Part 14

In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way,-- Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees, Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!" "Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, As for Loretto, I shall not get there; No, to the devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe. But, brother sinner, pray explain How 't is that you are not in pain. What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to _boil my peas_."

DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (_Peter Pindar_).

THE VICAR OF BRAY.[3]

In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment.

To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. _And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution. _And this is law_, etc.

When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance; With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. _And this is law_, etc.

When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation; And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication. _And this is law_, etc.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured From our new faith's-defender, And almost every day adjured The Pope and the Pretender. _And this is law_, etc.

The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear-- While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be-- Until the times do alter. _And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._

ANONYMOUS.

[3] "The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England, was Simon Alleyn, or Allen, who held his place from 1540 to 1588. He was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: 'Not so neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.'"--DISRAELI.

HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.

FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.

His puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both. In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, To whom he bore so fell a grutch He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack. The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, The rancor of its edge had felt; For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, it was so manful; And so much scorned to lurk in case, As if it durst not show its face.

* * * * *

This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for his age, And therefore waited on him so As dwarfs unto knight-errants do. It was a serviceable dudgeon, Either for fighting or for drudging. When it had stabbed or broke a head, It would scrape trenchers or chip bread, Toast cheese or bacon, though it were To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care; 'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions, and so forth: It had been 'prentice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure; But left the trade, as many more Have lately done on the same score.

DR. SAMUEL BUTLER.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.[4]

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows; 'T was there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine, etc.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small; Like a fine, etc.

But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh; And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this good, etc.

Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

ANONYMOUS.

[4] Modelled upon an old black-letter song, called "The Old and Young Courtier."

TOBY TOSSPOT.

Alas! what pity 't is that regularity, Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity! But there are swilling wights in London town, Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine, Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on, Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun, By borrowing too largely of the moon.

One of this kidney--Toby Tosspot hight-- Was coming from the Bedford late at night; And being _Bacchi plenus_, full of wine, Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, 'T wasn't direct,--'t was serpentine. He worked with sinuosities, along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,--a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, When reading, "Please to ring the bell," And being civil beyond measure,

"Ring it!" says Toby,--"very well; I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure." Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.

He waited full two minutes,--no one came; He waited full two minutes more;--and then Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame; I'll pull it for the gentleman again."

But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright, Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip,--bolt upright.

At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.-- "Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away;" When peal the second rattled in his ears.

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?" Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all."

"Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire." Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, "I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

"At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well. High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it; But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,' Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

THE MILKMAID.

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: "Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

"Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

"Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,--we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many--say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,-- So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there'll be.

"Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six. To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,-- Fifty times three-and-sixpence--_I'll ask Brother Ned_.

"O, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a _pair_ I must sell 'em; Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell 'em; A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!) Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.

"Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,-- I'll say twenty pounds, _and it can't be no less_.

"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow; Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear."

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,-- "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

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 lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of _time_.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught, 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-fingered 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 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.

THOMAS HOOD.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran-- Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad-- When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man!

The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied:-- The man recovered of the bite. The dog it was that died!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLD GRIMES.

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,-- We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray,-- He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design; His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er,-- And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.

But good Old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown; He wore a double-breasted vest,-- The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse,-- Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize; Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please, With manner wondrous winning; She never followed wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silk and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux, or more; The king himself has followed her-- When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all, Her doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore; For Kent Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more-- She had not died to-day.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE GRAVE-YARD.

FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS."

Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, And note what an average grave-yard contains; There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid, There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, There men without legs get their six feet of earth, There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, There brokers at length become silent as stocks, There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive).

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

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 devoured 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 burden grown, It made him take a knot.

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, 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.

THOMAS HOOD.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

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 fetched 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, 'T was 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 O, 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 sailed to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got 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 turned,--and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell; They went and told the sexton, and The sexton tolled the bell.

THOMAS HOOD.

ORATOR PUFF.

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking _thus_, and the other down _so_; In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. O! O! Orator Puff, One voice for an orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, pray?" O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking fund" the last words as his noddle came down. O! O! Orator Puff, etc.