Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle Edited by Alexander Rodger |
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| TO SIMEON CLYDE. |
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 | Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle |  |
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TO SIMEON CLYDE.
Dear Simeon,—Far be it from me to say, or yet to insinuate, that the Hon. Baron who wrote the beautiful piece of poetry ‘To a Butterfly,’ which I hereby send thee, ever treated a beggar in the harsh manner described below. No. All I mean to insist on is, that too many professed admirers of the beauties of nature, who will speculate on the tints of a butterfly's wing, or descant in rapturous terms on the various properties of a bit of stone, will, nevertheless, pass by a fellow-creature in distress, nor so much as deign him a look of sympathy, far less contribute to relieve his necessities—in short, who will view him as a being not belonging to the same species with themselves.
Thine,
Andrew Whaup.
A PARODY ON THE ABOVE.
NOT WRITTEN BY A BARON OF ANY EXCHEQUER, BUT BY PLAIN ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.
A Baron a butterfly met on his way,
And thus did the bold Baron sing,—
‘Stop, beautiful flutterer, pr'ythee now stay;
I don't mean to harm thee, but just to survey
The tints of thy neat little wing.
And thus did the bold Baron sing,—
‘Stop, beautiful flutterer, pr'ythee now stay;
I don't mean to harm thee, but just to survey
The tints of thy neat little wing.
‘If good uncle Toby could spare the big fly,
That gave his red nose such a sting,
Think'st thou I would hurt thee, poor devil? not I,
I'd sooner be hang'd—so, frail insect, good bye,
Away, on thy gossamer wing.
That gave his red nose such a sting,
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I'd sooner be hang'd—so, frail insect, good bye,
Away, on thy gossamer wing.
‘How delightful it is to be thus so humane
To each creeping—each flying thing.
I would not for kingdoms inflict needless pain,
The mercy I show I may need it again.
Adieu, then—go spread thy bright wing.’
To each creeping—each flying thing.
I would not for kingdoms inflict needless pain,
The mercy I show I may need it again.
Adieu, then—go spread thy bright wing.’
A Baron a beggarman met in his path,
With arm buckled up in a sling;
His thin shrivell'd cheeks wore the paleness of death,
He totter'd, he trembled, he panted for breath,
While led by his dog with a string.
With arm buckled up in a sling;
His thin shrivell'd cheeks wore the paleness of death,
He totter'd, he trembled, he panted for breath,
While led by his dog with a string.
‘O! pity, good people, have mercy, I pray,
Your mite to a poor creature fling;
With fourscore of winters these locks are bleach'd grey,
I am cold, naked, blind, and have fasted all day,
While anguish my bosom doth wring.’
Your mite to a poor creature fling;
With fourscore of winters these locks are bleach'd grey,
I am cold, naked, blind, and have fasted all day,
While anguish my bosom doth wring.’
‘Be off, whining rascal,—get out of my way;
By Jove, I'll not give thee a ring;
I'll warrant that arm has been broke in some fray,
When thou and such rebels your tithes would not pay,
For which, like a dog, thou shouldst swing.
By Jove, I'll not give thee a ring;
I'll warrant that arm has been broke in some fray,
When thou and such rebels your tithes would not pay,
For which, like a dog, thou shouldst swing.
‘I hate all such beggarly trash, 'pon my soul;
I cannot endure such a thing.
Provoking!—a gentleman can't take a stroll
But he meets with such sights as would sicken a foal—
I'll bear it no longer, by Jing.’
I cannot endure such a thing.
Provoking!—a gentleman can't take a stroll
But he meets with such sights as would sicken a foal—
I'll bear it no longer, by Jing.’
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Off strutted the Baron in baronly pride,
To the sweets of his office to cling.
The beggar sunk down by the lonely wayside;
He utter'd a prayer, gave a shudder, and died,
While his spirit to heaven took wing.
To the sweets of his office to cling.
The beggar sunk down by the lonely wayside;
He utter'd a prayer, gave a shudder, and died,
While his spirit to heaven took wing.
The Baron died likewise—not all his red gold
Could avert the last enemy's sting;
He lies now as lowly, as lonely, and cold,
As the poor abject beggar, so helpless and old,
While his pamper'd-up carcase now fattens the mould
Where the rank grass and nettle upspring.
Could avert the last enemy's sting;
He lies now as lowly, as lonely, and cold,
As the poor abject beggar, so helpless and old,
While his pamper'd-up carcase now fattens the mould
Where the rank grass and nettle upspring.
How odd, that a being so charm'd with the dyes
And the specks of a butterfly's wing,
Should thus over man, fellow-man, tyrannize—
Thus spurn his own flesh,—yea, God's image despise—
God's image, too, formed to inherit the skies,—
What a strange unaccountable thing!
And the specks of a butterfly's wing,
Should thus over man, fellow-man, tyrannize—
Thus spurn his own flesh,—yea, God's image despise—
God's image, too, formed to inherit the skies,—
What a strange unaccountable thing!
| Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle | |