WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 6)

The Ghouls in the Belfry.[13] Hear the story of the Ghouls! Who will tell us of the Ghouls? Who has been told? Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls,— Who are neither man nor woman. Who are neither beast nor human, Who are neither fish nor cayman,— Who will tell us, clerk or layman? They are Ghouls; Live in holes Like moles Under the boles, boles, boles Of old trees, where the forest rolls Of the mouldy days of old; Or in tarns, tarns, tarns, Dull and dismal as the yarns Of morbific spools,— Dank tarns and dismal pools, There dwell the Ghouls, With other tarn’d fowls,— Not to say fools. But the high tarn nation place is The dank tarn of Auber In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. There they sit, with their faces Bow’d down to their knees, At the feet of dead trees. With the dew dropping down from their hair, They sit there from the end of October, To the end of the winter next year, These are woodlandish Ghouls, Damp, desolate souls Who have nothing to do But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber Through the mildewest part of the year, That begins at the end of October, In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir. Yes! these are the woodlandish Ghouls— Ghouls—Ghouls—Ghouls— With no business kind of controls— Mere shoals. But busier—ah! much busier polls Have the Churchyard Ghouls, Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls; And who after supper Take an upper Climb to their goal in the steeple! Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill On the people undergone; Sitting cheeks by jowls. 99 Now and then they roll a stone, Having set the bells a-tolling In a muffled monotone, On the people undergone. And their King it is who tolls, As he lolls, lolls, lolls On his throne all carved with scrolls In his palace in the steeple. Where he lolls among his people! Ah! his people who roll stones, In muffled monotones, On the hearts of the underfolk, In the dead of night awoke By the melancholy yells, By the miserable howls, To say nothing of the growls, Of these Ghouls, Of these tollers of the bells, As they toll, toll, toll Toll; Toll; Toll A pæan from the bells: And the merry bosom swells Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls, As he dances and he yells To the throbbing of the bells As they toll, Toll, Toll. It is so the poet tells Who has heard these Ghoulish bells; And whose rheumy running rhyme, Bowl’d in time, time, time, With the throbbing and the sobbing And the bobbing and hobnobbing And sense-robbing of the bells, Could alone expound their yells For the clamor each expels, From the loud full-hammer’d tone, Sometime hoarsening to a groan, Sometime worsening to a moan, Till one bell tolls out alone In a muffled monotone Between murmuring and moan,— Till the King lolled there, as shown, On his scroll-becarven throne, Grown weary of the yells And the bowling of the bells (Well! well! to be so bold) As they moan and groan and yell Pell-mell, Would be fain to be unthroned, For the pain too wholly own’d, Untold but wholly known, (Toll de roll!) Of the moans, groans, yells, As they shake the steeple stone, And awake the undergone (Rest his soul!) With the tolling of their knells, Roll’d like blood-drops from heart wells, Misereres out of cells, Or weird witch-moulded spells Under fells! The bells, bells, bells, Whose tolling ever tells Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells, Told by bells, bells, bells Bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense dispelling, Moaning, groaning, all-atoning, Rolling, tolling of the bells, Bells, Bells.

Hullaloo.[14] The eves were as grey as grey embers, The leaves dirty yellow and sere,— They were yellow, but dusky and sere; That eve was the worst of November’s, And they are the worst of the year. ’Twas an eve that one surely remembers, Being out in the dusk with my dear; For the fire was gone out to weak embers; So I went out too, with my dear. Hear then! Through an alley Satanic— Of hemlock, I roam’d with my love,— Of hemlock with Sarah, my love. O my passion was quite oceanic, With waves like the wind in a grove, When the wind maketh waves in a grove— And the leaves with a sort of a panic Seem taken; I thought of the stove, And, shivering, as if with a panic Was taken, at thought of the stove. Our talk at the first had been jolly, But our words soon were slow as our walk,— Our young memories scarcely could walk; Then we thought it was right melancholy To be out in the dark without talk— For we knew that we came out to talk Still we felt in our hearts it was folly The vast dream of silence to baulk, Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly! And Sarah back whisper’d me—Lawk! 100 And now as the night was senescent, And some roosters were hinting of morn,— Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!— As the night grew more old and unpleasant, We saw in the distance a horn, Out of which a miraculous crescent To the sides of the road was outborne; ’Twas Sal’s father’s horn lanthorn there present, The crescent distinct from the horn. And I said—He is better than Dian; But I wish that his light had more size,— And the light wasn’t much for its size; He has guess’d—that’s a thing to rely on— Has father, the way our walk lies, And he has come out like Orion, The fellow up there in the skies,— Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies— Come out like another Orion To help me take care of my prize, To take her safe home bye-and-bye on The pathway that fatherward lies. But Sarah, uplifting her finger, Said—Surely that light I mistrust,— That lanthorn I strangely mistrust; O hasten! O let us not linger! O fly! let us fly! for we must. In terror she spoke, letting sink her Voice,—O, he’ll make such a dust! In anguish she sobbed, letting sink her Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,— O but father’ll kick up such a dust! I replied—This is nothing but dreaming; We need but keep out of the light,— But he kept dodging us with the light; And Sarah would soon have been screaming— She shook like a leaf with affright, Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright; So I lifted her out of the gleaming, Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight: And her father went on, never dreaming He left us behind in the night. Then to pacify Sarah I kiss’d her, And soon took her out of the gloom,— It was getting quite cold in the gloom, And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist, or I never shall get you safe home. Then we ran, and in good time got home. Father said—How on earth have I miss’d her? She said—I was never from home. No, Pa! I was never from home. I have been all the night in my room. Now my head is as grey as an ember; And my heart is all crisped and sere,— Like a crisp leaf that’s wither’d and sere; And yet I am fain to remember Above all the nights in the year— Ah, Sally! if you were but here— That night of all nights in the year— Ah, Sally! if you were but here— That cold dreamy night of November, That night of all nights in the year, That long ago night of November,— The night we were out in, my dear!

To Any. Thank heaven! the crisis Of hunger is past; And you can’t guess how nice is This little breakfast, Now the thing call’d good living Is come to at last. I eat what I love And recover my strength; And my jaws only move As I lie at full length. I might sit—but I feel I am better at length. And I lie so composedly, Feeding and fed, A careless beholder Might fancy me dead. Not seeing my jaws work Might fancy me dead. The grunting and groaning, The writhing and raving, Are quieted now, With that horrible craving At stomach—that horrible Stomachic craving. The sickness, the faintness, The emptiness—pain Have ceased; and my stomach’s A stomach again, And feels like a stomach Not living in vain. And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated,—the terrible Torture of Thirst, For a napthaline river Or fusil lake burst: I’d have drunk dirty water, For quenching that thirst. 101 Of a puddle that flows With a smell, and no sound From a hole but a very few Feet underground, Though I holded my nose As I stoop’d to the ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That this my mahogany Is not well spread! With such victual before me I call it a spread; And such drink—my cosmogony Knows nought instead. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes: The upsetting or ever ’Twas wetting one’s nose is All over. Sweet spirit! Thy scent in my nose is. And now while so pleasantly Curl’d up it fancies, A fragranter odour Than rue has, or pansies,— Or even than rosemary Mingled with pansies,— The beautiful bourbon, The Puritan fancies. And so I lie happily Drinking a many And eating a few, It will cost a big penny; I don’t mind the cost; For I have not a penny. * * * * * *

* For Annie. I. Thank heaven, the crisis, The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last; And the fever called “living” Is conquered at last. * * * * * IV. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart—Ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! V. The sickness, the nausea, The pitiless pain, Have ceased, with the fever, That maddened my brain— With the fever called “living,” That burned in my brain. VI. And, O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated—the terrible Torture of thirst For the napthaline river Of Passion accurst. I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst. * * * * * E. A. Poe.

Hannibal Leigh.[15] It was many and many a year ago— It seems so long to me, That there lived in a city which you may know A man named Hannibal Leigh; And this man he seem’d to have nothing to do But to drink and get drunk with me. I was a fool and he was a fool, In this city by the sea For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule That neither should drunker be; And we drank till we might have lesson’d a school Of fishes, such drinkers were we. And this was the reason that long ago In this city by the sea A fusilier spirit of ill distilling Destroy’d my Hannibal Leigh. ’Twas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing To drink for ever with me; And some were saying it was fulfilling A kind o’ warning to me. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying him and me— Yes! that was the reason, whatever was given In that city by the sea, Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh. But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong, For the two, for I drink like three,— For myself once and twice for Leigh; And no fusil here nor in heaven along, Nor spirit down under the sea, Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh. 102 For whenever I drink I endeavour to think, I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh; And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise Of my drink-Kaiser Hannibal Leigh; And in all the night tide I hold on to the side Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died; And I think that I Hannibal see And I’m Hannibal, Hannibal’s me.

Raving.[16] Once upon a midnight, weary, As I maundered, gin-and-beery, O’er an oft-repeated story, Till my friends thought me a bore— Sitting weeping, and half sleeping, Something set my flesh a-creeping, And I saw a Raven peeping Through my room’s unopen’d door. “See that Raven,” said I to them, “Trying to get through the door,— A Black Raven—nothing more?” Now, I was not drunk, but weary, For my head was out-of-geary With close study of quaint volumes, Curious in forgotten lore; (Though they said delirium tremens) I’d been reading bits of Hemans, And some leaves of Jacob Behmen’s, Two or three—perhaps a score; And I said—“It is a Raven Rampant just outside the door— Striding through,” I said—and swore. I insisted, and I twisted, And resisted and persisted Though they held me and, close-fisted, Saw no Raven at the door: I forgot all I had read of, For that ill bird took my head off, Like a coffin lid of lead off The dead brain of one no more. Would I trust their words instead of What I saw right through the door? Through the door,—I said—and swore. Yes! it is a Raven surely, Though he does look so demurely Like a doctor come to assure me I am drunk: Not so,—I swore. Drunk? I drunk? I’ve not been drinking; I’m but overcome with thinking; There I saw that Raven winking In the middle of the floor. Doctor! there’s the Raven rampant In the middle of the floor; He has hopp’d straight through the door. Look! his curst wings brush the dust off That fallen, broken, batter’d bust of Psyche,—where it lies in the shadow, Shatter’d flung down on the floor. See! he spurns the broken pieces. Catch him, Doctor! When he ceases He will rend me. Past release is— Nothing! Nothing on the floor? Yes! The Psyche lies in the shadow, Lieth shatter’d on the floor— To be lifted nevermore. * * * * *

The Monster Maggot.[17] A Poet! With never a single theme Of glory or delight; He folds his wings for a gloomy dream Of death, despair, bedight; And, willing not that Beauty use His wilderness of soul, He chooseth, for his daintier muse Raven or Ghoul. And now a “Conqueror Worm” he sings, A blood-red crawling shape, Invisible woe from its condor wings Out-flapping, all agape; While angels bewing’d, bedight in veils, Watch mumbling mimes, with tears, In a play, where a maniac, Horror, wails To the music of the spheres. The play is the play of Human Woes, Of Madness, Sin, and Death! There is nothing else the Poet knows God’s azure sky beneath, But Madness, Horror, and Sin Death and Sorrow, and Wrong: Even so doth the singer begin, So ends his song. “It writhes”—the Worm—“with mortal pangs “The mimes become its food; “And the angels sob at vermin fangs “In human gore imbued,” This monster terrible, formless, huge, Means—put in plainest terms: Our Poet needs a vermifuge. The child’s disease is worms.

Said we then—the two, then—Ah! can it Have been that the woodlandish Ghouls— The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls, To bar up our way and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds— From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds— Have drawn up the spectre of a planet, From the limbo of lunary souls— This sinfully scintillant planet From the hell of the planetary souls?

Pot-Pourri. “A Rosemary odour “Commingled with pansies— “With rue:”— Your poet has fancies. But methinks such an odour Were odious to more than a few.

On a Poet’s Tomb. Tomb’d in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One! For critical devouring; but some words Writ heedlessly above thee call for words Of answering rebuke. If Israfel In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre— The only organ of harmonious worth— Shall not earth’s poet? And if he be weak, Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire, Untunable, rejoicing not in good, Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd Of “art for art’s sake!” when art is not art Out of the circles of the universe, Out of the song of the eternities, Or unfit to attend the ear of God. My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth.

Now thickly and more thickly To the Five Orders gates, In cap and gown throng through the town White-chokered candidates. Stunner of Christ Church, ne’er before In academics seen; And Nobby of the collars high, Girt with the scarf none else may tie; Loud-trowsered Boozer, stripes and all; And whiskered Tomkins from the hall Of seedy Magdalene;

They gave him his testamur, Which was a passman’s right; He was more than three examiners Could plough from morn to night,—

In the crown of his cap Were the Furies and Fates, And a delicate map Of the Dorian States; And they found on his palms, which were dirty, What is frequent on palms—that is dates—[19]

Here at least I’ll stay no longer, let me seek for some abode, Deep in some provincial country far from rail or turnpike road; There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm. To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas, Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese; Never company to dinner, never visitors from town, Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown). Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort, And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port.

MY MOTHER. Who fed me from her gentle breast, And hush’d me in her arms to rest, And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? My Mother. When sleep forsook my open eye, Who was it sung sweet hushaby, And rock’d me that I should not cry? My Mother. Who sat and watched my infant head, When sleeping on my cradle bed, And tears of sweet affection shed? My Mother. When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gazed upon my heavy eye, And wept for fear that I should die? My Mother. Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay, And taught me pretty how to play, And minded all I had to say? My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My Mother. Who taught my infant lips to pray, And love God’s holy book and day, And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way? My Mother. And can I ever cease to be, Affectionate and kind to thee, Who was’t so very kind to me, My Mother? Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear, And if God please my life to spare, I hope I shall reward thy care, My Mother. When thou art feeble, old, and gray, My healthy arm shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away, My Mother. And when I see thee hang thy head, ’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed, My Mother. For God, who lives above the skies, Would look with vengeance in His eyes, If I should ever dare despise My Mother.

For could our Father in the skies, Look down with pleased or loving eyes, If ever I could dare despise, My Mother?”

Autumn 1793. The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be our last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly would’st fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For, could I view nor them, nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st, That now at every step thou mov’st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st, My Mary! And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! William Cowper.

The Victim of Circumstances. By an Outcast. Who tucked me up in bed at night, And cried as she blew out the light: “Now go to sleep, you little fright?”— My Mother! 108 Who patted me upon the head, And in the gruffest accents said: “Get out, you oaf, and earn your bread?”— My Father. Who dropped on me a scalding tear, Exclaiming, as she boxed my ear: “The gallows is your doom, I fear?”— My Sister. Who gently asked me what I’d got, And cried, while pocketing the lot: “Be off, or else you’ll get it hot?”— My Brother. Who with my locks would gently play, And wrote me when she ran away: “With such a fool I cannot stay?”— My Wife. Who stuck to me through thick and thin, Then drew a bill and let me in, Exclaiming: “What an ass you’ve been?”— My Friend. Who filled with tears my sorrow’s cup, By crying, as she went to sup: “Here, p’leesman, lock this blackguard up?”— My Aunt. Who rescued me from out the dirt, And said, in accents harsh and curt, “No more nor sixpence on this shirt?”— My Uncle. Judy, November 26, 1879.

My Relations. Who taught my baby-lips to coo, And trained them first to utter “Boo!” And spanked me pretty soundly, too?— My Mother. Who rapped me smartly on the head Because I said his nose was red, And sent me howling off to bed?— My Father. Who called me “Clever little lad, The very picture of my dad.” And gave me sixpence—which was bad?— My Grandfather. Who, when I asked her if her hair Was all her own, said, “Little bear!” And fixed me with a stony stare?— My Aunt. Who is, alas! the only friend On whom I can at all depend, And will remain so to the end?— My Uncle. Funny Folks, November 29, 1879.

Who wore a hideous high-crown’d cap, Who called me tootsy-wootsy chap, Yet used my little head to slap? Dear Nursy-pursy. Who said she’d watch, then meanly slept, And pinch’d me spiteful when I wept. And for my pap her stale crusts kept? Dear Nursy-pursy. Who gazed into my heavy eye, And said, “A powder we must try; This horrid child, he lives too high?” Dear Nursy-pursy. Who, when I yell’d, cried, “Hold your din!” Or choked me with a drop of gin (It wasn’t spasms, but a pin)? Dear Nursy-pursy. Who on my toddlums let me run Much sooner than she should have done, Which I’ve grown up a bandy one? My Nursy-pursy. Anonymous.

A Lay of North Woolwich. (Apropos of the Baby Show). Who felt the weight, and scanned the size Of rival yearlings with surprise, Yet doubted not to win the Prize? My Mother! The heat, the Baby-freighted train, To change thy purpose all were vain; Was’t love of me? or hope of gain, My Mother? Who let the public eye make free With secrets of our nursery, That int’rest only you and me? My Mother! Who babes with piglings would confound, Show both for flesh, so firm and sound, And weigh their merits by the pound? My Mother! Ambition noble! to prepare Spring infants, fattened up with care, First Quality, Ten Pounds the Pair, My Mother! If breeders prizes be allowed, Maternity, to please the crowd, Concurrently must be endowed, My Mother! Home joys, my mother, now are cheap: I pass my time in healthy sleep, Yet win a cup to pay my keep, My Mother! The Tomahawk, July 31, 1869.

My Mother-in-Law. Who kissed me when I first was wed, And said I was her “dear son Fred”— But did not mean a word she said? My Mother-in-law. Who when our honeymoon was o’er Came just to stop a week, no more! And proved herself a horrid bore? My Mother-in-law. 109 Who coming for a week to stay, Remained serene day after day, And showed no wish to go away? My Mother-in-law. Who sowed the seeds of married strife Between the husband and the wife, And so embittered all our life? My Mother-in-law. Who never let a quarrel flag, Whose tongue was ne’er too tired to wag, Who taught her daughter how to nag? My Mother-in-law. Whom would I fain, ah! fain beguile To some far distant Sandwich Isle?[21] That infamous old crocodile, My Mother-in-law.

A Lay of Real Life. Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass and corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather. Who said my mother was “no nurse,” And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother. Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt. Who, “of all earthly things,” would boast “He hated other’s brats the most,” And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle. Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin. Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother. Who marred my stealthy urchin joys, And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”— Girls always hector over boys— My Sister. Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, ’Cause I was eight and he was nine? My Brother. Who stroked my head and said, “Good lad;” And gave me sixpence—“all he had”— But at the shop the coin was bad? My Godfather. Who, gratis, shared my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referred me to the pump?—Alas! My Friend. Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathised with grief. Or shared, my joy, my sole relief? Myself. Anonymous.

Her Mother. Who comes and causes little tiffs; And gives the most suggestive sniffs, Whene’er a man takes twenty whiffs? My Mother-in-law! Who, when a babe is born, appears, And in my business interferes, Until at last she domineers? My Mother-in-law! Who comes to stay a day or two, And then stops all the winter through; Pretending she’s obliging you? My Mother-in-law! Who makes out you ill-treat her child, When preternaturally mild, You are at last by her driven wild? My Mother-in-law! Who makes the servants notice give, And when she at your house will live, Makes you from home a fugitive? My Mother-in-law! Who at the meals turns up her nose, Who loves your projects to oppose, And very nasty hints out-throws? My Mother-in-law! Who, cuckoo like, invades the nest, Till happiness is dispossest, And then remains a tiresome guest? My Mother-in-law! From Finis.

I think the public ought to know The miseries I undergo From one who only love should show; My Brother! Who thinks my head was made to hit? My hat a subject for his wit, Till laughing almost brings a fit! My Brother! Who makes me by the hour stand scout, But kicks me if I catch him out, Demanding what I am about? My Brother! Who goes financially to smash, And borrows all my hoarded cash, To purchase stamps, or some such trash? My Brother! Who makes me copy out his lines When he’s been kicking up his shines, And forces me to pay his fines? My Brother! Yes, spite of all the ties of birth, To him my woes cause only mirth;— You are the biggest fraud on earth, My Brother!

Audi Alteram Partem. Tom’s Letter to the Editor. Dick’s my small brother; that’s enough To show my lot is rather rough; Of one thing I get quantum suff, My Brother! Who’s always writing home to sneak? Who gives me endless kinds of cheek, Yet wants me to correct his Greek? My Brother! Who never at a game will play Unless you let him have his way, And bat at least ten times a day? My Brother! Who cannot stand the mildest snub? Who gets his double share of grub? And if you touch him starts to blub? My Brother! ’Tis sad to see one’s rackets “go”; ’Tis hard to slog and miss a slow; You’re worst! for you’re a constant woe, My Brother! The Boy’s Own Paper, Feb. 16, 1884.

Harry’s Complaint. Who would not help me when I fell, But bade me, roughly, “Stop that yell!” Or, straightway, he “would go and tell?” My Brother! Who took my marbles all away— Because, “you don’t know how to play”— And wouldn’t heed my plaintive “Nay?” My Brother! Who wouldn’t let me use his ball, Nor cricket ever learn at all, Because I was “so very small?” My Brother! Who laughed because my hair was red, And filled it full of crumbs of bread, Then, jeering, cried, “The baby’s fed?” My Brother! Who always was so nice and meek, And never(!) could a harsh word speak (And yet he was the biggest sneak)? My Brother! Whom all the ladies thought “so good” And only wished their brothers would Follow his footsteps, if they should! My Brother!

A “Sister’s” Complaint. Who, subsequently, older grown, Becomes a bore, as will be shown, Prating of “time,” and “tune,” and “tone!” My Brother! Who plays the fiddle in a key Midway between keys “A” and “B,” And scorns all mild advice from me? My Brother! Who holds it as a solemn charge To wear the “Masher” collar large, Nor knows the draper’s overcharge? My Brother! Who walks with stately port upright? Who wears his “pantaloons” too tight, Which adds absurdly to his height? My Brother! Who always will a silk hat wear Upon his highly-scented hair, And in his hand a cane-stick bear? My Brother! Who think there ought to be no boys, Who nothing make save “rents” and noise, And rudely spoil our household joys? Their Sisters! The Boy’s Own Paper, May 10, 1884.

Who! Ah, Who? Who culled me from a foreign source, And trotted me as his own horse, In brain—spun harness; Why, of course, My Author! Who set me up in type so rare (I heard him at his “devils” swear!) And for my future didn’t care? My Printer. Who sent me like a sandwich forth, And tastily my inward worth Displayed upon the sweetest cloth? My Binder. Who-eyed me with a guardian’s eye, And thought my price, a sov., not high, Cast me forth with, “hey! buy, buy!” My Publisher. Who found a strong “coincidence,” Informed the public how and whence My author gleaned at small expense? My Critic. The Figaro, February 18, 1874.

Mr. Wilson Barrett (producing MS.). As my collaborateur and friend is late, I think I will begin, at any rate. Our scene, then, Prince—— [Enter Mr. Henry Irving, hurriedly.] Mr. H. Irving. But what is this I see? This is not what we settled, Wilson B.? I was to read, you know—— Mr. W. B. Yes, you are right, But in your absence, well, I thought I might At all events commence. Mr. H. I. (bitterly). Ha, ha! again, That eagerness advantage to obtain. Pardon me, Prince, if I, to check emotion, Carol a strain I made up on the ocean:— Who first in melodrama played, And then, when he a name had made, Like me, Shakespearean parts essayed? My Barrett! Who copied me in sundry ways, And jealous of my early bays, Got Wills to write him blank-verse plays? My Barrett! Who, when I Romeo’s part had done, Vowed he would play a younger one, And so came out with Chatterton? My Barrett! Whose breast with such ambition burned, That he the whole of “Hamlet” learned, And played it when my back was turned? My Barrett! And who, if I do not take care, Will my dramatic sceptre share; Nay, perhaps to rival me will dare? My Barrett! Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.

My Banker. Who puts my money in his till, And when in difficulties will Employ it to take up a Bill? My Banker. Who cuts a very pretty dash By spending other people’s cash, And ends with a tremendous smash? My Banker. Who has a pleasant country seat, With park and grounds and all complete, And is a thorough going cheat? My Banker. Who goes to Church and says his prayers, And gives himself religious airs, And pawns my bonds and sells my shares? My Banker. Who, when convinced his house must go, Hints to a friend to let him know, ’Tis well to keep his balance low? My Banker. Who lives in most recherché style, And wears the very blandest smile, Though he’s insolvent all the while? My Banker. Who may a lesson yet be taught, And find himself some morning brought Before the Central Criminal Court? My Banker. Punch, June 30, 1855.

My Broker. Who leads me on to fields Elysian, Where golden prospects, greet my vision, And charges but a small commission? My Broker. Who, while I trudge through muddy ways, Rides (for that small commission pays) Behind a handsome pair of bays? My Broker. Who, sitting at Pactolus’ fount, Buys, sells, or holds for “next account,” Charging, of course, a small amount? My Broker. Whose tone is soft, whose manner bland; Who, lightly holding by my hand, Talks figures I don’t understand? My Broker. When panics come, who seems to wear A calm, serene, superior air, As if it wasn’t his affair? My Broker. Whose villa’s somewhere in the West; Whose wife’s in silk and sealskin drest; Whose wines and weeds are of the best? My Broker’s. Whose waist expands; who still can sport A face of roundest, ruddiest sort, Through drinking forty-seven port? My Broker. Whom did I look on as my friend, Till he those “Turks” would recommend, Yet knew the inevitable end? My Broker. Punch, October 23, 1875.

My Client. Who hangs about the Courts all day, And deals in a most reckless way, With every Broker who will stay? My Client! 112 Who talks a guttural foreign lingo, And, whilst he wins, still lets the thing go, Until a panic comes? By jingo! My Client! Who dabbles in a hundred “specs,” His Broker’s hazards little recks, And chuckles as he takes large cheques? My Client! Who, when his ventures, “bear”-hugged, quake, Commissions, quick, a double stake, Vowing the thing all right to make? My Client! Who, when the threatened crash has come, And he owes me a stiffish sum, Fails to turn up—and leaves me glum? My Client! Who, for his “little games” out-lawed, His pockets filled with fruits of fraud, Coolly retires, and lives abroad? My Client!

Alter et Idem. (From Broker No. 2). Who swaggered down from West End Club, As fierce as any half-pay “Sub,” Prepared all City Men to snub? My Client! Who, when I gave him sound advice, And landed him on “something nice,” Declared I’d robbed him in the price? My Client! Who (though when things were going well, He took his profits like a Swell) Firmly, for loss, declined to “shell?” My Client! Who, on that panic settling-day, Just calmly kept himself away, And left me all his debts to pay? My Client! Whom did I find “Gone out of Town,” Whose assets not worth half-a-crown, And who’d done twenty Brokers “brown?” My Client! Punch, November 6, 1875.

My Bismarck! Who, safe immured as in an ark, Keeps all his counsels close and dark, And acts the part of Nick’s chief clerk? My Bismarck! Who to poor Johnny wouldn’t hark, But seized and ransack’d poor Denmark, Like, what he is, a greedy shark? My Bismarck! Who looks on Europe as a park, Where men, like dogs, may bite and bark, While he looks on all grim and stark? My Bismarck! Who yet will overshoot the mark, And wreck proud Prussia’s lofty barque, And get his hide tann’d? What a lark! Why Bismarck! Judy,[22] May 15, 1867.

Who’s Who in 1851. Who, when I feel a little ill, Sends me a daily draft and pill, Followed by a tremendous bill? My Doctor! Who preaches self-denying views, Charges a heavy rent for pews, And calls on me for Easter dues? My Parson! Who, when a law-suit I have won, For a large sum begins to dun, To which the extra costs have run? My Lawyer! Who, for my trousers, which, with straps, Have cost him half-a-sovereign, p’raps, Down in the bill two guineas claps? My Tailor! Who, when I wish of beef a stone, Composed of wholesome meat alone, Sends me at least three pounds of bone? My Butcher! Who, when I send a joint to bake, Away from it contrives to take Enough a hearty meal to make? My Baker! Who lends my Times to read in town, And when I at the lateness frown, Tells me the engine’s broken down? My Newsman! Who coolly pawns my “other” shirt, And tells me, with assurance pert, She’s only dropped it in the dirt? My Laundress! Who peeps in every private note, Wears my best neckcloth round his throat, And at the “Swarry” sports my coat? My Footman! Who brings my shaving water late, And with a basket full of plate One morning doth evaporate, My Valet! Who flirts with soldiers dressed so fine, And leaves that sweetest pet of mine, To tumble in the Serpentine, My Nursemaid! Who comes to make a formal call, Merely to criticise us all, When severed by the party wall? My Neighbour! Who’s who, or where shall he be sought, Who may not now and then be caught At something wrong in act or thought, Why! No one! Punch, January 11, 1851.

Who, when the sea did toss and roar, And I thought soon to be no more, Came and knock’d loudly at my door? My Boot‑hooks. * * * * * Who pulled the nose of Rome’s first Pope, For looking after Johnny Cope, Who was so poorly off for soap? My Boot‑hooks. Who at Vingt-un hid all the aces, Then threw the counters in our faces, The night preceding Epsom races? My Boot‑hooks. Who, whilst I was residing at Constantinople, Took advantage of my absence to open my bureau, And thus betrayed the confidence I placed in them? My Boot‑hooks. The Man in the Moon, Vol. 4.

My Bicycle. By Jagy Torlton. He cadgily ranted and sang.—Old Song. What spins around “like all git out,” And swiftly carries me about, So light, so still, so bright and stout? My Bicycle. Regard me now where I sit high on Nag forty pound of mostly iron; And don’t you wish that you might try on My Bicycle? Monstrum imforme, ingens! some Cry, seeing first this courser come, Our “fine knee-action” strikes them dumb, My Bicycle! Call him a monster from the east, And both a lean and fatuous beast, You comprehend not in the least My Bicycle. Revolve it in your mind, and my way Will show to be a more than guy way— High way of riding on the highway— My Bicycle. Those now who stand and stare and say, O, “parce nobis, s’il vous plait,” Will beg to tread, another day, My Bicycle. What tho’ Hans Breitmann did, almost, And Schnitzerlein gave up the ghost? ’Twas all because they couldn’t boast My Bicycle. And saying mine, I do not mean There are not many others seen Who ride like me on my machine, My Bicycle. I’m not stuck up, tho’ seated high; To ride, at once, and run and fly— My pride is so to travel by My Bicycle. Who will my head with learning stow, I work the light, ped-antic toe, ’Tis cyclopedic lore to know My Bicycle. And when the saddled arc I span, What care I for the fall of man Let him remount! I always can My Bicycle. All the mutations I discern Of men and States not me concern, While I avoid to overturn My Bicycle. See Russia rotten, Turkey eat— And John Bull in a stewing heat; We have a better kind of meet, My Bicycle! Then hurry spokes and spokesman too, We only have an hour or so, And almost twenty miles to go. My Bicycle. Lyra Bicyclica, By J. G. Dalton, (E. C. Hodges & Co.) Boston, 1885.

My Chignon. What was it all my fears did quell, When down six flights of stairs I fell, Preserved my cranium so well? My Chignon! What is it, when some young knight pries Out of his blue orbs corner-wise, That tilts my hat down o’er my eyes? My Chignon! What is it so exceeding kind, When I walk through the rain and wind, On some stray twig will stay behind To form a nest for feathered kind? My Chignon! Girl of the Period Miscellany, August, 1869.

My Dentist. In childhood who my first array Of teeth pluck’d tenderly away, For teeth, like dogs, have each their day? My Dentist. Who, when my first had run their race, And others had usurp’d their place, When overcrowded gave them space? My Dentist. Whether the cavities were slight, Or vast and deep, who stopp’d them tight, Then made their polish’d surface white? My Dentist. When void of bone a gap was seen, Who fix’d, the vacancy to screen, An artificial one between? My Dentist. 114 Who, when ambitious to be first My horse fell headlong in the burst, Replaced the ivories dispersed? My Dentist. Who “Baily” left on parlour chair With leaf turn’d down to show me where Jack Russell’s life was pictured there? My Dentist. Or reading in that doleful cell Whyte-Melville’s verse, who knew full well Its charm would every pang dispel? My Dentist. Who lull’d with laughing gas my fear When conscious that a tug was near For man’s endurance too severe? My Dentist. And lastly, when infirm I grew, Who skilfully each relic drew, And framed for me a mouth-piece new? My Dentist. From “Songs and Verses on Sporting Subjects,” by R. E. Egerton-Warburton (Pickering & Co., Piccadilly, 1879.)

Rondeau. To-day, it is my natal day, And threescore years have passed away, While Time has turned to silver gray My hairs. Pursuing pleasure, love, and fun, A longish course I’ve had to run, And thanks to Fortune I have won My hares. But now, exhausted in the race, No longer I can go the pace, And others must take up the chase, My heirs. Tom Hood.

My Hookah. What is it, that affords such joys On Indian shores, and never cloys, But makes that pretty, bubbling noise? My Hookah. What is it, that a Party if in At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin, Surprises and delights the Griffin? My Hookah. What is it to Cadets gives pleasure? What is it occupies their leisure? What do they deem the greatest treasure? My Hookah. Say—what makes Decency wear sable? What makes each would-be nabob able To cock his legs upon the table? My Hookah. What is it (trust me, I’m not joking, Tis truth—altho’, I own, provoking) That sets e’en Indian belles a smoking? My Hookah. What is it—whensoe’er we search In ev’ry place;—except the Church, That leaves sweet converse in the lurch? My Hookah. But hold my Muse—for shame, for shame— One question ere you smoking blame— What is it gives your book a name? My Hookah. My fault I own—my censure ends; Nay more—I’ll try to make amends, Who is the safest of all friends? My Hookah. Say who? or what retains the power, When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour, To solace many a lonely hour? My Hookah. When death-like dews and fogs prevailing In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing, What is it that prevents our ailing? My Hookah. When we’re our skins with claret soaking, And heedless wits their friends are joking, Which friend will stand the greatest smoking? My Hookah. By what—(nay, answer at your ease,) While pocketing our six rupees— By what d’ye mean the town to please? My Hookah.

My Jenny. A Lay of Lumley. “Jenny sçait quoi.”—French idiom. “Jenny knows what’s what.”—English translation. Oh! when by all my troop forsaken, And Beale had all my singers taken, Who just appeared to save my bacon? My Jenny! Who was it I at last cajoled, To break her word for British gold, [23]By which the Poet Bunn was sold, My Jenny! 115 Who is this Swedish nightingale, Of whom each told a different tale, “She’d rival Grisi;” “No, she’d fail,” My Jenny! Alboni, Castellan, or Grisi Are tolerable, and may please ye, But where’s the girl who’ll beat them easy, My Jenny! Who made so brilliant a début, And such an awful audience drew, That all soprani pallid grew, My Jenny! Who is’t I hope will still remain, Because I can foresee, with pain All’s up when she’s gone back again, My Jenny! The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.

My Landlady. By a Lodger. Who greets me with a greasy smile, Though she is cheating me the while— And says, “I’m out of coals and ile?” My Landlady. Who says she’s seen much better days, And will her “poor departed” praise, And with her chat my meal delays? My Landlady. Who lets her son my collars wear, And with me my clean linen share? Who with my clothes-brush does her hair? My Landlady. Who on my viands waxes fat! Who keeps a most voracious cat! Who often listens on my mat? My Landlady. Who won’t bring up cold joints to me, Who drinks my spirits—prigs my tea— Who for my sideboard keeps a key? My Landlady. Who “cooks” the little bills I pay, And cheats me—yes! in every way; Who is it I shall leave to-day? My Landlady. The Figaro Album, 1873.

My Lodger. By a Landlady. Who chips my marble mantelpiece, Drops on my “Brussels” spots of grease, Deprives my tabby of his peace, And more than once has kissed my niece? My Lodger. And who my balcony did fill With an election posting-bill, And spouted to a mob, until The uproar really made me ill? My Lodger. Who plays the horn at ghostly hours, And brings the ceiling down in showers, By beating time, and thoroughly sours The people in the house next ours? My Lodger. And who, when Sunday morning comes, Some operatic chorus hums With wild young men he calls his “chums,” While one a harp, or banjo thrums? My Lodger. Who doth the acrobats engage, The “happy family” in the cage; Delights in Punch and Judy’s rage With ragged boys of every age? My Lodger. Who wakes my neighbour in a fright, Invites that pious man to fight, Hiccups—“I’ll see—mishtake—all right,” And who’ll have warning, too, this night? My Lodger. Judy, February 10, 1869.

The Undergrad’s Soliloquy. What darkens all my bright career, And takes away my breath with fear, As I behold it looming near? My Little-go. I used to feel so free and jolly,— Indulged in fun, perhaps in folly,— What makes me now so melan-choly? My Little-go. What makes me blush, and look so shy, When up the Turl, or down the High, I catch the stern Exam’ner’s eye? My Little-go. O would I were a little lamb A-skipping with my gentle fam— Ily, nor troubled by Exam. My Little-go. What makes my sister Mary Jane Keep writing in that mournful strain,— “Dear John, don’t overtax your brain?” My Little-go. Oh! will this frightful harass last? No! I can see I’m thinning fast, And soon my body will be past All Little‑goes. These mental faculties of mine Their powers and energies resign— I die a martyr at the shrine Of Little-go. And when beneath some yew-tree’s gloom, My bones shall into dust consume, This epitaph shall grace my tomb,— O Little-go! Epitaph. “No ceaseless coughings racked his side, No agues shook him; in his pride (Weep, gentle reader, weep!) he died Of Little‑go.” C. E. W. B. Worc. Coll. Oxford. College Rhymes. T. & G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.

My Member. Dedicated to the Marquis of Londonderry. Who, now that naughty Castlereagh With Sharman Crawford’s gone astray, For Downshire ought to win the day? My Member. Who, since the seat I’ve dearly bought, Must in for it at once be brought (At least, so I have always thought)? My Member. Who, if he calls his soul his own, And don’t his views to mine postpone, Shall overboard at once be thrown? My Member. Who, when I say that wrong is right, That truth is falsehood, black is white, Must take the self-same point of sight? My Member. Who, at my will, is deaf, dumb, blind, And, howsoever disinclined, Must, if he will speak, speak my mind? My Member. Who with my letters ne’er must fence, But praise the style and guess the sense, Despite the number, mood, and tense? My Member. Who, in the park or in the street, Shall have a nod whene’er we meet, And at my balls shall shake his feet? My Member. Who, ’neath such favours shower’d en masse, From mere humanity shall pass, And be my man, my ox, my ass? My Member. Punch, June 5, 1852.

To My Murray. Autumn, 1857. The Wind and tide have brought us fast, The Custom House is well nigh past, Alas; that this should be the last; My Murray. The spirits in my flask grew low, Mine sinking too, I rushed below, And in despair, cried, “Steward, oh!” My Murray. But once on shore, my troubles end, Sights, sounds, no longer me offend, I clap thee on the back, my friend! My Murray. My classics, once a shining store, For thee put by this month or more, Now rust disused and shine no more, My Murray. So well thou’st played the hand-book’s part, For inns a hint, for routes a chart, That every line I’ve got by heart My Murray. And though thou gladly would’st fulfil, The same kind office for me still, My purse now seconds not my will, My Murray. Thy shabby sides once crimson bright Are quite as lovely in my sight, As mountains bathed in roseate light, My Murray. For should I view them without thee, What sights worth seeing could I see, The Rhine would run in vain for me, My Murray. Companion of my glad ascent, Mount Blanc I did with thy consent, And saw wide-spread the Continent, My Murray. Once, I could scarce walk up the Strand, What Jungfrau now could us withstand, When we are walking hand-in-hand, My Murray. But ah! too well some folk I know, Who friends on dusty shelves do throw,— With us it never shall be so, My Murray. Punch, December 5, 1857.

My Nose. What leads me on where’er I go, In sun and shade, in joy and woe, Thro’ fog and tempest, rain and snow? My Nose. In youth’s most ardent reckless day, And when arose disputes at play, What would be foremost in the fray? My Nose. And should my tongue rude blows provoke, What would protrude and brave each stroke, Till coral streams its pains bespoke? My Nose. And falling in an airy bound, In chase of some new charm or sound, To save me—what came first to ground? My Nose. When some dark pass I would explore, With neither shut nor open door, What oft for me hard usage bore? My Nose. And when in want I yearn’d to eat, And hunger might my judgment cheat, What prompted me to food most sweet? My Nose. ’Mid violet banks and woodbine bowers, And beds where bloom’d the fairest flowers, What fed me with their fragrant powers? My Nose. Each eye may need in age a guide, And when young helpmates I provide, Thy back thou’lt lend for them to stride, My Nose. And can I or in care or glee, Refuse my aid and love to thee, Who thus has felt and bled for me, My Nose? 117 No; when cold winter’s winds blow high, And bite thee hard and thou shalt cry, Thy tears with sympathy I’ll dry, My Nose. And if for snuff thy love shall come, Thy slaves, my finger and my thumb, Shall faithful be, and bear thee some, My Nose. Still as I follow thee along, Oh, mayst thou never lead me wrong! But thou must hush our sleeping song, My Nose! Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old Servant. (Edited by Robert Southey, poet laureate, 1831.)

My Punch. Upon the express train of the Michigan Railway. February, 1864. Midnight. Mercury at Zero. What, in this far benighted West, Brings comfort to my lonely breast, And gives my life its sweetest zest? My Punch. The ragged boy who brought the news, Offered me much from which to choose. Times, Tribune, Herald, I refuse, My Punch. Within the carriage sickly white Were men from Chicamanga’s fight. My eyes were moistened by the sight, My Punch. “Discharged from hospital,” they sigh, “Where yet a thousand sufferers lie, And coming home at last” to die, My Punch. For those sad faces homeward turned, Their short-lived pensions fully earned, How many mother’s hearts had yearned, My Punch. ’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know, When eager crowds beheld them go, Their youthful faces all a-glow, My Punch. And now all twisted by the cramps, Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps Of fenny bivouacks and camps, My Punch. Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim, Lithe was each crutch-supported limb, Merry were once those spectres grim, My Punch. What contrast between now and then! Their mothers scarce would know again Those mournful, feeble, dying men, My Punch. One speechless on his pallet lay, They take him forth, “His home” they say A wretched hamlet by the way, My Punch. My wandering fancy sadly bore My vision to the half-ope’d door, The tearful clasp—I saw no more, My Punch. Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate! Oh, Nation haughty and elate, Writing in blood its dreadful fate! My Punch. It haunts me, this repulsive theme, With gory phantasies which seem The nightmares of a troubled dream, My Punch. For through the surface gloze so thin One sees the Carnival of Sin, The devil’s dice they play. Who win? My Punch. The train is stopped by drifting snows, An inn is reached, but no repose Exhausted hungry nature knows, My Punch. Here I am forced to sit up late, Amid the chewing crowds I hate, Who patiently expectorate My Punch. The whistle sounds ere I depart, I clasp thee to my aching heart, Balm for the exile’s keenest smart, My Punch.

My Stockings. A nobler theme let others choose; Fit subject for my humble muse Are ye, whom night and day I use, My Stockings. Soon as Aurora points the skies, (Ere from my sluggard couch I rise,) For you I raise my earliest cries, My Stockings. The live-long day, around my thigh Ye cling: and seldom turn away; With me ye trudge through wet and dry, My Stockings. At night, one serves to stop a gap I’th’ wall—I sink in Somnus’ lap, And t’other serves me for a cap, My Stockings! Let none their various deeds decry: For ever as the week goes by, They’re washed, and then I hang to dry, My Stockings! About 1800. Anonymous.

The Man of Fashion. Who made this moving piece of clay, So bright, and beautiful and gay As though life were one holiday? My Tailor. Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape, Gave to my ugly neck a nape, And brought my bow-legs into shape? My Tailor. Who all deformity effaced, And beautified, and stuffed and laced, And stamp’d Adonis on my waist? My Tailor. 118 Who made the coat, the pantaloon, That in the gay and bright saloon, Won me a spouse and honey-moon? My Tailor. Reverse the picture; who was it, That taught me wisdom was unfit A beau, a gentleman, and wit? My Tailor. Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape, Made me in bearing, form, and shape, The very mockery of an ape? My Tailor. Who bound me to a worthless wife, Whose vanity, and spleen, and strife Will be the nightmare of my life? My Tailor. Who passes me with threatening looks? Who’s got me deepest in his books? Who’ll nab me yet? Why, Mr. Snooks— My Tailor. The Maids, Wives, & Widows Penny Magazine, May 25, 1833.

My Ticker. Old friend that once with me did dwell Vouchsafing all the hours to tell, Where art thou gone? I know too well, My Ticker! Thou art not gone to artists’ care To try the good of change of air Or undergo a slight repair, My Ticker. No! thou art gone—no fault of thine— Unto a relative of mine, Entitled “Uncle,” I opine, My Ticker. And there must thou remain awhile, Spite of thyself, in durance vile, Accompanied by my best tile, My Ticker. And much I fear thou must remain Until a shower, not of rain, Impels thee down the spout again, My Ticker. Punch, 1842.

My Uncle. (By Louis Napoleon Bounaparte.) Who raised our race up from the dregs, And set us youngsters on our legs, Putting us up so many pegs? My Uncle! Who scratch’d up Europe like a hen, To fling out grains for us young men? Who shut the mouth and stopped the pen? My Uncle! Who broke through rights and smash’d through laws, To find neat crowns for our papas, And shot young D’Enghien in our cause? My Uncle! Who left us something still to do— A name to keep French passions true To us—the name of Waterloo? My Uncle! Who gave me all my little name, My little hopes, my little fame, My little everything, but blame? My Uncle! Punch, January 3, 1852.

My Uncle. Who, by a transmutation bold, Turns clothes or watches, new and old, Or any other goods, to gold? My Uncle! Who, by a duplication rare, Makes Hunger’s chattels (scant and bare) Produce first cash, and then good fare? My Uncle! Who, when my credit got quite low, Handed me cash on Jane’s trousseau, And lent a suite of paste for show? My Uncle! Who caused her silks our mouths to fill, And made my full-dress shirt with frill Discharge a fortnight’s butcher’s bill? My Uncle! When creditors—a ruthless crew— Had “small accounts just coming due,” Who stopped their clamorous tongues? Why you, My Uncle! And when attorneys round me pressed With writs of judgment and arrest, Who set for weeks their quills at rest? My Uncle! Who lent us hundreds three and four, And kindly kept our plate secure, When we commenced our foreign tour? My Uncle! Punch, March, 1845.

My Uncle. Who dwells at yonder three gold balls Where Poverty so often calls To place her relics in his walls? My Uncle. Who cheers the heart with “money lent,” When friends are cold, and all is spent, Receiving only cent. per cent? My Uncle. Who cares not what distress may bring, If stolen from beggar or from king, And, like the sea, takes everything? My Uncle. Who, wiser than each sage of yore, Who Alchemy would fain explore, Can make whate’er he touches ore? My Uncle. Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief And none besides will yield relief, Will aid the honest or the thief? My Uncle. Who, when detection threatens law, His secret stores will open draw, That future rogues may stand in awe? My Uncle. Bought wisdom is the best, ’tis clear, And since ’tis better as more dear, We, for high usance, should revere, My Uncle. 119 And though to make the heedless wise, He cheats in all he sells or buys, To work a moral purpose tries My Uncle. Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn, And hypocrites no longer fawn Takes all but honour into pawn My Uncle. John Taylor.

The Pawnbroker before Congress. (Of Social Science, Represented by Mr. Attenborough.) Who is the Poor Man’s constant friend, Aid ever ready to extend, And sums at moderate usance lend? My Uncle. Who’s the philanthropist, maligned By thoughtless, ignorant, unkind Perverters of the people’s mind? My Uncle. Who stolen goods will ne’er receive, In fact, is shunned by them that thieve For pledges they’re afraid to leave? My Uncle. Who, when a Nephew, or a Niece, Would pawn a doubtful gem, or piece Of plate, apprises the Police? My Uncle. Who keeps the shop whose “Two-to-one,” Denotes that you shall not be done, For all that has been said in fun? My Uncle. Who is particular about All articles put “up the spout,” Again, (almost all,) taken out? My Uncle. The false suspicion, therefore, drop, That Nunky keeps a Fence’s shop, Who’d lose by prey which thieves might pop, My Uncle. Punch, October 21, 1871.

My Valentine. In furs and velvets orthodox, With laughing eyes and sunny locks, And, oh! the very shortest frocks, My Valentine. With lips like full ripe cherries bright, With eyes ablaze with inward light, With dainty frills all gleaming white, Sweet Valentine. Her voice but like the rippling stream, Her face but like an artist’s dream, Her form but fit for poet’s theme, My Valentine. In silk her shapely limbs encased, With tiny bottines deftly laced, On modelled feet so fitly placed, Dear Valentine. Her merry tricks, her roguish ways, Her playful pranks, her earnest gaze, Her gleeful laugh, her well-turned phrase, My Valentine. Who is there bold enough to dare With her sweet beauty to compare, Or even claim her throne to share? Loved Valentine. The chief she is of all coquettes, The prettiest of pretty pets; What thoughts her memory begets! My Valentine. Could I but hope her heart to fix!— Ah me! old Time plays cruel tricks, For I, alas! am fifty-six;—She’s only nine, My Valentine. Judy, February 2, 1880.

The Jesuit to his Grandmother. Who, when I was a puny child And drew my interference mild, Shrieked at me, and grew very wild? My Whalley! Who, when the country let me play, Grabbed at my toys day after day, And scared my very foes away? My Whalley! Who thus, when things seemed growing slack, With injudicious, wild attack, Brought all my finest business back? My Whalley! Who, when the House discussed my claim, Yelled at me—called me every name, Till I got votes—for very shame? My Whalley! Who, when he rose his change to ring, “Like Paganini, on one string,” Was very strongly urged to sing? My Whalley! Who, when his name became a jest, By friends well cursed—by foes well blest— Himself to other arts addressed? My Whalley! Who all his nasty powers tasked, And spread—Lord Campbell’s Act unasked— His famed “Confessional Unmasked”? My Whalley! Who foremost in the Turnbull chase, When bigots drove him from his place, In savage war-paint led the race? My Whalley! Turnbull no more, who still must rave, And, none to answer, call him knave— Insult the dead man in his grave? My Whalley! Who, by such wiles—friends not too true, And enemies by no means few— Rallied them all around me?—Who? My Whalley! Who thus, should the whole Order fail, And Grand Inquisitors turn tail, In any mess will stand my bail? My Whalley! 120 And who, unto the very end, My honour—life—will e’er defend?— My grandmother!—my truest friend!— My Whalley! The Tomahawk, August 31, 1867.

My Whiskers. What causes all the folks to stare, As I strut by en militaire, And makes my face all over hair? My Whiskers. Why do the children laugh with glee? ’Tis no uncommon sight to see. Ah! no; they only envy me My Whiskers. What wounds with twenty thousand darts When practising the game of hearts, And such sweet vanity imparts? My Whiskers. How I can quiz a naked chin, And mimic every vulgar grin; But I’ll be bound they’ll laugh who win, My Whiskers. Should ever cruel fate decree, That we, alas! should sever’d be, I’ll lay me down and die with thee— My Whiskers. The Penny Belle Assemblée, October 26, 1833.

What makes me deem I’m of Viking blood (Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot), A briny slip of the British brood? My Yot! What makes me rig me in curious guise, Like a kind of a sort of—I dont know what, And talk sea-slang, to the world’s surprise? My Yot! What makes me settle my innermost soul On winning a purposeless silver pot And walk with a (very much) nautical roll? My Yot! What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance—which others must tot— And awfully nervous in sudden squalls? My Yot! What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way? My Yot! What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale, (Though rather than own it I’d just be shot) When the Fay in the wave-crests dips her sails? My Yot! What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue? My Yot! What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk? My Yot! What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To “try the fun”—which I know’s all rot— And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends? My Yot! What makes me, in short, an egregious ass, A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass? My Yot! Punch, August 28, 1880.

Your Friend. By the Countess of Blessington. Who borrows all your ready cash, And with it cuts a mighty dash, Proving the lender weak and rash? Your Friend! Who finds out every secret fault, Misjudges every word and thought, And makes you pass for worse than naught? Your Friend! Who wins your money at deep play, Then tells you that the world doth say, “’Twere wise from clubs you kept away?” Your Friend! Who sells you, for the longest price, Horses, a dealer in a trice Would find unsound, and full of vice? Your Friend! Who eats your dinners, then looks shrewd, Wishes you had a cook like Ude,[24] For then, much oft’ner would intrude— Your Friend. Who tells you that you’ve shocking wine, And owns that, though his port’s not fine, Crockford’s the only place to dine? Your Friend! Who wheedles you with words most fond, To sign for him a heavy bond? “Or else, by Jove, must quick abscond?” Your Friend! Who makes you all the interest pay With principal, some future day, And laughs at what you then may say? Your Friend! 121 Who makes deep love unto your wife, Knowing you prize her more than life, And breeds between you hate and strife? Your Friend! Who, when you’ve got into a brawl, Insists that out your man you call, Then gets you shot, which ends it all? Your Friend? From The Keepsake.

Another Friend. When Satan for his sins was driven Forth from the eternal joys of heaven, We read that unto him was given A Stick. In infancy, what was my pride? What was’t for which I often cried? What did I saddle, mount, and ride? My Stick. And when my tardy teens began, I flourish’d oft my gay rattan, Thou graced me while I ape’d the man, My Stick. Theatre, market, church, or fair, Wherever I am, thou art there, Ev’n children cry—there goes a pair Of Sticks. But till my door of life is shut Till in my kindred earth I’m put, Till life’s extinct, I’ll never cut My Stick.

Woman. When our first parents liv’d in blissful ease, In Eden’s flowery fields, enjoying peace, Who was it caus’d those blissful days to cease? A Woman. Who was’t (beguil’d by our inveterate foe), Gave to man’s happiness a mortal blow, And brought into the world, sin, death, and woe? A Woman. When Lot from his detested country fled, Who was’t the heavenly mandate disobey’d, And to the city turned her daring head? A Woman. Who was’t, with naked and resistless charms, Rais’d in King David’s bosom wild alarms, And clasp’d the monarch in adultrous arms? A Woman. Who was’t inflam’d King Ahab’s lurking vice, His thirst of blood, his grasping avarice, And caus’d the wretched Naboth’s sacrifice? A Woman. Who was’t (enamour’d of the Phrygian boy, King Priam’s blooming hope) with secret joy, Left her brave spouse, and fir’d Imperial Troy? A Woman. Who was’t, regardless of her nuptial vows, To Atreus’ son betray’d her Trojan spouse, And saw him sink beneath the murd’rer’s blows? A Woman. Who was it caus’d the deadly strife to grow Betwixt Pelides and his royal foe, And brought on Greece unutterable woe? A Woman. When Agamemnon (through all Greece renown’d) From Trojan wars returned, with conquest crown’d, Who caus’d th’ unguarded monarch’s mortal wound? A Woman. Who was’t, with witchcraft, and each am’rous wile, Detain’d Ulysses from his native isle, His wife’s embraces, and his parent’s smile? A Woman. When Antony’s victorious arms had gain’d One half the world, o’er which he jointly reign’d, Who caus’d his death, and all his glory stain’d? A Woman. Who was’t the royal Edward’s life betray’d, The unhappy martyr’s confidence repaid, By plunging in his heart the assassin’s blade, A Woman. Who was’t, inflam’d with false religious ire, Caus’d Latimer and Ridley to expire, Roasted like lobsters in a Smithfield fire? A Woman. Who still in man’s weak heart retains her place, And with a smile upon a lovely face, Can lure the fool to misery and disgrace? False Woman. The Duel, with other Poems, by L. O. Shaw, Blackburn, printed and sold by T. Rogerson, 1815.

My Godwin! Parcius junctas quatiunt fenastras. Our Temple youth, a lawless train, Blockading Johnson’s window pane, No longer laud thy solemn strain, My Godwin! “Chaucer’s” a mighty tedious elf, “Fleetwood” lives only for himself, And “Caleb Williams” loves the shelf, My Godwin! No longer cry the sprites unblest, “Awake! Arise! Stand forth confess’d!” For fallen, fallen is thy crest, My Godwin! Thy muse for meretricious feats, Does quarto penance now in sheets, Or cloathing parcels roams the streets, My Godwin! Thy name at Luna’s lamp thou light’st, Blank is the verse that thou indit’st, Thy play is damn’d, yet still thou writ’st, My Godwin! And still to wield the grey goose quill, When Phœbus sinks, to feel no chill, “With me is to be lovely still,” My Godwin! 122 Thy winged steed (a bit of blood) Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood, To leave thee sprawling in the mud, My Godwin! But carries now, with martial trot, In glittering armour, Walter Scott, A poet he—which thou art not, My Godwin! Nay, nay, forbear these jealous wails, Tho’ he’s upborne on fashion’s gales, Thy heavy bark attendant sails, My Godwin Fate each by different streams conveys, His skiff in Aganippe plays, And thine in Lethe’s whirlpool strays, My Godwin!