Part 3

That I may have his life!!

Who did the deed?--

"Oh! Charles,'twas _you!_

"Nay, dearest, do not shrink--

"This face and chin!--I've wash'd it in

"Your Photographic Ink!"

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE

_(Not by A--f--d T--y--n.)_

OUTHWARD Ho--Here we go!--

O'er the wave onward,

Out from the Harbor of Cork

Sail'd the Six Hundred!

Sail'd like Crusaders thence,

Burning for Peter's pence,--

Burning for fight and fame--

Burning to show their zeal--

Into the gates of Rome,

Into the jaws of Hell,

(It's all the same)

March'd the Six Hundred!

"Barracks, and tables laid!

Food for the Pope's Brigade!"

But ev'ry Celt afraid,

Gazed on the grub dismay'd--

Twigg'd he had blunder'd;--

"Who can eat rancid grease?

Call _this_ a room a-piecc?" *

"Silence unseemly din,

Prick them with bayonets in."--

Blessed Six Hundred!

Waves ev'ry battle-blade.--

"Forward! the Pope's Brigade!"--

Was there a man obeyed?

No--where they stood they stay'd,

Tho' Lamoriciere pray'd,

Threaten'd, and thunder'd,--

* A room for each man, and a table furnished from the fat of the land, were among the inducements reported to have been held out to the "Pope's own."

"Charge!" Down their sabres then

Clash'd, as they turn'd--and ran--

Sab'ring the empty air,

Each of one taking care,--

Here, there, and ev'rywhere

Scatter'd and sunder'd.

Sick of the powder smell,

Down on their knees they fell;

Howling for hearth and home--

Cursing the Pope of Rome--

Whilst afar shot and shell

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Captured, alive and well,

Ev'ry Hibernian swell,

Came back the tale to tell;

Back from the states of Rome--

Back from the gates of Hell--

Safe and sound ev'ry man--

Jack of Six Hundred!

When shall their story fade?

Oh the mistake they made!

Nobody wonder'd.

Pity the fools they made--

Pity the Pope's Brigade--

Nobbled Six Hundred!

WUS, EVER WUS

US! ever wus!:--By freak of Puck's

My most exciting hopes are dash'd;

I never wore my spotless ducks

But madly--wildly!--they were

splash'd.

I never roved by Cynthia's beam,

To gaze upon the starry sky;

But some unpleasant beetle came,

And charged into my pensive eye:

And oh! I never did the swell

In Regent-street, amongst the beaus,

But smuts the most prodigious fell,

And always settled on my Nose!

TOO BAD, YOU KNOW.

_(New Year's Eve,'58.)_

T was the huge metropolis

With fog was like to choke;

It was the gentle cabby--

horse

His ancient knees that

broke;--

And, oh, it was the cabby-man

That swore from ear to ear,

And did vituperate his eyes

Considerably severe,

If any swell should make him stir

Another step that year!

Then up and spake that bold cabman,

Unto his inside Fare,--

"I say, you Sir,--come out of that!--

"I say, you Sir in there--

"Six precious aggrawatin miles

"I've druv to this here gate,

"And that poor injer'd hanimal

"Is in a faintin state;

"There aint a thimblefull of shine,

"The fog's as black as pitch,--

"I'm flummox'd'tween them posteses

"And that most 'ateful ditch.

"So bundle out! my'oss is beat;

"I'm sick of this'ere night;--

I say, you Sir in there,--hear?----

_He's bolted--blow me tight!_"

"THE DAYS THE THING."

Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--Wuw--

W-Waterloo Place? yes you

T--Take the first tut--tut--tut--turning

that faces you,--

Lul--left, and then kuk--kuk--kuk,--kuk--

kuk--kuk--keep up Pell Mell'till you

See the Wuw--Wuw----Wuw----Wuw----

Zounds, Sir, you'll get there before I

can tell it you!

GHOSTRIES.

ID you never hear a rustling,

In the comer of your room;

When the faint fantastic fire-light

Served but to reveal the gloom?

Did you never feel the clammy

Terror, starting from each pore,

At a shocking

Sort of knocking

On your chamber door?

Did you never fancy something

Horrid, underneath the bed?

Or a ghastly skeletonian,

In the garret overhead?

Or a sudden life-like movement,

Of the _Vandyke_, grim and tall?

Or that ruddy

Mark, a bloody

Stain upon the wall?

Did you never see a fearful

Figure, by the rushlight low,

Crouching, creeping, _crawling_ nearer--

Putting out its lingers--SO.

Whilst its lurid eyes glared on you

From the darkness where it sat--

And you _could_ not,

Or you _would_ not,

See it was the cat?

"MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE."

IR Toby was a portly party;

Sir Toby took his turtle

hearty;

Sir Toby lived to dine:

_Chateau d'Iquen_ was his fort;

Bacchus would have backt his

port;

He was an Alderman in short

Of the very first water--and wine.

An Alderman of the first degree,

But neither wife nor son had he;

He had a daughter fair:

And often said her father, "Cis,

"You shall be dubb'd 'my Lady,' Miss,

"When I am dubb'd Lord Mayor.

"The day I don the gown and chain,

"In Hymen's modern Fetter-Lane

"You wed Sir Gobble Grist;

"And whilst with pomp and pageant high

"I scrape, and stut, and star it by

"St. George's in the East, you'll try

"St. George's in the West."

Oh vision of paternal pride!

Oh blessed Groom to such a Bride!

Oh happy Lady Cis!

Yet sparks won't always strike the match,

And she may chance to miss her 'catch,'

Or he may catch--a _miss!_

Such things do happen, here and there,

When Knights are old, and Nymphs are fair,

And who can say they don't?

When Worldly takes the gilded pill,

And Dives stands and says "I will,"

And Beauty says "I WONT!"

Sweet Beauty! Sweeter thus by far--

Young Goddess of the silver star,

Divinity capricious!--

Who would not barter wealth and wig,

And pomp and pride and _otium dig_,

For Youth--when 'plums' weren't worth a fig

And Venus smiled propitious?

Alas! that beaus will lose their spring,

And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,'

Unstruck by Cupid's dart!

Alas that--must the truth be told--

Yet oft'ner has the archer sold

The 'white and red,' to touch the 'gold,'

And Diamonds trump'd the Heart!

That luckless heart! too soon misplaced!--

Why is it that parental taste

On sagest calculation based

So rarely pleases Miss?

Let those who can, the riddle read;

For me, I've no idea indeed,

No more, perhaps, had Cis.

It might have been she found Sir G.

Less tender than a swain should be,--

Young--sprightly--witty--gay?--

It might have been she thought his hat

Or head too round or square or flat

Or empty--who can say?

What Bard shall dare? Perhaps his nose?--

A shade too pink, or pale, or rose?--

His cut of beard, wig, whisker, hose?--

A wrinkle?--here--or there?--

Perhaps the _preux chevalier's_ chance,

Hung on a word or on a glance,

Or on a single hair!

I know not! But the Parson waited,

The Groomsmen swore, the Bridegroom rated,

Till two o'clock or near;--

Then home again in rage and wrath,

Whilst pretty Cis---- was rattling North

With Jones the Volunteer!

ODE TO HAMPSTEAD.

H Hampstead! cool oasis!

(No longer 'green,' alas)--

Where once a week, on Sunday,

The Cockneys go to grass;

Where spurs the bold Apprentice

Up the astonish'd ride,

Pursued by mild suggestions

Of room to spare inside;

Where Donkey-boys still flourish,

Unawed by Martin's Act,

The lash that drives a squadron

Promiscuously whackt;--

Upon whose hills the dust-wreath

Comes down like the simoom,

Beneath whose slopes the winkle

Has a perennial bloom,--

And whose once chrystal waters

Present the sort of look

The sea did when the savages

Plunged in for Captain Cook;--

I love thee still!--Tho' tarnish'd

Is ev'ry blade and leaf,

Tho' Highgate Fields are bitterness,

And Belsize Park is grief,--

Tho' Brick-kilns are not lovely,

And Railways banish rest,

And Omnibi are hateful

And Hansom Cabs unblest,--

Tho' Pic-nics take the place of Cows,

Tho' Geese are abdicating,

Tho' Boys usurp the haunts of Fish

And Ice-carts spoil the skating;--

I love thee still!--Thy benches,

When no East wind assails,--

Thy turf, sweet to recline upon--

When unengross'd by snails,--

Oh! never may thy blooming heath

By Wilson be enclosed;

Still on thy lawn let fairy feet

Disport them unopposed;

I love thee, yes I love thee still!--

Yet must I fain confess

That ev'ry time I gaze above

Thy spreading chimney-pots, my love

Grows beautifully less!

OUR TRAVELLER.

F thou wouldst stand on Etna's

burning brow,

With smoke above, and roaring

flame below;

And gaze adown that molten

gulf reveal'd,

Till thy soul shudder'd and thy

senses reel'd.--

If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride,

Or stem the billows of Propontic tide;

Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine "haut,"

And shriek "Excelsior!" amidst the snow.--

Wouldst tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be,--

Perils by land, and perils on the sea,--

This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it,--

CHINESE PUZZLES.

THE WEDDING GIFT.

_In the name of Fo,

Thus saith the shadow of Nobody._

ROM many a dark delicious ripple

The Moonbeams drank ethereal tipple;

Whilst over Eastern grove and dell

The perfumed breeze of evening fell,

And the young Bulbul warbling gave

Her music to the answering wave.

But not alone the Bulbul's note

Bade Echo strike her silver lute,

Nor fell the music of her dream

Alone on waving wood and stream;

For thro' the twilight blossoms stray'd,

Enamour'd youth, and fairy maid;

And mingled with her warblings lone

A voice of sweet and playful tone.

"And ah!" the gentlest accents said,

"You bid me name the Task;

"But if you love me as you vow,

"Then give me what I ask!

"No quest for errant knight have I,

"No deed of high emprize;

"No giant Tartars to be slain,

"In homage to my eyes."

"Oh, take my life!" her lover cried,

"Nor break this dream of bliss;

"Take house, or head, or lands, or fame--

"Take evry thing but _this_,--

"To gaze upon those silken braids

"Unenvious be my part;

"I could not steal one golden tress,

"To bind it round my heart.

"Tho' all the pearls of Ind were strung

"Upon a single hair,

"I would not cut the shiner off,--

"I wouldn't, Za', I swear."

The lady laughed a careless laugh,--

"While downward flows the river,

"The lover who bids for Zadie's heart

"And hand must make up his mind to part

With the Gift, or part for ever!"

"Remorseless Nymph!" exclaimed the youth,

"Thus stick'ling for a curl,--

"Delilah was a joke to you.

"Excruciating girl;--

"Sole Empress of the breast of Fi,

"What _can_ the object be,

"For you to get a Lock for which

"You ne'er can get a Key?

"Just think, if I should wear a wig,

"How would you like me, Zadie?

"I'm sure you'll give it up, my sweet,

"Do--there's a gentle Lady!"

The Maiden laugh'd a silv'ry laugh;--

"The white stars set and shiver;

"The lover who bids for Zadie's heart

"And hand, must make up his mind to part

"With the Gift--or part for ever"

ETCETERA.

HE stars were out on the lake,

The silk sail stirr'd the skiff;

And faint on the billow, and fresh on the breeze,

The summer came up thro' the cinnamon trees

With an odoriferous sniff.

There was song in the scented air,

And a light in the listening leaves,--

The light of the myriad myrtle fly,

When young Fo-Fum and little Fe-Fi

Came forth to gaze upon the sky--&c.!

Oh! little Fe-Fi was fair,

With the rose in her raven hair!

From her almond eyes, and celestial nose,

To the tips of her imperceptible toes &c.

Fo-Fum stood tall I wis,

(May his shadow never be less!)

A highly irresistible male,

The ladies turn'd pale

At the length of his nail

And the twirl of his unapproachable tail &c.

"Now listen, Mooo-mine, my Star!

My life! my little Fe-Fi;

For over the blossom and under the bough

There's a soft little word that is whispering now

Which I think you can guess if you try!

In the bosom of faithful Fum,

There's a monosyllabic hum,--

A little wee word Fe-Fi can spell,

Concluding with 'E,' and beginning with 'L,' &c."

"Oh! dear, now what can it be?

That little wee word Fo-Fum?

That funny wee word that sounds so absurd

With an 'E' and an 'L' and a 'Hum!'

A something that ends with an E?--

It must be my cousin So-Sle?

"Or pretty Pe-Pale

Who admired your tail?--

I shall never guess what it can be

I can see

That is spelt with an L and an El

I never shall guess, if I die--

Fo-Fum, sir, I'm going to cry!--

Oh, dear how my heart is beginning to beat!

Why there's silly Fo-Fum on his knees at my feet," &c.

Deponent knoweth not,

History showeth not,

If the lady read the riddle;

And whether she found

It hard to expound--

As the story ends in the middle.

Was gallant Fo-Fum

Constrain'd to succumb

To the "thrall of delicious fetters,"--

Or pretty Fe-Fi

Induced to supply

The text of the missing letters?

Oh, no one can tell!

But this extract looks well,

Faute de mieux (e. g. "want of a betterer")--

"Received: by Hang-Hi,

"From Fo-Fum, for Fe-Fi,

"A thousand dollars" &c!

WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT.

DREAMT it! such a funny

thing

And now it's taken wing:

I s'pose no man before or

since

Dreamt such a funny thing.

It had a monkey--in a trap--

Suspended by the tail:

Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd,

And his countenance was pale.

And he had danced and dangled there;

Till he grew very mad:

For his tail it was a handsome tail

And the trap had pinch'd it--bad.

The trapper sat below, and grinn'd;

His victim's wrath wax'd hot:--

He bit his tail--and fell--and kill'd

The trapper on the spot:--

It had a pig--a stately pig;

With curly tail and quaint:

And the Great Mogul had hold of that

Till he was like to faint.

So twenty thousand Chinamen;

With three tails each at least:

Came up to help the Great Mogul

And took him round the waist.

And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands;

And so it came to pass;

That twenty thousand Chinamen

Sat down upon the grass:--

It had a Khan--a Tartar Khan--

With tail superb, I wis:

And that fell graceful down a back

Which was consider'd his.

And so, all sorts of boys that were

Accursed, swung by it:

Till he grew savage in his mind

And vex'd, above a bit--

And so, he swept his tail, as one

Awak'ning from a dream:

And those abominable ones

Flew off into the stream--

And so, they hobbled up and down,

Like many apples there:

Till they subsided--and became

Amongst the things that were:--

And so it had a moral too;

That would be bad to lose:

"Whoever takes a _tail_ in hand

Should mind his p's and _queues_."

I dreamt it!--such a funny thing!

And now it's taken wing;

I s'pose no man before or since

Dreamt such a funny thing!

CASE IN LUNACY.

AS any one read the great lunacy case?

The case that's Lock'd, and Labell'd, and

Laced

With a Tissue of lies, and a Docket of 'waste,'

And a golden Key, the reverse of chased,

(Tho' hunted thro' the Hilary)--

Has any one read how the Law can hound,

And badger, and bully a man,'till it's bound

A mortgage on ev'ry acre of ground

And robb'd him of sixty thousand pound--

Without being put in the pillory?

Has any one read--does any one know--

If he marries a wife who's not quite _comme il_,

And a handsome estate should inherit,--

What a suit of chancery can effect,

To strip him, even of self-respect,

Hold him up to scorn contempt; and neglect,

And ruin him, body and spirit?

Has any one read--mark'd--weigh'd--the worth

Of a common name and a kindred birth,

A Brother's--Uncle's--love upon earth,

To the love that is filthy lucre's?

How day after day, without being hurt,

A man can drag his own flesh thro' the dirt

For a thousand pounds at his Broker's?

Yes, ev'ry one's read--we all of us know--

What man's 'first friend* could become his worst foe,

Bring him up in the way he ought not to go,--

Then lie, to make him a beggar;--

Turn him loose upon Town without guardian or friend,--

Lay traps in his paths lest they happen'd to mend,--

Set spies to note ev'ry shilling he'd spend--

Ev'iy pitiful pound he might borrow or lend,--

And dip his fingers in slime without end--

We can guess who cuts such a figure!

A GIGGLE FOR "EXCELSIER"

HE shades of night had fallen (at

When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd

A youth, who bore, in manual vice,

A pot of something monstrous nice--

'X--X:' Haw haw!

His brow was bad:--his young eye scann'd

The frothing flaggon in his hand,

And like a gurgling streamlet sprung

The accents to that thirsty tongue,

X--X: Haw haw!

In happy homes he saw them grub

On stout, and oysters from a tub,--

The dismal gas-lights gleam'd without,

And from his lips escaped a shout,

"X--X: Haw haw!"

"Young man," the Sage observed, "just stay,

"And let me dip my beak, I say--

"The pewter is deep, and I am dry!"

"Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye?

"X--X? Haw haw!"

"Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend

"Thy beery burden here, my friend--"

Th' unbidden tear regretful rose,

But still his thumb tip sought his nose;

"X--X? Haw haw!"

"Beware the gutter at thy feet!

"Beware the Dragons of the street!

"Beware lest Thirsty Bob you meet!"

This was the ultimate remark;

A voice replied far thro' the dark,

"X--X? Haw haw!"

That night, by watchmen on their round,

The person in a ditch was found;

Still grasping in his manual vice

That pot--once fill'd with something nice.--

X--X: Haw haw!!

THE THREAD OF LIFE.

A FRAGMENT.

_(After T--s H--d.)_

I.

IFE! what depths of mystery

hide

In the oceans of Hate and the

rivers of Pride,

That mingle in Tribulation's

tide,

To quench the spark,

Vitality!

What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope,

Were "made strong" (without the use of rope)

In the Thread--Individuality.

Life! what a web of follies and fears,

Pleasures and griefs, sighs, smiles and tears,

Are twined in the woof that Mortality's shears

Must be everlastingly thinning,--

What holes for Physician Death to darn,

Are eternally spun in the wonderful yam

That the Fates are eternally spinning!

Life! what marvellous throbs and throes

The alchemy of Existence knows;

What "weals within wheels" (and woes without _wohs!_)

Give sophistry a handle;

Though Hare * himself could be dipp'd in the well

Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,

It would throw no more light on the vital spell

Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,

Or the dip--a ha'penny candle!

Alas! for the metaphysical host;

The wonderful wit and wisdom they boast,

* C. J. Hare, author of "Guesses at Truth."

When the time arrives they must give up the ghost,

Become quite phantasmagorical,--

And it's found at the last that they know as much

Of the secret of LIFE--as they do of Dutch--

Or, if a lame verse may borrow a crutch,

As was known by the Delphic Oracle.

Into being we come, in ones and twos,

To be kiss'd, to be cuffd, to obey, to abuse,

Each destined to stand in another's shoes

To whose heels we may come the nighest;

This turns at once into Luxury's bed,

Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,

And this--in a house with a wooden lid

And a roof that's none of the highest.

We fall like the drops of April show'rs,

Cradled in mud or cradled in flow'rs,

Now idly to wile the rosy hours,

And now for bread to importune;

Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap

One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap--

And one--a "more kicks than ha'pence chap"--

For a slap--without the fortune!

Who hasn't heard of the infant squall?

Sharper, shriller, and longer than all

The Nor'-wester squalls, that may chance to befall

At Cape Horn, as nauticals tell us;

And who,--oh who?--hasn't heard before

The dulcet tones of the infant roar?

Ear-piercing in at the drawing room door--

Down-bellowing, right thro' the nursery floor--

Like a hundred power bellows?

Alas! that the very rosiest wreath

Should ever be twined with a thorn beneath!

Forth peeping, from purple and damask sheath,

In a manner quite anti-floral;

And startling, as when to that Indian root

The traveller stretches his hand for the fruit,

And a crested head comes glittering out

With a tongue that is somewhat forkèd no doubt,

And a tail--that has quite a moral!

And who'd have believed that diminutive thing

Just form'd as you'd say, to kiss and to cling,

Would ever have opened, except to sing,

Those lips, that look so choral?

Behold the soft little struggling ball!

With rosy niouth ever ready to squall,

Kicking and crowing and grasping "small,"

At its Indiarrabber dangle,--

Whilst tiny fists in the pillows lurk

That are destined perhaps for fighting the Turk,

And doing no end of mangling work,

Or perhaps, for working a mangle!

'Tis passing strange, that all over the earth

Men talk of the "stars" that "rule" at their birth,

For little such dazzling sponsors are worth,

Whate'er Cagliostro may say;

Tho' all the Bears in the heav'ns combined--

Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Jupiter shined,

In our glitt'ring horoscope, we shall find

Most men who are bom of woman kind

Are born in the _milky-way_.

In the milky-way! ev'ry mother's son;

From the son of a lord, to the 'son of a gun,'

Of colors, red, brown and yellow and dun,

An astonishing constellation;

From the black Papouse of the Cape de Verd,

The cream of Tartar, and scum of Kurd,

To the son and heir of Napoleon the Third,

Who sucks--to the joy of a Nation!

And that puny atom may happen to claim

The yeiy first round on the Ladder of Fame,

At the general conflagration.

The squeaky voice may be heard ere long

In the shout of the battle, deep and strong,

Like the brazen clash of a mighty gong

That has broken loose from tether;

Whilst many a hardy bosom quails

And many a swarthy visage pales

At the griffin clutch of those tender nails

As they come to the "scratch" together.

But well says a poet of rising fame,*

That to hint at an 'infantile frailty's' a shame

For the Baby-days have come round the same

To us all, and we can't but confess'em;

* F. Locker, Author of London Lyrics, &c.

When the brawny hands, that can rend an oak,

Went both into Mammy's mouth for a joke!--

And the feet that stand like the solid rock,

Were "tootsies pootsies, bless'em!"

When to howl was the only accomplishment rife

In our 'tight little bundle' of wailing and strife,

And pap was the summum bonum of life,

To a mouth in perpetual pucker;

When "Ma" was a semi-intelligent lump,

Possess'd by a mania for making us "plump,"

And "Nus" was an inexhaustible pump

With an everlasting "sucker."

Yet, laugh if we will at those baby-days,

There was more of bliss in its careless plays,

Than in after time from the careful ways

Or the hollow world, with its empty praise,

Its honey'd speeches, and hackney'd phrase,

And its pleasures, for ever fleeting,--

And more of sense in its bald little pate,

On its own little matters of Church and State,

Than in many a House of Commons' debate,

Or the "sense" of a Manchester meeting!

And laugh as we may, it would make us start,

Could we read the depths of its mother's heart,--

Or imagine one twenty-thousandth part

Of the feelings that stir within it;

What a freight that little existence bears

Of pallid smiles and tremulous tears,

Of joys never breathed into mortal ears,

Griefs that the callous world never hears,

SufFring that only the more endears,

And love, that would reach into endless years,

Snuff' d out, it may be, in a minute!

Would you look on a mother in all her pride?

Her radiant, dazzling, glorious pride?--

Then seek yon garret--leaden-eyed--

And thrust the mouldering panel aside--

The door that has nothing to lock it,--

And the walls are tatter'd, and damp, and drear,

And the light has a quivering gleam, like fear,

For the hand of Sickness is heavy here