Memoirs, Letters, and Comic Miscellanies in Prose and Verse, of the late James Smith ... Edited by his Brother, Horace Smith ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. | MISCELLANEOUS SKETCHES. |
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| II. |
 | Memoirs, Letters, and Comic Miscellanies |  |
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I. MISCELLANEOUS SKETCHES.
113
MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE.
IN A SERIES OF LETTERS FROM AMERICA.
Letter I. SIR BALAAM BARROW TO MR. JEREMIAH DAWSON.
CONTENTS.
The Wasp, Captain Waters—Yankee Porter at New York— Reasons for quitting England—Decline and Fall of the Mammonian Empire at Lloyd's—Gradation from private Carriage to public Stage “irksome”—Calamity at Kennington—Herne Hill and Madame Storace—Diogenes in his Tub—Tirade against Assessed Taxes, Tithes, and Parsons—Fox without a Tail.
Dear Sir, the American brig, Captain Waters,
Having landed me safe, with my son and two daughters,
On the Pier at New York; and a porter, half drunk,
Having trotted off “right slick away” with my trunk,
In trousers, black cravat, and yellow straw hat awry,
To one Mrs. Bradish's, fronting the Battery;
(I paid half a dollar, for which the gaunt Yankee
Return'd me the devil the ghost of a thankye);
I dip a bad pen in an inkstand of pewter,
To con o'er the past, and descant on the future.
Having landed me safe, with my son and two daughters,
On the Pier at New York; and a porter, half drunk,
Having trotted off “right slick away” with my trunk,
In trousers, black cravat, and yellow straw hat awry,
To one Mrs. Bradish's, fronting the Battery;
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Return'd me the devil the ghost of a thankye);
I dip a bad pen in an inkstand of pewter,
To con o'er the past, and descant on the future.
You know—who does not?—what commercial voids
The Peace has produced in the squadron at Lloyd's;
Time was when my carriage (with biscuits the boot in)
Convey'd me, at three, from the 'Change-gate to Tooting,
And when Tooting clock had toll'd half after ten,
Convey'd me, next morning, to London again,
Where brokers pronounced me, in special committee,
The most well-to-do sort of man in the City.
The Peace has produced in the squadron at Lloyd's;
Time was when my carriage (with biscuits the boot in)
Convey'd me, at three, from the 'Change-gate to Tooting,
And when Tooting clock had toll'd half after ten,
Convey'd me, next morning, to London again,
Where brokers pronounced me, in special committee,
The most well-to-do sort of man in the City.
Well! finding trade shy, and the taxes encroach,
I sold off my horses and laid down my coach:
My girls, for their parts, preferr'd walking; and Dick
Could never ride backward without being sick.
So I now, with a visage as sour as Judge Page's,
Took a small house at Clapham, and rode in the stages.
I sold off my horses and laid down my coach:
My girls, for their parts, preferr'd walking; and Dick
Could never ride backward without being sick.
So I now, with a visage as sour as Judge Page's,
Took a small house at Clapham, and rode in the stages.
Descending a “grade,” I ascended to ride
As one of the six who were licensed inside;
And met the mishaps that occur in wet weather,
When a jury of legs are empannell'd together.
I wanted to let down the glass, but a youth
On the opposite side had a pain in his tooth:
I wanted to pull up the glass, but was chid
By a widow, whose brat would be sick if I did:
I wanted to sleep, but a girl in a shawl
Kept asking how far we were off from Vauxhall;
And, nine times in ten, some tremendous fat woman,
Who wanted to get out at Kennington Common,
With a kick, on alighting, that set the coach rocking,
Left the mud of her clog on my white cotton stocking!
“Why, sir,” even you must admit that a nation
That tolerates this, must expect emigration.
“But why”—in your last you interrogate—“roam
Abroad, when you might sport the savage at home?
If Nature attract you, you're mighty unlucky
Indeed not to find her on this side Kentucky.
I'm apt to suspect that the dame lurks beneath
The brushwood of Finchley and Wimbledon Heath,
And proffers, unfetter'd by Custom-house laws,
Abundance of hips, and whole hedges of haws;
Nay, more, —thus you argue—“my worthy friend Barrow,
You need not go even so far off as Harrow:
At Dulwich I'll point out a glen, wild and patchy,
Not a mile from the mansion of Madame Storace,
Where Nature, not shackled by Townsend or Sayers,
Has scoop'd out, to shelter the ‘right slick away-ers,’
A snug hollow tree, where a patriot may lodge in his
Glory, nor envy the tub of Diogenes!”
As one of the six who were licensed inside;
And met the mishaps that occur in wet weather,
When a jury of legs are empannell'd together.
I wanted to let down the glass, but a youth
On the opposite side had a pain in his tooth:
I wanted to pull up the glass, but was chid
By a widow, whose brat would be sick if I did:
I wanted to sleep, but a girl in a shawl
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And, nine times in ten, some tremendous fat woman,
Who wanted to get out at Kennington Common,
With a kick, on alighting, that set the coach rocking,
Left the mud of her clog on my white cotton stocking!
“Why, sir,” even you must admit that a nation
That tolerates this, must expect emigration.
“But why”—in your last you interrogate—“roam
Abroad, when you might sport the savage at home?
If Nature attract you, you're mighty unlucky
Indeed not to find her on this side Kentucky.
I'm apt to suspect that the dame lurks beneath
The brushwood of Finchley and Wimbledon Heath,
And proffers, unfetter'd by Custom-house laws,
Abundance of hips, and whole hedges of haws;
Nay, more, —thus you argue—“my worthy friend Barrow,
You need not go even so far off as Harrow:
At Dulwich I'll point out a glen, wild and patchy,
Not a mile from the mansion of Madame Storace,
Where Nature, not shackled by Townsend or Sayers,
Has scoop'd out, to shelter the ‘right slick away-ers,’
A snug hollow tree, where a patriot may lodge in his
Glory, nor envy the tub of Diogenes!”
All this, Jerry Dawson, 's undoubtedly true,
But with the main question has nothing to do.
But with the main question has nothing to do.
In all the cross-grains of us mortals below,
'Tis not what ourselves, but what other folks know.
What a kicking would many a hectoring elf
Endure, could he but keep the fact to himself!
To be jilted is nothing—mere pastime and revel—
But then to be known to be jilted's the devil.
Kind husbands oft wink at faux-pas of co-sleepers,
But, if the town knows it, they can't close their peepers;
And traders are loth “their affairs” to disclose
To the pity of friends and the malice of foes.
'Tis not what ourselves, but what other folks know.
What a kicking would many a hectoring elf
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To be jilted is nothing—mere pastime and revel—
But then to be known to be jilted's the devil.
Kind husbands oft wink at faux-pas of co-sleepers,
But, if the town knows it, they can't close their peepers;
And traders are loth “their affairs” to disclose
To the pity of friends and the malice of foes.
Impress'd with these truths, my two daughters, my son,
And myself, soon determined to cut and to run;
Resolved to invest all our spare love and money
In the land that is flowing with milk and with honey.
“Why, sir!” Job himself could not parry the worry
I constantly felt in the county of Surrey.
At the bare word “assessment” my diaphragm writhes,
I faint at the vile monosyllable “tithes;”
I don't care a farthing for gibbets and axes,
But I can't bear the plural of tax, namely, taxes.
Some folks hate a spider, but I hate a parson,
As much as an Albion director hates arson!
And myself, soon determined to cut and to run;
Resolved to invest all our spare love and money
In the land that is flowing with milk and with honey.
“Why, sir!” Job himself could not parry the worry
I constantly felt in the county of Surrey.
At the bare word “assessment” my diaphragm writhes,
I faint at the vile monosyllable “tithes;”
I don't care a farthing for gibbets and axes,
But I can't bear the plural of tax, namely, taxes.
Some folks hate a spider, but I hate a parson,
As much as an Albion director hates arson!
Then hey for the West!—how I grudge every hour I
Expend, ere I cross the Mississippi, Missouri,
With woods where the view of an Englishman rare is,
And squat myself down in the Illinois Prairies.
If I hit, well and good; if I miss, well and good too;
I'll sink what it does, and proclaim what it should do.
I'll change the brown Wabash to yellow Pactolus;
If I tumble, like Wildgoose, I'll not tumble solus.
My taken-in friends may reproach me—who cares?
The trap that diminish'd my tail shall dock theirs.
Expend, ere I cross the Mississippi, Missouri,
With woods where the view of an Englishman rare is,
And squat myself down in the Illinois Prairies.
If I hit, well and good; if I miss, well and good too;
I'll sink what it does, and proclaim what it should do.
I'll change the brown Wabash to yellow Pactolus;
If I tumble, like Wildgoose, I'll not tumble solus.
My taken-in friends may reproach me—who cares?
The trap that diminish'd my tail shall dock theirs.
B. B.
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Letter II. MISS SABRINA BARROW TO MISS FANNY FADE.
Opening allusion — Æneas and the Sibyl—Gradations—from a Beauty to a Blue—Joys of Eighteen—Bond Street—The Opera—Tooting Assembly—Quadrilles—Sister Lydia coming out—Sister Sabrina going in—Ap and Peri-helion—Waltzes— Terpsichore sells off her stud—La Poule—Pilpay and Æsop— Dogs, Cats, and Birds—Evangelical Blues—Anti-parturient— Evans's Sects—Floating Ark—Hebrews at Hackney—Belzoni— Women in Egyptian Hall and London Tavern—And why—To strangle two Serpents—Abelard and Eloisa—Sabrina's Reasons for going to America.
Nay, Fanny, you wrong me: I am not “quite frantic,”
Even though I have ventured to cross the Atlantic.
The thing, unexplain'd, may excite your surprise,
But when you consider the wherefores and whys,
(This letter shall paint them,) I hope to awaken
Your hearty applause at the step I have taken.
Even though I have ventured to cross the Atlantic.
The thing, unexplain'd, may excite your surprise,
But when you consider the wherefores and whys,
(This letter shall paint them,) I hope to awaken
Your hearty applause at the step I have taken.
My age, my dear friend, I may say, entre nous,
Is not what the public suppose—thirty-two;
For, if they the baptismal fact would divine,
Let them strike out the “Two,” and interpolate “Nine.”
Is not what the public suppose—thirty-two;
For, if they the baptismal fact would divine,
Let them strike out the “Two,” and interpolate “Nine.”
We Blues love a classic allusion, so I seize
The Sibyl's, who walk'd with the son of Anchises,
And scatter my leaves, per the Lynx, Captain Wade,
To paint all my woes to my dear Fanny Fade.
The Sibyl's, who walk'd with the son of Anchises,
And scatter my leaves, per the Lynx, Captain Wade,
To paint all my woes to my dear Fanny Fade.
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At lively eighteen, when the men praised my hair,
And papa lived at Tooting and Finsbury-square,
Too proud of my title, Sabrina the Pretty,
I turn'd up my nose at a match in the City;
Drove shopping to Bond-street, where few people knew me—
Saw beaux, three by three, raise their glasses to view me;
Went off to the Opera—sat in the pit—
Took mighty good care not to speak to a Cit:
And hoped, when my suitors began to importune,
At the end of the season to marry a fortune;
Yet spring follow'd winter, and still fail'd to bring
The thing that I wanted—a Man with a Ring.
And papa lived at Tooting and Finsbury-square,
Too proud of my title, Sabrina the Pretty,
I turn'd up my nose at a match in the City;
Drove shopping to Bond-street, where few people knew me—
Saw beaux, three by three, raise their glasses to view me;
Went off to the Opera—sat in the pit—
Took mighty good care not to speak to a Cit:
And hoped, when my suitors began to importune,
At the end of the season to marry a fortune;
Yet spring follow'd winter, and still fail'd to bring
The thing that I wanted—a Man with a Ring.
Descending a peg, with a mercantile beau
At Tooting assembly I sported a toe:
Had still many partners, each fortunate man,
Mark'd, one after one, on my white spangled fan.
Wherever they came from, I aim'd to entrap 'em,
As far down as Mitcham, as far up as Clapham:
In private rehearsals I practised my heels,
To open the very first set of quadrilles:
Set right, by mere pushing, each blundering fool;
And knowing that Lydia would soon come from school,
It struck me, while eyeing the mole on my chin,
That her coming out might be my going in;
For Shakspeare has open'd that truth to mankind,
If two men ride one horse, one must ride behind.
I therefore redoubled my ogles and freaks,
Drew a hare's foot of rouge o'er the bones of my cheeks,
Whizz'd round in a waltz, with a neck red as copper,
And whisper'd, “I hope that it is not improper.”
Yet still, as old Time kept expanding his wing,
He never brought forward the Man with the Ring.
At Tooting assembly I sported a toe:
Had still many partners, each fortunate man,
Mark'd, one after one, on my white spangled fan.
Wherever they came from, I aim'd to entrap 'em,
As far down as Mitcham, as far up as Clapham:
In private rehearsals I practised my heels,
To open the very first set of quadrilles:
Set right, by mere pushing, each blundering fool;
And knowing that Lydia would soon come from school,
It struck me, while eyeing the mole on my chin,
That her coming out might be my going in;
For Shakspeare has open'd that truth to mankind,
If two men ride one horse, one must ride behind.
I therefore redoubled my ogles and freaks,
Drew a hare's foot of rouge o'er the bones of my cheeks,
Whizz'd round in a waltz, with a neck red as copper,
And whisper'd, “I hope that it is not improper.”
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He never brought forward the Man with the Ring.
Past thirty—turn'd out of Terpsichore's stud,
“Lamed, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, yet still with some blood,”
Now and then overhearing the men cry—“Poor Sabby,”
And the girls — “Eight-and-thirty — I know it—old Tabby,”
Condemn'd, while the whirl of La Poule made me giddy,
To pin up the train of the tittering Lyddy,
And set her a-going on that very floor
That often had echo'd my footsteps before
I gave o'er the chase; let the fount of love freeze up;
And woo'd the dumb heroes of Pilpay and Æsop:—
Kept a pug in a collar, a dormouse, a kitten,
A squirrel, a poodle more biting than bitten,
A parrot who swung in eternal see-saw,
Two murmuring doves, and a screaming macaw:—
In blue book-societies loiter'd to chat
With the Reverend this and the Reverend that:
Join'd the tribe who, forbidden by hard-hearted men
To dandle an innocent—dandle a pen,
Pert poets with mouths by the Quarterly curb hurt,
Lank wives who have never call'd in Doctor Herbert:
Prim maids, like myself, with an eye that detects
All the thin subdivisions in Evans's Sects,
And knows to a hair every cross in the breed,
From the Jumpers in Wales to the lunatic Swede.
Then came the thick shoes, on two feet void of graces:
Decided objection to all public places:
Yet running, by hundreds, to Belzoni's cavern,
The Mansion-house Hall, and the New London Tavern:
The Bible in Sanscrit, for Copts and Lascars:
Arks floating off Wapping for soul-founder'd tars:
With all the devices that keep in subjection
Our sex's two enemies—Time and Reflection.
Yet still even these were unable to bring
Id desideratum—the Man with the Ring.
“Lamed, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, yet still with some blood,”
Now and then overhearing the men cry—“Poor Sabby,”
And the girls — “Eight-and-thirty — I know it—old Tabby,”
Condemn'd, while the whirl of La Poule made me giddy,
To pin up the train of the tittering Lyddy,
And set her a-going on that very floor
That often had echo'd my footsteps before
I gave o'er the chase; let the fount of love freeze up;
And woo'd the dumb heroes of Pilpay and Æsop:—
Kept a pug in a collar, a dormouse, a kitten,
A squirrel, a poodle more biting than bitten,
A parrot who swung in eternal see-saw,
Two murmuring doves, and a screaming macaw:—
In blue book-societies loiter'd to chat
With the Reverend this and the Reverend that:
Join'd the tribe who, forbidden by hard-hearted men
To dandle an innocent—dandle a pen,
Pert poets with mouths by the Quarterly curb hurt,
Lank wives who have never call'd in Doctor Herbert:
Prim maids, like myself, with an eye that detects
All the thin subdivisions in Evans's Sects,
And knows to a hair every cross in the breed,
From the Jumpers in Wales to the lunatic Swede.
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Decided objection to all public places:
Yet running, by hundreds, to Belzoni's cavern,
The Mansion-house Hall, and the New London Tavern:
The Bible in Sanscrit, for Copts and Lascars:
Arks floating off Wapping for soul-founder'd tars:
With all the devices that keep in subjection
Our sex's two enemies—Time and Reflection.
Yet still even these were unable to bring
Id desideratum—the Man with the Ring.
Thus she whom the poet of Twickenham paints,
Bade Paraclete's echoes repeat her complaints,
Lay wrapt, in her cell, in ecstatical heavings,
And gave to Saint Peter Saint Abelard's leavings.
Bade Paraclete's echoes repeat her complaints,
Lay wrapt, in her cell, in ecstatical heavings,
And gave to Saint Peter Saint Abelard's leavings.
Thus tied to the stake in Sir Balaam's dull domus,
As cold and austere as my namesake in Comus,
Condemn'd, when my sister should wed, to rehearse,
Hereafter, for Lydia, the part of the nurse,
Performing what many a sister has done,
The work of three maids for the wages of one,
Sore sick of the world, from the Old I withdrew,
And gladly set sail with papa for the New;
Of which more hereafter.—Dear Fanny, adieu!
As cold and austere as my namesake in Comus,
Condemn'd, when my sister should wed, to rehearse,
Hereafter, for Lydia, the part of the nurse,
Performing what many a sister has done,
The work of three maids for the wages of one,
Sore sick of the world, from the Old I withdrew,
And gladly set sail with papa for the New;
Of which more hereafter.—Dear Fanny, adieu!
S.B.
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Letter III. MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN.
“Moving Accidents by Flood”—Neptune enemy to Female Attire—Castle of Otranto—Guy's Hospital—Mrs. Jordan—Mrs. Monsoon's Boarding-school—Logier's System—Family Pride— Balaam—Monument-yard and Jerusalem—Bonaparte—Hone's Wood-cuts—Major Cartwright and Billy Austin—Ings, the Butcher—His mode of changing an Administration—Princess in Fleet-street—Habeas, but not Corpus; and why—Parting Benediction.
Oh Kitty! such bawling, such trampling of decks!
Such tales of sea-monsters, tornadoes, and wrecks!
My puce-colour'd cloak is soak'd through with the rain:
You never would know my green bonnet again;
The silk is all cover'd with spots, and the feather
Flaps down like a lily in boisterous weather:
The lining's not hurt, so I mean to unrip it;
But the surge has quite ruin'd my white-spotted tippet;
And the waves of the ocean, like ill-natured brutes,
Have rotted the fur on my blue leather boots.
In short, what with monsters who haul'd my portmanteau
Ashore, half as big as the man in Otranto;
Grim figures in trousers, who quiz our noblesse,
And say, when they mean to be certain, they guess;
And inns, where the folks, cheek-by-jowl, close their eyes,
Ten beds in a room, like the patients at Guy's:
I'm like Mrs. Jordan, unable to tell
If I'm dead or alive, Lady Loverule, or Nell!
Such tales of sea-monsters, tornadoes, and wrecks!
My puce-colour'd cloak is soak'd through with the rain:
You never would know my green bonnet again;
The silk is all cover'd with spots, and the feather
Flaps down like a lily in boisterous weather:
The lining's not hurt, so I mean to unrip it;
But the surge has quite ruin'd my white-spotted tippet;
And the waves of the ocean, like ill-natured brutes,
Have rotted the fur on my blue leather boots.
In short, what with monsters who haul'd my portmanteau
Ashore, half as big as the man in Otranto;
Grim figures in trousers, who quiz our noblesse,
And say, when they mean to be certain, they guess;
And inns, where the folks, cheek-by-jowl, close their eyes,
Ten beds in a room, like the patients at Guy's:
I'm like Mrs. Jordan, unable to tell
If I'm dead or alive, Lady Loverule, or Nell!
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You and I, arm in arm ever destined to grapple,
When the school two by two walk'd on Sunday to chapel;
Where I gave a nod to Tom Osborne, and you
A smile to George Hughes, in the opposite pew;
Who in the same keiro-plast play'd the same tunes,
The two aptest scholars, at Mrs. Monsoon's;
Little dreamt of the day when whole mountains should frown
Between Lyddy Barrow and Catherine Brown.
When the school two by two walk'd on Sunday to chapel;
Where I gave a nod to Tom Osborne, and you
A smile to George Hughes, in the opposite pew;
Who in the same keiro-plast play'd the same tunes,
The two aptest scholars, at Mrs. Monsoon's;
Little dreamt of the day when whole mountains should frown
Between Lyddy Barrow and Catherine Brown.
Papa, entre nous, rides a hobby, my dear,
That is rather too high to be canter'd on here:
How strange in a cit! he has taken a pride
In his family tree, by the grandmother's side,
And thinks all plain Misters should give him a salam,
Ever since his late Majesty dubb'd him Sir Balaam.
He proves his ascent, through the Knight who sold soap
Close to Monument-yard, and is mention'd in Pope,
Up to him who a donkey bestrid in Jerusalem;
Then boasts that our house is as old as Methusalem.
Dick calls this “a rum kind of swell in old dad,”
Who turn'd, as Dick calls it, “a regular Rad”
Ever since fall of trade to a Clapham cot pinn'd us,
And forced us to send back the carriage to Windus.
In vain I cry “Fiddle de dee;” it will fix
In his gizzard, and make him as cross as two sticks.
He now rips up grievances old as Queen Anne,
And lays all the blame on poor Chancellor Van.
He buys Bonapartes enamell'd in bone;
He frames and he glazes the wood-cuts of Hone,
And hangs them supported by Queen Caroline, or
Old Cartwright the Major and Austin the Minor:
Nay, over the mantel-piece what, of all things,
Do you think he had stuck up?—the portrait of Ings,
The Carnaby hero, who meant to “show fight,”
A bag in his left hand, a knife in his right:
With these he to Cato-street went, being very
Resolved to decapitate Lord Londonderry.
How shocking!—Heaven grant that his Majesty may shun
That method of changing an Administration.
That is rather too high to be canter'd on here:
How strange in a cit! he has taken a pride
In his family tree, by the grandmother's side,
And thinks all plain Misters should give him a salam,
Ever since his late Majesty dubb'd him Sir Balaam.
He proves his ascent, through the Knight who sold soap
Close to Monument-yard, and is mention'd in Pope,
Up to him who a donkey bestrid in Jerusalem;
Then boasts that our house is as old as Methusalem.
Dick calls this “a rum kind of swell in old dad,”
Who turn'd, as Dick calls it, “a regular Rad”
Ever since fall of trade to a Clapham cot pinn'd us,
And forced us to send back the carriage to Windus.
In vain I cry “Fiddle de dee;” it will fix
In his gizzard, and make him as cross as two sticks.
He now rips up grievances old as Queen Anne,
And lays all the blame on poor Chancellor Van.
He buys Bonapartes enamell'd in bone;
He frames and he glazes the wood-cuts of Hone,
And hangs them supported by Queen Caroline, or
Old Cartwright the Major and Austin the Minor:
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Do you think he had stuck up?—the portrait of Ings,
The Carnaby hero, who meant to “show fight,”
A bag in his left hand, a knife in his right:
With these he to Cato-street went, being very
Resolved to decapitate Lord Londonderry.
How shocking!—Heaven grant that his Majesty may shun
That method of changing an Administration.
But don't let me lose what I meant to express,
Before I left England I saw a Princess!
She lodges in Fleet-street, next door to Hone's shop—
Two lions that make all the passengers stop.
Papa and “The Ex” think her case very hard;
Says he to me, “Lyddy, we'll both leave a card;
Two Kings are her cousins! girl, hold up your neck;
Depend on it, Lyddy, it's not a bad spec.”
Like a dutiful daughter I did depend on it,
Went up to my bed-room to put on my bonnet,
And, as the sun promised a morning of dryness,
I walk'd, without pattens, to wait on her Highness.
A man oped the door, in a coat which, I think,
Was dyed, like the rest of the family's, pink.
But when papa ask'd if the Royal Princess
Was at home, and the Chamberlain answer'd him “Yes,”
And civilly told us to walk up together,
A child might have knock'd me down flat with a feather!
Her Highness, sweet soul! made us sit on two chairs,
And let us, at once, into all her affairs.
She told us, her foes held her there by a capias,
She meant, as she told us, to move for her habeas,
But has not—perhaps on account of the corpus,
For her's, entre nous, is as big as a porpus.
She mention'd, with pride, how on last Lord Mayor's-day
Her contenance drew all the people away;
But own'd, while they dubb'd her the general charmer,
It might be because there were no men in armour.
Before I left England I saw a Princess!
She lodges in Fleet-street, next door to Hone's shop—
Two lions that make all the passengers stop.
Papa and “The Ex” think her case very hard;
Says he to me, “Lyddy, we'll both leave a card;
Two Kings are her cousins! girl, hold up your neck;
Depend on it, Lyddy, it's not a bad spec.”
Like a dutiful daughter I did depend on it,
Went up to my bed-room to put on my bonnet,
And, as the sun promised a morning of dryness,
I walk'd, without pattens, to wait on her Highness.
A man oped the door, in a coat which, I think,
Was dyed, like the rest of the family's, pink.
But when papa ask'd if the Royal Princess
Was at home, and the Chamberlain answer'd him “Yes,”
And civilly told us to walk up together,
A child might have knock'd me down flat with a feather!
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And let us, at once, into all her affairs.
She told us, her foes held her there by a capias,
She meant, as she told us, to move for her habeas,
But has not—perhaps on account of the corpus,
For her's, entre nous, is as big as a porpus.
She mention'd, with pride, how on last Lord Mayor's-day
Her contenance drew all the people away;
But own'd, while they dubb'd her the general charmer,
It might be because there were no men in armour.
Adieu! royal dame, falsely called Mrs. Serres,
For you and your sire are as like as two cherries;—
Farewell, injured daughter of Poniatowski,
You soon should be let out if I held the house-key!
For you and your sire are as like as two cherries;—
Farewell, injured daughter of Poniatowski,
You soon should be let out if I held the house-key!
L.B.
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Letter IV. MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS.
Specimen of Fancy Rhetoric—Slang, like Madeira, improved by Sea Voyage—Atlantic Adventures—Reference to White Bait at Blackwall — Twickenham Steam Vessel — Chelsea Reach— Name objectionable, and why—Thomas Inkle—Disasters of Tacking—Swan with Two Necks; Lad with One—Sabrina— Latin and Commodore Rogers—Lydia and Don Juan—Sandy Hook—Action at Law—Spick and another versus Barrow the Younger—Coronation at both Houses—President Adams—Tea and turn out.
Here I am: right and tight, Bob; pull'd up at New York,
As brisk as a bee, and as light as a cork:
Though half the pool over I lay like a log,
Quite flabber-de-gasky'd, as sick as a dog!
How odd! for you know I ail'd nothing at all,
When, to grub upon white bait, we row'd to Blackwall:
'Tis true, I wax'd rum, on returning by Greenwich,
But that was because I had eat too much spinage.
When we steam'd it to Twick'nam; I stuck like a leech
To the deck, till the vessel approach'd Chelsea Reach;
There, I own, I was seiz'd with a qualm and a hiccup,
And felt in my Victualling-office a kick-up:
All along of the place: Chelsea Reach? a vile name!
Columbus himself would have felt just the same.
But, Zounds! Bob, the Thames cannot give you a notion
“Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean.”
(Mem. that's a quotation; and serves for a sprinkle
Of learning: like Sabby: I stole it from Inkle.)
The first thing that posed me was, when I should bob,
To hinder the gib-boom from scuttling my nob.
How to hit the thing right was the devil's own poser,
Three times had the end of it tipp'd me a noser.
The flat of a steersman sang out—“Helm-a-lee!”
Round swung the long-pole, made no bones of poor me,
And sent my hat flying a mile out to sea.
My stars! how my knowledge-box whizz'd round about!
In short, my dear Bob, 'twas a proper serve-out.
I hav'n't scored up such a pelt on the brain,
Since on a stage-top I was had in Lad-lane;
Where, if you don't duck, when the turn you approach,
So low is the gateway, so high is the coach,
You'll add, before coachee his vehicle checks,
The lad with no head to the Swan with two Necks.
I since wore a cap, made of sealskin and leather,
Which seems to cry Noli-me-tan to the weather.
I civilly spoke to the Captain my wish
For a rod, hook, and line, to astonish the fish;
I got 'em and bobb'd: had a bite from a shark:
But the double-tooth'd cull was not up to the mark:
Again I gave bait, on a hook worse for wearing,
And caught—damn the hoaxers—a salted red herring:
The sailors, like spooneys, all laugh'd at the trick,
And nick-named me Lubber and Salt-water Dick.
Sabrina kept stalking the deck in all weathers,
In purple pelisse, a Leghorn hat and feathers,
She now and then puzzled, with Latin, the codgers,
Which sounded like Hebrew to Commodore Rogers.
She muttered “O navis: infelix puella,”
And cried, when it blew, “aquilone procella.”
Old dad braved the spray of the sea like a new one!
While Lyd, in the cabin, was reading Don Juan.
A boy on the top-mast, who kept a sharp look-out,
Now, from his potato-trap, bawl'd “Sandy hook” out,
Two words that we English did not understand,
But I guess “Sandy hook” is the Yankee for “Land;”
For while we were wondering what he could say,
The pilot had floated us into the Bay.
As brisk as a bee, and as light as a cork:
Though half the pool over I lay like a log,
Quite flabber-de-gasky'd, as sick as a dog!
How odd! for you know I ail'd nothing at all,
When, to grub upon white bait, we row'd to Blackwall:
'Tis true, I wax'd rum, on returning by Greenwich,
But that was because I had eat too much spinage.
When we steam'd it to Twick'nam; I stuck like a leech
To the deck, till the vessel approach'd Chelsea Reach;
There, I own, I was seiz'd with a qualm and a hiccup,
And felt in my Victualling-office a kick-up:
All along of the place: Chelsea Reach? a vile name!
Columbus himself would have felt just the same.
126
“Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean.”
(Mem. that's a quotation; and serves for a sprinkle
Of learning: like Sabby: I stole it from Inkle.)
The first thing that posed me was, when I should bob,
To hinder the gib-boom from scuttling my nob.
How to hit the thing right was the devil's own poser,
Three times had the end of it tipp'd me a noser.
The flat of a steersman sang out—“Helm-a-lee!”
Round swung the long-pole, made no bones of poor me,
And sent my hat flying a mile out to sea.
My stars! how my knowledge-box whizz'd round about!
In short, my dear Bob, 'twas a proper serve-out.
I hav'n't scored up such a pelt on the brain,
Since on a stage-top I was had in Lad-lane;
Where, if you don't duck, when the turn you approach,
So low is the gateway, so high is the coach,
You'll add, before coachee his vehicle checks,
The lad with no head to the Swan with two Necks.
I since wore a cap, made of sealskin and leather,
Which seems to cry Noli-me-tan to the weather.
I civilly spoke to the Captain my wish
For a rod, hook, and line, to astonish the fish;
I got 'em and bobb'd: had a bite from a shark:
But the double-tooth'd cull was not up to the mark:
Again I gave bait, on a hook worse for wearing,
And caught—damn the hoaxers—a salted red herring:
The sailors, like spooneys, all laugh'd at the trick,
And nick-named me Lubber and Salt-water Dick.
Sabrina kept stalking the deck in all weathers,
In purple pelisse, a Leghorn hat and feathers,
127
Which sounded like Hebrew to Commodore Rogers.
She muttered “O navis: infelix puella,”
And cried, when it blew, “aquilone procella.”
Old dad braved the spray of the sea like a new one!
While Lyd, in the cabin, was reading Don Juan.
A boy on the top-mast, who kept a sharp look-out,
Now, from his potato-trap, bawl'd “Sandy hook” out,
Two words that we English did not understand,
But I guess “Sandy hook” is the Yankee for “Land;”
For while we were wondering what he could say,
The pilot had floated us into the Bay.
Lord! who would have thought to have seen Dicky Barrow
Quit Chancery-lane for the Land of Pizarro.
You and I were the prime ones:—the Fives-court, the Lobby,
Were all Betty Martin without Dick and Bobby.
Dad show'd himself up for a rank Johnny Raw,
In binding me 'prentice to follow the law.
You know'd, Bob, I scorn'd such a spooney to be
As to follow the law, so the law follow'd me.
Spick and Span were my Schneiders: dead hits at a button;
At running a bill up they found me a glutton;
Spick call'd: not at home; and I told Mugs, my man,
To bounce when he call'd again: ditto, to Span.
I thought they'd have stood it: the devil a bit:
They bolted a Davy, and took out a writ.
Nunky flinch'd: it was no use applying to him;
So, finding the stumpy decidedly slim,
I thought it was best to be offish with dad,
And show that Dick Barrow was not to be had.
Quit Chancery-lane for the Land of Pizarro.
You and I were the prime ones:—the Fives-court, the Lobby,
Were all Betty Martin without Dick and Bobby.
Dad show'd himself up for a rank Johnny Raw,
In binding me 'prentice to follow the law.
You know'd, Bob, I scorn'd such a spooney to be
As to follow the law, so the law follow'd me.
Spick and Span were my Schneiders: dead hits at a button;
At running a bill up they found me a glutton;
Spick call'd: not at home; and I told Mugs, my man,
To bounce when he call'd again: ditto, to Span.
I thought they'd have stood it: the devil a bit:
They bolted a Davy, and took out a writ.
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So, finding the stumpy decidedly slim,
I thought it was best to be offish with dad,
And show that Dick Barrow was not to be had.
Now do, there's a dear, draw a quill upon paper,
And tell us the news.—Is the needful still taper?
Kean bolted off here in a huff: does he bring,
Like Harris's Empress and Elliston's King?
Or, are you still dosed with stars, ribbons, and garters,
Cars, cream-colour'd horses, poles, platforms, and Tartars?
We can't come it here like your Viscounts and Madams
At Westminster-Abbey: our President Adams
To sport a procession has no hidden hoards,
I reckon he'd cut a shy show on the boards.
When guests tuck their trotters beneath his mahogany,
Short bite for Jonathan: if for good prog any
Visitor gapes, why the bigger flat he:
The President comes down with nothing but tea:
For which, if the Yankees know what they're about,
They'll treat him, next Caucus, with tea and turn out.
But pen cries peccavi, and paper is narrow,
So, Bob, I'm your humble cum dumble,
And tell us the news.—Is the needful still taper?
Kean bolted off here in a huff: does he bring,
Like Harris's Empress and Elliston's King?
Or, are you still dosed with stars, ribbons, and garters,
Cars, cream-colour'd horses, poles, platforms, and Tartars?
We can't come it here like your Viscounts and Madams
At Westminster-Abbey: our President Adams
To sport a procession has no hidden hoards,
I reckon he'd cut a shy show on the boards.
When guests tuck their trotters beneath his mahogany,
Short bite for Jonathan: if for good prog any
Visitor gapes, why the bigger flat he:
The President comes down with nothing but tea:
For which, if the Yankees know what they're about,
They'll treat him, next Caucus, with tea and turn out.
But pen cries peccavi, and paper is narrow,
So, Bob, I'm your humble cum dumble,
R. Barrow.
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Letter V. SIR BALAAM BARROW TO MR. JEREMIAH DAWSON.
Journey to Brighton and Journey in America contrasted.—Land Ladies.—Beggars.—Apples at Coach-door.—Barmaid at Cuckfield.—Ladder from Coach-top.—An American Vehicle, “open to all Parties,” viz. at all sides.—No Trustees of Roads.—Divers Queries on the American Language.—Sir Balaam as puzzled as Pizarro.—Cobbett's Grammar.—Questions to one who proposes to emigrate.
Whoever has taken, his loose nerves to tighten,
A journey from Blossoms' Inn, Cheapside, to Brighton,
And finds himself pleasantly rattled to Shoreham,
At, including stoppages, nine miles per horam,
Must own the whole matter, from basement to attic,
From fore-horse to hind-wheel, is aristocratic.
If landladies handle “the worm of the still,”
If urchins, for halfpennies, tumble up hill;
If apples are proffer'd, the slighted outriders
Are always postponed to the four fat insiders.
To them the lame beggar first takes off his hat,
To them the spruce landlady loiters to chat.
The barmaid at Cuckfield, apparell'd in white,
To them first exclaims, “Won't you please to alight?”
While, from the coach-top, by the ladder, each man
Gets down as he pleases,—that is, as he can.
A journey from Blossoms' Inn, Cheapside, to Brighton,
And finds himself pleasantly rattled to Shoreham,
At, including stoppages, nine miles per horam,
Must own the whole matter, from basement to attic,
From fore-horse to hind-wheel, is aristocratic.
If landladies handle “the worm of the still,”
If urchins, for halfpennies, tumble up hill;
If apples are proffer'd, the slighted outriders
Are always postponed to the four fat insiders.
To them the lame beggar first takes off his hat,
To them the spruce landlady loiters to chat.
The barmaid at Cuckfield, apparell'd in white,
To them first exclaims, “Won't you please to alight?”
While, from the coach-top, by the ladder, each man
Gets down as he pleases,—that is, as he can.
Ah! Jerry! how nobler a prospect engages
The wight who ascends our American stages!
The coachman (I should say “the driver”) takes care
To sit, as he ought, cheek by jowl with the fare.
No springs prop the body; the sides of the coach
Are open to let any trade-wind approach.
The roof is supported by six wooden shanks,
The passengers sit upon plain wooden planks,
And the horses, quite civilly, kept down their jumps
To let me in, clambering over their rumps.
Your bowling-green roads, water'd well by trustees,
Are merely constructed for safety and ease;
You “run on the nail,” so decidedly dry,
You are puzzled to know if you ride, swim, or fly.
How different our practice! here Nature displays
Her steepest of stiles, and her roughest of ways.
O'er pebbles like rocks, and o'er Brobdignag logs,
The up-and-down vehicle swings, dives, and jogs.
This saves introductions, a mere waste of labour,
It brings every man tête-à-tête with his neighbour,
And makes him, however at starting unwilling,
As smooth, ere he parts, as a George the Third shilling.
The wight who ascends our American stages!
The coachman (I should say “the driver”) takes care
To sit, as he ought, cheek by jowl with the fare.
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Are open to let any trade-wind approach.
The roof is supported by six wooden shanks,
The passengers sit upon plain wooden planks,
And the horses, quite civilly, kept down their jumps
To let me in, clambering over their rumps.
Your bowling-green roads, water'd well by trustees,
Are merely constructed for safety and ease;
You “run on the nail,” so decidedly dry,
You are puzzled to know if you ride, swim, or fly.
How different our practice! here Nature displays
Her steepest of stiles, and her roughest of ways.
O'er pebbles like rocks, and o'er Brobdignag logs,
The up-and-down vehicle swings, dives, and jogs.
This saves introductions, a mere waste of labour,
It brings every man tête-à-tête with his neighbour,
And makes him, however at starting unwilling,
As smooth, ere he parts, as a George the Third shilling.
We dined on the road upon junks of boil'd yam,
Beef, apple-pie, cabbage, potatoes, and ham.
A man in a corner ate beef and horse-radish;
I told him I reckon'd his roads rather baddish.
“Roads?” answer'd the sage, 'twixt a croak and a squall,
“I guess we had rather have no roads at all.
“When first they were dug, we were mightily roil'd,
“The president's sport, I remember, we spoil'd:
“We bore off his fagots, hand-barrow, and clay,
“And took off by night what he laid on by day.
“You don't seem to answer me, Mister; mayhap
“You're strange in these parts; a new salt-water chap:
“Where d'ye keep? What a face! Oh, it is not yet tann'd;
“Have you been here a lengthy time, old one? How's land?”
Beef, apple-pie, cabbage, potatoes, and ham.
A man in a corner ate beef and horse-radish;
I told him I reckon'd his roads rather baddish.
“Roads?” answer'd the sage, 'twixt a croak and a squall,
“I guess we had rather have no roads at all.
“When first they were dug, we were mightily roil'd,
“The president's sport, I remember, we spoil'd:
“We bore off his fagots, hand-barrow, and clay,
“And took off by night what he laid on by day.
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“You're strange in these parts; a new salt-water chap:
“Where d'ye keep? What a face! Oh, it is not yet tann'd;
“Have you been here a lengthy time, old one? How's land?”
These questions, I own, made me simper and stammer:
I wish you would let me have Cobbett on Grammar:
He lived in Long Island, and surely must teach
The English America's eight parts of speech.
Do send it me soon, for I feel at a loss ere I
Dive in that patriot's Columbian glossary.
I wish you would let me have Cobbett on Grammar:
He lived in Long Island, and surely must teach
The English America's eight parts of speech.
Do send it me soon, for I feel at a loss ere I
Dive in that patriot's Columbian glossary.
For want of that key, how I sigh when I miss
The wit that is lock'd up in caskets like this—
“What's your daughter's name?”—“Jane.”—“Have you din'd?”—“Yes, a craw full.”
“I've an item of that.”—“Ay?”—“I hope she's not awful.”
“Is your son his own boss?”—“Yes, he keeps by that hedge.”
“How's his health?”—“Mighty grand, and his spirits are kedge!
He bought his own store by an elegant trick,
At a lag.”—“How's his bus'ness?”—“Progressively slick.”
“Tom's done up, I guess; but he wa'n't much to blame.”
“How's Billy?”—“Clear'd out.”—“What an almighty shame!”
“I'll bet you a cent. he recovers his station.”
“Guess how much he owes me?”—“Ten dollars?”—“Tarnation!”
“My tea is too weak: I am never so spry
“As when I've a raft of good tea.”—“No, nor I.”
“Ma'am, where does your young one hang out?”—“Doctor Tebb's.
“They put him last week in his abbs and his ebbs.
“They say the young shaver has got 'em by heart.”
“Then he takes to his learning?”—“Yes, awfully smart.”
The wit that is lock'd up in caskets like this—
“What's your daughter's name?”—“Jane.”—“Have you din'd?”—“Yes, a craw full.”
“I've an item of that.”—“Ay?”—“I hope she's not awful.”
“Is your son his own boss?”—“Yes, he keeps by that hedge.”
“How's his health?”—“Mighty grand, and his spirits are kedge!
He bought his own store by an elegant trick,
At a lag.”—“How's his bus'ness?”—“Progressively slick.”
“Tom's done up, I guess; but he wa'n't much to blame.”
“How's Billy?”—“Clear'd out.”—“What an almighty shame!”
132
“Guess how much he owes me?”—“Ten dollars?”—“Tarnation!”
“My tea is too weak: I am never so spry
“As when I've a raft of good tea.”—“No, nor I.”
“Ma'am, where does your young one hang out?”—“Doctor Tebb's.
“They put him last week in his abbs and his ebbs.
“They say the young shaver has got 'em by heart.”
“Then he takes to his learning?”—“Yes, awfully smart.”
What a pity it is, that you poor British caitiffs
Don't learn how to talk of our elegant natives.
These flowers of speech, and these graces of style,
Have not yet cross'd o'er to your desolate isle.
Deprived of a tutor to point out the wit
Of these spritely sallies, dumb-founded I sit,
Like a Tooley-street clerk in the Opera pit!
Up and down, at an inn, while the mercantile throng
Are stretching their legs, (much already too long,)
Like a cork in a mill-dam, I bibbety-bob it,
Without mast or rudder; so pray send me Cobbett.
Don't learn how to talk of our elegant natives.
These flowers of speech, and these graces of style,
Have not yet cross'd o'er to your desolate isle.
Deprived of a tutor to point out the wit
Of these spritely sallies, dumb-founded I sit,
Like a Tooley-street clerk in the Opera pit!
Up and down, at an inn, while the mercantile throng
Are stretching their legs, (much already too long,)
Like a cork in a mill-dam, I bibbety-bob it,
Without mast or rudder; so pray send me Cobbett.
You say that you're thinking to emigrate too,
And ask me to tell you what course to pursue;
I'll answer your question by questioning you.
But, Jerry, I pray, while you take, keep a hint;
I'm ruin'd if ever it gets into print.
And ask me to tell you what course to pursue;
I'll answer your question by questioning you.
But, Jerry, I pray, while you take, keep a hint;
I'm ruin'd if ever it gets into print.
Can you ride in a cart when the weather is foggy?
Can you get, every night, not quite tipsy, but groggy?
If wet, at the fire of an inn can you flit
Round and round, to get dry, like a goose on a spit?
In telling a tale can you ponder and prose?
Can you spit thro' your teeth? Can you talk thro' your nose?
Can you sit out the second-hand tragical fury
Of emigrant players, discarded from Drury?
Can you place Poet Barlow above Poet Pope?
Can you wash, at an inn, without towel or soap?
Can you shut either eye to political knavery?
Can you make your white liberty mix with black slavery?
Can you spit on the carpet and smoke a cigar?
If not, my dear Jeremy, stay where you are?
Can you get, every night, not quite tipsy, but groggy?
133
Round and round, to get dry, like a goose on a spit?
In telling a tale can you ponder and prose?
Can you spit thro' your teeth? Can you talk thro' your nose?
Can you sit out the second-hand tragical fury
Of emigrant players, discarded from Drury?
Can you place Poet Barlow above Poet Pope?
Can you wash, at an inn, without towel or soap?
Can you shut either eye to political knavery?
Can you make your white liberty mix with black slavery?
Can you spit on the carpet and smoke a cigar?
If not, my dear Jeremy, stay where you are?
Letter VI. MISS SABRINA BARROW TO MISS FANNY FADE.
Reminiscences of Ring-dropping.—“Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras.”—Lady Harriet Butler and Miss Ponsonby.—Emperor Charles.—Invocations to American Independence.—Bohea and Souchong—Generals Washington and Burgoyne.—Niagara.— Lord Cornwallis.—Colossus at Rhodes.—American Authors.— Mr. Southey's Fingers.—Belzoni in a Boat.—The Bonassus.— Titans in Type.—Eastbourne and Kirk, booksellers.—Parr's Wig.—Liberty Hall.—Literature neat as imported.—London Booksellers.—Poets at Wapping.
My gentle copartner, astride on a Muse,
To charge Phœbus' heights at the head of the Blues;
Who, with thy Sabrina, the beaten church path,
A summer at Brighton, a winter at Bath,
An autumn at Tunbridge, ring-tilting, hast trod,
By the will-o-'wisp light of the torch-bearing god:
Since suitors more sparingly tap at our windows,
And Cupid cares for us no more than a pin does,
And man, fickle man, is as false as Iscariot:
Let me be Miss Ponsonby, thee Lady Harriet:
Like them, fly from Paphos, its scandals and snarls,
Abjuring two crowns, like the Emperor Charles,
And smile, like two mariners tost upon dry land—
But first read this letter; it comes from York Island.
To charge Phœbus' heights at the head of the Blues;
134
A summer at Brighton, a winter at Bath,
An autumn at Tunbridge, ring-tilting, hast trod,
By the will-o-'wisp light of the torch-bearing god:
Since suitors more sparingly tap at our windows,
And Cupid cares for us no more than a pin does,
And man, fickle man, is as false as Iscariot:
Let me be Miss Ponsonby, thee Lady Harriet:
Like them, fly from Paphos, its scandals and snarls,
Abjuring two crowns, like the Emperor Charles,
And smile, like two mariners tost upon dry land—
But first read this letter; it comes from York Island.
The first thing I did, at New York, was to stop
At the door of a well-looking bookseller's shop.
“O realm!” I exclaim'd to myself, “proudly free,
Who, in seventy-five, spurn'd the tax on bohea,
Who, led on by Washington, sounded the gong
Of Mars, with the war-cry of ‘Death or souchong!’
Who plus in adversity, minus in coin,
Yet caught in a trap the redoubted Burgoyne,
Bade loud Niagara repeat war's alarms,
And forced Lord Cornwallis to lay down his arms.
Now striding o'er seas, like the giant of Rhodes,
Of whom there's a very good likeness at Coade's,
In arts, as in arms, thou art doubtless full grown,
And happy in verse and in prose of thine own.
Some females are thine, who, with quill fleet as Gurney's,
Out-publish our Edgeworths, and Opies, and Burneys;
Some western Sir Walters, some quakers in drab,
Who write home-heroics much better than Crabbe;
Some Southeys whose fingers no blisters environ,
Not having yet handled a red-hot Lord Byron;
Some Anna Marias, like her of Thames Ditton:
I wonder their names never reach'd us in Britain.
Ye bards, who stalk over these mountainous glebes,
With heads twice as big as young Memnon's at Thebes,
(Which cost brave Belzoni, who went in a boat,
Such trouble and money to set it afloat:)
Ye poets, whose Pegasi galloping pass us,
As big and as bluff as the London Bonassus:
Ye Brobdignags, trampling our Lilliput tribes,
Atlantic sky-proppers, Leviathan scribes,
Goliahs in print; how I long for your works”—
So saying, I stept into Eastbourne and Kirk's.
At the door of a well-looking bookseller's shop.
“O realm!” I exclaim'd to myself, “proudly free,
Who, in seventy-five, spurn'd the tax on bohea,
Who, led on by Washington, sounded the gong
Of Mars, with the war-cry of ‘Death or souchong!’
Who plus in adversity, minus in coin,
Yet caught in a trap the redoubted Burgoyne,
Bade loud Niagara repeat war's alarms,
And forced Lord Cornwallis to lay down his arms.
Now striding o'er seas, like the giant of Rhodes,
Of whom there's a very good likeness at Coade's,
In arts, as in arms, thou art doubtless full grown,
And happy in verse and in prose of thine own.
Some females are thine, who, with quill fleet as Gurney's,
Out-publish our Edgeworths, and Opies, and Burneys;
Some western Sir Walters, some quakers in drab,
Who write home-heroics much better than Crabbe;
135
Not having yet handled a red-hot Lord Byron;
Some Anna Marias, like her of Thames Ditton:
I wonder their names never reach'd us in Britain.
Ye bards, who stalk over these mountainous glebes,
With heads twice as big as young Memnon's at Thebes,
(Which cost brave Belzoni, who went in a boat,
Such trouble and money to set it afloat:)
Ye poets, whose Pegasi galloping pass us,
As big and as bluff as the London Bonassus:
Ye Brobdignags, trampling our Lilliput tribes,
Atlantic sky-proppers, Leviathan scribes,
Goliahs in print; how I long for your works”—
So saying, I stept into Eastbourne and Kirk's.
The man of the shop, in a buzz wig like Parr's,
Sat kicking the counter and smoking cigars:
He saw us approach, with a gape and a stare,
But never once offer'd to reach me a chair.
Papa, as astonish'd I drew on my shawl,
Said, “Never mind, child, this is Liberty-hall.”
To all my objections this hint put a stop:
But, Fanny, the next time I go to a shop,
With Liberty parlour I mean to make bold,
For Liberty-hall is uncommonly cold.
I civilly said, “If you please, Mr. Kirk,
I want some good native American work.”
“Good native!” he cried with a grin, “yonder rows,
I guess, show you all I have got; look at those.”
I felt as amaz'd, when I look'd at their backs,
As if you had chopp'd off my head with an axe!
Ye Colburns, ye Murrays, whose wares glide so fleet
From your counters in Marlbro' and Albemarle Street;
Ye Rivington brothers, ye Longmans, whose Co.
Would reach, if pull'd out, half the length of “the Row,”
Suspend for a while, what ye part with at high rates,
Your Sardanapali, your Cains, and your Pirates,
And list, while my muse is obliged to confess
What springs from this native American press.
The Shipwreck by Falconer, Poems by Tickell,
Swift's Lemuel Gulliver, Peregrine Pickle,
Tom Brown, The Old Bachelor, Brodum on Chyle,
Moll Flanders, Charles Phillips's Emerald Isle,
Hugh Trevor, Theatrical Album, Tighe's Psyche,
The Bruiser, or Memoirs of Pig, christened Ei Key,
Little Jack, George Ann Bellamy, Fielding's Tom Jones,
The Family Shakspeare cut down from Malone's;
Hunt's Radical Coffee, or Dregs at the Top,
Webbe Hall's Hint to Farmers to look to their crop,
John Bunyan, Wat Tyler, and Hone's Slap at Slop!
Sat kicking the counter and smoking cigars:
He saw us approach, with a gape and a stare,
But never once offer'd to reach me a chair.
Papa, as astonish'd I drew on my shawl,
Said, “Never mind, child, this is Liberty-hall.”
To all my objections this hint put a stop:
But, Fanny, the next time I go to a shop,
With Liberty parlour I mean to make bold,
For Liberty-hall is uncommonly cold.
I civilly said, “If you please, Mr. Kirk,
I want some good native American work.”
“Good native!” he cried with a grin, “yonder rows,
I guess, show you all I have got; look at those.”
I felt as amaz'd, when I look'd at their backs,
As if you had chopp'd off my head with an axe!
136
From your counters in Marlbro' and Albemarle Street;
Ye Rivington brothers, ye Longmans, whose Co.
Would reach, if pull'd out, half the length of “the Row,”
Suspend for a while, what ye part with at high rates,
Your Sardanapali, your Cains, and your Pirates,
And list, while my muse is obliged to confess
What springs from this native American press.
The Shipwreck by Falconer, Poems by Tickell,
Swift's Lemuel Gulliver, Peregrine Pickle,
Tom Brown, The Old Bachelor, Brodum on Chyle,
Moll Flanders, Charles Phillips's Emerald Isle,
Hugh Trevor, Theatrical Album, Tighe's Psyche,
The Bruiser, or Memoirs of Pig, christened Ei Key,
Little Jack, George Ann Bellamy, Fielding's Tom Jones,
The Family Shakspeare cut down from Malone's;
Hunt's Radical Coffee, or Dregs at the Top,
Webbe Hall's Hint to Farmers to look to their crop,
John Bunyan, Wat Tyler, and Hone's Slap at Slop!
“What!” cried I amazed, “have you no bards who court
The muse?”—“No, not one; what we want we import.
At present we think of pounds, shillings, and pence,
Time enough for belles lettres a hundred years hence:
Our people, I guess, have employment enough
In cocoa, rum, cotton, tobacco, and snuff,
In digging, land-clearing, board-sawing, log-chopping—
Pray how many poets have you got at Wapping?”
The muse?”—“No, not one; what we want we import.
At present we think of pounds, shillings, and pence,
Time enough for belles lettres a hundred years hence:
Our people, I guess, have employment enough
In cocoa, rum, cotton, tobacco, and snuff,
In digging, land-clearing, board-sawing, log-chopping—
Pray how many poets have you got at Wapping?”
137
But papa is come home from the city hotel,
And asks for Sabrina; so, Fanny, farewell!
And asks for Sabrina; so, Fanny, farewell!
S.B.
LETTER VII. MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS.
Farther Specimens of Fancy Rhetoric—America angry, and why —Affecting Memoir of Major André—Tom Pipes and Peregrine Pickle—Disinterment of Paine by Cobbett—Quotation from King Lear—Bystanders in dudgeon—Cobbett's Reasons satisfactory—The Tyrant Mezentius—Fashion spreads—London Radicals disinter each other—American Tax upon Gravedigging—Its financial Effects.
Bob, Jonathan's queer: he is mizzled a ration,
He does not half stomach a late exhumation;
Some culls, here, have taken to grubbing the clay
That tucks up the body of Major André.
With you resurrectionists, that is not very
Unusual, who dig up as fast as you bury,
And charge iron coffins the devil's own fee—
(Lord Stowel there buried the poor Patentee,)
But here, Bob, the gabies have not come to that.
Would you fancy it? Jonathan 's yet such a flat
As to think, when a corpse has been waked by a train
Of mourners, 'tis wicked to wake it again.
He does not half stomach a late exhumation;
Some culls, here, have taken to grubbing the clay
That tucks up the body of Major André.
With you resurrectionists, that is not very
Unusual, who dig up as fast as you bury,
And charge iron coffins the devil's own fee—
(Lord Stowel there buried the poor Patentee,)
But here, Bob, the gabies have not come to that.
Would you fancy it? Jonathan 's yet such a flat
As to think, when a corpse has been waked by a train
Of mourners, 'tis wicked to wake it again.
Methinks you 're for asking me who André was?
(Book-learning and you, Bob, arn't cronies, that 's pos.)
I'll tell you, André, urged by arguments weighty,
Went out to New York Anno Domini 80.
He quitted the land of his fathers to bleed
In war, all along of his love for Miss Sneyd;
But, finding his name not enroll'd in a high line
Of rank for promotion, he took to the Spy-line.
He sew'd in his stocking a letter from Arnold:
A sentinel nabb'd it—why didn't the darn hold?
Or why, when he stitch'd it up, did not he put
The letter between his sole-leather and foot!
By mashing it, then, he had 'scaped all disaster,
As Pipes mash'd the letter of Pickle his master.
Within the lines taken, a prisoner brought off,
They troubled him with a line more than he thought of;
For, finding the young man's despatches not trim,
To shorten my story, Bob, they despatch'd him.
(Book-learning and you, Bob, arn't cronies, that 's pos.)
I'll tell you, André, urged by arguments weighty,
Went out to New York Anno Domini 80.
138
In war, all along of his love for Miss Sneyd;
But, finding his name not enroll'd in a high line
Of rank for promotion, he took to the Spy-line.
He sew'd in his stocking a letter from Arnold:
A sentinel nabb'd it—why didn't the darn hold?
Or why, when he stitch'd it up, did not he put
The letter between his sole-leather and foot!
By mashing it, then, he had 'scaped all disaster,
As Pipes mash'd the letter of Pickle his master.
Within the lines taken, a prisoner brought off,
They troubled him with a line more than he thought of;
For, finding the young man's despatches not trim,
To shorten my story, Bob, they despatch'd him.
He long might have slept—with the ci-devant crew,
As soundly as here other buried men do;
But fashion, as somebody says on the stage,
In words and in periwigs will have her rage.
The notion of bringing dead people away
Began upon Paine, and went on to André;
The Yankees thought Cobbett was digging for dibs,
But when out he trundled a thigh-bone and ribs,
They did not half like it; and cried with a groan,
“Since poor Tom's a-cold, why not leave him alone?”
“I mean, Sirs,” said Cobbett, who stood on the bank,
“To take Mister Paine, in a box, to Sir Frank;
'Twill show that I'm not quite unworthy of trust
For this way, at least, I can down with the dust.
I next mean to ask of ‘The Powers that be,’
To let Tom go home, as he fled, duty-free,
And pick John Bull's heart by a skeleton key.
Thus England may for her past errors atone,
By making America bone of her bone.”
This argument told; cheek-by-jowl off they sped,
Like the friends of Mezentius, one living, one dead.
As soundly as here other buried men do;
But fashion, as somebody says on the stage,
In words and in periwigs will have her rage.
The notion of bringing dead people away
Began upon Paine, and went on to André;
The Yankees thought Cobbett was digging for dibs,
But when out he trundled a thigh-bone and ribs,
They did not half like it; and cried with a groan,
“Since poor Tom's a-cold, why not leave him alone?”
“I mean, Sirs,” said Cobbett, who stood on the bank,
“To take Mister Paine, in a box, to Sir Frank;
'Twill show that I'm not quite unworthy of trust
For this way, at least, I can down with the dust.
I next mean to ask of ‘The Powers that be,’
To let Tom go home, as he fled, duty-free,
And pick John Bull's heart by a skeleton key.
139
By making America bone of her bone.”
This argument told; cheek-by-jowl off they sped,
Like the friends of Mezentius, one living, one dead.
The Fashion's afloat; and now, stop it who can!
Your Liberty-bucks will be boned to a man.
Already young Watson's for digging up Priestley,—
Which Sabby and Lyddy denominate beastly,
Sir Bob, of the Borough, has learnt the spade's art right,
To dig up, at Midsummer, old Major Cartwright.
How sharp after Waithman looks Alderman Wood!
And Waithman, I know, would have Wood if he could.
Sir Francis, at Putney, will scratch like a rook,
In the field where he doubled-up Johnny Horne Tooke.
Gale Jones has an eye to Hone's carcase, and Hone's
Quite on the qui vive for a dig at Gale Jones,
Who 's “not by no means” in a hurry to rise,
Remembering the adage—“Lie still if you 're wise.”
And Wooller, with pick-axes, cracking his shell-wall,
Will nab the quid restat of Lecturer Thelwall.
Churchyards will be 'tato-fields—two-pence a pound;
They won't leave a radical plant under ground.
For my part, I don't like the scheme, Mr. Briggs,
I'll tell it to Congress; I will, please the pigs.
To men of my gumption, you can't think how sad's
The thought of this grand resurrection of Rads;
For if all the great dead-wigs thus bolt from below,
Who knows what may happen when you and I go?
Your Liberty-bucks will be boned to a man.
Already young Watson's for digging up Priestley,—
Which Sabby and Lyddy denominate beastly,
Sir Bob, of the Borough, has learnt the spade's art right,
To dig up, at Midsummer, old Major Cartwright.
How sharp after Waithman looks Alderman Wood!
And Waithman, I know, would have Wood if he could.
Sir Francis, at Putney, will scratch like a rook,
In the field where he doubled-up Johnny Horne Tooke.
Gale Jones has an eye to Hone's carcase, and Hone's
Quite on the qui vive for a dig at Gale Jones,
Who 's “not by no means” in a hurry to rise,
Remembering the adage—“Lie still if you 're wise.”
And Wooller, with pick-axes, cracking his shell-wall,
Will nab the quid restat of Lecturer Thelwall.
Churchyards will be 'tato-fields—two-pence a pound;
They won't leave a radical plant under ground.
For my part, I don't like the scheme, Mr. Briggs,
I'll tell it to Congress; I will, please the pigs.
To men of my gumption, you can't think how sad's
The thought of this grand resurrection of Rads;
For if all the great dead-wigs thus bolt from below,
Who knows what may happen when you and I go?
I'll prove that a tax upon bones will atone
For the tax on new rum, at a dollar a bone.
Nay, I hope they'll extend it to mattock and spade,
And make resurrection a contraband trade.
The Act, when once past by Dick Barrow's assistance,
Will make you rum customers “keep your yard's distance,”
From live or dead nuisances keep the coast clear,
And dub it “not lawful to shoot rubbish here.”
For the tax on new rum, at a dollar a bone.
140
And make resurrection a contraband trade.
The Act, when once past by Dick Barrow's assistance,
Will make you rum customers “keep your yard's distance,”
From live or dead nuisances keep the coast clear,
And dub it “not lawful to shoot rubbish here.”
R. B.
LETTER VIII. MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN.
Reminiscence of White Conduit House—Islington Wells versus Tunbridge—Sir Solomon's Song—Hugh Middleton and John Gilpin—Cowper and the New River Company—Bentham, Buonaparte, And Accum—Lydia turns Reformer—American Ladies dancing Moneymusk—They mistake James Paine for Tom— Episodical Eulogy of the former—Ball at City Hotel, New York—“All honourable Men”—Bear and Fiddle.
Dear Kate, you remember Sir Solomon Souse,
Who gave the tea-party at White Conduit House;
And swore, while we sat in the box of Apollo,
That Islington waters beat Tunbridge Wells hollow.
Papa, he, and we, leaving others to bowl,
Walk'd out, toward the Wells, just by way of a stroll;
He stopp'd us all three at the Middleton's Head,
Then pointed aloft to the sign-post, and said,
“The hooded old man, who is swinging up there,
Set off, spade in hand, and took water to Ware:
As Hercules valiant, he treated with scorn
Dame Prudence, and took River Thames by the horn.
John Gilpin, the Cit, who in calico dealt,
And rode with two full bottles under his belt,
Set off, whip in hand, in old Middleton's rear,
But kept the Cheap-side, where the Knight kept the dear.
Both wild-goose adventurers, equally rash,
The Cit lost his dinner, the Knight lost his cash;
Will Cowper got many a pound by the first,
The last has in gold quench'd the Company's thirst,
Who now gain a hundred per cent. by his wealth,
And don't even drink in the water his health.
'Tis thus that projectors the game always give in,
And fools run up houses—for wise men to live in.
See sail to the Wells yonder pleasure-bound crew,
All talk of Grimaldi, none think of Sir Hugh.
Friend Barrow, take warning; keep snug in the storm;
Cajole men and welcome; but never reform;
With Bentham bewilder, with Buonaparte frighten,
With Accum astonish; do all but enlighten;
Who aims at enlightening, only out-doles
An ophthalmic drug to a nation of moles.”
Who gave the tea-party at White Conduit House;
And swore, while we sat in the box of Apollo,
That Islington waters beat Tunbridge Wells hollow.
Papa, he, and we, leaving others to bowl,
Walk'd out, toward the Wells, just by way of a stroll;
He stopp'd us all three at the Middleton's Head,
Then pointed aloft to the sign-post, and said,
“The hooded old man, who is swinging up there,
Set off, spade in hand, and took water to Ware:
As Hercules valiant, he treated with scorn
Dame Prudence, and took River Thames by the horn.
141
And rode with two full bottles under his belt,
Set off, whip in hand, in old Middleton's rear,
But kept the Cheap-side, where the Knight kept the dear.
Both wild-goose adventurers, equally rash,
The Cit lost his dinner, the Knight lost his cash;
Will Cowper got many a pound by the first,
The last has in gold quench'd the Company's thirst,
Who now gain a hundred per cent. by his wealth,
And don't even drink in the water his health.
'Tis thus that projectors the game always give in,
And fools run up houses—for wise men to live in.
See sail to the Wells yonder pleasure-bound crew,
All talk of Grimaldi, none think of Sir Hugh.
Friend Barrow, take warning; keep snug in the storm;
Cajole men and welcome; but never reform;
With Bentham bewilder, with Buonaparte frighten,
With Accum astonish; do all but enlighten;
Who aims at enlightening, only out-doles
An ophthalmic drug to a nation of moles.”
This sermon, like most other sermons, dear Kitty,
Went bolt through both ears of papa—more's the pity!
With politics still he would make his old fuss,
And settling the nation, he unsettled us;
For, deeming long parliaments snares to entrap 'em,
He made us put up with short commons at Clapham.
Went bolt through both ears of papa—more's the pity!
With politics still he would make his old fuss,
And settling the nation, he unsettled us;
For, deeming long parliaments snares to entrap 'em,
He made us put up with short commons at Clapham.
Popt down in my Album, Sir Solomon's song,
Slept sound as a sexton, and might have slept long;
But lately I've taken it down from the shelf
To read, for—I'm turning Reformer myself!
Nay, don't cry “Lord bless us!”—I don't mean to roar
'Gainst cradle cotillons, like Miss Hannah More,
Nor leave my own fish by Grimalkin to die,
To dress other people's, like good Mrs. Fry.
I leave hearts and heads to Reformers like those,
I only, dear girl, revolutionize toes.
Kitty Brown, would you think it? I don't say the fault's in
Themselves; but the girls here know nothing of waltzing.
I found them in Moneymusk kicking their heels,
And when I named Paine, and his set of Quadrilles,
(I wonder what planet some people come from,)
The poor ignoramusses thought I meant Tom.
How could, gentle James, the New York women be
So dull as to mix that staymaker with thee?
What though Brother Richard, as usual, out-plumps
A pun, and declares that you both deal in Jumps—
Shalt thou, who 'midst negus and tapers of wax,
Art christen'd, par excellence, Paine of Almack's;
Who set, to an entre-chat—La ci la mano,
And jigg'd the dead march on an open piano—
Shalt thou be mix'd up with that infidel Turk,
Who scribbled a pamphlet in answer to Burke?
Let White print his rival La Poule and Trenise,
And dedicate humbly to Mrs. Charles Rees;
Let Hart, like Phil Astley, make horses turn dancers,
And play Zitti Zitti to Hussars and Lancers.
Fear nothing; cut capers; be frisky and merry;
Not even Musard, with his Duchesse de Berry,
His Traversez, chassez, dechassez, La Chaine,
Shall push from the music-stand gentle James Paine.
Long, long shalt thou flourish, the King of Quadrilles,
And when, over Styx, 'midst the virtuous of heels,
Thou 'rt borne to the meadows Elysian, with you
The daughter of Ceres shall dance a pas deux;
While Hermes shall lend you his feather-bound shoes,
And whirl you to bliss in a Russian sauteuse.
Slept sound as a sexton, and might have slept long;
But lately I've taken it down from the shelf
To read, for—I'm turning Reformer myself!
142
'Gainst cradle cotillons, like Miss Hannah More,
Nor leave my own fish by Grimalkin to die,
To dress other people's, like good Mrs. Fry.
I leave hearts and heads to Reformers like those,
I only, dear girl, revolutionize toes.
Kitty Brown, would you think it? I don't say the fault's in
Themselves; but the girls here know nothing of waltzing.
I found them in Moneymusk kicking their heels,
And when I named Paine, and his set of Quadrilles,
(I wonder what planet some people come from,)
The poor ignoramusses thought I meant Tom.
How could, gentle James, the New York women be
So dull as to mix that staymaker with thee?
What though Brother Richard, as usual, out-plumps
A pun, and declares that you both deal in Jumps—
Shalt thou, who 'midst negus and tapers of wax,
Art christen'd, par excellence, Paine of Almack's;
Who set, to an entre-chat—La ci la mano,
And jigg'd the dead march on an open piano—
Shalt thou be mix'd up with that infidel Turk,
Who scribbled a pamphlet in answer to Burke?
Let White print his rival La Poule and Trenise,
And dedicate humbly to Mrs. Charles Rees;
Let Hart, like Phil Astley, make horses turn dancers,
And play Zitti Zitti to Hussars and Lancers.
Fear nothing; cut capers; be frisky and merry;
Not even Musard, with his Duchesse de Berry,
His Traversez, chassez, dechassez, La Chaine,
Shall push from the music-stand gentle James Paine.
143
And when, over Styx, 'midst the virtuous of heels,
Thou 'rt borne to the meadows Elysian, with you
The daughter of Ceres shall dance a pas deux;
While Hermes shall lend you his feather-bound shoes,
And whirl you to bliss in a Russian sauteuse.
And now, my dear Kate, for the best news of all;
We have worried papa into giving a ball.
As soon as he squeez'd out a sad “Very well,”
Dick hired the rooms at the City Hotel.
We danced until midnight on Saturday last,
And, spite of a headach, I'll tell you what pass'd.
The Natives, who came about half-after eight,
Were duly announced by their titles of State.
Their Honours Mat Mite and Aminadab Mum,
The one dealt in cheese, and the other in Rum.
His Honour Ben Block, who contracts with the Fleet,
And keeps a mahogany yard in State-street;
His Honour Luke Lambert, a huge lump of clay,
Who luckily happens to live in Broadway.
They all seem'd amazingly shy of plain Mister,
Which made Brother Richard observe to my sister,
That though they hate titles as much as O'Connor,
They cling like a leech to the sound of “Your Honour.”
And now for my dress—but my paper's scrawl'd through,
So no more at present.—Dear Kitty, adieu!
We have worried papa into giving a ball.
As soon as he squeez'd out a sad “Very well,”
Dick hired the rooms at the City Hotel.
We danced until midnight on Saturday last,
And, spite of a headach, I'll tell you what pass'd.
The Natives, who came about half-after eight,
Were duly announced by their titles of State.
Their Honours Mat Mite and Aminadab Mum,
The one dealt in cheese, and the other in Rum.
His Honour Ben Block, who contracts with the Fleet,
And keeps a mahogany yard in State-street;
His Honour Luke Lambert, a huge lump of clay,
Who luckily happens to live in Broadway.
They all seem'd amazingly shy of plain Mister,
Which made Brother Richard observe to my sister,
That though they hate titles as much as O'Connor,
They cling like a leech to the sound of “Your Honour.”
And now for my dress—but my paper's scrawl'd through,
So no more at present.—Dear Kitty, adieu!
L. B.
144
LETTER IX. MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN.
Delineation of a Ball-Room French Dress—Essay on Hair-dressing—Miss Kelly and Miss Foote—The Temple of Janus—Lydia with two faces—Consternation occasioned by her French Dress—High Blood—The Macheaths, the Lockets, and the Dawsons—Waltzing Catastrophes.
My dress—you'd be vex'd if I did not put that in—
My dress was a round skirt, of gossamer satin;
With one row of Builloné next to the hem,
Its colour the blush of Golconda's dark gem.
Ten yards of red ribbon were pucker'd in bows,
In space equi-distant, like soldiers in rows;
The bows had short endings with rich silver tips,
In all twenty-eight, with three more at the hips.
But Fashion would dub me insane, did I miss
To bring to your view my corsage-à-la-Suisse.
'Twas velvet in substance, in hue the true ruby,
Which many attempt to procure, and but few buy.
This match'd, like two peas, with the white satin sleeves
Whose Valenciennes lace was adjusted in creves.
My hair was remarkably killing, with posies
Of Coquillicot ribbon, like full-blowing roses:
Not frizz'd, poodle-fashion, like Madame Corelli's,
Not tied in three pig-tails, like Miss Fanny Kelly's:—
'Twas dress'd at the poll just the same as the forehead—
Miss Foote set the fashion: papa calls it horrid.
He says, in that “right-about-face” mode to stir,
Is all might well in a beauty like her;
But my pretty bald pate to agony stirs him,
He swears it will hook in no lover but Spurzheim:—
While Richard, as saucy as Coriolanus,
Has nick-named my temple the temple of Janus.
With my necklace Diogenes' self could not quarrel,
For that, with the ear-rings and cross, were plain coral.
By criss-cross white ribbon my instep was hid;
My shoes were white satin, my gloves were white kid.
Including the sarsnet, with honeycomb flounces,
The whole of my dress weigh'd exactly three ounces.
Thus, graced by thy genius, divine Mrs. Bell,
I entered the ball at the City hotel.
My dress was a round skirt, of gossamer satin;
With one row of Builloné next to the hem,
Its colour the blush of Golconda's dark gem.
Ten yards of red ribbon were pucker'd in bows,
In space equi-distant, like soldiers in rows;
The bows had short endings with rich silver tips,
In all twenty-eight, with three more at the hips.
But Fashion would dub me insane, did I miss
To bring to your view my corsage-à-la-Suisse.
'Twas velvet in substance, in hue the true ruby,
Which many attempt to procure, and but few buy.
This match'd, like two peas, with the white satin sleeves
Whose Valenciennes lace was adjusted in creves.
My hair was remarkably killing, with posies
Of Coquillicot ribbon, like full-blowing roses:
Not frizz'd, poodle-fashion, like Madame Corelli's,
Not tied in three pig-tails, like Miss Fanny Kelly's:—
'Twas dress'd at the poll just the same as the forehead—
Miss Foote set the fashion: papa calls it horrid.
He says, in that “right-about-face” mode to stir,
Is all might well in a beauty like her;
145
He swears it will hook in no lover but Spurzheim:—
While Richard, as saucy as Coriolanus,
Has nick-named my temple the temple of Janus.
With my necklace Diogenes' self could not quarrel,
For that, with the ear-rings and cross, were plain coral.
By criss-cross white ribbon my instep was hid;
My shoes were white satin, my gloves were white kid.
Including the sarsnet, with honeycomb flounces,
The whole of my dress weigh'd exactly three ounces.
Thus, graced by thy genius, divine Mrs. Bell,
I entered the ball at the City hotel.
Conceive—what your Liddy wants words to express—
The gape and the stare at my beautiful dress!
His Honour Mat Mite, with a tooth like a tusk,
Who just then was kicking poor old Money musk,
Stood fix'd, with his partner, Miss Firkin, from Bristol,
As if he and she had been shot with a pistol.
Miss Dawson, who led down the middle so far,
That her motion had more of the comet than star,
(While Lambert, her partner, made all the house rock,)
Sat down on a form to recover the shock.
The folks, I should tell you, were tip-tops, high mettlers,
And traced their descent from original settlers.
Their family trees, without mildew or blight,
Were planted ere Botany Bay saw the light.
A lady in blue, with a reticule pocket,
A great great grand-daughter of Gay's Lucy Locket,
Stood first in the set; and, with black and white teeth,
The girl next to her was Miss Sally Macheath:
And next, in a necklace of coral, stood Zoë,
The copper descendant of Prince Po-wee-to-wee.
The fourth, and the smartest of all, to my fancy,
Was foresaid Miss Dawson, descended from Nancy.
“Won't you dance?” said red Zoë, with courteous advances;
While Richard and I answer'd, “Not country-dances:
On them we decidedly turn our two backs:—
Quadrilles are the only things done at Almack's.”
“Quadrilles,” cried Miss Dawson, we'll dance by and by:
I guess that we dance them progressingly spry.”
The gape and the stare at my beautiful dress!
His Honour Mat Mite, with a tooth like a tusk,
Who just then was kicking poor old Money musk,
Stood fix'd, with his partner, Miss Firkin, from Bristol,
As if he and she had been shot with a pistol.
Miss Dawson, who led down the middle so far,
That her motion had more of the comet than star,
(While Lambert, her partner, made all the house rock,)
Sat down on a form to recover the shock.
The folks, I should tell you, were tip-tops, high mettlers,
And traced their descent from original settlers.
Their family trees, without mildew or blight,
Were planted ere Botany Bay saw the light.
A lady in blue, with a reticule pocket,
A great great grand-daughter of Gay's Lucy Locket,
Stood first in the set; and, with black and white teeth,
The girl next to her was Miss Sally Macheath:
And next, in a necklace of coral, stood Zoë,
146
The fourth, and the smartest of all, to my fancy,
Was foresaid Miss Dawson, descended from Nancy.
“Won't you dance?” said red Zoë, with courteous advances;
While Richard and I answer'd, “Not country-dances:
On them we decidedly turn our two backs:—
Quadrilles are the only things done at Almack's.”
“Quadrilles,” cried Miss Dawson, we'll dance by and by:
I guess that we dance them progressingly spry.”
But oh, let no novice Miss Dawson put trust in!
The waltz we began with was Lieber Augustin.
First, Richard and I, like a proper-taught pair,
Whirl'd round in quick time, clearing sofa and chair:
One hand firmly grappled his shoulder, the other
Hung gracefully down, far apart from my brother.
My eyes “loved the ground,” that I might not be giddy:
How like Mercandotti spun elegant Liddy!
Thus, thrice round the ball-room, without pause or flurry,
I show'd how we managed these matters in Surrey.
Not so Miss Macheath: her eyes leering, winking,
She soon was quite giddy, and felt herself sinking.
To prop tumblers, anything serves as a handle,
So she grasp'd, at hap-hazard, a fat tallow candle.
Miss Dawson spun next, and in spinning turn'd pale,
Her fist, swinging round like a countryman's flail,
(A regular thresher!) gave Washington Read
Such a douse in the face, that it made his nose bleed.
This, joined to shin-kicking, and treading down heels,
Bade poor murder'd waltzes give place to quadrilles.
But oh, such quadrilles! such a wild hurly-burly!
Every step for the music too late or too early!
A separate Letter the remnant must tell;—
So here, for the present, I bid you farewell.
The waltz we began with was Lieber Augustin.
First, Richard and I, like a proper-taught pair,
Whirl'd round in quick time, clearing sofa and chair:
One hand firmly grappled his shoulder, the other
Hung gracefully down, far apart from my brother.
My eyes “loved the ground,” that I might not be giddy:
How like Mercandotti spun elegant Liddy!
Thus, thrice round the ball-room, without pause or flurry,
I show'd how we managed these matters in Surrey.
Not so Miss Macheath: her eyes leering, winking,
She soon was quite giddy, and felt herself sinking.
To prop tumblers, anything serves as a handle,
So she grasp'd, at hap-hazard, a fat tallow candle.
Miss Dawson spun next, and in spinning turn'd pale,
Her fist, swinging round like a countryman's flail,
(A regular thresher!) gave Washington Read
Such a douse in the face, that it made his nose bleed.
This, joined to shin-kicking, and treading down heels,
Bade poor murder'd waltzes give place to quadrilles.
147
Every step for the music too late or too early!
A separate Letter the remnant must tell;—
So here, for the present, I bid you farewell.
L.B.
LETTER X. TO MISS SABRINA BARROW TO MISS FANNY FADE.
Webb Hall on Average Crops—A Vision—Mrs. Elizabeth Carter —Tattooing among the Cherokees—Blues past and present—A Trip to Burlington-street in Medea's Car—Readings—King Lear and his Daughters—Mrs. Bartley—Baroness Baulk in the Straw—Joanna Southcote — Announcement of Visitors—Blue Babel—“Chaos come again”—Dame Carter dips into Ovid— Dragons fly back to New York—Finale from John Bunyan.
As lately I studied, in Eastbourn's back shop,
The thoughts of Webb Hall on an average crop,
The God who strews poppies wherever corn grows,
Soon rocked thy Sabrina to gentle repose;
And brought, while his pinion flagg'd heavily o'er me,
In visions, Elizabeth Carter before me,
With napkin-bound forehead, the same as of yore,
When grave Epictetus, at half-after-four,
Awaked her to study, with vigour heroic,
And do into English the mighty Greek Stoic.
“Oh! choicest,” she cried, “of Minerva's lean kine,
The foremost blue buskin that tripp'd o'er the line,
To thin this rude sheepfold of national breeders,
By founding a college of Virgin Seceders:
Compared with thy wide-wafted glory, how narrow
The honours of Cortez, Alvarez, Pizarro!
With virtue that no son of Venus can bribe,
And one bosom less than the Amazon tribe.
Secure may'st thou laugh at the loud or deep curses
Of mate-widow'd mothers and out-of-date nurses.
Spurn Hymen: read Malthus; be firm at thy post;
Live chaste as the Queen whose pre-nomen I boast,
And bear this device on thy memory's crest—
“The Blue of Columbia, the Star of the West.”
“O! virgin,” I answer'd, “I fear while I woo,
I dread while I seek this investment of Blue.
The growing-up girls in yon Cherokee nation
Are known to flinch under the blue indentation.
I dread, though I honour, the end I'm pursuing,
Pray, is it not painful to feel, like tattooing?”
“Not so,” cried the Sibyl, “no cares 'tend the vow;
It might be so once, but it isn't so now.
No more, in the regions of Blue, is a rout,
A prim semicircle of tea and turn out.
'Tis now a mere chaos, of that no ill pattern,
Assorted of yore by the first-born of Saturn.
Would you worship the Muse in her modish retreat?
Behold, to conduct us to Burlington-street,
Medea has proffer'd her dragon-drawn car.”
She spoke.—Up we mounted, and, soaring afar,
Alighted in town after ten minutes' talk,
And knock'd at the mansion of Baroness Baulk.
“A little foot-page” oped the latch with a snap,
In a livery of blue, and a chimney-pot cap.
We found by a general “Hush! hush!” from the crowd,
The first Entertainment was reading aloud!
“Come here,” said my lady, “'tis Lear and his daughter.
“James, bring Mrs. Bartley a tumbler of water.
Now, Goneril, turn the old king out of doors.”
“I can't, Ma'am.”—“What hinders you?”—“Somebody snores.”
“There! now he's awake; silent still?—What's the matter?”
“I cannot be heard—the whole street's in a clatter.”
But see, yonder wagon, that noise mayn't disturb,
Deposits ten trusses of straw on the kerb.
'Tis spread: rolling urchins their merriment lisp,
And toss to the firmament wisp after wisp.
The knocker is muffled; the gossips agree,
My lady's as lord-loving ladies would be.
Parturient at eighty! how will the town talk,—
Dame Southcote was nothing to Baroness Baulk!
The thoughts of Webb Hall on an average crop,
The God who strews poppies wherever corn grows,
Soon rocked thy Sabrina to gentle repose;
And brought, while his pinion flagg'd heavily o'er me,
In visions, Elizabeth Carter before me,
With napkin-bound forehead, the same as of yore,
When grave Epictetus, at half-after-four,
Awaked her to study, with vigour heroic,
And do into English the mighty Greek Stoic.
“Oh! choicest,” she cried, “of Minerva's lean kine,
The foremost blue buskin that tripp'd o'er the line,
To thin this rude sheepfold of national breeders,
By founding a college of Virgin Seceders:
148
The honours of Cortez, Alvarez, Pizarro!
With virtue that no son of Venus can bribe,
And one bosom less than the Amazon tribe.
Secure may'st thou laugh at the loud or deep curses
Of mate-widow'd mothers and out-of-date nurses.
Spurn Hymen: read Malthus; be firm at thy post;
Live chaste as the Queen whose pre-nomen I boast,
And bear this device on thy memory's crest—
“The Blue of Columbia, the Star of the West.”
“O! virgin,” I answer'd, “I fear while I woo,
I dread while I seek this investment of Blue.
The growing-up girls in yon Cherokee nation
Are known to flinch under the blue indentation.
I dread, though I honour, the end I'm pursuing,
Pray, is it not painful to feel, like tattooing?”
“Not so,” cried the Sibyl, “no cares 'tend the vow;
It might be so once, but it isn't so now.
No more, in the regions of Blue, is a rout,
A prim semicircle of tea and turn out.
'Tis now a mere chaos, of that no ill pattern,
Assorted of yore by the first-born of Saturn.
Would you worship the Muse in her modish retreat?
Behold, to conduct us to Burlington-street,
Medea has proffer'd her dragon-drawn car.”
She spoke.—Up we mounted, and, soaring afar,
Alighted in town after ten minutes' talk,
And knock'd at the mansion of Baroness Baulk.
“A little foot-page” oped the latch with a snap,
In a livery of blue, and a chimney-pot cap.
We found by a general “Hush! hush!” from the crowd,
The first Entertainment was reading aloud!
149
“James, bring Mrs. Bartley a tumbler of water.
Now, Goneril, turn the old king out of doors.”
“I can't, Ma'am.”—“What hinders you?”—“Somebody snores.”
“There! now he's awake; silent still?—What's the matter?”
“I cannot be heard—the whole street's in a clatter.”
But see, yonder wagon, that noise mayn't disturb,
Deposits ten trusses of straw on the kerb.
'Tis spread: rolling urchins their merriment lisp,
And toss to the firmament wisp after wisp.
The knocker is muffled; the gossips agree,
My lady's as lord-loving ladies would be.
Parturient at eighty! how will the town talk,—
Dame Southcote was nothing to Baroness Baulk!
King Lear now deposed, and the muffle torn down,
A rat-a-tat 'larum awakes half the town;
And the little foot-page, from his box at the entry,
Is hoarse with up-bawling the names of the gentry.
Lord Cherokee Chin-tuft, a col'nel of Lancers;
Lord Booby Bolero, who dines the French dancers!
Sir Brown-Jones-Brown-Jones, in a postilion's shirt;
Lord Bouncer, Count Squint'em, and Lady Jane Flirt;
Three gentlemen glee-singers! Mr. Belzoni!
Lord Strutt, with a blue ribbon under his bow-knee.
The Viscount, who never did much good or much ill,
Except in his dressing at Martin Van-Butchel.
The pie-ball'd Egyptian, half white and half brown;
The wonderful Swiss, who was hang'd and cut down;
Massa Sambo, who knows about West India law;
The barefooted Beggar, who sleeps upon straw;
A black-bearded Persian in crimson; and, ah me!
Dress'd like other people, plain Mr. Salami;
With Knights of the Cross, an uncountable fry,
Bestudded with stars, like the nights of July.
A rat-a-tat 'larum awakes half the town;
And the little foot-page, from his box at the entry,
Is hoarse with up-bawling the names of the gentry.
Lord Cherokee Chin-tuft, a col'nel of Lancers;
Lord Booby Bolero, who dines the French dancers!
Sir Brown-Jones-Brown-Jones, in a postilion's shirt;
Lord Bouncer, Count Squint'em, and Lady Jane Flirt;
Three gentlemen glee-singers! Mr. Belzoni!
Lord Strutt, with a blue ribbon under his bow-knee.
The Viscount, who never did much good or much ill,
Except in his dressing at Martin Van-Butchel.
The pie-ball'd Egyptian, half white and half brown;
The wonderful Swiss, who was hang'd and cut down;
150
The barefooted Beggar, who sleeps upon straw;
A black-bearded Persian in crimson; and, ah me!
Dress'd like other people, plain Mr. Salami;
With Knights of the Cross, an uncountable fry,
Bestudded with stars, like the nights of July.
Then enter'd full thirty abjurers of man,
Each borne in a bibbety-bobbing sedan;
Whose tongues from non-use were not suffer'd to rust.
All subjects were touch'd upon—none were discuss'd.
“You've seen the Laplanders.—Where's Mathews?—Poor Perry!
“Scott wrote them; I know it—Who told you so? Terry.
“A song, Mr. Broadhurst—Hush! ‘Silent, O'Moyle,’
“I'm told that they really dine on train oil.—
“Have you sold out your Fives?—No, I'm not in a hurry.
“Me adsum qui feci—Lord Byron to Murray.—
“Lady Crimson, you've got something black on your cheek.
“Camporesi and Ronzi de Begni don't speak!
“What's o'clock?—Hampton Court? Yes; we dined at the Toy.
“I don't like the Pirate so well as Rob Roy.
“Dear me! how excessively pretty! Red candles!
“Is Lillibullero Rossini's? No; Handel's.
“I'll hold by the brass balustrades.—So will I.
“Not going? Yes!—When?—Glad to see you—Good b'ye.”
Each borne in a bibbety-bobbing sedan;
Whose tongues from non-use were not suffer'd to rust.
All subjects were touch'd upon—none were discuss'd.
“You've seen the Laplanders.—Where's Mathews?—Poor Perry!
“Scott wrote them; I know it—Who told you so? Terry.
“A song, Mr. Broadhurst—Hush! ‘Silent, O'Moyle,’
“I'm told that they really dine on train oil.—
“Have you sold out your Fives?—No, I'm not in a hurry.
“Me adsum qui feci—Lord Byron to Murray.—
“Lady Crimson, you've got something black on your cheek.
“Camporesi and Ronzi de Begni don't speak!
“What's o'clock?—Hampton Court? Yes; we dined at the Toy.
“I don't like the Pirate so well as Rob Roy.
“Dear me! how excessively pretty! Red candles!
“Is Lillibullero Rossini's? No; Handel's.
“I'll hold by the brass balustrades.—So will I.
“Not going? Yes!—When?—Glad to see you—Good b'ye.”
151
Amid this chaotic exhaustion of lungs,
Her ladyship's fingers moved brisk as their tongues.
She poked a poll-parrot, to add to the din,
She made every Mandarin nod nose and chin;
She kick'd the coal-scuttle, she scraped up the cinders,
She made a Bard bellow an ode (one of Pindar's,)
She strumm'd a piano, and mix'd flats and sharps,
Nine Genevese snuff-boxes set up their harps;
She beat, on a salt-box, a rat-a-tat tap,
She cuff'd the blue page in the chimney-pot cap.
Her ladyship's fingers moved brisk as their tongues.
She poked a poll-parrot, to add to the din,
She made every Mandarin nod nose and chin;
She kick'd the coal-scuttle, she scraped up the cinders,
She made a Bard bellow an ode (one of Pindar's,)
She strumm'd a piano, and mix'd flats and sharps,
Nine Genevese snuff-boxes set up their harps;
She beat, on a salt-box, a rat-a-tat tap,
She cuff'd the blue page in the chimney-pot cap.
219
LONDON LYRICS.
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.
For many a winter in Billiter-lane
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.
Our bark has now taken a contrary heel,
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.
Our bark has now taken a contrary heel,
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the North wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steine, in a bow-window'd box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,—
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the North wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steine, in a bow-window'd box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,—
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamplighter brought us his annual rhyme,
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen,
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen;
These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel:
'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
The lamplighter brought us his annual rhyme,
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen,
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen;
220
Before we began to be growing genteel:
'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff;
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt.
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff;
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt.
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon,
And puff up my carpet like Sadler's balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret—“Oh, Billiter-lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
And puff up my carpet like Sadler's balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret—“Oh, Billiter-lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine,
His Majesty never invites me to dine;
The Marquess won't speak, when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here.
If that be the case, why then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane.
Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown,
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
His Majesty never invites me to dine;
The Marquess won't speak, when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here.
If that be the case, why then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane.
Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown,
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
221
ST. JAMES'S PARK.
'Twas June, and many a gossip wench,
Child-freighted, trod the central Mall;
I gain'd a white unpeopled bench,
And gazed upon the long Canal.
Beside me soon, in motley talk,
Boys, nursemaids sat, a varying race;
At length two females cross'd the walk,
And occupied the vacant space.
Child-freighted, trod the central Mall;
I gain'd a white unpeopled bench,
And gazed upon the long Canal.
Beside me soon, in motley talk,
Boys, nursemaids sat, a varying race;
At length two females cross'd the walk,
And occupied the vacant space.
In years they seem'd some forty-four,
Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien;
A bonnet of black silk each wore,
And each a gown of bombazeen:
And, while in loud and careless tones
They dwelt upon their own concerns,
Ere long I learn'd that Mrs. Jones
Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns.
Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien;
A bonnet of black silk each wore,
And each a gown of bombazeen:
And, while in loud and careless tones
They dwelt upon their own concerns,
Ere long I learn'd that Mrs. Jones
Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns.
They talk'd of little Jane and John,
And hoped they'd come before 'twas dark,
Then wonder'd why, with pattens on,
One might not walk across the Park:
They call'd it far to Camden-town,
Yet hoped to reach it by-and-bye;
And thought it strange, since flour was down,
That bread should still continue high.
And hoped they'd come before 'twas dark,
Then wonder'd why, with pattens on,
One might not walk across the Park:
They call'd it far to Camden-town,
Yet hoped to reach it by-and-bye;
And thought it strange, since flour was down,
That bread should still continue high.
They said, last Monday's heavy gales
Had done a monstrous deal of ill;
Then tried to count the iron rails
That wound up Constitution-hill:
This 'larum sedulous to shun,
I donn'd my gloves, to march away,
When, as I gazed upon the one,
“Good Heavens!” I cried, “'tis Nancy Gray.”
Had done a monstrous deal of ill;
Then tried to count the iron rails
That wound up Constitution-hill:
222
I donn'd my gloves, to march away,
When, as I gazed upon the one,
“Good Heavens!” I cried, “'tis Nancy Gray.”
'Twas Nancy, whom I led along
The whiten'd and elastic floor,
Amid mirth's merry dancing throng,
Just two-and-twenty years before.
Though sadly alter'd, I knew her,
While she, 'twas obvious, knew me not;
But mildly said, “Good evening, Sir,”
And with her comrade left the spot.
The whiten'd and elastic floor,
Amid mirth's merry dancing throng,
Just two-and-twenty years before.
Though sadly alter'd, I knew her,
While she, 'twas obvious, knew me not;
But mildly said, “Good evening, Sir,”
And with her comrade left the spot.
“Is this,” I cried, in grief profound,
“The fair with whom, eclipsing all,
I traversed Ranelagh's bright round,
Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall?
And is this all that Time can do?
Has Nature nothing else in store?
Is this, of lovely twenty-two,
All that remains at forty-four?
“The fair with whom, eclipsing all,
I traversed Ranelagh's bright round,
Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall?
And is this all that Time can do?
Has Nature nothing else in store?
Is this, of lovely twenty-two,
All that remains at forty-four?
“Could I to such a helpmate cling?
Were such a wedded dowdy mine,
On yonder lamp-post would I swing,
Or plunge in yonder Serpentine!”
I left the Park with eyes askance,
But, ere I enter'd Cleveland-row,
Rude Reason thus threw in her lance,
And dealt self-love a mortal blow.
Were such a wedded dowdy mine,
On yonder lamp-post would I swing,
Or plunge in yonder Serpentine!”
I left the Park with eyes askance,
But, ere I enter'd Cleveland-row,
Rude Reason thus threw in her lance,
And dealt self-love a mortal blow.
223
“Time, at whose touch all mortals bow,
From either sex his prey secures,
His scythe, while wounding Nancy's brow,
Can scarce have smoothly swept o'er yours;
By her you plainly were not known;
Then, while you mourn the alter'd hue
Of Nancy's face, suspect your own
May be a little alter'd too.”
From either sex his prey secures,
His scythe, while wounding Nancy's brow,
Can scarce have smoothly swept o'er yours;
By her you plainly were not known;
Then, while you mourn the alter'd hue
Of Nancy's face, suspect your own
May be a little alter'd too.”
THE NEWSPAPER.
Cures for chilblains, corns, and bunnions,
Welsh procession, leeks and onions;
Sad St. Stephen bored by praters,
Dale and Co., champagne creators;
Spain resolved to spurn endurance,
Economic Life Insurance:
Young man absent from his own house,
Body at St. Martin's bonehouse;
Search for arms in county Kerry,
Deals, Honduras, Pondicherry,
Treadmill, Haydon, Tom and Jerry.
Welsh procession, leeks and onions;
Sad St. Stephen bored by praters,
Dale and Co., champagne creators;
Spain resolved to spurn endurance,
Economic Life Insurance:
Young man absent from his own house,
Body at St. Martin's bonehouse;
Search for arms in county Kerry,
Deals, Honduras, Pondicherry,
Treadmill, Haydon, Tom and Jerry.
Pall-Mall, Allen, chairs and tables,
Major Cartwright, iron cables;
Smithfield, price of veal and mutton,
Villa half a mile from Sutton;
Yearly meeting, lots of Quakers,
Freehold farm of forty acres;
Duke of Angouleme, despatches,
Thatch'd house tavern, glees and catches;
Cobourg, wonderful attraction,
Plunket, playhouse, Orange faction,
Consols eighty and a fraction.
Major Cartwright, iron cables;
Smithfield, price of veal and mutton,
Villa half a mile from Sutton;
Yearly meeting, lots of Quakers,
Freehold farm of forty acres;
Duke of Angouleme, despatches,
Thatch'd house tavern, glees and catches;
Cobourg, wonderful attraction,
Plunket, playhouse, Orange faction,
Consols eighty and a fraction.
224
Sales of sail-cloth, silk and camblet,
Kean in Shylock, Young in Hamlet;
Sad effects of random shooting,
Mermaid tavern, box at Tooting,
Water-colour exhibition,
Kemble's statue, Hone's petition;
Chateaubriand, Cape Madeira,
Longwood, Montholon, O'Meara;
Jerry Bentham's lucubrations,
Hume's critique on army rations,
Ex-officio informations.
Kean in Shylock, Young in Hamlet;
Sad effects of random shooting,
Mermaid tavern, box at Tooting,
Water-colour exhibition,
Kemble's statue, Hone's petition;
Chateaubriand, Cape Madeira,
Longwood, Montholon, O'Meara;
Jerry Bentham's lucubrations,
Hume's critique on army rations,
Ex-officio informations.
Wapping Dock choke full of barter,
Senna, sponges, cream of tartar;
Willow bonnets, lank and limber,
Mops, molasses, tallow, timber;
Horse Bazzar, the Life of Hayley,
Little Waddington, Old Bailey;
Gibbs and Howard, Gunter's ices,
Thoughts upon the present crisis;
Sweeting's Alley, sales by taper,
Lamp, Sir Humphrey, noxious vapour,
Stocks—Sum-total—Morning Paper.
Senna, sponges, cream of tartar;
Willow bonnets, lank and limber,
Mops, molasses, tallow, timber;
Horse Bazzar, the Life of Hayley,
Little Waddington, Old Bailey;
Gibbs and Howard, Gunter's ices,
Thoughts upon the present crisis;
Sweeting's Alley, sales by taper,
Lamp, Sir Humphrey, noxious vapour,
Stocks—Sum-total—Morning Paper.
THE UPAS IN MARYBONE-LANE.
A tree grew in Java, whose pestilent rind
A venom distill'd of the deadliest kind;
The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw,
And who return'd safe, pleaded pardon by law.
A venom distill'd of the deadliest kind;
The Dutch sent their felons its juices to draw,
And who return'd safe, pleaded pardon by law.
Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale,
Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale;
How few the reward of their victory earn'd!
For ninety-nine perish'd for one who return'd.
Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale;
How few the reward of their victory earn'd!
For ninety-nine perish'd for one who return'd.
225
Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer,
Removed it through Holland, and planted it here;
'Tis now a stock plant, of the genus Wolf's bane,
And one of them blossoms in Marybone lane.
Removed it through Holland, and planted it here;
'Tis now a stock plant, of the genus Wolf's bane,
And one of them blossoms in Marybone lane.
The house that surrounds it stands first in a row,
Two doors, at right angles, swing open below;
And the children of misery daily steal in,
And the poison they draw we denominate Gin.
Two doors, at right angles, swing open below;
And the children of misery daily steal in,
And the poison they draw we denominate Gin.
There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy,
The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy,
The serving-maid slim, and the serving man stout,
They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out.
The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy,
The serving-maid slim, and the serving man stout,
They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out.
Surcharged with the venom, some walk forth erect,
Apparently baffling its deadly effect;
But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives,
And ninety-nine perish for one who survives.
Apparently baffling its deadly effect;
But, sooner or later, the reckoning arrives,
And ninety-nine perish for one who survives.
They cautious advance, with slouch'd bonnet and hat,
They enter at this door, they go out at that;
Some bear off their burthen with riotous glee,
But most sink, in sleep, at the foot of the tree.
They enter at this door, they go out at that;
Some bear off their burthen with riotous glee,
But most sink, in sleep, at the foot of the tree.
Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart,
This compound of crime, at a sov'reign a quart;
Let gin fetch, per bottle, the price of Champagne,
And hew down the Upas in Marybone-lane.
This compound of crime, at a sov'reign a quart;
Let gin fetch, per bottle, the price of Champagne,
And hew down the Upas in Marybone-lane.
226
AN ACTOR'S MEDITATIONS.
How well I remember, when old Drury-lane
First open'd, a child in the Thespian train,
I acted a sprite, in a sky-colour'd cloak,
And danced round the caldron which now I invoke.
First open'd, a child in the Thespian train,
I acted a sprite, in a sky-colour'd cloak,
And danced round the caldron which now I invoke.
Speak, witches! an actor's nativity cast!
How long shall this stage-popularity last?
Ye laugh, jibing beldames. “Ay, laugh well we may:
Popularity! Moonshine! attend to our lay.
How long shall this stage-popularity last?
Ye laugh, jibing beldames. “Ay, laugh well we may:
Popularity! Moonshine! attend to our lay.
“'Tis a breath of light air from Frivolity's mouth;
It blows round the compass, East, West, North, and South;
It shifts to all points; in a moment 'twill steal
From Kemble to Stephens, from Kean to O'Neil.
It blows round the compass, East, West, North, and South;
It shifts to all points; in a moment 'twill steal
From Kemble to Stephens, from Kean to O'Neil.
“The actor who tugs half his life at the oar
May founder at sea, or be shipwreck'd on shore;
Grasp firmly the rudder; who trusts to the gale
As well in a sieve for Aleppo may sail.”
May founder at sea, or be shipwreck'd on shore;
Grasp firmly the rudder; who trusts to the gale
As well in a sieve for Aleppo may sail.”
Thanks, provident hags! while my circuit I run,
'Tis fit I make hay in so fleeting a sun;
Yon harlequin public may else shift the scene,
And Kean may be Kemble, as Kemble was Kean.
'Tis fit I make hay in so fleeting a sun;
Yon harlequin public may else shift the scene,
And Kean may be Kemble, as Kemble was Kean.
Then let me the haven of competence reach,
And brief, but two lines, be my leave-taking speech:
Hope, Fortune, farewell; I am shelter'd from sea;
Henceforward cheat others, ye once cheated me.
And brief, but two lines, be my leave-taking speech:
Hope, Fortune, farewell; I am shelter'd from sea;
Henceforward cheat others, ye once cheated me.
227
THE MINSTREL.
There sits a man near Sadler's Wells,
Whose limb-excited peal of bells
Disuse will never moulder:
Each elbow, by a skilful twist,
Rings one, one rings from either wrist,
And one from either shoulder.
Whose limb-excited peal of bells
Disuse will never moulder:
Each elbow, by a skilful twist,
Rings one, one rings from either wrist,
And one from either shoulder.
Each foot, bell-mounted, aids the din;
Each knee, with nodding bell, chimes in
Its phil-harmonic clapper.
One bell sends forth a louder note
From that round ball which tops the throat,
By bruisers called the napper.
Each knee, with nodding bell, chimes in
Its phil-harmonic clapper.
One bell sends forth a louder note
From that round ball which tops the throat,
By bruisers called the napper.
Thus, sightless, by the river side
He tunes his lays, like him who cried
“Descend from heaven, Urania,”
But not as poor: his wiser stave
Is, like the laureat's, mere God save
The King—not Rule Britannia.
He tunes his lays, like him who cried
“Descend from heaven, Urania,”
But not as poor: his wiser stave
Is, like the laureat's, mere God save
The King—not Rule Britannia.
Though but a single tune he knows,
His gains are far exceeding those
Of pass-supported Homer:
He keeps the wolf outside the door,
And, doing that, to call him poor
Were, certes, a misnomer.
His gains are far exceeding those
Of pass-supported Homer:
He keeps the wolf outside the door,
And, doing that, to call him poor
Were, certes, a misnomer.
228
The school-boy lags astride the rail,
The milkman drops his clinking pail,
The serving-maid her pitcher;
The painter quits th' unwhiten'd fence
To greet with tributary pence
This general bewitcher.
The milkman drops his clinking pail,
The serving-maid her pitcher;
The painter quits th' unwhiten'd fence
To greet with tributary pence
This general bewitcher.
See! where he nods his pealing brow,
Now strikes a fifth, a second now,
In regular confusion;
But, ere he finishes the strain,
Da capo goes his pate again,
The key-note of conclusion.
Now strikes a fifth, a second now,
In regular confusion;
But, ere he finishes the strain,
Da capo goes his pate again,
The key-note of conclusion.
Satire, suspend your baseless wit,
The tuneful tribe may sometimes hit
On patrons bent on giving.
Here's one, at least, obscurely bred,
Who by the labour of his head
Picks up a decent living!
The tuneful tribe may sometimes hit
On patrons bent on giving.
Here's one, at least, obscurely bred,
Who by the labour of his head
Picks up a decent living!
STAGE WEDLOCK.
Farren, Thalia's dear delight,
Can I forget that fatal night
Of grief, unstain'd by fiction,
(Even now the recollection damps)
When Wroughton led thee to the lamps
In graceful valediction?
Can I forget that fatal night
Of grief, unstain'd by fiction,
(Even now the recollection damps)
When Wroughton led thee to the lamps
In graceful valediction?
229
This Derby prize by Hymen won,
Again the God made bold to run
Beneath Thalia's steerage;
Sent forth a second Earl to woo,
And captivating Brunton too,
Exalted to the peerage.
Again the God made bold to run
Beneath Thalia's steerage;
Sent forth a second Earl to woo,
And captivating Brunton too,
Exalted to the peerage.
A while no actress sought his shrine;
When lovely Searle, in Columbine,
Each heart held “cabin'd, cribb'd in:”
Her dark-blue eye, and tresses loose,
Made the whole town dub Mother Goose
Chef-d'œuvre of Tom Dibdin.
When lovely Searle, in Columbine,
Each heart held “cabin'd, cribb'd in:”
Her dark-blue eye, and tresses loose,
Made the whole town dub Mother Goose
Chef-d'œuvre of Tom Dibdin.
“Hail, feather'd Conjuror!” I cried,
“September's dish, Saint Michael's pride,
Theatric gold collector:
I pledge thee, bird, in Circe's cup!”—
But Heathcote, ring in hand, ripp'd up
The Capitol's protector.
“September's dish, Saint Michael's pride,
Theatric gold collector:
I pledge thee, bird, in Circe's cup!”—
But Heathcote, ring in hand, ripp'd up
The Capitol's protector.
Thrice vanquish'd thus, on Thespian soil,
Heart-whole awhile, from Cupid's toil
I caught a fleeting furlough:
Gay's Newgate Opera charm'd me then,
But Polly sang her requiem when
Fair Bolton changed to Thurlow.
Heart-whole awhile, from Cupid's toil
I caught a fleeting furlough:
Gay's Newgate Opera charm'd me then,
But Polly sang her requiem when
Fair Bolton changed to Thurlow.
These wounds some substitute might heal;
But what bold mortal bade O'Neil
Renounce her tragic station?
Taste, talent, beauty to trepan—
By Heaven, I wonder how the man
Escaped assassination!
But what bold mortal bade O'Neil
Renounce her tragic station?
230
By Heaven, I wonder how the man
Escaped assassination!
I felt half bent to wing my way
With Werter, on whose table lay
Emilia Galoti:
Stunn'd, like a skater by a fall.
I saw with unconcern Hughes Ball
Elope with Mercandotti.
With Werter, on whose table lay
Emilia Galoti:
Stunn'd, like a skater by a fall.
I saw with unconcern Hughes Ball
Elope with Mercandotti.
'Tis thus that prowling round Love's fold,
Hymen, by sufferance made bold,
(Too bold for one of his age,)
Presumes behind the scenes to go,
Where only Cupid used to show
His mythologic visage.
Hymen, by sufferance made bold,
(Too bold for one of his age,)
Presumes behind the scenes to go,
Where only Cupid used to show
His mythologic visage.
Would these bold suitors wield the fork,
And dip, as sailors dip for pork,
Or urchins at a barrow,
First come, first take, one would not care:
But pick and choose was never fair
At Eton or at Harrow.
And dip, as sailors dip for pork,
Or urchins at a barrow,
First come, first take, one would not care:
But pick and choose was never fair
At Eton or at Harrow.
Gain we no safeguard from the laws?
Contains the Marriage Act no clause
To hush Saint Martin's steeple;
To bind the public's daughters sure,
And from stage larceny secure
Us poor play-going people?
Contains the Marriage Act no clause
To hush Saint Martin's steeple;
To bind the public's daughters sure,
And from stage larceny secure
Us poor play-going people?
231
No! Eldon, all depends on thee:
Wards of thy Court let heroines be,
Who to stage wealth have risen;
And then, if lovers ladders climb,
Contempt of Court will be their crime,
The Fleet will be their prison.
Wards of thy Court let heroines be,
Who to stage wealth have risen;
And then, if lovers ladders climb,
Contempt of Court will be their crime,
The Fleet will be their prison.
DOCTOR GALL.
I sing of the organs and fibres
That ramble about in the brains;
Avaunt! ye irreverent jibers,
Or stay and be wise for your pains.
All heads were of yore on a level,
One could not tell clever from dull,
Till I, like Le Sage's lame devil,
Unroof'd with a touch every skull.
Oh, I am the mental dissector,
I fathom the wits of you all,
Then come in a crowd to the lecture
Of craniological Gall.
That ramble about in the brains;
Avaunt! ye irreverent jibers,
Or stay and be wise for your pains.
All heads were of yore on a level,
One could not tell clever from dull,
Till I, like Le Sage's lame devil,
Unroof'd with a touch every skull.
Oh, I am the mental dissector,
I fathom the wits of you all,
Then come in a crowd to the lecture
Of craniological Gall.
The passions, or active or passive,
Exposed by my magical spells,
As busy as bees in a glass hive,
Are seen in their separate cells.
Old Momus, who wanted a casement
Whence all in the heart might be read,
Were he living, would stare with amazement
To find what he wants in the head.
Exposed by my magical spells,
As busy as bees in a glass hive,
Are seen in their separate cells.
Old Momus, who wanted a casement
Whence all in the heart might be read,
Were he living, would stare with amazement
To find what he wants in the head.
232
There's an organ for strains amoroso,
Just under the edge of the wig,
An organ for writing but so-so,
For driving a tilbury gig;
An organ for boxers, for stoics,
For giving booksellers a lift,
For marching the zig-zag heroics,
And editing Jonathan Swift.
Just under the edge of the wig,
An organ for writing but so-so,
For driving a tilbury gig;
An organ for boxers, for stoics,
For giving booksellers a lift,
For marching the zig-zag heroics,
And editing Jonathan Swift.
I raise in match-making a rumpus,
And Cupid his flame must impart
Henceforth with a rule and a compass,
Instead of a bow and a dart.
“Dear Madam, your eye-brow is horrid;
And, Captain, too broad is your pate;
I see by that bump on your forehead
You're shockingly dull tête-à-tête.”
And Cupid his flame must impart
Henceforth with a rule and a compass,
Instead of a bow and a dart.
“Dear Madam, your eye-brow is horrid;
And, Captain, too broad is your pate;
I see by that bump on your forehead
You're shockingly dull tête-à-tête.”
When practice has made my book plainer
To manhood, to age, and to youth,
I'll build, like the genius Phanor,
In London a palace of truth.
Then fibs, ah, beware how you tell'em,
Reflect how pellucid the skull,
Whose downright sincere cerebellum
Must render all flattery null.
To manhood, to age, and to youth,
I'll build, like the genius Phanor,
In London a palace of truth.
Then fibs, ah, beware how you tell'em,
Reflect how pellucid the skull,
Whose downright sincere cerebellum
Must render all flattery null.
Your friend brings a play out at Drury,
'Tis hooted and damn'd in the pit;
Your organ of friendship's all fury,
But what says your organ of wit?
“Our laughter next time prithee stir, man,
We don't pay our money to weep;
Your play must have come from the German,
It set all the boxes asleep.”
'Tis hooted and damn'd in the pit;
Your organ of friendship's all fury,
But what says your organ of wit?
233
We don't pay our money to weep;
Your play must have come from the German,
It set all the boxes asleep.”
At first, all will be in a bustle;
The eye will, from ignorance, swerve,
And some will abuse the wrong muscle,
And some will adore the wrong nerve.
In love should your hearts then be sporting,
Your heads on one level to bring,
You must go in your nightcaps a-courting,
As if you were going to swing.
The eye will, from ignorance, swerve,
And some will abuse the wrong muscle,
And some will adore the wrong nerve.
In love should your hearts then be sporting,
Your heads on one level to bring,
You must go in your nightcaps a-courting,
As if you were going to swing.
Yet some happy mortals, all virtue,
Have sentiment just as they should,
Their occiput nought can do hurt to,
Each organ's an organ of good;
Such couples angelic, when mated,
To bid all concealment retire,
Should seek Hymen's altar bald-pated,
And throw both their wigs in his fire.
Have sentiment just as they should,
Their occiput nought can do hurt to,
Each organ's an organ of good;
Such couples angelic, when mated,
To bid all concealment retire,
Should seek Hymen's altar bald-pated,
And throw both their wigs in his fire.
My system, from great A to Izzard,
You now, my good friends, may descry,
Not Shakspeare's Bermudean wizard
Was half so enchanting as I.
His magic a Tempest could smother,
But mine the soul's hurricane clears,
By exposing your heads to each other,
And setting those heads by the ears.
Oh, I am the mental dissector,
I fathom the wits of you all;
So here is an end to the lecture
Of craniological Gall.
You now, my good friends, may descry,
Not Shakspeare's Bermudean wizard
Was half so enchanting as I.
His magic a Tempest could smother,
But mine the soul's hurricane clears,
By exposing your heads to each other,
And setting those heads by the ears.
234
I fathom the wits of you all;
So here is an end to the lecture
Of craniological Gall.
LONDON MISNOMERS.
From Park Lane to Wapping, by day and by night,
I've many a year been a roamer,
And find that no lawyer can London indict,
Each street, ev'ry lane's a misnomer.
I find Broad Street, St. Giles's, a poor narrow nook,
Battle Bridge is unconscious of slaughter,
Duke's Place cannot muster the ghost of a duke,
And Brook Street is wanting in water.
I've many a year been a roamer,
And find that no lawyer can London indict,
Each street, ev'ry lane's a misnomer.
I find Broad Street, St. Giles's, a poor narrow nook,
Battle Bridge is unconscious of slaughter,
Duke's Place cannot muster the ghost of a duke,
And Brook Street is wanting in water.
I went to Cornhill for a bushel of wheat,
And sought it in vain ev'ry shop in,
The Hermitage offered a tranquil retreat,
For the jolly Jack hermits of Wapping.
Spring Gardens, all wintry, appear on the wane,
Sun Alley's an absolute blinder,
Mount Street is a level, and Bearbinder Lane
Has neither a bear nor a binder.
And sought it in vain ev'ry shop in,
The Hermitage offered a tranquil retreat,
For the jolly Jack hermits of Wapping.
Spring Gardens, all wintry, appear on the wane,
Sun Alley's an absolute blinder,
Mount Street is a level, and Bearbinder Lane
Has neither a bear nor a binder.
235
No football is kicked up and down in Pall Mall,
Change Alley, alas! never varies,
The Serpentine river's a straitened canal,
Milk Street is denuded of dairies.
Knightsbridge, void of tournaments, lies calm and still,
Butcher Row cannot boast of a cleaver,
And (tho' it abuts on his garden) Hay Hill
Won't give Devon's duke the hay fever.
Change Alley, alas! never varies,
The Serpentine river's a straitened canal,
Milk Street is denuded of dairies.
Knightsbridge, void of tournaments, lies calm and still,
Butcher Row cannot boast of a cleaver,
And (tho' it abuts on his garden) Hay Hill
Won't give Devon's duke the hay fever.
The Cockpit's the focus of law, not of sport,
Water Lane is affected with dryness,
And, spite of its gorgeous approach, Prince's Court
Is a sorry abode for his Highness.
From Baker Street North all the bakers have fled,
So, in verse not quite equal to Homer,
Methinks I have proved what at starting I said,
That London's one mighty misnomer.
Water Lane is affected with dryness,
And, spite of its gorgeous approach, Prince's Court
Is a sorry abode for his Highness.
From Baker Street North all the bakers have fled,
So, in verse not quite equal to Homer,
Methinks I have proved what at starting I said,
That London's one mighty misnomer.
BRIDGE STREET, BLACKFRIARS.
Pastor cum traheret, &c.
As near Blackfriars, “sad by fits,”
Macadam into dwarfish bits
Broke many a giant pebble,
Old Thames upraised his watery pate,
And sang the smooth contractor's fate
In this unwelcome treble:—
Macadam into dwarfish bits
Broke many a giant pebble,
Old Thames upraised his watery pate,
And sang the smooth contractor's fate
In this unwelcome treble:—
236
“Vainly you wield yon pounding axe;
All Bridewell with combined attacks
Shall mar your undertakings;
White Portland's sons around you pour
The reign of granite, to restore
And break up your upbreakings.
All Bridewell with combined attacks
Shall mar your undertakings;
White Portland's sons around you pour
The reign of granite, to restore
And break up your upbreakings.
“Ah me! what ills each house beset,
From horse or foot, or dry or wet,
From chimney-top to basement!
The Albion mourns her sullied walls,
And Waithman veils his hundred shawls
Beneath a spattered casement!
From horse or foot, or dry or wet,
From chimney-top to basement!
The Albion mourns her sullied walls,
And Waithman veils his hundred shawls
Beneath a spattered casement!
“What wild pedestrians in a ring
Round Johnny Wilkes's column cling
To 'scape from oxen tossing!
A while they halt, then, sore afraid,
Dart different ways, and leave unpaid
The Black who sweeps the crossing.
Round Johnny Wilkes's column cling
To 'scape from oxen tossing!
A while they halt, then, sore afraid,
Dart different ways, and leave unpaid
The Black who sweeps the crossing.
“In vain you plead St. James's Square,
Grateful to dames, who carol there
Love-strains in measure Sapphic:
They well may like your coat of stone;
But, child of dust, reflect upon
The difference of “Traffic.”
Grateful to dames, who carol there
Love-strains in measure Sapphic:
They well may like your coat of stone;
But, child of dust, reflect upon
The difference of “Traffic.”
“O'er your smooth convex, coach or car
Steal on the traveller, from afar,
As fleetly as the wind does!
Binding whole troops to Charon's keel,
As Juggernaut with rolling wheel
Depopulates the Hindoos.
Steal on the traveller, from afar,
As fleetly as the wind does!
237
As Juggernaut with rolling wheel
Depopulates the Hindoos.
“Eyes should be sharp, for mortal ears
Serve not to shun the car that steers
O'er your insidious surface:
Lo! while I sing, yon heedless hack
Has poled a deaf old woman's back,
And thrown her down on her face.
Serve not to shun the car that steers
O'er your insidious surface:
Lo! while I sing, yon heedless hack
Has poled a deaf old woman's back,
And thrown her down on her face.
“But oh! when droves of sheep and pigs
With countless stockbrokers in gigs
Are mix'd—can aught be minded?
Can mortal sight be free to choose,
Or bunged up by your sable ooze,
Or by your white dust blinded?
With countless stockbrokers in gigs
Are mix'd—can aught be minded?
Can mortal sight be free to choose,
Or bunged up by your sable ooze,
Or by your white dust blinded?
“Ne'er did my refluent billows kiss
So traitorous a shore as this!
'Tis sad beyond endurance,
Such woful accidents to meet,
And see Death riot in a street
Surcharged with Life Assurance.
So traitorous a shore as this!
'Tis sad beyond endurance,
Such woful accidents to meet,
And see Death riot in a street
Surcharged with Life Assurance.
“Soon from my stream the two Lord Mayors
Debarking at Blackfriars'-stairs,
Shall notice your behaviour:
In their huge Brobdignag will they
Not grumble to behold you play
The Lilliputian paviour?
Debarking at Blackfriars'-stairs,
Shall notice your behaviour:
In their huge Brobdignag will they
Not grumble to behold you play
The Lilliputian paviour?
238
“Go then, Colossus, stick to roads,
But metropolitan abodes
Leave by your pick-axe undone;
Go delve in some less stubborn soil,
You'll find it an Utopian toil
To mend the ways of London.”
But metropolitan abodes
Leave by your pick-axe undone;
Go delve in some less stubborn soil,
You'll find it an Utopian toil
To mend the ways of London.”
THE CHURCH IN LANGHAM PLACE.
“Whoever walks through London streets,”
Said Momus to the Son of Saturn,
“Each day new edifices meets
Of queer proportion, queerer pattern:
If thou, O cloud-compelling god,
Wilt aid me with thy special grace,
I, too, will wield my motley hod,
And build a church in Langham-place.”
Said Momus to the Son of Saturn,
“Each day new edifices meets
Of queer proportion, queerer pattern:
If thou, O cloud-compelling god,
Wilt aid me with thy special grace,
I, too, will wield my motley hod,
And build a church in Langham-place.”
“Agreed,” the Thunderer cries: “go plant
Thine edifice, I care not how ill;
Take notice, Earth, I hereby grant
Carte blanche of mortar, stone, and trowel.
Go, Hermes, Hercules, and Mars,
Fraught with these bills on Henry Hase,
Drop with yon jester from the stars,
And build a church in Langham-place.”
Thine edifice, I care not how ill;
Take notice, Earth, I hereby grant
Carte blanche of mortar, stone, and trowel.
Go, Hermes, Hercules, and Mars,
Fraught with these bills on Henry Hase,
Drop with yon jester from the stars,
And build a church in Langham-place.”
239
Down, four in hand, to earth they go,
Pass by Palladio, Wren, and Inigo,
Contracting for their job, to show
How far four gods can make a guinea go.
This plan was Doric, ergo had,
And that Ionic, ergo base;
No proper model could be bad,
To shape this church in Langham-place.
Pass by Palladio, Wren, and Inigo,
Contracting for their job, to show
How far four gods can make a guinea go.
This plan was Doric, ergo had,
And that Ionic, ergo base;
No proper model could be bad,
To shape this church in Langham-place.
In deep confab they pass'd two hours;
Alcides on his club of tough oak
Leant, and exclaim'd, “Martello towers
Lie scatter'd on the coast of Suffolk:
Let one of those toward London swerve,
Mars, out of war, they're out of place;
What can they better do, than serve
To form a church in Langham-place?”
Alcides on his club of tough oak
Leant, and exclaim'd, “Martello towers
Lie scatter'd on the coast of Suffolk:
Let one of those toward London swerve,
Mars, out of war, they're out of place;
What can they better do, than serve
To form a church in Langham-place?”
The word was said, the deed was done,
Light Hermes toil'd in vain to stir it,
When, with a kick, Alcmena's son
Soon tilted down the granite turret.
Like a huge hogshead up to town
The martial structure roll'd apace,
And, mortar-coated, settled down
Into a church in Langham-place.
Light Hermes toil'd in vain to stir it,
When, with a kick, Alcmena's son
Soon tilted down the granite turret.
Like a huge hogshead up to town
The martial structure roll'd apace,
And, mortar-coated, settled down
Into a church in Langham-place.
But, ere with belfry or with bell
They graced its top, its side with casement,
They found an unexploded shell
Alive and burning at its basement.
The channell'd air now upward drew
Flame after flame, in lurid race,
And gave a sort of glass-house hue
To their new church in Langham-place.
They graced its top, its side with casement,
They found an unexploded shell
Alive and burning at its basement.
240
Flame after flame, in lurid race,
And gave a sort of glass-house hue
To their new church in Langham-place.
“'Twill never do,” Alcides cried,
“The Atlas will indict for arson,”
While Momus carelessly replied—
“Phoo! never mind it—smoke the parson!”
Mars, at a push, had wit at will,
And said, “Your joint misgivings chase,
This round Martello tower shall still
Be a new church in Langham-place.
“The Atlas will indict for arson,”
While Momus carelessly replied—
“Phoo! never mind it—smoke the parson!”
Mars, at a push, had wit at will,
And said, “Your joint misgivings chase,
This round Martello tower shall still
Be a new church in Langham-place.
“To Ætna's red Vulcanian steeps,
Fly, Mercury, on feather'd sandal,
And, when the giant Titan sleeps,
Snatch, god of thieves, his huge bed-candle.
Bear thence its tall extinguisher,
This conflagration to efface,
'Twill added dignity confer
On our new church in Langham-place.”
Fly, Mercury, on feather'd sandal,
And, when the giant Titan sleeps,
Snatch, god of thieves, his huge bed-candle.
Bear thence its tall extinguisher,
This conflagration to efface,
'Twill added dignity confer
On our new church in Langham-place.”
The cone up-tilted, Momus bawls—
“Attention, all our loving people,
Here Mars's tower affords us walls,
And Titan's candlestick a steeple:
Our fane, thus martially endow'd,
Soon may some Boanerges grace,
And ‘Son of Thunder,’ draw the crowd
To our new church in Langham-place!”
“Attention, all our loving people,
Here Mars's tower affords us walls,
And Titan's candlestick a steeple:
Our fane, thus martially endow'd,
Soon may some Boanerges grace,
And ‘Son of Thunder,’ draw the crowd
To our new church in Langham-place!”
241
MORNING CALLS.
Amid the reams of new joint schemes
With which the press abounds,
To give us ease, cheap milk and cheese,
And turn our pence to pounds;
No patriot yet has torn the net
That social life enthrals,
Denounc'd the crime of killing Time,
And banish'd Morning Calls.
With which the press abounds,
To give us ease, cheap milk and cheese,
And turn our pence to pounds;
No patriot yet has torn the net
That social life enthrals,
Denounc'd the crime of killing Time,
And banish'd Morning Calls.
When, spurning sports, in Rufus' courts,
Grim Law coif-headed stalks;
'Twixt three and four when merchants pour
Round Gresham's murmuring walks;
When, with bent knees, our kind M.P.'s
Give up e'en Tattersall's
On bills to sit,—'tis surely fit
We give up Morning Calls.
Grim Law coif-headed stalks;
'Twixt three and four when merchants pour
Round Gresham's murmuring walks;
When, with bent knees, our kind M.P.'s
Give up e'en Tattersall's
On bills to sit,—'tis surely fit
We give up Morning Calls.
On clattering feet up Regent-street
To Portland-place you roam,
Where Shoulder-tag surveys your nag,
And answers—“Not at home.”
Thus far you win; but, if let in,
The conversation drawls
Through hum-drum cheeks—what mortal seeks
Aught else at Morning Calls?
To Portland-place you roam,
Where Shoulder-tag surveys your nag,
And answers—“Not at home.”
Thus far you win; but, if let in,
The conversation drawls
Through hum-drum cheeks—what mortal seeks
Aught else at Morning Calls?
242
Your steed, all dust, you heedless trust
To some lad standing idle;
But while you stay he trots away,
And pawns your girth and bridle.
Your case you state; the magistrate
Cries—“Why not go to stalls?
When loungers meet, let horses eat,
And have their Morning Calls.”
To some lad standing idle;
But while you stay he trots away,
And pawns your girth and bridle.
Your case you state; the magistrate
Cries—“Why not go to stalls?
When loungers meet, let horses eat,
And have their Morning Calls.”
To say that town is emptier grown,
That Spanish bonds look glum,
That Madame Pasta's gone at last,
And Ma'amselle Garcia's come;
To say you fear the atmosphere
Is grown too hot for balls,
Is all that they can have to say
Who meet at Morning Calls.
That Spanish bonds look glum,
That Madame Pasta's gone at last,
And Ma'amselle Garcia's come;
To say you fear the atmosphere
Is grown too hot for balls,
Is all that they can have to say
Who meet at Morning Calls.
While Fashion's dames clung round St. James,
The deed might soon be done;
But now when ton's so bulky grown
She claims all Paddington,
From Maida-hill to Pentonville,
The very thought appals,—
I really will bring in a bill
To banish Morning Calls!
The deed might soon be done;
But now when ton's so bulky grown
She claims all Paddington,
From Maida-hill to Pentonville,
The very thought appals,—
I really will bring in a bill
To banish Morning Calls!
243
THE TWO SISTERS.
Born of a widow tall and dark,
Whose head-piece ne'er at whist errs;
Where York Gate guards the Regent's Park,
There dwelt two loving sisters.
Whose head-piece ne'er at whist errs;
Where York Gate guards the Regent's Park,
There dwelt two loving sisters.
Gertrude, ere twelve years old, would quote
John Locke, and took to wisdom;
Emma (I happen well to know't)
On all such topics is dumb.
John Locke, and took to wisdom;
Emma (I happen well to know't)
On all such topics is dumb.
The stars that gem yon vaulted dome
Are swept by Gertrude's besom;
Emma, unless when driven home
From Almack's, never sees 'em.
Are swept by Gertrude's besom;
Emma, unless when driven home
From Almack's, never sees 'em.
Gertrude o'er Werner's Scale will run
Slate, limestone, quartz, and granite,
And name the strata, one by one,
That coat our zig-zag planet.
Slate, limestone, quartz, and granite,
And name the strata, one by one,
That coat our zig-zag planet.
But Emma, bent on ball or rout,
Soon of such converse weary is,
And even nothing knows about
The O-o-litic Series.
Soon of such converse weary is,
And even nothing knows about
The O-o-litic Series.
Gertrude, unmoved by doubt a jot,
Knows from the “Sketch” of Evans
What dwarfs in faith descend, and what
Tall Titans scale the heavens.
Knows from the “Sketch” of Evans
What dwarfs in faith descend, and what
Tall Titans scale the heavens.
244
The grand piano Emma greets
With fingers light and plastic;
But never like her sister beats
The drum ecclesiastic.
With fingers light and plastic;
But never like her sister beats
The drum ecclesiastic.
That, dipp'd in blue, with lofty air
Men's would-be Queen discovers;
This, dress'd in white, seems not to care
If men prove foes or lovers.
Men's would-be Queen discovers;
This, dress'd in white, seems not to care
If men prove foes or lovers.
'Twixt sense and folly free to choose,
So different, so unequal,
Can man dwell long in doubt? My Muse
With wonder sings the sequel!
So different, so unequal,
Can man dwell long in doubt? My Muse
With wonder sings the sequel!
Darts ofttimes fly of merit wide—
(So wills the purblind urchin)—
Emma, light Emma, blooms a bride,
And Gertrude fades a virgin!
(So wills the purblind urchin)—
Emma, light Emma, blooms a bride,
And Gertrude fades a virgin!
TABLE TALK.
To weave a culinary clue,
When to eschew, and what to chew,
Where shun, and where take rations,
I sing. Attend, ye diners-out,
And, if my numbers please you, shout
“Hear, hear!” in acclamations.
When to eschew, and what to chew,
Where shun, and where take rations,
I sing. Attend, ye diners-out,
And, if my numbers please you, shout
“Hear, hear!” in acclamations.
There are who treat you, once a year,
To the same stupid set; good cheer
Such hardship cannot soften.
To listen to the self-same dunce,
At the same leaden table, once
Per annum's once too often.
To the same stupid set; good cheer
245
To listen to the self-same dunce,
At the same leaden table, once
Per annum's once too often.
Rather than that, mix on my plate
With men I like the meat I hate—
Colman with pig and treacle;
Luttrell with ven'son-pasty join,
Lord Normanby with orange wine,
And rabbit-pie with Jekyll.
With men I like the meat I hate—
Colman with pig and treacle;
Luttrell with ven'son-pasty join,
Lord Normanby with orange wine,
And rabbit-pie with Jekyll.
Add to George Lambe a sable snipe,
Conjoin with Captain Morris tripe
By parsley-roots made denser;
Mix Macintosh with mack'rel, with
Calves-head and bacon Sidney Smith,
And mutton-broth with Spencer.
Conjoin with Captain Morris tripe
By parsley-roots made denser;
Mix Macintosh with mack'rel, with
Calves-head and bacon Sidney Smith,
And mutton-broth with Spencer.
Shun sitting next the wight whose drone
Bores, sotto voce, you alone
With flat colloquial pressure;
Debarr'd from general talk, you droop
Beneath his buzz, from orient Soup
To occidental Cheshire.
Bores, sotto voce, you alone
With flat colloquial pressure;
Debarr'd from general talk, you droop
Beneath his buzz, from orient Soup
To occidental Cheshire.
He who can only talk with one,
Should stay at home and talk with none—
At all events, to strangers,
Like village epitaphs of yore,
He ought to cry “Long time I bore,”
To warn them of their dangers.
Should stay at home and talk with none—
At all events, to strangers,
Like village epitaphs of yore,
He ought to cry “Long time I bore,”
To warn them of their dangers.
246
There are whose kind inquiries scan
Your total kindred, man by man,
Son, brother, cousin, joining,
They ask about your wife, who's dead,
And eulogize your uncle Ned,
Who swung last week for coining.
Your total kindred, man by man,
Son, brother, cousin, joining,
They ask about your wife, who's dead,
And eulogize your uncle Ned,
Who swung last week for coining.
When join'd to such a son of prate,
His queries I anticipate,
And thus my lee-way fetch up—
“Sir, all my relatives, I vow,
Are perfectly in health—and now
I'd thank you for the ketchup!”
His queries I anticipate,
And thus my lee-way fetch up—
“Sir, all my relatives, I vow,
Are perfectly in health—and now
I'd thank you for the ketchup!”
Others there are who but retail
Their breakfast journal, now grown stale,
In print ere day was dawning;
When folks like these sit next to me,
They send me dinnerless to tea;
One cannot chew while yawning.
Their breakfast journal, now grown stale,
In print ere day was dawning;
When folks like these sit next to me,
They send me dinnerless to tea;
One cannot chew while yawning.
Seat not good talkers one next one,
As Jacquier beards the Clarendon;
Thus shrouded you undo 'em;
Rather confront them, face to face,
Like Holles Street and Harewood Place,
And let the town run through 'em.
As Jacquier beards the Clarendon;
Thus shrouded you undo 'em;
Rather confront them, face to face,
Like Holles Street and Harewood Place,
And let the town run through 'em.
Poets are dangerous to sit nigh;
You waft their praises to the sky,
And when you think you're stirring
Their gratitude, they bite you—(That's
The reason I object to cats;
They scratch amid their purring.)
You waft their praises to the sky,
And when you think you're stirring
247
The reason I object to cats;
They scratch amid their purring.)
For those who ask you if you “malt,”
Who “beg your pardon” for the salt,
And ape our upper grandees,
By wondering folks can touch port wine;
That, reader, 's your affair, not mine;
I never mess with dandies.
Who “beg your pardon” for the salt,
And ape our upper grandees,
By wondering folks can touch port wine;
That, reader, 's your affair, not mine;
I never mess with dandies.
Relations mix not kindly; shun
Inviting brothers; sire and son
Is not a wise selection:
Too intimate, they either jar
In converse, or the evening mar
By mutual circumspection.
Inviting brothers; sire and son
Is not a wise selection:
Too intimate, they either jar
In converse, or the evening mar
By mutual circumspection.
Lawyers are apt to think the view
That interests them must interest you;
Hence they appear at table
Or supereloquent, or dumb,
Fluent as nightingales, or mum
As horses in a stable.
That interests them must interest you;
Hence they appear at table
Or supereloquent, or dumb,
Fluent as nightingales, or mum
As horses in a stable.
When men amuse their fellow guests
With Crank and Jones, or Justice Best's
Harangue in Dobbs and Ryal!
The host, beneath whose roof they sit,
Must be a puny judge of wit,
Who grants them a new trial.
With Crank and Jones, or Justice Best's
Harangue in Dobbs and Ryal!
The host, beneath whose roof they sit,
Must be a puny judge of wit,
Who grants them a new trial.
Shun technicals in each extreme;
Exclusive talk, whate'er the theme,
The proper boundary passes;
Nobles as much offend, whose clack's
For ever running on Almack's,
As brokers on molasses.
Exclusive talk, whate'er the theme,
248
Nobles as much offend, whose clack's
For ever running on Almack's,
As brokers on molasses.
I knew a man, from glass to delf,
Who knew of nothing but himself,
Till check'd by a vertigo;
The party who beheld him “floor'd,”
Bent o'er the liberated board,
And cried, “Hic jacet ego.”
Who knew of nothing but himself,
Till check'd by a vertigo;
The party who beheld him “floor'd,”
Bent o'er the liberated board,
And cried, “Hic jacet ego.”
Some aim to tell a thing that hit
Where last they dined; what there was wit,
Here meets rebuffs and crosses.
Jokes are like trees; their place of birth
Best suits them; stuck in foreign earth,
They perish in the process.
Where last they dined; what there was wit,
Here meets rebuffs and crosses.
Jokes are like trees; their place of birth
Best suits them; stuck in foreign earth,
They perish in the process.
Think, reader, of the few who groan
For any ailments save their own;
The world, from peer to peasant,
Is heedless of your cough or gout;
Then pr'ythee, when you next dine out,
Go arm'd with something pleasant.
For any ailments save their own;
The world, from peer to peasant,
Is heedless of your cough or gout;
Then pr'ythee, when you next dine out,
Go arm'd with something pleasant.
Nay, even the very soil that nursed
The plant, will sometimes kill what erst
It nurtured in full glory.
Like causes will not always move
To similar effects; to prove
The fact, I'll tell a story.
The plant, will sometimes kill what erst
It nurtured in full glory.
Like causes will not always move
To similar effects; to prove
The fact, I'll tell a story.
249
Close to that spot where Stuart turns
His back upon the clubs, and spurns
The earth, a marble fixture,
We dined; well match'd, for pleasure met,
Wits, poets, peers, a jovial set
In miscellaneous mixture.
His back upon the clubs, and spurns
The earth, a marble fixture,
We dined; well match'd, for pleasure met,
Wits, poets, peers, a jovial set
In miscellaneous mixture.
Each card turn'd up a trump, the glee,
The catch went round, from eight to three,
Decorum scorn'd to own us;
We joked, we banter'd, laugh'd, and roar'd,
Till high above the welkin soar'd
The helpmate of Tithonus.
The catch went round, from eight to three,
Decorum scorn'd to own us;
We joked, we banter'd, laugh'd, and roar'd,
Till high above the welkin soar'd
The helpmate of Tithonus.
Care kept aloof, each social soul
A brother hail'd, Joy fill'd the bowl,
And humour crown'd the medley,
Till royal Charles, roused by the fun,
Look'd toward Whitehall, and thought his son
Was rioting with Sedley.
A brother hail'd, Joy fill'd the bowl,
And humour crown'd the medley,
Till royal Charles, roused by the fun,
Look'd toward Whitehall, and thought his son
Was rioting with Sedley.
“Gad, John, this is a glorious joke—”
(Thus to our host his Highness spoke)—
“The vicar with his Nappy
Would give an eye for this night's freak—
Suppose we meet again next week—”
John bow'd, and was too “happy.”
(Thus to our host his Highness spoke)—
“The vicar with his Nappy
Would give an eye for this night's freak—
Suppose we meet again next week—”
John bow'd, and was too “happy.”
The day arrived—'twas seven—we met:
Wits, poets, peers, the self-same set,
Each hail'd a joyous brother.
But in the blithe and débonnaire,
Saying, alas! is one affair,
And doing is another.
Wits, poets, peers, the self-same set,
Each hail'd a joyous brother.
250
Saying, alas! is one affair,
And doing is another.
Nature unkind, we turn'd to Art;
Heavens! how we labour'd to be smart;
Zug sang a song in German:
We might as well have play'd at chess;
All dropp'd as dead-born from the press
As last year's Spital sermon.
Heavens! how we labour'd to be smart;
Zug sang a song in German:
We might as well have play'd at chess;
All dropp'd as dead-born from the press
As last year's Spital sermon.
Ah! Merriment! when men entrap
Thy bells, and women steal thy cap,
They think they have trepann'd thee.
Delusive thought! aloof and dumb,
Thou wilt not at a bidding come,
Though Royalty command thee.
Thy bells, and women steal thy cap,
They think they have trepann'd thee.
Delusive thought! aloof and dumb,
Thou wilt not at a bidding come,
Though Royalty command thee.
The rich, who sigh for thee; the great,
Who court thy smiles with gilded plate,
But clasp thy cloudy follies:
I've known thee turn, in Portman Square,
From Burgundy and Hock, to share
A pint of Port at Dolly's.
Who court thy smiles with gilded plate,
But clasp thy cloudy follies:
I've known thee turn, in Portman Square,
From Burgundy and Hock, to share
A pint of Port at Dolly's.
Races at Ascot, tours in Wales,
White-bait at Greenwich oftimes fail,
To wake thee from thy slumbers.
Ev'n now, so prone art thou to fly,
Ungrateful nymph! thou'rt fighting shy
Of these narcotic numbers.
White-bait at Greenwich oftimes fail,
To wake thee from thy slumbers.
Ev'n now, so prone art thou to fly,
Ungrateful nymph! thou'rt fighting shy
Of these narcotic numbers.
251
THE POET OF FASHION.
His book is successful, he's steep'd in renown,
His lyric effusions have tickled the town;
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face;
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tête-à-tête,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.
His lyric effusions have tickled the town;
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face;
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tête-à-tête,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.
Now lean-jointured widows, who seldom draw corks,
Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-cover'd, a six o'clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard:
Veal, sweetbread, boil'd chickens, and tongue, crown the cloth,
And soup à la reine, little better than broth:
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.
Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-cover'd, a six o'clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard:
Veal, sweetbread, boil'd chickens, and tongue, crown the cloth,
And soup à la reine, little better than broth:
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.
Enroll'd in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember'd by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak—
While, still in translation employ'd by “The Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.
Remember'd by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak—
While, still in translation employ'd by “The Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.
252
Push'd down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink,
Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squab city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for “something off-hand;”
No longer with stilted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought,
And (O what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge Yard.
Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squab city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for “something off-hand;”
No longer with stilted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought,
And (O what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge Yard.
THE CLAPHAM CHALYBEATE.
Who has e'er been at Clapham must needs know the pond
That belongs to Sir Barnaby Sturch:
'Tis well stock'd with fish; and the knight's rather fond
Of bobbing for tench or for perch.
That belongs to Sir Barnaby Sturch:
'Tis well stock'd with fish; and the knight's rather fond
Of bobbing for tench or for perch.
When he draws up his line, to decide if all's right,
Moist drops o'er his pantaloons dribble;
Though seldom, if ever, beguiled by a bite,
He now and then boasts of a nibble.
Moist drops o'er his pantaloons dribble;
Though seldom, if ever, beguiled by a bite,
He now and then boasts of a nibble.
Vulgar mud, very like vulgar men, will encroach
Unchecked by the spade and the rake;
In process of time it enveloped the roach
In Sir Barnaby's Lilliput lake.
Unchecked by the spade and the rake;
In process of time it enveloped the roach
In Sir Barnaby's Lilliput lake.
Five workmen, well armed, and denuded of shoes,
Now fearlessly delved in the flood;
To steal unawares on the Empress of Ooze,
And cart off her insolent mud.
Now fearlessly delved in the flood;
To steal unawares on the Empress of Ooze,
And cart off her insolent mud.
253
The innocent natives were borne from the bog,
Eel, minnow, and toad, felt the shovel,
And lizard-like eft lay with fugitive frog
In a clay-built extempore hovel.
Eel, minnow, and toad, felt the shovel,
And lizard-like eft lay with fugitive frog
In a clay-built extempore hovel.
The men worked away with their hands and their feet,
And delved in a regular ring;
When lo! as their taskwork was all but complete,
They wakened a mineral spring.
And delved in a regular ring;
When lo! as their taskwork was all but complete,
They wakened a mineral spring.
“We've found a Chalybeate, sir,” cried the men;
“We halt till we know what your wish is”—
“Keep it safe,” quoth the knight, “till you've finish'd, and then
Throw it back with the rest of the fishes.”
“We halt till we know what your wish is”—
“Keep it safe,” quoth the knight, “till you've finish'd, and then
Throw it back with the rest of the fishes.”
THE CAVE OF TROPHONIUS.
Orchomenos once had a king,
This king had a son called Trophonius,
Who built a stone fane round a spring
Of Phœbus, surnamed the Harmonious.
The god, when the youth asked for pelf,
Despatched him with Pluto to sup;
For Earth in her maw caught the elf,
And ate the poor architect up.
This king had a son called Trophonius,
Who built a stone fane round a spring
Of Phœbus, surnamed the Harmonious.
The god, when the youth asked for pelf,
Despatched him with Pluto to sup;
For Earth in her maw caught the elf,
And ate the poor architect up.
Bœotia was plagued with a drought,
The natives, a goblet too low,
Went poking for well-springs about,
With pickaxe, and shovel, and hoe.
“Dry Greeks,” cried a voice in the breeze,
“If your plan be to moisten your clay,
Go follow yon army of bees,
And halt where they settle—away!”
The natives, a goblet too low,
Went poking for well-springs about,
With pickaxe, and shovel, and hoe.
254
“If your plan be to moisten your clay,
Go follow yon army of bees,
And halt where they settle—away!”
To the rocks, armed with ladle and pan,
Intent but to tipple and chew,
The sons of North Attica ran
And fled where the honey-fraught flew.
They tracked to a cavern the hive,
Where, healthy, and not at all grown,
They found young Trophonius live,
Tike a toad in a segment of stone.
Intent but to tipple and chew,
The sons of North Attica ran
And fled where the honey-fraught flew.
They tracked to a cavern the hive,
Where, healthy, and not at all grown,
They found young Trophonius live,
Tike a toad in a segment of stone.
The youth gave his finders a rod,
Whose point with a tremulous swing
Would vibrate awhile on the sod,
Then point where to probe for a sping.
In grateful requital, the Greeks,
Securing in cisterns the tide,
Extoll'd him with water-logg'd cheeks,
And made him a god when he died.
Whose point with a tremulous swing
Would vibrate awhile on the sod,
Then point where to probe for a sping.
In grateful requital, the Greeks,
Securing in cisterns the tide,
Extoll'd him with water-logg'd cheeks,
And made him a god when he died.
Anointed with unguents and oils,
To his fane, in the bramble-girt hollow,
They bore in their hands votive spoils,
And dubb'd him the Son of Apollo;
They proffer'd him bees-wax and honey,
In milk-white habiliments clad,
Some enter'd the cave, looking funny,
But all came away looking sad.
To his fane, in the bramble-girt hollow,
They bore in their hands votive spoils,
And dubb'd him the Son of Apollo;
They proffer'd him bees-wax and honey,
In milk-white habiliments clad,
Some enter'd the cave, looking funny,
But all came away looking sad.
255
When Greece to the Crescent bent low,
And Art found in Athens a grave,
Lord Elgin, with pick-axe and hoe,
Dug deep for the bramble-girt cave.
He bore it o'er mountain and heath,
And, aided by ocean and air,
Immovably placed it beneath
The mansion of London's Lord Mayor.
And Art found in Athens a grave,
Lord Elgin, with pick-axe and hoe,
Dug deep for the bramble-girt cave.
He bore it o'er mountain and heath,
And, aided by ocean and air,
Immovably placed it beneath
The mansion of London's Lord Mayor.
There, entering on hands and on knees,
Bœotian saints still we find,
Led by females, as busy as bees,
Who leave their drone helpmates behind.
In quest of the well-spring of Grace,
Aloft through the cavern they crawl,
And meet, face to sanctified face,
In his Lordship's Egyptian Hall.
Bœotian saints still we find,
Led by females, as busy as bees,
Who leave their drone helpmates behind.
In quest of the well-spring of Grace,
Aloft through the cavern they crawl,
And meet, face to sanctified face,
In his Lordship's Egyptian Hall.
There Zealanders, tarr'd and tattoo'd,
And red-ochred chiefs meet the sight;
And water and tubs round are strew'd
For washing the Blackamoor white:
And Mummery revels and feasts,
And Reason deep slumbering nods;
And Folly and Farce are the priests,
And Monkeys and Leeks are the gods.
And red-ochred chiefs meet the sight;
And water and tubs round are strew'd
For washing the Blackamoor white:
And Mummery revels and feasts,
And Reason deep slumbering nods;
And Folly and Farce are the priests,
And Monkeys and Leeks are the gods.
There, Scotia, thy big Boanerges
His thunderbolt hurls on the ear,
Asserts lack of lucre, and urges,
His watch on a pawnbroker peer.
No homily there comes amiss,
Provided the text is “Qui dat;”
And the honey-tongued Reverend This
Responds to the Reverend That.
His thunderbolt hurls on the ear,
Asserts lack of lucre, and urges,
His watch on a pawnbroker peer.
256
Provided the text is “Qui dat;”
And the honey-tongued Reverend This
Responds to the Reverend That.
Then deem not, Trophonius, too tragic
The fate that attends thy retreat:
Though borne from Bœotia, its magic
Still tends it in Mansion House Street.
As long as thy priests call for money
From widow and maid, man and lad;
Though some may walk in looking funny,
Yet all will walk out looking sad.
The fate that attends thy retreat:
Though borne from Bœotia, its magic
Still tends it in Mansion House Street.
As long as thy priests call for money
From widow and maid, man and lad;
Though some may walk in looking funny,
Yet all will walk out looking sad.
NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS.
My wife and I live, comme il faut,
At number Six in Crosby Row:
So few our household labours,
We quickly turn from joints and pies,
To use two tongues and twice two eyes
To meliorate our neighbours.
At number Six in Crosby Row:
So few our household labours,
We quickly turn from joints and pies,
To use two tongues and twice two eyes
To meliorate our neighbours.
My eye-glass, thanks to Dollond's skill,
Sweeps up the lane to Mears's Mill,
While, latticed in her chamber,
My wife peeps through her window-pane,
To note who ramble round the lane,
And who the foot-stile clamber.
Sweeps up the lane to Mears's Mill,
While, latticed in her chamber,
My wife peeps through her window-pane,
To note who ramble round the lane,
And who the foot-stile clamber.
257
This morn the zig-zag man of meat
Trotted, tray-balanced, up the street—
We saw him halt at Sydney's:
My wife asserts he left lamb there;
But I myself can all but swear
'Twas mutton-chops and kidneys.
Trotted, tray-balanced, up the street—
We saw him halt at Sydney's:
My wife asserts he left lamb there;
But I myself can all but swear
'Twas mutton-chops and kidneys.
The man who goes about with urns
Is beckon'd in by Betty Burns:
The poor girl knows no better:
But Mrs. Burns should have more sense;
That broken tray is mere pretence—
He brings the girl a letter.
Is beckon'd in by Betty Burns:
The poor girl knows no better:
But Mrs. Burns should have more sense;
That broken tray is mere pretence—
He brings the girl a letter.
Whether she goes up street for milk,
Or brings home sugar, pins, or silk,
That silly wench for ever
Draws up, pretending at the stile
To rest herself, while all the while
She waits for Captain Trevor.
Or brings home sugar, pins, or silk,
That silly wench for ever
Draws up, pretending at the stile
To rest herself, while all the while
She waits for Captain Trevor.
The Captain, when he sees me, turns,
Seems not to notice Betty Burns,
And round the pond betakes him,
Behind the stables of the Bear,
To get the back way in; but there
My wife's back window rakes him.
Seems not to notice Betty Burns,
And round the pond betakes him,
Behind the stables of the Bear,
To get the back way in; but there
My wife's back window rakes him.
There go the Freaks again—but hark!
I hear the gate-bell ring—'tis Bark,
The glib apothecary,
Who in his mortar pounds the fame
Of every rumour-wounded dame,
From Moll to Lady Mary.
I hear the gate-bell ring—'tis Bark,
The glib apothecary,
258
Of every rumour-wounded dame,
From Moll to Lady Mary.
“Well, Mr. Bark,”—“I've found her out.”
“Who is she?”—“Not his wife.”—“No doubt.”
“'Twas told me by his brother.”
“Which brother? Archibald?”—“No, Fred.
An old connexion.”—“So I said.”
“The woman's”—“What?”—“His mother.”
“Who is she?”—“Not his wife.”—“No doubt.”
“'Twas told me by his brother.”
“Which brother? Archibald?”—“No, Fred.
An old connexion.”—“So I said.”
“The woman's”—“What?”—“His mother.”
“Who are the comers next to Blake's?
“At number Four?”—“Yes.”—“No great shakes—
Sad junketings and wastings.
I've seen them play in ‘Days of Yore,’
He acted Hastings in Jane Shore,
And she Jane Shore in Hastings.”
“At number Four?”—“Yes.”—“No great shakes—
Sad junketings and wastings.
I've seen them play in ‘Days of Yore,’
He acted Hastings in Jane Shore,
And she Jane Shore in Hastings.”
“Pray, Mr. Bark, what party drove
That dark-brown chariot to the Grove?”
“The Perry's, Ma'am, wet Quakers.
He married Mrs. Hartley Grant,
Whose father's uncle's mother's aunt
Liv'd cook at Lady Dacre's.”
That dark-brown chariot to the Grove?”
“The Perry's, Ma'am, wet Quakers.
He married Mrs. Hartley Grant,
Whose father's uncle's mother's aunt
Liv'd cook at Lady Dacre's.”
But Sunday is the time, of course,
When Gossip's congregated force
Pours from our central chapel:
Then hints and anecdotes increase,
And in the Mansion-house of Peace
Dark Discord drops her apple.
When Gossip's congregated force
Pours from our central chapel:
Then hints and anecdotes increase,
And in the Mansion-house of Peace
Dark Discord drops her apple.
259
Ope but a casement, turn a lock,
The whole row feels th' electric shock,
Springs tilt, their blinds up throwing.
And every ear and every eye
Darts to one centre, to descry
Who's coming or who's going.
The whole row feels th' electric shock,
Springs tilt, their blinds up throwing.
And every ear and every eye
Darts to one centre, to descry
Who's coming or who's going.
Thus occupied, in Crosby-row,
We covet not the Grange or Stowe;
Pent in by walls and palings,
Their lordly tenants can't, like us,
Drop in at tea time to discuss
Their neighbours' faults and failings.
We covet not the Grange or Stowe;
Pent in by walls and palings,
Their lordly tenants can't, like us,
Drop in at tea time to discuss
Their neighbours' faults and failings.
THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.
As, on the fifth day of November,
I walk'd down Bartholomew-lane,
I heard a poor Stock-market member
Thus vent to the pavement his pain.
The boys had Guy Faux by the girdle,
Intending to roast him red hot;
The broker look'd blank at the hurdle,
And thus sang the Gunpowder Plot.
I walk'd down Bartholomew-lane,
I heard a poor Stock-market member
Thus vent to the pavement his pain.
The boys had Guy Faux by the girdle,
Intending to roast him red hot;
The broker look'd blank at the hurdle,
And thus sang the Gunpowder Plot.
“Away with yon ‘Gunpowder Percy,’
Commit the old rogue to the flames,
Grill, barbecue, show him no mercy,
For plotting to blow up King James.
That two of a trade wrangle ever,
I often have heard—who has not?
How vain his fantastic endeavour
To cope with our Gunpowder Plot!
Commit the old rogue to the flames,
Grill, barbecue, show him no mercy,
For plotting to blow up King James.
260
I often have heard—who has not?
How vain his fantastic endeavour
To cope with our Gunpowder Plot!
“By us the Welsh Railway's impeded,
Mine searchers are balk'd in their dip,
The call to ‘cash up’ is unheeded
By holders of Mexican scrip.
Montezuma we've cut a head shorter,
The new patent paper we blot,
London brick's uncemented by mortar,
And all through our Gunpowder Plot.
Mine searchers are balk'd in their dip,
The call to ‘cash up’ is unheeded
By holders of Mexican scrip.
Montezuma we've cut a head shorter,
The new patent paper we blot,
London brick's uncemented by mortar,
And all through our Gunpowder Plot.
“British silk we have put out of favour,
Our wives scorn to wear it in cloaks,
British salt we have spoil'd of its savour,
Our Real del Monte's a hoax:
Shareholders, grown wiser, the risk count,
Determined to know what is what,
Columbian scrip's at a discount,
When singed by our Gunpowder Plot.
Our wives scorn to wear it in cloaks,
British salt we have spoil'd of its savour,
Our Real del Monte's a hoax:
Shareholders, grown wiser, the risk count,
Determined to know what is what,
Columbian scrip's at a discount,
When singed by our Gunpowder Plot.
“Gwennappe, with its tin and its copper,
Has now in its shaft sprung a leak,
The shareholders don't think it proper
Directors should play hide-and-seek.
Greek bonds are cast into the gutter,
Cheam soap to a discount has got:
Metropolitan Alderney butter
Runs off in our Gunpowder Plot.
Has now in its shaft sprung a leak,
The shareholders don't think it proper
Directors should play hide-and-seek.
Greek bonds are cast into the gutter,
Cheam soap to a discount has got:
Metropolitan Alderney butter
Runs off in our Gunpowder Plot.
261
“Pearl-divers lie strangled below sea,
Red rubies won't come at a wish,
Gold sticks like a leech to Potosi,
And Myers gives up ‘London fish.’
Huge logs lie unshipp'd at Honduras,
The Company leaves them to rot;
The schemes are laid sprawling as sure as
A gun by our Gunpowder Plot.
Red rubies won't come at a wish,
Gold sticks like a leech to Potosi,
And Myers gives up ‘London fish.’
Huge logs lie unshipp'd at Honduras,
The Company leaves them to rot;
The schemes are laid sprawling as sure as
A gun by our Gunpowder Plot.
“Then haste, boys, your fagots burn brighter;
And if, in the midst of your sport,
Some fragment of charcoal and nitre
Shall blow into air Capel-court;
The shareholders, cruel as Nero,
Will laugh at our merited lot,
And cry, ‘Mr. Guy, you're a hero!
Long life to your Gunpowder Plot!’”
And if, in the midst of your sport,
Some fragment of charcoal and nitre
Shall blow into air Capel-court;
The shareholders, cruel as Nero,
Will laugh at our merited lot,
And cry, ‘Mr. Guy, you're a hero!
Long life to your Gunpowder Plot!’”
THE IMAGE BOY.
Whoe'er has trudged, on frequent feet,
From Charing Cross to Ludgate-street,
That haunt of noise and wrangle,
Has seen, on journeying through the Strand,
A foreign Image-vender stand
Near Somerset's quadrangle.
From Charing Cross to Ludgate-street,
That haunt of noise and wrangle,
Has seen, on journeying through the Strand,
A foreign Image-vender stand
Near Somerset's quadrangle.
His coal-black eye, his balanced walk,
His sable apron, white with chalk,
His listless meditation,
His curly locks, his sallow cheeks,
His board of celebrated Greeks,
Proclaim his trade and nation.
His sable apron, white with chalk,
262
His curly locks, his sallow cheeks,
His board of celebrated Greeks,
Proclaim his trade and nation.
Not on that board, as erst, are seen
A tawdry troop; our gracious Queen
With tresses like a carrot,
A milk-maid with a pea-green pail,
A poodle with a golden tail,
John Wesley, and a parrot;—
A tawdry troop; our gracious Queen
With tresses like a carrot,
A milk-maid with a pea-green pail,
A poodle with a golden tail,
John Wesley, and a parrot;—
No; far more classic is his stock;
With ducal Arthur, Milton, Locke,
He bears, unconscious roamer,
Alcmena's Jove-begotten Son,
Cold Abelard's too tepid Nun,
And pass-supported Homer.
With ducal Arthur, Milton, Locke,
He bears, unconscious roamer,
Alcmena's Jove-begotten Son,
Cold Abelard's too tepid Nun,
And pass-supported Homer.
See yonder bust adorn'd with curls;
'Tis hers, the Queen who melted pearls
Marc Antony to wheedle.
Her bark, her banquets, all are fled;
And Time, who cut her vital thread,
Has only spared her Needle.
'Tis hers, the Queen who melted pearls
Marc Antony to wheedle.
Her bark, her banquets, all are fled;
And Time, who cut her vital thread,
Has only spared her Needle.
Stern Neptune, with his triple prong,
Childe Harold, peer of peerless song,
So frolic Fortune wills it,
Stand next the Son of crazy Paul,
Who hugg'd the intrusive King of Gaul
Upon a raft at Tilsit.
Childe Harold, peer of peerless song,
So frolic Fortune wills it,
Stand next the Son of crazy Paul,
Who hugg'd the intrusive King of Gaul
Upon a raft at Tilsit.
263
“Poor vagrant child of want and toil!
The sun that warms thy native soil
Has ripen'd not thy knowledge;
'Tis obvious, from that vacant air,
Though Padua gave thee birth, thou ne'er
Didst graduate in her College.
The sun that warms thy native soil
Has ripen'd not thy knowledge;
'Tis obvious, from that vacant air,
Though Padua gave thee birth, thou ne'er
Didst graduate in her College.
“'Tis true thou nam'st thy motley freight;
But from what source their birth they date,
Mythology or history,
Old records, or the dreams of youth,
Dark fable, or transparent truth,
Is all to thee a mystery.
But from what source their birth they date,
Mythology or history,
Old records, or the dreams of youth,
Dark fable, or transparent truth,
Is all to thee a mystery.
“Come tell me, Vagrant, in a breath,
Alcides' birth, his life, his death,
Recount his dozen labours:
Homer thou know'st; but of the woes
Of Troy thou'rt ignorant as those
Dark Orange-boys thy neighbours.”
Alcides' birth, his life, his death,
Recount his dozen labours:
Homer thou know'st; but of the woes
Of Troy thou'rt ignorant as those
Dark Orange-boys thy neighbours.”
'Twas thus, erect, I deign'd to pour
My shower of lordly pity o'er
The poor Italian wittol,
As men are apt to do, to show
Their vantage-ground o'er those who know
Just less than their own little.
My shower of lordly pity o'er
The poor Italian wittol,
As men are apt to do, to show
Their vantage-ground o'er those who know
Just less than their own little.
When lo, methought Prometheus' flame
Waved o'er a bust of deathless fame,
And woke to life Childe Harold:
The Bard aroused me from my dream
Of pity, alias self-esteem,
And thus indignant caroll'd:—
Waved o'er a bust of deathless fame,
And woke to life Childe Harold:
264
Of pity, alias self-esteem,
And thus indignant caroll'd:—
“O thou, who thus, in numbers pert
And petulant, presum'st to flirt
With Memory's Nine Daughters:
Whose verse the next trade-winds that blow
Down narrow Paternoster-row
Shall 'whelm in Lethe's waters:
And petulant, presum'st to flirt
With Memory's Nine Daughters:
Whose verse the next trade-winds that blow
Down narrow Paternoster-row
Shall 'whelm in Lethe's waters:
“Slight is the difference I see
Between yon Paduan youth and thee;
He moulds, of Paris plaster,
An urn by classic Chantrey's laws,—
And thou a literary vase
Of would-be alabaster.
Between yon Paduan youth and thee;
He moulds, of Paris plaster,
An urn by classic Chantrey's laws,—
And thou a literary vase
Of would-be alabaster.
“Were I to arbitrate betwixt
“His terra cotta, plain or mix'd,
And thy earth-gender'd sonnet,
Small cause has he th' award to dread:—
Thy images are in the head,
And his, poor boy, are on it!”
“His terra cotta, plain or mix'd,
And thy earth-gender'd sonnet,
Small cause has he th' award to dread:—
Thy images are in the head,
And his, poor boy, are on it!”
RETORT LEGAL.
“What with briefs and attending the court, self and clerk,I'm at my wits' end,” muttered Drone the attorney.
“I fear 'tis a medical case,” answered Shark—
“You're so terribly tired by so little a journey.”
265
THE LEES AND THE LAWSONS.
If you call on the Lees, north of Bloomsbury-square,
They welcome you blandly, they proffer a chair,
Decorously mild and well bred:
Intent on their music, their books, or their pen,
Employment absorbs their attention, and men
Seem totally out of their head.
They welcome you blandly, they proffer a chair,
Decorously mild and well bred:
Intent on their music, their books, or their pen,
Employment absorbs their attention, and men
Seem totally out of their head.
If you call on the Lawsons, in Bloomsbury-place,
No fabric of order you seem to deface,
No sober arrangement to break:
They lounge on the sofa, their manners are odd,
Men drop in at luncheon, and give them a nod,
Then run to the sherry and cake.
No fabric of order you seem to deface,
No sober arrangement to break:
They lounge on the sofa, their manners are odd,
Men drop in at luncheon, and give them a nod,
Then run to the sherry and cake.
The house of the Lees has an orderly air,
It sets to its brethren of brick in the square
A model from attic to basement:
The knocker is polish'd, the name is japann'd,
The step, unpolluted, is sprinkled with sand,
White blinds veil the drawing-room casement.
It sets to its brethren of brick in the square
A model from attic to basement:
The knocker is polish'd, the name is japann'd,
The step, unpolluted, is sprinkled with sand,
White blinds veil the drawing-room casement.
The house of the Lawsons is toute autre chose,
It certainly proffers no air of repose,
For one of the girls always lingers
Athwart the verandah, alert as an ape,
To note to her sisters the forthcoming gape,
Be it monkeys, or Savoyard singers.
It certainly proffers no air of repose,
For one of the girls always lingers
Athwart the verandah, alert as an ape,
To note to her sisters the forthcoming gape,
Be it monkeys, or Savoyard singers.
266
Whenever the Lees to the theatre stray,
The singers who sing, and the players who play,
Attentive, untalkative, find 'em;
With sound to allure them, or sense to attract,
They rarely turn round, till the end of the act,
To talk with the party behind 'em.
The singers who sing, and the players who play,
Attentive, untalkative, find 'em;
With sound to allure them, or sense to attract,
They rarely turn round, till the end of the act,
To talk with the party behind 'em.
The Lawsons are bent on a different thing:
Miss Paton may warble, Miss Ayton may sing,
To listeners tier above tier:
They heed not song, character, pathos, or plot,
But turn their heads back, to converse with a knot
Of dandies who lounge in the rear.
Miss Paton may warble, Miss Ayton may sing,
To listeners tier above tier:
They heed not song, character, pathos, or plot,
But turn their heads back, to converse with a knot
Of dandies who lounge in the rear.
In life's onward path it has happen'd to me
With many a Lawson, and many a Lee,
In parties to mix and to mingle:
And somehow, in spite of manœuvres and plans,
I've found that the Lees get united in banns,
While most of the Lawsons keep single.
With many a Lawson, and many a Lee,
In parties to mix and to mingle:
And somehow, in spite of manœuvres and plans,
I've found that the Lees get united in banns,
While most of the Lawsons keep single.
Coy Hymen is like the black maker of rum—
“De more massa call me de more I vont come,”
He flies from the froward and bold:
He gives to the coy what he keeps from the kind;
The maidens who seek him, the maidens who find,
Are cast in an opposite mould.
“De more massa call me de more I vont come,”
He flies from the froward and bold:
He gives to the coy what he keeps from the kind;
The maidens who seek him, the maidens who find,
Are cast in an opposite mould.
Ye female gymnasians, who strive joint by joint,
Come give to my Lawsons some lessons in point,
(They can't from their own sex refuse 'em;)
Whenever you plan an athletic attack,
You know, from experience, to jump on man's back
Is not the right road to his bosom.
Come give to my Lawsons some lessons in point,
(They can't from their own sex refuse 'em;)
267
You know, from experience, to jump on man's back
Is not the right road to his bosom.
THE EXHIBITION.
Says Captain John Clay,
“'Tis the second of May,
All the town's in a humming condition,
Like bees in a hive—
Shall I give you a drive
To the Somerset House Exhibition?”
“You've tumbled,” I answered, “my wish on,
We'll go to this year's Exhibition:”
So, light as Queen Mab,
We enter'd his cab,
And drove to the new Exhibition.
“'Tis the second of May,
All the town's in a humming condition,
Like bees in a hive—
Shall I give you a drive
To the Somerset House Exhibition?”
“You've tumbled,” I answered, “my wish on,
We'll go to this year's Exhibition:”
So, light as Queen Mab,
We enter'd his cab,
And drove to the new Exhibition.
We first, hard as bone,
View'd the models in stone,
And saw, like a turkey a dish on,
Fair Psyche on Zephyrs,
As spotless as heifers,
All making an odd Exhibition.
A polish'd defunct politician,
A Kemble,—the drama's magician,
A Mrs. H. Gurney,
A marble attorney;
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
View'd the models in stone,
And saw, like a turkey a dish on,
Fair Psyche on Zephyrs,
As spotless as heifers,
All making an odd Exhibition.
A polish'd defunct politician,
A Kemble,—the drama's magician,
A Mrs. H. Gurney,
A marble attorney;
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
268
We then, with our cat-
A-logue stow'd in our hat,
Ascended, with no expedition,
Where Hercules grapples
His larceny apples,
And guards this sublime Exhibition.
Upstairs, in a weary condition,
We mounted this grand Exhibition;
Saw Boys with a spaniel,
Two Flounders by Daniell,
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
A-logue stow'd in our hat,
Ascended, with no expedition,
Where Hercules grapples
His larceny apples,
And guards this sublime Exhibition.
Upstairs, in a weary condition,
We mounted this grand Exhibition;
Saw Boys with a spaniel,
Two Flounders by Daniell,
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
A chief of dragoons
In tight red pantaloons,
Stood looking as fierce as Domitian;
A big Holofernes,
Whom Judith at her knees
Survey'd in a ticklish condition.
Indeed 'tis a fine Exhibition!
Pray mark in this Year's Exhibition
A fat Captive Negro,
Whose visage made me grow
Quite sad, in this new Exhibition.
In tight red pantaloons,
Stood looking as fierce as Domitian;
A big Holofernes,
Whom Judith at her knees
Survey'd in a ticklish condition.
Indeed 'tis a fine Exhibition!
Pray mark in this Year's Exhibition
A fat Captive Negro,
Whose visage made me grow
Quite sad, in this new Exhibition.
There's Jesse Watts Russell,
A Waterloo Bustle,
May Morning—not painted by Titian;
A Boa Constrictor,
As big as the picture,
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
Indeed 'tis a fine Exhibition,
Pray note in this new Exhibition
A Farebrother Sheriff,
I should not much care if
He graced not this year's Exhibition.
A Waterloo Bustle,
May Morning—not painted by Titian;
A Boa Constrictor,
As big as the picture,
And all in this Year's Exhibition.
269
Pray note in this new Exhibition
A Farebrother Sheriff,
I should not much care if
He graced not this year's Exhibition.
There's mild Caradori,
H. Singleton's Glory,
A head of R. Gooch, a physician,
Charles Mathews revealing
His charms to the ceiling,
And all in this grand Exhibition.
A Snow-storm, a dresser with Fish on,
Three Smugglers prepared for sedition,
Five heads by Sir Thomas—
Should fate take him from us,
'Twould be a much worse Exhibition.
H. Singleton's Glory,
A head of R. Gooch, a physician,
Charles Mathews revealing
His charms to the ceiling,
And all in this grand Exhibition.
A Snow-storm, a dresser with Fish on,
Three Smugglers prepared for sedition,
Five heads by Sir Thomas—
Should fate take him from us,
'Twould be a much worse Exhibition.
A Juliet by Briggs,
A Peasant and pigs,
A doctor descended from Priscian.
A Miss Charlotte Bestwich;
Not naming the rest which
Appear in this year's Exhibition.
Pray, reader, let no prohibition
Keep you from this year's Exhibition.
Do but go, and I trust
That you'll find this a just
Account of the new Exhibition.
A Peasant and pigs,
A doctor descended from Priscian.
A Miss Charlotte Bestwich;
Not naming the rest which
Appear in this year's Exhibition.
Pray, reader, let no prohibition
Keep you from this year's Exhibition.
Do but go, and I trust
That you'll find this a just
Account of the new Exhibition.
270
MAGOG'S PROPHECY.
Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus.—Hor. lib. i. od. 15.
As late, of civic glory vain,
The Lord Mayor drove down Mincing Lane,
The progress of the bannered train
To lengthen, not to shorten;
Gigantic Magog, vexed with heat,
Thus to be made the rabble's treat,
Checked the long march in Tower Street,
To tell his Lordship's fortune.
The Lord Mayor drove down Mincing Lane,
The progress of the bannered train
To lengthen, not to shorten;
Gigantic Magog, vexed with heat,
Thus to be made the rabble's treat,
Checked the long march in Tower Street,
To tell his Lordship's fortune.
“Go, man thy barge for Whitehall Stair,
Salute th' Exchequer Barons there,
Then summon round thy civic chair
To dinner Whigs and Tories;
Bid dukes and earls thy hustings climb—
But mark my word, Matthias Prime,
Ere the tenth hour, the scythe of Time
Shall amputate thy glories.
Salute th' Exchequer Barons there,
Then summon round thy civic chair
To dinner Whigs and Tories;
Bid dukes and earls thy hustings climb—
But mark my word, Matthias Prime,
Ere the tenth hour, the scythe of Time
Shall amputate thy glories.
Alas! what loads of fools I see,
What turbots from the Zuyder Zee,
What calipash, what calipee,
What salad and what mustard:
Heads of the Church and limbs of Law,
Venders of calico and straw,
Extend one sympathetic jaw
To swallow cake and custard.
What turbots from the Zuyder Zee,
What calipash, what calipee,
What salad and what mustard:
Heads of the Church and limbs of Law,
Venders of calico and straw,
Extend one sympathetic jaw
To swallow cake and custard.
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Thine armour'd knights their steeds discard,
To quaff thy wine ‘through helmet barred,’
While K.C.B's., with bosoms starred,
Within their circle wedge thee.
Even now I see thee standing up,
Raise to thy lip ‘the loving cup,’
Intent its ruby tide to sup,
And bid thy hearers pledge thee.
To quaff thy wine ‘through helmet barred,’
While K.C.B's., with bosoms starred,
Within their circle wedge thee.
Even now I see thee standing up,
Raise to thy lip ‘the loving cup,’
Intent its ruby tide to sup,
And bid thy hearers pledge thee.
But, ah! how fleeting thy renown!
Thus treading on the heel of Brown;
How vain thy spangled suit, thy gown
Intended for three winters;
Ere Lansdowne's speech is at an end,
I see a board of lamps descend,
Whose orbs in bright confusion blend,
And strew the floor with splinters.
Thus treading on the heel of Brown;
How vain thy spangled suit, thy gown
Intended for three winters;
Ere Lansdowne's speech is at an end,
I see a board of lamps descend,
Whose orbs in bright confusion blend,
And strew the floor with splinters.
Their smooth contents spread far and near,
And in one tide impetuous smear
Knight, waiter, liverymen, and peer:
Nay, even his Royal Highness
The falling board no longer props,
Owns, with amaze, the unwelcome drops,
And, premature anointment, swaps
For oozy wet his dryness.
And in one tide impetuous smear
Knight, waiter, liverymen, and peer:
Nay, even his Royal Highness
The falling board no longer props,
Owns, with amaze, the unwelcome drops,
And, premature anointment, swaps
For oozy wet his dryness.
Fear shrinks in many a varied tone,
Pale Beauty mourns her spotted zone,
And heads and bleeding knuckles own
The glittering prostration.
Behold! thou wip'st thy crimson chin,
And all is discord, all is din;
While scalded waiters swear thee in
With many an execration.
Pale Beauty mourns her spotted zone,
And heads and bleeding knuckles own
The glittering prostration.
272
And all is discord, all is din;
While scalded waiters swear thee in
With many an execration.
Yet, Lucas, smile in Fortune's spite:
Dark mornings often change to bright;
Ne'er shall this omen harm a wight
So active and so clever.
How buoyant, how elastic thou!
With a lamp halo round thy brow,
Prophetic Magog dubs thee now
A Lighter man—than ever.”
Dark mornings often change to bright;
Ne'er shall this omen harm a wight
So active and so clever.
How buoyant, how elastic thou!
With a lamp halo round thy brow,
Prophetic Magog dubs thee now
A Lighter man—than ever.”
275
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE.
THE MAMMOTH.
Soon as the deluge ceas'd to pour
The flood of death from shore to shore,
And verdure smil'd again,
Hatch'd amidst elemental strife,
I sought the upper realms of life,
The tyrant of the plain.
The flood of death from shore to shore,
And verdure smil'd again,
Hatch'd amidst elemental strife,
I sought the upper realms of life,
The tyrant of the plain.
On India's shores my dwelling lay—
Gigantic, as I roam'd for prey,
All nature took to flight!
At my approach the lofty woods
Submissive bow'd, the trembling floods
Drew backward with affright.
Gigantic, as I roam'd for prey,
All nature took to flight!
At my approach the lofty woods
Submissive bow'd, the trembling floods
Drew backward with affright.
Creation felt a general shock:
The screaming eagle sought the rock,
The elephant was slain;
Affrighted, men to caves retreat,
Tigers and leopards lick'd my feet,
And own'd my lordly reign.
The screaming eagle sought the rock,
The elephant was slain;
Affrighted, men to caves retreat,
Tigers and leopards lick'd my feet,
And own'd my lordly reign.
Thus many moons my course I ran,
The general foe of beast and man,
Till on one fatal day
The lion led the bestial train,
And I, alas! was quickly slain,
As gorg'd with food I lay.
The general foe of beast and man,
Till on one fatal day
276
And I, alas! was quickly slain,
As gorg'd with food I lay.
With lightning's speed the rumour spread—
“Rejoice! rejoice! the Mammoth's dead,”
Resounds from shore to shore.
Pomona, Ceres, thrive again,
And, laughing, join the choral strain,
“The Mammoth is no more.”
“Rejoice! rejoice! the Mammoth's dead,”
Resounds from shore to shore.
Pomona, Ceres, thrive again,
And, laughing, join the choral strain,
“The Mammoth is no more.”
In earth's deep caverns long immur'd,
My skeleton, from view secur'd,
In dull oblivion lay;
Till late, with industry and toil,
A youth subdued the stubborn soil,
And dragg'd me forth to day.
My skeleton, from view secur'd,
In dull oblivion lay;
Till late, with industry and toil,
A youth subdued the stubborn soil,
And dragg'd me forth to day.
In London now my body's shown,
And while the crowd o'er every bone
Incline the curious head,
They view my form with wond'ring eye,
And pleas'd in fancied safety, cry—
“Thank Heav'n, the monster's dead.”
And while the crowd o'er every bone
Incline the curious head,
They view my form with wond'ring eye,
And pleas'd in fancied safety, cry—
“Thank Heav'n, the monster's dead.”
O mortals, blind to future ill,
My race yet lives, it prospers still—
Nay, start not with surprise:
Behold, from Corsica's small isle,
Twin-born in cruelty and guile,
A second Mammoth rise!
My race yet lives, it prospers still—
Nay, start not with surprise:
Behold, from Corsica's small isle,
Twin-born in cruelty and guile,
A second Mammoth rise!
277
He seeks, on fortune's billows borne,
A land by revolution torn,
A prey to civil hate:
And seizing on a lucky time
Of Gallic frenzy, Gallic crime,
Assumes the regal state.
A land by revolution torn,
A prey to civil hate:
And seizing on a lucky time
Of Gallic frenzy, Gallic crime,
Assumes the regal state.
Batavian freedom floats in air,
The patriot Swiss, in deep despair,
Deserts his native land;
While haughty Spain her monarch sees
Submissive wait, on bended knees,
The tyrant's dread command.
The patriot Swiss, in deep despair,
Deserts his native land;
While haughty Spain her monarch sees
Submissive wait, on bended knees,
The tyrant's dread command.
All Europe o'er the giant stalks,
Whole nations tremble as he walks,
Extinct their martial fire;
The Northern Bear lies down to rest,
The Prussian Eagle seeks her nest,
The Austrian bands retire.
Whole nations tremble as he walks,
Extinct their martial fire;
The Northern Bear lies down to rest,
The Prussian Eagle seeks her nest,
The Austrian bands retire.
Yet, ah! a storm begins to low'r,
Satiate with cruelty and pow'r,
At ease the monster lies;
Lion of Britain, led by you,
If Europe's sons the fight renew,
A second Mammoth dies.
Satiate with cruelty and pow'r,
At ease the monster lies;
Lion of Britain, led by you,
If Europe's sons the fight renew,
A second Mammoth dies.
278
VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE STATUE OF APOLLO AT PARIS.
Thrice welcome to Paris! bright regent of day,
To the Tuileries boldly advance;
Oh, shed on this land an enlivening ray,
And smile on regenerate France.
To the Tuileries boldly advance;
Oh, shed on this land an enlivening ray,
And smile on regenerate France.
One king and one God we acknowledge no more;
But, free from the shackles of pride,
Our liberal minds the Pantheon adore,
And worship three consuls beside.
But, free from the shackles of pride,
Our liberal minds the Pantheon adore,
And worship three consuls beside.
We know that, when hurl'd from the regions of air,
You, nought by misfortune dismay'd,
The flocks of Admetus attended with care,
In the garb of a shepherd array'd.
You, nought by misfortune dismay'd,
The flocks of Admetus attended with care,
In the garb of a shepherd array'd.
You sang, and hilarity reign'd through the plains,
And sorrow and care were no more;
You talk'd of the blessings of peace to the swains,
And the rude din of battle was o'er.
And sorrow and care were no more;
You talk'd of the blessings of peace to the swains,
And the rude din of battle was o'er.
Great Shepherd! from thee, by despair render'd bold,
A speedy protection we pray
From a Corsican wolf that has enter'd our fold,
And made the whole nation his prey.
A speedy protection we pray
From a Corsican wolf that has enter'd our fold,
And made the whole nation his prey.
A long time of peace he pretended to see,
Yet by war still our nation is curs'd;
The country from tyrants he promis'd to free,
Himself of all tyrants the worst.
Yet by war still our nation is curs'd;
The country from tyrants he promis'd to free,
Himself of all tyrants the worst.
279
Of the joys that from mutual confidence rise,
He talks with dissembled delight;
Yet haunted by terrors, to solitude flies,
Fast hid at St. Cloud from the sight.
He talks with dissembled delight;
Yet haunted by terrors, to solitude flies,
Fast hid at St. Cloud from the sight.
O far-darting God! with thine arrows of fire,
Cut short the fell ravisher's reign,
And give to our country, her soul's chief desire,
A regal dominion again.
Cut short the fell ravisher's reign,
And give to our country, her soul's chief desire,
A regal dominion again.
SAPPHIC ODE, WRITTEN AT BONAPARTE'S LEVEE.
Blest as th' initiate sure is he,
Who at thy levee stood, like me;
And heard and saw thee, all the while,
Madly threat Britannia's isle.
Who at thy levee stood, like me;
And heard and saw thee, all the while,
Madly threat Britannia's isle.
'Twas this my patriot soul oppress'd,
And rais'd new anger in my breast;
But while I gazed, resentment fled,
And laughter seiz'd me in its stead.
And rais'd new anger in my breast;
But while I gazed, resentment fled,
And laughter seiz'd me in its stead.
Your eyes shot forth a subtle flame,
Convulsive anger shook your frame;
While, borne on many a foreign tongue,
My ears with murm'ring wonder rung.
Convulsive anger shook your frame;
While, borne on many a foreign tongue,
My ears with murm'ring wonder rung.
Scared by your looks and accents loud,
In haste to leave the tittering crowd,
My duty I forgot to pay;
So started, smil'd—and walk'd away!
In haste to leave the tittering crowd,
280
So started, smil'd—and walk'd away!
THE PRINTER'S CALDRON.
Scene.—A dark room; in the middle a great caldron burning. Thunder. Enter three Printer's Devils.FIRST DEVIL.
Thrice the watchman gave his knock,
SECOND DEVIL.
Twice,—and once has crow'd the cock;
THIRD DEVIL.
Our master cries, “'Tis five o'clock.”
ALL.
Now your several schemes display
To make the paper of the day:—
SECOND DEVIL.
Spy, that standing on cold stone,
Names and titles one by one,
281
Haste to bring your motley trash in;
Packwood's puffs, and state of weather,
Hints of who and who's together,
(Paid, to contradict to-worrow,
Lie, inserted to our sorrow,)
Fluttering follies, light as vapour,
Rise you to the top o' th' paper.
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash—the nation bubble.
FIRST DEVIL.
Braham—Soldier tir'd—Mad Bess—
Case of singular distress,
Speech of egotistic pleader,
String of coaches made by Leader,
Fashionable invalids,
Morning dresses, widow's weeds,
Lobby quarrels, satisfaction,
Rout in Mayfair, crim-con. action,
Patent soles, that never falter,
Doctors Brodum and Sir Walter,
Pun, and vive la bagatelle,
Schemes to make our paper sell.
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash—the nation bubble.
282
Bonaparté, Paris fashions,
Chapels, Cyprian assignations,
Captain Sash, the sea-side shark,—
Slander's arrows, shot i' th' dark.
Villa of Rochampton Jew,
Horrid murder done at Kew;
Queries, critical corrections,
Galvanistic resurrections,
Treatise on the moon's eclipse,
Paint for cheeks, and salve for lips;
Stupid pun, birth-strangled jest—
Portsmouth letter—wind north-west,
And thus our merit stands confest!
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash—the nation bubble.
THIRD DEVIL.
Cool it with an empty boast,
That every day we sell the most,
'Tis done—behold the Morning Post!
HARLEQUIN'S INVASION.
Ladies and gentlemen, to-day,
With scenes adapted to th' occasion,
A grand new pantomime we play,
Entitled Harlequin's Invasion.
With scenes adapted to th' occasion,
A grand new pantomime we play,
Entitled Harlequin's Invasion.
283
No comic pantomime before
Could ever boast such tricks surprising;
The hero capers Europe o'er—
But hush! behold the curtain rising.
Could ever boast such tricks surprising;
The hero capers Europe o'er—
But hush! behold the curtain rising.
And first, that little isle survey,
Where sleeps a peasant boy so hearty;
That little isle is Corsica,
That peasant boy is Bonaparté.
Where sleeps a peasant boy so hearty;
That little isle is Corsica,
That peasant boy is Bonaparté.
Now lightnings flash, and thunders roar,
Demon of witchcraft hover o'er him;
And, rising through the stage trap-door,
An evil genius stands before him.
Demon of witchcraft hover o'er him;
And, rising through the stage trap-door,
An evil genius stands before him.
His arms in solemn state are cross'd,
His voice appals th' amaz'd beholders,
His head in circling clouds is lost,
And crimson pinions shade his shoulders.
His voice appals th' amaz'd beholders,
His head in circling clouds is lost,
And crimson pinions shade his shoulders.
“Mortal, awake!” the phantom cries,
“And burst the bonds of fear asunder,
My name is Anarchy—arise!
Thy future fortunes teem with wonder.
“And burst the bonds of fear asunder,
My name is Anarchy—arise!
Thy future fortunes teem with wonder.
“To spread my reign the earth around,
Here take this sword, whose magic power
Shall sense, and right, and wrong confound,
And work new wonders ev'ry hour.
Here take this sword, whose magic power
Shall sense, and right, and wrong confound,
And work new wonders ev'ry hour.
“Throw off that peasant garb, begin
T' assume the party-colour'd rover,
And, as a sprightly Harlequin,
Trip, lightly trip, all Europe over.”
T' assume the party-colour'd rover,
284
Trip, lightly trip, all Europe over.”
He spoke, and instant to the view
Begins the curious transformation;
His mask assumes a sable hue,
His dress a pantomimic fashion.
Begins the curious transformation;
His mask assumes a sable hue,
His dress a pantomimic fashion.
Now round the stage, in gaudy pride,
Capers the renovated varlet;
Shakes the lath weapon at his side,
And shines in blue, and white, and scarlet.
Capers the renovated varlet;
Shakes the lath weapon at his side,
And shines in blue, and white, and scarlet.
High on a rock, his cunning eye
Surveys half Europe at a glance,
Flat Holland, fertile Italy,
Old Spain, and gay regen'rate France.
Surveys half Europe at a glance,
Flat Holland, fertile Italy,
Old Spain, and gay regen'rate France.
He strikes with wooden sword the earth,
Which heaves with motion necromantic:
The nations own a second birth,
And trace his steps with gestures antic.
Which heaves with motion necromantic:
The nations own a second birth,
And trace his steps with gestures antic.
The Pope prepares for war, but soon
All powerful Harlequin disarms him;
And changing into Pantaloon,
Each motion frets, each noise alarms him.
All powerful Harlequin disarms him;
And changing into Pantaloon,
Each motion frets, each noise alarms him.
With trembling haste he seeks to join
His daughter Gallia, lovely rover!
But she, transform'd to Columbine,
Her father scorns, and seeks her lover.
His daughter Gallia, lovely rover!
But she, transform'd to Columbine,
Her father scorns, and seeks her lover.
285
The Dutchman next his magic feels,
Changed to the Clown, he hobbles after;
Blundering pursues the light of heels,
Convulsing friends and foes with laughter.
Changed to the Clown, he hobbles after;
Blundering pursues the light of heels,
Convulsing friends and foes with laughter.
But all their various deeds of sin,
What mortal man has ever reckon'd?
The mischief plann'd by Harlequin,
Fair Columbine is sure to second.
What mortal man has ever reckon'd?
The mischief plann'd by Harlequin,
Fair Columbine is sure to second.
They quickly kill poor Pantaloon,
And now our drama's plot grows riper;
Whene'er they frisk it to some tune,
The Clown is forced to pay the piper.
And now our drama's plot grows riper;
Whene'er they frisk it to some tune,
The Clown is forced to pay the piper.
Each foreign land he dances through,
In some new garb beholds the hero,
Pagan and Christian, Turk and Jew,
Cromwell, Caligula, and Nero.
In some new garb beholds the hero,
Pagan and Christian, Turk and Jew,
Cromwell, Caligula, and Nero.
A butcher Harlequin appears,
The rapid scene to Egypt flying;
O'er captive Turks his sword uprears,
The stage is strew'd with dead and dying.
The rapid scene to Egypt flying;
O'er captive Turks his sword uprears,
The stage is strew'd with dead and dying.
Next by the crafty genius taught,
Sportive he tries a doctor's trick;
Presents the bowl with poison fraught,
And kills his own unconscious sick.
Sportive he tries a doctor's trick;
Presents the bowl with poison fraught,
And kills his own unconscious sick.
Hey! pass! he's back to Europe gone,
All hostile followers disappointed;
Kicks five old women from the throne,
And dubs himself the Lord's anointed.
All hostile followers disappointed;
286
And dubs himself the Lord's anointed.
In close embrace with Columbine,
Pass, gaily pass, the flying hours;
While, prostrate at their blood-stain'd shrine,
Low bend the European powers.
Pass, gaily pass, the flying hours;
While, prostrate at their blood-stain'd shrine,
Low bend the European powers.
Touch'd by his sword, the morals fly,
The virtues into vices dwindling;
Courage is turn'd to cruelty,
And public faith to private swindling.
The virtues into vices dwindling;
Courage is turn'd to cruelty,
And public faith to private swindling.
With atheist Bishops, jockey Peers,
His hurly-burly court is graced;
Contractors, brewer-charioteers,
Mad Lords, and Duchesses dis-Graced.
His hurly-burly court is graced;
Contractors, brewer-charioteers,
Mad Lords, and Duchesses dis-Graced.
And now th' invasion scene comes on;
The patch'd and pie-ball'd renegado
Hurls at Britannia's lofty throne
Full many a mad and proud bravado.
The patch'd and pie-ball'd renegado
Hurls at Britannia's lofty throne
Full many a mad and proud bravado.
The trembling Clown dissuades in vain,
And finds too late there's no retreating;
Whatever Harlequin may gain,
The Clown is sure to get a beating.
And finds too late there's no retreating;
Whatever Harlequin may gain,
The Clown is sure to get a beating.
They tempt the main, the canvass raise,
A storm destroys his valiant legions;
And lo! our closing scene displays
A grand view of th' infernal regions.
A storm destroys his valiant legions;
And lo! our closing scene displays
A grand view of th' infernal regions.
287
Thus have we, gentlefolks, to-day,
With pains proportion'd to th' occasion,
Our piece perform'd; then prithee say,
How like you Harlequin's Invasion?
With pains proportion'd to th' occasion,
Our piece perform'd; then prithee say,
How like you Harlequin's Invasion?
ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MRS. MATHEWS AT HULL IN 1808,
IN THE ENTERTAINMENT CALLED “MAIL-COACH ADVENTURES.”
Great Garrick, accustomed, in tragical fury,To stand unabashed in the regions of Drury,
Yet, awed and alarmed, felt his valour to fall
When brought as a witness to Westminster Hall.
So I, though accustomed in Drury to play,
My confidence find before you die away.
Yet, like a good wife, when requested, I come,
Nor venture to speak till my husband is dumb.
The needle, by impulse magnetic drawn forth,
In every region still points to the north;
Though bound to this law with unvaried devotion,
It wavers and turns with a tremulous motion.
Even thus, though on wings of delight I pursue
My tour to the north, to meet friends such as you,
I waver, and tremble my task to fulfil,
And dread that the deed may not equal the will.
My duties are small, I can soon tell their meanings,—
I'm merely Queen Consort—my Lord's locum tenens.
A volunteer sentry, I follow the track,
And only mount guard till my husband comes back.
My province to-night (it will not keep you long)
Is an Olla Podrida of music and song—
288
And lighten the load of my great lord and master.
Already I feel so much kindness is here,
My opening fears by degrees disappear;
And as the young barrister, new to the station,
Grows bold at the close of his maiden oration,
And dashes away with a loftier scope—
“My Lud, and your Ludship,” in figure and trope—
With added assurance my task I pursue,
In hopes of a verdict from candour and you.
COMIC SONGS.
Egad, as I'm a sinner,
I'll get a snack of dinner,
For Lord knows where we sup.
You! waiter! quick, be handy,
Bring a glass of cherry brandy,
To keep my spirits up.
Some gravy soup and mutton,
I'm as hungry as a glutton.
Lord! what a time you stay!
A bottle of good sherry—
I'm determin'd to be merry—
Let Momus rule the day.
I'll get a snack of dinner,
For Lord knows where we sup.
You! waiter! quick, be handy,
Bring a glass of cherry brandy,
To keep my spirits up.
Some gravy soup and mutton,
I'm as hungry as a glutton.
Lord! what a time you stay!
A bottle of good sherry—
I'm determin'd to be merry—
Let Momus rule the day.
289
“All's ready, gentlemen”—Well, then,
If that's the case,
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
If that's the case,
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
Four in hand, from Piccadilly,
Off we scamper, willy nilly,
In snug Welsh wigs so neat,
Along the Strand we clatter,
All sulkiness, no chatter.
Wo ho! in Lombard Street,
There a motley pack of railers,
Jews, citizens, and sailors,
From every side approach,
All making odd grimaces,
And quarrelling for places—
“O dear! I've missed the coach!”
“All ready in the York Mail?”—“Yes.”
Tarra-ra-ra. Then
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
Off we scamper, willy nilly,
In snug Welsh wigs so neat,
Along the Strand we clatter,
All sulkiness, no chatter.
Wo ho! in Lombard Street,
There a motley pack of railers,
Jews, citizens, and sailors,
From every side approach,
All making odd grimaces,
And quarrelling for places—
“O dear! I've missed the coach!”
“All ready in the York Mail?”—“Yes.”
Tarra-ra-ra. Then
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
What a cavalcade of coaches
From every side approaches,
Rare work for man and beast!
Awhile to bait, take shelter,
Then gallop helter-skelter,
Some west and others east.
Hold tight whene'er we stop, sir,
Or from the box you'll drop, sir,
Which you'll dislike, no doubt.
Here, Tom, let go the traces,
Then away we go in races,
Four inside and two out.
Tarra-ra-ra.—Sit fast there.—All right?—Yes. Then
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
From every side approaches,
Rare work for man and beast!
Awhile to bait, take shelter,
Then gallop helter-skelter,
Some west and others east.
290
Or from the box you'll drop, sir,
Which you'll dislike, no doubt.
Here, Tom, let go the traces,
Then away we go in races,
Four inside and two out.
Tarra-ra-ra.—Sit fast there.—All right?—Yes. Then
Let go their heads, and straightway
Rattle underneath the gateway,
Off we go—away! away!
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
Cloudy mist every valley and hill buries,
Spurred and booted on sofas we sprawl,
Back the galloways, put up the tilburies,
Sad wet weather at Drizzle-down Hall.
One cannot read Waverley twice over cleverly,
Talents should never lie idle a day,
Best of Madrigals, Private Theatricals,
All we want is to settle the play.
Spurred and booted on sofas we sprawl,
Back the galloways, put up the tilburies,
Sad wet weather at Drizzle-down Hall.
One cannot read Waverley twice over cleverly,
Talents should never lie idle a day,
Best of Madrigals, Private Theatricals,
All we want is to settle the play.
Hang a curtain across the back drawing-room,
Black that staring mahogany door,
Make the book-room a carpenter's sawing-room,
Never mind! cut a hole in the floor.
We all shall be fair actors—no need of rare actors,
Settle your characters, bustle away,
Wind and weather-bound, gladly together bound,
All we want is to settle the play.
Black that staring mahogany door,
Make the book-room a carpenter's sawing-room,
Never mind! cut a hole in the floor.
291
Settle your characters, bustle away,
Wind and weather-bound, gladly together bound,
All we want is to settle the play.
Colonel Strutt is a famous Octavian,
You, Sir John, shall be Sadi the slave;
Hush! Sir John is a red-hot Moravian,
He'll dumbfound us by humming a stave.
Let Dr. Genitive open in Lenitive,
I'll not disdain it if you'll lead the way;
Bravo, Domine! down with Melpomene—
All we want is to settle the play.
You, Sir John, shall be Sadi the slave;
Hush! Sir John is a red-hot Moravian,
He'll dumbfound us by humming a stave.
Let Dr. Genitive open in Lenitive,
I'll not disdain it if you'll lead the way;
Bravo, Domine! down with Melpomene—
All we want is to settle the play.
I'm for Percy, and I'm for Northumberland;
I'm for reciting the Jovial Crew;
I've done Sheva, and old Mr. Cumberland
Called it the real original Jew.
Macbeth makes money come—no, we'll be funny—come—
No, Polly Honeycomb—Lady Jane Grey;
While your busy pates ponder, time dissipates—
All we want is to settle the play.
I'm for reciting the Jovial Crew;
I've done Sheva, and old Mr. Cumberland
Called it the real original Jew.
Macbeth makes money come—no, we'll be funny—come—
No, Polly Honeycomb—Lady Jane Grey;
While your busy pates ponder, time dissipates—
All we want is to settle the play.
Hold, good people—where are your courtesies?
Mounting heaven on Icarus' wings;
All are Hamlets, and none are Laerteses—
Pray act something with nothing but kings.
Romeos all in tears, Beverley Volunteers,
Ready to fall in tears, choke up the way;
Generalissimos hunting bravissimos—
Devil a private to act in your play.
Mounting heaven on Icarus' wings;
All are Hamlets, and none are Laerteses—
Pray act something with nothing but kings.
Romeos all in tears, Beverley Volunteers,
Ready to fall in tears, choke up the way;
Generalissimos hunting bravissimos—
Devil a private to act in your play.
292
Sol re-illuminates, call the postilions,
Off we scamper through Drizzledown Park;
Nags and donkeys, barouches and pillions,
Reach the races before it is dark.
Comical, stoical, tragic, heroical,
All statu quo-ical scamper one way;—
Best of Madrigals, Private Theatricals,
Pity one never can settle the play!
Off we scamper through Drizzledown Park;
Nags and donkeys, barouches and pillions,
Reach the races before it is dark.
Comical, stoical, tragic, heroical,
All statu quo-ical scamper one way;—
Best of Madrigals, Private Theatricals,
Pity one never can settle the play!
THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
I've seen (lucky me!) what you all want to see—
Good people, give ear to my sonnet—
I've gazed in the ring on the Muscovy King,
And I've peeped at the Oldenburg bonnet:
At his sister's approach to get into her coach,
Her brother steps forward to hand her,
What ecstasies throb in the hearts of the mob,
With huzza for the great Alexander!
Good people, give ear to my sonnet—
I've gazed in the ring on the Muscovy King,
And I've peeped at the Oldenburg bonnet:
At his sister's approach to get into her coach,
Her brother steps forward to hand her,
What ecstasies throb in the hearts of the mob,
With huzza for the great Alexander!
On bracelet and seal behold his profile
At the shop too of Laurie and Whittle,
Nat Lee, hold your prate, Alexander the Great
Is now Alexander the Little!
In Lord William's dell, near the Pulteney hotel,
What multitudes ev'ry day wander!
They scamper like imps to indulge in a glimpse
Of the mighty renowned Alexander.
At the shop too of Laurie and Whittle,
Nat Lee, hold your prate, Alexander the Great
Is now Alexander the Little!
In Lord William's dell, near the Pulteney hotel,
What multitudes ev'ry day wander!
They scamper like imps to indulge in a glimpse
Of the mighty renowned Alexander.
293
Poor Madame de Stael is quite pushed to the wall,
Chassé'd by the Czar and the Duchess,
And since his retreat, even Louis dix-huit
Must walk on oblivion's crutches.
Clerks run from their quills, haberdashers their tills,
John Bull is a great goosey gander;
Even Kean is forgot, we are all on the trot
For a gaze upon great Alexander.
Chassé'd by the Czar and the Duchess,
And since his retreat, even Louis dix-huit
Must walk on oblivion's crutches.
Clerks run from their quills, haberdashers their tills,
John Bull is a great goosey gander;
Even Kean is forgot, we are all on the trot
For a gaze upon great Alexander.
“Have you seen him's” the talk, Piccadilly's the walk,
I suppose since it is so, it must be,
And nobody thinks of that musical sphynx
Catalani, or great Doctor Busby.
Anxiety burns every bosom by turns
To flirt with this royal Philander,
And happy the wight who can utter at night—
“This morning I saw Alexander.”
I suppose since it is so, it must be,
And nobody thinks of that musical sphynx
Catalani, or great Doctor Busby.
Anxiety burns every bosom by turns
To flirt with this royal Philander,
And happy the wight who can utter at night—
“This morning I saw Alexander.”
He dresses with taste, he is small in the waist,
I beheld him with Blucher and Platoff,
The Hetman appears with his cap on his ears,
But the Emperor rides with his hat off:
He sits on his throne with a leg in each zone,
No monarch on earth can be grander;
Half an hour after dark, the rails of the Park
Are scaled to behold Alexander.
I beheld him with Blucher and Platoff,
The Hetman appears with his cap on his ears,
But the Emperor rides with his hat off:
He sits on his throne with a leg in each zone,
No monarch on earth can be grander;
Half an hour after dark, the rails of the Park
Are scaled to behold Alexander.
When the town was illumed, how his residence bloomed
With lamps to the balcony fitted,
I'm told his Cossacks made eleven attacks
To drink up the oil ere they lit it!
The Chronicle says that he laces in stays—
Perhaps this is nothing but slander;
Since his stay is not long, I will shorten my song
With huzza for the great Alexander!
With lamps to the balcony fitted,
I'm told his Cossacks made eleven attacks
To drink up the oil ere they lit it!
294
Perhaps this is nothing but slander;
Since his stay is not long, I will shorten my song
With huzza for the great Alexander!
THE GRETNA GREEN BLACKSMITH.
Though my face is all smutty, not fit to be seen,
I'm the tinkering parson of Gretna Green,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
To look like the ladies is always my plan,
So I roll up my sleeves as high as I can,
In spite of my vice, and though I am lame,
I make the sparks fly, and myself raise a flame,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
I'm the tinkering parson of Gretna Green,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
To look like the ladies is always my plan,
So I roll up my sleeves as high as I can,
In spite of my vice, and though I am lame,
I make the sparks fly, and myself raise a flame,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
In chaises-and-four lovers fly to my cot,
With folly remembered, and prudence forgot,
With a rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Down hill, helter-skelter, they fearlessly move,
For who ever thinks of a hind wheell in love?
So, while the young lady her passion reveals,
I tack them together—then hammer the wheels,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
With folly remembered, and prudence forgot,
With a rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Down hill, helter-skelter, they fearlessly move,
For who ever thinks of a hind wheell in love?
So, while the young lady her passion reveals,
I tack them together—then hammer the wheels,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
“O dear,” says Miss Lucy, a delicate fright in,
“I was all over rust till they took me to Brighton,
With rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Indeed, Mr. Parson, you'll find me no fool,
I'm a great deal too old to be sent back to school;
Captain Shark of the Fourth is the man I adore,
My Pa is a bear, and my Ma is a bore,
With their rang, tang, hammer and nail.”
“I was all over rust till they took me to Brighton,
With rang, tang, hammer and nail.
295
I'm a great deal too old to be sent back to school;
Captain Shark of the Fourth is the man I adore,
My Pa is a bear, and my Ma is a bore,
With their rang, tang, hammer and nail.”
But, alas! ten to one, ere they got back to town,
My lady is up, and the carriage breaks down,
With a rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Of tears my young Madam dissolves in a flood,
Her head in the clouds, and her feet in the mud,
Till both, recollecting the cause of the evil,
Wish carriage, and marriage, and me at the devil,
With rang, tang, hammer and nail.
My lady is up, and the carriage breaks down,
With a rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Of tears my young Madam dissolves in a flood,
Her head in the clouds, and her feet in the mud,
Till both, recollecting the cause of the evil,
Wish carriage, and marriage, and me at the devil,
With rang, tang, hammer and nail.
I can make a jack-chain, a patten, a knife,
I forge heavy fetters for husband and wife,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Here Venus and Vulcan their compact renew,
A partner for life or a tenpenny screw,
A wedlock, a padlock, I do not care which—
So the tinker of Gretna is sure to grow rich,
With his rang, tang, hammer and nail.
I forge heavy fetters for husband and wife,
With my rang, tang, hammer and nail.
Here Venus and Vulcan their compact renew,
A partner for life or a tenpenny screw,
A wedlock, a padlock, I do not care which—
So the tinker of Gretna is sure to grow rich,
With his rang, tang, hammer and nail.
ALL THE WORLD'S IN PARIS.
Now's the time to change our clime,
Commerce shuts his day-book,
Trade forgets his doubtful debts,
And Pleasure opes his play-book!
Age throws off his winter cough,
Gout forgets his flannel,
Small and great at Dover wait,
To cross the British Channel.
Commerce shuts his day-book,
Trade forgets his doubtful debts,
And Pleasure opes his play-book!
296
Gout forgets his flannel,
Small and great at Dover wait,
To cross the British Channel.
London now is out of town,
Who in England tarries,
Who can bear to linger there,
When all the world's in Paris?
Who in England tarries,
Who can bear to linger there,
When all the world's in Paris?
Bagatelle from Clerkenwell,
Elegance from Aldgate,
Modish airs from Wapping Stairs,
And wit from Norton Falgate;
Comme il faut from Butcher Row,
All are in commotion,
All incline, like devilled swine,
To nuzzle through the ocean.
Elegance from Aldgate,
Modish airs from Wapping Stairs,
And wit from Norton Falgate;
Comme il faut from Butcher Row,
All are in commotion,
All incline, like devilled swine,
To nuzzle through the ocean.
London now is out of town, &c.
Broken Jews, poetic blues,
Courtezans and Quakers,
Players, Peers, and overseers,
Jockeys, undertakers;
Paris, who beheld a crew
Of foreign troops attack her,
In these may trace a second race
Of Visigoths to sack her!
Courtezans and Quakers,
Players, Peers, and overseers,
Jockeys, undertakers;
Paris, who beheld a crew
Of foreign troops attack her,
In these may trace a second race
Of Visigoths to sack her!
London now is out of town, &c.
297
Who'd endure a cheap traiteur?
Come where better cheer is,
Ape the court, along to sport
A louis d'or at Very's:
He at six, who runs to mix
In Palais Royal follies,
In London town, for half-a-crown,
Must eat a chop at Dolly's.
Come where better cheer is,
Ape the court, along to sport
A louis d'or at Very's:
He at six, who runs to mix
In Palais Royal follies,
In London town, for half-a-crown,
Must eat a chop at Dolly's.
London now is out of town, &c.
City dames the rage inflames,
They know how to time it,
Mrs. Sims is full of whims,
And hates our foggy climate;
Mrs. Grill is very ill,
Nothing can improve her,
Unless she sees the Tuileries,
And waddles through the Louvre.
They know how to time it,
Mrs. Sims is full of whims,
And hates our foggy climate;
Mrs. Grill is very ill,
Nothing can improve her,
Unless she sees the Tuileries,
And waddles through the Louvre.
London now is out of town, &c.
Fortune's duck to change his luck,
Spite of waddling failures,
Hither runs from London duns,
To tick with Calais tailors;
At Tivoli, tis who but he,
But while he apes his betters,
He finds the French have got a bench
To nab insolvent debtors!
Spite of waddling failures,
Hither runs from London duns,
To tick with Calais tailors;
At Tivoli, tis who but he,
But while he apes his betters,
He finds the French have got a bench
To nab insolvent debtors!
London now is out of town, &c.
298
Prudence chides while Fashion guides,
We know which to mind most,
We freely bid, as Boney did,
The devil take the hindmost;
Thus we dance through giddy France,
And when we find the fun done,
The piper pay, and steal away
With empty purse to London.
We know which to mind most,
We freely bid, as Boney did,
The devil take the hindmost;
Thus we dance through giddy France,
And when we find the fun done,
The piper pay, and steal away
With empty purse to London.
London now is out of town,
Who in England tarries?
Who can bear to linger there,
When all the world's in Paris?
Who in England tarries?
Who can bear to linger there,
When all the world's in Paris?
MATRIMONIAL DUET.
HE.When we first were man and wife,
And you swore to love for life,
We were quoted as a model, we were quite a show,
Yes, we tête-à-tête were seen,
Like King William and his Queen;
What a jewel of a wife was Mrs. John Prevôt!
SHE.
Ay, once I clave to thee, man,
Like Baucis to Philemon,
299
Like the pair who tell the weather,
We are never out together,
One at home, the other gadding, Mr. John Prevôt.
HE.
If a lion's to be seen,
Old Blucher—Mr. Kean,
You order out the carriage, and away you go
With that gossip, Mrs. Jones;
How you rattle o'er the stones,
You've no mercy on the horses, Mrs. John Prevôt.
SHE.
With madeira, port, and sherry,
When you make what you call merry,
And sit in sober sadness, are you sober? No!
With that horrid Major Rock,
It is always twelve o'clock,
Ere you tumble up to coffee, Mr. John Prevôt.
BOTH.
Our vicar, Doctor Jervis,
When he read the marriage service,
United us for better and for worse—Heigh ho!
Since the worse may turn to better,
And we cannot break our fetter,
Let us say no more about it, Mr. (Mrs.) John Prevôt.
300
THE DEVIL'S OWN SHOP.
From great Londonderry to London so merry,
My own natty self in a wagon did ride,
In London so frisky folks ride in a whiskey,
In Connaught we carried the whisky inside.
I jumped from the wagon and saw a green dragon,
I spied a blue boar when I turned to the south,
At the Swan with two throttles I tippled two bottles,
And bothered the beef at the Bull and the Mouth.
Ah, Looney, my honey, look after your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel, be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
My own natty self in a wagon did ride,
In London so frisky folks ride in a whiskey,
In Connaught we carried the whisky inside.
I jumped from the wagon and saw a green dragon,
I spied a blue boar when I turned to the south,
At the Swan with two throttles I tippled two bottles,
And bothered the beef at the Bull and the Mouth.
Ah, Looney, my honey, look after your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel, be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
The great city wax-work is nothing but tax-work,
A plan to bamboozle me out of my pelf,
Says I, Mrs. Salmon, come, none of your gammon,
Your figures are no more alive than myself.
I axed an old Quaker the way to Long Acre;
With thee and with thou he so bother'd my brain,
After fifty long sallies through lanes and blind alleys,
I found myself walking in Rosemary-lane.
Ah, Looney, my honey, look after your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
A plan to bamboozle me out of my pelf,
Says I, Mrs. Salmon, come, none of your gammon,
Your figures are no more alive than myself.
I axed an old Quaker the way to Long Acre;
With thee and with thou he so bother'd my brain,
After fifty long sallies through lanes and blind alleys,
I found myself walking in Rosemary-lane.
301
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
At night, O how silly along Piccadilly
I wandered, when up came a beautiful dame—
Hurroo, says the lady, how do you do, Paddy?
Says I, pretty well, ma'am, I hope you're the same.
But a great hulking fellow who held her umbrella,
He gave me a terrible thump on the nob,
She ran away squalling, I watch, watch! was calling,
The devil a watch was there left in my fob.
Ah, Looney, my honey, take care of your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
I wandered, when up came a beautiful dame—
Hurroo, says the lady, how do you do, Paddy?
Says I, pretty well, ma'am, I hope you're the same.
But a great hulking fellow who held her umbrella,
He gave me a terrible thump on the nob,
She ran away squalling, I watch, watch! was calling,
The devil a watch was there left in my fob.
Ah, Looney, my honey, take care of your money,
'Tis all botheration from bottom to top,
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel be aisy,
This Lunnun agra' is the devil's own shop.
BRIGHTON.
Sir Dogberry Dory,
(Pray list to my story,)
Sold fish all alive, fit to bite one,
His wife, huge and tubby,
Tormented her hubby
To dip in the ocean at Brighton;
“O what a fine town is Brighton,
We all want sea-bathing at Brighton;
I vow now, Sir Doggy,
Your head is quite foggy,
You must take a journey to Brighton.”
(Pray list to my story,)
Sold fish all alive, fit to bite one,
His wife, huge and tubby,
Tormented her hubby
302
“O what a fine town is Brighton,
We all want sea-bathing at Brighton;
I vow now, Sir Doggy,
Your head is quite foggy,
You must take a journey to Brighton.”
The knight he looked glum,
And he mutter'd out “hum,”
To her, ay or no, it was quite one;
So she and Miss Dolly,
So funny, so jolly,
Set off with old Dory for Brighton.
“La, Pa, what a sweet place is Brighton!
I must get a husband at Brighton;
My pretty poke bonnet
Will breed a love sonnet,
And I shall get married at Brighton.”
And he mutter'd out “hum,”
To her, ay or no, it was quite one;
So she and Miss Dolly,
So funny, so jolly,
Set off with old Dory for Brighton.
“La, Pa, what a sweet place is Brighton!
I must get a husband at Brighton;
My pretty poke bonnet
Will breed a love sonnet,
And I shall get married at Brighton.”
Then to the library,
On donkies so airy,
They trotted, their purses to lighten,
Each pull'd out a crown,
And wrote her name down,
Then gazed at the loungers at Brighton.
“What! Deputy Treacle at Brighton!
Miss Fubby, too! how you delight one!
Lord, who could have thought
Uncle Tom to have caught
So far from Whitechapel as Brighton!”
On donkies so airy,
They trotted, their purses to lighten,
Each pull'd out a crown,
And wrote her name down,
Then gazed at the loungers at Brighton.
“What! Deputy Treacle at Brighton!
Miss Fubby, too! how you delight one!
Lord, who could have thought
Uncle Tom to have caught
So far from Whitechapel as Brighton!”
303
Old Dory, I ween,
Mounts a bathing-machine,
The waves the poor fishmonger frighten,
So ridicule scorning,
He pulled down the awning,
And roared for assistance at Brighton.
“Hollo! this machine's not a tight one,
Drive out of the water to Brighton,
You dog, I don't wish
To be food for the fish,
Tho' I'm a fishmonger at Brighton.”
Mounts a bathing-machine,
The waves the poor fishmonger frighten,
So ridicule scorning,
He pulled down the awning,
And roared for assistance at Brighton.
“Hollo! this machine's not a tight one,
Drive out of the water to Brighton,
You dog, I don't wish
To be food for the fish,
Tho' I'm a fishmonger at Brighton.”
At night, one and all,
They repaired to the ball;
Miss wanted a partner, a light one;
She chose, among many,
A lad from Kilkenny,
One Mr. Macshannon at Brighton.
Next day they played billiards at Brighton,
The very first hazard the knight won,
But soon all the cannons
Were Mr. Macshannon's,
He choused poor old Dory at Brighton.
They repaired to the ball;
Miss wanted a partner, a light one;
She chose, among many,
A lad from Kilkenny,
One Mr. Macshannon at Brighton.
Next day they played billiards at Brighton,
The very first hazard the knight won,
But soon all the cannons
Were Mr. Macshannon's,
He choused poor old Dory at Brighton.
Macshannon, sad story,
Made love to Miss Dory,
The cord of affection to tighten,
With hearts like Mount Etna,
They galloped to Gretna,
Nor thought of poor daddy at Brighton.
The knight swore an oath, not a slight one,
He laid all the blame on poor Brighton,
“My duck, what's the matter?”
“Zounds, madam, don't chatter,
Our Dolly has hopped off from Brighton.”
Made love to Miss Dory,
The cord of affection to tighten,
With hearts like Mount Etna,
They galloped to Gretna,
304
The knight swore an oath, not a slight one,
He laid all the blame on poor Brighton,
“My duck, what's the matter?”
“Zounds, madam, don't chatter,
Our Dolly has hopped off from Brighton.”
Ma'am sighed for the races,
But he took two places
For London—the coach was a night one;
Then, lord! what a prig,
He put on his Welsh wig,
And bowing thus took leave of Brighton.
“I've lost all my money at Brighton,
I'm caricatured too by Dighton,
Well, well, I won't swear,
But next year, I declare,
I'll be hang'd if you catch me at Brighton.”
But he took two places
For London—the coach was a night one;
Then, lord! what a prig,
He put on his Welsh wig,
And bowing thus took leave of Brighton.
“I've lost all my money at Brighton,
I'm caricatured too by Dighton,
Well, well, I won't swear,
But next year, I declare,
I'll be hang'd if you catch me at Brighton.”
SONG.—TRIP TO PARIS.
When a man travels, he must not look queer
If he get a few rubs he does not get here;
And if he to Paris from Calais will stray,
I will tell him the things he will meet on his way.
If he get a few rubs he does not get here;
And if he to Paris from Calais will stray,
I will tell him the things he will meet on his way.
Dover heights — men like mites — skiffery, cliffery, Shakespeare—
Can't touch prog—sick as a dog—packetem racketem—makes pier—
Calais clerks—custom-house sharks—searchery, lurchery, fee! fee!
On the pavé—cabriolet—clattery—pattery, oui! oui!
Abbeville—off goes a wheel—hammery—dammery, tut! tut!
Montreuil, look like a fool—latery, gatery—shut, shut!
Can't touch prog—sick as a dog—packetem racketem—makes pier—
305
On the pavé—cabriolet—clattery—pattery, oui! oui!
Abbeville—off goes a wheel—hammery—dammery, tut! tut!
Montreuil, look like a fool—latery, gatery—shut, shut!
Laughing, quaffing, snoozing, boozing, cantering, bantering, gad about, mad about.
When a man travels, &c.
When a man travels, &c.
Ding dong—post-boy's thong—smackery crackery—gar! gar!
Soups, ragouts—messes and stews—hashery, trashery, psha! psha!
Beggar's woes—donnez quelque chose—howlery, growlery, sous! sous!
Crawl like a calf—post and a half—sluggery, tuggery, phoo! phoo!
St. Denis, custom-house fee—lacery, tracery, non, non!
Silver tip-finger on lip—feeing 'em, freeing 'em, bon! bon!
Soups, ragouts—messes and stews—hashery, trashery, psha! psha!
Beggar's woes—donnez quelque chose—howlery, growlery, sous! sous!
Crawl like a calf—post and a half—sluggery, tuggery, phoo! phoo!
St. Denis, custom-house fee—lacery, tracery, non, non!
Silver tip-finger on lip—feeing 'em, freeing 'em, bon! bon!
Laughing, quaffing, &c.
When a man travels, &c.
When a man travels, &c.
II.
When a man travels and gets, by good luck,
To Paris, he stares like a pig that is stuck,
And if he's in want of a Guide de Paris,
He'd better be quiet, and listen to me
To Paris, he stares like a pig that is stuck,
And if he's in want of a Guide de Paris,
He'd better be quiet, and listen to me
306
Montagnes Russes, down like a sluice—whizzery, dizzery, see saw!
Catacombs, ghosts and gnomes—bonery, gronery, fee! faw!
Mille Colonnes—queen on her throne—flattery chattery, charmant!
What's to pay? Beauvilliers—suttle 'em, guttle 'em—gourmand!
St. Cloud—fête de St. Leu, Bowerem—showerem—jet d'eau—
Bastille—water-work wheel—Elephant—elephant—wet O!
Catacombs, ghosts and gnomes—bonery, gronery, fee! faw!
Mille Colonnes—queen on her throne—flattery chattery, charmant!
What's to pay? Beauvilliers—suttle 'em, guttle 'em—gourmand!
St. Cloud—fête de St. Leu, Bowerem—showerem—jet d'eau—
Bastille—water-work wheel—Elephant—elephant—wet O!
Laughing, quaffing, &c. &c.
When a man travels, &c.
When a man travels, &c.
Sol fa—tanta-ra-ra! Shriekery, squeakery—strum—strum!
Louis d'or—couldn't get more! Packery—backery—glum—glum!
Call for bill—worse than a pill, largery—chargery—O! O!
Diligence—lessens expense; Wagonem draggingem—slow—slow!
Quillacq—glad to get back, floodery—scuddery—sick—sick!
Now we steer, right for the pier, overem, Doverem,—quick, quick!
Louis d'or—couldn't get more! Packery—backery—glum—glum!
Call for bill—worse than a pill, largery—chargery—O! O!
Diligence—lessens expense; Wagonem draggingem—slow—slow!
Quillacq—glad to get back, floodery—scuddery—sick—sick!
Now we steer, right for the pier, overem, Doverem,—quick, quick!
Laughing—quaffing—snoozing—boozing—cantering—bantering—gadabout— madabout.
When a man travels, he must not look queer
If he get a few rubs he doesn't get here;
And if he from Calais to Paris would stray,
I've told him the things he will meet on his way.
When a man travels, he must not look queer
If he get a few rubs he doesn't get here;
And if he from Calais to Paris would stray,
I've told him the things he will meet on his way.
307
SONG.
I rise, Mr. Chairman, my hand on my glass,
To move that our annual money bill pass,
So firmly we draw unanimity's cords,
We sha'n't throw it out, tho' it sprang from the Lords.
To move that our annual money bill pass,
So firmly we draw unanimity's cords,
We sha'n't throw it out, tho' it sprang from the Lords.
Dame Poverty's called by some out-of-date quiz
“A nurse to the virtues”—I dare say she is;
But as to the virtues that crown our dram. pers.,
They're apt to prove sick when put out to nurse.
“A nurse to the virtues”—I dare say she is;
But as to the virtues that crown our dram. pers.,
They're apt to prove sick when put out to nurse.
We've a motto—my Latin I fear's gone to grass—
In English it means that the stage is a glass,
To make it a mirror it still wants, good lack!
A little quicksilver to rub on its back.
In English it means that the stage is a glass,
To make it a mirror it still wants, good lack!
A little quicksilver to rub on its back.
Shall dingy Othello contemplate in woe
His milk-score, and cry (Cash I owe) Cassio!
No, never shall Britons a hero down trample,
That set married men such a glorious example.
His milk-score, and cry (Cash I owe) Cassio!
No, never shall Britons a hero down trample,
That set married men such a glorious example.
Shall Luke, who now eats such a supper in “Riches,”
Devour from a caldron cheap soup with the witches?
Ophelia can't dine upon daisies and rue,
And “Poor Tom's a-cold,” is no joke if it's true.
Devour from a caldron cheap soup with the witches?
Ophelia can't dine upon daisies and rue,
And “Poor Tom's a-cold,” is no joke if it's true.
Recollect, tho' from merit I'd not be detracting,
That as yet we've discovered no railroad for acting;
Recollect that no steam can aid our manufacture,
And no gas can dilate a man into an actor.
That as yet we've discovered no railroad for acting;
Recollect that no steam can aid our manufacture,
And no gas can dilate a man into an actor.
308
I'll not any longer part toper and glass,
I move, Mr Chairman, our money bill pass,
And when you report progress, that chair to retain,
I'll hope you'll ask leave, sir, to sit there again.
I move, Mr Chairman, our money bill pass,
And when you report progress, that chair to retain,
I'll hope you'll ask leave, sir, to sit there again.
COUNTRY COMMISSIONS.
Cousin Charles, please to send down to-morrow,
At eight, by the Scarborough mail,
Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow,
Don Juan, two mops, and a pail.
As soon as you enter Hyde Park, it
Must suit you to call in Gough Square;
And when you're in Leadenhall Market,
Buy a rattle at Bart'lmy Fair.
At eight, by the Scarborough mail,
Claudine, or the Victim of Sorrow,
Don Juan, two mops, and a pail.
As soon as you enter Hyde Park, it
Must suit you to call in Gough Square;
And when you're in Leadenhall Market,
Buy a rattle at Bart'lmy Fair.
Do give the enclosed to George Colburn,
The tinman—he's sure to be found—
He lives in Southampton Street, Holburn,
Or else near the Islington Pound.
Papa wants a hamper of claret
Like that which he smuggled from Tours,
Aunt Agatha wants a poll parrot—
Perhaps you could let her have yours.
The tinman—he's sure to be found—
He lives in Southampton Street, Holburn,
Or else near the Islington Pound.
Papa wants a hamper of claret
Like that which he smuggled from Tours,
Aunt Agatha wants a poll parrot—
Perhaps you could let her have yours.
We are dying for Lord Byron's sonnet,
Tell Jones I have sent him a pig,
Mamma wants a new sarcenet bonnet,
The size of the head of our gig.
Could you match the enclosed bit of ribbon,—
Do buy Tom an ounce of rape-seed;
When you send the third volume of Gibbon,
Do send Jack a velocipede.
Tell Jones I have sent him a pig,
Mamma wants a new sarcenet bonnet,
The size of the head of our gig.
309
Do buy Tom an ounce of rape-seed;
When you send the third volume of Gibbon,
Do send Jack a velocipede.
Some shears that old Dobbin will well dock,
A mouse-trap, a gold-headed cane,
A bottle of Steers' opodeldoc,
Three ounces of allicumpane,
Gold wire from Duke's Head, Little Britain,
A purple tin kaleidescope,
A tea-tray, a tortoiseshell kitten,
Rob Roy, and a long bit of soap.
A mouse-trap, a gold-headed cane,
A bottle of Steers' opodeldoc,
Three ounces of allicumpane,
Gold wire from Duke's Head, Little Britain,
A purple tin kaleidescope,
A tea-tray, a tortoiseshell kitten,
Rob Roy, and a long bit of soap.
Six ounces of Bohea from Twining's,
A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese,
Some rose-coloured sarcenet for linings,
A stew-pan, and Stevenson's glees;
A song ending “Hey noni noni,”
A chair with a cover of chintz,
A mummy dug up by Belzoni,
A skein of white worsted from Flint's.
A peg-top, a Parmesan cheese,
Some rose-coloured sarcenet for linings,
A stew-pan, and Stevenson's glees;
A song ending “Hey noni noni,”
A chair with a cover of chintz,
A mummy dug up by Belzoni,
A skein of white worsted from Flint's.
ANSWER.
Can I pocket St. Paul's like an apple,Take Waterloo bridge in my teeth,
Mount astride the Green Dragon Whitechapel,
And fight all the butchers beneath?
Can I eat Bank directors by dozens,
Put the national debt in a dish?
If I cannot, my dear country cousins,
I cannot do half what you wish!
310
THE DEBATING SOCIETY.
I sing of a queer set of fellows,
Who meet once a week just to prate;
Some gabble, and some blow the bellows,
While others, good lack!
Go clickety clack,
With tongue and with wrist,
Knee, body, and fist,
And bellow, harangue, and debate;
Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock,
Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock,
Who meet once a week just to prate;
Some gabble, and some blow the bellows,
While others, good lack!
Go clickety clack,
With tongue and with wrist,
Knee, body, and fist,
And bellow, harangue, and debate;
Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock,
Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock,
Look'ye here,
Mr. Chair,
All confusion, I declare—
All confusion, all confusion.
All confusion, I declare;
Order, order, order, order,
Chair, chair, chair!
Mr. Chair,
All confusion, I declare—
All confusion, all confusion.
All confusion, I declare;
Order, order, order, order,
Chair, chair, chair!
The question for this night's discussion—
Pray, gentlemen, be better bred—
Is this—if a Turk or a Russian
Were born, if you please,
At the Antipodes,
Where moon there is none,
And never a sun,
But darkness is light,
And morning is night,
He would walk on his heels or his head?
Will nobody get up? The evening grows late,
Hats off! A new Member begins the debate.
Pray, gentlemen, be better bred—
Is this—if a Turk or a Russian
Were born, if you please,
At the Antipodes,
Where moon there is none,
And never a sun,
But darkness is light,
And morning is night,
He would walk on his heels or his head?
311
Hats off! A new Member begins the debate.
Look'ye here,
Mr. Chair, &c., &c.
Mr. Chair, &c., &c.
He sat down—then up rose a second,
The second he called up another;
Four, five, six, and seven were reckoned,
Eight, nine, ten, eleven,
To eloquence given;
All chatter and prate,
Harangue and debate,
Till argument sticks;
And boxes and kicks
Bring noise, and confusion, and bother,
Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock,
Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock.
The second he called up another;
Four, five, six, and seven were reckoned,
Eight, nine, ten, eleven,
To eloquence given;
All chatter and prate,
Harangue and debate,
Till argument sticks;
And boxes and kicks
Bring noise, and confusion, and bother,
Till the President, finding it past ten o'clock,
Cries, Silence, and gives with his hammer a knock.
Look ye here,
Mr. Chair, &c. &c.
Mr. Chair, &c. &c.
SONNETS IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.
Absence and Presence, born of elder Night,
O'er common mortals hold a common sway;
Absence alights when Presence takes her flight,
Presence presides when Absence is away.
O'er life's dull ocean, borne with steady sails,
Alike, as brother oft resembles brother;
By cold indifference pois'd in equal scales,
The one may well pass current for the other.
But (thee once known) what heart can ever know,
Oblivion, weed that rots on Lethé's wharf?
Presence dispensing joy, and Absence woe,
This soars a giant, and that droops a dwarf.
Oh! disproportioned size of joy and grief,
Absence, how endless long, and Presence brief!
O'er common mortals hold a common sway;
Absence alights when Presence takes her flight,
Presence presides when Absence is away.
O'er life's dull ocean, borne with steady sails,
Alike, as brother oft resembles brother;
By cold indifference pois'd in equal scales,
The one may well pass current for the other.
312
Oblivion, weed that rots on Lethé's wharf?
Presence dispensing joy, and Absence woe,
This soars a giant, and that droops a dwarf.
Oh! disproportioned size of joy and grief,
Absence, how endless long, and Presence brief!
Thou'lt still survive, when I to time shall bow,
When my leaves scatter'd lie, thy rose will bloom;
Thou'lt walk the earth, alert as thou art now,
When I am mould'ring in the silent tomb;
My face, my form, traced by the graver's tool,
Thou holdest: hold them then; and, with a sigh,
When shadowing night shall o'er the welkin rule,
Bethink thee, musing, of the days gone by.
Be not too happy, or my jealous sprite
Shall deem thy laughter light, thy spirits folly;
But, gazing on my portraiture, unite
Serene content with sober melancholy,
And cast, in thy belov'd sobriety,
Some thoughts on him whose all thoughts dwelt on thee.
When my leaves scatter'd lie, thy rose will bloom;
Thou'lt walk the earth, alert as thou art now,
When I am mould'ring in the silent tomb;
My face, my form, traced by the graver's tool,
Thou holdest: hold them then; and, with a sigh,
When shadowing night shall o'er the welkin rule,
Bethink thee, musing, of the days gone by.
Be not too happy, or my jealous sprite
Shall deem thy laughter light, thy spirits folly;
But, gazing on my portraiture, unite
Serene content with sober melancholy,
And cast, in thy belov'd sobriety,
Some thoughts on him whose all thoughts dwelt on thee.
TO MRS. LANE FOX.
The book that in your lap reclines,
Where many a leaf like zephyr wavers,
Within its ample cope combines
The skill of Britain's best engravers.
Fishers are there, with humid nets,
Dutch boors, intent upon their duties,
And Egypt's mendicant brunettes,
And mild Circassia's snowy beauties.
Where many a leaf like zephyr wavers,
Within its ample cope combines
The skill of Britain's best engravers.
313
Dutch boors, intent upon their duties,
And Egypt's mendicant brunettes,
And mild Circassia's snowy beauties.
Mountains whereon the clouds recline,
Whence many a Tuscan bravo sallies,
Castles that crown the rapid Rhine,
Cots that repose in Arno's valleys,
Divers, o'er Indian surge reclined,
(Where Phœbus glares with added brightness,)
Delving for pearls, ordained to find
On arms like yours a rival whiteness.
Whence many a Tuscan bravo sallies,
Castles that crown the rapid Rhine,
Cots that repose in Arno's valleys,
Divers, o'er Indian surge reclined,
(Where Phœbus glares with added brightness,)
Delving for pearls, ordained to find
On arms like yours a rival whiteness.
Great painters here their colours strike,
Rubens no longer feeds on roses,
In sober brown reclines Vandyke,
Untinted Titian here reposes.
Artists whose palettes to the sight
Present a gay prismatic olio,
Array'd in modest black and white,
Repose within this huge portfolio.
Rubens no longer feeds on roses,
In sober brown reclines Vandyke,
Untinted Titian here reposes.
Artists whose palettes to the sight
Present a gay prismatic olio,
Array'd in modest black and white,
Repose within this huge portfolio.
Yet not even Bartolozzi's school
Can give all copies equal spirit;
Vainly the graver plies his tool,
To give to all impartial merit.
Each, with what skill soever plann'd,
Grows than its predecessor fainter,
Falls faded from his wearied hand,
And disappoints the peevish painter.
Can give all copies equal spirit;
Vainly the graver plies his tool,
To give to all impartial merit.
Each, with what skill soever plann'd,
Grows than its predecessor fainter,
Falls faded from his wearied hand,
And disappoints the peevish painter.
314
Would he a gainful trade pursue,
His now superfluous labour saving,
Let the glad artist learn of you,
Lady, the art of true engraving.
You, who at every glance awake
A portrait teeming with expression,
And cleverly contrive to make,
Where'er you go—a Proof Impression!
His now superfluous labour saving,
Let the glad artist learn of you,
Lady, the art of true engraving.
You, who at every glance awake
A portrait teeming with expression,
And cleverly contrive to make,
Where'er you go—a Proof Impression!
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. VERSCHOYLE.
To shun the syren's joint attacks,
Ulysses, ocean ranger,
Sealed his companion's ears with wax,
And thus escaped the danger.
Bound to the mast, himself, in vain,
He strove to hear their chorus:
The deafened sailors ploughed the main,
And rounded Cape Pelorus.
Ulysses, ocean ranger,
Sealed his companion's ears with wax,
And thus escaped the danger.
Bound to the mast, himself, in vain,
He strove to hear their chorus:
The deafened sailors ploughed the main,
And rounded Cape Pelorus.
Had you sung there, to win the prize
By all the Muses cherish'd,
(Had he not bound his sailors' eyes,)
The subtle Greek had perish'd.
That face—that voice—all tastes must suit,
O'er all enchantment flinging:
You fascinate our eyes when mute,
And charm our ears when singing.
By all the Muses cherish'd,
(Had he not bound his sailors' eyes,)
The subtle Greek had perish'd.
That face—that voice—all tastes must suit,
O'er all enchantment flinging:
You fascinate our eyes when mute,
And charm our ears when singing.
315
ALPHABETICAL RIVERS.
Addressed to Mrs. ---
What various tributary tides
Flow downward to the C!
How many a bark in Erin glides
Along the silent D!
Flow downward to the C!
How many a bark in Erin glides
Along the silent D!
The Y in Cambria, as it flows,
What furious eddies vex!
In Devon, emblem of repose,
How tranquil winds the X!
What furious eddies vex!
In Devon, emblem of repose,
How tranquil winds the X!
The Tiber, hymn'd, when Rome was free,
By many a bard of old,
Hides many a marble F E G
Beneath its sands of gold.
By many a bard of old,
Hides many a marble F E G
Beneath its sands of gold.
The Thames, upon a rainy day,
Seem'd muddy to the view,
As late I stood upon the K,
And fish'd in it at Q.
Seem'd muddy to the view,
As late I stood upon the K,
And fish'd in it at Q.
Nor tides alone—but you who go
To James's and to Howell's,
Possess the qualities that flow
From consonants and vowels.
To James's and to Howell's,
Possess the qualities that flow
From consonants and vowels.
Though beauty (got I know not whence)
In you applauding men see,
'Tis to good humour and good sense
U O your X L N C!
In you applauding men see,
'Tis to good humour and good sense
U O your X L N C!
316
DEMOSTHENES.
A NEW SONG,
[_]
Sung at the last Anniversary Dinner of the Society of Athenians, at the Globe Tavern, Fleet Street.
Mr. Chairman, allow me to speak,
And, gentlemen, do not prove jeerers,
Though my story to me is all Greek,
And perhaps may prove so to my hearers.
Attention! I sha'n't keep you long—
Athenians should never be lost in ease—
O list to my wonderful song
Of your mighty grandfather Demosthenes.
And, gentlemen, do not prove jeerers,
Though my story to me is all Greek,
And perhaps may prove so to my hearers.
Attention! I sha'n't keep you long—
Athenians should never be lost in ease—
O list to my wonderful song
Of your mighty grandfather Demosthenes.
At school he was called a 'cute lad,
A dead hand at syntax and grammar,
Yet his spouting was shockingly bad,
He did nothing but stutter and stammer.
The weakest must go to the wall,
So, quizz'd by the lads and the lasses,
He walked off to blubber and bawl
To the Polufloisboio Thalasses.
A dead hand at syntax and grammar,
Yet his spouting was shockingly bad,
He did nothing but stutter and stammer.
The weakest must go to the wall,
So, quizz'd by the lads and the lasses,
He walked off to blubber and bawl
To the Polufloisboio Thalasses.
Then rose from the sea in a shell
Old Neptune's salt rib Amphitrite,
She row'd him for making a yell,
And cried, in disdain, “Hoity toity!
Dame Thetis might come to her son,
But I'm on another guess station.”
Thus tutor'd, our hero begun
To blubber his maiden oration.
Old Neptune's salt rib Amphitrite,
She row'd him for making a yell,
And cried, in disdain, “Hoity toity!
317
But I'm on another guess station.”
Thus tutor'd, our hero begun
To blubber his maiden oration.
“Zounds! goddess, don't bother and preach,
All trades they must have a beginning;
Whenever I set up a speech,
All Athens it sets up a-grinning.”
“Psha! blockhead, I'll teach you to squeak!
I'll tune up your basses and trebles.—”
So saying, she greeted our Greek
With a mouthful of sea-weed and pebbles.
All trades they must have a beginning;
Whenever I set up a speech,
All Athens it sets up a-grinning.”
“Psha! blockhead, I'll teach you to squeak!
I'll tune up your basses and trebles.—”
So saying, she greeted our Greek
With a mouthful of sea-weed and pebbles.
Returning, he mounted the stage,
His eloquence took in the nation,
All Athens applauded the sage,
And bravo, encore, came in fashion.
Wherever he spouted, I wot,
These pebbles came in for the glory;
They shook in his jaws like the shot
In the patent shot manufactory.
His eloquence took in the nation,
All Athens applauded the sage,
And bravo, encore, came in fashion.
Wherever he spouted, I wot,
These pebbles came in for the glory;
They shook in his jaws like the shot
In the patent shot manufactory.
Ye sons of the senate, who still
For freedom are spouting and raving,
I'd advise you to bring in a bill
Your own throats with granite for paving.
O that is the way, I declare,
To be with Demosthenes even,
Your pebbles to spit at the chair,
And that I call stoning St. Stephen.
For freedom are spouting and raving,
I'd advise you to bring in a bill
Your own throats with granite for paving.
O that is the way, I declare,
To be with Demosthenes even,
Your pebbles to spit at the chair,
And that I call stoning St. Stephen.
318
We modern Athenians are able
To open to glory a new door,
For while we have wine on the table,
We won't say Ariston men hudor.
We needn't for pebble-stones probe,
Like Dad in old ocean's dark cavern;
Our eloquence sounds through the Globe—
To be sure I don't mean the Globe Tavern.
To open to glory a new door,
For while we have wine on the table,
We won't say Ariston men hudor.
We needn't for pebble-stones probe,
Like Dad in old ocean's dark cavern;
Our eloquence sounds through the Globe—
To be sure I don't mean the Globe Tavern.
ODE TO SENTIMENT.
Daughter of dulness! canting dame!
Thou night-mare on the breast of joy,
Whose drowsy morals, still the same,
The stupid soothe, the gay annoy;
Soft cradled in thy sluggish arms,
E'en footpads prate of guilt's alarms,
And pig-tail'd sailors, sadly queer,
Affect the melting mood, and drop the pitying tear.
Thou night-mare on the breast of joy,
Whose drowsy morals, still the same,
The stupid soothe, the gay annoy;
Soft cradled in thy sluggish arms,
E'en footpads prate of guilt's alarms,
And pig-tail'd sailors, sadly queer,
Affect the melting mood, and drop the pitying tear.
When first to tickle Britain's nose
Hugh Kelly raised his leaden quill,
Thy poppies lent the wish'd repose,
And bade the gaping town be still.
Poor Comedy! thine opiate lore
With patience many a day she bore,
Till Goldsmith all thy hopes dismay'd,
And drove thee from the stage by Tony Lumpkin's aid.
Hugh Kelly raised his leaden quill,
Thy poppies lent the wish'd repose,
And bade the gaping town be still.
Poor Comedy! thine opiate lore
With patience many a day she bore,
Till Goldsmith all thy hopes dismay'd,
And drove thee from the stage by Tony Lumpkin's aid.
319
Scared by thy lanthorn visage, flee
Thalia's offspring light and merry.
Loud laughter, wit, and repartee,
And leave us moralising Cherry.
They fly, and carry in their line,
Grimaldi, Goose, and Columbine,
To Sadler's Wells by Dibdin taken,
With him they vow to dwell, nor find themselves forsaken.
Thalia's offspring light and merry.
Loud laughter, wit, and repartee,
And leave us moralising Cherry.
They fly, and carry in their line,
Grimaldi, Goose, and Columbine,
To Sadler's Wells by Dibdin taken,
With him they vow to dwell, nor find themselves forsaken.
Soliloquy, with clamorous tongue,
That brings the lord knows what to view,
And Affectation, pert and young,
Swearing to love—the lord knows who.
Still round the midnight caldron caper,
Warm Charity with Newland's paper,
And baby Bounty not unwilling
To give to mother dear her new King George's shilling.
That brings the lord knows what to view,
And Affectation, pert and young,
Swearing to love—the lord knows who.
Still round the midnight caldron caper,
Warm Charity with Newland's paper,
And baby Bounty not unwilling
To give to mother dear her new King George's shilling.
O gently o'er the modern stage,
Fair preacher, raise thy deafening din!
Not with the metaphoric rage
That guides the sword of Harlequin,
(As erst thou didst the town amuse,)
With tender bailiff, generous Jews,
Socratic soldiers, praying sailors,
Chaste harlots, letter'd clowns, and duel-fighting tailors.
Fair preacher, raise thy deafening din!
Not with the metaphoric rage
That guides the sword of Harlequin,
(As erst thou didst the town amuse,)
With tender bailiff, generous Jews,
Socratic soldiers, praying sailors,
Chaste harlots, letter'd clowns, and duel-fighting tailors.
Forbear thy handkerchief of brine,
Some gleams of merriment admit;
Be tears in moderation thine,
To water, not to drown, the pit.
But if, with streaming eye askew,
Thou still wilt blubber five acts through,
Have pity on a son of rhyme,
Usurp the play—'tis your's—but spare the pantomime.
Some gleams of merriment admit;
320
To water, not to drown, the pit.
But if, with streaming eye askew,
Thou still wilt blubber five acts through,
Have pity on a son of rhyme,
Usurp the play—'tis your's—but spare the pantomime.
THE IRISH SMUGGLERS.
From Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the cliff,
For pebbles and shells to explore;
When lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skiff,
Which floated at length to the shore.
For pebbles and shells to explore;
When lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skiff,
Which floated at length to the shore.
Says Dermot to Pat, “We the owner will bilk,
To-night we'll be merry and frisky,
I know it as well as my own mother's milk,
Dear joy! 'tis a barrel of whisky.”
To-night we'll be merry and frisky,
I know it as well as my own mother's milk,
Dear joy! 'tis a barrel of whisky.”
Says Pat, “I'll soon broach it, O fortunate lot!
(Now Pat, you must know, was a joker,)
I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
And borrow his kitchen hot poker.”
(Now Pat, you must know, was a joker,)
I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
And borrow his kitchen hot poker.”
'Twas said, and 'twas done—so the barrel was bored,
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,)
When Paddy found out a small error on board,
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder!
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,)
When Paddy found out a small error on board,
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder!
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With sudden explosion he flew o'er the ocean,
And high in air sported a leg;
Yet instinct prevails when philosophy fails,
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.
And high in air sported a leg;
Yet instinct prevails when philosophy fails,
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.
But Dermot bawl'd out, with a terrible shout,
“I'm not to be chous'd, Master Wiseman;
If you do not come down, I'll run into the town,
And, by Jasus, I'll tell the exciseman.”
“I'm not to be chous'd, Master Wiseman;
If you do not come down, I'll run into the town,
And, by Jasus, I'll tell the exciseman.”
MARY, OR THE SERPENTINE SKATERS.
Dear Mary, you've gazed on the Serpentine skaters,
As agile as swallows, as fleet on the wing;
Far-darting Apollos, in cloth boots and gaiters,
Whose tills and whose tournaments make the ice ring.
Of all the blithe gala, come, paint me a picture—
From Vulcan's red glances your countenance screen;
And ere you deposit your furry constrictor,
Report what you've heard, and depict what you've seen.
As agile as swallows, as fleet on the wing;
Far-darting Apollos, in cloth boots and gaiters,
Whose tills and whose tournaments make the ice ring.
Of all the blithe gala, come, paint me a picture—
From Vulcan's red glances your countenance screen;
And ere you deposit your furry constrictor,
Report what you've heard, and depict what you've seen.
Say, who were the leaders, the gaze of the million,
Who spanned the wide channel on iron-bound keel?
What light unapproachables swam a cotillon,
(In this Anno Domini dubbed a quadrille?)
What Jersey, looked after by mothers and daughters,
What Bligh, what Argyll, the élite of the set,
Like Pope's young Camilla, fled over the waters?
What Caulfield sprang round in a brisk pirouette?
Who spanned the wide channel on iron-bound keel?
What light unapproachables swam a cotillon,
(In this Anno Domini dubbed a quadrille?)
What Jersey, looked after by mothers and daughters,
What Bligh, what Argyll, the élite of the set,
Like Pope's young Camilla, fled over the waters?
What Caulfield sprang round in a brisk pirouette?
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You smile, gentle Mary, yet those were the leaders,
In days long departed, as Mercury fleet;
But Time, with his scythe, has pronounced them seceders,
And clipped the light pinions that feathered their feet.
I, “once an Arcadian,” like them too could measure
The stream, and alert o'er the Serpentine dart;
But warned by the gout, I abjure the chill pleasure,
And gaze on the game where I once took a part.
In days long departed, as Mercury fleet;
But Time, with his scythe, has pronounced them seceders,
And clipped the light pinions that feathered their feet.
I, “once an Arcadian,” like them too could measure
The stream, and alert o'er the Serpentine dart;
But warned by the gout, I abjure the chill pleasure,
And gaze on the game where I once took a part.
A little red robin, high perched on the willow
That droops o'er the margin your foot lately press'd,
Has sung in my ear, that the ice-fettered bottom
Bore one whom you gazed on far more than the rest:
'Twas handsome John Selby — that screen, blushing Mary,
Is shifting its place while my theme I pursue;
Your hand seems resolved its position to vary,
And raise it a rampart between me and you.
That droops o'er the margin your foot lately press'd,
Has sung in my ear, that the ice-fettered bottom
Bore one whom you gazed on far more than the rest:
'Twas handsome John Selby — that screen, blushing Mary,
Is shifting its place while my theme I pursue;
Your hand seems resolved its position to vary,
And raise it a rampart between me and you.
Nay! pardon the hint: 'twas not meant to affright you—
Those dark downward orbs prithee rise up again;
Should Love not play truant, and Hymen unite you,
May peace and prosperity rivet the chain!
Those spirits of youth may misfortune ne'er sober—
May blooming felicity call you her own;
Till Time shall have mellow'd your May to October,
And Mary and John shall be Darby and Joan.
Those dark downward orbs prithee rise up again;
Should Love not play truant, and Hymen unite you,
May peace and prosperity rivet the chain!
Those spirits of youth may misfortune ne'er sober—
May blooming felicity call you her own;
Till Time shall have mellow'd your May to October,
And Mary and John shall be Darby and Joan.
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PHŒBE, OR MY GRANDMOTHER WEST.
Ah, Phœbe! how slily, love's arrow to barb,
You've stolen down stairs in your grandmamma's garb!
Your ringlet-graced head, and your stomacher flat,
The cut of your cloak, and the bend of your hat,
Your flounce and your furbelow, all have confess'd
Your masquerade likeness to your Grandmamma West.
You've stolen down stairs in your grandmamma's garb!
Your ringlet-graced head, and your stomacher flat,
The cut of your cloak, and the bend of your hat,
Your flounce and your furbelow, all have confess'd
Your masquerade likeness to your Grandmamma West.
That necklace of coral I've seen all afloat
(Ere wreck'd by old Time) on your grandmamma's throat;
Her hands, alike gazed on by dandies and boors,
I've seen her fold often as now you fold yours;
While crowds have around her at Ranelagh press'd,
Allur'd by the beauty of Grandmamma West.
(Ere wreck'd by old Time) on your grandmamma's throat;
Her hands, alike gazed on by dandies and boors,
I've seen her fold often as now you fold yours;
While crowds have around her at Ranelagh press'd,
Allur'd by the beauty of Grandmamma West.
Hold, Phœbe! thou archest of heart-stealing girls,
Thy hat, and thy cloak, and thy lace, and thy pearls,
May not be cast off, till thy painter shall trace
The raiment antique, and thy juvenile face,
With thy ringlets and flounces that once gave a zest
To the now waning charms of your Grandmamma West.
Thy hat, and thy cloak, and thy lace, and thy pearls,
May not be cast off, till thy painter shall trace
The raiment antique, and thy juvenile face,
With thy ringlets and flounces that once gave a zest
To the now waning charms of your Grandmamma West.
'Tis done; now begone, and remember that Time,
By steps slow and sure, is corroding your prime.
An era shall come, spite of hopes and of fears,
When Phœbe shall be what she now appears,
A tidy old woman arrayed in her best,
A counterfeit true of her Grandmamma West.
By steps slow and sure, is corroding your prime.
An era shall come, spite of hopes and of fears,
When Phœbe shall be what she now appears,
A tidy old woman arrayed in her best,
A counterfeit true of her Grandmamma West.
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TIME AND LOVE.
An artist painted Time and Love;
Time with two pinions spread above,
And Love without a feather;
Sir Harry patronized the plan,
And soon Sir Hal and Lady Ann
In wedlock came together.
Time with two pinions spread above,
And Love without a feather;
Sir Harry patronized the plan,
And soon Sir Hal and Lady Ann
In wedlock came together.
Copies of each the dame bespoke:
The artist, ere he drew a stroke,
Reversed his old opinions,
And straightway to the fair one brings
Time in his turn devoid of wings,
And Cupid with two pinions.
The artist, ere he drew a stroke,
Reversed his old opinions,
And straightway to the fair one brings
Time in his turn devoid of wings,
And Cupid with two pinions.
“What blunder's this?” the lady cries.
“No blunder, Madam,” he replies,
“I hope I'm not so stupid.
Each has his pinions in his day,
Time, before marriage, flies away,
And, after marriage, Cupid.”
“No blunder, Madam,” he replies,
“I hope I'm not so stupid.
Each has his pinions in his day,
Time, before marriage, flies away,
And, after marriage, Cupid.”
SURNAMES.
Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate,
(You all may from history worm it;)
There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.
But now, when the door-plates of Misters and Dames
Are read, each so constantly varies
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, Surnames
Seem given by the rule of contraries.
(You all may from history worm it;)
There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.
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Are read, each so constantly varies
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, Surnames
Seem given by the rule of contraries.
Mr. Box, though provoked, never doubles his fist,
Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,
Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist,
Mr. Coward was wing'd in a duel.
Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a Whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig,
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.
Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,
Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist,
Mr. Coward was wing'd in a duel.
Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a Whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig,
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.
Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram,
Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,
And meek Mr. Lyon let fierce Mr. Lamb
Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,
(A conduct well worthy of Nero,)
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heaviside danced a bolero.
Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,
And meek Mr. Lyon let fierce Mr. Lamb
Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,
(A conduct well worthy of Nero,)
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heaviside danced a bolero.
Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr.Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her;
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut,
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
Found nothing but sorrow await her;
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut,
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
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Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock,
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers;
Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock,
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him,
Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers;
Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock,
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him,
Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.
Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three,
Mr. Makepiece was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wilde with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three,
Mr. Makepiece was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wilde with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.
Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won,
Large Mr. Le Fevre's the picture of health,
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.
Mr. Cruickshank stept into three thousand a year,
By showing his leg to an heiress;—
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear
Surnames ever go by contraries.
Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won,
Large Mr. Le Fevre's the picture of health,
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.
Mr. Cruickshank stept into three thousand a year,
By showing his leg to an heiress;—
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear
Surnames ever go by contraries.
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THE WATERING PLACES.
“Awake, arise,” bold Neptune cries,
“It scandalous and base is
To lag behind, when half mankind
Frequent my Watering Places.”—
“'Tis passing odd, blue-bearded god,
That men should thus turn otters;
With every due respect for you,
I never liked your waters.
“It scandalous and base is
To lag behind, when half mankind
Frequent my Watering Places.”—
“'Tis passing odd, blue-bearded god,
That men should thus turn otters;
With every due respect for you,
I never liked your waters.
“If 'twere my lot to build a cot,
Or dome of Chinese pattern,
It should not verge upon thy surge,
Joint Devisee of Saturn.
The very trees that own thy breeze,
Seem by the favour undone;
With inland bend, like me, they send
A longing look tow'rd London.
Or dome of Chinese pattern,
It should not verge upon thy surge,
Joint Devisee of Saturn.
The very trees that own thy breeze,
Seem by the favour undone;
With inland bend, like me, they send
A longing look tow'rd London.
“The man who stops in sea-side shops,
Like Donaldson's or Lucombe's,
In hopes to find food for the mind,
Soon finds he's not at Hookham's.
The libraries that edge thy seas,
Are fit for boys in short hose;
Their gew-gaw shelves bear tops for twelves,
And paper kites in quartos.
Like Donaldson's or Lucombe's,
In hopes to find food for the mind,
Soon finds he's not at Hookham's.
The libraries that edge thy seas,
Are fit for boys in short hose;
Their gew-gaw shelves bear tops for twelves,
And paper kites in quartos.
“Sandgate may do for those who woo
The leaden god of slumber.
O'er Bognor Rock the sea-gulls flock;
I'll not increase their number.
Who loves to hide should go to Ryde,
Full equi-dismal Cowes is:
And poor Eastbourne appears to mourn
Her runaway ‘Sea Houses.’
The leaden god of slumber.
O'er Bognor Rock the sea-gulls flock;
I'll not increase their number.
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Full equi-dismal Cowes is:
And poor Eastbourne appears to mourn
Her runaway ‘Sea Houses.’
“To Broadstairs they may post away,
Who think it famous cheer is
With gun and shot o'er fields to trot,
Monopolized by Ceres.
Southend's too nigh, and they who hie
To Scarborough too far get:
Worthing's all tides, and all Cheapside's
Mud carted into Margate.
Who think it famous cheer is
With gun and shot o'er fields to trot,
Monopolized by Ceres.
Southend's too nigh, and they who hie
To Scarborough too far get:
Worthing's all tides, and all Cheapside's
Mud carted into Margate.
“Tow'rd Rottingdean who walks the Steyne,
A bold and jutting work sees,
Which aims, by spars, and chains, and bars,
To fetter thee like Xerxes.
But, Son of Ops, the pile that stops
Thy waters in their gushing,
May quit its post on Brighton coast,
And walk away to Flushing.
A bold and jutting work sees,
Which aims, by spars, and chains, and bars,
To fetter thee like Xerxes.
But, Son of Ops, the pile that stops
Thy waters in their gushing,
May quit its post on Brighton coast,
And walk away to Flushing.
“See yonder yacht, with paddling trot,
And rolling Lichfield Sam's gait,
Unload, at eight, its motley freight,
To skim thy surf at Ramsgate.
I once swam near her Lighthouse Pier,
Than moist Leander madder,
But, warn'd by Time, no more I climb
For Angels Jacob's ladder.
And rolling Lichfield Sam's gait,
Unload, at eight, its motley freight,
To skim thy surf at Ramsgate.
I once swam near her Lighthouse Pier,
Than moist Leander madder,
But, warn'd by Time, no more I climb
For Angels Jacob's ladder.
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“At Hastings, if her frisky cliff
Would be more staid and sober,
The gods I'd think to pass, dear Frank,
With thee a blithe October.
But from her brink new rocks may sink,
The next time blows the wind bad:
And I below her chalky brow
Be sepulchred like Sindbad.
Would be more staid and sober,
The gods I'd think to pass, dear Frank,
With thee a blithe October.
But from her brink new rocks may sink,
The next time blows the wind bad:
And I below her chalky brow
Be sepulchred like Sindbad.
“Thus, billowy god, my muse has trod
Thy forelands, creeks, and mountains,
And, could I boot as light a foot,
I'd seek thy briny fountains.
But gout requires more inland shires,
The limb, that last night felt numb,
Instinctive clings to mineral springs—
Adieu, I'm off for Chelt'nham!”
Thy forelands, creeks, and mountains,
And, could I boot as light a foot,
I'd seek thy briny fountains.
But gout requires more inland shires,
The limb, that last night felt numb,
Instinctive clings to mineral springs—
Adieu, I'm off for Chelt'nham!”
POOR ROBIN'S PROPHECY.
When girls prefer old lovers,
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell's skull discovers
What pass'd in Thurtell's brain:
When farms contain no growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell's skull discovers
What pass'd in Thurtell's brain:
When farms contain no growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
For sure the sky will fall.
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When Boston men love banter,
When loan-contractors sleep,
When Chancery pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep:
When topers swear that claret's
The vilest drink of all;
Then, housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.
When loan-contractors sleep,
When Chancery pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep:
When topers swear that claret's
The vilest drink of all;
Then, housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.
When Southey leagues with Wooller,
When dandies show no shape,
When fiddlers' heads are fuller
Than that whereon they scrape:
When doers turn to talkers,
And Quakers love a ball;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When dandies show no shape,
When fiddlers' heads are fuller
Than that whereon they scrape:
When doers turn to talkers,
And Quakers love a ball;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When lads from Cork or Newry
Won't broach a whisky flask,
When comedy at Drury
Again shall lift her mask:
When peerless Kitty utters
Her airs in tuneless squall,
Then, cats, desert your gutters,
For sure the sky will fall.
Won't broach a whisky flask,
When comedy at Drury
Again shall lift her mask:
When peerless Kitty utters
Her airs in tuneless squall,
Then, cats, desert your gutters,
For sure the sky will fall.
When worth dreads no detractor,
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,
And manager and actor
Lie down like kid and lamb;
When bard with bard embraces,
And critics cease to maul,
Then, travellers, mend your paces,
For sure the sky will fall.
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,
And manager and actor
Lie down like kid and lamb;
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And critics cease to maul,
Then, travellers, mend your paces,
For sure the sky will fall.
When men, who leave off business
With butter-cups to play,
Find in their heads no dizziness,
Nor long for “melting day:”
When cits their pert Mount-pleasants
Deprive of poplars tall;
Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants,
For sure the sky will fall.
With butter-cups to play,
Find in their heads no dizziness,
Nor long for “melting day:”
When cits their pert Mount-pleasants
Deprive of poplars tall;
Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants,
For sure the sky will fall.
A PAIR OF EAR-RINGS.
Happy the man in music nursed!
Toward Phœbus' Temple beckoned;
He lets some fair one sing the first,
And takes at sight the second.
Toward Phœbus' Temple beckoned;
He lets some fair one sing the first,
And takes at sight the second.
Not mine that tuneful height to gain,
And yet, to stem disaster,
Methink I might, by care and pain,
Some few duettos master.
And yet, to stem disaster,
Methink I might, by care and pain,
Some few duettos master.
Kate, fair preceptress, taught me well,
By dint of toil, to bellow
A second to Mozart's “Crudel,”
And Mayer's “Vecchierello.”
By dint of toil, to bellow
A second to Mozart's “Crudel,”
And Mayer's “Vecchierello.”
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Push'd on by her assiduous aid,
In strains not much like Banti,
Through “Con un Aria” next I strayed,
Composed by Fioravanti.
In strains not much like Banti,
Through “Con un Aria” next I strayed,
Composed by Fioravanti.
Thus taught my tuneful part to bear,
To Kate, assiduous girl,
In courtesy I sent a pair
Of ear-rings, deck'd with pearl.
To Kate, assiduous girl,
In courtesy I sent a pair
Of ear-rings, deck'd with pearl.
My Mercury to Kate's abode
On agile pinions flew,
And fleetly by the self-same road
Brought back this billet-doux:—
On agile pinions flew,
And fleetly by the self-same road
Brought back this billet-doux:—
“A boon like this, dear Sir, appears
The best you can bestow:
'Tis fit you decorate my ears—
You've bored them long ago.”
The best you can bestow:
'Tis fit you decorate my ears—
You've bored them long ago.”
PROVERBS.
My good Aunt Bridget, spite of age,
Versed in Valerian, Dock, and Sage,
Well knew the virtues of herbs;
But Proverbs gain'd her chief applause,
“Child,” she exclaim'd, “respect old saws,
“And pin your faith on Proverbs.”
Versed in Valerian, Dock, and Sage,
Well knew the virtues of herbs;
But Proverbs gain'd her chief applause,
“Child,” she exclaim'd, “respect old saws,
“And pin your faith on Proverbs.”
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Thus taught, I dubb'd my lot secure;
And, playing long-rope, “slow and sure,”
Conceived my movement clever.
When lo! an urchin by my side
Push'd me head foremost in, and cried
“Keep Moving,” “Now or Never.”
And, playing long-rope, “slow and sure,”
Conceived my movement clever.
When lo! an urchin by my side
Push'd me head foremost in, and cried
“Keep Moving,” “Now or Never.”
At Melton next I join'd the hunt,
Of bogs and bushes bore the brunt,
Nor once my courser held in;
But when I saw a yawning steep,
I thought of “Look before you leap,”
And curb'd my eager gelding.
Of bogs and bushes bore the brunt,
Nor once my courser held in;
But when I saw a yawning steep,
I thought of “Look before you leap,”
And curb'd my eager gelding.
While doubtful thus I rein'd my roan,
Willing to save a fractured bone,
Yet fearful of exposure;
A sportsman thus my spirit stirr'd—
“Delays are dangerous,”—I spurr'd
My steed, and leap'd th' enclosure.
Willing to save a fractured bone,
Yet fearful of exposure;
A sportsman thus my spirit stirr'd—
“Delays are dangerous,”—I spurr'd
My steed, and leap'd th' enclosure.
I ogled Jane, who heard me say,
That “Rome was not built in a day,”
When lo! Sir Fleet O'Grady
Put this, my saw, to sea again,
And proved, by running off with Jane,
“Faint heart ne'er won fair Lady.”
That “Rome was not built in a day,”
When lo! Sir Fleet O'Grady
Put this, my saw, to sea again,
And proved, by running off with Jane,
“Faint heart ne'er won fair Lady.”
Aware “New Brooms sweep clean,” I took
An untaught tyro for a cook,
(The tale I tell a fact is;)
She spoilt my soup: but, when I chid,
She thus once more my work undid,
“Perfection comes from Practice.”
An untaught tyro for a cook,
(The tale I tell a fact is;)
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She thus once more my work undid,
“Perfection comes from Practice.”
Thus, out of every adage hit,
And, finding that ancestral wit
As changeful as the clime is:
From Proverbs, turning on my heel,
I now cull Wisdom from my seal,
Whose motto's “Ne quid nimis.”
And, finding that ancestral wit
As changeful as the clime is:
From Proverbs, turning on my heel,
I now cull Wisdom from my seal,
Whose motto's “Ne quid nimis.”
THE BIRTH OF PODAGRA.
“Fair daughter, it puzzles me much,”
Quoth Jove to Idalia's Queen,
“Why you married a god on a crutch,
Who never looks fit to be seen.
With Mars, and with Bacchus, and with
Apollo to woo you in songs,
Oh! how could you marry a smith
Who furnishes pokers and tongs?”
Quoth Jove to Idalia's Queen,
“Why you married a god on a crutch,
Who never looks fit to be seen.
With Mars, and with Bacchus, and with
Apollo to woo you in songs,
Oh! how could you marry a smith
Who furnishes pokers and tongs?”
“Dread sire,” said the Queen of the Loves,
“While Vulcan is beating hot shoes
All day, I can harness my doves,
And call on what people I choose:
You made him a smith from his birth,
His forge on Mount Ætna he plies:
Let him mind his shop upon earth,
And me manage mine in the skies.”
“While Vulcan is beating hot shoes
All day, I can harness my doves,
And call on what people I choose:
You made him a smith from his birth,
His forge on Mount Ætna he plies:
Let him mind his shop upon earth,
And me manage mine in the skies.”
335
The Thunderer nodded assent.
Ere long, with his vine-circled rod,
On no honest embassy bent,
Came Bacchus, the ivy-crown'd god.
He drove the dame out in his car;
Anacreon call'd up the Nine,
And thrumm'd his eternal guitar
In praise of the myrtle and vine.
Ere long, with his vine-circled rod,
On no honest embassy bent,
Came Bacchus, the ivy-crown'd god.
He drove the dame out in his car;
Anacreon call'd up the Nine,
And thrumm'd his eternal guitar
In praise of the myrtle and vine.
With Vulcan employ'd all the day,
The lovers felt doubly secure:
We know, when Grimalkin's away,
The mice are not over-demure.
Thus flitted unclouded the scene,
Till Dian nine circuits had run:
When, lo! the parturient Queen
Of Paphos gave birth to a son.
The lovers felt doubly secure:
We know, when Grimalkin's away,
The mice are not over-demure.
Thus flitted unclouded the scene,
Till Dian nine circuits had run:
When, lo! the parturient Queen
Of Paphos gave birth to a son.
In flannels Jove swaddled the imp,
As broad as his mother's blue zone,
And prudently gave him a limp,
To pass for lame Mulciber's own.
The Bacchus and Venus-born child
Grew, otherwise, healthy and stout.
Hippocrates nursed him, and styled
The big-footed libertine—Gout!
As broad as his mother's blue zone,
And prudently gave him a limp,
To pass for lame Mulciber's own.
The Bacchus and Venus-born child
Grew, otherwise, healthy and stout.
Hippocrates nursed him, and styled
The big-footed libertine—Gout!
336
THE YEAR TWENTY-SIX.
'Tis gone with its toys and its troubles,
Its essays on cotton and corn,
Its laughing-stock company bubbles,
Its Cherry-ripe—(music by Horn.)
'Tis gone, with its Catholic Question,
Its Shiels, its O'Connells, and Brics:
Time, finding it light of digestion,
Has swallow'd the Year Twenty-six.
Its essays on cotton and corn,
Its laughing-stock company bubbles,
Its Cherry-ripe—(music by Horn.)
'Tis gone, with its Catholic Question,
Its Shiels, its O'Connells, and Brics:
Time, finding it light of digestion,
Has swallow'd the Year Twenty-six.
I've penn'd a few private mementoes
Of schemes that I meant to effect,
Which, sure as I hobble on ten toes,
I vow'd I'd no longer neglect.
“My wits,” I exclaim'd, “are receding,
'Tis time I their energies fix:
I'll write the town something worth reading,
To finish the Year Twenty-six.”
Of schemes that I meant to effect,
Which, sure as I hobble on ten toes,
I vow'd I'd no longer neglect.
“My wits,” I exclaim'd, “are receding,
'Tis time I their energies fix:
I'll write the town something worth reading,
To finish the Year Twenty-six.”
My pamphlet, to tell Mr. Canning
The Czar has an eye on the Turk:
My treatise, to show Mr. Manning
The way to make currency work:
My essay, to prove to the nations
(As sure as wax candles have wicks)
Greek Bonds are not Greek obligations—
Were planned in the Year Twenty-six.
The Czar has an eye on the Turk:
My treatise, to show Mr. Manning
The way to make currency work:
My essay, to prove to the nations
(As sure as wax candles have wicks)
Greek Bonds are not Greek obligations—
Were planned in the Year Twenty-six.
337
I sketch'd out a novel, where laughter
Should scare evangelic Tremaine,
Shake Brambletye House off its rafter,
And level Tor Hill with the plain.
Those volumes, as grave as my grandam,
I swore with my book to transfix:
'Twas call'd the New Roderick Random,
And meant for the Year Twenty-six.
Should scare evangelic Tremaine,
Shake Brambletye House off its rafter,
And level Tor Hill with the plain.
Those volumes, as grave as my grandam,
I swore with my book to transfix:
'Twas call'd the New Roderick Random,
And meant for the Year Twenty-six.
My play had—I'd have the town know it—
A part for Miss Elinor Tree;
At Drury I meant to bestow it
On Price, the gigantic lessee.
Resolved the fourth act to diminish,
('Tis there, I suspect, the plot sticks,)
I solemnly swore that I'd finish
The fifth, in the Year Twenty-six.
A part for Miss Elinor Tree;
At Drury I meant to bestow it
On Price, the gigantic lessee.
Resolved the fourth act to diminish,
('Tis there, I suspect, the plot sticks,)
I solemnly swore that I'd finish
The fifth, in the Year Twenty-six.
But somehow I thought the Haymarket
Was better for hearing by half,
To people who live near the Park it
Affords the best home for a laugh.
“There Liston,” I mutter'd, “has taught 'em
Mirth's balm in their bitters to mix:
I'll write such a part in the autumn
For him—in the Year Twenty-six!”
Was better for hearing by half,
To people who live near the Park it
Affords the best home for a laugh.
“There Liston,” I mutter'd, “has taught 'em
Mirth's balm in their bitters to mix:
I'll write such a part in the autumn
For him—in the Year Twenty-six!”
I meant to complete my Italian—
('Tis done in a twelvemonth with ease,)
Nor longer, as mute as Pygmalion,
Hang over the ivory keys.
I meant to learn music, much faster
Than fellows at Eton learn tricks:
Vercellini might teach me to master
The notes, in the Year Twenty-six.
('Tis done in a twelvemonth with ease,)
Nor longer, as mute as Pygmalion,
Hang over the ivory keys.
338
Than fellows at Eton learn tricks:
Vercellini might teach me to master
The notes, in the Year Twenty-six.
'Tis past, with its corn and its cotton,
Its shareholders broken and bit;
And where is my pamphlet? forgotten.
And where is my treatise? unwrit.
My essay, my play, and my novel,
Like so many Tumble-down Dicks,
All, all in inanity grovel—
Alas! for the Year Twenty-six!
Its shareholders broken and bit;
And where is my pamphlet? forgotten.
And where is my treatise? unwrit.
My essay, my play, and my novel,
Like so many Tumble-down Dicks,
All, all in inanity grovel—
Alas! for the Year Twenty-six!
My Haymarket farce is a bubble,
My Bocca Romana moves stiff,
I've spared Vercellini all trouble,
I don't even know the bass cliff.
My brain has (supine anti-breeder)
Neglected to hatch into chicks
Her offspring—Pray how, gentle reader,
Thrive yours for the Year Twenty-six?
My Bocca Romana moves stiff,
I've spared Vercellini all trouble,
I don't even know the bass cliff.
My brain has (supine anti-breeder)
Neglected to hatch into chicks
Her offspring—Pray how, gentle reader,
Thrive yours for the Year Twenty-six?
George Whitfield, whom nobody mentions
Now Irving has got into fame,
Has paved with abortive intentions
A place too caloric to name.
I fear, if his masonry's real,
That mine have Macadamized Styx:
So empty, cloud-capp'd, and ideal,
My plans for the Year Twenty-six!
Now Irving has got into fame,
Has paved with abortive intentions
A place too caloric to name.
I fear, if his masonry's real,
That mine have Macadamized Styx:
So empty, cloud-capp'd, and ideal,
My plans for the Year Twenty-six!
339
Past Year! if, to quash all evasions,
Thou'ldst have me with granite repair,
On good terra firma foundations,
My castles now nodding in air:
Bid Time from my brow steal his traces
(As Bardolph abstracted the Pix),
Run back on his road a few paces,
And make me—like thee—Twenty-six.
Thou'ldst have me with granite repair,
On good terra firma foundations,
My castles now nodding in air:
Bid Time from my brow steal his traces
(As Bardolph abstracted the Pix),
Run back on his road a few paces,
And make me—like thee—Twenty-six.
THE AUCTIONEER'S ODE TO MERCURY.
Hermes, god of cheats and chatter,
Wave thy smooth caduceus here—
Now that, pulpit-propp'd, I flatter;
Hermes, god of cheats and chatter,
Smile, O smile on Mr. Smatter,
Aid a humble Auctioneer!
Wave thy smooth caduceus here,
O'er a humble Auctioneer!
With its virtues tip my hammer,
Model my Grammar,
Nor let me stammer.
Wave thy smooth caduceus here—
Now that, pulpit-propp'd, I flatter;
Hermes, god of cheats and chatter,
Smile, O smile on Mr. Smatter,
Aid a humble Auctioneer!
Wave thy smooth caduceus here,
O'er a humble Auctioneer!
With its virtues tip my hammer,
Model my Grammar,
Nor let me stammer.
First, here's Sackbut's Song of Slaughter;
Verse and prose, the Laureat Otter,
Flats along, diluting song
In milk and water.
Next (who'll buy?) here's Love in Little,
Smooth as glass and eke as brittle;
Here are posies, lilies, roses,
Cupid's slumbers—out in numbers,
Pouting, fretting, fly-not-yet-ing,
Rosa's lip, and Rosa's sigh—
For one pound six-who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Doctor Aikin, Sims on Baking,
Booth in Cato quoting Plato,
Jacob Tonson, Doctor Johnson,
Russia Binding, touch and try—
Nothing bid—who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Mr. Hayley, Docter Paley,
Arthur Murphy, Tommy Durfey,
Mrs. Trimmer's little Primer,
Buckram binding, touch and try—
Nothing bid—who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Colley Cibber, Bruce the fibber,
Plays of Cherry, ditto Merry,
Tickel, Mickle.
When I bow and when I wriggle,
With a simper and a giggle,
Ears regaling, bidders nailing,
Ladies utter in a flutter—
“Mister Smatter, how you chatter,
Dear, how clever! well, I never
Heard so eloquent a man!”
Verse and prose, the Laureat Otter,
Flats along, diluting song
In milk and water.
340
Smooth as glass and eke as brittle;
Here are posies, lilies, roses,
Cupid's slumbers—out in numbers,
Pouting, fretting, fly-not-yet-ing,
Rosa's lip, and Rosa's sigh—
For one pound six-who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Doctor Aikin, Sims on Baking,
Booth in Cato quoting Plato,
Jacob Tonson, Doctor Johnson,
Russia Binding, touch and try—
Nothing bid—who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Mr. Hayley, Docter Paley,
Arthur Murphy, Tommy Durfey,
Mrs. Trimmer's little Primer,
Buckram binding, touch and try—
Nothing bid—who'll buy, who'll buy?
Here's Colley Cibber, Bruce the fibber,
Plays of Cherry, ditto Merry,
Tickel, Mickle.
When I bow and when I wriggle,
With a simper and a giggle,
Ears regaling, bidders nailing,
Ladies utter in a flutter—
“Mister Smatter, how you chatter,
Dear, how clever! well, I never
Heard so eloquent a man!”
Tropes purloining, graces coining,
Glibly I, without repentance,
Clip each sentence.
But, to give each lot its station,
Ere from pulpit I dismount,
God of recapitulation,
Hermes, aid me while I count—
Aikin, Baking, Cato, Plato,
Cibber, fibber—Cherry, Merry,
Hayley, Paley—Secker, Decker,
Tickel, Mickle—Tonson, Johnson,
Literary Caliban.
Forty-seven! Oh, far too thrifty—
Thank'ee, Ma'am—two places—fifty!
Must it go? oh, surely no!
Only eye me, then deny me.
When I bow and when I wriggle,
With a simper and a giggle,
Ears regaling, bidders nailing,
Ladies utter in a flutter—
“Mister Smatter, how you chatter—
Dear, how clever! well, I never
Heard so eloquent a man!
Glibly I, without repentance,
Clip each sentence.
341
Ere from pulpit I dismount,
God of recapitulation,
Hermes, aid me while I count—
Aikin, Baking, Cato, Plato,
Cibber, fibber—Cherry, Merry,
Hayley, Paley—Secker, Decker,
Tickel, Mickle—Tonson, Johnson,
Literary Caliban.
Forty-seven! Oh, far too thrifty—
Thank'ee, Ma'am—two places—fifty!
Must it go? oh, surely no!
Only eye me, then deny me.
When I bow and when I wriggle,
With a simper and a giggle,
Ears regaling, bidders nailing,
Ladies utter in a flutter—
“Mister Smatter, how you chatter—
Dear, how clever! well, I never
Heard so eloquent a man!
Tongue of Mentor, lungs of Stentor,
Hermes, thou hast made mine own.
Cox and Robins own, with sobbings,
I'm the winner; Dyke and Skinner
Never caught so glib a tone.
Dull and misty, Squibb and Christie,
When I mount, look pale and wan—
Going, going, going—gone!
Hermes, thou hast made mine own.
Cox and Robins own, with sobbings,
I'm the winner; Dyke and Skinner
Never caught so glib a tone.
Dull and misty, Squibb and Christie,
When I mount, look pale and wan—
Going, going, going—gone!
342
THE TABLET OF TRUTH.
Sit down, Mr. Clipstone, and take
These hints, while my feelings are fresh;
My uncle, Sir Lionel Lake,
Has journey'd the way of all flesh.
His heirs would in marble imprint
His merits aloft o'er his pew—
Allow me the outline to hint—
To finish, of course, rests with you.
These hints, while my feelings are fresh;
My uncle, Sir Lionel Lake,
Has journey'd the way of all flesh.
His heirs would in marble imprint
His merits aloft o'er his pew—
Allow me the outline to hint—
To finish, of course, rests with you.
And first, with a visage of woe,
Carve two little cherubs of love,
Lamenting to lose one below
They never will look on above.
And next, in smooth porphyry mould,
(You cannot well cut them too small)
Two liliput goblets, to hold
The tears that his widow lets fall.
Carve two little cherubs of love,
Lamenting to lose one below
They never will look on above.
And next, in smooth porphyry mould,
(You cannot well cut them too small)
Two liliput goblets, to hold
The tears that his widow lets fall.
Where charity seeks a supply
He leaves not his equal behind:
I'm told there is not a dry eye
In the School for the Indigent Blind.
Then chisel (not sunk in repose,
But in alto relief, to endure,)
An orderly line of round O's
For the money he gave to the poor.
He leaves not his equal behind:
I'm told there is not a dry eye
In the School for the Indigent Blind.
Then chisel (not sunk in repose,
But in alto relief, to endure,)
An orderly line of round O's
For the money he gave to the poor.
I league not in rhyme with the band
Who elevate sound over sense:
Where Vanity bellows “expand,”
Humility whispers “condense.”
Then mark, with your mallet and blade,
To paint the defunct to the life,
Four stars for his conduct in trade,
And a blank for his love of his wife.
Who elevate sound over sense:
343
Humility whispers “condense.”
Then mark, with your mallet and blade,
To paint the defunct to the life,
Four stars for his conduct in trade,
And a blank for his love of his wife.
'Tis done—to complete a design,
In brevity rivalling Greece,
Imprint me a black dotted line
For the friends who lament his decease.
Thus letter'd with merited praise,
Ere long shall our travel-fraught youth
Turn back from the false Père-la-Chaise
To gaze on my Tablet of Truth.
In brevity rivalling Greece,
Imprint me a black dotted line
For the friends who lament his decease.
Thus letter'd with merited praise,
Ere long shall our travel-fraught youth
Turn back from the false Père-la-Chaise
To gaze on my Tablet of Truth.
JACK JONES, THE RECRUIT.—A HINT FROM OVID.
Jack Jones was a toper: they say that somehow
He'd a foot always ready to kick up a row;
And, when half-seas over, a quarrel he pick'd
To keep up the row he had previously kick'd.
He'd a foot always ready to kick up a row;
And, when half-seas over, a quarrel he pick'd
To keep up the row he had previously kick'd.
He spent all, then borrow'd at twenty per cent;
His mistress fought shy when his money was spent,
So he went for a soldier; he could not do less,
And scorn'd his fair Fanny for hugging brown Bess.
His mistress fought shy when his money was spent,
So he went for a soldier; he could not do less,
And scorn'd his fair Fanny for hugging brown Bess.
344
“Halt—wheel into line!” and “Attention—Eyes right!”
Put Bacchus, and Venus, and Momus to flight:
But who can depict half the sorrows he felt
When he dyed his mustachios and pipe-clayed his belt?
Put Bacchus, and Venus, and Momus to flight:
But who can depict half the sorrows he felt
When he dyed his mustachios and pipe-clayed his belt?
When Sergeant Rattan, at Aurora's red peep,
Awaken'd his tyros by bawling, “Two deep!”
Jack Jones would retort, with a half-suppress'd sigh,
“Ay, too deep by half for such ninnies as I.”
Awaken'd his tyros by bawling, “Two deep!”
Jack Jones would retort, with a half-suppress'd sigh,
“Ay, too deep by half for such ninnies as I.”
Quoth Jones, “'Twas delightful the bushes to beat,
With a gun in my hand, and a dog at my feet;
But the game at the Horse-Guards is different, good lack!
Tis a gun in my hand, and a cat at my back.”
With a gun in my hand, and a dog at my feet;
But the game at the Horse-Guards is different, good lack!
Tis a gun in my hand, and a cat at my back.”
To Bacchus, his saint, our dejected Recruit,
One morn, about drill-time, thus proffer'd his suit—
“O make me a sparrow, a wasp, or an ape—
All's one, so I get at the juice of the grape.”
One morn, about drill-time, thus proffer'd his suit—
“O make me a sparrow, a wasp, or an ape—
All's one, so I get at the juice of the grape.”
The god was propitious—he instantly found
His ten toes distend and take root in the ground;
His back was a stem, and his belly was bark,
And his hair in green leaves overshadow'd the park.
His ten toes distend and take root in the ground;
His back was a stem, and his belly was bark,
And his hair in green leaves overshadow'd the park.
Grapes clustering hung o'er his grenadier cap,
His blood became juice, and his marrow was sap:
Till nothing was left of the muscles and bones
That form'd the identical toper, Jack Jones.
His blood became juice, and his marrow was sap:
Till nothing was left of the muscles and bones
That form'd the identical toper, Jack Jones.
345
Transform'd to a vine, he is still seen on guard,
At his former emporium in Great Scotland Yard;
And still, though a vine, like his fellow-recruits,
He is train'd, after listing, has ten-drills, and shoots.
At his former emporium in Great Scotland Yard;
And still, though a vine, like his fellow-recruits,
He is train'd, after listing, has ten-drills, and shoots.
THE TWO COMMENTATORS.
Cæsar and Blackstone, mighty men,
One drew the sword, and one the pen.
One clear'd law's antiquated den,
One took to war's vagaries.
Both well contriv'd themselves to entrench;
One Junius fought, and one the French;
That sought the Throne, this found the Bench,
And both wrote Commentaries.
One drew the sword, and one the pen.
One clear'd law's antiquated den,
One took to war's vagaries.
Both well contriv'd themselves to entrench;
One Junius fought, and one the French;
That sought the Throne, this found the Bench,
And both wrote Commentaries.
These militant and civil elves,
One Easter Monday, found themselves,
Well bound, on Doctor Lettsom's shelves;
They form'd his favourite study.
There would he read of statutes, cars,
Of special pleading, Picts, and scars,
Justinian Pandects, and the wars
Of Julius fierce and bloody.
One Easter Monday, found themselves,
Well bound, on Doctor Lettsom's shelves;
They form'd his favourite study.
There would he read of statutes, cars,
Of special pleading, Picts, and scars,
Justinian Pandects, and the wars
Of Julius fierce and bloody.
“Read these,” he cried with buoyant speech
To Doctor Cooke, a fellow-leech,
“There mount, and either volume reach:
How each in style concise is!”
Cooke, by his Quaker friend thus press'd,
Made the selection he thought best,
And read what Blackstone writes on Test-
-Amentary devises
To Doctor Cooke, a fellow-leech,
“There mount, and either volume reach:
How each in style concise is!”
346
Made the selection he thought best,
And read what Blackstone writes on Test-
-Amentary devises
“Doctors, experienced or raw,
Should learn” (read Cooke) “enough of law
To enable them a will to draw
Whene'er a crisis summons;
When call'd to deal with pains and aches,
'Tis needful for their patients' sakes:
Oft, by their aid, that writing makes
Its way to Doctors' Commons.”
Should learn” (read Cooke) “enough of law
To enable them a will to draw
Whene'er a crisis summons;
When call'd to deal with pains and aches,
'Tis needful for their patients' sakes:
Oft, by their aid, that writing makes
Its way to Doctors' Commons.”
“Is that in Blackstone?”—“Ay,” quoth Cooke.
“Enough,” said Lettsom; “close the book;
The public will derisive look,
If this gets wind, will soon eye us.”
“True,” cried the other, with a wink;
“If such this heresy, I think
The Commentating Man of Ink
Deserved to die by Junius.”
“Enough,” said Lettsom; “close the book;
The public will derisive look,
If this gets wind, will soon eye us.”
“True,” cried the other, with a wink;
“If such this heresy, I think
The Commentating Man of Ink
Deserved to die by Junius.”
“There bind him in his clasp of lead,
Re-lodge the slanderer overhead,
And reach down Cæsar in his stead,”
(Quoth he who wore the beaver:)
“His classic pen, undipp'd in gall,
Will ne'er on the profession fall;
Read, and thou'lt prove, like me, of all
He writes a stanch believer.”
Re-lodge the slanderer overhead,
And reach down Cæsar in his stead,”
(Quoth he who wore the beaver:)
“His classic pen, undipp'd in gall,
Will ne'er on the profession fall;
Read, and thou'lt prove, like me, of all
He writes a stanch believer.”
347
“They who” (read Cooke) “the fight pursue
On foot, but trivial mischief do;
Within their line of march but few
Are found t' engage their forces;
But when on spoils of war they thrive,
And, arm'd in point, in chariots strive,
Death darkly follows where they drive,
And carnage marks their courses.”
On foot, but trivial mischief do;
Within their line of march but few
Are found t' engage their forces;
But when on spoils of war they thrive,
And, arm'd in point, in chariots strive,
Death darkly follows where they drive,
And carnage marks their courses.”
“Hold there!” with something like an oath
The Quaker cried—“however loth
T' abjure my books, henceforth on both
I launch my prohibitions;
Cæsar, in mischief match'd by none,
Writes not of Britons dead and gone;
'Tis a decided libel on
The College of Physicians.
The Quaker cried—“however loth
T' abjure my books, henceforth on both
I launch my prohibitions;
Cæsar, in mischief match'd by none,
Writes not of Britons dead and gone;
'Tis a decided libel on
The College of Physicians.
“Cæsar, avaunt!”—Quoth Cooke, “Amen!
The Roman strives with subtle pen
Our trade to countermine, and then
From practice to uproot us:
If, foe to physic, thus he feel
Regardless of the public weal,
The Commentating Man of steel
Deserved to die by Brutus.”
The Roman strives with subtle pen
Our trade to countermine, and then
From practice to uproot us:
If, foe to physic, thus he feel
Regardless of the public weal,
The Commentating Man of steel
Deserved to die by Brutus.”
UGLY OBJECTS.
When Nature form'd Sir Samuel Lank,
She shaped him, in an idle prank,
Below her usual level.
His eyes appear like kidney beans;
The ladies call him plain, which means
As ugly as the devil.
She shaped him, in an idle prank,
Below her usual level.
348
The ladies call him plain, which means
As ugly as the devil.
And yet Sir Samuel “has a taste:”
His lawn is by Acacias graced,
(I sing no idle fable,)
And a young row of sightly elms,
From parlour-window gaze o'erwhelms
His coach-house and his stable.
His lawn is by Acacias graced,
(I sing no idle fable,)
And a young row of sightly elms,
From parlour-window gaze o'erwhelms
His coach-house and his stable.
Meantime his whiskers, in a peak,
Slope down, invading either cheek;
Of late their quantum's double:
While twin mustachios o'er his lip
Impending, make the sufferer sip
His soup in fear and trouble.
Slope down, invading either cheek;
Of late their quantum's double:
While twin mustachios o'er his lip
Impending, make the sufferer sip
His soup in fear and trouble.
Quoth Richard, “What a curly head!
Is he a Lancer?”—“No,” quoth Ned:
“The man must suit the place:
Taste and improvement are his trade—
Now that the stable's hid in shade,
He's planting out his Face.”
Is he a Lancer?”—“No,” quoth Ned:
“The man must suit the place:
Taste and improvement are his trade—
Now that the stable's hid in shade,
He's planting out his Face.”
OWEN OF LANARK.
Welcome, welcome, mighty stranger,
To our transatlantic shore:
Anchor'd safe from seas of danger,
All your fears and doubts are o'er.
Sable Jews and flaxen Quakers
Imitate no more the shark;
Wealth lies planted out in acres—
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
To our transatlantic shore:
Anchor'd safe from seas of danger,
All your fears and doubts are o'er.
349
Imitate no more the shark;
Wealth lies planted out in acres—
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Parallelograms of virtue,
Haunts from human frailty free,
Squares that vice can ne'er do hurt to,
Circles of New Harmony:
Schemes that blossom while we view 'em,
Swamp and Prairie changed to park:
Meum melting into tuum—
Wondrous Owen of Lanark!
Haunts from human frailty free,
Squares that vice can ne'er do hurt to,
Circles of New Harmony:
Schemes that blossom while we view 'em,
Swamp and Prairie changed to park:
Meum melting into tuum—
Wondrous Owen of Lanark!
All New York, in mind and body,
Feels thy influence, and adores;
Bitters, Sangaree, and Toddy
Fly her fifteen hundred stores.
Big Ohio now looks bigger,
Freedom fans the kindred spark:
Boss no longer scowls on Nigger—
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Feels thy influence, and adores;
Bitters, Sangaree, and Toddy
Fly her fifteen hundred stores.
Big Ohio now looks bigger,
Freedom fans the kindred spark:
Boss no longer scowls on Nigger—
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Lazarus lies down with Dives,
Rich and poor no more are seen;
Baltimore our common hive is;
Busy bees, and thou their Queen.
Uncle Ben lays down his rifle,
While his Nephew—prone to bark—
Thanks his stars for “that ere trifle,”
Mighty Owen of Lanark!
Rich and poor no more are seen;
Baltimore our common hive is;
Busy bees, and thou their Queen.
Uncle Ben lays down his rifle,
While his Nephew—prone to bark—
Thanks his stars for “that ere trifle,”
Mighty Owen of Lanark!
350
Failing schemers, retrograders,
Lawyers fattening on strife,
Grim backwoodsmen, bankrupt traders,
Squatters brandishing the knife:
Busy Banks their Cents. up summing
Many a Master, many a Clerk,
Drop their dollars at thy coming,
Mighty Owen of Lanark!
Lawyers fattening on strife,
Grim backwoodsmen, bankrupt traders,
Squatters brandishing the knife:
Busy Banks their Cents. up summing
Many a Master, many a Clerk,
Drop their dollars at thy coming,
Mighty Owen of Lanark!
Foe to titled Sirs and Madams,
Prone Law's blunders to redress,
Washington nor Quincy Adams
Ever saw thy like, I guess.
Let John Bull's polluted pages
Dub thee staring, dub thee stark:
Solon of succeeding Ages,
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Prone Law's blunders to redress,
Washington nor Quincy Adams
Ever saw thy like, I guess.
Let John Bull's polluted pages
Dub thee staring, dub thee stark:
Solon of succeeding Ages,
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Vast, I calculate, thy plan is,
Born to soar where others creep;
Lofty as the Alleghanies,
As the Mississippi deep.
As the German Brothers mingle,
Prone to sing “hark follow hark,”
All our States, through dell and dingle,
Hail thee, Owen of Lanark!
Born to soar where others creep;
Lofty as the Alleghanies,
As the Mississippi deep.
As the German Brothers mingle,
Prone to sing “hark follow hark,”
All our States, through dell and dingle,
Hail thee, Owen of Lanark!
“I've an item,” Boss and Peasant
Feel quite mighty where you stray;
Competence is omnipresent,
Poverty “slick right away.
See our bipeds, “like all nature,”
Climbing up thy friendly ark,
Dub thee Sovereign Legislator,
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
Feel quite mighty where you stray;
Competence is omnipresent,
Poverty “slick right away.
351
Climbing up thy friendly ark,
Dub thee Sovereign Legislator,
Welcome, Owen of Lanark!
THE TRITON OF THE MINNOWS.
“Why don't you strike out something new?”
Cried fair Euphemia, heavenly blue
Of eye, as well as stocking!
“If shilly-shally long you stand,
You'll feel Time's enervating hand
Your second cradle rocking.”
Cried fair Euphemia, heavenly blue
Of eye, as well as stocking!
“If shilly-shally long you stand,
You'll feel Time's enervating hand
Your second cradle rocking.”
“Ah, Madam! cease your bard to blame;
I view the pedestal of Fame,
But at its base I falter:
On every step, terrific, stand
A troop of Poets, pen in hand,
To scare me from her altar.
I view the pedestal of Fame,
But at its base I falter:
On every step, terrific, stand
A troop of Poets, pen in hand,
To scare me from her altar.
I first essay'd to write in prose,
Plot, humour, character disclose,
And ransack heaths and hovels:
But, when I sat me down to write,
I sigh'd to find that I had quite
O'erlook'd the Scottish Novels.”
Plot, humour, character disclose,
And ransack heaths and hovels:
But, when I sat me down to write,
I sigh'd to find that I had quite
O'erlook'd the Scottish Novels.”
352
“Well,” cried Euphemia, with a smile,
“Miss Austin's gone: assume her style;
Turn playmate of Apollo—
But, hold! how heedless the remark!
Miss Austin's gone—but Mansfield Park
And Emma scorn to follow.”
“Miss Austin's gone: assume her style;
Turn playmate of Apollo—
But, hold! how heedless the remark!
Miss Austin's gone—but Mansfield Park
And Emma scorn to follow.”
A bolder flight I'd fain essay,
The manners of the East pourtray,
That field is rich and spacious:
Greece, Turkey, Egypt—what a scope!
There too I'm foil'd—why will not Hope
Un-write his Anastasius!
The manners of the East pourtray,
That field is rich and spacious:
Greece, Turkey, Egypt—what a scope!
There too I'm foil'd—why will not Hope
Un-write his Anastasius!
Rogers, in calm and even sense,
Byron, in ecstasy intense,
Make my dim flame burn denser:
Shall I in Fashion's corps enlist,
A light gay epigrammatist?
No!—there I'm marr'd by Spenser.
Byron, in ecstasy intense,
Make my dim flame burn denser:
Shall I in Fashion's corps enlist,
A light gay epigrammatist?
No!—there I'm marr'd by Spenser.
Thus “cribb'd and cabin'd—“poor indeed!”
I canter'd on my winged steed
Towards scenes of toil and tillage:
But there, alas! my weary back
Hit on another beaten track,
Encountering Crabbe's Village.
I canter'd on my winged steed
Towards scenes of toil and tillage:
But there, alas! my weary back
Hit on another beaten track,
Encountering Crabbe's Village.
Two pathways still to me belong,
Come, poignant Satire! amorous Song!
Beware, ye state empirics!—
Anticipated! hideous bore!
I quite forgot Hibernian Moore,
His Fudges, and his Lyrics.
Come, poignant Satire! amorous Song!
Beware, ye state empirics!—
353
I quite forgot Hibernian Moore,
His Fudges, and his Lyrics.
Great Jove! compassionate my lot!
On Campbell, Byron, Moore, and Scott,
Point thy celestial cannon:
Sew Crabbe and Rogers in a sack,
Tie Hope and Spenser back to back,
And souse them in the Shannon.
On Campbell, Byron, Moore, and Scott,
Point thy celestial cannon:
Sew Crabbe and Rogers in a sack,
Tie Hope and Spenser back to back,
And souse them in the Shannon.
So shall I, with majestic tread,
My doughty predecessors dead,
Up Pindus stretch my sinews:
And leave all lesser bards behind,
“The one-ey'd monarch of the blind,”
“The Triton of the Minnows.”
My doughty predecessors dead,
Up Pindus stretch my sinews:
And leave all lesser bards behind,
“The one-ey'd monarch of the blind,”
“The Triton of the Minnows.”
AN UNINSURABLE RISK.
A Bookseller open'd a shop on the coast,
(I'd rather not mention the spot.)
Where gentlemen lounged o'er the Herald and Post,
And ladies read Byron and Scott.
(I'd rather not mention the spot.)
Where gentlemen lounged o'er the Herald and Post,
And ladies read Byron and Scott.
Much personal Memoir, too, shone on the shelves,
Which boasted a whimsical olio:
Decorum sang small, in octavos and twelves,
And scandal in quarto and folio.
Which boasted a whimsical olio:
Decorum sang small, in octavos and twelves,
And scandal in quarto and folio.
354
The bookseller, prudently aiming to set
Th' ignipotent god at defiance,
To open a policy vainly essay'd
At the Albion, the Hope, and Alliance.
Th' ignipotent god at defiance,
To open a policy vainly essay'd
At the Albion, the Hope, and Alliance.
“My friend, your abortive attempt prithee stop,”
Quoth Jekyll, intent on a joke,
“How can you expect to insure, while your shop
Is rolling out volumes of smoke?”
Quoth Jekyll, intent on a joke,
“How can you expect to insure, while your shop
Is rolling out volumes of smoke?”
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
At Number One dwelt Captain Drew,
George Benson dwelt at Number Two,
(The street we'll not now mention:)
The latter stunn'd the King's Bench bar,
The former, being lamed in war,
Sang small upon a pension.
George Benson dwelt at Number Two,
(The street we'll not now mention:)
The latter stunn'd the King's Bench bar,
The former, being lamed in war,
Sang small upon a pension.
Tom Blewit knew them both: than he
None deeper in the mystery
Of culinary knowledge;
From turtle soup to Stilton cheese,
Apt student, taking his degrees
In Mrs. Rundell's college.
None deeper in the mystery
Of culinary knowledge;
From turtle soup to Stilton cheese,
Apt student, taking his degrees
In Mrs. Rundell's college.
Benson to dine invited Tom:
Proud of an invitation from
A host who “spread” so nicely,
Tom answer'd, ere the ink was dry,
“Extremely happy—come on Fri-
-Day next, at six precisely.”
Proud of an invitation from
A host who “spread” so nicely,
Tom answer'd, ere the ink was dry,
“Extremely happy—come on Fri-
-Day next, at six precisely.”
355
Blewit, with expectation fraught,
Drove up at six, each savoury thought
Ideal turbot rich in:
But, ere he reach'd the winning-post,
He saw a haunch of ven'son roast
Down in the next-door kitchen.
Drove up at six, each savoury thought
Ideal turbot rich in:
But, ere he reach'd the winning-post,
He saw a haunch of ven'son roast
Down in the next-door kitchen.
“Hey! zounds! what's this? a haunch at Drew's?
I must drop in; I can't refuse;
To pass were downright treason:
To cut Ned Benson's not quite staunch;
But the provocative—a haunch!
Zounds! it's the first this season.
I must drop in; I can't refuse;
To pass were downright treason:
To cut Ned Benson's not quite staunch;
But the provocative—a haunch!
Zounds! it's the first this season.
“Ven'son, thou'rt mine! I'll talk no more.”
Then, rapping thrice at Benson's door,
“John, I'm in such a hurry;
Do tell your master that my aunt
Is paralytic, quite aslant,
I must be off for Surrey.”
Then, rapping thrice at Benson's door,
“John, I'm in such a hurry;
Do tell your master that my aunt
Is paralytic, quite aslant,
I must be off for Surrey.”
Now Tom at next door makes a din:
“Is Captain Drew at home?”—“Walk in.”
“Drew, how d'ye do?”—“What! Blewit!”
“Yes, I—you've ask'd me, many a day,
To drop in, in a quiet way,
So now I'm come to do it.”
“Is Captain Drew at home?”—“Walk in.”
“Drew, how d'ye do?”—“What! Blewit!”
“Yes, I—you've ask'd me, many a day,
To drop in, in a quiet way,
So now I'm come to do it.”
“I'm very glad you have,” said Drew,
“I've nothing but an Irish stew”—
Quoth Tom, (aside,) “No matter;
'Twon't do—my stomach's up to that,—
'Twill lie by, till the lucid fat
Comes quiv'ring on the platter.”
“I've nothing but an Irish stew”—
Quoth Tom, (aside,) “No matter;
'Twon't do—my stomach's up to that,—
'Twill lie by, till the lucid fat
Comes quiv'ring on the platter.”
356
“You see your dinner, Tom,” Drew cried.
“No, but I don't though,” Tom replied;
“I smok'd below.”—“What?”—“Ven'son—
A haunch.”—“Oh! true, it is not mine;
My neighbour has some friends to dine.”
“Your neighbour! who?”—“George Benson.
“No, but I don't though,” Tom replied;
“I smok'd below.”—“What?”—“Ven'son—
A haunch.”—“Oh! true, it is not mine;
My neighbour has some friends to dine.”
“Your neighbour! who?”—“George Benson.
“His chimney smoked; the scene to change,
I let him have my kitchen range,
While his was newly polish'd;
The ven'son you observed below,
Went home just half an hour ago;
I guess it's now demolish'd.
I let him have my kitchen range,
While his was newly polish'd;
The ven'son you observed below,
Went home just half an hour ago;
I guess it's now demolish'd.
“Tom, why that look of doubtful dread?
Come, help yourself to salt and bread,
Don't sit with hands and knees up;
But dine, for once, off Irish stew,
And read the ‘Dog and Shadow’ through,
When next you open Æsop.”
Come, help yourself to salt and bread,
Don't sit with hands and knees up;
But dine, for once, off Irish stew,
And read the ‘Dog and Shadow’ through,
When next you open Æsop.”
ODE TO MAHOMET, THE BRIGHTON SHAMPOOER.
Nunc opus est succis: per quos, renovata senectus
In floream redeat, primosque recolligat annos.
Ovid.
In floream redeat, primosque recolligat annos.
Ovid.
O thou dark sage, whose vapour-bath
Makes muscular as his of Gath,
Limbs erst relax'd and limber;
Whose herbs, like those of Jason's mate,
The wither'd leg of seventy-eight
Convert to stout knee timber:
Makes muscular as his of Gath,
Limbs erst relax'd and limber;
Whose herbs, like those of Jason's mate,
The wither'd leg of seventy-eight
Convert to stout knee timber:
357
Sprung, doubtless, from Abdallah's son,
Thy miracles thy sire's outrun,
Thy cures his deaths outnumber;
His coffin soars 'twixt heav'n and earth,
But thou, within that narrow birth,
Immortal, ne'er shalt slumber.
Thy miracles thy sire's outrun,
Thy cures his deaths outnumber;
His coffin soars 'twixt heav'n and earth,
But thou, within that narrow birth,
Immortal, ne'er shalt slumber.
Go, bid that turban'd Mussulman
Give up his Mosch, his Ramadan,
And choke his well of Zemzem;
Thy bath, whose magic steam can fling
On winter's cheek the rose of spring,
To Lethe's gulf condemns 'em.
Give up his Mosch, his Ramadan,
And choke his well of Zemzem;
Thy bath, whose magic steam can fling
On winter's cheek the rose of spring,
To Lethe's gulf condemns 'em.
While thus, beneath thy flannel shades,
Fat dowagers and wrinkled maids
Rebloom in adolescence,
I marvel not that friends tell friends,
And Brighton every day extends
Its circuses and crescents.
Fat dowagers and wrinkled maids
Rebloom in adolescence,
I marvel not that friends tell friends,
And Brighton every day extends
Its circuses and crescents.
From either cliff, the east, the west,
The startled sea-gull quits her nest,
The spade her haunts unearthing;
For Speculation plants his hod
On every foot of freehold sod
From Rottingdean to Worthing.
The startled sea-gull quits her nest,
The spade her haunts unearthing;
For Speculation plants his hod
On every foot of freehold sod
From Rottingdean to Worthing.
Wash'd by thy Æsculapian stream,
Dark sage, the fair, “propell'd by steam,”
Renew the joys of kissing,
In cheeks, or lank or over-ripe,
Where Time has, in relentless type,
Placarded up “Youth missing.”
Dark sage, the fair, “propell'd by steam,”
Renew the joys of kissing,
In cheeks, or lank or over-ripe,
Where Time has, in relentless type,
Placarded up “Youth missing.”
358
To woo thee on thy western cliff,
What pilgrims throng, in gig, in skiff,
Fly, donkey-cart, and pillion;
While Turkish dome and minaret,
In compliment to Mahomet,
O'ertop the king's Pavilion.
What pilgrims throng, in gig, in skiff,
Fly, donkey-cart, and pillion;
While Turkish dome and minaret,
In compliment to Mahomet,
O'ertop the king's Pavilion.
Thy fame let worthless wags invade,
Let punsters underrate thy trade,
For me, I'd perish sooner;
Him who, thy opening scene to damn,
Derived shampoo from phoo! and sham!
I dub a base lampooner.
Let punsters underrate thy trade,
For me, I'd perish sooner;
Him who, thy opening scene to damn,
Derived shampoo from phoo! and sham!
I dub a base lampooner.
Propell'd by steam to shake from squeak,
Mara, in Lent, shall twice a week
Again in song be glorious;
While Kelly, laughing Time to scorn,
Once more shall chant, “O thou wert born,”
And Incledon, “Rude Boreas.”
Mara, in Lent, shall twice a week
Again in song be glorious;
While Kelly, laughing Time to scorn,
Once more shall chant, “O thou wert born,”
And Incledon, “Rude Boreas.”
Godwin avaunt! thy tale thrice told,
Of endless youth and countless gold,
Unbought “repôstum manet.”
St. Leon's secret here we view,
Without the toil of wading through
Three heavy tomes to gain it.
Of endless youth and countless gold,
Unbought “repôstum manet.”
St. Leon's secret here we view,
Without the toil of wading through
Three heavy tomes to gain it.
Yet O, while thus thy waves reveal
Past virtues in the dancer's heel,
And brace the singer's weazon;
Tell, sable wizard, tell the cause
Why limp poor I from yonder vase,
Whence others jump like Æson:
Past virtues in the dancer's heel,
And brace the singer's weazon;
Tell, sable wizard, tell the cause
Why limp poor I from yonder vase,
Whence others jump like Æson:
359
The cause is plain: though slips of yew
With vervain mingle, sage meets rue,
And myrrh with wolfsbane tosses;
Still shrieks, unquell'd, the water-wraith—
That mustard-seed ingredient, faith,
Is wanting to the process.
With vervain mingle, sage meets rue,
And myrrh with wolfsbane tosses;
Still shrieks, unquell'd, the water-wraith—
That mustard-seed ingredient, faith,
Is wanting to the process.
Dip then within thy bubbling wave,
Sage Mahomet, the votive stave
Thy poet now rehearses;
The steam, whose virtues won't befriend
The sceptic bard, perhaps may mend
The lameness of his verses!
Sage Mahomet, the votive stave
Thy poet now rehearses;
The steam, whose virtues won't befriend
The sceptic bard, perhaps may mend
The lameness of his verses!
END OF VOL. I
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