “The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean.”
But it never was yet in their breeches, their bullaboo words to maintain.

2

There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke;
There's Corney, the bandy-legg'd tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like buttermilk out of his buff.

3

There's broken-nos'd Bat from the mountain—last week he burst out of the jail,
And Murty the beautiful Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail;

114

Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och! let him alone,
For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.

4

And Tim, who serv'd in the militia, his bayonet has stuck on a pole;
Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a neat sort of tool on the whole;
A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;
But I think that a man is more handy, who fights, as I do, with a flail.

5

We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men,
Who batter'd the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of their talk,
We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

6

After cutting out work for the sexton, by smashing a dozen or so,
We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go;
In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day;
When must'ring again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

Song V. A REAL IRISH “FLY NOT YET.”

[_]

[Tune—Lillibullero. Time, four o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts.]

115

1

Hark! hark! from below,
The rascally row
Of watchmen, in chorus, bawling “Four!”
But spite of their noise,
My rollocking boys!
We'll stay till we've emptied one bottle more.

Chorus.

Bumpers—bumpers—flowing bumpers!
Bumper your glasses high up to the brim!
And he who is talking
A word about walking,
Out of the window at once with him!

2

Our whiskey is good,
As ever yet stood,
Steaming on table from glass or pot:
It came from a still,
Snug under a hill,
Where the eye of the gauger saw it not.

Bumpers, &c.

3

Then why should we run
Away from the sun—
Here's to his health, my own elegant men!
We drank to his rest
Last night in the west,
And we'll welcome him now that he wakes again.

Bumpers, &c.

4

And here we shall stop,
Until every drop,
That charges our bottles, is gone, clean gone;

116

And then, sallying out,
We'll leather the rout,
Who've dared to remind us how time has run.

Bumpers, &c.

Song VI. THE IMPASSIONED WAVE.

[_]

[Tune—“Thomon um Though.”]

1

'Tis sweet upon the impassion'd wave
To hear the voice of music stealing,
And while the dark winds wildly rave,
To catch the genuine soul of feeling!

117

While all around, the ether blue
Its dim, majestic beam is shedding,
And roseate tints of heavenly hue
Are through the midnight darkness spreading!

2

So is it when the thrill of love
Through every burning pulse is flowing;
And like the foliage of the grove,
A holy light on all bestowing!
O! never from this fever'd heart
Shall dreams on wings of gold be flying;
But e'en when life itself shall part,
I'll think on thee, sweet maid, though dying!

3

'Twas thus, upon the mountain's height,
Young Dermod sung his plaint of sorrow,
Regardless of the evening light,
That ushers in the gay to-morrow!
For love had of his cheek bereft
That smile—that glow—of joyous gladness,
And sympathy's cold sting had left
Nought there—but pale and gloomy sadness!

125

Byron to Murray.

Attacks on me were what I look'd for, Murray,
But why the devil do they badger you?
These godly newspapers seem hot as curry,
But don't, dear Publisher, be in a stew.
They'll be so glad to see you in a flurry—
I mean those canting Quacks of your Review—
They fain would have you all to their own Set;
But never mind them—we're not parted yet.
They surely don't suspect you, Mr. John,
Of being more than accoucheur to Cain;
What mortal ever said you wrote the Don?
I dig the mine—you only fire the train!
But here—why, really, no great lengths I've gone—
Big wigs and buzz were always my disdain—
But my poor shoulders why throw all the guilt on?
There's as much blasphemy, or more, in Milton.

The thing's a drama, not a sermon-book;
Here stands the murderer—that's the old one there
In gown and cassock how would Satan look?
Should Fratricides discourse like Doctor Blair?
The puritanic Milton freedom took,
Which now-a-days would make a bishop stare;

126

But not to shock the feelings of the age,
I only bring you angels on the stage.
To bully You—yet shrink from battling Me,
Is baseness. Nothing baser stains “The Times,”
While Jeffrey in each catalogue I see,
While no one talks of priestly Playfair's crimes,
While Drummond, at Marseilles, blasphemes with glee,
Why all this row about my harmless rhymes?
Depend on't, Piso, 'tis some private pique
'Mong those that cram your Quarterly with Greek.
If this goes on, I wish you'd plainly tell 'em,
'Twere quite a treat to me to be indicted;
Is it less sin to write such books than sell 'em?
There's muscle!—I'm resolved I'll see you righted.
In me, great Sharpe, in me converte telum!
Come, Doctor Sewell, show you have been knighted.
—On my account you never shall be dunn'd,
The copyright, in part, I will refund.
You may tell all who come into your shop,
You and your Bull-dog both remonstrated;
My Jackall did the same, you hints may drop,
(All which, perhaps, you have already said.)
Just speak the word, I'll fly to be your prop,
They shall not touch a hair, man, in your head.
You're free to print this letter; you're a fool
If you don't send it first to the John Bull.

127

Ode to Mrs. Flanagan.

[_]

By an Irish Gentleman, lately deceased.

[_]

MSS. No. I. To Mrs. Kitty Flanagan, comforts her on the absence of her husband, Jerry Flanagan, mate of the Jolly Jupiter, and drops a hint about a light dragoon.

Why do cry, my sweet Mrs. Flanagan,
When you will soon have your own dear man again,
Whom the first wind will bring home from the Delaware,
Brimful of sovereigns, and such other yellow ware?

128

He's driven in to some port to the west of us,
(A thing that might happen, dear, to the best of us,)
Where he is sighing, sobbing, and chattering,
Night and day long, of his own dear Catherine:
Although his landlady, one Mrs. Gallagher,
Wants him to quit you, the rogue, and to follow her.
She tells him the tale of the wife of old Potiphar,
(Relating a fact that will ne'er be forgot of her,)
Who, from a feeling malignant and sulte-ry,
Had Joseph near hanged for eschewing adultery:
And from this basest, this vilest of women, he
Gets Mr. Hunt's smutty story of Rimini,

129

By which, 'tis plain, she hopes to a surety,
Soon to corrupt his natural purity;
But he resists her arts and her flattery,
Deaf and determined, just as a battery.
But there's a sergeant, one Patrick Hennessy,
Keep away, Kitty, from all such men as he,
Though he's so smart, that he's always employed, as
Rough-rider to the old Marquis of Drogheda's,
Though there are few so brawny and big, my dear,
Or far better at dancing a jig, my dear,
Close down your windows when he comes capering,
Shut both your doors and your ears to his vapouring,
Mind not the songs or sighs of this Hannibal,
But, looking at him, cross as a Cannibal,
Cry, “Come be off as light as a tailor, man,
I will be true to my own dear sailorman.”

130

Ode to Marshal Grouchy on his Return.

[_]

MSS. No. II. To Marshal Grouchy on his Return; or, Congratulatory Address by Mons.—.

1

O welcome home, my marshal, my colleague true and good,
When under brave Napoleon we dabbled long in blood;
Who brought you back to Paris in Bourbon's royal days?
Was it Madame Bonaparte's man, our own Monsieur de Cazes?

131

2

With thee I robbed through Prussia, through Portugal, and Spain;
With thee I marched to Russia, and then—marched back again;
With thee I faced the red-coats awhile at Waterloo;
And with thee I raised the war-song of jolly sauve qui peut.

3

I took the oaths to Louis, and now with face of brass,
I bawl against the royalists all in the Chambre Basse;
But you my lad were exiled, a mighty cruel thing,
For you did nothing surely, but fight against your king.

4

Then drink a health to th' Emperor, and curse Sir Hudson Lowe;
And decorate with stolen plate your honest-earned chateau;
And merrily, my marshal, we shall the goblet drain,
'Tis a chalice that I robbed one day, out of a church in Spain.

5

Fill, fill the bumper fairly, 'tis Chambertin, you see,
The Emperor's favourite liquor, and chant in pious glee,
A song of Monsieur Parny's Miladi Morgan's bard,
And curse the tasteless Bourbons who won't his muse reward.

6

Then with our wigs all perfumed, and our beavers cocked so fierce,
we'll throw a main together, or troll the amorous verse;
And I'll get as drunk as Irishmen, as Irishmen morbleu,
After six-and-thirty tumblers in drinking healths to you.

140

Odes by Q. Horatius Flaccus, and the City Poet of 1788.

TO DICKY GOSSIP. While he thinks of tittle-tattle, not to forget his wiggery.

Do you see that stately caxon,
Which looks with all its whiteness,
Like a bush o'erlaid with snow;
And the curls which range below,
Stand stiff in frosty brightness.

Come, melt some sweet pomatum—
And, for powder do not stint us;
Draw your irons from the stove;
And, Dicky, quickly move,
To make my old wig as portentous.

Don't ask of to-morrow's matters,
Since them, nor you, nor I, know;

141

Mind your shop, my boy, nor spurn
From customers, to earn,
For scraping their muzzles, their rhino.

Show yourself a wise wig-maker,
For sure you've enough to handle,
As long as folks don't wear
Their own untrimmed gray hair,
Without heeding the whispers of scandal

Yet ah, those ears so itching!
My muse can not restrain 'em;
Should a laugh come from the street,
Comb and razor you would quit,
Nor longer could your fingers retain 'em.

152

Drink Away!

1

Come draw me six magnums of claret,
Don't spare it,
But share it in bumpers around;
And take care that in each shining brimmer
No glimmer
Of skimmering daylight be found.
Fill away! Fill away! Fill away!
Fill bumpers to those that you love,
For we will be happy to day!
As the gods are when drinking above,
Drink away! Drink away!

2

Give way to each thought of your fancies,
That dances,
Or glances, or looks of the fair;
And beware that from fears of to-morrow
You borrow
No sorrow, nor foretaste of care.
Drink away, drink away, drink away!
For the honour of those you adore:
Come, charge! and drink fairly to-day,
Though you swear you will never drink more.

3

I last night, cut, and quite melancholy,
Cried folly!
What's Polly to reel for her fame?
Yet I'll banish such hint till the morning,
And scorning
Such warning to-night, do the same.
Drink away, drink away, drink away!
'Twill banish blue devils and pain;
And to-night for my joys if I pay,
Why, to-morrow I'll do it again.

153

Drouthiness.

I had a dream, which was not all-my-eye.
The deep wells were exhausted, and the pumps
Delivered nothing but a windy groan
To those who plied their handles; and the clouds
Hung like exsuccous sponges in the sky.
Morn came and went—and came and brought no rain,
And men forgot their hunger in the dread
Of utter failure of all drink—their chops
Were all athirst for something potable;
And they did swig, from hogsheads, brandy, wine,
Cider, brown-stout, and such like, meant to serve
For future merry-makings—cellars dim,
Were soon dismantled of the regular tiers,
Of bottles, which were piled within their binns;
Small beer was now held precious—yea, they gulp'd
Black treacle, daubing childish visages,
Gripe-giving vinegar, and sallad oil.
Nor were old phials, fill'd with doctor's stuff,
Things to be sneezed at now—they toss'd them off.
Happy were they who dwelt within the reach
Of the pot-houses, and their foaming taps.
Barrels were all a-broach—and hour by hour
The spigots ran—and then a hollow sound
Told that the casks were out—and the Red Cow,
The Cat and Bagpipes, or the Dragon Green,
Could serve no customers—their pots were void
The moods of men, in this unwatery,
Small-beerless time, were different. Some sat
Unbuttoning their waistcoats, while they frown'd,
Scarce knowing what they did; while hopeful, some
Button'd their breeches-pockets up, and smiled;
And servant lasses scurried to and fro,
With mops unwet, and buckets, wondering when
The puddles would be fill'd, that they might scrub
The household floors; but finding puddles none,
They deem'd their pattens would grow obsolete—
Things of forgotten ages. So they took

154

Their disappointed mops, and render'd them
Back to their dry receptacles, The birds
Forsook their papery leaves. The dairy cows
Went dry, and were not milk'd. Incessantly
Ducks quack'd, aye stumbling on with flabby feet,
Over the sun-baked mud, which should have felt
Pulpy beneath their bills; and eels did crawl
Out from what had been ponds, and needed not
The angler's baited hook, or wicker-pot,
To catch them now,—for they who baffled erst,
Through sliminess, man's grasp, were still indeed
Wriggling—but dusty,—they were skinn'd for food.
He who, by lucky chance, had wherewithal
To wet his whistle, took his drop apart,
And smack'd his lips alone; small love was left:
Folks had but then one thought, and that was drink,
Where to be had, and what? The want of it
Made most men cross, and eke most women too.
The patient lost their patience, and the sour
Grew still more crabbed, sharp-nosed, and shrill-voiced.
Even cats did scratch their maiden Mistresses,
Angry that milk forthcame not,—all, save one,
And he was faithful to the virgin dame
Who petted him;—but, be it not conceal'd,
The rumour ran that he his whiskers greased
From a pomatum-pot, and so he quell'd
The rage of thirst; himself sought naught to lap,
But, with a piteous and perpetual mew,
And a quick snivelling sneeze, sat bundled up,
And taking matters quietly—he lived.
The crowd forsook our village; only two
Of the parishioners still tarried there,
And they were enemies; they met beside
(One only stood before and one behind)
The empty settle of a public-house,
Where had been heap'd a mass of pots and mugs
For unavailing usage; they snatch'd up,
And, scraping, lick'd, with their pounced-parchment tongues,
The porter-pots a-dust; their eager eyes
Dived into gin-bottles, where gin was not,
Labell'd in mockery,—then they lifted up
Their eyes for one brief moment, but it was
To hang their heads more sillily, ashamed
Each of his futile quest;—but 'twas enough
For recognition,—each saw, and leer'd and grinn'd.—
Even at their mutual sheepishness they grinn'd,

155

Discovering how upon each foolish face
Shiness had written Quiz. The land was dry;
Day pass'd, defrauded of its moistest meals,
Breakfastless, milkless, tealess, soupless, punchless,
All things were dry,—a chaos grimed with dust.
Tubs washer-womanless, replete with chinks,
Stood in their warping tressels—suds were none;
And dirty linen lost all heart, and hope
Of due ablution—shirts were worn a month—
White pocket-handkerchiefs were quite abandon'd,
And so were nankin inexpressibles—
Yea, most things washable,—and Washing seem'd
To threaten that henceforth it must be named
Among lost arts. Water had fled the Earth,
And left no tears in people's eyes to weep
Its sad departure;—Drouthiness did reign
Queen over all—She was the universe!

157

A FESTAL ODE.

What constitutes a feast?
Not haunch of venison, of flavour true,
Fat, juicy, nicely drest;
Nor turtle calipash of verdant hue;

158

Not soup, in whose rich flood,
French cooks a thousand relishes infuse;
Not fricassees well stewed,
Nor France's greater boast, high-fumed ragouts;
Not a sirloin of beef,
Crowning a dish in which rich gravy lies;
Not turbot, ocean chief,
Which ruddy lobster-sauce accompanies,
No—a good appetite,
And good digestion, turn into a feast
Whate'er front-tooth can bite,
And grinders manducate, and palate taste.
Be it homely bread and cheese,
Of which the ravenous carl tucks in some pounds;
Or bacon smoked, where grease,
Five fingers thick, each stripe of lean surrounds;
Be it onion, fiery root,
Whose rank effluvia draws unbidden tears;
Potato, Erin's fruit,
With which the bogtrotter his stomach cheers;
Be it cabbage, flabby leaf!
Which cross-legg'd tailors smack with liquorish chops;
Or oatmeal porridge, chief,—
Undoubted chief of Scotland's rustic slops.
Yet in these meals so plain,
Let but sharp appetite as guest attend,
And napkin'd Aldermen
May grudge the goût with which the bits descend.
This constitutes a feast,
To experience hunger and have wherewithal
(Though it be not of the best)
To stop the void bread-basket's healthy call.

Lord Byron's Combolio.

INTRODUCTION.

Reading public! whose hunger,
Thou egregious bookmonger,
Gets monthly large parcels
Of fresh sheets, for thy morsels;
And though publishers race, yet
Thou never art satiate
Of new poems, new histories,

159

New dramas, new Mysteries,
New romances, new novels,
New voyages, new travels,
New tourifications,
New post prandium orations;
New lives and new memoirs,
New guide-books, new grammars,
New systems of science,
(Some writ in defiance
Of the sense that's called common)
New endeavors to hum one,
Of old lies new editions,
Of old follies new visions,
New modes of abusing,
(Peep for these the Reviews in),
New revivals of scandal,
By some right or wrong handle;
In short, what is new, Sir,
Finds in thee a peruser.
Reader General! thou patron
Of many a squadron,
Who, with goose quills ink laden,
(Which their stands had best staid in,)
Lose available labour
In blurring white paper,—
To thee do I dedi-
cate, now this most edi-
fying sample of doggrel,
Which will sure catalogue well
The works now abundant,
Of an Author redundant:
And we do not disparage
The rolls of the Peerage
In saying, though they strive all
To discover a rival;
And be Horace Walpole
Stirr'd up with a tall pole,
And his book's last edition
Put in due requisition;
Let the Lords not be hindered
From including their kindred,—
Yet they will not environ
Such a Poet as Byron.
Him, thou, Reading Demus!
Hast been pleased to make famous;
So take to thy favour
This industrious endeavour
To make out a list of
The hanks, which his distaff
Has long time been untwining,
Of verses so genuine,
That renown they must e'en win.
Let some fame too o'erbubble
On his pate, who great trouble
(Behold it) hath taken
In this catalogue making.

THE ROSARY.

The first stretch of his powers
Was made in “The Hours”
'Clept “of Idlesse,” that syren,
“By George Gordon Lord Byron.”
No need of diviner,
To shew that “a Minor”
The book had compounded;
But to warn us, we found it
Printed under and over,
On the back on the cover,
On the title-page ominous,
And in prose prologomenous.
'Twas, in spite of the pother
Neither one thing nor t'other;

160

And though it was poorish,
It deserved not the flourish
Of that tomahawk cruel
In the saffron and cerule,
Which notch'd it and nick'd it;
In short those wits wicked
Had their sport with the lordling,
Whom they thought a soft bardling,
Too meek to retort it;
But they were not so sorted,
For his next was a stinger;
Master Frank found his finger
Had been burnt in the venture
With one, not a flincher
When his Pegasus skittish
Gave a fling at “Bards British.”

If the “Hours” failed in merit,
There was talent and spirit
In this nettle stuff'd satire;
And the blows, like the platter
Of hail, fell by dozens
On our splenetic cousins
Dun-Edin's Reviewers,
Those paddlers in sewers,
Where their mud-ammunition
(Hooting, hissing, derision,)
Is mix'd up for griming
All those who won't chime in
With jacobin shoutings,
And infidel doubtings.

Then came doughty Childe Harold,
With whom the world quarrell'd,
Because this aspirant,
Though observant, enquirant,
Shrewd, keen, energetic,
Sublime, and pathetic—
Contriving to wedge in all,
In one word, original;
Yet betray'd the foot cloven,
Scepticism being inwoven
In his talk upon matters
Best left to his betters.

How plain folks roll'd their gogglers!
How the learned prov'd bogglers!
At the name of the “Giaour.”
For sure ne'er to that hour
Did four-fifths of the vowels
Congregate in the bowels
Of a syllable single;
Even yet how to mingle
Their sounds in one's muzzle,
Continues a puzzle.
But the fragments are clever,—
Surpassed has he never,
In his loftiest of stretches.
Two or three of the sketches.

“The Bride of Abydos”
Next sprang up beside us;
From the first time I met her,
The Giaour pleased me better;
Although I must own it,
With reluctance upon it,
Since my preference showing,
O'er a lady so glowing,
Of a wretch with a white face,
Argues not much politeness.

With a head rough as horse hair,
Heaves in sight now “The Corsair.
His Lordship here followed
The metre that's hallowed
By the poets, whose due, d'ye see,
Is no longer sub judice.
Ne'er could fail this fine story
To find fit auditory;
It holds one quite breathless
With interest; yet, nathless,
'Twould accord with my wishes,
If stops, 'stead of dashes,
Were put to the poem,
(How to do it I'd shew 'em;)
For, I'm sure, I was wearied,
Seeing comma and period
Smash'd,—as if punctuation
Were gone out of fashion.

“An Ode,” rather warty,
Came to Nap Buonaparte;
Wherein he was scolded
For not having folded
His cloak like a Roman;
And, indebted to no man,
Kick'd the bucket with glory,
And lived ever in story.

161

Then appear'd Senor “Lara,”
Which, at sight, one could swear a
Reappearance of Conrad.
The attempt though did honour add
To our author, clear sighted;
And ne'er hath he indited
With more perspicacity,
And psychologic sagacity.

To each “Hebrew Melody,”
Alas! and Ah, well-a-day!
For most are but rudish,
And a scantling are goodish;
So let Messrs. Braham
And Nathan enjoy 'em.

“The Siege,” next, “of Corinth,”
Illustrates a war in th'
Morea;—but I dare say,
From perusal or hearsay,
Most now think on the munching
Of the dogs, and their “crunching,”
(On what, in his jargon,
Dr. Gall calls an organ,)
Stripping off the scalp, rot 'em!
“As ye peel figs in autumn.”

With Alp to the arena
Came the fair “Parisina.”
That he should not have written,
On this subject forbidden,
Still sticks in my gizzard,
'Spite of “gruff General Izzard.”
Who devoid of all mercy is
Tow'rds King Leigh and his verses;
And because without panic,
That monarch Cockannic,
Rhymed lightly on incest,
Z., with fury intensest,
Pour'd out a full bottle
Of wrath on his noddle;
But of Byron he's chary,
And lauds this same “Pari-
sine,” as if it were shapen,
All the perils escaping.

All we say of a “Monody”
Is, it issued forth on a day.

After this, the “Third Canto
Of Childe Harold” was sent to
Find its fate with the nation;
And it gained approbation.

“The Prisoner of Chillon”
Was sufficient to mill one;
So doleful,—so grievous,—
With nought to relieve us!

Enter “Manfred;” a serious
Sort of white witch mysterious;
Of our genuine erratic
The first effort dramatic,
And so well in that province
He has never come off since.

“Tasso's sad Lamentation”
Much requires condensation;
But 'tis plaintive and striking,
And suits with my liking.

Not so the sarcastic
“Sketch on topics Domestic;”
As the matter has ended,
Least said's soonest mended.

To Venice he hied him,
And that city supplied him
With the matter capricious
For his “Beppo” facetious;
A model, so please ye,
Of a style free and easy.
The story that's in it
Might be told in a minute;
But par parenthèse chatting,
On this thing and that thing,
Keeps the shuttlecock flying,
And attention from dying.
There are some I could mention,
Think the author's intention

162

Was to sneer and disparage
The vow made in marriage;
But the sneer, as I take it,
Is 'gainst those folks who break it.

The lengthy “Fourth Canto
Of the Childe” makes us pant, oh!
It exceeds altogether
The three first in a tether;
But 'tis greatly applauded,
Yea, exceedingly lauded.
Now, though, without flattery,
It has powerful poetry,
Yet the world henceforth will know
Meo proprio periculo,
That, to my mind, the style of it
Is ambitiously elevate,
Too much in the fashion
Of a prize declamation;
Rather pompous and dullish,
Of falsetto, too, fullish;
As it don't wholly please me,
Of the subject I ease me.

Thunders in now on horseback
“Mazeppa” the Cossack;
Though he was not a Hettman
In performing that feat, man,
And a wag, for his trouble,
Call'd him John Gilpin's double.

With many an ill-omen,
'Neath no publisher's nomen,
(Proof that mischief was brewing)
Sneak'd forth, of “Don Juan”
Canto first, Canto second;
But here my Lord reckon'd,
His host unconsulted,—
Staunch admirers revolted,
And made a stern stricture
On the profligate picture;
E'en the wit could not save it
From being upbraided;
And, though read by the many,
No one champion'd Giovanni.

“The Great Doge of Venice”
Little joy stirred within us;
And the purse of Old Drury
Was not burst, I assure ye,
With the weight of the treasure,
When, in spite of displeasure,
And legal injunction,
Abjuring compunction,
This play they enlisted,
And to act it persisted
Till 'twas thoroughly hiss'd at.

The “Three Cantos” more recent
“Of Don Juan” are decent
Compared with the couple,
Of morals more supple,
Which first made us wonder.
But the three are much under
Their loose brethren in satire,
And in interesting matter;
Though they shew more decorum,
We could sooner snore o'er 'em.

Last came to assail us
Great “Sardanapalus,”
“The Two Foscari's History,”
And “Cain” in a “Mystery.”
Had they staid in his pinnace
On the waters of Venice,
His fame had not suffer'd,
For though they discover'd
Some power in the terrible,
They were not all agreeable.
Cain's murderous fury
He had best, I assure ye,
Have left where he found it,
Nor essay'd to expound it;
For, howe'er he conceit it,

163

We are bold to repeat it,
He's by no means a fit one.
To play pranks Holy Writ on.
Milton's self, when he travell'd,
From the record was gravell'd,
In parts of his epic.
So abstain from the topic,
And with easy restriction
Seek the regions of fiction,
Extend thither your pinion,
For there lies your dominion.

L'Envoy.

Lo! in melody worthy
Of immortal Tom D'Urfey,
Have I chanted, my lyre on,
The doings of Byron.
And, as faithful recorder,
Chronological order
Have I kept. Now, as clincher,
I take heart, and will venture
To suggest to his Lordship
A proposal, (no hardship,)
Which he should not be sorry at—
Let him make me his Laureate.

164

Royal Visit to Ireland.

AUGUST XII., MDCCCXXI.

I. The King's Landing.

PROEMIUM.

1

The poet flabbergasted by ane strange apparition.

As I was sitting on the Shannon side,
Lull'd by the sound of that majestic flood,
A horseman on a sudden I espied,
Galloping by as quickly as he could;
I hail'd him, but he slacken'd not his pace,
Still urging on his steed, a gallant gray,
Until he passed me, then he turned his face,
Back towards his horse's tail, and thus did say,—
“I ride express with news to strike you dumb,
Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth is come!”

2

Which leaveth him in ane awkward doldrum, after the manner of W. Wordsworth, Esq.

He scarce had spoken, ere away he pass'd
Out of my sight as rapid as a bird,
And left me there in much amazement cast,
Looking, perhaps, in some degree absurd;
The noble river rolling calmly by,
The horse, the hasty rider, all did seem,
Even to the vision of my outward eye,
Like the thin shadowy figments of a dream;
I felt, in short, as Wordsworth did, when he
Chanced the leech gatherer on the moor all by himself to see.

3

Shaketh it off, and marcheth homewards.

By the exertion of judicious thought,
At last I from this mental trance awoke,
Marvelling much how in that lonely spot,
Upon my eyes so strange a vision broke;
From the green bank immediately I went,
And into Limerick's ancient city sped;

165

During my walk, with puzzled wonderment
I thought on what the rapid horseman said;
And, as is commonly the case, when I
Feel any way oppress'd in thought, it made me very dry.

4

When I arrived in brick-built George's-street,

Turneth star-gazer.

Instinctively I there put forth my hand
To where a bottle, stored with liquid sweet,
Did all upon an oaken table stand;
Then turning up my little finger strait,
I gazed like Doctor Brinkley on the sky,
Whence heavenly thought I caught—pure and elate
Of holy harpings of deep poesy;
And, ere a moment its brief flight could wing,
I threw the empty bottle down, to chant about the King.

Ode.

1

A very glorious day this is indeed!

He calleth upon Ireland to rejoice in the fashion of a pot of porter.

This is indeed a very glorious day!
For now our gracious monarch will proceed
On Irish ground his royal foot to lay.
Rejoice, then, O my country, in a tide
Of buoyant, foaming, overflowing glee;
As swells the porter o'er the gallon's side,
So let your joy swell up as jovially;
Shout, great and little people, all and some,
Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!

2

Come down, the mountains, bend your numbsculls low,

Inviteth the mountains to ane saraband.

Ye little hills run capering to the shore,
Now on your marrow bones, all in a row,
From all your caves a royal welcome roar.
Howth is already at the water-side,
Such is that loyal mountain's duteous haste;
Come then to join him, come with giant stride,
Come, I repeat, there's little time to waste;
In your best suits of green depart from home,
For now our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!

166

3

Makéth them ane catalogue most musical.

Down should despatch Morne's snowy-vested peaks,
And Tipperary, Knocksheogowna's hill,
Kerry, the great Macgillycuddy's reeks,
Cork, the Galtees, studded with many a still,
Gallop from Wicklow, Sugarloaf the sweet!
From Wexford, bloody Vinegar the sour!
Croagh must be there, from whose conspicuous seat
St. Patrick made the snakes from Ireland scour,—
All, all should march, tramp off to beat of drum,
For now our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!

4

A word of advice to the rivers, in the style of Master Edmund Spenser, late of Kilcolman.

Rivers, dear rivers, in meandering roll,
Move to your Sovereign merrily along;
Ye whom the mighty minstrel of old Mole
Has all embalmed in his enchanting song;
Liffey shall be your spokesman, roaring forth
A very neat Address from either Bull,
While all the rest of you, from south to north,
Shall flow around in currents deep and full,
Murmuring beneath your periwigs of foam—
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

5

Anent lakes.

Killarney sulkily remains behind,
Thinking the King should come to wait on her;
And if he wont, she swears with sturdy mind,

167

That not one step to visit him she'll stir.
But all the other loughs, where'er they be,
From mighty Neagh, the stone-begetting lake,
To Corrib, Swilly, Gara, Dearg, or Rea,
Or Googaun-Barra, when the Lee doth take
Its lovely course, join in the general hum—
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

6

O ye blest bogs, true sons of Irish soil,

Lealty of the bogs.

How can I e'er your loyal zeal express?
You have already risen, despising toil,
And travell'd up, your Sovereign to address.
Clara has led the way, immortal bog,
Now Killmalady follows in his train;
Allen himself must soon to join them jog
From Geashil barony, with might and main,
In turfy thunders, shouting as they roam,
“Our Sovereign has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

7

Ha! what's this woful thumping that I hear?

Ane caution to the Giant's Causeway not to tread upon the learned weavers of Belfast.

Oh! 'tis the Giant's Causeway moving on,
Heavily pacing, with a solemn cheer,
On clumsy hoofs of basalt octagon.
(Gigantic wanderer! lighter be your tramp,
Or you may press our luckless cities down;
'Twould be a pity, if a single stamp
Smash'd bright Belfast—sweet linen-vending town.)
Why have you travelled from your sea-beat dome?
“Because our monarch has arrived—King George the Fourth has come!”

8

Last slopes in, sailing from the extremest south,

Showing how Cape Clear becometh ane Marcus Tullius.

Gallant Cape Clear, a most tempestuous isle;
Certain am I, that when she opes her mouth
She will harangue in oratoric style.

168

So North, and South, and East, and West combine,
Ulster, and Connaught, Leinster, Munster, Meath,
To hail the King, who, first of all his line,
Was ever seen old Ireland's sky beneath.
All shall exclaim, for none shall there be mum,
“Our monarch has arrived at last—King George the Fourth has come!”

L'Envoy.

1

Mocke commendation on various folk.

How living people joy, I shall not tell,
Else I should make my song a mile in length;
Plebeian bards that theme may answer well,
Chanting their lays with pertinacious strength:
They may describe how all, both man and beast,
Have in the general glee respective shares;
How equal merriment pervades the breast
Of sharks and lawyers—asses and Lord Mayors—
Of whelps and dandies—orators and geese—
In short, of every living thing, all in their own degrees.

2

Where it is earnestly requested of the poets of Dublin, not to slay the King after the fashion of Ankerstroem or Ravillac.

But ye, remorseless rhymesters, spare the King!
Have some compassion on your own liege Lord!
Oh! it would be a most terrific thing
Were he to death by Dublin poets bored.
See three sweet singers out of College bray,
And all the aldermen have hired a bard,
The Castle, too, its ode, I ween, will pay,
And the newspapers have their pens prepared.
Be silent, then, and mute, ye unpaid fry!
Let none attempt to greet the King, save such great bards as I.

169

II. A Welcome to His Majesty.
[_]

Tune—Groves of Blarney.

Synoptical Analysis for the benefit af Young Persons studying this Song.

Stanza I. Welcome in general; in the following verses the specific excellencies of Ireland are stated. Stanza II. 1. National meat, and drink, and valour. Stanza III. 2. National riot in a superior style. Stanza IV. 3. National music. Stanza V. 4. National oratory. Stanza VI. 5. National gallantry. Stanzas VII. and VIII. National uproariousness. All these offered for the diversion of the King.

1

You're welcome over, my royal rover,
Coming in clover to Irish ground;
You'll never spy land, like this our island,
Lowland or Highland, up or down!
Our hills and mountains, our streams and fountains,
Our towns and cities all so bright,
Our salt-sea harbours, our grass-green arbours,
Our greasy larders will glad your sight.

2

'Tis here you'll eat, too, the gay potato,
Being a root to feed a king;
And you'll get frisky upon our whiskey,
Which, were you dumb, would make you sing;
And you'll see dashers, and tearing slashers,
Ready to face ould Beelzebub,
Or the devil's mother, or any other
Person whom you'd desire to drub.

3

Just say the word, and you'll see a riot
Got up so quiet, and polite,
At any minute you'd please to wish it,
Morning or evening, noon or night.
I'll lay a wager, no other nation
Such recreation to you could show,
As us, all fighting with great good manners.
Laying one another down so low.

4

And as for music, 'tis you'll be suited
With harp or bagpipe, which you please;

170

With woful melting, or merry lilting,
Or jovial quilting your heart to raise.
Sweet Catalani won't entertain you
With so much neatness of warbling tone,
As those gay swipers, or bold bagpipers,
Chanting in splendour over their drone.

5

Then there's our speaking, and bright speech-making,
Which, when you hear, 'twill make you jump;
When in its glory it comes before you,
'Twould melt the heart of a cabbage stump
'Tis so met'phoric, and paregoric,
As fine as Doric or Attic Greek,
'Twould make Mark Tully look very dully,
Without a word left in his cheek.

6

If any ladies, they should invade us,
The darling creatures, in your suite,
We'll so amuse them, and kindly use them,
That in ould Ireland they'll take root.
Our amorous glances, modest advances,
And smiling fancies, and all that,
Will so delight them, that they'll be crying,
Were you to part them away from Pat.

7

The mayors and sheriffs, in paunchy order,
And the recorders will go down
To gay Dunleary, all for to cheer ye,
And give you welcome to the town;
But though their speeching it may be pleasing,
All written out in comely paw,
'Twont be so hearty, as when all parties,
With million voices roar Huzza!

8

God bless your heart, sir, 'tis you will start, sir,
At that conspicuous thundering shout,
When Ireland's nation, with acclamation,
To hail their Sovereign will turn out.
England shall hear us, though 'tis not near us,
And the Scotch coast shall echo ring,
When we, uproarious, joining in chorus,
Shout to the winds, God Save the King!

171

III. Odoherty's Impromptu.

My landlady enter'd my parlour, and said,—
“Bless my stars, gallant Captain, not yet to your bed?
The kettle is drain'd, and the spirits are low,
Then creep to your hammock, Oh go, my love, go!
Derry down, &c.

“Do look at your watch, sir, 'tis in your small pocket
'Tis three, and the candles are all burn'd to the socket:
Come move, my dear Captain, do take my advice,
Here's Jenny will pull off your boots in a trice.
Derry down,” &c.

Jenny pull'd off my boots, and I turn'd into bed,
But scarce had I yawn'd twice, and pillow'd my head,
When I dream'd a strange dream, and what to me befell,
I'll wager a crown you can't guess ere I tell.
Derry down, &c.

Methought that to London, with sword at my side,
On my steed Salamanca in haste I did ride,
That I enter'd the Hall, 'mid a great trepidation,
And saw the whole fuss of the grand Coronation.
Derry down, &c.

Our Monarch, the King, he was placed on the throne,
'Mid brilliants and gold that most splendidly shone;
And around were the brave and the wise of his court,
In peace to advise, and in war to support.
Derry down, &c.

First Liverpool moved at his Sovereign's command;
Next Sidmouth stepp'd forth with his hat in his hand;
Then Canning peep'd round with the archness of Munden
And last, but not least, came the Marquis of London-
derry down, &c.

Then Wellington, hero of heroes, stepp'd forth;
Then brave Graham of Lynedoch, the cock of the north;

172

Then Hopetoun he follow'd, but came not alone,
For Anglesey's leg likewise knelt at the throne.
Derry down, &c.

But the King look'd around him, as fain to survey,
When the warlike departed, the wise of the day,
And he whisper'd the herald to summon in then
The legion of Blackwood, the brightest of men!
Derry down, &c.

Oh noble the sight was, and noble should be
The strain, that proclaims, mighty legion, of thee!
The tongue of an angel the theme would require,
A standish of sunbeams, a goose quill of fire.
Derry down, &c.

Like old Agamemnon, resplendent came forth,
In garment embroider'd, great Christopher North;
He knelt at the throne, and then turning his head,—
“These worthies are at the King's service,” he said.
Derry down, &c.

“Oh, Sire! though your will were as hard to attain,
As Gibraltar of old to the efforts of Spain,
The men who surround you will stand, and have stood,
To the last dearest drop of their ink and their blood.
Derry down, &c.

“From the Land's End to far Johnny Groat's, if a man,
From Cornwall's rude boors to Mac Allister's clan,
Dare raise up his voice 'gainst the church or the state,
We have blisters by dozens to tickle his pate.
Derry down, &c.

“We have Morris, the potent physician of Wales,
And Tickler, whose right-handed blow never fails,
And him, who from loyalty's path never wander'd,
Himself, swate Odoherty, knight of the standard.
Derry down, &c.

“We have sage Kempferhausen, the grave and serene;
And Eremus Marischall from far Aberdeen;
Hugh Mullion, the Grass-market merchant so sly,
With his brethren Malachi and Mordecai.
Derry down, &c.

173

We have also James Hogg, the great shepherd Chaldean,
As sweetly who sings as Anacreon the Teian;
We have Delta, whose verses as smooth are as silk;
With bold William Wastle, the laird of that ilk.
Derry down &c.

“We have Dr. Pendragon, the D.D. from York,
Who sports in our ring his huge canvass of cork;
And General Izzard, the strong and the gruff,
Who despatches his foes with a kick and a cuff.
Derry down, &c.

“We have Seward of Christchurch, with cap and with gown,
A prizeman, a wrangler, and clerk of renown;
And Buller of Brazen-nose, potent to seek
A blinker for fools, from the mines of the Greek.
Derry down, &c.

“Nicol Jarvie from Glasgow, the last, and the best
Of the race, who have worn a gold chain at their breast;
And Scott, Jamie Scott, Dr. Scott, a true blue,
Like the steel of his forceps as tough and as true.
Derry down, &c.

We have Cicero Dowden, who sports by the hour,
Of all the tongue-waggers the pink and the flower;
And Jennings the bold, who has challenged so long
All the nation for brisk soda-water, and song.
Derry down,” &c.

Methought that the King look'd around him and smiled;
Every phantom of fear from his breast was exiled,
For he saw those whose might would the demagogue chain,
And would shield from disturbance the peace of his reign.
Derry down, &c.

But the best came the last, for with duke and with lord,
Methought that we feasted, and drank at the board.
Till a something the bliss of my sweet vision broke—
'Twas the watchman a-bawling, “'Tis past ten o'clock.”
Derry down, &c.

But before I conclude, may each man at his board
Be as glad as a King, and as drunk as a lord;
There's nothing so decent, and nothing so neat,
As, when rising is past, to sit down on our seat.
Derry down, &c.

174

IV. Translation of the Royal “Adventus.”

1

Muse! take up your joyful fiddle,
And twang it pizzicato,
But don't attempt the folks to diddle,—
A fib I've nought to say to.

175

Where's the use of telling stories,
When you're to sing of so great glories,
As foreigners, both Whigs and Tories,
May wonder and cry “Nay!” to.

2

The coming of so great a King
Would need lore to tell on:
Madam! my tale's no common thing,
It is one to think well on.
For mighty powers it sure requires,
The Dukes and Barons, Knights and Squires,
Their grand processions and attires,
That graced that day, to dwell on.

3

But fear won't further my design,
Faint heart ne'er won fair lady,
And want of pluck's no crime of mine,
So I'll describe this gay day.—
There is a village called Dunleary,
Where all did crowd from far and near; I
Ne'er saw the like—so loud and cheery,
“God save the King!” they said aye.

4

Thither came Justices of Quorum,
To punish any rash one,
Who'd break the peace—and just before 'em
I saw Lord Talbot dash on.—
The Corporation tried to wedge in
Bellies so huge you can't imagine!
Midst men, wives, tailors, in a rage, in
Order to learn the fashion.

5

The crowd was great! in number more
Than sands upon the sea-shore!

176

So much the folks their King adore,
And love him without measure!
They came to see and know the worth
Of George the Good, of George the Fourth.
The roads were cramm'd from south to north
As full as they could be, sure.

6

Och! ye can't read the Book of Fate
While standing there so weary,
And thinking still, as it grows late,
The King must sure be near ye.
That King, whose much-desired arrival,
Would give your wearied bones revival,
Has changed his mind! Off ye may drive all,
He won't come to Dunleary.

7

There is a harbour, Howth by name,
That he'll for certain steam on;
Stewart and Fate ye have to blame,
For this which ye ne'er dream on.
But pleasure oft comes after pain,
You shall be christen'd o'er again;
When he returns, he'll not disdain
Your town his grace to beam on.

8

But now the ships began to fly
Like swallows through the sea, ma'am,
Or swim like fishes in the sky,
As swift as swift could be, ma'am.
And as they came still nigh and nigher,
Hope made our hearts beat high and higher,
And all cried out aloud, “I spy her;
That surely must be she, ma'am!”

177

9

But Murraboo! This crowd of folks
Will get a mighty take-in;
They might as well have worn their cloaks,
Their blue coats are mistaken.
Past them the fleet doth swiftly sail,
Their hopes and wishes can't prevail,
And born on wings of steam and gale.
Howth they their rest will make in.

10

Like hungry, disappointed Whigs,
In vain for places praying;
Like starving, desperate, gambling prigs
Losing each bet they're laying;
Like such, were all the doleful people—
Like them, the female sex did weep all,
When from their sight, they from the steeple
Saw George their King astraying.

11

About two hundred Irish lads,
Were standing on Howth height, ma'am,
Whose heart sufficiently it glads,
Far off to see the sight, ma'am,
Of all the frigates, yachts, and steamers,
And royal standards, flags, and streamers,
About the King—They were not dreamers
That he'd be there that night, ma'am.

12

But when they saw, that to their town,
The Royal Navigator
Approach'd—And when all bearing down
Came boat, sloop, ship, first-rater—
Lord! what a row the fellows raised!
And how his Majesty they praised!
The shout the very shores amazed!
No King e'er caused a greater.

13

At length with fav'ring steam and gale,
The Lightning safe did steer in;

178

The crowd the Royal Ensign hail,—
Each bright eye bore a tear in
Token of joy! The foremost ranks
Slid down a gangway from the banks:
With silk they carpeted the planks—
The King has stept on Erin!

14

Could I write melodies like Moore,
Or ballads like Sir Walter,
Or any such great poet, sure
My strain should be no halter.
I'd sing a song without a blunder,
Should make posterity all wonder,
And George's praise should sound like thunder,
Before my voice should falter!

15

But since poor I am not the least
Like them, a wight rhetorical,
My reader's precious time to waste
With Blarney a damn'd bore I call.
But yet I needn't hold my tongue,
I'll tell how round the King they hung,
Although this story be not sung
In language metaphorical.

16

Our gracious King to all the crowd
His willing hand extended,

179

And even the poorest Pat felt proud,
So much he condescended.
And willing hands the pockets picking,
Gold watches grabbing, brass ones nicking,
Made no distinction more than the King,
Lest folks should feel offended.

17

Mounting the carriage steps with grace,
“My friends,” he cried, “I thank ye!”—
The coachman takes his reins and says,
“My tits soon home shall spank ye.”—
Than came the horsemen on with pride,
Some of them their own chargers ride,
While some paid half a crown a-side,
And some had but a donkey.

18

The crowd increased as they went on,
Because their hearts were loyal;
They ran so fast their breath was gone,
They scarce could speak for joy all.
But of their great politeness judge,
When they came to the Porter's Lodge,
They not one other step would bodge,
Because the grounds were royal.

19

But when the King cried “Come along,
My friends, pray don't be frighted;”
No sooner said than all the throng
Rush'd on to where he lighted.
Again at stepping on the ground,
He shook the hands of all around,
And made their hearts with joy rebound,
When he with face delighted,

180

20

Exclaimed, “My soul is glad to day,
My own dear Irish nation;
I love you more than I can say,
So great my agitation.
I've loved you always—man and boy—
And here I'm come, and will employ,
To drink your health, without alloy,
Of whiskey a libation.”

21

Thus said the King, and then the stair
He royalty ascended.
God save the King! through all the air,
With four times four was blended!
This being all I had to say,
About this memorable day,
Contentedly my pen I lay
Down—for my tale is ended.

181

Who wrote “The Groves of Blarney”?

‘Who,’—ask ye! No matter.—This tongue shall not tell,
O'er the board of oblivion the name of the bard;
Nor shall it be utter'd, but with the proud spell,
That sheds on the perish'd their only reward.

No, no! look abroad, Sir, the last of October;
In the pages of Blackwood that name shall be writ,
For Christopher's self, be he tipsy or sober,
Was not more than his match, in wine, wisdom, or wit.

Ye Dowdens and Jenningses, wits of Cork city,
Though mighty the heroes that chime in your song,
Effervescing and eloquent—more is the pity
Ye forget the great poet of Blarney so long.

I mean not the second, O'Fogarty hight,
Who can speak for himself, from his own native Helicon
I sing of an elder, in birth and in might,
(Be it said with due deference,)—honest Dick Millikin.

Then fill up, to his mem'ry, a bumper, my boys,
'Twill cheer his sad ghost, as it toddles along
Through Pluto's dark alleys, in search of the joys
That were dear upon earth to this step-son of song.

And this be the rule of the banquet for aye,
When the goblets all ring with “Och hone, Ullagone!
Remember this pledge, as a tribute to pay
To the name of a minstrel so sweet, so unknown

185

HORACE, BOOK FIRST.

ODE I.

To Christopher North, Esq.

Hail! Christopher, my patron, dear,
Descended from your grandfather;
To thee, my bosom friend, I fly,
Brass buckler of Odoherty!
Some are, who all their hours consume
With well-train'd horse, and sweated groom,—
Who, if the Doncaster they gain,
Or, coming first, with lighten'd rein,
At the St. Leger, bear away
Elate the honors of the day,
Pull up their collars to their ears,
And think themselves amid the spheres.
Such art thou, Lambton, Kelburne, Pierse,
And more than I can name in verse.
Another tries, with furious speech,
The bottoms of the mob to reach;—
Here on the hustings stands Burdett,
With trope and start their zeal to whet;
While jackall Hobhouse, sure to tire on
Tracking alway the steps of Byron,
Stands at his arm, with words of nectar
Determined to out-hector Hector.—
Preston, with rosin on his beard,
Starts up, determined to be heard,
And swears destruction to the bones
Of those who will not hear Gale Jones:
While Leigh Hunt, in the Examiner,
About them tries to make a stir,
And says, (who doubts him?) men like these
Shame Tully and Demosthenes.—
A third, like Sir John Sinclair, tries
To hold the harrow to the skies;
And thinks there is no nobler work,
Than scattering manure with the fork,
Except (as Mr. Coke prefers,)
To catch the sheep, and ply the shears:
Although you'd give, in guineas round,
A plum, (i. e. one hundred thousand pound,)

186

You could not get these men, I know,
Aboard the Northern ships to go,—
Through frozen latitudes to stroll,
And see if ice surrounds the pole;—
They wish success to Captain Parry,
But yet, at home would rather tarry.
In slippers red, before the fire,
With negus to his heart's desire.
The merchant sits; he winks and snores,—
The north wind in the chimney roars:
Waking, he bawls aloud—“Od rot 'em,
“I fear my ships are at the bottom!—
“The crews are trifles to be sure,
“But then the cargos a'n't secure:
“'Change will be changed for me to-morrow,—
“Alack! for poverty and sorrow!”
Men are—I know them—let that pass,
(Who crack a joke, and love a glass)
Whether, like Falstaff, it be sack,
Champaigne, Old Hock, or Frontiniac,
Or Whiskey-punch, which, jovial dog,
Is true heart's-balsam to James Hogg;—
Like Wordsworth, under pleasant trees,
Some take delight to catch the breeze;
Or lie amid the pastoral mountains,
And listen to the bubbling fountains.
Many in camps delight to hear
The fife and bugle's music clear,
While hautboy sweet, and kettle-drum,
Upon the ear like thunder come.
Though youngsters love a battle hot,
Their anxious mothers love it not;—
While in the fray a son remains out,
Some erring ball may knock his brains out.
O'er hedge and ditch, through field and thicket,
With buck-skin breeches, and red jacket,
On spanking steed the huntsman flies,
Led by the deep-mouth'd stag-hounds' cries:
Meanwhile his spouse, in lonely bed,
Laments that she was ever wed;
And, toss'd on wedlock's stormy billow,
Like the M'Whirter, clasps her pillow,

187

And sighs, while fondling it about.
“Thou art my only child, I doubt!”
—For me a laurel crown, like that
Used for a band to Southey's hat,
(Not such as Cockney Will abuses,
And Leigh Hunt for a night-cap uses,)
Would make me, amid wits, appear
A Samson, and a grenadier!
Then, many a nymph, with sparkling eye,
Would crowd around Odoherty;
Swift at the tune, which Lady Morgan
Would play upon the barrel organ;
MacCraws, and all my second cousins,
And light-heel'd blue-stockings by dozens
With nimble toe would touch the ground,
And form a choral ring around.—
Oh! that James Hogg, my chosen friend,
His glowing fancy would me lend,
His restless fancy, wandering still
By lonely mount, and fairy rill!
That Dr. Scott, with forceps stout,
Would draw my stumps of dullness out;
Exalt my heart o'er churlish earth,
And fill me with his fun and mirth;
Then, Anak-like, 'mid men I'd stray,
Men, that like mice would throng my way,
Rise high o'er all terrestrial jars,
And singe my poll against the stars.

ODE FIFTH, BOOK FIRST.

To Molly M'Whirter.

What Exquisite, tell me, besprinkled with civet,
With bergamot, and l'huile antique a la rose,
Now presses thee, Molly, (I scarce can believe it,)
To march to the Parson, and finish his woes?

For whom do you comb, brush, and fillet your tresses;—
Whoever he be has not sorrows to seek;

188

Thou daily shalt bring him a peck of distresses;
Then kick him, and kiss a new gallant next week.

He trusts that you'll love him, and doat on him ever,
And thinks you a goddess reserved for himself;
But, Molly, there's too much red blood in your liver,
And antlers shall soon grace the poor silly elf.

To some Johnny Raw thou wilt shine like a planet,
For lecturing Magnus has left thee behind;
And since I have escaped thee, (oh! blessings be on it,)
I will hang up an old coat in St. Mary Wynd.

ODE NINTH, BOOK FIRST.

To Dr. Scott.

Look out, and see old Arthur's Seat,
Dress'd in a periwig of snow,
Cold sweeps the blast down Niddry Street,
And through the Netherbow.

Sharp frost, begone! haste send the maid,
With coals two shovels-full and more;
Fill up your rummers, why afraid,
And bolt the parlour door.—

Leave all to Fortune, Dr. Scott,
Though tempests growl amid the trees,
While we have rum-punch smoking hot,
We sha'n't most likely freeze.

A fig about to-morrow's fare!
A twenty thousand prize my buck,
(Nay, do not laugh,) may be my share,
Wont that be rare good luck?

189

Doctor, I'm sure you'll toast the fair;
Shame to the tongue would say me nay;
You'll toast them, till the very hair
Of your peruke turn grey.

St. Giles's spire with snow is white,
And every roof seems overgrown;
Sharp winds that come, at fall of night,
Down High Street closes moan;

There, battering police officers,
Hark! how the mad jades curse and ban
While Polly cuffs some spoonie's ears,
And cries, “Sir, I'm your man!”—

194

O WEEP FOR ADONAIS, &C.

O weep for Wontner, for his leg is broke,
O weep for Wontner, though our pearly tear
Can never cure him. Dark and dimly broke
The thunder cloud o'er Paul's enamelled sphere,
When his black barb, with lion-like career,
Scattered the crowd.—Coquetting Mignionet,
Thou Hyacinth fond, thou Myrtle without fear,
Haughty Geranium, in your beaupots set,
Were then your soft and starry eyes unwet?

The pigeons saw it, and on silver wings
Hung in white flutterings, for they could not fly,
Hoar-headed Thames checked all his crystal springs,
Day closed above his pale, imperial eye,
The silken zephyrs breathed a vermeil sigh,
High Heavens! ye Hours! and thou Ura-ni-a!
Where were ye then? Reclining languidly
Upon some green Isle in the empurpled Sea,
Where laurel-wreathen spirits love eternally.

Come to my arms. &c.

199

ELEGY ON MY TOMCAT.

“And others came—Desires and Adorations,
Wing'd Persuasions, and veil'd Destinies,
Splendours, and blooms, and glimmering Incantations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs;
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes!”

ELEGY.

Weep for my Tomcat! all ye Tabbies weep,
For he is gone at last! Not dead alone,
In flowery beauty sleepeth he no sleep;
Like that bewitching youth Endymion!
My love is dead, alas, as any stone,
That by some violet-sided smiling river
Weepeth too fondly! He is dead and gone,
And fair Aurora, o'er her young believer,
With fingers gloved with roses, doth make moan,
And every bud its petal green doth sever,
And Phœbus sets in night for ever, and for ever!
And others come! ye Splendours! and ye Beauties!
Ye Raptures! with your robes of pearl and blue;
Ye blushing Wonders! with your scarlet shoe-ties;
Ye Horrors bold! with breasts of lily hue;
Ye Hope's stern flatterers! He would trust to you,
Whene'er he saw you with your chesnut hair,

200

Dropping sad daffodils; and rosepinks true!
Ye Passions proud! with lips of bright despair;
Ye Sympathies! with eyes like evening star,
When on the glowing east she rolls her crimson car.

Oh, bard-like spirit! beautiful and swift!
Sweet lover of pale night; when Luna's lamp
Shakes sapphire dew-drops through a cloudy rift;
Purple as woman's mouth, o'er ocean damp;
Thy quivering rose-tinged tongue—thy stealing tramp;
The dazzling glory of thy gold-tinged tail;
Thy whisker-waving lips, as o'er the swamp
Rises the meteor, when the year doth fail,
Like beauty in decay, all, all are flat and stale.”

202

PACKING UP AFTER AN ENGLISH COUNTRY BALL.

The clock has struck the midnight hour, and the chandeliers burn low,
And the final couple are dancing down on somewhat wearied toe;
Each belle now takes her partner's arm, who squires her to her seat,
And chaperoning matrons talk right solemnly of heat.

The gallery is clearing of the drowsy fiddlers twain;
And he who blew the clarionet, with all his might and main,
And he who made the tambourine ring and vibrate with his thumb,
Have oped their eyes and stopp'd their yawns, for their release is come.

The Ball at the Red Lion is, at last, then at an end;
All agree it has been a pleasant night, as down the stairs they wend;
And we'll descend along with them to see the ladies muffle
Their finery in hoods and shawls, and in cloaks of serge and duffle.

But oh! alas! and well-a-day! 'tis raining cats and dogs,
And men and maids have brought umbrellas, pattens, boots, and clogs;
And lest white satin shoes be soil'd, they supply some pairs of stouter,
And lanterns, lest their mistresses should flounder in the gutter.

The ladies rather wish, 'tis true, that the gentlemen were gone,
And had left them to pack up their duds, at leisure and alone;
But Captain Cartridge has engaged, and so has Ensign Sabre,
To guard the three Miss Johnsons home, and their ancient maiden neighbour.

So they're lolling on the table, waiting the damsels' hest,—
Yet though these beaux so welcome are, it still must be confess'd,
That Miss Amelia would prefer, while tugging her boot lace,
That the Captain who's short-sighted, should not raise his quizzing glass,

203

Come, little merry Mrs. Cushion is first and foremost ready,
And stands in act to issue forth on her clicking pattens steady,
With gown drawn through her pocket-holes, secure from dirt suburban,
And with a safe-guard handkerchief, enveloping her turban.

But see what's going on behind, where Emma Parkes is dressing!
Sure young John Leigh's attentions are most marvellously pressing;
With what an air of tenderness, he enshawls each ivory shoulder—
An offer sure will come of this, ere he is twelvemonths older!

At least so think the tabbies—and I see, Miss Prudence Herring,
(Who, with sister Grace, is cloak'd to the chin, so at leisure to be peering,)
Has had enough side-glances at this love-scene to instruct her
How to frame on it by inference, a gossip's superstructure.

But their tall prim niece is packing too, Miss Patience Prettyjohn,
Demurely settling her calash those towering plumes upon:
(Calashes are good things enough, when the weather's wet and muggy,
But they make a woman's head look like the head of an old buggy.)

“Well, sister Grace,” says Prue, “thank Heaven! our niece takes after us;
You never find the men round her, making that odious fuss,
Whispering such stuff! No, she can tie her cloak without assistance,
For I've always told her—Patience dear! keep fellows at a distance.

“Uphold your dignity, my love! The boldest men, you see,—
The most presuming,—never take such liberties with me;
Once when a suitor knelt to me, imagine, if you can,
The air with which I waved my hand, and said, Begone, base Man!

‘That was a moment—oh, my dear! I felt exalted so
In conscious virtue—Sister Grace! I've always preach'd, you know,
Thus to our niece, and she, good girl, is an attentive hearer;
Patience does keep the men in awe—observe, not one comes near her.”

But hark! a strife—some silver pipes are pitch'd above the key,
Which maiden's meekness best befits, and lady's courtesy;
“'Tis mine,” resounds in tones so shrill, we cannot call them polish'd,
And a bonnet seems to run the risk of being there demolish'd.

For Julia Graves has seized it, and hers it is, she swears,
And Mary Russell, chiding her, protests that is hers,
And o'er Miss Julia's shoulder she darts her hand to snatch it,
Who at arm's length holds the fragile prey, baffling her foe to catch it.

“Miss Russell, you have spoilt my sleeve, what can be your design?”
‘I only mean to get, Miss Graves, what you have seiz'd of mine.’
“Yours, Ma'am?”—‘Yes, Ma'am,—this very day I pinn'd that ribbon on it—
A very likely thing indeed I should not know my bonnet!’

“Pray, Ma'am, don't push so.” ‘Ma'am, you've pok'd your elbow in my eye.’
“That's your fault, Ma'am—I shan't let go.” ‘No, Ma'am, no more shall I—’

204

One should be more particular what company one's in,
For really, some folks now-a-days think stealing not a sin;

Things have walk'd off in the strangest way from routs and balls of late'—
“You'd best take care, Ma'am, what you say—My Pa's a magistrate.”
‘Well, Ma'am, and what's your Pa to me?’—Then comes a desperate tustle,
But the powers that guard meek innocence, keep watch for gentle Russell.

For up comes Betty Chambermaid—“Here, ladies! arn't this he?”
“What, that squabb'd thing? that's none of mine.” ‘That don't belong to me?’
Cry both at once—but—lights are brought—a second glance upon it,
And poor Miss Julia's spirits fall—'tis sure enough her bonnet.

Miss Russell triumphs loudly, nor spares recrimination;
Her antagonist is cow'd beneath the deep humiliation.
And she whining says, “I'm sure I thought”—‘Yes, Ma'am, I understand,
Having lost your own, you thought you'd take the best that came to hand.

Captain Cartridge has been enjoying this, and to the Ensign sware he
That if it came to fisticuffs, he'd bet on tart Miss Mary;
What a wreck of flowers and gauze had been the fruits of such contention!
But the fates were kind and stopt the fray by Betty's intervention.

While all this hubbub fills the room, Mrs. Moss heeds not the clash,
But shawl'd, fur-tippeted, and glov'd, and with head in huge calash,
She wants but one protection more to save her silks and satins,
And her little footboy's on his knees to mount her on her pattens.

Mind, Tommy, mind, 'tis a tender job—press gently, 'twill not suit
To handle with a clumsy paw an ancient lady's foot.
Oh! the matron twists, for the awkward chit has hit upon a corn,
Which has laugh'd her nostrum, ivy leaves and vinegar, to scorn.

A start is made—umbrellas flap and rustle as they spread,
And, the threshold past, the pattering rain beats on them overhead;
The bespattered beaux have hard ado to wield these bucklers light,
For while they guard the ladies left, the gusts assail their right.

The noise of pattens waxeth faint, as homeward-bound they travel,
Now clattering on the pavement-stones, now grinding in the gravel;
This dies—though ever and anon, the listening ear is roused,
By some front-door's slam betokening a party snugly housed.

The lanterns, which so brightly stream'd, have vanish'd one by one,
As a lane was turn'd, or a rat-tat-tat announced the journey done;
And a few were on a sudden quench'd by puffs of winds uproarious,
Envious of those “earth-treading stars” which made dark night so glorious.

But who encounter'd these mishaps—and who caught cold and fever—
And who drest well—and who drest badly spite of best endeavour—
And what new lights in love or hate, from the meeting we must borrow,
We shall learn at length when we call upon our partners fair to-morrow.

205

The Wine-Bibber's Glory—A New Song.

[_]

Tune—The Jolly Miller.

Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui
Plenum? ------
------ Dulce periculum est
O Lenæe! sequi Deum------
Cingentem viridi tempora pampino.
—Hor.

1

If Horatius Flaccus made jolly old Bacchus
So often his favourite theme;
If in him it was classic to praise his old Massic,
And Falernian to gulp in a stream;
If Falstaff's vagaries, 'bout Sack and Canaries,
Have pleased us again and again;
Shall we not make merry on Port, Claret, Sherry,
Madeira, and sparkling Champagne?

2

First Port, that potation, preferr'd by our nation
To all the small drink of the French;
'Tis the best standing liquor, for layman or vicar,
The army, the navy, the bench;
'Tis strong and substantial, believe me, no man shall
Good Port from my dining-room send;
In your soup—after cheese—every way—it will please,
But most tête-a-tête with a friend.

3

Fair Sherry, Port's sister, for years they dismiss'd her,
To the kitchen to flavour the jellies—
There long she was banish'd, and well-nigh had vanish'd
To comfort the kitchen-maids' bellies—
Till his Majesty fixt, he thought Sherry when sixty
Years old, like himself, quite the thing—
So I think it but proper, to fill a tip-topper
Of Sherry to drink to the King.

4

Though your delicate Claret by no means goes far, it
Is famed for its exquisite flavour;
'Tis a nice provocation, to wise conversation,
Queer blarney, or harmless palaver;

206

'Tis the bond of society—no inebriety
Follows a swig of the Blue;
One may drink a whole ocean, nor e'er feel commotion,
Or headache from Chateau Margoux.

5

But though Claret is pleasant, to taste for the present,
On the stomach it sometimes feel cold;
So to keep it all clever, and comfort your liver,
Take a glass of Madeira that's old:
When 't has sail'd to the Indies, a cure for all wind 'tis,
And colic 'twill put to the rout;
All doctors declare, a good glass of Madeira,
The best of all things for the gout.

6

Then Champagne! dear Champagne! ah! how gladly I drain a
Whole bottle of Oeil de Perdrix;
To the eye of my charmer, to make my love warmer,
If cool that love ever could be,
I could toast her for ever—But never, oh! never,
Would I her dear name so profane;
So if e'er when I'm tipsy, it slips to my lips, I
Wash it back to my heart with Champagne!

219

Critique on Lord Byron.

“Claudite jam rivos, pueri, sat prata biberunt.”
—Virg.

So the Public at length is beginning to tire on
The torrent of poesy pour'd by Lord Byron!
Some guess'd this would happen:—the presage proved true.
Then now let us take a brief, rapid review
Of all, or at least of each principal topic,
Which serves as a theme for his muse misanthropic.

First, note we the prelude, which sung by the Minor,
Gave promise of future strains, bolder and finer;
Though the bitter Scotch critic loud raised his alarum,
And swore men and gods could not possibly bear 'em!
To the fame of the bard men have given a shove—
Whate'er may be judged of his merits above.
Thus stung, did the youngster assail, we must own,
Some names which his fury had well let alone;
As a colt, who a thistle beneath his tail feels,
At all things around madly launches his heels.
Yet blithely, though sharply, the young minstrel caroll'd,
To Reviewers and Bards, ere he croak'd with Childe Harold,
That wight, who, in endless Spenserian measure,
Roams through the wide world without object or pleasure;
Till at last, we find out, with the pilgrim proceeding,
That we gain no great object nor pleasure in reading!
But, first, with what glee did all palates devour
The fragments, which bear the strange name of the Gaiour?
'Tis a tale full of pathos, and sweet is the verse:—
Would some pains in connecting have render'd it worse?

220

Then next was our caterer pleased to provide us
With an exquisite treat in the Bride of Abydos;—
Zuleika, so lovely—so simple—so tender—
Yet firm,—from her purpose no danger could bend her.
Sour critics may say, all this praise duly granting,
There seems in the plan probability wanting.
By what happy means could these lovers contrive,
With Giaffer's suspicions so warmly alive,
Of the Harem's strict bondage to lengthen the tether,
And so pleasantly take their amusements together?
Of Eastern seràis, though not versed in the fashions,
We've heard, in those climates, where boil all the passions,
No youth could approach, howe'er prudent they thought her,
The sacred retreat of his own father's daughter.—
Such objections are dull;—'tis a pity to show 'em,
If adherance to fact would have spoil'd a good poem.

Now swift in his bark sails stout Conrad, the Corsair,
To surprise Seyd Pashà, with his three tails of horse-hair.
But the destinies order—unlucky mishap!
That Conrad, not Seyd, should be caught in the trap.
Those minds must be steel'd with an apathy rare,
Which mourn not Medora, nor sigh for Gulnare.
Medora, soft Queen of the Island of Thieves,
Whose heart, too susceptible, bursts as it grieves!
The woes of Gulnare, too—we feelingly share 'em—
The pride, though the cold passive slave of Seyd's harem:—
But touch'd by the robber, she mounts to the class
Of dames whose whole soul is inflammable gas.
Though caught was the Corsair, the fates had decreed
That this foe, though in chains, should be fatal to Seyd.
Ah! sensitive reader, 'tis hard to persuade ye,
That man could be cool to so kind a fair lady—
When we knew her warm heart, of his terrible fate full,
Risk'd all for his safety—'twas somewhat ungrateful!
And since such great hazard she ran for his sake,
Could his fancy prefer writhing spik'd on a stake,
To giving—(but Poets are full of their fibs)
The savage Pasha a deep thrust in the ribs!
Such delicate scruples we prize at a high rate—
They seem rather squeamish, perhaps, in a pirate!

Quick vanishes Conrad:—bold rover, adieu!
But who is this Lara, that starts into view?
If Conrad thou art, as some people suppose,
Gloomy chief, thou'rt less qualmish with friends, and with foes!
If strong were the “stuff o' thy conscience,” oh say
How was Ezzelin so snugly put out of the way?

221

We see, too, the spirit and warmth of Gulnare in
That feminine page, so attach'd and so daring;
And we shrewdly suspect that the small crimson spot
On her amazon forehead is nearly forgot.
'Tis true, when the Corsair old Seyd's palace saw burn,
The Queen of his harem had ringlets of auburn;—
That the page's are black contradicts not our guesses—
Since ladies sometimes change the hue of their tresses.

Then tack'd to this story, strange mixtures, are seen,
Those dullest of stanzas 'yclep'd Jacqueline.
Alas! for poor Rogers—'twas certainly hard
To be made, as a compliment, foil to a bard
Who needs no such foil—so unapt too to flatter!
'Twere better have borne the worst lash of his satire!
Yet of high-season'd praise he is sometimes the organ,
This Shelley can witness, and eke Lady Morgan.
Shall Roger's name be inscribed in this set
Whose former bright laurels none wish to forget?
But Jacqueline sues for the garland in vain,
For Memory here brings us nothing but pain.
Can the laud be much relish'd by Gifford and Crabbe,
Which is shared by the crazy-brain'd muse of Queen Mab?
Would Dryden or Otway, or Congreve, or Pope,
Sweet Burns, or the Bard who delights us with Hope,
Be flatter'd to find they were join'd in this melée,
And placed cheek by jole with dame Morgan and Shelley?

222

Next scowls the fell wizard, hight Manfred the bold,
Who broods over sins which wont bear to be told.
'Tis a drama repulsive, but still it has force.—
How well does he paint the sharp pangs of remorse!
That quill which seems pluck'd from the wing of a raven,
Gives a touch almost worthy the poet of Avon.

Are the pictures from fancy?—fictitious or real?
Surely Satan himself is the bard's beau ideal!
Yet 'tis strange that each image that glides through his lanthorn
From Juan, whose joy is on husbands to plant horn,
Who views with delight tears of damsels deluded,—
To the wretch who hates all things, himself too included,—
All in some striking feature each other resemble,
As in Hamlet, or Rolla, we still saw John Kemble.
If the draughts smack of nature, we care not a straw
Where he finds the dark model he chooses to draw.

Of smaller effusions I pass over loads—
The Family Sketch—Hebrew Melodies—Odes;—
Sad Tasso's Lament—soft occasional Verses—
And levell'd at Elgin stern Pallas's curses;
Mazeppa's long race, that intrepid rough-rider,—
And adieus to a Lady, whose Lord can't abide her.
Within two blue paste-boards what contraries meet—
The fragrant, the fetid, the bitter, the sweet:—

223

Like a garden neglected these fences enclose
The violet, the nettle, the nightshade, the rose.

But amongst these sarcastic and amorous sallies,
Who marks not that effort of impotent malice,
Aim'd at worth placed on high—nay, the most lofty station,
Whose strongest, best guard, is the love of a nation.
Far wide from its mark flew the shaft from the string,
Recoils on the archer, but wounds not the King:—
He smiles at such censures when libellers pen 'em—
For Truth bids defiance to Calumny's venom,
We know 'tis the nature of vipers to bite all—
But shall Byron be preacher of duties marital?

Now to poems we turn of a different nature,
Where harangues Faliero, the Doge, and the traitor.
The Doge may be prosy:—but seldom we've seen a
Fair Lady more docile than meek Angiolina.
Yet to move us her griefs don't so likely appear, as
The woes the starved Poet has made Belvidera's.
I'm far from asserting we're tempted to laugh here;—
But the Doge must be own'd not quite equal to Jaffier.
These ancient impressions the fancy still tarries on,
When forced with old Otway to make a comparison.
Oh! best, tuneful Peer, shone your genius dramatic
Ere your Muse set her foot on those isles Adriatic!
Let her shun the Rialto, and halls of St. Mark,
Contented with Manfred to rove in the dark.

On the banks of Euphrates you better regale us,
With the feasts and the frolics of Sardanapalus.
Philosophic gourmand!—jolly, libertine sage!
Only Pleasure's soft warfare determined to wage,
With goblet in hand, and his head crown'd with roses,
He teaches that death everlasting repose is.

224

The tenet may fairly belong to the story;
But here we perceive that 'tis preach'd con amore.
This volatile heart Grecian Myrrha could fix,
Though he laughs at her creed about Pluto and Styx.
His love she returns when his virtues she conn'd over,
And was true, e'en to death, when she found him so fond of her
But the sot whom his subjects had rated at zero,
Bravely fights, and then dies in a blaze like a hero!

You can next (for stage magic you're ne'er at a loss) carry
Your friends back to Venice, and show them the Foscari.
To these luckless isles we're transported again!
Lo! a youth harshly judged by the Council of Ten,
Most wilfully rushes on horrible tortures,
Lest in some foreign clime he should take up his quarters!
His hatred invincible tow'rds all the men is,
But he doats with strange love on the mere mud of Venice.
For the Doge—there is no known example will suit us;
His phlegm patriotic out-Brutuses Brutus.
In his chair, whilst the rack's wrenching torments are done,
He watches the pangs of his innocent son.
His nerves such a spectacle tolerate well;
Yet he dies by the shock, when the sound of a bell,
On a sudden, to Venice announces the doom,
That another mock-sovereign reigns in his room.

Now last, though not least, let us glance at the fable
Your Lordship has raised on the murther of Abel.
But chiefly that wonderful flight let us trace,
Which Lucifer wings through the regions of space;
Where with speed swift as thought with his pupil he runs,
Threading all the bright maze of the planets and suns;
And lectures the while all these objects they're viewing,
Like a tutor abroad, who leads out a young Bruin.
Thus, Satan exhibits pre-Adamite spectres,
And lays down his maxims there free from objectors.
How we turn with disgust, as we listen'd with pain,
From the vile metaphysics he whispers to Cain!

225

Fit talk for the fiend and the fratricide felon,—
But this is a subject too hateful to dwell on;—
A lash light as mine, grave offences can trounce ill—
Then here let me end with a short word of counsel:—
'Twould be wrong, noble Bard, Oh! permit me to tell ye,
To establish a league with Leigh Hunt and Bysshe Shelley;
Already your readers have swallow'd too much,
Like Amboyna's swollen victims when drench'd by the Dutch.
The world cries, in chorus, 'tis certainly time
To close up your flood-gates of blank verse and rhyme.
Hold! Hold!—By the public thus sated and cramm'd,
Lest your lays, like yourself, stand a chance to be d---d!

226

Modern English Ballads.

No. 1.—Spring's Return.

Rise up, rise up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.
From gay shin-bone and cleaver hard the marrowy notes are flowing,
And the Jew's-harp's twang sings out slap-bang, 'twixt the cow-horn's lordly blowing;
And greasy caps from butchers' heads are tossing everywhere,
And the bunch of fives of England's knight wags proudly in the air.
Rise up, rise up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

Arise, arise, my Morgan, I see Tom Winter's mug,
He bends him to the Fancy coves with a nod so smart and smug;
Through all the land of great Cockaigne, or Thames's lordly river,
Shook champion's fist more stout than his, more knock-me-downish never.
Yon Belcher twisted round his neck of azure, mix'd with white,
I guess was tied upon the stakes the morning of the fight.

227

Rise up, rise up, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

What aileth thee, my Morgan? what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay you from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I've heard thee swear in hexameter, and sure you swore the truth,
That Thomas Spring was quite the king of the first-beshaking youth.
Now with a Peer he rideth here, and Lord Deerhurst's horses go
Beneath old England's champion, to the tune of Yo, heave ho!
Then rise, oh rise, my Morgan, lay the foaming tankard down,
You may here through the window-sash come gaze with all the town.

The Irish Ensign rose not up, nor laid his tankard down,
Nor came he to the window to gaze with all the town;
But though his lip dwelt on the pot, in vain his gullet tried,
He could not, at a single draught, empty the tankard wide.
About a pint and a half he drank before the noise grew nigh,
When the last half-pint received a tear slow dropping from his eye.
No, no, he sighs, bid me not rise, nor lay my tankard down,
To gaze on Thomas Winter with all the gazing town.

Why rise yet not, my Morgan, nor lay your tankard down?
Why gaze ye not, my Morgan, with all the gazing town?
Hear, hear the cheering, how it swells, and how the people cry,
He stops at Cribb's, the ex-champion's shop;—why sit you still, oh! why?
“At Cribb's good shop let Tom Spring stop, in him shall I discover
The black-eyed youth that beat the lad who cross'd the water over?
I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my tankard down,
To gaze on Langan's conqueror, with all the gazing town.”

No. 2.—The Lament for Thurtell.

A loud Lament is heard in town—a voice of sad complaining—
The sorrow Whig is high and big, and there is no restraining.
The great Lord Mayor, in civic chair, weeps thick as skeins of cotton,
And wipes his eyes with huckaback, sold by his own begotten.
Alas, says he, thy thread of life is snapt by sheers of Clothor
And a winding sheet, a yard-yard-wide, enwraps thee, O, my brother!

228

Howl, buff and blue! of that dear crew, whose brows the patriot myrtle
Shades for Harmodius Thistlewood! Howl, howl for Whig Jack Thurtell!

The doves and rooks who meet at Brooks', sob loudly, fast, and faster,
And shake in skin as rattlingly as they ere shook the castor.
O, by the box of Charley Fox, and by his unpaid wagers,
Shame 'tis, they swear, for hangman cocks to hang our truest stagers;
What if he cut the fellow's throat in fashion debonnaire, sir,
'Tis only like our own Whig case, a bit the worse for wear, sir;
What if, after swallowing brains and blood, he ate pork chops like turtle,
Sure, don't we swallow anything? Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!

Lord Byron, gentleman is he, who writes for good Don Juan,
Huzzaed when my Lord Castlereagh achieved his life's undoing.
No Tory bard, that we have heard, so savage was or silly,
As to crow o'er cut-throat Whitbread Sam, or cut-throat Sam Romilly.
We laugh at them—they sighs with us—we hate them sow and farrow—
Yet now their groans will fly from them as thick as flights of arrow,
Which Mr. Gray, in ode would say, through the dark air do hurtle,—
Moaning in concert with ourselves—Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!

229

He was a Whig—a true, true Whig— all property he hated
In funds or land, in purse or hand,—tithed, salaried, or estated.
When he saw a fob, he itch'd to rob, the genuine whiggish feeling;
No matter what kind was the job, fraud, larceny, cheating, stealing.
Were he a peer our proud career he'd rule in mansion upper,
In the Lower House, behind him Brougham would amble on the crupper,
Like Bennet Grey, or Scarlett J. he'd wield the poleaxe curtal
(My rhymes are out) 'gainst Ministers! Alas! for Whig Jack Thurtell!

230

Moore-ish Melodies.

1.—THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY.

The last lamp of the alley
Is burning alone!
All its brilliant companions
Are shivered and gone.
No lamp of her kindred,
No burner is nigh,
To rival her glimmer,
Or light to supply.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To vanish in smoke;
As the bright ones are shattered,
Thou too shalt be broke:
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy globe o'er the street;
Where the watch in his rambles
Thy fragments shall meet.

Then home will I stagger,
As well as I may;
By the light of my nose sure
I'll find out the way.
When thy blaze is extinguished,
Thy brilliancy gone,
Oh! my beak shall illumine
The alley alone.

2.—'TIS THE LAST GLASS OF CLARET.

'Tis the last glass of Claret,
Left sparkling alone,
All its rosy companions
Are clean'd out and gone.
No wine of her kindred,
No Red Port is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
And gladden my eye.

231

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
This desert to crown:
As the bowls are all empty,
Thou too shalt float down.
Thus kindly I drink up
Each drop of pure red,
And fling the bright goblet
Clean over my head.

So soon may dame Fortune
Fling me o'er her head,
When I quit brimming glasses,
And bundle to bed.
When Champaigne is exhausted,
And Burgundy's gone,
Who would leave even Claret,
To perish alone.

3.—RICH AND RARE.

Rich and rare was the chain he wore,
And a long white wand in his hand he bore;
But oh! his paunch strutted far beyond
His bright gold chain, and his snow-white wand.

“Oh, Alderman, dost thou not fear to go,
Where the turtle shall smoke, and the Burgundy flow?
Are the doctors so sparing of lancet and pill,
Not to physic or bleed thee for this night's swill? ”

“Good ma'am,” said he, “I feel no alarm;
Nor turtle nor Burgundy does me a harm;
For though of your doctors I've had a score,
I but love good eating and drinking the more.”

On he went—and his purple nose
Soon over dish, platter, and bottle glows:
And long may he stuff, who thus defied
Lancet, pill, bolus, and potion beside.

4.—TOM STOKES LIVED ONCE.

[_]

“Young Love.”

Tom Stokes liv'd once in a garret high
Where fogs were breathing,
And smoke was wreathing

232

Her curls to give the cerulean sky,
Which high up above Tom's head did lie:
His red cheeks flourish'd,
For Sam Swipes nourish'd
Their bloom full oft with Whitbread's showers.
But debts, tho' borish, must be paid,
And Bailiffs a'nt bam'd for many hours.

Ah! that the Nabman's evil eyes
Should ever come hither,
Such cheeks to wither!
The fat soon, soon, began to die,
And Tom fell sick as the blades drew nigh.
They came one morning,
Ere Stokes had warning,
And rapp'd at the door where the wild spark lay.
‘Oh, ho!’ says Tom, ‘Is it you?’ good bye.—
So he pack'd up his awls, and he trudg'd away.

5.—BILLINGSGATE MUSIC.

Hark! Billingsgate music
Melts o'er the sea,
Falling light from some alehouse,
Where Kerry men be;
And fishwomen's voices
Roar over the deep,
And waken around us
The billows from sleep.

Our potatoe boat gently
Wades over the wave,
While they call one another
Rogue, baggage, and knave!
We listen—we listen—
How happy are we,
To hear the sweet music
Of beauteous Tralee!

233

6.—TO A BOTTLE OF OLD PORT.

1

When he, who adores thee, has left but the dregs
Of such famous old stingo behind,
Oh! say will he bluster or weep; no, ifegs!
He'll seek for some more of the kind.
He'll laugh, and though doctors perhaps may condemn,
Thy tide shall efface the decree,
For many can witness, though subject to phlegm,
He has always been faithful to thee!

2

With thee were the dreams of his earliest love,
Every rap in his pocket was thine,
And his very last prayer, every morning, by Jove,
Was to finish the evening in wine.
How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive
The effects of four bottles of thee,
But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give,
Is to stagger home muzzy from three!

7.—TO THE FINISH I WENT.

1

To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining,
The jug round the table moved jovially on;
I staid 'till the moon the next morn was declining—
The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone!
And such are the joys that your brandy will promise,
(And often these joys at the finish I've known)
Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us,
And leaves us next day with a headache alone!

2

Ne'er tell me of puns or of laughter adorning
Our revels, that last till the close of the night,
Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning,
For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light.
O! who's there who welcomes that moment's returning,
When daylight must throw a new light on his frame—
When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning,
His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame!

245

The Route.

“Send for a chair—it blows so hard—I can't bear windy weather;
Now, you and I in one sedan can go quite well together,”
Said Mrs. Frump, while folding tight her shawl around each shoulder,
She took the lean and wither'd arm of sweet Miss Nancy Holder.

This Mistress Frump and Nancy dear were old maids stiff and stupid,
Who long had been shot proof against the darts of cunning Cupid;
So now, good souls, they both were off to Lady Betty Randle,
To have a little shilling whist, and talk a deal of scandal.

The chair it came, and in they went, together sideways sitting,
As closely pack'd as all the threads they just before were knitting.
In minutes three they safe arrived, the double knock foretelling
The fast approach of these two dames to Lady Randle's dwelling.

Forthwith the bawling footman shewed up stairs Miss Nancy Holder,
And Mrs. Frump; while stared Miss Young, and Mrs. Young the older.
“Dear Lady Randle, how d'ye do? I am very glad to see you,”
Quoth Mrs. Frump. Miss Sugarfist cried, “Dear Miss Nan, how be you?”

“Miss Charlotte, I am quite rejoiced to have the boundless pleasure
Of shaking hands, my love, you're looking charming beyond measure;
That roseate bloom upon your cheek outvies the soft carnation.”
“O lawk! Miss Ann, you fluster me with such great admiration.”

Now, Mr. Sugarfist had been in tea and figs a dealer,
Which was the cause Miss Sugarfist, his child, was not genteeler;
He, having made a fortune large, and trade no more admiring,
Sold all his stock, and cut the shop and business, by retiring.

Yet still he dealt—that is, the cards, for he to whisk was partial;
His partner now, a soldier bold, was gallant Major Martial,
Who oft had seen much service hard, round Brentford, Kew, and Ryogate,
And e'en that very day had march'd from Paddington to Highgate.

By Mr. Sugarfist there sat, of turtle feasts a giver,
A Nabob, who came home with gold, but not an inch of liver;
His partner was no less a man than portly Parson Sable;
Which, if you reckon right, you'll find just makes up one whist table.

But next to these, a noisy set of talking Dames were playing
At guinea Loo, and now and then a temper vile betraying.
Miss Winter, Mrs. Crookedlegs, Miss Glum, and Mrs. Hearty,
With hump-back'd Lady Spindlehanks, exactly made the party.

246

Upon the sofa, Mrs. Frump, dear soul! had squatted down to
Some shilling whist, with Mrs. Prim, and lo! a foreign Count, too!
Who, as Dame Fortune will'd it, soon became her partner chosen;
While Mr. Prim, congenial man! sat opposite Miss Frozen.

Around the room, in various parts, some motley groups were seated:
In one place, Captain Splinter bold, with grape (not shot) juice heated,
Made desp'rate work with Sophy Blaze, who swore he meant to kill her;
For, in the warmth of love, he grasp'd her hand just like a tiller.

Then, in the room adjacent, young Miss Randle and Miss Parking,
To treat the company, began through two duets sky-larking.
When Mr. Simple ask'd Miss Quiz, “In what key are they playing?”
“'Tis what you are,—A flat,” she said, a sneering smile betraying.

Now up and down the ivory keys the Misses twain kept flying.
As if to make as great a din as could be they were trying.
This o'er, the kind Miss Symphony, with lungs indeed appalling,
Sat down before the harpsichord, and had a bout at squalling.

While all these things were going on, Miss Holder, in a corner,
Had fix'd upon a school girl, Miss Honoria Julia Horner,
Who'd just begun to be come out; so Nancy, by explaining
The histories of the folks around, Miss H. was entertaining.

“Look there! d'ye see? that's General Bomb, just come from Gibraltar;
'Tis rumour'd he will lead next week Miss Simper to the altar:
He's sixty-five, and she sixteen,—a pretty match this, truly!
No doubt, in time his brow will be with antlers cover'd duly.

“There goes Miss Flirt, who fancies she is able to discover
In every man she dances with a true and ardent lover.
And here comes Mrs. Paroquet, a widow young and wealthy,
Who's waiting just to catch some peer, old, gouty, and unhealthy.

“That kind of man with whiskers large, and hair that's rather sandy,
A stiff cravat, gold chain and glass, is what they call a Dandy.
Those ladies standing by the door, and making such wry faces,
Because they've lost twelve points at cards, are call'd the faded Graces.

“The youngest's only fifty-eight, the second sixty-seven;
The oldest, who is seventy-six, ought now to be in—heaven.
Folks say they once were pretty girls, but would be always flirting;
A thing, my dear, the hopes of being nicely married hurting.

“Now, goodness me! as I'm alive! there's little Fanny Sawyer
Engaged in earnest chat with Mr. Honesty, the lawyer.
If that turns out to be a match, I'm sure 'twill be a wonder.
But only look at Mrs. Bounce with one-arm'd Colonel Thunder.

247

“Well, how some people can!—but see, the card parties are breaking,
And yonder there's dear Mrs. Frump of tipsey-cake partaking.”
So here Miss Holder's eloquence at once was put an end to,
At sight of delicacies, which she ever was a friend to.

Now Champagne bottles, knives and forks, plates, glasses, scandal, chatter,
With laughter interspersed, began to make a glorious clatter.
“Dear Colonel, pray be good enough to help me to a custard”—
“A little lobster, if you please”—“I'll thank you for the mustard.

“Miss Holder, won't you take a seat?”—“What shall I have the pleasure,
Miss Sugarfist, of giving you?”—“Why, when you be at leisure,
I'll take some raisins, if you please.”—“That savours of the Grocer,”
Miss Clackitt whispered Mr. Prim, “her dad was one, you know, sir.”

Now Mr. Prim, alas! poor man! was very absent, making
Sometimes great blunders, which would after set his heart an aching:
Thus sage Miss Clackitt's shrewd remark to him was quite a poser,
Yet, just for answering's sake, he roar'd out, “Yes, her dad's a grocer!”

On which Miss Charlotte's cheeks, poor thing, became as red as scarlet,
And pouting like a sulky child, she sobb'd out, “O the varlet!”
But he, the cause of her dismay, stood looking blank and foolish;
While Dandy Bubble said, “Why, Prim, upon my soul! 'twas coolish.”

Now other noises swell'd the roar: Good gracious! what's the matter?
“O never mind, 'tis Sophy Blaze, again the Captain's at her:—
I wonder if these rattling romps will end in ought like marriage!”—
“Lord Random's Stanhope stops the way”—“Count Marasquino's carriage.”

Then rose among the female tribe a strife of silk and satins,
Miss Holder's chair's announced, and Mrs. Bubble's maid and pattens.
In groups the company paired off; some chairing it, some walking,
But all fatigued with doing nought, save playing cards and talking.

As home our brace of old maids went, each passing watchman's warning,
Proclaim'd, “Past two;” said Mrs. Frump, “Dear me, 'tis Sunday morning!
Well, who'd have thought it! what a shame! now is it not, Miss Nancy?
I wish we'd come away before.” (She told a lie, I fancy.)

But here to this my beauteous strain, at length I must say, Amen,
And bid adieu to Lords and Counts, to Ladies gay, and gay Men;
And much I hope, although these things sometimes should not be slighted,
When next her Ladyship's “at home,” I may not be invited.

248

A Happy New-Year.

1

Hark! hark! the sharp voice of Old Christopher North
Rings out from Edina, the gem of the Forth:
The year twenty-three like a vapour has past,
And he's nearer by one twelvemonth more to his last.
He dreads not that day—for he trusts he has stood,
Though too freakish at times, yet in all by the good;
So he watches the march of Old Time without fear,
And wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

2

He greets you, because the dear bond of our love
Is flourishing proudly all others above;
Her sons still as manly, her daughters as true—
[He speaks of the many, and mourns for the few—]
That she still is the realm of the wise and the free,
Of the Victors of Europe, the Lords of the Sea—
And gratitude dims his old eyes with a tear,
While he wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

3

His heart sings with joy, while all round him he sees
Her citizens prosper, her cities increase,—
Her taxes diminish,—her revenues rise,—
Her credit spring up, as her oaks to the skies,—
Her coasts full of commerce,—her purses of gold,—
Her granary with corn, and with cattle her fold.
He prays that for aye such may be her career,
And wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

4

He is proud to see Monarchs bend low, cap in hand,
To ask aid from her merchants, plain men of our land,
To see them their millions so readily fling,
And book down as debtor an Emperor or King:
That a nod from her head, or a word from her mouth,
Shakes the World, Old and New, from the North to the South;
That her purse rules in peace, as in war did her spear,
And he wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

249

5

Laugh, fiddle, and song, ring out gay in the town,
And the glad tally-ho cheers the dale and the down;
The rich man his claret can jollily quaff,
And the happier poor man o'er brown stout may laugh;
And the demagogue ruffian no longer can gull
With Jacobin slang, for John's belly is full;
And 'tis only when hungry that slang he will hear—
So, Kit wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

6

He rejoices to see every engine at work,
From the steamer immense, to the sweet knife and fork;
The weaver at loom, and the smith at his forge;
And all loyal and steady, and true to King George.
Whigs, therefore, avaunt! there's no chance now for ye—
We forget they exist in the general glee;
He begs you won't let them diminish your cheer,
So he wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

7

There's the King, bless his heart, long is likely to live,
And the Duke at the head of the army to thrive;
There's Wellington extant, who badger'd the Gaul,
And Eldon still sitting in Westminster-Hall.
There's Scott writing prose—and there's—who writing verse?
Why, no one; but, hang it, think never the worse.
Sure, there's Christopher North writes your Magazine here,
And wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

8

In the midst of this wealth, of this national pride—
Of our honour, our glories, spread far, far, and wide,
While proudly we traverse the sea and the sod,
Let us never forget for a moment our God!
It was he raised us up, and, remember, his frown,
If we swerve from his cause, would as soon cast us down;
But that so we shall swerve shall Old Kit never fear,
And he wishes you, darlings, a Happy New-Year.

263

Parody on Wordsworth.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A bailiff in the street:
'Twas so since from one first I ran;
'Twas so even in the Isle of Man;
'Twill be so even in Newgate's hold,
Or in the Fleet!
A trap is hateful to a man!
And my whole course in life shall be
Bent against them in just antipathy!

288

FRAGMENTS.

[I never saw a more delightful spot!—]

I never saw a more delightful spot!—
One might have lain there, when the days were hot,
Hours and hours—hark'ning to the sweet singers
Up in the leaves—twiddling one's thumbs and fingers—
Watching the sun-beams in that quiet scenery,
Spangling about the jaunty greenery,
And the small flies and gnats—that sort called midges,
Bite one confoundedly, raising long ridges
Upon one's skin.—Oh! it were sweet, most sweet,
As I before said, in the summer heat,
To lie there sprawling flat upon one's back,
Dozing and dreaming of one's—Zounds! what's that?—
Pshaw! a cockchafers—what was I saying?—
Oh; that would be delicious, thus a laying,
To dream of ------

[They were not married by a mutt'ring priest]

They were not married by a mutt'ring priest,
With superstitious rites, and senseless words,
Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book
In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen,)
Of an old house, that fools do call a Church!

289

Their altar was the flowery lap of earth—
The starry empyreum their vast temple—
Their book, each other's eyes—and Love himself,
Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!—
Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy
The spirit of the Universe.—In sooth
There was a sort of drizzling rain that day,
For I remember (having left at home
My parapluie, a name than umbrella
Far more expressive,) that I stood for shelter
Under an entry not twelve paces off,
(It might be ten,) from sheriff Waithman's shop,
For half an hour or more, and there I mused,
(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,
That hurried on a het'rogenous mass
To th' common-sewer, its dark reservoir,)
I mused upon the running stream of life.

But that's not much to th' purpose—I was telling
Of those most pure espousals.—Innocent pair!
Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains
About the yielding mind of credulous youth,
Wound by the nurse and priest,—your energies,
Your unsophisticated impulses,
Taught ye to soar above their “settled rules
Of Vice and Virtue.”—Fairest creature! He
Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth
Unworthy of thee.—A dull plodding wretch!
With whose ignoble nature, thy free spirit
Held no communion.—'Twas well done, fair creature!
T' assert the independence of a mind
Created—generated I would say—
Free as “that chartered libertine, the air.”
Joy to thy chosen partner!—blest exchange!
Work of mysterious sympathy! that drew
Your kindred souls by ------

[Come, and you'll find the muffins hot]

Come, and you'll find the muffins hot,
And fragrant tea in the tea-pot,
And she, you know, with the taper fingers,
Shall pour it out for you—Wherefore lingers
My friend so long? where can he be?
Didn't he promise he'd come to tea?
Ah! there's his knock—the very cat knows 'tis—
Now we'll be snug and toast our noses,
Now we ------

290

[There fled the noblest spirit—the most pure]

There fled the noblest spirit—the most pure,
Most sublimated essence that e'er dwelt
In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,
Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now
Into and with the all-absorbing frame
Of Nature the great mother. Ev'n in life,
While still pent up in flesh and skin, and bones,
My thoughts and feelings like electric flame
Shot through the solid mass, towards their source,
And blended with the general elements,
When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung
Far from its zenith yet, low lagging clouds
(Vapours of earth) obscured its heav'n-born rays—
Dull fogs of prejudice and superstition,
And vulgar decencies begirt thee round;
And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds
Of “holy matrimony!”—and didst vail
Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.—
But reason came—and firm philosophy,
And mild philanthropy, and pointed out
The shame it was—the crying, crushing shame,
To curb within a little paltry pale
The love that over all created things
Should be diffusive as the atmosphere.
Then did thy boundless tenderness expand
Over all space—all animated things,
And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,
A ready tear for all—The dying whale,
Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber,
By Man, the tyrant—The small sucking pig
Slain for his riot—The down-trampled flower,
Crushed by his cruel foot—All, each and all
Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then—
(Sublime perfection of perfected love)
Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing
That dared to call thee “husband,” and to claim,
As her just right, support and love from thee,—
Then didst thou ------

[Pretty little playful Patty]

Pretty little playful Patty
Daddy's darling! fubsy fatty!
Come and kiss me, come and sip,
Little bee upon my lip—
Come, and bring the pretty ship,
Little brother Johnny made ye,
Come, ye little cunning jade ye,
Come and see what I've got here,
In my pocket, pretty dear!
What! and won't ye come no higher?

291

Want to go to aunt Marier?
Want to go to ------

[Oh! lay me when I die]

Oh! lay me when I die
Hard by
That little babbling brook, where you and I
Have sat, and sauntered many a summer's day,
Scenting the sweet soft hay;
There let me lay,
For there young mincing May
Comes first with mouth so meek,
And pale peach-coloured cheek,
And little naked feet,
That go pit pat,
And all that,
Tripping among the sweet
Daisies and violets,
And pale primroses;
And there she comes and sits
A tying up of posies
Fit for immortal noses
To sniff unto, and there
With silky swaling pair,
And iv'ry hands that wring it,
And to the zephyrs fling it,
Up from that babbling brook
The little Naiad's look,

Heaving up round white shoulders,
That dazzle all beholders,
And then so graceful glide they,
Some crablike (sidling) sideway;
Then on the bank I mention,
Like turtles at Ascension,
In heaps they're all a laying,
And then with pretty playing,
One, like a frightened otter,
Flopps down into the water;
The rest they flounce in a'ter—
Then some, with pea-green blushes,
Hide in amongst the rushes,
And one lies shamming sleep,
And one squeaks out “bo peep!”
And one raised head doth peer
Out with a laughing leer;
And then pops up another;
Another and another;
Then they pretend to smother,
A titt'ring talk conquettish,
Then with affected wonder,
And feigned frowns so pettish,
Like ducks they dive down under,
Then through the gurgling water,
To look and see ------

300

Song of the Sea.

“Woe to us when we lose the watery wall!” Timothy Tickler.

If e'er that dreadful hour should come—but God avert the day!
When England's glorious flag must bend, and yield old Ocean's sway;
When foreign ships shall o'er that deep, where she is empress, lord;
When the cross of red from boltsprit-head is hewn by foreign sword;
When foreign foot her quarter-deck with proud stride treads along;
When her peaceful ships meet haughty check from hail of foreign tongue;—
One prayer, one only prayer, is mine, that, ere is seen that sigh,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelm'd in night.

If ever other prince than ours wield sceptre o'er that main,
Where Howard, Blake, and Frobisher, the Armada smote of Spain;
Where Blake, in Cromwell's iron sway, swept tempest-like the seas,
From North to South, from East to West, resistless as the breeze;
Where Russell bent great Louis' power, which bent before to none,
And crush'd his arm of naval strength, and dimm'd his Rising Sun—
One prayer, one only prayer is mine—that, ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelm'd in night!

If ever other keel than ours triumphant plough that brine,
Where Rodney met the Count De Grasse, and broke the Frenchman's line,
Where Howe, upon the first of June, met the Jacobins in fight,
And with Old England's loud huzzas broke down their godless might;
Where Jervis at St. Vincent's fell'd the Spaniards' lofty tiers,
Where Duncan won at Camperdown, and Exmouth at Algiers—
One prayer, one only prayer, is mine—that, ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelm'd in night!

But oh! what agony it were, when we should think on thee,
The flower of all the Admirals that ever trod the sea!
I shall not name thy honoured name—but if the white-cliff'd Isle
Which rear'd the Lion of the deep, the Hero of the Nile,
Him who, 'neath Copenhagen's self, o'erthrew the faithless Dane,
Who died at glorious Trafalgar, o'er-vanquished France and Spain,
Should yield her power, one prayer is mine—that, ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelm'd in night!

302

SECOND EPODE OF HORACE DONE IN A NEW STYLE.

Blest man! who far from busy hum,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Whistles his team afield with glee
Solutus omni fœnore:
He lives in peace, from battles free,
Neq' horret iratúm mare;
And shuns the forum, and the gay
Potentiorum limina.
Therefore to vines of purple gloss
Alta maritat populos,
Or pruning off the boughs unfit
Feliciores inserit;
Or in a distant vale at ease
Prospectat errantes greges;
Or honey into jars conveys,
Aut tondet infirmas oves.
When his head decked with apples sweet
Autumnus agris extulit
At plucking pears he's quite au-fait
Certant, et uvam purpuræ.
Some for priapus, for thee some
Sylvane, tutor finium!
Beneath an oak 'tis sweet to be
Mod' in tenaci gramine:
The streamlet winds in flowing maze;
Queruntur in sylvis aves;
The fount in dulcet murmur plays
Somnos quod invitet leves.
But when the winter comes (and that
Imbres nivesque comparat)
With dogs he forces oft to pass
Apros in obstantes plagas;
Or spreads his nets so thick and close,
Turdis edacibus dolos;
Or hares, or cranes, from far away
Jucunda captat præmia:
The wooer love's unhappy stir
Hæc inter obliviscitur.
His wife can manage without loss
Domum et parvos liberos;

303

(Suppose her Sabine, or the dry
Pernicis uxor Appuli.)
Who piles the sacred hearthstone high
Lassi sub ad-ventúm viri.
And from his ewes, penned lest they stray,
Distenta siccet ubera;
And this year's wine disposed to get
Dapes inemptas apparet.
Oysters to me no joys supply,
Magisve rhombus, aut scari.
(If when the east winds boisterous be
Hyems ad hoc vertat mare)
Your Turkey pout is not to us,
Non attagen Ionicus.
So sweet as what we pick at home
Oliva ramis arborum;
Or sorrel, which the meads supply,
Malvæ salubres corpori—
Or lamb, slain at a festal show,
Vel hædus ereptus lupo.
Feasting, 'tis sweet the creature's dumb,
Videre prop'rantés domum,
Or oxen with the ploughshare go,
Collo trahente languido;
And all the slaves stretched out at ease,
Circum renidentes Lares.
Alphius the usurer, babbled thus,
Jam jam futurus rusticus,
Called in his cash on th' Ides—but he
Quærit Calendis ponere.

313

The Crabstick.

[_]

Air—The Green Immortal Shamrock.

Through Britain's isle as Hymen strayed
Upon his ambling pony,
With Buller sage, in wig arrayed,
To act as cicerone,
To them full many a spouse forlorn
Complained of guineas squandered,
Of visage torn and breeches worn,
And thus his godship pondered—
Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick!
I'll ensure
A lasting cure
In Russia's native Crabstick!

With magic wand he struck the earth,
And straight his conjuration
Gave that same wholesome sapling birth,
The husband's consolation;
Dispense, quoth he, thou legal man,
This new-discover'd treasure,
And let thy thumb's capacious span
Henceforward fix its measure.
Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick!
Long essay'd
On jilt and jade
Be Buller's magic Crabstick!

The olive branch, Minerva's boon,
Betokens peace and quiet,
But 'tis sage Hymen's gift alone
Can quell domestic riot;
For 'tis a maxim long maintain'd
By doctors and logicians,
That peace is most securely gain'd
By armed politicians.
Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick!
Its vigorous shoot
Quells all dispute,
The wonder-working Crabstick!

314

In idleness and youthful hours,
When graver thoughts seem stupid,
Men fly to rose and myrtle bowers
To worship tiny Cupid;
But spliced for life, and wiser grown,
Dog-sick of sighs and rhyming.
They haunt the crab-tree bower alone,
The leafy shrine of Hymen.
Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick!
Love bestows
The useless rose,
But Hymen gives the Crabstick!

Sonnet.

I stood upon St. Peter's battlement,
And my eye wander'd o'er Imperial Rome,
And I thought sadly on the fatal doom
'Neath which her ancient palaces had bent;
Of temple and tower outrageously uprent,
Or mouldered into dust by slow decay:
Of halls where godlike Cæsar once bore sway,
Or glorious Tully fulmin'd eloquent!
So shall all earthly sade! what wonder then,
If Time can make such all-unsparing wreck,
If neither genius, art, nor skill of men,
Can e'en pretend his felon-hand to check,
That this old coat, I've worn these three years past,
Should on each elbow want a patch at last?

359

[The setting sun with crimson beam]

1.

The setting sun with crimson beam
Now gilds the twilight sky;
And evening comes with sportive mien,
And cares of daylight fly;
Then deck the board with flow'rs, and fill
My glass with racy wine;
And let those snowy arms, my love,
Once more thy harp entwine.

Oh! strike the harp, my dark hair'd love,
And swell that strain so dear;
Thine angel form shall charm mine eye,
Thy voice delight mine ear.

2.

The glasses shine upon the board,
But brighter shines thine eye;
The claret pales its ruby tint,
When lips like thine are nigh;
The tapers dim their virgin white
Beside thy bosom's hue;
And the flame they shed burns not so bright,
As that I feel for you.

Then strike the harp! each note, my love,
Shall kindle fresh desire;
Thy melting breath shall fan that flame,
Thy glowing charms inspire.