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1

ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, THE AERONAUT.

“Up with me!—up with me into the sky!” Wordsworth —on a Lark

1

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
Their meaner flights pursue,
Let us cast off the foolish ties
That bind us to the earth, and rise
And take a bird's-eye view!—
2

2

A few more whiffs of my segar
And then, in Fancy's airy car,
Have with thee for the skies:—
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd
Hath borne me from this little world,
And all that in it lies!—

3

Away!—away!—the bubble fills—
Farewell to earth and all its hills!—
We seem to cut the wind!—
So high we mount, so swift we go,
The chimney tops are far below,
The Eagle's left behind!—

4

Ah me! my brain begins to swim!—
The world is growing rather dim;
The steeples and the trees—
My wife is getting very small!
I cannot see my babe at all!—
The Dollond, if you please!—
3

5

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz,
Lord! what a Lilliput it is.
That little world of Mogg's!—
Are those the London Docks?—that channel,
The mighty Thames?—a proper kennel
For that small Isle of Dogs!—

6

What is that seeming tea-urn there?
That fairy dome, St. Paul's!—I swear,
Wren must have been a Wren!—
And that small stripe?—it cannot be
The City Road!—Good lack! to see
The little ways of men!

7

Little, indeed!—my eyeballs ache
To find a turnpike.—I must take
Their tolls upon my trust!—
And where is mortal labour gone?
Look, Graham, for a little stone
Mac Adamiz'd to dust!
4

8

Look at the horses!—less than flies!—
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
To wish to be a Mayor!
What is the honour?—none at all,
One's honour must be very small
For such a civic chair!—

9

And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof—
Methinks, I fancy through the roof
Its little guardian Gogs,
Like penny dolls—a tiny show!—
Well,—I must say they're rul'd below
By very little logs!—

10

Oh! Graham, how the upper air
Alters the standards of compare;
One of our silken flags
Would cover London all about—
Nay, then—let's even empty out
Another brace of bags!
5

11

Now for a glass of bright champagne
Above the clouds!—Come, let us drain
A bumper as we go!—
But hold!—for God's sake do not cant
The cork away—unless you want
To brain your friends below.

12

Think! what a mob of little men
Are crawling just within our ken,
Like mites upon a cheese!—
Pshaw!—how the foolish sight rebukes
Ambitious thoughts!—can there be Dukes
Of Gloster such as these!—

13

Oh! what is glory?—what is fame?
Hark to the little mob's acclaim,
'Tis nothing but a hum!—
A few near gnats would trump as loud
As all the shouting of a crowd
That has so far to come!—
6

14

Well—they are wise that choose, the near,
A few small buzzards in the ear,
To organs ages hence!—
Ah me, how distance touches all;
It makes the true look rather small,
But murders poor pretence.

15

“The world recedes!—it disappears!
Heav'n open on my eyes—my ears
With buzzing noises ring!”—
A fig for Southey's Laureat lore!—
What's Rogers here?—Who cares for Moore
That hears the Angels sing!—

16

A fig for earth, and all its minions!—
We are above the world's opinions,
Graham! we'll have our own!—
Look what a vantage height we've got!—
Now—do you think Sir Walter Scott
Is such a Great Unknown?
7

17

Speak up!—or hath he hid his name
To crawl thro' “subways” unto fame,
Like Williams of Cornhill?—
Speak up, my lad!—when men run small
We'll show what's little in them all,
Receive it how they will!—

18

Think now of Irving!—shall he preach
The princes down,—shall he impeach
The potent and the rich,
Merely on ethic stilts,—and I
Not moralize at two miles high
The true didactic pitch!

19

Come:—what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir?
Is Gifford such a Gulliver
In Lilliput's Review,
That like Colossus he should stride
Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through?
8

20

Look down! the world is but a spot.
Now say—Is Blackwood's low or not,
For all the Scottish tone?
It shall not weigh us here—not where
The sandy burden's lost in air—
Our lading—where is't flown?

21

Now,—like you Croly's verse indeed—
In heaven—where one cannot read
The “Warren” on a wall?
What think you here of that man's fame?
Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,
To me 'tis very small!

22

And, truly, is there such a spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!
9

23

And shall not we? Let's think aloud!
Thus being couch'd upon a cloud,
Graham, we'll have our eyes!
We felt the great when we were less,
But we'll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.

24

O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,—the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite,—
The little sores I cover'd then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!

25

My name is Tims.—I am the man
That North's unseen diminish'd clan
So scurvily abused!
I am the very P. A. Z.
The London's Lion's small pin's head
So often hath refused!
10

26

Campbell—(you cannot see him here)—
Hath scorn'd my lays:—do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky?—
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by!

27

What else?—I'm poor, and much beset
With damn'd small duns—that is—in debt
Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth.—
What's all the credit of the earth?
An inch of cloth on trust!

28

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!
Nay, worlds of wealth?—Oh, if you can
Spy out,—the Golden Ball!
Sure as we rose, all money sank:
What's gold or silver now?—the Bank
Is gone—the 'Change and all!
11

29

What's all the ground-rent of the globe?—
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate!
But after this survey, I think
I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men of large estate!

30

And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres' worth of wit—
I that have heaven's span—
I that like Shakspeare's self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
An Universal Man!

31

Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!
Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind!
But what is grander than their range?
More lovely than their sun-set change?—
The free creative mind!
12

32

Well! the Adults' School's in the air!
The greatest men are lesson'd there
As well as the Lessee!
Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
How humbled they would be!

33

“Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em,
“To see themselves as others see 'em,”
'Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the skies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!

34

Of us! are we gone out of sight?
Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite!
Lost to the tiny town!
Beyond the Eagle's ken—the grope
Of Dolland's longest telescope!
Graham! we're going down!
13

35

Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes
The airy valve!—the gas elopes—
Down goes our bright Balloon!—
Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell
The lower world! Graham, farewell,
Man of the silken moon!

36

The earth is close! the City nears—
Like a burnt paper it appears,
Studded with tiny sparks!
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about—
We're close above the Parks!

37

I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord! what a cruel jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well—there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last segar!
15

ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.

“Let us take to the road!”—Beggar's Opera.

1

M`Adam, hail!
Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand
Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!
Oh universal Leveller! all hail!
To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,
The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going,—
To thee,—how much for thy commodious plan,
Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!
The Bristol mail
Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible,
16

When carrying Patriots now shall never fail
Those of the most “unshaken public principle
Hail to thee, Scot of Scots!
Thou northern light, amid those heavy men
Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside,
Thou scatter'st flints and favours far and wide,
From palaces to cots;—
Dispenser of coagulated good!
Distributor of granite and of food!
Long may thy fame its even path march on
E'en when thy sons are dead!
Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone
To those who ask for bread!

2

Thy first great trial in this mighty town
Was, if I rightly recollect, upon
That gentle hill which goeth
Down from “the County” to the Palace gate,
And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth
Past the Old Horticultural Society,—
17

The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James,
Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—
A little Hell of lace!
And past the Athenæum, made of late,
Severs a sweet variety
Of milliners and booksellers who grace
Waterloo Place,
Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,
'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's.
Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road
From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode
So well, that paviours threw their rammers by,
Let down their tuck'd shirt sleeves, and with a sigh
Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!

3

Next, from the palace to the prison, thou
Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,—
Preventing though the rattling in the street,
Yet kicking up a row,
18

Upon the stones—ah! truly watchman-like,
Encouraging thy victims all to strike,
To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;—
Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!
And to the stony bowers
Of Newgate, to encourage the approach,
By caravan or coach,—
Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers.

4

Who shall dispute thy name!
Insculpt in stone in every street,
We soon shall greet
Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame!
Where'er we take, even at this time, our way,
Nought see we, but mankind in open air,
Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare;—
And with a patient care,
Chipping thy immortality all day!
Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,—
Prophetically, follow'd, Mac! thy plan:—
19

For he, we know,
(History says so,)
Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak
The smoothest Greek!

5

It is “impossible, and cannot be,”
But that thy genius hath,
Besides the turnpike, many another path
Trod, to arrive at popularity.
O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh,
Nor ridden a roadster only; mighty Mac!
And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack,
Thou hast observ'd the highways in the sky!
Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,
And “hard to climb,” as Dr. B. would say?
Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep
The noiseless tenor of their way? (see Gray.)
What line of road should poets take to bring
Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!—
Those waters which can wet a man to sing!
Which, like thy fame, “from granite basins burst,
“Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?’
20

6

—That thou'rt a proser, even thy birth-place might
Vouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadell may, God wot,
Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,—
Cadell's a wayward wight!
Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot,
And I can throw, I think, a little light
Upon some works thou hast written for the town,—
And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown!
“Highways and Byeways,” is thy book, no doubt,
(One whole edition's out,)
And next, for it is fair
That Fame,
Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;—
“Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair,”—
(Blair is a Scottish name,)
What are they, but thy own good roads, M`Adam?

7

O! indefatigable labourer
In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill be
A mark of thy surpassing industry,
21

That of the monument, which men shall rear
Over thy most inestimable bone,
Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!—
Of a right ancient line thou comest,—through
Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue,
Until we see thy sire before our eyes,—
Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise!
But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er
Have our walks since been fair!
Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change,
For ever varying, through his varying range,
Time maketh all things even!
In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven!
He hath redeem'd the Adams, and contriv'd,—
(How are Time's wonders hiv'd!)
In pity to mankind, and to befriend 'em,—
(Time is above all praise,)
That he, who first did make our evil ways,
Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em!
23

A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE.

“Sermons in stones.”—As you like it.

“Out! out! damned spot!”—Macbeth.

1

I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charity's great flame—
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity,—professing
Love, and good works—of course you buy of Barton,
Beside the young fry's bookseller, Friend Darton!
24

2

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute—
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport—
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit
Shap'd like a court dress—but for heaven's court.
I like your sisters too,—sweet Rachel's fruit—
Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support
Of virtue—and I like to see them clad
With such a difference—just like good from bad!

3

I like the sober colours—not the wet;
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow—
Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet—
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go—
The others are a chaste, severer set,
In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go—
They're moral standards, to know Christians by—
In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry!
25

4

As for the naughty tinges of the prism—
Crimson's the cruel uniform of war—
Blue—hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;
And green is young and gay—not noted for
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism,
Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or
Olive—and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!

5

They're all the devil's liveries, that men
And women wear in servitude to sin—
But how will they come off, poor motleys, when
Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then
How all the party colours will begin
To part—the Pittite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair!
26

6

Witness their goodly labours one by one!
Russet makes garments for the needy poor—
Dove-colour preaches love to all-and dun
Calls every day at Charity's street-door—
Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun
All gaudy furnishing—olive doth pour
Oil into wounds: and drab and slate supply
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

7

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour!
When all persuasions in your praises blend—
The Methodist's creed and cry are, Fry for ever!
No—I will be your friend—and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect—Nay, never
Start at that word! But I must ask you why
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
27

8

Too well I know the price our mother Eve
Paid for her schooling: but must all her daughters
Commit a petty larceny, and thieve—
Pay down a crime for “entrance” to your “quarters?”
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve
Over your pupils at their bread and waters!
Oh, tho' it cost you rent—(and rooms run high)
Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

9

O save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd!
Set up your mounted sign without the gate—
And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd!
'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labours foil'd,
Take it inclining tow'rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat—else, woman meek!
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek!
28

10

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,—
To bring sobriety to life again,
Chok'd with the vile Anacreontic raisin,—
To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,—
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her;
To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

11

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw—
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners—to write heaven's own law
On hearts of granite.—Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memory's—to draw
The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!
29

12

In vain you teach them baby-work within:
'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin—
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time—
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You'll fret the fabric out before the stains!

13

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry!
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play;
I like the pity in your full-brimm'd eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken grey,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.
30

14

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O, come abroad into the wholesome air,
And take your moral place, before Sin seats
Her wicked self in the Professor's chair.
Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's
To dress them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!

15

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!
Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools
In jail—but at the Porch! hinting, no doubt,
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules
Before 'twas whipt by law.—O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools
All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street,
But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat!
31

16

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other colour;
Teach her it is not virtue's crown to rue,
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;
Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.

17

O come and teach our children—that ar'n't ours—
That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours
Children, like Time—or rather they both prey
On youth together—meanwhile Newgate low'rs
Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day,
To shut them out from any more blue sky:
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!
32

18

You are not nice—go into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will.—'Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats;
That they had hats with brims,—that they were drest
In garbs without lappels—than shame the streets
With so much raggedness.—You may invest
Much cash this way—but it will cost its price,
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice!

19

In brief,—Oh teach the child its moral rote,
Not in the way from which 'twill not depart,—
But out—out—out! Oh, bid it walk remote!
And if the skies are clos'd against the smart,
Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart.—
Do what you will, his evey want supply,
Keep him—but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
33

ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE, M.P. FOR GALWAY.

“Martin, in this, has proved himself a very good Man!”—Boxiana.

1

How many sing of wars,
Of Greek and Trojan jars—
The butcheries of men!
The Muse hath a “Perpetual Ruby Pen!”
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill;
But no one sings the man
That, like a pelican,
Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill!
34

2

Thou Wilberforce of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Pyebald and dapple gray,
Chesnut and bay—
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns!
But oxen, from the fens,
Sheep—in their pens,
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!
Thou art sung on brutal pipes!
Drovers may curse thee,
Knackers asperse thee,
And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee,
And zebras praise thee,
Asses, I mean—that have as many stripes!

3

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear,
In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,—
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air!
35

Bullocks don't wear
Oxide of iron!
The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft,
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo,
That thought his horse the courser of the two—
Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!—
O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit
Bodies of birds—(if so the spirit shifts
From flesh to feather)—when the clown uplifts
His hands against the sparrow's nest, to grab it,—
He shall not harm the Martins and the Swifts!

4

Ah! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanc'd
The horse!—and humbled biped man like Plato!
But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd—
Gone backward in the world—and not advanc'd,—
Remember Cato!
Swift was the horse's champion—not the King's,
Whom Southey sings,
Mounted on Pegasus—would he were thrown!
He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone,
36

Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things!
Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use
Their steeds so cruelly!—let it debar men
From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse—
Look at the ancients' Muse!
Look at their Carmen!

5

O, Martin! how thine eye—
That one would think had put aside its lashes,—
That can't bear gashes
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy
That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,—
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual,
Or some man painted in a bloody vein—
Gods! is there no Horse-spital!
That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle
Loves thee but little,
To let that poor horse linger in his pane!
37

6

O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses!
O wipe away the national reproach—
And find a decent Vulture for their corses!
And in thy funeral track
Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach!
Steeds that confess “the luxury of wo!”
True mourning steeds, in no extempore black,
And many a wretched hack
Shall sorrow for thee,—sore with kick and blow
And bloody gash—it is the Indian knack—
(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)—
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf—
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter,
And Man and Horse go half and half,
As if their griefs met in a common Centaur!
39

ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

“O breathe not his name!”—Moore.

1

Thou Great Unknown!
I do not mean Eternity, nor Death,
That vast incog!
For I suppose thou hast a living breath,
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!
Parent of many children—child of none!
Nobody's son!
40

Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,—left to the world to hatch.
Superlative Nil!
A vox and nothing more,—yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl!
Not the Invisible Girl!
No hand—but a hand-writing on a wall—
A popular nonentity,
Still call'd the same,—without identity!
A lark, heard out of sight,—
A nothing shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,
“Dark with excess of light!”
Constable's literary John-a-nokes—
The real Scottish wizard—and not which,
Nobody—in a niche;
Every one's hoax!
Maybe Sir Walter Scott—
Perhaps not!
Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?
41

2

Thou,—whom the second-sighted never saw,
The Master Fiction of fictitious history!
Chief Nong tong paw!
No mister in the world—and yet all mystery!
The “tricksy spirit” of a Scotch Cock Lane—
A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain—
A man of Magic—yet no talisman!
A man of clair obscure—not he o' the moon!
A star—at noon.
A non-descriptus in a caravan,
A private—of no corps—a northern light
In a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—
A figure—but no shape;
A vizor—and no knight;
The real abstract hero of the age,
The staple Stranger of the stage;
A Some One made in every man's presumption,
Frankenstein's monster—but instinct with gumption;
Another strange state captive in the north,
42

Constable-guarded in an iron mask—
Still let me ask,
Hast thou no silver platter,
No door-plate, or no card—or some such matter,
To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?

3

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger
Of Curiosity with airy gammon!
Thou mystery-monger,
Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon,
That people buy and can't make head or tail of it;
(Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;)
Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical,
That lay their proper bodies on the shelf—
Keeping thyself so truly to thyself,
Thou Zimmerman made practical!
Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style,
That, like the Nile,
Hideth its source wherever it is bred,
But still keeps disemboguing
(Not disembroguing)
43

Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head!
Thou disembodied author—not yet dead,—
The whole world's literary Absentee!
Ah! wherefore hast thou fled,
Thou learned Nemo—wise to a degree,
Anonymous L. L. D.!

4

Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang
That do—and inquests cannot say who did it!
Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang?
Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch—or hid it?
Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it?
I should be very loth to see thee hang!
I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd,
An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand.
Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on
The curiosity of all invaders—
I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton,
Who knows a little of the Holy Land,
Writing thy next new novel—The Crusaders!
44

5

Perhaps thou wert even born
To be Unknown.—Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,
At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,
Pinn'd to a ticket
That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing
The future great unmentionable being.—
Perhaps thou hast ridden
A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back,
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack
Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;
A little hoard of clever simulation,
That took the town—and Constable has bidden
Some hundred pounds for a continuation—
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

6

I liked thy Waverly—first of thy breeding;
I like its modest “sixty years ago,”
As if it was not meant for ages' reading.
I don't like Ivanhoe,
Tho' Dymoke does—it makes him think of clattering
45

In iron overalls before the king,
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering,
Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ring—
Oh better far than all that anvil clang
It was to hear thee touch the famous string
Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang,
Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,
Like Sagittarian Pan!

7

I like Guy Mannering—but not that sham son
Of Brown.—I like that literary Sampson,
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.
I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson
That slew the Guager;
And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major;
And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender,
That Scottish Witch of Endor,
That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it,
To tell a great man's fortune—or to make it!

8

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,
He makes me think of Mr. Britton,
46

Who has—or had—within his garden wall,
A miniature Stone Henge, so very small
The sparrows find it difficult to sit on;
And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor;
And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar,
Painted so cleverly,
I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!
I like thy Barber—him that fir'd the Beacon—
But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

9

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.—His very charms
Fashion'd him for renown!—In sad sincerity,
The man that robs or writes must have long arms,
If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!
Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity,
Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
Bearing the name she bore,
A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy!
But Roys can never die—why else, in verity,
Is Paris echoing with “Vive le Roy!”
47

Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di
Vernon, of course, shall often live again—
Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain,
Who can pass by
Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?
There be Old Bailey Jarvys on the stand!

10

I like thy Landlord's Tales!—I like that Idol
Of love and Lammermoor—the blue-eyed maid
That led to church the mounted cavalcade,
And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal!
Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches—
I like the family (not silver) branches
That hold the tapers
To light the serious legend of Montrose.—
I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours,
As if he could not walk or talk alone,
Without the devil—or the Great Unknown,—
Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

11

I like St. Leonard's Lily—drench'd with dew!
I like thy Vision of the Covenanters,
48

That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew.
I like the battle lost and won;
The hurly burly's bravely done,
The warlike gallops and the warlike canters!
I like that girded chieftain of the ranters,
Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple,
With one eye on his sword,
And one upon the Word,—
How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel!
I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple
His raven steed with blood of many a corse—
I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels
Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse—
She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!

12

I like thy Kenilworth—but I'm not going
To take a Retrospective Re-Review
Of all thy dainty novels—merely showing
The old familiar faces of a few,
The question to renew,
How thou canst leave such deeds without a name,
Forego the unclaim'd dividends of fame,
49

Forego the smiles of literary houris—
Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise,
And all the Carse of Gowrie's,
When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty—
Or see thy image on Italian trays,
Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté,
Be painted by the Titian of R. A.'s,
Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Guelph!
P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,
Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself
To other Englands with Australian roamers—
Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee
Displace the native wooden gods, or be
The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!

13

It is not modesty that bids thee hide—
She never wastes her blushes out of sight:
It is not to invite
The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,—
And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide,
50

Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd,—
From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars
In crimson collars,
And learned serjeants in the Forty-Second!
Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd?
Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth,
Defying distance and its dim control;
Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth
A brace of Miltons for capacious soul—
Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north,
And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole!

14

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp,
With such a giant genius at command,
For ever at thy stamp,
To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land,
When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand
Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter,
Tho' princes sought her,
And lead her in procession hymeneal,
Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal!
51

Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf,
Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs?
Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf,
Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft,
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd,
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?

15

What in this masquing age
Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy?
What but the critic's page?
One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye;
Another hath a wen,—he won't show where;
A third has sandy hair,
A hunch upon his back, or legs awry,
Things for a vile reviewer to espy!
Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose,—
Finally, this is dimpled,
Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled,
Things for a monthly critic to expose—
Nay, what is thy own case—that being small,
Thou choosest to be nobody at all!
52

16

Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones—
E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf,
That shadowy revelation of thyself—
To build thee a small hut of haunted stones—
For certainly the first pernicious man
That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee
In some vile literary caravan—
Shown for a shilling
Would be thy killing,
Think of Crachami's miserable span!
No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in
Than there it fell in—
But when she felt herself a show, she tried
To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!

17

O since it was thy fortune to be born
A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch
From all the Gog-like jostle of great men,
Still with thy small crow pen
53

Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn—
Still Scottish story daintily adorn,
Be still a shade—and when this age is fled,
When we poor sons and daughters of reality
Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead,
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality—
The lithographic hand of Old Mortality
Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone,
A featureless death's head,
And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!
55

ADDRESS. TO MR. DYMOKE, THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.

“— Arma Virumque cano!” Virgil.

1

Mr. Dymoke! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold—
(I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)
Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?—
Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung down?

2

Are you—who that day rode so mail'd and admir'd,
Now sitting at ease in a library chair?
Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hir'd,
With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?
56

3

What's become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker? say!
Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!
Oh! three golden balls haven't lur'd you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?

4

How defunct is the show that was chivalry's mimic!
The breast-plate—the feathers—the gallantarray!
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!
The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!

5

Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,
And a cow, and a pig, and a barn-door, and all;—
You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty,—tho' absent from Westminster Hall!
57

6

And of course you turn every accoutrement now
To its separate use, that your wants may be well met;—
You toss in your breast-plate your pancakes, and grow
A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.

7

And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright
Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;—
And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,
Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!

8

How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,
With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutch'd,
And chat of the blood that had delug'd the Pleas,
And drench'd the King's Bench,—if the glove had been touch'd!
58

9

If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions,
Had snatch'd your “best doe,”—he'd have flooded the floor;—
Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions,
“Life Preservers,” have floated him out of his gore!

10

Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there!
The man and his backer,—to win a great fight!
Though the trumpet was loud,—you'd an undisturb'd air!
And the nag snuff'd the feast and the fray sans affright!

11

Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore
When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;—
For though his departure was at the front door,
Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.
59

12

He went,—and 'twould puzzle historians to say,
When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mail,—
Whether caution or courage inspir'd him that day,
For, though he retreated, he never turn'd tail.

13

By my life, he's a wonderful charger!—The best!
Though not for a Parthian corps!—yet for you!—
Distinguish'd alike at a fray and a feast,
What a Horse for a grand Retrospective Review!

14

What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool
When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof!—
What a tail-piece for Bewick!—or pyebald for Poole,
To bear him in safety from Elliston's hoof!
60

15

Well; hail to Old Cato! the hero of scenes!
May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge;—
Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,
Well “pent up in Utica” over the Bridge!

16

And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep
Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!
And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep,
May you lie “like a warrior taking his rest!”
61

ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.

“This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit.” Twelfth Night.

1

Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannell'd ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife—
“Retir'd—(for Young would call it so)—
The world shut out”—in Pleasant Row!
62

2

And hast thou really wash'd at last
From each white cheek the red half moon!
And all thy public Clownship cast,
To play the private Pantaloon?
All youth—all ages—yet to be
Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

3

Thou didst not preach to make us wise—
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling—
Thou didst not “lure us to the skies”—
Thy simple, simple trade was—Fooling!
And yet, Heav'n knows! we could—we can
Much “better spare a better man!”

4

Oh, had it pleas'd the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,
Or Southey, for our quiet's sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage,
Or, damme! namby pamby Poole,—
Or any other clown or fool!
63

5

Go, Dibdin—all that bear the name,
Go Byeway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy—man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

6

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made
His grey hairs scarce in private peace—
Had Waithman sought a rural shade—
Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease—
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill—
I think I could be cheerful still!

7

Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead lion kicking, like—a friend!—
Had long, long Irving gone his ways,
To muse on death at Ponder's End—
Or Lady Morgan taken leave
Of Letters—still I might not grieve!
64

8

But, Joseph—every body's Jo!—
Is gone—and grieve I will and must!
As Hamlet did for Yorick, so
Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,)
And talk as he did when he miss'd
The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!

9

Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said,)
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies—
Enormous hunger—monstrous drowth!
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!

10

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd!—
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!—
Thy partridge body, always stuff'd
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!—
Thy foot—like Berkeley's Foote—for why?
'Twas often made to wipe an eye!
65

11

Ah, where thy legs—that witty pair!
For “great wits jump”—and so did they!
Lord! how they leap'd in lamp-light air!
Caper'd—and bounc'd—and strode away!—
That years should tame the legs—alack!
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!

12

But bounds will have their bound—the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisk'd in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose—
One only—(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter,—Spring!

13

And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit—but I did not mean
To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad,—Thy going seem'd to beat
A muffled drum for Fun's retreat!
66

14

And, may be—'tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone—thou, Joseph, one—the other
A Joe!—“sic transit gloria Munden!”
A third departure some insist on,—
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—

15

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient “Dozey” to the dregs—
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs!
Let Farley weep—for Magic's man
Is gone,—his Christmas Caliban!

16

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' they walk'd behind thy bier,—
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters,—if in heav'n or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!—
There's Quick, might just as well be dead!
67

17

Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamp-light of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best,—
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm?

18

For who like thee could ever stride
Some dozen paces to the mile!—
The motley, medley coach provide—
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable man complete!—
A proper Covent Garden feat!

19

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat,—swill, swallow—bolt—and choke!
Nod, weep, and hiccup—sneeze and wink?—
Thy very yawn was quite a joke!
Tho' Joseph Junior acts not ill,
“There's no Fool like the old Fool” still!
68

20

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!
We met with mirth,—we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go,
Ere Fun can see thy like again—
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns—that are not Boors!
 

One of the old actors:—still a performer (but in private) of Old Rapid.

69

ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE, EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

“Dost thou not suspect my years?” Much Ado About Nothing.

1

Oh! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch
A sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.

2

Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!
And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o'er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
70

3

Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die;—
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!

4

How sweet!—as Byron of his infant said,—
“Knowledge of objects” in thine eye to trace;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!

5

How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch!
To meet thy Criticism walking home,
Averse from rows, and never calling “Watch!”

6

Rich is thy page in soporific things,—
Composing compositions,—lulling men,—
Faded old posies of unburied rings,—
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:—
71

7

Lives of Right Reverends that have never liv'd—
Deaths of good people that have really died,—
Parishioners,—hatch'd,—husbanded,—and wiv'd,
Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!

8

The sacred query,—the remote response,—
The march of serious minds, extremely slow,—
The graver's cut at some right aged sconce,
Famous for nothing many years ago!

9

B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write
“Comus,” obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;—
And C., next month, an answer doth indite,
Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!

10

X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,
Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;—
And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,
Long dead, that gather'd honey for King John.
72

11

There is no end of thee,—there is no end,
Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.

12

Go on, Sylvanus!—Bear a wary eye,
The churches cannot yet be quite run out!
Some parishes must yet have been pass'd by,—
There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!

13

Go on—and close the eyes of distant ages!
Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!
So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and lively, though but seldom red.

14

Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!
Bottling up dullness in an ancient binn!
Still live! still prose! continue still to tell us
Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in!
73

AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.

“ Archer
How many are there, Scrub?

Scrub
Five and forty, Sir.”—

Beaux Stratagem.

“For shame—let the linen alone!”— M. W. of Windsor.

Mr. Scrub—Mr. Slop—or whoever you be!
The Cock of Steam Laundries,—the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers,—Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime—
Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety—
That make washing public—and wash in society—
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below,—
74

From your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hot,—
That soft “simmer's sang” so endear'd to the Scot—
If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger—
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub,—
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub,—
And lend me your ear,—Let me modestly plead
For a race that your labours may soon supersede—
For a race that, now washing no living affords—
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease,
Not with bread in the funds—or investments of cheese,—
But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream,
Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam.
75

Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge—
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,
And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey,
As if she was washing the night into day—
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dew-drops before her;
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,
Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more pearly—
Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;
Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty;
She's Industry's moral—she's all moral beauty!
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub—
Would any man ruin her?—No, Mr. Scrub!
No man that is manly would work her mishap—
No man that is manly would covet her cap—
76

Nor her apron—her hose—nor her gown made of stuff—
Nor her gin—nor her tea—nor her wet pinch of snuff!
Alas! so she thought—but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her—as tho' she had trod on her soap!
And she,—whose support,—like the fishes that fly,
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky—
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare,
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear,
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop—
Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop—
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!
Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands,
Instead of a counterpane wringing her hands!
77

All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale,
With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale!
No smoke from her flue—and no steam from her pane,
There once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain—
Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd,
Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post!
Ah, where are the playful young pinners—ah, where
The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air—
The brisk waltzing stockings—the white and the black,
That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack—
The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd,
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!
There was white on the grass—there was white on the spray—
Her garden—it look'd like a garden of May!
But now all is dark—not a shirt's on a shrub—
You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrubb!
78

You've ruin'd her custom—now families drop her—
From her silver reduc'd—nay, reduc'd from her copper!
The last of her washing is done at her eye,
One poor little kerchief that never gets dry!
From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth,
And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,—
But her children come round her as victuals grow scant,
And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want—
When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed,
And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead,
And even its pearlashes laid in the grave—
Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave,
And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub
Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub,—
Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub!
Need you wonder, when steam has depriv'd her of bread,
If she prays that the evil may visit your head—
79

Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee,—
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city—
In short, not to mention all plagues without number,
If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber!
Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair,
When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare—
When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl,
And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul—
When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye
Had caught “the Cock Laundresses' Coach” going by,
Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather,
And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together,
In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose,
Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose,
80

On her sheet—if a sheet were still left her—to write,
Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light—
 

Geisers:—the boiling springs in Iceland.

LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.

It's a shame, so it is,—men can't Let alone
Jobs as is Woman's right to do—and go about there Own—
Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools
For washing to sit Up,—and push the Old Tubs from their stools!
But your just like the Raddicals,—for upsetting of the Sudds
When the world wagged well enuff—and Wommen washed your old dirty duds,
81

I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steem Indians, that's Flat,—
But I warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all that—
I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle
I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little,
And they Said it went with Steem,—But that was a joke!
For I never see none come of it,—that's out of it—but only sum Smoak—
And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two
In my time to draw you About to Fairs—and hang you, you know that's true!
And for All your fine Perspectuses,—howsomever you bewhich 'em,
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum,
82

Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do—
It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birdshigh view!
But Thats your look out—I've not much to do with that—But pleas God to hold up fine,
Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place,
And Thats more than you Can—and Ill say it behind your face—
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you to Speak,—
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak!
Thinks I, when I heard it—Well there's a pretty go!
That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so!
83

Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault,
But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel—and That ant your Fault,
Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd,—
For if it warnt for Washing,—and whare Bills is concarned
What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication,
And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any Cityation.
Well, what I says is This—when every Kittle has its spout,
Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about!
To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind
For blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind
84

Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water,
Thof a X Sherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter,
As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls,
Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls,—
But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs
As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs,
For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple's grubs!
Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea,
But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He!
They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!)
And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods,
When you and your Steem has ruined (G—d for-give mee) their lively Hoods,
85

Poor Wommen aswas born to Washing in their youth!
And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth!
But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at—
They won't do for Angell's—nor any Trade like That,
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that's all Bespoke,—
For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk
Do their own of Themselves—even the bettermost of em—aye, and evn them of middling degrees—
Why Lauk help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese!
Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust,
But we must all go and be Bankers,—like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamberses,—and that's what we must!
86

God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects,
When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks,
And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing—
You ant, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing
In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers
And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by your next door naybours—
Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up
No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp,
And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round
They'll scruntch your Bones some day—I'll be bound
And no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to good
To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should,
87

For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation,
Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the Creation—
And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation
Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs
And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs—
But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks,
Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs—
And let your neighbours oxin an Asses alone,—
And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone!
Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,
And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,
88

But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe
And pull off Your Pattins,—and leave the washing to we
That nose what's what—Or mark what I say,
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day—
When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all,
And Cris mass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare
Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm-Chare—
Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew
With a vast more like That,—and all along of Steem
Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam—
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good,
And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud,
89

For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways
Without taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays
You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways—that's what you might,
Or bete Carpets—or get into Parleamint,—or drive Crabrolays from morning to night,
Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste!
(Which is an od way of sleping, I must say,—and a very hard pillow at most,)
Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares,
Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe people up and down Hungerford stares,
Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt!
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!
Yourn with Anymocity, Bridget Jones.
91

ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY.

“By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!” Love's Labour's Lost.

1

Parry, my man! has thy brave leg
Yet struck its foot against the peg
On which the world is spun?
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare
Writ by the hand of Nature there
Where man has never run!

2

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown
Of channels in the Frozen Zone,
Or held at Icy Bay,
92

Hast thou still miss'd the proper track
For homeward Indian men that lack
A bracing by the way?

3

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble
On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble
Of geographic scholar?
Or found new ways for ships to shape,
Instead of winding round the Cape,
A short cut thro' the collar!

4

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to
The Pole—tho' God knows whom they went to!
That track reveal'd to Pope—
Or if the Arctic waters sally,
Or terminate in some blind alley,
A chilly path to grope?
93

5

Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows,
Has painted them couleur de rose,
It is a dismal doom,
As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice,
“In regions of thick-ribbed ice”—
All bright,—and yet all gloom!

6

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit
Before the fire and worship it
With pecks of Wallsend coals,
With feet upon the fender's front,
Roasting their corns—like Mr. Hunt—
To speculate on poles.

7

'Tis easy for our Naval Board—
'Tis easy for our Civic Lord
Of London and of ease,
That lies in ninety feet of down,
With fur on his nocturnal gown,
To talk of Frozen Seas!
94

8

'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit,
And prate about the mundane spit,
And babble of Cook's track—
He'd roast the leather off his toes,
Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows,
To plant a British Jack!

9

Oh, not the proud licentious great,
That travel on a carpet skate,
Can value toils like thine!
What 'tis to take a Hecla range,
Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange,
And alpine lumps of brine!

10

But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme,
Can tell how hard it is to climb
The lofty slippery steep.
Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat,
Upon its forehead keep,
95

11

Perchance thou'rt now—while I am writing—
Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting
About thy frozen spine!
Or thou thyself art eating whale,
Oily, and underdone, and stale,
That, haply, cross'd thy line!

12

But I'll not dream such dreams of ill—
Rather will I believe thee still
Safe cellar'd in the snow,—
Reciting many a gallant story,
Of British kings and British glory,
To crony Esquimaux—

13

Cheering that dismal game where Night
Makes one slow move from black to white
Thro' all the tedious year,—
Or smitten by some fond frost fair,
That comb'd out crystals from her hair,
Wooing a seal-skin Dear!
96

14

So much a long communion tends,
As Byron says, to make us friends
With what we daily view—
God knows the daintiest taste may come
To love a nose that's like a plum
In marble, cold and blue!

15

To dote on hair, an oily fleece!
As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece—
They say that love prevails
Ev'n in the veriest polar land—
And surely she may steal thy hand
That used to steal thy nails!

16

But ah, ere thou art fixt to marry,
And take a polar Mrs. Parry,
Think of a six months' gloom—
Think of the wintry waste, and hers,
Each furnish'd with a dozen furs,
Think of thine icy dome!
97

17

Think of the children born to blubber!
Ah me! hast thou an Indian rubber
Inside!—to hold a meal
For months,—about a stone and half
Of whale, and part of a sea calf—
A fillet of salt veal!—

18

Some walrus ham—no trifle but
A decent steak—a solid cut
Of seal—no wafer slice!
A rein-deer's tongue and drink beside!
Gallons of Sperm—not rectified!
And pails of water-ice!

19

Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus?
Still come away, and teach to us
Those blessed alternations—
To-day to run our dinners fine,
To feed on air and then to dine
With Civic Corporations—
98

20

To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling,
And then to take a half year's filling
In P. N.'s pious Row—
When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son,
Thro' something we have worn our pens on
For Longman and his Co.

21

O come and tell us what the Pole is—
Whether it singular and sole is,—
Or straight, or crooked bent,—
If very thick or very thin,—
Made of what wood—and if akin
To those there be in Kent?

22

There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall,
Have talk'd of poles—yet, after all,
What has the public learn'd?
And Hunt's account must still defer,—
He sought the poll at Westminster—
And is not yet return'd!
99

23

Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul,
Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole,
And how the fur-man deals?
And Eldon doubts if it be true,
That icy Chancellors really do
Exist upon the seals!

24

Barrow, by well-fed office grates,
Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits,
And longs that he were there;
And Croker, in his cabriolet,
Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay,
And pants to cross the mer!

25

O come away, and set us right,
And, haply, throw a northern light
On questions such as these:—
Whether, when this drown'd world was lost,
The surflux waves were lock'd in frost,
And turn'd to Icy Seas!
100

26

Is Ursa Major white or black?
Or do the Polar tribes attack
Their neighbours—and what for?
Whether they ever play at cuffs,
And then, if they take off their muffs
In pugilistic war?

27

Tell us, is Winter champion there,
As in our milder fighting air?
Say, what are Chilly lons?
What cures they have for rheums beside,
And if their hearts get ossified
From eating bread of bones?

28

Whether they are such dwarfs—the quicker
To circulate the vital liquor,—
And then, from head to heel—
How short the Methodists must choose
Their dumpy envoys not to lose
Their toes in spite of zeal?
101

29

Whether 'twill soften or sublime it
To preach of Hell in such a climate—
Whether may Wesley hope
To win their souls—or that old function
Of seals—with the extreme of unction—
Bespeaks them for the Pope?

30

Whether the lamps will e'er be “learned”
Where six months' “midnight oil” is burned,
Or Letters must defer
With people that have never conn'd
An A, B, C, but live beyond
The Sound of Lancaster!

31

O come away at any rate—
Well hast thou earn'd a downier state—
With all thy hardy peers—
Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock,
And rub thy feet with opodeldock,
After such frosty years.
102

32

Mayhap, some gentle dame at last,
Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd,
However coy before,
Shall bid thee now set up thy rest
In that Brest Harbour, Woman's breast,
And tempt the Fates no more!
 

“And waft a sigh from Ind us to the Pole.” Eloisa to Abelard.

Buffon

103

ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE, THE GREAT LESSEE!

Do you know, you villain, that I am at this moment the greatest man living?—Wild Oats.

1

Oh! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan
Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane!
Macready's master! Westminster's high Dane!
(As Galway Martin, in the House's walls,
Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls!)
Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring!
Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring!
Drury's Aladdin! Whipper-in of Actors!
Kicker of rebel-preface-malefactors!
104

Glass-blowers' corrector! King of the cheque-taker!
At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker!
Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and Cakes!
In silken hose the most reform'd of Rakes!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear!
(Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear)
While I, in little slips of prose, not verse,
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!

2

Bright was thy youth—thy manhood brighter still—
The greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill—
Lightest comedian of the pleasant day,
When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play!
When fair Thalia held a merry reign,
And Wit was at her Court in Drury Lane!
Before the day when Authors wrote, of course,
The “Entertainment not for Man but Horse.”
Yet these, though happy, were but subject times,
And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbs—
Far from my wish it is to stifle down
The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown!
105

Tho' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields,
Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields.
Dibdin was Premier—and a golden age
For a short time enrich'd the subject stage.
Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty;
Ours but one Bench could boast, whilst thou hadst twenty;
But the times changed—and Booth-acting no more
Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door.
Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence,
Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!

3

Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat
Practis'd, the most bewitching in Wych Street.
Charles had his royal ribaldry restor'd,
And in a downright neigh bourhood drank and whor'd;
Rochester there in dirty ways again
Revell'd—and liv'd once more in Drury Lane:
But thou, R. W.! kept'st thy moral ways,
Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays,
106

A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys
That soil'd the benches and that made a noise:—
Rebuking,—Half a Robert, Half a Charles,—
The well bill'd Man that call'd, for promis'd Carles;
“Sir!—Have you yet to know! Hush—Hear me out!
A Man—pray silence!—may be down with gout,
Or want—or Sir!—aw!—listen!—may be fated,
Being in debt, to be incarcerated!
You,—in the back!—can scarcely hear a line!
Down from those benches—butchers—they are mine!”

5
[_]

No section numbered 4 appears in this poem.

Lastly—and thou wert built for it by nature!—
Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Theatre!
Gentle George Robins saw that it was good,
And Renters cluck'd around thee in a brood.
King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean!
Of many a lady and of many a Quean!
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun—
But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
107

Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt,
And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out!

6

Oh, worthy of the house! the King's commission!
Isn't thy condition “a most bless'd condition?”
Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all,
The very lofty and the very small—
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick—
Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick—
Seeest a Vestris in her sweetest moments,
Without the danger of newspaper comments—
Tellest Macready, as none dared before,
Thine open mind from the half-open door!—
(Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown,
To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)—
Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know,
And callest to them, to a moment,—“Go!”
Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing—
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing—
(To prove, no doubt, the endless free list ended,
And all, except the public press, suspended)
108

Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot—and kiss'd
The pearly whiteness of a Stephens' wrist—
Kissing and pitying—tender and humane!
“By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!”
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!

7

Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well!
Fear not, though forty Glass-blowers should rebel—
Shew them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn!
Go on! addressing pits in prose and worse!
Be long, be slow, be any thing but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that's glov'd—
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Belov'd,
Ask the two shilling Gods for leave to dun
With words the cheaper Deities in the One!
Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene,
Cane Williams still, and stick to Mr. Kean,
Warn from the benches all the rabble rout;
Say, those are mine—“In parliament, or out!”
109

Swing cats,—for in thy house there's surely space,—
Oh Beasley, for such pastime, plann'd the place!
Do anything!—Thy fame, thy fortune, nourish!
Laugh and grow fat! be eloquent, and flourish!
Go on—and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King—
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope's favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
111

ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON, ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE.

“It was Maria!— And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid— She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter's once—and return'd back—” See the whole story, in Sterne and the Newspapers.

1

Thou art come back again to the stage,
Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it;
And 'tis well for this fortunate age
That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it!
It is pleasant to see thee again—
Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé,
Unmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne!
And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley!
112

2

Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light
(Not my Foote—I speak by correction)
As the snow on some mountain at night,
Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone.
The pit is in raptures to free thee,
The Boxes impatient to greet thee,
The Galleries quite clam'rous to see thee,
And thy scenic relations to meet thee!

3

Ah, where was thy sacred reteat?
Maria! ah, where hast thou been,
With thy two little wandering Feet,
Far away from all peace and pea-green!
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold,
Far away from himself and his lot!
I envy the place thou hast stroll'd,
If a stroller thou art—which thou'rt not!
113

4

Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing,
Methinks, at the close of the day—
When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string,
And thy little dog quite gone astray—
He bade thee to sorrow no more—
He wish'd thee to lull thy distress
In his bosom—he couldn't do more,
And a Christian could hardly do less!

5

Ah, me! for thy small plaintive pipe,
I fear we must look at thine eye—
I would it were my task to wipe
That hazel orb thoroughly dry!
Oh sure 'tis a barbarous deed
To give pain to the feminine mind—
But the wooer that left thee to bleed
Was a creature more killing than kind!
114

6

The man that could tread on a worm
Were a brute—and inhuman to boot;
But he merits a much harsher term
That can wantonly tread on a Foote!
Soft mercy and gentleness blend
To make up a Quaker—but he
That spurn'd thee could scarce be a Friend,
Tho' he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee!

7

They that lov'd thee, Maria, have flown!
The friends of the midsummer hour!
But those friends now in anguish atone,
And mourn o'er thy desolate bow'r.
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out
Yea, utterly out of his bias;
And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt,
Is counting his Ave Marias!
115

8

Ah, where wert thou driven away,
To feast on thy desolate woe?
We have witness'd thy weeping in play,
But none saw the earnest tears flow—
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn,—
Tho' none but the fairies could mark
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn.
Or the thistles in Burderop Park!

9

Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow
Has silver'd the crown of Hayne's nob—
For even the greenest will grow
As hoary as “White-headed Bob—”
He'll wish, in the days of his prime,
He had been rather kinder to one
He hath left to the malice of Time—
A woman—so weak and undone!
117

ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.

[_]

AUTHOR OF THE COOK'S ORACLE—OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC—THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE—PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES—THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER—AND THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL.

“I rule the roast, as Milton says!”—Caleb Quotem.

1

Oh! multifarious man!
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton!
Born to enlighten
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking—
Master of the Piano—and the Pan—
As busy with the kitchen as the skies!
Now looking
At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,—
Or boiling eggs—timed to a metronome—
118

As much at home
In spectacles as in mere isinglass—
In the art of frying brown—as a digression
On music and poetical expression,—
Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas!
Could tell Calliope from “Calliopee!”
How few there be
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories,
(Observatories,)
And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator,
However cook's synonymous with Kater !
Alas! still let me say,
How few could lay
The carving knife beside the tuning fork,
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work!

2

Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look!
With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date.
119

And one upon the roast, gently cast down—
Thy chops—done nicely brown—
The garnish'd brow—with “a few leaves of bay”—
The hair—“done Wiggy's way!”
And still one studious finger near thy brains,
As if thou wert just come
From editing some
New soup—or hashing Dibdin's cold remains!
Or, Orpheus-like,—fresh from thy dying strains
Of music,—Epping luxuries of sound,
As Milton says, “in many a bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,”
Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!

3

Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal,
Standing like Fortune,—on the jack—thy wheel.
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes,
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!)
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges,
As tho' it were the same to sing or fry—
120

Nay, so it is—hear how Miss Paton's throat
Makes “fritters” of a note!
And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born
By name and nature) oh! how night and morn
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up
The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop!
And is not reading near akin to feeding,
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit
Receptacles for wit?
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart,
Minc'd brains into a Tart?
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts,
Book-treats,
Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her—
Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read,
The Culinary Art in gingerbread—
The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar!

4

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page—
Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein—
So—in a kitchen—would have talk'd Montaigne,
121

That merry Gascon—humourist, and sage!
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,—
Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,—or
Hume on “Twice three make four,”
Or Lovelass upon Wills,—Thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope,
Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits,
And ever shifting on from change to change,
Saucepans—old Songs—Pills—Spectacles—and Spits!
Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range!
Thy grasp a miracle!—till I recall
Th' indubitable cause of thy variety—
Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all
That spying—frying—singing—mix'd Society
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet
Welch Rabbits—and thyself—in Warren Street!

5

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,
Where learned visitors discoursed—and fed?
122

There came Belzoni,
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead—
And gentle Poki—and that Royal Pair,
Of whom thou didst declare—
“Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read—
They were—what Sandwiches should be—half bred!”
There fam'd M`Adam from his manual toil
Relax'd—and freely own'd he took thy hints
On “making Broth with Flints”—
There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil
For melted butter—Combe with his medullary
Notions about the Skullery,
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil—
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!
Who used to swear thy book
Would really look
A Delphic “Oracle,” if laid on Delf—
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd
His own—and thy own—“Magazine of Taste”—
There Wilberforce the Just
Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd
123

Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks,
That “do not break their yolks,”—
Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!

6

There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore
Thy Patties—thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore,
Who call'd thee “Kitchen Addison”—for why?
Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills,
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills,
“Teaching us how to live and how to die!”
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry—
There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on
His sine Quay non,—
There Martin would drop in on Monday eves,
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath
'Gainst cattle days and death,—
Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves,
Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager
For fightiug on soup meagre—
“And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen
A Marshal Tureen!”
124

7

Great was thy Evening Cluster!—often grac'd
With Dollond—Burgess—and Sir Humphry Davy!
'Twas there M`Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,—
There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste
For puffs—and Accum analysed a gravy.
Colman—the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said
Came there,—and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters)—Kater, too, the Moon's
Crony,—and Graham, lofty on balloons,—
There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated,
Who wrote a light horse play, which Yates completed—
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,—
Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,—
The Dibdins,—Tom, Charles, Frognall,—came with tuns
Of poor old books, old puns!
And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,—
125

And talk'd—till thou didst stop him in the middle,
To serve round Tewah-diddle!

8

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good bye!
So let them:—thou thyself art still a Host!
Dibdin—Cornaro—Newton—Mrs. Fry!
Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!—Lovelass—and Weber,
Matthews in Quot'em—Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber—
Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross'd!
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,—
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion!
Thou art, sans question,
The Corporation's love—its Doctor Darling!
Look at the Civic Palate—nay, the Bed
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
“Illustrations of Lying!”
126

Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation!—
Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share,
Sea-turtles by the score—Oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock—fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!

9

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast—
(His honour seems to rest!—)
And what is thy reward?—Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even
The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!—
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
127

Richly engross'd on vellum:—Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery—that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!
 

Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor.

The Doctor's composition for a night-cap.

129

AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND JOHN IRELAND, D.D. CHARLES FYNES CLINTON, LL.D. THOMAS CAUSTON, D.D. HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, M.A. JOSEPH ALLEN, M.A. LORD HENRY FITZROY, M.A. THE BISHOP OF EXETER. WM. H. EDWARD BENTINCK, M.A. JAMES WEBBER, B.D. WILLIAM SHORT, D.D. JAMES TOURNAY, D.D. ANDREW BELL, D.D. GEORGE HOLCOMBE, D.D. The Dean and Chapter of Westminster.

“Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough.” Citizen of the World.

1

Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter,
Exhibitors of giant men,
Hail to each surplice-back'd Adapter
Of England's dead, in her Stone den!
Ye teach us properly to prize
Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels,
And, to throw light upon our eyes,
Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles.
130

2

Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file,
Call in your shillings, two and two;
March with them up the middle aisle,
And cloister them from public view.
Yours surely are the dusty dead,
Gladly ye look from bust to bust,
Setting a price on each great head,
To make it come, down with the dust.

3

Oh, as I see you walk along
In ample sleeves and ample back,
A pursy and well-order'd throng,
Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black!
In vain I strive me to be dumb,—
You keep each bard like fatted kid,
Grind bones for bread like Fee faw fum!
And drink from sculls as Byron did!
131

4

The profitable Abbey is
A sacred 'Change for stony stock,
Not that a speculation 'tis—
The profit's founded on a rock.
Death, Dean, and Doctors, in each nave
Bony investments have inurn'd!
And hard 'twould be to find a grave
From which “no money is return'd!”

5

Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought
By reverence for those learned bones,
Shall often come and walk your short
Two-shilling fare upon the stones.—
Ye have that talisman of Wealth,
Which puddling chemists sought of old,
Till ruin'd out of hope and health;—
The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold!
132

6

Oh, licens'd cannibals, ye eat
Your dinners from your own dead race,
Think Gray, preserv'd, a “funeral meat,”
And Dryden, devil'd, after grace,
A relish;—and you take your meal
From Rare Ben Jonson underdone,
Or, whet your holy knives on Steele,
To cut away at Addison!

7

Oh say, of all this famous age,
Whose learned bones your hopes expect,
Oh have ye number'd Rydal's sage,
Or Moore among your Ghosts elect?
Lord Byron was not doom'd to make
You richer by his final sleep—
Why don't ye warn the Great to take
Their ashes to no other heap!
133

8

Southey's reversion have ye got?
With Coleridge, for his body, made
A bargain?—has Sir Walter Scott,
Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade?
Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold
His features for your marble shows,
Or Campbell barter'd, ere he's cold,
All interest in his “bone repose?”

9

Rare is your show, ye righteous men!
Priestly Politos,—rare, I ween;
But should ye not outside the Den
Paint up what in it may be seen?
A long green Shakspeare, with a deer
Grasp'd in the many folds it died in,—
A Butler stuff'd from ear to ear,
Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dry-den!
134

10

Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap,
A Giant of some inches high;
Paint Handel up, that organ chap,
With you, as grinders, in his eye;
Depict some plaintive antique thing,
And say th' original may be seen;—
Blind Milton with a dog and string
May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green!

11

Put up in Poet's Corner, near
The little door, a platform small;
Get there a monkey—never fear,
You'll catch the gapers one and all!
Stand each of ye a Body Guard,
A Trumpet under either fin,
And yell away in Palace Yard
“All dead! All dead! Walk in! Walk in!”
135

12

(But when the people are inside,
Their money paid—I pray you, bid
The keepers not to mount and ride
A race around each coffin lid.—
Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought, last year,
That it was hard—the woman clacks—
To have so little in her ear—
And be so hurried through the Wax!—)

13

“Walk in! two shillings only! come!
Be not by country grumblers funk'd!—
Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb!
The Cheapest House for the defunct!”
Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection,
And every rude surmise 'twill stop—
Write up, that you have no connexion
(In large)—with any other shop!
136

14

And still, to catch the Clowns the more,
With samples of your shows in Wax,
Set some old Harry near the door
To answer queries with his axe.—
Put up some general begging-trunk—
Since the last broke by some mishap,
You've all a bit of General Monk,
From the respect you bore his Cap!
 

Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English People to know, that while butchers' meat is rising, tombs are falling.

137

ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDICITY.

“This is your charge—you shall comprehend all vagrom men.”— Much Ado about Nothing.

1

Hail, King of Shreds and Patches, hail,
Disperser of the Poor!
Thou Dog in office, set to bark
All beggars from the door!

2

Great overseer of overseers,
And Dealer in old rags!
Thy public duty never fails,
Thy ardour never flags!
138

3

Oh, when I take my walks abroad,
How many Poor I miss!
Had Doctor Watts walk'd now a days,
He would have written this!

4

So well thy Vagrant catchers prowl,
So clear thy caution keeps
The path—O, Bodkin, sure thou hast
The eye that never sleeps!

5

No Belisarius pleads for alms,
No Benbow lacketh legs;
The pious man in black is now
The only man that begs!

6

Street-Handels are disorganiz'd,
Disbanded every band!—
The silent scraper at the door
Is scaree allow'd to stand'
139

7

The Sweeper brushes with his broom,
The Carstairs with his chalk
Retires,—the Cripple leaves his stand,
But cannot sell his walk.

8

The old Wall-blind resigns the wall,
The Camels hide their humps,
The Witherington without a leg
Mayn't beg upon his stumps!

9

Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff
His batter'd tatter'd hat,
And show his dangling sleeve, alas!
There seem'd no arm in that!

10

Oh! was it such a sin to air
His true blue naval rags,
Glory's own trophy, like St. Paul,
Hung round with holy flags!
140

11

Thou knowest best. I meditate,
My Bodkin, no offence!
Let us, henceforth, but guard our pounds,
Thou dost protect our pence!

12

Well art thou pointed 'gainst the Poor,
For, when the Beggar Crew
Bring their petitions, thou art paid,
Of course, to “run them through.”

13

Doubtless thou art what Hamlet meant—
To wretches the last friend;
What ills can mortals have, they can't
“With a bare Bodkin” end?
THE END.
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