WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 11)

We are two brothers of the same Mama, But there are reasons for suspecting rather, By some mistake there was an extra father.

“And you’ll take out my tooth—If you will, come, I’ll not resist, here is my tooth by gum!”

Hubert. Just hold the pinchers, I’ve got here a youth, And I’ve got orders to take out his tooth. 200 So when I stamp my foot come in and bind him— His legs together and his arms behind him. Ruffian. I hope there arn’t no gammon in the matter? Hubert. That’s my look out. What right have you to chatter? Vanish! [Exit Ruffian. Song.—Hubert. Air.—“There’s light in her laughing eye.” There’s a tooth in his little gum; ’Tis a pearl a garnet broach within, And they say that it out must come, ’Tis a job, I know, is quite a sin. There’s a tongue in his little head, A tongue that always wags away; Like a clock at the back of a bed, Which keeps on tick tick night and day. There’s a tooth, &c. Hubert. Young lad come forth, I’ve got a word to say. Enter Arthur. Arthur. Hubert, good Hubert, how are you to-day? Hubert. I must not listen to his childish chatter, For if I do he’ll melt my heart like batter. Look here, young Arthur (Gives warrant.) Can you understand This paper written in a large text hand? Arthur. Oh, can I read it. Oh, unhappy youth! Must you with pinchers then take out my tooth? Hubert. Young boy I must. Arthur. And will you? Hubert. Yes I will. Arthur. Oh, it’s too bad—When you were taken ill Who was it to the chemist’s ran full gallop, To get a penny dose of salts and jalap? And when I’ve seen you, after dining out, When you’ve made free at some hot drinking bout, Have I not always been extremely willing To give for soda-water my last shilling? And you’ll take out my tooth? If you will, come, I’ll not resist, here is my tooth, by gum! Hubert. Young boy, I’ve sworn to do it—do not flinch, These instruments must help me at a pinch. Come forth. (Stamps.) Enter Ruffian with a pewter basin, towel, &c. (To Ruffian) Do as I bid you. Arthur. Hubert stay My tooth is out, do send that man away. (Ruffian seizes Arthur.) Hubert. Now for the pinchers—now for one bold tug. Arthur. Why be so boisterous I will hold my mug? For Heaven’s sake Hubert send that man away, And not a word against it I will say. Hubert, your word indeed shall be my law My tooth is out, see I will hold my jaw! Hubert. (To Ruffian.) Go stand without, I by myself will do it. Ruffian. Indeed ’twould make me ill were I to view it. [Exit Ruffian. Hubert. Come, now prepare yourself my gentle youth. Arthur. Is there no plan? Hubert. None but to lose your tooth. Arthur. Oh, would that your’s good Hubert did but ache, That I to stop your pain, great pains might take. Hubert. Is this your promise? Hold your tongue, sir, do. Arthur. Oh, take my tongue, I want my tooth to chew, Leave only that, e’en if it be to eat, With you good Hubert, some delicious meat, Which I have ordered for a little treat. Hubert. Boy, you have touched me hard, as I’m a sinner, I’ll leave your tooth at least till after dinner, Your uncle’s heard that dentists who ain’t clever Will sometimes lock a person’s jaw for ever. Arthur. Hubert, I thank thee. Hubert. Mind you ne’er unfold it. Your jaw is safe—be good enough to hold it.

Chorus. Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each others watch: Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.

Lord Mayor’s Day (1827). Now countless turbots and unnumbered soles Fill the wide kitchens of each livery hall: From pot to spit, to kettle, stew, and pan, The busy hum of greasy scullions sounds, That the fixed beadles do almost perceive The secret dainties of each others watch. Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each table sees the other’s bill of fare: Cook threatens cook in high and saucy vaunt Of rare and new-made dishes; confectioners, Both pastrycooks and fruiterers in league, With candied art their rivets closing up, Give pleasing notice of a rich dessert.

“The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar’d all description: she did lie In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue— O’er-picturing that Venus where we see The fancy outwork nature: on each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did.”

Tell me how they met? Eros. I will: And first then you must know that Marc Met Cleopatra driving in the park. The trap she sat in, like the Sun-God’s car, Shone in the drive, the seats were damask white, Tawny the rugs, and all so scented, that The swells sniffed curiously. Her whip of silver, Half parasol, which dared the sun; and flicked The ponies, which she beat to trot the faster, As amorous of her lash. For her own person It beggared all description; she reclined Upon those cushions I’ve described before, And high in front, and round, rose dangerous waves Of foaming frothy muslin petticoats, Art’s fancy outworks: in the seat behind her Sat two quick natty boys, like perky Cupids, With white pip’d breeches and pale salmon tops, To guard whose knees a pretty oilskin apron They both undid and did. Lepi. O rare for Anthony! Eros. And when she’d pass’d, young Egypt at the rails Look’d in each other’s eyes, then after her, Then gazed about at—well, they knew not what, As dazed as is the poor unlatch-key’d husband After a late carousal, when his spouse, Candle in hand, unchains the guardian door; So they: so Anthony: who whipped and spurred Up to her side, and whip-spered in her ear Soft nothings, which, though nothing in themselves, Lead oft— Lepi. Sir, I’m the father of a family. Never could Tony pretty woman’s lip shun, No wonder he was caught by this Egyptian.

Benjamin Cæsar Redivivus. (On the happy recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout.) Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, Will still go on in his corrupting play, Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.” Fiz, January 18, 1879.

The Spaniard’s Soliloquy. To fight or not to fight, that is the question, Whether ’tis nobler in the mind To bear a patient drubbing by the French Or take up arms against old Louis And by opposing end him And exterminate the Bourbons? To fight—to beat—no more; And by our beating end a thousand ills Which we were born to. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To fight—to beat—perchance to be beat Ah! there’s the rub. For by our being beat what ills may come; There’s the respect that makes our liberty so dear, For who would bear the sneers and scoffs of tyrants, The oppressor’s wrong, the insolence of office When we can still our liberty maintain With the bare rapier? Who would mind our constitution being altered But that a dread of something more (That Alliance from whose unholy laws No state is free) puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear these ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of. The Mirror, April 5, 1823.

A Fisherman’s Soliloquy. To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question! Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble, Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble To fish, and then home send them. To fly, to whip— To moor and tie my boat up by the end To any wooden post, or natural rock We may be near to, on a Preservation Devoutly to be fished. To fly—to whip— To whip! perchance two bream; and there’s the chub! * * * * * F. C. Burnand.

Song. Balthasar, Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never: Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy: Then sigh not so, &c.

Noctes Ambrosianæ. Rail no more, Tories, rail no more; Whigs are but asses ever, On land, on wave, on sea, on shore, All rascals of white liver. Then rail not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting sounds of wrath and woe Into hey Ninny! nonny. Sing merry ditties, and no mo Of lumps so dull and heavy; The heads of Whigs were ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then rail not so, &c. Blackwood’s Magazine, July, 1823.

Much ado about nothing in the City. Sigh no more, dealers, sigh no more, Shares were unstable ever, They often have been down before, At high rates constant never. Then sigh not so, Soon up they’ll go, And you’ll be blithe and funny, Converting all your notes of woe Into hey, money, money. Write no more letters, write no mo On stocks so dull and heavy. At times on ’Change ’tis always so, When bears a tribute levy. Then sigh not so, And don’t be low, In sunshine you’ll make honey, Converting all your notes of woe Into hey money, money. Punch, September 28, 1867.

P. Com. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak—I’ll go no farther. Ghost. Mark me! P. Com. I will. Ghost. I am old Shakespeare’s spirit, Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth; And on the stage draw tolerable houses,— Till by the taste of a discerning age, For monster drums and Ethiopian bards Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid To charm the public is not what has caused My troubled spirit to revisit earth: I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs, Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul Of gutta-percha toughness—freeze thy blood— Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands— And each particular orb to roll and stretch Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list! If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love— P. Com. Good gracious! Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. P. Com. Murder? Ghost. Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to— And in the ordinary way don’t mind it— But this most foul, strange and unnatural— P. Com. Haste me to know it, that I, With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day, May sweep to my revenge. Ghost. I find thee apt;— And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks, Did’st thou not stir in this?—You’ve seen my “Tempest?” P. Com. Some time ago. Ghost. Ah—well—’twas given out that—(pardon me, A ghost must have his feelings)—rumour reached me, That the whole ear of London Was by a forged process of my “Tempest” Rankly abus’d—and know, thou noble youth— With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece Now scares the town. P. Com. O, my prophetic soul! the opera! Ghost. Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,— With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,— (Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level The plot of my most seeming perfect play. Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there For me, or any other anxious parent! My tricksy Ariel in a ballet skirt— The fairy of a Christmas pantomime! My Caliban—a melodrama villain— Bearing Miranda off—(stol’n incident From Grindoff in the “Miller and his Men!”) And then resorting to an ancient scheme From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed Oh horrible! oh horrible!—most horrible!— If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not— Do something, please—I’m not particular what— But soft—an odour wafts along the wall— Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall. I must get home—I’m not allowed a key— Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me? [Exit. P. Com. Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while 204 Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile, I will avenge thee for this outrage vile, But how? Stop! yes—“The Enchanted Isle.” Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing. We’ll out-burlesque them!—Ho! there! Prompter, ring!

Ariel sings— Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry, On the bats back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Who would be Great Grand Lord High? All the blame on him must lie; Everywhere for him they cry Up and down stairs he must fly— After all folks verily!— Verily! Verily!—Few could live now Under the honours beneath which I bow!

Prospero Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind.

Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles, With fourniture superfluouslie faire; Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles, Evanish all like vapours in the aire.

End of the Parodies. Our parodies are ended. These our authors, As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air. And, like the baseless fabric of these verses, The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement, The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause, Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial fable fated, Leave not a groat behind! Posthumous Parodies, 1814.

“Flirting.” (After Portia.) The quality of flirting is not strained; It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest: It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with. It profiteth the husband better than His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned The time his wife doth gad about and flirt With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh! It is the attribute of love itself; And wives do think themselves most loved when they Do drive or walk with other man than they Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife! Though loving be thy plea, remember this, That flirting doth beget unto the pair A reputation far from enviable. Scraps, July, 1885.

Tell me, tell me Tell me, tell me New, d’ye fancy bread? Smoking hot from oven red Or prefer you stale instead? Reply, reply, reply.

Ha! I remember a low sort of shop Where they sold peppermint and lollipop, 205 And lozenges in boxes by the score With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.” I gazed upon the things red—green—and blue, And others of a still more sickly hue; And thought if one for poison had a whim There lived a seedy chap would sell it him, And prove the truth that brief inscription bore For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”

Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Amuse yourself, and break some toy, For the rain it raineth every day. Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate, For the rain it raineth every day. Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, How cross she gets about four or five, For the rain it raineth every day. If I were you I’d be off to bed, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Or the damp will give you a cold in the head, For the rain it raineth every day. A great while ago this song was done, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun, But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can—they say. Shirley Brooks. 1860.

Shakespoke’s Epigram. Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear To bite the dust that’s ever near. Blest is the man avoids the stones, And curst is he that breaks his bones.

Against Idleness and Mischief. How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower. How skillfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads the wax, And labours hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. In works of labour or of skill I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be past; That I may give for every day Some good account at last. Dr. Watts.

How doth the busy little flea Improve each starry night, And gather food from you and me With all his little might. How skilfully it hops away, When it we try to squeeze; And waits until the close of day Its hunger to appease.

Hymns for Children. How doth the ever busy wasp Improve the shining hour; His object ever is to grasp The sweets of fruit and flower. To dip his beak into the peach, To pierce the ripen’d plum; To suck whatever is in reach, To sting whoe’er may come. So, children, you should ne’er forget This insect’s happy toil; Before you his example set, And what you can’t eat, spoil. Punch, September 25, 1852.

The Northern Bee. How doth the busy Russian Bee Improve the darkened hour, And kindly hope it will not see The fall of England’s power. How skillfully it frames the “sell,” Forgives Crimean whacks, And owns John Bull does pretty well Whate’er he undertakes. So now, let Russia, with a will, The works of peace pursue; For Satan finds some mischief still For soldier-States to do. In laying down the Iron Way, Be her next century passed, And then, who knows, the world may say— “She’s civilised at last.” Punch, October 10, 1857.

Convivial Song. To be sung Sloughly, and with expression. How doth the dizzy Disraeli Improve the dining hour, And draw the long bow fearlessly To show his elbows power. How neatly he prepares the sell, How deftly cooks the facts! And for what others have done well, Himself the credit takes. What perils with what art and skill He’s pulled the country through! What wonders will his India Bill, If we believe him, do! So with the farmers he makes hay Ere yet his Sun be past; For though e’en Dizzies have their day, Not long that day can last. Punch, June 19, 1858.

On a Bee I’ve Bee(n) to. How doth the lively Spelling Bee Delight the evening hour, And bother folks of each degree— Sweet maids and spinsters sour. Hard names that few have ever heard Are bandied round pell-mell; And Nuttall finds some crack-jaw words That not all folks can spell. With Butter, Mavor, Vyse, each day, Let my spare time be pass’d; So at the Spelling Bee I may Win some nice prize at last. Judy, March 15, 1876.

Dr. Watts on Asthma. (Vide Advertisement.) How doth the little busy wheeze Augment from hour to hour, And gather “stuffiness” all day, With forty “bad-cold” power! How skilfully it clogs each cell, How strongly it attacks! And labours hard both cad and swell To lay upon their backs. 208 It calls for all the doctor’s skill— Apothecary’s too too— And Satan finds decoctions still For ’prentice hands to brew. Funny Folks, July 21, 1877.

How doth the busy Parliament Improve each shining hour, By talking, talking, night and day, With twenty-magpie power. How doth the savage Gladstone rise, Ambition to pursue, And rave of Russia, India, and Of Afghanistan too. How doth the angry Radical Delight to bark and shriek; How oft he tries a lion’s roar, And only makes a squeak. How doth the loyal Englishman All snarling curs deride, And in the present Government Implicitly confide. Judy, Jan. 4, 1879.

Watts’ Humourous Poems. How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale! How, cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in With gently smiling jaws! Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll, (London Macmillan and Co.)

The Little Mosquito. How doth the little Mosquito Delight to buzz and bite, And make the terrors of the day Ten times as bad at night. How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing, And ’lighting on your nose, It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting When you’re trying for to doze. How skilfully it dodges round; And when you try to “bust” it, Flies away and likes to see And hear how you have cuss’d it. But thank the Lord the time will come When they’ll have no work to do, And you will find they’re “busted some,” And Mosquitoes will be few. So go your way and rest content, That they away have “flew,” But mind that by this time next year They’ll find some work to do. Toby. Icycle, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.

How doth the honest Land-League man Improve each shining hour, An’ gather money all the day Wid all his might an’ power! How carefully he guards his sell, How neatly showers his whacks, An’ labours hard to please Parnell, An’ dodge the law’s attacks! No works of labour tax our skill, Yet we’ll be busy too, The Land-League has some mischief still Our idle hands can do. In Boycotting an’ suchlike play, Let all our days be past. Begorra! we may have to pay A long account at last!! Judy, March 9, 1881.

The Coal-hole Top. How doth the little coal-hole top Its slipperiness disguise, And feet on bootless errands send So often to the skies! The little schoolgirl steps on it With an elastic gait; But ere she can step off again She sits upon her slate. The little boy with pail of milk, Treads on it “just in play.” He sees some stars. The passers-by Gaze on the “milky way.” The belle, with rich embellishment, Comes up with mincing tread, Her shoes are made of best French kid; Her stockings clocked with red. The big policeman, proud, erect, With gum shoes on his feet, Disguises it with confidence, How quick he’s off his beat! The granger with his cowhide boots: “By thunder! Did you see How spry that little iron thing Got out from under me.” No matter what the size of feet, Nor with what they are shod, The coal-hole top has never yet With uprightness been trod. Free Press Flashes, 1882.

“Doctor Watts” Improved. (From a Sea-side Lodger.) How doth the little busy Flea, Disturb each silent hour, And all night long, most wickedly Our wearied limbs devour. 209 How cruelly he breaks our rest, How wroth he makes us wax, When, jumping from his hidden nest, He bites our tender backs. Now, had it been in works like these That my first years were past, I must have come, like little Fleas, To no good end at last. For so, the little cruel Flea, By those who would have slept, Will—drowned, or burnt, or headless be, Unpitied and unwept. Punch, October 18, 1884.

Children’s Corner. How doth the very Bizzy B.[43] Improve each shining hour, Annexing isles in every sea To cripple England’s power. How skilfully he plans his schemes, How well he times each blow, While in his chair Lord Derby dreams That all is comme il faut! Possessed of such a dauntless will Would we’d one Bizzy too, Or Satan find less mischief still For Liberals’ hands to do. Moonshine, January 1885.

The Bee. How doth the gorging greedy Bee, Destructive little brute, Hum all day long from tree to tree, And spoil the choicest fruit! Behold how deep she scoops a cell, When peaches she attacks, In nectarines and pears as well, How big a hole she makes! Likewise to eat and drink my fill, I should be happy too; For Nature has disposed me still But little else to do. In prog and grub, by turns with play, Might all my life be past, Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh Good fourteen score at last. Punch, October 9, 1875.

The Wops. How doth the wobbling, wily wops Improve each shining hour! Within the peach he slyly stops, And stings with all his power! How skilfully he wheels around, And maidens makes afraid; He loves to clear the pic-nic ground, And roll in marmalade! The whispered charm of lover’s talk He’ll stop without ado; The Vicar’s sermon he will balk, And sting the Vicar too! On cake or fruit or window pane, On pie or mutton chops, He’ll sharply sting and come again— The wobbling, wily wops! Punch, September 15, 1883.

Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee. How doth the Little Busy Bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower, From every opening flower, flower, flower, That sparkles in a breezy bower, And gives its sweetness to the shower, Exhaling scent of gentle power, That lasts on kerchief many an hour, And is a lady’s graceful dower, Endeared alike to cot and tower, Round which the little Busy Bee Improves each shining hour, And gathers honey all the day From every opening flower, From every opening flower, flower, flower, From every opening flower. How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads her whacks, And labours hard to store it well. With the sweet food she makes, With the sweet food she makes, With the sweet food she makes, makes, makes, When rising just as morning breaks, The dew-drop from the leaf she shakes, And oft the sleeping moth she wakes, And diving through the flower she takes, The honey with her fairy rakes, And in her cell the same she cakes, Or sports across the silver lakes, Besides her children, for whose sakes, How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads her wax, And labours hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. 210 In works of labour or of skill, I would be busy too, For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do, For idle hands to do, For idle hands to do, do, do, Things which thereafter they will rue, When Justice fiercely doth pursue, Or conscience raises Cry and Hue, And evil-doers look quite blue, When Peelers run with loud halloo, And Magistrates put on the screw, And then the wretch exclaims, Boo-hoo, In works of labour or of skill I wish I’d busied too, For Satan’s found much mischief still For my two hands to do.

Against Quarrelling and Fighting. Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so, Let bears and lions growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to. But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other’s eyes. Dr. Watts.

To a Roebuck[44] at Bay. Whigs in their cozy berths agree And ’tis a sorry sight When independent men we see Fall out and fume and fight. Let Broom[45] delight to bark and bite For Campbell riles him so; Let Irish members bounce and fight, For ’tis their nature to. But Roebuck, you should never let Your angry passions rise; Your little hands were never meant To tear out Grattan’s eyes. Punch, June, 1849.

A Remonstrance from the Nursery. Let Austria delight to bark and bite, And snap off Kossuth’s nose; Let Prussia’s King, against all right, Tread hard on Freedom’s toes; But Nicholas should never let A love of conquest rise; His gory hands were never made To tear out the Sultan’s eyes. Diogenes, 1854.

Rational Remonstrance. Let peaceful Bright in speech delight That charms the Cotton crew: Let Cobden rather trade than fight, For ’tis his business to. But when our Premier, duped before, Still trusts to Russian lies, Such weakness but disgusts John Bull, And makes his monkey rise. Punch, July 29, 1854.

Watt’s the Matter. Let Lords delight to bark and bite, They’ve nothing else to do; Let Whigs and Tories growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to. But Liberals, you should never let Escape your passions dire, Your little wits were never meant To set the Thames on fire. Kings on their gilded thrones agree,[46] But ’tis a shocking sight, When all St. Stephen’s family Fall out with Lowe and Bright. Then keep your tempers if you can, On Tories wreak your hate, And dance a Radical cancan O’er prostrate Church and State. Will-o’-the-Wisp, May 22, 1869.

Birds in their little nests agree ’Tis true. But what about? They all agree in trying hard To turn each other out. Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For ’tis their nature to; Then don’t complain if some fine day They bark and bite at you. When shines the sun, and rain is past, Make hay, get in your crops; But what the Dickens must one do, Suppose it never stops? The early bird, the proverb says, The early worm devours; Then lest you’d be that early worm, Abandon early hours. Alas for childhood’s early faiths! Comparing old with new; I like the latter quite as well, And think them just as true. The Tonbridgian, April, 1873. H. M.

“Let Rads delight to bark and bite, For God has made ’em so; Let Butts and Biggars growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to; But Hardy, you must never let The landed gentry rise To see the games that I am at Beneath their nose and eyes.” Benjamin D——His Little Dinner, 1876.

Watts the Matter? (Lord Marcus Beresford.) Oh, Marcus! you should never let Your angry passions rise, Nor at a money-lender get, And try to black his eyes, One hundred pounds may not be dear For joys so simply gay; Yet still to most it will appear A tidy sum to pay! Yorick, 1877.

Let bigots write with sneers of spite, And dogmas argue so, Let priests and parsons, differing, fight, As ’tis their nature to. But, Sages, you should never let Such female passions rise; Your thinking minds were never made To bandy taunts unwise. Let calm through all your questions run, All your debates be mild; Keep your discussions, every one By rancour undefiled. With patience gentle as a lamb Your arguments pursue; Call not each other’s theories “flam,” But prove the sounder view. Look up to Truth all ends above; Seek that and that alone: Nor squabble, out of mere self love O’er crochets of your own. Punch, July 7, 1877.

A Fortou—itous Event. Addressed, with all earnestness, to M. Gambetta. Let fools and bullies brawl and fight, For ’tis their nature to; Let brainless apes in duels delight, But not such men as you. No! Statesmen they should never let Their passions get such sway. Just think of France’s keen regret, Had you been shot that day! Twas true there was small chance of this, Thanks to the seconds’ care; But though both pistols scored a miss, The folly still was there. * * * * * Then why conform to such a rule As that which you obey’d; The laws that bind the fop and fool For you were never made. To France a wise example show When next you’re asked to fight; And let these moral cowards know You dare to do what’s right. Truth, November 28, 1878.

On a late Fracas at Newmarket. Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For ’tis their nature to, Let sculptors in the law courts fight And raise a great to-do. But, race-horse trainers, pray don’t let Your angry passions rise; Your stable-forks weren’t made, you bet To gouge each other’s eyes. If you go in for law you’ll be Awarded just a farden; So henceforth, when you disagree, Beg one another’s pardon. Judy, February 14, 1883.

To a Policeman. Let dogs delight to bark and bite, Or howl the whole night through; Let roosters hail the morning light With “cock-a-doodle do:” Let bawling costers all the day Make hideous the street; And organs grind, and niggers play And bands discordant meet: But, Bobby, you must never try To stifle torturing sounds, Nor murmur placidly “Oh, fie!” But meekly—go your rounds. Funny Folks.

Watt’s Up Again. (On a Recent Fracas.[47]) Let cads delight with fists to fight, To them ’tis nothing new, Which if our Swells consider right, Why—let ’em do it, too. When well-bred Englishmen now let Their angry passions rise, The fashion has been lately set— They black each other’s eyes.

The Sluggard. ’Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, “You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again.” As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. “A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;” Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number: And when he gets up he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher; The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs. I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking; But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me, This man’s but a picture of what I might be; But, thanks to my friends, for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.” Dr. Watts.

The French Sluggard. ’Tis the moan of old Louis,[48] I hear him complain; “I’ve deluded my people to warfare with Spain;” As the priests are at mass, so is he on his throne, An imbecile monarch, an indolent drone. A little more craft, and a little more ruling, Thus his days and his hours have been wasted in fooling And when he snores up, for his capon and crown, His lethargy sinks him again on his down. I passed by his palace,—I saw the disguise,— His Jesuits caressed him, his Ultras were spies; The robes that hung on him were ragged and poor And his life, like a beggar’s, dependent once more. Said I—“Ye Allies!!—’tis a lesson for you; This King is a picture that soon you will view; And thanks to the nations who freedom have cherish’d, That knowledge hath conquer’d, and despots have perish’d.” The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1823.

The Sluggard. “’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.” And I’m not much surprised, for ’tis surely some lout, Who won’t let the poor fellow have his sleep out. It’s all very well for some fidgety elf, Who can’t get a wink of sound sleep for himself, To call others “sluggards”—as worthy as he— Because they don’t quite with his theory agree. They think it high time, if to dress they’re prepared, When the sun is up first, and the day is well aired, If the body needs rest, ’tis but reason to sleep, And thus all its functions in order to keep. If the birds (little fools!) rise so early, I beg You’ll remember they usually sleep on one leg: And its wearisome, doubtless, standing so long, So they wake up and shake off the cramp with a song. If they had, as I have, a nice cosy bed, My impression is they would sleep later instead, And as for the “worm-catching” proverb, in terms, It can’t affect me—I’m not partial to worms. Funny Folks.

’Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare, “You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.” As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose, Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. (Macmillan and Co., London.)

The wise one, and the Foolish. ’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again,” As a door on its hinges, so in his bed he Turn’d and drowsily muttered, “A Soda and B!” ’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “I fancy that last night I drank too much champagne; But no,” he exclaim’d, as he loll’d at his ease, “It was not the champagne, ’twas the salmon and peas.” I look’d once again, as he lay on the bed, His eyes they were blood shot, his nose it was red, And I said to myself, as I turn’d from the sight, “It is clear he was up till a late hour of night.” Then I said to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me! That man’s but a picture of what I might be. But no, I am cautious in all that I eat; I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat.” Judy, September 23, 1874.

The “Special.” (After “Watts” his name.) ’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain, “Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?” His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red, And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed. He had written “atrocity” scenes without number On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber; Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities— All a Special considers his own Specialities. Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,” And glanced at his costume all covered with mire; For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags, And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.” But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find New horrors for British consumption designed; And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking (Too much of the latter some readers are thinking). But they scan with delight that escape from a shell, That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well; And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel, ’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal. But I said as I read, “Here’s a lesson for me; This man’s, but a picture of what I might be. Were it not for the care of my friends in my breeding, I might have to make ‘Specials’ for newspaper reading.” Funny Folks.

The Czar he Leads a Jolly Life. ’Tis the voice of the Czar, don’t you hear him complain? “They’ve been trying to blow up my palace again! Now matters are really getting too bad; For years not a moment of peace have I had.”

The Rinker. ’Tis the voice of the rinker, I heard her complain, You have stopped me too soon, I’ll go skating again, As the door on its hinges, so she on her skates, Turns gracefully, and expectantly waits. A little more skating, a little more rinking, Thus she wastes half her days, and her hours without thinking And when she’s at home, she but lolls in a chair, And wonders how soon she again will go there. On her way to the rink I once chanced to be nigh her, And I thought that she held her head higher and higher, So fine was the dress she wore, I quite shuddered to think Of the money she wastes on the terrible rink. I made her a visit, still hoping to find She took some little care for improving her mind; She told me her feats, talked of dressing and rinking, But scarce reads a book, and never loves thinking. Then I said to myself, “Here’s a lesson to me, This woman’s a pattern of what I might be,” But I’m proud to confess, and I can without blinking, I much prefer reading and writing to rinking. Idyls of the Rink. Judd & Co., London, 1876.

A Moral Song for Election Time. ’Tis the voice of Britannia, I heard her explain “I’m wide awake now; I wont slumber again; As Materfamilias, once out of bed, I must sack my late servants, and turn off their head. “A little more sleep, and a little more slumber, And my wars, big and little, had grown out of number; Over vanishing trade I’d have had to fold hands, Perplexed not with orders, but debtor’s demands. “I passed Jingo’s Music Hall, lit with blue fire, That on Russia’s big bogey blazed higher and higher, I heard “Rule Britannia,” saw waving of flags, With a great deal by way of bounce, bunkum, and brags. “I called upon Jingo, as hoping to find, Common sense had found access, at length, to his mind, But he told me his dreams, talked as if he’d been drinking, For he reads the D. T., and has long given up thinking. “Then, said Punch to John Bull, ‘you take warning, J. B.,’ This Jingo’s a picture of what we might be. But thanks to our friends for the care of our breeding, Who warned us, betimes, the D. T. against reading. Punch, 1880.

’Tis the voice of the glutton, I hear him complain, My waistcoat unbutton, I’ll eat once again. Punch, May 1864.

’Tis the voice of the oyster I hear him complain; “I can’t live in this place, here’s the sandstorm again. 214 I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles. It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will, Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill, I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands, But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.” Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down! Punch, 1880.

Praise for Mercies Spiritual and Temporal. Whene’er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see! What shall I render to my God For all his gifts to me? Not more than others I deserve, Yet God hath given me more: For I have food while others starve, Or beg from door to door. How many children in the street Half naked I behold! While I am clothed from head to feet And cover’d from the cold. While some poor wretches scarce can tell Where they may lay their head, I have a home wherein to dwell, And rest upon my bed. While others early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Lord, I am taught thy name to fear, And do thy holy will. Are these thy favours, day by day, To me above the rest? Then let me love thee more than they, And try to serve thee best. Dr. Watts.

London Streets. A Moral Song, after an Obvious Original. Whene’er I take my walks abroad How many things I see Which make me wish that Colonel Hen- derson were there with me. Not more than others I observe, But things impress me more— The noise, the filth, the area-sneaks Who beg from door to door. What borrowed children in the street Half-naked I behold! What sturdy hawkers howl and cheat, And how the poor are “sold!” Horses in ’bus and cab I see O’erworked and underfed, And overladen creatures fall Upon the roadway—dead! Teutonic bands disturb the street Remote from noise and strife, And organs grinding discord make A misery of life. On crowded pavements, two abreast, Perambulators run, To drive the folks into the road— The nursemaids’ daily fun. The gamins early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Too fleet of foot for him to race— The bobby, named of Peel. Such things as these are day by day A scandal and a pest; But Scotland Yard, with folded arms, Snores on and takes its rest.

The Irish Landlord’s Song. “Whene’er I take my walks abroad My tenantry I see, And each has got a blunderbuss, A looking out for me.” Judy.

Praise for Mercies Spiritual and Temporal. I cannot take my walks abroad, I’m under lock and key, And much the public I applaud, For all their care of me. Not more than others I deserve, In fact much less, than more; Yet I have food while others starve Or beg from door to door. The honest pauper in the street, Half-naked I behold; While I am clad from head to feet, And covered from the cold. Thousands there are who scarce can tell Where they may lay their head; While I’ve a warm and well air’d cell, A bath, good books, good bed. While they are fed on workhouse fare And grudged their scanty food: Three times a day my meals I get, Sufficient, wholesome, good. Then to the British public health, Who all our care relieves; And while they treat us as they do, They’ll never want for thieves.

The spirit that dictated such an irreverence with Dr. Watts is worthy of the Author. I cannot take my walks abroad, I’m under lock and key, And much the public I applaud, For all their care of me. Not more than Paupers I deserve, In fact, much less than more, Yet I have food while Paupers starve And beg from door to door. The honest Pauper in the street Half naked you behold, While I am clothed from head to feet And covered from the cold. While honest Paupers scarce can tell Where they may lay their head, I have a warm and well-aired cell, With bath-room, gas, and bed. While Paupers live on workhouse fare, A grudged and scanty meal, My table’s spread with bread and beer, And beef, or pork, or veal. Then since to honest folks, I say, They put the Workhouse Test, Why nix my doll palls, fake away, You’ll like the Jug the best. The Model Prison. [This originally appeared in Punch, April 4, 1857.]

Whene’er abroad we take our walks, And choose the Covent Garden route, We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks? And are they fond of rotten fruit?” We see the garbage piled on high, We sniff an air whose odour tells Of rank corruption; and we sigh, “No doubt the duke approves of smells!” We pick our way through filth and slime, And, musing on the noisome flood, The thought occurs to us in time, “In politics dukes fling much mud!” We watch the traffic raging round, And filling every hole and nook, Then say, “Of course this muddle’s found To gratify his grace the duke.” The grimy avenue we pace, About the ugly sheds we pry; “It’s hard,” we think, “to like the place,— But then one lacks the ducal eye.” We mark the slums that fester near, And dirt and squalor still we find; But reason whispers in our ear, “It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.” Oh, fie on agitating elves Who say the market is a blot! They ought to murmur to themselves, “The duke’s contented with the spot.” He draws his rents, he hoards his gold; What cares he for the vulgar throng! They might just recollect, when told, That dukes, like kings, can do no wrong. The Weekly Dispatch, June, 1882.

I.—Play (Innocent and Otherwise). Abroad in the Boroughs to see the Blue Lambs, And the Red Lions rather too free of their dams, Standing up for what both call their rights: Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage, Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage, Are not pleasant election-time sights. If we’d been born Ducks, we might dabble in mud; Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood; But we claim to be rational creatures; And Dizzy and Gladstone, and such pretty names, We ought to know better than fling, to our shames, Like mud, in each other’s flushed features. Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say, But with Blue and Buff bills should be wiped clean away; They are fools who let foolish words hurt. Not so rough’s rude horseplay, who fight and throw mire, Or, still worse, penmen’s frolic’s, who fling about fire In Jingo Drawcansir disport.

II.—Love between Reds and Blues. Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite— They can’t use fists, we know— Let Turk and Russ take wrong for right, It is their nature to. But, Britons, you should never let Such Party-passions rise, As, even at Election times, To—blank—each other’s eyes! 216 Afghans, Zulus howe’er we treat, Let’s keep the peace at home; Where Rads and Jingoes share the street, To cuffs they should not come. Birds in their little nests agree, And ’tis a painful sight, When fools, though of one family, Fall out and chide and fight. Hard hustings-names, hot platform-words, And blatant leaders’ breath, Take shape in Clubs, Lies’ two-edged swords, And mob-war to the death. He’s wise who tongue and temper schools Through the election fight, Nor holdeth all his foes for fools, Himself still in the right. Punch, April 17, 1880.

Watts’s Income Tax Logic. When Bishops, who in wealth abound, Return their incomes wrong, And pocket several thousand pound To them that don’t belong. Oh, how can Government expect A struggling chap like me Should put his earnings down correct, To fill up Schedule D? Punch, April 16, 1853.

Hymn by a Member of the Peace Congress. How sweet a thing it is to dwell In blessed u-ni-ty, With envious passions ne’er to swell, But cherish a-mi-ty. How very sweet it is to take Your little brother’s gold, And make a snug pro-vi-sion Against when we get old. How very sweet it is—“Oh dear!” Who hit me in the eye? “Who kicked me then? Get out you brute! Ah do—just only try—” “I’ll tear your clothes clean off your back, I’ll smash your ugly head;” It’s done—three cheers for blessed peace! My en-e-my is dead. The Tomahawk, September 21, 1867.

The Thief. Why should I deprive my neighbour Of his goods against his will? Hands were made for honest labour, Not to plunder, or to steal. Dr. Watts.

Why should I relieve my neighbour With my goods against my will? Can’t he live by honest labour Can’t he borrow, can’t he steal?

“Let every foreign tongue alone Till you can spell and read your own” With equal justice, sense and truth, So says the guide and friend of youth: For ignorant in that, ’tis plain, Your boast of literature is vain; But make your own your first concern, All others you may quickly learn: And thus with minds prepar’d and free, Their beauties taste, their idioms see. Pedants may flout and keep a pother About this language, and the other, And swear that none can write or speak Who have not Latin learn’d and Greek: ‘He of all judgement is depriv’d ‘Who knows not whence a word’s derived ‘And every Briton willy nilly, ‘Must dig good English out of Lilly;’ These are vague notions foster’d long Crude in their birth, in practice wrong; Like many more of ancient date, Wisely reformed or obsolete. Thousands ’tis true the course have run, Which reason would have bid them shun: ’Tis common sense and good in law, To furnish brick we should have straw. But by the mystic code of schools There’s neither straw allowed nor tools; And years of pain, and learning’s stock, Begin and end in Hic, haec, hoc! What charms are there, in sense or sound Of such intrinsic merit found, That not thro’ prejudice to err, Terms of our own we mayn’t prefer? And just as well the purpose fit, With Oxford writing,—he, she, it? Or do they more in Church or State Improve discourse, or point debate? Poor boys in training, it appears, Condemn’d to waste their tender years On exercises which conduce To little or no real use, Seem to perpetuate Britain’s doom, To groan beneath the yoke of Rome. Rome that abandon’d us in need Still o’er our judgment takes the lead; We scout her eagles with disdain The fasces still usurp domain; Still, of court influence tho’ bereft, In schools the badge of slavery’s left, And interest still, or affectation, Warps the free spirit of the nation; Tho’ richer prospects grace our view Than ever Greek or Roman knew,— All must be through the classics led, Before the horn-book well they’ve read; A more oppressive task in fact Than Ægypt’s tyrant could exact Which genius in the cradle cramps, And all her generous efforts damps; But in your native language skill’d You on a sure foundation build; The edifice will rise sublime, In perfect order, place, and time. 217 There, and there only should commence The path to knowledge, wit and sense, For there the young ingenious mind, The road to excellence will find, And in the flowery walks of science, May bid disgraceful birch defiance; But who, a novice there, aspires, Must work his way through thorns and briars, And when the craggy steeps are past, May skulk a useless drone at last; Nay, though he get A. B. at College, Be stopt of his degree in knowledge. Then cultivate your native soil, The harvest will repay your toil; And be it every parent’s care, To plant the seeds of goodness there.

——Sing Heavenly Muſe, Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme, A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera’s dire Happy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife, In Silken or in Leathern Purſe retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New Oyſters cry’d, nor ſighs for cheerful Ale; 218But with his Friends, when nightly Miſts ariſe, To Juniper’s, or Magpye, or Town-Hall[49] repairs; Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye, Transfix’d his Soul, and kindled Amorous flames, Chloe or Phillis; he each Circling Glass Wiſheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love. Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at Merry Tale, Or Pun ambiguous, or Conundrum quaint. But I whom griping Penury ſurrounds, And Hunger, ſure Attendant upon Want, With ſcanty Offals, and ſmall acid Tiff (Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain: Then Solitary walk, or doze at home In Garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill’d Fingers, or from Tube as black As Winter’s Chimney, or well-poliſh’d Jett, Exhale Mundungus, ill-perfuming Smoak. Not blacker Tube, nor of a ſhorter Size Smoaks Cambro-Britain (vers’d in Pedigree, Sprung from Cadwalader and Arthur, ancient Kings, Full famous in Romantick tale) when he O’re many a craggy Hill, and fruitleſs Cliff, Upon a Cargo of fam’d Ceſtrian Cheese, High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign To vend his Wares, or at the Arvonian Mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient Town Hight Morgannumia, or where Vaga’s Stream Encircles Ariconium, fruithful Soil, Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye With Massic, Setian, or Renown’d Falern. Thus while my joyleſs Hours I lingring spend, With Looks demure, and ſilent pace a Dunn, Horrible Monſter! hated by Gods and Men, To my aerial Citadel ascends; With Vocal Heel thrice Thund’ring at my Gates, With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound; What should I do, or whither turn? amaz’d Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of Woodhole; ſtreight my briſtling Hairs erect My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech, So horrible he seems; his faded Brow Entrench’d with many a Frown, and conic Beard, And ſpreading Band admir’d by Modern Saint Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his Right hand Long Scrolls of Paper ſolemnly he waves, With Characters and Figures dire inſcribed Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks Another Monſter, not unlike himſelf, Of Aſpect ſullen, by the Vulgar called A Catchpole, whoſe polluted hands the Gods With Force incredible, and Magic Charms Erſt have indu’d, if he his ample Palm Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay Of Debtor, ſtreight his Body to the touch Obſequious (as Whilom Knights were wont) To ſome enchanted Castle is convey’d, Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charms In durance vile detain him, till in form Of Money, Pallas ſet the Captive free. Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware, Be circumſpect; oft with inſidious Ken, This Caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave, Prompt to enchant ſome inadvertent wretch With his unhallow’d Touch. So (Poets ſing) Grimalkin to Domeſtick Vermin ſworn An everlaſting Foe, with watchful eye, Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs Mice Sure ruin. So her diſembowell’d Web The Spider in a Hall or Kitchin ſpreads, Obvious to vagrant Flies; ſhe ſecret ſtands, Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey Regardleſs of their Fate, ruſh on the toils Inextricable, nor will ought avail Their Arts nor Arms, nor Shapes of lovely Hue, The Waſp inſidious, and the buzzing Drone, And Butterfly proud of expanded wings Diſtinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares, Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides She tow’ring flies to her expected Spoils; Then with envenom’d Jaws the vital Blood Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave Their bulky Carcaſſes triumphant drags. So paſs my days. But when Nocturnal Shades This World invelop, and th’inclement Air Perſwades Men to repel benumming Froſts, With pleaſant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood; Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn, Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades, Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream, Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree; Mean while I labour with eternal drought, And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe; But if a Slumber haply do’s invade My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake, Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream, Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale. Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt— Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe. Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d, Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays Mature, John-apple nor the Downy Peach, Nor Walnut in rough-furrow’d Coat ſecure, Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great, yet greater ſtill remain, My Galligaskings that have long withſtood The Winter’s Fury, and encroaching Froſts By time subdu’d, (what will not time ſubdue!) A horrid Chaſm diſcloſe, with Orifice Wide diſcontinuous; at which the Winds Eurus and Auſter, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian Waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blaſts, Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship Long ſail’d ſecure, or through the Egean Deep, Or the Ionian, till Cruſing near The Lilybean Shoar, with hideous Cruſh On Scylla or Charibdis dangerous Rocks She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter’d Oak, So fierce a Shock unable to withſtand, Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side, The crouding Waves guſh with impetuous Rage, Reſiſtleſs overwhelming; Horrors ſeize The Mariners, Death in their eyes appears, They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray. Vain Efforts, ſtill the battering Waves ruſh in Implacable, till delug’d by the foam, The Ship ſinks found’ring in the vast Abyſs.

WINE, a Poem. Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Quæ Scribuntur aquæ portoribus. Epist. 19, Lib. 1, Hor. Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source Whence human Pleasure flow, sing Heavenly Muse, Of sparkling juices, of the enliv’ning Grape, Whose quickning Taste adds Vigour to the Soul, Whose Sov’raign pow’r revives decaying Nature, And thaws the frozen Blood of Hoary Age A kindly Warmth diffusing, Youthful fires Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before: Cordial restorative to mortal Man With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d. Bacchus Divine, aid my advent’rous Song, That with no middle flight intends to soar. Inspir’d, Sublime on Pegaseon Wing By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air. When fumy Vapour clog our loaded Brows With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within, Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm, Moaping we sit, in silent sorrow drown’d: Whether inveigling Hymen has trapan’d Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the Gordian Knot Of jangling Wedlock Indissoluble; Worried all Day by loud Zantippes Din, And when the gentle dew of sleep inclines, With slumb’rous Weight his Eye-lids She inflam’d With Uncloyed Lust, and Itch Insatiable, His stock exhausted, still yells on for more; Nor fail She to exalt him to the Stars, And fixt him there among the Branched Crew (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,) The greatest Monster of the Zodiac; Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf Or Celia’s scornful flights, and cold disdain Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse, The worst Events that mortals can befal; By cares depress’d in pensive Hypoish mood, With slowest pace, the tedious minutes Roll. Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood, Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping Fronts, And pour in chrystal pure, thy purer Juice, With cheerful Countenance and steady Hand Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spacious Rim Th’ expecting Mouth, and now with grateful Tast, The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’re the Tongue, The circling Blood with quicker motion flies; Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait Dispell’dst those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d To whilom Glories of our gladsom Face And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes, Thy cheering Virtues, and thy worth proclaim. So Mists and Exhalations that arise From Hills or streamy Lake, Dusky or Gray Prevail, till Phœbus sheds Titanian Rays, And paints their Fleecy Skirts with shining Gold, Unable to resist the Foggy Damps That veild the Surface of the verdant Fields, At the God’s penetrating Beams disperse: The Earth again in former Beauty smiles, In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear. When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse, Scoff’d at, despised, in melancholick mood Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours, Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty Aid, He Storms the Breach, and wins the Beauteous Fort. To pay thee Homage, and receive thy Blessings, The British Mariner quits native shore, And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss, Ploughing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav’d Oak With beaked Prow, Rides tilting o’re the Waves; Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls In Dangers Imminent, till she arrives At those blest Climes, thou favour’st with thy presence. Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts, Or Lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro, Provence or at the Celtiberian Shores; With gazing Pleasure and Astonishment At Paradice, (Seat of our ancient sire,) He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple Grape In largest Clusters Pendant, grace the Vines Innumerous, in Fields Grotesque and Wild They with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine, And load with Fruit Divine her spreading Boughs; Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought, 220Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends, Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe, His kindly treach’rous mem’ry now presents The Jovial God has left no room for Cares. Celestial Liquor, thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard, With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains Unparalell’d, with Eloquence profound, And Arguments Convincive didst enforce Fam’d Tully, and Demosthenes Renown’d Ennius first fam’d in Latin Song, in vain Drew Heliconian Streams, Ungrateful whet To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull With pains essay’d but abject still and low, His Unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font Of bright Lenæan fire, Her barren drought He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice, Her drooping spirits chear’d, aloft she towres Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms, And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings: ’Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts, And resolution bold, and ardour brave Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease, And sluggish minds with gen’rous fires inflam’st, O thou, that first my quickned Soul engaged, Still with thy Aid assist me, What is dark Illumin, What is low raise and support That to the height of this great Argument, Thy Universal Sway o’er all the World, In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth. Had the Oxonion Bard thy Praise rehears’d, His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height; Such as of late o’er Blenheim Field she soar’d Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing emerg’d In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise. With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town, At Rural Seat, Lucretelus retir’d, Flaccus, untained by perplexing Cares, Where the white Poplar, and the lofty Pine Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade Creating from Phœbean Rays secure, A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse! With Roses Interwoven, Poplar Wreaths Their Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods: Choicest Nectarian Juice Crown’d largest Bowls, And over look’d the lid, alluring sight, Of fragrant Scent, attractive, tast Divine! Whether from Formain Grape depress’d, Falern Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, Lesbian or Cæcuban the chearing Bowl Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightened wit To sing Mecœna praise their Patron kind. But we, not as our Pristrin sires repair T’ umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the Sun Faintly from Western Skies his Rays oblique Darts flopping, and to Thetis watry Lap Hastens in prone Career, with Friends Select Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or old Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands A Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe, Greets us in winning Speech, and Accent Bland; With lightest bound, and safe unerring step He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue, And wagging’s Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before His sequel Lord from pensive Walk return’d, Whether in Shady Wood or Pasture Green, And waits his coming at the well known Gate. Nigh to the Stairs ascent, in regal Port Sits a Majestick Dame, whose looks denounce Command and Sov’reignty, with haughty Air, And Studied Mien, in Semicirc’lar Throne Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands; Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang’d, Pile above Pile Christallin Vessels shine; Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance, And after Homage paid, baul out aloud Words unintelligible, noise confus’d: She knows the Jargon Sounds, and strait describes In Characters Mysterious Words obscure; More legible are Algebraic Signs, Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn, When they Invoke aid Diabolical. Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance Of Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors; The loud Centaurean Broil’s with Lapithæ Sound Harsh, and grating to Lenæan God; Chase brutal Feuds of Bælian skippers hence, (Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown) In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife, Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face, Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn Rites: Musicks Harmonius Numbers better suit His Festivals, from Instrument or Voice, Or Gasperim’s Hand the trembling string Should touch, or from the Tuscan Dames Or warbling Tosts more soft Melodious Tongue Sweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian God For Airy Bacchus is Associate meet. The Stairs Ascent now gain’d our Guide unbars The door of Spacious Room, and creeking Chairs (To ear offensive) round the Table sets, We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins: Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites you, Tast, Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure, Or Hoc Antique, or Lisbon New or Old, Bourdeaux, or neat French White, or Alicant: For Bordeaux we with Voice Unanimous Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon Conpeers.) He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns, One hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure, A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught With goodly Wine, He with extended Hand Rais’d High, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice, O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon: We strait t’our Arms repair, experienced Chiefs; Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (Charming Sound,) And Glorious ANNA’s Health the first the best Crowns the full Glass, at Her inspiring Name The sprightly Wine Results, and seem to smile, With hearty Zeal, and wish unanimous The Health we drink, and in her Health our own. A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat W’ improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee, Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves To pleasant Laughter, strait the Echoing Room With Universal Peals and Shouts resounds. 221 The Royal Dane, blest Consort of the blest QUEEN, Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss In ANNA’S plac’t with Sympathetic Flame, And Mutual Endearments, all her Joys, Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love, Center in Him, who shares the grateful Hearts Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN, For by his Prudent Care, united shores Were say’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire. The Hero Malbro next, whose vast Exploits Fame’s Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hochstet’s Field. Next Devonshire Illustrious, who from Race Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul’s endow’d, And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d That shon in his most worthy Ancestors, For then distinct in sep’rate Breast were seen Virtues distinct, but all in him unite. Prudent Godolphin, of the Nations weal Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own. Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful Sunderland. And Halifax, the Muses darling Song, In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit, Himself Mecænas and a Flaccus too, And all the worthies of the British Realm In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d The Dulcet Wine with a more charming Gust. Now each their Mistress by whose scorching Eyes Fir’d, tost Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella, Or Silvia Comely Black with jetty Eyes Piercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid. Insensibly thus flow Unnumber’d Hours; Glass succeeds Glass, till the Dircean God Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die; All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthur’s Knights Of Rotund Table, Fam’d in Pristin Records, Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine. Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth, And Joys Unsull’d pass, till Humid Night Has half her Race perform’d, now all abroad Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling Noise Of Coach or Cart, or Smoaky Link-Boys call Is heard; but Universal Silence Reigns: When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay, Surpriz’d to find the Hour so swiftly flie, With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord Alarm the Drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod; Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies His yet clung Eyelids, and with stagg’ring Reel Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills; When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge, And Homeward each his Course with steady step Unerring steer’d of Cares and Coin bereft.