How doth the ever busy wasp

Improve the shining hour;

His object ever is to grasp

The sweets of fruit and flower.

To dip his beak into the peach,

To pierce the ripen’d plum;

To suck whatever is in reach,

To sting whoe’er may come.

So, children, you should ne’er forget

This insect’s happy toil;

Before you his example set,

And what you can’t eat, spoil.

_Punch_, September 25, 1852.

――――――――

THE NORTHERN BEE.

How doth the busy Russian _Bee_

Improve the darkened hour,

And kindly hope it will _not_ see

The fall of England’s power.

How skillfully it frames the “sell,”

Forgives Crimean whacks,

And owns JOHN BULL does pretty well

Whate’er he undertakes.

So now, let Russia, with a will,

The works of peace pursue;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For soldier-States to do.

In laying down the Iron Way,

Be her next century passed,

And then, who knows, the world may say――

“She’s civilised at last.”

_Punch_, October 10, 1857.

――――――――

CONVIVIAL SONG.

_To be sung Sloughly, and with expression._

How doth the dizzy DISRAELI

Improve the dining hour,

And draw the long bow fearlessly

To show his elbows power.

How neatly he prepares the sell,

How deftly cooks the facts!

And for what others have done well,

Himself the credit takes.

What perils with what art and skill

He’s pulled the country through!

What wonders will his India Bill,

If we believe him, do!

So with the farmers he makes hay

Ere yet his Sun be past;

For though e’en Dizzies have their day,

Not long that day can last.

_Punch_, June 19, 1858.

――――――――

[This appeared shortly after Mr. Disraeli had been addressing the

electors of Slough.]

ON A BEE I’VE BEE(N) TO.

How doth the lively Spelling Bee

Delight the evening hour,

And bother folks of each degree――

Sweet maids and spinsters sour.

Hard names that few have ever heard

Are bandied round pell-mell;

And NUTTALL finds some crack-jaw words

That _not all_ folks can spell.

With BUTTER, MAVOR, VYSE, each day,

Let my spare time be pass’d;

So at the Spelling Bee I may

Win some nice prize at last.

_Judy_, March 15, 1876.

[Published when the mania for Spelling Bees was at its height.]

――――――――

CHAP. I.――ON INDUSTRY.

With what singular persistency of purpose does that diminutive and

laborious creature, the Bee, turn to account every minute of sunshine!

The construction of her cell is a marvel of insect architecture; and

if you were to attempt to spread wax with the same neatness and

regularity, you would no doubt fail in the most ignominious manner. At

least, I know _I_ should; for I was only the other day sealing a

letter when I burned my fingers dreadfully. I am aware that bee’s-wax

is not sealing-wax; but still if I had used bee’s-wax to fasten my

envelope, I daresay I should have made just as bad a mess of it, or

worse. Then again, look how the Bee labours to store those octagonal

chambers with the saccharine food she is all the day gathering from

roses, tulips, candytuft, pelargoniums, pansies, pinks, hollyhocks,

fuchsias, heliotropes, marigolds, dahlias, begonias, lupines, lilies,

daffydowndillies, and, in short, every opening flower. I can’t help

thinking that if the whole of one’s time was passed in books or work,

or even healthy athletic pastimes, such, for example, as hop-scotch,

dominoes, tossing the caber, knurr and spell, coddams, cricket,

rounders, peg-top, prisoner’s-base, noughts-and-crosses, Aunt Sally,

cribbage, nine-pins, Indian clubs, fly-the-garter, boxing, balancing

tobacco-pipes on the tip of one’s nose, skimming half-pence at cats or

attic windows, turning Catharine wheels in the road, or putting the

stone, we might haply give as good an account of every day as our

little friend the Bee could do, if so required. (Since the foregoing

was committed to manuscript, I have met with some similar ideas in

verse, by a Dr. What’s-his-name. I do not, however, think it necessary

or desirable to cancel my own original reflections on a subject which,

after all, is quite open to anybody.)

_Punch._

――――――――

DR. WATTS ON ASTHMA.

(_Vide Advertisement._)

How doth the little busy wheeze

Augment from hour to hour,

And gather “stuffiness” all day,

With forty “bad-cold” power!

How skilfully it clogs each cell,

How strongly it attacks!

And labours hard both cad and swell

To lay upon their backs.

It calls for all the doctor’s skill――

Apothecary’s too too――

And Satan finds decoctions still

For ’prentice hands to brew.

_Funny Folks_, July 21, 1877.

――――――――

A SIMPLE RHYME FOR THE 5TH DECEMBER.

How doth the busy Parliament

Improve each shining hour,

By talking, talking, night and day,

With twenty-magpie power.

How doth the savage Gladstone rise,

Ambition to pursue,

And rave of Russia, India, and

Of Afghanistan too.

How doth the angry Radical

Delight to bark and shriek;

How oft he tries a lion’s roar,

And only makes a squeak.

How doth the loyal Englishman

All snarling curs deride,

And in the present Government

Implicitly confide.

_Judy_, Jan. 4, 1879.

――――――――

WATTS’ HUMOUROUS POEMS.

How doth the little crocodile

Improve his shining tail,

And pour the waters of the Nile

On every golden scale!

How, cheerfully he seems to grin,

How neatly spreads his claws,

And welcomes little fishes in

With gently smiling jaws!

_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll, (London

Macmillan and Co.)

――――――――

THE LITTLE MOSQUITO.

How doth the little Mosquito

Delight to buzz and bite,

And make the terrors of the day

Ten times as bad at night.

How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing,

And ’lighting on your nose,

It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting

When you’re trying for to doze.

How skilfully it dodges round;

And when you try to “bust” it,

Flies away and likes to see

And hear how you have cuss’d it.

But thank the Lord the time will come

When they’ll have no work to do,

And you will find they’re “busted some,”

And Mosquitoes will be few.

So go your way and rest content,

That they away have “flew,”

But mind that by this time next year

They’ll find some work to do.

TOBY.

_Icycle_, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.

――――――――

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.

(_After_ DOCTOR WATTS.)

_By an_ ENTHUSIASTIC LAND-LEAGUER, _specially gifted in teaching the

young idea how to_ shoot.

How doth the honest Land-League man

Improve each shining hour,

An’ gather money all the day

Wid all his might an’ power!

How carefully he guards his _sell_,

How neatly showers his _whacks_,

An’ labours hard to please PARNELL,

An’ dodge the law’s attacks!

No works of labour tax our skill,

Yet we’ll be busy too,

The Land-League has some mischief still

Our idle hands can do.

In Boycotting an’ suchlike play,

Let all our days be past.

Begorra! we may have to pay

A long account at last!!

_Judy_, March 9, 1881.

――――――――

THE COAL-HOLE TOP.

How doth the little coal-hole top

Its slipperiness disguise,

And feet on bootless errands send

So often to the skies!

The little schoolgirl steps on it

With an elastic gait;

But ere she can step off again

She sits upon her slate.

The little boy with pail of milk,

Treads on it “just in play.”

He sees some stars. The passers-by

Gaze on the “milky way.”

The belle, with rich embellishment,

Comes up with mincing tread,

Her shoes are made of best French kid;

Her stockings clocked with red.

The big policeman, proud, erect,

With gum shoes on his feet,

Disguises it with confidence,

How quick he’s off his beat!

The granger with his cowhide boots:

“By thunder! Did you see

How spry that little iron thing

Got out from under me.”

No matter what the size of feet,

Nor with what they are shod,

The coal-hole top has never yet

With uprightness been trod.

_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

――――――――

“DOCTOR WATTS” IMPROVED.

(_From a Sea-side Lodger._)

How doth the little busy Flea,

Disturb each silent hour,

And all night long, most wickedly

Our wearied limbs devour.

How cruelly he breaks our rest,

How wroth he makes us wax,

When, jumping from his hidden nest,

He bites our tender backs.

Now, had it been in works like these

That my first years were past,

I must have come, like little Fleas,

To no good end at last.

For so, the little cruel Flea,

By those who would have slept,

Will――drowned, or burnt, or headless be,

Unpitied and unwept.

_Punch_, October 18, 1884.

――――――――

CHILDREN’S CORNER.

How doth the very Bizzy B.[43]

Improve each shining hour,

Annexing isles in every sea

To cripple England’s power.

How skilfully he plans his schemes,

How well he times each blow,

While in his chair Lord Derby dreams

That all is _comme il faut_!

Possessed of such a dauntless will

Would we’d one Bizzy too,

Or Satan find less mischief still

For Liberals’ hands to do.

_Moonshine_, January 1885.

――――――――

THE BEE.

How doth the gorging greedy Bee,

Destructive little brute,

Hum all day long from tree to tree,

And spoil the choicest fruit!

Behold how deep she scoops a cell,

When peaches she attacks,

In nectarines and pears as well,

How big a hole she makes!

Likewise to eat and drink my fill,

I should be happy too;

For Nature has disposed me still

But little else to do.

In prog and grub, by turns with play,

Might all my life be past,

Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh

Good fourteen score at last.

_Punch_, October 9, 1875.

――――――――

THE WOPS.

How doth the wobbling, wily wops

Improve each shining hour!

Within the peach he slyly stops,

And stings with all his power!

How skilfully he wheels around,

And maidens makes afraid;

He loves to clear the pic-nic ground,

And roll in marmalade!

The whispered charm of lover’s talk

He’ll stop without ado;

The Vicar’s sermon he will balk,

And sting the Vicar too!

On cake or fruit or window pane,

On pie or mutton chops,

He’ll sharply sting and come again――

The wobbling, wily wops!

_Punch_, September 15, 1883.

――――――――

THE VARIATION HUMBUG.

There is perhaps more Humbug talked, printed, and practised in

reference to Music than to anything else in the world, except

Politics. And of all the musical humbugs extant it occurs to _Mr.

Punch_ that the Variation Humbug is the greatest. This party has not

even the sense to invent a tune for himself, but takes somebody

else’s, and starting therefrom as an acrobat leaps from a spring

board, jumps himself into a musical reputation on the strength of the

other party’s ideas. _Mr. Punch_ wonders what would be thought of a

poet who should try to make himself renown by this kind of

thing――taking a well-known poem of a predecessor’s, and doing

Variations on it after this fashion:――

BUGGINS’S VARIATIONS OF THE BUSY BEE.

How doth the Little Busy Bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower,

From every opening flower, flower, flower,

That sparkles in a breezy bower,

And gives its sweetness to the shower,

Exhaling scent of gentle power,

That lasts on kerchief many an hour,

And is a lady’s graceful dower,

Endeared alike to cot and tower,

Round which the little Busy Bee

Improves each shining hour,

And gathers honey all the day

From every opening flower,

From every opening flower, flower, flower,

From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,

How neat she spreads her whacks,

And labours hard to store it well.

With the sweet food she makes,

With the sweet food she makes,

With the sweet food she makes, makes, makes,

When rising just as morning breaks,

The dew-drop from the leaf she shakes,

And oft the sleeping moth she wakes,

And diving through the flower she takes,

The honey with her fairy rakes,

And in her cell the same she cakes,

Or sports across the silver lakes,

Besides her children, for whose sakes,

How skilfully she builds her cell,

How neat she spreads her wax,

And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,

I would be busy too,

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do,

For idle hands to do,

For idle hands to do, do, do,

Things which thereafter they will rue,

When Justice fiercely doth pursue,

Or conscience raises Cry and Hue,

And evil-doers look quite blue,

When Peelers run with loud halloo,

And Magistrates put on the screw,

And then the wretch exclaims, Boo-hoo,

In works of labour or of skill

I wish I’d busied too,

For Satan’s found much mischief still

For my two hands to do.

There! Would a Poet get much reputation for these Variations, which

are much better in their way than most of those built upon tunes.

Would the poetical critics come out, as the musical critics do, with

“Upon WATTS’S marble foundation BUGGINS has raised a sparkling

alabaster palace;” or, “The old-fashioned WATTS has been brought into

new honour by the _étincellant_ BUGGINS;” or “We love the old tune,

but we have room in our hearts for the fairy-like fountains of

birdsong which BUGGINS has bid start from it.” _Mr. Punch_ has an idea

that BUGGINS would have no such luck; the moral to be deduced from

which fact is, that a Musical Prig is luckier than a Poetical Prig.

_Punch_, February 2, 1861.

――――:o:――――

AGAINST QUARRELLING AND FIGHTING.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For God hath made them so,

Let bears and lions growl and fight,

For ’tis their nature to.

But, children, you should never let

Such angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never made

To tear each other’s eyes.

Dr. WATTS.

――――――――

ADDRESS TO THE QUARRELSOME BOYS OF SWITZERLAND.

Let canine animals delight in mutual barkings, and in reciprocating

injuries with their fangs; for it is their natural disposition in this

manner to gratify their ferocity.

Let creatures of the ursine and feline tribes employ themselves in

growling and contention: since they are so constituted as to take

pleasure in these occupations. But you, who, among the great European

family may be called children――should never allow your irascible

propensities to be thus aroused. Those diminutive organs of prehension

which you possess were never constructed for the laceration of one

another’s instruments of vision.

_Punch_, December 11, 1847.

――――――――

TO A ROEBUCK[44] AT BAY.

Whigs in their cozy berths agree

And ’tis a sorry sight

When independent men we see

Fall out and fume and fight.

Let BROOM[45] delight to bark and bite

For CAMPBELL riles him so;

Let Irish members bounce and fight,

For ’tis their nature to.

But ROEBUCK, you should never let

Your angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never meant

To tear out GRATTAN’S eyes.

_Punch_, June, 1849.

――――――――

A REMONSTRANCE FROM THE NURSERY.

Let Austria delight to bark and bite,

And snap off Kossuth’s nose;

Let Prussia’s King, against all right,

Tread hard on Freedom’s toes;

But Nicholas should never let

A love of conquest rise;

His gory hands were never made

To tear out the Sultan’s eyes.

_Diogenes_, 1854.

――――――――

RATIONAL REMONSTRANCE.

Let peaceful BRIGHT in speech delight

That charms the Cotton crew:

Let COBDEN rather trade than fight,

For ’tis his business to.

But when our Premier, duped before,

Still trusts to Russian lies,

Such weakness but disgusts JOHN BULL,

And makes his monkey rise.

_Punch_, July 29, 1854.

――――――――

WATT’S THE MATTER.

Let Lords delight to bark and bite,

They’ve nothing else to do;

Let Whigs and Tories growl and fight,

For ’tis their nature to.

But Liberals, you should never let

Escape your passions dire,

Your little wits were never meant

To set the Thames on fire.

Kings on their gilded thrones agree,[46]

But ’tis a shocking sight,

When all St. Stephen’s family

Fall out with Lowe and Bright.

Then keep your tempers if you can,

On Tories wreak your hate,

And dance a Radical cancan

O’er prostrate Church and State.

_Will-o’-the-Wisp_, May 22, 1869.

――――――――

Birds in their little nests agree

’Tis true. But what about?

They all agree in trying hard

To turn each other out.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For ’tis their nature to;

Then don’t complain if some fine day

They bark and bite at you.

When shines the sun, and rain is past,

Make hay, get in your crops;

But what the Dickens must one do,

Suppose it never stops?

The early bird, the proverb says,

The early worm devours;

Then lest you’d be that early worm,

Abandon early hours.

Alas for childhood’s early faiths!

Comparing old with new;

I like the latter quite as well,

And think them just as true.

H. M.

_The Tonbridgian_, April, 1873.

――――――――

“In my opinion there’s only one policy worth a ducat!”

“And that, Benjamin,” I ask in my captivating way, is――――?”

“Pointedly expressed in the following lines of the poet:――

“Let Rads delight to bark and bite,

For God has made ’em so;

Let Butts and Biggars growl and fight,

For ’tis their nature to;

But Hardy, you must never let

The landed gentry rise

To see the games that I am at

Beneath their nose and eyes.”

BENJAMIN D――――_His Little Dinner_, 1876.

――――――――

WATTS THE MATTER?

(Lord Marcus Beresford.)

Oh, Marcus! you should never let

Your angry passions rise,

Nor at a money-lender get,

And try to black his eyes,

One hundred pounds may not be dear

For joys so simply gay;

Yet still to most it will appear

A tidy sum to pay!

_Yorick_, 1877.

――――――――

GIBES AND “GERMS.”

(_A respectful Remonstrance addressed to_ PROFESSOR TINDALL, _and_ DR.

H. C. B.)

Let bigots write with sneers of spite,

And dogmas argue so,

Let priests and parsons, differing, fight,

As ’tis their nature to.

But, Sages, you should never let

Such female passions rise;

Your thinking minds were never made

To bandy taunts unwise.

Let calm through all your questions run,

All your debates be mild;

Keep your discussions, every one

By rancour undefiled.

With patience gentle as a lamb

Your arguments pursue;

Call not each other’s theories “flam,”

But prove the sounder view.

Look up to Truth all ends above;

Seek that and that alone:

Nor squabble, out of mere self love

O’er crochets of your own.

_Punch_, July 7, 1877.

――――――――

A FORTOU――ITOUS EVENT.

_Addressed, with all earnestness, to M. Gambetta._

Let fools and bullies brawl and fight,

For ’tis their nature to;

Let brainless apes in duels delight,

But not such men as you.

No! Statesmen they should never let

Their passions get such sway.

Just think of France’s keen regret,

Had you been shot that day!

Twas true there was small chance of this,

Thanks to the seconds’ care;

But though both pistols scored a miss,

The folly still was there.

* * * * *

Then why conform to such a rule

As that which you obey’d;

The laws that bind the fop and fool

For you were never made.

To France a wise example show

When next you’re asked to fight;

And let these moral cowards know

You dare to do what’s right.

_Truth_, November 28, 1878.

――――――――

ON A LATE FRACAS AT NEWMARKET.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For ’tis their nature to,

Let sculptors in the law courts fight

And raise a great to-do.

But, race-horse trainers, pray don’t let

Your angry passions rise;

Your stable-forks weren’t made, you bet

To gouge each other’s eyes.

If you go in for law you’ll be

Awarded just a farden;

So henceforth, when you disagree,

Beg one another’s pardon.

_Judy_, February 14, 1883.

――――――――

TO A POLICEMAN.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

Or howl the whole night through;

Let roosters hail the morning light

With “cock-a-doodle do:”

Let bawling costers all the day

Make hideous the street;

And organs grind, and niggers play

And bands discordant meet:

But, Bobby, you must never try

To stifle torturing sounds,

Nor murmur placidly “Oh, fie!”

But meekly――go your rounds.

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

WATT’S UP AGAIN.

(_On a Recent Fracas._[47])

Let cads delight with fists to fight,

To them ’tis nothing new,

Which if our Swells consider right,

Why――let ’em do it, too.

When well-bred Englishmen now let

Their angry passions rise,

The fashion has been lately set――

They black each other’s eyes.

HYDE PARK.

NOTICE.――To Noblemen and Gentlemen frequenting the Row, all Rows

forbidden, except Rows of Chairs. No Rowing in which punching of heads

is included, will be permitted, though Rowing on the Serpentine is

allowed, but the Rowers will have to pay for any damage done to the

sculls.

No objection to pistols and coffee, but fighting like coal-heavers I

will not have in my Park, I swear I won’t, by

GEORGE.

_Punch_, August 8, 1885.

[Illustration]

THE SLUGGARD.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,

“You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again.”

As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,

Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;”

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number:

And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,

Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier,

The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher;

The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags;

And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find

That he took better care for improving his mind;

He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;

But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,

This man’s but a picture of what I might be;

But, thanks to my friends, for their care in my breeding,

Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.”

DR. WATTS.

――――――――

THE FRENCH SLUGGARD.

’Tis the moan of old LOUIS,[48] I hear him complain;

“I’ve deluded my people to warfare with SPAIN;”

As the priests are at mass, so is _he_ on his throne,

An imbecile monarch, an indolent drone.

A little more craft, and a little more ruling,

Thus his days and his hours have been wasted in fooling

And when he snores up, for his _capon_ and crown,

His lethargy sinks him again on his _down_.

I passed by his _palace_,――I saw the _disguise_,――

His JESUITS caressed him, his ULTRAS were _spies_;

The robes that hung on him were ragged and poor

And his life, like a beggar’s, dependent once _more_.

Said I――“Ye ALLIES!!――’tis a lesson for _you_;

This KING is a picture that soon you will _view_;

And thanks to the nations who freedom have cherish’d,

That knowledge hath conquer’d, and despots have perish’d.”

_The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1823.

――――――――

THE SLUGGARD.

“’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,

“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.”

And I’m not much surprised, for ’tis surely some _lout_,

Who won’t let the poor fellow have his sleep out.

It’s all very well for some fidgety elf,

Who can’t get a wink of sound sleep for himself,

To call others “sluggards”――as worthy as he――

Because they don’t quite with _his_ theory agree.

They think it high time, if to dress they’re prepared,

When the sun is up first, and the day is well aired,

If the body needs rest, ’tis but reason to sleep,

And thus all its functions in order to keep.

If the birds (little fools!) rise so early, I beg

You’ll remember they usually sleep on one leg:

And its wearisome, doubtless, standing so long,

So they wake up and shake off the cramp with a song.

If _they_ had, as _I_ have, a nice cosy bed,

My impression is _they_ would sleep later instead,

And as for the “worm-catching” proverb, in terms,

It can’t affect me――I’m not partial to worms.

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare,

“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”

As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose,

Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland._ (Macmillan and Co., London.)

――――――――

THE WISE ONE, AND THE FOOLISH.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,

“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again,”

As a door on its hinges, so in his bed he

Turn’d and drowsily muttered, “A Soda and B!”

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,

“I fancy that last night I drank too much champagne;

But no,” he exclaim’d, as he loll’d at his ease,

“It was not the champagne, ’twas the salmon and peas.”

I look’d once again, as he lay on the bed,

His eyes they were blood shot, his nose it was red,

And I said to myself, as I turn’d from the sight,

“It is clear he was up till a late hour of night.”

Then I said to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me!

That man’s but a picture of what I might be.

But no, I am cautious in all that I eat;

I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat.”

_Judy_, September 23, 1874.

――――――――

THE “SPECIAL.”

(_After “Watts” his name._)

’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain,

“Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?”

His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red,

And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed.

He had written “atrocity” scenes without number

On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber;

Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities――

All a Special considers his own Specialities.

Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,”

And glanced at his costume all covered with mire;

For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags,

And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.”

But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find

New horrors for British consumption designed;

And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking

(Too much of the latter some readers are thinking).

But they scan with delight that escape from a shell,

That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well;

And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel,

’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal.

But I said as I read, “Here’s a lesson for me;

This man’s, but a picture of what I might be.

Were it not for the care of my friends in my breeding,

I might have to make ‘Specials’ for newspaper reading.”

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

THE CZAR HE LEADS A JOLLY LIFE.

’Tis the voice of the Czar, don’t you hear him complain?

“They’ve been trying to blow up my palace again!

Now matters are really getting too bad;

For years not a moment of peace have I had.”

This is the first verse of a long and curiously prophetic poem which

appeared in _Truth_, December 18, 1879. The remaining verses are not

given as they do not parody Dr. Watts.

――――――――

THE RINKER.

’Tis the voice of the rinker, I heard her complain,

You have stopped me too soon, I’ll go skating again,

As the door on its hinges, so she on her skates,

Turns gracefully, and expectantly waits.

A little more skating, a little more rinking,

Thus she wastes half her days, and her hours without thinking

And when she’s at home, she but lolls in a chair,

And wonders how soon she again will go there.

On her way to the rink I once chanced to be nigh her,

And I thought that she held her head higher and higher,

So fine was the dress she wore, I quite shuddered to think

Of the money she wastes on the terrible rink.

I made her a visit, still hoping to find

She took some little care for improving her mind;

She told me her feats, talked of dressing and rinking,

But scarce reads a book, and never loves thinking.

Then I said to myself, “Here’s a lesson to me,

This woman’s a pattern of what I might be,”

But I’m proud to confess, and I can without blinking,

I much prefer reading and writing to rinking.

_Idyls of the Rink._ JUDD & CO., London, 1876.

――――――――

A MORAL SONG FOR ELECTION TIME.

’Tis the voice of BRITANNIA, I heard her explain

“I’m wide awake now; I wont slumber again;

As Materfamilias, once out of bed,

I must sack my late servants, and turn off their head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,

And my wars, big and little, had grown out of number;

Over vanishing trade I’d have had to fold hands,

Perplexed not with orders, but debtor’s demands.

“I passed Jingo’s Music Hall, lit with blue fire,

That on Russia’s big bogey blazed higher and higher,

I heard “_Rule Britannia_,” saw waving of flags,

With a great deal by way of bounce, bunkum, and brags.

“I called upon Jingo, as hoping to find,

Common sense had found access, at length, to his mind,

But he told me his dreams, talked as if he’d been drinking,

For he reads the _D. T._, and has long given up thinking.

“Then, said _Punch_ to JOHN BULL, ‘you take warning, J. B.,’

This Jingo’s a picture of what _we_ might be.

But thanks to our friends for the care of our breeding,

Who warned us, betimes, the _D. T._ against reading.

_Punch_, 1880.

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the glutton,

I hear him complain,

My waistcoat unbutton,

I’ll eat once again.

_Punch_, May 1864.

――――――――

THE MOAN OF THE “NATIVE.”

“Of all the inanimate objects which are inimical to the oyster, there

is nothing so fatal as sand.”

_Land and Water_, Oct. 23, 1880.

’Tis the voice of the oyster I hear him complain;

“I can’t live in this place, here’s the sandstorm again.

I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles

They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles.

It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe

That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge

When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will,

Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill,

I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands,

But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.”

Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown

Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down!

_Punch_, 1880.

[Illustration]

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

Whene’er I take my walks abroad,

How many poor I see!

What shall I render to my God

For all his gifts to me?

Not more than others I deserve,

Yet God hath given me more:

For I have food while others starve,

Or beg from door to door.

How many children in the street

Half naked I behold!

While I am clothed from head to feet

And cover’d from the cold.

While some poor wretches scarce can tell

Where they may lay their head,

I have a home wherein to dwell,

And rest upon my bed.

While others early learn to swear,

And curse, and lie, and steal,

Lord, I am taught thy name to fear,

And do thy holy will.

Are these thy favours, day by day,

To me above the rest?

Then let me love thee more than they,

And try to serve thee best.

DR. WATTS.

――――――――

LONDON STREETS.

_A Moral Song, after an Obvious Original._

Whene’er I take my walks abroad

How many things I see

Which make me wish that Colonel Hen-

derson were there with me.

Not more than others I observe,

But things impress me more――

The noise, the filth, the area-sneaks

Who beg from door to door.

What borrowed children in the street

Half-naked I behold!

What sturdy hawkers howl and cheat,

And how the poor are “sold!”

Horses in ’bus and cab I see

O’erworked and underfed,

And overladen creatures fall

Upon the roadway――dead!

Teutonic bands disturb the street

Remote from noise and strife,

And organs grinding discord make

A misery of life.

On crowded pavements, two abreast,

Perambulators run,

To drive the folks into the road――

The nursemaids’ daily fun.

The _gamins_ early learn to swear,

And curse, and lie, and steal,

Too fleet of foot for him to race――

The bobby, named of Peel.

Such things as these are day by day

A scandal and a pest;

But Scotland Yard, with folded arms,

Snores on and takes its rest.

――――――――

THE IRISH LANDLORD’S SONG.

“Whene’er I take my walks abroad

My tenantry I see,

And each has got a blunderbuss,

A looking out for me.”

_Judy._

――――――――

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

I cannot take my walks abroad,

I’m under lock and key,

And much the public I applaud,

For all their care of me.

Not more than others I deserve,

In fact much less, than more;

Yet I have food while others starve

Or beg from door to door.

The honest pauper in the street,

Half-naked I behold;

While I am clad from head to feet,

And covered from the cold.

Thousands there are who scarce can tell

Where they may lay their head;

While I’ve a warm and well air’d cell,

A bath, good books, good bed.

While they are fed on workhouse fare

And grudged their scanty food:

Three times a day my meals I get,

Sufficient, wholesome, good.

Then to the British public health,

Who all our care relieves;

And while they treat us as they do,

They’ll never want for thieves.

This parody was ascribed to the pen of one Stephen Bills, a convict,

and some twenty years ago his photograph could be obtained, with the

parody printed at the back. Mr. Bills was there represented in the

costume peculiar to gentlemen who are enjoying state hospitality. It

is a curious circumstance that a very similar parody was included in

the volume entitled “Wit and humour, by Shirley Brooks,” edited by his

son, and published by Bradbury, Agnew & Co., London.

It would be interesting to know whether Mr. Shirley Brooks was the

actual author, or whether he obtained the poem in the manner stated

below:

SONG BY A CAGED BIRD.

The following lines were found in the cell of a discharged convict,

who made his way into a Chaplain’s heart by piety, and, subsequently,

into a jeweller’s shop by burglary.

_The spirit that dictated such an irreverence with Dr. Watts is worthy

of the Author._

I cannot take my walks abroad,

I’m under lock and key,

And much the public I applaud,

For all their care of me.

Not more than Paupers I deserve,

In fact, much less than more,

Yet I have food while Paupers starve

And beg from door to door.

The honest Pauper in the street

Half naked you behold,

While I am clothed from head to feet

And covered from the cold.

While honest Paupers scarce can tell

Where they may lay their head,

I have a warm and well-aired cell,

With bath-room, gas, and bed.

While Paupers live on workhouse fare,

A grudged and scanty meal,

My table’s spread with bread and beer,

And beef, or pork, or veal.

Then since to honest folks, I say,

They put the Workhouse Test,

Why nix my doll palls, fake away,

You’ll like the Jug the best.

THE MODEL PRISON.

[This originally appeared in _Punch_, April 4, 1857.]

――――――――

COVENT GARDEN.

A HYMN OF HUMILITY.

[Over and over again has the Duke of Bedford been implored, adjured,

entreated, and admonished to set Covent Garden Market and its

approaches in order; but as yet he has practically turned a deaf ear

to all the appeals made to him.――Daily Paper.]

Whene’er abroad we take our walks,

And choose the Covent Garden route,

We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks?

And are they fond of rotten fruit?”

We see the garbage piled on high,

We sniff an air whose odour tells

Of rank corruption; and we sigh,

“No doubt the duke approves of smells!”

We pick our way through filth and slime,

And, musing on the noisome flood,

The thought occurs to us in time,

“In politics dukes fling much mud!”

We watch the traffic raging round,

And filling every hole and nook,

Then say, “Of course this muddle’s found

To gratify his grace the duke.”

The grimy avenue we pace,

About the ugly sheds we pry;

“It’s hard,” we think, “to like the place,――

But then one lacks the ducal eye.”

We mark the slums that fester near,

And dirt and squalor still we find;

But reason whispers in our ear,

“It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.”

Oh, fie on agitating elves

Who say the market is a blot!

They ought to murmur to themselves,

“The duke’s contented with the spot.”

He draws his rents, he hoards his gold;

What cares he for the vulgar throng!

They might just recollect, when told,

That dukes, like kings, can do no wrong.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, June, 1882.

――――:o:――――

MORAL SONGS FOR ELECTION-TIME.

(_After Dr. Watts_).

I.――PLAY (INNOCENT AND OTHERWISE).

Abroad in the Boroughs to see the Blue Lambs,

And the Red Lions rather too free of their dams,

Standing up for what both call their rights:

Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage,

Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage,

Are not pleasant election-time sights.

If we’d been born Ducks, we _might_ dabble in mud;

Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood;

But _we_ claim to be rational creatures;

And DIZZY and GLADSTONE, and such pretty names,

We ought to know better than fling, to our shames,

Like mud, in each other’s flushed features.

Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say,

But with Blue and Buff bills should be wiped clean away;

They are fools who let foolish words hurt.

Not so rough’s rude horseplay, who fight and throw mire,

Or, still worse, penmen’s frolic’s, who fling about fire

In Jingo Drawcansir disport.

――――――――

II.――LOVE BETWEEN REDS AND BLUES.

Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite――

They can’t use fists, we know――

Let Turk and Russ take wrong for right,

It is their nature to.

But, Britons, you should never let

Such Party-passions rise,

As, even at Election times,

To――blank――each other’s eyes!

Afghans, Zulus howe’er we treat,

Let’s keep the peace at home;

Where Rads and Jingoes share the street,

To cuffs they should not come.

Birds in their little nests agree,

And ’tis a painful sight,

When fools, though of one family,

Fall out and chide and fight.

Hard hustings-names, hot platform-words,

And blatant leaders’ breath,

Take shape in Clubs, Lies’ two-edged swords,

And mob-war to the death.

He’s wise who tongue and temper schools

Through the election fight,

Nor holdeth all his foes for fools,

Himself still in the right.

_Punch_, April 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

WATTS’S INCOME TAX LOGIC.

When Bishops, who in wealth abound,

Return their incomes wrong,

And pocket several thousand pound

To them that don’t belong.

Oh, how can Government expect

A struggling chap like me

Should put his earnings down correct,

To fill up Schedule D?

_Punch_, April 16, 1853.

――――――――

HYMN BY A MEMBER OF THE PEACE CONGRESS.

How sweet a thing it is to dwell

In blessed u-ni-ty,

With envious passions ne’er to swell,

But cherish a-mi-ty.

How very sweet it is to take

Your little brother’s gold,

And make a snug pro-vi-sion

Against when we get old.

How very sweet it is――“Oh dear!”

Who hit me in the eye?

“Who kicked me then? Get out you brute!

Ah do――just only try――”

“I’ll tear your clothes clean off your back,

I’ll smash your ugly head;”

It’s done――three cheers for blessed peace!

My en-e-my is dead.

_The Tomahawk_, September 21, 1867.

――――――――

THE THIEF.

Why should I deprive my neighbour

Of his goods against his will?

Hands were made for honest labour,

Not to plunder, or to steal.

DR. WATTS.

――――――――

Why should I relieve my neighbour

With my goods against my will?

Can’t he live by honest labour

Can’t he borrow, can’t he steal?

――――――――

A PARAPHRASE.

[On the Rev. Dr. Watts’s Celebrated Distich, on the _Study of

Languages_.]

Addressed to the young gentlemen of the English Grammar Schools, by

one of their School-fellows.

“Let every foreign tongue alone

Till you can spell and read your own”

With equal justice, sense and truth,

So says the guide and friend of youth:

For ignorant in that, ’tis plain,

Your boast of literature is vain;

But make your own your first concern,

All others you may quickly learn:

And thus with minds prepar’d and free,

Their beauties taste, their idioms see.

Pedants may flout and keep a pother

About this language, and the other,

And swear that none can write or speak

Who have not Latin learn’d and Greek:

‘He of all judgement is depriv’d

‘Who knows not whence a word’s derived

‘And every Briton willy nilly,

‘Must dig good English out of Lilly;’

These are vague notions foster’d long

Crude in their birth, in practice wrong;

Like many more of ancient date,

Wisely reformed or obsolete.

Thousands ’tis true the course have run,

Which reason would have bid them shun:

’Tis common sense and good in law,

To furnish brick we should have straw.

But by the mystic code of schools

There’s neither straw allowed nor tools;

And years of pain, and learning’s stock,

Begin and end in _Hic_, _haec_, _hoc_!

What charms are there, in sense or sound

Of such intrinsic merit found,

That not thro’ prejudice to err,

Terms of our own we mayn’t prefer?

And just as well the purpose fit,

With Oxford writing,――he, she, it?

Or do they more in Church or State

Improve discourse, or point debate?

Poor boys in training, it appears,

Condemn’d to waste their tender years

On exercises which conduce

To little or no real use,

Seem to perpetuate Britain’s doom,

To groan beneath the yoke of Rome.

Rome that abandon’d us in need

Still o’er our judgment takes the lead;

We scout her eagles with disdain

The fasces still usurp domain;

Still, of court influence tho’ bereft,

In schools the badge of slavery’s left,

And interest still, or affectation,

Warps the free spirit of the nation;

Tho’ richer prospects grace our view

Than ever Greek or Roman knew,――

All must be through the classics led,

Before the horn-book well they’ve read;

A more oppressive task in fact

Than Ægypt’s tyrant could exact

Which genius in the cradle cramps,

And all her generous efforts damps;

But in your native language skill’d

You on a sure foundation build;

The edifice will rise sublime,

In perfect order, place, and time.

There, and there only should commence

The path to knowledge, wit and sense,

For there the young ingenious mind,

The road to excellence will find,

And in the flowery walks of science,

May bid disgraceful birch defiance;

But who, a novice there, aspires,

Must work his way through thorns and briars,

And when the craggy steeps are past,

May skulk a useless drone at last;

Nay, though he get A. B. at College,

Be stopt of his degree in knowledge.

Then cultivate your native soil,

The harvest will repay your toil;

And be it every parent’s care,

To plant the seeds of goodness there.

*.* The petty ambition of pretending to superior skill, in other

languages, seems pleasantly and aptly ridiculed in the following

anecdote:――

One of our modern modishly-bred ladies, boasting of her proficiency in

the FRENCH tongue, asserted she understood and spoke it better than

she did English; and for the truth, appealed to a French lady in

company. The adroit Parisian very candidly and sensibly replied, “I am

not, my dear madam, sufficiently acquainted with the English language

to determine; but I should be ashamed and sorry to say, I spoke any

language half so well as my own!”

From _A Collection of Poems_, by Samuel Whyte, Dublin, 1792.

[Illustration]

John Milton,

_Born_ 1608. _Died in Bunhill Fields, London, November_ 8, 1674.

――――――――

[Illustration: P]arodies of Milton’s Poems are neither numerous, nor

particularly amusing; the best known, and most admired, is undoubtedly

“The Splendid Shilling,” written (in blank verse) about 1700, by John

Philips. A biography of this author is included in Dr. Johnson’s

“Lives of the Poets.” He was born at Bampton in Oxfordshire, on

December 30, 1676. Being of a delicate constitution his chief

amusement was reading, and as Milton was his favorite author, he chose

his style for a parody, whilst he found a subject in the character of

an impecunious college friend, who knew not how to keep a shilling in

his pocket. “The Splendid Shilling” has one great charm, rare in such

works, it is a burlesque in which nobody is ridiculed. John Philips

died on February 15, 1708, and was buried in Hereford Cathedral. There

is a tablet to his memory in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, which

chronicles in high flown Latin phrases, his achievements in poetry. Of

these the principal were “Blenheim,” and “Cider,” the latter being

founded upon the model of Virgil’s _Georgics_.

The following is an exact reprint of a very early edition of

THE

SPLENDID SHILLING.

IN

IMITATION OF MILTON.

――――――――

――――_Sing Heavenly Muſe,

Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme,

A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera’s dire_

Happy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife,

In Silken or in Leathern Purſe retains

A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain

New Oyſters cry’d, nor ſighs for cheerful Ale;

But with his Friends, when nightly Miſts ariſe,

To _Juniper’s_, or _Magpye_, or _Town-Hall_[49] repairs;

Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye,

Transfix’d his Soul, and kindled Amorous flames,

_Chloe_ or _Phillis_; he each Circling Glass

Wiſheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love.

Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at Merry Tale,

Or _Pun_ ambiguous, or _Conundrum_ quaint.

But I whom griping Penury ſurrounds,

And Hunger, ſure Attendant upon Want,

With ſcanty Offals, and ſmall acid Tiff

(Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain:

Then Solitary walk, or doze at home

In Garret vile, and with a warming puff

Regale chill’d Fingers, or from Tube as black

As Winter’s Chimney, or well-poliſh’d Jett,

Exhale _Mundungus_, ill-perfuming Smoak.

Not blacker Tube, nor of a ſhorter Size

Smoaks _Cambro-Britain_ (vers’d in Pedigree,

Sprung from _Cadwalader_ and _Arthur_, ancient Kings,

Full famous in Romantick tale) when he

O’re many a craggy Hill, and fruitleſs Cliff,

Upon a Cargo of fam’d _Ceſtrian_ Cheese,

High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign

To vend his Wares, or at the _Arvonian_ Mart,

Or _Maridunum_, or the ancient Town

Hight _Morgannumia_, or where _Vaga’s_ Stream

Encircles _Ariconium_, fruithful Soil,

Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye

With _Massic_, _Setian_, or Renown’d _Falern_.

Thus while my joyleſs Hours I lingring spend,

With Looks demure, and ſilent pace a _Dunn_,

Horrible Monſter! hated by Gods and Men,

To my aerial Citadel ascends;

With Vocal Heel thrice Thund’ring at my Gates,

With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know

The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound;

What should I do, or whither turn? amaz’d

Confounded, to the dark recess I fly

Of Woodhole; ſtreight my briſtling Hairs erect

My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech,

So horrible he seems; his faded Brow

Entrench’d with many a Frown, and _conic_ Beard,

And ſpreading Band admir’d by Modern Saint

Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his Right hand

Long Scrolls of Paper ſolemnly he waves,

With Characters and Figures dire inſcribed

Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert

Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks

Another Monſter, not unlike himſelf,

Of Aſpect ſullen, by the Vulgar called

A _Catchpole_, whoſe polluted hands the Gods

With Force incredible, and Magic Charms

Erſt have indu’d, if he his ample Palm

Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay

Of Debtor, ſtreight his Body to the touch

Obſequious (as Whilom Knights were wont)

To ſome enchanted Castle is convey’d,

Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charms

In durance vile detain him, till in form

Of Money, _Pallas_ ſet the Captive free.

Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware,

Be circumſpect; oft with inſidious Ken,

This Caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft

Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave,

Prompt to enchant ſome inadvertent wretch

With his unhallow’d Touch. So (Poets ſing)

_Grimalkin_ to Domeſtick Vermin ſworn

An everlaſting Foe, with watchful eye,

Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap,

Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs Mice

Sure ruin. So her diſembowell’d Web

The _Spider_ in a Hall or Kitchin ſpreads,

Obvious to vagrant Flies; ſhe ſecret ſtands,

Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey

Regardleſs of their Fate, ruſh on the toils

Inextricable, nor will ought avail

Their Arts nor Arms, nor Shapes of lovely Hue,

The Waſp inſidious, and the buzzing Drone,

And Butterfly proud of expanded wings

Diſtinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares,

Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides

She tow’ring flies to her expected Spoils;

Then with envenom’d Jaws the vital Blood

Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave

Their bulky Carcaſſes triumphant drags.

So paſs my days. But when Nocturnal Shades

This World invelop, and th’inclement Air

Perſwades Men to repel benumming Froſts,

With pleaſant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood;

Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light

Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk

Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn,

Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night,

Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts

My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe

Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,

Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream,

Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree;

Mean while I labour with eternal drought,

And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat

Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe;

But if a Slumber haply do’s invade

My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake,

Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream,

Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale.

Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt—

Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe.

Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d,

Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays

Mature, John-apple nor the Downy Peach,

Nor Walnut in rough-furrow’d Coat ſecure,

Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay;

Afflictions great, yet greater ſtill remain,

My _Galligaskings_ that have long withſtood

The Winter’s Fury, and encroaching Froſts

By time subdu’d, (what will not time ſubdue!)

A horrid Chaſm diſcloſe, with Orifice

Wide diſcontinuous; at which the Winds

_Eurus_ and _Auſter_, and the dreadful force

Of Boreas, that congeals the _Cronian_ Waves,

Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blaſts,

Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship

Long ſail’d ſecure, or through the _Egean_ Deep,

Or the _Ionian_, till Cruſing near

The _Lilybean_ Shoar, with hideous Cruſh

On _Scylla_ or _Charibdis_ dangerous Rocks

She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter’d Oak,

So fierce a Shock unable to withſtand,

Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side,

The crouding Waves guſh with impetuous Rage,

Reſiſtleſs overwhelming; Horrors ſeize

The Mariners, Death in their eyes appears,

They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray.

Vain Efforts, ſtill the battering Waves ruſh in

Implacable, till delug’d by the foam,

The Ship ſinks found’ring in the vast Abyſs.

――――――――

SIR RICHARD STEELE, in “The Tatler,” pronounced “The Splendid

Shilling” to be the finest Burlesque Poem in the English language, and

DR. JOHNSON praised it as an admirable imitation of the stately

movement of Milton’s blank verse, whilst OLIVER GOLDSMITH, in his

Criticisms, says “This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our

language; it has been an hundred times imitated without success.”

It is a pity that Dr. Goldsmith did not more particularly describe

these imitations, as after much searching only about half a dozen have

come to light, all of them somewhat old fashioned in subject and

manner of treatment.

One of the best, written by Mr. Bramston (author of The Man of Taste,

The Art of Politics etc.) was entitled _The Crooked Sixpence_, and may

be found occasionally in old books of Comic Recitations, and Elegant

Extracts. Unfortunately no “Elegant Extracts” can be taken from it

suitable for the chaste pages of _Parodies_, for the poem relates to

such a topic as might have afforded excellent material to Rabelais, or

Chaucer, but which cannot be alluded to in our more refined times.

A few years after the publication of _The Splendid Shilling_, a small

pamphlet appeared, entitled “WINE, A POEM. To which is added, _Old_

ENGLAND’S _New Triumph; or, the Battle of_ AUDENARD, A SONG.” London:

Printed and sold by H. Hills in Black-fryars, near the Water-Side,

1709. No author’s name is given; the poem certainly deserves to be

preserved, as an early and interesting imitation of Milton’s blank

verse. The song of the “Battle of Audenard” is not a parody.

WINE, A POEM.

_Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,

Quæ Scribuntur aquæ portoribus._

Epist. 19, Lib. 1, Hor.

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source

Whence human Pleasure flow, sing _Heavenly_ Muse,

Of sparkling juices, of the enliv’ning Grape,

Whose quickning Taste adds Vigour to the Soul,

Whose Sov’raign pow’r revives decaying Nature,

And thaws the frozen Blood of Hoary Age

A kindly Warmth diffusing, Youthful fires

Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue

His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:

Cordial restorative to mortal Man

With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

_Bacchus_ Divine, aid my advent’rous Song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar.

Inspir’d, Sublime on _Pegaseon_ Wing

By thee upborn, I draw _Miltonic_ Air.

When fumy Vapour clog our loaded Brows

With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes

Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within,

Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps

With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,

Moaping we sit, in silent sorrow drown’d:

Whether inveigling _Hymen_ has trapan’d

Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the _Gordian_ Knot

Of jangling Wedlock _Indissoluble_;

Worried all Day by loud _Zantippes_ Din,

And when the gentle dew of sleep inclines,

With slumb’rous Weight his Eye-lids She inflam’d

With Uncloyed Lust, and Itch Insatiable,

His stock exhausted, still yells on for more;

Nor fail She to exalt him to the Stars,

And fixt him there among the Branched Crew

(_Taurus_, and _Aries_, and _Capricorn_,)

The greatest Monster of the _Zodiac_;

Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf

Or _Celia’s_ scornful flights, and cold disdain

Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse,

The worst Events that mortals can befal;

By cares depress’d in pensive _Hypoish_ mood,

With slowest pace, the tedious minutes Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust

New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,

Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping Fronts,

And pour in chrystal pure, thy purer Juice,

With cheerful Countenance and steady Hand

Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spacious Rim

Th’ expecting Mouth, and now with grateful Tast,

The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’re the Tongue,

The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;

Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait

Dispell’dst those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d

To whilom Glories of our gladsom Face

And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,

Thy cheering Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.

So _Mists_ and _Exhalations_ that arise

From Hills or streamy Lake, Dusky or Gray

Prevail, till _Phœbus_ sheds _Titanian_ Rays,

And paints their Fleecy Skirts with shining Gold,

Unable to resist the Foggy Damps

That veild the Surface of the verdant Fields,

At the God’s penetrating Beams disperse:

The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,

In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed _Strephon_ meets Repulse,

Scoff’d at, despised, in melancholick mood

Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,

Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty Aid,

He Storms the Breach, and wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay thee Homage, and receive thy Blessings,

The _British_ Mariner quits native shore,

And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,

Ploughing the Ocean, whilst the _Upheav’d_ Oak

With beaked Prow, Rides tilting o’re the Waves;

Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls

In Dangers Imminent, till she arrives

At those blest _Climes_, thou favour’st with thy presence.

Whether, at _Lusitanian_ sultry Coasts,

Or Lofty _Teneriff_, _Palma_, _Ferro_,

_Provence_ or at the _Celtiberian_ Shores;

With gazing Pleasure and Astonishment

At _Paradice_, (Seat of our ancient sire,)

He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple _Grape_

In largest Clusters Pendant, grace the _Vines_

Innumerous, in Fields _Grotesque_ and _Wild_

They with Implicit Curles the _Oak_ entwine,

And load with Fruit Divine her spreading Boughs;

Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,

Or of left native _Isle_, or absent Friends,

Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,

His kindly treach’rous mem’ry now presents

The Jovial _God_ has left no room for Cares.

_Celestial_ Liquor, thou that didst inspire

_Maro_ and _Flaccus_, and the _Grecian_ Bard,

With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains

Unparalell’d, with Eloquence profound,

And Arguments Convincive didst enforce

Fam’d _Tully_, and _Demosthenes_ Renown’d

_Ennius_ first fam’d in _Latin_ Song, in vain

Drew _Heliconian_ Streams, Ungrateful whet

To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt

Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull

With pains essay’d but abject still and low,

His _Unrecruited_ Muse could never reach

The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font

Of bright _Lenæan_ fire, Her barren drought

He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice,

Her drooping spirits chear’d, aloft she towres

Born on stiff _Pennons_, and of Wars alarms,

And _Trophies_ won, in loftiest Numbers sings:

’Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts,

And resolution bold, and ardour brave

Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease,

And sluggish minds with _gen’rous_ fires inflam’st,

O _thou_, that first my quickned Soul engaged,

Still with thy Aid assist me, What is _dark_

Illumin, What is low raise and support

That to the height of this great Argument,

Thy Universal Sway o’er all the World,

In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme

I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth.

Had the _Oxonion_ Bard thy Praise rehears’d,

His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height;

Such as of late o’er _Blenheim_ Field she soar’d

_Aerial_, now in _Ariconian_ Bogs

She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme

Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing emerg’d

In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,

At Rural Seat, _Lucretelus_ retir’d,

_Flaccus_, untained by perplexing Cares,

Where the white _Poplar_, and the lofty _Pine_

Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade

Creating from _Phœbean_ Rays secure,

A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends

On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours

In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse!

With Roses Interwoven, Poplar Wreaths

Their Temples bind, dress of _Sylvestrian_ Gods:

Choicest _Nectarian_ Juice Crown’d largest Bowls,

And over look’d the lid, alluring sight,

Of fragrant Scent, attractive, tast Divine!

Whether from _Formain_ Grape depress’d, _Falern_

Or _Setin_, _Massic_, _Gauran_, or _Sabine_,

_Lesbian_ or _Cæcuban_ the chearing Bowl

Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightened wit

To sing _Mecœna_ praise their Patron kind.

But _we_, not as our Pristrin sires repair

T’ _umbrageous_ Grot or Vale, but when the Sun

Faintly from Western Skies his Rays oblique

Darts flopping, and to _Thetis_ watry Lap

Hastens in prone Career, with Friends Select

Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or old

Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands

A Stripling, who with Scrapes and _Humil_ Cringe,

Greets us in winning Speech, and Accent Bland;

With lightest bound, and safe unerring step

He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs

_Melampus_ thus, panting with lolling Tongue,

And wagging’s Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before

His sequel Lord from pensive Walk return’d,

Whether in Shady Wood or Pasture Green,

And waits his coming at the well known Gate.

Nigh to the Stairs ascent, in regal Port

Sits a _Majestick_ Dame, whose looks denounce

Command and _Sov’reignty_, with haughty Air,

And _Studied_ Mien, in _Semicirc’lar_ Throne

Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands;

Behind her (_Dazling sight_) in order Rang’d,

Pile above Pile _Christallin_ Vessels shine;

Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,

And after Homage paid, baul out aloud

Words unintelligible, noise confus’d:

She knows the _Jargon_ Sounds, and strait describes

In Characters Mysterious Words obscure;

More legible are _Algebraic_ Signs,

Or _Mystic_ Figures by _Magicians_ drawn,

When they Invoke aid _Diabolical_.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance

Of Savage _Thracians_, and _Croatian_ Boors;

The loud _Centaurean_ Broil’s with _Lapithæ_

Sound Harsh, and grating to _Lenæan_ God;

Chase brutal Feuds of _Bælian_ skippers hence,

(Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)

In clumsy Fist wielding _Scymetrian_ Knife,

Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face,

Prophaning _Bacchanalian_ solemn Rites:

_Musicks_ Harmonius Numbers better suit

His Festivals, from Instrument or Voice,

Or _Gasperim’s_ Hand the trembling string

Should touch, or from the _Tuscan_ Dames

Or warbling _Tosts_ more soft Melodious Tongue

Sweet Symphonies should flow, the _Delian_ God

For Airy _Bacchus_ is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain’d our Guide unbars

The door of Spacious Room, and creeking Chairs

(To ear offensive) round the Table sets,

We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:

Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites you, Tast,

_Champaign_ or _Burgundy_, or _Florence_ pure,

Or _Hoc_ Antique, or _Lisbon_ New or Old,

_Bourdeaux_, or neat _French_ White, or _Alicant_:

For _Bordeaux_ we with Voice Unanimous

Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon _Conpeers_.)

He quits the Room _Alert_, but soon returns,

One hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore

Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure,

A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught

With goodly Wine, _He_ with extended Hand

Rais’d High, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice,

O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:

We strait t’our Arms repair, experienced Chiefs;

Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (Charming Sound,)

And Glorious ANNA’s Health the first the best

Crowns the full Glass, at Her inspiring Name

The sprightly Wine Results, and seem to smile,

With hearty Zeal, and wish unanimous

The Health we drink, and in her Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat

W’ improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth

Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee,

Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves

To pleasant Laughter, strait the Echoing Room

With Universal Peals and Shouts resounds.

The _Royal Dane_, blest Consort of the blest QUEEN,

Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss

In ANNA’S plac’t with Sympathetic Flame,

And Mutual Endearments, all her Joys,

Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,

Center in Him, who shares the grateful Hearts

Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN,

For by his Prudent Care, united shores

Were say’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero _Malbro_ next, whose vast Exploits

Fame’s Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new

We wish, like those he won at _Hochstet’s_ Field.

Next _Devonshire_ Illustrious, who from Race

Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul’s endow’d,

And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d

That shon in his most worthy Ancestors,

For then distinct in sep’rate Breast were seen

Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent _Godolphin_, of the Nations weal

Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own.

Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful _Sunderland_.

And _Halifax_, the Muses darling Song,

In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine

The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,

Himself _Mecænas_ and a _Flaccus_ too,

And all the worthies of the _British_ Realm

In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d

The _Dulcet_ Wine with a more charming Gust.

Now each their Mistress by whose scorching Eyes

Fir’d, tost _Cosmelia_ Fair, or _Dulcibella_,

Or _Silvia_ Comely Black with jetty Eyes

Piercing, or Airy _Celia_ sprightly Maid.

Insensibly thus flow _Unnumber’d_ Hours;

Glass succeeds Glass, till the _Dircean_ God

Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays

Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;

All Blithe and Jolly that like _Arthur’s_ Knights

Of Rotund Table, Fam’d in Pristin Records,

Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,

And Joys Unsull’d pass, till Humid Night

Has half her Race perform’d, now all abroad

Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling Noise

Of Coach or Cart, or Smoaky Link-Boys call

Is heard; but Universal Silence Reigns:

When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,

Surpriz’d to find the Hour so swiftly flie,

With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord

Alarm the Drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod;

Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs

Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies

His yet clung Eyelids, and with stagg’ring Reel

Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills;

When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge,

And Homeward each his Course with steady step

Unerring steer’d of Cares and Coin bereft.

――――:o:――――

A PANEGYRIC ON OXFORD ALE.

_By a Gentleman of Oxford._

Mea nec Falernae

Temperant vites, neque Formiani

Pocula colles.

_Horace._

Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,

Hail Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups

Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,

Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night;

My sober ev’ning let the tankard bless,

With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught

While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs

Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!

Where no crude surfeit or intemperate joys

Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o’er my soul

A calm lethean creeps, in drowsy trance

Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps

My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod

Of magic morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed

Its opiate influence. What though sore ills

Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals

Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight’s gleam

Haply remaining) heart rejoicing ALE

Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.

Meantime, not mindless of the daily task

Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves

Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate,

While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid

The thought-perplexing labour to pursue

Sweet helicon of logic! but if friends

Congenial call me from the toilsome page,

To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,

Where ALE thy votaries in full resort

Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair

Of monumental oak and antique mould,

That long has stood the rage of conqu’ring years

Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair

Smokes rosy justice, when th’important cause,

Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,

In all the majesty of paunch he tries)

Studious of ease, and provident, I place

My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round

Returns replenish’d the successive cup,

And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:

While haply, to relieve the ling’ring hours

In innocent delight, amusive _putt_

On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play,

The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.

Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs

Nor, call’d for, chills my breast with sudden fear

While on the wonted door, expressive mark,

The frequent penny stands describ’d to view,

In snowy characters and graceful row.

Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress

Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff

The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart

New oysters cry’d: Though much the poet’s friend,

Ne’er yet attempted in poetic strain,

Accept this tribute of poetic praise!

Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms

Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof

Of pot-house, snug to visit; wiser he

The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee house

Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath

Of loathed tobacco ne’er diffus’d its balm;

But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem’d polite,

While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl

Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE:

In vain――the proctor’s voice arrests their joys;

Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,

All-powerful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweet

Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,

When tatter’d stockings crave my mending hand

Not unexperienc’d; while the tedious toil

Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain

Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,

Companion meet of languor loving nymph:

Be mine each morn with eager appetite

And hunger undissembled, to repair

To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust

And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain’d,

Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days

Our ancestors robust, with lib’ral cups

Usher’d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons

Of modern times: nor ever had the might

Of Britons brave decay’d, had thus they fed,

With British ALE improving British worth.

With ALE irriguous undismay’d I hear

The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome

Importunate: whether the plaintive voice

Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear;

Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;

Or tailor with obsequious bow advance;

Or groom invade me with defying front

And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds

(Whene’er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,

Or luckier chance the borrow’d boots supply’d)

Had panted oft beneath my goring steel

In vain they plead or threat: all-powerful ALE

Excuses new supplies, and each descends

With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:

E’en SPACEY with indignant brow retires,

Fiercest of duns! and conquered quits the field.

Why did the Gods such various blessings pour

On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands

So soon the short-liv’d bounty to recall?

Thus, while improvident of future ill,

I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroul’d,

And thoughtless riot in unlicens’d bliss;

Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)

The unpitying bursar’s cross-affixing hand

Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.

Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields

A sure retreat when night o’ershades the skies;

Nor SHEPPARD, barb’rous matron, longer gives

The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more.

Thus ADAM, exil’d from the beauteous scene

Of EDEN griev’d, no more in fragrant bower

On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale

No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;

But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness

And unrejoicing solitudes to trace;

Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds

The SPLENDID SHILLING’S praise in nightly gloom

Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE;

Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,

Mean follower: like him with honest love

Of ALE divine inspir’d, and love of song.

But long may bounteous heav’n with watchful care

Avert his hapless lot! enough for me,

That burning with cogenial flame, I dar’d

His guiding steps a distance to pursue,

And sing his favourite theme in kindred strains.

ANONYMOUS.

_The Oxford Sausage._ Cambridge, 1822.

――――:o:――――

THE SUET DUMPLING.

Happy the man who in his pot contains

A suet dumpling; he nor feels the pains

Of going dinnerless, nor griping hunger;

But cheerful blows the fire with merry heart,

Often revolving when the happy minute

That brings it to his homely board will come.

Sometimes with longing eyes he gazes hard,

And views it boiling in the frothy waves;

Then, with his fork or spoon applied, he feels,

And turns it o’er and o’er. Now time moves slowly on;

The hour-glass, which in yon old corner stands,

Is often view’d; for now his stomach keen,

Gnawing with greedy expectation,

Almost persuades him that the sands are stopp’d.

Now is his table placed near the fire,

His cloth of dingy hue is spread thereon;

His large clasp knife from out his pocket pull’d.

(A knife which oft has dealt destruction dire

To many a pudding, beef, or whate’er else

Came in its way; for none it spar’d;)

The earthen plate which graces his old shelf,

(Which late grimalkin, taking her nightly walks

In search of prey, by dire mishap

Threw down; but, by good care of fortune,

A piece from out the brim is only broke,)

Is straight in order plac’d and all’s compleat.

As when the mariner, who, long from home,

Far from his native land, through seas and storms

And dangerous perils, homeward does return;

Sudden he sees the wish’d for port appear,

Joy fills his dancing heart, and now he feeds

His fancy with the pleasing expectation

Of mirth and joy, and heart delighting scenes.

Behold the pot has yielded up its store,

And reeking hot, is placed upon the plate!

The three-legg’d stool is drawn, and down he sits,

Elated with the goodly prospect: sudden

His knife, well plung’d, dreadful incision makes;

And fork, aptly applied, his joys compleat.

Now direful devastation does ensue;

And half the delicious morsel is destroy’d

Ere he can make a pause; which having done,

He smacks his lips, and liking well the sport,

Proceeds again with more deliberation,

Till of the luscious cates he’s made an end.

Thus happy he, envying not sumptuous feasts,

Nor courtly entertainments; but well pleas’d,

Feasts on his homely viands; far happier than a king,

He enjoys as full content, without his cares.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE COPPER FARTHING.

Happy the boy, who dwells remote from School,

Whose pocket, or whose rattling-box, contains

A Copper Farthing! He nor grieving hears

Hot cheese-cakes cried, nor savoury mutton-pies;

But with his play mates, in the dusk of eve.

To well-known blacksmith’s shop, or church-yard hies;

Where, mindful of the sport that joys his heart,

Marbles, or chuck, he instantly begins,

With undissembled pleasure in his face,

To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump:

While I, confin’d within the hated walls

Of school, resounding with a clamorous din,

By still more hated books environ’d, I,

With tedious lessons and long task to get,

My dismal thoughts employ; or wield my pen

To mark dire characters on paper white:

Not blunter pen or stronger character

Uses the sage, a chiromancer hight,

Sprung from Egyptian king, and swarthy race,

Amenophis, or Ptolemy, when he,

In search of stolen calf, or money lost,

For wondering plowman does his art employ!

Or for the wish’d return of sweet-heart dear,

Or apron fine, purloin’d from hawthorn hedge,

For country-maid consults directing stars,

Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.

Thus while my lingering hours I joyless spend,

With magisterial look, and solemn step,

Appears my school-master, tremendous wight!

Dreaded by truant boys; how can I ’scape

The expected punishment for task ungot,

Aghast I stand, nor fly to covert bench,

Or corner dark, to hide my hapless head;

So great my terror, that it quite bereaves,

My limbs the power to fly, slow he ascends

The appointed seat, and on his right-hand lies

The bushy rod compos’d of numerous twigs,

Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow;

Which to the flesh of idle boys portends,

For the neglected task, a poignant smart;

And with him comes another mighty elf,

Yclep’d an usher, ah, terrific name

To lesser wights! who, if they hapless place

In station wrong pronoun or participle,

Straight, by the magic of his voice, are rais’d

In attitude above their lov’d compeers,

Where they, reluctant, various torments bear,

Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies,

They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down,

To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe.

Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,

Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways

And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds

Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells,

That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate,

With haughty step, and watchful eye askance,

Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he

May find conceal’d delicious grub or worm,

To which his maw insatiate forebodes

Certain destruction, while, behind or bush,

Or pale encompassing the farmer’s yard,

Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile

T’ensnare the feather’d race, who, if they stray

Beyond the precincts of their mother’s ken,

He straight purloins them from her careful wing,

With his sharp teeth torments their tender frame,

And with the crimson gore distains their sides,

Relentless; nor can all the piercing cries

Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg’d,

His heart obdurate move; instant he tears

Each trembling limb, devours the quivering flesh,

Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feast,

Save a few fluttering feathers scatter’d round

(That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck’d

The slaughter’d prey), to tell the hapless tale.

Thus joyless do I spend those hours the sun

Illuminates; and, when the silver moon

Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites

The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance,

Around the towering may-poles of the green,

Where each gay plowman does his partner choose

As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn

The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball;

All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport,

Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale.

Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing,

Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head,

Pale Envy rankles deep within my breast,

And baneful venom sheds. Grim Horror too

Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind

With tales of gliding sprites, in milk-white shrouds

Array’d, and rattling chains, and yelling ghosts

Irascible! or Fancy, mimic queen,

To swift imagination’s eye presents

A group of tiny elves, in circling dance,

Or luscious feast employ’d; such elves as danc’d

When Oberon did fair Titania wed;

While I, in wishes impotent and vain,

For Liberty, dear object of my hopes,

The tedious moments spend; or if, perchance,

Morpheus invok’d, my heavy eye-lids close,

Dear Liberty still haunts my sleeping thoughts,

And in a short-liv’d dream those joys I taste,

Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop

With dextrous hand, or run with feet as swift

As feather’d arrow flies from archer’s bow:

Till, from my slumber wak’d, too soon I find

It was illusion all, and mockery vain.

Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass

The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste,

Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d

In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand

Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart

Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t,

Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl.

Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides

Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft

Has cheer’d my drooping spirits, and reviv’d

My saddening thoughts, when o’er the pavement smooth

It spins, and sleeps, and to its master’s hand

Does ample justice, now, alas! become

To all the rude inclemencies of weather,

To time and destiny’s relentless doom

A miserable victim, quite decay’d

With many services, and cleft throughout

All useless lies; ah! sight of saddest woe

To wretched me! of every hope bereft,

Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch,

Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells,

Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks,

And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet;

Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide

Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;

Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house,

With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife,

And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come;

All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!

By MISS PENNINGTON who died in the year 1759, aged 25. The following

character of her, by Mr. Duncombe, is extracted from that Gentleman’s

Poem “The Feminead,”

“Nor shall thy much-lov’d Pennington remain

Unsung, unhonour’d in my votive strain.

See where the soft enchantress, wandering o’er

The fairy ground that Philips trod before,

Exalts her chemic wand, and swift behold

The basest metals ripen into gold:

Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,

We view vile copper with pure sterling vie;

Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear

To claim the praises of the smiling fair;

Till chuck and marble shall no more employ

The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.”

[Illustration]

THE SCHOOL BOY.

By the Rev. Mr. Maurice, Author of the

Indian Antiquities.

Multa tulit, fecitque Puer. Hor.

Thrice happy he, whose hours the cheering smiles

Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroul’d

Where Ease invites, or Pleasure’s syren voice;

Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge

Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight

Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn

Purples the East, with eager transport wild

O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed

He bounds exulting, as in full career

With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives

The flying stag; or when the dusky shades

Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky,

To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts

With boon companion, where they drown their cares

In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl.

Far otherwise within these darksome walls,

Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur’d,

And many a bolt, prohibit all egress,

I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears,

Rous’d from my peaceful slumbers by the sound

Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke

Chills my heart-blood, all trembling. I descend

From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof,

Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast

Perpetual raves, and fierce-descending rains

Discharge their fury――dire, lethargic dews

Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems

With fond ideal joys, and, fir’d with what

Or poets sing, or fabled tale records,

Presents transporting visions; goblets crown’d

With juice of nectar, or the food divine

Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight!

While, in the shade of some embowering grove,

I lie reclin’d, or through Elysian plains

Enraptur’d stray; where every plant and flower

Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air

With songs of love and melody resounds.

Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints,

As with slow faltering footsteps I resort

To where, of antique mold, a lofty dome

Rears its tremendous front; here all at once

From thousand different tongues a mighty hum

Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar

Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart

Of public note, for traffic far renown’d,

Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African,

Assembled, in one general peal unite

Of dreadful jargon.――Straight on wooden bench

I take my seat, and con with studious care

Th’appointed tasks; o’er many a puzzling page

Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard,

With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex’d;

And conjugations varied without end.

When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him

Who erst, extended on the burning lake,

Lay floating many a rood) his sullen brow,

With lowering frowns and fearful glooms o’ercast,

Enters the pedagogue; terrific sight!

An ample ninefold peruke, spread immense,

Luxuriant waving down his shoulders plays;

His right-hand fiercely grasps an oaken staff,

His left a bunch of limber twigs sustains,

Call’d by the vulgar birch, Tartarean root,

Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt,

Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light,

A ghastly furrow leave.――A solemn pause ensues:

As when, of old, the monarch of the floods,

’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves,

Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft

His awful brow.――Sudden the furious winds

Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage:

Or when (if mighty themes like these allow

An humble metaphor) the sportive race

Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play,

Beneath the shelter of some well-stor’d barn,

In many an airy circle wheel around;

Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal’d,

Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse,

In headlong flight, each to his secret cell;

If haply he may ’scape impending fate.

Thus ceas’d the general clamour; all remain

In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound.

Meanwhile, the pedagogue throughout the dome

His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars,

Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch

To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice,

Like thunder, or the cannon’s sudden burst,

Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs resound!

A sudden-paleness gathers in my face;

Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads,

Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes

Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze

Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands

The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage

Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound,

Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again

Strikes my astonished ears: transfix’d with awe,

And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon

By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous’d,

Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose

Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne

Indignant, or the black oblique ascend

Of sorrowful compeer; nor long delays

The monarch, from his palace stalking down,

With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe

Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground:

He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge

Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail;

But with impetuous fury it descends,

Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow

Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.

Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear

Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands

First grasp’d these barbarous weapons, bitter cause

Of foul disgrace, and many a dolorous groan,

To hapless school-boy!――Could it not suffice

I groaned and toil’d beneath the merciless weight

By stern relentless tyranny impos’d;

But scourges too, and cudgels, were reserv’d

To goad my harrow’d sides: this wretched life

Loading with heavier ills! a life expos’d

To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress;

Cut off from every genial source of bliss;

From every bland amusement, wont to sooth

The youthful breast; except when father Time,

In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour,

That gives this meagre, pining figure back

To parent fondness, and its native roofs!

Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son!

Rises superior to its load, and spurns

Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight,

My fancy riots in successive scenes

Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid

How best the fleeting moments to improve,

Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon.

But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled,

Scarce one short moon enjoy’d; (oh! transient state

Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change,

And other scenes succeeded, what fierce pangs

Then rack my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief

Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs

Heave all my frame, and choak the power of speech!

Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice

Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words

And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes:

In vain; for what can aught avail to sooth

Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance

Before my eyes in all its horror glares

That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear

The thundering scourge――ah me! e’en now I feel

Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs

That tore Alcides, when the burning vest

Prey’d on his wasted sides,――At length return’d

Within these hated walls, again I mourn

A sullen prisoner, till the wish’d approach

Of joyous holiday or festive play

Releases me: ah! freedom that must end

With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires

For sanctity renown’d, whose glorious names,

In large conspicuous characters pourtray’d,

Adorn the annual chronologic page

Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore opprest

With dire calamities, the glad return

Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer’d

My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot,

Illustrious George: for much to thee I owe

Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal

Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high,

Or hurl the mounting rocket through the air,

Or fiery whizzing serpent; thus thy name

Shall still be honour’d, as through future years

The circling Seasons roll their festive round.

Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press’d,

I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk

Of apple-tree; or wide, o’er flowery lawns,

By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps,

Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise,

The straw-built nest, and unsuspecting brood

Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken

Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance

Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf,

Stirr’d by the gentle gale, alarms my fears:

Then, parched beneath the burning heats of noon,

I plunge into the limpid stream, that laves

The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks,

Beneath some oak’s majestic shade recline,

Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass,

Their boon of freedom; till the distant sound

Of tolling curfew warns me to depart.

Thus under tyrant-pow’r I groan, oppress’d

With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul

Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook

Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer;

But summons to the field the doughty foe

In single combat, ’midst th’ impartial throng,

There to decide our fate: oft too, inflam’d

With mutual rage, two rival armies meet

Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight,

My soul is filled with vast heroic thoughts,

Trusting, in martial glory, to surpass

Roman or Grecian chief; instant, with shouts,

The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray;

No need of cannon, or the murderous steel,

Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies.

Fragments of rock are hurl’d, and showers of stones

Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm,

Or knotted club, avail; high in the midst

Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes

Mowing their way; and now, with tenfold rage

The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream

Distains the field, and many a veteran brave

Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend

By turns from either host; each claims the palm

Of glorious conquest; nor till night’s dun shades

Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends.

Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of heaven,

And all th’ eternal powers in battle met,

High o’er the rest, with vast gigantic strides,

The god-like leaders, on th’ embattled plain,

Came towering, breathing forth revenge and fate:

Nor less terrific joined the inferior hosts

Of angel-warriors, when encountering hills

Tore the rent concave――flashing with the blaze

Of fiery arms, and lightnings, not of Jove;

All heaven resounded, and the astonish’d deep

Of chaos bellow’d with the monstrous roar.

――――:o:――――

In 1880 the Editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best

poems in the style of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, Book II., on “The

Opening of Parliament.” The following were the successful

compositions:――

FIRST PRIZE.

Thus pondering how they best might frame reply,

Unto their Sovereign’s speech, mute and perplexed

Sat all the Peers, awaiting who appeared

To second, or oppose, or undertake

The perilous attempt, till Onslow, raised

Alike by merit and the Premier’s choice

To that bad eminence, in glib-set speech

Began: “Since silent all, great powers, ye wait

Counsel and guidance, I myself have framed

A loyal Address of dutiful assent,

Declaring confidence in this our State

And those whose prudence guides it,――fit reply!”

He spoke, and from the other side uprose

Granville, in act most graceful and humane

Of all who fell from office, breathing forth

Hatred implacable, and straight denounced

Revenge, and dissolution dangerous

To less than Peers. Louder applause was heard

As Granville ended, and his sentence pleased,

Counselling revolt, which, when the Premier saw,

Lord Beaconsfield, than whom of all the powers,

Save the Lord Chancellor, none higher sat,

With grave aspect he rose. High on his front

The curl of Vivian clung, though thinned with years,

Majestic still in ruin; and with knee

Somewhat advanced, as if perchance to show

Its mystic circlet, thus imperious spoke:

“Peers of the Empire, still ye look to me,

Your chief, for still to me the popular vote

Inclines, here to continue, and build up here

A growing Empire, so with Freedom joined;

Receive my words, nor heed inferior tongues,

False to their Sovereign and to our State,

Counselling ignoble ease and peaceful sloth,

Not peace. Well have ye judged of old, and still

Ye shall judge well, discerning to avoid,

By me advised, shameful dismemberment

Of this great realm.” He ceased, and straight the powers

Their session ended, voted the Address,

Momentous issue of prolonged debate.

THE BABY.

(Mr. John Foote, Kensington.)

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

High on a throne of Royal state which well

Beseemed the rule of Britain, and of Ind,

In sable vested, save for lustrous star

And circlet bright of gleaming gem and gold,

Victoria proudly sat by lineage raised

To that fair eminence, and by desert

Thus high enthroned in her people’s hearts.

Meanwhile the Black-Rod usher by command

Acquaints the Commons, who, their summons called

From Government and Opposition ranks,

Came trooping to the bar, and thronged the floor.

Behold a wonder! They, who in their place

Were pompous in their port as any peer,

Now fight and jostle for a standing-room;

Their self-importance breathless and collapsed

As Æsop’s fabled frog. But far above,

And at their own convenience, like their wont,

The noble lords――dukes, earls, and smaller fry――

In _otium cum dignitate_ sat,

Quaint demi-gods, in crimson robes and hats

Shiny and tall. After short silence then,

The ms. tendered, Cairns the Royal thoughts

And Beaconsfield’s concoctions thus disclosed:

‘My Lords and Gentlemen, once more well met,

Or classically, “Here we are again!”

The firmest friendship knits us to all Powers

(Save tiffs with holy Russia and the Turk,

Which every week or so must needs occur).

Triumphant o’er the Afghans are our arms;

For since no downfall in its grip can hold

All-conquering England, though repulsed awhile,

I hold it victory. Despite our loss

In Zululand, and Chelmsford’s blundering,

_Imperium et Libertas_ will appear

More glorious to the Jingoes than no war,

With what beside in Parliament or field

Hath been involved in failure. To this, then,

Our policy of old we now return――

How best we can contrive, by force or guile,

To filch our neighbours’ lands, and keep our own.’

BRIAN BORU.

(Mr. H. Hamilton, Holloway.)

_The World_, February 18, 1880.

――――:o:――――

“PRAE EXISTENCE, a Poem in imitation of Milton.” London: Printed for

John Clark, at the Bible and Crown in the Old Change, near St. Paul’s,

1714. This work was published anonymously, but it had a long

Publisher’s Preface, signed J.B., under which initials it may be

traced in the catalogue of the British Museum Library (Press Mark

11,631, b.b.b. 39). The Preface states that the structure of the Poem

is founded on the opinion “_That all human souls had an existence

antecedent to the Mosaic Creation_,” and is intended as an account of

the events that occurred in the interval between the battle of

_Michael_ and _Lucifer_, and the creation of the World.

In Book I. _Paradise Lost_, Milton thus alludes to Lucifer’s

discomfiture:――

“Nine times the space that measures Day and Night

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew,

Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,”

and the Author of “Prae Existence” commences his poem with the

Archangels sounding a retreat from the pursuit of the Rebel Angels

condemned to Hell, and the closing of Hell Gates.

With such a text it may be easily imagined that the Poem is not of a

very light or cheerful description. It opens thus ominously:――

Now had th’ Archangel Trumpet, raised sublime

Above the walls of Heav’n, begun to sound;

All Æther took the Blast, and Hell beneath

Spoke with Celestial Noise; th’ Almighty Host

Hot with pursuit, and reaking with the Blood

Of guilty Cherubs smear’d in sulphurous Dust,

Pause at the known command of sounding Gold;

And first they close the wide Tartarian Gates,

Th’ impenetrable Folds on Brazen Hinge

Rowl creaking horrible; the Din beneath

O’ercomes the Roar of Flames, and deafens Hell.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Poem is too heavy to be quoted, but the curious

in such matters may easily refer to it in the British Museum Library.

――――:o:――――

In Isaac D’Israeli’s _Curiosities of Literature_ there is a chapter

entitled “Critical Sagacity and Happy Conjecture;” or, Bentley’s

Milton. Dr. Bentley had, by his injudicious corrections and prosaic

interpolations, much disfigured his edition of _Paradise Lost_, and

D’Israeli, in his article exposes Dr. Bentley’s errors and want of

taste.

“――――BENTLEY, long to wrangling schools confined,

And but by books acquainted with mankind――

To MILTON lending sense, to HORACE wit,

He makes them write, what never poet writ.”

[Illustration]

“SALMAGUNDI: a miscellaneous combination of original Poetry;

consisting of Illusions of Fancy, Amatory, Elegiac, Lyrical,

Epigrammatical, and other Palateable Ingredients. Third Edition,

London. E. Hodson, Bell Yard, Temple Bar, 1793.” This volume was

written by the Rev. George Huddersford, M.A., Vicar of Loxley,

Warwickshire, who died November 10, 1809. It contains the two

following poems in imitation of _L’Allegro_, and _Il Penseroso_.

WHITSUNTIDE.

Written at Winchester College on the immediate approach

of the Holidays.

Hence, Thou Fur-clad Winter, fly;

Sire of shivering Poverty!

Who, as thou creep’st with chilblains lame

To the crowded charcoal flame,

With chattering teeth and ague cold,

Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold

While thou draw’st the deep cough out:

God of Football’s noisy rout,

Tumult loud and boist’rous play,

The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.

But come, thou genial Son of Spring,

WHITSUNTIDE! and with thee bring

Cricket, nimble boy and light,

In slippers red and drawers white,

Who o’er the nicely-measur’d land

Ranges around his comely band,

Alert to intercept each blow,

Each motion of the wary Foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand,

The angle trembling in thy hand,

And mark, with penetrative eye,

Kissing the wave the frequent fly,

Where the trout with eager spring

Forms the many-circled ring,

And, leaping from the silver tide,

Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health or Naiad fair

With rosy cheek and dripping hair,

From the sultry noon-tide beam,

Dives in Itchin’s crystal stream.

Thy votaries, ranged in order due,

To-morrow’s wish’d-for dawn shall view,

Greeting the radiant Star of Light

With Matin Hymn and early kite:

E’en now, these hallow’d haunts among,

To thee we raise the choral song[50]

And swell with echoing minstrelsy

The strain of joy and liberty.

If pleasures such as these await

Thy genial reign, with heart elate

For Thee I throw my gown aside,

And hail thy coming. WHITSUNTIDE.

――――――――

CHRISTMAS.

Hence, Summer, indolently laid

To sleep beneath the cooling shade!

Panting quick with sultry heat,

Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!

Come, CHRISTMAS, father Thou of Mirth,

Patron of the festive hearth,

Around whose social ev’ning flame

The jovial song, the winter game,

The chase renewed in merry tale,

The season’s carols never fail.

Who, tho’ winter chill the skies

Canst catch the glow of exercise,

Following swift the football’s course;

Or with unresisted force,

Where Frost arrests the harden’d tide,

Shooting along the rapid slide.

Who, ere the misty, morn is grey,

To some high covert hark’st away;

While Sport, on lofty courser borne,

In concert winds his echoing horn

With the deeply thund’ring hounds,

Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds.

While echo swells the doubting cry,

Shake the woods with harmony.

How does my eager bosom glow

To give the well-known TALLY-HO!

Or show, with cap inverted, where

Stole away the cautious hare!

Or if the blast of Winter keen

Spangles o’er the silvery green,

Booted high thou lov’st to tread

Marking through the sedgy mead,

Where the creeping moor-hen lies,

Or snipes with sudden twittering rise.

Or joy’st the early walk to take

Where, through the pheasant-haunted brake,

Oft as the well-aim’d gun resounds,

The eager dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of Buck my breeches tight,

Clanging whip and rowels bright,

The hunter’s cap my brows to guard,

And suit of sportive green’s prepar’d:

For since these delights are thine,

CHRISTMAS with thy bands I join.

――――:o:――――

In 1776 another parody on Milton’s _L’Allegro_ was published, entitled

“The Garrulous Man,” a poem addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Bath;

but this the Editor has not succeeded in finding.

――――:o:――――

L’ALLEGRO; OR FUN, A PARODY.

Off, blubbering Melancholy!

Of the blue devils and book-learning born,

In dusty schools forlorn;

Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly,

Hunt out some college cell,

Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish schemes,

And the old proctor dreams;

There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock,

As ragged as thy smock,

With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.

But come, thou baggage fat and free,

By gentles called Festivity,

And by us rolling kiddies, _Fun_,

Whom Mother Shipton, one by one,

With two Wapping wenches more,

To skipping Harlequino bore:

Or whether, as some deeper say,

Jack Pudding on a holiday

Along with Jenny Diver romping.

As he met her once a pumping.

* * * * *

Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee

Jokes and sniggering jollity,

Christmas gambols, waggish tricks,

Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks,

Such as fall from Moggy’s, knuckles,

And love to live about her buckles;

Game, that hobbling watchmen boxes,

And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies;

Come, and kick it as you go,

On the stumping hornpipe-toe:

And in thy right hand haul with thee

The _Mountain_ brim French liberty.

And if I give puffing due,

Fun, admit me of thy crew,

To pig with her, and pig with thee,

In everlasting frolicks free:

To hear the sweep begin his beat,

And squalling startle the dull street,

From his watch-box in the alley

Till the watch at six doth sally;

Then to go, in spite of sleep,

And at the window cry, “Sweep! sweep!”

Through the street-door, or the area,

Or, in the country, through the dairy;

While the dustman, with his din,

Bawls and rings to be let in,

And at the fore, or the back-door,

Slowly plods his jades before.

Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn

Harshly rouse the snoring morn,

From the side of a large square,

Through the long street grunting far.

Sometimes walking I’ll be seen

By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green,

Right against Old Bedlam-gate,

Where the mock king begins his state,

Crown’d with straw, and rob’d with rags,

Cover’d o’er with jags and tags,

While the keeper near at hand

Bullies those who leave their stand;

And milk-maid’s screams go through your ears,

And grinders sharpen rusty sheers,

And every crier squalls his cry

Under each window he goes by.

Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols,

While round and round this town it rambles;

Sloppy streets and foggy day,

Where the blundering folks do stray!

Pavements, on whose slippery flags

Swearing coach-men drive their nags;

Barbers jostled ’gainst your side,

Narrow streets, and gutters wide.

Grub-street garrets now it sees,

To the muse open and the breeze,

Where perhaps some scribbler hungers,

The hack of neighbouring newsmongers,

Hard by, a tinker’s furnace smokes,

From betwixt two pastry-cooks,

Where dingy Dick and Peggy, met,

Are at their scurvy dinner set,

Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes,

Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses;

And then in haste the shop she leaves,

And with the boy the bellows heaves;

Or if ’tis late, and shop is shut,

Scrubs at the pump her face from smut,

Sometimes, all for sights agog,

To t’other end of the town I jog.

When St. James’s bells ring round,

And the royal fiddles sound,

And young and old dance down the tune,

In honour of the forth of June;

Till candles fail and eyes are sore,

Then home we hie to talk it o’er,

With stories told of many a treat,

How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat;

She was pinch’d and something worse,

And she was fobb’d and lost her purse,

Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat,

To bake his custards duly set,

When in one night, ere clock went seven,

His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven

Of more than twenty hands had put in;

Then lies him down, a little glutton,

Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye,

And bakes the custards in his belly;

Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings

Before his master’s bell yet rings,

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep

By hoofs and wheels soon lull’d to sleep.

But the city takes me then,

And the _hums_ of busy men,

Where throngs of train-band captains bold

In time of peace fierce meetings hold,

With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies

Work change of stocks and bankruptcies;

Where bulls and bears alike contend

To get the cash they dare not spend.

Then let aldermen appear,

In scarlet robes, with chandelier,

And city feasts and gluttony,

With balls upon the lord mayor’s day;

Sights that young ’prentices remember,

Sleeping or waking, all November.

Then to the play-houses anon,

If Quick or Bannister be one;

Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,

Bawls out his damns with comic fury,

And ever, against hum-drum cares,

Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs,

Married to his own queer wit,

Such as my shaking sides may split,

In notes, with many a jolly bout,

Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out,

With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning,

His rig on many a booby running,

Exposing all the ways and phizzes

Of “wags, and oddities and quizzes,”

That Shuter’s self might heave his head

From drunken snoozes, on a bed

Of pot-house benches sprawl’d, and hear

Such laughing songs as won the ear

Of all the town, his slip to cover,

Whene’er he met ’em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give,

Fun, with thee I wish to live.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE HARE HUNTER.

_A Burlesque imitation of various parts of Milton’s L’Allegro and Il

Penseroso._

Lo I, who erst, at break of day,

To Nelston Wiggs[51] betook my way,

Alarming all the country round

With barbarous shout and yelping hound;

And many a fox in vain pursued

To Bardon Hill[51] or Button Wood;

And oft returned in evening dark

With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51]

And thought myself a clever lad,

While all the neighbours thought me mad;

Now condescend with nicest care

To hunt the hedge-row for a hare.

Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn,

Of Uproar wild and Tumult born:

No more expect me on the hill,

Obedient to thy summons shrill,

Where late with joy I saw thee stand,

The whip new corded in thine hand,

In boots thy legs entrenched strong,

Thy heels well arm’d with rowels long,

The cap close fitted to thy head,

The blue plush coat, the waistcoat red;

Thy person trim, succinct, and light

Breechee’d high in buckskin tight;

Mounted on a courser fleet,

With ardent eyes and pawing feet;

Hence, with thy tall tail-curling hound,

Of tongue so shrill and ears so round.

No more I listen to the noise

Of “wind him, rogues,” and “to him boys,”

The “touch,” the “drag,” and “tallihoe,”

And “gone away,” and “there they go;”

And how we earth’d him at Crick Chase,

Or lost him at some cursed place;

From all such ills that did attend us,

Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us!

But come, thou genius of “Loo Whoore,”

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

Clad in a coat of clumsy size,

Of double drab or knotted frieze,

O’er which is drawn the warm surtout

With flourish’d girdle bound about;

Thy vacant forehead broad and fat,

Shadow’d beneath the round-cropp’d hat.

Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail!

Whom in a solitary vale

To prone-eyed Dulness long of yore

The moping nymph Tantarra bore.

Come, but keep your wonted state

On a horse of sluggish gait;

Your looks commencing with the ground,

Where the close-crouching hare is found;

And as across the lands you creep,

Forget yourself and fall asleep

Till the dull steed shall break your nap,

Stumbling through the accustom’d gap.

And first the waddling beagle bring,

That looks as just escaped the string,

With sneaking tail and heavy head,

Such as by neighbour Dash are bred;

And join sharp Cold with Ache severe,

And Patience, that can bear to hear

The pack with melancholy tone

Around the scented hillock moan,

And with such discord as they keep,

Tempt pitying travellers to weep.

Me, Genius, shalt thou often find

On some hill side beneath the wind,

On fallows rough or stubbles dry,

Where the lone leveret loves to lie,

While such mean merriment invites,

Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

I see the fat pack puzzling round,

Where the game went long before,

Sounding sad with sullen roar;

With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning,

Through all her artful mazes running,

Untwisting every knotty wile

Both of the double and the foil;

In notes with many a winding bout

Of drowsy murmurings long-drawn out,

Bewailing their dull master’s folly,

Most pitiful, most melancholy,

But chiefly let the Southern’s tongue

Drag its deep dismal tone along,

In bellowings loud, and utterance hoarse,

Such as its mournful way may force

Through all my hearing’s cavities,

And bring the tears into my eyes.

But let my due sight never fail,

Where beaten paths divide the vale,

With anxious skill and cunning care,

To prick the footsteps of the hare,

While I cheer the beagle’s toil,

With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!”

And when at last old age and gout

Prevent my longer going out,

O may I from my easy chair

The wonders of my youth declare,

Extol at large myself and steed,

And talk of hounds of my old breed,

Till I become through neighbouring shires

The oracle of country squires.

These pleasures, Hare Hunting, impart,

And I am thine with all my heart.

MUNDY.

_Elegant Extracts from the British Poets_, 1824.

――――:o:――――

FASHION.

_A Paraphrase of L’Allegro._

Hence, loath’d vulgarity,

Of Ignorance and native Dullness bred,

In low unwholesome shed,

’Mongst thieves and drabs, and street sweeps, asking charity:

Find some suburban haunt,

Where the spruce ’prentice treats his flashy mate,

And smoking cits debate:

Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket ball,

Giv’n at Freemason’s hall,

With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt.

But come, thou nymph of slender waist,

Known early by the name of Taste.

And now denominated Fashion,

Whom erst, by no unlawful passion,

Pleasure’s fair nymph, on Britain’s shore,

To radiant ey’d Apollo bore:

Or Hermes (so the grave dispute is)

The frolic god of chemist beauties,

Found Lady Someone in the dark

As once they met at ―― ―― Park,

There, on a couch of damask blue,

And squabs, and cushions, damask too,

Fill’d her with thee, thou white-arm’d fair,

So delicate and _de bon air_.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Steed, and light hung Tilbury,

Undiscoverable rouge,

Polish’d boots; and neckcloth huge,

(Such as might deck a Dandy’s cheek,

And draw the gazers for a week.)

Mackintosh’s racy phrase,

And wit, that peerless Ward might praise.

Come, and let your steps be bent

With a lively measurement,

And bring the proper airs and graces,

That make their way in certain places:

And, if I give thee honour due

Fashion, enroll me with the few,

With Spencer, Sidney Smith, and thee,

In a select society:

To ride when many a lady fair, in

Her morning veil begins her airing,

And with the nurse and children stow’d,

Drives down the Park, or Chelsea Road:

Then to stop in spite of sorrow,

And through the window bid good morrow

Of vis-a-vis, or barouchette,

Or half-open landaulet:

While little Burke, with lively din,

Scatters his stock of trifles thin,

And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate,

Briskly bids his horses wait;

Oft listening how the Catalani

Rouses at night the applauding many,

In some opera of Mozart,

Winning the eye, the ear, the heart.

Then in the round room not unseen,[52]

Attending dames of noble mien,

Right to the door in Market Lane,

Where chairmen range their jostling train,

And footmen stand with torch alight,

In their thousand liveries dight,

While the doorkeeper on the stairs,

Bawls for the Marchionesses’ chairs,

And young dragoons enjoy the crowd,

And dowagers inveigh aloud,

And lovers write a hasty scrawl,

Upon the ticket of a shawl.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

As the circling crowd it measures;

Virgins old with tresses gray,

That in corkscrew curls do stray;

Ladies, on whose softer breast,

Gallants receive a hope of rest;

Little feet with sandals tied,

Shallow heads and shoulders wide;

Necks and throats of lovely form,

Bosom’d high in tippet warm,

Where some beauty spreads her snare,

The envy of surrounding fair.

Hard by, the Op’ra being past,

To some small supper let me haste,

Where ladies, wits, and poets met,

Are at their various banquet set,

Of fifty little tempting messes,

Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses:

And there with satisfaction see

The pullet and the early pea,

Or, if the sultry dog-star reign,

The melon, ice, and cool champagne.

Sometimes, to a late delight

Argyll advertisements invite,

Where the wreathed waltz goes round,

Or English tunes more briskly sound,

To twice a hundred feet or more,

Dancing on the chalky floor:

And wise mama, well pleased to see

Her daughter paired with high degree,

Stays till the daylight glares amain:

Then in the carriage home again,

With stories told, of many a bow,

And civil speech from so-and-so.

She was asked to dance, she said,

But scarcely down the middle led,

Because his Lordship only thought,

How soonest to find out a spot,

Where, seated by her side, unheard,

He whispered many a pretty word,

Such as no poet could excel!

Then, having paid his court so well,

Most manifestly meaning marriage,

He fetch’d the shawls and call’d the carriage,

Handed her from the crowded door,

And watched till she was seen no more.

Thus done the tales, the flutt’ring fair

Go up to bed, and curl their hair.

Country houses please me too,

And the jocund Christmas crew,

Where chiefs of adverse politics

Awhile in social circle mix,

And tenants come, whose country franchise

Connects them with the higher branches,

Since all the great alike contend

For votes, on which they all depend.

Let affability be there,

With cordial hand and friendly air.

And private play and glittering fête,

To make the rustic gentry prate,――

Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads,

Who judge from books of masquerades.

Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray,

If aught be moved by Castlereagh,

Or matchless Canning mean to roll,

His thunders o’er the subject soul.

And sometimes, to divert my cares,

Give me some flirt, with joyous airs,

Married a girl, a widow now,

Such as will hear each playful vow,

Too young to lay upon the shelf:

Meaning――as little as myself:――

Still speaking, singing, walking, running,

With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

With a good mien to testify

Her converse with good company,

That Chesterfield might lift his eyes

From the dark Tartarus where he lies,

Beholding in her air and gait,

Graces that almost compensate

The blunders of his awkward son

And half the harm his book has done.

These delights if thou canst give,

FASHION, with thee I wish to live.

_Posthumous Parodies._ (John Miller, London, 1814.)

――――:o:――――

ODE

By an Amateur, an ardent admirer of

MILTON,

On the Centennial Birthday of Burns.

I.

Hence, chroniclers of Time,

Makers of almanacs and strange predictions,

Held by the wise as fictions;

Begone, and wallow in the river’s slime,

To calculate the tides;

Or be your bed in bedlamitic cell,

Where moon-calves best may dwell,

To note her phases and her quarters dark,

That lovers well may mark,

What silvery hour for meeting best provides,

But here your art is wanted not,

This day――the ne’er-to-be-forgot

Makes an Era of its own;

And the dark Cimmerian throne

Of Erebus and Nox, no more

Encumbers Lethe’s barren shore,

In chains of silence to oppress

The victims of forgetfulness.

* * * * *

III.

In centennial cycle we,

With pomp, and feast, and revelry,

Multitudinously meet,

Natal day of Bard to greet,

Fauns and Dryads, Sylph and Fairy,

Hail this epoch centenary.

See on yonder mountain top

Caledonia plays Scotch-hop

With swimming eye and mazy gait,

(By “Mountain dew” inebriate)

Summons every loyal chiel

To reel the dance and dance the reel;

While centuries come, and centuries go

“On the light fantastic toe.”

* * * * *

XII.

Such our day!――from morning’s light

Till what time the angular flight

Of the bat suggests that we

Zig-zag home as well as he,

Thus the mazy path we’ll go

Still on the _fantastic_ toe,

Though the _lightness_ all hath fled

From the foot into the head.

After festal elevation,

Each descends to’s proper station

Where the locomotive’s snorting,

And the careful guard escorting;

Or, it may be, at the feasts’ end,

Some seek busses to the West End,

Some with frowns and some with smiles,

Debating how they’ll gang their miles,

Ev’n as, through life, it doth prevail,

That some do buss it,――some do rail.

These extracts are taken from a long poem contained in _Rival Rhymes,

in honour of Burns_; collected and edited by Ben Trovato. Published by

Routledge, Warnes and Routledge, London, in 1859. This little volume

contains parodies of Father Prout; Thomas Campbell; Longfellow; Hood;

Tennyson; Barry Cornwall; Macaulay; Pope, and Thackeray. It is now

known that it was written by Samuel Lover, the novelist, it will,

however, add little to his fame either as a poet, or a humourist.

――――:o:――――

RECREATION RHYMES.

By the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”

FOOTBALL.

BY J * * N M * * * * N.

Hence, hateful idleness,

Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot,

And with thy selfish lot

Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less;

For, sprung from such a race,

Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice,

Thou never couldst be nice.

Begone, where I no more shall see thy face.

Come, goddess of another sort,

Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport!

Come, offspring of a noble pair.

Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair,

And Health thy Father, stout and strong.

Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.

First let me pray the tuneful Nine

To aid me with a ray divine,

To guide me as I sweep the string,

And teach me rightly how to sing;

For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem,

Could ever find a nobler theme;

Nay, garbed in language rich and terse,

And married to immortal verse,

With fairy figures richly dight,

How can it fail to give delight?

It is a wintry holyday,

When young and old come out to play;

The air is crisp, the day is bright,

In sooth it is a goodly sight.

As to the trysting place they hie,

Right merrily the time goes by,

With sportive quip, and pungent pun,

With hearty laugh, and joyous fun.

Then, hasting to a spot remote,

Each player doffs his outer coat,

And shows himself in vesture trim,

Which closely fits each lissome limb;

Then to the ground speeds with a will,

To prove his prowess and his skill.

The rival chiefs, a worthy pair,

Now toss the coin high in air,

And he whom fortune doth befriend

Makes choice of goal to guard and fend;

The while his foe ’mid joyous cry

First drives the aëry ball on high.

Now listen to the merry din,

And see the much-loved sport begin.

The ball swift travels through the air,

Now here, now there, and everywhere,

Now sailing on with lofty bound,

Now creeping slowly o’er the ground.

The players now, an eager crew,

The well encasèd ball pursue,

Rush on and kick it as they go,

With the light but well-shod toe.

Now see a youth fly o’er the ground,

And deftly catch it on the bound;

Tight in his grasp he holds his prize,

To evade the foe as on he flies.

Then loud is heard the welcome cry

“A scrummage, to the rescue hie!”

And, with a roar of wild delight,

Rush all to “scrummage,” strangely hight.

And now indeed a wondrous scene

Is acted on the village green;

For all who play, save three or four,

Rush madly on, at least a score

Of heads and shoulders quickly meet,

And twice as many eager feet.

Now many a toe meets many a shin

And leaves its mark on manly skin,

And elbows, seeking cosy cribs,

Find lodgment in opposing ribs;

And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass

A seething, surging, kicking mass.

And now, while still they push and shout,

The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out.

A nimble-footed youth espies

And after it like lightning flies,

And, ere his foes see through the trick,

Essays a deftly-aimèd kick.

“Home,” cries the keeper of the goal,

Too late from scrummage rush the shoal,

The ball skims o’er the opposing hosts,

And gently drops between the posts.

Now change they sides, and soon again

The ball is speeding o’er the plain,

While after it each eager wight

Scampers in transports of delight.

Until at length he respite seeks,

With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks.

His mud-bespattered garments shows

How oft on Earth he’s laid him low;

But still this brings him no remorce,

He feels the hot blood through him course,

And knows that in his much-loved game,

He’s found both pleasure, health, and fame.

_Pastime_, September 7, 1883.

[Illustration]

AN EPITAPH.

_On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare._

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones,

The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a starry pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What needs’t thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a livelong monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

The easy numbers flow; and that each heart

Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.

JOHN MILTON.

――――――――

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.

_On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine_

WILLIAMS.

“What needs my SHAKSPEARE for his honoured bones,”

The veneration of SMITH, BROWN, and JONES?

Or that his hallowed genius should be hid

From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid?

“Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,”

What matter if PONSARD asperse thy name?

That is no wonder, no astonishment:

All are not pedants on the Continent.

For whilst Teutonic poetry and art

Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart

Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book,

What, if thou by a booby art mistook?

Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving,

Hast stupified him by too much conceiving.

Calling thee obsolete _bonhomme_!――the fly

Has buzzed about thy glory――let him die.

This parody appeared in _Punch_, December 27, 1856, and another, very

much resembling it appeared in the same paper in 1863:――

MR. MILTON MODERNISED.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,

The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid?

Dear son of memory――great heir of fame,

Why all these little names tacked to thy name?

Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment

At all this row about thy monument,

While to the shame of our dramatic art,

Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part.

Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book,

Praises so Empty, though so big they look,

And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving,

Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving;

Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie,

Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

――――:o:――――