"Rien n'est changé, mes amis!"[2]
CHARLES DIX.
[2] I have taken these words for my motto, because they _enable_ me
to tell a story. When the present King of France received his first
address on the return from the emigration, his answer was, "Rien
n'est changé, mes amis; il n'y a qu'un Français de plus." When the
Giraffe arrived in the Jardin des Plantes, the Parisians had a
caricature, in which the ass, and the hog, and the monkey were
presenting an address to the stranger, while the elephant and the
lion stalked angrily away. Of course, the portraits were
recognisable--and the animal was responding graciously, "Rien n'est
changé, mes amis: il n'y a qu'un bête de plus!"
I heard a sick man's dying sigh,
And an infant's idle laughter;
The old Year went with mourning by,
The new came dancing after;
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,
Let Revelry hold her ladle;
Bring boughs of cypress for the biel.
Fling roses on the cradle;
Mates to wait on the funeral state!
Pages to pour the wine!
And a requiem for Twenty-eight,--
And a health to Twenty-nine.
Alas! for human happiness,
Alas! for human sorrow;
Our Yesterday is nothingness,
What else will be our Morrow?
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,
And Knavery stealing purses;
Still Cooks must live by making tarts,
And Wits by making verses;
While Sages prate and Courts debate,
The same Stars set and shine;
And the World, as it roll'd through Twenty-eight,
Must roll through Twenty-nine.
Some King will come, in Heaven's good time,
To the tomb his Father came to;
Some Thief will wade through blood and crime
To a crown he has no claim to;
Some Suffering Land will rend in twain
The manacles that bound her,
And gather the links of the broken chain
To fasten them proudly round her;
The grand and great will love, and hate,
And combat, and combine;
And much where we were in Twenty-eight,
We shall be in Twenty-nine.
O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent,
And Kenyon to sink the Nation;
And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,
And Peel the Association;
And the thought of bayonets and swords
Will make ex-Chancellors merry--
And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,
And throats in the County Kerry;
And writers of weight will speculate
On the Cabinet's design--
And just what it did in Twenty-eight,
It will do in Twenty-nine.
Mathews will be extremely gay,
And Hook extremely dirty;
And brick and mortar still will say
"Try Warren, No. 30;"
And "General Sauce" will have its puff,
And so will General Jackson--
And peasants will drink up heavy stuff,
Which they pay a heavy tax on;
And long and late, at many a fête,
Gooseberry champagne will shine--
And as old as it was in Twenty-eight,
It will be in Twenty-nine.
And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles;
And the God of Cups his orgies;
And there'll be riots in St. Giles,
And weddings in St. George's;
And Mendicants will sup like Kings,
And Lords will swear like Lacqueys--
And black eyes oft will lead to rings,
And rings will lead to black eyes;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate.
In a dialect all divine--
Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,--
They will part in Twenty-nine!
John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill,
Will do a deed of mystery--
The Morning Chronicle will fill
Five columns with the history;
The Jury will be all surprise,
The Prisoner quite collected--
And Justice Park will wipe his eyes,
And be very much affected;
And folks will relate poor Corder's fate,
As they hurry home to dine,
Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight
With the hangings of Twenty-nine.
A Curate will go from the house of prayer
To wrong his worthy neighbour,
By dint of quoting the texts of Blair,
And singing the songs of Weber;
Sir Harry will leave the Craven hounds,
To trace the guilty parties--
And ask of the Court five thousand pounds,
To prove how rack'd his heart is:
An Advocate will execrate
The spoiler of Hymen's shrine--
And the speech that did for Twenty-eight
Will do for Twenty-nine.
My Uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,
And tell of his oils and blubbers;
My Aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,
And rather longer rubbers;
My Cousin in Parliament will prove
How utterly ruin'd trade is--
My Brother at Eton will fall in love
With half a hundred ladies;
My Patron will sate his pride from plate.
And his thirst from Bordeaux vine--
His nose was red in Twenty-eight,--
'Twill be redder in Twenty-nine!
And oh! I shall find, how, day by day.
All thoughts and things look older--
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,
And the heart of Friendship colder;
But still I shall be what I have been,
Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,
And fond of talking treason;
I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate,
And throw, and write, my line--
And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight,
I shall worship in Twenty-nine!
_New Monthly Magazine._
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