WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 9)

Prancer’s Feast, or, the Power of Oratorial Flattery. I. ’Twas at Election Feast for College, won By Bregah’s wond’rous son, Aloft in awful state The prancing Hero sate, On academic throne; His supple Voters plac’d around, Who on Election Day were faithful found (Minions only by self Interest bound,) The grim Ben Saddi by his side (Not like a blooming Eastern Bride) With awkward stiffness, awkward pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but Ben Sad, None but Ben Sad, None but Ben Sad deserves a Prancer’s care. II. The great Pomposo rose To utter his Harangues, Writhing with oratorial pangs, Puffing as when a Bellows blows, Or when a bagpipe twangs. His speech from Bregah he begun To flatter Prancer—Bregah’s son, (Though one would think it all was Fun) He shew’d what a fine nimble Lad Was Bregah—this our Prancer’s Dad, How long ago he was stark wild To get his Sheelah great with child; And when he had with Raptures entranc’d her He stamp’d an image of himself, a mighty Prancer. The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound, Great Prancer’s fame they shout around, Great Prancer’s name the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravish’d ears McBregah hears, Adjusts his wig, Looks bluff and big; Anon he smiles and leers. Pomposo then held forth in Praise of Prancer, Both as a Fencer and a Dancer, In minuet step how he advances! Strike up the Fiddles, see, see how he dances! With his well-turn’d Pumps How he skips and he jumps! Clear tables and chairs, for he prances, he prances. He dancing lectures did ordain And drove out all the Muses’ Train; Dancing is a Prancer’s Pleasure. Rich the Treasure! Sweet the Pleasure! Sweet the Pleasure that requires no Brain! * * * * *

OR, THE GRAND PORTSMOUTH PUPPET-SHEW. ’Twas at the royal show, and grand display Of all the navy which at Portsmouth lay; Aloft in laughing state, Britain’s monarch sat, And look’d serenely gay. Goldstick, and other peers were plac’d around, Their hair in bags of silken ribbons bound; So should, ye fair, our men of arms be crown’d! Charlotte smil’d sweetly at his side, Yet inwardly, alas! she sigh’d At George’s folly, and at Twitcher’s pride. Air. Happy, happy, happy pair, How they rejoice! How they rejoice! To see the weather grown so fair! Then Sandwich plac’d on high, Amid the tuneful band, Struck the loud kettle-drums with mighty hand; The deaf’ning notes ascend the sky, And sound along the strand. From Fred’rick began the strain, Who left Germania’s bleak domain For England—such the pow’r of Stuart’s reign! Augusta then his Highness woo’d, 172 Got children, as all Princes should, When he to Saxe-Gotha press’d, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her waist his arms he spread, And stamp’d an image of himself—a Prince without a head. The list’ning tars admire the lofty sound; A Prince without a head—they shout around; A Prince without a head—the vaulted skies rebound. Air. Not us’d to hear Such truths sincere, At first he shrinks Before he thinks, That tars must have their jeer. * * * * * From The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. 1786.

The Covent Garden Row. ’Twas at a glorious row, for Clifford won, By german Wienholt’s son, After the play was done, Aloft in drunken state Was placed the stupid candidate, For O.P. fame and fun. * * * * *

Sir Francis’s[35] Feast. An Ode for the anniversary of a Westminster Election. ’Twas at a feast, giv’n to their Baronet By his own factious set, Placed by the chairman’s side, Sate Piccadilly’s pride, With airs of coy regret. His noisy friends were ranged about, With dirty shirts, and pots of heady stout: Meet dress, meet drink for such a rout! The valiant Cochrane, by his side, Sate, snappish, yet self satisfied, In naval garb and northern pride. Happy, happy, happy day! None but the mob, None but the mob, None but the mob are fit to sway! Cobbett, exalted high, Amid that unwash’d train, Roar’d lies and libels out amain; Yet still he ’scapes the pillory, And sells the sland’rous strain. The King he first assail’d: Gold, in this reign, he said, had fail’d (For gold such patriots ever rail’d!) Your flimsy notes, he cried, bely a King: Old England was another thing, When her great Monarch had a mint, And stamp’d an image of himself, the money of the World! The gaping mob admire the lofty sounds. “Burdett and Bullion!” all the street rebounds: With ravish’d ears The Bar’net hears, Affects to rouse The Commons House, And wake the torpid Peers. The muse of Cobbett then extoll’d the drabs and rogues, Whom Cold-bath prison disembogues: From them the Bar’nets honours flow Salt-box play, and whistle blow! Deck’d with St. Giles’s graces, They shew their greasy faces. They come! stop, salt-box! whistle, cease to blow! Cold-bath prison disembogues Glorious food for discontent: Any grievance is a treasure, A patriot’s instrument and pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet a charge in Parliament. Swell’d with the puff, Sir Frank grew vain, Spoke all his speeches o’er again, And thrice he damned the Ministers, and thrice the war in Spain. Cobbett[36] saw the madness rise, His open mouth, his rolling eyes, And, while he heaven and earth defied, Chang’d the tune, and check’d his pride. He chose an awkward story, To damp his blazing glory: He sang this chief, so fond of pow’r, With notable disgrace, Taken, taken, taken, taken, Taken by the Speaker’s mace, And caged within the Tower: Afraid at his return to meet Th’ expectant rabble in the street, He skulks incog to Piccadilly— Did ever patriot look so silly? Long, long, and longer grows the hero’s face: He meditates, in sullen mood, On fickle popularity: He’d blush, if blush reformer could, And lets the toast go by! * * * * *

I. Hark! heard ye not yon footsteps dread, That shook the hall with thund’ring tread? With eager haste The Fellows pass’d,[37] Each intent on direful work, High lifts his mighty blade, and points his deadly fork. II. But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth, With steps, alas, too slow, The College Gyps, of high illustrious worth, With all the dishes in long order, go. In the midst a form divine, Appears the fam’d sir-loin; And soon, with plums and glory crown’d, Almighty pudding sheds its sweets around. Heard ye the din of dinner bray? Knife to fork, and fork to knife; Unnumber’d heroes, in the glorious strife, Thro’ fish, flesh, pies, and puddings cut their destin’d way. III. See, beneath the mighty blade Gor’d with many a ghastly wound, Low the fam’d sir-loin is laid And sinks in many a gulf profound. Arise, arise, ye sons of glory, Pies and puddings stand before ye; See the ghosts of hungry bellies Point at yonder stand of jellies; While such dainties are beside ye, Snatch the goods the gods provide ye; Mighty rulers of this state, Snatch before it is too late; For, swift as thought, the puddings, jellies, pies, Contract their giant bulks, and shrink to pigmy size. IV. From the table now retreating All around the fire they meet, And with wine, the sons of eating, Crown at length their mighty treat; Triumphant Plenty’s rosy graces Sparkle in their jolly faces; And mirth and cheerfulness are seen In each countenance serene. Fill high the sparkling glass, And drink th’ accustom’d toast;[38] Drink deep ye mighty host And let the bottle pass. Begin, begin the jovial strain, Fill, fill the mystic bowl, And drink, and drink, and drink again; For drinking fires the soul. But soon, too soon, with one accord, they reel Each on his seat begins to nod; All conquering Bacchus’ pow’r they feel, And pour libations to the jolly god. At length, with dinner, and with wine, oppress’d, Down in the chairs they sink, and give themselves to rest.

Ode to a Wrangler’s Spread. ’Twas at the roaring feast for Wrangler won, By Wiggin’s tipsy son, As high in lofty state, That classic Hero sate A music stool upon. The large eyed Lucy by his side Blush’d like a codling, Autumn’s pride;— And spirits; fit to stem the tide Of Fortune’s current rough, Alike her frailties to deride, Or for her many dangers tried, Still ne’er to cry “Enough!” Throng’d round the Hero as he gave The toast in liquor brave, And by his ruling nod Rous’d the huzzas of gladness O’er the blue devils sadness, Waking the drowsy God, That slumber’d in the soul of each, To Wine, to Jollity, and Speech. * * * * *

The Kennington Common Revolution. ’Twas on the Common of famed Kennington, Reynolds (old Reynolds’ son), Aloft in mimic state, Upon a waggon sate— The driving box his throne. The idle riff-raff stood around, Some of their brows—for recent fractures—bound (So theft and mischief should be crowned). The Chartist, Williams, by his side, With envy his position eyed, As if for chairmanship he sighed. Precious, precious pair! None but the brave, None but the brave Deserve the chair! Young Reynolds, placed on high, Produces half a quire Of correspondence, which, without desire, He reads, in notes that reach the sky, And shouts of “Hear!” inspire. Note one—bid Sir George Grey, Before a certain day, Leave Ministerial sway, And send the reins of power, straight from his hand, To Mister Reynolds, somewhere in the Strand; When he, of the said reins possessed, Would guide the State himself, in style the very best. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A plucky chap this here,!” they shout around, And dabs of mud against the van rebound. With lengthened ears Young Reynolds hears, And thinks, with joy, “Yes I’m the boy That means to shake the spheres.!” Praise of the French he next in glowing accents sung— French Freedom—very fair, but very young. But a poor baker’s cart there comes: With their fingers and their thumbs, 174 The mob to their disgrace, (Blush every honest face!) Would fain have stole the bread—the crusts, the crumbs! Freedom, very, very, young, Surely never did ordain Making baker’s carts a treasure, Robbing their contents at pleasure— Pleasure to the owners’ pain. To their disgust, the very rain, Resolved such conduct to restrain, Came down as if to say—“You shan’t do that again.” Young Reynolds saw the vast supplies Of rain pour down before his eyes. While he the Government defied, Away he saw the meeting glide He chose a wilder strain To bring them back again. He spoke of France, so great and good; Of Louis-Philippe’s fate, Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n; From his high estate, And flying with his brood. Deserted at his utmost need By those who on corruption feed, From his own realm in fear he flies, To England turns his anxious eyes, Still, in the rain, young Reynolds boldly sate, Until there lingered scarce a soul; The wet had cleared the ground below, And down the van he gently stole Thinking—he’d better go. Punch, 1848.

Josh Hudson’s Feast. ’Twas at the dinner given, the prime tuck-out, By Josh, the boxer stout: Aloft the worthy sat, His corpus lin’d with fat, And, pleas’d, he gaz’d about: His jovial pals were plac’d around, For fancy feats and milling deeds renown’d, And for their fistic worth with glory crown’d. His blooming missus by his side, Smok’d like a hock of bacon fried, In glow of health and beauty’s pride. Happy, happy, happy pair, None but the fat, None but the fat, None but the fat deserves the fair. Jack Fogo, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, Touch’d with his fives the laureate lyre; The sounds discordant reach’d the sky, And set their souls on fire. Of law he curs’d the rod That sent fat Josh to quod. And swore it was too bad, by G——! But now at length from durance vile releas’d, With spirit buoyant and in flesh increas’d, He took his seat that happy day the father of the feast. The list’ning coves admir’d the lofty sound, Jolly Josh Hudson’s health they shout around, “The John Bull fighter” all the roofs rebound: With ravish’d ears The fat one hears, Swore it was odd He went to quod. And drank their health with cheers. The praise of prime old Tom then Fogo sung, A liquor always dear to old and young. Let a dram our dinner crown, To keep the beef and pudding down. Waiter, ’tis Josh’s pleasure, You bring in a gallon measure, The very best and strongest in the town. Spirit ever bright and clear! Who from drinking can refrain? Who can censure without blushing The joy, the extacy of lushing? Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, To imbibe a cordial drain. Pleas’d with its praise fat Josh grew vain, Fought all his battles o’er again, And swore his max was very prime, and better than champagne. Jack Fogo saw his madness rise, His rosy snout, his staring eyes; And to subdue his furious fit, Swore he would bring him down a bit. He sung a mournful ditty To rouse fat Josh’s pity: He sung of Gyblett’s, boxer prime! By law’s relentless rule Sent to stonejug, and doom’d from thence To cross the herring pool. Deserted, in his utmost need, By all the traps his bounty fed Deprived of max, depriv’d of shag, Without a friend, without a mag. With downcast look the John Bull fighter sate, And gaz’d upon the tuneful bard: “Alack! for Charles, my friend,” cried he; “What! must he go across the sea? ’Tis gallows, gallows hard!” But Frosty Fogo’s powers began to fail; The sounds he tried to vent Within his throat were pent, Subdu’d by max, and heavy wet, and ale. He, who on eagle’s wing Was wont sublime to soar In fruitless effort still to sing, Pitch’d headlong on the floor!

Alexander’s First. (With apologies to the late Ingenious Mr. Dryden.) ’Twas at the Royal Comedy (where none But friends of Henderson Were let to pass the gate On first night held in state) This week A. H. got “done.” The folks therein on Monday found Had had free passes to that spot renowned (There was no money’s jingling sound). The gentle Farnie stood aside, And all the preparations eyed With all a mighty author’s pride. And then they cried—that peerless pair “None but our friends, None but our friends, Shall see our first nights, we declare.” Van Biene, placed on high, Amid his tuneful quire (All wearing swallow-tail attire) ’Gan wave his bâton by-and-by His comrades to inspire. Anon commenced to play (A comic opera, let me say, Penned some time back in Paris gay), And first the “house” did to applause give vent, As up the curtain went. Stalls, boxes, pit, and gallery soon expressed Their joy when Florence entered sweetly dressed. She charmed them by her voice’s flute-like sound; But later, on the crawling snakes they frowned,— That exhibition they disgusting found. Their whispered sneer Did Alec hear. But like a god, Assumed to nod As though he felt no fear. The praises of pale ale anon the chords sung. But, strange to say, no sounds of “Encore!” rung. When Leslie through his teeth ’gan hum His pretty air—it worried some. The Song too of the “Steak” Did not applause awake. That lyric, like the rest, in rhythm was so rum. For Farnie to the wings had flung All rules for writing verse ’twas plain, Mostly halting was his measure; (Let him mend it, at his leisure). When a measure Gives no pleasure It is apt to give you pain! The company worked hard, in vain, But dull and duller grew the strain, And no finale was a “go”—no, weaker did it wane. Then Alec heard the hiss arise Among the “friends” he used to prize. Even the Jingo gags they guyed And H. B. Farnie did deride. A most unequal muse Had Audran stooped to choose. Then Alexander, great and good, Began his teeth to grate— Galling, galling, galling, galling, Galling was his sorry state, Dismayed, abashed, he stood, Deserted all at once was he By those whom he admitted free, “What! hissed by deadheads!” Alec cried; “What, by my own packed house defied!” Then D’Albertson, the smart and the sedate (With rich moustache with curlèd ends), Said Farnie could not take a call— “Yah! we don’t want him!” cried the “friends”— “Ugh! good job too!” did others bawl. * * * * * “Revenge!” great Alexander cries; Hear the hisses that arise! E’en the snakes, they ne’er cheered; At most “numbers” they jeered. This ingratitude gives me surprise; Such cheek from my band I cannot understand— I have used them on first nights again and again But the ads shall remain In their first-arranged vein. I will show all this crew That I know what to do, Though they serve me like this, and thus dare to express An opinion, I’ll show I can fight against odds— I’ll defy all these treacherous pittites and “gods”— Go, announce it at once: “An Enormous Success!” * * * * * Not long ago (Ere Henderson received this blow) I ventured to dispute That A. in this respect was ’cute. I struck my lyre And told him that this dodge few people could admire At last, you see, to spoil his game, His dead-head “friends” rise up to blame; Henceforth, perhaps, he’ll try this trick no more, But warned by Monday’s gruesome sounds, Will run his premières upon proper grounds, And do as others do—take money at the door. So henceforth, Alec, wisdom try— Don’t on the Public frown; A failure, e’en when “friends” don’t guy, Will never draw the town Carados.

(In Tonson’s Folio Edition of “Paradise Lost,” 1688.) Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third she joined the former two.

“Græcia, Mæonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem, Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.”

“Let envy burst; Urania’s glad to see 176 Her sons thus joined in a triplicity; To Cardan and to Guido much is due, And in one Lilly we behold the two.”

On Hypatia. Madame Agnesi, and Mrs. Somerville. “Three women, in three different ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; Rare as poetic minds of master flights, Three only rose to science’ loftiest heights. The first a brutal crowd in pieces tore, Envious of fame, bewildered at her lore; The next through tints of darkening shadow passed, Lost in the azure sisterhood at last; Equal to these the third, and happier far, Cheerful though wise, though learned, popular, Liked by the many, valued by the few, Instructs the world, yet dubbed by none a Blue.”

Three Richards lived in Brunswick’s glorious reign, In Westminster the first[39], the next in Warwick Lane[40], In Dumbleton the third[41], each doughty knight, In spite of nature, was resolved to write. The first in penury of thought surpassed, The next in rambling cant; in both the last. The force of dulness could no further go, To make the third she joined the former two.

A milk white Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; Without, unspotted, innocent within, She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly, And doomed to death, though fated not to die.

A milk-white Mouse immortal and unchanged, Fed on soft cheese, and o’er the Dairy ranged Without, unspotted; innocent within, She feared no Danger, for she knew no gin. Yet had she oft been scor’d by bloody claws Of winged owls, and stern Grimalkin’s Paws Aim’d at her destin’d Head, which made her fly, Tho’ she was doomed to death, and fated not to die. * * * * *

Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day. Descend ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre! 177 In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet sound, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound; While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark! the numbers soft and clear Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away, In a dying, dying fall. * * * * * Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given, His numbers raised a shade from hell, Hers lift the soul to heaven. Alexander Pope.

An Ode to Toast-Master Toole.[42] “Descend, ye Nine!” No common theme is mine— I sing of thee, O Toole! Bacchus baptised thee in a font of wine, And from the roseate pool Thy face received the sunny tint it wears, And thus illumed (blest face!) a thousand “chairs.” Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal And nobly paid a guinea for a meal (Where soup and fish And every new-made dish, Just verged upon the cold; Or else the very tough, or very old— Except the tepid salad, which appear’d Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d), Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er— The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl With such stentorian lungs, That we opine the walls of old Guildhall Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues— “Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout Is to obey. The hand that’s in the act of pouring out Is forced to stay— “Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer. * * * * * The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height; Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright, Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all— Toole! ’tis thy call. Of “Silence if you please—order for the chair!” As with an exquisite and finished air, (Worthy of—Widdicomb, when he essays To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze), You wave your paper bâton o’er the head Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there, And guides your voice the thunder of the “Chair!” Who ne’er,—when public dinner port began To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man, Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven, When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given— “The Queen, with three times three! “Hip, hip, hurrah!—Silence for a glee!” * * * * * Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast! Long may’st thou rule the roast At philanthropic and at civic dinner! Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner) Keep thy thread going, and long may we Hear you declare “Silence in the Chair! Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.” Punch, November, 1843.

Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. (A long way after Pope.) Descend, great Bunn!—descend and bring A furnace of poetic fire; Nib fifty pens, and take your fling, Boldly of foolscap fill a quire. In a namby-pamby strain, Let the tenor first complain; Let the falsetto sound, With nasal twang around, ’Till in applause ’tis drown’d. Then in more ponderous notes and slow, Let the deep bass go down, extremely low. Hark the shrill soprano near Bursts upon the startled ear! Higher and higher does she rise, And fills with awful screams the flies, By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes, Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats; Till by degrees the vigorous bawl, Seems to decay, And melts away In a feeble, feeble squall. In music there’s a medium, you know; Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low. If in a house tumultuous rows arise, Music to drown the noise the means supplies; Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares, To yonder public-house repairs, Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound Will order pints of half-and-half all round. John the footman nods his head, Swears he’ll not go home to bed; In his arms a partner takes, As some courteous speech he makes; And suddenly the joyous pair engage In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage. But when the violin puts forth its charms, How the sweet music every bosom warms: So when the dilettante dared the squeeze, To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain, And in the rush serenely sees His best coat torn in twain, Transported simpletons stood round, And men grew spooneys at the sound, 178 Roaring with all their wind; Each one his power of lung displayed In bawling to the Swedish Maid While cheers from box to pit resound For Lind, for Lind, for Lind! But when through those mysterious bounds Where the policeman goes his rounds, The poet had by chance been led Mid the coal-hole, festive shed, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, How horrible the din! Toasted cheese If you please. Waiter—stop! Mutton-chop. Hollo! Jones, Devilled bones; And cries for rum or gin! But hark! the chairman near the fire Strikes on the table, to require Strict silence for a song. Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still; Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill; The pause will not be long. The guests are mute as if upon their beds; Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads. By the verses as they flow, By their meaning nothing though, Full of tropes and flowers; By those lofty rhymes that dwell In the mind of Bunn[43] so well, Like love in Paphian bowers. By the lines that he has made, Working at the poet’s trade— By the “marble halls” so smart, By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,” True poetry at once restore, restore, Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more! But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes; Again she falls—again she dies, she dies. How will she now once more attempt to thrive? Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive. Now with his British Army Quadrille, so bright and balmy, Or with four bands meeting, Two men a large drum beating, He gives the tone Of dying groan, Or soldier’s moan, When at his post His life is in the battle lost. With five bands surrounded, Is Jullien confounded? No! onwards he goes, And his arms about he throws. See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies; Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes. My eyes! He dies! He comes to life—for Jullien all have sung; The name of Jullien is on every tongue. The boxes and the pit, Both they who stand and sit; With Jullien’s name the entire house has rung. Music the greatest brute can charm, And savage natures will disarm. Music can find luxurious ease, Making what bargain it may please. A salary it can improve To any sum that it may love. This the delightful Lind has found, And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound. When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird, E’en Fashion deigns to lend its ear, So eager ’t is to catch each little word, That were a pin to drop it must be heard; And people come from far as well as near! Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason: His numbers he for gold could never sell— She makes her fortune in a season! From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.

An Ode on Saint Cecilia’s Day. OVERTURE. Recitative. Be dumb, be dumb, ye inharmonious Sounds, And Musick, that th’ astonish’d Ear with Discord wounds: No more let common Rhymes profane the Day. Grand Chorus. Grac’d with divine Cecilia’s Name; Let solemn Hymns this awful Feast proclaim, And heav’nly Notes conspire to raise the heavn’ly Lay. Recitative. The meaner melody we scorn, Which vulgar instruments afford; Shrill flute, sharp fiddle, bellowing horn, Rumbling Bassoon, or tinkling Harpischord. Air. In strains more exalted the Salt-box shall join, And Clattering, and Battering, and Clapping combine; With a Rap and a Tap while the hollow Side sounds, Up and down leaps the Flap, and with Rattling rebounds. Recitative. Strike, strike the soft Judaic Harp, Aoft and sharp, By Teeth coercive in firm Durance kept, And lightly by the volant Finger swept. Air. Buzzing twangs the Iron Lyre, Shrilly Thrilling, Trembling, trilling, Whizzing with the wavering wire. A Grand Symphony. Accompanied with Marrow Bones and Cleavers. Air. Hark, how the Banging Marrow-Bones Make Clanging Cleavers ring, With a Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding. Raise your uplifted arms on high; In long-prolonged tones Let Cleavers sound A merry merry round By Banging Marrow-Bones. Full Chorus (Repeat the above verse.) Recitative Cease lighter Numbers: Hither bring The undulating String Stretch’d out, and to the tumid Bladder In amity harmonious bound; Then deeper swell the notes and sadder, And let the hoarse Base slowly solemn sound. Air. With dead, dull, doleful Hums, With mournful moans, And grievous groans, The sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrums. Part II. Recitative. With majick sounds, like these, did Orpheus’ lyre, Motion, Sense, and Life inspire; When, as he play’d, the list’ning flood Still’d its loquacious waves, and silent stood; The Trees swift-bounding danc’d with loosen’d stumps, And sluggish stones caper’d in active jumps. Air. Each ruddy-breasted Robin The concert bore a Bob in, And ev’ry hooting Owl around; The croaking Frogs, The grunting Hogs, All, all conspir’d to raise th’ enliv’ning Sound. Recitative. Now to Cecilia, heav’nly maid, Your loud united voices raise: With solemn hymns to celebrate her Praise, Each instrument shall lend it’s aid. The Salt Box with clattering and clapping shall sound, The Iron lyre Buzzing twang with wav’ring wire, With heavy hum The Sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrum, And the Merry Merry Marrow-Bones ring round. Last Grand Chorus. Such matchless strains Cecilia knew, When audience from their heavenly sphere, By Harmony’s Strong Power, she drew, Whilst list’ning angels gladly stoop’d to hear. Bonnell Thornton, 1749.

Beer and the men (a mighty theme!) I sing, Who to their mouths the brimming Pitcher bring. Say Sons of midnight! (since yourselves inspire, This drunken Work; so Jove and Drink require!) Say from what cause, in vain unquench’d the Thirst, Still reigns to-day as potent as at first. In eldest time ere mortals were so dry, E’er Bacchus issued from the Thund’rer’s Thigh, Strong Drink o’er some possess’d its native right,— Lord of delusion, Sov’raign of the Night. * * * * *

Of roaring constables and battles dire, Of geese uneaten, muse, awake the lyre! Where Campbell’s chimneys overlook the square, And Newton’s future prospects hang in air; Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match, And Caledonian earls in concert scratch,— A group of heroes occupied the round, Long in the rolls of infamy renown’d. Circling the table, all in silence sat, Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat; Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain To form the whimsies of an à la reine: Now storming castles of the newest taste, And granting articles to forts of paste; Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer; Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer. The god of Cabinets and senates saw His sons, like asses, to one centre draw. * * * * *

Within his tent Achilles sat and swore; With pain the hero’s face was sicklied o’er, Gout in his feet, neuralgia in his jaws, Too weak, alas, to fight for Grecian cause; Bronchitis, rheumatism, lungs and liver, Hurried him fast towards the Stygian river. * * * * *

Who is the scribbler X. Y. Z.? Who still writes on, though little read? Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite, 181 So often grin, yet seldom bite? Say, Garrick, does he write for bread, This friend of yours, this X. Y. Z.? For pleasure sure, not bread—’twere vain To write for that he ne’er could gain. * * * * *

Thou God of Jest, who o’er th’ ambrosial bowl, Giv’st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole; And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line, Hear, and assist the poet’s grand design, Who aims at triumphs by no common ways, But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays. O thou, whatever name delight thine ear. Pimp! Poet! Puffer! ’Pothecary! Play’r! Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy’d, Like the huge earth self-center’d in the void, Accept one partner thy own worth t’explore, And in thy praise be singular no more. * * * * *

A Tale in Rhymes Fit for the Times,

“John Chinaman, when fighting foes, At times holds stink-pots to their nose, For he believes—and he is right, That when in this way he can fight, And find thereby the battle won His stink-pots are as good’s a gun.”

The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown, Yet born and educated near a throne, Dropped down—(so willed the dread decree of fate!) With legs wide sprawling on the monarch’s plate: Far from the raptures of a wife’s embrace, Far from the gambols of a tender race, Whose little feet he taught with care to tread Amidst the wide dominions of the head; Led them to daily food with fond delight, And taught the tiny wanderers where to bite; To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails, When hostile combs attacked, or vengeful nails: Far from those pleasing scenes ordained to roam, Like wise Ulysses, from his native home; Yet like that sage, though forced to roam and mourn, Like him, alas, not fated to return! Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy And wife again, and dog that died for joy. Down dropped the luckless louse with fear appalled, And wept his wife and children as he sprawled. * * * * *

What can provoke thy muse? scarce thrice a year Matilda’s woeful Madrigals appear; Lewis no more the tender maid affrights With incantations, ravishments, and sprites; Crusca (to Gifford thanks!) is fairly fled, And Cottle’s epics sleep among the dead; E’en Wolcot’s impious blasphemies are o’er, And Andrews’ Prologues are the vogue no more. * * * * *

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of Light Indulge, dread Chaos and eternal Night! Of Darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil the deep intent. Ye Pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’d I sing, To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend awhile your force inertly strong, Then take at once the Poet and the Song.

Delightful Sport! whose never failing charm Makes young blood tingle, and keeps old blood warm.

The much enduring Man, whose curious Soul Bore him, with ceaseless toil, from pole to pole, Insatiate, endless knowledge to obtain, Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main, New woes, new dangers destin’d to engage By wrathful Saturn’s unrelenting rage, I sing. * * * * *

Bobilloe’s spleen, to whigs the direful spring Of votes ungiven, printed pages, sing! That spleen which made the ballot-boxes tell Of liberal candidates the funeral knell; Whose names, dishonoured in the morning sheet, Devouring scribes and hungry penmen greet:— Since his bad-tempered way Bobilloe’s showed, And made ill use of place on him bestowed; Began to wane men’s confidence and trust Which, to succeed in warfare, hold chiefs must.

If by antiquity, we judge what’s true, Why halt a Roman? Why not turn a Jew? Our noble Luther—he did nothing more Than pristine pureness to Christ’s truth restore, By ignorance and lies long crusted o’er.

“War and the Debt I sing-the giant crimes Of Tories in the good old Tory Times.”

Immur’d in this prison, so dull and so moping, Where vows and high walls bar all hopes of eloping; Where close-grated windows scarce show us the sun, What means this strange itch in the flesh of a nun? Why wander my thoughts in the midst of devotion Why feels my fond heart its long smother’d emotion? Still, still, love prevails! this unquenchable flame Blazes fresh at the sight of my Abelard’s name. * * * * *

I sing a Virgin’s Smock, the direful cause Of horrid Bloodshed, and of Breach of Laws; That Linnen Veil, which pendant Ruffles grace, Of Indian Muslin, or of Flanders Lace; Wide stretch’d, and falling down in many a Plait, From the fair Bosom, to the snowy Feet; White as the Lilly, or the Skin it hides, Where charming Nature shines, and Love resides. Let Ozell sing the Bucket,[45] Pope the Lock, My daring Muse prefers the Rape of Smock. * * * * *

In scenes where Hallet’s genius has combin’d With Bromwich to amuse and chear the mind; Amid this Pomp of Cost, this Pride of Art, What mean these sorrows in a Female Heart? Ye crowded Walls, whose well enlighten’d Round With Lover’s Sighs and Protestations sound, Ye pictures flatter’d by the learn’d and wise, Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes, Ye cards, whom Beauties by their touch have blest, Ye chairs, which Peers and Ministers have prest, How are ye chang’d! like you my fate I moan, Like you, alas! neglected and alone— For ah! to me alone no card is come, I must not go abroad—and cannot Be at Home. * * * * *

From An Essay on Man. Epistle I. Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold: To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. A. Pope. Lo! the poor toper whose untutor’d sense Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense, —But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady portion bear. From Crabbe’s Inebriety.

A New Reading of Pope. Lo, the lean Indian, whose bewildered mind Sees naught of God, either in cloud or wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray, It strayed itself, and now has lost its way. Simple nature to his hope has given, Beyond some cloud-capped hill, a sensual heaven, Some place where science cannot grope its way, Nor learning cast one single feeble ray; No whites disturb. No Christian ’stablish laws. But he can rest while work is done by squaws. To loaf contents his natural desire; He asks no angel’s wings to get up higher, And if he did, no angel from the sky Would think of taking Lo up very high. But grant the burden of his Indian song— Do as he likes, and take his dorg along. Anonymous.

“Now by this sacred perriwig I swear, Which never more shall locks or ringlets bear, Which never more shall form the smart toupee, Forced from its parent head,—(as thou from me); Once ’twas live hair; now form’d by th’ artist’s hand, It aids the labours of the sacred band; Adds to the vicar’s brow a decent grace, And pours a glory round his rev’rend face. By this I swear, when thou shalt ask again My doors to enter, thou shalt ask in vain.” He spoke, and furious with indignant ire Hurl’d the vast hairy texture on the fire; Then sternly silent sate—the active flame Remorseless wastes the soft and tender frame: Writhed to and fro consumes the tortured hair, And lost in smoke attenuates to air.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O’er heaven’s pure azure sheds her sacred light; When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll; And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole. O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain’s head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. Parody As when an alderman just dubb’d a knight, Doth his fat comrades to a feast invite; His eager hand uplifts the deep tureen, Beneath whose lid the smoking turtle’s seen; Around the chair the ready waiters roll, To fill the plate of every hungry soul. O’er all the room the grateful odours spread, And nods with pleasure every civic head; Then shine their cheeks ne’er ting’d with deeper dyes, The well made punch stands sparkling ’fore their eyes. The aldermen rejoicing in the sight Eye the rich treat, and bless the bounteous knight. From The British Minerva, printed in Hamburgh, 1818.

But lo! amidst the oratoric choir, Six gorgeous columns o’er the rest aspire: Around the chair itself of fame they stand, Hold her chief honours, and her house command. High on the first the son of Chatham shone, (The British lion couching by his throne,) Master of speech! His potent eloquence Seems still to echo on the wond’ring sense: Anxious, but firm, his lofty look appears, And young he seems, with all the skill of years. * * * * *

An Essay on Play. By A——r P——e. I. “Who shall decide,” I asked some time ago, “When doctors disagree?” None seemed to know, But change one word, and let the question be, “Who shall decide, when critics disagree?” We all are critics, not alone the men Who fail to make a living by their pen. And though there’s nought,—at least so poets deem,— “That’s half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” There’s nought, I think, for which one so much cares As talking over other folks’ affairs. And so we meet with those who sometimes say, That men have too much work, too little play: Others assert that men their duties shirk, Have too much play, and do too little work. What is the truth? Some men find life full sore, Work fifteen hours of the twenty-four; They say that work does nothing else but vex, And vow the collar’s never off their necks. Others declare the ancient precept stuff, And say one day in seven’s not enough; So half another day is, so to speak, Transferred from work to pleasure every week, While now we have, our hard-worked lives to cheer, Four extra holidays in every year. Truth is, to neither party should we lean, But ’twixt them both essay to hit the mean; Some of hard work get far too large a share, And ere they’ve learned to live, they die of care. Some do themselves as well as others too, And still declare they’ve not enough to do, Saunter through Life, and vow it is a gem, And say they’re killing Time, while Time kills them. II. Pleasure just now indeed is quite the rage, No matter sex or station, rank or age. The child, we know, is tickled with a straw, The boy is happy with his hoop or taw; The girl at first with dolls enjoys a span, But, older grown, the doll becomes a man; And, in her quest for what can life enhance, She gives her time to flirting and the dance. Youth growing up assume a manly tone, And seem to think the world is all their own, And while at school imagine they are men, And take to smoking and to billiards then; At college, too, of classics seldom speak, Think more of Cricket than they do of Greek; 185 Rowing and Football take up half their time, Lawn-tennis too is voted “quite sublime.” Thus time is spent in learning, it is true, But not in learning what they ought to do. Life is a game, so many people say, And they win easiest who have learned to play. III. I’ve said before, and won’t my words forsake, That “every woman is at heart a rake”; Perhaps, I may with greater justice say, Both man and woman dearly love to play. A curious problem to the world they give: Some live to play while others play to live; And this phenomenon is seen to-day, A whole profession given up to play. Men its attractions cannot well refuse, Their P’s neglect, but cultivate their cues; While ladies, who in Fortune’s favours bask, Make the pursuit of pleasure quite a task. For what with concerts, and “four o’clock tea,” With pictures that they “really ought to see,” With conversaziones, routs, and balls, And what so dear to women’s hearts, their “calls,” With flower shows, and riding in the “Row.” With dinners, drives, and all that’s “comme il faut,” Worn out, half dead, when Saturday arrives They meekly vow they’re tired of their lives, But wake on Monday morning free from pain, And vow they’re ready to begin again. IV. Then Sunday comes and, it must be confessed, They wonder how to pass the “Day of Rest.” Many, with wearied limbs and aching head, Resolve to spend it cosily in bed; Some drive to Richmond, if the weather’s fine, And at the Star and Garter go to dine; Some, as I’ve said before, to church repair, “Not for the doctrine but the music there;” While others, and indeed they’re not a few, Resolve to spend some hours at the Zoo. These seem to think Religion is displayed In noting how their fellow Creature’s made: They throng the walks, but oft so queerly dressed, Although ’tis true they wear their “Sunday best,” That e’en the animals opine, no doubt, Their relatives have got a “Sunday out.” The monkeys at each other grin and wink, And whisper in Ape-language, “missing link!” The grissly bear himself, with outstretched claw Politely asks a passer for “his paw;” The loving seal oft thinks he sees his kin, But quite as often finds he’s taken in, For now-a-days folks do not seem to feel That seal-skin jackets are not always seal. They see the lions feed, which call to mind The fact that they themselves have not yet dined; So home to dine, and pass with mis-timed jest The rest of Sunday, not the Sunday’s rest, Well-satisfied, howe’er, to feel and know They’ve shown themselves, as well as seen the show. A. W. Mackenzie. (Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”) From Pastime September 28, 1883.

To sooth the Soul by tender Strokes of art, To raise the Genius and to rouse the Heart, To make Mankind by Harmony elate, Soften the Breast and banish direful Hate, The ruffled Passions potent to asswage, To conquer Fear and to enervate Rage, Was music’s Power, by Orpheus first ordain’d; Fierce Beasts were tam’d, and fiercer Tyrants Chain’d. Th’ enchanting Sounds through their whole Fabrick crept, And Savage Mortals wonder’d why they wept. Our Artist shuns by vulgar Springs to move His mimic Race below, or Orbs above, Here Pleasure flows from Scientific Cause, Whilst Ingenuity extorts applause: He bids your breast with Emulation rise, And tho’ you’re e’er so learn’d, e’er so wise, By Arts Mechanick you will here be taught More than Rome knew, or Grecian Sages thought. Those Objects to your Senses he displays, Which the Spectator of our Globe surveys; The various Movements and the changing State. Of Beings active and inanimate. Whilst Bridges gives his Microcosm Laws, What Bosom beats not in Invention’s Cause? Who sees him work, but envies every Deed? Who hears him lecture hears e’en Newton read. Britons attend, be Worth like his approv’d, And shew you have the Virtue to be mov’d. With honest Scorn our wond’rous Artist view’d Meer Machinations on the World obtrude: French and Italian Puppets pleas’d too long, And British sense was barter’d for a Song. Dare to invent yourselves, to Fame aspire, Be justly warm’d with your own native Fire. Bridges! those Sounds must ravish every Ear, Which Handel’s Self did not disdain to hear.

“Quid Rapuisti?” The night was dark! fast clos’d the plunderer’s hand! And idle Jehu’s slept upon the stand! The lone Piazza, erst the gay resort Of flash and fun, and meritricious sport, Then only echo’d to th’ unvarying sound Of drowsy watchmen, pacing their dull round, Kiddies no more at Glue or Brilliant sup, And e’en the far-fam’d Finish was done up. All rest in sleep! save—those who were awake— The wicked wags who stole the fiddlers’ cake. 186 Not in more silence did Ulysses tread, When he relentless struck king Rhesus dead; Not with more caution did the invading Gaul Attempt to storm the Capitolian wall; Not with more care did valorous Smith advance To burn the navy of insulting France; Not with more ease did Belcher beat poor Burke, Then those vile plunderers did the dreadful work!!! But say, my muse, what prodigies appear’d? The rain fast pour’d, and horrid screams were heard! Loud thunder shook the gay theatric pile, And Kemble first relax’d into a smile! The theft announc’d, the band were in dismay, And nought were heard, but ‘Oh!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’ The leader Ware, with anger in his soul, While his limbs tremble, and his eyeballs roll, “D—n!” cried, “this insults too imposing, Shall we bear this, ye scraping sons of Rosin?” The puffy Parke, who never was a starter, Said, “In this cause I wish to die a Martyr!” Hawtin, with face inflated like a crumpet, “Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen trumpet. And smirking Davy, with his powder’d pate, Plump’d snug upon his seat and grinn’d in state. While feeble Woodcock let his anger loose, And fix’d the theft on harmless Mother Goose!!! But say, my muse, and then I’ll cry farewell! Who stole the cake?—“Indeed I cannot tell! And this I swear, in accents strong and slow, I cannot tell!—because I do not know!”

“Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!” * * * * * “Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away!”

“When on my sick bed I languish, Full of sorrow, full of anguish— Fainting, grasping, trembling, crying, Panting, groaning, speechless, dying.” * * * * * “Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say, Be not fearful—come away!”

Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid; And while a false nymph was his theme. A willow supported his head: The wind that blew over the plain, To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook, in return to his pain, Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas! silly swain that I was, Thus sadly complaining, he cried; When first I beheld that fair face, ’Twere better by far I had died: She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue; When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great; I listen’d and cry’d when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet! How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve, To forsake the fine folk of the town: To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad like our maidens in grey, Or live in a cottage on love? What though I have skill to complain, Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d; What tho’ when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine. All you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray’d, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Tho’ thro’ the wide world I should range, ’Tis in vain for my fortune to fly, ’Twas her’s to be false and to change,— ’Tis mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground: The last humble boon that I crave, Is to shade me with cypress and yew And when she looks down on my grave Let her own that her shepherd was true. Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array; Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone, No more shall be talked of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green.

A Parody. (Ascribed to George Canning.) By the side of a murmuring stream An elderly gentleman sat; On the top of his head was his wig, On the top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong Where this elderly gentleman sat, And took from his head in a trice, And plunged in the river his hat. The gentleman then took his cane, Which lay by his side as he sat, But he dropp’d in the river his wig In attempting to get out his hat. And now in the depth of despair, Though still from the place where he sat, He flung in the river his cane, To swim with his wig and his hat. But cooler reflection at length, As this elderly gentleman sat, Said “Jump up and follow the stream, And look for your wig and your hat.” But, alas for the thought! for so soon As he rose from the place where he sat, He slipp’d and fell plump over head, To swim with his wig and his hat.

Bow Bells. At the brink of a murmuring brook A contemplative Cockney reclined; And his face wore a sad sort of look, As if care were at work on his mind. He sigh’d now and then as we sigh When the heart with soft sentiments wells; And a tear came and moisten’d each eye As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells. I am monarch of all I survey! (Thus he vented his feelings in words)— But my kingdom, it grieves me to say, Is inhabited chiefly by birds. In this brook that flows lazily by I believe that one tittlebat dwells, For I saw something jump at a fly As I lay here and long’d for Bow Bells. I am partial to trees, as a rule; And the rose is a beautiful flower. (Yes, I once read a ballad at school Of a rose that was wash’d in a shower.) But, although I may doat on the rose, I can scarcely believe that it smells Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows As when sold within sound of Bow Bells. No; I’ve tried it in vain once or twice, And I’ve thoroughly made up my mind That the country is all very nice— But I’d much rather mix with my kind. Yes; to-day—if I meet with a train— I will fly from these hills and these dells; And to-night I will sleep once again (Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.

In vain I look around O’er all the well-known ground, My Lucy’s wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain’s side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect’s ample bound, No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother’s side: Who now your infant steps shall guide? * * * * *

Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate, From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore: These pious arms essay’d too late, To drive the dismal phantom from the door. Could not thy healing drop, illustrious Quack, Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days; For whom, so oft, to Marybone, alack! Thy sorrels dragg’d thee, thro’ the worst of ways! Oil-dropping Twick’nham did not then detain Thy steps, tho’ tended by the Cambrian maids; Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane; Nor dusty Pimlico’s embow’ring shades; Nor Whitehall, by the river’s bank, Beset with rowers dank Nor where th’ Exchange pours forth its tawny sons; Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood, Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood; Nor where the Mint’s contaminated kennel runs; Ill doth it now beseem, That thou should’st doze and dream, When death in mortal armour came, And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame. Her lib’ral hand and sympathising breast, The brute creation kindly bless’d: Where’er she trod grimalkin purr’d around, The squeaking pigs her bounty own’d; Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose, Did she glad sustenance refuse; The strutting cock she daily fed, And turkey with his snout so red; Of chickens careful as the pious hen, Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren; While redbreast hopp’d before her in the hall, As if the common mother of them all. 188 For my distracted mind; What comfort can I find; O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone, And I am left behind to weep and moan, To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay, Oh! woe is me! alack! and well-a-day!

It is not that my Lot is Low. (After Henry Kirke White.) It is not that my “place” was low, That bids my foolish tear to flow; It is not that that makes me moan, But ’tis, that all my money’s gone. Thro’ slummy back-streets now I roam, Whene’er I venture out from home; To luckier souls I leave the rest, The streets that once I knew the best. Yet when the plates, of varied size, With hunger-stirring symphonies Resound, I think—“A nice grilled bone!” And sigh that all my money’s gone. My friends now pass me, cut me dead; I’m only happy when in bed; I cannot get more “whisker-dye” Without committing felony. My creditors, with angry wail, Tell all the same relentless tale. I’ve none to smile with, or make free Or, when I want it, lend to me Yet in my dreams a cheque I view, That’s meant for me—a large one too. I start, and when the vision’s flown, I weep that all my money’s gone.

While the calescent, sanguine flood, By vile Vulgarity call’d Blood, Pervades this mortal frame; Amaz’d at your translucid charms, You I solicit to these arms, Tho’ of procacious name! When in your dim nocturnal rounds, Erratic from the Temple’s bounds Thro’ devious lanes you stray; With friendly auscultation deign To audit amatorial pain Subvected in this lay. Satellite of the Paphian dame, Whose rays, tho’ darken’d by thy fame, Illuminate my mind: Desert the street, resume the plain, Rejoin your derelicted swain— Be prudent, as you’re kind. My brows, obumbrated with age, Hang scowling o’er life’s latter-page— But you, like Lunar beam, Thro’ my nimbosity arise; Dispensing, from your lucid eyes, Refocillating gleam.

Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life’s evening grey; Strike thy bosom sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way. Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed, Scarce repress’d the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, “Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”

Imitation of the Above. “Crested warrior, on whose helm Nodding plumes encircling bind, Tell me in what happy realm Valour such as thine to find?” Thus I said, and envious sighed. He, who ne’er from battle run, The mighty warrior, eager cried,— “Show me how to hold my gun!”

“When Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes First rear’d the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many colour’d life he drew, Exhausted Worlds, and then imagined new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting time toil’d after him in vain,” * * * * *

When Europe’s peril from her Gallic foes First roused the age, immortal Pitt arose, Each plot of many colour’d France o’erthrew, Saved the old world, and overawed the new. Commerce beheld him stretch her golden reign, And jealous Whigs toil’d after him in vain: His lofty thoughts his lofty phrase impress’d, And admiration throbb’d in ev’ry breast. * * * * *

The Alley. (A Burlesque imitation of Spenser.) In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde, A narrow pass there is, with houses low; Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed, And many a boat soft sliding to and fro. There oft are heard the notes of infant woe, The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? Some play, some eat, some lean against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call. And on the broken pavement, here and there, Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie: A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and hogs, and dogs are feeding by; And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry. At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between; Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween. The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy) Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy, Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries; The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d. Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch, Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, Cod, Whiting, oyster, mackarel, sprat or plaice; There learn’d the speech from tongues that never cease. Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters, With Envy, (spitting cat) dread foe to peace; Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters, And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters. (One very coarse verse omitted.) Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch; Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich, Grots, statues, urns, and John’s dog and bitch, Ne village is without, on either side, All up the silver Thames, or all adown; Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor’s towery pride. Alexander Pope.

The Holidayer. The sportive swain in Sunday clothes is dressed, And struts he proudly, head high held in air; His sweetheart, who’s with charms like his impressed, Thinketh, perdie, ‘Are we not both all there’? 190 Nor lacketh she adornment’s artful aid, But with enticements rare is she yclout; My pen, I ween, would fail describe the maid, But she with practised skill is trickéd out, And that she pleaseth Lubin fair Chloe doth not doubt. From train and chaise they run to where the sands Invite the lovers—many joys be there. They foot it to the strains of German bands, And at time-honoured Punch and Judy stare. The wheedling portrait-taker catcheth them, Their likeness taketh, and their cash also; The wily boatman useth stratagem, And out upon the billows they do go— Not soon will they forget what followeth, I trow. Then viands meet for holiday they buy— Pork pies, fresh “natives,” sausages, cold beef— And as, forsooth, such cakes make folk’s mouth dry, The flowing cans do furnish much relief. At length the railway bell doth loudly ring, To tell them they no longer mote there stay; They crowd in train, they songs again do sing, As from the festive scene they go away. When morrow cometh—ah, that dreadful holiday! Funny Folks, June 12, 1886.