HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS. (continued 5)

LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE. It's a shame, so it is,—men can't Let alone Jobs as is Woman's right to do—and go about there Own— Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up,—and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals,—for upsetting of the Sudds When the world wagged well enuff—and Wommen washed your old dirty duds, I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steem Indians, that's Flat,— But I warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all that— I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem,—But that was a joke! For I never see none come of it,—that's out of it—but only sum Smoak— And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs—and hang you, you know that's true! And for All your fine Perspectuses,—howsomever you bewhich 'em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Tho' I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do— It aint as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birds-high view! But Thats your look out—I've not much to do with that—But pleas God to hold up fine, I'd show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can—and I'll say it behind your face— But when Folks talks of washing, it aint for you to Speak,— As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it—Well there's a pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends conies and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel—and That aint your Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd,— For if it warnt for Washing,—and whare Bills is concarned What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any Cityation. Well, what I says is This—when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about! To be sure its very Well, when Their aint enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, Tho' a X Sherif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls,— But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple's grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steem has ruined (G—d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at— They won't do for Angells—nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that's all Bespoke,— For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk Do their own of Themselves—even the better-most of em—aye, and evn them of middling degrees— Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint Bread and Cheese! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers,—like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Charnberses,—and that's what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing— You aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by your next door naybors— Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They'll scruntch your Bones some day—I'll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the Creation— And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs— But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs— And let your neighbors oxin an Asses alone,— And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone! Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins,—and leave the washing to we That nose what's what—Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day— When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their aint nun at all, And Cristmass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm-Chare— Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you don't wash) And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, With a vast more like That,—and all along of Steem Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam— But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways—that's what you might, Or bete Carpets—or get into Parleamint,—or drive Crabrolays from morning to night, Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste! (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say,—and a very hard pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares, Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt! But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt! Yourn with Anymocity, BRIDGET JONES.

ODE TO CAPTAIN PAERY[24] "By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!" Love's Labour's Lost.

I. Parry, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the peg On which the world is spun? Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare Writ by the hand of Nature there Where man has never run! II. Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown Of channels in the Frozen Zone, Or held at Icy Bay, Hast thou still miss'd the proper track For homeward Indian men that lack A bracing by the way? III. Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble Of geographic scholar? Or found new ways for ships to shape, Instead of winding round the Cape, A short cut thro' the collar? IV. Hast found the way that sighs were sent to The Pole—tho' God knows whom they went to! That track reveal'd to Pope— Or if the Arctic waters sally, Or terminate in some blind alley, A chilly path to grope? V. Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows, Has painted them couleur de rose, It is a dismal doom, As Clauclio saith, to Winter thrice, "In regions of thick-ribbed ice"— All bright,—and yet all gloom! VI. 'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit Before the fire and worship it With pecks of Wallsend coals, With feet upon the fender's front, Roasting their corns—like Mr. Hunt— To speculate on poles. VII. 'Tis easy for our Naval Board— 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord Of London and of ease, That lies in ninety feet of down, With fur on his nocturnal gown, To talk of Frozen Seas! VIII. 'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit, And babble of Cook's track— He'd roast the leather off his toes, Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows, To plant a British Jack! IX. Oh, not the proud licentious great, That travel on a carpet skate, Can value toils like thine! What 'tis to take a Hecla range, Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, And alpine lumps of brine? X. But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, Can tell how hard it is to climb The lofty slippery steep, Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, Upon its forehead, keep. XI. Perchance thou'rt now—while I am writing— Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting About thy frozen spine! Or thou thyself art eating whale, Oily, and underdone, and stale, That, haply, cross'd thy line! XII. But I'll not dream such dreams of ill— Rather will I believe thee still Safe cellar'd in the snow,— Reciting many a gallant story, Of British kings and British glory, To crony Esquimaux— XIII. Cheering that dismal game where Night Makes one slow move from black to white Thro' all the tedious year,— Or smitten by some fond frost fair, That comb'd out crystals from her hair, Wooing a seal-skin dear! XIV. So much a long communion tends, As Byron says, to make us friends With what we daily view— God knows the daintiest taste may come To love a nose that's like a plum In marble, cold and blue! XV. To dote on hair, an oily fleece! As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece— They say that love prevails Ev'n in the veriest polar land— And surely she may steal thy hand That used to steal thy nails! XVI. But ah, ere thou art fixed to marry, And take a polar Mrs. Parry, Think of a six months' gloom— Think of the wintry waste, and hers, Each furnish'd with a dozen furs, Think of thine icy dome! XVII. Think of the children born to blubber! Ah me! hast thou an Indian rubber Inside!—to hold a meal For months,—about a stone and half Of whale, and part of a sea calf— A fillet of salt veal!— XVIII. Some walrus ham—no trifle but A decent steak—a solid cut Of seal—no wafer slice! A reindeer's tongue and drink beside! Gallons of sperm—not rectified! And pails of water-ice! XIX. Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus? Still come away, and teach to us Those blessed alternations— To-day to run our dinners fine, To feed on air and then to dine With Civic Corporations— XX. To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, And then to take a half-year's filling In P.N.'s pious Row— When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, Thro' something we have worn our pens on For Longman and his Co. XXI. O come and tell us what the Pole is— Whether it singular and sole is,— Or straight, or crooked bent,— If very thick or very thin,— Made of what wood—and if akin To those there be in Kent? XXII. There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talk'd of poles—yet, after all, What has the public learn'd? And Hunt's account must still defer,— He sought the poll at Westminster— And is not yet return'd! XXIII. Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole, And how the fur-man deals? And Eldon doubts if it be true, That icy Chancellors really do Exist upon the seals! XXIV. Barrow, by well-fed office grates, Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, And longs that he were there; And Croker, in his cabriolet, Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, And pants to cross the mer! XXV. O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light On questions such as these:— Whether, when this drown'd world was lost. The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, And turned to Icy Seas! XXVI. Is Ursa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack Their neighbors—and what for? Whether they ever play at cuffs, And then, if they take off their muffs In pugilistic war? XXVII. Tells us, is Winter champion there, As in our milder fighting air? Say, what are Chilly loans? What cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts get ossified From eating bread of bones? XXVIII. Whether they are such dwarfs—the quicker To circulate the vital liquor,— And then, from head to heel— How short the Methodists must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose Their toes in spite of zeal? XXIX. Whether 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a climate— Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls—or that old function Of seals—with the extreme of unction— Bespeaks them for the Pope? XXX. Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd" Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd Or Letters must confer With people that have never conn'd An A, B, C, but live beyond The Sound of Lancaster! XXXI. O come away at any rate— Well hast thou earn'd a downier state— With all thy hardy peers— Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock, After such frosty years. XXXII. Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that Brest Harbor, woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more!

ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.[25]

"I rule the roast, as Milton says! "—Caleb Quotem.

Oh! multifarious man! Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton! Born to enlighten The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking— Master of the Piano—and the Pan— As busy with the kitchen as the skies! Now looking At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,— Or boiling eggs—timed to a metronome— As much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglass— In the art of frying brown—as a digression On music and poetical expression, Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas! Could tell Calliope from "Callipee!" How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, However cook's synonymous with Kater! Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving knife beside the tuning fork, Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work! II. Oh, to behold thy features in thy book! Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, How it would look! With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast down— Thy chops—done nicely brown— The garnish'd brow—with "a few leaves of bay"— The hair—"done Wiggy's way!" And still one studious finger near thy brains, As if thou wert just come From editing some New soup—or hashing Dibdin's cold remains; Or, Orpheus-like,—fresh from thy dying strains Of music,—Epping luxuries of sound, As Milton says, "in many a bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out," Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round! III. Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune,—on the jack—thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fry— Nay, so it is—hear how Miss Paton's throat Makes "fritters" of a note! And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit Receptacles for wit? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minc'd brains into a Tart? Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her— Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbread— The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar! IV. Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page— Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein— So—in a kitchen—would have talk'd Montaigne, That merry Gascon—humorist, and sage! Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,— Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,—or Hume on "Twice three make four," Or Lovelass upon Wills,—Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans—old Songs—Pills—Spectacles—and Spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range! Thy grasp a miracle!—till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy variety— Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all That spying—frying—singing—mix'd Society Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welch Rabbits—and thyself—in Warren Street! V. Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed—and fed? There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead— And gentle Poki—and that Royal Pair, Of whom thou didst declare— "Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read— They were—what Sandwiches should be—half bred"! There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil Relax'd—and freely own'd he took thy hints On "making Broth with Flints"— There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil For melted butter—Combe with his medullary Notions about the Skullery, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil— There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! Who used to swear thy book Would really look A Delphic "Oracle," if laid on Delf— There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own—and thy own—"Magazine of Taste"— There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, That "do not break their yolks"— Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste! VI. There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy Patties—thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee "Kitchen Addison"—for why? Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, "Teaching us how to live and how to die!" There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry— There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on His sine Quay non,— There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,— Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre— "And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshall Tureen"! VII. Great was thy Evening Cluster!—often grac'd With Dollond—Burgess—and Sir Humphry Davy! 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,— There Colborn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs—and Accum analyzed a gravy. Colman—the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said Came there,—and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)—Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,—and Graham, lofty on balloons,— There Croly stalk'd with holy humor heated, Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed— And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,— Madame Valbrèque thrice honor'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,— The Dibdins,—Tom, Charles, Frognall,—came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns! And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,— And talk'd—till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round Tewah-diddle! VIII. Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! So let them:—thou thyself art still a Host! Dibdin—Cornaro—Newton—Mrs. Fry! Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!—Lovelass—and Weber, Matthews in Quot'em—Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber— Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross'd! Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,— And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion! Thou art, sans question, The Corporation's love its Doctor Darling! Look at the Civic Palate—nay, the Bed Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying Illustrations of Lying! Ninety square feet of down from heel to head It measured, and I dread Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, A monstrous burthen on the corporation!— Look at the Bill of Fare for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score—Oxen by droves, Geese, turkeys, by the flock—fishes and loaves Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration! IX. Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast— (His honor seems to rest!—) And what is thy reward?—Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!— Yet could I speak as Orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week, Richly engross'd on vellum:—Reason urges That he who rules our cookery—that he Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!

THE LAST MAN. I. 'Twas in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone, A channting a merry lay,— To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day! II. When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags: It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags;— So up he came to the timber's foot And pitch'd down his greasy bags.— III. Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was! At pulling out his scraps,— The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps: "Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps!"— IV. Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood: But I wish'd myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar's food,— A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust;— "Oh!" quoth he, "the heavens are good!" V. Then after this grace he cast him down: Says I, "You'll get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side"— For the felons' bones lay there— But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls, And offer'd them part of his fare. VI. "I never harm'd them, and they won't harm me: Let the proud and the rich be cravens!" I did not like that strange beggar man, He look'd so up at the heavens— Anon he shook out his empty old poke;— "There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens!" VII. It made me angry to see his face, It had such a jesting look; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took: Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress, My drink is not of the brook!" VIII. Full manners-like he tender'd the dram; Oh it came of a dainty cask! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, "Your leave, good sir, I must ask; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask!" IX. And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones That were lying about the heath! X But the beggar gave me a jolly clap— "Come, let us pledge each other, For all the wide world is dead beside, And we are brother and brother— I've a yearning for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother." XI. "I've a yearning for thee in my heart That almost makes me weep, For as I pass'd from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep,— But when I saw thee sitting aloft, It made me both laugh and leap!" XII. Now a curse (I thought) be on his love, And a curse upon his mirth,— An it were not for that beggar man I'd be the King of the earth,— But I promis'd myself, an hour should come To make him rue his birth!— XIII. So down we sat and bons'd again Till the sun was in mid-sky, When, just as the gentle west-wind came, We hearken'd a dismal cry: "Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, "Till those horrible dogs go by!" XIV. And, lo! from the forest's far-off skirts, They came all yelling for gore, A hundred hounds pursuing at once, And a panting hart before, Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot, And there his haunches they tore! XV. His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun!— I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one! XVI. And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, Till the last dropt out of sight, Anon saith he, "Let's down again, And ramble for our delight, For the world's all free, and we may choose A right cozie barn for to-night!" XVII. With that, he set up his staff on end, And it fell with the point due West; So we far'd that way to a city great, Where the folks had died of the pest— It was fine to enter in house and hall, Wherever it liked me best!— XVIII. For the porters all were stiff and cold, And could not lift their heads; And when we came where their masters lay, The rats leapt out of the beds:— The grandest palaces in the land Were as free as workhouse sheds. XIX. But the beggar man made a mumping face, And knocked at every gate: It made me curse to hear how he whined, So our fellowship turn'd to hate, And I bade him walk the world by himself, For I scorn'd so humble a mate! XX. So he turn'd right and I turn'd left, As if we had never met; And I chose a fair stone house for myself, For the city was all to let; And for three brave holydays drank my fill Of the choicest that I could get. XXI. And because my jerking was coarse and worn, I got me a properer vest; It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, And a shining star at the breast,— 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave To see me so purely drest!— XXII. But Joan was dead and under the mould, And every buxom lass; In vain I watch'd, at the window pane, For a Christian soul to pass;— But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, And brows'd on the new-come grass.— XXIII. When lo! I spied the old beggar man, And lustily he did sing!— His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, And a crown he had like a King; So he stept right up before my gate And danc'd me a saucy fling! XXIV. Heaven mend us all!—but, within my mind, I had kill'd him then and there; To see him lording so braggart-like That was born to his beggar's fare, And how he had stolen the royal crown His betters were meant to wear. XXV. But God forbid that a thief should die Without his share of the laws! So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, And soon tied up his claws,— I was judge, myself, and jury, and all, And solemnly tried the cause. XXVI. But the beggar man would not plead, but cried Like a babe without its corals, For he knew how hard it is apt to go When the law and a thief have quarrels, There was not a Christian soul alive To speak a word for his morals. XXVII. Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear, And put on my work-day clothes;— I was tired of such a long Sunday life, And never was one of the sloths; But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, And made many crooked mouths. XXVIII. So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot. And blinded him in his bags; 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, For a doom'd man always lags; But by ten of the clock he was off his legs In the wind and airing his rags! XXIX. So there he hung, and there I stood The LAST MAN left alive, To have my own will of all the earth: Quoth I, now I shall thrive! But when was ever honey made With one bee in a hive! XXX. My conscience began to gnaw my heart Before the day was done, For other men's lives had all gone out, Like candles in the sun!— But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, A thousand necks in one! XXXI. So I went and cut his body down To bury it decentlie;— God send there were any good soul alive To do the like by me! But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, And bay'd me up the tree! XXXII. My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean-brim;— But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim! XXXIII. Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord! But the beggar man, where was he?— There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags Below the gallows' tree!— I know the Devil, when I am dead, Will send his hounds for me!— XXXIV. I've buried my babies one by one, And dug the deep hole for Joan, And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone! XXXV. For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger him beguil'd; But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child! XXXVI. And the beggar man's ghost besets my dreams, At night to make me madder,— And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder;— I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, And look at the rope and ladder!— XXXVII. For hanging looks sweet,—but, alas! in vain, My desperate fancy begs,— I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, And drink it to the dregs,— For there is not another man alive, In the world, to pull my legs!

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.[26] AN OLD BALLAD. Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint. That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. "Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself. "And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright: "Then I will to the water-side, And see him out of sight." A waterman came up to her,— "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea." "Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow"; And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said Gee woe! Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender-ship, you see";— "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, What a hard-ship that must be! "O! would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him; But, oh! I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim. "Alas! I was not born beneath 'The virgin and the scales,' So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales," Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all the sails were furl'd. But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John. "O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, How could you serve me so, I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow!" Then reading on his 'bacco box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not, though he tried; His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died. His death, which happen'd in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the bell.

"AS IT FELL UPON A DAY." Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street; She's let her pitcher tumble down, And all the water's at her feet! The little school-boys stood about, And laugh'd to see her pumping, pumping; Now with a curtsey to the spout, And then upon her tiptoes jumping. Long time she waited for her neighbors, To have their turns:—but she must lose The watery wages of her labors,— Except a little in her shoes! Without a voice to tell her tale, And ugly transport in her face; All like a jugless nightingale, She thinks of her bereavèd case. At last she sobs—she cries—she screams! And pours her flood of sorrows out, From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams, Just like the lion on the spout. For well poor Bessy knows her mother Must lose her tea, for water's lack, That Sukey burns—and baby-brother Must be dryrubb'd with huck-a-back!

THE STAG-EYED LADY. A MOORISH TALE. Scheherazade immediately began the following story. I. Ali Ben Ali (did you never read His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate,— How there was one in pity might exceed The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate Upon the throne of greatness—great indeed! For those that he had under him were great— The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, Was a Bashaw—Bashaws have horses' tails. II. Ali was cruel—a most cruel one! 'Tis rumored he had strangled his own mother— Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too—but happily that none Did live within harm's length of one another, Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days. III. Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, And makes a bad man—absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked—to a fault:—'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had No curb upon his will—no, not a bit— Wherefore he did not reign well—and full glad His slaves had been to hang him—but they falter'd And let him live unhang'd—and still unalter'd, IV. Until he got a sage-bush of a beard, Wherein an Attic owl might roost—a trail Of bristly hair—that, honor'd and unshear'd, Grew downward like old women and cow's tail; Being a sign of age—some gray appear'd, Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale; But yet, not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime. V. Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex His royal bosom that he had no son, No living child of the more noble sex, To stand in his Morocco shoes—not one To make a negro-pollard—or tread necks When he was gone—doom'd, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name. VI. Therefore he chose a lady for his love, Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear; So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear; Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear: Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit. VII. Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame: Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name Of mighty hero that his child should bear; He made so certain ere his chicken came:— But oh! all worldly wit is little worth, Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth! VIII. To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun A little daughter to this world of sins,— Miss-fortunes never come alone—so one Brought on another, like a pair of twins: Twins! female twins!—it was enough to stun Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir. IX. Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down This his paternal rage, and thus addrest; "Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of the royal chest?" "Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love to gaze on!—Pr'ythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin!" X. But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew: He call'd his slave to bring an ample sack Wherein a woman might be poked—a few Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black At this sad order; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the "head and front of their offending." XI. For Ali had a sword, much like himself, A crooked blade, guilty of human gore— The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf Were struck at his head-quarters by the score— Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) He often did his dozen butts a week. XII. Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears, Came with the sack the lady to enclose; In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose"; In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears; Though there were some felt willing to oppose, Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it. XIII. And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her To a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for she Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water. Then farewell, earth—farewell to the green tree— Farewell, the sun—the moon—each little daughter! She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back. XIV. The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'd All that the waters oped, as down it fell; Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd A ring above her, like a water-knell; A moment more, and all its face was still'd, And not a guilty heave was left to tell That underneath its calm and blue transparence A dame lay drownèd in her sack, like Clarence. XV. But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,— The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor— The lady's natal star with pale afright Fainted and fell—and what were stars before, Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light; And all looked downward on the fatal wave, And made their own reflections on her grave. XVI. Next night, a head—a little lady head, Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace Over their sleepy lids—and so she rais'd Her aqualine nose above the stream, and gazed. XVII. She oped her lips—lips of a gentle blush, So pale it seem'd near drownèd to a white,— She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush Of music bubbling through the surface light; The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air—and through the night There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity: THE WATER PERI'S SONG. Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter. The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave; The Mussulman, coming to fish in this water, Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This grayish bath cloak is her funeral pall; And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all! Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter—the last of her race— She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. I. Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think How Learning doth in rugged states abide, And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied; Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen! II. This College looketh South and West alsoe, Because it hath a cast in windows twain; Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow Through transparent holes in every pane, Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach," Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each. III. And in the midst a little door there is, Whereon a board that doth congratulate With painted letters, red as blood I wis, Thus written, "CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE": And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate, Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak. IV. For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, And some for Doctors of Divinitie, Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, And soe win academical degree; But some are bred for service of the sea, Howbeit, their store of learning is but small, For mickle waste he counteth it would be To stock a head with bookish wares at all, Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball. V. Six babes he sways,—some little and some big, Divided into classes six; alsoe, He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig, That in the College fareth to and fro, And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below, And eke the learned rudiments they scan, And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,— Hereafter to be shown in caravan, And raise the wonderment of many a learned man. VI. Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, Whereof, above his head, some two or three Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls, But on the branches of no living tree, And overlook the learned family; While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch. VII. No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, Such as would magisterial hams imbed, But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, Secure in high authority and dread: Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head, And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays, Because his locks are so unkempt and red, And stand abroad in many several ways:— No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize. VIII. And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue; His nose,—it is a coral to the view; Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,— For much he loves his native mountain dew;— But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. IX. As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales; But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, So that the wind his airy breast assails; Below, he wears the nether garb of males, Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;— Thence further down the native red prevails, Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:— Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. X. Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap His function in a magisterial gown, That shows more countries in it than a map,— Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, Besides some blots, standing for country-town; And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide; But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, He turns the garment of the other side, Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied! XI. And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, That look for shady or for sunny noon, Within his visage, like an almanack,— His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon: But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon, And with forebodings of near wrath and storms They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms. XII. Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat "Corduroy Colloquy,"—or "Ki, Kæ, Kod,"— Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat More sodden, tho' already made of sod, For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,— Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, He never spoils the child and spares the rod, But spoils the rod and never spares the child, And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd. XIII. But, surely, the just sky will never wink At men who take delight in childish throe, And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe; Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, By useless birches, that forlorn recess, Which is no holiday, in Pit below, Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,— A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse? XIV. Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use Of needful discipline, in due degree. Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree. This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands, And Learning's help be used for infamie, By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands. XV. But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, And cackling chorus with the human scream; Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, That falsely lets the fierce besieger in, Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win. XVI. No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;— Alas! his parent dear is far aloof, And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, Or, whilst he labors, weaves a fancy-woof, Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;— Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while! XVII. Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time, When first the scholar lists in Learning's train, And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb, Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain, From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell, For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain, Another weepeth over chilblains fell, Always upon the heel, yet never to be well! XVIII. Anon a third, for his delicious root, Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, So soon is human violence afoot, So hardly is the harmless biter bit! Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit, Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone, But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one. XIX. For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,— Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub! Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry; Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. XX. So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, And with his natural untender knack, By new distress, bids former grievance cease, Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, That sets the mournful visage all awrack; Yet soon the childish countenance will shine Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine. XXI. Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound, The Dominie lays ope the learned page; (So be it called) although he doth expound Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage; Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age, How Romulus was bred in savage wood, By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage; And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood. XXII. Anon, he turns to that Homeric war, How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town; And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car, Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown; And eke the bard, that sung of their renown, In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn, He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down, Because, at once, in seven cities born; And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn. XXIII. Anon, through old Mythology he goes, Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates, Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes; But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys, And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope! XXIV. From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, To new philosophies, that still are green, And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide The wheels of great political machine; If English corn should grow abroad, I ween, And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet; How many pigs be born to each spalpeen; And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,— With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat! XXV. Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth, That stood around with serious look intense, Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth, Which they had opened to his eloquence, As if their hearing were a threefold sense. But now the current of his words is done, And whether any fruits shall spring from thence, In future time, with any mother's son, It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none. XXVI. Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, The hour is come to lay aside their lore; The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon, And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,—and four Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door, Like ardent spirits vented from a cask, All blithe and boisterous,—but leave two more, With Reading made Uneasy for a task, To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask, XXVII. Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod, With tender moss so sleekly overgrown, That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod, So soothly kind is Erin to her own! And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,— For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow; Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone! Whilst other twain play at an Irish row, And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow! XXVIII. But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, Now changeth ferula for rural hoe; But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift His college gown, because of solar glow, And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow: Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. XXIX. And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, Linked each to each by labor, like a bee; Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;— Would there were many more such wights as he, To sway each capital academie Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms! Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!" The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he,—"They're only pegs: But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs!" Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he'd devour'd his pay! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off! "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!" Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!" "Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!" "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's breaches!" "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!" "O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:— Though I've no feet—some other man Is standing in my shoes!" "I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death:—alas! You will not be my Nell!" Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got— And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line! One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off,—of course, He soon was off his legs! And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town,— For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died— And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside!

BIANCA'S DREAM. A VENETIAN STORY. I. Bianca!—fair Bianca!—who could dwell With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days? The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze; Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it, That he could light his link at in a minute. II. So that, wherever in her charms she shone, A thousand breasts were kindled into flame; Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own, And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came; All hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own, Which none could ever temper down or tame: In short, to take our haberdasher's hints, She might have written over it,—"from Flints." III. She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, At least in Venice—where with eyes of brown Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex An amorous gentle with a needless frown; Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks, And Love at casements climbeth up and down, Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind, Some have considered a Venetian blind. IV. Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailer, To hapless Julio—all in vain he sought With each new moon his hatter and his tailor; In vain the richest padusoy he bought, And went in bran new beaver to assail her— As if to show that Love had made him smart All over—and not merely round his heart. V. In vain he labor'd thro' the sylvan park Bianca haunted in—that where she came, Her learned eyes in wandering might mark The twisted cypher of her maiden name, Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark: No one was touched or troubled by his flame, Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow In trees,—like wooden dolls in embryo. VI. In vain complaining elegies he writ, And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, And sang in quavers how his heart was split, Constant beneath her lattice with each eve; She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, And slash'd his suit so that it matched his sleeve, Till he grew silent at the vesper star, And, quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar. VII. Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er With snows unmelting—an eternal sheet, But his was red within him, like the core Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat; And oft he longed internally to pour His flames and glowing lava at her feet, But when his burnings he began to spout. She stopp'd his mouth, and put the crater out. VIII. Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key Suspended at death's door—so pale—and then He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree; The life of man is three score years and ten, But he was perishing at twenty-three, For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, "It could not shorten his poor life—much longer." IX. For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, Nor relished any kind of mirth below; Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head, Love had become his universal foe, Salt in his sugar—nightmare in his bed, At last, no wonder wretched Julio, A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth Of hope,—made up his mind to cut her girth! X. For hapless lovers always died of old, Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud; So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told, The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood; And so poor Sappho when her boy was cold, Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood, Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past, For those old suitors lived beyond their last. XI. So Julio went to drown,—when life was dull, But took his corks, and merely had a bath; And once he pull'd a trigger at his skull, But merely broke a window in his wrath; And once, his hopeless being to annul, He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath, A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether. XII. Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust His sorrows thro'—'tis horrible to die! And come down, with our little all of dust, That dun of all the duns to satisfy: To leave life's pleasant city as we must, In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie, Where even all our personals must go To pay the debt of nature that we owe! XIII. So Julio liv'd:—'twas nothing but a pet He took at life—a momentary spite; Besides, he hoped that time would some day get The better of love's flame, howover bright; A thing that time has never compass'd yet, For love, we know, is an immortal light. Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, Was always in,—for none have found it out. XIV. Meanwhile, Bianca dream'd—'twas once when Night Along the darken'd plain began to creep, Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep: The flow'rs had shut their eyes—the zephyr light Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep. And all the little birds had laid their heads Under their wings—sleeping in feather beds. XV. Lone in her chamber sate the dark-ey'd maid, By easy stages jaunting thro' her pray'rs, But list'ning side-long to a serenade, That robb'd the saints a little of their shares; For Julio underneath the lattice play'd His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, Born only underneath Italian skies, Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs. XVI. Sweet was the tune—the words were even sweeter— Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair, With all the common tropes wherewith in metre The hackney poets overcharge their fair. Her shape was like Diana's, but completer; Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare: Cupid, alas! was cruel Sagittarius, Julio—the weeping water-man Aquarius. XVII. Now, after listing to such laudings rare, 'Twas very natural indeed to go— What if she did postpone one little pray'r— To ask her mirror "if it was not so?" 'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear, Reflecting her at once from top to toe: And there she gazed upon that glossy track, That show'd her front face tho' it "gave her back." XVIII. And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall, By that dear page where first the woman reads: That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all, She told herself—and then she told her beads; Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds; For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs. XIX. Then like a drooping rose so bended she, Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed; But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed, A beauty-bright as it was wont to be, A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed: 'Tis very natural some people say, To dream of what we dwell on in the day. XX. Still shone her face—yet not, alas! the same, But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came— Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum: There was a throbbing at her heart within, For, oh! there was a shooting in her chin. XXI. And lo! upon her sad desponding brow, The cruel trenches of besieging age, With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show Her place was booking for the seventh stage; And where her raven tresses used to flow, Some locks that Time had left her in his rage. And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy. XXII. Then for her shape—alas! how Saturn wrecks, And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about, Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks, Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout, Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex: Witness those pensioners called In and Out, Who all day watching first and second rater, Quaintly unbend themselves—but grow no straighter. XXIII. So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow; His iron hand upon her spine he laid, And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow." In truth it was a change!—she had obey'd The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her Something between a Glassite and a Quaker. XXIV. Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme, And she had ample reason for her trouble; For what sad maiden can endure to seem Set in for singleness, tho' growing double. The fancy madden'd her; but now the dream, Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, Burst,—but still left some fragments of its size, That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes. XXV. And here—just here—as she began to heed The real world, her clock chimed out its score; A clock it was of the Venetian breed, That cried the hour from one to twenty-four; The works moreover standing in some need Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more; A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears, Such strokes referring doubtless to her years. XXVI. At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, By twenty she had quite renounced the veil; She thought of Julio just at twenty-one, And thirty made her very sad and pale, To paint that ruin where her charms would run; At forty all the maid began to fail, And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her, Of single blessedness, than single Gloster. XXVII. And so Bianca changed;—the next sweet even, With Julio in a black Venetian bark, Row'd slow and stealthily—the hour, eleven, Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark; She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n, Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark That veil'd her blushing cheek,—for Julio brought her Of course—to break the ice upon the water. XXVIII. But what a puzzle is one's serious mind To open;—oysters, when the ice is thick, Are not so difficult and disinclin'd; And Julio felt the declaration stick About his throat in a most awful kind; However, he contrived by bits to pick His trouble forth,—much like a rotten cork Grop'd from a long-necked bottle with a fork. XXIX. But love is still the quickest of all readers; And Julio spent besides those signs profuse That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders, In help of language, are so apt to use, Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders, Nods, shrugs, and bends,—Bianca could not choose But soften to his suit with more facility, He told his story with so much agility. XXX. "Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, (So he began at last to speak or quote;) Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, (For passion takes this figurative note;) Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier; Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote: My lily be, and I will be thy river; Be thou my life—and I will be thy liver." XXXI. This, with more tender logic of the kind, He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, That timidly against his lips inclin'd; Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere That even now began to steal behind A dewy vapor, which was lingering near, Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, Just like a virgin putting on the veil:— XXXII. Bidding adieu to all her sparks—the stars, That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars— Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. XXXIII. He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd (Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness; That made her think all other kisses lack'd Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness; Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, Insipid things—like sandwiches of veal. XXXIV. He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring The pretty fingers all instead of one; Anon his stealthy arm began to cling About her waist that had been clasp'd by none, Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, Since cold description would but be outrun; For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r, In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour!

THE DEMON-SHIP. 'Twas off the Wash—the sun went down—the sea look'd black and grim, For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim; Titanic shades! enormous gloom!—as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! Down went my-helm—close reef'd—the tack held freely in my hand— With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee—my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps behind! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place; As black as night—they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud:— Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run! Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heap'd in one! With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last! Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face— I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine! Another pulse—and down it rush'd—an avalanche of brine! Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home; The waters clos'd—and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed— For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. "Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?" With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound— And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around? A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft; But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft? A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone; But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own? Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night! I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams— Hyenas—cats—blood-loving bats—and apes with hateful stare,— Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and she-bear— Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite— Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs— All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms— Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,— But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast! His cheek was black—his brow was black—his eyes and hair as dark; His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath, His breast was black—all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth. His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves! Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves! "Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?" "What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul! Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,— My mother dear—my native fields, I never more shall see: I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!" Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern— A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce— As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once: A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole;— "Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry coal; You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields— For this here ship has pick'd you up—the Mary Ann of Shields!"

TIM TURPIN. A PATHETIC BALLAD. Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, And ne'er had seen the skies: For Mature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes. So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forc'd to do— Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two. There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small: But Tim had specks within his eyes, And could not see at all. Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid, And took her to his arms; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms. By day she led him up and down Where'er he wished to jog, A happy wife, altho' she led The life of any dog. But just when Tim had liv'd a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife. But when his eyes were open'd thus, He wish'd them dark again: For when he look'd upon his wife, He saw her very plain. Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn't bear to eat: For she was any thing but like A Grace before his meat. Tim he was a feeling man: For when his sight was thick, It made him feel for every thing— But that was with a stick. So with a cudgel in his hand— It was not light or slim— He knocked at his wife's head until It open'd unto him. And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughter'd spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house. But like a wicked murderer, He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear. The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in: Said he, this wound I dread Can hardly be sew'd up—his life Is hanging on a thread. But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope— Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope. Ah! when he hid his bloody work In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out. But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for! A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day; But tho' they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they. Said Tim unto those jurymen, You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once The author of her death. And, oh! when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscrib'd with double guilt! Then turning round his head again, He saw before his eyes A great judge, and a little judge, The judges of a-size! The great judge took his judgment cap, And put it on his head, And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, 'Till he was three times dead. So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say It was a drop too much.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.[27]

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel. His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own. The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker. Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer. He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once—for he knew They never would shoot each other. He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal." He met a coachman driving his coach So slow, that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the quick. Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summon'd to all eternity. He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther! Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum." He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust. He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water. Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!

A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. There's some is born with their straight legs by natur— And some is born with bow-legs from the first— And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs: I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.— 'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well—I gives chase, But as she run Two knots, to one, There warn't no use in keeping on the race! Well—casting round about, what next to try on, And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable: Well—there they stand, four kickers in a row. And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur— So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn! My eyes! how she did pitch! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. The devil sink the craft! And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft! Well—I suppose We hadn't run a knot—or much beyond— (What will you have on it?)—but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond! There I am!—all a-back! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears! What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water? I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,— Says I—I wish this job was rayther shorter! The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking; Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking— And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, 'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes! but she took in enough to founder! And there's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder! Well, there—off Hertford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, And can't contrive a signal of distress; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out—and nothing less; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:— Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!— And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!— And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!

THE VOLUNTEER. "The clashing of my armor in my ears Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe To dig my grave."

THE LOVER'S PROGRESS. I. 'Twas in that memorable year France threaten'd to put off in Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each To be a British coffin, To make sad widows of our wives, And every babe an orphan:— II. When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, And heads were dredg'd with flour, I listed in the Lawyer's Corps, Against the battle hour; A perfect Volunteer—for why? I brought my "will and pow'r." III. One dreary day—a day of dread, Like Cato's, over-cast— About the hour of six, (the morn And I were breaking fast,) There came a loud and sudden sound, That struck me all aghast! IV. A dismal sort of morning roll, That was not to be eaten; Although it was no skin of mine, But parchment that was beaten, I felt tattooed through all my flesh, Like any Otaheitan. V. My jaws with utter dread enclos'd The morsel I was munching, And terror lock'd them up so tight, My very teeth went crunching All through my bread and tongue at once, Like sandwich made at lunching. VI. My hand that held the tea-pot fast, Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er The cup in one long eddy, Till both my hose were marked with tea, As they were mark'd already. VII. I felt my visage turn from red To white—from cold to hot; But it was nothing wonderful My color changed, I wot, For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot. VIII. And looking forth with anxious eye, From my snug upper story, I saw our melancholy corps, Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seem'd very loth To axe their way to glory. IX. The captain march'd as mourners march, The ensign too seem'd lagging, And many more, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging— Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging. X. But while I watch'd, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March dust. XI. Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so, Our foe the coast must land on";— I felt so warm beside the fire I cared not to abandon; Our hearths and homes are always things That patriots make a stand on. XII. "The fools that fight abroad for home," Thought I, "may get a wrong one; Let those who have no homes at all Go battle for a long one." The mirror here confirm'd me this Reflection, by a strong one. XIII. For there, where I was wont to shave, And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his armies— No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies. XIV. A horrid sight it was, and sad, To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery, And then begin to clap My helmet on—ah me! it felt Like any felon's cap. XV. My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest; My epaulette's like coffin-plates; My belt so heavy press'd, Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie At once upon my breast. XVI. My brazen breast-plate only lack'd A little heap of salt, To make me like a corpse full dress'd, Preparing for the vault— To set up what the Poet calls My everlasting halt. XVII. This funeral show inclined me quite To peace:—and here I am! Whilst better lions go to war, Enjoying with the lamb A lengthen'd life, that might have been A Martial Epigram.

THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

ADVERTISEMENT.

"On Monday they began to hunt."—Chevy Chase.

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow. There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glo'ster flat,— And English butter in a lump, And Irish—in a pat. Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At counter, with his apron tied About his counter-part. The seventh, in a sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for eel-piety, A very noted spot. Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head; Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage pop't; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig's flesh is always chop't. But famous more, as annals tell, Because of Easter Chase: There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race. With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapt his leather thigh, And sang the burthen of the song, "This day a stag must die." For all the livelong day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head. Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath ever writ In dog-rel verse of hounds. Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaping Cheap To go and hunt the deer! No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not chicken-hearted he, altho' T'was whispered of his egg! Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee, And Surgeon Hunter's bill. So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine; The liquid black they wore that day Was Warren-ted to shine. His yellow buckskins fitted close, As once upon a stag; Thus well equipt he gaily skipt, At once, upon his nag. But first to him that held the rein A crown he nimbly flung: For holding of the horse?—why, no— For holding of his tongue. To say the horse was Huggins' own, Would only be a brag; His neighbor Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag. And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Altho' it was a tit. A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within The way he ought to go." But Huggins, like a wary man, Was ne'er from saddle cast; Resolved, by going very slow, On sitting very fast. And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone. A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her orts, Thereby he put a cross. Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day. Whereas the man had changed his mind, Meanwhile upon the case! And meaning not to hunt at all, Had gone to Enfield Chase. For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood May break a bit of bone. "Now, be his wife a plague for life! A coward sure is he": Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea. Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box,— No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a Fox. And many a score behind—before— The self-same route inclined, And, minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind. Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig. Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks, (However odd it sounds), Let out that day to hunt, instead Of going to the hounds! And some had horses of their own, And some were forced to job it: And some, while they inclined to Hunt, Betook themselves to Cob-it. All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here rolled along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart! And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine! Yet marvel not at any load, That any horse might drag, When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag! Now when they saw John Huggins go At such a sober pace; "Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away, You'll never see the chase!" But John, as grave as any judge, Made answer quite as blunt; "It will be time enough to trot, When I begin to hunt!" And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the reins, of course, Prepared for heavy wet. And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself. A snow-white head, a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With Master Reynard's brush; A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learned it from; His age about threescore and ten, And there you have Old Tom. In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host. "Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads, You're all in glorious luck: Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck. "Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom In red already ride; 'Tis but a step, and on a horse You soon may go a-stride." So off they scampered, man and horse, As time and temper pressed— But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all the rest. Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob, All in Fair Mead, which held that day Its own fair mead of mob. Idlers to wit—no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees. Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks, That shambled to and fro! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the dough! Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual, for a fall; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climbed a wall! 'Twas strange to think what difference A single creature made; A single stag had caused a whole Stagnation in their trade. Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood: And lo! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood. In shape like half a hearse,—tho' not For corpses in the least; For this contained the deer alive, And not the dear deceased! And now began a sudden stir, And then a sudden shout, The prison-doors were opened wide, And Robin bounded out! His antlered head shone blue and red, Bedecked with ribbons fine; Like other bucks that come to 'list The hawbucks in the line. One curious gaze of mild amaze, He turned and shortly took; Then gently ran adown the mead, And bounded o'er the brook. Now Huggins, standing far aloof, Had never seen the deer, Till all at once he saw the beast Come charging in his rear. Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same, On horse and ass—like high and low And Jack pursuing game! Good Lord! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their "early purl." A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers; There was another Floorer there Beside the Queen of Flowers! Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show; But few, like Charles at Charing Cross, Rode on in Statue quo. "O dear! O dear!" now might you hear, "I've surely broke a bone"; "My head is sore,"—with many more Such speeches from the thrown. Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of Man. And hunters good, that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds, To see the horses "throwing off," So long before the hounds. For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among; Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to "giving tongue." And now Old Robin's foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him, Yet always left behind. And here observe how dog and man, A different temper shows, What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose? Towler and Jowler—howlers all, No single tongue was mute; The stag had led a hart, and lo! The whole pack followed suit. No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch; And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch! Away, away! he scudded like A ship before the gale; Now flew to "hills we know not of," Now, nun-like, took the vale. Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch;— A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob, Without a single witch. But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And like a poet seemed to ride Upon a wingèd horse,— A whipper-in?—no whipper-in: A huntsman? no such soul. A connoisseur, or amateur? Why yes,—a Horse Patrol. A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Acteon in the tale, He found himself in stag! Away they went then, dog and deer, And hunters all away,— The maddest horses never knew Mad staggers such as they! Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen tally-hoed. About two score there were, not more, That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase! But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute,— The field kept getting more select, Each thicket served to thin it. For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and "ran a muck," To overtake the dogs. And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense— What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence? But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap years in a day. And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed. No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit. Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate,— He never saw a county go At such a county rate! "Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs," Quoth Huggins, "So I do,— I've got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!" Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side, That he was drawing out! And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook: Till bumped and galled—yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look! And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride, With every kick he gave a prick, Deep in the horse's side! But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze! Where sharper set than hunger is He squatted all forlorn; And like a bird was singing out While sitting on a thorn! Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign: "Possession is nine points," but his Seemed more than ninety-nine. Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in! Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Altho' no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself. Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare! A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone! Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage! Tho' felony, yet who would let Another's horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own? And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the mare! So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Hugging mounted on the mare, Done brown upon a bay! And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him! Alas! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive; A dab was he, as dabs should be— All leaping and alive! And here of Nature's kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof! Whereas the mare, altho' her share She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log; Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song—"to see The gate his hart had gane." And lo! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice: The steeds, like Cinderella's team, Seemed dwindling into mice; And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark,— Tho' still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark! But sad at soul John Huggins turned: No comfort could he find; While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped, To stay five bars behind. For tho' by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate— Howbeit there was no toll at all, They could not clear the gate. And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a new Gray's elegy On his departed gray! Now many a sign at Woodford town Its Inn-vitation tells: But Huggins, full of ills, of course, Betook him to the Wells, Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh, But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig, And called for half-and-half. Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse. When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door,— The mounted mob were all returned; The Epping Hunt was o'er! And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft; And men, by dint of drink, became The only "beasts of draught." For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer; And overtaken man discussed The overtaken deer. How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood, Deer-like, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could; And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could handle knives! How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse "remained behind." And one, how he had found a horse Adrift—a goodly gray! And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray. Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee; "A goodly gray! why, then, I say That gray belongs to me! "Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound; And, gladly, I will give the man A bottle and a pound!" The wine was drunk,—the money paid, Tho' not without remorse, To pay another man so much, For riding on his horse. And let the chase again take place, For many a long, long year, John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer! MORAL. Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her; And hunting after happiness, We only hunt a slipper.