HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS. (continued 7)

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS. A PASTORAL REPORT. One Sunday morning—service done— 'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun, A knot of bumpkins stood to chat Of that and this, and this and that; What people said of Polly Hatch— Which side had won the-cricket match; And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;— How barley, beans, and 'taters sold— What men could swallow at a meal— When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal— And who was taken off to jail— And where they brew'd the strongest ale— At last this question they address, "What's Agricultural Distress?" HODGE. "For my peart, it's a thought o' mine, It be the fancy farming line, Like yonder gemman,—him I mean, As took the Willa nigh the Green,— And turn'd his cattle in the wheat; And gave his porkers hay to eat; And sent his footman up to town, To ax the Lonnon gentry down, To be so kind as make his hay, Exactly on St. Swithin's day;— With consequences you may guess— That's Hagricultural Distress." DICKON. "Last Monday morning, Master Blogg Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog; But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye, As if he twigg'd the reason why, And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance, He didn't give the noose a chance; So Master Blogg at last lays off, And shams a rattle at the trough, When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg, And flops him down in all the muck, As hadn't been swept up by luck— Now that, accordin' to my guess, Be Hagricultural Distress." GILES. "No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat; I'ze bring a worser case nor that!" "Last Friday week, I takes a start To Reading, with our horse and cart; Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down, I meets a crony at the Crown; And what betwixt the ale and Tom, It's dark afore I starts for home; So whipping hard, by long and late, At last we reaches nigh the gate, And, sure enough, there Master stand, A lantern flaring in his hand,— 'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear? Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear! He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!' There's Hagricultural Distress!" HOB. "That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap! A-gooing through the yard, poor chap, Only to fetch his milking-pails, When up he shies like head or tails; Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be, Till he had toss'd the best o' three;— And there lies Tom with broken bones, A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones; Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law, 'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,— Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case, For that will keep the ribs in place;' But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw, Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw? That's summut to the pint—yes, yes, That's Hagricultural Distress!" SIMON. "Well, turn and turn about is fair: Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare; But nothing to my load of hay— You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day, And cash was wanted for the rent; So up to Lonnon I was sent, To sell as prime a load of hay, As ever dried on summer's day. "Well, standing in Whitechapel Road, A chap comes up to buy my load, And looks, and looks about the cart, Pretending to be 'cute and smart; But no great judge, as people say, 'Cause why? he never smelt the hay. Thinks I, as he's a simple chap, He'll give a simple price mayhap, Such buyers comes but now and then, So slap I axes nine pun' ten. 'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick He taps his leathers with his stick. 'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay, Just while we bargin 'bout the hay. So in we goes, my chap and me; He drinks to I, and I to he; At last, says I, a little gay, 'It's time to talk about that hay,' 'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man, Live, and let live—for that's my plan.' 'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say, It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,' And so we chaffers for a bit, At long and last the odds we split; And off he sets to show the way, Where up a yard I leaves the hay. Then, from the pocket of his coat, He pulls a book, and picks a note. 'That's Ten,' says he—'I hope to pay Tens upon tens for loads of hay.' 'With all my heart, and soon,' says I, And feeling for the change thereby; But all my shillings com'd to five— Says he, 'No matter, man alive! There's something in your honest phiz I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;— You'll pay next time you come to town.' 'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.' 'All right,' says he.—Thinks I 'huzza! He's got no bargain of the hay!' "Well, home I goes, with empty cart, Whipping the horses pretty smart, And whistling ev'ry yard o' way, To think how well I'd sold the hay— And just cotch'd Master at his greens And bacon, or it might be beans, Which didn't taste the worse surely, To hear his hay had gone so high. But lord! when I laid down the note, It stuck the victuals in his throat, And chok'd him till his face all grew Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue; With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails! They seem'd a-coming out like snails! 'A note,' says he, half mad with passion, 'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!' Now, wasn't that a pretty mess? That's Hagricultural Distress." COLIN. "Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing! You only argy in a ring; 'Cause why? You never cares to look, Like me, in any larned book; But schollards know the wrong and right Of every thing in black and white. "Well, Farming, that's its common name, And Agriculture be the same: So put your Farming first, and next Distress, and there you have your text. But here the question comes to press, What farming be, and what's distress? Why, farming is to plough and sow, Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow, Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed The proper stock to fat and feed. Distress is want, and pain, and grief, And sickness,—things as wants relief; Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe; In short, ax any overseer,— Well, now, the logic for to chop, Where's the distress about a crop?" "There's no distress in keeping sheep, I likes to see 'em frisk and leap; There's no distress in seeing swine Grow up to pork and bacon fine; There's no distress in growing wheat And grass for men or beasts to eat; And making of lean cattle fat, There's no distress, of course, in that. Then what remains?—But one thing more, And that's the Farming of the Poor!" HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON. "Yea!—aye!—surely!—for sartin!—yes!— That's Hagricultural Distress!"

DOMESTIC POEMS. "It's hame, hame, hame."—A. CUNNINGHAM. "There's no place like home."—CLARI. I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS. O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife! When I look back at Hymen's dear day, Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife, Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray! Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate! But as liquid as stars in a pool; Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate, Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool! That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair; Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now, As if time, when those furrows were made by the share, Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough! Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose, When a Venus demanded their skill; Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose, But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill! Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees, Such a nectar there hung on each lip; Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze, Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip! Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts, From its dimple he could not get loose; Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants, Or a singe, like the breast of a goose! How rich were those locks, so abundant and full, With their ringlets of auburn so deep! Though now they look only like frizzles of wool, By a bramble torn off from a sheep! That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace, While in whiteness it vied with your arms; Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place, To conceal that scrag-end of your charms! Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight, Though it now has two twists from upright— But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate! Though you be such a perfect old fright! II. The sun was slumbering in the West. My daily labors past; On Anna's soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last;— The darkness clos'd around, so dear To fond congenial souls, And thus she murmur'd at my ear, "My love, we're out of coals!" "That Mister Bond has call'd again, Insisting on his rent; And all the Todds are coming up To see us, out of Kent;— I quite forgot to tell you John Has had a tipsy fall;— I'm sure there's something going on With that vile Mary Hall!—" "Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk, And I have bought the rest— Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best.— I really think the Jones's house Would be the thing for us;— I think I told you Mrs. Pope Had parted with her nus— "Cook, by the way, came up to-day, To bid me suit myself— And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed The victuals on the shelf.— And, lord! there's such a letter come, Inviting you to fight! Of course you don't intend to go— God bless you, dear, good night!" III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin— (Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub—but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) IV. A SERENADE. "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry, "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids, or open mine! "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! What the devil makes him cry? Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Still he stares—I wonder why, Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from the birth?" "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try!— Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake— The more I sing, the more you wake!" "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall!" "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Two such nights, and I shall die! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I,—" "How can I from bedposts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep?" "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny— Lullaby, oh, lullaby; Nature soon will stupefy— My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim— Who's that fallen—me or him?"

THE GREEN MAN. Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man As ever lived—at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor, At fifty pounds,—or thereabouts,—per ann. The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter,— He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers— Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers— Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter.— Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable— Still on one failing tenderly to touch, The Gentleman did like a drop too much, (Tho' there are many such) And took more Port than was exactly portable. In fact,—to put the cap upon the nipple, And try the charge,—Tom certainly did tipple. He thought the motto was but sorry stuff On Cribb's Prize Cup—Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter— That "D——d be he who first cries Hold Enough!" The more cups hold, and if enough, the better. And so to set example in the eyes Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them, All his cups were of such ample size That he got into them. Once in the company of merry mates, In spite of Temperance's if's and buts, So sure as Eating is set off with plates, His Drinking always was bound up with cuts! Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels Bring very sad catastrophes about; Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils, Not to forget the Gout. Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim To grow to Strasburg's regulation size, As if for those hepatical goose pies— Or out of depth the head begins to swim— Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him! 'Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,— Like Baxter, who so "went beyond his last"— One bottle more, and then one bottle more, Till oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass'd! And homeward, by the short small chimes of day, With many a circumbendibus to spare, For instance, twice round Finsbury Square, To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way. Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup: The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions, A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's, Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up— An awkward circumstance enough for elves Who shave themselves; And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it, When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass— He jump'd—and who alive would fail to do it?— To see however it had come to pass, One section of his face as green as grass! In vain each eager wipe, With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry, Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe! Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down, Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,— But verdant and not brown,— What could have happened to a tint so ruddy? Indeed it was a very novel case, By way of penalty for being jolly, To have that evergreen stuck in his face, Just like the windows with their Christmas holly. "All claret marks,"—thought he—Tom knew his forte— "Are red—this color CANNOT come from Port!" One thing was plain; with such a face as his, 'Twas quite impossible to ever greet Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet, Altho' 'twas such a parti-colored phiz! As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned, The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head, With "Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please— Unless it comes too high— Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?" His mind recoil'd—so he tied up his head, As with a raging tooth, and took to bed; Of course with feelings far from the serene, For all his future prospects seemed to be, To match his customary tea, Black, mixt with green. Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down, And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why; To whom poor Simpson, half delirious, Returned an answer so mysterious That curiosity began to fry; The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch By peeping in upon the patient's bed, Reported a most bloody, tied-up head, Got over-night of course—"Harm watch, harm catch," From Watchmen in a boxing-match. So, liberty or not,— Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in A suicidal coffin— The dame ran up as fast as she could trot; Appearance,—"fiddle-sticks!" should not deter From going to the bed, And looking at the head: "La! Mister S——, he need not care for her! A married woman that had had Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad— Her own dear late would come home late at night, And liquor always got him in a fight. She'd been in hospitals—she wouldn't faint At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep; She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't— Turlington's Drops she made a pint to keep. Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand— Such skulls japann'd—she meant to say trepann'd! Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle, And hadn't hours to live, From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle, Shamefully over-driv!— Heads forced to have a silver plate atop, To get the brains to stop. At imputations of the legs she'd been, And neither screech'd nor cried—" Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside, And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen— "Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!" Alas! through Simpson's brain Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain; It tallied truly with his own misgiving, And brought a groan, To move a heart of stone— A sort of farewell to the land of living! And as the case was imminent and urgent, He did not make a shadow of objection To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a "surgent," But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection, While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf. Swift flew the summons,—it was life or death! And in as short a time as he could race it, Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath, To try his Latin charms against Hic Jacet. He took a seat beside the patient's bed, Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,— Poked, strok'd, pinch'd, kneaded it—hemm'd—shook his head— Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek, (Thinking, it seem'd in Greek,) Then ask'd—'twas Christmas—"Had he eaten grass, Or greens—and if the cook was so improper To boil them up with copper, Or farthings made of brass; Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass, Or dined at City Festivals, whereat There's turtle, and green fat?" To all of which, with serious tone of woe, Poor Simpson answered "No," Indeed he might have said in form auricular, Supposing Puddicome had been a monk— He had not eaten (he had only drunk) Of anything "Particular." The Doctor was at fault; A thing so new quite brought him to a halt. Cases of other colors came in crowds, He could have found their remedy, and soon; But green—it sent him up among the clouds, As if he had gone up with Green's balloon! Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin; From Yellow Jaundice yellow, From saffron tints to sallow;— Then retrospective memory lugg'd in Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town— East Indians, without number, He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown, From tan to a burnt umber, Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke, As "rashes growing green"— "Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green! Nothing of course, but a broad Scottish joke!" Then as to flaming visages, for those The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose— But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke! Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage, In common practice he had really seen; But Green—he was too old, and grave, and sage, To think of the last stage to Turnham Green! So matters stood in-doors—meanwhile without, Growing in going like all other rumors, The modern miracle was buzz'd about, By people of all humors, Native or foreign in their dialecticals; Till all the neighborhood, as if their noses Had taken the odd gross from little Moses, Seemed looking thro' green spectacles. "Green faces!" so they all began to comment— "Yes—opposite to Druggists' lighted shops, But that's a flying color—never stops— A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment. Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind, Nothing at all to match the present piece; Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind— Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!" The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors Of such a case had never heard, From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd; "Or Greenland!" cried the whalers. All tongues were full of the Green Man, and still They could not make him out with all their skill; No soul could shape the matter, head or tail— But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail. A long half hour, in needless puzzle, Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle; He thought, and thought, and thought and thought, and thought— And still it came to nought, When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers, "Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door! It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,— As brought home Mister S. to Austin Friars, And says there's nothing but a simple case— He got that 'ere green face By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!"

HIT OR MISS. "Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time."—BURNS. One morn—it was the very morn September's sportive month was born— The hour, about the sunrise, early; The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly, With sundry orange streaks and tinges Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges: The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool, As if just skimm'd from off a pool; The scene, red, russet, yellow, laden, From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden, Save here and there a turnip patch, Too verdant with the rest to match; And far a-field a hazy figure, Some roaming lover of the trigger. Meanwhile the level light perchance Pick'd out his barrel with a glance; For all around a distant popping Told birds were flying off or dropping. Such was the morn—a morn right fair To seek for covey or for hare— When, lo! too far from human feet For even Ranger's boldest beat, A Dog, as in some doggish trouble, Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble, With dappled head in lowly droop, But not the scientific stoop; And flagging, dull, desponding ears, As if they had been soak'd in tears, And not the beaded dew that hung The filmy stalks and weeds among. His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know An errand, why, or where to go, To trot, to walk, or scamper swift— In short, he seem'd a dog adrift; His very tail, a listless thing, With just an accidental swing, Like rudder to the ripple veering, When nobody on board is steering. So, dull and moody, canter'd on Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don; When, rising o'er a gentle slope, That gave his view a better scope, He spied, some dozen furrows distant, But in a spot as inconsistent, A second dog across his track, Without a master to his back; As if for wages, workman-like, The sporting breed had made a strike, Resolv'd nor birds nor puss to seek, Without another paunch a week! This other was a truant curly, But, for a spaniel, wondrous surely; Instead of curvets gay and brisk, He slouch'd along without a frisk, With dogged air, as if he had A good half mind to running mad; Mayhap the shaking at his ear Had been a quaver too severe; Mayhap the whip's "exclusive dealing" Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling, Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain He did not mean to come again. Of course the pair soon spied each other; But neither seem'd to own a brother; The course on both sides took a curve, As dogs when shy are apt to swerve; But each o'er back and shoulder throwing A look to watch the other's going, Till, having clear'd sufficient ground, With one accord they turn'd them round, And squatting down, for forms not caring, At one another fell to staring; As if not proof against a touch Of what plagues humankind so much, A prying itch to get at notions Of all their neighbor's looks and motions. Sir Don at length was first to rise— The better dog in point of size, And, snuffing all the ground between, Set off, with easy jaunty mien; While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him, And made a dozen steps to meet him— Their noses touch'd, and rubb'd awhile (Some savage nations use the style), And then their tails a wag began, Though on a very cautious plan, But in their signals quantum suff. To say, "A civil dog enough." Thus having held out olive branches, They sank again, though not on haunches, But couchant, with their under jaws Resting between the two forepaws, The prelude, on a luckier day, Or sequel, to a game of play: But now they were in dumps, and thus Began their worries to discuss, The Pointer, coming to the point The first, on times so out of joint. "Well, Friend,—so here's a new September, As fine a first as I remember; And, thanks to such an early Spring, Plenty of birds, and strong on wing." "Birds!" cried the little crusty chap, As sharp and sudden as a snap, "A weasel suck them in the shell! What matter birds, or flying well, Or fly at all, or sporting weather, If fools with guns can't hit a feather!" "Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don, Putting his gravest visage on; "In vain we beat our beaten way, And bring our organs into play, Unless the proper killing kind Of barrel tunes are play'd behind: But when we shoot,—that's me and Squire— We hit as often as we fire." "More luck for you!" cried little Woolly, Who felt the cruel contrast fully; "More luck for you, and Squire to boot! We miss as often as we shoot!" "Indeed!—No wonder you're unhappy! I thought you looking rather snappy; But fancied, when I saw you jogging, You'd had an overdose of flogging; Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried While you were ranging rather wide." "Me! running—running wide—and hit! Me shot! what, pepper'd?—Deuce a bit! I almost wish I had! That Dunce, My master, then would hit for once! Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds! He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!" "Well, that must be a case provoking. What, never—but, you dog, you're joking! I see a sort of wicked grin About your jaw you're keeping in." "A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter Would be as much a joking matter. To tell the truth, that dog-disaster Is just the type of me and master, When fagging over hill and dale, With his vain rattle at my tail, Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run, But leading nothing but his gun— The very shot I fancy hisses, It's sent upon such awful misses!" "Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is Your master's hand is out of practice!" "Practice?—No doctor, where you will, Has finer—but he cannot kill! These three years past, thro' furze and furrow, All covers I have hunted thorough; Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors; And put up hares by scores and scores; Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;— Yes, game enough to send in presents To ev'ry friend he has in town, Provided he had knock'd it down: But no—the whole three years together, He has not giv'n me flick or feather— For all that I have had to do I wish I had been missing too!" "Well,—such a hand would drive me mad; But is he truly quite so bad?" "Bad!—worse!—you cannot underssore him; If I could put up, just before him, The great Balloon that paid the visit Across the water, he would miss it! Bite him! I do believe, indeed, It's in his very blood and breed! It marks his life, and, run all through it; What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it. Last Monday he came home to Tooting, Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting, And kicks at me to vent his rage— 'Get out!' says he—'I've miss'd the stage!' Of course, thought I—what chance of hitting? You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!" "Why, he must be the country's scoff! He ought to leave, and not let, off! As fate denies his shooting wishes, Why don't he take to catching fishes? Or any other sporting game, That don't require a bit of aim?" "Not he!—Some dogs of human kind Will hunt by sight, because they're blind. My master angle!—no such luck! There he might strike, who never struck! My master shoots because he can't, And has an eye that aims aslant; Nay, just by way of making trouble, He's changed his single gun for double; And now, as girls a-walking do, His misses go by two and two! I wish he had the mange, or reason As good, to miss the shooting season!" "Why yes, it must be main upleasant To point to covey, or to pheasant, For snobs, who, when the point is mooting, Think letting fly as good as shooting!" "Snobs!—if he'd wear his ruffled shirts, Or coats with water-wagtail skirts, Or trowsers in the place of smalls, Or those tight fits he wears at balls, Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap, Why we might pass for Snip and Snap, And shoot like blazes! fly or sit, And none would stare, unless we hit. But no—to make the more combustion, He goes in gaiters and in fustian, Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks, And deuce a miss but some one marks! For Keepers, shy of such encroachers, Dog us about like common poachers! Many's the covey I've gone by, When underneath a sporting eye; Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her— I miss 'em to prevent my master!" "And so should I, in such a case! There's nothing feels so like disgrace, Or gives you such a scurvy look— A kick and pail of slush from Cook, Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one, As standing to a missing gun! It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound, To catch your bird before the ground: But no—a pump and ginger pop As soon would get a bird to drop! So there you stand, quite struck a-heap, Till all your tail is gone to sleep; A sort of stiffness in your nape, Holding your head well up to gape; While off go birds across the ridges, First small as flies, and then as midges, Cocksure, as they are living chicks, Death's Door is not at Number Six!" "Yes! yes! and then you look at master, The cause of all the late disaster, Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath At gun, or birds, or maybe both; P'rhaps curses you, and all your kin, To raise the hair upon your skin! Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps, To go and hunt for more miss-haps!" "Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel But one long wish to go to heel; You cannot scent for cutting mugs— Your nose is turning up, like Pug's; You can't hold up, but plod and mope; Your tail like sodden end of rope, That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side Has soak'd in harbor, tide and tide. On thorns and scratches, till that moment Unnoticed, you begin to comment; You never felt such bitter brambles, Such heavy soil, in all your rambles! You never felt your fleas so vicious! Till, sick of life so unpropitious, You wish at last, to end the passage, That you were dead, and in your sassage!" "Yes! that's a miss from end to end! But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend, You've made me shiver, skin and gristle, As if I heard my master's whistle! Though how you came to learn the knack— I thought your Squire was quite a crack!" "And so he is!—He always hits— And sometimes hard, and all to bits. But ere with him our tongues we task, I've still one little thing to ask; Namely, with such a random master, Of course you sometimes want a plaster? Such missing hands make game of more Than ever pass'd for game before— A pounded pig—a widow's cat— A patent ventilating hat— For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick, Will find a coat whereon to stick!" "What! accidentals, as they're term'd? No never—none—since I was worm'd— Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,— My master does not miss by halves! His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd Abroad upon the whole wide world,— But whether they be blown to dust, As often-times I think they must, Or melted down too near the sun, What comes of them is known to none— I never found, since I could bark, A Barn that bore my master's mark!" "Is that the case?—Why then, my brother, Would we could swap with one another! Or take the Squire, with all my heart, Nay, all my liver, so we part! He'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge) He'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge; He'll hit a snipe; he'll hit a pheasant; He'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present; He'll always hit,—as that's your wish— His pepper never lacks a dish!" "Come, come, you banter,—let's be serious; I'm sure that I am half delirious, Your picture set me so a-sighing— But does he shot so well—shoot flying?" "Shoot flying? Yes—and running, walking— I've seen him shoot two farmers talking— He'll hit the game, whene'er he can, But failing that he'll hit a man,— A boy—a horse's tail or head— Or make a pig a pig of lead,— Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet, However hot, was known to sweat, But sure I am that I perspire Sometimes before my master's fire! Misses! no, no, he always hits, But so as puts me into fits! He shot my fellow dog this morning, Which seemed to me sufficient warning!" "Quite, quite, enough!—So that's a hitter! Why, my own fate I thought was bitter, And full excuse for cut and run; But give me still the missing gun! Or rather, Sirius! send me this, No gun at all, to hit or miss, Since sporting seems to shoot thus double, That right or left it brings us trouble!" So ended Dash;—and Pointer Don Prepared to urge the moral on; But here a whistle long and shrill Came sounding o'er the council hill, And starting up, as if their tails Had felt the touch of shoes and nails, Away they scamper'd down the slope, As fast as other pairs elope,— Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets, To beg, or dance in fancy jackets; At butchers' shops to try their luck; To help to draw a cart or truck; Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most Who would but hit or miss a post.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.[35] AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY. "Vell! Here I am—no Matter how it suits A-keeping Company vith them dumb Brutes; Old Park vos no bad Judge—confound his vig! Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig! "The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock, But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock! "To go to set this solitary Job To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob! It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb! "I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep, The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks, And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks! "If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out To only Baa! and Botanize about, I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pull, And come to Cotton, as to all this Vool! "Von only happy moment I have had Since here I come to be a Farmer's Cad, And then I cotch'd a vild Beast in a Snooze, And pick'd her pouch of three young Kangaroos! "Vot chance haye I to go to Race or Mill? Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till; And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry, I'd put the Natives' Linen in my Eye! "If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag, And find a Fence to turn it into Swag, I'd give it all in London Streets to stand, And if I had my pick, I'd say the Strand! "But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall, To my old Crib to meet with Jack, and Sal, I've been so gallows honest in this Place, I shan't not like to show my sheepish Face. "It's wery hard for nothing but a Box Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin' Flocks, 'Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus, They've nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus. "But folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick To dumb brute Beasts,—and so I'll cut my Stick! And vot's the Use a Feller's Eyes to pipe Vere von can't borrow any Gemman's Vipe?"

LIEUTENANT LUFF. All you that are too fond of wine, Or any other stuff, Take warning by the dismal fate Of one Lieutenant Luff. A sober man he might have been, Except in one regard, He did not like soft water, So he took to drinking hard! Said he, "Let others fancy slops, And talk in praise of Tea, But I am no Bohemian, So do not like Bohea. If wine's a poison, so is Tea, Though in another shape: What matter whether one is kill'd By canister or grape!" According to this kind of taste Did he indulge his drouth, And being fond of Port, he made A port-hole of his mouth! A single pint he might have sipp'd And not been out of sorts, In geologic phrase—the rock He split upon was quarts! To "hold the mirror up to vice" With him was hard, alas! The worse for wine he often was, But not "before a glass." No kind and prudent friend had he To bid him drink no more,— The only chequers in his course Where at a tavern door! Full soon the sad effects of this His frame began to show, For that old enemy the gout Had taken him in toe! And join'd with this an evil came Of quite another sort— For while he drank, himself, his purse Was getting "something short." For want of cash he soon had pawn'd One half that he possessed, And drinking showed him duplicates Beforehand of the rest! So now his creditors resolved To seize on his assets; For why,—they found that his half-pay Did not half pay his debts. But Luff contrived a novel mode His creditors to chouse; For his own execution he Put into his own house! A pistol to the muzzle charged He took devoid of fear; Said he, "This barrel is my last, So now for my last bier!" Against his lungs he aimed the slugs, And not against his brain, So he blew out his lights—and none Could blow them in again! A Jury for a Verdict met, And gave in it these terms:— "We find as how as certain slugs Has sent him to the worms!"

MORNING MEDITATIONS. Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy How well to rise while nights and larks are flying— For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout. Talk not to me of bees and such like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime— Only lee long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time. To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought, His steeds that paw impatiently about,— Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out! Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl; What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl? My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs "Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?" Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon. An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"— Well—he died young. With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be "All up—all up!" So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;— A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.

A PLAIN DIRECTION. "Do you never deviate?" John Bull. In London once I lost my way In faring to and fro, And ask'd a little ragged boy The way that I should go; He gave a nod, and then a wink, And told me to get there "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I box'd his little saucy ears, And then away I strode; But since I've found that weary path Is quite a common road. Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a famous town That drove a famous trade, Where Whittington walk'd up and found A fortune ready made. The very streets are paved with gold; But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a Fairy Land, In some romantic tale, Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive And wicked Giants fail. My wish is great, my shoes are strong, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard about some happy Isle, Where ev'ry man is free, And none can lie in bonds for life For want of L. S. D. Oh that's the land of Liberty! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square," I've dreamt about some blessed spot, Beneath the blessed sky, Where Bread and Justice never rise Too dear for folks to buy. It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is an ancient House, As pure as it is old, Where Members always speak their minds And votes are never sold. I'm fond of all antiquities, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Royal Court Maintain'd in noble state, Where ev'ry able man, and good, Is certain to be great! I'm very fond of seeing sights, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Temple too, Where Christians come to pray; But canting knaves and hypocrites, And bigots keep away. Oh that's the parish church for me! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Garden fair, That's haunted by the dove, Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse The golden light of love— The place must be a Paradise, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard there is a famous Land For public spirit known— Whose Patriots love its interests Much better than their own. The Land of Promise sure it is! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a fine Estate, A Mansion large and strong; A view all over Kent and back, And going for a song. George Robins knows the very spot, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard there is a Company All formal and enroll'd, Will take your smallest silver coin And give it back in gold. Of course the office door is mobb'd, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard about a pleasant Land, Where omelettes grow on trees, And roasted pigs run crying out, "Come eat me, if you please." My appetite is rather keen, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION.[36] "Now's the time and now's the hour,"—BURNS. "Seven's the main."—CROCKFORD.

Pity the sorrows of a class of men, Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity, No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen, But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality. Oppress'd and discontented with our lot, Amongst the clamorous we take our station; A host of Ribbon Men—yet is there not One piece of Irish in our agitation. We do revere Her Majesty the Queen, We venerate our Glorious Constitution; We joy King William's advent should have been, And only want a Counter Revolution. 'Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure, 'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne, 'Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure, The measures we dislike are all our own. The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name; The tone our foreign policy pervading; The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame, Our evils we refer to over-trading. By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn; We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth! We love her ministers—but curse the lawn! We have, alas! too much to do with both! We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss! We trust they find us civil, never surly; All that we hope of female friends is this, That their last linen may be wanted early. Ah! who can tell the miseries of men That serve the very cheapest shops in town? Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down! But has not Hamlet his opinion given— O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants! "That custom is"—say custom after seven— "More honor'd in the breach than the observance." O come then, gentle ladies, come in time, O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves; Torment us all until the seventh chime, But let us have the remnant to ourselves! We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock, And not remain in ignorance incurable;— To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke, And other fabrics that have proved so durable. We long for thoughts of intellectual kind, And not to go bewilder'd to our beds; With stuff and fustian taking up the mind, And pins and needles running in our heads! For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry, Selling from morn till night for cash or credit; Or with a vacant face and vacant eye, Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit. Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme, We often think, when we are dull and vapoury, The bliss of Paradise was so supreme, Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won, Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? What loving tête-à-têtes to come! But tête-à-têtes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all my ties had leave to jog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? The mother brought a pretty Poll— A monkey too, what work he made! The sister introduced a Beau— My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own, A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? The Monkey bit—the Parrot scream'd All day the sister strumm'd and sung; The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learn'd to use her tongue: Her mother had such wretched health, She sate and croak'd like any frog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants cross'd my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seem'd my own, I might as well have been a log— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd— She could not bear that Mister Blogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, My Dog? At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song— The sister took a sisters part— The Maid declared her Master wrong— The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end— I never had a decent coat— I never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my Club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away, I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog? Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug— With Pussy in the elbow-chair And Tray reposing on the rug?— If I must totter down the hill, 'Tis safest done without a clog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

RURAL FELICITY. Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that's country born, And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn. It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down, Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes one more partial to town. At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss, For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss; There's something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock, That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock; But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down, And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town. To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles, If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles; For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in two, If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through. Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles down, But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about town. There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a lane, And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again; For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in the pound, A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground? And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down, Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in town. Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew, And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got wetted through; My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown, That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town! As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch, But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch; Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown, One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows about town. But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain, And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane; And while you're running all ducked and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops, "Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing show'r for the crops!" But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown? For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town. Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts, And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts. Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,— For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case, Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face. There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond, And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till I walked in the duckweed pond: Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down, As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town. Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find, But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind; For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown— And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town. As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work! And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived upon nothing but pork; One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all countrified cooks! Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks? Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree when it's down, But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to look for champagne out of town! To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan, And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can, Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn, And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn; But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found it more easy to make, But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the rake. I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with a regular country clown, But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town! Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs, I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs. The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs, And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs. I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down, The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they're kept in cages in town! Another thing is the nasty dogs—thro' the village I hardly can stir Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur; And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down, But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town. Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright, But instead of a family murder it proved an owl that flies screeching at night. Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing— In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the most happiest thing; For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before as endur'd for rurality's sake, I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and once—ugh! I trod on a snake! And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin, I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in! And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill? And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter wherever you will? And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown? So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town. Howsomever my mind's made up, and although I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext, I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next, And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown, And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down!

A FLYING VISIT. "A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine—find out moonshine!"—Midsummer Night's Dream. I. The by-gone September, As folks may remember, At least if their memory saves but an ember, One fine afternoon, There went up a Balloon, Which did not return to the Earth very soon. II. For, nearing the sky, At about a mile high, The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly; So cutting his string, In a Parasol thing Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing. III. Meanwhile, thus adrift, The Balloon made a shift To rise very fast, with no burden to lift; It got very small, Then to nothing at all; And then rose the question of where it would fall? IV. Some thought that, for lack Of the man and his pack, 'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack; Some held, but in vain, With the first heavy rain 'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again! V. But still not a word For a month could be heard Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird; The firm Gye and Hughes, Wore their boots out and shoes, In running about and inquiring for news. VI. Some thought it must be Tumbled into the Sea; Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie For Germans, as shown By their writings, 'tis known Are always delighted with what is high-flown. VII. Some hinted a bilk, And that maidens who milk, In far distant Shires would be walking in silk: Some swore that it must, "As they said at the fust, Have gone again' flashes of lightning and bust!" VIII. However, at last, When six weeks had gone past, Intelligence came of a plausible cast; A wondering clown, At a hamlet near town, Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down. IX. Soon spread the alarm, And from cottage and farm, The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm; And off ran the folk,— It is such a good joke To see the descent of a bagful of smoke. X. And lo! the machine, Dappled yellow and green, Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen: "Yes, yes," was the cry, "It's the old one, surely, Where can it have been such a time in the sky?" XI. "Lord! where will it fall? It can't find out Vauxhall, Without any pilot to guide it at all!" Some wager'd that Kent Would behold the event, Debrett had been posed to predict its descent. XII. Some thought it would pitch In the old Tower Ditch, Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch; And Farmers cried "Zounds! If it drops on our grounds, We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds." XIII. But still to and fro It continued to go, As if looking out for soft places below; No difficult job, It had only to bob Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob: XIV. Who, too apt to stare At some castle in air, Forget that the earth is their proper affair; Till, watching the fall Of some soap-bubble ball, They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl. XV. Meanwhile, from its height Stooping downward in flight, The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight: Still bigger and bigger, And strike me a nigger Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure! XVI. Yes, plain to be seen, Underneath the machine, There dangled a mortal—some swore it was Green; Some mason could spy; Others named Mr. Gye; Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly. XVII. 'Twas Graham the flighty, Whom the Duke high and mighty Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ; 'Twas Hampton, whose whim Was in Cloudland to swim, Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him! XVIII. But all were at fault; From the heavenly vault The falling balloon came at last to a halt; And bounce! with the jar Of descending so far, An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car! XIX. At first with the jolt All his wits made a bolt, As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt; And while in his faint, To avoid all complaint, The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint. XX. The face of this elf, Round as platter of delf, Was pale as if only a cast of itself; His head had a rare Fleece of silvery hair, Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair. XXI. His eyes they were odd, Like the eyes of a cod, And gave him the look of a watery God. His nose was a snub; Under which, for his grub, Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub. XXII. His person was small, Without figure at all, A plump little body as round as a ball: With two little fins, And a couple of pins, With what has been christened a bow in the shins. XXIII. His dress it was new, A full suit of sky-blue— With bright silver buckles in each little shoe— Thus painted complete, From his head to his feet, Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat. XXIV. Fine text for the crowd! Who disputed aloud What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud— "He's come from o'er seas, He's a Cochin Chinese— By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!" XXV. "Don't nobody know?" "He's a young Esquimaux, Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow." "Some angel, my dear, Sent from some upper spear For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!" XXVI. Meanwhile with a sigh, Having open'd one eye, The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by; And finding his tongue, Thus he said, or he sung, "Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!" XXVII. "Lord! what does he speak?" "It's Dog-Latin—it's Greek!" "It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!" "It's no like the Scotch," Said a Scot on the watch, "Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!" XXVIII. "It's not parly voo," Cried a schoolboy or two, "Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew. Some held it was sprung From the Irvingite tongue, The same that is used by a child very young. XXIX. Some guess'd it high Dutch, Others thought it had much In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch; But none could be poz, What the Dickins! (not Boz) No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was! XXX. When who should come pat, In a moment like that, But Bowring, to see what the people were at— A Doctor well able, Without any fable, To talk and translate all the babble of Babel. XXXI. So just drawing near, With a vigilant ear, That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear, Before one could sip Up a tumbler of flip, He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip! XXXII. Then stretching his hand, As you see Daniel stand, In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand! Without more delay, In the Hamilton way He English'd whatever the Elf had to say. XXXIII. "Krak kraziboo ban, I'm the Lunatick Man, Confined in the Moon since creation began— Sit muggy bigog, Whom except in a fog You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog." XXXIV. "Lang sinery lear, For this many a year, I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,— Och, pad-mad aroon Till one fine afternoon, I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon." XXXV. "Cush quackery go, But, besides you must know, I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below; Big botherum blether, Who pretended to gather The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather." XXXVI. "So Crismus an crash Being shortish of cash, I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash— Slik mizzle an smak, So I'm come with a pack, To sell to the trade, of My Own Almanack." XXXVII. "Fiz bobbery pershal Besides aims commercial, Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel, Cum puddin and tame, It's inscribed to his name, Which is now at the full in celestial fame." XXXVIII. "Wept wepton wish wept, Pray this Copy accept"— But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt: For why a shrewd man Had devis'd a sly plan The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan. XXXIX. So plotted, so done— With a fight as in fun, While mock pugilistical rounds were begun, A knave who could box, And give right and left knocks, Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks. XL. And hard he had fared, But the people were scared By what the Interpreter roundly declared; "You ignorant Turks! You will be your own Burkes— He holds all the keys of the lunary works!" XLI. "You'd best let him go— If you keep him below, The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow; He left her at full, And with such a long pull, Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!" XLII. So awful a threat Took effect on the set; The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget; So taking a jump, In the car he came plump, And threw all the ballast right out in a lump. XLIII. Up soar'd the machine, With its yellow and green; But still the pale face of the Creature was seen, Who cried from the car "Dam in yooman bi gar!" That is,—"What a sad set of villains you are!" XLIV. Howbeit, at some height, He threw down quite a flight Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right— And, thanks to the boon, We shall see very soon If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!

QUEEN MAB. A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down. She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her wand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head. And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish; Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade. And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales. But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things! Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys. Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground. Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.

TO HENRIETTA,[37] ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS. When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France. Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief, They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock. But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle. Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble! What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girls, In scraps of Galignani they'll screw up your little curls; And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose. You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring; That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes; Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose. No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing! But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!" So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "Tant mi—eux!" For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE. "Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."—ROGERS. Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail. Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise! And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!" What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, On a dimity lap of true nursery make! I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin— Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in! Infant sorrows are strong—infant pleasures as weak— But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak," Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat? Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce "Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game! Then an urchin—I see myself urchin indeed— With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?—I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night. Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand? Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand? Then a school-boy—my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,— But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt" That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees! What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke! With a lanky right leg duly planted before; Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke, And extended my arms as "the arms that he wore!" Next a Lover—Oh! say, were you ever in love? With a lady too cold—and your bosom too hot? Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove, Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot? With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, Did you walk up the aisle—the genteelest of men? When I think of that beautiful vision anew, Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then! I am withered and worn by a premature care, And wrinkles confess the decline of my days; Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, And I'm seeking to hide it—by writing for bays!

A TRUE STORY. Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But lets its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the rack, As well as going to the manger. Old Hunks—it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding ways— Possessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago, Save some old stumps with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot; If he drank any chilly liquor, They made it quite a point to throb; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker. One tooth—I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youth— One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as many pangs, It had a universal sting; One touch of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track, By adding achers still to achers! One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last; So Hunks went on from week to week, And kept his torment in his cheek; Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw—gnaw—gnaw, His moans and groans were truly shocking, And loud,—altho' he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum And tooth, but still it would not come, Tho' tied to string by some firm thing, He could not draw it, do his best, By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest. At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, Like his, to have their troubles out. Sad sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men, And out again the victim rushed, While eyes and mouth together gushed; At last arrived our hero's turn, Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets. Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties; One cord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes; "Bone of his bone," he felt, of course, As husbands do in such divorce; At last the fangs gave way a little, Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And lo! the cause of all this work, Went—where it used to send his victual! The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numbed his miser wit, But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, "Let's finish, if you please," "How, finish! why, it's out!"—"Oh no— 'Tis you are out, to argue so; I'm none of your before-hand tippers. My tooth is in my head no doubt, But, as you say you pulled it out, Of course it's there—between your nippers," "Zounds, sir! d'ye think I'd sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it!" But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum! he had not drawn it. His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favor of his wit How well a dentist had been bit By one old stump, and that a loose one! The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth: Alas! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke And hangs a weeper on the cuff! Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against a stile, There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney, A vagrant reaper, Irish born, That helped to reap our miser's corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly; His whistle all at once was quelled, And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly. Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchet— They live hard—and they die to match it. Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking; However, Mike began to stickle In words before he used the sickle; But mercy was not long attendant: From words at last he took to blows, And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose, That made it what some folks are not— A member very independent. Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger's very nick, To put Mahoney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, "Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they, According to the poet's lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter. Away went Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician—surgeon—drug-decoctor; Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta'en his to t' before. His mere name made the learned man hot,— "What! Hunks again within my door! I'll pull his nose"; quoth Hunks, "You cannot." The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. "Oh! hum—ha—yes—I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair. The opening of a surgeon's job— His tools, a chestful or a drawerful— Are always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box: His fury seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: "Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose—it's now My turn—and I will turn it up." Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all reverses! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upwards like a pitcher's spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it. And was there then no argument To change the doctor's vile intent, And move his pity?—yes, in truth, And that was—paying for the tooth. "Zounds! pay for such a stump! I'd rather—" But here the menace went no farther, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser's love of snuff. A recollection strong enough To cause a very serious flinching; In short, he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature; For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle (No corpse's could have felt so horrid), And white just like an naked candle, The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead; So, fixed by din of rag and lint, The part was bandaged up and muffled. The chair unfastened, Hunks rose, And shuffled off, for once unshuffled; And as he went, these words he snuffled— "Well, this is 'paying thro' the nose.'"

THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.[38] "Alas! what perils do environ That man who meddles with a siren!"—Hudibrus.

On Margate beach, where the sick one roams, And the sentimental reads; Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes Like the ocean—to cast her weeds;— Where urchins wander to pick up shells, And the Cit to spy at the ships,— Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,— And the Chandler for watery dips;— There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, As lovely and fair as sin! But woe, deep water and woe to him, That she snareth like Peter Fin! Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares, And her locks are golden loose, And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs, To stand, of course, in her shoes! And all day long she combeth them well, With a sea-shark's prickly jaw; And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell, The fairest that man e'er saw! And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be Hath planted his seat by her side; "Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea, To make thee so watch the tide?" She turned about with her pearly brows, And clasped him by the hand; "Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house On the golden Goodwin sand." And then she gave him a siren kiss, No honeycomb e'er was sweeter; Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this That Peter should be salt-Peter: And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, Not walking, as damsels do, With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, But she hopped like a Kangaroo; One plunge, and then the victim was blind, Whilst they galloped across the tide; At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, And the Beauty was by his side One half on the sand, and half in the sea, But his hair began to stiffen; For when he looked where her feet should be, She had no more feet than Miss Biffen! But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, In the dabbling brine did soak: At last she opened her pearly mouth, Like an oyster, and thus she spoke: "You crimpt my father, who was a skate,— And my sister you sold—a maid; So here remain for a fish'ry fate, For lost you are, and betrayed!" And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream, And a splash of her saucy tail; In a moment he lost the silvery gleam That shone on her splended mail! The sun went down with a blood-red flame, And the sky grew cloudy and black, And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came, Each over the other's back! Ah me! it had been a beautiful scene, With the safe terra-firma round; But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him Like those in a churchyard ground; And Christians love in the turf to lie, Not in watery graves to be; Nay, the very fishes will sooner die On the land than in the sea. And whilst he stood, the watery strife Encroached on every hand, And the ground decreased,—his moments of life Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand; And still the waters foamed in, like ale, In front, and on either flank, He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, There was such a run on the bank. A little more, and a little more, The surges came tumbling in, He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, And thought of every sin! Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, As cold as his marble slab; And he thought he felt, in every part, The pincers of scalded crab. The squealing lobsters that he had boiled, And the little potted shrimps, All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled, Gnawed into his soul, like imps! And the billows were wandering to and fro, And the glorious sun was sunk, And Day, getting black in the face, as though Of the nightshade she had drunk! Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, One tub, or keg, to be seen, It might have given his spirits a lift Or an anker where Hope might lean! But there was not a box or a beam afloat, To raft him from that sad place; Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat, Nor a smack upon Neptune's face. At last, his lingering hopes to buoy, He saw a sail and a mast, And called "Ahoy!"—but it was not a hoy, And so the vessel went past. And with saucy wing that flapped in his face, The wild bird about him flew, With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, "Why, thou art a sea-gull too!" And lo! the tide was over his feet; Oh! his heart began to freeze, And slowly to pulse:—in another beat The wave was up to his knees! He was deafened amidst the mountain tops, And the salt spray blinded his eyes, And washed away the other salt drops That grief had caused to arise:— But just as his body was all afloat, And the surges above him broke, He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat Of Deal—(but builded of oak). The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skin; And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin!

A FAIRY TALE. On Hounslow Heath—and close beside the road, As western travellers may oft have seen,— A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood: The walls of white, the window-shutters green,— Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West (Though now at rest), On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row; But made his business travel for itself, Till he had made his pelf, And then retired—if one may call it so, Of a roadsider. Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;— And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower: Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace,—unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r! But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,—when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,— So, having had some quarters of school breeding, They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripened in the seventh stage, The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,— Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,— But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax'd themselves with Whittington, Or Valentine and Orson— But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted in their dotage, Slobber'd,—and kept Reading,—and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. Thus reading on—the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,— If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons, And magic fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,— Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and parlor door, A hideous roar Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From nether side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,— With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,— When,—whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment,— However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, a Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa, Leapt o'er the tiny pale,— Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse,—who could?—two tales at once; And being huffed At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft; Banged-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:— The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again! Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach;—what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite Gone out of sight! At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing, And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house—no villa there—no nothing! No house! The change was quite amazing; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seemed to harden; But soon her superannuated nous Explain'd the horrid mystery;—and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, On which she meant to sup,— "Well! this is Fairy work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!"