Part 2

Off at last

An hour past

The time, and carriages tight-full;

Why this should be

We can't quite see,

But of course it's all a part of the spree,

And it's really most delightful!

Crush, pack--

Brighton and back--

All the way for a shilling,--

What'prentice cit

But doesn't admit

Tho' ten in a row is an awkwardish fit,

At the price it's exceedingly filling!

_(Chorus of Passengers.)_

Crash, crack--

Brighton and back--

All the way for a shilling,--

Tho' the pace be slow

We're likely to go

A long journey before we get back d'you know,

The speed's so remarkably "killing"!

Ho! "slow" you find?

Then off, like the wind--

With a jerk that to any unprejudiced mind

Feels strongly as if it had come from _behind_--

Away like mad we clatter;

Bang--slap,--bang--rap,--

"Can't somebody manage to see what has hap--?"

There goes Jones's head!--no, it's only his cap!--

Jones, my boy, who's your hatter?

Slow it is, is it? jump jolt,

Slithering wheel and starting bolt,

Staggering, reeling, and rocking,--

Now we're going it!---jolt jump,

Whack thwack, thump bump,--

It's a mercy we're all stuck fast in a lump,

The permanent way is shocking!

Away we rattle--we race--we fly!--

Mrs. Brown is certain she's going to die,

'We've our own ideas on that point, you and I)

But this pitching will make evry one ill,--

Screech scream--groan grunt--

Express behind, and Luggage in front,--

If we have good luck we may manage to shunt

Before we get into the tunnel!

_(Chorus of Passengers.)_

Jump, jolt--

Engines that bolt--

Brighton and back for a shilling--

Jolt jump--but we've children and wives,

Jump jolt--who value our lives,

Jump--and you won't catch one here again who survives

The patent process of killing!

_(Chorus of Directors.)_

With our slap dash, crack crash,

And here and there a glorious smash

And a hundred killed and wounded!--

It's little we jolly directors care

For a passenger's limbs if he pays his fare,

So away you go at a florin the pair,

The signal whistle has sounded!!

SCHOOL "FEEDS."

Y, there they sit! a merry rout

As village green can show,

That were such woful little wights

A summer hour ago.

Such woful weary little wights!

And precious hungry too--

And now they look like sausages

All smiling in a row.

For they have fed on dainty fare

This blazing August day,

And ate--as only people eat

When _other_ people pay!

A pyramid of roasted ox

Has vanish'd like a shot;

Plum puddings, brobdiguag, have gone

The second time, to pot;

Devoted fowls have come to grief,

With persecuted geese;

And ducks (it is a wicked world!)

Departed life in peas.

My Lord and Lady Bountiful

Have done the civil thing,--

The lady patrons of "the turf"

Have waited in the "ring;"

The Grand Comptroller of the cake

Can hardly hold the knife;

The milk-and-water Ganymede

Is weary of his life;

Yet still the conflict rages round!

But now there comes a lull--

The edge of youthful appetite

Is waxing somewhat dull--

And fat Fenetta bobs, and says,

"No, thank ye, mam,--I'm 'ful'!"

Alone amid the festive throng

One tiny brow is sad!

One cherub face is wet with grief--

What ails you little lad?

Why still with scarifying sleeve

That tearful visage rub?

Ah! much I fear, my gentle boy,

You don't enjoy your grub!

You're altogether off your feed,

Your laughing looks have fled,--

Perhaps some little faithful friend

Has punch'd your little head?

You miss some well remembered face

The merry rout among?

The lips that blest, the arms that prest,

The neck to which you clung?

A brothers voice? a sister's smile?

Perhaps--you've burnt your tongue?

Here, on a sympathetic breast,

Your tale of suff'ring pour.

Come, darling! tell me all----"Boo-hoo;--

"I can't eat any more!"

LORD HOLLYGREENS COURTSHIP

_(BY MRS. E. B. BR--N--G.)_

A POET WRITES TO HIS FRIEND. Place--BEDLAM. Time--PROBABLY "SATURDAY NIGHT ABOUT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING."

"_Dear my friend, and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you;

"Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will." (!!!) Mrs. Browning's "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."_

O Ho, Ha Ha, He He--Hum!!!! 0,

Charley, let me weep adown your

Manly bosom! o'er that chamber, tears

must surely run ad libi.--

I'm a victim! friend and pitcher!--done incontinently

brown--your

Poet is immensely diddled by a--but _narrabo tibi_:--

(There's a Lady, * who writes verses, in the true spas--

modic metre,--

Better writes she, certes, better than all women with--

out end:

Writes full darkly:--I defy all Bards alive or dead to

beat her

At a nubibustic stanza that no man can comprehend--

Her sublime afflatus had I, and her noble scorn of

rhyming,

I could write you something tallish--should make

Lindley Murray suffer,--

Would she "lean her spirit" o'er me, in this rhympho--

leptic climbing, **

I would paint My Courtship in a style would make

you stare, Old Buffer!)--

* I cannot forego this opportunity of paying my humble tribute of ad-- miration to the genius and accomplishments of Mrs. Barrett Browning, whose lamented death has occurred since the above effusion first appeared in print; and I do so the more readily as I fear lest lines which were written in mere gaité de cour may possibly have been construed into a serious attack upon works, the general and undoubted merits of which I should be the first to acknowledge.

** "Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the muses-- "And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star." --Lady Geraldine's Courtship.

You know, Charley, 'where I saw my Marianne (first) in

Belgravia;

And (_secundo_) how I loved her, with more love than

kith and kin do:

(_Tertio_) how I won,--and wed her,--yestermorn; and

her behaviour

You shall hear in five words--last night she exodus'd

BY THE WINDOW!!

O! my Charley, you remember, on that cold fifth of

November,

As we saunter'd slowly Eastward, with the weed between

our lips;

How we spied a damsel beauteous, lymphomatically

duteous,

(I.E. cook at Number 7, scrubbing of the kitchen steps).

Charley, you and I remember, on that bright fifth of

November,

How she knelt there like a statue,--knelt bare-armëd

in the breeze,--

Whist her saponaceous lavement catalambanized the

pavement,

And her virginal white vesture flutter'd, reef d-wise, to

the knees.

Spell-bound in the road behind her, paused the Hurdy--

Gurdy Grinder,

Strangling in his wild excitement, Jumping Jimmy the

baboon;

Whilst the Genius of the Organ, fascinated by her

Gorgon

Beauty, stood enraptured--captured--playing madly out

of tune.

Then with her blue eyes entrancing, and her taper ankle

glancing,

And her rounded arms akimbo resting on her dainty

waist;

She half turn'd,--and turning threw me one glance

"utterly to undo me"--

(Well, you know'twas me she look'd at, Charley, and

she show'd her taste! )

Evermore my soul beguiling, in arch silence she kept

smiling--

And my heart within my bosom, pretematurally hopp'd;

Still as near I drew, and nearer, she grew fair and yet

more fairer (!)--

On both knees upon the pavement (Miles's bags, my

Boy) I dropp'd.

Then--but why should I confide you, what you know as

well as I do?

How she look'd up like an angel, (I can see her figure still!)

"I am yours, sir, if you'll take me--if you'll marry me

and make me

"A fine Lady, like my Missis:"--how I cried, "By

Jove, I WILL!"

How thenceforward ev'ry morning, wet and wind and

weather scorning,

By the steps of Number 7, punctual as the clock I past,--

How my love grew daily stronger--strength'ning as the

days grew longer--

Till my Marianne consented, and we named the day at

last.

How my Queen of Cake and Curry volunteer'd a

muffin-worry,

How I fondly made my advent somewhat ere the

moment due,--

And on going to the cupboard, like a second Mother

Hubbard,

Found the same, not "bare," but fill'd with six feet one

of Horse Guards Blue.

"Monster!'tis my only brother!"--"Silence, Madam--

you're another:

"Come out of your cupboard, Lobster! come out, gallant

Corporal Brown,--

"Slave! (I said) base Kitchen-creeper! (said I) I will

stop your peeper!

"I will tap your claret, Lobster,--I'll--"

--but here he knock'd me down.

How, still chain'd by Love the Fetterer, spite of cupboard

and etcetera,

To Cremome one night I took her, in a "Pork Pie"

highly killing;

Purvey'd buns and ices satis, and a sherry-cobbler

--gratis!

(Tho' you know I do not, Charley, love to sep'rate from

a shilling)--

How, when ev'rything was paid for; fun and fireworks

only stay'd for;

And my belle amie had eaten ev'rything that she was able;

Whilst the Resonant Steam-Dragon* (that's the tea--

pot), and the flagon

Of Lymphatic Cow (that's milk), stood smiling on the

arbor table,--

"Might she just step out and find her parasol she'd left

behind her?

"Whilst I kindly pour'd the tea out, and the cream that

look'd so yellow?"--

* "She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant Steam-Eagles Follow far on the direction of her little dove-like hand." _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_.

Yellow? Ha, ha! who could think it!--She never came

back to drink it:--

I fell flooded in a Brown. * ( study, understood, Old Fellow).

How my love withstood this trial, (toughish there is no

denial)

Soul-subdued by her low pleading, satin-tongued, soap--

soft as silk,--

Not a saint his heart could harden, thus so sweetly

ask'd for pardon:--

I suck'd in the obvious crammer kindly as my mother's

milk.

Soh! (I said)--and then forgave her: and she promised

to behave her--

Self in future like an angel (which she did, and show'd

her wings)

And I fancied yestermorning (fool) that my reward was

dawning,--

So it was--and with a vengeance! (fool again) But

some one rings?--

* . . . "I fell flooded in a dark."-- _Lady Geraldine's Courtship._

'Twas a cruel thing--but funny?--her eloping ere her

Honey--

Moon'd scarce risen?--cutting, very,--and for me the

world is dead.

Slightly crushing to my hopes is this performance on the

ropes! Miss

Marianne _suspensa scalis_--(would t'were sus. per col.

instead!)

Ass that I was to be wedded!--Wonderfully wooden--

headed!

I'm a wiser man now, Charley,--_certes_, up to snuff--but

sadder,--

Oh, the fickle little Hindoo! _Facilis descensus_ window!

Oh--that bell again! what's this?---- A Bill

OF £5 FOR THE LADDER!

LAY OF THE DESERTED INFLUENZED

(How you speak through your Dose)

O, doe, doe!

I shall dever see her bore!

Dever bore our feet shall rove

The beadows as of yore!

Dever bore with byrtle boughs

Her tresses shall I twide--

Dever bore her bellow voice

Bake bellody with bide!

Dever shall we lidger bore,

Abid the flow'rs at dood,

Dever shall we gaze at dight

Upod the tedtder bood!

Ho, doe, doe!

Those berry tibes have flowd,

Ad I shall dever see her bore,

By beautiful! by owd!

Ho, doe, doe!

I shall dever see her bore,

She will forget be id a bonth--

Bost probably before.

She will forget the byrtle boughs,

The flow'rs we pluck'd at dood,

Our beetigs by the tedtder stars,

Our gazigs od the bood.

Ad I shall dever see agaid

The Lily ad the Rose;

The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow!

The perfect bouth ad dose!

Ho, doe, doe!

Those berry tibes have flowd--

Ad I shall dever see her bore,

By beautiful!! by owd!!

I'VE LOST MY --------

EELER! hast thou found my treasure,--

Hast thou seen my vanish'd Fair?

Flora of the raven ringlets,

Flora of the shining hair?

Tell me quick, and no palaver,

For I am a man of heat--

Hast thou seen her, X 100?

Hast thou view'd her on thy beat?

Mark'd, I say, her fairy figure

In the wilderness of Bow?

Traced her lilliputian foot-prints

On the sands of Rotten Row?

Out, alas! thou answ'rest nothing,

And my senseless anger dies;

Who would look for "speculation"

In a boil'd potato's eyes?

Foggy Peeler! purblind Peeler!

Wherefore walk'st thou in a dream?--

Ask a plethoric black beetle

Why it walks into the cream!

Why the jolly gnats find pleasaunce

In your drowsy orbs of sight,--

Why besotted daddy long-legs

Hum into the nearest light,--

'Tis his creed, "_non mi ricordo_,"

And he wanders in a fog;

As that other peel, her--

Baceous, wanders in your glass of grog;--

Ah, my Flora! (graceless chit!) O

Pearl of all thy peerless race!

Where shall fancy find one fit, O

Fit to fill thy vacant place?

Who can be the graceful ditt-o

Ditto to that form and face?

Hence, then, sentimental twaddle!

Love, thy fetters I will fly--

Friendship is not worth a boddle,

Lost, alas! I've lost--my Skye.

THE VIII CRUSADE.

(Preach'd by Puck ye Poete against Paint and Pommade.)

DO you wish that your face should

be fair?

That your cheek should be rosy

and plump?

Morning noontide and night

Take a dip in the bright

Wave that flows from the spout of

the pump,--

From a Pump!--

Not a dump

Do we care for the lily

Pick'd in Piccadilly,

Or grown by the "Camphorate Lump."

Do you sigh for ambrosial hair?

For clustering ringlets to match?

Little goose!

To the deuce

With pommades--learn the use

Of the BRUSH, and you'll soon have a thatch

That shall 'catch'

The moustachio'd amasser

Of Rowland's Macassar,

(At twenty-five shillings a batch).

Is it ivory teeth you desire?

A set that no dentist may trammel?

To Rowland's O-dont-o

Cry, "No that we won't O!

"It softens the precious enamel!"

(That Schamyl

Sends packing, confound it,

To the Sultan Mahound. (It

'S _au naturel_, perch'd on a Camel))

Then toy not with powder and paste!

Sweet nymphs, they are deadliest foes;

No Piver persuade you--

No Rowland invade you--

In peace let each dimple repose

Where it grows!

When he shows

You his Kalydor Lotion

Reply "We've a notion

"It takes all the skin off one's nose!"

(As he goes)

Add "There's nothing can beat your's

"For blist'ring the features

"But, 'Atkinson's Milk of the Rose!"'

IN MEDIÆVOS.

F you love to wear

An unlimited extent of hair

Push'd frantically back behind a pair

Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy--

And peripatate by star light

To gaze upon some far light

Till you've caught an aggravated catarrh right

In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye,--

Or if you're given to the style

Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle,

And fancy all the while, you're taking "an earnest view" of things;

Making Rousseau a hero,

Mahomet better than Nero,

And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings:

Or if you write sonnets,

In (and out of) Time and on its

Everlasting "works of art and genius" (cobweb wreath'd!)

And fly off into rapture

At some villanous old picture

Not one atom like nature

Nor any human creature, that ever breath'd,--

Some Amazonian Vixen

Of indescribable complexion

And _hideous_ all conception to surpass;

And actually prefer this abhorrence

To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence----

Why then--I think that you must be an Ass!

FIRE!

"Away there, to the east--

"Towards the Surrey ridge,--

"I see a puff of dunnish smoke

"Over the Southwark Bridge:"--

A single curl of murky mist

That scales the summer air:

And the watchman wound his listless way

Slow down the turret stair.

London! that deck'st thyself with wave-won spoils,

Sea-gather d wealth--Spires, palaces,

And temples high;

Well might thy goodly burgesses exclaim

"See this--and die! *--

"See these great streets; survey these monster marts;

"The lordly'Changes of our merchant kings;--

"Behold this Thames, with all its flutt'ring breast

"Brave with white wings.--

"Wharves, stately with warehouses--

"Docks, with a world's treasure-chest in bail--

"What hand shall touch ye?

"What rash foe assail?"

"_Fire! to the eastward--Fire!_

A hurrying tramp of feet,--

A sickly haze that wraps the town

Like a leaden winding-sheet,--

A smothering smoke is in the air--

A crackling sound--a cry!--

And yonder, up over the furnace pot

That smokes like the smoke of the Cities of Lot,

There's something fierce and hissing and hot

That licks the very sky!

* The Italians have a proverb, _"See Naples, and die"_

Fire! fire! ghastly fire!

It broadens overhead;

Red gleam the roofs in lurid light

The Heav'ns are glowing-red.

From east to west--from west to east!--

Red runs the turbid Thames--

"Fire! fire! the engines! fire!

"Or half the town's in flames--

"Fire------"

A raging, quivering gulf...

A wild stream, blazing by...

Red ruin... fearful flaming leaps...

White faces to the sky....

"The engines, Ho! back for your lives!"

And out the Firemen dash'd;

"Stand clear in front! room, townsmen, room!"--

Like lightning thro' the gath'ring gloom

The swarthy helmets flash'd:

Stand from the causeway--Horse and Man!--

Back, while there's time for aid--

Back, gilded coach!--back, lordly steed S--

There's fear and fate hangs on their speed,

And life and death and daring deed,

Room for the Fire Brigade!

COUNT CABOUR.

In Memoriam.

Weep, Italy, weep!

For the sun of thy dawning,

Now set in midday:

For the flower of thy morning,

In bloom pass'd away.

On his brow be the laurel,

Fame's smile on his sleep,--

But weep for thy Hero,

Weep, Italy, weep!

Weep, Italy, weep!

For thy great one departed--

The eloquent breath:

For the strong, the high hearted,

Now silent in death.

For the lion-like courage;

The eye of the lynx;

The wisdom that baffled

The Gallican sphinx;

That humbled the pride

Of the priesthood of Rome;

Thy falchion abroad,

And thy buckler at home;

In whose life thou wert first,

And the last on whose lip,--

For thy Patriot--Statesman--

Weep, Italy, weep!

Weep, Italy! weep--

And the loud cannon's rattle

Make mourn for the brave--

For the light of thy battle,

Cold-quench'd in the grave!

For the daring that conquer'd

By Mincio's flood;

That wiped out each slave-stain

In Austrian blood;

That swept the red eagle

From Gaeta's steep,--

For his Country's Avenger

Let Italy weep!

Yes, Italy! weep!

For the arm that has righted

Thy wrongs and thy shame;

For the hand that has lighted

Bright Liberty's flame:

That took from thee--Scorning!

That left thee--Renown!

Thy long scatter'd jewels

Gave back to thy crown,--

That nerved thee to conquer,

That taught thee to keep,

For the man that has saved thee

Weep, Italy, weep!

THE WELL OF TRUTH

'TWAS sunset--(much ill-usèd hour,

And Southey swears it's yellow!)--

And so I lay and smoked the weed--

Immaculate Havannah!--

And watch'd a spider nobbling flies

In an artistic manner.

And mused in speculative vein

On England, and her story;

Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig,

And Derby was a Tory;--

Which diff'ring Poets tell you

Is ev'ry shade from green to red,

Why Manchester detested war,

And cottons took delight in;

Why Cobden's voice was all for peace,

And Horsman's all for fighting;--

Why England sent out Bibles' store,

To teach our pig-tail'd brother;

And gave him Gospel with one hand,

And Opium with the other;--

And why the Church was always poor,

And Lawyers lived in clover,

And why my tailor made me pay

His last.. account.. twice... over...

And why------

Perhaps it was the scent

That hover'd round my bow'r?

Perhaps it was the flies that haunt

That soul-subduing hour?

Or else those interesting gnats,

Which sting one so severely,

Made dreamy music round my head,

Until I slept--or nearly:--

But lo! I floated on a pool,

Beneath a monstrous funnel,

Whose crowning disc shone faint above,

Like sun-light thro' a tunnel;

And forms and faces quaint and strange

Swept by me ev'ry minute;

And ev'ry breast transparent lay

And had a window in it.

Then sudden thro' my mind it flash'd--

What mania could have got'em--

The place was truth's historic well,

And I--was at the bottom!

And first I mark'd a sombre man *

Of aspect wondrous saintly,

Whose pious eyes look'd shock'd and good,

If Sin but whisper'd faintly;

* Sir John Paul.

And every Sunday in the plate,

His clinking gold was given

With such an air--the righteous vow'd

His alms had conquer'd Heaven!

And such his godly wrath'gainst all

Who betted, swore, or liquor'd,--

Old women said around his head

An Angel halo flicker'd.

But looking through his heart I saw

A blank, dark, moral torpor,--

And while he gave his princely alms

He cursed the needy pauper.

And all men grovell'd at his feet

With coax, and crawl, and wheedle;--

But I thought of Dives' burning tongue

And the parabolic needle.

And next I spied a priestly band,

In cassock, cope, and mitre,

Who diff'ring slightly from the Church,

Lent all their wits to spite her,--

With some who thought church-music gave

The Devil grievous handles;

And some who lit Polemic War

By lighting altar-candles;

And one who held a certain place

Most probable to get to,

Unless he preach'd in a scarlet cloak

And pray'd in a _falsetto!_--

But _one_ thing I could plainly read,

On ev'ry breast displaying;--

The rev'rend men took more delight

In quarrelling than praying!

They pass'd--and lo! an Hebrew youth,

To ebon locks confessing,

The sturdy yeomanry of Bucks

In honey'd phrase addressing.

And so enthusiastic wax'd

The sleek bucolic charmer;

As if his body, soul, and brains,

Had all been born a farmer.

And he felt "glad" and "proud," he said,

To meet his friends again--

"His valued friends!"--and in his heart

He wished himself in Spain;--

Of all spots in the world, he said,

To see them _there_ he'd rather,--

And inly sent them ev'ry one

To Jericho--or farther.

And so he gave their right good health--

And off it went in toppers;

And call'd them "Men and Patriots,"

And in his heart "Clodhoppers."--

And then--with very blandest smiles--

From self and boon carousers,

Gave prizes to some model louts,

And one _a pair of trousers!!_ *

* Vide "Times" of 4 Nov. 1857, giving an account of the meeting of the Amersham and Chesham Agricultural Association.

And as he cried "Take, fine old man,

"These best of merit's brandings,"--

He thought "Was ever such a Calf

"On such thin understandings!"

Just then roll'd by, so bluff and bold,

A tar--from truck to kelson--

And prophesied such vast exploits,

Men cried--"Another Nelson!"

"You'll see," quoth he, "_I'll_ shortly be

"In Heav'n or Cronstadt reckon'd"--

But never meant to chance the _first_,

Or go too near the _second_.

And then I lost him in the crowd,

Nor could the question try on;

If I'd heard the voice of Balaam's ass

Or the roar of Britain's lion;

But when I thought what bumping things

The hero had been saying,

I felt I knew what Gray must mean

By the din of battle _braying_.--

PERILS OF THE FINE ARTS.

OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl,

What horror do I see?

What frantic fiend has done the

deed

That rends your charms from

me?

Those matchless charms which like

the sun

Lit up Belinda Place--

What fiend, I ask, in human mask

Has dared to black your face?

Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose

Are both of ebon hue;

Your chin is green--your lips are brown--

Your nose is prussian blue!

This mom the very driven snow

Was not so stainless pure,--

And now, alack! you're more a black,

Than any black-a-more.

Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove,

That I could clutch his throat!--

That I could give his ears a _cuff_,

Who gave your face a _coat_:

If there is justice in the land--

But no:--the law is bosh:

Altho' it's tme you're black and blue

That remedy "won't wash."

Revenge, I say!--yet hold, no rage--

I will be calm, sweet wife--

Calm--_icy_ calm------------Speak, woman, speak,