Benjamin The Waggoner A Ryghte merrie and conceitede Tale in Verse. A Fragment [by J. H. Reynolds] |
 | ELEGANT EXTRACTS.
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 | Benjamin The Waggoner |  |
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ELEGANT EXTRACTS.
(For my Title Pages.)
Give these trifles a corner in your cabinet, where they may
be sheltered from those daring critics, who, without producing
any thing of their own, determine with assurance on the works
of others.
Petrarch's Letters.
I have been always more known than I desired; many things
bad and good have been said of me; I was not elated by the
one nor depressed by the other; for I have been long convinced,
that the world is false and deceitful, and that my life is but a
dream.
Ditto.
Let others run after riches and honours, let them be marquises,
princes, kings; I consent; for my own part I am content
with being a poet.
Ditto.
I have no enemies, but those created by envy; and I am not
perhaps sorry for those, though I despise them; I reckon still
in the number of my possessions, the approbation and kindness
of all good men, even of those whom I have never seen.
Ditto.
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------ And who does not wish to be a great man somewhere;
or does not affect to be the chief in some system, however small
and inconsiderable?
Bates' Christian Politics.
In a composition, in which the charm and fascination proper
for poetry are generally prevalent, criticism may explain the
causes of those effects which are delightful to us, and may
establish or extend the fame of the author; but to a poem, of
which the beauties are so coy and retreating as to require to be
anxiously sought and forcibly dragged into light, the services
which the friendship of criticism can render are very unimportant.
It is in vain to tell us that we ought to be, if we are
not pleased; and if our understandings can be brought into
subjection by the critic, our fancies revolting from his authority,
will assert their freedom, and turning from the praised work,
will seek their peculiar luxuries wherever they may be found.
Simmons's Life of Milton.
Nothing, I confess, so strongly stimulates my breast, as the
desire of acquiring a lasting name; a passion highly worthy of
the human heart, especially of his, who not being conscious of
any ill, is not afraid of being known to posterity. It is the continual
subject therefore of my thoughts,
‘By what fair deed I too a name may raise;’
for to that I moderate my wishes: the rest
‘And gather round the world immortal praise,’ is much beyond my hopes.
Pliny's Letters.
‘And gather round the world immortal praise,’ is much beyond my hopes.
Pliny's Letters.
Mankind differ in their notions of supreme happiness; but in
my opinion he truly possesses it who lives in the conscious
anticipation of honest fame, and the glorious figure he shall
make in the eyes of posterity.
Pliny's Letters.
Oh gentle Muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended leave me?
Ye Muses! whom I love so well.
Myself.
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended leave me?
Ye Muses! whom I love so well.
Myself.
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BENJAMIN THE WAGGONER.
O Reader! had you in your mind
Such store as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader, you would find
A Tale in every thing.
Such store as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader, you would find
A Tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
I hope you'll kindly take it;
It is no Tale; but should you think,
Perhaps a Tale you'll make it.
Simon Lee.
I hope you'll kindly take it;
It is no Tale; but should you think,
Perhaps a Tale you'll make it.
Another tale in verse I'll sing,
Another after that I'll drag on;
Now tell me, Bess, I prithee tell,
Shall it be of the Potter Bell,
Or Benjamin who drives the Waggon?
Another after that I'll drag on;
Now tell me, Bess, I prithee tell,
Shall it be of the Potter Bell,
Or Benjamin who drives the Waggon?
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The Potter Peter Bell you choose,
The Potter who had scarce a rag on;
We'll leave, then, till another time,
That merry tale, in serious rhyme,
Of Benjamin who drives the Waggon.
The Potter who had scarce a rag on;
We'll leave, then, till another time,
That merry tale, in serious rhyme,
Of Benjamin who drives the Waggon.
Where left we off, my pretty Bess?
My pretty Bess, where left we off?
Peter Bell was on his knees,
And there we'll leave him, if you please,
Though the place is rather rough.
My pretty Bess, where left we off?
Peter Bell was on his knees,
And there we'll leave him, if you please,
Though the place is rather rough.
I'm seated on my chair so easy,
I'm seated on my easy chair,
'Tis a chair I'm sure would please ye,
The covering is of good horse hair;
Only it sometimes tears one's breeches!
I'm seated on my easy chair,
'Tis a chair I'm sure would please ye,
The covering is of good horse hair;
Only it sometimes tears one's breeches!
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But nothing is without a moral—
Breeches decay, and so do we—
We decay—we who wear 'em—
They decay—the chairs that tear'em—
Now you may a moral see.
Breeches decay, and so do we—
We decay—we who wear 'em—
They decay—the chairs that tear'em—
Now you may a moral see.
But Peter Bell, where left we him?
We left him in the cold wind shaking,
For his past life grieving sore,
Promising to do so no more,
The parson put him in such a taking.
We left him in the cold wind shaking,
For his past life grieving sore,
Promising to do so no more,
The parson put him in such a taking.
Shivering and shaking left we him,
Shivering and shaking—you remember
We left him praying on his knees;
If we leave him longer, he must freeze,
For I think I told you 'twas November.
Shivering and shaking—you remember
We left him praying on his knees;
If we leave him longer, he must freeze,
For I think I told you 'twas November.
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'Twas November, and the Moon
Was shining like November, clearly,
When Peter Bell got up to walk,
When Peter Bell went in to talk;
For Peter he loved talking dearly.
Was shining like November, clearly,
When Peter Bell got up to walk,
When Peter Bell went in to talk;
For Peter he loved talking dearly.
Now, Peter he oft went to chapel,
He went to chapel with the widow;
And there he sang; there he pray'd,
Down on his knees, I've heard it said,
Just as you or I would do.
He went to chapel with the widow;
And there he sang; there he pray'd,
Down on his knees, I've heard it said,
Just as you or I would do.
Sometimes the devil took his seat
Not very far from Peter's ear;
And there he'd sit upon the pew,
And whisper, as he used to do,
Words and things not fit to hear.
Not very far from Peter's ear;
And there he'd sit upon the pew,
And whisper, as he used to do,
Words and things not fit to hear.
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But Peter he would turn and say,
“I tell you not to keep this farce on;
“For, Mr. Devil, I'm resolved—
“Our partnership is now dissolved;
“So leave me alone to hear the parson.”
“I tell you not to keep this farce on;
“For, Mr. Devil, I'm resolved—
“Our partnership is now dissolved;
“So leave me alone to hear the parson.”
And as the parson he was speaking,
Peter would fall fast asleep,
(Awake he could no longer keep)
Cries the parson loud—“I tell you, Bell,
“There is no sleeping down in Hell.”—
Peter would fall fast asleep,
(Awake he could no longer keep)
Cries the parson loud—“I tell you, Bell,
“There is no sleeping down in Hell.”—
'Tis sweet to sit at river side;
'Tis sweet to sit close by the brink;
To throw a stone in—see bubbles up,
Running like inverted cup;
And then the stone, to see it sink
'Tis sweet to sit close by the brink;
To throw a stone in—see bubbles up,
Running like inverted cup;
And then the stone, to see it sink
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And as the little stone is sinking,
To see the fishes turn aside,
How they do wag their little tails!
And move their little fins like sails,
And skim along in swimming pride.
To see the fishes turn aside,
How they do wag their little tails!
And move their little fins like sails,
And skim along in swimming pride.
O, that men would learn to mark
The little—little—little beauties,
Which I do see in field or hill,
In river, or in where I will;
O, that men would mind their duties!
The little—little—little beauties,
Which I do see in field or hill,
In river, or in where I will;
O, that men would mind their duties!
To gaze upon a fallow field;
To see a worm turned up with harrow;
To look upon a blade of grass—
A duck—a goose—a pig—an ass—
Manure that's wheel'd in a wheelbarrow.
To see a worm turned up with harrow;
To look upon a blade of grass—
A duck—a goose—a pig—an ass—
Manure that's wheel'd in a wheelbarrow.
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To mark the little things of Nature;
To see the little naughty flies
Making their loves upon the window,
Never thinking that they sin do;
For me—I always shut my eyes.
To see the little naughty flies
Making their loves upon the window,
Never thinking that they sin do;
For me—I always shut my eyes.
I'd have this world, a moral world—
How better far 't would be than riches;
Naughty flies I always loathe;
My hens in petticoats I'd clothe,
I'd keep my cocks in breeches.
How better far 't would be than riches;
Naughty flies I always loathe;
My hens in petticoats I'd clothe,
I'd keep my cocks in breeches.
The reader knows I love “Excursions,”
To right or left, as it may hap,
If he should like a road that's straight,
For me he better had not wait,
[OMITTED] nap.—
To right or left, as it may hap,
If he should like a road that's straight,
For me he better had not wait,
[OMITTED] nap.—
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O, the Moon it is a lovely Moon!
And she is a lovely Moon to me;
Just sixteen times, in parts before,
I've used her name—sixteen—no more—
Count them, and then you'll see.
And she is a lovely Moon to me;
Just sixteen times, in parts before,
I've used her name—sixteen—no more—
Count them, and then you'll see.
I love the words which run so easy—
Boat and float—and you and do—
Ass and grass make pretty rhyme;
Boat, I've used it many a time,
And ass—times just forty-two.—
Boat and float—and you and do—
Ass and grass make pretty rhyme;
Boat, I've used it many a time,
And ass—times just forty-two.—
I have a little boy and girl,
I have a little girl and boy:—
The girl is twenty months—no more;
The boy, he's less—he's only four,
But he's his mother's joy.
I have a little girl and boy:—
The girl is twenty months—no more;
The boy, he's less—he's only four,
But he's his mother's joy.
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The little girl begins to speak,
I said the little girl was older,
And she can stand upon her feet;
To see them, you'd think their noses meet,
But he's no higher than her shoulder.
I said the little girl was older,
And she can stand upon her feet;
To see them, you'd think their noses meet,
But he's no higher than her shoulder.
My little girl is very clever,
For she can stand, and speak, and walk;
She can say, “I beg your pardon,”
And, “Mamma, take me to the garden,”
But every one can't tell her talk.
For she can stand, and speak, and walk;
She can say, “I beg your pardon,”
And, “Mamma, take me to the garden,”
But every one can't tell her talk.
My little boy—his mother's pet,
After sucking is sometimes sick up-
On his mother's apron lap,
Especially when he dines on pap,
Which often gives my boy the hiccup.
After sucking is sometimes sick up-
On his mother's apron lap,
Especially when he dines on pap,
Which often gives my boy the hiccup.
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My little girl is very knowing;
What think you then that she will do?
Standing upon her little chair,
She'll archly cough, and then say, “There,
“My dear mamma, I've hiccup'd too.”
What think you then that she will do?
Standing upon her little chair,
She'll archly cough, and then say, “There,
“My dear mamma, I've hiccup'd too.”
I said unto my little girl,
And held her by the hips and neck up,
Now tell me, little girl, said I,
Tell me, prythee—tell me why,
Say why it is that you do hiccup?
And held her by the hips and neck up,
Now tell me, little girl, said I,
Tell me, prythee—tell me why,
Say why it is that you do hiccup?
My little girl hung down her head,
I held her by the neck and hips;
Says she, ‘Because, my dear papa,
‘When brother hiccup'd, then I saw
‘They put brown sugar on his lips.’—
I held her by the neck and hips;
Says she, ‘Because, my dear papa,
‘When brother hiccup'd, then I saw
‘They put brown sugar on his lips.’—
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Now Bell had a look of ‘out of doors,’
On such a man you seldom gaze;
He had a westerly windy look,
A stare in's face he ill could brook,
He squinted too—or saw two ways.
On such a man you seldom gaze;
He had a westerly windy look,
A stare in's face he ill could brook,
He squinted too—or saw two ways.
There was a riddle in his look,
A kind of sort of forest boldness;
He had a pimple on his nose,
A pimple which would oft disclose
The very freezing point of coldness.
A kind of sort of forest boldness;
He had a pimple on his nose,
A pimple which would oft disclose
The very freezing point of coldness.
A sort of kind of mountain hardness,
Hung upon his rocky brow;
His chin was shapen like a wedge,
His beard was thick as thickset hedge,
He put up at the Barley-Mow.
Hung upon his rocky brow;
His chin was shapen like a wedge,
His beard was thick as thickset hedge,
He put up at the Barley-Mow.
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Sometimes he had a roguish look—
His eyes were sly, and fix'd, and stony,
His cheeks were like a field of clover,
A brickish redness, and moreover,
His face was high, and hard, and bony.—
His eyes were sly, and fix'd, and stony,
His cheeks were like a field of clover,
A brickish redness, and moreover,
His face was high, and hard, and bony.—
To sit and see the tomtits hopping;
To sit and see the good old men;
To see the girls, in Sunday gowns,
Returning from the market towns,
Winding around the woody glen.
To sit and see the good old men;
To see the girls, in Sunday gowns,
Returning from the market towns,
Winding around the woody glen.
To sit and gaze upon a grave,
To see the long grass daily growing,
To see the moss creep o'er the name,
Time mocking human hopes of fame—
To look—but with a look that's knowing.
To see the long grass daily growing,
To see the moss creep o'er the name,
Time mocking human hopes of fame—
To look—but with a look that's knowing.
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A little while we make a noise,
And make a stir as great as may be;
But soon the Sisters cut the thread,
And mix us with the silent dead,
As silent as a silent baby.
And make a stir as great as may be;
But soon the Sisters cut the thread,
And mix us with the silent dead,
As silent as a silent baby.
What is life? a rose, a thorn,
A shade, a meteor, or a bubble;
Brittle as glass, as shadow fleet,
Light as the gossamer's airy feet,
A little pleasure—deal of trouble.—
A shade, a meteor, or a bubble;
Brittle as glass, as shadow fleet,
Light as the gossamer's airy feet,
A little pleasure—deal of trouble.—
Oh! how I pity Peter Pastoral,
Thee, Peter Pastoral, how I pity;
To think with thy refined soul,
That in the vortex thou must roll,
Of a wicked pent-up city.
Thee, Peter Pastoral, how I pity;
To think with thy refined soul,
That in the vortex thou must roll,
Of a wicked pent-up city.
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London, Babylon, filthy place!
Dwelling unfit for Peter's mind;
Let him come here and be a poet,
His words, his sighs, his feelings shew it,
I'm sure he is that way inclin'd.—
Dwelling unfit for Peter's mind;
Let him come here and be a poet,
His words, his sighs, his feelings shew it,
I'm sure he is that way inclin'd.—
But what is this that I do see?
Is it a cricket or a man?
The moon! or may be pinch of snuff?
A four-ounce bottle of Doctor's stuff?
Tell me, oh, tell me, you who can!
Is it a cricket or a man?
The moon! or may be pinch of snuff?
A four-ounce bottle of Doctor's stuff?
Tell me, oh, tell me, you who can!
Such sight as this I never saw,
As I do gaze upon the stream,
Will no one say to me, what is't?
'Tis Hamlet's Ghost, which says, Oh, list!
It is a bowl of Susan's cream.
As I do gaze upon the stream,
Will no one say to me, what is't?
'Tis Hamlet's Ghost, which says, Oh, list!
It is a bowl of Susan's cream.
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Oh, now I see adown the stream
There does float a little stick;
A little stick—it is not large—
Such as in towns they'd two-pence charge;
Three feet long and half inch thick.
There does float a little stick;
A little stick—it is not large—
Such as in towns they'd two-pence charge;
Three feet long and half inch thick.
And now I see it turn and twirl;
And now 'tis floating smooth enough;
And now it dances as alive;
And now it seems to fight and strive,
Just as the stream is smooth or rough.
And now 'tis floating smooth enough;
And now it dances as alive;
And now it seems to fight and strive,
Just as the stream is smooth or rough.
O tis a pretty sight to see,
The moon-beams sparkle in the stream;
How they do quiver, how they quake,
How they do shiver, how they shake,
These pretty yellow moonlight-beams.—
The moon-beams sparkle in the stream;
How they do quiver, how they quake,
How they do shiver, how they shake,
These pretty yellow moonlight-beams.—
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There's something in a glass of ale,
There's something in good sugar-candy;
And when a man is getting old,
And when the weather's getting cold,
There's something in a glass of brandy.
There's something in good sugar-candy;
And when a man is getting old,
And when the weather's getting cold,
There's something in a glass of brandy.
There's something in Gambado's horse,
There's something in a velocipede;
That's the horse I'd like the best,
On it your book may easy rest,
And he who runs may read.
There's something in a velocipede;
That's the horse I'd like the best,
On it your book may easy rest,
And he who runs may read.
I wish it had a pair of wings,
And like the Arab, a little peg;
I'd instant lay across my leg,
And rising up to other spheres,
No more should critics vex my ears.
And like the Arab, a little peg;
I'd instant lay across my leg,
And rising up to other spheres,
No more should critics vex my ears.
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And now I have a velocipede,
And now I have the little peg,
And now I've fix'd upon it wings,
And bidding adieu to earthly things,
I lift—and lay across my leg.
And now I have the little peg,
And now I've fix'd upon it wings,
And bidding adieu to earthly things,
I lift—and lay across my leg.
Now I rise, and away we go,
My little hobby-horse and me;
And now I'm near the planet Venus,
Nothing seems to be between us,
Not a bit of earth I see.
My little hobby-horse and me;
And now I'm near the planet Venus,
Nothing seems to be between us,
Not a bit of earth I see.
Away we go—my horse and I,
Kicking and prancing midst the stars;
To leave the earth is quite refreshing,
I did not think it such a blessing,
And now I'm near the planet Mars.
Kicking and prancing midst the stars;
To leave the earth is quite refreshing,
I did not think it such a blessing,
And now I'm near the planet Mars.
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At every world I touch, I ask
If they have poets dwelling there?
They answer yes—and not a few,
Poets of all sorts—critics too,
Enough of both, and some to spare.—
If they have poets dwelling there?
They answer yes—and not a few,
Poets of all sorts—critics too,
Enough of both, and some to spare.—
Now I pounce o'er Gallia's land,
Now I see the land of posies;
Now swift I turn the little peg,
And ere you've time to shew a leg,
I'm happy in the land of Noses.
Now I see the land of posies;
Now swift I turn the little peg,
And ere you've time to shew a leg,
I'm happy in the land of Noses.
Happy, happy, happy people!
Happy, ignorant of law;
Honest, kind, and mild, and good—
Only they stole a piece of wood,
And would have stol'n all they saw.—
Happy, ignorant of law;
Honest, kind, and mild, and good—
Only they stole a piece of wood,
And would have stol'n all they saw.—
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There is the music of the spheres—
There is the music of the woods—
There's music in the ripling streams
When glancing in the moonlight beams;
There's music in the roaring floods.
There is the music of the woods—
There's music in the ripling streams
When glancing in the moonlight beams;
There's music in the roaring floods.
There's music in a poultry yard;
There's music in a grunting hog—
An owl—a duck—an ass—a goose—
A dozen little pigs let loose;
There's music in a croaking frog.
There's music in a grunting hog—
An owl—a duck—an ass—a goose—
A dozen little pigs let loose;
There's music in a croaking frog.
How sweet to listen to the sounds
Of rustic noise, and health, and labour:
How better far than hirdy-girdy,
Play'd in town by beggar sturdy:
How sweet the dance, the pipe and tabor.—
Of rustic noise, and health, and labour:
How better far than hirdy-girdy,
Play'd in town by beggar sturdy:
How sweet the dance, the pipe and tabor.—
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Now Peter he oft thought of marrying,
Marrying as you and I might marry;
So popp'd the question to the widow,
Who answered—
Marrying as you and I might marry;
So popp'd the question to the widow,
Who answered—
Happy was Peter and the widow,
(And happy was the widow's ass),
Though children she had at first but seven;
They had four more—in all eleven.—
(And happy was the widow's ass),
Though children she had at first but seven;
They had four more—in all eleven.—
But what is this which o'er our heads,
And round about is nearer gaining?
There is a rustling 'mong the leaves,
The vicar's wife scream'd loudly, Thieves!
But soon we found,—'twas only raining.
And round about is nearer gaining?
There is a rustling 'mong the leaves,
The vicar's wife scream'd loudly, Thieves!
But soon we found,—'twas only raining.
49
Says I, let's leave our rustic seat,
And let us leave the large stone table,
And come into my little study;
And by a fire both warm and ruddy,
I'll tell you tales as long's I'm able.
And let us leave the large stone table,
And come into my little study;
And by a fire both warm and ruddy,
I'll tell you tales as long's I'm able.
So up we rose, in number nine,
And off we set, some slow, some fast,
With little Bess, and all the rest;
They were first in who ran the best,
But, as I limp'd, I was the last.
And off we set, some slow, some fast,
With little Bess, and all the rest;
They were first in who ran the best,
But, as I limp'd, I was the last.
The Vicar slept—the Vicar snored—
And starting, cried, “Another flagon!
“Where am I?—Oh!”—and quite confus'd,
He said he had been much amus'd
With Benjamin who drives the Waggon.
And starting, cried, “Another flagon!
“Where am I?—Oh!”—and quite confus'd,
He said he had been much amus'd
With Benjamin who drives the Waggon.
50
To hear the Vicar I was wroth,
Was full of fury as a dragon;
And then, methought, twas much the same;
The Tale's the thing, whate'er the name,
Whether of Bell, or Ben the Waggon—er.
Was full of fury as a dragon;
And then, methought, twas much the same;
The Tale's the thing, whate'er the name,
Whether of Bell, or Ben the Waggon—er.
Juliet says, a Rose by any
Other name, would smell as sweet;
So, whether my Tale is Peter Bell,
Or Benjamin—'tis just as well;
It will not fail [OMITTED]
Other name, would smell as sweet;
So, whether my Tale is Peter Bell,
Or Benjamin—'tis just as well;
It will not fail [OMITTED]
96
FINIS.
| Benjamin The Waggoner | |