 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
273
FAMILIAR EPISTLES.
To Doctor Wilmot.
O Doctor! wilt thou dine with me,
And drive on Tuesday morning down!
Can ribs of beef have charms for thee—
The fat, the lean, the luscious brown?
No longer dressed in silken sheen,
Nor deck'd with rings and brooches rare,
Say, wilt thou come in velveteen,
Or corduroys that never tear?
And drive on Tuesday morning down!
Can ribs of beef have charms for thee—
The fat, the lean, the luscious brown?
No longer dressed in silken sheen,
Nor deck'd with rings and brooches rare,
Say, wilt thou come in velveteen,
Or corduroys that never tear?
O Doctor! when thou com'st away,
Wilt thou not bid John ride behind,
On pony, clad in livery gay,
To mark the birds our pointers find?
Let him a flask of darkest green
Replete with cherry brandy bear,
That we may still, our toils between,
That fascinating fluid share!
Wilt thou not bid John ride behind,
On pony, clad in livery gay,
To mark the birds our pointers find?
Let him a flask of darkest green
Replete with cherry brandy bear,
That we may still, our toils between,
That fascinating fluid share!
274
O Doctor! canst thou aim so true,
As we through briars and brambles go,
To reach the partridge brown of hue,
And lay the mounting pheasant low?
Or should by chance, it so befall
Thy path be cross'd by timid hare,
Say, wilt thou for the gamebag call,
And place the fur-clad victim there?
As we through briars and brambles go,
To reach the partridge brown of hue,
And lay the mounting pheasant low?
Or should by chance, it so befall
Thy path be cross'd by timid hare,
Say, wilt thou for the gamebag call,
And place the fur-clad victim there?
And when at last the dark'ning sky
Proclaims the hour of dinner near,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And quit thy sport for homely cheer?
The cloth withdrawn, removed the tray—
Say, wilt thou, snug in elbow chair,
The bottle's progress scorn to stay,
But fill the fairest of the fair?
Proclaims the hour of dinner near,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And quit thy sport for homely cheer?
The cloth withdrawn, removed the tray—
Say, wilt thou, snug in elbow chair,
The bottle's progress scorn to stay,
But fill the fairest of the fair?
To Henry Colburn, Esq., etc., etc.
Colburn, I'm ill—my nerves are all unstrung—
These atmospheric changes, no doubt, hurt me;
I've got a bilious coating on my tongue,
And I want something comic to divert me.
These atmospheric changes, no doubt, hurt me;
I've got a bilious coating on my tongue,
And I want something comic to divert me.
275
What can you send me, Harry?—surely you
And Bentley, from your Burlington depository,
Can manage to despatch me something new
And Liberal—you know I never was a Tory.
And Bentley, from your Burlington depository,
Can manage to despatch me something new
And Liberal—you know I never was a Tory.
And Whiggery's now the order of the day,
“With all my heart! I won't be out of fashion;”
Don't send me Mother Morgan though, I pray—
Her bottled small-beer puts me in a passion,
“With all my heart! I won't be out of fashion;”
Don't send me Mother Morgan though, I pray—
Her bottled small-beer puts me in a passion,
At once so pert and vapid—then those bits
Of dreadful patois!—'Twere enough, my Harry,
To throw a nervous body into fits
To hunt them out in Boyer's dictio-nary.
Of dreadful patois!—'Twere enough, my Harry,
To throw a nervous body into fits
To hunt them out in Boyer's dictio-nary.
I thought, dear Colburn, you had been too wise
To puff such things—you saw John Murray shy 'em;
He offers now the old ones at half-price—
I wonder who the deuce he thinks will buy 'em?
To puff such things—you saw John Murray shy 'em;
He offers now the old ones at half-price—
I wonder who the deuce he thinks will buy 'em?
Don't send me Mister Lytton Bulwer's poem,
The ‘Siamese Twins,’ which the Reviews so quiz—
All Satire is a bore—besides, I know him,
And do not covet anything that's his.
The ‘Siamese Twins,’ which the Reviews so quiz—
All Satire is a bore—besides, I know him,
And do not covet anything that's his.
Your Dandy-Radical's a strange anomaly,
It really almost makes one sick to see 'em;
And I shall read the Gentleman a homily
Next time I meet him at the ‘Athenæum.’
It really almost makes one sick to see 'em;
And I shall read the Gentleman a homily
Next time I meet him at the ‘Athenæum.’
276
‘Pelham’ one might endure upon one's table,
And even ‘Devereux,’ though not worth a button;
But then ‘Paul Clifford's’ quite abominable,
Though much admired by Mister Sambo Sutton.
And even ‘Devereux,’ though not worth a button;
But then ‘Paul Clifford's’ quite abominable,
Though much admired by Mister Sambo Sutton.
Let's see!—you've puffed and printed thirty-seven,
So Fraser says—surely they're not all rubbish!
You might, methinks, pick out ten or eleven,
Which a sick friend may fancy ‘pretty Bobbish.’
So Fraser says—surely they're not all rubbish!
You might, methinks, pick out ten or eleven,
Which a sick friend may fancy ‘pretty Bobbish.’
‘Heiress of Bruges?’—No, that will never do—
That's a bad copy of Sir Walter's worst;
No, ‘Walter Colyton,’ no more will you;
You're a far greater nuisance than the first.
That's a bad copy of Sir Walter's worst;
No, ‘Walter Colyton,’ no more will you;
You're a far greater nuisance than the first.
‘English at Home.’—I would they were abroad—
‘Denounced?’—No, Banim, 'tis the worst thing you did—
‘Separation?’—That's a literary fraud—
‘Foreign Exclusives?’—everywhere excluded!
‘Denounced?’—No, Banim, 'tis the worst thing you did—
‘Separation?’—That's a literary fraud—
‘Foreign Exclusives?’—everywhere excluded!
O dear! O dear! I never can go on!
Here, Harry Colburn, take the list yourself!
And out of your abundance, choose the one
You think the most facetious on your shelf;
Here, Harry Colburn, take the list yourself!
And out of your abundance, choose the one
You think the most facetious on your shelf;
277
One not ‘replete’ with anything tho', nor stated
As ‘full of spirit, incident, and variety;’
Not ‘powerfully written,’ nor ‘calculated
To please the higher classes of society!’
As ‘full of spirit, incident, and variety;’
Not ‘powerfully written,’ nor ‘calculated
To please the higher classes of society!’
Don't let it have ‘much interesting matter,’
‘Wit,’ or ‘original grouping,’—when a body
Is ill, one can't away with ‘humorous satire,’
‘Peculiarly adapted’ unto any body.
‘Wit,’ or ‘original grouping,’—when a body
Is ill, one can't away with ‘humorous satire,’
‘Peculiarly adapted’ unto any body.
‘Pictures of the human heart’ one vilipends,
‘Accomplished auth'resses’ are not more dear,
Works ‘full of character’——
‘Accomplished auth'resses’ are not more dear,
Works ‘full of character’——
(Enter Burlingtonian Devil, with a parcel of volumes in boards.)
(The Fiend)—
Please, sir, Master sends
His comp's, and hopes, as how, you'll like these here!
His comp's, and hopes, as how, you'll like these here!
(Invalid)
Bravo! young Beelzebub!—stay, here's a shilling!
I hope, though, there's no ‘raciness of style,’
No ‘elegance of—’ —Z—ds! you little villain,
What is't you've got in this confounded pile?
I hope, though, there's no ‘raciness of style,’
No ‘elegance of—’ —Z—ds! you little villain,
What is't you've got in this confounded pile?
278
‘Perdition catch thy arm, the chance is thine!’
It is—I'm dying—Oh!—I can no more!—
For worlds I could not read another line!
Adieu!—I lay my death at Colburn's door!
(Invalid sinks exhausted, faints, groans a tragedy groan, and expires.
The imp clasps his hands, and bends over him in the most approved
Macready attitude—Enters Coroner's Jury, and sit upon the body.
Books produced in evidence; several of the gentlemen impannelled
taken ill at their appearance; Mr. Baker's Clerk carried out in a
swoon.—Corpse examined; viscera
much inflamed, and brain
altogether evaporated. Verdict—“Accidental death from suffocation
by mephitic
gas, administered in
puffs
by some person or persons
unknown.”—A deodand of one farthing on the volumes.)It is—I'm dying—Oh!—I can no more!—
For worlds I could not read another line!
Adieu!—I lay my death at Colburn's door!
To R. H. D. Barham.
St. Paul's, July 5, 1830.
I find, Mister Dick,
That you've played me a trick,
For which you deserve a reproof—
Not to say a reproach;
You got out of the coach,
And settled yourself on the roof.
That you've played me a trick,
For which you deserve a reproof—
Not to say a reproach;
You got out of the coach,
And settled yourself on the roof.
279
You knew you'd a cough,
And when you set off,
I cautioned you as to your ride,
And bade you take care
Of the damp and cold air,
And above all to keep withinside.
And when you set off,
I cautioned you as to your ride,
And bade you take care
Of the damp and cold air,
And above all to keep withinside.
This they tell me that you
Did not choose to do,
But exchanged with some person, they said;
And so Easton mistook
Your name in his book,
And charged you what he should have paid.
Did not choose to do,
But exchanged with some person, they said;
And so Easton mistook
Your name in his book,
And charged you what he should have paid.
I found them quite willing
To refund every shilling,
And render to Cæsar his due;
They gave me back three,
Which I take to be
The overplus forked out by you.
To refund every shilling,
And render to Cæsar his due;
They gave me back three,
Which I take to be
The overplus forked out by you.
Now don't do this again;
Indeed, to be plain,
If you mount, when you come back to town,
Your namesake the ‘Dicky,’
I shall certainly lick ye,
And perhaps half demolish your crown.
Indeed, to be plain,
If you mount, when you come back to town,
Your namesake the ‘Dicky,’
I shall certainly lick ye,
And perhaps half demolish your crown.
280
Mamma means to enclose
Two white ‘wipes’ for your nose;
As your purse may be run rather hard,
I shall also attack her
To augment your exchequer
With a sovereign stuck in a card.
Two white ‘wipes’ for your nose;
As your purse may be run rather hard,
I shall also attack her
To augment your exchequer
With a sovereign stuck in a card.
But my note I must end it,
Or 'twill be too late to send it
To-day, which I much wish to do;
So remember us, mind, enough
To our friends who are kind enough
To be bored with such a nuisance as you.
Or 'twill be too late to send it
To-day, which I much wish to do;
So remember us, mind, enough
To our friends who are kind enough
To be bored with such a nuisance as you.
Write as soon as you can,
That's a good little man,
And direct your epistle to me;
Meanwhile, I remain,
Till I see you again,
Your affectionate sire,—R. H. B.
That's a good little man,
And direct your epistle to me;
Meanwhile, I remain,
Till I see you again,
Your affectionate sire,—R. H. B.
281
To Master Edward Barham (Ætat. 8.)
August 17, 1836.
My dear little Ned,
As I fear you have read
All the books that you have, from great A down to Z,
And your aunt, too, has said
That you're very well bred,
And don't scream and yell fit to waken the dead,
I think that instead
Of that vile gingerbread
With which little boys, I know, like to be fed.
(Though lying like lead
On the stomach, the head
Gets affected, of which most mammas have a dread)
I shall rather be led
Before you to spread
These two little volumes—one blue and one red.
As three shillings have fled,
From my pocket, dear Ned,
Don't dog's-ear nor dirt them, nor read them in bed.
Your affectionate Father,
R. H. B.
282
To T. Ryde, Esq.
WITH A PRESENT OF BLACK CLOTH.
My dear Mr. Ryde,
The cloth I confide
To your messenger tried,
Safe sealed up and tied.
It can't be denied
That though rough it's well dyed,
And sufficiently wide
(Or my tailor has lied)
To cover your hide
From ancle to side.
The cloth I confide
To your messenger tried,
Safe sealed up and tied.
It can't be denied
That though rough it's well dyed,
And sufficiently wide
(Or my tailor has lied)
To cover your hide
From ancle to side.
If you're going to ride,
Or this winter decide
Upon learning to slide
On the Thames or the Clyde—
A thing I always shied,
And could never “abide,”
From motives allied
To a feeling of pride,
As too undignified—
On the ice ere you glide,
Such smallclothes provide
As fit well in the stride.
Or this winter decide
Upon learning to slide
On the Thames or the Clyde—
A thing I always shied,
And could never “abide,”
From motives allied
To a feeling of pride,
As too undignified—
On the ice ere you glide,
Such smallclothes provide
As fit well in the stride.
283
The cloth, says my bride,
Ere the needle is plied,
Should be damped and then dried;
And when thus purified
They'll be jet black, not pied.
In this I coincide.
Ere the needle is plied,
Should be damped and then dried;
And when thus purified
They'll be jet black, not pied.
In this I coincide.
Adieu, my dear Ryde,
All good fortune betide
Yourself, my good friend, and your breeches beside.
All good fortune betide
Yourself, my good friend, and your breeches beside.
A Friendly Remonstrance.
ADDRESSED TO THE EDITORS, ETC., OF ‘THE GLOBE.’
June 24th, 1837.
My dear Mr. Moran,
Although in the Koran,
Mohammed, prohibiting wine,
Says people should get
Lemonade and sherbet,
Such talking is all very fine;
Although in the Koran,
Mohammed, prohibiting wine,
Says people should get
Lemonade and sherbet,
Such talking is all very fine;
And the system may work
Very well with a Turk,
A Moor, a Mogul, or a Persian;
But John Bull, you must own,
For spring water alone
Entertains an especial aversion.
Very well with a Turk,
A Moor, a Mogul, or a Persian;
But John Bull, you must own,
For spring water alone
Entertains an especial aversion.
284
What the deuce are you at?
Does the ‘Globe’ mean to rat
From its principles—Port and October?
It had better turn Tory
At once, like “old Glory,”
Than grow so confoundedly sober.
Does the ‘Globe’ mean to rat
From its principles—Port and October?
It had better turn Tory
At once, like “old Glory,”
Than grow so confoundedly sober.
Who cares for the potter
Of Lettsom and Trotter?
Astley Cooper's grown blinder than Cupid.
As to Bacher, I guess
He's an ass, and U. S.
I suppose means “Uncommonly stupid!”
Of Lettsom and Trotter?
Astley Cooper's grown blinder than Cupid.
As to Bacher, I guess
He's an ass, and U. S.
I suppose means “Uncommonly stupid!”
I've heard Colonel Torrens
Express his abhorrence
Of milksops, and often upon 'em he
Things severer has said
Than ever I read
In political tracts of economy.
Express his abhorrence
Of milksops, and often upon 'em he
Things severer has said
Than ever I read
In political tracts of economy.
And surely the Captain
Won't think of adapting
His taste to these teetotal fancies,
Or say the pure element
Is for the belly meant,
Unless when it mixed with right Nantz is.
Won't think of adapting
His taste to these teetotal fancies,
Or say the pure element
Is for the belly meant,
Unless when it mixed with right Nantz is.
285
If once your good Editor
Turns to a bread-eater,
Moistening his crust with cool waters,
All the fire in his leaders
Is quench'd, and his readers
Will swear they're a Dairyman's Daughter's.
Turns to a bread-eater,
Moistening his crust with cool waters,
All the fire in his leaders
Is quench'd, and his readers
Will swear they're a Dairyman's Daughter's.
If you make Mr. Chapman
A gruel and pap-man,
At once you destroy all the pleasure he
Now takes in beholding
The silver and gold in
The iron safe forming your treasury.
A gruel and pap-man,
At once you destroy all the pleasure he
Now takes in beholding
The silver and gold in
The iron safe forming your treasury.
Methinks Mr. Eaves,
As he locks up and leaves,
For his skinful of grog stoutly stickles;
And I hear honest Joe
Exclaim, “This is no go!”
As he bolts to his friend Colonel Nichols.
As he locks up and leaves,
For his skinful of grog stoutly stickles;
And I hear honest Joe
Exclaim, “This is no go!”
As he bolts to his friend Colonel Nichols.
Mr. Barnard won't stay,
Without wetting his clay
Now and then with a taste of cool “swipes,”
And I am sure Mr. Harvey
Will send for a jarvey
And “brush” with his galleys and types.
Without wetting his clay
Now and then with a taste of cool “swipes,”
And I am sure Mr. Harvey
Will send for a jarvey
And “brush” with his galleys and types.
286
I admit drinking gin
Is a shame and a sin,
It bemuddles and don't make one frisky;
But think of the scorn
Which an Irishman born
Deserves who talks scandal of whisky!
Is a shame and a sin,
It bemuddles and don't make one frisky;
But think of the scorn
Which an Irishman born
Deserves who talks scandal of whisky!
Then pray, Mr. Moran,
Don't think of encoring
Such paragraphs: prithee stand neuter;
Or if drams you cut short,
Speak civil of port,
And allow us a pull at the pewter.
Don't think of encoring
Such paragraphs: prithee stand neuter;
Or if drams you cut short,
Speak civil of port,
And allow us a pull at the pewter.
To Doctor Hume.
St. P. C. Y., November 4, 1837.
Doctor dear! the Queen's a-coming!
All this ancient city round,
Scarce a place to squeeze one's thumb in,
High or low, can now be found;
All this ancient city round,
Scarce a place to squeeze one's thumb in,
High or low, can now be found;
So my spouse—you'll hardly thank her—
Thus in substance bids me say:
“Bring your sweet self to an anchor,
Doctor dear, with us that day!”
Thus in substance bids me say:
“Bring your sweet self to an anchor,
Doctor dear, with us that day!”
287
If no haunch your palate tickles,
If no turtle greet your eye,
There'll be cold roast beef and pickles,
Ox-tail soup, and pigeon-pie.
If no turtle greet your eye,
There'll be cold roast beef and pickles,
Ox-tail soup, and pigeon-pie.
Fear not then the knaves who fleece men—
Johnny Raws, and country muffs!
There'll be lots of new policemen
To control the rogues and roughs.
Johnny Raws, and country muffs!
There'll be lots of new policemen
To control the rogues and roughs.
Doctor, darling! think how grand is
Such a sight! the great Lord May'r,
Heading all the city dandies,
There on horseback takes the air!
Such a sight! the great Lord May'r,
Heading all the city dandies,
There on horseback takes the air!
Chains and maces all attend, he
Rides all glorious to be seen;
“Lad o' wax!” great heaven forfend he
Don't get spilt before the Queen!
Rides all glorious to be seen;
“Lad o' wax!” great heaven forfend he
Don't get spilt before the Queen!
Blue-coat boys with classic speeches—
From our windows you shall view
Their yellow stockings, yellow breeches,
And “long togs” of deepest blue.
From our windows you shall view
Their yellow stockings, yellow breeches,
And “long togs” of deepest blue.
Here the cutlers,—there the nailers,
Here the barber-surgeons stand,—
Goldsmiths here—there merchant tailors,
And in front the Coldstream Band!
Here the barber-surgeons stand,—
Goldsmiths here—there merchant tailors,
And in front the Coldstream Band!
288
Gas-lights, links, and flambeaux blazing,
These will shame the noon-tide ray;
“Night!—pooh!—stuff! 'tis quite amazing!
Why 'tis brighter far than day!”
These will shame the noon-tide ray;
“Night!—pooh!—stuff! 'tis quite amazing!
Why 'tis brighter far than day!”
But a scene so brilliant mocks all
Power its beauties to declare;
Once beheld, poor Gye of Vauxhall
Hangs himself in deep despair!
Power its beauties to declare;
Once beheld, poor Gye of Vauxhall
Hangs himself in deep despair!
Come then, Doctor, quit your shrubbery,
Cock your castor o'er your ear;
Come and gaze, and taste the grubbery,
Ah, now join us, Doctor dear!
Cock your castor o'er your ear;
Come and gaze, and taste the grubbery,
Ah, now join us, Doctor dear!
R. H. B.
To Miss Barham.
August 15, 1841.
My dear little Fanny,—I take up my pen
Just to say that we set off on Monday, at ten,
By the Magnet to Margate, and call on the way
At a place which I think you remember, Herne Bay;
For there, if I recollect rightly, the guide,
Betsy Homersham, sous'd you so much that you cried.
We've not yet engaged any lodgings; the Halls,
Who have been there some time, and live close to St. Paul's,
289
In suiting a number like ours, or e'en double.
But then you'll observe, since as yet we don't know
To what part of the town we may happen to go,
And cannot decide till at least we so far get,
You had better direct to us, “Post Office, Margate,”
A mode of arrangement for want of a better
Which I mean to adopt in the case of each letter.
I sent down a salmon to-day, and I hope
That it will not discredit the fishmonger, Pope,
But I deeply regret things should turn out so cross
That I could not procure one poor lobster for sauce;
But somehow or other so few had come in,
Pope had not a single one, neither had Lynn;
So be sure, my dear Fanny, you make my excuses,
And mind and write soon and let's know what the news is;
Your mammy will write to you soon, and your bird
Sings so loud and so long, it is really absurd;
Mary Anne's grown quite fond of the creature, indeed
She does nothing but stuff it with sugar and seed.
I really don't think I have aught more to tell,
And the postman below is come ringing his bell,
So God bless you, my dear, I shall now say “Farewell.”
Write to one of us soon—if you ask me, I'd rather
You'd address, of the two,—Your affectionate Father.
R. H. B.
290
To Richard Bentley, Esq.
December 21, 1841.
Dear Bentley,—
“Nell Cook” is ripe,
And up in type,—
So Bangor boys repeat;
And “Colin Clink”
Is daubed with ink,
Down to a single sheet.
“Nell Cook” is ripe,
And up in type,—
So Bangor boys repeat;
And “Colin Clink”
Is daubed with ink,
Down to a single sheet.
Poor Tom Hill's dead,
And it is said
His heir is E. Dubois.
Tom kept an infernal
Sort of a journal
Of all he heard and saw—
And it is said
His heir is E. Dubois.
Tom kept an infernal
Sort of a journal
Of all he heard and saw—
I think if you
Mind P and Q,
You may get hold of the Diary;
Dubois could well
Make a book that would sell;
At least, it's worth inquiry.
Mind P and Q,
You may get hold of the Diary;
Dubois could well
Make a book that would sell;
At least, it's worth inquiry.
291
And if your mind
That way's inclin'd,
I could put you into a way
To get at Dubois
Through his brother-in-law,
So respond without delay.
That way's inclin'd,
I could put you into a way
To get at Dubois
Through his brother-in-law,
So respond without delay.
Thine,
R. H. B.
To Dr. Hume.
April, 1842.
Diffugere
nives, redeunt jam gramina campis,
The snows are fled, the grass now scarcely damp is;
Solvitur acris Hyems gratâ vice Veris;
Stern Winter's gone, the grateful Spring-time near is;
Ubi gentium Hume?
Is he up in his room?
Vel antro sub grato
“'Ating potato”?
In agris est vix
A making of bricks?
Cur non venit ad urbem,
Now there's nothing to disturb him—
292
Churchyardque Paulinum?
Nil mihi rescribas sed venias ipse
Quadrigâ vel omnibus, sobrius vel tipse.
R. H. B.
To the Garrick Club.
Clifton, May, 1845.
Ye shepherds give ear to my lay,
Who have nothing to do about sheep,
While, as Shenstone, the poet, would say,—
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Who have nothing to do about sheep,
While, as Shenstone, the poet, would say,—
I have nothing to do but to weep.
For here I sit all the day long,
And must do so, I dare say, all June,
While so far from singing a song,
I can't even whistle a tune.
And must do so, I dare say, all June,
While so far from singing a song,
I can't even whistle a tune.
For the probang, the blister, and leech,
So completely my notes have o'erthrown,
When I try the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
So completely my notes have o'erthrown,
When I try the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
293
It's useless attempting to speak,
For my voice is beyond my control;
If high, it's an ear-piercing squeak,
If low, it's a grunt or a growl!
For my voice is beyond my control;
If high, it's an ear-piercing squeak,
If low, it's a grunt or a growl!
Can Clifton those beauties assume,
Which patients have found in her face,
When shut up all day in a room,
One can't get a peep at the place?
Which patients have found in her face,
When shut up all day in a room,
One can't get a peep at the place?
Ye Garrickers, making your sport,
As ye revel in gossip and grub,
Oh! send some endearing report
Of how matters go on at the Club.
As ye revel in gossip and grub,
Oh! send some endearing report
Of how matters go on at the Club.
When I think on the rapid mail train,
In a moment I seem to be there,
But the sight of N.E. on the vane
Soon hurries me back to despair.
In a moment I seem to be there,
But the sight of N.E. on the vane
Soon hurries me back to despair.
The Committee, O say do they send
A blessing—or ban—after me?
Mr. Gwilt, does he duly attend
To his salad and little roti?
A blessing—or ban—after me?
Mr. Gwilt, does he duly attend
To his salad and little roti?
Davy Roberts, that glorious R. A.,
Does he still smoke his hookha in peace?
Is Millingen there every day?
Is Mills a trustee to the lease?
Does he still smoke his hookha in peace?
Is Millingen there every day?
Is Mills a trustee to the lease?
294
Does the claret suit Thornton? and how
Does Lord Tenterden like the cigars?
Has anyone yet in a row
Kicked impudent --- downstairs?
Does Lord Tenterden like the cigars?
Has anyone yet in a row
Kicked impudent --- downstairs?
For methought that a sweet little bird
In my ear of its likelihood sung,
And I loved it the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from its tongue.
In my ear of its likelihood sung,
And I loved it the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from its tongue.
O, say is the story a hoax,
Or one to be classed among fibs,
That Murphy's upset with his jokes
Colonel Sibthorpe, and broken his ribs?
Or one to be classed among fibs,
That Murphy's upset with his jokes
Colonel Sibthorpe, and broken his ribs?
Has Durant got rid of his cough?
Are Sav'ry's rheumatics quite gone?
And how do the dinners go off,
And how does the ballot go on?
Are Sav'ry's rheumatics quite gone?
And how do the dinners go off,
And how does the ballot go on?
Does Stanhope's good humour endure?
What are White and Sir Henry about?
Is Talfourd gone up to his tour,
Or Arden gone down to his trout?
What are White and Sir Henry about?
Is Talfourd gone up to his tour,
Or Arden gone down to his trout?
Does Calcraft, who saved us from blazing,
Still watch o'er our int'rests at night?
Does Ovey still drive up his chaise in?
Is Rainy as ever polite?
Still watch o'er our int'rests at night?
Does Ovey still drive up his chaise in?
Is Rainy as ever polite?
295
Charles Kemble, his nose is it aching
As yet from his fall, or got well?
Has Harley decided on making
Miss --- a church-going belle?
As yet from his fall, or got well?
Has Harley decided on making
Miss --- a church-going belle?
Is Titmarsh on anything clever,
Or bent on returning to France?
Is Planché as bustling as ever,
Avowedly going to Dance?
Or bent on returning to France?
Is Planché as bustling as ever,
Avowedly going to Dance?
Say where—but ah me! wherefore ask
When there's none to reply or to care,
And Echo herself scorns the task
Of answering gloomily “Where?”
When there's none to reply or to care,
And Echo herself scorns the task
Of answering gloomily “Where?”
But Fladgate will write, or George Raymond,—
His muse will not surely decline
For one moment to turn from the gay monde,
And sympathize sadly with mine.
His muse will not surely decline
For one moment to turn from the gay monde,
And sympathize sadly with mine.
Perhaps you'll consider it silly
To end with a rascally pun,
But as I have thus done my billet,
O, send me back one billet done!
To end with a rascally pun,
But as I have thus done my billet,
O, send me back one billet done!
An allusion to Mr. William --- more commonly called Billy --- Dunn, Treasurer of Drury Lane Theatre.
297
The Radiant Boy.
A FRAGMENT.
“That pretty little boy, Mamma,
That stands behind the tree,
Do let him come indoors, Mamma,
And bid him play with me.
That stands behind the tree,
Do let him come indoors, Mamma,
And bid him play with me.
“Papa is busy now, Mamma,
And sister is away,
Oh! bid that little boy come in,
That we may go and play.”
And sister is away,
Oh! bid that little boy come in,
That we may go and play.”
“What little boy? thou silly child,
No little boy I see:”—
“Oh! there he stands upon the lawn,
And weeps beneath the tree;
No little boy I see:”—
“Oh! there he stands upon the lawn,
And weeps beneath the tree;
“He will not come and play, Mamma,
I show him every toy;
I bid him come, but still he weeps;
Is he a naughty boy?”
I show him every toy;
I bid him come, but still he weeps;
Is he a naughty boy?”
298
“Why what is this, Tom Ingoldsby,
My child, what may it mean?
I look upon the lawn, but there
No little boy is seen;
My child, what may it mean?
I look upon the lawn, but there
No little boy is seen;
“The linden tree is straight and tall,
Its leaves are fresh and fair,
But there's no little boy at all—
No pretty boy is there.”
Its leaves are fresh and fair,
But there's no little boy at all—
No pretty boy is there.”
“Now nay, now nay, my mother dear,
He stands beside the tree;
He weeps, he sheds full many a tear,
Yet still he looks on me.
He stands beside the tree;
He weeps, he sheds full many a tear,
Yet still he looks on me.
“Full many a time and oft, Mamma,
I've asked him day by day,
But there he always stands and weeps—
He will not come and play.
I've asked him day by day,
But there he always stands and weeps—
He will not come and play.
“What makes him look so pale, Mamma?
Why is he weeping so?
There—now at once he's gone away!
I did not see him go:
Why is he weeping so?
There—now at once he's gone away!
I did not see him go:
299
“He went not down the gravel walk,
He did not cross the lawn,
And yet he's gone away at once;—
Mamma, where is he gone?”
He did not cross the lawn,
And yet he's gone away at once;—
Mamma, where is he gone?”
“You little monkey, are you mad?”
The mother smiling said;
But her voice had something lost its tone,
And her cheek a little red.
The mother smiling said;
But her voice had something lost its tone,
And her cheek a little red.
She look'd adown the gravel walk,
And across the grass-green sod;
Of course she'd no belief in Ghosts,
But she thought it rather odd.
And across the grass-green sod;
Of course she'd no belief in Ghosts,
But she thought it rather odd.
“Go in,” quoth she, “thou silly child—
Go in, and mind your toys,
And do not talk such stuff to me
Of pretty little boys.”
Go in, and mind your toys,
And do not talk such stuff to me
Of pretty little boys.”
“Papa! papa! he's there again—
He's come again to-day!
See, there he stands!—do make him stop,
And bid him come and play.
He's come again to-day!
See, there he stands!—do make him stop,
And bid him come and play.
300
“Mamma was angry yesterday,
She said it was not true,
But see! he's there again, Papa,
Now you can see him too!
She said it was not true,
But see! he's there again, Papa,
Now you can see him too!
“I love this fine old house, Papa,
I like its large old hall;
It is so very nice a place
For us to play at ball.
I like its large old hall;
It is so very nice a place
For us to play at ball.
“Yes! we've been here now half a year,
And yet, though day by day
I've ask'd him, he will not come in,
All I can do or say.”
And yet, though day by day
I've ask'd him, he will not come in,
All I can do or say.”
301
The Bulletin.
9, Dowry Square, Hot-wells, May 29, 1845.
Hark!—the doctors come again,
Knock—and enter doctors twain—
Dr. Keeler, Dr. Blane:—
“Well, sir, how
Go matters now?
Please your tongue put out again!”
Meanwhile, t'other side the bed,
Doctor Keeler
Is a feeler
Of my wrist, and shakes his head:—
“Rather low, we're rather low!”
(Deuce is in't, an 'twere not so!
Arrowroot, and toast-and-water,
Being all my nursing daughter,
By their order, now allows me;
If I hint at more she rows me,
Or at best will let me soak a
Crust of bread in tapioca.)
“Cool and moist though, let me see,
Seventy-two, or seventy-three,
Seventy-four, perhaps, or so;
Rather low, we're rather low!
Now, what sort of night, sir, eh?
Did you take the mixture, pray?
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,
And the draught and pills at nine?”
PATIENT (loquitur).Knock—and enter doctors twain—
Dr. Keeler, Dr. Blane:—
“Well, sir, how
Go matters now?
Please your tongue put out again!”
Meanwhile, t'other side the bed,
Doctor Keeler
Is a feeler
Of my wrist, and shakes his head:—
“Rather low, we're rather low!”
(Deuce is in't, an 'twere not so!
Arrowroot, and toast-and-water,
Being all my nursing daughter,
By their order, now allows me;
If I hint at more she rows me,
Or at best will let me soak a
Crust of bread in tapioca.)
“Cool and moist though, let me see,
Seventy-two, or seventy-three,
Seventy-four, perhaps, or so;
Rather low, we're rather low!
302
Did you take the mixture, pray?
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,
And the draught and pills at nine?”
“Coughing, doctor, coughing, sneezing,
Wheezing, teazing, most unpleasing,
Till at length I, by degrees, in-
Duced ‘Tired nature's sweet restorer,’
Sleep, to cast her mantle o'er her
Poor unfortunate adorer,
And became at last a snorer.
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,
Nor the draughts did I decline;
But those horrid pills at nine!
Those I did not try to swallow,
Doctor, they'd have beat me hollow.
I as soon
Could gulp the moon,
Or the great Nassau balloon,
Or a ball for horse or hound, or
Bullet for an eighteen-pounder.”
303
“Well, sir— well, sir—we'll arrange it,
If you can't take pills, we'll change it;
Take, we'll say,
A powder grey,
All the same to us which way;
Each will do;
But, sir, you
Must perspire whate'er you do.
(Sudorific comes from sudo!)
Very odd, sir, how our wills
Interfere with taking pills!
I've a patient, sir, a lady
Whom I've told you of already,
She'll take potions,
She'll take lotions,
She'll take drugs, and draughts by oceans;
She'll take rhubarb, senna, rue;
She'll take powders grey and blue,
Tinctures, mixtures, linctures, squills,
But, sir, she will not take pills!
Now the throat, sir, how's the throat?”
PATIENT.
“Why, I can't produce a note!
I can't sound one word, I think, whole,
304
And they gobble,
Just like soapsuds down a sink-hole,
Or I whisper like the breeze,
Softly sighing through the trees!”
DOCTOR.
“Well, sir—well, sir—never mind, sir,
We'll put all to rights you'll find, sir,
Make no speeches,
Get some leeches;
You'll find twenty
Will be plenty,
Clap them on, and let them lie
On the pomum Adami;
Let them well the trachea drain,
And your larynx,
And your pharynx—
Please put out your tongue again!
Now the blister!
Ay, the blister!
Let your son, or else his sister,
Warm it well, then clap it here, sir,
All across from ear to ear, sir;
That suffices,
When it rises,
305
Rub a little oil of Croton:
Never mind a little pain!
Please put out your tongue again!
“Now, sir, I must down your maw stick
This small sponge of lunar caustic,
Never mind, sir,
You'll not find, sir,
I the sponge shall leave behind, sir,
Or the probang make you sick, sir,
I shall draw it back so quick, sir;
This I call my prime elixir!
How, sir! choking?
Pooh! you're joking—
Bless me! this is quite provoking!
What can make you, sir, so wheezy?
Stay, sir!—gently!—take it easy!
There, sir, that will do to-day.
Sir, I think that we may say
We are better, doctor, eh?
Don't you think so, Doctor Blane?
Please put out your tongue again!
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,
And since you the pills decline,
Draught and powder grey at nine.
306
I've a lady 'cross the way,
I must see without delay!”
[Exeunt Doctors.]
THE END.
| The Ingoldsby Lyrics | |