The Ingoldsby Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

Spes arrectæ juvenum, exultantiaque haurit
Corda pavor pulsans.—
Virgil. By hopes and anxious fears at once oppressed
What throbs tumultuous swell the youthful breast!

As when, at eve, their daily labours done,
While in the west declines the setting sun,
And neighb'ring hills their length'ning shadows throw
O'er the luxuriant meads that smile below,
In some sweet vale, remote from public view,
The village youth their rustic sports pursue,
While various groups assemble on the green,
If chance some stripling view the mirthful scene,
As yet unskill'd to urge the mimic war,
Or hurl with well-pois'd arm the pond'rous bar,
His ardent breast with emulation glows,
And eager hope a tenfold strength bestows;

What mix'd sensations fill his anxious breast,
When first in open view he stands confest,
Joins the gay troop, and in the sportive play
'Midst youthful rivals makes his first essay!
So in my breast distracting doubts prevail,
And new emotions now my mind assail;
As, in such scenes untried, these boards I tread,
“With all my imperfections on my head,”
Alternate passions in my bosom sway,
Now buoy'd by hope, now harass'd by dismay.

Think not I stand to act a feigned part,
Or pourtray feelings foreign to my heart;
No blood-stain'd Richard here disdains to yield,
Raves for his horse, and treads th' ensanguin'd field;
No sorrowing Hamlet mourns his murder'd sire,
No lovers sigh, or treach'rous foes conspire;
No borrowed character—I come to raise
My voice, as duty prompts, in Colet's praise;
Whose mind by strong benevolence inspired,
By patriot warmth and love of virtue fired,
To rescue man from sloth's destructive hand,
And from fell ign'rance save his native land,
To free mankind from superstitious powers
This fabric raised in most auspicious hours.

Patron of learning, and religion's friend,
To thee in fervent gratitude we bend;

Though death has call'd thee hence to endless day,
Though years roll on, and ages pass away,
Thy name, thine honour'd name, shall still survive,
And in our grateful bosoms ever live!
But hold! methinks I hear some critic cry,
“The boy's too late; the time has long gone by;
Young Roscii now have lost the power to charm,
And infant orators no longer swarm:
At length aroused, our strange delirium o'er,
Their puny efforts please our ears no more.”

'Tis true I'm young: perhaps, too, somewhat small:
But that has been the common lot of all:
Grave rev'rend sages, heroes six feet high—
Nestor himself—were once as young as I:
The sturdiest oak that ploughs the boist'rous main,
The guardian bulwark of Britannia's reign,
A sapling once, within its native vale,
Shrank from the blast and bow'd at every gale.
Ladies, to you I turn; my cause befriend,
Blame not a fault each day will help to mend.
In these sage times of wisdom so profuse,
This reign of reason, sense, and Mother Goose,
Consult your hearts, and blame us if you can,
If boys, when men turn children, ape the man.

My youth forgive! When time has o'er me flown,
And future years have marked me for their own,

Oft to these scenes may I again repair,
And oft again your flatt'ring favours share!
My hopes confirm; my doubts, my fears remove;
Blame where you must; and where you can, approve!

Benevolence.

The lark sings loud, 'tis early morn,
These woodland scenes among,
The deep-toned pack and echoing horn
Their jovial notes prolong.

And see poor puss, with shorten'd breath,
Splashed sides, and weary feet,
In terror views approaching death,
And crouches at my feet!

Her strength is gone, her spirits fail,
Nor further can she fly;
The hounds snuff up the tainted gale,
And nearer sounds the cry.

Poor helpless wretch! methinks I view
Thee sink beneath their power!
Methinks I see the ruffian crew
Thy tender limbs devour!

Yet O! in vain thy foes shall come:
So cheer thee, trembling elf!
These guardian arms shall bear thee home—
I'll eat thee up myself!

Occasional Epilogue,

TO “RULE A WIFE AND HAVE A WIFE,” Spoken by Major Hart, in the character of Michael Peres, at the Canterbury Theatre, May, 1821, the performance being for the benefit of Mr. G. Questead and family.

(Behind.)
Speak the address? Who, me? I can't indeed!
Prompter.
Why, sir, your name's announced, so pray proceed!
They'll grow impatient!

Major H.
Well, upon my word,
Was ever anything half so absurd!
You can't be serious?

Prompter.
Sir, 'tis very true.

Major H.
O! mighty pretty.
(Enters with a paper.)
Ladies, pray what say you?
My name's announced, he says, and I not know it!
And then what's here! The deuce is in the poet—

'Tis arrant tragedy! all rant and whine!
Upon my life I couldn't speak a line;
Observe these lineaments—peruse each feature—
Ladies, is this a face for doleful metre?
Say, am I fit to cry “alack for pity,”
Or quaver out some lamentable ditty,
Recite a dismal tale of woe on woes,
While sad complainings murmur through my nose?
But hold! I may be wrong—methinks you smile,
Perhaps “I do mistake me all this while.”
By Jupiter, it may be worth the trying—
How I should like to set you all a-crying!
But then I'm shy—too diffident by half,—
Faith, I will venture it, but pray don't laugh.
Thus, then, the bard.
(Reads.)

No common claims to-night
Thalia's vot'ries to her fane invite;
The sympathizing Muse, to Pity true,
Appeals to mild Benevolence—and you—
Warmly implores your gen'rous aid to raise
The hopes of him who once knew better days:
Nor vain the call, for when did Beauty's ear
Affliction's suppliant voice disdain to hear,
Or when did Beauty's bounty fail to flow
To soothe Misfortune's child, and heal his woe?

Ye who have viewed on this eventful night
The manly Leon guard a husband's right,
Or sat and gaily smiled with genuine glee
At cozen'd Peres (that's a hit at me!),
By his own arts and vanity betray'd,
And Estifania's wiles (confound the jade!),
Our task perform'd, reflect with cheerful heart,
Ye too have play'd, and play'd a noble part!
And O! may still such parts your minds engage,
Through Life's great drama on the world's wide stage!
And when, with many a well-play'd act between,
Ye reach at length, the last, the closing scene,
Then shall the good and wise your efforts cheer,
And mark your exit with th' approving tear;
No snarling critic vex with envious brawls,
But Heaven applaud you, when the curtain falls.

Ballad.

IN IMITATION OF HAFIZ, DELLA CRUSCA, AND CO.

Where yon rock o'erhangs the billow,
Bending o'er its shaggy brow,
Lord Alphonso, crowned with willow,
Viewed the black abyss below.

“Cease,” he cried, “thou stormy ocean;
Hush thy roaring waves to rest,
Cease thy wild, tempestuous motion—
Emblem of my troubled breast.

“Once my heart beat high with pleasure,
Once the joys of life were mine;
Plundered of my dearest treasure,
Now my bosom swells like thine.

“O Matilda! perjured beauty,
Thou couldst all my woes dispel;
Why forsake, unheeding duty,
One who loved so long—so well.

“Thou hast left me, too deceiving—
Left me pressed with grief and care;
Sighs my tortured breast are heaving;
All my refuge is despair!

“Sadly now I view each morrow,
Vainly now the past regret;
What can soothe a wretch's sorrow
Whelmed at once in love and debt?

“No! to regions immaterial,
Far from want and woe, I'll fly;
Thus I rush to realms aërial—
All below is all my eye!”

Wild he spake, his ringlets tearing,
Swift as tigers on their prey
To the margin rushed, despairing—
Blew his nose, and walked away!

Vide the “Baviad” and “Mæviad.”

The Resolution;

OR, AN ADIEU TO THE COUNTRY.

O I'll be off! I will by Jove!
No more by purling streams I'll ramble,
Through dirty lanes no longer rove,
Bemired and scratch'd by briar and bramble.

I'll fly the pigstye for the parks,
And Jack and Tom and Ned and Billy
I'll quit for more enlightened sparks,
And Romney Marsh for Piccadilly.

Adieu, ye woods! adieu, ye groves!
Ye waggon-horses, ploughs, and harrows!
Ye capering lambs! ye cooing doves!
Adieu, ye nightingales and sparrows!

Adieu, ye nasty little boys,
So sweetly in the puddles playing!
Adieu, adieu, the cheerful noise
Of grunting pigs and asses braying!

O, I'll begone! at once farewell
To gooseberry wine, and pear, and codling!
Farewell the sheep's harmonious bell!
Farewell the gander's graceful waddling!

Farewell the compost's sweet perfume!
Farewell rum-punch, nectareous liquor!
Farewell the pimples that illume
The noses of the squire and vicar!

Adieu my pipe! not that of old
By swains Arcadian tuned so gaily,
But that of modern frame and mould
Invented by Sir Walter Raleigh.

And I'll renounce my dog and gun,
And “bob” no more for eels in ditches;
The huntsman, horn, and hounds I'll shun,
And I'll cashier my leather breeches!

For me the fox may prowl secure,
The partridge unmolested fly,
Whist, loo, and cribbage I abjure,
And e'en backgammon's lures defy.

At country “hops,” at county balls,
At christening treats no more I'll be!
No more I'll pay my morning calls,
Nor with old ladies take my tea!

Adieu the vestry and the bench,
The rate and justice's approval,
The overseer, refract'ry wench,
Appeal, and order of removal.

The fair, its gingerbread and toys,
Rough roads, deep ruts, and boist'rous weather,
Ye scenes of bliss, ye rural joys,
Adieu! and, Bless ye, altogether!

Encomium Irregulare.

Of all the joys that sweeten life,
The joy that charms me most,
Is to sit at one's ease,
With the fire at one's knees,
And read the Morning Post.
And hark! two taps—'tis the postman raps!
Away, away, away!
Bring the muffins and the urn
And the rest of the concern,
With the milk, eggs, and sugar, on the tray;
Oh! brightly burns the fire as the paper thus I roast,
Like me, eager to devour the steaming Morning Post!

What's here?—Oh dear!
“A certain Noble Peer
Fought a duel with Sir John and was wounded in the rear.”
“The match 'twixt Mr. Hayne
And Miss Foote is off again,
And Col. B. has thrashed a man and put him in great pain.”
—“Effect of Catholic zeal,
Last Sunday Mr. Shiel,
Ate an Orangeman for breakfast, with all the pips and peel!!”
Oh horrible! Oh shocking! Oh how lucky 'tis we boast,
Such an orthodox defender in the Morning Post.

“Ever charming, ever new,
When will the paper tire the view?”
“On Monday Mrs. Coutts's plate
Was removed to Piccadilly—
And a hundred rats, for want of cats,
Were devoured by Cribb's dog Billy.
On Tuesday, Lady Mary
Gave a gala at ‘the Dairy,’
And Miss Laroche, her maid, a fête champêtre in the are.’”

Then we've “Lines”—“Poor little Fly!
In my tea-cup here you lie!
You tumbled in and drowned yourself because you were so dry!”
Oh charming! How pathetic! Neither Hamlet nor his Ghost
Can raise the tear of sympathy like the tender Morning Post.

“The world of fashion's wond'rous hot
For Michael Kelly's life;—”
“A noble Lord (an excellent shot)
Has gone off with a Commoner's wife.”
“The King, at Drury Lane,
Has heard Der Freischutz o'er again,
And Elliston has made a speech, and spoke it pretty plain!”
“Last week a poor woman was brought to bed,
And hundreds have been to view her,
For her baby was born with a pin in its head,
And its arm sewn up with a needle and thread;
And its lips fastened down with a skewer.”
How delightful to sit thus and read what the news is,
And what wonderful creatures Dame Nature produces!
So I take a sip of tea and a little piece of toast,
And sigh to think how near I'm through the charming Morning Post.

But stay—“the Argyle Rooms last night
Had a brilliant masquerade;
The champagne of course was supplied by Wright,
Of the Opera Colonnade;
We need not say the wine
Was pronounced ‘uncommon’ fine,
While the ladies swore the ice-creams and the jellies were divine.”
“Our Ambassador's new coat,
Is all gold from skirt to throat,
And the tailor's bill will form a pretty ‘Percy Anecdote;’
For the waiscoat and the breeches
Bespeak the wearer's riches;
And nothing but gold-thread is used in sewing all the stitches.
But this the Noble Lord
Can very well afford,
So he only asks Lord Liverpool to settle for his sword;
To-morrow morn he sallies
In the Comet on to Calais.
And so to Rheims, where now it seems,
His Grace has hired a palace.”
Why zooks! I wouldn't give a crown to see him sailing from the coast,
Since I'm reading all about it in the clever Morning Post.

So talk not to me of your musty old volumes,
Your tomes that grave sages and sophists enjoy;
Oh what can compare with these elegant columns,
Whose contents ever charm us and never can cloy?

Hail, pride of the Press! 'tis thy glory I sing of,
Long, long may'st thou flourish, thy Laureate I—
Bob Southey himself could not make anything of
The rest, with thy fame should they venture to vie.

Through the Strand though thy horns be no longer resounding,
Ah! silenc'd by “old father antic, the Law,”
Yet each boudoir of taste still thy pages are found in,
From Burlington Gardens to Bermondsey Spa!

Yet thy merits shall Fame go on still advertising,
And her trumpet proclaim to each far distant coast,
That for all that's delightful, grave, gay, or surprising,
The world cannot equal the dear Morning Post.

Tim Twaddle.

The Victim of Sensibility.

Why mourns my Eugene? In his dark eye of blue
Why trembles the tear drop to sympathy due?
Ah! why must a bosom so pure and refin'd
Thus vibrate, all nerve, at the woes of mankind?

Yet dear are the drops by Philanthropy shed
O'er the victim of Sorrow's unfortunate head,
Nor beams there a gem with a ray so divine
As the tear that bedews Sensibility's shrine.

Say, friend of my soul, then, what story of woe,
Thus bids the soft streams of humanity flow;
Oh! give thy Lorenzo thy sorrows to share,
And together we'll mourn for the child of despair.

Like a sunbeam the clouds of the tempest between,
A smile lights the eye of the pensive Eugene;
And thus in soft accents the mourner replies,
“Hang your mustard! it brings the tears into my eyes.”

Charades.

I .

My first on a schoolboy your bounty bestows,
Though 'tis commonly seen at the end of his nose;
My second you'll say, when my whole you explore,
Which once upon two legs walked proud at Mysore;
Now in town, less majestic, it capers on four.

Ans. Tippoo, an Italian greyhound.

II.

Go, if my first you'd seek aright,
And find her in yon dark-blue sky,
With many a starry gem bedight,
In sweet but mournful majesty.

If on some dark and dismal shore,
Through clouds and gloom your footsteps stray,
My second of my first implore,
To guide thee on thy dreary way.

And if, perchance, you'd find my whole,
See where it sleeps in soft repose,
And to the contemplative soul
A thousand nameless charms bestows!

Ans. Moonlight.

III.

I can tip you my first, I can tell you my second,
For Fire and for Physic most famous I'm reckoned;
Of my name any more are you anxious to know?
You will find it consists of a word and a blow.

Ans. Wakley, the Coroner.

Enigma.

To be called by my name you would highly disdain,
Though with titles of honour I rank in the list;
By law and by custom I single remain,
Though unless I am double I cannot exist.

Ans. A Fellow.

The Rival Josephs.

[_]

That all Joes have not the alertness, mental and bodily, of our friends Joe Hume and Joe Grimaldi, we lament; “'tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true.” In fact, each of these worthies may be considered a sort of “Double-Joe,” uniting in himself the activity and talents of any two ordinary Josephs. The following Foe-cular lines, written by a facetious gentleman, now no more, in the interval of ringing a bell and the servant making his appearance, exhibit a pleasing specimen of a Joe of a different class.

Would you see a man that's slow,
Come and see our footman Joe,
Most unlike the bounding roe,
Or an arrow from a bow,
Or the flight direct of crow,
Is the pace of footman Joe.

Snails, contemptuous as they go,
In their motions outrun Joe,
Crabs that hobble to and fro,
Look behind and laugh at Joe,
An acre many a man could mow,
Ere across it creepeth Joe.
Danube, Severn, Trent, and Po,
Backward to their source might flow,
Ere dispatch be made by Joe.
Letters to a Plenipo,
Send not by our footman Joe.
Would you Job's full merit know,
Ring the bell, and wait for Joe.
Is your purse or credit low,
Let your debts be paid by Joe;
Legal process none can show,
If your lawyers move like Joe.

EPITAPH.

Death, at last, our common foe,
Must trip up the heels of Joe,
And a stone shall tell below
How, scarce changed, sleepeth Joe:
For when the final trump shall blow,
The last that comes will still be Joe.

Verses,

Supposed to be Written by Alexander “Kitchener,” in the Desolate Island of “Porridge, in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.”

I am partial to table and tray,
My taste there is none can dispute,
Ragout, fricandeau, entremet,
I'm a judge of fish, flesh, fowl, and fruit;
Oh, Wilberforce, where is the charm
You and Butterworth find in a grace?
Unless I've my turbot quite warm,
Better dine on a horrible plaice!

O'er the rich smoking viands to preach,
Should be left for your love-feasts alone;
So books on good eating still teach,
In particular, vide my own;
But your thorough-bred saints, it is plain,
Cooling soup with indifference see,
Let the sparkles subside from Champagne—
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Ye haunches of fat buck or doe,
In kindness bestow'd upon men,
Could I drive this curs'd gout from my toe,
How soon I'd attack you again!
My palate I then might regale
On a white or a brown fricassee;
Dispatch a hen-pheasant or quail,
Or a basin of dear Callipee.

Callipee! oh, what pleasure untold
Resides in that rapturous word;
More than Sybarite banquets of old,
Or the modern cuisine can afford!
But the sound of the sweet dinner bell
At this moment excites but my spleen;
For no more, with its once pleasing knell,
It announces the smoking tureen.

Ye Doctors, who're making your sport,
At each twinge which compels me to roar;
In pity convey some report
Of the taverns I visit no more!
Mr. Cuff, does he now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
Oh, say Mr. Kay is my friend,
Though the Albion no longer I see.

How sweet is a turkey and chine!
Ah, who from a dory could fly?
A carp stewed in port, how divine!
How enchanting a perigord pie!
When I think on a sweetbread ragout,
In a transport I start from my chair,
But the sight of my flannels and shoe
Soon hurries me back to despair.

Come, wheel me away to my nest,
There let me in dreams yet partake
Of those dainties, the choicest and best,
Which fly me, alas! when awake;
A flask near my pillow, too, place,
Since old Sherry (Madeira's now out)
Is considered not bad for my case,
And half reconciles me to the Gout.

The Relic;

Or, the Antiquary and the Patriot.

A CANTERBURY TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.

[_]

This story owes its origin to the exuberant loyalty of a certain Justice Jacks, an inhabitant of Lowestoft. When George II., in the course of one of his voyages from Germany, was driven by stress of weather on the coast of Suffolk, he landed and slept a night under the roof of the delighted Justice. This event is still (1818) recorded by an inscription on the mantel-piece in the room occupied by the Monarch; while the “curiosity” which forms the subject of the poem, properly labelled, long after made a conspicuous figure in Mr. Jacks's museum. At his death it descended with the rest of his collection of rarities to his daughters, two maiden ladies, in whose possession it was seen by the gentleman (the Rev. — Warburton, rector of Lydd) from whom I had the anecdote. R. H. B.

CANTO I.

'TIS sweet to some, Lucretius used to say,
To sit on the Marine Parade at Brighton,
And gaze upon the sea some stormy day
When from the Steyne the beaux huge rain-drops frighten,
To hear the thunder roll, and see it lighten
Round the toss'd vessels labouring in the bay;
And, as their masts appear to bore the sky there,
Cry “Ah, poor devils! rather you than I ther e

Some folks there are who round Hyde Park to rattle
With glowing wheels think mighty pretty sport,
Some—Wellington for one—enjoy a battle,
Others prefer a minuet at Court;
Some, like the great 'Squire Coke, delight in cattle,
Ploughs, Porkers, and Merino Wool—in short
Tastes vary, which may elsewhere well be seen, as
In Horace, book i. ode I, “To Mecænas.”

All have their hobbies then, and who dare chide 'em
If some than others take a wider scope,
And, when they once are fairly mounted, ride 'em
What Geoff: Gambado calls au grand Galop?
(O'Connell and Dick Shiel, we can't abide 'em,
Last summer made a pony of the Pope;
This in parenthesis) meanwhile few carry on
A tort more briskly than your Antiquarian—

Your genuine rubbish-hunter, one who'll lecture
An hour by the clock on some old pot or pan,
Proving its lid the absolute shield of Hector,
Gog, Fin M'Coul, or some such mighty man;
Of Roman coins (so called), a great Collector,
With porcelain demi-devils from Japan,
A porer o'er each old (or new) inscription,
Coptic or Cockney, Runic or Egyptian.

And such a one fond memory now recalls,
The plain brown bob and specs with shagreen cases,
The ample vest, the ginger-colour'd smalls
That scorn'd the adventitious aid of braces;
The massive buckle which each foot enthrals
In sober radiance, a bright oasis
On the dark desert of the well-black'd shoe;
(A metaphor, we fear, not over new).

Yes, such a one there was—mind was, not is;
'Tis good to be particular in tenses,
Since to be hinted at as Bore or Quiz
To many matter of most grave offence is,
Producing great contortions of the phiz,
And disavowals are esteem'd pretences;
'Tis best the Present therefore to eschew,
And use the Perfect or the Preter-plu.

So we'll say was—and 'twas his joy to seek
(Passion, I might say, 'twas in him so furious,)
Things rare and precious, modern or antique;
And, though in other matters most penurious,
He'd rather far go dinnerless a week
Than fail to appropriate ought he fancied curious
In earth, or sea, or air—no matter what,
So it was old, and others had it not.

And, sooth to say, he had a choice collection
Of various ugly, odd, old-fashioned things,
Such as, when duly labelled for inspection,
Make Virtuosi happier far than kings,
Though void of meaning, order, or connection;
One can't tell how or whence their value springs,
Whether intrinsic, or from some relation
Extraneous, which Locke calls Association;

Such as a Handkerchief of Charles the Martyr's,
A piece of Pig-tail chew'd by Captain Cook;
An idol worshipp'd by the Calmuc Tartars,
A Gong, and an Arcadian Shepherd's Crook;
King David's Tuning-hammer, Nell Gwyn's Garters,
With here and there some queer black-letter Book;
The Editio princeps of Tom Sternhold's Psalter,
Guy Vaux's Lanthorn, and Jack Thurtell's Halter.

Here, stiff and stuff'd, appear two full-grown Gulls,
A group of cock-tail'd kittens and their mother,
A Chinese Joss, a pair of Scottish Mulls,
Used by King Malcom Canmore and his brother;
Lord Russell's Breeches, one of Cromwell's Skulls,
(Oxford and Naseby each can boast another,
We've seen them, Reader, and 'twill pose you, when you in-
Spect them, to say which of the three's most genuine).

Some local specimens were also there,
The spoils of many a neighbouring monument;
A piece of granite, chipt from off the chair
In which they whilom crown'd the Kings of Kent,
A stone from Becket's shrine, a fragment rent
From the proud surcoat, which sublime in air
Waves o'er Black Edward's tomb, the very dress he
Skewer'd certain French in on the Field of Cressy.

These the Cathedral furnish'd, while of date
More modern there were some, as lately hinted,
A Mustard-pot of George the Third's, a Plate
With coronet and crest thereon imprinted,
Used by Lord North when Minister of State;
The glass through which John Wilkes, the Patriot, squinted,[OMITTED]

More recent still, a Linch-pin from the Gig
By Hunt and Probert driv'n to Gills Hill Lane,
A tail from Harry Brougham's forensic wig,
A thimble used by Ferdinand of Spain;
Also the Os coccygis of Tom Paine,
Which Cobbett at New York contriv'd to dig;
A relic of Napoleon too, I mean a
Button O'Meara brought from St. Helena.

From these few last memorials one might guess
That Mister Jones (his name), with all his priggery,
Was Radically giv'n; I must confess
He had acquired a trifling spice of Whiggery,
And once (long since) concocted an Address,
Which, fully bent on cutting no small figure, he
Had stuffed with “Injured Queen,” “heart-rending woe,’
And quantum sufficit of “Unsunn'd Snow.”

Of course he ever felt a great regard
For patriotism and patriotic men,
He almost worshipp'd them, and thought it hard
They were so scarce; five miles, or even ten,
He'd walk at any time, so his reward
Might be to see a patriot—fancy then
His joy one day, when some kind neighbour went
And told him Joseph was come into Kent.

Who has not heard of Joseph? not the lad
Who some four thousand years ago at Cairo
Drove Mrs. Potiphar exceeding mad,
And afterwards was Premier to King Pharaoh;
Nor he whose works in folio my grand-dad
Priz'd far 'bove those of Flaccus or of Maro,
Josephus, of the self-same name and nation,
(Till he abjured them both to please Vespasian).

Who has not heard of Joseph? here 'tis plain
I do not speak of Buonaparte's brother,
Whom Wellington sent packing out of Spain,
Nor him at Long's once lock'd up by his mother,
Miss Foote's pea-green pretender, Joseph Hayne,
Nor Joe Grimaldi, sire or son—another
And greater far I mean, him whom in France
They'd call The Joseph, The par excellence.

He was forsooth a great Arithmetician,
Had all the Ready Reckoner at command,
And, having been a sort of Sub-Physician,
Now came to test the water of the Land,
Which he pronounced in a most vile condition,
So bad in fact 'twas clear things could not stand;
The antipous of Leibnitz, still his song
Ran ever thus, “Whatever is is wrong.”

O Politics, sublimest Recreation,—
In faith I must apostrophise ye here!
Without ye what were man? what conversation
Could e'er subsist o'er Port, Gin-twist, or Beer,
(According to the tippler's taste and station)?
Without your aid useless the human ear;
Without it useless too the human tongue—
One can't discuss the weather all day long.

O Polities! without ye many a warm man
(In City phrase we speak), had wanted bread,
Through every age since first the Conqu'ring Norman
Shot Harold (not the Pilgrim) through the head:
What were O'Shiel, O'Connell, and O'Gorman,
And the other O.'s who make ye now a trade,
Without ye?—Cobbett with his corn so boasted?
Or Hunt with his—one raw, the other roasted?

O Politics!—but gently Madame Muse,
Your Pegasus has a vile trick of bolting;
'Tis bad, indeed it is, this breaking loose,
Digressions are in general revolting;
But always when one's looking after news,
So pull your curb up sharp, Ma'am, rein your colt in,
And turn his head to Wright's Hotel, the Fountain,
Where you'll find Jones, and Joseph just dismounting.

CANTO II.

Kent in the Commentaries Cæsar writ
Is call'd the civilest place in all the Isle,
And Jones resolved it should not lose a whit
Of character through him; his civilest smile,

His very civilest bow and all his wit,
He brought to greet the patriot without guile,
And cried while making a profound salam,
“You're the Great Patriot, Sir?”—Quoth Joe, “I am.”

“Your worship is right welcome into Kent!”
Said Jones, and now again he bow'd his back,
“We've few like you” (once more his body bent,
“Fame like the wind” (his ‘Gingers’ gave a crack,)
“Resistless when it once hath found a vent,
Hath far and wide blown your great reputation
For counting, casting up, and calculation;

“Sir, I do reverence a man of nous,
A Patriot I do love, alive or dead;
And, if you'll deign to visit my poor house,
I will essay to furnish forth a ‘spread’
Fit for a Scotchman—there's a brace of grouse,
Some cocky-leeky, and a sing'd sheep's-head;
I fear a pudding boiled in a bag is
A sorry substitution for a haggis.”

Jones paus'd and bowed once more—the pawkie Scot
Knew well “a pin a day's a groat a year,”
And that “a dinner sav'd 's a dinner got,”
Then his mouth watered at the dainty cheer.

Yes, dainty, reader, though you like it not,
Nor I—but Joseph doth—besides 'tis clear
That, though in Magna Charta he delights,
He somehow can't endure a Bill of Wright's.

Not with more pleasure therefore he, for pith
And piety alike renown'd o'er all,
Penzance's Pride, the Reverend Boatswain Smith,
Hears to a “Love Feast,” an “harmonious call”;
Not with more pleasure Sisters Fry and Frith
Enraptured listen to his holy drawl,
Than Joseph lent an ear to this kind proffer,
At once embracing Jones and Jones's offer.

In vain the waiter, with imploring face,
Exhibits his long chronicle of stews,
His fish from turbot down to humble plaice,
His roast and boil'd, fricandeaux and ragouts,
All the varieties o' the feather'd race,
Goose, spring-chick, duckling—Joseph doth refuse;
“I'll thank you, Sir”—these were his sole commands—
“To get some water just to wash my hands.”

Your Scottish toilette's no such long affair,
But much like that of Ponto, Don, or Rover,
A shake, a wipe, five fingers through the hair
(If any hair there be), and all is over;

Dress too's so much beneath a patriot's care
That Joseph soon was ready to break cover,
So, taking Jones's arm, the pair withdrew,
Sam and his waiter looking rather blue.

“Heaven sends us meat” (thus ancient proverbs go),
“The devil sends cooks,” they add, and quite as truly,
If Scotland be design'd the place in quo,
And Janet, Jones's “help,” had come but newly
To Christendom direct from “Edinbro”;
Of course that day the genial banquet duly
With “crowdy,” “collops,” “haggis,” was supplied,
And Heaven knows how much nastiness beside.

Now fancy, gentle reader, dinner done,
Fancy the filth remov'd, and all the dwelling,
Like ropes of rotten onions in the sun,
Of these most “villainous rank compounds” smelling.
Fancy the whisky-toddy just begun—
And Jones in ecstacy while Joseph's telling
The abuses he intends to “sweep away,”
And all the good he means to do—some day.

“First, I'll re-organize the Church—that's flat—
Confiscate her revenues to the nation;
Instead of tythe and offering and all that,
As soon as he has finished his oration,
The clerk shall carry round the parson's hat,
Collecting halfpence from the congregation,
And in the open air—no church or steeple—
'Twill make him more respected by the people.

“Then for the Bench—old proverbs still declare,
As they've been handed down to us by our mothers,
‘Each man's the best judge of his own affair;’
And what then can he want with any others?
So we'll get rid of all the ‘learned brothers,’
And all their superfluity of hair;
Coifs, gowns, and robes—in fact, despite of Guelph,
I mean to do away with Law itself.

“Think what a saving there will be in wigs—
Buz, bush, and bird's nest, such as Parr's and Paley's,
Those too in which the lawyers ‘queer the prigs,’
Fine full forensic ones ‘wi' sma' wee tailies,’
‘The family’ will merry be as grigs
Freed from all fear of Park and both the Old Baileys;
All powerless then to ‘Brixtonise’ or gibbet 'em,
While every man may live—and thieve ad libitum.

“Then as to Greece”—the Patriot stops because
He sees his host has dropt into a doze
Tranquilly sound, an inference which he draws
From the deep respirations of his nose;
At once he brings abruptly to a close
His lengthy lecture upon wigs and laws—
Then transfers to his pocket, without any stir,
Some dozen lumps of sugar from the canister.

That done, indignant at the slight thus shown
Unto his oratorical display,
Just as he was proceeding to make known
(A fact we don't get hold of every day)
The best mode of expending a Greek loan—
He snatches up his hat and walks away:
Telling the curtseying Janet, as he past her
In the hall, “by no means to disturb her master.”

Nor was it till some half-hour had gone by,
That Jones, who had been dreaming of the devil,
Woke in a fright; but when he cast his eye
On Joseph's chair, presentiment of evil,
Flash'd on his mind, he felt how “d—d uncivil”
A quiet snooze seems to a sitter by;
Then too his friend's retreat had spoil'd his plan,
“Janet!” he roars, “why where's the gentleman?”

And when he found that he was gone indeed,
Without one “frail memorial” left behind;
Away he trotted at his utmost speed
Back to the Fountain, much disturbed in mind
That after all he should so ill succeed,
Nor bear away a relic of some kind
From this the pink of patriot perfection,
To add unto his “rich and rare” collection.

An autograph, a glove, a pinch of snuff,
Or any little thing by way of sample;
His very shoe-string had been quite enough,
His cotton pocket-handkerchief most ample,
Or some more trifling article, for example,
The pins he found and stuck upon his cuff.
But he has pass'd—a vision of the night,
A meteor gleam, as transient and as bright.

Joseph, by this, had got half way to Dover,
So all that Jones can do's to catechise
The chambermaid and waiters, to discover
If he had left aught which might be a prize.
A shilling, given to either one or t'other,
Identified, were precious in his eyes.
Alas! he had only given a nod to Sam,
To chambermaid a kiss, to “boots” a d—n.

Alas for Jones! Now doth he fret and fume!
When Betty, chambermaid, at length bethought her,
“Perhaps there's something in the dressing-room?”
Fired at the thought, around the neck he caught her;
Then rush'd and saw to dissipate his gloom,
Where stood a trifling modicum of water,
The same in which, so Betty doth insist,
The Patriot had lately wash'd his fist.

Oh! not such rapture, Mister St. John Long
Feels when he grasps a patient's glittering fee,
Oh! scarce more rapture, Paton, queen of song,
Pouring the full tide of her harmony,
Darts through each breast amidst the listening throng,
Than Jones experienced, as in ecstasy
He sprang upon the fluid, seized the tottle,
And cork'd it up securely in a bottle.

And there, a label duly fixed upon it,
It stands his richest gem; and daily press
Sage antiquaries round to gaze and con it,
And Mister Ellis that great A. S. S.
Hath promised to write a paper on it.

Samuel Wright, Esq., the worthy host of an excellent tavern, where you are sure of good entertainment “whether you are a man or a horse.” He is, we believe, the natu maximus of a triumvirate of brothers who for many years past “Each in a separate Kentish town Have kept the Ship, the Fountain, and the Crown!”