The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood

It will seem an odd whim
For a Spirit so grim
As the Devil to take a delight in;
But by common renown
He has come up to town,
With an Album for people to write in!

On a handsomer book
Mortal never did look,
Of a flame-colour silk is the binding,
With a border superb,
Where through flowret and herb,
The old Serpent goes brilliantly winding!

By gilded grotesques,
And emboss'd arabesques,
The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded;
But, alas! in a taste
That betrays they were traced
At the will of a Spirit degraded!

As for paper—the best,
But extremely hot-pressed,
Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it,
And against ev'ry blank
There's a note on the Bank,
As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet.

Who will care to appear
In the Friend's Souvenir,
Is a question to morals most vital;
But the very first leaf,
It's the public belief,
Will be fill'd by a Lady of Title!

THE LOST HEIR

‘O where, and oh where
Is my bonny laddie gone?’
Old Song.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry,
That chill'd my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub'd with grease and mud.
She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West,
Staring like Pythoness possesst,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man—
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seem'd to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean bird's,
Or female Ranter mov'd to preach,
She gave her ‘sorrow words.’

224

‘O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild!
Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way—
A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver—get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys.
When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,
He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street;
O serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs;
He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair.
His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest;
But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast.
He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim,
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and, you'll know by that if it's him.
Except being so well dress'd, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break every bone of 'em I come near,
Go home—you're spilling the porter—go home—Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer.

225

This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ:
O my Billy—my head will turn right round—if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians,
They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatter-demalions.
Billy—where are you, Billy?—I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.
O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally,
If I'm to see other folk's darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley,
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair,
As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and there a'n't no Billy there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd where to run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,—
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily,
To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's.
And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week;
As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb;
I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home.
He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;
He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways—but O I never never shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

226

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.—
It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town.
Billy—where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers!
I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot.
Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face,
For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!
Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was—but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.
Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

JOHN DAY A PATHETIC BALLAD

‘A Day after the Fair.’
—Old Proverb.

John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman-kind,
With back too broad to be conceiv'd
By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,
And wish'd his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can avail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.

The bar-maid of the Crown he lov'd,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho' he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.

One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump—
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

227

Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'
He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town,
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.

Oh Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho' I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd,
Her heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise,
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho' he drank nothing else—
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,
For looking in the butt, she saw,
The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk—
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.

NUMBER ONE VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY

It's very hard!—and so it is,
To live in such a row,—
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau.—
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I'm sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One!

I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!—
At Number Three, I often see
A Lover at the door;—
And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun,—
It's very hard they come so near
And not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,—
By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,
Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don't take at Number One!

'Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by,—
There's nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;—
And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,
But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!

228

There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf,
And though he's pious will not love
His neighbour as himself.—
At Number Seven there was a sale—
The goods had quite a run!
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days:—
The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun,
The sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One.

Once only when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:—
Why can't he come again without
The Phœnix and the Sun!—
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait—
I am not crooked like the bride
That went from Number Eight:—
I'm sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun—
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun!—
But if he had, he'd never deign
To shoot with Number One!

It's very hard, and so it is
To live in such a row!
And here's a ballad singer come
To aggravate my woe;—
O take away your foolish song,
And tones enough to stun—
There is ‘Nae luck about the house,’
I know, at Number One!

THE DROWNING DUCKS

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond
Enjoy'd yet grieved at more than others,
Were little ducklings in a pond,
Swimming about beside their mothers—
Small things like living waterlilies,
But yellow as the daffo-dillies.

‘It's very hard,’ she used to moan,
‘That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters—mine alone
Have never any pretty chucklings.’
For why!—each little yellow navy
Went down—all downy—to old Davy!

She had a lake—a pond I mean—
Its wave was rather thick than pearly—
She had two ducks, their napes were green—
She had a drake, his tail was curly,—
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers—
The nest had eggs—the eggs had luck—
The infant D.'s came forth like others—
But there, alas! the matter stuck!
They might as well have all died addle,
As die when they began to paddle!

229

For when, as native instinct taught her,
The mother set her brood afloat,
They sank ere long right under water,
Like any over-loaded boat;
They were web-footed too to see,
As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humour in a gander
Brought havoc on her little folks,—
No poaching cook—a frying pander
To appetite,—destroyed their yolks,—
Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em!
They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange—a contradiction
It seem'd of nature and her works!
For little ducks, beyond conviction,
Should float without the help of corks:
Great Johnson it bewildered him!
To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do
But change the breed—and she tried divers
Which dived as all seemed born to do;
No little ones were e'er survivors—
Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking,
They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn;
They flounder'd still!—Batch after batch went!
The little fools seem'd only born
And hatch'd for nothing but a hatchment!
Whene'er they launched—O sight of wonder!
Like fires the water ‘got them under!’

No woman ever gave their lucks
A better chance than Mrs. Bond did;
At last quite out of heart and ducks,
She gave her pond up, and desponded;
For Death among the water-lilies,
Cried ‘Duc ad me’ to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more,
She brooded often on this riddle—
Alas! 'twas darker than before!
At last about the summer's middle,
What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,
To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius, dog-like drank
So deep, his furious tongue to cool,
The shallow waters sank and sank,
And lo, from out the wasted pool,
Too hot to hold them any longer,
There crawl'd some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit,
In such a case below the surface;
But when the eels were caught and split
By Mrs. Bond, just think of her face,
In each inside at once to spy
A duckling turn'd to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case,
Making the Dame look rather silly,
The tenants of that Eely Place
Had found the way to Pick a dilly,
And so by under-water suction,
Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.

230

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE

‘He left his body to the sea,
And made a shark his legatee.’
Bryan and Perenne.

‘Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.

‘It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear!—Oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?’

‘Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,—
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!

‘Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.

‘You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass—for now to you
I'm neither here nor there.

‘Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!

‘Don't fear my ghost will walk o'nights
To haunt as people say;
My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!

‘Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without ‘a quarter's notice.’

‘One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

‘But now, adieu—a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle.’

THE FALL

‘Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.’
—Count Fathom.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope,
And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope;
While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss;
One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!
Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice, with chill of fear extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!

231

In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might:
On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rush'd in force,
And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course.
My eyes I closed—I dared not look the way towards the goal;
But still I view'd the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore,
And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore;
Plainly,—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound,
The torrent's voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round.
O agony! O life! My home! and those that made it sweet:
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge,
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge,
From crag to crag,—in speechless pain,—from midnight deep to deep;
I did not die,—but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find:
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;
And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds'
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:—
‘It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares!
He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!’

SONNET

Along the Woodford road there comes a noise
Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat postchaise
Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays,
With Rev. Mr. Crow and six small Boys;
Who ever and anon declare their joys,
With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas,
At going home to spend their Christmas days,
And changing Learning's pains for Pleasure's toys.
Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way,
A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls,
But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray;
The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls,
And little Boys walk in as dull and mum
As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb.

232

THE STEAM SERVICE

‘Life is but a kittle cast.’
—Burns.

I

I steamed from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she smoked through the breeze;
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy
As ever boil'd through the salt seas.

When up the flue the sailor goes
And ventures on the pot,
The landsman, he no better knows,
But thinks hard is his lot.

Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Weighs anchor, lights the log;
Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,
And drinks his can of grog.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs do you see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall's-end give me;
And it an't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite,
And shiver each bundle of wood;
Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow every thing tight,
And boiling a gallop we'll scud.

II

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker, stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand.
Now it freshens,—blow like blazes;
Now unto the coal-hole go;
Stir, boys, stir, don't mind black faces,
Up your ashes nimbly throw.

Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys;
See the valve is clear of course;
Let the paddles spin, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,
Oil the engines, see all clear;
Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes the paddles splash.
One wide water all around us,
All above one smoke-black sky:
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry.

The funnel's gone! cries ev'ry tongue out;
The engineer's washed off the deck;
A leak beneath the coal-hole's sprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,
Four feet water getting cold.

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there's no retreating;
Alas! to them there's no return.
The fire is out—we've burst the bellows,
The tinder-box is swamped below;
Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,
For only that can serve us now!

233

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

‘Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle.’
—Goldsmith.

‘Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones.’
—Silversmith.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer?
My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me ‘ugly little sin?’
My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home—and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.

Who ‘of all earthly things’ would boast,
‘He hated others' brats the most,’
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter pang I bore?
My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And when I played cried ‘What a noise!’—
Girls always hector over boys—
My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said ‘Good lad,’
And gave me sixpence, ‘all he had;’
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy—my sole relief?
Myself.

A VALENTINE THE WEATHER. TO P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S.

‘These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action.’

Dear Murphy, to improve her charms,
Your servant humbly begs;
She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.

Moreover, as you promise folks,
On certain days a drizzle;
She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to mizzle.

Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot ‘fork it out,’
She'll wish to make a bolt!

234

POEM,—FROM THE POLISH

[_]

Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following verses.

From seventy-two North latitude,
Dear Kitty, I indite;
But first I'd have you understand
How hard it is to write.

Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn,
My Kitty, do not think,—
Before I wrote these very lines,
I had to melt my ink.

Of mutual flames and lover's warmth,
You must not be too nice;
The sheet that I am writing on
Was once a sheet of ice!

The Polar cold is sharp enough
To freeze with icy gloss
The genial current of the soul,
E'en in a ‘Man of Ross.’

Pope says that letters waft a sigh
From Indus to the Pole;
But here I really wish the post
Would only ‘post the coal.’

So chilly is the Northern blast,
It blows me through and through;
A ton of Wallsend in a note
Would be a billet-doux.

In such a frigid latitude
It scarce can be a sin,
Should Passion cool a little, where
A Fury was iced in.

I'm rather tired of endless snow,
And long for coals again;
And would give up a Sea of Ice
For some of Lambton's Main.

I'm sick of dazzling ice and snow,
The sun itself I hate;
So very bright, so very cold,
Just like a summer grate.

For opodeldoc I would kneel,
My chilblains to anoint;
O Kate, the needle of the north
Has got a freezing point.

Our food is solids—ere we put
Our meat into our crops,
We take sledge-hammers to our steaks
And hatchets to our chops.

So very bitter is the blast,
So cutting is the air,
I never have been warm but once,
When hugging with a bear.

One thing I know you'll like to hear,
Th'effect of Polar snows,
I've left off snuff—one pinching day—
From leaving off my nose.

I have no ear for music now;
My ears both left together;
And as for dancing, I have cut
My toes—it's cutting weather.

I've said that you should have my hand,
Some happy day to come;
But, Kate, you only now can wed
A finger and a thumb.

Don't fear that any Esquimaux
Can wean me from my own;
The Girdle of the Queen of Love
Is not the Frozen Zone.

At wives with large estates of snow
My fancy does not bite;
I like to see a Bride—but not
In such a deal of white.

Give me for home a house of brick,
The Kate I love at Kew!
A hand unchopped,—a merry eye,
And not a nose, of blue!

235

To think upon the Bridge of Kew,
To me a bridge of sighs;
Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles
Are standing in my eyes!

God knows if I shall e'er return,
In comfort to be lull'd;
But if I do get back to port,
Pray let me have it mull'd.

CONVEYANCING

O, London is the place for all,
In love with loco-motion!
Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean;
Machine or man, or caravan,
Can all be had for paying,
When great estates, or heavy weights,
Or bodies want conveying.

There's always hacks about in packs,
Wherein you may be shaken,
And Jarvis is not always drunk,
Tho' always overtaken;
In racing tricks he'll never mix,
His nags are in their last days,
And slow to go, altho' they show
As if they had their fast days!

Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age,
A car not quite so small and light
As those of our Queen Mab age;
The horses have been broken well,
All danger is rescinded,
For some have broken both their knees,
And some are broken winded.

If you've a friend at Chelsea end,
The stages are worth knowing—
There is a sort, we call 'em short,
Although the longest going—
For some will stop at Hatchett's shop,
Till you grow faint and sicky,
Perched up behind, at last to find,
Your dinner is all dickey!

Long stages run from every yard:
But if you're wise and frugal,
You'll never go with any Guard
That plays upon the bugle,
‘Ye banks and braes,’ and other lays,
And ditties everlasting,
Like miners going all your way,
With boring and with blasting.

Instead of journeys, people now
May go upon a Gurney,
With steam to do the horse's work,
By powers of attorney;
Tho' with a load it may explode,
And you may all be un-done!
And find you're going up to Heav'n,
Instead of up to London!

To speak of every kind of coach,
It is not my intention;
But there is still one vehicle
Deserves a little mention;
The world a sage has call'd a stage,
With all its living lumber,
And Malthus swears it always bears
Above the proper number.

The law will transfer house or land
For ever and a day hence,
For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,
You'll never want conveyance;
Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!
It is no sight for laughter—
Away it goes, and leaves my nose
To join in running after!

236

SONNET

Allegory—A moral vehicle.
—Dictionary.

I had a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;
Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant.
I had a Chaise, and christen'd it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red,
Because 'twas only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.
I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;
A son called Frolic, who was never still:
Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright!
Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,
Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,
And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine's Hill!

EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST

‘My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!’
—Hamlet.

I think it was Spring—but not certain I am—
When my passion began first to work;
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.

'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,
Yes,—for Morris had asked me to dine,—
And I thought I had never beheld such a face,
Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild,
With sheer envy to witness my luck;
How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smil'd
As I afterwards offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost,
Through three courses of dishes and meats;
Getting deeper in love—but my heart was quite lost,
When it came to the trifle and sweets!

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,
To her parents I told my designs—
And then to herself I presented my hand,
With a very fine pottle of pines!

237

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,
And she did not object in the least;—
I can't tell the date—but we married, I know,
Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to—it certainly was the seaside;
For the next, the most blessed of morns,
I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O never may mem'ry lose sight of that year,
But still hallow the time as it ought,
That season the ‘grass’ was remarkably dear,
And the peas at a guinea a quart.

So happy, like hours, all our days seem'd to haste,
A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,
So united in heart—so congenial in taste,
We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,
But then Death—I ne'er dreamt about that!
Oh there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried,
When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,
But the cause no physician could nab;
But something it seemed like consumption, I fear,
It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctor'd, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relish'd the most,
Even salmon she deeply declin'd.

For months still I linger'd in hope and in doubt,
While her form it grew wasted and thin;
But the last dying spark of existence went out,
As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men
To indulge in a widower's moan,
Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then,
As I ate my first natives alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,
And with sorrowful crape on their hats,
O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-doors folks
Were all crying—I think it was sprats!

238

I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN

‘Double, single, and the rub.’
—Hoyle.

‘This, this is Solitude.’
—Byron.

I

Well, I confess, I did not guess
A simple marriage vow
Would make me find all womenkind
Such unkind women now!
They need not, sure, as distant be
As Java or Japan,—
Yet every Miss reminds me this—
I'm not a single man!

II

Once they made choice of my bass voice
To share in each duett;
So well I danced, I somehow chanced
To stand in every set:
They now declare I cannot sing,
And dance on Bruin's plan;
Me draw!—me paint!—me any thing!—
I'm not a single man!

III

Once I was asked advice, and task'd
What works to buy or not,
And ‘would I read that passage out
I so admired in Scott?’
They then could bear to hear one read;
But if I now began,
How they would snub, ‘My pretty page,’
I'm not a single man!

IV

One used to stitch a collar then,
Another hemmed a frill;
I had more purses netted then
Than I could hope to fill.
I once could get a button on,
But now I never can—
My buttons then were Bachelor's,—
I'm not a single man!

V

Oh how they hated politics
Thrust on me by papa:
But now my chat—they all leave that
To entertain mamma.
Mamma, who praises her own self,
Instead of Jane or Ann,
And lays ‘her girls’ upon the shelf—
I'm not a single man!

VI

Ah me, how strange it is the change,
In parlour and in hall,
They treat me so, if I but go
To make a morning call.
If they had hair in papers once,
Bolt up the stairs they ran;
They now sit still in dishabille—
I'm not a single man!

VII

Miss Mary Bond was once so fond
Of Romans and of Greeks;
She daily sought my cabinet,
To study my antiques.
Well, now she doesn't care a dump
For ancient pot or pan,
Her taste at once is modernized—
I'm not a single man!

VIII

My spouse is fond of homely life,
And all that sort of thing;
I go to balls without my wife,
And never wear a ring:
And yet each Miss to whom I come,
As strange as Genghis Khan,
Knows by some sign, I can't divine,—
I'm not a single man!

239

IX

Go where I will, I but intrude,
I'm left in crowded rooms,
Like Zimmerman on Solitude,
Or Hervey at his Tombs.
From head to heel, they make me feel,
Of quite another clan;
Compelled to own, though left alone,
I'm not a single man!

X

Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast
A nose of Roman line,
Will turn up even that in scorn
Of compliments of mine:
She should have seen that I have been
Her sex's partisan,
And really married all I could—
I'm not a single man!

XI

'Tis hard to see how others fare,
Whilst I rejected stand,—
Will no one take my arm because
They cannot have my hand?
Miss Parry, that for some would go
A trip to Hindostan,
With me don't care to mount a stair—
I'm not a single man!

XII

Some change, of course, should be in force,
But, surely, not so much—
There may be hands I may not squeeze,
But must I never touch?—
Must I forbear to hand a chair
And not pick up a fan?
But I have been myself picked up—
I'm not a single man!

XIII

Others may hint a lady's tint
Is purest red and white—
May say her eyes are like the skies,
So very blue and bright,—
I must not say that she has eyes,
Or if I so began,
I have my fears about my ears,—
I'm not a single man!

XIV

I must confess I did not guess
A simple marriage vow,
Would make me find all womenkind
Such unkind women now;
I might be hash'd to death, or smash'd,
By Mr. Pickford's van,
Without, I fear, a single tear—
I'm not a single man!

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER

‘Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery Ordeal.’
—Hist. Eng.

No morning ever seemed so long!—
I tried to read with all my might!
In my left hand ‘My Landlord's Tales,’
And threepence ready in my right.

'Twas twelve at last—my heart beat high!—
The Postman rattled at the door!—
And just upon her road to church,
I dropt the ‘Bride of Lammermoor!’

I seized the note—I flew upstairs—
Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in—
With panting haste I tore the seal—
And kiss'd the B in Benjamin!

'Twas full of love—to rhyme with dove—
And all that tender sort of thing—
Of sweet and meet—and heart and dart—
But not a word about a ring!—

In doubt I cast it in the flame,
And stood to watch the latest spark—
And saw the love all end in smoke—
Without a Parson and a Clerk!

240

THE APPARITION

In the dead of the night, when, from beds that are turfy,
The spirits rise up on old cronies to call,
Came a shade from the Shades on a visit to Murphy,
Who had not foreseen such a visit at all.

‘Don't shiver and shake,’ said the mild Apparition,
‘I'm come to your bed with no evil design;
I'm the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician,
Once great like yourself in the Almanack line.

Like you I was once a great prophet on weather,
And deem'd to possess a more prescient knack
Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together,
The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack.

With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion,
I saw my old mantle lugg'd out from the shelf,
Turn'd, trimmed, and brush'd up, and again brought in fashion,
I seem'd to be almost reviving myself!

But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle—
As too many cooks make a mull of the broth—
To find that two Prophets were under my mantle,
And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth.

Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble,
Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps;
Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble,
The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps!

But think how the people would worship and wonder,
To find you ‘hail fellows, well met,’ in your hail,
In one tune with your rain, and your wind, and your thunder,
‘'Fore God,’ they would cry, ‘they are both in a tale!’

Consider the hint.

LITTLE O'P.—AN AFRICAN FACT

It was July the First, and the great hill of Howth
Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south,
And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork,
Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork.
Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name,
And little O'Patrick was mate of the same;

241

For Bristol they sail'd, but by nautical scope,
They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope.
Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast,
Only little O'P. made a swim to the coast;
And when he revived from a sort of a trance,
He saw a big Black with a very long lance.
Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue,
‘Bash Kuku my gimmel bo gumborry bung!’
Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf,
And down came a hundred as black as himself.
They brought with them guattul, and pieces of klam,
The first was like beef, and the second like lamb;
‘Don't I know,’ said O'P., what the wretches are at?
‘They're intending to eat me as soon as I'm fat!’
In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,
His rations of jarbul he suffer'd to rot;
He would not touch purry or doolberry-lik,
But kept himself growing as thin as a stick.
Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,
He would not let chobbery enter his mouth,
But kick'd down the krug shell, tho' sweeten'd with natt,—
‘I an't to be pison'd the likes of a rat!’
At last the great Joddry got quite in a rage,
And cried, ‘O mi pitticum dambally nage!
The chobbery take, and put back on the shelf,
Or give me the krug shell, I'll drink it myself!
The doolberry-lik is the best to be had,
And the purry (I chew'd it myself) is not bad;
The jarbul is fresh, for I saw it cut out,
And the Bok that it came from is grazing about.
My jumbo! but run off to Billery Nang,
And tell her to put on her jigger and tang,
And go with the Bloss to the man of the sea,
And say that she comes as his Wulwul from me.’
Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep,
With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep,
And the moment he spied her, said little O'P.,
‘Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow's at me!
But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms,
She came to accept him for life in her arms,
And stretch'd her thick lips to a broad grin of love,
A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove,
With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss,
Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss;
At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack,
And Joddry began to look blacker than black;
‘By Mumbo! by Jumbo!—why here is a man,
That won't be made happy do all that I can;
He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed,
Let the Rham take his shangwang and chop off his head!’

242

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL

‘Resign'd, I kissed the rod.’

Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple:
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish,
To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With attention I look,
I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice
Of the ‘Council of Nice,’
And rejected their ‘Diet of Worms,’ now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,
Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;
For the gut I have brought,
I had better have bought
A good rope that was used to Jackketching!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,
It is vain in this river to search then;
I may wait till it's night,
Without any bite,
And at roost-time have never a Perch then!

No Roach can I meet with—no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,
And I fear it is not
‘Carpe diem,’ a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water lottery!
What then can I deem
Of so fishless a stream
But that 'tis—like St. Mary's—Ottery!

For an Eel I have learn'd how to try,
By a method of Walton's own showing,—
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels,
In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint,—
Let the Fancy just paint
What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,
While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell,—
So, wet to the skin,
I'll e'en back to my Inn,
Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!

243

SEA SONG AFTER DIBDIN

Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that—
And it finds its own level for sartin—
For it sartinly drinks very flat:—
For my part a drop of the creatur
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by natur,
The sea would have never been salt!—
Then off with it into a jorum
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat!—
One day when I was but half sober,—
Half measures I always disdain—
I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax'd for some Water Champagne:—
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,
Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!—
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat.

STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE

‘Twiddle'em, Twaddle'em, Twenty-one.’
‘Nurse.
O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day! most woeful day!
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this!
O woeful day! O woeful day!
[OMITTED]

Musician.
Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Nurse.
Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up!
For well you know this is a pitiful case.’

Romeo and Juliet.

To-day it is my natal day,
Three 'prenticeships have past away,
A part in work, a part in play,
Since I was bound to life!
This first of May I come of age,
A man, I enter on the stage
Where human passions fret and rage,
To mingle in the strife.

It ought to be a happy date,
My friends, they all congratulate
That I am come to ‘Man's Estate,’
To some, a grand event;
But ah! to me descent allots
No acres, no paternal spots
In Beds, Bucks, Herts, Wilts, Essex, Notts,
Hants, Oxon, Berks, or Kent.

From John o'Groat's to Land's End search,
I have not one rod, pole, or perch,
To pay my rent, or tithe to church,
That I can call my own.
Not common-right for goose or ass;
Then what is Man's Estate? Alas!
Six feet by two of mould and grass
When I am dust and bone.

244

Reserve the feast! The board forsake!
Ne'er tap the wine—don't cut the cake,
No toasts or foolish speeches make,
At which my reason spurns.
Before this happy term you praise,
And prate about returns and days,
Just o'er my vacant rent-roll gaze,
And sum up my returns.

I know where great estates descend
That here is Boyhood's legal end,
And easily can comprehend
How ‘Manors make the Man.’
But as for me, I was not born
To quit-rent of a peppercorn,
And gain no ground this blessed morn
From Beersheba to Dan.

No barrels broach—no bonfires make!
To roast a bullock for my sake,
Who in the country have no stake,
Would be too like a quiz;
No banners hoist—let off no gun—
Pitch no marquee—devise no fun—
But think when man is Twenty-One
What new delights are his!

What is the moral legal fact—
Of age to-day, I'm free to act
For self—free, namely, to contract
Engagements, bonds, and debts;
I'm free to give my I O U,
Sign, draw, accept, as majors do;
And free to lose my freedom too
For want of due assets.

I am of age, to ask Miss Ball,
Or that great heiress, Miss Duval,
To go to church, hump, squint, and all,
And be my own for life.
But put such reasons on their shelves,
To tell the truth between ourselves,
I'm one of those contented elves
Who do not want a wife.

What else belongs to Manhood still?
I'm old enough to make my will
With valid clause and codicil
Before in turf I lie.
But I have nothing to bequeath
In earth, or waters underneath,
And in all candour let me breathe,
I do not want to die.

Away! if this be Manhood's forte,
Put by the sherry and the port—
No ring of bells—no rustic sport—
No dance—no merry pipes!
No flowery garlands—no bouquet—
No Birthday Ode to sing or say—
To me it seems this is a day
For bread and cheese and swipes.

To justify the festive cup
What horrors here are conjured up!
What things of bitter bite and sup,
Poor wretched Twenty-One's!
No landed lumps, but frumps and humps,
(Discretion's Days are far from trumps)
Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps,
Death, dockets, debts, and duns!

If you must drink, oh drink ‘the King.’
Reform—the Church—the Press—the Ring,
Drink Aldgate Pump—or anything,
Before a toast like this!
Nay, tell me, coming thus of age,
And turning o'er this sorry page,
Was young Nineteen so far from sage?
Or young Eighteen from bliss?

Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn—
No sign of May about the thorn,—
Were Love and Bacchus both unborn?
Had Beauty, not a shape?
Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty!
Make answer, lads of Trinity!
Who sipp'd with me Divinity,
And quaff'd the ruby grape!

No flummery then from flowery lips,
No three times three and hip-hip-hips,
Because I'm ripe and full of pips—
I like a little green.
To put me on my solemn oath,
If sweep-like I could stop my growth
I would remain, and nothing loth,
A boy—about nineteen.

245

My friends, excuse me these rebukes!
Were I a monarch's son, or duke's,
Go to the Vatican of Meux
And broach his biggest barrels—
Impale whole elephants on spits—
Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits,
And dance into St. Vitus' fits,
And break your winds with carols!

But ah! too well you know my lot,
Ancestral acres greet me not,
My freehold's in a garden-pot,
And barely worth a pin.
Away then with all festive stuff!
Let Robins advertise and puff
My ‘Man's Estate,’ I'm sure enough
I shall not buy it in.

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE

‘Our Crummie is a dainty cow.’
—Scotch Song.

On that first Saturday in May,
When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R.A.
Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what's call'd the private view,—
Amongst the guests—the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row—
There came a large and vulgar dame
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to ‘scour the Paint.’

From wall to wall she forc'd her way,
Elbow'd Lord Durham—pok'd Lord Grey—
Stamp'd Stafford's toes to make him move,
And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honour, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park the Judge.
As for the ladies, in this stir,
The highest rank gave way to her.
From number one and number two,
She search'd the pictures through and through,
On benches stood to inspect the high ones.
And squatted down to scan the shy ones;
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became,
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
‘Really an ardent love of art!’
Alas, amidst her inquisition,
Fate brought her to a sad condition;
She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil,
But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,
She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes
Like a lay-figure for surprise,
At last thus stammered out, ‘How now?
Woman—where, woman, is your ticket,
That ought to let you through our wicket?’
Says woman, ‘Where is David's Cow?’
Said Mr. H---, with expedition,
‘There's no Cow in the Exhibition.’
‘No Cow!’—but here her tongue in verity
Set off with steam and rail celerity—

246

‘No Cow! there an't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity,
Hang you and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee!
No Cow—but hold your tongue, for you needn't talk to me—
You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be—
I haven't seen a picture high or low, or any how,
Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow!
You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and your Wards,
Why hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!
They're only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street-doors,
David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,—
Why Morland was a fool to him, at a little pig or sow—
It's really hard it an't hung up—I could cry about the Cow!
But I know well what it is, and why—they're jealous of David's fame,
But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame.
Do you think it might hang bye and bye, if you cannot hang it now?
David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow.
If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners,
Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's?
Or do you think from Mr. Etty, you need apprehend a row,
If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow?
I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature,
Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature;
It must be hung—and shall be hung, for, Mr. H---, I vow,
I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow!
As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,
If it was only round the stone man's neck, a-coming up the stair.
Or down there in the marble room, where all the figures stand,
Where one of them Three Graces might just hold it in her hand—
Or may be Bailey's Charity the favour would allow,
It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow.
We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here,
The Water-Colour place allows no oilman to appear—
And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerrard Douw,
And the Suffolk Gallery will not do—it's not a Suffolk Cow:
I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals
Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels;
His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,
He hardly whipp'd the boys at all, or help'd to nurse the babby.
And when he had her all complete and painted over red,
He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.
Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it any how:
Poor David, he will hang himself unless you hang his Cow.—
And if it's unconvenient and drawn too big by half—
David shan't send next year except a very little calf.’

247

I'M GOING TO BOMBAY

‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’
—Old Proverb.

‘Every Indiaman has at least two mates.’
—Falconer's Marine Guide.

I

My hair is brown, my eyes are blue,
And reckon'd rather bright;
I'm shapely, if they tell me true,
And just the proper height;
My skin has been admired in verse,
And call'd as fair as day—
If I am fair, so much the worse,
I'm going to Bombay!

II

At school I passed with some éclat;
I learn'd my French in France;
De Wint gave lessons how to draw,
And D'Egville how to dance;—
Crevelli taught me how to sing,
And Cramer how to play—
It really is the strangest thing—
I'm going to Bombay!

III

I've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,
But not their springs to sip—
To Ramsgate—not to pick up shells,—
To Brighton—not to dip.
I've tour'd the Lakes, and scour'd the coast
From Scarboro' to Torquay—
But tho' of time I've made the most,
I'm going to Bombay!

IV

By Pa and Ma I'm daily told
To marry now's my time,
For though I'm very far from old,
I'm rather in my prime.
They say while we have any sun
We ought to make our hay—
And India has so hot an one,
I'm going to Bombay!

V

My cousin writes from Hyderapot
My only chance to snatch,
And says the climate is so hot,
It's sure to light a match.—
She's married to a son of Mars,
With very handsome pay,
And swears I ought to thank my stars
I'm going to Bombay!

VI

She says that I shall much delight
To taste their Indian treats,
But what she likes may turn me quite,
Their strange outlandish meats.—
If I can eat rupees, who knows?
Or dine, the Indian way,
On doolies and on bungalows—
I'm going to Bombay!

VII

She says that I shall much enjoy,—
I don't know what she means,—
To take the air and buy some toy,
In my own palankeens,—
I like to drive my pony-chair,
Or ride our dapple grey—
But elephants are horses there—
I'm going to Bombay!

VIII

Farewell, farewell, my parents dear,
My friends, farewell to them!
And oh, what costs a sadder tear,
Good-bye, to Mr. M.!—
If I should find an Indian vault,
Or fall a tiger's prey,
Or steep in salt, it's all his fault,
I'm going to Bombay!

248

IX

That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox,
A. I.—Commander Bird,
Now lying in the London docks,
Will sail on May the Third;
Apply for passage or for freight,
To Nichol, Scott, and Gray—
Pa has applied and seal'd my fate—
I'm going to Bombay!

X

My heart is full—my trunks as well;
My mind and caps made up,
My corsets, shap'd by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best,
And dresses by Ducé,
And a special licence in my chest—
I'm going to Bombay!

ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET

‘Sweeping our flocks and herds.’
—Douglas.

O philanthropic men!
For this address I need not make apology—
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,
And planting further off its vile Zoology—
Permit me thus to tell,
I like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first,
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts,
Charge on!—you shall upon their hornworks burst,
And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers!
And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!
As wild as Tartar-Curds,
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers,
Off with them all!—those restive brutes, that vex
Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle;
And save the female sex
From being cow'd—like Iö—by the cattle!

Fancy—when droves appear on
The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,—
Your ladies—ready, as they own, to drop,
Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on!

Or, in St. Martin's Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,—
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house,
To find it—Slaughter's!

249

Or fancy this:—
Walking along the street, some stranger Miss,
Her head with no such thought of danger laden,
When suddenly 'tis ‘Aries Taurus Virgo!’—
You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo,
Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone
Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!
At that vile spot now grown
So generally known
For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall,
Or shed, or shop—and that an Ox infuriate
Just pins you to the wall,
Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate!

Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round
The Market-ground
Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows—
‘'Tis well for you that live apart—unable
To hear this brutal Babel,
But our firesides are troubled with their bellows.

‘Folks that too freely sup
Must e'en put up
With their own troubles if they can't digest;
But we must needs regard
The case as hard
That others' victuals should disturb our rest,
That from our sleep your food should start and jump us!
We like, ourselves, a steak,
But, Sirs, for pity's sake!
We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-us!

‘If we do doze—it really is too bad!
We constantly are roar'd awake or rung,
Through bullocks mad
That run in all the ‘Night Thoughts’ of our Young!’

Such are the woes of sleepers—now let's take
The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake!
Oh think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts,
Think of these ‘Bulls of Basan,’ far from mild ones;
Such fierce tame beasts,
That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, ‘what shows a Dwarf,’
Seeing a red Cow come
To swallow her Tom Thumb,
And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

250

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,
When looking at their public private boxes,
To see in the back row
Three live sheeps' heads, a porker's, and an Ox's!
Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come
Through, to accompany the double drum!
Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,
Just when the Ghost is certain,
A great rent in the curtain,
And enter two tall skeletons—of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics
Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,
Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,
The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!
Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right,
And to each show and sight
Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;
To Richardson's Stage Dramas,
Dio—and Cosmo—ramas,
Giants and Indians wild,
Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,
And that most rare of Shows—a Show of Gratitude!

ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE

‘Look out for squalls.’
—The Pilot.

O come, dear Barney Isaacs, come,
Punch for one night can spare his drum
As well as pipes of Pan!
Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon,
Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon
As you can leave the Van;
Blind Billy, bring your violin;
Miss Crow, you're great in Cherry Ripe!
And Chubb, your viol must drop in
Its bass to Soger Tommy's pipe.
Ye butchers, bring your bones:
An organ would not be amiss;
If grinding Jim has spouted his,
Lend yours, good Mister Jones.
Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny,—do
Keep sober for an hour or two,
Music's charms to help to paint.
And, Sandy Gray, if you should not
Your bagpipes bring—O tuneful Scot!
Conceive the feelings of the Saint!
Miss Strummel issues an invite,
For music, and turn-out to-night
In honour of Cecilia's session;
But ere you go, one moment stop,
And with all kindness let me drop
A hint to you, and your profession;
Imprimis then: Pray keep within
The bounds to which your skill was born;
Let the one-handed let alone
Trombone,
Don't—Rheumatiz! seize the violin,
Or Ashmy snatch the horn!

Don't ever to such rows give birth,
As if you had no end on earth,
Except to ‘wake the lyre;’
Don't ‘strike the harp,’ pray never do,
Till others long to strike it too,
Perpetual harping's apt to tire;

251

Oh, I have heard such flat-and-sharpers.
I've blest the head
Of good King Ned,
For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers.

Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing,
Take a prodigious deal of wooing;
And then sit down to thrum the strain,
As if you'd never rise again—
The least Cecilia-like of things;
Remember that the Saint has wings.
I've known Miss Strummel pause an hour,
Ere she could ‘Pluck the Fairest Flower.’
Yet without hesitation, she
Plunged next into the ‘Deep Deep Sea,’
And when on the keys she does begin,
Such awful torments soon you share,
She really seems like Milton's ‘Sin,’
Holding the keys of—you know where!

Never tweak people's ears so toughly,
That urchin-like they can't help saying—
‘O dear! O dear—you call this playing,
But oh, it's playing very roughly!’
Oft, in the ecstasy of pain,
I've cursed all instrumental workmen,
Wish'd Broadwood Thurtell'd in a lane,
And Kirke White's fate to every Kirkman—
I really once delighted spied
‘Clementi Collard’ in Cheapside.

Another word,—don't be surpris'd,
Revered and ragged street Musicians,
You have been only half-baptis'd,
And each name proper, or improper,
Is not the value of a copper,
Till it has had the due additions,
Husky, Rusky,
Ninny, Tinny,
Hummel, Bummel,
Bowski, Wowski,
All these are very good selectables;
But none of your plain pudding-and-tames—
Folks that are called the hardest names
Are music's most respectables.
Ev'ry woman, ev'ry man,
Look as foreign as you can,
Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin,
Make ugly faces and begin!

Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears.
And now to show they understand it!
Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears,
And all the rest prepare to band it.
Each scraper right for concertante,
Rozins the hair of Rozinante:
Then all sound A, if they know which,
That they may join like birds in June;
Jack Tar alone neglects to tune,
For he's all over concert-pitch.

A little prelude goes before,
Like a knock and ring at music's door.
Each instrument gives in its name;
Then sitting in
They all begin
To play a musical round game.
Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand,
Leads a first fiddle to the band,
A second follows suit;
Anon the ace of Horns comes plump
On the two fiddles with a trump,
Puffindorf plays a flute.
This sort of musical revoke,
The grave bassoon begins to smoke,
And in rather grumpy kind
Of tone begins to speak its mind;
The double drum is next to mix,
Playing the Devil on Two Sticks—
Clamour, clamour,
Hammer, hammer,
While now and then a pipe is heard,
Insisting to put in a word,
With all his shrilly best,
So to allow the little minion
Time to deliver his opinion,
They take a few bars rest.

252

Well, little Pipe begins—with sole
And small voice going thro' the hole,
Beseeching,
Preaching,
Squealing,
Appealing,
Now as high as he can go,
Now in language rather low,
And having done—begins once more,
Verbatim what he said before.
This twiddling twaddling sets on fire
All the old instrumental ire,
And fiddles for explosion ripe,
Put out the little squeaker's pipe;
This wakes bass viol—and viol for that,
Seizing on innocent little B flat,
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat—
They all seem miching malicho!
To judge from a rumble unawares,
The drum has had a pitch downstairs;
And the trumpet rash,
By a violent crash,
Seems splitting somebody's calico!
The viol too groans in deep distress,
As if he suddenly grew sick;
And one rapid fiddle sets off express,—
Hurrying,
Scurrying,
Spattering,
Clattering,
To fetch him a Doctor of Music.
This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying
Beyond the Piano's pacifying,
The cymbal
Gets nimble,
Triangle
Must wrangle,
The band is becoming most martial of bands,
When just in the middle,
A quakerly fiddle,
Proposes a general shaking of hands!
Quaking,
Shaking,
Quivering,
Shivering,
Long bow—short bow—each bow drawing:
Some like filing,—some like sawing;
At last these agitations cease,
And they all get
The flageolet,
To breathe ‘a piping time of peace.’

Ah, too deceitful charm,
Like light'ning before death,
For Scrapenberg to rest his arm,
And Puffindorf get breath!
Again without remorse or pity,
They play ‘The Storming of a City,’
Miss S. herself compos'd and plann'd it—
When lo! at this renew'd attack,
Up jumps a little man in black,—
‘The very Devil cannot stand it!’
And with that,
Snatching hat,
(Not his own,)
Off is flown,
Thro' the door,
In his black,
To come back,
Never, never, never more!

O Music! praises thou hast had,
From Dryden and from Pope,
For thy good notes, yet none I hope,
But I, e'er praised the bad,
Yet are not saint and sinner even?
Miss Strummel on Cecilia's level?
One drew an angel down from heaven!
The other scar'd away the Devil!

253

A BLOW-UP

‘Here we go up, up, up.’
—The Lay of the First Minstrel.

Near Battle, Mr. Peter Baker
Was Powder-maker,
Not Alderman Flower's flour,—the white that puffs
And primes and loads heads bald, or grey, or chowder,
Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby,—Crowder,
Not vile apothecary's pounded stuffs,
But something blacker, bloodier, and louder,
Gun-powder!

This stuff, as people know, is semper
Eadem; very hasty in its temper—
Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps,
Mere semblances of blows, however slight;
So powder fires, although you only p'rhaps
Strike light.
To make it therefore, is a ticklish business,
And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizziness,
For as all human flash and fancy minders,
Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know,
There seldom is a mill without a blow,
Sometimes upon the grinders.
But then—the melancholy phrase to soften,
Mr. B.'s mill transpir'd so very often!
And advertised—than all Price Currents louder,
‘Fragments look up—there is a rise in Powder,’
So frequently, it caused the neighbours' wonder,—
And certain people had the inhumanity
To lay it all to Mr. Baker's vanity,
That he might have to say—‘That was my thunder!’
One day—so goes the tale,
Whether, with iron hoof,
Not sparkle-proof,
Some ninny-hammer struck upon a nail,—
Whether some glow-worm of the Guy Faux stamp,
Crept in the building, with Unsafety Lamp—
One day this mill that had by water ground,
Became a sort of windmill and blew round.
With bounce that went in sound as far as Dover, it
Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky;
Besides some visitors who gained thereby,
What they had asked—permission ‘to go over it!’
Of course it was a very hard and high blow,
And somewhat differed from what's called a flyblow.

254

At Cowes' Regatta, as I once observed,
A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start;
If such a sound could terrify oak's heart,
Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved.
In fact it was a very awful thing,—
As people know that have been used to battle,
In springing either mine or mill, you spring
A precious rattle!
The dunniest heard it—poor old Mr. F.
Doubted for once if he was ever deaf;
Through Tunbridge town it caused most strange alarms,
Mr. and Mrs. Fogg,
Who lived like cat and dog,
Were shocked for once into each other's arms.
Miss M. the milliner—her fright so strong,
Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long;
The veriest quakers quaked against their wish;
The ‘Best of Sons’ was taken unawares,
And kicked the ‘Best of Parents’ down the stairs:
The steadiest servant dropped the China dish;
A thousand started, though there was but one
Fated to win, and that was Mister Dunn,
Who struck convulsively, and hooked a fish!

Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork,
Toss'd it just like a haymaker at work;
Her sister not in any better case,
For taking wine
With nervous Mr. Pyne,
He jerked his glass of Sherry in her face.
Poor Mistress Davy,
Bobb'd off her bran-new turban in the gravy;
While Mr. Davy at the lower end,
Preparing for a Goose a carver's labour,
Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbour,
As if for once he meant to help a friend.

The nurse-maid telling little ‘Jack-a-Norey,’
‘Bo-peep,’ and ‘Blue-cap’ at the house's top,
Scream'd, and let Master Jeremiah drop
From a fourth storey!
Nor yet did matters any better go
With Cook and Housemaid in the realms below;
As for the Laundress, timid Martha Gunning,
Expressing faintness and her fears by fits
And starts,—she came at last but to her wits,
By falling in the ale that John left running.

Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind,
Struck all at once, deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind,

255

Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse,
Then coming to his mind,
Was shocked to find,
Only a pair of shafts without a horse.
Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy's!
From Prospect House, for urchins small and big,
Hearing the awful noise,
Out rushed a flood of boys,
Floating a man in black, without a wig;—
Some carried out one treasure, some another,—
Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry,
Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley Murray,
But little Tiddy carried his big brother!

Sick of such terrors,
The Tunbridge folks resolv'd that truth should dwell
No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well,
But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors;
Accordingly to bring the point to pass,
They call'd a meeting of the broken glass,
The shatter'd chimney pots, and scatter'd tiles,
The damage of each part,
And packed it in a cart,
Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles;
While Doctor Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector,
And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex,
And some few more, whose names would only vex,
Went as a deputation to the Ex-
Powder-proprietor and Mill-director.

Now Mr. Baker's dwelling-house had pleased
Along with mill-materials to roam,
And for a time the deputies were teased,
To find the noisy gentleman at home;
At last they found him with undamaged skin,
Safe at the Tunbridge Arms—not out—but Inn.

The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal,
Soon put his spoke in for the common weal—
A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban,—
The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded,
And then unfolded,
By way of climax, Mrs. Davy's turban;
He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding
Knock'd down a lot without a bidding,—
How Mr. Miles, in fright, had giv'n his mare,
The whip she wouldn't bear,—
At Prospect House, how Doctor Oates, not Titus,
Danced like Saint Vitus,—
And Mr. Beak, thro' Powder's misbehaving,
Cut off his nose whilst shaving;—

256

When suddenly, with words that seem'd like swearing,
Beyond a Licenser's belief or bearing—
Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage—
‘Who is to pay us, Sir’—he argued thus,
‘For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus—
Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-dam-damage?’

Now many a person had been fairly puzzled
By such assailants, and completely muzzled;
Baker, however, was not dash'd with ease—
But proved he practised after their own system,
And with small ceremony soon dismiss'd 'em,
Putting these words into their ears like fleas:
‘If I do have a blow, well, where's the oddity?
I merely do as other tradesmen do,
You, Sir,—and you—and you!
I'm only puffing off my own commodity!’

THE GHOST A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD

‘I'll be your second.’
—Liston.

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out,
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn,
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax,
And wish'd, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing thus came about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phœnix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand.

One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!

‘Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widow's weeds?

‘It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My Memory—like Rogers's,
Should still be bound in green!

‘Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt—
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not,
With all the leaves torn out!

‘To think that on that finger joint
Another pledge should cling;
Oh Bess! upon my very soul,
It struck like “Knock and Ring.”

257

‘A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, Ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in my urn!

‘Remember, oh! remember, how
The marriage rite did run,—
If ever we one flesh should be,
'Tis now—when I have none!

‘And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider you are kick'd.

‘A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up!—you marry, Ma'am,
And I'll come up again.’

More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow, and off he went,
Like fowling-piece at cock!

ODE TO MADAME HENGLER FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL

Oh, Mrs. Hengler!—Madame,—I beg pardon;
Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden!
Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff—
The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz,
Whose squibs are far more popular than his;
Whose works are much more certain to go off.

Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame;
With many a bang the public ear it courts;
And yet thy arrogance we never blame,
But take thy merits from thy own reports.
Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers,
We make no doubting, misbelieving comments,
Even in thy most bounceable of moments;
But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers!—
Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing,
Thy Rockets raise thee,
And Serpents praise thee,
As none beside are ever praised—by hissing!

Mistress of Hydropyrics,
Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics,
Professor of a Fiery Necromancy,
Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts
With midnight sports,
Partaking very much of flash and fancy!

What thoughts had shaken all
In olden time at thy nocturnal revels,—
Each brimstone ball,
They would have deem'd an eyeball of the Devil's!

258

But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright;
A modern Hubert to the royal ear,
Might whisper without fear,
‘My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night!
Nor would it raise one superstitious notion
To hear the whole description fairly out:—
‘One fixed—which t'other four whirl'd round about
With wond'rous motion.’

Such are the very sights
Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven,
Between the hours of midnight and eleven,
Turning our English to Arabian Nights,
With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons,
Blue stars and white.
And blood-red light,
And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters' waggons.
Thrice lucky woman! doing things that be
With other folks past benefit of parson;
For burning, no Burn's Justice falls on thee,
Altho' night after night the public see
Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson!

Sure thou wast never born
Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head,
Nor lectur'd night and morn
Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread,
Allowed by a prophetic dam and sire
To play with fire.
O didst thou never, in those days gone by,
Go carrying about—no schoolboy prouder—
Instead of waxen doll a little Guy;
Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein,
Up the parental pigtail lay a train,
To let off all his powder?

Full of the wildfire of thy youth,
Did'st never in plain truth,
Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother's pots,
Turning the garden into powder plots?
Or give the cook, to fright her,
Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre?
Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping
A lighted cracker by thy sister's Dear,
So that she could not hear
The question he was popping?

Go on, Madame! Go on—be bright and busy
While hoax'd Astronomers look up and stare
From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy,
To see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair!

259

A Serpent wriggling into Charles's Wain!
A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear!
A Rocket tangled in Diana's train,
And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair!

There is a King of Fire—Thou shouldst be Queen!
Methinks a good connexion might come from it;
Could'st thou not make him, in the garden scene,
Set out per Rocket and return per Comet;
Then give him a hot treat
Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup,
Lord! how the world would throng to see him eat,
He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up!

One solitary night—true is the story,
Watching those forms that Fancy will create
Within the bright confusion of the grate,
I saw a dazzling countenance of glory!
Oh Dei gratias!
That fiery facias
'Twas thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove;
And ever since that night,
In dark and bright,
Thy face is registered within my stove!

Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays;
May no untimely blow its doom forestall;
But when old age prepares the friendly pall,
When the last spark of all thy sparks decays,
Then die lamented by good people all,
Like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize!

THE DOUBLE KNOCK

Rat-tat it went upon the lion's chin,
‘That hat, I know it!’ cried the joyful girl;
‘Summer's it is, I know him by his knock,
Comers like him are welcome as the day!
Lizzy! go down and open the street-door,
Busy I am to any one but him.
Know him you must—he has been often here;
Show him up stairs, and tell him I'm alone.’

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair;
Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat;
‘Sure he has brought me tickets for the play—
Drury—or Covent Garden—darling man!—

260

Kemble will play—or Kean who makes the soul
Tremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor—
Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce
Barren beside—or Liston, Laughter's Child—
Kelly the natural, to witness whom
Jelly is nothing to the public's jam—
Cooper, the sensible—and Walter Knowles
Super, in William Tell, now rightly told.
Better—perchance, from Andrews, brings a box,
Letter of boxes for the Italian stage—
Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul!
No card,—thank heaven—engages me to-night!
Feathers, of course—no turban, and no toque—
Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls.
Dearly I dote on white—my satin dress,
Merely one night—it won't be much the worse—
Cupid—the New Ballet I long to see—
Stupid! why don't she go and ope the door!’

Glisten'd her eye as the impatient girl
Listen'd, low bending o'er the topmost stair,
Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends,
Plainly she hears this question and reply:
‘Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d'ye want?’
‘Taxes,’ says he, ‘and shall not call again!’

University of Virginia Library

THE DEVIL'S ALBUM

THE LOST HEIR

JOHN DAY A PATHETIC BALLAD

NUMBER ONE VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY

THE DROWNING DUCKS

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE

THE FALL

SONNET

THE STEAM SERVICE

I

II

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

A VALENTINE THE WEATHER. TO P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S.

POEM,—FROM THE POLISH

CONVEYANCING

SONNET

EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST

I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER

THE APPARITION

LITTLE O'P.—AN AFRICAN FACT

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL

SEA SONG AFTER DIBDIN

STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE

I'M GOING TO BOMBAY

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET

ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE

A BLOW-UP

THE GHOST A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD

ODE TO MADAME HENGLER FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL

THE DOUBLE KNOCK