Half in love, and half in pride,
Quite graciously relented;
And, tossing her head, and turning her back,
No token of proper pride to lack--
To be a bride, without the "Mac,"
With much disdain, consented!
Old John MacBride, one fatal day,
Became the unresisting prey
Of fortune's undertakers;
And staking all on a single die,
His foundered bark went high and dry
Among the brokers and breakers!
But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride,
'T was such a shock to her precious pride!
She couldn't recover, although she tried
Her jaded spirits to rally;
'T was a dreadful change in human affairs,
From a place "up town" to a nook "up stairs,"
From an avenue down to an alley!
'T was little condolence she had, God wot,
From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot
The airs she used to borrow!
They had civil phrases enough, but yet
'T was plain to see that their "deepest regret"
Was a different thing from sorrow!
And one of those chaps who make a pun,
As if it were quite legitimate fun
To be blazing away at every one
With a regular, double-loaded gun--
Remarked that moral transgression
Always brings retributive stings
To candle-makers as well as kings;
For "making light of _cereous_ things"
Was a very _wick_-ed profession!
And vulgar people--the saucy churls--
Inquired about "the price of pearls,"
And mocked at her situation:
"She wasn't ruined--they ventured to hope--
Because she was poor, she needn't mope;
Few people were better off for _soap_,
And that was a consolation!"
And to make her cup of woe run over,
Her elegant, ardent plighted lover
Was the very first to forsake her;
"He quite regretted the step, 't was true--
The lady had pride enough 'for two,'
But that alone would never do
To quiet the butcher and baker!"
And now the unhappy Miss MacBride--
The merest ghost of her early pride--
Bewails her lonely position;
Cramped in the very narrowest niche,
Above the poor, and below the rich--
Was ever a worse condition!
MORAL.
Because you flourish in worldly affairs,
Don't be haughty, and put on airs,
With insolent pride of station!
Don't be proud, and turn up your nose
At poorer people in plainer clothes,
But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose,
That wealth 's a bubble that comes--and goes!
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows,
Is subject to irritation!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
ON AN OLD MUFF.
Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Covered with fluff,
Faded and stiff and scant?
Can it be? no, it can't,--
Yes,--I declare 't is Aunt
Prudence's Muff!
Years ago--twenty-three!
Old Uncle Barnaby
Gave it to Aunty P.,
Laughing and teasing,--
"Pru. of the breezy curls,
Whisper these solemn churls,
_What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?_"
Uncle was then a lad,
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Gone to what's called "the bad,"--
Smoking,--and worse!
Sleek sable then was this
Muff, lined with _pinkiness_,--
Bloom to which beauty is
Seldom averse.
I see in retrospect
Aunt, in her best bedecked,
Gliding, with mien erect,
Gravely to meeting:
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peeped from the Muff of Pru.,
Young men--and pious, too--
Giving her greeting.
Pure was the life she led
Then: from her Muff, 't is said,
Tracts she distributed;--
Scapegraces many,
Seeing the grace they lacked,
Followed her; one attacked
Prudence, and got his tract,
Oftener than any!
Love has a potent spell!
Soon this bold ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's sweet susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipped, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff,--triple-cornered ones,--
Pink as its lining!
Worse, even, soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought that they 'd
Locked her up tightly:
After such shocking games,
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest,--and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.
In female conduct flaw
Sadder I never saw,
Still I've faith in the law
Of compensation.
Once uncle went astray,--
Smoked, joked, and swore away;
Sworn by, he 's now, by a
Large congregation!
Changed is the child of sin;
Now he 's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin,--
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore:
Preacher was never more
Prized than is uncle for
Pulpit or platform.
If all's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff, and its
Fair owner pardon;
_All's for the best_,--indeed,
Such is my simple creed;
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
HOW PADDY GOT "UNDER GOVERNMENT."
A place under Government
Was all that Paddy wanted.
He married soon a scolding wife,
And thus his wish was granted.
ANONYMOUS.
II.
MISCELLANEOUS.
SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES.
Saint Anthony at church
Was left in the lurch,
So he went to the ditches
And preached to the fishes;
They wriggled their tails,
In the sun glanced their scales.
The carps, with their spawn,
Are all hither drawn;
Have opened their jaws,
Eager for each clause.
No sermon beside
Had the carps so edified.
Sharp-snouted pikes,
Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam up harmonious
To hear Saint Antonius.
No sermon beside
Had the pikes so edified.
And that very odd fish,
Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,--
The stock-fish, I mean,--
At the sermon was seen.
No sermon beside
Had the cods so edified.
Good eels and sturgeon,
Which aldermen gorge on,
Went out of their way
To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside
Had the eels so edified.
Crabs and turtles also,
Who always move slow,
Made haste from the bottom,
As if the Devil had got 'em.
No sermon beside
Had the crabs so edified.
Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher
Like a reasonable creature:
At God's word,
They Anthony heard.
The sermon now ended,
Each turned and descended;
The pikes went on stealing,
The eels went on eeling:
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.
The crabs are backsliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set;
All the sermon forget:
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.
ANONYMOUS.
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.
FROM "PERCY'S RELIQUES."
An ancient story I'll tell you anon
Of a notable prince that was called King John;
And he ruled England with main and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;
How for his house-keeping and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
"How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee;
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crowne."
"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."
"O these are hard questions for my shallow witt.
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
But if you will give me but three weeks' space,
Ile do my endeavor to answer your grace."
"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and the livings are forfeit to mee."
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he met his shepheard a-going to fold:
"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
What news do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give,
That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him, there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about;
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,
And He ride to London to answere youre quarrel.
"Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me,
I am like your lordship, as ever may be;
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall know us at fair London towne."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have.
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope."
"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say,
"'T is well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.
"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worthe."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jews, as I have bin told,
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he."
The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Bittel,
"I did not think I had been worth so littel!
--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Jone,
"I did not think it could be gone so soone!
--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke."
"Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."
The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse,
"Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!"
"Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
"Four nobles a week then I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
ANONYMOUS.
GLUGGITY GLUG.
FROM "THE MYRTLE AND THE VINE."
A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store,
And he had drunk stoutly at supper;
He mounted his horse in the night at the door,
And sat with his face to the crupper:
"Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse,
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle,
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,
While I was engaged at the bottle,
Which went gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."
The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale,
'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level;
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail,
So he scampered due north, like a devil:
"This new mode of docking," the friar then said,
"I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill;
And 't is cheap,--for he never can eat off his head
While I am engaged at the bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."
The steed made a stop,--in a pond he had got,
He was rather for drinking than grazing;
Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot,
But to drink with their tails is amazing!"
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,
In the pond fell this son of a pottle;
Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,--
I wish I were over a bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug!"
GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
FROM THE OPERA OF "ROBIN HOOD."
I am a friar of orders gray,
And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,--
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
Where'er I walk no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,--
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heaven I dream,
But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself, by denial, I mortify--
With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,--
With old sack wine I'm lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?
JOHN O'KEEFFE.
GOOD ALE.
I cannot eat but little meat,--
My stomach is not good;
But, sure, I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care;
I nothing am a-cold,--
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
_Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old!_
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,--
Much bread I not desire.
No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,--
I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
_Back and side_, etc.
And Tyb, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till you may see
The tears run down her cheek;
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,
Even as a malt-worm should;
And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."
_Back and side_, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily trowled,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old!
_Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old!_
JOHN STILL.
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
Which popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
The other limped, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried,
Had his soul whitewashed all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit with saints above to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half-way,--
Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke,
"You lazy lubber!"
"Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke;
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear,
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No, to the devil my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 't is that you are not in pain.
What power hath worked a wonder for your toes,
Whilst I just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!"
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to _boil my peas_."
DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (_Peter Pindar_).
THE VICAR OF BRAY.[3]
In good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those that dare resist
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
_And this is law that I 'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._
When royal James possessed the crown,
And popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,
And read the Declaration;
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;
And I had been a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.
_And this is law_, etc.
When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation's grievance;
With this new wind about I steered,
And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
_And this is law_, etc.
When royal Anne became our queen,
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory;
Occasional conformists base,
I blamed their moderation;
And thought the Church in danger was,
By such prevarication.
_And this is law_, etc.
When George in pudding-time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured
From our new faith's-defender,
And almost every day adjured
The Pope and the Pretender.
_And this is law_, etc.
The illustrious house of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I do allegiance swear--
While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty
I nevermore will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be--
Until the times do alter.
_And this is law that I 'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._
ANONYMOUS.
[3] "The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England, was Simon Alleyn, or
Allen, who held his place from 1540 to 1588. He was a Papist under the
reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He
was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the
reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his
versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat and an
inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: 'Not so
neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my
principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.'"--DISRAELI.
HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER.
FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.
His puissant sword unto his side
Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, it was so manful;
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.
* * * * *
This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;
'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth:
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.
DR. SAMUEL BUTLER.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.[4]
I'll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman
Who had an old estate,
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate,
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.
His hall so old was hung around
With pikes and guns and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
That had stood some tough old blows;
'T was there "his worship" held his state
In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaffed his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose,
Like a fine, etc.
When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
He opened house to all;
And though threescore and ten his years,
He featly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer
E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne'er forgot the small;
Like a fine, etc.
But time, though old, is strong in flight,
And years rolled swiftly by;
And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed
This good old man must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
Gave up life's latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reigned around,
And tears bedewed each eye,
For this good, etc.
Now surely this is better far
Than all the new parade
Of theatres and fancy balls,
"At home" and masquerade:
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
ANONYMOUS.
[4] Modelled upon an old black-letter song, called "The Old and Young
Courtier."
TOBY TOSSPOT.
Alas! what pity 't is that regularity,
Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity!
But there are swilling wights in London town,
Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine,
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.
These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on,
Dozing with headaches till the afternoon,
Lose half men's regular estate of sun,
By borrowing too largely of the moon.
One of this kidney--Toby Tosspot hight--
Was coming from the Bedford late at night;
And being _Bacchi plenus_, full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'T wasn't direct,--'t was serpentine.
He worked with sinuosities, along,
Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork,
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,--a fork.
At length, with near four bottles in his pate,
He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate,
When reading, "Please to ring the bell,"
And being civil beyond measure,
"Ring it!" says Toby,--"very well;
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.
He waited full two minutes,--no one came;
He waited full two minutes more;--and then
Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;
I'll pull it for the gentleman again."
But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright,
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,
Pale as a parsnip,--bolt upright.
At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.--
"Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away;"
When peal the second rattled in his ears.
Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;
And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred,
He groped down stairs, and opened the street door,
While Toby was performing peal the third.
Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant,
And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall;
Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?"
Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all."
"Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow,
As if you'd jerk it off the wire."
Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow,
"I pulled it, sir, at your desire."
"At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well.
High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it;
But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,'
Common politeness makes me stop and do it."
GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
THE MILKMAID.
A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head,
Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said:
"Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure
One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.