Rose Koven, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team.

THE HUMOROUS POETRY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, FROM CHAUCER TO SAXE.

Narratives, Satires, Enigmas, Burlesques, Parodies, Travesties,
Epigrams, Epitaphs, Translations, Including the Most Celebrated Comic
Poems of the Anti-Jacobin, Rejected Addresses, the Ingoldsby Legends,
Blackwood's Magazine, Bentley's Miscellany, and Punch.

With More Than Two Hundred Epigrams, and the Choicest Humorous Poetry
of Wolcott, Cowper, Lamb, Thackeray, Praed, Swift, Scott, Holmes,
Aytoun, Gay, Burns, Southey, Saxe, Hood, Prior, Coleridge, Byron,
Moore, Lowell, Etc.

WITH

NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND BIOGRAPHICAL,

BY JAMES PARTON.

PREFACE.

The design of the projector of this volume was, that it should contain the Best of the shorter humorous poems in the literatures of England and the United States, except:

Poems so local or cotemporary in subject or allusion, as not to be readily understood by the modern American reader;

Poems which, from the freedom of expression allowed in the healthy ages, can not now be read aloud in a company of men and women;

Poems that have become perfectly familiar to every body, from their incessant reproduction in school-books and newspapers; and

Poems by living American authors, who have collected their humorous pieces from the periodicals in which most of them originally appeared, and given them to the world in their own names.

Holmes, Saxe, and Lowell are, therefore, only REPRESENTED in this collection. To have done more than fairly represent them, had been to infringe rights which are doubly sacred, because they are not protected by law. To have done less would have deprived the reader of a most convenient means of observing that, in a kind of composition confessed to be among the most difficult, our native wits are not excelled by foreign.

The editor expected to be embarrassed with a profusion of material for his purpose. But, on a survey of the poetical literature of the two countries, it was discovered that, of really excellent humorous poetry, of the kinds universally interesting, untainted by obscenity, not marred by coarseness of language, nor obscured by remote allusion, the quantity in existence is not great. It is thought that this volume contains a very large proportion of the best pieces that haveappeared.

An unexpected feature of the book is, that there is not a line in it by a female hand. The alleged foibles of the Fair have given occasion to libraries of comic verse; yet, with diligent search, no humorous poems by women have been found which are of merit sufficient to give them claim to a place in a collection like this. That lively wit and graceful gayety, that quick perception of the absurd, which ladies are continually displaying in their conversation and correspondence, never, it seems, suggest the successful epigram, or inspire happy satirical verse.

The reader will not be annoyed by an impertinent superfluity of notes. At the end of the volume may be found a list of the sources from which its contents have been taken. For the convenience of those who live remote from biographical dictionaries, a few dates and other particulars have been added to the mention of each name. For valuable contributions to this portion of the volume, and for much well-directed work upon other parts of it, the reader is indebted to Mr. T. BUTLER GUNN, of this city.

There is, certainly, nothing more delightful than the fun of a man of genius. Humor, as Mr. Thackeray observes, is charming, and poetry is charming, but the blending of the two in the same composition is irresistible. There is much nonsense in this book, and some folly, and a little ill-nature; but there is more wisdom than either. They who possess it may congratulate themselves upon having the largest collection ever made of the sportive effusions of genius.

INDEX.

MISCELLANEOUS.

SUBJECT. AUTHOR.

To my Empty Purse Chaucer
To Chloe Peter Pindar
To a Fly Peter Pindar
Man may be Happy Peter Pindar
Address to the Toothache Burns
The Pig Southey
Snuff Southey
Farewell to Tobacco Lamb
Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos Byron
The Lisbon Packet Byron
To Fanny Moore
Young Jessie Moore
Rings and Seals Moore
Nets and Cages Moore
Salad Sydney Smith
My Letters Barham
The Poplar Barham
Spring Hood
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy Hood
Schools and School-fellows Praed
The Vicar Praed
The Bachelor's Cane-bottomed Chair Thackeray
Stanzas to Pale Ale Punch
Children must be paid for Punch
The Musquito Bryant
To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons Willis
Come out, Love Willis
The White Chip Hat Willis
You know if it was you Willis
The Declaration Willis
Love in a Cottage Willis
To Helen in a Huff Willis
The Height of the Ridiculous O. W. Holmes
The Briefless Barrister J. G. Saxe
Sonnet to a Clam J. G. Saxe
Venus of the Needle Allingham

NARRATIVE.

Take thy Old Cloak about thee Percy Reliques
King John and the Abbot Percy Reliques
The Baffled Knight, or Lady's Policy Percy Reliques
Truth and Falsehood Prior
Flattery Williams (Sir C. H.)
The Pig and Magpie Peter Pindar
Advice to Young Women Peter Pindar
Economy Peter Pindar
The Country Lasses Peter Pindar
The Pilgrims and Peas Peter Pindar
On the Death of a Favorite Cat Gray
The Retired Cat Cowper
Saying, not Meaning Wake
Julia Coleridge
A Cock and Hen Story Southey
The Search after Happiness Scott (Sir W.)
The Donkey and his Panniers Moore
Misadventure at Margate Barham
The Ghost Barham
A Lay of St. Gengulphus Barham
Sir Rupert the Fearless Barham
Look at the Clock Barham
The Bagman's Dog Barham
Dame Fredegonde W. Aytoun
The King of Brentford's Testament Thackeray
Titmarsh's Carmen Lillienses Thackeray
Shadows Lantern
The Retort G. P. Morris

SATIRICAL.

The Rabble, or Who Pays? S. Butler
The Chameleon Prior
The Merry Andrew Prior
Jack and Joan Prior
The Progress of Poetry Swift
Twelve Articles Swift
The Beast's Confession Swift
A New Simile for the Ladies Sheridan (Dr. T.)
On a Lap-dog Gay
The Razor Seller Peter Pindar
The Sailor Boy at Prayers Peter Pindar
Bienseance Peter Pindar
Kings and Courtiers Peter Pindar
Praying for Rain Peter Pindar
Apology for Kings Peter Pindar
Ode to the Devil Peter Pindar
The King of Spain and the Horse Peter Pindar
The Tender Husband Peter Pindar
The Soldier and the Virgin Mary Peter Pindar
A King of France and the Fair Lady Peter Pindar
The Eggs Yriarte
The Ass and his Master Yriarte
The Love of the World Reproved, or Hypocrisy Detected Cowper
Report of an Adjudged Case Cowper
Holy Willie's Prayer Burns
Epitaph on Holy Willie Burns
Address to the Deil Burns
The Devil's Walk on Earth Southey
Church and State Moore
Lying Moore
The Millennium Moore
The Little Grand Lama Moore
Eternal London Moore
On Factotum Ned Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), First Letter Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), Second Letter Moore
Letters (Fudge Correspondence), Third Letter Moore
The Literary Lady Sheridan (R. B.)
Netley Abbey Barham
Family Poetry Barham
The Sunday Question Hood
Ode to Rae Wilson, Esquire Hood
Death's Ramble Hood
The Bachelor's Dream Hood
On Samuel Rogers Byron
My Partner Praed
The Belle of the Ball Praed
Sorrows of Werther Thackeray
The Yankee Volunteer Thackeray
Courtship and Matrimony Thackeray
Concerning Sisters-in-law Punch
The Lobsters Punch
To Song Birds on a Sunday Punch
The First Sensible Valentine Punch
A Scene on the Austrian Frontier Punch
Ode to the Great Sea Serpent Punch
The Feast of Vegetables and the Flow of Water Punch
Kindred Quacks Punch
The Railway Traveler's Farewell to his Family Punch
A Letter and an Answer Punch
Papa to his Heir Punch
Selling off at the Opera-house Punch
Wonders of the Victorian Age Punch
To the Portrait of a Gentleman Holmes
My Aunt Holmes
Comic Miseries Saxe
Idees Napoleoniennes Aytoun
The Lay of the Lover's Friend Aytoun

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES

Wine Gay
Ode on Science Swift
A Love Song Swift
Baucis and Philemon Swift
A Description of a City Shower Swift
The Progress of Curiosity Pindar
The Author and the Statesman Fielding
The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder Anti-Jacobin
Inscription Anti-Jacobin
Song Canning
The Amatory Sonnets of Abel Shufflebottom Southey
   1. Delia at Play
   2. The Poet proves the existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia
   3. The Poet expresses his feelings respecting a Portrait in Delia's
        Parlor
The Love Elegies of Abel Shufflebottom Southey
   1. The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's Pocket-handkerchief
   2. The Poet expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair
   3. The Poet relates how he stole a lock of Delia's Hair, and her
         anger
The Baby's Debut James Smith
Playhouse Musings James Smith
A Tale of Drury Lane Horace Smith
Drury's Dirge Horace Smith
What is Life? Blackwood
The Confession Blackwood
The Milling Match between Entellus and Darcs Moore
Not a Sous had he Got Barham
Raising the Devil Barham
The London University Barham
Domestic Poems Hood
   1. Good-night
   2. A Parental Ode to my Son
   3. A Serenade
Ode to Perry Hood
A Theatrical Curiosity Cruikshank's Om
The Secret Sorrow Punch
Song for Punch-drinkers Punch
The Song of the Humbugged Husband Punch
Temperance Song Punch
Lines Punch
Madness Punch
The Bandit's Fate Punch
Lines written after a Battle Punch
The Phrenologist to his Mistress Punch
The Chemist to his Love Punch
A Ballad of Bedlam Punch
Stanzas to an Egg Punch
A Fragment Punch
Eating Soup Punch
The Sick Child Punch
The Imaginative Crisis Punch
Lines to Bessy Punch
Monody on the Death of an Only Client Punch
Love on the Ocean Punch
"Oh! wilt thou Sew my Buttons on? etc." Punch
The Paid Bill. Punch
Parody for a Reformed Parliament Punch
The Waiter Punch
The Last Appendix to Yankee Doodle Punch
Lines for Music Punch
Drama for Every Day Life Punch
Proclivior Punch
Jones at the Barber's Shop Punch
The Sated One Punch
Sapphics of the Cab-stand Punch
Justice to Scotland Punch
The Poetical Cookery-book. Punch
  The Steak
  Roasted Sucking Pig
  Beignet de Pomme
  Cherry Pie
  Deviled Biscuit
  Red Herrings
  Irish Stew
  Barley Broth
  Calf's Heart
  The Christmas Pudding
  Apple Pie
  Lobster Salad
  Stewed Steak
  Green Pea Soup
  Trifle
  Mutton Chops
  Barley Water
  Boiled Chicken
  Stewed Duck and Peas
  Curry
The Railway Gilpin Punch
Elegy Punch
The Boa and the Blanket Punch
The Dilly and the D's Punch
A Book in a Bustle Punch
Stanzas for the Sentimental. Punch
  1. On a Tear which Angelina observed trickling down my nose at
     Dinner-time
  2. On my refusing Angelina a kiss under the Mistletoe
  3. On my finding Angelina stop suddenly in a rapid
     after-supper-polka at Mrs. Tompkins' Ball
Soliloquy on a Cab-stand Punch
The Song of Hiawatha Punch
Comfort in Affliction Aytoun
The Husband's Petition Aytoun
The Biter Bit Aytoun
A Midnight Meditation Aytoun
The Dirge of the Drinker Aytoun
Francesca da Rimini Aytoun
Louis Napoleon's Address to his Army Aytoun
The Battle of the Boulevard Aytoun
Puffs Poetical. Aytoun
  1. Paris and Helen
  2. Tarquin and the Augur
Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian Holmes
Evening, by a Tailor Holmes
Phaethon Saxe
The School-house Lowell

EPIGRAMMATIC.

Epigrams of Ben Jonson.
  To Fine Grand
  " Brainhardy
  " Doctor Empiric
  " Sir Samuel Fuller
  On Banks, the Usurer
  " Chevril the Lawyer
Epigrammatic Verses by Samuel Butler
  Opinion
  Critics
  Hypocrisy
  Polish
  The Godly
  Piety
  Poets
  Puffing
  Politicians
  Fear
  The Law
   " "
   " "
  Confession
  Smatterers
  Bad Writers
  The Opinionative
  Language of the Learned
  Good Writing
  Courtiers
  Inventions
  Logicians
  Laborious Writers
  On a Club of Sots
  Holland
  Women
Epigrams of Edmund Waller
  On a Painted Lady
  On the Marriage of the Dwarfs
Epigrams of Matthew Prior
  A Simile
  The Flies
  Phillis's Age
  To the Duke de Noailles
  On Bishop Atterbury
  Forma Bonum Fragile
  Earning a Dinner
  Bibo and Charon
  The Pedant
Epigrams of Joseph Addison
  The Countess of Manchester
  To an Ill-favored Lady
  To a Capricious Friend
  To a Rogue
Epigrams of Alexander Pope
  On Mrs. Tofts
  To a Blockhead
  The Fool and the Poet
Epigrams of Dean Swift
  On Burning a Dull Poem
  To a Lady
  The Cudgeled Husband
  On seeing Verses written upon Windows at Inns
  On seeing the Busts of Newton, Looke, etc.
  On the Church's Danger
  On one Delacourt, etc.
  On a Usurer
  To Mrs. Biddy Floyd
  The Reverse
  The Place of the Damned
  The Day of Judgment
Paulus the Lawyer Lindsay
Epigrams by Thomas Sheridan.
  On a Caricature
  On Dean Swift's Proposed Hospital, etc.,
  To a Dublin Publisher
Which is Which Byron
On some Lines of Lopez de Vega Dr. Johnson
On a Full-length Portrait of Beau Nash, etc., Chesterfield
On Scotland Cleveland
Epigrams of Peter Pindar
  Edmund Burke's Attack on Warren Hastings
  On an Artist
  On the Conclusion of his Odes
  The Lex Talionis upon Benjamin West
  Barry's Attack upon Sir Joshua Reynolds
  On the Death of Mr. Hone
  On George the Third's Patronage of Benjamin West
  Another on the Same
  Epitaph on Peter Staggs
  Tray's Epitaph
  On a Stone thrown at a very great Man, etc.
  A Consolatory StanzaEpigrams by Robert Burns.
  The Poet's Choice
  On a celebrated Ruling Elder
  On John Dove
  On Andrew Turner
  On a Scotch Coxcomb
  On Grizzel Grim
  On a Wag in Mauchline
  Epitaph on W—-
  On a Suicide
Epigrams from the German of Lessing.
  Niger
  A Nice Point
  True Nobility
  To a Liar Mendax
  The Bad Wife
  The Dead Miser
  The Bad Orator
  The Wise Child
  Specimen of the Laconic
  Cupid and Mercury
  Fritz
  On Dorilis
  To a Slow Walker, etc.
  On Two Beautiful One-eyed Sisters
  The Per Contra, or Matrimonial Balance
Epigrams of S. T. Coleridge.
  An Expectoration
  Expectoration the Second
  To a Lady
  Avaro
  Beelzebub and Job
  Sentimental
  An Eternal Poem
  Bad Poets
To Mr. Alexandre, the Ventriloquist Scott
The Swallows R. B. Sheridan
French and English Erskine
Epigrams by Thomas Moore.
  To Sir Hudson Lowe
  Dialogue
  To Miss —-
  To —-
  On being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party, etc.
  What my Thought's like?
  From the French
  A Joke Versified
  The Surprise
  On —-
  On a Squinting Poetess
  On a Tuft-hunter
  The Kiss
  Epitaph on Southey
  Written in a Young Lady's Common-place Book
  The Rabbinical Origin of Women
  Anacreontique
On Butler's Monument Wesley
On the Disappointment of the Whig Associates
  of the Prince Regent, etc Lamb
To Professor Airey Sydney Smith
On Lord Dudley and Ward Rogers
Epigrams of Lord Byron.
  To the Author of a Sonnet, etc.
  Windsor Poetics
  On a Carrier, etc.
Epigrams of R. H. Barham.
  On the Windows of King's College, etc.
  New-made Honor
  Eheu Fugaces
Anonymous Epigrams.
  On a Pale Lady, etc.
  Upon Pope's Translation of Homer
  Recipe for a Modern Bonnet
  My Wife and I
  On Two Gentlemen, etc.
  Wellington's Nose
  The Smoker
  An Essay on the Understanding
  To a Living Author
Epigrams by Thomas Hood.
  On the Art Unions
  The Superiority of Machinery
Epigrams by W. Savage Landor.
  On Observing a Vulgar Name on the Plinth of a Statue
  Lying in State
Epigrams from Punch.
  The Cause
  Irish Particular
  One Good Turn deserves Another
  Sticky
  The Poet Foiled
  Black and White
  Inquest—not Extraordinary
  Domestic Economy
  On Seeing an Execution
  A Voice, and Nothing Else
  The Amende Honorable
  The Czar
  Bas-Bleu
  To a Rich Young Widow
  The Railway of Life
  A Conjugal Conundrum
  Numbers Altered
  Grammar for the Court of Berlin
  The Empty Bottle
  Aytoun
  The Death of Doctor Morrison
  Bentley's Miscellany
Epigrams by John G. Saxe.
  On a Recent Classic Controversy
  Another
  On an ill-read Lawyer
  On an Ugly Person Sitting for a Daguerreotype
  Woman's Will
  Family Quarrels
A Revolutionary Hero Lowell
Epigrams of Halpin.
  The Last Resort
  Feminine Arithmetic
  The Mushroom Hunt
Jupiter Amans London Leader
The Orator's Epitaph Lord Brougham

ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT.

The Jovial Priest's Confession Leigh Hunt
Tonis ad Resto Mare Anonymous
Die Dean Swift
Moll Dean Swift
To My Mistress Dean Swift
A Love Song Dean Swift
A Gentle Echo on Woman Dean Swift
To my Nose Anonymous
Roger and Dolly Blackwood
The Irishman Blackwood
A Catalectic Monody Cruikshank's Om.
A New Song Gay
Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist Hood
Faithless Nelly Gray Hood
No! Hood
Jacob Omnium's Hoss Thackeray
The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown Thackeray
The Ballad of Eliza Davis Thackeray
Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent Thackeray
The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of Shoreditch Thackeray
The Crystal Palace Thackeray
The Speculators Thackeray
A Letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow, etc. Lowell
A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency Lowell
The Candidate's Creed Lowell
The Courtin' Lowell
A Song for a Catarrh Punch
Epitaph on a Candle Punch
Poetry on an Improved Principle Punch
On a Rejected Nosegay Punch
A Serenade Punch
Railroad Nursery Rhyme Punch
An Invitation to the Zoological Gardens Punch
To the Leading Periodical Punch
The People and their Palace Punch
A Swell's Homage to Mrs. Stowe Punch
The Exclusive's Broken Idol Punch
The Last Kick of Fop's Alley Punch
The Mad Cabman's Song of Sixpence Punch
Alarming Prospect Punch
Epitaph on a Locomotive Punch
The Ticket of Leave Punch
A Polka Lyric Barclay Phillips
A Sunnit to the Big Ox Anonymous

ENIGMATIC.

Riddles by Matthew Prior. Two Riddles
  Enigma
  Another
Riddles by Dean Swift and his friends.
  A Maypole
  On the Moon
  On Ink
  On a Circle
  On a Pen
  A Fan
  On a Cannon
  On the Five Senses
  On Snow
  On a Candle
  On a Corkscrew
  On the Same
  An Echo
  On the Vowels
  On a Pair of Dice
  On a Shadow in a Glass
  On Time

LIST OF SOURCES

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

JAMES PARTON BRYANT BURNS LAMB BYRON POPE CHAUCER WILLIS HOLMES LOWELL LANDOR THACKERAY

MISCELLANEOUS.

TO MY EMPTY PURSE. CHAUCER.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am sorry now that ye be light,
For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere;
Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere,
For which unto your mercy thus I crie,
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,
That I of you the blissful sowne may here,
Or see your color like the sunne bright,
That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes
stere,
Queen of comfort and of good companie,
Be heavy again, or else mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,
And saviour, as downe in this world here,
Out of this towne helpe me by your might,
Sith that you will not be my treasure,
For I am slave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your curtesie,
Be heavy again, or els mote I die.

TO CHLOE.

AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY. PETER PINDAR.

Chloe, we must not always be in heaven,
  For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing;
The joys for which I thousands would have given,
  Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
  And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves;
Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;
  Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves;
Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression,
That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature,
Much like economy in worldly matter;
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will not, can not, always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts—'tis a shame—
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame,
  Till penury stares them in the face;
And when they find an empty purse,
Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse,
  And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!
Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung,
Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose—
Smell twenty times—and then, my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
  Yet often should the little god retire—
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
  That keeps alive the sacred fire.

TO A FLY,

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH. PETER PINDAR.

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
  Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul—
  Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize—
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
  Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
  But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!
  When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
  Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother.
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
  And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."
And well mayest thou rejoice—'tis very plain,
  That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.

And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt—
  Now turnest—on the table making rings,
Now crawling, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
  Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me—farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford—
  There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
  And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.

Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—
  While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,
Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
  Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

MAN MAY BE HAPPY. PETER PINDAR.

"Man may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;
  Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
  Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief—man's an ass, I say;
  Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
  That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!
Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud—
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?
  The God of Nature?—No such thing;
Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,
  "Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:—
In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
  Yet mind me—if, through want of grace,
  Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed—
  Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing forever for a gin
  To catch their happiness by the legs.

Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands, and well dressed:
  They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
  Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.

A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they can not make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!
  I hate to drop the discontented jaw!
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
  And pick even pleasure from a straw.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. ROBERT BURNS.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
               Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
               Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
               Wi' pitying moan;
But thee—thou hell o' a' diseases,
               Aye mocks our groan!

A down my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
                To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
                Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
                Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
                Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
                In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
                Amang them a';

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
                In gore a shoe-thick;—
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
                A towmond's Toothache!

THE PIG.

A COLLOQUIAL POEM. ROBERT SOUTHEY

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,
Were perfect in our kind!..And why despise
The sow-born grunter?..He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. …Now I pray you
Hear the pig's counsel.
                       Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;
We must not take them as unheeding hands
Receive base money at the current worth
But with a just suspicion try their sound,
And in the even balance weigh them well
See now to what this obstinacy comes:
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man,…born to be brawn'd
And baconized: that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defense, the general privilege;
Perhaps,…hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of Pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
                         Again. Thou say'st
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
His face, …nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair
To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the peacock's pride,
Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss
When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;…
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!
All alteration man could think, would mar
His pig-perfection.
                      The last charge,…he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honorable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt?…Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter,…why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep!
                             And there! the breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

SNUFF. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze
The full-collected pleasure bursts at last!
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this
The only Christopher in my calendar.
Why, but for thee the uses of the nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse,
Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space,
That half the year the nostrils would keep lent,
But that the kind tobacconist admits
No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps
His wheels roll on, and still administer
A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.

  What are Peru and those Golcondan mines
To thee, Virginia? miserable realms,
The produce of inhuman toil, they send
Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain.
But thine are COMMON comforts!…To omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,
Think what a general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced, for when he sees
The thumb and finger of authority
Stuffed up the nostrils: when hat, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust,
From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse
Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds,
And part on the magistral table lights,
Part on the open book, soon blown away,
Full surely soon shall then the brow severe
Relax; and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that MUST be laughed at shall proceed.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. CHARLES LAMB.

May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,
Or a language to my mind,
(Still the phrase is wide or scant)
To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
Or in any terms relate
Half my love, or half my hate:
For I hate, yet love thee, so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.

  Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death,

  Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes can not find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

  Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

  Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.
  Brother of Bacchus, later born.
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of THEE meant only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

  Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain;
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

  Stinking'st of the stinking land,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite—-

                        Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe—
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

  Or, as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

  For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
For thy sake; TOBACCO, I
Would do any thing but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any title of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys.
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy holders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

BYRON.

If, in the month of dark December,
   Leander, who was nightly wont,
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
   To cross thy stream broad Hellespont!

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,
   He sped to Hero nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
   Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For ME, degenerate, modern wretch,
   Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
   And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,
   According to the doubtful story,
To woo—and—Lord knows what beside,
   And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
   Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labor, I my jest;
   For he was drowned, and I've the ague

THE LISBON PACKET. BYRON.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
  Our embargo's off at last;
Favorable breezes blowing
  Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
  Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
  Tell us that our time's expired.
        Here's a rascal
        Come to task all,
  Prying from the custom-house;
        Trunks unpacking,
        Cases cracking,
  Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearched amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
  And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
  We're impatient—push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor—
  Stop the boat—I'm sick—O Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
  Ere you've been an hour on board."
        Thus are screaming
        Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
        Here entangling,
        All are wrangling,
  Stuck together close as wax.—
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reached her, lo! the captain,
  Gallant Kid, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapped in,
  Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin?
  Why, 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in—
  Who the deuce can harbor there?"
        "Who, sir? plenty—
        Nobles twenty
  Did at once my vessel fill."—
        "Did they? Jesus,
        How you squeeze us!
  Would to God they did so still;
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
  Stretched along the decks like logs—
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
  Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
  As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
  Vomits forth—and damns our souls.
        "Here's a stanza
        On Braganza—
  Help!"—"A couplet?"—"No, a cup
        Of warm water—"
        "What's the matter?"
  "Zounds! my liver's coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey,
  Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
  May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
  As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
  Then laugh on—as I do now.
        Laugh at all things,
        Great and small things,
  Sick or well, at sea or shore;
        While we're quaffing,
        Let's have laughing—
  Who the devil cares for more?—
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

TO FANNY. THOMAS MOORE

Never mind how the pedagogue proses,
  You want not antiquity's stamp,
The lip that's so scented by roses,
  Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
  Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now done with the science of blisses,
  May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
  Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemned but to read of enjoyments,
  Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for YOU to be buried in books—
  Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages;
Who could not in ONE of your looks
  Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye
  Better light than she studies above,
And music must borrow your sigh
  As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics—'tis you that can check,
  In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels
Oh! show but that mole on your neck,
  And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip
  When to kiss and to count you endeavor;
But eloquence glows on your lip
  When you swear that you'll love me forever

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
  Of arts is assembled in you—
A course of more exquisite science
  Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!—if a fellow like me
  May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
  My divine little Mistress of Arts!

YOUNG JESSICA. THOMAS MOORE.

Young Jessica sat all the day,
  In love-dreams languishingly pining,
Her needle bright neglected lay,
  Like truant genius idly shining.
Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
  That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
  Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

A child who with a magnet play'd,
  And knew its winning ways so wily,
The magnet near the needle laid,
  And laughing, said, "We'll steal it slily."
The needle, having naught to do,
  Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle,
Till closer still the tempter drew,
  And off, at length, eloped the needle.

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
  To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,
  Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction.
Girls would you keep tranquil hearts,
  Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
  Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

RINGS AND SEALS. THOMAS MOORE.

"Go!" said the angry weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!—once betray'd,
Oh! never can my heart rely
On word or look, on oath or sigh.
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,
With promis'd faith and vows to heaven;
That little ring, which, night and morn,
With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
That seal which oft, in moments blest,
Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
And sworn its dewy spring should be
A fountain seal'd for only thee!
Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
All sullied, lost, and hateful, now!"

I took the ring—the seal I took,
While oh! her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled!
Gently I whisper'd, "FANNY, dear!
Not half thy lover's gifts are here:
Say, where are all the seals he gave
To every ringlet's jetty wave,
And where is every one he printed
Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted—
Seals of the purest gem of bliss,
Oh! richer, softer, far than this!

"And then the ring—my love! recall
How many rings, delicious all,
His arms around that neck hath twisted,
Twining warmer far than this did!
Where are they all, so sweet, so many?
Oh! dearest, give back all, if any!"

While thus I murmur'd, trembling too
Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise
'Mid the moist azure of her eyes.
Like day-light o'er a sea of blue,
While yet the air is dim with dew!
She let her cheek repose on mine,
She let my arms around her twine—
Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels
In thus exchanging rings and seals!

NETS AND CAGES. THOMAS MOORE.

Come, listen to my story, while
  Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing some maids will smile,
  While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
  Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,
  Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
  Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
  While some, perhaps, will sigh.
Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
  Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
  Ere caught so much small game:
While gentle Sue, less given to roam,
  When Cloe's nets were taking
These flights of birds, sat still at home,
  One small, neat Love-cage making.
      Come, listen, maids, etc.

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
  But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
  Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
  That, though she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
  Was able to break through them.
      Come, listen, maids, etc.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
  Of bars too strong to sever,
One love with golden pinions caught,
  And caged him there forever;
Instructing thereby, all coquettes,
  Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
  'Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
  The task your fingers ply—
May all who hear, like Susan smile,
  Ah! not like Cloe sigh!

SALAD. SYDNEY SMITH.

To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!

MY LETTERS. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Litera scripta manet."—Old Saw.

Another mizzling, drizzling day!
  Of clearing up there's no appearance;
So I'll sit down without delay,
  And here, at least, I'll make a clearance!

Oh ne'er "on such a day as this,"
  Would Dido with her woes oppressed
Have woo'd AEneas back to bliss,
  Or Trolius gone to hunt for Cressid!

No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,
  And popp'd their toes upon the fender,
And drank a quiet cup of tea:
  On days like this one can't be tender.

So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
  And put my desk upon the table—
Bring that portfolio—stir the fire—
  Now off as fast as you are able!

First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,
  "A ball!"—she knows that I'm no dancer—
That woman's ask'd me fifty times,
  And yet I never send an answer.

"DEAR JACK,—
      Just lend me twenty pounds,
Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
            Yours truly,
                      HENRY GIBBS."
            Why Z—ds!
I've seen the man but twice—here, burn it.

One from my cousin Sophy Daw—
  Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;
"The cat has kitten'd 'in the DRAW,'
  And ruin'd two bran-new silk dresses."

From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,"—nay
  Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;
"Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"—Ay,
  "For King read Mob!" Brougham's old erratum.

From Seraphina Price—"At two"—
  "Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"
Two more because I did not go,
  Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!

"Dear Sir,—
      "This morning Mrs. P—-
Who's doing quite as well as may be,
  Presented me at half past three
Precisely, with another baby.

"Well name it John, and know with pleasure
  You'll stand"—Five guineas more, confound it!—
I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,
  Or thrown it in the Thames and drown'd it.

What have we next? A civil dun:
  "John Brown would take it as a favor"—
Another, and a surlier one,
  "I can't put up with SICH behavior."

"Bill so long standing,"—"quite tired out,"—
  "Must sit down to insist on payment,"
"Called ten times,"—Here's a fuss about
  A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment.

For once I'll send an answer, and in-
  form Mr. Snip he needn't "call" so;
But when his bill's as "tired of standing"
  As he is, beg't will "sit down also."

This from my rich old Uncle Ned,
  Thanking me for my annual present;
And saying he last Tuesday wed
  His cook-maid, Molly—vastly pleasant!

An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,
  Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;
Another from that precious fool,
  Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.

"D'ye give it up?" Indeed I do!
  Confound those antiquated minxes:
I won't play "Billy Black" to a "Blue,"
  Or OEdipus to such old sphinxes.

A note sent up from Kent to show me,
  Left with my bailiff, Peter King;
"I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me!
  "Yours most sincerely,
                       "CAPTAIN SWING."

Four begging letters with petitions,
  One from my sister Jane, to pray
I'll execute a few commissions
  In Bond-street, "when I go that way."

"And buy at Pearsall's in the city
  Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:
Color no matter, so it's pretty;—
  Two hundred pons"—two hundred curses!

From Mistress Jones: "My little Billy
  Goes up his schooling to begin,
Will you just step to Piccadilly,
  And meet him when the coach comes in?

"And then, perhaps, you will as well, see
  The poor dear fellow safe to school
At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea!"
  Heaven send he flog the little fool!

From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know
  You promised me last week a Rebus;
A something smart and apropos,
  For my new Album?"—Aid me, Phoebus!

"My first is follow'd by my second;
  Yet should my first my second see,
A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,
  And sadly shock'd my first would be.

"Were I but what my whole implies,
  And pass'd by chance across your portal
You'd cry 'Can I believe my eyes?
  I never saw so queer a mortal!'

"For then my head would not be on,
  My arms their shoulders must abandon;
My very body would be gone,
  I should not have a leg to stand on."

Come that's dispatch'd—what follows?—Stay
  "Reform demanded by the nation;
Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay,
  By Jove a blessed REFORMATION!

Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose—
  Or no!—the filly—she's the fleeter;
The devil take the rain—here goes,
  I'm off—a plumper for Sir Peter!

THE POPLAR. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
  On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—
We carved HER initials; though not very lately,
  We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.

Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
  Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
  Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.

This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
  Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?
Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing;
  A D?—we'll be DEED if it isn't an O!

Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
  That thus on our labors stern CHRONOS should frown
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes,
  And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!

SPRING.

A NEW VERSION. THOMAS HOOD.

   "HAM. The air bites shrewdly—it is very cold.
    HOR. It is a nipping and eager air."—HAMLET.

Come, GENTLE Spring! ethereal MILDNESS, come!
  O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,
How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?
  There's no such season.

The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name!
  For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter!
And suffer from her BLOWS as if they came
  From Spring the Fighter.

Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing,
  And be her tuneful laureates and upholders,
Who do not feel as if they had a SPRING
  Poured down their shoulders!

Let others eulogize her floral shows;
  From me they can not win a single stanza.
I know her blooms are in full blow—and so's
  The Influenza.

Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale,
  Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at,
Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale,
  Are things I sneeze at!

Fair is the vernal quarter of the year!
  And fair its early buddings and its blowings—
But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear
  With other sowings!

For me, I find, when eastern winds are high,
  A frigid, not a genial inspiration;
Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy
  An inflammation.

Smitten by breezes from the land of plague,
  To me all vernal luxuries are fables,
O! where's the SPRING in a rheumatic leg,
  Stiff as a table's?

I limp in agony—I wheeze and cough;
  And quake with Ague, that great Agitator,
Nor dream, before July, of leaving off
  My Respirator.

What wonder if in May itself I lack
  A peg for laudatory verse to hang on?—
Spring, mild and gentle!—yes, a Spring-heeled Jack
  To those he sprang on.

In short, whatever panegyrics lie
  In fulsome odes too many to be cited,
The tenderness of Spring is all my eye,
  And that is blighted!

ODE.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. THOMAS HOOD.

Ah me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
  My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
  Within yon irksome walls!

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a row!
  Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
  And turned our table-beer!

There I was birched! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
  From Learning's woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!—
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!—
  Most fruitful leaves to me!

The summoned class!—the awful bow!—
I wonder who is master now
  And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
  Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S * * *?—Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the palor) yet
  Some favored two or three—
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
  And swill her prize—bohea?

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
  So wildly I have read!—
Who sits there NOW, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
  Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?
  Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase!
  Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone—a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
  And some have perished young!—
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the WAYNE of life;
  And blithe Carew—is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To Savages at Owhyee;
  Poor Chase is with the worms!—
All are gone—the olden breed!—
New crops of mushroom boys succeeds,
  "And push us from our FORMS!"

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
  At play where we have played!
Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
  And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mixed conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
  And Fortune's favored care—
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path—
  The nabob's pampered heir!

Some brightly starred—some evil born—
For honor some, and some for scorn—
  For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indifferent—none they lack!
Look, here's a white, and there's a black!
  And there's a creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish THEIR frugal sires would keep
  Their only sons at home;—
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
  And pant for years to come!

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at FIVES! and five who stoop
  The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow-cob about,
  Would I were in his STEED!

Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
  With this world's heavy van—
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou can be a horse at school
  To wish to be a man!

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown—to be a king!
  And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
  That hat without a crown!

And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
  More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth?—O, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when——PLAYS,
  And see how FORCED our fun!

Thy taws are brave!—thy tops are rare!—
OUR tops are spun with coils of care,
  Our DUMPS are no delight!—
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
  To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,
  Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
  Toward that merry ground!

Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
  There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast—
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
  A sorry BREAKING UP!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS. W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Twelve years ago I made a mock
  Of filthy trades and traffics:
I wondered what they meant by stock;
  I wrote delightful sapphics:
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
  I supped with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
  A happy boy at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!—how many a thought
  Of faded pains and pleasures,
Those whispered syllables have brought
  From memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.
  The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks
  Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends?—I am alone,
  No playmate shares my beaker—
Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,
  And some before the Speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,
  And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for liberty,
  And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,
  Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loathed false quantities,
  As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
  A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose unscanned
  Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
  Does Dr. Martext's duty;
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
  Is married to a beauty;
And Darrel studies, week by week,
  His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
  Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now—
  The world's cold chain has bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
  And sadder scenes around me:
In Parliament I fill my seat,
  With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Germyn-street,
  And sip my hock at Doodle's.

But often when the cares of life,
  Have set my temples aching,
When visions haunt me of a wife,
  When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,
  Or Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
  Or Beauheu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
  Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk—
  Or shiver in the lobby;
I wish that I could run away
  From House, and court, and levee,
Where bearded men appear to-day,
  Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun,
  And dance o'er childhood's roses;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
  Vast wit and broken noses;
And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,
  And call the milk-maids Houris;
That I could be a boy again—
  A happy boy at Drury's!

THE VICAR. W. MACKWORTH PRAED

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
  Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
  And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
  St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the Green,
  And guided to the Parson's Wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;
  Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveler up the path,
  Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho,
Tramp and Tray,
  Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
  "Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,
  Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady lay her knitting down,
  Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
  Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
  And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
  And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,
  And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:—
If he departed as he came,
  With no new light on love or liquor,—
Good sooth the traveler was to blame,
  And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
  With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns:
  It passed from Mohammed to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep
    The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
    For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
    Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
    He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
    The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
    And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermons never said or showed
    That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
    From Jerome, or from Athanasius;
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
    The hand and head that penned and planned them,
For all who understood, admired,
    And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
    Small treatises and smaller verses;
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
    And hints to noble lords and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
    Lines to a ringlet or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
    And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
    Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
    Although he had a taste for smoking
And when religious sects ran mad,
    He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
    In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
    And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild,
    And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of Fever smiled
    The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me
    Of Julius Caesar or of Venus:
From him I learned the rule of three,
    Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus;
I used to singe his powdered wig,
    To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig
    When he began to quote Augustin.

Alack the change! in vain I look
    For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
    The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before:
    You reach it by a carriage entry:
It holds three hundred people more:
    And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
    The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
    Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?—look down,
    And construe on the slab before you,
HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN,
    VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.

THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. W. M. THACKERAY

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when FANNY sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms!
I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair;
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone—
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—
My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

STANZAS TO PALE ALE. PUNCH.

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever
    Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
    By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!
    I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,
    Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
    As late I've been—so high the scale
Of FAHRENHEIT—and febrile harm
    Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!—yet bitter, too
    And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
    Than a conundrum or a pun,
It is, in every point of view,
    Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
    Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
    The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,
    Like stout and porter—fattening slops!

"CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR." PUNCH.

Sweet is the sound of infant voice;
    Young innocence is full of charms:
There's not a pleasure half so choice,
    As tossing up a child in arms.
Babyhood is a blessed state,
    Felicity expressly made for;
But still, on earth it is our fate,
    That even "Children must be paid for."

If in an omnibus we ride,
    It is a beauteous sight to see,
When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee.
But in the dog-days' scorching heat,
    When a slight breath of air is pray'd for,
Half suffocated in our seat,
    We feel that "Children must be paid for."

There is about the sports of youth
    A charm that reaches every heart,
Marbles or tops are games of truth,
    The bat plays no deceiver's part.
But if we hear a sudden crash,
    No explanation need be stay'd for,
We know there's something gone to smash;
    We feel that "Children must be paid for."

How exquisite the infant's grace,
    When, clambering upon the knee,
The cherub, smiling, takes his place
    Upon his mother's lap at tea;
Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
    And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair—Once more
    We feel that "Children must be paid for."

Presiding at the festive board,
    With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored
    While mirth and jollity abound:
We see our table amply spread
    With knives and forks a dozen laid for,
Then pause to think—"How are they fed?"
    Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"

[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant]

THE MUSQUITO. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,
    And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,
    In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,
    Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint,
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,
    For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
    Has not the honor of so proud a birth—
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
    The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,
    And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong,
Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,
    Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;
The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
    Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
    They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway—-
    Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
    Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist;
And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
    What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
    As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being—well—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer!—rouge makes thee sick?
    And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,
    Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?
Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime—
But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at—not to touch;
    To worship—not approach—that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
    As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired—
Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou 'rt welcome to the town—but why come here
    To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
    And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
    Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
    Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet;
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
    The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
    To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose
    Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS. N. P. WILLIS.

I know not who thou art, thou lovely one,
Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me,
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!—ah, me!—
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill—a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after—we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now,
Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain;
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell—
Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea—
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye,
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,
Not knowing thy papa.

                                    Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth—
Nay—may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount—yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending—
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown—
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of "good society" the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!

                                    But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel—
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!

COME OUT, LOVE. N. P. WILLIS.

Argument.—The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.

Come out, love—the night is enchanting!
    The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting—
    (Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
    And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
    And cool your warm heart for a shilling!

What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
    Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
    (A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
    Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
    Yet gather but sweetness from all!

On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
    Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
    For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
    The organ your pulses may calm—
When—pest!—that remember'd cachucha
    Upsets both the sermon and psalm!

Oh, pity the love that must utter
    While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter
    Of fans shows thermometers high)—
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
    Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
    Is not more unhappy than I!
*[Footnote: Query—Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?—Printer's
Devil.]

THE WHITE CHIP HAT. N. P. WILLIS.

I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
    When late for the Post with a letter—
I think near the corner of Murray—
    And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
    So like to a duchess's doing—
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
    Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—
                    Lovely thing!

Surprising!—one woman can dish us
    So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious—
    Chip hat without flower or feather—
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
    Her waist like the cup of a lily—
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
    Repell'd both the saucy and silly—
                    Quite the thing!

For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
    There's reason in tearing one's tether—
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
    Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as YOU know
    I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—
But I said a bad word—for my Juno
    Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney—
                    Horrid thing!

Away flies the dream I had nourish'd—
    My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
    Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
    Turns earthy when finger'd by asses—
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,
    Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!—
                    Not the thing!

YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU N. P. WILLIS.

As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair—
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair—
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less—
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars—
Lo I—a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love—
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!

    Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That vail of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window—lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringed vail,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringed window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!

THE DECLARATION. N. P. WILLIS.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the uushutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me—SHE HAD BEEN ASLEEP!

LOVE IN A COTTAGE. N. P. WILLIS.

They may talk of love in a cottage,
  And bowers of trellised vine—
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
  And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
  In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
  By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation
  By the light of a chandelier—
With music to play in the pauses,
  And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
  With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
  The small white hand in mine.

Four love in a cottage is hungry,
  Your vine is a nest for flies—
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
  And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
  And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
  Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,
  And mightily likes his ease—
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
  And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
  His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
  And shot from a silver string.

TO HELEN IN A HUFF. N. P. WILLIS

Nay, lady, one frown is enough
  In a life as soon over as this—
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
  They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
  Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
  You've lost so much light from your lips!
          Pray, lady, smile!

The cup that is longest untasted
  May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
  An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
  To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
  Be laying up love, I should say!
            Nay, lady, smile!

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I wrote some lines, once on a time,
  In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
  They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
  I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
  A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
  How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
  He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed.
   And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
  "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
  And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
  Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad.
  And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
  I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
  The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
  And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
  I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
  As funny as I can.

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. A BALLAD. JOHN G. SAXE.

An Attorney was taking a turn,
  In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
  And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
  His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
  And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
  A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
  Or complainingly talked to himself:

"Unfortunate man that I am!
  I've never a client but grief;
The case is, I've no case at all,
  And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain,
  Expecting an 'opening' to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
  Some reward for the toil of his mind.

"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
  Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
  While I have to plead for a case.

"O, how can a modest young man
  E'er hope for the smallest progression—
The profession's already so full
  Of lawyers so full of profession!"

While thus he was strolling around,
  His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,
  And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat
  On the curb-stone the space of a minute,
Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!"
  And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came
  ('Twas the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined
  How the man had determined his end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"
  Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse;
"A lawyer? Alas!" said another,
  "Undoubtedly he died of remorse!"

A third said, "He knew the deceased,
  An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,
  'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length,
  After solemnly weighing the matter,
"That the lawyer was drownDed, because
  He could not keep his head above water!"

SONNET TO A CLAM.
                              JOHN G. SAXE
Dum tacent CLAMant

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
  Thy life is one of very little ease;
  Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
  From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
  Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off—as foemen take their spoil—
  Far from thy friends and family to roam;
  Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
  Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
  Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

O Maryanne, you pretty girl,
  Intent on silky labor,
Of sempstresses the pink and pearl,
  Excuse a peeping neighbor!

Those eyes, forever drooping, give
  The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,—
  For once unvail them fairly.

Hast thou not lent that flounce enough
  Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more "penetrable stuff,"
  To which thou never turnest.

Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
  How slender, and how nimble!
O might I wind their skeins of thread,
  Or but pick up their thimble!

How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
  And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
  The silver into golden!

Who'll steal some morning to her side
  To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
  And blushes deep with pleasure.

Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown,
  Well conscious that it IS hers,
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors.

Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
  The fragrant and delicious—
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
  O Maryanne, my precious!

I almost wish it were my trust
  To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,
  To quit this tempting lattice.

Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,
  Across a street so narrow;
A thread of silk to string his bow,
  A needle for his arrow!

NARRATIVE

TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE [OLD BALLAD, QUOTED BY SHAKSPEARE, IN OTHELLO.] PERCY RELIQUES

This winters weather itt waxeth cold,
  And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
  That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell, my wiffe, who loves noe strife,
  Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,
  Man, put thine old cloake about thee.

                HE.
O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?
  Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:
Itt is soe bare and overworne
  A cricke he theron cannot renn:
Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,
  For once Ile new appareld bee,
To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,
  For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

                SHE.
Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
  Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
She has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow
  And other things shee will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine,
  Good husband councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
  Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

                HE.
My cloake it was a very good cloake
  Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat;
  I have had it four and forty yeere;
Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,
  'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see.
It will neither hold out winde nor raine;
  And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

                 SHE.
It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
  Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
  Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men;
  In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyselfe misken?
  Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

                  HE.
O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute!
  Now is nowe, and then was then:
Seeke now all the world throughout,
  Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
  Soe far above their owne degree:
Once in my life Ile doe as they,
  For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

                  SHE.
King Stephen was a worthy peere,
  His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere;
  Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
  And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe,
  Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

              HE.
"Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
  Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
  I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man;"
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
  Unlesse he first gave oer the plea:
As wee began wee now will leave,
  And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. [AN OLD ENGLISH BALLAD—LONG VERY POPULAR.] PERCY RELIQUES

An ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
Por except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about,
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold:
How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home,
What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give:
That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head.
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth.
To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say,
'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saivour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
I did not think I had been worth so littel!
—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
I did not think it could be gone so soone!
—Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee:
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY [A VERY FAVORITE ANCIENT BALLAD.] PERCY RELIQUES

There was a knight was drunk with wine,
  A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
  Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire,
  Among the grass lye down-a:
And I will have a special care,
  Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe,
  Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:
My gowne and kirtle they are newe,
  And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red,
  Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;
  We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free
  Among the cocks of hay, sir,
And if the pinner should chance to see,
  He'll take my steed away, sir.

Upon my finger I have a ring,
  Its made of finest gold-a,
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
  Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall;
  Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
  And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
  And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
  Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father's hall they arrived strait;
  'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate,
  And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend,
  And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
  To wait on you back again, sir.

He from his scabbard drew his brand,
  And wiped it upon his sleeve-a!
And cursed, he said, be every man,
  That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire,
  And wip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curs'd be every maiden faire,
  That will with men lye down-a!

A herb there is, that lowly grows,
  And some do call it rue, sir:
The smallest dunghill cock that
  Would make a capon of you, sir.

A flower there is, that shineth bright,
  Some call it mary-gold-a:
He that wold not when he might,
  He shall not when he wold-a.

The knight was riding another day,
  With cloak, and hat, and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
  Who was angling in the river.

Now, lady faire, I've met with you,
  You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
  You falsely did intrap me.

He from his saddle down did light,
  In all his riche attyer;
And cryed, As I'm a noble knight,
  I do thy charms admyer.

He took the lady by the hand,
  Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand:
  She had a plot invented.

Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,
  Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
  My former constant lover.

On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
  Past by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
  Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.

O'er head and ears he plunged in,
  The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
  Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
  You see what conies of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
  Your courage wanted cooling.

Ere many days, in her fathers park,
  Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
  Which made this lady grieve-a.

False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,
  And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour
  That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.

I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
  With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
  'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.

A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd,
  To tumble me in and leave me!
What if I had in the river dy'd?—
  That fetch will not deceive me.

Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
  Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But thou prepare without delay
  To yield thee to my pleasure.

Well then, if I must grant your suit,
  Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
  Or else you cannot stir, sir.

He set him down upon the grass,
  And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass,
  I'll make you keep your distance.

Then pulling off his boots half-way;
  Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
  Sit there like a knave in fetters.

The knight, when she had served him soe,
  He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
  But like a cripple tumbled.

Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
  Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
  To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse,
  You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
  Had you been a man of mettle.

All night in grievous rage he lay,
  Roiling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
  Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
  By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
  She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard,
  I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
  My wrath shall no more be hindred.

He rode unto her father's house,
  Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
  And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
  Once more I will endeavour:
This water shall your fury 'swage,
  Or else it shall burn for ever.

Then faining penitence and feare,
  She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
  Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

My father he is now from home,
  And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore across the water come,
  And I am all your own, sir.

False maid, thou canst no more deceive;
  I scorn the treacherous bait-a;
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
  Now open me the gate-a.

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
  My father he has the keys, sir;
But I have for my love prepar'd
  A shorter way, and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank
  Full seventeen feet in measure,
Then step across to the other bank,
  And there we'll take our pleasure.

These words she had no sooner spoke,
  But straight he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,
  And sous'd the unhappy lover.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. A TALE. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Once on a time, in sunshine weather,
Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighboring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do.
Through many a blooming mead they passed,
And at a brook arriv'd at last.
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid,
To rest a while beneath the shade.
Under a spreading beach they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
Whilst each her character maintain'd;
One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth
(For so she call'd her from her youth),
What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream;
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?
With all my heart, the nymph replied,
And threw her snowy robes aside,
Stript herself naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapt headlong in.
Falsehood more leisurely undrest,
And, laying by her tawdry vest,
Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,
And 'cross the meadows tript away.
  From this curst hour, the fraudful dame
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And, with a vile, perfidious mind,
Roams far and near, to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain pretended fears;
In visits, still appears most wise,
And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks;
When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd,
The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd.
But on she will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,
Reviling every one she knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue, so voluble and kind,
It always runs before her mind;
As times do serve, she slyly pleads,
And copious tears still show her needs.
With promises as thick as weeds—
Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil,
To-day a saint, to-morrow devil.
  Poor Truth she stript, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely maid,
Who, scorning from her cause to wince,
Has gone stark-naked ever since;
And ever naked will appear,
Belov'd by all who Truth revere.

FLATTERY. A FABLE. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

Fanny, beware of flattery,
Your sex's much-lov'd enemy;
For other foes we are prepar'd,
And Nature puts us on our guard:
In that alone such charms are found,
We court the dart, we nurse the hand;
And this, my child, an Aesop's Fable
Will prove much better than I'm able.

A young vain female Crow,
Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough,
  And sitting there at ease,
Was going to indulge her taste,
In a most delicious feast,
  Consisting of a slice of cheese.
A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature)
    Pass'd by that way
    In search of prey;
  When to his nose the smell of cheese,
  Came in a gentle western breeze;
No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better:
  He bless'd th' auspicious wind,
  And strait look'd round to find,
What might his hungry stomach fill,
  And quickly spied the Crow,
  Upon a lofty bough,
Holding the tempting prize within her bill.
  But she was perch'd too high,
  And Reynard could not fly:
She chose the tallest tree in all the wood,
    What then could bring her down?
    Or make the prize his own?
Nothing but flatt'ry could.
He soon the silence broke,
And thus ingenious hunger spoke:
"Oh, lovely bird,
Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd
  The envy of the grove;
Thy form was Nature's pleasing care,
So bright a bloom, so soft an air,
  All that behold must love.
But, if to suit a form like thine,
Thy voice be as divine;
  If both in these together meet,
The feather'd race must own
Of all their tribe there's none,
  Of form so fair, of voice so sweet.
Who'll then regard the linnet's note,
Or heed the lark's melodious throat?
What pensive lovers then shall dwell
With raptures on their Philomel?
The goldfinch shall his plumage hide,
The swan abate her stately pride,
And Juno's bird no more display
His various glories to the sunny day:
Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer,
And bless my longing ear
With notes that I would die to hear!"
Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'd
The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd;
In haste to show her want of skill,
She open'd wide her bill:
  She scream'd as if the de'el was in her
Her vanity became so strong
That, wrapt in her own frightful song,
  She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner,
The morsel fell quick by the place
     Where Reynard lay,
     Who seized the prey
And eat it without saying grace.
  He sneezimg cried "The day's my own,
My ends obtain'd
The prize is gain'd,
And now I'll change my note.
Vain, foolish, cheated Glow,
Lend your attention now,
A truth or two I'll tell you!
For, since I've fill'd my belly,
  Of course my flattry's done:
Think you I took such pains,
And spoke so well only to hear you croak?
No, 'twas the luscious bait,
And a keen appetite to eat,
That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat
'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter,
Flatterers must live by those they flatter;
But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mine
Might turn an abler head than thine;
  And though reflection may displease,
If wisely you apply your thought,
To learn the lesson I have taught,
Experience, sure, is cheaply bought,
  And richly worth a slice of cheese."

THE PIG AND MAGPIE. PETER PINDAR.

Cocking his tail, a saucy prig,
A Magpie hopped upon a Pig,
  To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest;
And with such ease began the hair attack,
As thinking the fee simple of the back
  Was by himself, and not the Pig, possessed.

The Boar looked up as thunder black to Mag,
Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag,
  Informed Mynheer some bristles must be torn.
Then briskly went to work, not nicely culling:
Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling,
  And flew, without a "Thank ye" to his thorn.

The Pig set up a dismal yelling:
Followed the robber to his dwelling,
  Who like a fool had built it 'midst a bramble.
In manfully he sallied, full of might,
Determined to obtain his right,
  And 'midst the bushes now began to scramble.

He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags,
And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags:
  But ere he from the brambles came, alack!
His ears and eyes were miserably torn,
His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn,
  He could not count ten hairs upon his back.

ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN, OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY. PETER PINDAR

  Young women! don't be fond of killing,
  Too well I know your hearts unwilling
To hide beneath the vail a charm—
  Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll,
  And with a neck to thrill the soul
Of every swain with love's alarm.

  Yet, yet, if prudence be not near
  Its snow may melt into a tear.

  The dimple smile, and pouting lip,
  Where little Cupids nectar sip,
Are very pretty lures I own:
  But, ah! if prudence be not nigh,
  Those lips where all the Cupids lie,
May give a passage to a groan.

  A Rose, in all the pride of bloom,
  Flinging around her rich perfume
Her form to public notice pushing,
  Amid the summer's golden glow
  Peeped on a Strawberry below,
Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.

  "Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose,
  "What's beauty that no mortal knows?
What is a charm, if never seen?
  You really are a pretty creature:
  Then wherefore hide each blooming feature?
Come up, and show your modest mien."

  "Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied,
  "I never did possess a pride
That wished to dash the public eye:
  Indeed, I own that I'm afraid—
  I think there's safety in the shade,
Ambition causes many a sigh."

  "Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined,
  "See how I wanton in the wind:
I feel no danger's dread alarms:
  And then observe the god of day,
  How amorous with his golden ray,
To pay his visits to my charms!"

  No sooner said, but with a scream
  She started from her favorite theme—
A clown had on her fixed his pat.
  In vain she screeched—Hob did but smile;
  Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile,
Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.

ECONOMY. PETER PINDAR.

Economy's a very useful broom;
Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room
  To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb:
Too oft Economy's an iron vice,
That squeezes even the little guts of mice,
  That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper Economy's a comely thing—
Good in a subject—better in a king;
  Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling—
Most easily inclined to make folks mean;
Inclines them too, to villainy to lean,
  To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.

Even when the heart should only think of grief
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,
And swallows up th' affections all so mild—Witness the Jewess, and her
only child:—

THE JEWESS AND HER SON

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
  Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
  In imitation of th' ambitious great,
High from the gallery, ere the play begun,
  He fell all plump into the pit,
  Dead in a minute as a nit:
In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;
Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild—
Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child—
  Afflicted every heart with grief around:
Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,
And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,
  She cast about her eyes in thought profound
And being with a saving knowledge blessed,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed:

"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet mishfartin here so bad—
Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf not see de show."

But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of every evil:
  The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flower of virtue near it lives:
  Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills.
In every soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread,
  So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;
And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,
  Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avowed,
Might not be readily allowed.

THE COUNTBY LASSES. PETER PINDAR.

Peter lasheth the Ladies.—He turneth Story-teller.—Peter grieveth.

  Although the ladies with such beauty blaze,
  They very frequently my passion raise—
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE.
  Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,
  I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.

"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet!
He shall paint ME—I am determin'd on it—
  Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!
What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze!
What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!
  Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"

"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true—
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!
  There's a complexion beats the ROUGE of Warren!
See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice!—
  Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.

"Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, COZ?
But we 'll be painted FIRST that POZ."

Such was the very PRETTY conversation
  That pass'd between the PRETTY misses,
While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation,
  Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces
Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone—
Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.

Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye
What lately happen'd—therefore a true story:—

A STORY.

   Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
   My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand
     Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.

"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do?
  Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye."
"Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you;
  We're just to London come—well, pray how be ye?

  "We're just a going, while 'tis light,
    To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark.
  Lord! come, for once, be so polite,
    And condescend to be our spark."

"With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd,
And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd.
  Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious structure would surprise,
  How from its awful grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!

  As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
  St. Paul's just opening on our view;
  Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,
  Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,
  As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
  And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

  After well fright'ning people with their cries,
  And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,
  They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
  And clattering all together, thus begun:—

  "Swinge! here are colors then, to please!
    Delightful things, I vow to heav'n!
  Why! not to see such things as these,
    We never should have been forgiv'n.

  "Here, here, are clever things—good Lord!
  And, sister, here, upon my word—
Here, here!—look! here are beauties to delight:
    Why! how a body's heels might dance
    Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!"

"Come, ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I—"I fear.
Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near"—
"Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul!
Sure! you're a most INCURIOUS soul—
Why—we can see the church another day;
Don't be afraid—St. Paul's can't RUN AWAY."

          Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought SUBLIME,
Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR.

Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection
—He telleth a miraculous Story.

There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labor can not to perfection bring:
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:

A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,
  And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,
  And never be a whit the wiser

Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't,
Never to be superior to a, hint—
  The genius of each man, with keenness view—
A spark from this, or t'other, caught,
May kindle, quick as thought,
    A glorious bonfire up in you.
    A question of you let me beg—
    Of fam'd Columbus and his egg.
Pray, have you heard? "Yes."—O, then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A TRUE STORY.

A brace of sinners, for no good,
  Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
  And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
  A sort of apostolic salt,
  Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:
  But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
  The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried—
  Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
  Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way—
Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees;
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke
  "You lazy lubber! 'Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke—
My feet, once hard as any rock,
  Are now as soft as any blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear—
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.

"But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain:
What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for YOUR toes:
While I, just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
  While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that YOU can like a greyhound go,
Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?"
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,
That just before I ventur'd on my journey,
    To walk a little more at ease,
    I took the liberty to boil MY peas.'"

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES. THOMAS GRAY.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
  The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
  Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
  The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
  She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
  The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view
  Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw
A whisker first, and then a claw,
  With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize;
What female heart can gold despise?
  What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent,
Again she stretched, again she bent,
  Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
  She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
  Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard:
  A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived,
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
  And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
  Nor all that glistens gold.

THE RETIRED CAT. WILLIAM COWPER.

A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick;
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Appareled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.

  But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton in her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

 A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use;
A drawer, impending o'er the rest,
Half open, in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.

  Awakened by the shock (cried puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet
Oh what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come, and let me out."

  The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before;
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom.
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

  That night, by chance, the poet, watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said—"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The next in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well know to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

SAYING NOT MEANING. WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
When opening his toothpick-case, one said,
"It was not until lately that I knew
That anchovies on terra firma grew.
"Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed,
  Like other fish, but not upon the land;
You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
  Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other,
                     "My brother,
     When at Calcutta
Beheld them bona fide growing;
     He wouldn't utter
A lie for love or money, sir; so in
  This matter you are thoroughly mistaken."
"Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
To the assertion—none e'er saw or read it;
  Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
      Perverse—in short—"
"Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar,
      And then his port—
"If you will say impossibles are true,
  You may affirm just any thing you please—
That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
  And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
Only you must not, FORCE me to believe
What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"
      Return'd the bragger.
Language like this no man can suffer cool:
      It made the listener stagger;
So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
      "The traveler LIED
  Who had the impudence to tell it you;"
"Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face
That anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?"
      "I DO!"

Disputants often after hot debates
  Leave the contention as they found it—bone,
And take to duelling or thumping tetes;
  Thinking by strength of artery to atone
For strength of argument; and he who winces
From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
  Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
  Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
(Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show
It might be better they shook hands—but no;
  When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right
  Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!
And they DID fight: from six full measured paces
  The unbeliever pulled his trigger first;
And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces,
  The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst,
Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear
  (His ire evanishing like morning vapors),
Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear,
  Who in a manner sudden and uncouth,
  Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth;
For while the surgeon was applying lint,
He, wriggling, cried—"The deuce is in't—Sir! I MEANT—CAPERS!"

JULIA. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

           —medio de fonte leporum
           Surgit amari aliquid.—Lucret.

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.
Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain.
Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came,
And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;
The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,
The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.
Naught now remain'd but "Noes"—how little meant—
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:—
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?
The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes,
Gives a melancholy howl, and—dies!
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first,
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled:—he woos a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;—
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacs the day be cross'd!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

A COCK AND HEN STORY. ROBERT SOUTHEY

PART I.

        Once on a time three Pilgrims true,
        Being Father and Mother and Son,
          For pure devotion to the Saint,
               A pilgrimage begun.

    Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say,
      In none of my books can I find;
    But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre,
      What the parents were called, never mind.

    From France they came, in which fair land
        They were people of good renown;
And they took up their lodging one night on the way
              In La Calzada town.

     Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,
And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn,
       My good little women and men,
    Why then you never would have heard,
      This tale of the Cock and the Hen.

    For the Innkeepers they had a daughter,
      Sad to say, who was just such another
As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been
      If she followed the ways of her mother.

          This wicked woman to our Pierre
            Behaved like Potiphar's wife;
        And because she failed to win his love,
            She resolved to take his life.

            So she packed up a silver cup
            In his wallet privily;
        And then, as soon as they were gone,
           She raised a hue and cry.

    The Pilgrims were overtaken,
      The people gathered round,
Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre's
      The silver cup was found.

 They dragged him before the Alcayde;
       A hasty Judge was he,
"The theft," he said, "was plain and proved,
   And hang'd the thief must be."
  So to the gallows our poor Pierre
     Was hurried instantly.

     If I should now relate
   The piteous lamentation,
Which for their son these parents made,
   My little friends, I am afraid
     You'd weep at the relation.

   But Pierre in Santiago still
   His constant faith profess'd;
  When to the gallows he was led,
"'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said,
  "Though not the pleasantest."

  And from their pilgrimage he charged
    His parents not to cease,
  Saying that unless they promised this,
    He could not be hanged in peace.

 They promised it with heavy hearts;
   Pierre then, therewith content,
Was hang'd: and they upon their way
   To Compostella went.

PART II.

     Four weeks they travel'd painfully,
       They paid their vows, and then
         To La Calzada's fatal town
         Did they come back again.

    The Mother would not be withheld,
          But go she must to see
  Where her poor Pierre was left to hang
          Upon the gallows tree.

     Oh tale most marvelous to hear,
         Most marvelous to tell!
  Eight weeks had he been hanging there,
       And yet was alive and well!

  "Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd,
     It is time I should now be released:
  Though I can not complain that I'm tired,
  And my neck does not ache in the least.

  "The Sun has not scorch'd me by day,
  The Moon has not chilled me by night;
And the winds have but helped me to swing,
          As if in a dream of delight.

          "Go you to the Alcayde,
          That hasty Judge unjust,
        Tell him Santiago has saved me,
        And take me down he must!"

      Now, you must know the Alcayde,
      Not thinking himself a great sinner,
        Just then at table had sate down,
          About to begin his dinner.

        His knife was raised to carve
          The dish before him then;
  Two roasted fowls were laid therein,
  That very morning they had been
    A Cock and his faithful Hen.

  In came the Mother, wild with joy:
      "A miracle!" she cried;
  But that most hasty Judge unjust
      Repell'd her in his pride.

    "Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this
         That I should give belief!
       Santiago never would bestow
       His miracles, full well I know,
       On a Frenchman and a thief."

    And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which
         He held his ready knife,
        "As easily might I believe
      These birds should come to life!"

    The good Saint would not let him thus
      The Mother's true tale withstand;
      So up rose the Fowls in the dish,
    And down dropt the knife from his hand.

    The Cock would have crow'd if he could:
         To cackle the Hen had a wish;
      And they both slipt about in the gravy
         Before they got out of the dish.

     And when each would have open'd its eyes,
      For the purpose of looking about them,
        They saw they had no eyes to open,
    And that there was no seeing without them.

      All this was to them a great wonder,
      They stagger'd and reel'd on the table;
      And either to guess where they were,
  Or what was their plight, or how they came there,
        Alas! they were wholly unable:

  Because, you must know, that that morning,
    A thing which they thought very hard,
      The Cook had cut off their heads,
      And thrown them away in the yard.

  The Hen would have pranked up her feathers,
      But plucking had sadly deform'd her;
And for want of them she would have shiver'd with cold,
  If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.

     And the Cock felt exceedingly queer;
         He thought it a very odd thing
That his head and his voice were he did not know where,
     And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.

         The gizzard got into its place,
           But how Santiago knows best:
         And so, by the help of the Saint,
           Did the liver and all the rest.

      The heads saw their way to the bodies,
    In they came from the yard without check,
      And each took its own proper station,
        To the very great joy of the neck.

  And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower,
      For they all became white on the way;
And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged,
        And then who so happy as they!

  Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then,
           The Cock his clarion blew,
        Full glad was he to hear again
           His own cock-a-doo-del-doo!

PART III.

           "A miracle! a miracle!"
     The people shouted, as they might well,
     When the news went through the town
       And every child and woman and man
       Took up the cry, and away they ran
           To see Pierre taken down.

       They made a famous procession
       My good little women and men,
     Such a sight was never seen before
       And I think will never again.

      Santiago's Image, large as life,
  Went first with banners and drum and fife;
      And next, as was most meet,
  The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne
      Along the thronging street.

    Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high,
  They were raised in sight of the crowd;
      And when the people set up a cry,
      The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy,
        And the Cock he crow'd aloud.

  And because they very well knew for why
    They were carried in such solemnity,
And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em
  They behaved with the greatest propriety,
        And most correct decorum.

The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn,
  Still red with their innocent blood, was borne,
         The scullion boy he carried it;
  And the Skewers also made part of the show,
    With which they were truss'd for the spit.

      The Cook in triumph bore that Spit
           As high as he was able;
And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid
      When they had been served at table.

    With eager faith the crowd prest round;
    There was a scramble of women and men
        For who should dip a finger-tip
          In the blessed Gravy then.

    Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast,
        Crying aloud like a man distrest,
      And amazed at the loss of his dinner,
            "Santiago, Santiago!
        Have mercy on me a sinner!"

      And lifting oftentimes his hands
        Toward the Cock and Hen,
    "Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried,
      And as devoutly the people replied,
         Whenever he said it, "Amen!"

The Father and Mother were last in the train;
           Rejoicingly they came,
    And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude,
           Santiago's glorious name.

    So, with all honors that might be,
      They gently unhang'd Pierre;
    No hurt or harm had he sustain'd,
      But, to make the wonder clear,
    A deep biack halter-mark remain'd
        Just under his left ear.

PART IV.

      And now, my little listening dears
      With open mouths and open ears,
      Like a rhymer whose only art is
    That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale,
      To let you know I must not fail,
      What became of all the parties.

        Pierre went on to Compostella
           To finish his pilgrimage,
    His parents went back with him joyfully,
After which they returned to their own country,
    And there, I believe, that all the three
           Lived to a good old age.

     For the gallows on which Pierre
         So happily had swung,
     It was resolved that never more
         On it should man be hung.

      To the Church it was transplanted,
          As ancient books declare.
        And the people in commotion,
        With an uproar of devotion,
          Set it up for a relic there.

    What became of the halter I know not,
      Because the old books show not,
      But we may suppose and hope,
      That the city presented Pierre
        With that interesting rope.

          For in his family, and this
            The Corporation knew,
        It rightly would be valued more
            Than any cordon bleu.

      The Innkeeper's wicked daughter
        Confess'd what she had done,
        So they put her in a Convent,
          And she was made a Nun.

      The Alcayde had been so frighten'd
        That he never ate fowls again;
      And he always pulled off his hat
      When he saw a Cock and Hen.
        Wherever he sat at table
    Not an egg might there be placed;
And he never even muster'd courage for a custard,
    Though garlic tempted him to taste
       Of an omelet now and then.

    But always after such a transgression
    He hastened away to make confession;
      And not till he had confess'd,
  And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel
      His conscience and stomach at rest.

  The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church
           As by miracle consecrated,
     Were given, and there unto the Saint
       They were publicly dedicated.

         At their dedication the Corporation
           A fund for their keep supplied;
   And after following the Saint and his banners,
 This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,
           That the Priests were edified.

             Gentle as any turtle-dove,
    Saint Cock became all meekness and love;
             Most dutiful of wives,
        Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
             So they led happy lives.

            The ways of ordinary fowls
        You must know they had clean forsaken;
          And if every Cock and Hen in Spain
            Had their example taken,
      Why then—the Spaniards would have had
            No eggs to eat with bacon.

        These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,
            In the odor of sanctity died:
        They were carefully pluck'd and then
            They were buried, side by side.

        And lest the fact should be forgotten
         (Which would have been a pity),
      'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth,
    That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth,
         In the arms of that ancient City.

       Two eggs Saint Hen had laid—no more—
           The chickens were her delight;
           A Cock and Hen they proved,
And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.

        The last act of the Holy Hen
  Was to rear this precious brood; and when
        Saint Cock and she were dead,
        This couple, as the lawful heirs,
          Succeeded in their stead.

        They also lived seven years,
        And they laid eggs but two,
    From which two milk-white chickens
        To Cock and Henhood grew;
          And always their posterity
        The self-same course pursue.

      Not one of these eggs ever addled,
       (With wonder be it spoken!)
      Not one of them ever was lost,
      Not one of them ever was broken.

    Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat,
  Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them:
      And woe to the irreverent wretch
  Who should even dream of poaching them!

        Thus then is this great miracle
          Continued to this day;
      And to their Church all Pilgrims go,
         When they are on the way;
    And some of the feathers are given them;
         For which they always pay.

         No price is set upon them,
     And this leaves all persons at ease;
     The Poor give as much as they can,
       The Rich as much as they please.

     But that the more they give the better,
           Is very well understood;
      Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,
         Is for their own souls' good;

           For Santiago will always
         Befriend his true believers;
     And the money is for him, the Priests
         Being only his receivers.

         To make the miracle the more,
     Of these feathers there is always store,
             And all are genuine too;
           All of the original Cock and Hen,
         Which the Priests will swear is true.

Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,
  And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,
        They would still find some to buy;
      For however great were the demand,
        So great would be the supply.

      And if any of you, my small friends,
      Should visit those parts, I dare say
    You will bring away some of the feathers,
      And think of old Robin Gray.

[Illustration with caption: BURNS]

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

  Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,
  That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
  And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,
  When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!—
  Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
  Given by the natives of that land canorous;
  Italian license loves to leap the pale,
  We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"
All have their tastes—this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic joys—
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay—
Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit,
But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway—
And where's Serendib? may some critic say—
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map—
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter—
The last edition see, by Long and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction—
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction—
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
—Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter—
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not—but the Sultaun never laugh'd,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
  As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed,
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,
  And then in solemn accent spoke their doom,
  "His majesty is very far from well."
Then each to work with his specific fell;
The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily,
Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily.
More and yet more in deep array appear,
And some the front assail, and some the rear;
Their remedies to reinforce and vary,
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary;
Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary,
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor,
Some hint about a bowstring or a saber.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd—by their advice
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
  And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders)
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament
  Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders—
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;—
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong—
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war—
"The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death,
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day,
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons—
And for the charges—Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places
  (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot)
Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,
  From this oration auguring much disquiet,
Double assessment, forage, and free quarters;
And fearing these as China-men the Tartars,
Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers,
Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation,
  Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green,
Imaum and Mollah there of every station,
  Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.
Their votes were various—some advised a Mosque
  With fitting revenues should be erected,
With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque,
  To create a band of priests selected;
Others opined that through the realms a dole
  Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.
  But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit,
More closely touch'd the point;—"Thy studious mood,"
Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,
And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure;
From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee,
And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit,
  And so the patient (as is not uncommon
Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)
  Resolved to take advice of an old woman;
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,
And still was called so by each subject duteous.
Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest,
  Or only made believe, I can not say—
But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,
  By dint of magic amulet or lay;
And, when all other skill in vain was shown,
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

"Sympathia magica hath wonders done"
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),
"It works upon the fibers and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.—Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man:
I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."
Such was the counsel from his mother came;—
I know not if she had some under-game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)
That such was her advice—the Sultaun took it.

All are on board—the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.
  The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"
They paused—"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince,
"Was call'd The Happy many ages since—
  For Mokha, Rais."—And they came safely thither.
But not in Araby, with all her balm,
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of Happiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.
"Enough of turbans," said the weary King.
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!"—The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.—
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled,
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
"While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,
Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic—the buck,
Poffaredio! still has all the luck;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag—
And then—a perfect walking money-bag."
Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France—it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion,
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him,
Only the glory of his house had fail'd him;
Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding,
Gave indication of a recent hiding.
Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless,
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless
  To ask, if at that moment he was happy.
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a
Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!"
  Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?"
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question—
  "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull,
  That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?"
The query seem'd of difficult digestion,
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,
And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,
And bade the vail of modesty be drawn),
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,
"Jean Bool!—I vas not know him—yes, I vas—
I vas remember dat, von year or two,
I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo—
Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman—m'entendez-vous?
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,
Rogue I no like—dey call him Vellington."
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John;
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way,
"Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much."
  Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,
That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,
  Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte!
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd—
"And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d—d?"

'A stranger come to see the happiest man—
So, signior, all avouch—in Frangistan.'—
"Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand;
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broadcloths—
Happy?—-why, cursed war and racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."—
"In that case, signior, I may take my leave;
I came to ask a favor—but I grieve."—
"Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,
"It's my belief you came to break the yard!—
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner—
Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."—
With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;
But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,
"Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;
A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine.
Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"—
"Kiss and be d—d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg
When the blithe bagpipe blew—but, soberer now,
She DOUCELY span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a month her house was partly swept,
And once a week a plenteous board she kept.
And, whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws
  And teeth of yore, on slender provocation.
She now was grown amenable to laws,
  A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon.
And was d—d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum courtesy'd sister Peg;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do).
She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook;
Ask'd him "About the news from Eastern parts:
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts!
If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper,
And if the NITMUGS were grown ONY cheaper;—
Were there nae SPEERINGS of our Mungo Park—
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle
  In search of goods her customer to nail,
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle
  And hallo'd—"Ma'am, that is not what I ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"—
"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,
  Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."—
"What say you to the present?"—"Meal's sae dear,
  To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."—
"The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun,
"I think my quest will end as it began.—
Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"—
"Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, with words of thunder
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middle men two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potato, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.
The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day;
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.

"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun,
"That ragged fellow is our very man!
Rush in and seize him—do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his SHIRT."

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack;
They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him—Alack
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not—a shirt to his back!!!
And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. THOMAS MOORE.

A donkey whose talent for burden was wondrous,
  So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
  That—down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze—
  What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy
So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,
  For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother")
  Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other—
  When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.

But, how to upraise him?—one shouts, T'OTHER whistles,
  While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production" of thistles—
  (Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes—
  "There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease,
The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
  And this is his mode of 'TRANSITION TO PEACE'"

Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
  Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone—
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
  (The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,
  Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"—
And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the METALLIC,
  They'd shoe their OWN donkeys with papier mache."

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
  Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan,
And, what was still dolefuler—lending an ear
  To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
  As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd—
"Quick—off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
  Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY. B. HARRIS BABHAM.

                   MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur).
I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy—I said "What make you here?—
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;"
Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy—he deem'd I meant to scoff—
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;"
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,—
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?—it's striking nine," I said,
"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold—Oh fie!—
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb'd with agony—he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur—"Ah
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!—

"My father, he is on the seas,—my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'BROWN' to buy a bit of bread with,—let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;)
"And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man—cheer up!" I kindly said.
You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck—then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones—we must not keep her up—
There's roast potatoes on the fire,—enough for me and you—
Come home,—you little vulgar Boy—I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy"
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,—
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delft
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho—I went to Mr. Cobb—
I changed a shilling—(which in town the people call "a Bob")—
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child—
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about—I gazed on stool and chair—
I could not see my little friend—because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth—beneath the sofa too—
I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons—I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
—I could not see my sugar-tongs—my silver watch—oh, dear!
I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!—it was not to be seen!
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;
My carpet-bag—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—
My roast potatoes!—all are gone!—and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
"—Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?—ain't this a pretty go?
—That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,
—He's stolen my things and run away!!"—Says she, "And sarve you
     right!!"

* * * * * *

Next morning I was up betimes—I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told my tale—he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of—something—'twas a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"—dear me; what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with
     green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"
—It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer—
And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
—It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, "someWHERES" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I TWIG the chap—he's been upon the Mill—
And 'cause he GAMMONS so the FLATS, ve calls him Veeping Bill!"
He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely STOW'D the SWAG."
—That's French, I fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?"
I answered, "To be sure I do!—it's what I come about."
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."
His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,
But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"
My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ;
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

                          MORAL.
Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell,
"BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!"
Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"
Don't take too much of double X!—and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well!

THE GHOST. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

There stands a City,—neither large nor small,
  Its air and situation sweet and pretty;
It matters very little—if at all—
  Whether its denizens are dull or witty,
Whether the ladies there are short or tall,
  Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!—
Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute
That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,
  And kings and heroes lie entombed within her;
There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose,
  Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner;
There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose
  Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner;
And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,
—Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound,
  Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,
Ere those abominable guns were found,
  To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver
It stands upon a gently rising ground,
  Sloping down gradually to the river,
Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese—but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately,
  And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous,
In martial panoply so grand and stately,
  Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows,
And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly,
  With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows
In short, so great a change has come to pass,
Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.—Before this profanation,
  And ere its ancient glories were out short all,
A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station
  In a small house, just opposite the portal;
His birth, his parentage, and education,
  I know but little of—a strange, odd mortal;
His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason—he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,
  And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion;
But, spite of all her piety, her arm
  She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion;
And, being of a temper somewhat warm,
  Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,
A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie,
And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;—'tis a thing that's not uncommon,
  'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,—
I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman,
  Such as I own I entertain a dread of,
—And so did Nick,—whom sometimes there would come on
  A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,
Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,
She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage
  (King Solomon, I think), and this I can say,
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
  Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY,
When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;
  —'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:—
To get well mill'd by any one's an evil,
But by a lady—'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble
  (At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity;
For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble,
  His senses lost in a sublime immensity
Of cogitation—then he couldn't cobble—
  And then his wife would often try the density
Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,
As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,
  Of this same striking had a morbid dread,
He hated it like poison—or his wife—
  A vast antipathy!—but so he said—
And very often, for a quiet life,
  On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed,
Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door
He heard his lady—he'd pretend to snore.

One night, then, ever partial to society,
  Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow),
Went to a Club—I should have said Society—
  At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello"
A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I
  Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow;
There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather,
And change of ministers and change of weather.

In short, it was a kind of British Forum,
  Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly,
Only they managed things with more decorum,
  And the Orations were not QUITE so silly;
Far different questions, too, would come before 'em
  Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye,
Their London prototypes were always willing,
To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of—for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date,
  And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street,
Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate,
  And, though there are who deem that same a low street
Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate
  And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street,
When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes
To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults,
  And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper,
Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,
  How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor.
Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts,
  And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper,—
This night the subject of their disquisitions
Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man,"
  Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"—
His well-read friend, who next to speak began,
  Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;"
A third, of more extensive learning, ran
  To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal;
Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath,
And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard
  The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it,
How frequently some murder'd man appear'd,
  To tell his wife and children who had done it;
Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard,
  And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,
Wander'd about to watch his buried money!
When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One—he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture
  Impended from his fond and faithful She;
Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,
  For he had promised to "be home to tea;"
But having luckily the key o' the back door,
  He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he
Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,
And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain fruitless hope!—The wearied sentinel
  At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,
  He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;
Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,
  When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,—
But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,
  —Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread;
  She heard the key slow creaking in the door,
Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed
  Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before;
When, bang, she threw a something at his head,
  And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor;
While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,—
"How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,
  Especially the length of her oration,—
Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,
  Roused by the bump into a good set passion,
So great, that more than once he execrated,
  Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion;
—The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say,
He duck'd below the clothes—and there he lay:

'Twas now the very witching time of night,
  When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead,
And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite
  Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
  To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed,
Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise,
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations
  Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,
The same dread subject of the dark narrations,
  Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard;
Lost in his own horrific contemplations,
  He pondered o'er each well-remembered word;
When at the bed's foot, close beside the post,
He verily believed he saw—a Ghost!

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite
  To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew;
Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height,
  Of more than mortal seeming to the view,
And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew
  A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;—
The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,
Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!

And now those matted locks, which never yet
  Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,
Their long-contracted amity forget,
  And spring asunder with elastic force;
Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,
  Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet,
Uprose in agony—the Gorgon's head
Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill'd a clammy dew.
  Quaked every limb,—the candle too no doubt,
En regle, WOULD have burnt extremely blue,
  But Nick unluckily had put it out;
And he, though naturally bold and stout,
  In short, was in a most tremendous stew;—
The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell,
But where that came from Mason could not tell.

All motionless the Specter stood,—and now
  Its reverend form more clearly shone confest,
From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow
  Descended o'er its venerable breast;
The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow,
  Told of years long gone by.—An awful guest
It stood, and with an action of command,
Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.

"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?"
  Nick MIGHT have cried, could he have found a tongue,
But his distended jaws could only gape,
  And not a sound upon the welkin rung,
His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung
  Forth from their sockets,—like a frightened Ape
He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright,
And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean,
  Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door;
And many an ireful glance, and frown, between,
  The angry visage of the Phantom wore,
As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more
  Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?"
Because, as we are told,—a sad old joke too,—
Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."

Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
  Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
  Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
  And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.

And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
  The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on,
Each mazy turning of the humble shed
  Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
  As though the domicile had been his own,
Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
  The door upon its hinges open flew;
And forth the Spirit issued,—yet around
  It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew,
And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
  The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade,
  Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
  Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
The Phantom held its way,—and though afraid
  Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

Within the moldering fabric's deep recess
  At length they reach a court obscure and lone;
It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness,
  The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown;
The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress,
  Disturb'd upon her solitary throne,
As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, should venture there!

—The Apparition paused, and would have spoke
  Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke,
  And loudly 'gan his early matins sing
And then "it started like a guilty thing,"
  As that shrill clarion the silence broke.
—We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew
The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

The vision was no more—and Nick alone—
  "His streamer's waving" in the midnight wind,
Which through the ruins ceased not to groan;
  —His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,—
And, worst of all, he knew not where to find
  The ring,—which made him most his fate bemoan—
The iron ring,—no doubt of some trap door,
'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

"What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay
  Here in the dark without a single clew—
Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray!
  'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do."
(Then clapped his hand behind)—"'Tis chilly too—
  I'll mark the spot, and come again by day.
What can I mark it by?—Oh, here's the wall—
The mortar's yielding—here I'll stick my awl!"

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
  A loud, a long-protracted note of woe,
Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
  And o'er the side the masts in thunder go;
While on the deck resistless billows break,
  And drag their victims to the gulfs below;—
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry,
  Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream—
For dream it was;—and all his visions high,
  Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream—
And still he listens, with averted eye,
  When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme
While ever from that hour they all declare
That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
  With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day hath he been away,
  Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away,
  Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
  Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
  Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd, and they ate, and they drank of the best
  And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
  With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
  To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

* * * * * *

Now the festive board with viands is stored,
  Savory dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbacued pig,
  And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail—
  When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on naught they are thinking save eating and drinking,
  Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

"You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,"
  Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares."
A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
  Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
  With the flagon pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
  As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
  When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!
She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast,
  In spite of his "great, long, frizzly beard."

Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
  A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;
She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad,
  And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid,
  And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
  And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."

Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
  She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
  To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

"Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
  Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."
She "never could eat one morsel of meat,
  For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

She "really did think she had not slept a wink
  Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long,"
Here he shook his head,—right little he said,
  But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."
Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles
  Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy,
  Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
  He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
  Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
  And his night-cap into his mouth they cram;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
  Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

* * * * *

And now they tried the deed to hide;
  For a little bird whisper'd "Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case, with a sad swell'd face,
  And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife,
  And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea;
With the edges and points they sever'd the joints
  At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him
  So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"
  As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they cut off his head, entertaining a dread
  Lest the folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
  Down the well,—and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd,
  And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
  That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack,
  Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back,
  As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
  And that in a manner the least expected!
Who could surmise a man ever could rise
  Who'd been thus carbonado'd, out up, and dissected?

No doubt 't would surprise the pupils at Guy's;
  I am no unbeliever—no man can say that o' me—
But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
  If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
  Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or
A Jew or a Turk, but it's rather guess work
  When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

* * * * *

By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
  Sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
  Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

At a quarter past five they are all alive,
  At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in,
And to every guest his card had express'd
  "Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."

Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
  With the choicest Rhine wine in his Highness's stock
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
  Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
  But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
  In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's a good girl!"

Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
  In her bucket;—with fright she was ready to drop:—
Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran,
  With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"

She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board
  Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
  At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
  The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring his legs,
  As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement
  Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
  Behind,—for the left leg was troubled with corns.

Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
  And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng;
While two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist,
  The said shoulders in bearing the body along.

They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
  For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
  Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.

I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
  Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
  With a dead body placed in the center between.
Yes, they stared—well they might at so novel a sight
  No one utter'd a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
  And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
  As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said "They put him in mind of a Council of Trente
  Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."

But what should they do?—Oh! nobody knew
  What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
  In vain, for his book could not furnish a precedent.

The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer,
  Which his double capacity hit to a nicety;
His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
  His Episcopal moiety said "Benedicite!"

The Coroner sat on the body that night,
  And the jury agreed,—not a doubt could they harbor,—
"That the chin of the corpse—the sole thing brought to light—
  Had been recently shav'd by a very bad barber."

They sent out Van Taunsend, Von Burnie, Von Roe,
  Von Maine, and Von Rowantz—through chalets and chateaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
  And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.

"MURDER!!

"WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
  Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet,
Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown
  In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;

"And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect
  That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
Aforethought, have kill'd, and begun to dissect
  The said Gentleman, not far from this palace.

"THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE!—Whoever shall seize;
  And such person or persons, to justice surrender,
Shall receive—such REWARD—as his Highness shall please,
  On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.

"And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
  To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further,
Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
  To all such as have NOT been concern'd in the murther.

"Done this day, at onr palace,—July twenty-five—
 By command,
        (Signed)
                               Johann Von Russell,

                                             N.B.
Deceased rather in years—had a squint when alive;
  And smells slightly of gin—linen marked with a G."

The Newspapers, too, made no little ado,
  Though a different version each managed to dish up;
Some said "The Prince Bishop had run a man through,"
  Others said "an assassin had kill'd the Prince Bishop."

The "Ghent Herald" fell foul of the "Bruxelles Gazette,"
  The "Bruxelles Gazette," with much sneering ironical,
Scorn'd to remain in the "Ghent Herald's" debt,
  And the "Amsterdam Times" quizz'd the "Nuremberg Chronicle."

In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
  Spite of "politics," "bias," or "party collision;"
Viz.: to "give," when they'd "further accounts" of the deed,
  "Full particulars" soon, in "a later Edition."

But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
  Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
  To think it high time to "astonish the natives."

First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
  And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
  From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.

By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose,
  Meagrims, headache, and vapors were put to the rout;
And one single touch of his precious Great Toes
  Was a certain specific for chillblains and gout.

Rheumatics,—sciatica,—tic-douloureux!
  Apply to his shin-bones—not one of them lingers—
All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,
  If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs:
  When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing.
Sea-sickness, and colic; or, rubb'd on the gums,
  Were "A blessing to Mothers," for infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
  Where the mark remain'd visible still of the knife,
Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
  Was safe from sore-throat for the rest of his life.
Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
  Giving way, proved an influence clearly Divine,
They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,
  So they lock'd him up, body and bones, in a shrine.

Through country and town his new Saintship's renown
  As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,
Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
  It seem'd as if "Wonders had never DONE CEASING,"

The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
  A sad falling off in their offerings to find,
His feats were so many—still the greatest of any,—
  In every sense of the word, was-behind.

For the German Police were beginning to cease
  From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
  Unravell'd the whole by the help of—his beard!

If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris,
  When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor,
Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee,
  Or double-arm'd chair, to keep the thing quieter.

It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
  Itself in its place when the limbs join'd together;
Perhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
  And constructed of good, strong, maroon-color'd leather

Or what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose, For saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition, It should rest there, to aid some particular views, Produced by his very peculiar position,

Be that as it may, on the very first day
  That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
What occur'd almost frightened her senses away,
  Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty,

They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
  Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons;
And especially how, as regards invalids,
  His miraculous cures far outrival'd Von Morison's.

"The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away,
  And people born blind now can easily see us!"
But she (we presume, a disciple of Hume)
  Shook her head, and said angrily, "'Credat Judaeus!'

"Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
  To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on.
He works miracles!—pooh!—I'd believe it of you
  Just as soon, you great Geese,—or the Chair that I sit on!"

The Chair—at that word—it seems really absurd,
  But the truth must be told,—what contortions and grins
Distorted her face!—She sprang up from her place
  Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!

For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
  Which she utter'd, of what was beneath her forgetful
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
  Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful,

That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether,
  Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within,
And the maids cried—"Good gracious! how very tenacious!"
  —They as well might endeavor to pull off her skin!—

She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
  In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,—
The cushion stuck fast!—From that hour to her last
  She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle"!

And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death
  Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;"
So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
  Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,—or thereabouts.

With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
  As to what his fate was; but I can not imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be
  Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine:

For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
  And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see, if you'll look in a rather scarce book,
  "God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds.

MORAL.

Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
  Like Ulysses of old (vide Homer and Naso),
Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
  And when you are coming home, just write and say so!

And you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam,
  Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum,
Don't visit a house when the master's from home!
  Shun drinking,—and study the "Vilce Sanctorum!"

Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
  In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
But remember Gengulphus's wife!—and reflect
  On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS. A LEGEND OF GERMANY. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight,
Was equally ready to tipple or fight,
          Crack a crown, or a bottle,
          Cut sirloin, or throttle;
In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle,"
Unstain'd by dishonor, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental;
Besides, 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one;
          Being rather unthinking,
          He'd scarce sleep a wink in
A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking;
          And what moralists say,
          Is as naughty—to play,
To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarte;
Till these, and a few less defensible fancies
Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

          When at length through his boozing,
          And tenants refusing
Their rents, swearing "tunes were so bad they were losing,"
          His steward said, "O, sir,
          It's some time ago, sir,
Since aught through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer,
And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers."
Sir Rupert the brave thus address'd his retainers:

          "My friends, since the stock
          Of my father's old hock
Is out, with the Kurchwasser, Barsae, Moselle,
And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,
          I presume to suggest,
          We shall all find it best
For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,
Mount his horse, if he has one, and—follow his nose;
        As to me, I opine,
        Left sans money or wine,
My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,
Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over,
Though he lived a roue, yet he died a philosopher."

The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely.
Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,
        By the light of whose beam,
        He soon spied on the stream
A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream,
        Pretty pink silken hose
        Cover'd ankles and toes,
In other respects she was scanty of clothes;
For, so says tradition, both written and oral,
Her ONE garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.

Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,
With silver chords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar,
        And she smiled on the Knight,
        Who, amazed at the sight,
Soon found his astonishment merged in delight;
        But the stream by degrees
        Now rose up to her knees,
Till at length it invaded her very chemise,
While the heavenly strain, as the wave seem'd to swallow her
And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower;
        —Jumping up in his boat
        And discarding his coat,
"Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!"
Then into the water he plunged with a souse
That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink,
Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink,
        And, as downward he goes,
        Still the cold water flows
Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose
Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch
Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch;
Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood,
Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

        But oh! what a sight
        Met the eyes of the Knight,
When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!—
        A grand stalactite hall,
        Like the cave of Fingal,
Rose above and about him;—great fishes and small
Came thronging around him, regardless of danger,
And seem'd all agog for a peep at the stranger,
Their figures and forms to describe, language fails—
They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails;
Of their genus or species a sample to gain,
You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain;
        E'en the famed Mr. Myers,
        Would scarcely find buyers,
Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop
To stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes,
        Or the efts and the newts
        That crawled up his boots,
For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention,
In a moment completely absorb'd his attention.
A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer
Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer),
         Have ever distill'd,
         To the summit was fill'd,
Lay stretch'd out before him—and every nerve thrill'd
        As scores of young women
        Were diving and swimming,
Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;—
All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns,
They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes
Alluded to), ere he lept into the billows
Possess'd irreproachable morals, began
To feel rather queer, as a modest young man;
When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognized soon
As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,
And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence,
"Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance;
        My name is Lurline,
        And the ladies you've seen,
All do me the honor to call me their Queen;
I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here
And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."

        The Knight blush'd, and bow'd,
        As he ogled the crowd
Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud;
"Ma'am, you do me much honor—I can not express
The delight I shall feel—if you'll pardon my dress—
May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps
In the river at midnight for want of the 'dumps,'
He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps;
If I could but have guess'd—what I sensibly feel—
Your politeness—I'd not have come en dishabille,
But have put on my SILK tights in lieu of my STEEL."
Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray,
You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way;
        We can give you a dish
        Of some decentish fish,
And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine,
I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before,
When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door,
        And said, bending his knee,
        "Madame, on a servi!"
Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place,
And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace,

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she
Apologized much for their plain water-souchy,
        Want of Harvey's, and Cross's,
        And Burgess's sauces?
Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he
Preferr'd his fish plain, without soy or anchovy.
        Suffice it the meal
        Boasted trout, perch, and eel,
Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel,
The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes
Than what they were served on, the massive gold dishes;
While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls,
Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls,
And a thought came across him and caused him to muse,
        "If I could but get hold
        Of some of that gold,
I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!"

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses,
The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses;
        Then the lady addrest
        Her redoubtable guest
Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas,
"Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"—
Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender,
Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender,
        And told her outright
        How that he, a young Knight,
Had never been last at a feast or a fight;
        But that keeping good cheer
        Every day in the year,
And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer,
        Had exhausted his rent,
        And, his money all spent,
How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.;
        How they follow'd—and then,
        The once civilest of men,
Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he'd
Ever raised money by way of annuity;
And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,
How he jumped into the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear,
That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear:
         Rupert, hearing her sigh,
         Look'd uncommonly sly,
And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I
        A few pounds of those metals
        You waste here on kettles,
        Then, Lord once again
        Of my spacious domain,
A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign,
       With Lurline at my side,
       My adorable bride
(For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied);
No couple so happy on earth should be seen
As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline;
Not that money's my object—No, hang it! I scorn it—
And as for my rank—but that YOU'D so adorn it—
         I'd abandon it all
         To remain your true thrall,
And, instead of 'the GREAT,' be call'd 'Rupert the SMALL,'
—To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus,
I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."

        Lurline hung her head
        Turn'd pale, and then red,
Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,
As though his abruptness, in "popping the question"
So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion.
       Then, averting her eye,
       With a lover-like sigh,
"You are welcome," she murmur'd in tones most bewitching,
"To every utensil I have in my kitchen!"
       Upstarted the Knight,
       Half mad with delight,
       Round her finely-form'd waist
       He immediately placed
One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,
Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,
And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture,
"And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff,
I'll be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy,
Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey
Than to put up the bans and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand
And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land,
       For a sour-visaged Triton,
       With features would frighten
Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one,
Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny,
Which some others already had half-fill'd with money;
In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore
And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore;
        But Sir Rupert was strong,
        And while pulling along,
Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

      "Away! away! to the mountain's brow,
        Where the castle is darkly frowning;
      And the vassals, all in goodly row,
        Weep for their lord a-drowning!
      Away! away! to the steward's room,
        Where law with its wig and robe is;
      Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe,
        And sweetly we'll tidde their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling,
When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

        What rejoicing was there!
        How the vassals did stare!
The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,
        For she saw by her lamp
        That her master's was damp,
And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago, and cramp;
        But, scorning what she did,
        The Knight never heeded
Wet jacket, or trousers, or thought of repining,
Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.
        But, oh! what dismay
        Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa,
When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay!
Away went "cognovits," "bills," "bonds," and "escheats,"
Rupert cleared off old scores, and took proper receipts.

        Now no more he sends out,
        For pots of brown stout,
Or schnapps, but resolves to do henceforth without,
Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,
Enroll himself one of a Temp'rance Society,
        All riot eschew,
        Begin life anew,
And new-cushion and hassock the family pew!
Nay, to strengthen him more in this new mode of life
He boldly determined to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense
Of honor, should put Lurline's name in the license,
And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,
        To break faith and troth,
        Confirm'd by an oath,
Is not quite consistent with rigid morality;
But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her
From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water
        And declined as unsuited,
        A bride so diluted—
        Be this as it may,
        He, I'm sorry to say
For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing,
Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von—something
(Her name has escaped me), sole heiress, and niece
To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

        "Thrice happy's the wooing
        That's not long a-doing!"
So much time is saved in the billing and cooing—
The ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves,
And all the et cetera which crown people's loves;
A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker.
And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre,
That shaft which, the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is,
A plumb-color'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries,

        'Twas a comely sight
        To behold the Knight,
With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white,
And the bridemaids fair with their long lace vails,
As they all walk'd up to the altar rails,
While nice little boys, the incense dispensers,
March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look,
Mess John had open'd his awful book,
And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?
And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?"
When from base to turret the castle shook!!!
Then came a sound of a mighty rain
Dashing against each storied pane,
        The wind blew loud,
        And coal-black cloud
O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd;
How it could happen they could not divine,
The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass
That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas;
        But harder it pour'd,
        And the thunder roar'd,
As if heaven and earth were coming together;
None ever had witness'd such terrible weather.
        Now louder it crash'd,
        And the lightning flash'd,
        Exciting the fears
        Of the sweet little dears
In the vails, as it danced on the brass chandeliers;
The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon,
When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected,
Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected,
       And endeavor'd to cheer
       His bride, in her ear
Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear
Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're
Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture."
       But now, from without,
       A trustworthy scout
       Rush'd hurriedly in—
       Wet through to the skin,
Informing his master 'the river was rising,
And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.'

       He'd no time to say more,
       For already the roar
Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door,
While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;
And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,
She was stung by the spretoe injuria formoe.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,
What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,
What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,
Oh, nobody mentions—for nobody knows;
For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,
And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,
       The rain kept on pouring,
       The flood kept on roaring,
The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in
       Ere the close of the day
       All was clean wash'd away—
One only survived who could hand down the news,
A little old woman that open'd the pews;
       She was borne off, but stuck,
       By the greatest good luck,
In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,
And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in;
       In vain, all the week,
       Did the fishermen seek
For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek;
       In vain was their search
       After aught in the church,
They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch.
       The Humane Society
       Tried a variety
Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles
But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware
Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!
Shun playing at SHORTS—avoid quarrels and jars—
And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars!
—Let no run of bad-luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed
Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!
Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!—
Be up in the morning by half after seven!
Keep from flirting—nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage,
An action for breach of a promise of marriage;—
     Don't fancy odd fishes!
     Don't prig silver dishes!
And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,
BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce,
  As she opened the door to her husband's knock,
Then paused to give him a piece of advice,
  "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
       Is this the way, you
       Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?—
       Out all night!
       Me in a fright!
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute!—you insensible block!—
Look at the Clock!—Do!—Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans,
Her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes;
       A face like a ferret
       Betoken'd her spirit:
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

        Now David Pryce
        Had one darling vice;
Remarkably partial to any thing nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink or to kiss!
        Especially ale—
        If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
        Not that in Wales
        They talk of their Ales:
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,
Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W.

        That particular day,
        As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots,
        With a couple more soakers,
        Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And, long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;"
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!
        What have we with day to do?
        Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"—
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:
        And then came that knock,
        And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan;
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,

        Pryce would drop a cool hint,
        With an ominous squint
At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."
        That horrid word "Spout"
        No sooner came out
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
        And with scorn on her lip,
        And a hand on each hip,
"Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip,
        "You thundering Willin,
         I know you'd be killing
Your wife,—ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling!
        You may do what you please,
        You may sell my chemise
(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock),
But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast,
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient,
        So he threw it, instead,
        Direct at her head;
        It knock'd off her hat;
        Down she fell flat;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain,—but THIS I can,
When sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne!

        The fatal catastrophe
        Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality,
Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

        Mr. Pryce to commence
        His "ingenious defense,"
Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense,"
        "The world he must defy
        Ever to justify
Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"— The unlucky lick
        From the end of his stick
He "deplored"—he was "apt to be rather too quick;"—
        But, really, her prating
        Was so aggravating:
Some trifling correction was just what he meant;—all
The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

        Then he calls Mr. Jones,
        Who depones to her tones,
And her gestures and hints about "breaking his bones,"
While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys
        Declared the deceased
        Had styled him "a Beast,"
And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, "We find, SARVE HER RIGHT!"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

        Not far from his dwelling,
        From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain, it's name you'll excuse me from telling
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;
And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R,
        Its first syllable "PEN,"
        Is pronounceable;—then
Come two LL's, and two HH's, two FF's, and an N;
About half a score R's and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN."

        Well—the moon shone bright
        Upon "PEN" that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
        Was scaling its side
        With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride
Mounting higher and higher,
He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
        And feeling opprest
        By a pain in his chest,
He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest;
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below.

        O'er fell, and o'er fen,
        Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
        Of her Heroes of old,
        So brave and so bold,—
Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold
        Of King Edward the First,
        Of memory accurst;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
        Killing Poets by dozens,
        With their uncles and cousins,
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved—
Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;
        And how Mr. Tudor,
        Successfully woo'd her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in law to the King.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
On all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
        Which went pit-a-pat
        As he cried out "What's that?"—
        That very queer sound?—
        Does it come from the ground?
Or the air,—from above,—or below,—or around?—
        It is not like Talking,
        It is not like Walking,
It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,—
Or the hum of a crowd,—or the shouting of boys,—
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a cart's,—but that can't be;—for when
Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,"
With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up "PEN?"

Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk,
Now experienced what school-boys denominate "funk."
        In vain he look'd back
        On the whole of the track
He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon;
        While clearer and clearer,
        'Twas plain to the hearer,
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much "like a coffin a-walking up stairs."

        Mr. Pryce had begun
        To "make up" for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun,
        When a single bright ray
        Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,
The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"

'Twas so!—it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all—but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes
        Blazing with ire,
        Like two coals of fire;
And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip,
No!—he could not mistake it,—'twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

        One glance was enough
        Completely "Quant. suff."
As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"—
Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,
        David turned himself round;
        Ten feet of ground
He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West End Fair for cheeses—
I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises—
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a Bailiff much faster than that—
At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder—
I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder—
I've seen little boys run away from a cane—
And I've seen (that is, READ OF) good running in Spain;
        But I never did read
        Of, or witness such speed
As David exerted that evening.—Indeed
All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"

        He reaches its brow,—
        He has past it,—and now
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;
        But, run as he will,
        Or roll down the hill,
That bugbear behind him is after him still!

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,
        Till, exhausted and sore,
        He can't run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,
And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,
"Oh! Look at the Clock!—Do!—Look at the Clock!!"

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her;—a frown
        Came o'er her white forehead,
        She said, "It was horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;—
        To squall and to bawl
        About nothing at all!"
She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call;
        His late wife's disaster
        By no means had past her,"
She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!"
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,
She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose,

        Poor David in vain
        Implored to remain,
He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again."
        Why the fair was obdurate
        None knows,—to be sure it
Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;—
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole
Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
        In that shady retreat
        With nothing to eat
And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
        All night close he kept;
        I can't say he slept;
But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept;
        Lamenting his sins,
        And his two broken shins,
Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,
And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,
Consigning to Satan,—viz., cruel Miss Davis'

Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
        To make a grand speech,
        And to preach, and to teach
People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!"
That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,
Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!"
        Which means "The pure Element
        Is for Man's belly meant!"
And that GIN'S but a SNARE of Old Nick the deluder!

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup
        Mr. Pryce, if he's there,
        Will get into "The Chair,"
And make all his QUONDAM associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,
"Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!"
The dial he constantly watches; and when
The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.,"
        He gets on his legs,
        Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly—"Gentlemen!
                           LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

[Illustration: LAMB.]

THE BAGMAN'S DOG. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Stant littore Puppies!—VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd, and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick,
        He could well understand
        The word of command,
        And appear to doze
        With a crust on his nose
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;
          And as he grew older,
          Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.

Time, however his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!
        When, just at the time
        He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,
        One unlucky day,
        How no one could say,
Whether soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away,
        He was lost to the view,
        Like the morning dew;—
He had been, and was not—that's all that they knew
And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore
As never a Bagman had sworn before;
But storming or swearing but little avails
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair,
The only thing strange, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is how it got there;
In front is a short semicircular stair
          Of stone steps—some half score—
          Then you reach the ground floor,
With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.

It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan
Of a Gentleman's house in the time of Queen Anne;
         Which is odd, for, although
         As we very well know,
Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show
Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below,
Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go
From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow,
To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho—
Be this as it may—at the date I assign
To my tale—that's about Seventeen Sixty-Nine—
This mansion, now rather upon the decline,
Had less dignified owners—belonging, in fine,
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne—
A respectable House in the Manchester line.

        There were a score
        Of Bagmen, and more,
Who had travel'd full oft for the firm before,
But just at this period they wanted to send
Some person on whom they could safely depend—
A trust-worthy body, half agent, half friend—
On some mercantile matter, as far as Ostend;
And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg
A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog—
The Bagman, in short, who had lost the great dog.

* * * * * *

"The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!—
That is the place where we all wish to be,
Rolling about on it merrily!"
         So all sing and say
         By night and by day,
In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;—
You may roam through the City, transversely or straight
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate,
And every young Lady who thrums a guitar,
Ev'ry mustached Shopman who smokes a cigar,
         With affected devotion
         Promulgates his notion
Of being a "Rover" and "Child of the Ocean"—

Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be,
They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!"
          But, however they dote,
          Only set them afloat
In any craft bigger at all than a boat,
          Take them down to the Nore,
          And you'll see that, before
The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way
Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay,
Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree,
They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

* * * * * *

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size
  Inferior far to that described by Byron,
Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise—"
  —That too's a stone one, this is made of iron—
  And little donkey-boys your steps environ,
Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,
  Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,
For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,
The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day,
  I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,
And seen the crews, that did embark so gay
  That self-same morn, now disembark so queer;
  Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear!
Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a
  London Jack Tar—a Cheapside Buccaneer!—"
But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanza
Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

* * * * *

"So now we'll go up, up, up,
  And now we'll go down, down, down,
And now we'll go backward and forward,
  And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."—
—I hope you've sufficient discernment to see,
Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the D
Is a fault which you must not attribute to me;
Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee,"
She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,

In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three:
All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free
From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters,
And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors,
At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters.
        Resuming her track,
        At once she goes back
To our hero, the Bagman—Alas! and Alack!
        Poor Anthony Blogg
        Is as sick as a dog,
Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog,
By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea,
With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity
To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity,
         And talking of "calking,"
         And "quarter-deck walking,"
         "Fore and aft,"
         And "abaft,"
"Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft,"
(At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laughed),
Of binnacles—bilboes—the boom call'd the spanker,
The best bower-cable—the jib—and sheet-anchor;
Of lower-deck guns—and of broadsides and chases,
Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces,
And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases
Employ'd by old pilots, with hard-featured faces;—
Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use,
The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;—
          How the Sailors, too, swear,
          How they cherish their hair,
And what very long pigtails a great many wear.—
But, Reader, I scorn it—the fact is, I fear,
To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear
As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier,
Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear
Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year
Eighteen thirty-nine—(how Time flies!—Oh, dear!)—
With a well-written preface, to make it appear
That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer.

There!—"brought up the rear"—you see there's a mistake
Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make,
I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."—
So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher
The more my poor hero continued to suffer,
Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!"

          Still rougher it grew,
          And still harder it blew,
And the thunder kick'd up such a hullballoo,
That even the Skipper began to look blue;
          While the crew, who were few,
          Look'd very queer, too,
And seem'd not to know what exactly to do,
And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs,
"Wind N. E.—blows a hurricane—rains cats and dogs."
In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as
That Shakspeare describes near the "still vex'd Bermudas,"
         When the winds, in their sport,
         Drove aside from its port
The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court,
And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a
Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda,
While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em
For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom,
You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm,
As so many have done, and in colors so warm;
Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious,
Mr. Ainsworth, more gravely,—see also Lucretius,
—A writer who gave me no trifling vexation
When a youngster at school, on Dean Colet's foundation.—
        Suffice it to say
        That the whole of that day,
And the next, and the next, they were scudding away
        Quite out of their course,
        Propell'd by the force
Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as
Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas,
        Driven quite at their mercy
        'Twist Guernsey and Jersey,
Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows
In West longtitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes;

         There you will not be surprised
         That the vessel capsized,
Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions,
His specific gravity less than the Ocean's,
         Should go floating away,
         'Mid the surges and spray,
Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoll'n by a shower,
Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair,
Gentle Header,—that is, if you've ever been there,—
With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair
Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair,
         Skipping, and dipping
         Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in,
Their faces and hair with the water all dripping,
In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin,
That bobs up and down in the water whenever
They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor;
Exactly as Poets say,—how, though, they can't tell us,—
Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus
         —Stay!—I'm not clear,
         But I'm rather out here;
'T was the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear;
Faith, I can't recollect, and I haven't Lempriere—
No matter,—poor Blogg went on clucking and bobbing,
Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing,
Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he
Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!"
  And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes,
Glaring as he was bobbing up and down,
  And looking as they thought him quite a prize,
When, as he sank, and all was growing dark,
  A something seized him with its jaws!—A shark?—

No such thing, Reader—most opportunely for Blogg,
'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

* * * * * * *

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast
That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast,
         But I've often heard say
         That e'en to this day,
The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout,
Are a class that society doesn't much care about;
Men who gam their subsistence by contraband dealing,
And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing,"
Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech,
Above all to a stranger who comes within reach;
         And they were so to Bogg,
         When the curly-tail'd Dog
At last dragged him out, high and dry on the beach.
         But we all have been told,
         By the proverb of old,
By no means to think "all that glitters is gold,"
         And, in fact, some advance
         That most people in France
Join the manners and air of a Maitre de Danse,
To the morals—(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)—
Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred,
Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.—
        Be this as it might,
        It embarrass'd Blogg quite
To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhans might have traced
The petiles soins, tendered with so much good taste
To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed
In a black leather belt well secured round his waist
And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced,
So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste.
           The group on the shore
           Consisted of four,
You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more;
But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation,
What Malthus would term, a "too dense population,"
Indeed the sole sign of man's habitation
         Was merely a single
         Rude hut, in a dingle
That led away inland direct from the shingle
Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark,
Some two hundred yards above high-water mark;
           And thither the party,
           So cordial and hearty,
Viz., an old man, his wife, two lads, made a start, he
           The Bagman, proceeding,
           With equal good breeding,
To express, in indifferent French, all he feels,
The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.—
They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin,
All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-Dieuing,
Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing,

* * * * * * *

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts
You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts,
To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it,
A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it?
(Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one
Call, at the Garrick, "a c—d Committee one,"
An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.)
        However, it's clear
        That with sound table beer,
Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer;
        Especially too
        When a person's wet through,
And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do.
Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage
Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage,
And casting a truly delicious perfume
Through the whole of an ugly ill-furnish'd room;
         "Hot, smoking hot,"
         On the fire was a pot
Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what;
For, famed as the French always are for ragouts,
No creature can tell what they put in their stews,
Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes
Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse,
Any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reeky
Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he
In ecstasy mutter'd, "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!"
          In an instant, as soon
          As they gave him a spoon.

Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he
No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly,
But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile that old man standing by,
Subducted his long coat-tails on high,
With his back to the fire, as if to dry
A part of his dress which the watery sky
Had visited rather inclemently.—
Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly,
And something sinister lurk'd in his eye,
Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in,
You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing;
He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots,
With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes,
His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose,
And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose,
So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose
That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present,
And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.
         The old woman, too,
         Made a mighty ado,
Helping her guest to a deal of the stew;
She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that,
She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat.
And it look'd like Hare—but it might have been Cat.
The little garcons too strove to express
Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress"
With a great deal of juvenile French politesse;
         But the Bagman bluff
         Continued to "stuff"
Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough,
Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!"
And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable,
Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,
         That says,
                "Good Eatynge
         Deserveth good Drynkynge."

You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn,
And a very good proverb it is to my thinking.
         Blogg thought so too;—
         As he finish'd his stew,
His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!"
Pronounced by the old woman under her breath.
Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!"
He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing
Which is almost synonymous,—namely, "Blue Ruin."
So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee,
In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!"
          Which made her understand he
          Was asking for brandy;
So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy,
Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it,
An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it;
In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his,
Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"—
           —And here by the way
           Allow me to say,
Kind Reader—you sometimes permit me to stray—
'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing,
So inferior to us in the science of cursing:
          Kick a Frenchman down stairs,
          How absurdly he swears!
And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly,
Roar out in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:—
Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression
As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one;
        Too little he heeded,
        How fast they succeeded.
Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did;
For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps
        It's amazing to think
        How one "cottons" to Drink!
At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps,
There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry,
Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy,
         —"Did not like to deny"—
         "Felt obliged to comply"
Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;"
For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup,
Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup,
        At length the fumes rose
        To his brain; and his nose
Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze,
And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."—
        His queer-looking host,
        Who, firm at his post,
During all the long meal had continued to toast
        That garment 't were rude to
        Do more than allude to,
Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views
Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:"
So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw,
With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!"
         And "marshal'd" him so
         "The way he should go,"
Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low,
         Without table or chair.
         Or a movable there,
Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair,
That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.—
         With a grin and a shrug
         The host points to the rug,
Just as much as to say, "There!—I think you'll be snug!"
         Puts the light on the floor,
         Walks to the door,
Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more;
When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread,
To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread,
The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!—

—It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright,
And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right;
As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night
Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white.
Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite,
          To find that the Ghost
          Is merely a post.
Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most;
Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin
To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in,"
And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze
Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze,
          Inducing a dread
          Of a knock on the head,
Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead
Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men,
It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"—
          Then the blood flows again
          Through artery and vein;
You're delighted with what just before gave you pain;
You laugh at your fears—and your friend in the fog
Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg
Now bestow'd on HIS friend—the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place
On each side his neck in a canine embrace,
And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face,
And he waggled his tail as much as to say,
"Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!"
And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up,
        What, beyond all doubt,
        He might have found out
Before, had he not been so eager to sup,
'T was Sancho!—the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!—
The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair—
The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there—
The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!

        It's passing sweet,
        An absolute treat,
When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet—
With what warmth and affection each other they greet!
Especially too, as we very well know,
If there seems any chance of a little cadeau,
A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show,
In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so,
That our friends don't forget us, although they may go
To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.
If some little advantage seems likely to start,
From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,
It's surprising to see how it softens the heart,
And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest,
Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest
          But, it was not so here;
          For although it is clear,
When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,
E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,
And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog
Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,
          Yet he, first of all, ceased
          To encourage the beast,
Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;"
And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,
He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!"
So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown,
And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing,
Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing,
         Using paws, tail, and head,
         As if he had said,
"Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed;
You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!"
Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose,
Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,
         Spite of all he could do,
         The Dog jump'd up too,
And kept him awake with his very cold nose;
         Scratching and whining,
         And moaning and pining,
Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in
Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length
The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it
's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite,
            Blogg show'd fight;
            When he saw, by the light
Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite
Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright,
Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt,
Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt—
Which hinted a story of horror and guilt'—
        'T was "no mistake,"—
        He was "wide awake"
In an instant; for, when only decently drunk,
Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

        And hark!—what's that?—
        They have got into chat
In the kitchen below—what the deuce are they at?—
There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife—
And she!—by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!—
        At each twist
        Of her wrist,
And her great mutton fist,
The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!—
        The fierce kitchen fire
        Had not made Blogg perspire
Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder,—
It ceases—all's silent!—and now, I declare
There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;—
He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,
And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping!
For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some
"Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"—
         Down he went, legs and head,
         Flat on the bed,
Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead;
While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing
Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.
         Then, just as the villain
         Crept, stealthily still, in,
And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling,
As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor,
Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"—
—Down went man and weapon.—Of all sorts of blows,
From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose
There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer,
(Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer,
         And say the first person
         Was call'd James M'Pherson,
While, as to the second, they stoutly declare
He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where)
Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer
Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter
        For the last twenty years,
        By the lively young Peers,
Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat
Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;
—I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses,
More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and "bruises,"
          I'd describe now to you
          As "prime a Set-to,"
And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew;
Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of
Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off.
But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!"
        Lace mittens she loves,
        Detesting "The Gloves;"
And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,
From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.
        So, as far as I can see,
        I must leave you to "fancy"
The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs,
And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns,
That pass'd 'twist the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog,
As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg;
         While what's called "The Claret"
         Flew over the garret:
         Merely stating the fact.
         As each other they whack'd,
The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd;
Making both the gargcos, who came running in, sheer off,
With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off;
          Next making a stoop on
          The buffeting group on
The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon;
Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's
Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.—
          Really, which way
          This desperate fray
Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say,
The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:
But a few fresh arrivals decided the day;
         For bounce went the door,
         In came half a score
Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more
Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

It's a great many years ago—mine then were few—
Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux;
         I think that they say
         She had been, in her day
A First-rate,—but was then what they term a Rasee,—
And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay
(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.)
In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion,
The little I know that concerns Navigation,
And obtained, inter alia, some vague information
Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,
Is adopted on shipboard—I think it's call'd "Cobbing."
How it's managed exactly I really can't say,
But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play,—That is, if I'm
right:—it exceeds my ability
           To tell how 'tis done;
           But the system is one
Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility.
And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd
Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"—
           That's mere matter of taste:
           But the Frenchman was placed—
I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced—
In such a position, that, on his unmasking,
His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.

         The old woman, too,
         Was obliged to go through,
With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew,
Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them,
"Cobb'd" the whole party,—ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say
Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day.
Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!—

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,
Be wary of strangers!—don't take too much grog!—
And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!—
Above all—carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,
Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing;
But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye,
INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him,
I never once thought to inquire what became of him;
If YOU want to know, Reader, the way. I opine,
        To achieve your design,—
        —Mind, it's no wish of mine,—
Is,—(a penny will do't)—by addressing a line
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

DAME FREDEGONDE. WILLIAM AYTOUS.

When folks with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They're sure to come with phrases nice,
And modest air, for your advice.
But, as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.
'Tis not advice they want, in fact,
But confirmation in their act.
Now mark what did, in such a case,
A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe and free,
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.
So smart her dress, so trim her shape,
Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape,
Could for her trade wish better sign;
Her looks gave flavor to her wine,
And each guest feels it, as he sips,
Smack of the ruby of her lips.
A smile for all, a welcome glad,—
A jovial coaxing way she had;
And,—what was more her fate than blame,—
A nine months' widow was our dame.
But toil was hard, for trade was good,
And gallants sometimes will be rude.
"And what can a lone woman do?
The nights are long and eerie too.
Now, Guillot there's a likely man.
None better draws or taps a can;
He's just the man, I think, to suit,
If I could bring my courage to't."
With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd:
The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.
"But then the risk? I'll beg a slice.
Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Frankt in her best, with looks demure,
She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:
"With such a business on my head,
I'm worried off my legs with care,
And need some help to keep things square.
I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell!
He's steady, knows his business well,
What do you think?" When thus he met her
"Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"
"But then the danger, my good pastor,
If of the man I make the master.
There is no trusting to these men."
"Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!"
"But help I must have, there's the curse.
I may go further and fare worse."
"Why, take him then!" "But if he should
Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good,—
In drink and riot waste my all,
And rout me out of house and hall?"
"Don't have him, then! But I've a plan
To clear your doubts, if any can.
The bells a peal are ringing,—hark!
Go straight, and what they tell you mark.
If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest—
If 'No,' why—do as you think best."

The bells rung out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb,
And thus she heard their burden go,
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,—and they rang for her bridal
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek.
She lost her beauties plump and sleek,
For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd,
And back'd his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds as well as words,
That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks, and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling.
To all, his calm reply was this,—
"I fear you've read the bells amiss,
If they have led you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought,
Just go, and mark well what they say."
Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough the chime went so,—
"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about!"
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The noble king of Brentford
  Was old and very sick;
He summoned his physicians
  To wait upon him quick;
They stepped into their coaches,
  And brought their best physic.

They crammed their gracious master
  With potion and with pill;
They drenched him and they bled him;
  They could not cure his ill.
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer;
  I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate
  The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
  Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, "your majesty
  Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabored me
  With potion and with pill;
My hours of life are counted
  O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
  I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford
  I'm lord and eke of Kew:
I've three per cents and five per cents;
  My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
  I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
  A sober prince is he;
And from the day we breeched him,
  Till now he's twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
  To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogged him;
  At college, though not fast,
Yet his little go and great go
  He creditably passed,
And made his year's allowance
  For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling,
  Went never drunk to bed,
He has not two ideas
  Within his honest head;
In all respects he differs
  From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income
  Laid by at the year's end,
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver
  That rightly he may spend,
But sponges on a tradesman,
  Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies
  Most soberly pursues,
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
  A-dawdling with the Muse;
While Tom frequents his banker,
  Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,
  Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
  My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a DULLARD,
  And Ned a GENIUS?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling,"
  Exclaimed the man of wits:
"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,
  "Sir Lawyer, as befits;
And portion both their fortunes
  Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said,
  "On your commands I wait."
"Be silent, sir," says Brentford,
  "A plague upon your prate!
Come, take your pen and paper,
  And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it,
  Was writ, and signed, and closed;
He bade the lawyer leave him,
  And turned him round, and dozed;
And next week in the church-yard
  The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,
  Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self-upbraidings
  Poor Edward showed his grief;
Tom hid his fat, white countenance
  In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
  He faltered in his walk;
Tom never shed a tear,
  But onward he did stalk,
As pompous, black, and solemn,
  As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford—
  That gentle king and just—
With bell, and book, and candle,
  Were duly laid in dust,
"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas,
  "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved
  Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him,
  (I mean to tax your bill;)
And, as you signed and wrote it,
  I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
  And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
  Sat eager round about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
  But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready
  To seek my last long home,
Some cares I had for Neddy,
  But none for thee, my Tom:
Sobriety and order
  You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius,
  And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
  On him with doubt and pain."
("You see, good Ned," says Thomas
  "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance,
  You saved a little store;
And those who save a little
  Shall get a plenty more."
As the lawyer read this compliment,
  Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
  Set out, at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
  The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning,
  This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing
  Steps gayly o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,
  He clears it with a bound;
But dullness has stout legs, Tom,
  And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
  You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other,
  But onward go your beat,
While genius stops to loiter
  With all that he may meet.

"And ever, as he wanders,
  Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
  Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
  Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
  Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
  Your flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited
  To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers
  It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are weakest,
  The witty are not wise;
O, bless your good stupidity,
  It is your dearest prize!
"And though my lands are wide,
  And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
  My Thomas, do you hold—
A brain that's thick and heavy,
  A heart that's dull and cold;

"Too dull to feel depression,
  Too hard to heed distress,
Too cool to yield to passion,
  Or silly tenderness.
March on—your road is open
  To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
  And you in greedy lust."
("I' faith," says Ned, "our father
  Is less polite than just.")
"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
  But Ned I can not trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
  My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
  My houses and my rents,
My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock,
  My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas—"
  ("What, all?" poor Edward said;
"Well, well, I should have spent them,
  And Tom's a prudent head.")
"I leave to you, my Thomas,—
  To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation
  What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage
  Came o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
  And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake,"
  Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
  "'Tis even as I said;
'T was thus his gracious majesty
  Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed,
  And here's his autograph."
"In truth, our father's writing,"
  Said Edward, with a laugh;
"But thou shalt not be loser, Tom,
  We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
  This sharing can not be;
'Tis written in the testament
  That Brentford spoke to me,
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
  Prince Tom a half-penny.

"'He hath a store of money,
  But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
  The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property
  He knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
  And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
  And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest laborer
  Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
  And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
  Five hundred pounds a year;
And to think of his old father,
  And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament;
  He did devise his moneys for the best,
  And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
  But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,
To say his young son Thomas, never lent.
  He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured,
  O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
  And when both died, as mortal men will do,
'T was commonly reported that the steward
  Was very much the richer of the two.

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.
                   W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
                     LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
  How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
  A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since
  From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,
I thought myself as rich a prince
  As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means—
  In troth, I was a happy chiel!
I passed the gate of Valenciennes.
  I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds
  Some rascal knave would dare to steal;
I gayly passed the Belgic bounds
  At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post,
  And as I took my evening meal
I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost,
  O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen,
  To grandmamma I made appeal;
Meanwhile a load of guineas ten
  I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma
  (Her gentle heart my woes could feel),
But where I went, and what I saw,
  What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
  How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no cash, I lie in pawn,
  A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come,
  To pawn my watch I'm too genteel,
Besides, I left my watch at home;
  How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say,
  I turn as white as cold boiled veal:
I turn and look another way,
  I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say,
  "Good sir, I can not pay your bill:"
He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
  And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
  Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel,
And so he serves me every day
  The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face
  I blush as red as cochincal;
And think did he but know my case,
  How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone.
  How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
  A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
  I perspirate from head to heel;
I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise;
  How can I, without cash, at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot
  By cafes where in beer they deal;
I think how pleasant were a pot,
  A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick,
  All girt around with guard and grille?
O, gracious gods, it makes me sick,
  It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred,
  It does my very blood congeal!
I tremble as I pass the guard,
  And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays,
  I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
  You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
  How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
  A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,
  And at a Popish altar kneel?
O do not leave me in the lurch,—
  I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
  Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops
  The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe
  A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real)
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!—
  It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'T was five o'clock, and I could eat,
  Although I could not pay, my meal;
I hasten back into the street
  Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,—
  A letter with a well-known seal?
'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,—
  "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat,
  I pant and stagger, faint and reel!
It is—it is—a ten pound note,
  And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS
                           Lantern

DEEP! I own I start at shadows,
  Listen, I will tell you why;
(Life itself is but a taper,
  Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence,
  I a radiant girl adored:
When she came, she saw, she conquered,
  And by Cupid I was floored.

Round my heart her glossy ringlets
  Were mysteriously entwined—
And her soft voluptuous glances
  All my inmost thoughts divined.

"Mia cara Mandolina!
  Are we not, indeed," I cried,
"All the world to one another?"
  Mandolina, smiled and sighed.

Earth was Eden, she an angel,
  I a Jupiter enshrined—
Till one night I saw a damning
  DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND!

"Fire and fury! double shadows
  On their bed-room windows ne'er,
To my knowledge, have been cast by
  Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandoned, Mandolina!
  Fare thee well, for evermore!
Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!"
  And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning;
  Mandolina staring sat,
Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled,
  Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter,
  On its road six weeks delayed—
With a dozen re-directions
  From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert!
  Base suspicion's doubts resign;
DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS!
  Mandolina—ever thine."

"Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered,
  "Not before to think of that!"—
And again I rushed excited
  To the rail, without a hat.

"Mandolina! Mandolina!"
  When her house I reached, I cried:
"Pardon, dearest love!" she answered—
  "I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian,
  And by Fate, my life was crossed;
Wonder ye I start at shadows?
  Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS

Old Nick, who taught the village school,
  Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,
  She was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
  Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
  And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
  And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
  She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!—and red
  And white his face alternate grew!
"Less freedom, ma'am!"—Jane sighed and said
  "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

SATIRICAL

THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS! SAMUEL BUTLER.

  How various and innumerable
Are those who live upon the rabble!
'Tis they maintain the Church and State,
Employ the priest and magistrate;
Bear all the charge of government,
And pay the public fines and rent;
Defray all taxes and excises,
And impositions of all prices;
Bear all th' expense of peace and war,
And pay the pulpit and the bar;
Maintain all churches and religions,
And give their pastors exhibitions;
And those who have the greatest flocks
Are primitive and orthodox;
Support all schismatics and sects,
And pay them for tormenting texts;
Take all their doctrines off their hands,
And pay 'em in good rents and lands;
Discharge all costly offices,
The doctor's and the lawyer's fees,
The hangman's wages, and the scores
Of caterpillar bawds and whores;
Discharge all damages and costs
Of Knights and Squires of the Post;
All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders,
And pay for all their ropes and ladders;
All pettifoggers, and all sorts
Of markets, churches, and of courts;
All sums of money paid or spent,
With all the charges incident,
Laid out, or thrown away, or given
To purchase this world, Hell or Heaven.

THE CHAMELEON. MATTHEW PRIOR.

As the Chameleon who is known
To have no colors of its own:
But borrows from his neighbor's hue
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight:
As if the rainbow were in tail
Settled on him, and his heirs male;
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will or Tom's:
And equally, in truth is fit
To be a statesman or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad;
Admits him in among the gang:
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smear'd with the colors which they lend him,
  Thus merely, as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
  If haply he the sect pursues,
That road and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face:
He drinks his coffee without lace.
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
  Or if it be his fate to meet
With folks who have more wealth than wit
He loves cheap port, and double bub;
And settles in the hum-drum club:
He earns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
  But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits!
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW. MATTHEW PRIOR.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear:
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held:
His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd.
With a grave look in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull:
Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak:
Your emble—(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense:
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how:
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit
I for this conduct had what I deserv'd;
And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.—
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.—
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much: think little; and talk less;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
  A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks;
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

JACK AND JOAN. MATTHEW PRIOR.

      Stet quicunque volet potens
      Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA.

Interr'd beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well;
If changing empires rose or fell;
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?
Why then they walk'd and eat again:
They soundly slept the night away;
They just did nothing all the day;
And having buried children four,
Would not take pains to try for more;
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seem'd just tallied for each other.
  Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree:
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespass'd on the other's ground,
Nor fame, nor censure they regarded;
They neither punish'd nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid;
So every servant took his course;
And bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder filled his table;
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.
Their beer was strong; their wine was port;
Their meal was large; their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
  They paid the church and parish rate;
And took, but read not the receipt:
For which they claim their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.
  No man's defects sought they to know;
So never made themselves a foe,
No man's good deeds did they commend;
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor;
That might decrease their present store:
Nor barn nor house did they repair;
That might oblige their future heir.
  They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accompts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear or smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.
When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died, or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd.
  Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise:
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led—a kind of—as it were:
Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried:
And so they liv'd, and so they died.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill;
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighboring pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise, and harder fare,
Soon make my dame grow lank and spare
Her body light, she tries her wings,
And scorns the ground, and upward springs
While all the parish, as she flies,
Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay,
The third night's profits of his play;
His morning draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill:
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight?
Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat
What poet e'er could sing a note?
Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;
The steed, oppress'd, would break his
To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years' coat so smooth and
Through every thread it lets in air
With hungry meals his body pines
His guts and belly full of wind;
And like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case:
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Encumbrances of food and clothes;
And up he rises like a vapor,
Supported high on wings of paper.
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read,

II.

By disputing, I will never,
To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless
I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye:
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends
And continue special friends.

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT

When beasts could speak (the learned say
They still can do so every day),
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men.
It happen'd, when a plague broke out
(Which therefore made them more devout),
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean)
By proclamation gave command,
That every subject in the land
Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious Wolf begins:
Good father, I must own with shame,
That often I have been to blame:
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue
To prove I did my neighbor wrong;
Or ever went to seek my food,
By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess'd,
That in his heart he loved a jest:
A wag he was, he needs must own,
And could not let a dunce alone:
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
And might perhaps be too severe:
But yet the worst that could be said,
He was a wit both born and bred;
And, if it be a sin and shame,
Nature alone must bear the blame:
One fault he has, is sorry for't,
His ears are half a foot too short;
Which could he to the standard bring,
He'd show his face before the king:
Then for his voice, there's none disputes
That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd,
His shape and beauty made him proud:
In diet was perhaps too nice,
But gluttony was ne'er his vice:
In every turn of life content,
And meekly took what fortune sent:
Inquire through all the parish round,
A better neighbor ne'er was found;
His vigilance might some displease;
Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter,
How evil tongues his life bespatter;
Much of the censuring world complain'd.
Who said, his gravity was feign'd:
Indeed, the strictness of his morals
Engaged him in a hundred quarrels:
He saw, and he was grieved to see't,
His zeal was sometimes indiscreet;
He found his virtues too severe
For our corrupted times to bear;
Yet such a lewd licentious age
Might well excite stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace,
And first excused his youthful face;
Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd
('T was Nature's fault) without a beard.
'Tis true, he was not much inclined
To fondness for the female kind:
Not, as his enemies object,
From chance, or natural defect,
Not by his frigid constitution;
But through a pious resolution:
For he had made a holy vow
Of Chastity, as monks do now:
Which he resolved to keep forever hence,
And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find,
How just it suits with human kind.
Some faults we own; but can you guess?
—Why, virtue's carried to excess,
Wherewith our vanity endows us,
Though neither foe nor friend allows us.