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

Muggy, and moist, and slob, and slippery!
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

Lies the new-woke and cabbage-laded garden,
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

An inexhaustible hoard of cabbages,
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

In many a boozing ken, drank, morn and night,
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

Murphy! its magic lies upon thee now,
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

But he beholdeth, and he heareth all
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

Met in mid way, up gets a quiet fight,
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

Out come the night-capped women to the fray,
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.

Anglicè, boys: from the French garçon. As long as a man can fight, in Ireland, he is called a boy.

Hotels in St. Giles's, the Grillons and Clarendons of the district.

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.

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

174

With eyelids almost closed upon the eye,
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 on
Is 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.

Ye gods immortal! in all time

The bard invoketh the aid of the immortal gods.

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,

Showeth the miserable inferiority of the ancients in respect of lights.

'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,

He betteth a pipe of wine in favor of the 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,

If you eschew tallow, and are averse to soiling your fingers, use spermaceti.

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,

Describeth, with much gusto, the beauty of its complexion, and superiority of its light.

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,

Showeth how it needeth not snuffing, nor becometh cabbaged.

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,

Preferreth its light to that of Mount Etna; useth the Scottish reek, which signifieth smoke.

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,

Relateth an ancient legend concerning the band of Covent Garden Theatre.

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,

Showeth how Handel could not compose his Oratorios save by the light of spermaceti.

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,

How Hannibal bamboozled Fabius, by means of Spermaceti candles tied to the horns of cows and bulls.

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,

Showeth the folly of those who praise the sun and 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.

186

I've travelled east, I've travelled west,

Spermaceti candles much sought after in Coromandel.

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

Eke in Abyssinia.

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,

Showeth that the belated traveller thinketh with all his might on spermaceti.

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

Expresseth surprise that Frosty-faced Fogo, and other laureates of the ring, should have neglected to sing the praises thereof.

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,

The citizen who hath not a bit of said candle deserveth much pity.

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,

Maketh a classical allusion to the maids of Greece, and their well-turned understandings.

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,

Direful penalty which ought to be inflicted on those who are so sinful as 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,

Adviseth all honest men to brand those who sip their tea or toddy without the light of spermaceti.

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

Showeth the inferiority of a certain light in a japanned lamp to spermaceti.

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

Showeth the eminent use of spermaceti in sundry games.

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

Showeth the Social effects of a spermaceti in the Straits of Babelmandel.

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,

Showeth the absurdity of comparing oil or gas to 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,

Concluding stanza, in which is sententiously summed up the rare qualities of 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

Another conclusion, by way of ending.

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.

[_]

To the Tune of “Tolderol.”

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

That which we have so good a right for
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

Now is the time for a long division
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

“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.”

To the dying flame he drew,
Wanted warmth remembering;

196

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.

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.”

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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!”

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!”

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.

“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!

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!”

'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.