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

There was a time when every sort of people
Created, relished, and commended jokes;
But now a joker's stared at, like a steeple,
By the majority of Christian folks.
Dulness has tanned her hide to thickness triple,
And Observation sets one in the stocks,
When you've been known a comic song to sing,
Write notices, or any harmless thing.

This Edinburgh, Edina, or Dunedin—
('Cleped, in the Bailie's lingo, “the Good Town;”
But styled “Auld Reekie” by all Celts now treading
Her streets, bows, winds, lanes, crescents, up and down,
Her labyrinths of stairs and closes threading
On other people's business or their own—
Those bandy, broad-faced, rough-kneed, ragged laddies—
Those horney-fisted, those gill-swigging caddies.)

This Edinburgh some call Metropolis,
And Capital, and Athens of the North—
I know not what they mean.—I'm sure of this,—
Tho' she abounds in men of sense and worth,
Her staple and predominant qualities
Are ignorance, and nonsense, and so forth;
I don't like making use of a hard word,
But 'tis the merest hum I ever heard.

There's our Mackenzie; all with veneration
See him that Harley felt and Caustic drew:
There's Scott, the pride and darling of his nation,
Poet and cavalier, kind, generous, true.
There's Jeffrey, who has been the botheration
Of the whole world with his glib sharp Review,
And made most young Scots lawyers mad with whiggery—
There's Leslie, Stewart, Alison, and Gregory.

But these and some few others being named,
I don't remember one more great gun in her;
The remanent population can't be blamed,
Because their chief concern in life's their dinner.
To give examples I should be ashamed,
And people would cry, “Lord! that wicked sinner!”
(For all we gentry here are quite egg-shells,
We can't endure jokes that comes near “oor-sells.”)

They say that knowledge is diffused and general,
And taste and understanding are so common,
I'd rather see a sweep-boy suck a penny roll
Than listen to a criticising woman.

And as for poetry, the time of dinner all,
Thank God, I then have better things to do, man.—
Exceptions 'gainst the fair were coarse and shocking—
I've seen in breeches many a true blue stocking.

Blue stocking stands, in my vocabulary,
For one that always chatters (sex is nothing)
About new books from June to January,
And with re-echoed carpings moves your loathing
I like to see young people smart and airy,
With well dressed hair and fashionable clothing,
Can't they discourse about ball, rout, or play,
And know reviewing's quite out of their way?

It strikes me as a thing exceeding stupid,
This conversation about books, books, books,
When I was young, and sat midst damsels grouped,
I talked of roses, zephyrs, gurgling brooks,
Venus, the Graces, Dian, Hymen, Cupid,
Perilous glances, soul ubduing looks,
Slim tapering fingers, glossy clustering curls,
Diamonds and emeralds, cairngorms and pearls.

On Una that made sunshine in the shade,
And Emily with eye of liquid jet,
And gentle Desdemona, and the maid
That sleeps within the tomb of Capulet
Hearts love to ponder—would it not degrade
Our notion of a nymph like Juliet,
To be informed that she had just read thro'
Last Number of the Edinburgh Review?

Leave ye to dominies and sticker stibblers,
And all the sedentary generation,
The endless chitter-chatter about scribblers,
And England's melancholy situation.
Let them be still the customary nibblers
Of all that rule or edify the nation;
Leave off the corn-bill, and the law of libel,
And read the Pilgrim's Progress or your Bible.