Chapter 5

'Tis hard for human actions to account, Whether from reason or from impulse only-- But some internal prompting bade me mount The gloomy stairs and lonely.

Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and cold, With odors as from bones and relics carnal, Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould, The chapel vault, or charnel.

Those dreary stairs, where with the sounding stress Of ev'ry step so many echoes blended, The mind, with dark misgivings, fear'd to guess How many feet ascended.

The tempest with its spoils had drifted in, Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted, As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin, With leaves that rankly rotted.

The air was thick--and in the upper gloom The bat--or something in its shape--was winging; And on the wall, as chilly as a tomb, The Death's-Head moth was clinging.

That mystic moth, which, with a sense profound Of all unholy presence, augurs truly; And with a grim significance flits round The taper burning bluely.

Such omens in the place there seem'd to be, At ev'ry crooked turn, or on the landing, The straining eyeball was prepared to see Some Apparition standing.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

Yet no portentous Shape the sight amazed; Each object plain, and tangible, and valid; But from their tarnish'd frames dark Figures gazed, And Faces spectre-pallid.

Not merely with the mimic life that lies Within the compass of Art's simulation; Their souls were looking thro' their painted eyes With awful speculation.

On ev'ry lip a speechless horror dwelt; On ev'ry brow the burthen of affliction; The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt The House's malediction.

Such earnest woe their features overcast, They might have stirr'd, or sigh'd, or wept, or spoken; But, save the hollow moaning of the blast, The stillness was unbroken.

No other sound or stir of life was there, Except my steps in solitary clamber, From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair, From chamber into chamber.

Deserted rooms of luxury and state, That old magnificence had richly furnish'd With pictures, cabinets of ancient date, And carvings gilt and burnish'd.

Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art With scripture history, or classic fable; But all had faded, save one ragged part, Where Cain was slaying Abel.

The silent waste of mildew and the moth Had marr'd the tissue with a partial ravage; But undecaying frown'd upon the cloth Each feature stern and savage.

The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt; Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd and duller; But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out With vehemence of color!

The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token, Projected from the casement's painted pane, Where all beside was broken.

The BLOODY HAND significant of crime, That glaring on the old heraldic banner, Had kept its crimson unimpair'd by time, In such a wondrous manner!

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

The Death Watch tick'd behind the panel'd oak, Inexplicable tremors shook the arras, And echoes strange and mystical awoke, The fancy to embarrass.

Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But thro' one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, That Chamber is the Ghostly!

Across the door no gossamer festoon Swung pendulous--no web--no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunn'd the interdicted room, The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish'd, And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom The very midge had vanish'd.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a Bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain To show the BLOODY HAND in burning red Embroider'd on the curtain.

And yet no gory stain was on the quilt-- The pillow in its place had slowly rotted; The floor alone retain'd the trace of guilt, Those boards obscurely spotted.

Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence With mazy doubles to the grated casement-- Oh what a tale they told of fear intense, Of horror and amazement!

What human creature in the dead of night Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance? Had sought the door, the window in his flight, Striving for dear existence?

What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room Its mortal frame had violently quitted?-- Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom, A ghostly Shadow flitted.

Across the sunbeam, and along the wall, But painted on the air so very dimly, It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all, Or portrait frowning grimly.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

THE MARY.

A SEA-SIDE SKETCH.

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast, And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,-- Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast His net into the deep, which doth provide Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?

The sea is bright with morning,--but the dark Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, For it is early hoisted, like a mark For the low sun to shoot at with his pale And level beams: All round the shadowy bark The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale Swells in her canvas, till the waters show The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.

Then look abaft--(for thou canst understand That phrase)--and there he sitteth at the stern, Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd And honest countenance that he will turn To look upon us, with a quiet gaze-- As we are passing on our several ways.

So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.

His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored With fishes--fishes swam in all his dreams, And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky, For him to catch in meshes of his eye.

For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart, And saw the future with a boy's brave thought, No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part In his bright visions--ay, before he caught His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart, And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd, But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;

And sow'd his seed afresh.--Many foul blights Perish'd his hard-won gains--yet he had plann'd No schemes of too extravagant delights-- No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand-- But a small humble home, and loving nights, Such as his honest heart and earnest hand Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy? Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.

She was the prize of many a toilsome year, And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea-- Of savings ever since the shipboy's tear Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;-- She was purveyor for his other dear Mary, and for the infant yet to be Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote Upon the homely beauties of his boat,

Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave, No gayer than one single stripe of blue Could make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave, A negro among boats--that only knew Hardship and rugged toil--no pennons brave Flaunted upon the mast--but oft a few Dark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air, Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.

And when she ventured for the deep, she spread A tawny sail against the sunbright sky, Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead-- But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to fly Across the wide sea desert for the bread Of babes and mothers--many an anxious eye Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'r Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.

Where is she now? The secrets of the deep Are dark and hidden from the human ken; Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep Over the bark of the devoted Ben,-- Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep, And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men, Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy, While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"

THE LADY'S DREAM.

The lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; For turning often and oft From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd, And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up, And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there-- And then in the pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:-- "Oh me! that awful dream"!

"That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground! And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round,-- Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound!

"And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom;-- And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb!

"'For the pomp and pleasure of Pride, We toil like Afric slaves, And only to earn a home at last, Where yonder cypress waves;'-- And then they pointed--I never saw A ground so full of graves!

"And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt Of such a World of Woe!

"Of the hearts that daily break, Of the tears that hourly fall, Of the many, many troubles of life, That grieve this earthly ball-- Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want, But now I dreamt of them all!

"For the blind and the cripple were there, And the babe that pined for bread, And the houseless man, and the widow poor Who begged--to bury the dead; The naked, alas, that I might have clad, The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have sooth'd, And the unregarded tears; For many a thronging shape was there, From long-forgotten years, Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, Who raised my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago I scann'd with a heedless eye, Each face was gazing as plainly there, As when I pass'd it by: Woe, woe for me if the past should be Thus present when I die!

"No need of sulphurous lake, No need of fiery coal, But only that crowd of human kind Who wanted pity and dole-- In everlasting retrospect-- Will wring my sinful soul!

"Alas! I have walk'd through life Too heedless where I trod; Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, And fill the burial sod-- Forgetting that even the sparrow falls Not unmark'd of God!

"I drank the richest draughts; And ate whatever is good-- Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, Supplied my hungry mood; But I never remember'd the wretched ones That starve for want of food!

"I dress'd as the noble dress, In cloth of silver and gold, With silk, and satin, and costly furs, In many an ample fold; But I never remember'd the naked limbs That froze with winter's cold.

"The wounds I might have heal'd! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!"

She clasp'd her fervent hands, And the tears began to stream; Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, Remorse was so extreme; And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame Would dream the Lady's Dream!

THE KEY.

A MOORISH ROMANCE.

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra."--SCOTT'S _Travels in Morocco and Algiers_.

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?" SANCHO PANZA.

The Moor leans on his cushion, With the pipe between his lips; And still at frequent intervals The sweet sherbét he sips; But, spite of lulling vapor And the sober cooling cup, The spirit of the swarthy Moor Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol, On its ornamented stock, While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock-- The other seeks his ataghan, And clasps its jewell'd hilt-- Oh! much of gore in days of yore That crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet In vivid blackness roll, And gleam with fatal flashes Like the fire-damp of the coal; His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath, As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came And moor'd within the Mole, Such tidings unto Tunis brought As stir his very soul-- The cruel jar of civil war, The sad and stormy reign, That blackens like a thunder cloud The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry, For honor's gain or loss, Nor yet that ancient rivalry, The Crescent with the Cross. No charge of gallant Paladins On Moslems stern and stanch; But Christians shedding Christian blood Beneath the olive's branch!

A war of horrid parricide, And brother killing brother; Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs" That worry one another. But let them bite and tear and fight, The more the Kaffers slay, The sooner Hagar's swarming sons Shall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor behold Th' Alhambra's pile again; And those who pined in Barbary Shall shout for joy in Spain-- The sooner shall the Crescent wave On dear Granada's walls: And proud Mohammed Ali sit Within his fathers halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like Up springs the swarthy Moor, And, with a wide and hasty stride, Steps o'er the marble floor; Across the hall, till from the wall, Where such quaint patterns be, With eager hand he snatches down And old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape, And dark with dirt and rust, And well three weary centuries The metal might encrust! For since the King Boabdil fell Before the native stock, That ancient Key, so quaint to see, Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the Saracens Who fled accross the main, A token of the secret hope Of going back again; From race to race, from hand to hand, From house to house it pass'd; O will it ever, ever ope The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two On post and wall it hung-- Three hundred years and fifty-two A dream to old and young; But now a brighter destiny The Prophet's will accords: The time is come to scour the rust, And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lance At Algesiras land, Where is the bold Bernardo now Their progress to withstand? To Burgos should the Moslem come, Where is the noble Cid Five royal crowns to topple down As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now, When other weapons fail, With club to thrash invaders rash, Like barley with a flail? Hath Seville any Perez still, To lay his clusters low, And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see Such Heroes brave and bold, Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, As used to shine of old! No longer to one battle cry United Spaniards run, And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells, And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells. The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade; And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valor falls, Opposed by court intrigue; But treachery and traitors thrive, Upheld by foreign league; While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign-- Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty Key With Afric sand and oil, And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil! Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep, And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof, And plant the Crescent yet again Above th' Alhambra's roof-- When those from whom St. Jago's name In chorus once arose, Are shouting Faction's battle-cries, And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well may he swear his ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm, And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form-- The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor, And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door!

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.

AN ALLEGORY.

There's a murmur in the air, And noise in every street-- The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet-- While round the Workhouse door The Laboring Classes flock, For why? the Overseer of the Poor Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along Of either sex and various stamp, Sickly, cripple, or strong, Walking, limping, creeping From court and alley, and lane, But all in one direction sweeping Like rivers that seek the main?

Who does not see them sally From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Furnished with shuttle and loom-- Poor slaves of Civilization's galley-- And in the road and footways rally, As if for the Day of Doom? Some, of hardly human form, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil; Dingy with smoke and dust and oil, And smirch'd besides with vicious soil, Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.

Father, mother, and careful child, Looking as if it had never smiled-- The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan, With only the ghosts of garments on--

The Weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty Artisan; Every soul--child, woman, or man, Who lives--or dies--by labor.

Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal, And social impulse, a terrible throng! Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel, Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel, Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel-- Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal-- Gushing, rushing, crushing along, A very torrent of Man! Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, Grown at last to a hurricane strong, Stop its course who can! Stop who can its onward course And irresistible moral force; O vain and idle dream! For surely as men are all akin, Whether of fair or sable skin, According to Nature's scheme, That Human Movement contains within A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.

Onward, onward, with hasty feet, They swarm--and westward still-- Masses born to drink and eat, But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat, And famishing down Cornhill! Through the Poultry--but still unfed-- Christian Charity, hang your head! Hungry--passing the Street of Bread; Thirsty--the street of Milk; Ragged--beside the Ludgate Mart, So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art, With cotton, and wool, and silk!

At last, before that door That bears so many a knock Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor, Like sheep they huddle and flock-- And would that all the Good and Wise Could see the Million of hollow eyes, With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies, Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!

Oh that the Parish Powers, Who regulate Labor's hours, The daily amount of human trial, Weariness, pain, and self-denial, Would turn from the artificial dial That striketh ten or eleven, And go, for once, by that older one That stands in the light of Nature's sun, And takes its time from Heaven!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drown'd! drown'd!"--_Hamlet_.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.--

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Bash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swit to be hurl'd-- Any where, any where Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,-- Over the brink of it, Picture it--think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,--kindly,-- Smooth, and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.-- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

THE LAY OF THE LABORER.

A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- And here's a ready hand To ply the needful tool, And skill'd enough, by lessons rough, In Labor's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch, To lop or fell the tree, To lay the swarth on the sultry field, Or plough the stubborn lea; The harvest stack to bind, The wheaten rick to thatch, And never fear in my pouch to find The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm My fancies never roam; The fire I yearn to kindle and burn Is on the hearth of Home; Where children huddle and crouch Through dark long winter days, Where starving children huddle and crouch, To see the cheerful rays, A-glowing on the haggard cheek, And not in the haggard's blaze!

To Him who sends a drought To parch the fields forlorn, The rain to flood the meadows with mud, The blight to blast the corn, To Him I leave to guide The bolt in its crooked path, To strike the miser's rick, and show The skies blood-red with wrath.

A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash, The market-team to drive, Or mend the fence by the cover side, And leave the game alive.

Ay, only give me work, And then you need not fear That I shall snare his Worship's hare, Or kill his Grace's deer; Break into his lordship's house, To steal the plate so rich; Or leave the yeoman that had a purse To welter in a ditch.

Wherever Nature needs, Wherever Labor calls, No job I'll shirk of the hardest work, To shun the workhouse walls; Where savage laws begrudge The pauper babe its breath, And doom a wife to a widow's life, Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this, With labor stiff and stark, By lawful turn, my living to earn, Between the light and dark; My daily bread, and nightly bed, My bacon, and drop of beer-- But all from the hand that holds the land, And none from the overseer!

No parish money, or loaf, No pauper badges for me, A son of the soil, by right of toil Entitled to my fee. No alms I ask, give me my task: Here are the arm, the leg, The strength, the sinews of a Man, To work, and not to beg.

Still one of Adam's heirs, Though doom'd by chance of birth To dress so mean, and to eat the lean Instead of the fat of the earth; To make such humble meals As honest labor can, A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, And little thanks to man!

A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- Whatever the tool to ply, Here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb, and woe to him Who does their pay begrudge!

Who every weekly score Docks labor's little mite, Bestows on the poor at the temple door, But robb'd them over night. The very shilling he hoped to save, As health and morals fail, Shall visit me in the new Bastille, The Spital, or the Gaol!

STANZAS.[19]

[Footnote 19: Hood's last verses. They appeared in his Magazine in February 1845, and were thus probably composed during the previous month. In the original collection of Hood's serious poems, published after his death, they were wrongly assigned to the April of this year. Hood died on the third of May.]

Farewell, Life! My senses swim, And the world is growing dim; Thronging shadows cloud the light, Like the advent of the night,-- Colder, colder, colder still, Upward steals a vapor chill-- Strong the earthy odor grows-- I smell the mould above the rose!

Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives! Strength returns, and hope revives; Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn Fly like shadows at the morn,-- O'er the earth there comes a bloom-- Sunny light for sullen gloom, Warm perfume for vapor cold-- smell the rose above the mould!

_February_ 1845.

ODE TO MR. GRAHAM,[20]

THE AERONAUT.

"Up with me!--up with me into the sky!" WORDSWORTH--_on a Lark_.

[Footnote 20: In Hood's day Mr. Graham was one of a group of distinguished aeronauts which included Monck Mason, Hollond, Green, and others. Mr. Graham had made a memorable ascent in his Balloon in 1823.]

I.

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view!--

II.

A few more whiffs of my segar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies:-- How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies!--

III.

Away!--away!--the bubble fills-- Farewell to earth and all its hills!-- We seem to cut the wind!-- So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind!--

IV.

Ah me! my brain begins to swim!-- The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the trees-- My wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!-- The Dollond, if you please!--

V.

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz; Lord! what a Lilliput it is. That little world of Mogg's!-- Are those the London Docks?--that channel, The mighty Thames?--a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs!--

VI.

What is that seeming tea-urn there? That fairy dome, St. Paul's!--I swear, Wren must have been a Wren!-- And that small stripe?--it cannot be The City Road!--Good lack! to see The little ways of men!

VII.

Little, indeed!--my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike.--I must take Their tolls upon my trust!-- And where is mortal labor gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone Mac Adamiz'd to dust!

VIII.

Look at the horses!--less than flies!-- Oh, what a waste it was of sighs To wish to be a Mayor! What is the honor?--none at all, One's honor must be very small For such a civic chair!--

IX.

And there's Guildhall!--'tis far aloof-- Methinks, I fancy through the roof Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls--a tiny show!-- Well,--I must say they're rul'd below By very little logs!--

X.

Oh, Graham! how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; One of our silken flags Would cover London all about-- Nay, then--let's even empty out Another brace of bags!

XI.

Now for a glass of bright champagne Above the clouds!--Come, let us drain A bumper as we go!-- But hold!--for God's sake do not cant The cork away--unless you want To brain your friends below.

XII.

Think! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken, Like mites upon a cheese!-- Pshaw!--how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious thoughts!--can there be _Dukes_ Of _Gloster_ such as these!--

XIII.

Oh! what is glory?--what is fame? Hark to the little mob's acclaim, 'Tis nothing but a hum!-- A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd That has so far to come!--

XIV.

Well--they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear, To organs ages hence!-- Ah me! how distance touches all; It makes the true look rather small, But murders poor pretence

XV.

"The world recedes!--it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes--my ears With buzzing noises ring!"-- A fig for Southey's Laureat lore!"-- What's Rogers here?--Who cares for Moore That hears the Angels sing!--"

XVI.

A fig for earth, and all its minions!-- We are above the world's opinions, Graham! we'll have our own!-- Look what a vantage height we've got!-- Now--_do_ you think Sir Walter Scott Is such a Great Unknown?

XVII.

Speak up!--or hath he hid his name To crawl thro' "subways" unto fame, Like Williams of Cornhill?-- Speak up, my lad!--when men run small We'll show what's little in them all, Receive it how they will!--

XVIII.

Think now of Irving!--shall he preach The princes down,--shall he impeach The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts,--and I Not moralize at two mile high The true didactic pitch!

XIX.

Come:--what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver In Lilliput's Review, That like Colossus he should stride Certain small brazen inches wide For poets to pass through?

XX.

Look down! the world is but a spot. Now say--Is Blackwood's _low_ or not, For all the Scottish tone? It shall not weigh us here--not where The sandy burden's lost in air-- Our lading--where is't flown?

XXI.

Now,--like you Croly's verse indeed-- In heaven--where one cannot read The "Warren" on a wall? What think you here of that man's fame? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, To me 'tis very small!

XXII.

And, truly, is there such a spell In those three letters, L. E. L., To witch a world with song? On clouds the Byron did not sit, Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit, And say the world was wrong!

XXIII.

And shall not we? Let's think aloud! Thus being couch'd upon a cloud, Graham, we'll have our eyes! We felt the great when we were less, But we'll retort on littleness Now we are in the skies.

XXIV.

O Graham, Graham, how I blame The bastard blush,--the petty shame, That used to fret me quite,-- The little sores I cover'd then, No sores on earth, nor sorrows when The world is out of sight!

XXV.

_My_ name is Tims.--I am the man That North's unseen diminish'd clan So scurvily abused! I am the very P. A. Z. The London's Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused!

XXVI.

Campbell--(you cannot see him here)-- Hath scorn'd my _lays_:--do his appear Such great eggs from the sky?-- And Longman, and his lengthy Co. Long, only, in a little Row, Have thrust my poems by!

XXVII.

What else?--I'm poor, and much beset With damn'd small duns--that is--in debt Some grains of golden dust! But only worth, above, is worth.-- What's all the credit of the earth? An inch of cloth on trust?

XXVIII.

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man! Nay, worlds of wealth?--Oh, if you can Spy out,--the _Golden Ball_! Sure as we rose, all money sank: What's gold or silver now?--the Bank Is gone--the 'Change and all!

XXIX.

What's all the ground-rent of the globe?-- Oh, Graham, it would worry Job To hear its landlords prate! But after this survey, I think I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink From men of large estate!

XXX.

And less, still less, will I submit To poor mean acres' worth of wit-- I that have heaven's span-- I that like Shakspeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds, and seem An Universal Man!

XXXI.

Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! Like Birds of Paradise the clouds Are winging on the wind! But what is grander than their range? More lovely than their sunset change?-- The free creative mind!

XXXII.

Well! the Adults' School's in the air! The greatest men are lesson'd there As well as the Lessee! Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small Behold the greatest stage of all, How humbled they would be!

XXXIII.

"Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em," 'Twould much abate their fuss! If they could think that from the iskies They are as little in our eyes As they can think of us!

XXXIV.

Of us! are we gone out of sight? Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite! Lost to the tiny town! Beyond the Eagle's ken--the grope Of Dollond's longest telescope! Graham! we're going down!

XXXV.

Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes The airy valve!--the gas elopes-- Down goes our bright Balloon!-- Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon!

XXXVI.

The earth is close! the City nears-- Like a burnt paper it appears, Studded with tiny sparks! Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all about-- We're close above the Parks!

XXXVII.

I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets. Lord! what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light! Well--there's the finish of our flight! I've smoked my last segar!

A _FRIENDLY_ ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY _IN_ NEWGATE.[21]

"Sermons in stones."--_As You Like It._ "Out! out! damned spot!"--_Macbeth._

[Footnote 21: Elizabeth Fry had set up her school for the children in Newgate as early as 1817. Moll Brazen, Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, and the rest, are names borrowed from Gay's _Beggars' Opera_.]

I.

I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name! It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flame-- I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing, Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim You make to Christianity,--professing Love, and good _works_--of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young _Fry's_ bookseller, Friend Darton!

II.

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute-- Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport-- I should have said, that _wear_, the sober suit Shap'd like a court dress--but for heaven's court. I like your sisters too,--sweet Rachel's fruit-- Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support Of virtue--and I like to see them clad With such a difference--just like good from bad!

III.

I like the sober colors--not the wet; Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow-- Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet-- In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go-- The others are a chaste, severer set, In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go-- They're moral _standards_, to know Christians by-- In short, they are your _colors_, Mrs. Fry!

IV.

As for the naughty tinges of the prism-- Crimson's the cruel uniform of war-- Blue--hue of brimstone! minds no catechism; And green is young and gay--not noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or Olive--and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess; And yellow is a convict by its dress!

V.

They're all the devil's liveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sin-- But how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in The Evil presence? You and I know, then, How all the party colors will begin To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there, Whereas the _Foxite_ shades will all show fair!

VI.

Witness their goodly labors one by one! _Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor-- _Dove-color_ preaches love to all--and _dun_ Calls every day at Charity's street door-- _Brown_ studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing--_olive_ doth pour Oil into wounds: and _drab_ and _slate_ supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

VII.

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor! When all persuasions in your praises blend-- The Methodist's creed and cry are, _Fry_ forever! No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never Start at that word! But I _must_ ask you why You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs. Fry?

VIII.

Top well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for _her_ schooling: but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thieve-- Pay down a crime for _"entrance"_ to your _"quarters"_? Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters! Oh, tho' it cost you rent--(and rooms run high) Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

IX.

O save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd! Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate-- And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd! 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate! Nay, if you would not have your labors foil'd, Take it _inclining_ tow'rds a virtuous state, Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek! The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek!

X.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,-- To bring sobriety to life again, Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,-- To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,-- To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her; To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

XI.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw-- To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners--to write heaven's own law On hearts of granite.--Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory's--to draw The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

XII.

In vain you teach them baby-work within: 'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin-- Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time-- It is too late for scouring to begin When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains; You'll fret the fabric out before the stains!

XIII.

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry! I like your cookery in every way; I like your shrove-tide service and supply; I like to hear your sweet _Pandeans_ play; I like the pity in your full-brimm'd eye; I like your carriage, and your silken gray, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.

XIV.

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. O, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's To dress them in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!

XV.

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out! Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools In jail--but at the _Porch_! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before 'twas whipt by law.--O come about, Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate Street, But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat!

XVI.

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor; Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other color; Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar; Teach her that "flooring Charleys" is a game Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.

XVII.

O come and teach our children--that ar'n't _ours_-- That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time--or rather they both prey On youth together--meanwhile Newgate low'rs Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, To shut them out from any more blue sky: Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!

XVIII.

You are not nice--go into their retreats, And make them Quakers, if you will.--'Twere best They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans _pleats_; That they had hats _with_ brims,--that they were drest In garbs without _lappels_--than shame the streets With so much raggedness.--You may invest Much cash this way--but it will cost its price, To give a good, round, real _cheque_ to Vice!

XIX.

In brief,--Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not _in_ the way from which 'twill not depart,-- But _out_--out--out! Oh, bid it walk remote! And if the skies are clos'd against the smart, Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.-- Do what you will, his every want supply, _Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ.,[22]

M.P. FOR GALWAY.

"_Martin_ in this has proved himself a very good man!" --_Boxiana_.

[Footnote 22: The well-known Humanitarian, M. P. for Galway, the author of "Martin's Act" for the protection of animals from ill-treatment, and one of the founders of the noble society having the same object. He died in 1834.]

I.

How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars-- The butcheries of men! The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_!

II.

Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Pyebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay-- No poet's eulogy thy name adorns! But oxen, from the fens, Sheep--in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes! Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee,-- Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes!

III.

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_!

IV.

Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_! Look at their _Carmen_!

V.

O, Martin I how thine eyes-- That one would think had put aside its lashes,-- That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,-- For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein-- Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_! That such raw shows must sicken the humane! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_!

VI.

O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! O wipe away the national reproach-- And find a decent Vulture for their corses! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Steeds that confess "the luxury of _wo_!" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,--sore with kick and blow And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack-- (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)-- Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-- The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their griefs met in a common _Centaur_!

ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.[23]

"O breathe not his name!"--_Moore_.

[Footnote 23: After nearly eighty years it is almost pardonable to remind the reader that in the earlier days of the Waverley Novels their author was much talked of by the above title. The variety of Hood's reading, and his resource in simile, are very noticeable in this Ode. The likening of Dominie Sampson to Lamb's friend, George Dyer and the comparison of Mause Headrigg to Rae Wilson on his travels, are admirable examples.]

I.

Thou Great Unknown! I do not mean Eternity, nor Death, That vast incog! For I suppose thou hast a living breath, Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, Thou man of fog! Parent of many children--child of none! Nobody's son! Nobody's daughter--but a parent still! Still but an ostrich parent of a batch Of orphan eggs,--left to the world to hatch Superlative Nil! A vox and nothing more,--yet not Vauxhall; A head in papers, yet without a curl! Not the Invisible Girl! No hand--but a handwriting on a wall-- A popular nonentity, Still call'd the same,--without identity! A lark, heard out of sight,-- A nothing shin'd upon,--invisibly bright, "Dark with excess of light!" Constable's literary John-a-nokes-- _The_ real Scottish wizard--and not which, Nobody--in a niche; Every one's hoax! Maybe Sir Walter Scott-- Perhaps not! Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II.

Thou,--whom the second-sighted never saw, The Master Fiction of fictitious history! Chief Nong-tong-paw! No mister in the world--and yet all mystery! The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane-- A _novel_ Junius puzzling the world's brain-- A man of Magic--yet no talisman! A man of clair obscure--not he o' the moon! A star--at noon. A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private--of no corps--a northern light In a dark lantern,--Bogie in a crape-- A figure--but no shape; A vizor--and no knight; The real abstract hero of the age; The staple Stranger of the stage; A Some One made in every man's presumption, Frankenstein's monster--but instinct with gumption; Another strange state captive in the north, Constable-guarded in an iron mask-- Still let me ask, Hast thou no silver platter, No door-plate, or no card--or some such matter, To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?

III.

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Of Curiosity with airy gammon! Thou mystery-monger, Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, That people buy and can't make head or tail of it; (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;) Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, That lay their proper bodies on the shelf-- Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, Thou Zimmerman made practical! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, That, like the Nile, Hideth its source wherever it is bred, But still keeps disemboguing (Not disembroguing) Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head! Thou disembodied author--not yet dead,-- The whole world's literary Absentee! Ah! wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo--wise to a degree, Anonymous LL.D.!

IV.

Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do--and inquests cannot say who did it! Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang? Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch--or hid it? Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! I should be very loth to see thee hang! I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. Tho' that hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on The curiosity of all invaders-- I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, Who knows a little of the _Holy Land_, Writing thy next new novel--The Crusaders!

V.

Perhaps thou wert even born To be Unknown.--Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, Pinn'd to a ticket That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being.-- Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town--and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuation-- To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

VI.

I like thy Waverley--first of thy breeding; I like its modest "sixty years ago," As if it was not meant for ages' reading. I don't like Ivanhoe, Tho' Dymoke does--it makes him think of clattering In iron overalls before the king Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, Tuning, his challenge to the gauntlet's ring-- Oh better far than all that anvil clang It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan!

VII.

I like Guy Mannering--but not that sham son Of Brown:--I like that literary Sampson, Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson That slew the Gauger; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, To tell a great man's fortune--or to make it!

VIII.

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, I like thy Antiquary. With Ins fit on, It makes me think Who has--or had--within his garden wall, A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small That sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterwivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old _Blue Beggar_, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! I like thy Barber--him that fir'd the _Beacon--_ But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.--His very charms Fashion'd him for renown!--In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity! Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity, Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! But Roys can never die--why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy_"! Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again-- Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand!

X.

I like thy Landlord's Tales!--I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor--the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade, And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal! Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches-- I like the family (not silver) branches That hold the tapers To light the serious legend of Montrose.-- I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapors, As if he could not walk or talk alone, Without the devil--or the Great Unknown,-- Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

XI.

I like St. Leonard's Lily--drench'd with dew! I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Grahame shot and slew. I like the battle lost and won; The hurly-burlys bravely done, The warlike gallop and the warlike canters! I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, With one eye on his sword, And one upon the Word,-- How _he_ would cram the Caledonian Chapel! I like stern Claverhouse, though he cloth dapple His raven steed with blood of many a corse-- I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse-- She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!

XII.

I like thy Kenilworth--but I'm not going To take a Retrospective Re-Review Of all thy dainty novels--merely showing The old familiar faces of a few, The question to renew, How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, Forego the unclaim'd Dividends of fame, Forego the smiles of literary houris-- Mid-Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, And all the Carse of Gowrie's, When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty-- Or see thy image on Italian trays, Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté, Be painted by the Titian of R.A's, Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph! P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself To other Englands with Australian roamers-- Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee Displace the native wooden gods, or be The china-Lar of a Canadian shelf!

XIII.

It is not modesty that bids thee hide-- She never wastes her blushes out of sight: It is not to invite The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,-- And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide, Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd,-- From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars In crimson collars, And learned serjeants in the Forty-Second! Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd? Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, Defying distance and its dim control; Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth A brace of Miltons for capacious soul-- Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north, And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole!

XIV.

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command, Forever at thy stamp, To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, Tho' princes sought her, And lead her in procession hymeneal, Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal! Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs? Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, Some hopeless Imp, like Biquet with the Tuft, Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd, Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?

XV.

What in this masquing age Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy? What but the critic's page? One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye; Another hath a wen,--he won't show where; A third has sandy hair, A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, Things for a vile reviewer to espy! Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose,-- Finally, this is dimpled, Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled, Things for a monthly critic to expose-- Nay, what is thy own case--that being small, Thou choosest to be nobody at all!

XVI.

Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones-- E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, That shadowy revelation of thyself-- To build thee a small hut of haunted stones-- For certainly the first pernicious man That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee In some vile literary caravan-- Shown for a shilling Would be thy killing, Think of Crachami's miserable span! No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in Than there it fell in-- But when she felt herself a show, she tried To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!

XVII.

O since it was thy fortune to be born A dwarf on some Scotch _Inch_, and then to flinch From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, Still with thy small crow pen Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn-- Still Scottish story daintily adorn, Be still a shade--and when this age is fled, When we poor sons and daughters of reality Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, And Time destroys our mottoes of morality-- The lithographic hand of Old Mortality Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, A featureless death's head, And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!

ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.

"This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit." _Twelfth Night_.

I.

Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage, To toddle down the hill of life, And taste the flannel'd ease of age, Apart from pantomimic strife-- "Retir'd--(for Young would call it so)-- The world shut out"--in Pleasant Row!

II.

And hast thou really wash'd at last From each white cheek the red half-moon! And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the private Pantaloon? All youth--all ages--yet to be Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

III.

Thou didst not preach to make us wise-- Thou hadst no finger in our schooling-- Thou didst not "lure us to the skies"-- Thy simple, simple trade was--Fooling! And yet, Heav'n knows! we could--we can Much "better spare a better man!"

IV.

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take The reverend Croly from the stage, Or Southey, for our quiet's sake, Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, Or, damme! namby-pamby Poole,-- Or any other clown or fool!

V.

Go, Dibdin--all that bear the name, Go, Byeway Highway man! go! go! Go, Skeffy--man of painted fame, But leave thy partner, painted Joe! I could bear Kirby on the wane, Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

VI.

Had Joseph Wilfrid Parkins made His gray hairs scarce in private peace-- Had Waithman sought a rural shade-- Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease-- Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill-- I think I could be cheerful still!

VII.

Had Medwin left off, to his praise, Dead lion kicking, like--a friend!-- Had long, long Irving gone his ways, To Muse on death at _Ponder's End_ Or Lady Morgan taken leave Of Letters--still I might not grieve!

VIII.

But, Joseph--everybody's Jo!-- Is gone--and grieve I will and must! As Hamlet did for Yorick, so Will I for thee (though not yet dust), And talk as he did when he miss'd The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!

IX.

Ah, where is now thy rolling head! Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes, (As old Catullus would have said), Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies-- Enormous hunger--monstrous drowth! Thy pockets greedy as thou mouth!

X.

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd!-- Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!-- Thy partridge body, always stuff'd With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!-- Thy foot--like Berkeley's _Foote_--for why? 'Twas often made to wipe an eye!

XI.

Ah, where thy legs--that witty pair! For "great wits jump"--and so did they! Lord! how they leap'd in lamplight air! Caper'd--and bounc'd--and strode away!-- That years should tame the legs--alack! I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!

XII.

But bounds will have their bound--the shocks Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes; And those that frisk'd in silken clocks May look to limp in fleecy hose-- One only--(Champion of the ring) Could ever make his Winter,--Spring!

XIII.

And gout, that owns no odds between The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, Will visit--but I did not mean To moralize, though I am grown Thus sad,--Thy going seem'd to beat A muffled drum for Fun's retreat!

XIV.

And, may be--'tis no time to smother A sigh, when two prime wags of London Are gone--thou, Joseph, one,--the other A Joe!--"sic transit gloria _Munden_!" A third departure some insist on,-- Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!--

XV.

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep With ancient "_Dozey_" to the dregs-- Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep, And put a hatchment o'er her eggs! Let Farley weep--for Magic's man Is gone,--his Christmas Caliban!

XVI.

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, As tho' they walk'd behind thy bier,-- For since thou wilt not play again, What matters,--if in heav'n or here! Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!-- There's _Quick_ might just as well be dead!

XVII.

Oh, how will thy departure cloud The lamplight of the little breast! The Christmas child will grieve aloud To miss his broadest friend and best,-- Poor urchin! what avails to him The cold New Monthly's _Ghost of Grimm?_

XVIII.

For who like thee could ever stride! Some dozen paces to the mile!-- The motley, medley coach provide-- Or like Joe Frankenstein compile The _vegetable man_ complete!-- A proper _Covent Garden_ feat!

XIX.

Oh, who like thee could ever drink, Or eat,--swill, swallow--bolt--and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup--sneeze and wink?-- Thy very yawn was quite a joke! Tho' Joseph, Junior, acts not ill, "There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!

XX.

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe! We met with mirth,--we part in pain! For many a long, long year must go Ere Fun can see thy like again-- For Nature does not keep great stores Of perfect Clowns--that are not _Boors_!

AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.

"Archer. How many are there, _Scrub_?" "Scrub. Five-and-forty, Sir." _Beaux' Stratagem_.

"For shame--let the linen alone!" _M. W. of Windsor_.

Mr. Scrub--Mr. Slop--or whoever you be! The Cock of Steam Laundries,--the head Patentee Of Associate Cleansers,--Chief founder and prime Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime-- Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety-- That make washing public--and wash in society-- O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego, For a moment, the music that bubbles below,-- From your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hot,-- That soft "_simmer's_ sang" so endear'd to the Scot-- If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger-- If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger, Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub,-- O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub,-- And lend me your ear,--Let me modestly plead For a race that your labors may soon supersede-- For a race that, now washing no living affords-- Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, Not with bread in the funds--or investments of cheese,-- But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream, Which the sun has suck'd up into vapor and steam. Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge-- Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge-- When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, And beginneth her toil while the morn is still gray, As if she was washing the night into day-- Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her; Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more _pearly_-- Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist, And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist; Her visage glows warm with the ardor of duty; She's Industry's moral--she's all moral beauty! Growing brighter and brighter at every rub-- Would any man ruin her?--No, Mr. Scrub! No man that is manly would work her mishap-- No man that is manly would covet her cap-- Nor her apron--her hose--nor her gown made of stuff-- Nor her gin--nor her tea--nor her wet pinch of snuff! Alas! so _she_ thought--but that slippery hope Has betrayed her--as tho' she had trod on her soap! And she,--whose support,--like the fishes that fly, Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky-- She whose living it was, and a part of her fare, To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear, With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop-- Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop-- She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, Instead of a counterpane wringing her hands! All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale, With no fagot for burning, like Allan-a-dale! No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane, There once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain-- Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd, Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post! Ah, where are the playful young pinners--ah, where The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air-- The brisk waltzing stockings--the white and the black, That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack-- The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd, That blew into shape, and embodied the wind! There was white on the grass--there was white on the spray-- Her garden--it looked like a garden of May! But now all is dark--not a shirt's on a shrub-- You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub! You've ruin'd her custom--now families drop her-- From her silver reduc'd--nay, reduc'd from her _copper_! The last of her washing is done at her eye, One poor little kerchief that never gets dry! From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth, And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,-- But her children come round her as victuals grow scant, And recall, with foul faces, the source of their want-- When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, And even its pearlashes laid in the grave-- Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave, And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub,-- Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub! Need you wonder, when steam has depriv'd her of bread, If she prays that the evil may visit _your_ head-- Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee,-- If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city-- In short, not to mention all plagues without number, If she wishes you all in the _Wash_ at the Humber!

Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair, When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare-- When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl, And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul-- When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye Had caught "the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by, Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose, Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, On her sheet--if a sheet were still left her--to write, Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light--

LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE

FROM BRIDGET JONES

TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.

It's a shame, so it is,--men can't Let alone Jobs as is Woman's right to do--and go about there Own-- Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up,--and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals,--for upsetting of the Sudds When the world wagged well enuff--and Wommen washed your old dirty duds, I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steem Indians, that's Flat,-- But I warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for all that-- I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem,--But that was a joke! For I never see none come of it,--that's out of it--but only sum Smoak-- And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs--and hang you, you know that's true! And for All your fine Perspectuses,--howsomever you bewhich 'em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Tho' I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do-- It aint as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birds-high view! But Thats your look out--I've not much to do with that--But pleas God to hold up fine, I'd show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can--and I'll say it behind your face-- But when Folks talks of washing, it aint for you to Speak,-- As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it--Well there's a pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends conies and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel--and That aint your Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd,-- For if it warnt for Washing,--and whare Bills is concarned What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays--fit for any Cityation.

Well, what I says is This--when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about! To be sure its very Well, when Their aint enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,--but not to hurt human kind Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, Tho' a X Sherif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff--wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,--and eating other Peple's grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steem has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at-- They won't do for Angells--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that's all Bespoke,-- For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the better-most of em--aye, and evn them of middling degrees-- Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint Bread and Cheese! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers,--like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Charnberses,--and that's what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing-- You aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by your next door naybors-- Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They'll scruntch your Bones some day--I'll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,--for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,--nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the Creation-- And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs-- But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs-- And let your neighbors oxin an Asses alone,-- And every Thing thats hern,--and give every one their Hone!

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins,--and leave the washing to we That nose what's what--Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day-- When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their aint nun at all, And Cristmass cum--and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm-Chare-- Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you don't wash) And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, With a vast more like That,--and all along of Steem Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam-- But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn,--aye, and Moor to your Prays You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways--that's what you might, Or bete Carpets--or get into Parleamint,--or drive Crabrolays from morning to night, Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste! (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say,--and a very hard pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares, Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a _dry sifting_ Dirt! But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!

Yourn with Anymocity, BRIDGET JONES.

ODE TO CAPTAIN PAERY[24]

"By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!" _Love's Labour's Lost_.

[Footnote 24: The famous Arctic explorer was engaged for many years, from 1818 onwards, in his various efforts to discover the North-West Passage. He died in 1855.]

I.

Parry, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the peg On which the world is spun? Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare Writ by the hand of Nature there Where man has never run!

II.

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown Of channels in the Frozen Zone, Or held at Icy Bay, Hast thou still miss'd the proper track For homeward Indian men that lack A bracing by the way?

III.

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble Of geographic scholar? Or found new ways for ships to shape, Instead of winding round the Cape, A short cut thro' the collar?

IV.

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to The Pole--tho' God knows whom they went to! That track reveal'd to Pope-- Or if the Arctic waters sally, Or terminate in some blind alley, A chilly path to grope?

V.

Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows, Has painted them _couleur de rose_, It is a dismal doom, As Clauclio saith, to Winter thrice, "In regions of thick-ribbed ice"-- All bright,--and yet all gloom!

VI.

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit Before the fire and worship it With pecks of Wallsend coals, With feet upon the fender's front, Roasting their corns--like Mr. Hunt-- To speculate on poles.

VII.

'Tis easy for our Naval Board-- 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord Of London and of ease, That lies in ninety feet of down, With fur on his nocturnal gown, To talk of Frozen Seas!

VIII.

'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit, And babble of _Cook's_ track-- He'd roast the leather off his toes, Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows, To plant a British _Jack_!

IX.

Oh, not the proud licentious great, That travel on a carpet skate, Can value toils like thine! What 'tis to take a Hecla range, Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, And alpine lumps of brine?

X.

But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, Can tell how hard it is to climb The lofty slippery steep, Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, Upon its forehead, keep.

XI.

Perchance thou'rt now--while I am writing-- Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting About thy frozen spine! Or thou thyself art eating whale, Oily, and underdone, and stale, That, haply, cross'd thy line!

XII.

But I'll not dream such dreams of ill-- Rather will I believe thee still Safe cellar'd in the snow,-- Reciting many a gallant story, Of British kings and British glory, To crony Esquimaux--

XIII.

Cheering that dismal game where Night Makes one slow move from black to white Thro' all the tedious year,-- Or smitten by some fond frost fair, That comb'd out crystals from her hair, Wooing a seal-skin dear!

XIV.

So much a long communion tends, As Byron says, to make us friends With what we daily view-- God knows the daintiest taste may come To love a nose that's like a plum In marble, cold and blue!

XV.

To dote on hair, an oily fleece! As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece-- They say that love prevails Ev'n in the veriest polar land-- And surely she may steal thy hand That used to steal thy nails!

XVI.

But ah, ere thou art fixed to marry, And take a polar Mrs. Parry, Think of a six months' gloom-- Think of the wintry waste, and hers, Each furnish'd with a dozen _furs_, Think of thine icy _dome_!

XVII.

Think of the children born to _blubber_! Ah me! hast thou an Indian rubber Inside!--to hold a meal For months,--about a stone and half Of whale, and part of a sea calf-- A fillet of salt veal!--

XVIII.

Some walrus ham--no trifle but A decent steak--a solid cut Of seal--no wafer slice! A reindeer's tongue and drink beside! Gallons of sperm--not rectified! And pails of water-ice!

XIX.

Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus? Still come away, and teach to us Those blessed alternations-- To-day to run our dinners fine, To feed on air and then to dine With Civic Corporations--

XX.

To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, And then to take a half-year's filling In P.N.'s pious Row-- When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, Thro' something we have worn our pens on For Longman and his Co.

XXI.

O come and tell us what the Pole is-- Whether it singular and sole is,-- Or straight, or crooked bent,-- If very thick or very thin,-- Made of what wood--and if akin To those there be in Kent?

XXII.

There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talk'd of poles--yet, after all, What has the public learn'd? And Hunt's account must still defer,-- He sought the _poll_ at Westminster-- And is not yet _return'd_!

XXIII.

Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole, And how the fur-man deals? And Eldon doubts if it be true, That icy Chancellors really do Exist upon the _seals_!

XXIV.

Barrow, by well-fed office grates, Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, And longs that he were there; And Croker, in his cabriolet, Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, And pants to cross the _mer_!

XXV.

O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light On questions such as these:-- Whether, when this drown'd world was lost. The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, And turned to Icy Seas!

XXVI.

Is Ursa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack Their neighbors--and what for? Whether they ever play at cuffs, And then, if they take off their muffs In pugilistic war?

XXVII.

Tells us, is _Winter_ champion there, As in our milder fighting air? Say, what are _Chilly_ loans? What cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts get ossified From eating bread of bones?

XXVIII.

Whether they are such dwarfs--the quicker To circulate the vital liquor,-- And then, from head to heel-- How short the Methodists must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose Their toes in spite of zeal?

XXIX.

Whether 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a climate-- Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls--or that old function Of seals--with the extreme of unction-- Bespeaks them for the Pope?

XXX.

Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd" Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd Or Letters must confer With people that have never conn'd An A, B, C, but live beyond The _Sound of Lancaster_!

XXXI.

O come away at any rate-- Well hast thou earn'd a downier state-- With all thy hardy peers-- Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock, After such frosty years.

XXXII.

Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that _Brest Harbor_, woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more!

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

AUTHOR OF "THE COOK'S ORACLE," "OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC," "THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE," "PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES," "THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER," AND "THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL."

"I rule the roast, as Milton says! "--_Caleb Quotem_.

[Footnote 25: Hood, for obvious purposes, slightly departs from the true spelling of Dr. Kitchiner's name. He was an M. D. of Glasgow, who, having been left a handsome fortune by his father, abandoned the active practice of his profession, and devoted himself to science, notably to that of optics, as well as to gastronomy, being himself eminent as a gourmet. He was the author of a once famous Cookery Book, _The Cook's Oracle_; and an improved kitchen range still bears his name.]

Oh! multifarious man! Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton! Born to enlighten The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking-- Master of the Piano--and the Pan-- As busy with the kitchen as the skies! Now looking At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,-- Or boiling eggs--timed to a metronome-- As much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglass-- In the art of frying brown--as a digression On music and poetical expression, Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas! Could tell Calliope from "Callipee!" How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, However _cook's_ synonymous with _Kater_! Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving knife beside the tuning fork, Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work!

II.

Oh, to behold thy features in thy book! Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, How it would look! With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast down-- Thy chops--done nicely brown-- The garnish'd brow--with "a few leaves of bay"-- The hair--"done Wiggy's way!" And still one studious finger near thy brains, As if thou wert just come From editing some New soup--or hashing Dibdin's cold remains; Or, Orpheus-like,--fresh from thy dying strains Of music,--Epping luxuries of sound, As Milton says, "in many a bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out," Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!

III.

Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune,--on the jack--thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fry-- Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton's throat Makes "fritters" of a note! And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that _Pan_ of music, Bishop! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should _Oxford Sausages_ be fit Receptacles for wit? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minc'd brains into a _Tart_? Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her-- Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbread-- The Kitchen's _Eaten_ Grammar!

IV.

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page-- Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein-- So--in a kitchen--would have talk'd Montaigne, That merry Gascon--humorist, and sage! Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,-- Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or Hume on "Twice three make four," Or Lovelass upon Wills,--Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans--old Songs--Pills--Spectacles--and Spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range! Thy grasp a miracle!--till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy variety-- Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all That spying--frying--singing--mix'd Society Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welch Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!

V.

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed--and fed? There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead-- And gentle Poki--and that Royal Pair, Of whom thou didst declare-- "Thanks to the greatest _Cooke_ we ever read-- They were--what _Sandwiches_ should be--half _bred_"! There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil Relax'd--and freely own'd he took thy hints On "making _Broth_ with _Flints_"-- There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil For melted butter--Combe with his medullary Notions about the _Skullery_, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil-- There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! Who used to swear thy book Would really look A _Delphic_ "Oracle," if laid on _Delf_-- There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own--and thy own--"_Magazine_ of _Taste_"-- There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd Thy sly advice to _Poachers_ of Black Folks, That "do not break their _yolks_"-- Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!

VI.

There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy _Patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee "_Kitchen Addison_"--for why? Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, "_Teaching us how to live and how to die_!" There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry-- There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on His sine _Quay_ non,-- There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,-- Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre-- "And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshall _Tureen_"!

VII.

Great was thy Evening Cluster!--often grac'd With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy! 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,-- There Colborn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analyzed a gravy. Colman--the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said Came there,--and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)--Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,--and Graham, lofty on balloons,-- There Croly stalk'd with holy humor heated, Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed-- And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,-- Madame Valbrèque thrice honor'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-- The Dibdins,--Tom, Charles, Frognall,--came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns! And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,-- And talk'd--till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round _Tewah-diddle_!

VIII.

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! So let them:--thou thyself art still a _Host_! Dibdin--Cornaro--Newton--Mrs. Fry! Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!--Lovelass--and Weber, Matthews in Quot'em--Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber-- Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross'd! Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,-- And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion! Thou art, sans question, The Corporation's love its Doctor _Darling_! Look at the Civic Palate--nay, the Bed Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying Illustrations of _Lying_! Ninety square feet of down from heel to head It measured, and I dread Was haunted by a terrible night _Mare_, A monstrous burthen on the corporation!-- Look at the Bill of Fare for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score--Oxen by droves, Geese, turkeys, by the flock--fishes and loaves Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!

IX.

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast-- (His honor seems to rest!--) And what is thy reward?--Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!-- Yet could I speak as Orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week, Richly engross'd on vellum:--Reason urges That he who rules our cookery--that he Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be A _Citizen_, where sauce can make a _Burgess_!

THE LAST MAN.

I.

'Twas in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone, A channting a merry lay,-- To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day!

II.

When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags: It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags;-- So up he came to the timber's foot And pitch'd down his greasy bags.--

III.

Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was! At pulling out his scraps,-- The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps: "Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps!"--

IV.

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood: But I wish'd myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar's food,-- A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust;-- "Oh!" quoth he, "the heavens are good!"

V.

Then after this grace he cast him down: Says I, "You'll get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side"-- For the felons' bones lay there-- But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls, And offer'd them part of his fare.

VI.

"I never harm'd _them_, and they won't harm me: Let the proud and the rich be cravens!" I did not like that strange beggar man, He look'd so up at the heavens-- Anon he shook out his empty old poke;-- "There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens!"

VII.

It made me angry to see his face, It had such a jesting look; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took: Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress, My drink is not of the brook!"

VIII.

Full manners-like he tender'd the dram; Oh it came of a dainty cask! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, "Your leave, good sir, I must ask; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask!"

IX.

And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones That were lying about the heath!

X

But the beggar gave me a jolly clap-- "Come, let us pledge each other, For all the wide world is dead beside, And we are brother and brother-- I've a yearning for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother."

XI.

"I've a yearning for thee in my heart That almost makes me weep, For as I pass'd from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep,-- But when I saw thee sitting aloft, It made me both laugh and leap!"

XII.

Now a curse (I thought) be on his love, And a curse upon his mirth,-- An it were not for that beggar man I'd be the King of the earth,-- But I promis'd myself, an hour should come To make him rue his birth!--

XIII.

So down we sat and bons'd again Till the sun was in mid-sky, When, just as the gentle west-wind came, We hearken'd a dismal cry: "Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, "Till those horrible dogs go by!"

XIV.

And, lo! from the forest's far-off skirts, They came all yelling for gore, A hundred hounds pursuing at once, And a panting hart before, Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot, And there his haunches they tore!

XV.

His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun!-- I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one!

XVI.

And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, Till the last dropt out of sight, Anon saith he, "Let's down again, And ramble for our delight, For the world's all free, and we may choose A right cozie barn for to-night!"

XVII.

With that, he set up his staff on end, And it fell with the point due West; So we far'd that way to a city great, Where the folks had died of the pest-- It was fine to enter in house and hall, Wherever it liked me best!--

XVIII.

For the porters all were stiff and cold, And could not lift their heads; And when we came where their masters lay, The rats leapt out of the beds:-- The grandest palaces in the land Were as free as workhouse sheds.

XIX.

But the beggar man made a mumping face, And knocked at every gate: It made me curse to hear how he whined, So our fellowship turn'd to hate, And I bade him walk the world by himself, For I scorn'd so humble a mate!

XX.

So _he_ turn'd right and _I_ turn'd left, As if we had never met; And I chose a fair stone house for myself, For the city was all to let; And for three brave holydays drank my fill Of the choicest that I could get.

XXI.

And because my jerking was coarse and worn, I got me a properer vest; It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, And a shining star at the breast,-- 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave To see me so purely drest!--

XXII.

But Joan was dead and under the mould, And every buxom lass; In vain I watch'd, at the window pane, For a Christian soul to pass;-- But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, And brows'd on the new-come grass.--

XXIII.

When lo! I spied the old beggar man, And lustily he did sing!-- His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, And a crown he had like a King; So he stept right up before my gate And danc'd me a saucy fling!

XXIV.

Heaven mend us all!--but, within my mind, I had kill'd him then and there; To see him lording so braggart-like That was born to his beggar's fare, And how he had stolen the royal crown His betters were meant to wear.

XXV.

But God forbid that a thief should die Without his share of the laws! So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, And soon tied up his claws,-- I was judge, myself, and jury, and all, And solemnly tried the cause.

XXVI.

But the beggar man would not plead, but cried Like a babe without its corals, For he knew how hard it is apt to go When the law and a thief have quarrels, There was not a Christian soul alive To speak a word for his morals.

XXVII.

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear, And put on my work-day clothes;-- I was tired of such a long Sunday life, And never was one of the sloths; But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, And made many crooked mouths.

XXVIII.

So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot. And blinded him in his bags; 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, For a doom'd man always lags; But by ten of the clock he was off his legs In the wind and airing his rags!

XXIX.

So there he hung, and there I stood The LAST MAN left alive, To have my own will of all the earth: Quoth I, now I shall thrive! But when was ever honey made With one bee in a hive!

XXX.

My conscience began to gnaw my heart Before the day was done, For other men's lives had all gone out, Like candles in the sun!-- But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, A thousand necks in one!

XXXI.

So I went and cut his body down To bury it decentlie;-- God send there were any good soul alive To do the like by me! But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, And bay'd me up the tree!

XXXII.

My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean-brim;-- But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim!

XXXIII.

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord! But the beggar man, where was he?-- There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags Below the gallows' tree!-- I know the Devil, when I am dead, Will send his hounds for me!--

XXXIV.

I've buried my babies one by one, And dug the deep hole for Joan, And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone!

XXXV.

For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger him beguil'd; But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child!

XXXVI.

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dreams, At night to make me madder,-- And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder;-- I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, And look at the rope and ladder!--

XXXVII.

For hanging looks sweet,--but, alas! in vain, My desperate fancy begs,-- I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, And drink it to the dregs,-- For there is not another man alive, In the world, to pull my legs!

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.[26]

[Footnote 26: These famous verses were first published as from an anonymous correspondent in the _London Magazine_. When Hood reprinted them, under his own name, in the first series of _Whims and Oddities_, he prefaced them with the following words:--

"I have never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an enviable renown; and Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug, genteel popularity. Sally Brown has been favored perhaps with as wide a patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been of so select a class as the friends of 'Hohenlinden.' But I do not desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The lamented Emery, dressed as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal benefit at Covent Garden; and ever since it has been a great favorite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherrymen of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the watermen it went naturally to Vauxhall, and over land to Sadler's Wells. The Guards--not the mail coach, but the Lifeguards--picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others, all going to one air, against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap printers of Shoe Lane and Cow Cross (all pirates!) disputed about the copyrights, and published their own editions; and in the meantime the authors, to have made bread of their song (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient case!), must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of Literature! the profits of 'Sally Brown' were divided by the Ballad Mongers;--it has cost, but has never brought me, a halfpenny."]

AN OLD BALLAD.

Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint. That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright: "Then I will to the water-side, And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,-- "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow"; And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender-ship, you see";-- "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, What a hard-ship that must be!

"O! would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him; But, oh! I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath 'The virgin and the scales,' So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales,"

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all the sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John.

"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, How could you serve me so, I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow!"

Then reading on his 'bacco box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not, though he tried; His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen'd in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the bell.

"AS IT FELL UPON A DAY."

Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street; She's let her pitcher tumble down, And all the water's at her feet!

The little school-boys stood about, And laugh'd to see her pumping, pumping; Now with a curtsey to the spout, And then upon her tiptoes jumping.

Long time she waited for her neighbors, To have their turns:--but she must lose The watery wages of her labors,-- Except a little in her shoes!

Without a voice to tell her tale, And ugly transport in her face; All like a jugless nightingale, She thinks of her bereavèd case.

At last she sobs--she cries--she screams! And pours her flood of sorrows out, From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams, Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her mother Must lose her tea, for water's lack, That Sukey burns--and baby-brother Must be dryrubb'd with huck-a-back!

THE STAG-EYED LADY.

A MOORISH TALE.

Scheherazade immediately began the following story.

I.

Ali Ben Ali (did you never read His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate,-- How there was one in pity might exceed The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate Upon the throne of greatness--great indeed! For those that he had under him were great-- The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, Was a Bashaw--Bashaws have horses' tails.

II.

Ali was cruel--a most cruel one! 'Tis rumored he had strangled his own mother-- Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too--but happily that none Did live within harm's length of one another, Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days.

III.

Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, And makes a bad man--absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked--to a fault:--'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had No curb upon his will--no, not a _bit_-- Wherefore he did not reign well--and full glad His slaves had been to hang him--but they falter'd And let him live unhang'd--and still unalter'd,

IV.

Until he got a sage-bush of a beard, Wherein an Attic owl might roost--a trail Of bristly hair--that, honor'd and unshear'd, Grew downward like old women and cow's tail; Being a sign of age--some gray appear'd, Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale; But yet, not so poetic as when Time Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

V.

Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex His royal bosom that he had no son, No living child of the more noble sex, To stand in his Morocco shoes--not one To make a negro-pollard--or tread necks When he was gone--doom'd, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name.

VI.

Therefore he chose a lady for his love, Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear; So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear; Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear: Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, Or else he was not praying to his Profit.

VII.

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame: Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name Of mighty hero that his child should bear; He made so certain ere his chicken came:-- But oh! all worldly wit is little worth, Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth!

VIII.

To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun A little daughter to this world of sins,-- _Miss_-fortunes never come alone--so one Brought on another, like a pair of twins: Twins! female twins!--it was enough to stun Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir.

IX.

Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down This his paternal rage, and thus addrest; "Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of the royal chest?" "Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love to gaze on!--Pr'ythee, thou hadst best Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin!"

X.

But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew: He call'd his slave to bring an ample sack Wherein a woman might be poked--a few Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black At this sad order; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the "head and front of their offending."

XI.

For Ali had a sword, much like himself, A crooked blade, guilty of human gore-- The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf Were struck at his _head_-quarters by the score-- Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore; So that (as they of Public Houses speak) He often did his dozen _butts_ a week.

XII.

Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears, Came with the sack the lady to enclose; In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose"; In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears; Though there were some felt willing to oppose, Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, Though 'twas a piteous _case_, they put her in it.

XIII.

And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her To a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for she Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water. Then farewell, earth--farewell to the green tree-- Farewell, the sun--the moon--each little daughter! She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back.

XIV.

The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'd All that the waters oped, as down it fell; Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd A ring above her, like a water-knell; A moment more, and all its face was still'd, And not a guilty heave was left to tell That underneath its calm and blue transparence A dame lay drownèd in her sack, like Clarence.

XV.

But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,-- The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor-- The lady's natal star with pale afright Fainted and fell--and what were stars before, Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light; And all looked downward on the fatal wave, And made their own reflections on her grave.

XVI.

Next night, a head--a little lady head, Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace Over their sleepy lids--and so she rais'd Her _aqua_line nose above the stream, and gazed.

XVII.

She oped her lips--lips of a gentle blush, So pale it seem'd near drownèd to a white,-- She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush Of music bubbling through the surface light; The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air--and through the night There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity:

THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter. The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave; The _Mussul_man, coming to fish in this water, Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This grayish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall; And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all! Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter--the last of her race-- She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.

I.

Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think How Learning doth in rugged states abide, And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied; Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!

II.

This College looketh South and West alsoe, Because it hath a cast in windows twain; Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow Through transparent holes in every pane, Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach," Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.

III.

And in the midst a little door there is, Whereon a board that doth congratulate With painted letters, red as blood I wis, Thus written, "CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE": And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate, Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.

IV.

For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, And some for Doctors of Divinitie, Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, And soe win academical degree; But some are bred for service of the sea, Howbeit, their store of learning is but small, For mickle waste he counteth it would be To stock a head with bookish wares at all, Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball.

V.

Six babes he sways,--some little and some big, Divided into classes six; alsoe, He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig, That in the College fareth to and fro, And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below, And eke the learned rudiments they scan, And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,-- Hereafter to be shown in caravan, And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.

VI.

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, Whereof, above his head, some two or three Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls, But on the branches of no living tree, And overlook the learned family; While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge--now a birch.

VII.

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, Such as would magisterial hams imbed, But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, Secure in high authority and dread: Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head, And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays, Because his locks are so unkempt and red, And stand abroad in many several ways:-- No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.

VIII.

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue; His nose,--it is a coral to the view; Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,-- For much he loves his native mountain dew;-- But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.

IX.

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales; But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, So that the wind his airy breast assails; Below, he wears the nether garb of males, Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;-- Thence further down the native red prevails, Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:-- Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie.

X.

Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap His function in a magisterial gown, That shows more countries in it than a map,-- Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, Besides some blots, standing for country-town; And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide; But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, He turns the garment of the other side, Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!

XI.

And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, That look for shady or for sunny noon, Within his visage, like an almanack,-- His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon: But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon, And with forebodings of near wrath and storms They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.

XII.

Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat "Corduroy Colloquy,"--or "Ki, Kæ, Kod,"-- Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat More sodden, tho' already made of sod, For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,-- Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, He never spoils the child and spares the rod, But spoils the rod and never spares the child, And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.

XIII.

But, surely, the just sky will never wink At men who take delight in childish throe, And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe; Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, By useless birches, that forlorn recess, Which is no holiday, in Pit below, Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,-- A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?

XIV.

Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use Of needful discipline, in due degree. Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree. This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands, And Learning's help be used for infamie, By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.

XV.

But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, And cackling chorus with the human scream; Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, That falsely lets the fierce besieger in, Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.

XVI.

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;-- Alas! his parent dear is far aloof, And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, Or, whilst he labors, weaves a fancy-woof, Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile;-- Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!

XVII.

Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time, When first the scholar lists in Learning's train, And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb, Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain, From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell, For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain, Another weepeth over chilblains fell, Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!

XVIII.

Anon a third, for his delicious root, Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, So soon is human violence afoot, So hardly is the harmless biter bit! Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit, Alack,--mischance comes seldomtimes alone, But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.

XIX.

For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,-- Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub! Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry; Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.

XX.

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, And with his natural untender knack, By new distress, bids former grievance cease, Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, That sets the mournful visage all awrack; Yet soon the childish countenance will shine Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.

XXI.

Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound, The Dominie lays ope the learned page; (So be it called) although he doth expound Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage; Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age, How Romulus was bred in savage wood, By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage; And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.

XXII.

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war, How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town; And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car, Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown; And eke the bard, that sung of their renown, In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn, He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down, Because, at once, in seven cities born; And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.

XXIII.

Anon, through old Mythology he goes, Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates, Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes; But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys, And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope!

XXIV.

From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, To new philosophies, that still are green, And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide The wheels of great political machine; If English corn should grow abroad, I ween, And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet; How many pigs be born to each spalpeen; And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,-- With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!

XXV.

Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth, That stood around with serious look intense, Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth, Which they had opened to his eloquence, As if their hearing were a threefold sense. But now the current of his words is done, And whether any fruits shall spring from thence, In future time, with any mother's son, It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.

XXVI.

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, The hour is come to lay aside their lore; The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon, And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,--and four Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door, Like ardent spirits vented from a cask, All blithe and boisterous,--but leave two more, With Reading made Uneasy for a task, To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,

XXVII.

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod, With tender moss so sleekly overgrown, That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod, So soothly kind is Erin to her own! And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,-- For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow; Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone! Whilst other twain play at an Irish row, And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!

XXVIII.

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, Now changeth ferula for rural hoe; But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift His college gown, because of solar glow, And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow: Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.

XXIX.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, Linked each to each by labor, like a bee; Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;-- Would there were many more such wights as he, To sway each capital academie Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms!

Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he,--"They're only pegs: But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he'd devour'd his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!"

"Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's _breaches!_"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:-- Though I've no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes!"

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death:--alas! You will not be my _Nell!_"

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got-- And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line!

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off,--of course, He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town,-- For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a _stake_ in his inside!

BIANCA'S DREAM.

A VENETIAN STORY.

I.

Bianca!--fair Bianca!--who could dwell With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days? The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze; Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it, That he could light his link at in a minute.

II.

So that, wherever in her charms she shone, A thousand breasts were kindled into flame; Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own, And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came; All hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own, Which none could ever temper down or tame: In short, to take our haberdasher's hints, She might have written over it,--"from Flints."

III.

She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, At least in Venice--where with eyes of brown Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex An amorous gentle with a needless frown; Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks, And Love at casements climbeth up and down, Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind, Some have considered a Venetian blind.

IV.

Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailer, To hapless Julio--all in vain he sought With each new moon his hatter and his tailor; In vain the richest padusoy he bought, And went in bran new beaver to assail her-- As if to show that Love had made him _smart_ All over--and not merely round his heart.

V.

In vain he labor'd thro' the sylvan park Bianca haunted in--that where she came, Her learned eyes in wandering might mark The twisted cypher of her maiden name, Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark: No one was touched or troubled by his flame, Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow In trees,--like wooden dolls in embryo.

VI.

In vain complaining elegies he writ, And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, And sang in quavers how his heart was split, Constant beneath her lattice with each eve; She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, And slash'd his suit so that it matched his sleeve, Till he grew silent at the vesper star, And, quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar.

VII.

Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er With snows unmelting--an eternal sheet, But his was red within him, like the core Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat; And oft he longed internally to pour His flames and glowing lava at her feet, But when his burnings he began to spout. She stopp'd his mouth, and put the _crater_ out.

VIII.

Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key Suspended at death's door--so pale--and then He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree; The life of man is three score years and ten, But he was perishing at twenty-three, For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, "It could not shorten his poor life--much longer."

IX.

For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, Nor relished any kind of mirth below; Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head, Love had become his universal foe, Salt in his sugar--nightmare in his bed, At last, no wonder wretched Julio, A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth Of hope,--made up his mind to cut her girth!

X.

For hapless lovers always died of old, Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud; So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told, The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood; And so poor Sappho when her boy was cold, Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood, Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past, For those old _suitors_ lived beyond their last.

XI.

So Julio went to drown,--when life was dull, But took his corks, and merely had a bath; And once he pull'd a trigger at his skull, But merely broke a window in his wrath; And once, his hopeless being to annul, He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath, A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.

XII.

Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust His sorrows thro'--'tis horrible to die! And come down, with our little all of dust, That dun of all the duns to satisfy: To leave life's pleasant city as we must, In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie, Where even all our personals must go To pay the debt of nature that we owe!

XIII.

So Julio liv'd:--'twas nothing but a pet He took at life--a momentary spite; Besides, he hoped that time would some day get The better of love's flame, howover bright; A thing that time has never compass'd yet, For love, we know, is an immortal light. Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, Was always in,--for none have found it out.

XIV.

Meanwhile, Bianca dream'd--'twas once when Night Along the darken'd plain began to creep, Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep: The flow'rs had shut their eyes--the zephyr light Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep. And all the little birds had laid their heads Under their wings--sleeping in feather beds.

XV.

Lone in her chamber sate the dark-ey'd maid, By easy stages jaunting thro' her pray'rs, But list'ning side-long to a serenade, That robb'd the saints a little of their shares; For Julio underneath the lattice play'd His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, Born only underneath Italian skies, Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs.

XVI.

Sweet was the tune--the words were even sweeter-- Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair, With all the common tropes wherewith in metre The hackney poets overcharge their fair. Her shape was like Diana's, but completer; Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare: Cupid, alas! was cruel Sagittarius, Julio--the weeping water-man Aquarius.

XVII.

Now, after listing to such laudings rare, 'Twas very natural indeed to go-- What if she did postpone one little pray'r-- To ask her mirror "if it was not so?" 'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear, Reflecting her at once from top to toe: And there she gazed upon that glossy track, That show'd her front face tho' it "gave her back."

XVIII.

And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall, By that dear page where first the woman reads: That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all, She told herself--and then she told her beads; Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds; For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs.

XIX.

Then like a drooping rose so bended she, Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed; But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed, A beauty-bright as it was wont to be, A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed: 'Tis very natural some people say, To dream of what we dwell on in the day.

XX.

Still shone her face--yet not, alas! the same, But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came-- Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum: There was a throbbing at her heart within, For, oh! there was a shooting in her chin.

XXI.

And lo! upon her sad desponding brow, The cruel trenches of besieging age, With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show Her place was booking for the seventh stage; And where her raven tresses used to flow, Some locks that Time had left her in his rage. And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy.

XXII.

Then for her shape--alas! how Saturn wrecks, And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about, Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks, Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout, Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex: Witness those pensioners called In and Out, Who all day watching first and second rater, Quaintly unbend themselves--but grow no straighter.

XXIII.

So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow; His iron hand upon her spine he laid, And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow." In truth it was a change!--she had obey'd The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her Something between a Glassite and a Quaker.

XXIV.

Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme, And she had ample reason for her trouble; For what sad maiden can endure to seem Set in for singleness, tho' growing double. The fancy madden'd her; but now the dream, Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, Burst,--but still left some fragments of its size, That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes.

XXV.

And here--just here--as she began to heed The real world, her clock chimed out its score; A clock it was of the Venetian breed, That cried the hour from one to twenty-four; The works moreover standing in some need Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more; A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears, Such strokes referring doubtless to her years.

XXVI.

At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, By twenty she had quite renounced the veil; She thought of Julio just at twenty-one, And thirty made her very sad and pale, To paint that ruin where her charms would run; At forty all the maid began to fail, And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her, Of single blessedness, than single Gloster.

XXVII.

And so Bianca changed;--the next sweet even, With Julio in a black Venetian bark, Row'd slow and stealthily--the hour, eleven, Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark; She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n, Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark That veil'd her blushing cheek,--for Julio brought her Of course--to break the ice upon the water.

XXVIII.

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind To open;--oysters, when the ice is thick, Are not so difficult and disinclin'd; And Julio felt the declaration stick About his throat in a most awful kind; However, he contrived by bits to pick His trouble forth,--much like a rotten cork Grop'd from a long-necked bottle with a fork.

XXIX.

But love is still the quickest of all readers; And Julio spent besides those signs profuse That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders, In help of language, are so apt to use, Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders, Nods, shrugs, and bends,--Bianca could not choose But soften to his suit with more facility, He told his story with so much agility.

XXX.

"Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, (So he began at last to speak or quote;) Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, (For passion takes this figurative note;) Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier; Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote: My lily be, and I will be thy river; Be thou my life--and I will be thy liver."

XXXI.

This, with more tender logic of the kind, He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, That timidly against his lips inclin'd; Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere That even now began to steal behind A dewy vapor, which was lingering near, Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, Just like a virgin putting on the veil:--

XXXII.

Bidding adieu to all her sparks--the stars, That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars-- Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips.

XXXIII.

He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd (Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness; That made her think all other kisses lack'd Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness; Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, Insipid things--like sandwiches of veal.

XXXIV.

He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring The pretty fingers all instead of one; Anon his stealthy arm began to cling About her waist that had been clasp'd by none, Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, Since cold description would but be outrun; For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r, In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour!

THE DEMON-SHIP.

'Twas off the Wash--the sun went down--the sea look'd black and grim, For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim; Titanic shades! enormous gloom!--as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

Down went my-helm--close reef'd--the tack held freely in my hand-- With ballast snug--I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee--my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!

What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps behind! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place; As black as night--they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud:-- Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run! Behold yon fatal billow rise--ten billows heap'd in one!

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last! Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face-- I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine! Another pulse--and down it rush'd--an avalanche of brine! Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home; The waters clos'd--and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed-- For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.

* * * * *

"Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?" With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound-- And was that ship a _real_ ship whose tackle seem'd around? A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft; But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft? A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone; But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own?

Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night! I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams-- Hyenas--cats--blood-loving bats--and apes with hateful stare,-- Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls--the lion, and she-bear-- Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite-- Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs-- All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms-- Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,-- But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!

His cheek was black--his brow was black--his eyes and hair as dark; His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath, His breast was black--all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth. His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves! Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves!

"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?" "What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul! Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,-- My mother dear--my native fields, I never more shall see: I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!"

Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern-- A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce-- As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once: A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole;-- "Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry coal; You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields-- For this here ship has pick'd you up--the _Mary Ann_ of Shields!"

TIM TURPIN.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, And ne'er had seen the skies: For Mature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forc'd to do-- Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small: But Tim had _specks_ within his eyes, And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid, And took her to his arms; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down Where'er he wished to jog, A happy wife, altho' she led The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv'd a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open'd thus, He wish'd them dark again: For when he look'd upon his wife, He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn't bear to eat: For she was any thing but like A Grace before his meat.

Tim he was a feeling man: For when his sight was thick, It made him feel for every thing-- But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand-- It was not light or slim-- He knocked at his wife's head until It open'd unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughter'd spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house.

But like a wicked murderer, He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in: Said he, this wound I dread Can hardly be sew'd up--his life Is hanging on a thread.

But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope-- Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out.

But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day; But tho' they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen, You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once The author of her death.

And, oh! when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscrib'd with double _guilt_!

Then turning round his head again, He saw before his eyes A great judge, and a little judge, The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment cap, And put it on his head, And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, 'Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say It was a drop too much.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.[27]

[Footnote 27: Of course suggested by Coleridge and Southey's _Devil's Walk_. It is ablaze with wit and real imagination. Old nursery tales are not so well remembered in these days that it is superfluous to point out that the "fee" being a prelude to "faw" and "fum," is taken from the formula of the Ogre in _Jack and the Bean-Stalk_, whose usual preliminary to the slaughter of his victims was--

"Fee, Faw, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!"]

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once--for he knew They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach So slow, that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the _quick_.

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!

A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.

There's some is born with their straight legs by natur-- And some is born with bow-legs from the first-- And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs: I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.--

'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well--I gives chase, But as she run Two knots, to one, There warn't no use in keeping on the race!

Well--casting round about, what next to try on, And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable: Well--there they stand, four kickers in a row. And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur-- So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!

My eyes! how she did pitch! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. The devil sink the craft! And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft! Well--I suppose We hadn't run a knot--or much beyond-- (What will you have on it?)--but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond! There I am!--all a-back! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears!

What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water? I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,-- Says I--I wish this job was rayther shorter!

The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking; Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking-- And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, 'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes! but she took in enough to founder! And there's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!

Well, there--off Hertford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, And can't contrive a signal of distress; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out--and nothing less; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:-- Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!-- And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!-- And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!

THE VOLUNTEER.

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

THE LOVER'S PROGRESS.

I.

'Twas in that memorable year France threaten'd to put off in Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each To be a British coffin, To make sad widows of our wives, And every babe an orphan:--

II.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, And heads were dredg'd with flour, I listed in the Lawyer's Corps, Against the battle hour; A perfect Volunteer--for why? I brought my "will and pow'r."

III.

One dreary day--a day of dread, Like Cato's, over-cast-- About the hour of six, (the morn And I were breaking fast,) There came a loud and sudden sound, That struck me all aghast!

IV.

A dismal sort of morning roll, That was not to be eaten; Although it was no skin of mine, But parchment that was beaten, I felt tattooed through all my flesh, Like any Otaheitan.

V.

My jaws with utter dread enclos'd The morsel I was munching, And terror lock'd them up so tight, My very teeth went crunching All through my bread and tongue at once, Like sandwich made at lunching.

VI.

My hand that held the tea-pot fast, Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er The cup in one long eddy, Till both my hose were marked with _tea_, As they were mark'd already.

VII.

I felt my visage turn from red To white--from cold to hot; But it was nothing wonderful My color changed, I wot, For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot.

VIII.

And looking forth with anxious eye, From my snug upper story, I saw our melancholy corps, Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seem'd very loth To axe their way to glory.

IX.

The captain march'd as mourners march, The ensign too seem'd lagging, And many more, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging-- Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging.

X.

But while I watch'd, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March dust.

XI.

Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so, Our foe the coast must land on";-- I felt so warm beside the fire I cared not to abandon; Our hearths and homes are always things That patriots make a stand on.

XII.

"The fools that fight abroad for home," Thought I, "may get a wrong one; Let those who have no homes at all Go battle for a long one." The mirror here confirm'd me this Reflection, by a strong one.

XIII.

For there, where I was wont to shave, And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his armies-- No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies.

XIV.

A horrid sight it was, and sad, To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery, And then begin to clap My helmet on--ah me! it felt Like any felon's cap.

XV.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest; My epaulette's like coffin-plates; My belt so heavy press'd, Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie At once upon my breast.

XVI.

My brazen breast-plate only lack'd A little heap of salt, To make me like a corpse full dress'd, Preparing for the vault-- To set up what the Poet calls My everlasting halt.

XVII.

This funeral show inclined me quite To peace:--and here I am! Whilst better lions go to war, Enjoying with the lamb A lengthen'd life, that might have been A Martial Epigram.

THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

[Footnote 28: Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel--the Easter Monday Hunt--even then in its decadence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt--The historian of the old English ports--the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:--

"Sir,--About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline."

"I am, Sir," "With respects from your humble Servant,"

"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

"On Monday they began to hunt."--_Chevy Chase_.

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glo'ster flat,-- And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_, with his apron tied About his _counter-part._

The seventh, in a sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for _eel-piety_, A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed! One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage pop't; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig's flesh is always _chop't_.

But famous more, as annals tell, Because of Easter Chase: There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapt his leather thigh, And sang the burthen of the song, "This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath ever writ In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.

Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaping _Cheap_ To go and hunt the _deer_!

No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho' T'was whispered of his _egg_!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee, And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots, Of lustre superfine; The liquid black they wore that day Was _Warren_-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close, As once upon a stag; Thus well equipt he gaily skipt, At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein A crown he nimbly flung: For holding of the horse?--why, no-- For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins' own, Would only be a brag; His neighbor Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Altho' it was a _tit_.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within The way he ought to go."

But Huggins, like a wary man, Was ne'er from saddle cast; Resolved, by going very slow, On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her _orts_, Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind, Meanwhile upon the case! And meaning not to hunt at all, Had gone to Enfield Chase.

For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood May break a bit of bone.

"Now, be his wife a plague for life! A coward sure is he": Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box,-- No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before-- The self-same route inclined, And, minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks, (However odd it sounds), Let out that day _to hunt_, instead _Of going to the hounds!_

And some had horses of their own, And some were forced to job it: And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_, Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here rolled along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load, That any horse might drag, When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag!

Now when they saw John Huggins go At such a sober pace; "Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away, You'll never see the chase!"

But John, as grave as any judge, Made answer quite as blunt; "It will be time enough to trot, When I begin to hunt!"

And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the _reins_, of course, Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With Master Reynard's brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learned it from; His age about threescore and ten, And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host.

"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads, You're all in glorious luck: Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck.

"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom In red already ride; 'Tis but a _step_, and on a horse You soon may go _a-stride_."

So off they scampered, man and horse, As time and temper pressed-- But Huggins, hitching on a tree, _Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob, All in Fair Mead, which held that day Its own fair mead of mob.

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks, That shambled to and fro! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the _dough_!

Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual, for a fall; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climbed a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference A single creature made; A single stag had caused a whole _Stag_nation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood: And lo! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,--tho' not For corpses in the least; For this contained the _deer alive_, And not the _dear deceased_!

And now began a sudden stir, And then a sudden shout, The prison-doors were opened wide, And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red, Bedecked with ribbons fine; Like other bucks that come to 'list The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of mild amaze, He turned and shortly took; Then gently ran adown the mead, And bounded o'er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof, Had never seen the deer, Till all at once he saw the beast Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same, On horse and ass--like high and low And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers; There was another _Floorer_ there Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show; But few, like Charles at Charing Cross, Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

"O dear! O dear!" now might you hear, "I've surely broke a bone"; "My head is sore,"--with many more Such speeches from the _thrown_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds, To see the horses "throwing off," So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among; Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to "giving tongue."

And now Old Robin's foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him, Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man, A different temper shows, What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all, No single tongue was mute; The stag had led a hart, and lo! The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch; And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like A ship before the gale; Now flew to "_h_ills we know not of," Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch;-- A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob, Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And like a poet seemed to ride Upon a wingèd horse,--

A whipper-in?--no whipper-in: A huntsman? no such soul. A connoisseur, or amateur? Why yes,--a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Acteon in the tale, He found himself in stag!

Away they went then, dog and deer, And hunters all away,-- The maddest horses never knew _Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen _tally-hoed_.

About two score there were, not more, That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on Were fewer every minute,-- The field kept getting more select, Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt, Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and "ran a muck," To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense-- What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap years in a day.

And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth, The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate,-- He never saw a county go At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs," Quoth Huggins, "So I do,-- I've got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side, That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook: Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride, With every kick he gave a prick, Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is He squatted all forlorn; And like a bird was singing out While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be, Such cushion to resign: "Possession is nine points," but his Seemed more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points That entered in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Altho' no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair; A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage!

Tho' felony, yet who would let Another's horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Hugging mounted on the mare, Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive; A dab was he, as dabs should be-- All leaping and alive!

And here of Nature's kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, altho' her share She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song--"to see The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane."

And lo! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice: The steeds, like Cinderella's team, Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark,-- Tho' still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned: No comfort could he find; While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped, To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate-- Howbeit there was no toll at all, They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a new Gray's elegy On his departed gray!

Now many a sign at Woodford town Its Inn-vitation tells: But Huggins, full of ills, of course, Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh, But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig, And called for half-and-half.

Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door,-- The mounted mob were all returned; The Epping Hunt was o'er!

And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft; And men, by dint of drink, became The only "_beasts of draught_."

For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer; And overtaken man discussed The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood, Deer-like, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could;

And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse "remained behind."

And one, how he had found a horse Adrift--a goodly gray! And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray.

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee; "A goodly gray! why, then, I say That gray belongs to me!

"Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound; And, gladly, I will give the man A bottle and a pound!"

The wine was drunk,--the money paid, Tho' not without remorse, To pay another man so much, For riding on his horse.

And let the chase again take place, For many a long, long year, John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her; And hunting after happiness, We only hunt a slipper.

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, Were little ducklings in a pond, Swimming about beside their mothers-- Small things like living water-lilies, But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

"It's very hard," she used to moan, "That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters--mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings." For why!--each little yellow navy Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond, I mean-- Its wave was rather thick than pearly-- She had two ducks, their napes were green-- She had a drake, his tail was curly,-- Yet 'spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers-- The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck-- The infant D's came forth like others-- But there, alas! the matter stuck! They might as well have all died addle As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humor in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks,-- No poaching cook--a frying pander To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,-- Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em! They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works! For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson, it bewildered him! To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do But change the breed--and she tried divers Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e'er survivors-- Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn; They floundered still!--Batch after batch went! The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment! Whene'er they launched--oh, sight of wonder! Like fires the water "got them under."

No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up, and desponded; For Death among the water-lilies, Cried "_Duc_ ad me" to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle-- Alas! 'twas darker than before! At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius dog-like drank So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; And when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face, In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly: The tenants of that _Eely Place_ Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_, And so, by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.

A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August--Hastings every day was filling-- Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"! With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling To be bedipped--be noticed--or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling. Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste "Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits, Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits, And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying, Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature, So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami--dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned--neither fat nor lean, His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seen-- All thought him charming at the first beginning-- Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance--and chance repaid His ardent passion with her fondest smile, The sunshine of good luck, without a shade, He staked and won--and won and staked--the bile It stirred of many a man and many a maid, To see at every venture how that vile Small gambler snatched--and how he won them too-- A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box, 'Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass, And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks Of needles, silks, and cottons--but, alas! She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox Was lucky--but she saw three caddies pass To that small imp;--no living luck could loo him! Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed--and rode--and won--and walked, The wondrous topic of the curious swarm That haunted the Parade. Many were balked Of notoriety by that small form Pacing it up and down: some even talked Of ducking him--when lo! a dismal storm Stopped in--one Friday, at the close of day-- And every head was turned another way--

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise Bulky and slow upon the southern brink Of the horizon--fanned by sultry sighs-- So black and threatening, I cannot think Of any simile, except the skies Miss Wiggins sometimes _shades_ in Indian ink-- _Mis-shapen_ blotches of such heavy vapor, They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave, And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on The stony-hearted beach;--some bards would have It always rampant, in that idle fashion-- Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave, Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion, Who meekly settle in and take their places, With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head, Like troubled table-beer--and make it bounce, And froth, and roar, and fling--but this, I've said, Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce: But then, a grander contrast thus it bred With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce Something more awful in the serious ear, As one would whisper that a lion's near--

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder Growled long--but low--a prelude note of death, As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under, But still it muttered to the sea beneath Such a continued peal, as made us wonder It did not pause more oft to take its breath, Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather, And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm, Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm: Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas, Right on our coast;--a dismal, coal-black form; Many proud gaits were quelled--and all bravadoes Of folly ceased--and sundry idle jokers Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing, And they are used to many a pretty blaze, To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays: And truly one could think, without much lashing The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin--all the fair crowd Vanished--as if they knew their own attractions,-- For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud Began to make some very crooked fractions-- Only some few remained that were not cowed, A few rough sailors, who had been in actions, And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's, Lest it should _blow_,--were pulling up the _Rose_:

(No flower, but a boat)--some more were hauling The _Regent_ by the head:--another crew With that same cry peculiar to their _calling_-- Were heaving up the _Hope_:--and as they knew The very gods themselves oft get a mauling In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew The _Neptune_ rather higher on the beach, That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power, Had all usurped the azure of the skies, Making our daylight darker by an hour, And some few drops--of an unusual size-- Few and distinct--scarce twenty to the shower, Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes-- But then this sprinkle thickened in a trice And rained much _harder_--in good solid ice.

Oh for a very storm of words to show How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us! Handel would make the gusty organs blow Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:-- But ev'n his music seemed composed and low, When we were _handled_ by this Hailstone Chorus; Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound, And frozen comfits rolled along the ground--

As big as bullets:--Lord! how they did batter Our crazy tiles:--and now the lightning flashed Alternate with the dark, until the latter Was rarest of the two!--the gust too dashed So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter Some panes,--and so it did--and first it smashed The very square where I had chose my station To watch the general illumination.

Another, and another, still came in, And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, Making transparent holes that let me win Some samples of the storm:--Oh! it was sweet To think I had a shelter for my skin, Culling them through these "loopholes of retreat"-- Which in a little we began to glaze-- Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

But which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap, like a birth, from chaos into light, And then relapse into the gloomy night--

As parcel of the cloud;--the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves, That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting. We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose,--and that we _felt_ the sound They made in falling to the startled ground.

And so the tempest scowled away,--and soon Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, We saw the rim of the pacific moon, Like a bright fish entangled in a net, Flashing its silver sides,--how sweet a boon Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas-- Peace in the sky--and coolness in the breeze!

Meantime the hail had ceased:--and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains; At every window there were maids who stood Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains,-- Or with coarse linens made the fractions good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,-- Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt The wind resolved--blowing the candles out.

No house was whole that had a southern front,-- No greenhouse but the same mishap befell; _Bow_-windows and _bell_-glasses bore the brunt,-- No sex in glass was spared!--For those who dwell On each hill-side, you might have swum a punt In any of their parlors;--Mrs. Snell Was slopped out of her seat,--and Mr. Hitchin Had a _flower_-garden washed into a _Kitchen_.

But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed The recent violence.--Each after each The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach. Howbeit his _weather eye_ the seaman aimed Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning--and when morning broke, There was a gale--"quite equal to bespoke."

Before high water--(it were better far To christen it not _water_ then, but _waiter_, For then the tide is _serving at the bar_) Rose such a swell--I never saw one greater! Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter, With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stout poured out with a fine _beachy head_.

No open boat was open to a fare, Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips; No bathing woman waded--none would dare A dipping in the wave--but waived their dips; No seagull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships; For two _lea shores_ upon the River Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea.

Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,-- A boiling ocean of mixed black and green, A sky of copper color, grim and surly,-- When lo, in that vast hollow scooped between Two rolling Alps of water,--white and curly! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!

Sometimes a hand--sometimes a little shoe-- Sometime a skirt--sometimes a hank of hair Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view, Sometimes a knee--sometimes a back was bare-- At last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Any one could swear The lad was dead--without a chance of perjury, And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, Then curiosity began with _her_ fit; And lo! the features of the Small Unknown! 'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit! And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies, We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles!

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion, Providing in this world he was to have A lordship over luck, by whose exertion He might control the course of cards and brave All throws of dice,--but on a sea excursion The juggling demon, in his usual vein, Seized the last cast--and _Nicked_ him in the _main_!

LINES TO A LADY.[29]

[Footnote 29: A parody of John Hamilton Reynolds's once popular lines, beginning--

"Go, where the water glideth gently ever,"]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempest make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens _her_ juice,-- A wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth, Making a midnight meal of he and she; Go where the lion in his hunger howleth, And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Or lies along at full length like a tree, Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth In mono-_polly_-logue with tongue as free, And, like a woman, all she can revealeth, And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos--may none _bamboozle_ thee! Go gaze upon their elephants and castles, And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the peppered palate like a pea, Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier, And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me!

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the _Chub_, tho' it's chubby, be _thinnish_!

Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With _attention_ I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a _Tench on_!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the "_Council of Nice_," And rejected their "_Diet of Worms_," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not "Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh-water-lottery! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis--like St. Mary's--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showing-- But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, And hungry and faint-- Let the Fancy just paint What it is, _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell-- So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn, Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."--DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds! As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers; Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow'd--like Iö--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a _Fear-on!_

Or, in St. Martin's Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-- Fancy the terror of your timid daughters, While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it--Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:-- Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"-- You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate!_

Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows-- "'Tis well for you that live apart--unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_."

"Folks that too freely sup Must e'en put up With their own troubles if they can't digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That _others'_ victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us! We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity's sake! We don't want oxen at our doors to _rump-us!_"

"If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad! We constantly are roar'd awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers--now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep _a Wake!_ O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf," Seeing a red Cow come To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses, Just when the Ghost is certain, A great rent in the curtain, And enter two tall skeletons--of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication! Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right, And to each Show and sight Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude; To Richardson's Stage Dramas, Dio--and Cosmo--ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows--a Show of Gratitude!

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."--SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot-- They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot-- For Memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by night-- Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse hadd both man and dame, He seized the tongs--she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then--as white as my cravat-- Poor Mary May, the servant! Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, "Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?" Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:--

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'--and there she stops for coughin, 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often, But please the pigs,'--for that's her way of swearing in a passion, I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion! Well down she takes my master's horn--I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over--'Teach your Grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees. So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking-- Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew?'"

"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30]

[Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr. Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses, inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S----, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint To fill this page's span, But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S---- I daren't address-- I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if _I_ so began, I have my fears about my ears-- I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T.H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line-- I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its _beat_, And I might dare as soon to swear At _you_, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can-- My life (she's by) won't let me die-- I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd To flirt e'en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must-- I'm not a single man.

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup"-- When, whiter than the tablecloth, A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O father dear, O mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim-- You know when some one went to sea-- Don't cry--but I am him!"

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back!"

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs!"

VI.

"The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart, The very place it tells; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells."

VIII.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all."

IX.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest In Davy Joneses sod, Till I've appeared to you and said-- Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"

X.

"You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M., That Cod was picking me!"

XI.

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one."

XII.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave, They sucked my blood like imps!"

XIII.

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!"

XIV.

The spirit fled--they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack! At last up started brother Jim, "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat, And little Kitten too, And down they put the Cod and sauce, To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod--and little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts; Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mister Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allowed, Such fair outsides are seldom seen, Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell, but there your court No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love; I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more, Consider what you do; If you pop aught to Lucy Bell-- I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, Your threats I quite explode; One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless Your passion quiet keeps, I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece, This pleasant thought to give-- When they were dead, they thus should have Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long The seconds then forbore, And having taken one rash step, They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan Against the deadly strife, By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes, But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so, they found They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., Here one of us may fall, And like St. Paul's Cathedral now Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name; If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree-- But think of Honor's Courts! If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun: Why can't we aim above, as if We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end!

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."--_Scotch Song_.

On that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R.A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, In short, what's called the private view,-- Amongst the guests--the deuce knows how She got in there without a row-- There came a large and vulgar dame, With arms deep red, and face the same, Showing in temper not a Saint; No one could guess for why she came, Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way, Elbowed Lord Durham--poked Lord Grey-- Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move, And Devonshire's Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honor, budge, And gave a pinch to Park, the judge. As for the ladies in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two, She searched the pictures through and through, On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, "Really an ardent love of art!" Alas! amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil. But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last this stammered out, "How now? Woman--where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to have let you through our wicket?" Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?" Said Mr. H---- with expedition, "There's no Cow in the Exhibition." "No Cow!"--but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity--

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity, Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee! No Cow--but hold your tongue--for you needn't talk to me-- You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be-- I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow, Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow! You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards, Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords! They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors, David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,-- Why, Morland was a fool to him,--at a little pig or sow-- It's really hard it ain't hung up,--I could cry about the Cow! But I know well what it is, and why--they're jealous of David's fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,-- Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now? David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners-- Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's? Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row, If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow! I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature, Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature! It must be hung--and shall be hung--for, Mr. H----, I vow I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow! As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair. Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand, Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand-- Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow, It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow. We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear-- And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do--it's not a Suffolk Cow: I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels: His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all,--or helped to nurse the babby, And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow, Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow. And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half-- David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew-- That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face-- It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace-- And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammer'd out a word, How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand--where I have look'd and linger'd, Altho' it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delighted-- Alas! the lay I thought was new. Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world, My vanity it now must shock it-- And down at once my pride is hurled, You've pick'd me--and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Doctor Daly, Who asked if there was any bar-- Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_?

And when the parson came to say, My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honor and obey, Who could have thought--"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!--the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover-- That down in Deptford's prison ships, O Mary! you've a hulking lover!

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.[31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners." _Picture of Isle of Wight_.

[Footnote 31: Written when Walter Scott was familiarly known as the "Wizard of the North," the title which is the key to the present poem. Scott died in September, 1832, in the interval between the writing and the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in the Preface to the _Comic Annual_ for 1833, in which they appeared.]

I.

One close of day--'twas in the Bay Of Naples, bay of glory! While light was hanging crowns of gold On mountains high and hoary, A gallant bark got under weigh, And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct, With wine and oil for cargo, Her crew of men some nine or ten, The captain's name was Jago; A good and gallant bark she was, La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view, With brown cheeks, clear or muddy, Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair, Meet heads for painter's study; But midst their tan there stood one man, Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, His hair, a little scant, and when He doff'd his cap or bonnet, One saw that Grey had gone beyond A premiership upon it!

V.

His eye--a passenger was he, The cabin he had hired it,-- His eye was gray, and when he look'd Around, the prospect fired it,-- A fine poetic light, as if The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.

VI.

His frame was stout, in height about Six feet--well made and portly; Of dress and manner just to give A sketch, but very shortly, His order seem'd a composite Of rustic with the courtly.

VII.

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed, And chatted with the seamen, And often task'd their skill and ask'd, "What weather is't to be, man?" No demonstration there appeared, That he was any demon.

VIII.

No sort of sign there was that he Could raise a stormy rumpus, Like Prospero make breezes blow, And rocks and billows thump us,-- But little we supposed what he Could with the needle compass!

IX.

Soon came a storm--the sea at first Seem'd lying almost fallow-- When lo! full crash, with billowy dash, From clouds of black and yellow, Came such a gale as blows but once A cent'ry, like the aloe!

X.

Our stomachs we had just prepared To vest a small amount in; When, gush! a flood of brine came down The skylight--quite a fountain, And right on end the table rear'd Just like the Table Mountain.

XI.

Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine, Each roll, its rôle repeating, Roll'd down--the round of beef declar'd For parting--not for meating! Off flew the fowls, and all the game Was "too far gone for eating!"

XII.

Down knife and fork--down went the pork, The lamb too broke its tether; Down mustard went--each condiment-- Salt--pepper--all together! Down everything, like craft that seek The Downs in stormy weather.

XIII.

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake, Her timbers seem'd to sever; Down, down, a dreary derry down, Such lurch she had gone never; She almost seem'd about to take A bed of down forever!

XIV.

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw, Thus robbed of all its uses, He thought he saw the Evil One Beside Vesuvian sluices, Playing at dice for soul and ship, And throwing Sink and Deuces.

XV.

Down fell the steward on his face, To all the Saints commending; And candles to the Virgin vow'd, As save-alls 'gain'st his ending. Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, Checkmate, was close impending!

XVI.

Down fell the cook--the cabin boy, Their beads with fervor telling, While Alps of surge, with snowy verge, Above the yards came yelling. Down fell the crew, and on their knees Shudder'd at each white swelling!

XVII.

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue, His crimson light a cleaver To each red rover of a wave: To eye of fancy-weaver, Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in A raging scarlet fever!

XVIII.

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd To Saint aid Virgin Mary; But one there was that stood composed Amid the waves' vagary; As staunch as rock, a true game-cock 'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!

XIX.

His ruddy cheek retained its streak, No danger seem'd to shrink him: His step still bold--of mortal mould The crew could hardly think him: The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd To know; could never sink him.

XX.

Relaxed at last the furious gale Quite out of breath with racing; The boiling flood in milder mood, With gentler billows chasing; From stem to stern, with frequent turn, The Stranger took to pacing.

XXI.

And as he walked to self he talked, Some ancient ditty thrumming, In undertone, as not alone-- Now whistling, and now humming-- "You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes," "Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."

XXII.

Down went the wind, down went the wave, Fear quitted the most finical; The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot, And Hope was at the pinnacle: When rose on high a frightful cry-- "The Devil's in the binnacle!"

XXIII.

"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried, His voice with quite a falter-- "Steady's my helm, but every look The needle seems to alter; God only knows where China lies, Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"

XXIV.

The captain stared aghast at mate, The pilot at th' apprentice; No fancy of the German Sea Of Fiction the event is: But when they at the compass look'd, It seem'd non compass mentis.

XXV.

Now north, now south, now east, now west, The wavering point was shaken, 'Twas past the whole philosophy Of Newton, or of Bacon; Never by compass, till that hour, Such latitudes were taken!

XXVI.

With fearful speech, each after each Took turns in the inspection; They found no gun--no iron--none-- To vary its direction; It seem'd a new magnetic case Of Poles in Insurrection!

XXVII.

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives, And all their household riches; Oh! while they thought of girl or boy, And dear domestic niches, All down the side which holds the heart, That needle gave them stitches.

XXVIII.

With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed To see them so white-livered: And walked abaft the binnacle, To know at what they shivered; But when he stood beside the card, St. Josef! how it quivered!

XXIX.

No fancy-motion, brain-begot, In eye of timid dreamer-- The nervous finger of a sot Ne'er showed a plainer tremor; To every brain it seemed too plain, There stood th' Infernal Schemer!

XXX.

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew, Just like a pullet's gizzard; Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit, From tacking like an izzard, Bore down in this plain course at last, "It's Michael Scott--the Wizard!"

XXXI.

A smile passed o'er the ruddy face: "To see the poles so falter I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you, For with no fiends I palter! Michael I'm not--although a Scott-- My Christian name is Walter."

XXXII.

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell On all the fearful faction; The captain's head (for he had read) Confess'd the needle's action, And bow'd to Him in whom the North Has lodged its main attraction!

THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

"I'll be your second."--LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out-- One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn, At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing came thus about: She asked him in at home, and then At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two!

"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.! Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame, To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory--like Rogers's-- Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace, I almost have a doubt-- I'm like an old Forget-me-not, With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger joint Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring,'"

"A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in my urn!"

"Remember, oh! remember, how The marriage rite did run,-- If ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now--when I have none!

"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend-- Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider you are kick'd.

"A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up!--you marry, ma'am, And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow,--and off he went, Like fowling-piece at cock!

THE FALL.

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." _Count Fathom_.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss; One--only one--hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might: On--on--still on--direct for doom, the river rush'd in force, And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed--I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore! And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by for evermore; Plainly--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep; I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind; And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,--a cry as shrill as birds Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: "It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares! He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[Footnote 32: "Edgar Huntley, the Somnambulist," was the title of a popular novel of the time.]

OUR VILLAGE.

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds, With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle "neat post-chaise!" There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist Chapel of Ease; And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green. As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle! There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the chief-- With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby, A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby; There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops, And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the Village Poor House!

A PUBLIC DINNER.

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide." _Arabian Nights_.

At seven you just nick it, Give card--get wine ticket; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table, To find--a hard matter-- Your name in a platter; Your wish was to sit by Your friend Mr. Whitby, But stewards' assistance Has placed you at distance, And, thanks to arrangers, You sit amongst strangers, But too late for mending; Twelve sticks come attending A stick of a Chairman, A little dark spare man, With bald, shining nob, 'Mid committee swell-mob; In short, a short figure,-- You thought the Duke bigger. Then silence is wanted, _Non Nobis_ is chanted; Then Chairman reads letter, The Duke's a regretter, A promise to break it, But chair, he can't take it; Is grieved to be from us, But sends friend Sir Thomas, And what is far better, A cheque in the letter. Hear! hear! and a clatter, And there ends the matter.

Now soups come and fish in, And C---- brings a dish in; Then rages the battle, Knives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles, Under fifty wax candles; Your soup-plate is soon full, You sip just a spoonful. Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful; And then comes the waiter, "Must trouble for tater"; And then you drink wine off With somebody--nine off; Bucellas made handy, With Cape and bad Brandy, Of East India Sherry, That's very hot--very! You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock-turtle Went off while you lingered, With waiter light-fingered. To make up for gammon, You order some salmon, Which comes to your fauces, With boats without sauces. You then make a cut on Some lamb big as mutton; And ask for some grass too, But that you must pass too; It served the first twenty, But toast there is plenty. Then, while lamb gets coldish, A goose that is oldish-- At carving not clever-- You're begged to dissever, And when you thus treat it, Find no one will eat it. So, hungry as glutton, You turn to your mutton, But--no sight for laughter-- The soup it's gone after. Mr. Green then is very Disposed to take Sherry; And then Mr. Nappy Will feel very happy; And then Mr. Conner Requests the same honor; Mr. Clark, when at leisure, Will really feel pleasure; Then waiter leans over To take off a cover From fowls, which all beg of, A wing or a leg of; And while they all peck bone, You take to a neck-bone, But even your hunger Declares for a younger. A fresh plate you call for, But vainly you bawl for; Now taste disapproves it, No waiter removes it. Still hope, newly budding, Relies on a pudding; But critics each minute Set fancy agin it-- "That's queer Vermicelli." "I say, Vizetelly, There's glue in that jelly." "Tarts bad altogether; That crust's made of leather." "Some custard, friend Vesey?" "No--batter made easy." "Some cheese, Mr. Foster?" "--Don't like single Glo'ster." Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, You see silver dishes, With those little fishes, The whitebait delicious, Borne past you officious; And hear rather plainish A sound that's champagnish, And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles; And sniff--very pleasant! Grouse, partridge, and pheasant. And see mounds of ices For patrons and vices, Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really desert you; You've nuts, but not crack ones, Half empty and black ones; With oranges, sallow-- They can't be called yellow-- Some pippins well-wrinkled, And plums almond-sprinkled; Some rout cakes, and so on, Then with business to go on: Long speeches are stutter'd, And toasts are well butter'd, While dames in the gallery, All dressed in fallallery, Look on at the mummery, And listen to flummery. Hip, hip! and huzzaing, And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations, Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney-- "Mr. Benbow, one guinea; Mr. Frederick Manual, One guinea--and annual." Song--Jocky and Jenny, "Mr. Markham, one guinea." "Have you all filled your glasses?" Here's a health to good lasses. The subscription still skinny-- "Mr. Franklin--one guinea." Franklin looks like a ninny; "Mr, Boreham, one guinea-- Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest--one guinea, Mr. Merrington--twenty," Rough music, in plenty. Away toddles Chairman, The little dark spare man, Not sorry at ending, With white sticks attending, And some vain Tomnoddy Votes in his own body To fill the void seat up, And get on his feet up, To say, with voice squeaking, "Unaccustomed to speaking." Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty-- No coach--very dirty. So hungry and fever'd Wet-footed, spoilt-beaver'd, Eyes aching in socket, Ten pounds out of pocket, To Brook Street the Upper You haste home to supper.

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT;

OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

"He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee." BRYAN AND PERENNE.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life, For where's the trowsers blue? Oh Jones, my dear!--Oh dear! my Jones, What is become of you?"

"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,-- The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do! A bite in one place soems enough, But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share! But let that pass--for now, to you I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights To haunt, as people say; My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round, And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a _half_, Without a '_quarter's_ notice.'

"One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed; Oh! Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu! I've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle!"

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.[33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill."--SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green."--BEWICK.

[Footnote 33: A Scotch baronet, and the once well-known promoter of Sabbatarian legislation. Sir Andrew identified himself in the House of Commons with the efforts of an English Association, the "Lord's Day Society," and introduced a Bill to prohibit all open labour on Sunday, excepting "works of necessity and mercy,"--a measure bound, under any scheme of working, to inflict the direst hardship and injustice. After three defeats, the Bill was actually carried in 1837, but was afterwards allowed to drop.]

O Andrew Fairservice,--but I beg pardon, You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden, On curly kale and cabbages intent,-- Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,-- You are a Christian--I would be the same, Although we differ, and I'll tell you why, Not meaning to make game, I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will, About your bill, They say, among their other jibes and small jeers, That, if you had your way, You'd make the seventh day As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers. Talk of converting Blacks-- By your attacks, You make a thing so horrible of _one_ day, Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy, Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday, Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak, Who, once a week, P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers, Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers, And revel in a bloom That is not of the loom, Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees, A Chapel of Ease. Whereas, as you would plan it, Wall'd in with hard Scotch granite, People all day should look to their behaviors;-- But though there be, as Shakspeare owns, "Sermons in stones," Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviors?

Spontaneous is pure devotion's fire; And in a green wood many a soul has built A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire, Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt, Better than if an architect the plan drew; We know of old how medicines were back'd, But true Religion needs not to be quack'd By an Un-merry Andrew!

Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf At Primrose-hill would renovate himself, Or drink (and no great harm) _Milk_ genuine at _Chalk_ Farm,-- The innocent intention who would balk, And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink? For my part, for my life, I cannot think A walk on Sunday is "the Devil's Walk."

But there's a sect of Deists, and their creed Is D----ing other people to be d----d,-- Yeas, all that are not of their saintly level, They make a pious point To send, with an "aroint," Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil. To such, a ramble by the River Lea Is really treading on the "Banks of D----."

Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers, And say unto the sea, as Canute did, (Of course the sea will do as it is bid,) "This is the Sabbath--but there be no Breakers!" Seek London's Bishop, on some Sunday morn, And try him with your tenets to inoculate,-- Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn, "This is not _Churchman's_ Chocolate!"

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal, And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages, And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal, Shout out with holy zeal,-- "These are not _Chappet's_ sassages!" Suppose your Act should act up to your will, Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy, To hear you saying of this pious bill, "It _works_ well--on a Sunday!"

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late, Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;-- You might have done some good, and chang'd our fate, Could you have upset _that_, which ruined Adam! 'Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs, Or lay post-horses under legal fetters, While Tattersall's on Sunday stirs its _Legs_, Folks look for good examples from their _Betters_!

Consider,--Acts of Parliament may bind A man to go where Irvings are discoursing-- But as for forcing "proper frames of mind," Minds are not _framed_, like melons, for such _forcing_!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator, The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator; Meaning one need not ever be sojourning In a long Sermon Lane without a turning. Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia May like discourses with a skein of threads, And love a lecture for its many heads, But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo: Right know I am no minister you be, For you would say your service, sir, to me, Till I should say, "My service, sir, to you." Six days made all that is, you know, and then Came that of rest--by holy ordination, As if to hint unto the sons of men, After creation should come re-creation. Read right this text, and do not further search To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.

THE LOST HEIR.

"Oh where, and oh where Is my bonny laddie gone?" _Old Song_.

One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sodden cry, That chill'd my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaub'd with grease and mud. She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man-- Her right hand held a frying pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seemed to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech, As wild as ocean bird's, Or female Banter mov'd to preach, She gave her "sorrow-words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way-- A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing; was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a-playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd, and red plush, they was once his Father' His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim, With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and, you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dress'd, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan, Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break every bone of 'em I come near, Go home--you're spilling the porter--go home-- Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: O my Billy--my head will turn right round--if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions. Billy--where are you, Billy?--I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folk's darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley, And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair, As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and there ain't no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd where to run, Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,-- The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily, To find my Bill holdin up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week; As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways-- but O, I never never shall see him no more! O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog,-- It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face, For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was-- but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THE FOX AND THE HEN.

A FABLE.

Speaking within _compass_, as to fabulousness I prefer _Southcote_ to _Northcote_. PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when, Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad Right on the body of a speckled Hen, Determined upon taking all she had; And like a very bibber at his bottle, Began to draw the claret from her throttle; Of course it put her in a pretty pucker, And with a scream as high As she could cry, She call'd for help--she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream, And, with a savage growl In answer to the fowl, He bounded forth against the prowling sinner, And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom, Thought, self-deceived, He should not be perceived, Hiding his _brush_ within a neighboring _broom_! But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare, And caught in copper noose, And looking like a goose, Found that his fate had "hung upon a _hare_"; His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him, And worst of all he saw old surly Tray Coming to play Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable, Under his Master, a most special constable, Instead of killing Reynard in a fury, Seized him for legal trial by a Jury; But Juries--Æsop was a sheriff then-- Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body-- I mean the Hen--and proved that she was dead, To the veriest fool's head Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill Quite true enough to kill, And then the Owl was call'd,--for, mark, The Owl can witness in the dark. To make the evidence more plain, The Lynx connected all the chain. In short there was no quirk or quibble At which a legal Rat could nibble; The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds. As if the Jury had been _packed_--of hounds. Reynard, however, at the utmost nick, Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick; Accordingly our cunning Fox, Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd A friendly Camel got into the box, When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law, If Jurors should withdraw, They are to have no eating and no drinking, Till all are starved into one way of thinking. Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree, Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock, Till every Beast that only had _one_ stomach, Bent to the Camel, who was blest with _three_. To do them justice, they debated From four till ten, while dinner waited, When thirst and hunger got the upper, And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper: "Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance But that the Solon is a sorry Solon, Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence Depend upon a _Colon_?

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride When once destroyed can never be supplied. GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demerit-- Give him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently to _fawn_.

Folks who had hares discovered snares-- His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keepers' nerves; They swore he never seem'd to have _Jam_ satis of _preserves_.

The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the _covers_ made Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The _Manors_ about _Button_.

No county from his tricks was safe; In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in _Beds_, He often was at _Bucks_.

And when he went to _Bucks_, alas! They always came to _Herts_; And even _Oxon_ used to wish That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual _Hants_, Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots: He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_, And lost his life in _Notts_.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I'm come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came, With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap--alas! His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep',-- No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabout he lies? I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear'd to deeply strike:-- "Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;-- Instead of opening a ball, A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;-- I wish mine hadn't come so straight. But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;-- He had no pity in his heart, For he had _steel'd his breast_.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away; I call'd for quarter, but, alas! It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint;-- O Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point.

"With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do-- But soon by charging over me, The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph? I might have been a Butcher, and In business for myself!

"O why did I the bounty take? (And here he gasp'd for breath) My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not ev'n a _shell_--my only chance Of being made a _Kernel_!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells Will never ring at Chester! Here I must lie in Honor's bed, That isn't worth a _tester_!

"Farewell, my regimental mates, With whom I used to dress! My corps is changed, and I am now In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except, when I am dead, you'll go And see th' Illuminations."

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse. And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer? My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me "ugly little sin?" My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home--and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys And when I played cried "What a noise?"-- Girls always hector over boys-- My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had"; But at the stall the coin was bad? My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump? Alas! My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy--my sole relief? Myself.

THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.

"I like to meet a sweep--such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the _peep, peep_, of a young sparrow." --ESSAYS OF ELIA.

----"A voice cried Sweep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sweep." SHAKSPEARE.

One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betray'd internal woe. To cry amain he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped--but not a crow! I watched him and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I, the cause he will betray-- And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging! But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum. But they can't undo natur--as sure as ever the morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep! For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings? I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing. Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks--to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses. Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother. They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows? Do _we_ go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon? But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves! Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations! And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.

THE DESERT-BORN[34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."--LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

[Footnote 34: For the purposes of his pun on "night-mare," Hood adroitly utilizes the story of the famous Lady Hester Stanhope, whom Kinglake, in his _Eothen_, first made familiar to so many of us. He there speaks of the "quiet women in Somersetshire," and their surprise when they learned that "the intrepid girl who used to break their vicious horses for them" was reigning over the wandering tribes of Western Asia!]

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,-- To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!-- My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand, I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand, The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,-- When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud, And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene, Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow; A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below, And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear; In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere; Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk; Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath, Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet-- And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet! Of course I bowed my lowest bow--of all the things on earth, The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth, To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a _Desert_ to a _Woman_! Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd, Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind; There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh, Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye! With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land, I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand; And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise, Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face, She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race; "Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet; "It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet! Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars, This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!" Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands, A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands, Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race. "Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof, "Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof! Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth, And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth." Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near, She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL--for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee, But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free, And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride, Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side; Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath, Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth, A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste. Methought--but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight, Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white! To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse, The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse: Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat, Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat, I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;-- As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one _is_ a hero, Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs, Tempestuous tail--to picture him description vainly begs! His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath-- Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death? Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied: "Mount, happy man, and _run away_ with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke, Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke, So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born, Or any of its _ridings_, this would be a blessed morn; But, hapless one! I cannot ride--there's something in a horse That I can always honor, but I never could endorse-- To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight: In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still, I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will; Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle. In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low, "I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies, And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes; "Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend, There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend, That tells me you're of Arab race,--whatever spot of earth, Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth, The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse; But this--these desert sands--these palms, and cedars waving wild, All, all, adopt thee as their own--an oriental child-- The cloud may hide the sun awhile--but soon or late, no doubt, The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out! I read the starry characters--and lo! 'tis written there, Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare, A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould, Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly--I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom Had stifled her!--the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom; With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance, I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance, And felt myself, and saw myself--the phantasy was horrid!-- Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead! On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r, I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear; I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife, And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life; "Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit, Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit, Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill, Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will." Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel, The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal! "Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain, Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein; Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark, And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark! As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I--(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth, 'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth! A playful child,--so full of life!--a little fair-haired boy, His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy! Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now! That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow; A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse, That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!" Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now! A chill ran all my marrow through--the drops were on my brow! I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare, And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air. How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail; While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale! How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky, As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly! While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play-- Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh-- Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch-- Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,-- I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small, To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall! For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast, Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last! In agony I shook,--and yet, although congealed by fears, My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears; I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair, Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir--I could not speak--I could not even see-- A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me, I tried to pray, but found no words--tho' ready ripe to weep, No tear would flow,--o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,-- When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt, Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front, And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn, I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight; Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,-- "Off with the bridle--quick!--and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,--and starting with a bound, The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground; And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands, Away we flew--away! away! across the shifting sands! My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race, But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace, For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course-- One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea, The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee! And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense, Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain, A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain! What tongue could tell,--what pencil paint,--what pen describe the ride? Now off--now on--now up--now down,--and flung from side to side! I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone-- My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan-- My joints were racked--my back was strained, so firmly I had clung-- My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue-- When lo!--farewell all hope of life!--she turn'd and faced the rocks, None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks! So thought I,--but I little knew the desert pride and fire, Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire; Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone, Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;-- Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength-- My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death! She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath; Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring, I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing-- But oh! the crash!--the hideous shock!--the million sparks around! Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born--or else 'twas demon's mirth, One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

* * * * *

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense, And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense; For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone, The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own. My heart was still--my pulses stopp'd--midway 'twixt life and death, With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath, Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh, Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die. Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn, Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn! I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife-- A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life-- But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast? Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

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 sure_ly_, 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!--sure_ly_!--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]

[Footnote 35: This dates from the old days of transportation and Botany Bay. The judge indicated was Mr. Justice Alan Park, of the Common Pleas, and Mr. Cotton was Chaplain of Newgate.]

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.

[Footnote 36: The exquisite wit and fancy of these verses need not blind us to their touching earnestness. They might well be printed and circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing. The "Knight" mentioned was, of course, the excellent Charles Knight, pioneer and forerunner of all subsequent movements for cheapening and popularizing good literature.]

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, sure_ly_, 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.

[Footnote 37: The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the artist.]

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_.

[Footnote 38: Charles Lamb had been reading these verses when he wrote to his friend Dibdin, in June, 1896, and called him "Peter Fin Junior."]

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!"

CRANIOLOGY.

'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man--with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology-- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little poll-hills, The faculties throw up like mole-hills; A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For though he knew his skull had _grinders_, Still there turned up no _organ_ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled, And no man's head came in his head-- Not even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater.

At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him-- I don't know but it might be Spurzheim-- Tho' native of a dull and slow land, And makes partition of our Poll-land; At our Acquisitiveness guesses, And all those necessary _nesses_ Indicative of human habits, All burrowing in the head like rabbits. Thus Veneration, he made known, Had got a lodging at the Crown; And Music (see Deville's example) A set of chambers in the Temple; That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, Close by his neighbor Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration.

The science thus--to speak in fit Terms--having struggled from its nit, Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip, And wallop in all doctorship, Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water: These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science; For of all learned themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver, There's none they love so near the bodles, As analysing their own noddles; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head, And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers'. And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls! For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin; Down to the very lowest gullion, And oiliest skull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they _did_ do, They begged his cranium of his widow: No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster; For thereon they could show depending, "The head and front of his offending": How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail! And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion,-- Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils, Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister.

Each bias in some master node is:-- What takes M'Adam where a road is, To hammer little pebbles less? His organ of Destructiveness. What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate? a lumping lump of Number: Or Malthas rail at babies so? The smallness of his Philopro-- What severs man and wife? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple: Or makes weak women go astray? Their bumps are more in fault than they.

These facts being found and set in order By grave M. D.'s beyond the Border, To make them for some months eternal, Were entered monthly in a journal, That many a northern sage still writes in, And throws his little Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A great deal more than I or he knows: How Music suffers, _par exemple_, By wearing tight hats round the temple; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear; And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porter's occupation; Whether shillelaghs in reality May deaden Individuality; Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in th' Amative; If falls from scaffolds make us less Inclined to all Constructiveness: With more such matters, all applying To heads--and therefore _head-ifying_.

THE WEE MAN.

A ROMANCE.

It was a merry company, And they were just afloat, When lo! a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hailed the boat.

"Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in? A slender space will serve my case, For I am small and thin."

They saw he was a dwarfish man, And very small and thin; Not seven such would matter much, And so they took him in.

They laughed to see his little hat, With such a narrow brim; They laughed to note his dapper coat, With skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile, When, gravely, one and all At once began to think the man Was not so very small:

His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim; His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out A very proper limb.

Still on they went, and as they went, More rough the billows grew,-- And rose and fell, a greater swell, And he was swelling too!

And lo! where room had been for seven, For six there scarce was space! For five!--for four!--for three!--not more Than two could find a place!

There was not even room for one! They crowded by degrees-- Ay--closer yet, till elbows met, And knees were jogging knees.

"Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, The wave will else come in!" Without a word he gravely stirred, Another seat to win.

"Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee!" With smiling face and courteous grace, The middle seat took he.

But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide, Each neighbor wight, to left and right, Was thrust against the side.

Lord! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in; To see him grow so monstrous now, That came so small and thin.

On every brow a dewdrop stood, They grew so scared and hot,-- "I' the name of all that's great and tall, Who are ye, sir, and what?"

Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh As loud as giant's roar-- "When first I came, my proper name Was Little--now I'm _Moore!_"[39]

[Footnote 39: Thomas Moore is a forgotten poet, and it cannot therefore be impertinent to remind the reader that in his early days he published certain rather "vain and amatorious" poems under the pseudonym of "Thomas Little."]

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

Oh happy time!--Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes--abrupt and few, So easily and swift I drew, Sufficed for my design; My sketchy, superficial hand Drew solids at a dash--and spanned A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical--my bent Essayed a higher walk; I copied leaden eyes in lead-- Rheumatic hands in white and red, And gouty feet--in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces--happy phrase, For faces such as mine! Accomplished in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine.

Old Gods and Heroes--Trojan--Greek, Figures--long after the antique, Great Ajax justly feared; Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt, And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas that out-stared her owl, A Vulcan--very lame; A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murdered Mars-- (One Williams did the same).

But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink! Dipping--"as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"-- That is--in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows: What clouds of dingy hue! In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not "lend Enchantment to the view."

Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design Black Forests half so black as mine, Or lakes so like a pall; The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Of darkness, like the light of Day And Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still, I gazed on all with right good will, And spread the dingy tint; "No holy Luke helped me to paint, The devil surely, not a Saint, Had any finger in't!"

But colors came!--like morning light, With gorgeous hues, displacing night, Or Spring's enlivened scene: At once the sable shades withdrew; My skies got very, very blue; My trees extremely green.

And washed by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush; With lock of auburn stain-- (Not Goldsmith's Auburn)--nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair; Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Her lips were of vermilion hue: Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, Set all my heart in flame! A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made--but time was stored With evil--and it came!

Perspective dawned--and soon I saw My houses stand against its law; And "keeping" all unkept! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings; But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes? Why did I get more artist wise? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine; That I'm no Hilton in design-- In nature no De Wint!

Thrice happy time!--Art's early days! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed As nothing to the young!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells,-- Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away, The Postman gone--and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so 'twill be when she is gone, That tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

[Footnote 40: The muffin-boy, with his "evening bell," is still in the land; but the evening postman, perambulating the streets and collecting letters "just in time," has "passed away" for ever.]

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond; And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was Fayre and He was Kinde; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde With Shrikes that Echo answered round-- O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd!

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I really take it very kind, This visit, Mrs. Skinner! I have not seen you such an age-- (The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls-- What heads for painters' easels! Come here and kiss the infant, dears-- (And give it p'rhaps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both-- (What boots for my new Brussels!)

"What! little Clara left at home? Well now I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so-- (A flabby, dabby, babby!)

"And Mr. S., I hope he's well, Ah! though he lives so handy, He never now drops in to sup-- (The better for our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat--I long to hear About Matilda's marriage; You're come of course to spend the day! (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)

"What! must you go? next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay--I shall see you down the stairs-- (With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners!")

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepar'd."--_Macheath._

If I shoot any more I'll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march'd the whole day With a gun,--for no pay-- Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet! With confidence fraught My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,-- My appointments are modern and Mantony; And I've brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!

The partridges,--where can they lie? I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,--I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants--how well they're preserv'd!-- My sport's not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax'd, Till my patience is tax'd, But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats, In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock,--this month is the time,-- Right and left I've made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But 'spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day's the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake--oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search'd round and round, All the Baronet's ground, But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring, And it's really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."

If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense; And there still remains one More mischance on my gun-- "Fined for shooting without any licence."

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"A Day after the Fair."--_Old Proverb_.

John Day he was the biggest man Of all the coachman kind, With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight, When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas box, To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love, What armor can avail? Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved, From whom he never ranged, For though he changed his horses there, His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares, So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pump-- He came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn To like so huge a man, So I must beg you will come here As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, altho' He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued, The maid was cold and proud, And sent him off to Coventry, While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud, And thence all back to town, The course of love was never smooth, So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine To merely bones and skin, But still he loved like one resolved To love through thick and thin.

O Mary! view my wasted back, And see my dwindled calf; Tho' I have never had a wife, I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd, He heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow To break his being's link; For he was so reduced in size, At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise, And waste a deal of breath, But John, tho' he drank nothing else, He drank himself to death!

The cruel maid that caused his love Found out the fatal close, For looking in the butt, she saw The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, But that is only talk-- For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns--but call them swains-- Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains, For all that tend on sheep as drovers Are turned to songsters or to lovers, Each of the lass he call'd his dear, Began to carol loud and clear. First Huggins sang, and Duggins then, In the way of ancient shepherd men; Who thus alternate hitched in song, "All things by turns, and nothing long."

HUGGINS.

Of all the girls about our place, There's one beats all in form and face; Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead, You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

DUGGINS.

To groves and streams I tell my flame, I make the cliffs repeat her name; When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

HUGGINS.

When I am walking in the grove, I think of Peggy as I rove. I'd carve her name on every tree, But I don't know my A, B, C.

DUGGINS.

Whether I walk in hill or valley, I think of nothing else but Sally. I'd sing her praise, but I can sing No song, except "God save the king!"

HUGGINS.

My Peggy does all nymphs excel, And all confess she bears the bell,-- Where'er she goes swains flock together, Like sheep that follow the bell wether.

DUGGINS.

Sally is tall and not too straight,-- Those very poplar shapes I hate; But something twisted like an S,-- A crook becomes a shepherdess.

HUGGINS.

When Peggy's dog her arms empris'n I often wish my lot was hisn; How often I should stand and turn, To get a pat from hands like hern.

DUGGINS.

I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be, To stand about, and stare at she; But when I look, she turns and shies, And won't bear none but their sheep's eyes!

HUGGINS.

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,-- Beneath her smile the garden grows; Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

DUGGINS.

Where Sally goes it's always Spring, Her presence brightens everything; The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

HUGGINS.

For Peggy I can have no joy, She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, As comfortless as sheep with ticks!

DUGGINS.

Sally is ripe as June or May, And yet as cold as Christmas Day; For when she's asked to change her lot, Lamb's wool,--but Sally, she wool not.

HUGGINS.

Only with Peggy and with health, I'd never wish for state or wealth; Talking of having health and more pence, I'd drink her health if I had fourpence!

DUGGINS.

Oh, how that day would seem to shine, If Sally's banns were read with mine; She cries, when such a wish I carry, "Marry come up!" but will not marry.

THE CHINA-MENDER.

Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job! Lord help my Lady!--what a smash!--if you had only heard her sob! It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey, To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney. "Deuce take your stupid head!" says my Lady to his very face; But politeness, you know, is nothing when there's Chiney in the case; And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion, It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion. Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads-- Such bronzes, and such dragons, and nasty squatting things like toads; And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head: I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed. But the frightfuller they are--lawk! she loves them all the better, She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her. Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it's breaking her very heart; If I touched it, she would very soon say, "Mary, we must part." To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall, And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle: He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch, And that's why my Lady doesn't take to children much. Well, there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two greatcoat flaps. Must go and sit down on the Dresd'n shepherdesses' laps, As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room! I couldn't have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom. Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear! Well, after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear. If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it won't be John Dockery-- I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery. I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy, And afraid of meat on market-days every Monday and Friday I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch; The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match. Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney; She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny. Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking; I could find it in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making. To see him stand a-hammering and stammering like a zany; But what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old Chaney! If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr. Spode's, He couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads. Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self, I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns, And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns, And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest, And a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bow-pot at the breast. God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into 'em at her death; Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath. Well! you may think the things will mend--if they won't, Lord mend us all! My lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won't need to call; I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give, He won't sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live. Poor soul! I only hope it won't forbid his banns of marriage; Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage. But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's friend, I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend. To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats, Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats. Be particular with the pagoda: and then here's this pretty bowl-- The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole; And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll, Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand, And charge whatever you like to charge--my Lady won't make a stand. Well! good-morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended: And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's mended.

DOMESTIC DIDACTICS.

BY AN OLD SERVANT.

I.

THE BROKEN DISH.

What's life but full of care and doubt With all its fine humanities, With parasols we walk about, Long pigtails, and such vanities.

We plant pomegranate trees and things, And go in gardens sporting, With toys and fans of peacocks' wings, To painted ladies courting.

We gather flowers of every hue, And fish in boats for fishes, Build summer-houses painted blue,-- But life's as frail as dishes!

Walking about their groves of trees, Blue bridges and blue rivers, How little thought them two Chinese, They'd both be smashed to shivers!

II.

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell-- But stop, for there's the bell. Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches On Wednesday, when there's very few In loft or pew-- Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's. Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage-- Hush! there's a carriage. Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods-- The five Miss Woods! Oh Peace! thou art the goddess I adore-- There come some more. Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet-- That's Lord Dunn's footman, for he loves a riot!

Oh Peace! Knocks will not cease. Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd-- That's Weippert's band. Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches-- I hear the sound of coaches. Oh Peace! oh Peace! another carriage stops-- It's early for the Blenkinsops.

Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander, But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander, And now I've seen her up the stair, Oh Peace!--but here comes Captain Hare. Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind, Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,-- If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken, Alderman Gobble won't be far behind. Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,-- Make way there for his Serene Highness!

Oh Peace! if you do not disdain To dwell amongst the menial train, I have a silent place and lone, That you and I may call our own; Where tumult never makes an entry-- Susan! what business have you in my pantry?

Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk, At variance with his wife--Oh Peace! And that great German, Vander Trunk, And that great talker, Miss Apreece; Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills-- Oh Peace! our greatest renovator; I wonder where I put my waiter-- Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease, I have no peace to write of Peace!

III.

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summoned hence-- There's cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We're hourly standing at Death's door-- There's some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the worms-- They're come to lunch of course!

And when my body's turned to clay, And dear friends hear my knell, Oh let them give a sigh and say-- I hear the upstairs bell!

IV.

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mary, you know I've no love nonsense, And though I pen on such a day, I don't mean flirting, on my conscience, Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, It saves you p'rhaps from being vain, And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty, But doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms, And at your old legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of.

LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.[41]

[Footnote 41: These verses form a good specimen of Hood's capabilities for writing to order. They first appeared in the _Bijou_ for 1828, accompanying a vignette by Thomas Stothard of two knights, mounted, and in complete armor, engaged in deadly conflict. This was doubtless (after the then custom of _Annuals_) placed in Hood's hands for him to supply the appropriate letterpress.]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, All chivalrous romantic work Is ended now and past!-- That iron age--which some have thought Of metal rather overwrought-- Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights Of old--those armadillo wights Who wore the plated vest?-- Great Charlemagne and all his peers Are cold--enjoying with their spears An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound; So sleep his knights who gave that Round Old Table such éclat! Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow! And none engage at tourneys now But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by, And Guy is nothing but a Guy, Orlando lies forlorn!-- Bold Sidney, and his kidney--nay, Those "early champions"--what are they But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres, Like those of old, in breaking spears-- The name is now a lie!-- Surgeons, alone, by any chance, Are all that ever couch a lance To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick, That cut the Moslems to the quick, His weapon lies in peace: Oh, it would warm them in a trice, If they could only have a spice Of his old mace in Greece!

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold, And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold, That scaled the holy wall! No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great _Salad_in, But only grow the small!

Our _Cressys_, too, have dwindled since To penny things--at our Black Prince[42] Historic pens would scoff: The only one we moderns had Was nothing but a Sandwich lad, And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans, Their pikes, and bills, and partisans, Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs? A battle was a battle then, A breathing piece of work; but men Fight now--with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date; The good old crossbow bends--to Fate; 'Tis gone, the archer's craft! No tough arm bends the spinning yew, And jolly draymen ride, in lieu Of Death, upon the shaft!

The spear,--the gallant tilter's pride, The rusty spear, is laid aside,-- Oh, spits now domineer! The coat of mail is left alone,-- And where is all chain armor gone? Go ask at Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists, Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists, A low and vulgar art!-- No mounted man is overthrown: A tilt!--it is a thing unknown-- Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb, Clad like his Chief in steely garb, For warding steel's appliance! Methinks I hear the trumpet stir! 'Tis but the guard, to Exeter, That bugles the "Defiance"!

In cavils when will cavaliers Set ringing helmets by the ears, And scatter plumes about? Or blood--if they are in the vein? That tap will never run again-- Alas! the _Casque_ is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored By dint of battle-axe or sword, To find a vital place-- Though certain doctors still pretend, Awhile, before they kill a friend, To labor through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might! Crusader, errant squire, and knight! Our coats and customs soften; To rise would only make you weep-- Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep, As in a safety coffin!

[Footnote 42: The allusion to our modern "Black Prince" is apparently to Prince Le Boo, whose death, while on a visit to England, had so impressed the public imagination. He came, however, from the Pelew Islands, not the "Sandwich;" and it was smallpox, not measles, that "took him off."]

PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.

"Who'll serve the King?"

What little urchin is there never Hath had that early scarlet fever, Of martial trappings caught? Trappings well call'd--because they trap And catch full many a country chap To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag Hath never made a little flag (Our plate will show the manner), And wooed each tiny neighbor still, Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist, In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!" Come, who will serve the king, And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead, And cut off Bonyparty's head?-- And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy, To march with military toy, And ape the soldier's life;-- And with a whistle or a hum, I thought myself a Duke of Drum At least, or Earl of Fife.

With gun of tin and sword of lath, Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path With regimental mates, By sound of trump and rub-a dubs-- To 'siege the washhouse--charge the tubs-- Or storm the garden gates.

Ah me! my retrospective soul! As over memory's muster-roll I cast my eyes anew, My former comrades all the while Rise up before me, rank and file, And form in dim review.

Ay, there they stand, and dress in line, Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, And dark "Jamaeky Forde!" And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes," Our captain always made, because He had a _real_ sword!

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, Who said he had a gun at home, But that was all a brag; Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb That _would_ hold up the flag!

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White," Who never right-abouted right, For he was deaf and dumb; Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play Unless he had the drum.

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, A chap that never kept the step-- No more did "Surly Hugh;" Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim"-- We often had to halt for him, To let him tie his shoe.

"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick The plumes within his hat; Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout, That got so thump'd for calling out "Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, Was always in the awkward squad, And those two greedy Blakes That took our money to the fair, To buy the corps a trumpet there, And laid it out in cakes.

Where are they now?--an open war With open mouth declaring for?-- Or fall'n in bloody fray? Compell'd to tell the truth I am, Their fights all ended with the sham,-- Their soldiership in play.

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, And Martin sells the cock he plucks, And Jepp now deals in wine; Harrington bears a lawyer's bag, And warlike Lamb retains his flag, But on a tavern sign.

They tell me Cockey Hawes's sword Is seen upon a broker's board: And as for "Fighting Jim," In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, His unresisting cheek I spied Beneath a Quaker brim!

Quarrelsome Scott is in the church, For Ryder now your eye must search The marts of silk and lace-- Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I--I've got a substitute To Soldier in my place!

MARY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside.

O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come, And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone, They've come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's.

I vowed that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the City.

I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van.

I wish you'd go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place, They've took for my inside.

The cock it crows--I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart.

Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie.

THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by and by. If three should come together--why, Three widows are good company! If four should meet by any chance, Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice-- But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not Declare her name?--her name was Cross) Was one of those the "common lot" Had left to weep "no common loss"; For she had lately buried then A man, the "very best of men," A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men "are at the worst."

To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep-- I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did _not_ weep: In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect "veil of tears." Though ever since she lost "her prop And stay"--alas! he wouldn't stay-- She never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop From Passion's eye, as Moore would say, Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spite-- He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week, As if "to wet a widows' cheek," And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy-- 'Twas nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy; And yet she often seemed to raise A cambric kerchief to her eye-- A _duster_ ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry. The springs were locked that ought to flow-- In England or in widow-woman-- As those that watch the weather know, Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains To call upon the "dear remains"-- Remains that could not tell a jot Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses? Oh! my black ink turns red for shame-- But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn," At the next grave to Mr. Cross's! For there an angel's virtues slept, "Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!" But still her painted face he kept, "Encompassed in an angel's frame."

He looked quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band; He looked so lone, and so _un_wived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even _that_ band! And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices-- Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again-- No leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main! Whoe'er has watched the window-pane-- I mean to say in showery weather-- Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain, At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together: So fared it with that couple's weeping! The principle was quite as active-- Tear unto tear Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive.

To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting _tête-à-tête_-- Two cups--hot muffins on a plate-- With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water! The brazen vessel for awhile Had lectured in an easy song, Like Abernethy,--on the bile-- The scalded herb was getting strong; All seemed as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cosy cup of tea. Alas! how often human sippers With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told, Had seen three husbands to the mould: She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves; But, with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with "three removes." Thus, when with any tender words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed Mr. Cross Came in for nothing but his thirds; For, as all widows love too well, She liked upon the list to dwell, And oft ripped up the old disasters. She might, indeed, have been supposed A great _ship_ owner; for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned What had been left her by her first, And by her last, and by her second. Alas! not all her annual rents Could then entice the little German-- Not Mr. Cross's Three per Cents, Or Consols, ever make him _her_ man. He liked her cash, he liked her houses, But not that dismal bit of land She always settled on her spouses. So taking up his hat and band, Said he, "You'll think my conduct odd-- But here my hopes no more may linger; I thought you had a wedding-finger, But oh!--it is a curtain-rod!"

AN OPEN QUESTION.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."--BUNYAN.

What! shut the gardens; lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, "On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"

The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens,--so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,-- Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,-- Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,-- Nor rum--nor gin--not even of a Monday-- The Lion is not carved--or gilt--or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The bear denied! the Leopard under locks! As if his spots would give contagious fevers; The Beaver close as hat within its box; So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible--the Gnaw-way Rats-- The Seal hermetically seal'd till Monday-- The Monkey tribe--the Family of Cats,-- We visit other families on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling? The Kangaroo--is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat, Struck all a heap to see a _Coati Mundi_? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret? One thing is plain--it is not in the feeding! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-- But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell Hyæna of the Ghoulish race? The Snake, _pro tempore_, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds,--(whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)-- Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody fellows, not a few, Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious: Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday-- Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult The feathers in her head--at least till Monday; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian Goose? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he prey'd extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious-- As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin-- (Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday-- (That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I cannot think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-- It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen "Natural" on Monday, The wondrous History of bird and beast, Can be Unnatural because it's Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work? The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird--or the filial Stork? The punctual Crane--the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feather'd marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver--that sagacious beast! The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd-- That Desert-ship the Camel of the East, The horn'd Rhinoceros--the spotted Leopard-- The creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday-- The elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature, Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature"? Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up _Dens_ with their theology? Is Brahma's Bull--a Hindoo god at home-- A papal bull to be tied up till Monday-- Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough To make religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast--rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great, Of being cheated as to cheat."--HUDIBRAS.

The history of human-kind to trace, Since Eve--the first of dupes--our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams! A rage that time seems only to redouble-- The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams, That cost our modern rogues so little trouble. No matter what,--to pasture cows on stubble, To twist sea-sand into a solid rope, To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, Or light with gas the whole celestial cope-- Only propose to blow a bubble, And Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap!--it reminds me of a little tale, Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory, When rustic games and merriment prevail-- But here's my story: Once on a time--no matter when-- A knot of very charitable men Set up a Philanthropical Society, Professing on a certain plan, To benefit the race of man, And in particular that dark variety, Which some suppose inferior--as in vermin The sable is to ermine, As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster, As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow, As blacking, or as ink, to "milk below," Or yet a better simile to show, As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city, They had a sort of managing Committee, A board of grave responsible Directors-- A Secretary, good at pen and ink-- A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink, And quite an army of Collectors! Not merely male, but female duns, Young, old, and middle-aged--of all degrees-- With many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese! And what might be their aim? To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters-- To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters-- Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes, Their necks from iron yokes? To end or mitigate the ills of slavery, The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery? To school the heathen Negroes and enlighten 'em, To polish up and brighten 'em, And make them worthy of eternal bliss? Why, no--the simple end and aim was this-- Reading a well-known proverb much amiss-- To wash and whiten 'em!

They look'd so ugly in their sable hides: So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides, However the poor elves Might wash themselves, Nobody knew if they were clean or not-- On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot! Not to forget more serious complaints That even while they join'd in pious hymn, So black they were and grim, In face and limb, They look'd like Devils, tho' they sang like Saints! The thing was undeniable! They wanted washing! not that slight ablution To which the skin of the White Man is liable, Merely removing transient pollution-- But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing And scrubbing, Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather, And pails of water--hottish rather, But not so boiling as to turn 'em red!

So spoke the philanthropic man Who laid, and hatch'd, and nursed the plan-- And oh! to view its glorious consummation! The brooms and mops, The tubs and slops, The baths and brushes in full operation! To see each Crow, or Jim or John, Go in a raven and come out a swan! While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels, Black Venus rises from the soapy surge, And all the little Niggerlings emerge As lily-white as mussels.

Sweet was the vision--but alas! However in prospectus bright and sunny, To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was--money! Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks and collars, shirts and frills, Cravats and kerchiefs--money, without which The negroes must remain as dark as pitch; A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living--so to speak--in Satan's livery!

Money--the root of evil,--dross, and stuff! But oh! how happy ought the rich to feel, Whose means enable them to give enough To blanch an African from head to heel! How blessed--yea, thrice blessed--to subscribe Enough to scour a tribe! While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one, Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe, Or little one!

Moved by this logic, or appall'd, To persons of a certain turn so proper, The money came when call'd, In silver, gold, and copper, Presents from "Friends to blacks," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widows' mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts, Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. As thus--Elisha Brettel, An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Rebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howels, Half-a-dozen towels. The Master Rush's, Two scrubbing-brushes. Mr. T. Groom, A stable broom, And Mrs. Grubb, A tub.

Great were the sums collected! And great results in consequence expected. But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavor, According to reports At yearly courts, The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

Yes! spite of all the water sous'd aloft, Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft, Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand, Brooms, brushes, palm of hand, And scourers in the office strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The routing and the grubbing, The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

In fact in his perennial speech, The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach, As he had hoped. From being washed and soaped, A circumstance he named with grief and pity; But still he had the happiness to say, For self and the Committee, By persevering in the present way And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day, Although he could not promise perfect white, From certain symptoms that had come to light, He hoped in time to get them gray!

Lull'd by this vague assurance, The friends and patrons of the sable tribe Continued to subscribe, And waited, waited on with much endurance-- Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter-- Many a stinted widow, pinching mother-- With income by the tax made somewhat shorter, Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter, Only to hear as ev'ry year came round, That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound; And as she loved her sable brother, That Mr. Treasurer must have another!

But, spite of pounds or guineas, Instead of giving any hint Of turning to a neutral tint, The plaguy Negroes and their piccaninnies Were still the color of the bird that caws-- Only some very aged souls Showing a little gray upon their polls, Like daws!

However, nothing clashed By such repeated failures, or abashed, The Court still met;--the Chairman and Directors, The Secretary, good at pen and ink, The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink, And all the cash Collectors; With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Without whose help, no charlatan alive, Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive, Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous-- Those good and easy innocents in fact, Who willingly receiving chaff for corn, As pointed out by Butler's tact, Still find a secret pleasure in the act Of being pluck'd and shorn!

However, in long hundreds there they were, Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court, To hear once more addresses from the Chair, And regular Report. Alas! concluding in the usual strain, That what with everlasting wear and tear, The scrubbing-brushes hadn't got a hair-- The brooms--mere stumps--would never serve again-- The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds, The towels worn to threads, The tubs and pails too shattered to be mended-- And what was added with a deal of pain, But as accounts correctly would explain, Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended-- The Blackamoors had still been wash'd in vain!

"In fact, the Negroes were as black as ink, Yet, still as the Committee dared to think, And hoped the proposition was not rash, A rather free expenditure of cash--" But ere the prospect could be made more sunny-- Up jump'd a little, lemon-colored man, And with an eager stammer, thus began, In angry earnest, though it sounded funny: "What! More subscriptions! No--no--no,--not I!" "You have had time--time--time enough to try! They WON'T come white! then why--why--why--why, More money?"

"Why!" said the Chairman, with an accent bland, And gentle waving of his dexter hand, "Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust, More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold-- The why, sir, very easily is told, Because Humanity declares we must! We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'em, And finding that we cannot wash them white, But still their nigritude offends the sight, _We mean to gild 'em!_"

ETCHING MORALISED.

TO A NOBLE LADY.

"To point a moral."--JOHNSON.

Fairest Lady and Noble, for once on a time, Condescend to accept, in the humblest of rhyme, And a style more of Gay than of Milton, A few opportune verses design'd to impart Some didactical hints in a Needlework Art, Not described by the Countess of Wilton.

An Art not unknown to the delicate hand Of the fairest and first in this insular land, But in Patronage Royal delighting; And which now your own feminine fantasy wins, Tho' it scarce seems a lady-like work, that begins In a _scratching_ and ends in a _biting_!

Yet oh! that the dames of the Scandalous School Would but use the same acid, and sharp-pointed tool, That are plied in the said operations-- Oh! would that our Candours on copper would sketch! For the first of all things in begining to etch Are--good _grounds_ for our representations.

Those protective and delicate coatings of wax, Which are meant to resist the corrosive attacks That would ruin the copper completely; Thin cerements which whoso remembers the Bee So applauded by Watts, the divine LL.D., Will be careful to spread very neatly.

For why? like some intricate deed of the law, Should the ground in the process be left with a flaw, Aqua-fortis is far from a joker; And attacking the part that no coating protects, Will turn out as distressing to all your _effects_ As a landlord who puts in a broker.

Then carefully spread the conservative stuff, Until all the bright metal is cover'd enough, To repel a destructive so active; For in Etching, as well as in Morals, pray note That a little raw spot, or a hole in a coat, Your ascetics find vastly attractive.

Thus the ground being laid, very even and flat, And then smoked with a taper, till black as a hat, Still from future disasters to screen it, Just allow me, by way of precaution, to state, You must hinder the footman from changing your _plate_, Nor yet suffer the butler to clean it.

Nay, the housemaid, perchance, in her passion to scrub, May suppose the dull metal in want of a rub, Like the Shield which Swift's readers remember-- Not to mention the chance of some other mishaps, Such as having your copper made up into caps To be worn on the First of September.

But aloof from all damage by Betty or John, You secure the veil'd surface, and trace thereupon The design you conceive the most proper: Yet gently, and not with a needle too keen, Lest it pierce to the wax through the paper between, And of course play Old Scratch with the copper.

So in worldly affairs, the sharp-practising man Is not always the one who succeeds in his plan, Witness Shylock's judicial exposure; Who, as keen as his knife, yet with agony found, That while urging his _point_ he was losing his _ground_, And incurring a fatal disclosure.

But, perhaps, without tracing at all, you may choose To indulge in some little extempore views, Like the older artistical people; For example, a Corydon playing his pipe, In a Low Country marsh, with a Cow, after Cuyp, And a Goat skipping over a steeple.

A wild Deer at a rivulet taking a sup, With a couple of Pillars put in to fill up, Like the columns of certain diurnals; Or a very brisk sea, in a very stiff gale, And a very Dutch boat, with a very big sail-- Or a bevy of Retzsch Infernals.

Architectural study--or rich Arabesque-- Allegorical dream--or a view picturesque, Near to Naples, or Venice, or Florence; Or "as harmless as lambs and as gentle as doves," A sweet family cluster of plump little Loves, Like the Children by Reynolds or Lawrence.

But whatever the subject, your exquisite taste Will ensure a design very charming and chaste, Like yourself, full of nature and beauty-- Yet besides the _good points_ you already reveal, You will need a few others--of well-temper'd steel, And especially form'd for the duty.

For suppose that the tool be imperfectly set, Over many _weak lengths in your line_ you will fret, Like a pupil of Walton and Cotton, Who remains by the brink of the water, agape, While the jack, trout, or barbel effects its escape Thro' the gut or silk line being rotten.

Therefore, let the steel point be set truly and round, That the finest of strokes may be even and sound, Flowing glibly where fancy would lead 'em. But alas! for the needle that fetters the hand, And forbids even sketches of Liberty's land To be drawn with the requisite freedom!

Oh! the botches I've seen by a tool of the sort, Rather hitching than etching, and making, in short, Such stiff, crabbed, and angular scratches, That the figures seem'd statues or mummies from tombs, While the trees were as rigid as bundles of brooms, And the herbage like bunches of matches!

The stiff clouds as if carefully iron'd and starch'd, While a cast-iron bridge, meant for wooden, o'er-arch'd Something more like a road than a river. Prythee, who in such characteristics could see Any trace of the beautiful land of the free-- The Free-Mason--Free-Trader--Free-Liver!

But prepared by a hand that is skilful and nice, The fine point glides along like a skate on the ice, At the will of the Gentle Designer, Who impelling the needle just presses so much, That each line of her labor _the copper may touch_, As if done by a penny-a-liner.

And behold! how the fast-growing images gleam! Like the sparkles of gold in a sunshiny stream, Till perplex'd by the glittering issue, You repine for a light of a tenderer kind-- And in choosing a substance for making a blind, Do not sneeze at the paper call'd _tissue_.

For, subdued by the sheet so transparent and white, Your design will appear in a soberer light, And reveal its defects on inspection, Just as Glory achieved, or political scheme, And some more of our dazzling performances seem, Not so bright on a _cooler reflection_.

So the juvenile Poet with ecstasy views His first verses, and dreams that the songs of his Muse Are as brilliant as Moore's and as tender-- Till some critical sheet scans the faulty design, And alas! _takes the shine out of every line_ That had form'd such a vision of splendor;

Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch, Which, design'd by a hand unaccustom'd to etch, With a luckless result may be branded; Wherefore add this particular rule to your code, Let all vehicles take the _wrong_ side of the road, And man, woman, and child, be _left-handed._

Yet regard not the awkward appearance with doubt, But remember how often mere blessings fall out, That at first seem'd no better than curses; So, till _things take a turn_, live in hope, and depend That whatever is wrong will come right in the end, And console you for all your _reverses_.

But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth, Of that Club (may all honor betide it!) Which, tho' dealing in copper, by genius and taste, Has accomplish'd _a service of plate_ not disgraced By the work of a Goldsmith beside it.[43]

So your sketch superficially drawn on the plate, It becomes you to fix in a permanent state, Which involves a precise operation, With a keen biting fluid, which _eating its way_-- As in other professions is common they say-- Has attain'd an artistical station.

And it's, oh! that some splenetic folks I could name If they _must_ deal in acids would use but the same, In such innocent graphical labors! In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith-- Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith-- They keep biting the backs of their neighbors!

But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch, You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which You may pour the dilute aqua-fortis. For if raw like a dram, it will shock you to trace Your design with a horrible froth on its face, Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure From the use of _strong waters_, without any pure, A vile practice, most sad and improper! For, from painful examples, this warning is found, That the raw burning spirit will _take up the ground_, In the churchyard, as well as on copper!

But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites Only just where the visible metal invites, Like a nature inclined to meet troubles; And behold! as each slender and glittering line Effervesces, you trace the completed design In an elegant bead-work of bubbles!

And yet constantly secretly eating its way, The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey, Like some sorrow beyond inquisition, Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile, And the wit is in bright ebullition.

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff Has corroded and deepen'd some portions enough-- The pure sky, and the waters so placid-- And these tenderer tints to defend from attack, With some turpentine varnish and sooty lamp-black You must _stop out_ the ferreting acid.

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed, Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed From the other less innocent liquor-- After which, on whatever you want to protect, Put a _coat_ that will act to that very effect, Like the black one which hangs on the Vicar.

Then--the varnish well dried--urge the biting again, But how long at its meal the _eau forte_ may remain, Time and practice alone can determine: But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill, The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will, Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap, With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap, Is consider'd as rather Rembrandty; And that very black cattle and very black sheep, A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep, Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name, All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame, From our birth to our final adjourning-- Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack! What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch, While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich, More transparent than ebony shutters, Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say, Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away, As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax _at a heat_, Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti or sweet, For your hand a performance scarce proper-- So some careful professional person secure-- For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur-- To assist you in _cleaning the copper_.

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job, To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob-- Though as sure of an instant forgetting, When--as after the dark clearing-off of a storm-- The fair Landscape shines out in a lustre as warm As the glow of the sun, in its setting!

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint, That with certain assistance from paper and print, Which the proper Mechanic will settle, You may charm all your Friends--without any sad tale Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-- With _a fine India Proof of your Metal_.

[Footnote 43: "The Deserted Village." Illustrated by the Etching Club.]

A TALE OF A TRUMPET.

"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing? Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing." _Old Ballad._

Of all old women hard of hearing, The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing! On her head, it is true, Two flaps there grew, That served for a pair of gold rings to go through, But for any purpose of ears in a parley, They heard no more than ears of barley.

No hint was needed from D.E.F. You saw in her face that the woman was deaf; From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, Each queer feature asked a query; A look that said in a silent way, "Who? and What? and How? and Eh? I'd give my ears to know what you say!"

And well she might! for each auricular Was deaf as a post--and that post in particular That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now, And never hears a word of a row! Ears that might serve her now and then As extempore racks for an idle pen; Or to hang with hoops from jewellers' shops With coral, ruby, or garnet drops; Or, provided the owner so inclined, Ears to stick a blister behind; But as for hearing wisdom, or wit, Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit, Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt, Sermon, lecture, or musical bit, Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit, They might as well, for any such wish, Have been butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish! She was deaf as a post,--as said before-- And as deaf as twenty similes more, Including the adder, that deafest of snakes, Which never hears the coil it makes.

She was deaf as a house--which modern tricks Of language would call as deaf as bricks-- For her all human kind were dumb, Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum, That none could get a sound to come, Unless the Devil who had Two Sticks! She was deaf as a stone--say, one of the stones Demosthenes suck'd to improve his tones; And surely deafness no further could reach Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech!

She was deaf as a nut--for nuts, no doubt, Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out-- As deaf, alas! as the dead and forgotten-- (Gray has noticed the waste of breath, In addressing the "dull, cold ear of death"), Or the Felon's ear that was stuff'd with Cotton-- Or Charles the First _in statue quo_; Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud, With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax, That only stare whatever you "ax," For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax.

She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond, And wouldn't listen to Mrs. Bond,-- As deaf as any Frenchman appears, When he puts his shoulders into his ears: And--whatever the citizen tells his son-- As deaf as Gog and Magog at one! Or, still to be a simile-seeker, As deaf as dogs'-ears to Enfield's Speaker!

She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy, Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy; Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics, Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics.

She was deaf as a nail--that you cannot hammer A meaning into for all your clamor-- There never _was_ such a deaf old Gammer! So formed to worry Both Lindley and Murray, By having no ear for Music or Grammar!

Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings, Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings, Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle, Deaf to even the definite article-- No verbal message was worth a pin, Though you hired an earwig to carry it in!

In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke, Or all the Deafness in Yearsley's work, Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing, Boring, blasting, and pioneering, To give the dunny organ a clearing, Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing.

Of course the loss was a great privation, For one of her sex--whatever her station-- And none the less that the Dame had a turn For making all families one concern, And learning whatever there was to learn In the prattling, tattling village of Tringham-- As who wore silk? and who wore gingham? And what the Atkins's shop might bring 'em? How the Smiths contrived to live? and whether The fourteen Murphys all pigg'd together? The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, And what they boil'd for their Sunday dinners? What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf, Crockery, china, wooden, or delf? And if the parlor of Mrs. O'Grady Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady?

Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle? Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle? What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown? And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown? If the Cobbler could read, and believed in the Pope? And how the Grubbs were off for soap? If the Snobbs had furnish'd their room upstairs, And how they managed for tables and chairs, Beds, and other household affairs, Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares? And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows? In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys, By courtesy called Statistical Fellows-- A prying, spying, inquisitive clan, Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan, Jotting the Laboring Class's riches; And after poking in pot and pan, And routing garments in want of stitches, Have ascertained that a working man Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches!

But this, alas! from her loss of hearing, Was all a seal'd book to Dame Eleanor Spearing; And often her tears would rise to their founts-- Supposing a little scandal at play 'Twixt Mrs. O'Fie and Mrs. An Fait-- That she couldn't audit the Gossips' accounts. 'Tis true, to her cottage still they came, And ate her muffins just the same, And drank the tea of the widow'd Dame, And never swallow'd a thimble the less Of something the Reader is left to guess, For all the deafness of Mrs. S., Who _saw_ them talk, and chuckle, and cough, But to _see_ and not share in the social flow, She might as well have lived, you know, In one of the houses in Owen's Row, Near the New River Head, with its water cut off

And yet the almond-oil she had tried, And fifty infallible things beside, Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin, Dabb'd, and dribbled, and squirted in: But all remedies fail'd; and though some it was clear (Like the brandy and salt We now exalt) Had made a noise in the public ear, She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear!

At last--one very fine day in June-- Suppose her sitting, Busily knitting, And humming she didn't quite know what tune; For nothing she heard but a sort of a whizz, Which, unless the sound of the circulation, Or of Thoughts in the process of fabrication, By a Spinning-Jennyish operation, It's hard to say what buzzing it is. However, except that ghost of a sound, She sat in a silence most profound-- The cat was purring about the mat, But her Mistress heard no more of that Than if it had been a boatswain's cat; And as for the clock the moments nicking, The Dame only gave it credit for ticking. The bark of her dog she did not catch; Nor yet the click of the lifted latch; Nor yet the creak of the opening door; Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor-- But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown And turn'd its skirt of a darker brown.

And lo! a man! a Pedlar! ay, marry, With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry Stock'd with brooches, ribbons, and rings, Spectacles, razors, and other odd things, For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings; A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware, Held a fair dealer enough at a fair, But deem'd a piratical sort of invader By him we dub the "regular trader," Who--luring the passengers in as they pass By lamps, gay panels, and mouldings of brass, And windows with only one huge pane of glass, And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman,-- If he isn't a Pedlar, at least he's a Showman!

However, in the stranger came, And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, Threw her as knowing a nod as though He had known her fifty long years ago; And presto! before she could utter "Jack"-- Much less "Robinson"--open'd his pack-- And then from amongst his portable gear, With even more than a Pedlar's tact,-- (Slick himself might have envied the act)-- Before she had time to be deaf, in fact-- Popp'd a Trumpet into her ear.

"There, Ma'am! try it! You needn't buy it-- The last New Patent--and nothing comes nigh it For affording the Deaf, at a little expense, The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense! A Real Blessing--and no mistake, Invented for poor Humanity's sake; For what can be a greater privation Than playing Dummy to all creation, And only looking at conversation-- Great Philosophers talking like Platos, And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes! Not to name the mischievous quizzers, Sharp as knives, but double as scissors, Who get you to answer quite by guess Yes for No, and No for Yes." ("That's very true," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again! No harm in trying-- I'm sure you'll find it worth your buying, A little practice--that is all-- And you'll hear a whisper, however small, Through an Act of Parliament party-wall,-- Every syllable clear as day, And even what people are going to say-- I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't, But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon's couldn't; And as for Scott he promises fine, But can he warrant his horns like mine Never to hear what a Lady shouldn't-- Only a guinea--and can't take less." ("That's very dear," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Dear!--Oh dear, to call it dear! Why it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear; Only think, you'll find on reflection You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth: Not to mention the striking of clocks--, Cackle of hens--crowing of cocks-- Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox-- Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks-- Murmur of waterfall over the rocks-- Every sound that Echo mocks-- Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box-- And zounds! to call such a concert dear! But I musn't swear with my horn in your ear. Why, in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows At the Queen's Levees or the Lord Mayor's Shows, At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards' keg-bugles all the year round: Come--suppose we call it a pound! "Come," said the talkative Man of the Pack, "Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come--suppose we call it a pound!

"Only a pound! it's only the price Of hearing a Concert once or twice, It's only the fee You might give Mr. C. And after all not hear his advice, But common prudence would bid you stump it; For, not to enlarge, It's the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. Lord! what's a pound to the blessing of hearing!" ("A pound's a pound," said Dame Eleanor Spearing.)

"Try it again! no harm in trying! A pound's a pound there's no denying; But think what thousands and thousands of pounds We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw; Why it costs a guinea, as I'm a sinner, To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner! One pound one thrown into the puddle, To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle! Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the Managers pitch it strong, To get a Signora to warble a song, You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker's prong!

"It's not the thing for me--I know it, To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it; But it is the best, and time will show it, There was Mrs. F. So very deaf, That she might have worn a percussion-cap, And been knock'd on the head without hearing it snap. Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay! Come--eighteen shillings--that's very low, You'll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot, By hearing whether they ring or not!

"Eighteen shillings! it's worth the price, Supposing you're delicate-minded and nice, To have the medical man of your choice, Instead of the one with the strongest voice-- Who comes and asks you, how's your liver, And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat in the river! And then with a shout, like Pat in a riot, Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet! Or a tradesman comes--as tradesmen will-- Short and crusty about his bill, Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, And because you're deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say, In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, Down the street and round the corner! Come--speak your mind--it's 'No or Yes,'" ("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again--no harm in trying, Of course you hear me, as easy as lying; No pain at all, like a surgical trick, To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, Like Juno, or Rose, Whose ear undergoes Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle!

"You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, Or cut your tonsils right away, As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day; And after all a matter of doubt, Whether you ever would hear the shout: Of the little blackguards that bawl about, 'There you go with your tonsils out!' Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan On purpose to try a surgical spell, And paid a guinea, and might as well Have call'd a monkey into his organ! For the Aurist only took a mug, And pour'd in his ear some acoustical drug, That, instead of curing, deafen'd him rather, As Hamlet's uncle served Hamlet's father! That's the way with your surgical gentry! And happy your luck If you don't get stuck Through your liver and lights at a royal entry, Because you never answer'd the sentry!

"Try it again, dear Madam, try it! Many would sell their beds to buy it. I warrant you often wake up in the night, Ready to shake to a jelly with fright, And up you must get to strike a light, And down you go, in you know what, Whether the weather is chilly or hot,-- That's the way a cold is got,-- To see if you heard a noise or not!"

"Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours Is hardly safe to step out of doors! Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt, But as quiet as if he was 'shod with felt,' Till he rushes against you with all his force, And then I needn't describe the course, While he kicks you about without remorse, How awkward it is to be groom'd by a horse! Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear, And you never dream that the brute is near, Till he pokes his horn right into your ear, Whether you like the thing or lump it,-- And all for want of buying a trumpet!

"I'm not a female to fret and vex, But if I belonged to the sensitive sex, Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds, I wouldn't be deaf for a thousand pounds. Lord! only think of chucking a copper To Jack or Bob with a timber limb, Who looks as if he was singing a hymn, Instead of a song that's very improper! Or just suppose in a public place You see a great fellow a-pulling a face, With his staring eyes and his mouth like an O,-- And how is a poor deaf lady to know,-- The lower orders are up to such games-- If he's calling 'Green Peas,' or calling her names?" ("They're tenpence a peck!" said the deafest of Dames.)

"'Tis strange what very strong advising, By word of mouth, or advertising, By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans, With fifty other different plans, The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing, It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing! Whether the Soothing American Syrup, A Safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,-- Infallible Pills for the human frame, Or Rowland's O-don't-o (an ominous name), A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits That it beats all others into _fits_; A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn, Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn!

"Try it again, Ma'am, only try!" Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry; "It's a great privation, there's no dispute, To live like the dumb unsociable brute, And to hear no more of the _pro_ and _con_, And how Society's going on, Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John, And all for want of this _sine quâ non_; Whereas, with a horn that never offends, You may join the genteelest party that is, And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz, And be certain to hear of your absent friends;-- Not that elegant ladies, in fact, In genteel society ever detract, Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd,-- At least as a mere malicious act,-- But only talk scandal for fear some fool Should think they were bred at _charity_ school. Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation, Which even the most Don Juanish rake Would surely object to undertake At the same high pitch as an altercation. It's not for me, of course, to judge How much a Deaf Lady ought to begrudge; But half-a-guinea seems no great matter-- Letting alone more rational patter-- Only to hear a parrot chatter: Not to mention that feather'd wit, The Starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit; The Pies and Jays that utter words, And other Dicky Gossips of birds, That talk with as much good sense and decorum, As many _Beaks_ who belong to the quorum.

"Try it--buy it--say ten and six, The lowest price a miser could fix: I don't pretend with horns of mine, Like some in the advertising line, To '_magnify sounds_' on such marvellous scales, That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale's; But popular rumors, right or wrong,-- Charity sermons, short or long,-- Lecture, speech, concerto, or song, All noises and voices, feeble or strong, From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong, This tube will deliver distinct and clear; Or, supposing by chance You wish to dance, Why, it's putting a _Horn-pipe_ into your ear! Try it--buy it! Buy it--try it! The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it, For guiding sounds to their proper tunnel: Only try till the end of June, And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune I'll turn it gratis into a funnel!"

In short, the Pedlar so beset her,-- Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,-- With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect,-- A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet,-- The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet.

* * * * *

The Pedlar was gone. With the horn's assistance, She heard his steps die away in the distance; And then she heard the tick of the clock, The purring of puss, and the snoring of Shock; And she purposely dropped a pin that was little, And heard it fall as plain as a skittle!

'Twas a wonderful Horn, to be but just! Nor meant to gather dust, must and rust; So in half a jiffy, or less than that, In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat, Like old Dame Trot, but without her cat, The Gossip was hunting all Tringham thorough, As if she meant to canvass the borough, Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity;-- And, sure, had the horn been one of those The wild Rhinoceros wears on his nose, It couldn't have ripped up more depravity!

Depravity! mercy shield her ears! 'Twas plain enough that her village peers In the ways of vice were no raw beginners; For whenever she raised the tube to her drum Such sounds were transmitted as only come From the very Brass Band of human sinners! Ribald jest and blasphemous curse (Bunyan never vented worse), With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech Which the Seven Dialecticians teach; Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns, And Particles pick'd from the kennels of towns, With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, Chiefly active in rows and mobs, Picking Possessive Pronouns' fobs, And Interjections as bad as a blight, Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight; Fanciful phrases for crime and sin, And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin, Garlic, Tobacco, and offals go in-- A jargon so truly adapted, in fact, To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act, So fit for the brute with the human shape, Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape, From their ugly mouths it will certainly come Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb!

Alas! for the Voice of Virtue and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth! The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang, Shock'd the Dame with a volley of slang, Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang; While the charity chap, With his muffin cap, His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole, Cursed his eyes, limbs, body, and soul, As if they didn't belong to the Parish!

'Twas awful to hear, as she went along, The wicked words of the popular song; Or supposing she listen'd--as gossips will-- At a door ajar, or a window agape, To catch the sounds they allow'd to escape, Those sounds belonged to Depravity still! The dark allusion, or bolder brag Of the dexterous "dodge", and the lots of "swag", The plunder'd house--or the stolen nag-- The blazing rick, or the darker crime, That quench'd the spark before its time-- The wanton speech of the wife immoral-- The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel, With savage menace, which threaten'd the life, Till the heart seem'd merely a strop "for the knife"; The human liver, no better than that Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman's cat; And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding, To be punch'd into holes, like "a shocking bad hat," That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding!

In short, wherever she turn'd the horn, To the highly bred, or the lowly born, The working man, who look'd over the hedge, Or the mother nursing her infant pledge, The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels, Or the Governess pacing the village through, With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two, Looking, as such young ladies do, Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with morals-- Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob, Nob or Snob, The Squire on his cob, Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job, To the "Saint" who expounded at "Little Zion"-- Or the "Sinner" who kept "the Golden Lion"-- The man teetotally wean'd from liquor-- The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar-- Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker-- She gather'd such meanings, double or single, That like the bell With muffins to sell, Her ear was kept in a constant tingle!

But this was nought to the tales of shame, The constant runnings of evil fame, Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink: While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green, And not a little of feline spleen Lapp'd up in "Catty packages," too, To give a zest of the sipping and supping; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are link'd together, As surely as Scarification and Cupping; Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea-- Or sloe, or whatever it happen'd to be, For some grocerly thieves Turn over new leaves, Without much amending their lives or their tea-- No, never since cup was fill'd or stirr'd Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard, As blacken'd their neighbors of either gender, Especially that, which is call'd the Tender, But, instead of the softness we fancy therewith, Was harden'd in vice as the vice of a smith.

Women! the wretches! had soil'd and marr'd Whatever to womanly nature belongs; For the marriage tie they had no regard, Nay, sped their mates to the sexton's yard, (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off her L by inches)-- And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!

The men--they fought and gambled at fairs; And poach'd--and didn't respect gray hairs-- Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses; And broke in houses as well as horses; Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton,-- And would their own mothers and wives for a button: But not to repeat the deeds they did, Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, If all were true that fell from the tongue, There was not a villager, old or young, But deserved to be whipp'd, imprison'd, or hung, Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, or Murray's. Meanwhile the Trumpet, _con amore_, Transmitted each vile diabolical story; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul's, Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, Is famous for making the most of a hint. Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, Not a flying report that flew at a name, Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat, Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive mote, But vortex-like that tube of tin Suck'd the censorious particle in; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listen'd to serpent's hiss, Nor took the viperous sound amiss, On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon!

The Dame, it is true, would mutter "Shocking!" And give her head a sorrowful rocking, And make a clucking with palate and tongue, Like the call of Partlet to gather her young, A sound, when human, that always proclaims At least a thousand pities and shames; But still the darker the tale of sin, Like certain folks, when calamities burst, Who find a comfort in "hearing the worst," The farther she poked the Trumpet in. Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread East and West, and North and South, Like the ball which, according to Captain Z, Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth.

What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made wherever they came, That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame! For although it required such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To turn the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper "as sour as varges," In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbors the village through, Look'd at each other as yellow and blue, As any electioneering crew Wearing the colors of Whigs and Tories.

Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, That "whispering tongues can poison Truth,"-- Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid, Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel, Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel, Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel,-- At least such torments began to wring 'em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.

The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fasten'd their nails on each other; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar--and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship--or skiff! The plighted lovers, who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk; And wish'd for _two_ moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn't look together on one; While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo-- And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand, As the song has planned, Scratch'd her, penniless, out of his will!

In short, to describe what came to pass In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of "Love in a Village"--alas! The piece they perform'd was "The Devil to Pay!" However, as secrets are brought to light, And mischief comes home like chickens at night; And rivers are track'd throughout their course, And forgeries traced to their proper source;-- And the sow that ought By the ear is caught,-- And the sin to the sinful door is brought; And the cat at last escapes from the bag-- And the saddle is placed on the proper nag; And the fog blows off, and the key is found-- And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound-- And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground-- And the matter gets wind to waft it about; And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out-- And the riddle is guess'd--and the puzzle is known-- So the truth was sniff'd, and the Trumpet was _blown_!

* * * * *

'Tis a day in November--a day of fog-- But the Tringham people are all agog; Fathers, Mothers, and Mother's Sons,-- With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,-- As if in pursuit of a rabid dog; But their voices--raised to the highest pitch-- Declare that the game is "a Witch!--a Witch!"

Over the Green, and along by The George-- Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge, And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, Till they come to the whitewash'd cottage beyond, And there at the door they muster and cluster, And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster-- Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster! A noise, indeed, so loud and long, And mix'd with expressions so very strong, That supposing, according to popular fame, "Wise Woman" and Witch to be the same, No hag with a broom would unwisely stop, But up and away through the chimney-top; Whereas, the moment they burst the door, Planted fast on her sanded floor, With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Lo and behold!--Dame Eleanor Spearing!

Oh! then arises the fearful shout-- Bawl'd and scream'd, and bandied about-- "Seize her!--Drag the old Jezebel out!" While the Beadle--the foremost of all the band, Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand-- And after a pause of doubt and fear, Puts it up to his sharpest ear.

"Now silence--silence--one and all!" For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul! But before he rehearses A couple of verses, The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall: For instead of the words so pious and humble, He hears a supernatural grumble.

Enough, enough! and more than enough;-- Twenty impatient hands and rough, By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff, Apron, 'kerchief, gown of stuff-- Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff-- Are clutching the Witch wherever they can, With the spite of Woman and fury of Man; And then--but first they kill her cat, And murder her dog on the very mat-- And crush the infernal Trumpet flat;-- And then they hurry her through the door She never, never will enter more!

Away! away! down the dusty lane They pull her, and haul her, with might and main; And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry, Dandy, or Sandy, Jerry, or Larry, Who happens to get "a leg to carry!" And happy the foot that can give her a kick, And happy the hand that can find a brick-- And happy the fingers that hold a stick-- Knife to cut, or pin to prick-- And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick;-- Nay, happy the urchin--Charity-bred,-- "Who can shy very nigh to her wicked, old head!"

Alas! to think how people's creeds Are contradicted by people's deeds! But though the wishes that Witches utter Can play the most diabolical rigs-- Send styes in the eye--and measle the pigs-- Grease horses' heels--and spoil the butter; Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk-- And turn new milk to water and chalk,-- Blight apples--and give the chickens the pip-- And cramp the stomach--and cripple the hip-- And waste the body--and addle the eggs-- And give a baby bandy legs; Though in common belief a Witch's curse Involves all these horrible things, and worse-- As ignorant bumpkins all profess, No bumpkin makes a poke the less At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S.! As if she were only a sack of barley! Or gives her credit for greater might Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night On that other old woman, the parish Charley!

Ay, now's the time for a Witch to call On her Imps and Sucklings one and all-- Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown, (As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down) Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack, Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, Vinegar Tom and the rest of the pack-- Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry To come "with his tail" like the bold Glengarry, And drive her foes from their savage job As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob:-- But no such matter is down in the bond; And spite of her cries that never cease, But scare the ducks and astonish the geese, The Dame is dragg'd to the fatal pond!

And now they come to the water's brim-- And in they bundle her--sink or swim; Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown, With twenty sticks to hold her down; Including the help to the self-same end, Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend. A Pedlar!--Yes!--The same!--the same! Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame!

And now is foremost amid the stir With a token only reveal'd to her; A token that makes her shudder and shriek, And point with her finger, and strive to speak-- But before she can utter the name of the Devil, Her head is under the water level!

MORAL.

There are folks about town--to name no names-- Who much resemble that deafest of Dames! And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, Circulate many a scandalous word, And whisper tales they could only have heard Through some such Diabolical Trumpets!

THE FORGE.[44]

A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE.

"Who's here, beside foul weather?"--KING LEAR.

"Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, Should have stood that night against my fire" --CORDELIA

[Footnote 44: This Poem was doubtless one of the results of Hood's residence in Germany. It is suggested apparently in about equal proportions by the Walpurgis-night in _Faust_, and Schiller's _Gang nach dem Eisenhammer_. Possibly Hood had been stirred up to the attempt by Retzsch's outlines. He has mixed up localities with the utmost freedom, the Harz, the Black Forest, and the Scene of Schiller's Poem. The influence of the _Ingoldsby Legends_ is obvious throughout.]