Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I must and will an actress wed,
She'll smile away all shadows;
The voice of Love is eloquent
In green-rooms—not green meadows:
Talk not of rural hills and vales,
They suit my optic sense ill,
The only scenery I prize
Is that of Stanfield's pencil!

The Earl, my father, storms at me,
And says it is a queer age,
When comic first appearances
At last lead to the peerage.
And my maternal Countess vows
That nothing can console her,
If I disgrace the family
By marrying a stroller!

But, oh! I'd scorn such prejudice,
Although 'twere universal;
For I have been behind the scenes
At night, and at rehearsal.
No titled heiress will I ask
To be my benefactress;
I'd rather elevate my wife,
So I will wed an actress.

Oh, first I burnt for tragic queens,
My passion scarce is cool yet;
I teased each Mrs. Beverley,
Euphrasia, and Juliet;
And if by Belvidera's frowns
A little disconcerted,
I flew to Mrs. Haller's side,
And at the wings I flirted.

But Colonel Rant, (the gentleman
Who's always amateuring,)
Behind the scenes came every night
With language most alluring.
And he had such a way with him,
He won their hearts by magic,
So I resign'd Melpomene,
And Rant reigned o'er the tragic!

To Lady Bells and Teazles next
I turn'd—and Lady Rackets,
Who put their rouge and spirits on
(As boys put on their jackets);
Whose smiles, professionally sweet,
Appear when prompters summon;
Who keep, in fact, their bloom for best,
While sallow serves for common.

And then I sigh'd for the soubrettes
In aprons made with pockets,
Who frisk about the stage like squibs,
And then go off like rockets.
But at their beck I always found
Some beauteous Bob or Billy,
With whom they lightly tript away,
And left me looking silly.

To prima donnas then I turn'd,
The Pollys and Mandanes;
Made love to she Don Carloses,
And female Don Giovannis!

But soon came one with higher notes—
They left me—allegretto!
They sought him—volti subito,
Forsaking me—falsetto!

But now a love for figurantes
Within my bosom rankles,
I doat upon extended arms,
And sigh for well-turn'd ankles
Enchanting girls! how dark their hair!
How white and red their skin is!
I love them all—though wicked wits
May call them “spinning Jennies.”

In Peter Wilkins I have sigh'd
For sylph-like forms, whose trade is
To hang suspended by the waist,
And act high-flying ladies.
The country curate may abuse
My loves, because they lack dress,
He'll choose a wife from private life;—
But I will wed an actress.

II. I WANT TO GO UPON THE STAGE.

I want to go upon the stage
And wear a wig and feathers;
I envy each tragedian
The laurels that he gathers.
I'm sure that I could give effect
To Richard's ruthful menace;
Oh, would that I might black my face,
And act the Moor of Venice!

My father talks of what he calls
Respectable employments.
Condemning as Tom-fooleries
My Thespian enjoyments.

He calls me mouthing mountebank,
And ranting rogue, and stroller;
And not a servant in the house
Compassionate my dolor!

One day I stole a pot of rouge,
And Aunt Jane's Sunday spencer;
(She left me nothing in her will—
How could I so incense her!)
I flew to Cowes, where in a barn
I found some kindred spirits.
And soon I made the manager
Appreciate my merits.

He did announce me as a star:
(He well knew what a star meant—)
And I enacted Romeo
In Aunt Jane's pink silk garment.
My Juliet was a charming girl,
A most delicious creature!
With eyes—such eyes! and oh! her nose—
I idolised the feature!

Pink silk, with frogs was my costume,
And her's was muslin spangled;
And when the Nurse call'd her away,
I wish'd she had been strangled.
When we lay corpses side by side,
A gentle squeeze she gave me,
And whisper'd, “Wilt thou be my love?”
I sigh'd, “Ay, if thou'lt have me!”

But fathers they have flinty hearts,
My angry father found me;
Oh horrid night! methinks I see
Scene shifters grinning around me!
Alas! the scene they shifted not;
The very pit seems full yet;
I cannot tell the tragedy—
He tore me from my Juliet!

And since that inauspicious night,
The stage I've never entered;
In life's obscure realities
My father's thoughts are centred.
Misguided man! beneath his roof
Now pines a slighted Roscius,
Whose manhood pants to realise
Youth's promises precocious.

In tragic moods, I push my wig
High up upon my forehead;
I cork my eye-brows, and assume
A stare that's very horrid.
I roar a word or two, and then
Speak low, you scarce can hear me;
And then I thump my breast, ye gods,
At Drury, how you'd cheer me!

Genteelly comic I can be,
And farcically sprightly;
I'm excellent in pantomime,
In ballet parts dance lightly.
Were Mr. Lee, the new lessee,
Aware of such a treasure,
If I ask'd fifty pounds a-night,
He'd give them me with pleasure.

III. I MUST HAVE MUSIC.

I must have music in my soul,
Though envious tongues deny it.
I'm very certain I've a voice,
And spite of fate I'll try it.
I'll practice morning, noon, and night,
I'll buy the best instruction,
I will abjure all solid food,
If singers live by suction.

I'll hold a note—'till you shall think
That, very like a miser,
I never mean to change that note,
But you shall find I'm wiser:
For you may fix on any key,
Then name of notes one dozen,
My spendthrift chest shall soon pour forth
The treasure you have chosen.

At present, up and down the scale,
I run with zeal unwearied,
Nor deviate into an air
Till minor points are carried.
When morning dawns, my task begins,
At midnight hour it endeth,
(Except those tasty intervals
That man in eating spendeth.)

But genius and the world are foes!—
I have a hateful neighbour,
A scientific man, forsooth!
I scorn his plodding labour!
He sends me messages, and says
My noise distracts his study.
My singing, noise! poor wretch, he knows
Nought about taste—how should he?

Two other neighbours, invalids,
Who live on slops and dozing,
Complain my singing wakes them up
Just when their eyes are closing!
I never sing till five o'clock,
As if that could disturb them!
I'll let my talents take their course,
And scorn those who would curb them.

One, (much too cold to estimate
My talents in their true sense,)
Did—oh it cuts me to the soul!—
Indict me as a nuisance!

I shook—but 'twas a vocal shake,
Not one from terror springing,
No judge could venture to assert
I'm no great shakes at singing.

Once came a crowd, a menial crowd,
Crying: “There must be murder!
We heard a female's horrid screams.
Yes, hereabouts we heard her!”
They climb'd the wall—they forced the door!—
The ragamuffin sorte!
They found me sitting all alone,
And singing rather forte!

I'll sing the air that Sontag sings,
Rode's air with variations.
My throat shall be the thoroughfare
For all the new inflations.
All styles I'll master—I'll outgrowl
The trombone when I go low!
And when in alt, Velluti's self
Shan't sing so high a solo!

IV. ADIEU, MY MOUSTACHIOS!

Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!
Lost, lost is the pride of my chin and my lip!
His Majesty wills it, like Samson I'm cropt,
And the killing career of Adonis is stopt!
The razors are ruthless, my honours they nip!
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

Alas! what avails the loud clank of my spurs,
What signify tassels, and feathers, and furs!

The padding above, that the waist may look slim;
The trowsers compress'd to exhibit the limb!
My form I no longer exulting equip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I know they deride a Commander who stoops
To cull foreign fashions to deck British troops;
But surely the biggest look rather more big
In moustachios and tip—like a judge in his wig!
I know I look small with my sword on my hip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

When Laura last saw me, she own'd that the world
Contain'd no moustachios so charmingly curl'd;
She thought my head foreign, and unlike the skull
Of the money-bag mercantile fellow, John Bull.
But now she will call me “contemptible rip!”
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I went to the levee both pensive and pale—
I felt like a puppy-dog robb'd of his tail!
The Duke eyed me coldly, when notice I craved.
Ah! would he had seen me before I was shaved!
And as I kiss'd hands, I'm afraid I let slip,
“Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!”

Ah! at a mess dinner, how graceful to dip
My napkin, and wipe off the mess from my lip!
The hair that grew on it was steep'd in each dish,
And nourished by gravy—soup—sauces of fish.
They are gone—and my claret I pensively sip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

They were red—and I died them—and now at the stain
Which remains on the skin I scrub daily—in vain;
The hair is shaved off, but a something is seen
Which I fear may be thought to look rather unclean,
I hope it don't look like a chimney-sweep's lip—
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

My principal reason, I frankly confess,
For being a soldier at all—was the dress.

The line on my lip, and the dot on my chin,
Became me. The change is a horrid take in;
I might just as well now have gone on board ship.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I know that they deem it unmanly to weep,
So into half-pay I'll despondingly creep!
The star of my beauty is lost in eclipse,
I'll sit in reclusion and sigh for hair-lips!
The tears down my nose now incessantly drip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

V. THE LAST WOMAN!

I see him not, the man is gone!
The man who watched my carriage;
Oh! while I linger'd last but one,
There still seem'd hopes of marriage.
He too is off! alone I pine,
A sad condition mine is,
'Tis very odd that one so fine,
Should now prove fashion's finis.

The desert Park! there is no show
Of dames in silks that rustle;
I look upon no titled beau,
No beauty, and no bustle!
Yet madly still that Park I seek,
('Twere far more wise to shun it.)
Deep rouge upon my maiden cheek,
Deep blonde upon my bonnet.

My foot attracts not as I go
One glance unto my liking;
Though on my stockings, white as snow,
The coloured clocks are striking.

Spring flow'rs are gone, and autumn leaves
Will strew my path hereafter,
I laugh not—even in my sleeves,
Though they seem made for laughter.

The streets are thin, the squares are dull,
The crowded hubbub ceases,
And nothing now can be made full,
But dresses and pelisses.
Oh, Art! thine adventitious aid
Is vain,—I ne'er approach man;
I'm seen by no one but my maid,
My pretty page, and coachman.

And there's another bore! my page
Is growing out of season;
He's such a gawky for his age,
I can't think what's the reason.
I knew 'twas comme il faut in green
The stripling to accoutre;
But now, though he's but just fifteen,
He looks like a sharpshooter.

For scenes, where others rove, I fret,
And then to cheer my own eye,
A private box of mignonette
I place on my balcony.
Macadam frustrates these pursuits,
The noise without he trebles;
He tears the street up by the roots,
And pounds it into pebbles.

To be kept here so late, I vow,
In tears of sorrow steeps me;
The shopkeepers who see me now
Are wondering what keeps me!
I must contrive some moving plan,
Or life I cannot drag on;
I'll send my hat by Pickford's van,
My bonnet by the waggon.

Winged wardrobes every lady wants
To waft her dresses neatly.
My vapeur crape with séduisantes
Will fill the boot completely.

The imperial will hold my slip,
(My maid shall pack it, poor thing!)
The Morning Post shall print my trip,
“Miss Crawl, from Batts' to Worthing.”

VI. BIOGRAPHY.

So mother Hubbard's dog's deceas'd,
That spaniel of repute.
Be mine the mournful task to write
The memoirs of the brute.
O'er all the authors of the day,
Biographers prevail,
I'll “point a moral” and adorn
That little dead dog's tale.

I'll sift the Hubbard family
For anecdotes canine;
The most minute particulars
Shall very soon be mine.
I'll bore the mournful dame herself
With questions most abrupt,
And first I'll learn, how, when, and where,
His canine mother pupp'd.

His puppyism I will trace,
On Hubbard's apron rock'd,
Describing when his tongue was worm'd,
And how his ears were dock'd.
His placid temper I will paint,
And his distemper too,
And all his little snappish tricks
The public eye shall view.

The dame and he were friends; 'tis thought
She gave him bones and milk;
And pattingly her hand smooth'd down
His coat as soft as silk.
But what of that?—The world shall know
That he hath snarl'd at her;
And that the dame hath kick'd the dog,
And call'd him “nasty cur!”

His love for her was cupboard love;
The fawning which proclaims
An instinct partiality
For dog's meat—more than Dames.
Alas! 'twas not l'affaire du cæur,
An ingrate was the pup,
Though oft his mistress for his meals
Hath cut her liver up.

And oft she did instruct the dog
Upon his tail to sit,
And elevate his two fore paws
And beg a tiny bit.
She plac'd the dainty on his nose,
And counted “one”—“two”—“three!”
And when he leapt and caught the prize,
A happy dame was she!

But I must tell of stolen joys,
Of milk that hath been miss'd;
Of hunted cats, and worried birds,
I have a grievous list.
Of rambles too with female dogs;
Yet, hearing the old scratch,
The dame to let the rover in
Would rise, and lift the latch.

In truth he was a naughty dog,
Of habits very wild;
He never yet was known to care
One jot for wife or child.

His wives were countless, each produced
Nine bantlings at a birth;
And some were drown'd, and some were left
To rot upon the earth.

But hold! is this my dead dog's tale?
And can I not produce
For naughtiness a friendly veil,
For folly an excuse?
And must the sage biographer
Of little dogs and dames,
Recall forgotten injuries,
Snarls, kicks, and ugly names?

The dog was a sagacious dog,
That's all the world need know;
The failings of the quadruped
'Tis not my task to show.
His quarrels with his kith and kin,
His puppy tricks when young,
If these I tell, he'll seem far worse
Than if I held my tongue.

It shall be so: my tongue I'll hold,
And not my grey goose quill;
His death is recent—for a while
Biographers be still.
Contemporaries point at specks,
But pause awhile, and then
We may be sure posterity
Will calmly hold the pen.

But now to take away a life
Each man of letters strives;
The undertakers thrive by deaths,
Biographers by Lives.
O'er new made graves, thro' murky mists
Of prejudice he jogs;
And so it seems biography
Is going—to the dogs!

VII. THE FIRST WHITE HAT!

I met a man in Regent Street,
A daring man was he;
He had a hat upon his head
As white as white could be!
'Twas but the first of March!—away
Three hundred yards I ran;
Then cast a retrospective glance
At that misguided man.

I thought it might be possible
To do so foul a deed,
Yet not commit the murd'rous acts
Of which too oft we read.
I thought he might have felt distress:
Have lov'd—and lov'd in vain—
And wore that pallid thing, to cool
The fever of his brain!

Perchance he had no relative,
No confidential friend,
To say when summer months begin,
And those of winter end.
Perchance he had a wife, who was
Unto his side a thorn,
And who had basely thrust him forth
To brave decorum's scorn!

But no!—a smile was on his cheek;
He thought himself the thing!
And all unblushingly he wore
The garniture of spring!
'Twas evident the man could not
Distinguish wrong from right;
And cheerfully he walk'd along,
Unseasonably white!

Then unperceiv'd I follow'd him,
Clandestinely I tried
To ascertain in what strange spot
So queer a man could hide:
Where he could pass his days and nights,
And breakfast, dine, and sup;
And where the peg could be, on which
He hung that white hat up!

He paused at White's—the white capotte
Made all the members stare;
He pass'd the Athenæum Club,
He had no footing there!
He stood a ballot once (alas!
There sure was pique in that)
Though they admit light-headed men,
They blackball'd the white hat!

And on he went self satisfied,
And now and then did stop
And look into the looking glass
That lines some trinket shop;
And smilingly adjusted it!
'Twas that that made me vext—
“If this is borne,” said I, “he'll wear
“His nankeen trowsers next!”

The wretched being I at length
Compassionately stopt,
And us'd the most persuasive words
Entreaty could adopt.
I said his head was premature;
I never left his side,
Until he swore most solemnly
The white hat should be dyed.

VIII. MY SINECURE PLACE.

How's this, my Lord Grey, can you mean what you say?
Abolish all sinecures: pause, my Lord, pray!
Oh, hear me, my Lord: is this really the case?
Nay, do not take from me my Sinecure Place!

Consider, my income is small for a peer.
I'm poor, if you take my odd thousands a-year.
Consider, I pray you, how ancient my race,
Its dignity sinks with my Sinecure Place.

My mansion in town has been lately rebuilt,
Adorn'd with superb scagliola, and gilt.
Pray, how shall I look Mr. Nash in the face,
If you now put an end to my Sinecure Place?

My castle must also be kept in repair;
One month out of twelve I contrive to be there;
One month I devote to the joys of the chase.
My castle would go with my Sinecure Place!

My cottage ornée, on the Devonshire coast,
Must also be sold, if my place should be lost.
Now, pray, my Lord, do reconsider my case,
And let me retain my snug Sinecure Place.

My lady her opera-box must discard!
My lady, the beauty—you'll own 'twould be hard.
My fortune won't pay for her feathers and lace;
Then leave me, oh, leave me, my Sinecure Place!

Economy may be discreet, I dare say,
Retrenchment is all very well in its way;
But there's no occasion for setting your face
'Gainst my individual Sinecure Place.

You must, my Lord Grey, (it is time to be frank,)
Uphold the importance of persons of rank!
The aristocratic look up to your race,
Support them, and leave me my Sinecure Place.

If beggarly vagabonds will make a row,
Be firm, and intimidate, no matter how.
E'en flourish a sword in each vagabond's face;
I'll do it myself for my Sinecure Place.

I'll stipulate always to give you my vote—
Whatever you dictate I'll utter by rote;
Your notions—whate'er they may be—I'll embrace,
And I'll do any job for my Sinecure Place.

IX. JUNO'S SOIREE.

Once Juno sent out cards, “at home,” to her own exclusive circle,
She knew the leaders of high ton were sure to come at her call;
She heav'd a sigh for Weippert's band, but checking her vexation,
Engaged the music of the spheres as next in estimation.

The Queen received the kindest gifts from ev'ry friendly neighbour:
First Bacchus sent a pipe of wine, then Pan a pipe and tabor,
Diana sent her fullest moon to light the upper regions,
And Venus sent a brace of birds—(a pair of doves or pigeons.)

The evening came, and Juno shone a blaze of regal beauty;
Field Marshal Mars was pre-engaged on military duty;
Three muses came—Mnemosyne, the very best of mothers,
Ne'er took nine daughters out at once, so left at home the others.

The sister Furies, boa clad, who thought themselves delightful,
Declared they were quite grieved to see poor Venus look so frightful;
The Graces danced a Saraband—Minerva thought them shocking,
And Momus quizz'd her style of dress, and call'd her a blue stocking.

Though not a son of Erin's Isle, yet Jupiter thought proper
To make a Bull that day! ('twas while conversing with Europa);
And Echo having caught the tale, did word for word reveal it,
And Juno, tho' she bit her lips, pretended not to feel it.

Supper was laid—as Gunter lays it where the most select are,
And Jupiter bade Ganymede hand round the oldest nectar;
Aurora was the first to hint that morning was not far off;
And all the party said “Good day,” as Phœbus drove his car off.