 | Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn |  |
i
V. Vol. V.
The Fraserian Papers,
WITH A Life of Dr. Maginn, BY THE EDITOR.
xxiii
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MAGINN, LL. D.
xxv
“TO HELEN R.
“Within the shade of yonder grove,
Fair Helen reared her woodbine bower,
And fondly hoped unscared by Love
Would flit away each tranquil hour;
Her moments flew unchased by care,
And calm she dwelt in peace and pleasure,
While still that Love could not stray there,
Was Helen's bosom's cherished treasure.
Fair Helen reared her woodbine bower,
And fondly hoped unscared by Love
Would flit away each tranquil hour;
Her moments flew unchased by care,
And calm she dwelt in peace and pleasure,
While still that Love could not stray there,
Was Helen's bosom's cherished treasure.
“One day the god, within the wood,
Had roved, with Nature's sweets enchanted,
To where fair Helen's bower stood,
By fancy sketched, and beauty planted.
He gazed entranced, as light the latch
He slily raised to beg admission,
Waited her dark blue glance to catch,
Then lowly proffered his petition.
Had roved, with Nature's sweets enchanted,
To where fair Helen's bower stood,
By fancy sketched, and beauty planted.
He gazed entranced, as light the latch
He slily raised to beg admission,
Waited her dark blue glance to catch,
Then lowly proffered his petition.
“‘A feeble boy, alas! am I,
No parents' tender care is mine,
I've missed the wood-path here hard by,
I've lost my home, and strayed to thine;
I'm weary, too, think on my lot,
Without thine aid, alas! I'll perish;
Then, oh! receive me in thy cot,
And a forlorn poor baby cherish.’
No parents' tender care is mine,
I've missed the wood-path here hard by,
I've lost my home, and strayed to thine;
I'm weary, too, think on my lot,
Without thine aid, alas! I'll perish;
Then, oh! receive me in thy cot,
And a forlorn poor baby cherish.’
xxvi
“She heard his prayer, she wept, she smiled,
Then kindly bade the boy good morrow;
And, oh! the urchin soon beguiled
The heart that strove to soothe his sorrow.
While, simple maid! too late she found,
Go where she may, there Love would wander;
And not a spot, though fairy ground,
Could keep her soul and his asunder.”
Then kindly bade the boy good morrow;
And, oh! the urchin soon beguiled
The heart that strove to soothe his sorrow.
While, simple maid! too late she found,
Go where she may, there Love would wander;
And not a spot, though fairy ground,
Could keep her soul and his asunder.”
lxxix
“THE MOCKINGS OF THE SOLDIERS.
“‘Plant a crown upon his head,
Royal robe around him spread;
See that his imperial hand
Grasps, as fit, the sceptral wand:
Then before him bending low,
As becomes his subjects, bow;
Fenced within our armed ring,
Hail him, hail him, as our King!’
Royal robe around him spread;
See that his imperial hand
Grasps, as fit, the sceptral wand:
Then before him bending low,
As becomes his subjects, bow;
Fenced within our armed ring,
Hail him, hail him, as our King!’
“Platted was of thorns the crown,
Trooper's cloak was royal gown;
If his passive hand, indeed,
Grasped a sceptre, 't was a reed;
He was bound to feel and hear
Deeds of shame, and words of jeer;
For he whom king in jest they call
Was a doomed captive scoffed by all.
Trooper's cloak was royal gown;
If his passive hand, indeed,
Grasped a sceptre, 't was a reed;
He was bound to feel and hear
Deeds of shame, and words of jeer;
For he whom king in jest they call
Was a doomed captive scoffed by all.
“But the brightest crown of gold,
Or the robe of rarest fold,
Or the sceptre which the mine
Of Golconda makes to shine,
Or the lowliest homage given
By all mankind under heaven,
Were prized by him no more than scorn,
Sceptre of reed, or crown of thorn.
Or the robe of rarest fold,
Or the sceptre which the mine
Of Golconda makes to shine,
Or the lowliest homage given
By all mankind under heaven,
Were prized by him no more than scorn,
Sceptre of reed, or crown of thorn.
“Of the stars his crown is made,
In the sun he is arrayed,
He the lightning of the spheres
As a flaming sceptre bears:
Bend in rapture before him
Ranks of glowing seraphim;
And we, who spurned him, trembling stay
The judgment of his coming day.”
In the sun he is arrayed,
He the lightning of the spheres
As a flaming sceptre bears:
Bend in rapture before him
Ranks of glowing seraphim;
And we, who spurned him, trembling stay
The judgment of his coming day.”
lxxx
“I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE.
“I give my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
“Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done,
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
In which its tempering work was done,
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
“The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge, and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise—
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.”
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge, and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise—
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.”
cvii
“TO MY DAUGHTERS.
“O my darling little daughters—
O, my daughters loved so well—
Who by Brighton's breezy waters
For a time have gone to dwell.
Here I come with spirit yearning
With your sight my eyes to cheer,
When this sunny day returning,
Brings my forty-second year.
O, my daughters loved so well—
Who by Brighton's breezy waters
For a time have gone to dwell.
Here I come with spirit yearning
With your sight my eyes to cheer,
When this sunny day returning,
Brings my forty-second year.
“Knit to me in love and duty,
Have you been, sweet pets of mine,
Long in health, and joy, and beauty
May it be your lot to shine:
And at last, when God commanding,
I shall leave you good and kind
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Have you been, sweet pets of mine,
Long in health, and joy, and beauty
May it be your lot to shine:
And at last, when God commanding,
I shall leave you good and kind
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
“May I leave my ‘Nan’ and ‘Pigeon,’
Mild of faith, of purpose true—
Full of faith and meek religion—
With many joys and sorrows few.
Now I part, with fond caressing,
Part you now, my daughters dear—
Take, then, take a father's blessing,
In his forty-second year.”
Mild of faith, of purpose true—
Full of faith and meek religion—
With many joys and sorrows few.
Now I part, with fond caressing,
Part you now, my daughters dear—
Take, then, take a father's blessing,
In his forty-second year.”
cviii
[“Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn]
“Walton-on-Thames, Aug. 1842.
“Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn,
Who, with genius, wit, learning, Life's trophies to win,
Had neither great Lord nor rich cit of his kin,
Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin;
So, his portion soon spent (like the poor heir of Lynn),
He turned author, ere yet there was beard on his chin—
And, whoever was out, or whoever was in,
For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin,
Who received prose and rhyme with a promising grin—
‘Go ahead, you queer fish, and more power to your fin!’
But to save from starvation stirred never a pin.
Light for long was his heart, though his breeches were thin,
Else his acting, for certain, was equal to Quinn;
But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin
(All the same to the Doctor, from claret to gin),
Which led swiftly to jail, with consumption therein.
It was much, when the bones rattled loose in the skin,
He got leave to die here, out of Babylon's din.
Barring drink and the girls, I ne'er heard of a sin—
Many worse, better few, than bright, broken Maginn.”
5
FRASERIAN PAPERS.
7
THE ELECTION OF EDITOR.
[“Ladies and Gentlemen—It was a strange]
“Ladies and Gentlemen—It was a strangeSensation that came o'er me, when at first,
From the broad sunshine, I stepped in and saw
The narrowing line of daylight that came running
In after me shut by the door outside.
All then around was dusky twilight dim,
Made out of shadows most fantastical,
The unsubstantial progeny of light
Shining on singularities of art.
There stood around, all in a circ'lar row,
Seven colossal statues—each a king
Upon a rich Corinthian capital.
Sceptres were in their hands, and on their heads
Were golden crowns, in shape similar
To that small bonnet which adorned of yore
8
I delved the classics in that blue-coat school,
Fast by famed Newgate's jail; and one there was
As Nestor, or as Priam king of Troy,
Venerable—a marble brought from Athens,
Which, though oblivion hung upon his nose,
Wore the grave aspect of antiquity.
‘These,’ said our host, the modest Mister Soane,
‘Are planets, and they rule the fates of men.’
‘Are they not rather,’ was my fond reply,
Thrilling with wonderment ineffable,
‘The seven sciences—stupendous spirits,
That mock the pride of man, and people space
With life and mystical predominance?’
And, full of that sublime conception, out
I throbbing came upon this window-sill,
Where I beheld you multitudinous,
A Lake of Physiognomies, whose waves
Were human faces—and whose murmurings—
Discordant din of discontented tongues,
Shattered the crystal calmness of the air.—
But I had then the sense of sweetest influences, [To the Ladies.
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That have their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by low stream or pebbly spring,
Or such green bogs as Irishmen afar,
In Australasia or Cabotia lone,
Dream are in Erin's isle. Then I bethought
Wherefore this wise and beauteous multitude
Were here assembled, from all quarters come,
Like the rich argosies and merchantmen
That swing at anchor in the pool or stream
Below famed London bridge—and thence inspired,
I call upon you to give suffrage. Now,
Who shall be Editor, and, like the stars
Immortal burning in their glorious spheres,
Make you all stars, dispensing destiny?
For such shall be the issues of this day,
If you, in your intelligence serene,
Make a seraphic choice.”
79
Song.
[Fill up your bumpers, lads, brimmers all round!]
Fill up your bumpers, lads, brimmers all round!
This world's a queer world, you may think;
And, faith, so it is, as we've most of us found,
And that's why I wish you to drink.
D'ye wait for a toast?—then I'll give you “the King!”
And, while we've such cause to caress him,
With hearts just as full as our goblets, we'll sing,
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”
This world's a queer world, you may think;
And, faith, so it is, as we've most of us found,
And that's why I wish you to drink.
D'ye wait for a toast?—then I'll give you “the King!”
And, while we've such cause to caress him,
With hearts just as full as our goblets, we'll sing,
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “William the Fourth, God bless him!”
Again, my lads, fill to the health of a king,
Who roughed it right bravely when young;
And, when but small profit her service could bring,
To the pure cause of Liberty clung!
'Tis the king, who's now called by his nation—but hold!—
I see by your eyes that you guess him—
Then drink to a name with the proudest enrolled—
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”
Who roughed it right bravely when young;
And, when but small profit her service could bring,
To the pure cause of Liberty clung!
'Tis the king, who's now called by his nation—but hold!—
I see by your eyes that you guess him—
Then drink to a name with the proudest enrolled—
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”
God bless him!
Here's “Philip of France, God bless him!”
Oh, proud was the day, when the spirit of France
In the might of its energy rose;
And, teaching a new sort of national dance,
Astonished old tyranny's toes!
And such be the lesson by nations still taught,
When Despots shall dare to oppress 'em.
Then fill up once more, lads, and drink as ye ought,
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”
God bless 'em!
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”
In the might of its energy rose;
And, teaching a new sort of national dance,
Astonished old tyranny's toes!
And such be the lesson by nations still taught,
When Despots shall dare to oppress 'em.
80
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”
God bless 'em!
“The People of France, God bless 'em!”
81
O'Doherty sings his translation.
Drink and drown your politics!
Curse the trash of Colburn!
D---n “New Monthly's” greasy wicks,
Dimly as the whole burn!
Banished from our jovial board
Be the lack-a-daisy horde!
Curse the trash of Colburn!
D---n “New Monthly's” greasy wicks,
Dimly as the whole burn!
Banished from our jovial board
Be the lack-a-daisy horde!
Banished be the leaden lore,
Worse than edgeless razor!
Heavy fools! who fain would soar,
Go and study Fraser!
Still Regina's rule be mine—
Wit and Wisdom's fount is wine!
Worse than edgeless razor!
Heavy fools! who fain would soar,
Go and study Fraser!
Still Regina's rule be mine—
Wit and Wisdom's fount is wine!
82
Mr. Jesse's Song.
From that pure author, Nature, came
One article without a heading;
You stare—but I'll just prove that same—
She manufactured Cyrus Redding!
Witless Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
One article without a heading;
You stare—but I'll just prove that same—
She manufactured Cyrus Redding!
Witless Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
And, knowing what he'd have to do,
She gave his roof an inside leading;
And said—“Wit's shaft shall ne'er pierce through
The thick lined top of Cyrus Redding.
Silly Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!”
She gave his roof an inside leading;
And said—“Wit's shaft shall ne'er pierce through
The thick lined top of Cyrus Redding.
83
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!”
Then Cyrus grew a lanky lad,
Few notions in his brains imbedding;
“Much thinking,” thought he, “drives men mad.”
Well, there you're safe, sweet Cyrus Redding.
Lanky Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
Few notions in his brains imbedding;
“Much thinking,” thought he, “drives men mad.”
Well, there you're safe, sweet Cyrus Redding.
Lanky Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
“But though not born, it seems, to think,
My stomach can 't want meat and breading;
Nor must my throttle thirst for drink—
I'll be a scribe,” said Cyrus Redding.
Scribbling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
My stomach can 't want meat and breading;
Nor must my throttle thirst for drink—
I'll be a scribe,” said Cyrus Redding.
Scribbling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
So he began to scribble trash,
Nor gods, nor men, nor columns dreading;
Till something whispered—“Cut and slash,
And fawn and slaver, Cyrus Redding.”
Slav'ring Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
Nor gods, nor men, nor columns dreading;
Till something whispered—“Cut and slash,
And fawn and slaver, Cyrus Redding.”
Slav'ring Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
He heard the voice and joined Reviewers,
Their tea-cup twaddle widely spreading,
With minds as bright as Barclay's brewers'
And hearts like that of Cyrus Redding.
Twaddling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
Their tea-cup twaddle widely spreading,
With minds as bright as Barclay's brewers'
And hearts like that of Cyrus Redding.
Twaddling Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
Until he gained King Campbell's grace
We scorn to track his tortuous threading—
Judge they who 've looked upon his face,
'Twixt Jerry Sneak and Cyrus Redding.
Sneaking Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
We scorn to track his tortuous threading—
Judge they who 've looked upon his face,
'Twixt Jerry Sneak and Cyrus Redding.
Sneaking Cyrus,
Born to tire us,
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
And now he reigns, the L. U.'s Sec.,
The bottle's blood profusely shedding,
Oh, that a rope but held the neck
And we the heels of Cyrus Redding!
That thought—Cyrus,
Shall inspire us!
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
And be d---d to him!
(Multifarious applause—and shortly after a most outrageous roar of laughter.)
The bottle's blood profusely shedding,
84
And we the heels of Cyrus Redding!
That thought—Cyrus,
Shall inspire us!
Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus Redding!
And be d---d to him!
86
[Whisky mixed up with water]
Whisky mixed up with water,Quenching his thirst,
With three parts of the first,
Moistened off with a part of the latter:
Lay of the Whipper-in.
You all knew Bill Sligo, the Whipper-in, well—
'Mong a thousand his crack you'd be certain to tell;
On the night of division his voice would be hard,
From the North to the South of yon Old Palace Yard.
“Hark—hark!—in and in—hither come to the vote!”
And so old Bill Sligo kept straining his throat.
'Mong a thousand his crack you'd be certain to tell;
On the night of division his voice would be hard,
From the North to the South of yon Old Palace Yard.
“Hark—hark!—in and in—hither come to the vote!”
And so old Bill Sligo kept straining his throat.
When the moment appeared that the game was at bay,
And the thing should be settled at once, “aye or nay,”
Old Bill shewed his face, dashed the thong all around—
From each lurking spot he sure brought up his hound.
“Yoicks, Bathurst—Dundas, halloo!—Squeakum, ho! Wynn—
Hark to Old Billy Sligo, who's whipping you in.
And the thing should be settled at once, “aye or nay,”
87
From each lurking spot he sure brought up his hound.
“Yoicks, Bathurst—Dundas, halloo!—Squeakum, ho! Wynn—
Hark to Old Billy Sligo, who's whipping you in.
Ho! whelps out of Ireland—Ho, hounds North of Tweed!
High, close to the cover—or else no more feed.
Hollo, Croker—Ho! Murr—Mangy Georgebob, Twiss, haw!
Bloody Jem, Scruffy Franky, whelp Tommy Macaw;
Keep up, keep ye up, steady there, Sturdy Bourne!”
Songs Old Bill Sligo to each in his turn.
High, close to the cover—or else no more feed.
Hollo, Croker—Ho! Murr—Mangy Georgebob, Twiss, haw!
Bloody Jem, Scruffy Franky, whelp Tommy Macaw;
Keep up, keep ye up, steady there, Sturdy Bourne!”
Songs Old Bill Sligo to each in his turn.
When at last shall ill luck put him out of his sate,
O, think of him, lads, on the night of Debate;
Think how well he his whip, my dear bastes, had applied,
How so long he had kept you from running all wide;
And his place in the writ as the Speaker shall fill,
Give three hearty view hollows for poor Sligo Bill.
O, think of him, lads, on the night of Debate;
Think how well he his whip, my dear bastes, had applied,
How so long he had kept you from running all wide;
And his place in the writ as the Speaker shall fill,
Give three hearty view hollows for poor Sligo Bill.
88
Song.
[Oh! 'tis sweet to think that ratting will thrive]
Oh! 'tis sweet to think that ratting will thrive,
And that we may leave old friends in the lurch;
That the Duke to his brother-apostates will give
High station and rank in our Protestant church!
And that we may leave old friends in the lurch;
That the Duke to his brother-apostates will give
High station and rank in our Protestant church!
Dean Philpotts, perchance, had been always a dean,
Had he stuck by his High Church and old Tory pals;
So a traitor he turned, and a rat he has been,
In the hope of obtaining the pontificals.
Had he stuck by his High Church and old Tory pals;
So a traitor he turned, and a rat he has been,
In the hope of obtaining the pontificals.
Then, ho to apostates!—'tis pleasant to think
That your only wise men are apostates and knaves;
Though their names in posterity's nostrils should stink,
Will a trifle like this disturb them in their graves?
That your only wise men are apostates and knaves;
Though their names in posterity's nostrils should stink,
Will a trifle like this disturb them in their graves?
[In Liverpool's good easy times]
In Liverpool's good easy times,
When church and king no harm meant,
I stuck to old Shute Barrington,
And so I got preferment.
By Scarlett's help, the radicals
O' the Durham press I stampt on,
And on the hustings, day-by-day,
I bearded yellow Lambton.
When church and king no harm meant,
I stuck to old Shute Barrington,
And so I got preferment.
By Scarlett's help, the radicals
O' the Durham press I stampt on,
And on the hustings, day-by-day,
I bearded yellow Lambton.
And this is law I shall maintain,
And sure it is no vain hope,
That if I stick by powers that be,
I'll be the vicar o' Stanhope.
And sure it is no vain hope,
89
I'll be the vicar o' Stanhope.
I wrote a letter very fine,
Frank Jeffrey all defying;
I knew the fellow would not fight,
And so I called him lying.
I published, too, a book so smart,
That all the Papists flouted;
Which sweet Jack Copley got by heart,
And in the Commons spouted.
Frank Jeffrey all defying;
I knew the fellow would not fight,
And so I called him lying.
I published, too, a book so smart,
That all the Papists flouted;
Which sweet Jack Copley got by heart,
And in the Commons spouted.
And, &c.
But under good Duke Wellington
The times are altered fairly;
His Grace has eaten all his words—
Belied himself most rarely.
And so Old Nick take Barrington,
To whom I owed my station;
Ascendancy the de'il may sweep
Huzza for 'mancipation!
The times are altered fairly;
His Grace has eaten all his words—
Belied himself most rarely.
And so Old Nick take Barrington,
To whom I owed my station;
Ascendancy the de'il may sweep
Huzza for 'mancipation!
And, &c.
O'Connell is a pretty youth—
Jack Doyle a lively scholar—
Old Eldon's creed, since lost his place,
I prize not half a dollar.
Gulph down—gulph down, old thoughts, old oaths,
Curse on each ancient bias;
And if 'twould get a bishoprick,
God save our Lord Pope Pius!
Jack Doyle a lively scholar—
Old Eldon's creed, since lost his place,
I prize not half a dollar.
Gulph down—gulph down, old thoughts, old oaths,
Curse on each ancient bias;
And if 'twould get a bishoprick,
God save our Lord Pope Pius!
And, &c.
The Wind and the Wave.
We go wherever the wind and the wave
May chance in their pleasure to bear us;
They may waft us to home, they may find us a grave—
From all that we loved they may tear us:
But where'er the winds blow, and where'er the waves flow,
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!
May chance in their pleasure to bear us;
They may waft us to home, they may find us a grave—
From all that we loved they may tear us:
90
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!
Alike we 're ready to frolic or fight,
For pleasure no boys are more ready—
And we out with our guns if the foe come in sight,
Then “fire away, Lads, and stand steady!”
And spite of the number and force of the foe,
We pour in our shot, and we sing as we go,
The wave of Old England for ever!
For pleasure no boys are more ready—
And we out with our guns if the foe come in sight,
Then “fire away, Lads, and stand steady!”
And spite of the number and force of the foe,
We pour in our shot, and we sing as we go,
The wave of Old England for ever!
When back returned we are safe on the shore,
Then smack go the lips of the lasses;
And the number of blessings this earth has in store
We count by the number of glasses—
Then sail off again, and where'er the winds blow,
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!
Then smack go the lips of the lasses;
And the number of blessings this earth has in store
We count by the number of glasses—
Then sail off again, and where'er the winds blow,
We cheerily, merrily, sing as we go,
The wind and the wave for ever!
91
THE SHERIDAN FAMILY.
93
“Next follows Sheridan—a doubtful name,
As yet unsettled in the ranks of fame.
This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,
Gives him all merit—this allows him none.
Between them both, we'll steer the middle course,
Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force.
As yet unsettled in the ranks of fame.
This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,
Gives him all merit—this allows him none.
Between them both, we'll steer the middle course,
Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force.
Just his conceptions, natural and great:
His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight,
Was sheep-faced Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the color from his cheek:
But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Denied the social powers of voice and face;
Fixed in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are tried
To form destruction Nature hath denied.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.
His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight,
Was sheep-faced Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the color from his cheek:
But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Denied the social powers of voice and face;
Fixed in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are tried
To form destruction Nature hath denied.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.
His actions always strong, but sometimes such
That candor must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?
Why must the hero with the nailer vie,
And hurl the close clenched fist on nose or eye?
In royal John with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knocked poor Davies down.
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame
To fight a king so harmless and so tame?
But, spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And art, by judgment formed, with nature vies.
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll.
View the whole scene—with critic judgment scan,
And then deny his merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 't is Nature's fault alone;
When he succeeds the merit's all his own.”
That candor must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?
Why must the hero with the nailer vie,
And hurl the close clenched fist on nose or eye?
In royal John with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knocked poor Davies down.
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame
To fight a king so harmless and so tame?
94
And art, by judgment formed, with nature vies.
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll.
View the whole scene—with critic judgment scan,
And then deny his merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 't is Nature's fault alone;
When he succeeds the merit's all his own.”
102
Into whose outspread arms confidingly
She flings her fairy self? Unlike the forms
That woo and win a woman's love—the storms
Of deep contending passions are not seen
Darkening the features where they once have been,
Nor the bright workings of a generous soul,
Of feelings half concealed, explain the whole.
But there is something words can not express—
A gloomy, deep, and quiet fixedness;
A recklessness of all the blows of fate—
A brow untouched by love, undimmed by hate—
As if, in all its stores of crime and care,
Earth held no suffering now for him to bear.
Yes; all is passionless: the hollow cheek
Those pale thin lips shall never wreathe with smiles;
E'en now, 'mid joy, unmoved and sad they speak
In spite of all his Linda's winning wiles.
Yet can we read, what all the rest denies,
That he hath feelings of a mortal birth,
In the wild sorrow of those dark bright eyes,
Bent on that form—his one dear link to earth.
He loves, and he is loved! then what avail
The scornful words which seek to brand with shame?”
“A light and lovely thing,
Fair as the opening flower of early spring.
The deep rose crimsoned in her laughing cheek,
And her eyes seemed without the tongue to speak;
Those dark-blue glorious orbs!—oh! summer skies
Were nothing to the heaven of her eyes.
And then she had a witching art
To wile all sadness from the heart;
Wild as the half-tamed gazelle,
She bounded over hill and dell,
Breaking on you when alone
With her sweet and silvery tone,
Dancing to her gentle lute
With her light and fairy foot;
103
Stealing slow with gentle pace,
To hide among the feathery fern;
And while waiting her return,
I wandered up and down for hours—
She started from amid the flowers,
Wild, and fresh, and bright as they,
To wing again her sportive way.”
“My early and my only love, why silent dost thou lie,
When heavy grief is in my heart, and tear-drops in mine eye;
I call thee, but thou answerest not, all lonely though I be:
Wilt thou not burst the bonds of sleep, and rise to comfort me?
Oh! wake thee—wake thee from thy rest upon the tented field:
This faithful breast shall be at once thy pillow and thy shield;
If thou hast doubted of its truth and constancy before,
Oh! wake thee now, and it will strive to love thee even more,” &c. &c.
“And so it was—our tearful hearts did cling
And twine together even in sorrowing;
And we became as one—her orphan boy
Lisped the word ‘Father,’ as his dark eyes gazed,
With their expressive glance of timid joy,
Into my face, half pleased and half amazed.
And we did dwell together, calmly fond
With our own love, and not a wish beyond.”
------ “In the autumn time,
By the broad Shannon's banks of beauty roaming,”
104
A beautiful, a most beloved one.
There was a charm in every separate curl
Whose rings of jet hung glistening in the sun,
Which warmed her marble brow. There was a grace
Peculiar to herself, e'en from the first:
Shadows and thoughtfulness you seemed to trace
Upon that brow, and then a sudden burst
Of sunniness and laughter sparkled out,
And spread their rays of joyfulness about,” &c. &c.
“When the sacred remnant of my wretched race
Gave England's Richard gifts to let them be
All unmolested in their misery.”
“Answering, there came
A deep, low tremulous sound, which thrilled my frame.
A moment, that young form shrunk back abashed
At its own feelings; and all vainly dashed
The tear aside, which speedily returned
To quench the cheek where fleeting blushes burned.
A moment, while I sought her fears to stay,
The timid girl in silence shrank away—
A moment, from my grasp her hand withdrew—
A moment, hid her features from my view—
Then rising, sank with tears upon my breast,
Her struggles and her love at once confessed.”
“Days, months, and years, rolled on, and I had been
A prisoner a century; had seen
Change after change among my keepers; heard
The shrieks of new-made captives,” &c.
105
That good ship sails through the gleaming spray—
Like a beautiful dream on the darkened waters,
Till she anchors in Killala bay.”
“And the Undying One is left alone.”
107
HORACE IN OTHER SHAPES.
By various Hands.
“To what base uses we return, Horatio!”
Lib. I. Carmen VII.
Laudabunt alii claram Rhodon, aut Mitylene, &c.
Some say that the air is much finer in Paris,
Or puff Naples in strains all as soft as its soap;
Others laud in their journal the City Eternal,
The Piazza di Spagna, the Corso, the Pope:—
Some more waste their pennies in tumbledown Venice
Or beggarly Florence, where Burgherst is queen;
And we've heard some dull villain bepraising of Milan.
Some, like mulligatawny, are stuck in Turin;—
It me very much puzzles to find what's in Brussels;—
As for Spa or Liege, why that's only a bam.
Their taste is not much, sir, who, lauding the Dutch, sir,
Speak well of that big-breechesed town, Amsterdam.
Or puff Naples in strains all as soft as its soap;
Others laud in their journal the City Eternal,
The Piazza di Spagna, the Corso, the Pope:—
Some more waste their pennies in tumbledown Venice
Or beggarly Florence, where Burgherst is queen;
And we've heard some dull villain bepraising of Milan.
Some, like mulligatawny, are stuck in Turin;—
It me very much puzzles to find what's in Brussels;—
As for Spa or Liege, why that's only a bam.
Their taste is not much, sir, who, lauding the Dutch, sir,
Speak well of that big-breechesed town, Amsterdam.
I'd as soon read Tom Roscoe, as sojourn in Moscow,
Or in Petersburgh, frosty-faced home of the Czar;
And as for your Hamburghers, and all other d--- burghers,
God keep us from such cursed cattle afar.
Let them prate of the Prater, while others so great are
On Berlin, where Blucher I knew in old times;
But I vow unto you, Nick, that sooner than Munich
I'd dwell in, I'd listen to Ludwig's own rhymes.
Or in Petersburgh, frosty-faced home of the Czar;
And as for your Hamburghers, and all other d--- burghers,
God keep us from such cursed cattle afar.
Let them prate of the Prater, while others so great are
On Berlin, where Blucher I knew in old times;
But I vow unto you, Nick, that sooner than Munich
I'd dwell in, I'd listen to Ludwig's own rhymes.
In jack-boots or pattens, away off to Athens,
Philhells and bluestockings, dear women! repair;
While the Turcophiles ramble to Mahomet's Stambol,
But, by Allah!—dear fellow:—you'll ne'er catch me there.
As for Stockholm, in Sweden, (which Rudbeck thought Eden,)
I'd as lief go to Boulogne or Botany Bay:—
He must be a Pagan, who thinks Copenhagen
A spot where a Christian could venture to stay.
Philhells and bluestockings, dear women! repair;
While the Turcophiles ramble to Mahomet's Stambol,
But, by Allah!—dear fellow:—you'll ne'er catch me there.
As for Stockholm, in Sweden, (which Rudbeck thought Eden,)
I'd as lief go to Boulogne or Botany Bay:—
He must be a Pagan, who thinks Copenhagen
A spot where a Christian could venture to stay.
108
My head I'm not troubling about dirty Dublin,
Or Edinburgh city, small place in the north;
The first in the Liffey I'd pitch in a jiffy,
T'other village might fill some thin creek of the Forth.
To conclude—To Madrid, sir, farewell do I bid, sir,
And garlicky Lisbon, strong town of Miguel;—
So, on casting the tour up of all parts of Europe,
I conclude for the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.
Or Edinburgh city, small place in the north;
The first in the Liffey I'd pitch in a jiffy,
T'other village might fill some thin creek of the Forth.
To conclude—To Madrid, sir, farewell do I bid, sir,
And garlicky Lisbon, strong town of Miguel;—
So, on casting the tour up of all parts of Europe,
I conclude for the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.
109
Lib. III. Carmen XIX.
Quantum distet ab Inacho, &c.
Don't bother me with your old tales of Plantagenet,
Your stories of Richard, or Harry, or Ned,
Greater nonsense than such, why, I can not imagine it—
We have heard long ago what of them can be said.
Come, tell me the place where I'll get the best bottle,
The strongest of tumblers, the mildest segars,
Or where I'd most chances of wetting my throttle
By the fire of a friend, when the coppers are scarce.
Your stories of Richard, or Harry, or Ned,
Greater nonsense than such, why, I can not imagine it—
We have heard long ago what of them can be said.
Come, tell me the place where I'll get the best bottle,
The strongest of tumblers, the mildest segars,
Or where I'd most chances of wetting my throttle
By the fire of a friend, when the coppers are scarce.
I call for a bumper—here, waiter, clean glasses!—
Here's the moon, or the stars, or whatever you please;—
Your health, Jack Mulrooney; so, off with “the lasses”
Why, thirty jugs more we'd demolish with ease.
Let the poet, God help him!—I see he's half muzzy—
Take no more than nine tumblers, that's one less than ten;
And those who 've a fancy to shy getting boozy,
Should not venture much further than twice that again.
Here's the moon, or the stars, or whatever you please;—
Your health, Jack Mulrooney; so, off with “the lasses”
Why, thirty jugs more we'd demolish with ease.
Let the poet, God help him!—I see he's half muzzy—
Take no more than nine tumblers, that's one less than ten;
And those who 've a fancy to shy getting boozy,
Should not venture much further than twice that again.
So ho! What's the matter? Let's kick up a riot.
Here, piper! you ruffian, come blow us a jig;—
Do you think, for a moment, I mean to be quiet?
If I do, may old Scratch run away with my wig!
Make a row! push the bottle! whoop, shout, boys, and caper.
Why the deuce should I not raise a tumult and roar?
The neighbors, you say, will look sulky and vapor,
And so will the pretty young doxy next door;—
What? old fellow's friend? Pish! Tom, here is the lady,
Black-haired and black-eyed, you 've been courting so long.
As for me—fill the glass for the dear Widow Brady
Whose three hundred a year wakes your Munsterman's song.
Here, piper! you ruffian, come blow us a jig;—
Do you think, for a moment, I mean to be quiet?
If I do, may old Scratch run away with my wig!
Make a row! push the bottle! whoop, shout, boys, and caper.
Why the deuce should I not raise a tumult and roar?
The neighbors, you say, will look sulky and vapor,
And so will the pretty young doxy next door;—
What? old fellow's friend? Pish! Tom, here is the lady,
Black-haired and black-eyed, you 've been courting so long.
As for me—fill the glass for the dear Widow Brady
Whose three hundred a year wakes your Munsterman's song.
128
THE LAY OF THE DISMAL CRAMP.
They made him a bed that was wretchedly damp,
And had reason that same to rue,
For he awoke in the night with a thundering cramp,
And he thumped and he swore, and he kicked out the lamp,
With a plague of a hilloa-ba-loo!
And had reason that same to rue,
For he awoke in the night with a thundering cramp,
And he thumped and he swore, and he kicked out the lamp,
With a plague of a hilloa-ba-loo!
“Now my lamp is out—not an inch can I see!
And snoring the dolts I hear;
But short and not sweet their snooze shall be,
And I'll lock up the maid, and toss in the key
To a butt of their table-beer!”
And snoring the dolts I hear;
But short and not sweet their snooze shall be,
And I'll lock up the maid, and toss in the key
To a butt of their table-beer!”
Away, with his dismal cramp, he sped,
Though walking you 'd think a bore;
And onward he went, with a hop and a tread,
Till he stood at the side of the innkeeper's bed,
And he bellowed a terrible roar.
Though walking you 'd think a bore;
And onward he went, with a hop and a tread,
Till he stood at the side of the innkeeper's bed,
And he bellowed a terrible roar.
And the landlady, starting, began to break
Her sleep, as he bawled in her ear;
Till she cried to mine host—from her dream awake—
“Ah what is the row?—sure did n't you spake,
Or is it the divil, my dear?”
Her sleep, as he bawled in her ear;
Till she cried to mine host—from her dream awake—
“Ah what is the row?—sure did n't you spake,
Or is it the divil, my dear?”
Said the stranger, “You vixen! my bed was damp,
I'll be curst if I pay you a screw!
And I've locked up your maid, and kicked out the lamp,
And you 're in the dark, and I'm losing my cramp,
So I'm off with a hilloa-ba-loo!”
I'll be curst if I pay you a screw!
And I've locked up your maid, and kicked out the lamp,
And you 're in the dark, and I'm losing my cramp,
So I'm off with a hilloa-ba-loo!”
129
THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
'T is over!—the spirit hath fled,
That kept the wide world in amaze;
Like a pine-tree all withered and dead;
Like a comet all shorn of its rays.
Oh! who could have omened of yore,
When that comet blazed fierce thro' the sky,
That its circuit so soon should be o'er,—
That, 'mid shadow and shame, it should die;—
That the glory which blinded all eyes that it met,
In haze should decline, and in darkness should set!
That kept the wide world in amaze;
Like a pine-tree all withered and dead;
Like a comet all shorn of its rays.
Oh! who could have omened of yore,
When that comet blazed fierce thro' the sky,
That its circuit so soon should be o'er,—
That, 'mid shadow and shame, it should die;—
That the glory which blinded all eyes that it met,
In haze should decline, and in darkness should set!
Like an arrow that twangs from the bow,
To ascend the blue depths of the sky,
Passes over the cloud's snowy brow,
And mocks the vain gaze of the eye,—
Like the eagle that mightily soars
On the far-bearing wings of the blast,
Till earth and its vanishing shores
Have receded, like things of the past,—
Wert thou, dread Napoleon, now lulled to thy rest,
'Mid an isle of the main, with a stone on thy breast.
To ascend the blue depths of the sky,
Passes over the cloud's snowy brow,
And mocks the vain gaze of the eye,—
Like the eagle that mightily soars
On the far-bearing wings of the blast,
Till earth and its vanishing shores
Have receded, like things of the past,—
Wert thou, dread Napoleon, now lulled to thy rest,
'Mid an isle of the main, with a stone on thy breast.
With thy thunders did tremble the world,
And thrones at thy bidding did bow;
And thy banner, wherever unfurled,
Shone triumphantly still to o'erthrow;
Like a tree from the front of the steep,
Looking down o'er the forests afar;
Like dark Teneriffe, shooting up from the deep,
That kisses its feet with a jar;
So proud didst thou rise o'er the kingdoms of earth,
While they crouched at thy feet, joining trembling with mirth.
And thrones at thy bidding did bow;
And thy banner, wherever unfurled,
Shone triumphantly still to o'erthrow;
Like a tree from the front of the steep,
Looking down o'er the forests afar;
Like dark Teneriffe, shooting up from the deep,
That kisses its feet with a jar;
So proud didst thou rise o'er the kingdoms of earth,
While they crouched at thy feet, joining trembling with mirth.
134
POETICAL PLAGIARIES.
“TO MRS. ---
“If joys from sleep I borrow,
Sure thou 'lt forgive me this;
For he who wakes to sorrow,
At least may dream of bliss!
Sure thou 'lt forgive me this;
For he who wakes to sorrow,
At least may dream of bliss!
Wilt thou forgive my taking
A kiss—or something more?
What thou deny'st me waking,
I sure may slumber o'er.”
A kiss—or something more?
What thou deny'st me waking,
I sure may slumber o'er.”
161
BARNEY MOORE;
A VISION OF COVENT GARDEN AND ST. GILES'S.
163
It wants an hour of sunrise; and the rain
Pours down in torrents, and in splashing showers
Fills every gutter, steaming with perfume,
Rank and indelicate confoundedly.
Shrouded in which, as in a frouzy night-cap,
164
Conscious once more of market-hour's approach.
No object all around me is unsoaked—
Carts, gardeners, ladies, turnip-tops, police,
Soused through and through, swear (such of them as can)
In strong expression of the rapped-out oath.
Alive is every potatory tap,
Wine-vaults or cellar, with their pewter pots
And ruin azure-hued; while blandly smiles,
Hearing the coppers on the counter roll,
The trim-capped bar-maid; and the coves, enwreathed
With ladies of the night, brimful of gin,
Stagger along in lushy state, and fill
The air with odors, from the shortened pipe
Puffed frequently; and many a wandering bird,
'Neath the piazzas whispers words of love
To knight or squire, in blissful drunkenness,
Who sees a double beauty in her eyes.
There, beside one small round of deal-board, sit
A crew of costermongers, happy all
With their mundungus mild, and heavy-wet;
And here, safe stored beneath yon canvass awning,
165
Heaped up against the dinner-hour's demand—
Doomed as companion to the beef, or boiled
Or stewed, or cooked in manners manifold—
Messes which tailors love to feed upon.
And, lo! yon watch-house, lying by the church,
Choke-full almost—yet all the while still filling
With importations of disorderlies,
Kicking up rows and shindies far and wide,
And all descriptions of loose characters
Cramming and crowding, till the lock-up room
Sweats with the foes of order; like the land
Where Newman Knollys sends his chosen flock;
And many a blowen of saloonic fame,
Sold to a Sydney settler, is beloved
In patriarchal wise: spite of that love,
Oft is her seven years' sojourn dimmed with tears,
Shed when she thinks on spots which, since the hour
The ruthless beaks took her to trap away,
Have seen, unvisited by her, the lark,
Morning and evening; or upon her pals,
Who oft, since she was lagged, have, side by side,
166
Ay, all on to the moonlight starriness,
Without once knowing that there was a sky.
Muggy, and moist, and slob, and slippery!
A multitudinous host of coffee-shops!
And lo! the Finish opens to receive
The remnants of the night. Black horsebeans now
Are flowing, coffee-like, with plenteous grounds;
And there are goings-on of human life
In Bow Street, Hart Street, James Street, White Hart Yard,
Behind green window-blinds and yellow curtains.
And from his beat the blue-coat Peeler sees
And hears the stagger of Corinthian,
Singing and shouting, as he scarcely seems
To touch the ground with his unsteady foot,
And at the last, laid level by a trip,
Drops, in full dress, his person in the mud.
167
The power of Daffy—she it is who bathes
With ruin blue as is an angel's eye
Whate'er your rolling optics look upon!
By many an intermediate link of thought
It joins that family of brick and stone,
In strange relationship, till the curb-stone,
Flanked by the puddle, the mud-girded pavement
Where heroes, done by draughts of Deady, sleep,
Is mingled with the chimney pinnacle
From which yon speck—it is a sweep—sings out.
Silent in nature is the unwakened street,
For all its coves are snoring fast asleep:
But in his daffy-stricken ear a sound
Thunders as if a hundred wagons rolled.
Where are his pot companions? In dark traps
Locked up, some look for Bow-Street in the morn.
Of others the imprisoned form is seen
By the gruff turnkey as he shoots the bolt
Of Newgate, looking o'er Snow Hill below.
168
Their chanting and their chaff—the flowing lush,
Their pints of heavy—glorying in his soul
On their sunshiny feats of crackmanship;
Or thinking gloomy of the scragging hour,
When Cotton's signal sends their swinging bulk
Dancing on nothing in a hempen cravat,
That makes its wearer grin like Samuel Rogers.
An Irish row!
St. Giles's! where the Cork and Kerry men
Come down in lashings out of Lawrence Lane.
Gossoons from Iveragh, O'Connell's land,
Or sweet St. Barry's steeple-crowned hill,
Thundering to men of Connaught, or of Leinster,
To take a leathering that will do them good.
The challenged onward sweep, a hundred boys,
Shillelah-furnished from the Rose and Crown,
Or Jem M'Govern's crib in Buckridge Street:
169
Each separate lad knocking his neighbor down;
Soon the storm-loving heroes spread the fray
From Dyot Street to Broad Street, the career
Marked out by broken heads. Down sink the polls
Of Jerry Kearney, or Tim Gollogher,
Smote by the tempest shower of ash plants dried,
Or flying stones—once pavement of the street—
Now flung in rocky war. The gathering fight
In the long battering 'twixt the Dublin coves
And the big broguineers of Munster land,
Through those Elysian groves, burst in each lane
Into a hundred other smaller rows;
Till, lo! subdued by saplings of the South,
(Whence potent whiskey flows, though mild to taste)
Down sink the men of Erin east and west,
Insensibly knocked up by knocking down.
And all along the ancient ground of fight
170
Squalling advice of quiet to the boys,
Leathering or leathered, and remove their husbands
In Irish fashion—killed. The first-risen Pat
Beholds next morn his much-loved Holy Land
All strewn with mud and blood, and sticks and stones,
And wigs and hats, which hats can be no more.
173
So to the bar they come—the close girt bar,
Thither conducted by a brace of traps,
And no mistake ------
[OMITTED]
------and cheek by jowl,
Placed on their perch, distinctly visible,
The sisters stand awhile, then leaning over,
Blow up the officers in words of slang
Like fun; and keep their game eyes steadily
Fixed on Sir Richard's mug.
Thither conducted by a brace of traps,
And no mistake ------
[OMITTED]
------and cheek by jowl,
Placed on their perch, distinctly visible,
The sisters stand awhile, then leaning over,
Blow up the officers in words of slang
Like fun; and keep their game eyes steadily
Fixed on Sir Richard's mug.
One phiz is pale
In its own pockmarkedness, but paler seems
Beneath the border of her unwashed cap,
So sooty-black, contrasting with the red,
Deep-seated, of her well-carbuncled nose,
Kept purple by her drams. The other foxy
As ruddiest reynard, and bedaubed with rouge,
In rivalry of all those uncombed locks,
Like carrots glittering, o'er her breadth of face
Afloat, and from her eyes, some twice a minute,
Pushed back with greasy hand. But, oh! those eyes
Black all around, but as you closer gaze
Yellower and yellower grows the spreading circle
That girds around each twinkling orb, befringed
With eyelids almost closed upon the eye,
And reddened by the constant lush of Booth.
In its own pockmarkedness, but paler seems
Beneath the border of her unwashed cap,
So sooty-black, contrasting with the red,
Deep-seated, of her well-carbuncled nose,
Kept purple by her drams. The other foxy
As ruddiest reynard, and bedaubed with rouge,
In rivalry of all those uncombed locks,
Like carrots glittering, o'er her breadth of face
Afloat, and from her eyes, some twice a minute,
Pushed back with greasy hand. But, oh! those eyes
Black all around, but as you closer gaze
Yellower and yellower grows the spreading circle
That girds around each twinkling orb, befringed
174
And reddened by the constant lush of Booth.
Barney Moore, a Vision of Covent Garden and St. Giles's. By Bryan O'Toole, Esq., of Gray's Inn. In ten Visions. Visions I. and II.; 4to. Buckman, London.
175
MISS PIPSON.
The prettiest mouth that man could wish to lay his longing lips onIs that belonging to the sweet and innocent Miss Pipson.
O! when she goes along the street, the wink she often tips one,
Which makes me feel confounded queer—the cunning wag Miss Pipson.
And when the snow-white French kid glove her pretty hand she slips on,
She seems the very queen of love—the beautiful Miss Pipson.
She is the lawful daughter of her father's father's rib's son,
And thus you have the pedigree of elegant Miss Pipson.
She is so full behind, you'd swear that she had got false hips on,
And yet no bustle doth she wear—magnificent Miss Pipson.
She sings and dances vastly well; and when the floor she skips on,
You see at once she doth excel—the nimble-limbed Miss Pipson.
'T is dangerous to approach too near her fingers, for she grips one,
And puts the soul in bodily fear—the cruel minx, Miss Pipson.
But yet you can 't object, although in terror she so dips one;
You rather glory in each blow received from fair Miss Pipson.
Pain from her hands no more is pain; and even when she nips one,
You can not, for your soul, complain—the cruel, sweet Miss Pipson.
'Tis said she carries things so high, that sometimes e'en she whips one;
But that, I guess, is “all my eye,”—adorable Miss Pipson.
At all events, she tips, and grips, and dips, and nips, and trips one;
And therefore I'll have nought to do with beautiful Miss Pipson!
184
THE SPERMACETI CANDLE.
“The sovereignest thing on earth,
Is 'parmacity ------”
Shakespeare.
Is 'parmacity ------”
Shakespeare.
Ye gods immortal! in all time
By heavenly zephyrs fanned well,
Inspire my bosom while I climb
Th' Eolian mount, with steps sublime—
The matchless subject of my rhyme
A Spermaceti Candle.
By heavenly zephyrs fanned well,
Inspire my bosom while I climb
Th' Eolian mount, with steps sublime—
The matchless subject of my rhyme
A Spermaceti Candle.
Dim was each light in days of old,
'Mong Saxon, Goth, and Vandal,
Compared with that which now is sold,
(Better than tallow, dip, or mould),
Whose flame is brighter far than gold—
A Spermaceti Candle.
'Mong Saxon, Goth, and Vandal,
Compared with that which now is sold,
(Better than tallow, dip, or mould),
Whose flame is brighter far than gold—
A Spermaceti Candle.
Place every kind of light in view,
And when you 've quietly scanned all,
I'll bet a pipe of wine that you
Will give the preference unto
A Spermaceti Candle.
And when you 've quietly scanned all,
I'll bet a pipe of wine that you
Will give the preference unto
A Spermaceti Candle.
If tallow, therefore, you eschew,
And are averse to handle,
The very best thing you can do
Is in its place to substitu-
Te a Spermaceti Candle.
And are averse to handle,
The very best thing you can do
Is in its place to substitu-
Te a Spermaceti Candle.
Its color is as pure as snow,
Or floors strewed with white sand all;
It burneth with a peerless glow—
A proof that there is nought below
Like a Spermaceti Candle.
Or floors strewed with white sand all;
It burneth with a peerless glow—
A proof that there is nought below
Like a Spermaceti Candle.
185
It needs no snuffing, for the wick,
So beautiful and grand all,
Becomes not cabbaged, faint, or sick—
With tallow lights a common trick—
But never with that shining stick,
A Spermaceti Candle.
So beautiful and grand all,
Becomes not cabbaged, faint, or sick—
With tallow lights a common trick—
But never with that shining stick,
A Spermaceti Candle.
Tall Etna from his flaming peak,
With fiery arches spanned all,
Exhibits but a lustre weak,
Compared with that bright steady streak,
Which cometh unobscured by reek,
From a Spermaceti Candle.
With fiery arches spanned all,
Exhibits but a lustre weak,
Compared with that bright steady streak,
Which cometh unobscured by reek,
From a Spermaceti Candle.
Our old theatric records say,
That Covent Garden band all
Once on a time refused to play
March, hornpipe, dirge, or roundelay,
Save by the pure transparent ray
(Allowed to each musician gay)
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
That Covent Garden band all
Once on a time refused to play
March, hornpipe, dirge, or roundelay,
Save by the pure transparent ray
(Allowed to each musician gay)
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
That Hanoverian genius rare,
The organ-loving Handel,
Could not a single stave prepare,
Unless when on his easy-chair
He sat, surrounded by the glare
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
The organ-loving Handel,
Could not a single stave prepare,
Unless when on his easy-chair
He sat, surrounded by the glare
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
Great Hannibal, Hamilcar's lad,
Who armies could command well,
(Some say much better than his dad,)
Once saved himself from rout most sad
By means of cows and bullocks mad,
Each monster's horns with flames yclad
From a Spermaceti Candle.
Who armies could command well,
(Some say much better than his dad,)
Once saved himself from rout most sad
By means of cows and bullocks mad,
Each monster's horns with flames yclad
From a Spermaceti Candle.
Some praise the sun, and some the moon,
In eloquence quite grand all:
A fig for both! I'll beat them soon—
The last in May, the first in June—
By that incomparable boon,
A Spermaceti Candle.
In eloquence quite grand all:
A fig for both! I'll beat them soon—
The last in May, the first in June—
By that incomparable boon,
A Spermaceti Candle.
186
I've travelled east, I've travelled west,
I've been in Coromandel,
And I can say, without a jest,
That both in hall and peasant's nest,
'Tis of its race avowed the best—
The Spermaceti Candle.
I've been in Coromandel,
And I can say, without a jest,
That both in hall and peasant's nest,
'Tis of its race avowed the best—
The Spermaceti Candle.
In Abyssinia, where the heat
Each native's phiz hath tanned well,
They deem their happiness complete
If any friend whom they may meet
Will have the goodness them to treat
To a Spermaceti Candle.
Each native's phiz hath tanned well,
They deem their happiness complete
If any friend whom they may meet
Will have the goodness them to treat
To a Spermaceti Candle.
There 's nothing in the world so bright,
As you must understand well;
Suppose you lose your way at night,
What think you on with all your might?
Why, to be sure, upon a light-
Ed Spermaceti Candle.
As you must understand well;
Suppose you lose your way at night,
What think you on with all your might?
Why, to be sure, upon a light-
Ed Spermaceti Candle.
'Tis strange that those who love to sing
The deeds of Cribb and Randall—
Those potent heroes of the ring—
Should never yet have touched the string
In praise of that most useful thing,
A Spermaceti Candle.
The deeds of Cribb and Randall—
Those potent heroes of the ring—
Should never yet have touched the string
In praise of that most useful thing,
A Spermaceti Candle.
A cock-boat by the lightning smit,
A seventy-four that 's manned ill,
Are bad enough, but not a whit,
More to be pitied than the cit,
Who has not in his house a bit
Of Spermaceti Candle.
A seventy-four that 's manned ill,
Are bad enough, but not a whit,
More to be pitied than the cit,
Who has not in his house a bit
Of Spermaceti Candle.
The Grecian maids, so fair and sweet,
Wore on each leg a sandal;
But all their skill was incomplete
To show at night their lovely feet
Without that accessory neat,
A Spermaceti Candle.
Wore on each leg a sandal;
But all their skill was incomplete
To show at night their lovely feet
Without that accessory neat,
A Spermaceti Candle.
187
Live where he may, or far or near,
He ought to be trepanned well,
And made to suffer stripes severe,
Imprisonment in cell most drear,
Without tobacco, gin, or beer,
Who has the heartlessness to sneer
At a Spermaceti Candle.
He ought to be trepanned well,
And made to suffer stripes severe,
Imprisonment in cell most drear,
Without tobacco, gin, or beer,
Who has the heartlessness to sneer
At a Spermaceti Candle.
May honest men, where'er they be,
With indignation brand all
Who sip their toddy, or their tea,
In wintery nights, by land or sea,
Without the cheerful lustre free
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
With indignation brand all
Who sip their toddy, or their tea,
In wintery nights, by land or sea,
Without the cheerful lustre free
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
Behold yon taper, shining bright
In lamp that is japanned well,
Although it gives a pleasant light,
'T would really seem as dark as night,
If but contrasted with the might
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
In lamp that is japanned well,
Although it gives a pleasant light,
'T would really seem as dark as night,
If but contrasted with the might
Of a Spermaceti Candle.
If you desire to be renowned
At cards, and play your hand well,
A clearer help can not be found,
(Whether the game be square or round,)
Than a Spermaceti Candle.
At cards, and play your hand well,
A clearer help can not be found,
(Whether the game be square or round,)
Than a Spermaceti Candle.
If e'er by chance you sail upon
The Straits of Babelmandel,
Where gas-lights are but little known,
You 'll ne'er be dull, nor feel alone,
If you have for compan-i-ón
A Spermaceti Candle.
The Straits of Babelmandel,
Where gas-lights are but little known,
You 'll ne'er be dull, nor feel alone,
If you have for compan-i-ón
A Spermaceti Candle.
To place beside it, oil or gas,
Would be a kind of scandal,
Which none would think of but an ass
(Of whom there are a few, alas!)
Who vainly hopes thus to surpass
The Spermaceti candle.
Would be a kind of scandal,
Which none would think of but an ass
(Of whom there are a few, alas!)
Who vainly hopes thus to surpass
The Spermaceti candle.
188
In short, this luminary bright,
Like baby you might dandle,
For cleanliness and giving light,
And aspect of a snowy white,
There 's nought—especially at night—
Like a Spermaceti Candle.
Like baby you might dandle,
For cleanliness and giving light,
And aspect of a snowy white,
There 's nought—especially at night—
Like a Spermaceti Candle.
I may as well conclude, for if
I wrote another bandle,
I could not add a single whiff
Which would go further to uplif-
T a Spermaceti Candle.
I wrote another bandle,
I could not add a single whiff
Which would go further to uplif-
T a Spermaceti Candle.
189
SONG OF THE SHIRTLESS FOR THE YEAR THIRTY-THREE
BY SIR MORGAN O'DOHERTY, BART.
DEDICATED TO ALL TRUE REFORMERS.
I
Welcome, welcome, my gentle reader!Here we have come to thirty-three—
Year in which all sides agreed are
Many a marvel we shall see.
Chant we therefore an opening chorus,
Swelling it loud with joy and glee:
Here 's to the year that is now before us—
It is the year for you and me.
Tolderol, lollol, lollol, lollol;
Tolderol, lollol, lollol lol.
II
Up and be stirring, my sturdy neighbor—Up and be stirring—the time is come
To shoulder musket and draw the sabre,
To cheering sound of trump and drum.
Soon shall we hear the firelock prattling—
Soon shall the noisy cannon hum—
Soon shall the shells in showers be rattling,
Sputtered abroad by the jolly bomb.
Tolderol, &c.
III
What shall we fight for, what shall we fight for—What shall we fight for, gossip dear?
190
In this thorough reforming year:
Hall and house, and park and palace,
Wealth and plenishing, goods and gear,
Star and jewel, and plate and chalice,
Hose and doublet, feast and cheer.
Tolderol, &c.
IV
Down with coronet, down with mitre,Down with altar, down with throne;
Easier shall we be and lighter
When this mummery all is gone.
King and bishop, and peer and parson,
If unhanged, in jail may groan;
Long enough they carried their farce on—
Now, my boys, the day's our own!
Tolderol, &c.
V
Shout, my brother descamisado—Shirtless brother, come shout with me!
Rich and noble will soon be made to
Bend to fellows like us the knee.
Weep and wail, ye men of riches—
Wail, ye men of house and land!
Here come we who wear no breeches,
Seeking our own with pike in hand.
Tolderol, &c.
VI
Off with Howard, and out with Percy—Down with Stafford and Devonshire;
For Duke John Bedford's lands no mercy—
Pluck Lord Grosvenor's—worthy peer!
We shall soon, for good example,
Give the axe its full career,
And on the Bar ycleped of the Temple
Noble heads we again shall rear.
Tolderol, &c.
VII
Tremble, ye sons of the circumcision—Rothschild's heart may throb with pain;
191
Of all the shents of your godless gain.
Visitors worse than Nebuchadnezzar,
When he spoiled your sacred fane,
More to be feared than Titus Cæsar,
Shall invade Bartholomew Lane.
Tolderol, &c.
VIII
Away with schools, with hall, with college—Make them the nests of owl and toad;
We know more of useful knowledge
Than e'er to Isis or Cam was owed.
We teach the art of sack and pillage
All by the rule of prime and load;
We shall show to town and village
That the true teacher is abroad.
Tolderol, &c.
IX
Far and wide shall be cities flaming—Long and loud shall the bayonet ring;
Blood on wave and plains shall be streaming—
Princes and peers shall on gibbets swing.
Honor and justice, faith or pity,
We to the idle winds will fling;
And is not this a charming ditty,
Fit to be sung before a king?
Tolderol, lollol, lollol, lollol;
Tolderol, lollol, lol.
M. O'D. Tower Hill, 1st of the 1st decade of the year I.
192
NONSENSE VERSES.
Let the spirit of murphies repine
O'er the ocean's dread stultified breast,
And dolphins drink puncheons of wine
To the murmurs of purified rest.
Let bacon and pancakes no more
Lord Chancellors of Ireland be made,
Lest the Island of Rathlin should snore,
And by cholera's pangs be betrayed.
O'er the ocean's dread stultified breast,
And dolphins drink puncheons of wine
To the murmurs of purified rest.
Let bacon and pancakes no more
Lord Chancellors of Ireland be made,
Lest the Island of Rathlin should snore,
And by cholera's pangs be betrayed.
No longer let dull Althorp's chest
Aspire to the dungeons below,
Where reposing on beauty's sad breast,
The mountains of Araby glow.
For the turmoil of courts and of kings
Shall exalt to the skies' dark domain
The essence of butterflies' wings,
And mingle it there with the slain.
Aspire to the dungeons below,
Where reposing on beauty's sad breast,
The mountains of Araby glow.
For the turmoil of courts and of kings
Shall exalt to the skies' dark domain
The essence of butterflies' wings,
And mingle it there with the slain.
Then mute may all sausages be:
May the tincture of pestilence spread
Its beautiful arms o'er the sea,
And gladden the fishes with dread.
May the tincture of pestilence spread
Its beautiful arms o'er the sea,
And gladden the fishes with dread.
193
LAMENT UPON APSLEY HOUSE.
What house is yonder, which I with wonder
See smashed with plunder and paving-stones—
Its shutters shattered, its windows battered,
All tore and tattered, like Davy Jones?
O! I see it clear O!—it is the Hero
Who beat old Boney so clear and clane;
The great old Fighter, and smart Delighter,
Who with flying banners won the plain.
See smashed with plunder and paving-stones—
Its shutters shattered, its windows battered,
All tore and tattered, like Davy Jones?
O! I see it clear O!—it is the Hero
Who beat old Boney so clear and clane;
The great old Fighter, and smart Delighter,
Who with flying banners won the plain.
There was Alexander the bould commander,
And Mister Hannibal so fine:
But if the Rat-catcher was their body-snatcher,
By all that's good 't is he would shine!
And Julius Cæsar who, like Nebuchadnezzar,
Was quite uncommon in his day,
But I'd lay you a wager that our old stager,
The hook-nosed Duke would have his way.
And Mister Hannibal so fine:
But if the Rat-catcher was their body-snatcher,
By all that's good 't is he would shine!
And Julius Cæsar who, like Nebuchadnezzar,
Was quite uncommon in his day,
But I'd lay you a wager that our old stager,
The hook-nosed Duke would have his way.
194
Great is my sadness, and small my gladness,
When I perceive his shutters shut—
Smathered and battered, besieged and tattered,
By the blackguards who are now on fut.
And O, by Japers! what sort of capers,
You grenadiers, it was yours to show,
When the riffle-raffle of the London city
Smashed all the panes of our old Beau!
When I perceive his shutters shut—
Smathered and battered, besieged and tattered,
By the blackguards who are now on fut.
And O, by Japers! what sort of capers,
You grenadiers, it was yours to show,
When the riffle-raffle of the London city
Smashed all the panes of our old Beau!
Where were the Guards, sir, when the blackguards, sir,
Smashed down the panes of the Dear Duke?
If Goll and Osgor were here to the fore,
'T is they would never on such stuff look;
And there 's Brien Boroo, in battle lading—
'T is he'd for aid in this here fight,
And smash the villains, like damned civilians,
Over and over, from left to right.
Smashed down the panes of the Dear Duke?
If Goll and Osgor were here to the fore,
'T is they would never on such stuff look;
And there 's Brien Boroo, in battle lading—
'T is he'd for aid in this here fight,
And smash the villains, like damned civilians,
Over and over, from left to right.
Like hungry hawks on a March-day morning,
A-slating small birds upon a hill,
'T is they're the covies who are adorning
That most particular place they're going to kill.
There was great rejoicing, and loud-mouthed voicing,
Bawling away about the peace;
And in the king's dominions it fled about with pinions,
A most plasing remonstrance in the place.
A-slating small birds upon a hill,
'T is they're the covies who are adorning
That most particular place they're going to kill.
There was great rejoicing, and loud-mouthed voicing,
Bawling away about the peace;
And in the king's dominions it fled about with pinions,
A most plasing remonstrance in the place.
There was wondrous beaming and branch-lights flaming,
Sweet music a-shameing bagpipe and flute;
The windows they were scented, the people were contented,
Every thing was happy—both mankind and brute.
The deafman and the cripple both together they did tipple,
And Erin was rejoicing to the tune of her “go bray;”
And 'tis I am hard in heart here, to think that you, Duke Arthur,
Are a smash-windowed sort of character this blessed day.
Sweet music a-shameing bagpipe and flute;
The windows they were scented, the people were contented,
Every thing was happy—both mankind and brute.
The deafman and the cripple both together they did tipple,
And Erin was rejoicing to the tune of her “go bray;”
And 'tis I am hard in heart here, to think that you, Duke Arthur,
Are a smash-windowed sort of character this blessed day.
195
FROM ANACREON.
When my weary, worn-out eyes
Closed to seek a willing peace,
And the moon, in midnight skies,
Glittered like a shilling-piece—
At my door there came a knock,
O'er my brow a dizziness;
Through the pane I gave a look—
“Holloa! what's your business?”
Closed to seek a willing peace,
And the moon, in midnight skies,
Glittered like a shilling-piece—
At my door there came a knock,
O'er my brow a dizziness;
Through the pane I gave a look—
“Holloa! what's your business?”
There I saw a little boy,
Frosty-faced and shivering;
Forty arrows, like a toy,
Bent his back a quiver in.
“Let me in,” he cried, “till day—
Lost my road in jogging on;
I have got the means to pay,
Put your board a noggin on.
Frosty-faced and shivering;
Forty arrows, like a toy,
Bent his back a quiver in.
“Let me in,” he cried, “till day—
Lost my road in jogging on;
I have got the means to pay,
Put your board a noggin on.
“Men by mercy show the god—
Don't be stupid, pondering;
If you send me on the road,
I shall die in wandering.”
“Enter in,” said I, “my lad;
Pale, your cheeks with soda vie;
Here 's a fire to make you glad,
Here 's a glass of eau de vie.”
Don't be stupid, pondering;
If you send me on the road,
I shall die in wandering.”
“Enter in,” said I, “my lad;
Pale, your cheeks with soda vie;
Here 's a fire to make you glad,
Here 's a glass of eau de vie.”
To the dying flame he drew,
Wanted warmth remembering;
And his color backward flew,
As he puffed the ember in,
Then he dried his moistened hair,
Then he broached a keg or two,
Then he hummed a merry air,
Danced, and cut a leg or two.
Wanted warmth remembering;
196
As he puffed the ember in,
Then he dried his moistened hair,
Then he broached a keg or two,
Then he hummed a merry air,
Danced, and cut a leg or two.
But when he beheld his bow,
All his joints seemed sinuous;
“Sure,” he cried, “'t is spoilt by snow,”
And he twanged continuous.
“Lost! oh, lost! unhappy I!
If 't is hurt, I die for it!
You shall be the bullock's eye,
Never will you sigh for it.”
All his joints seemed sinuous;
“Sure,” he cried, “'t is spoilt by snow,”
And he twanged continuous.
“Lost! oh, lost! unhappy I!
If 't is hurt, I die for it!
You shall be the bullock's eye,
Never will you sigh for it.”
Ere again I could exclaim,
Fearing some ill luck in it,
At my heart he took an aim,
And his arrow stuck in it.
“That's a hit—my dart is true;
Now,” said he, “away for it!”
Through a window-pane he flew,
And left poor I to pay for it.
Fearing some ill luck in it,
At my heart he took an aim,
And his arrow stuck in it.
“That's a hit—my dart is true;
Now,” said he, “away for it!”
Through a window-pane he flew,
And left poor I to pay for it.
202
O'DOHERTY'S CONFESSION.
I often told you how I loved her
In manhood's early glow;
I never told you why I loved her—
This you now shall know!
'T is true her stature, shape, and face,
Were, all three, queer—but, zounds!
The “handsome feature” in her case
Was “fifty thousand pounds!”
In manhood's early glow;
I never told you why I loved her—
This you now shall know!
'T is true her stature, shape, and face,
Were, all three, queer—but, zounds!
The “handsome feature” in her case
Was “fifty thousand pounds!”
She had an eye, whose lustre lonely
Her furrowed phiz illumined;
That is, one side and one side only—
The other cheek was doomed
To darkness deep as death's drear valley,
And but for her bright nose
No gleam had lent that cheek's blind alley,
Such radiance in repose.
Her furrowed phiz illumined;
That is, one side and one side only—
The other cheek was doomed
To darkness deep as death's drear valley,
And but for her bright nose
No gleam had lent that cheek's blind alley,
Such radiance in repose.
Well, well, her father lost his money,
And she began to look
In my fond eyes so strangely funny—
It would not suit my book.
Could I take off this old man's daughter,
His last remaining prop?
No, no; I mixed some gin and water,
And begged she'd taste a drop.
And she began to look
In my fond eyes so strangely funny—
It would not suit my book.
Could I take off this old man's daughter,
His last remaining prop?
No, no; I mixed some gin and water,
And begged she'd taste a drop.
She did so; and, as I'm a sinner,
She pulled so wondrous well,
That “oh!” thought I, “such rare beginner
Will doubtless soon excel!”
And, turning to her joyless father,
I said, “Flare up, old chap!
I wooed her once, but now I rather
Think the thread must snap!”
She pulled so wondrous well,
That “oh!” thought I, “such rare beginner
Will doubtless soon excel!”
And, turning to her joyless father,
I said, “Flare up, old chap!
I wooed her once, but now I rather
Think the thread must snap!”
203
The old man's look grew stern and sterner,
The maiden seemed to swoon:
“So ho!” thought I, “'tis time to spurn her—
Does she think me such a spoon?
Good bye—good bye—both child and parent,
Your cash is gone; and I
To nothing being heir-apparent,
Will wifeless live and die!”
The maiden seemed to swoon:
“So ho!” thought I, “'tis time to spurn her—
Does she think me such a spoon?
Good bye—good bye—both child and parent,
Your cash is gone; and I
To nothing being heir-apparent,
Will wifeless live and die!”
226
SABBATH JOY.
Hurrah! hurrah! the earth and sky
Interchange their glances free,
And every sweet face that passes by
Looks bright with Liberty!
The generous front and elastic air
Of hearty, hopeful man,
Are glad as though life, never stirred with care,
To the eternal ocean ran.
Interchange their glances free,
And every sweet face that passes by
Looks bright with Liberty!
The generous front and elastic air
Of hearty, hopeful man,
Are glad as though life, never stirred with care,
To the eternal ocean ran.
“This, this is the day the Lord hath made,
Be glad, and rejoice therein!”
Let no care perplex, no doubt degrade,
The soul now bright within!
What slave shall dare to cross the path
Of our joyous or pensive way?
Let him dread the flash of a freeman's wrath,
For this is the freeman's day!
Be glad, and rejoice therein!”
Let no care perplex, no doubt degrade,
The soul now bright within!
What slave shall dare to cross the path
Of our joyous or pensive way?
Let him dread the flash of a freeman's wrath,
For this is the freeman's day!
Look up lone mourner, thy youth hath fled,
Thy vigorous manhood 's gone—
The hopes of thy life lie cold and dead,
And thy heart is left alone!
Look up, one free-breathing day is thine,
One snatched from the sorrowing seven;
Then open thy soul to the ray divine,
For the light is a “light from heaven!”
Thy vigorous manhood 's gone—
The hopes of thy life lie cold and dead,
And thy heart is left alone!
Look up, one free-breathing day is thine,
One snatched from the sorrowing seven;
Then open thy soul to the ray divine,
For the light is a “light from heaven!”
'Tis a light to gladden both young and old
Whose foot-way the hell-hounds track,
With a thirst to be quenched by naught but gold,
And a hate that will never slack.
Blessed, oh, blest be the Sabbath morn,
When the devils must hide their claws,
When a respite is found by the heart forlorn,
And misery knows a pause.
Whose foot-way the hell-hounds track,
With a thirst to be quenched by naught but gold,
And a hate that will never slack.
Blessed, oh, blest be the Sabbath morn,
When the devils must hide their claws,
When a respite is found by the heart forlorn,
And misery knows a pause.
| Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn | |