Part 6

WHAT motley cares Corilla’s mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A letter’d gossip and a household wit: At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. Round her strew’d room a frippery chaos lies, A checker’d wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinish’d here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker’s bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town’s applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. _Richard Brinsley Sheridan._

SLY LAWYERS

LO, that small office! there th’ incautious guest Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest; There in his web th’ observant spider lies, And peers about for fat, intruding flies; Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum, And feels them flutt’ring as they nearer come; They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread On the strong birdlime of the utmost thread; But when they’re once entangled by the gin, With what an eager clasp he draws them in! Nor shall they ’scape till after long delay, And all that sweetens life is drawn away. _George Crabbe._

REPORTERS

FIRST, from each brother’s hoard a part they draw, A mutual theft that never feared a law; Whate’er they gain, to each man’s portion fall, And read it once, you read it through them all. For this their runners ramble day and night, To drag each lurking deep to open light; For daily bread the dirty trade they ply, Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie. Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring-- Industrious creatures! ever on the wing; Home to their several cells they bear the store, Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad for more. _George Crabbe._

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

OH, ye wha are sae guid yoursel’, Sae pious an’ sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tell Your neibour’s fauts an’ folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi’ store o’ water, The heapéd happer’s ebbing still, An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door, For glaiket Folly’s portals: I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings an’ mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d, An’ shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment’s fair regard, What mak’s the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, An’ (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) Your better art o’ hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gi’es now an’ then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop. Wi’ wind an’ tide fair i’ your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

See social life an’ glee sit down, All joyous an’ unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown Debauchery an’ drinking: Oh, would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gi’e poor frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination-- But, let me whisper i’ your lug, Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang, To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; An’ just as lamely can ye mark How far, perhaps, they rue it Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord--its various tone, Each spring--its various bias; Then at the balance let’s be mute-- We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.

_Robert Burns._

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel, Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell, A’ for Thy glory, And no for ony guid or ill They’ve done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here, before Thy sight, For gifts an’ grace, A burnin’ an’ a shinin’ light To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserv’d most just damnation, For broken laws Sax thousand years ere my creation, Thro’ Adam’s cause.

When frae my mither’s womb I fell, Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell, To gnash my gooms, to weep and wail In burnin’ lakes, Whare damnéd devils roar and yell, Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a’ Thy flock!

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust; An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil’d wi’ sin.

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e’en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high should turn That he’s sae gifted: If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, An’ blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An’ open shame!

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts; He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at carts, Yet has sae mony takin’ arts, Wi’ great and sma’, Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts He steals awa.

An’ when we chasten’d him therefor, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O’ laughin’ at us; Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an’ potatoes!

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r Against the Presbyt’ry of Ayr! Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo’ their heads! Lord, visit them, an’ dinna spare, For their misdeeds!

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu’d Aiken, My vera heart and saul are quakin’, To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’, An’ pish’d wi’ dread, While he wi’ hingin’ lip an’ snakin, Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him! Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray’r; But for Thy people’s sake destroy them, An’ dinna spare!

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell’d by nane, An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen! _Robert Burns._

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. “Oh, what shall I do now? ’twas looking at you, now! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again; ’Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney M’Cleary, You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!” I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again. ’Twas hay-making season--I can’t tell the reason-- Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Edward Lysaght._

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“NEEDY Knife-grinder, whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in’t, So have your breeches!

“Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and Scissors to grind O!’

“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

“(Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.”

KNIFE-GRINDER

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-- Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!”

(_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._) /* _George Canning._ */

NORA’S VOW

HEAR what Highland Nora said: “The Earlie’s son I will not wed, Should all the race of Nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost and won, I would not wed the Earlie’s son.”

“A maiden’s vows,” old Callum spoke, “Are lightly made and lightly broke. The heather on the mountain’s height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.”

“The swan,” she said, “the lake’s clear breast May barter for the eagle’s nest; The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn, Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie’s son.”

Still in the water-lily’s shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made, Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman’s steel, No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel; But Nora’s heart is lost and won-- She’s wedded to the Earlie’s son! _Sir Walter Scott._

JOB

SLY Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job’s constancy and patience. He took his honour, took his health; He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- But cunning Satan did _not_ take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore _Twofold_ all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, _not_ to take his spouse! _Samuel T. Coleridge._

COLOGNE

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined, and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? _Samuel T. Coleridge._

GILES’ HOPE

“WHAT! rise again with all one’s bones?” Quoth Giles. “I hope you fib. I trusted, when I went to heaven, To go without my rib.” _Samuel T. Coleridge._

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

IT was a summer’s evening; Old Casper’s work was done, And he before his cottage-door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, “’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden, for There’s many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in the great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes: “Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill’d each other for.”

“It was the English,” Casper cried, “That put the French to rout; But what they kill’d each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born infant died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won, For many a thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous victory;

“And everybody praised the duke, Who such a fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he; “But ’twas a famous victory.” _Robert Southey._

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, “For an’ if thou has a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an’ if she have, I’ll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,” The stranger he made reply; “But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why?”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angels summon’d her, She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man henceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!” The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?” He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i’ faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.” _Robert Southey._

THE POET OF FASHION

HIS book is successful, he’s steeped in renown, His lyric effusions have tickled the town; Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face; While, proud as Apollo, with peers _tête-à-tête_, From Monday till Saturday dining off plate, His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain, The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks, Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks, Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card, And get up a dinner to peep at the bard; Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth, And soup _à la reine_, little better than broth. While, past his meridian, but still with some heat, The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits, Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits, Now artists and actors, the bardling engage, To squib in the journals, and write for the stage. Now soup _à la reine_ bends the knee to ox-cheek, And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak. While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,” The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink, Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink, Now squat city misses their albums expand, And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”; No longer with stinted effrontery fraught, Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought, And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!) The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard. _James Smith._

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN

FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane, My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain; At Christmas the family met there to dine On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. Our bark has now taken a contrary heel; My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. To Brighton we duly go scampering down, For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors, Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind, Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind. We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box, That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks; The sun hides his head, and the elements frown, But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time, The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme; The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen; We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen. These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel, Before we began to be growing genteel; ’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown, But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop, Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop; Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff, Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff: Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt, Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In gallop the winds at the full of the moon, And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon; My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane, And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!” But would not express what I think for a crown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine; His Majesty never invites me to dine; The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier, Which makes me suspect that I’m _nobody_ here. If that be the case, why, then welcome again Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane. Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown That _Nobody_ now spends his Christmas in town. _James Smith._

ETERNAL LONDON

AND is there, then, no earthly place Where we can rest in dream Elysian, Without some cursed round English face Popping up near to break the vision?

’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines, Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet; Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines, Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.

If up the Simplon’s path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear: The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast (what! higher still?) And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!) Will soon be down to sixty-seven.” Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still. The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch-- And scarce a pin’s-head difference which-- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon. And if this rage for travelling lasts, If cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, Will leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands; If Blues desert their coteries, To show off ’mong the Wahabees; If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids: Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that’s free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue “at home” Among the Blacks of Carolina, Or, flying to the eastward, see, Some MRS. HOPKINS taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China? _Thomas Moore._

THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM