The Sexton drinking at the Cheshire Cheese;
No fear of any creature interposing,
The human Jackal work’d away at ease:
He toss’d the mould to left and right,
The shabby coffin came in sight,
And soon it open’d to his double-knocks,--
When lo! the stiff’un that he thought to meet,
Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box,
Upon his seat!
Awaken’d from his trance,
For so the laudanum had wrought by chance,
Bunce stares up at the moon, next looking level,
He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony,
Then shudders out these words “Are--you--the--Devil?”
“The Devil a bit of him,” says Mike Mahoney,
“I’m only com’d here, hoping no affront,
To pick up honestly a little blunt--”
“Blunt!” echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter,--
“Why, man, I turn’d life’s candle in the socket,
Without a rap in either pocket,
For want of that same blunt you’re looking after!”
“That’s true,” says Mike, “and many a pretty man
Has cut his stick upon your very plan,
Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps,
And yet he’s fetch’d a dacent lot of stuff,
Provided he was sound and fresh enough,
And dead as dumps.”
“I take,” quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, “the fact is,
You mean a subject for a surgeon’s practice,--
I hope the question is not out of reason,
But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone,
For instance, like my own,
What might it chance to fetch now, at this season?”
“Fetch, is it?” answers Mike, “why prices differ,--
But taking this same small bad job of ours,
I reckon, by the pow’rs!
I’ve lost ten pound by your not being stiffer!”
“Ten pounds!” Bunce echoes in a sort of flurry,
“Odd zounds!
Ten pounds,
How sweet it sounds,
Ten pounds!”
And on his feet upspringing in a hurry--
It seem’d the operation of a minute--
A little scuffle--then a whack--
And then he took the Body Snatcher’s sack
And poked him in it!
Such is this life!
A very pantomime for tricks and strife!
See Bunce, so lately in Death’s passive stock,
Invested, now as active as a griffin,
Walking--no ghost--in velveteens and smock,
To sell a stiff’un!
A flash of red, then one of blue,
At last, like lighthouse, came in view;
Bunce rang the nightbell; wiped his highlows muddy;
His errand told; the sack produced;
And by a sleepy boy was introduced
To Dr. Oddy, writing in his study
The bargain did not take long time to settle,
“Ten pounds,
Odd zounds!
How well it sounds,
Ten pounds,”
Chink’d into Bunce’s palm in solid metal.
With joy half-crazed,
It seem’d some trick of sense, some airy gammon,
He gazed and gazed,
At last, possess’d with the old lust of Mammon,
Thought he, “With what a very little trouble,
This little capital I now might double----”
Another scuffle of its usual brevity,--
And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black,
Was finishing, within the sack,
His “Thoughts upon Longevity!”
The trick was done. Without a doubt,
The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out;
Who coming to a lone convenient place,
The body stripp’d; hid all the clothes; and then,
Still favoured by the luck of evil men,
Found a new customer in Dr. Case.
All more minute particulars to smother,
Let it suffice,
Nine guineas was the price
For which one doctor bought the other;
As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea,
“You see how one black sin bring on anudder,
Like little nigger pickaninny,
A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder!”
“Humph!” said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic,
Seeming to trace
Some likeness in the face,
“So death at last has taken old Bombastic!”
But in the very middle of his joking,--
The _subject_, still unconscious of the scoff--
Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking,
He too was _taken of_!
Leaving a fragment “On the Hooping Cough.”
Satan still sending luck,
Another body found another buyer:
For ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck,
Dead doctors going higher.
“Here,” said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant,
Taking a glimpse at his departed brother,
“Here’s half a guinea in the way of present--
Subjects are scarce, and when you get another,
Let _me_ be first.”--Bunce took him at his word,
And suddenly his old atrocious trick did,
Sacking M.D. the third,
Ere he could furnish “Hints to the Afflicted.”
Flush’d with success,
Beyond all hope or guess,
His new dead robbery upon his back,
Bunce plotted--such high flights ambition takes,--
To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes,
And sell them all ere they could utter “Quack!”
But fate opposed. According to the schools,
When men become insufferably bad,
The gods confer to drive them mad;
March hairs upon the heads of April fools!
Tempted by the old demon avaricious,
Bunce traded on too far into the morning;
Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious,
Ev’n words malicious,
Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning.
Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket,
A porter, ornamented with a ticket,
Who did not seem to be at all too busy--
“Here, my good man,
Just show me, if you can,
A doctor’s--if you want to earn a tizzy!”
Away the porter marches,
And with grave face, obsequious precedes him,
Down crooked lanes, round corners, under arches;
At last, up an old-fashion’d staircase leads him,
Almost impervious to the morning ray,
Then shows a door--“There, that’s a doctor’s reckon’d,
A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second--
Good day.”
“I’m right,” thought Bunce, “as any trivet;
Another venture--and then up I give it!”
He rings--the door, just like a fairy portal,
Opens untouch’d by mortal----
He gropes his way into a dingy room,
And hears a voice come growling through the gloom,
“Well--eh?--Who? What?--Speak out at once!”
“I will,” says Bunce.
“I’ve got a sort of article to sell;
Medical gemmen knows me very well--”
But think Imagination how it shock’d her
To hear the voice roar out, “Death! Devil! d--n!
Confound the vagabond, he thinks I am
A rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor!”
“No Doctor!” exclaim’d Bunce, and dropp’d his jaw,
But louder still the voice began to bellow,
“Yes,--yes,--odd zounds!--I _am_ a Doctor, fellow,
At law!”
The word sufficed.--Of things Bunce feared the most
(Next to a ghost)
Was law,--or any of the legal corps,--
He dropp’d at once his load of flesh and bone,
And, caring for no body, save his own,
Bolted,--and lived securely till fourscore,
From never troubling Doctors any more!
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)--
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin--
(Good heavn’s! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air--
(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane! he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub--but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting hone
From ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
[Illustration: ARTHUR’S SEAT.]
[Illustration: A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SON.]
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint--
(Where _did_ he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He’s got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he’s sent above!)
A SERENADE.
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Thus I heard a father cry,
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids or open mine!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
What the devil makes him cry?
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Still he stares--I wonder why?
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from the birth?
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Thus I heard the father cry;
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try!--
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake--
The more I sing, the more you wake!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie;
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Two such nights, and I shall die!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,--
How can I from bedposts keep,
When I’m walking in my sleep?”
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny--
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Nature soon will stupify--
My nerves relax,--my eyes grow dim--
Who’s that fallen--me or him?”
AN INCENDIARY SONG.
Come, all conflagrating fellows,
Let us have a glorious rig:
Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows!
Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!
Christmas time is all before us:
Burn all puddings, north and south.
Burn the Turkey--Burn the Devil!
Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!
Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!
Burn Burn’s Justice--burn Old Coke.
Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!
Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!
Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.
Let all burnings have a turn.
Burn Chabert, the Salamander,--
Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!
Burn the old year out, don’t ring it;
Burn the one that must begin.
Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,
Burn the burn he paidled in.
Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!
Burn the baker! Burn his man!
Burn the butcher--Burn the dustman,
Burn the sweeper, if you can!
Burn the Postman! burn the postage,
Burn the knocker--burn the bell!
Burn the folks that come for money!
Burn the bills--and burn ’em well.
Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!
Burn all taxes in a mass.
Burn the Paving! Burn the lightning!
Burn the burners! Burn the gas!
Burn all candles, white or yellow--
Burn for war, and not for peace;
Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!
Burn the King of all the Greece!
Burn all canters--burn in Smithfield.
Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.
Burn his kettle, burn his water,
Burn his muffin, burn his mug!
Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,
Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!
Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,
Just for being good for burns.
Burn all Swindlers! Burn Asphaltum!
Burn the money-lenders down--
Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!
Burn the Cheapest House in town!
Burn all bores and boring topics;
Burn Brunel--aye, in his hole!
Burn all _subjects_ that are Irish!
Burn the niggers black as coal!
Burn all Boz’s imitators!
Burn all tales without a head!
Burn a candle near the curtain!
Burn your Burns, and burn your bed!
Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,
Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims--
Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!
Burn all sorts of burning shames!
Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!
Burn all parties, great and small!
Burn that everlasting Poynder--
Burn his Suttees once for all!
Burn the fop that burns tobacco.
Burn a Critic that condemns.--
Burn Lucifer and all his matches!
Burn the fool that burns the Thames!
Burn all burning agitators--
Burn all torch-parading elves!
And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,
If they haven’t burnt themselves.
COPY.
A NEW SPECIES OF POETRY.
If I were used to writing verse,
And had a Muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy’s call to spring
And Carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev’ry blossom where it ‘lights;
If I, alas! had such a Muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill’d in vain!
But ah! the power was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy’s mine:
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies’ old domain--
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the “gradual dusky veil”
Drawn over Tempé’s tuneful vale,
In classic lays remembered long--
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height,
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns, }
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns, }
Who sang his native braes and burns. }
For me a novice strange and new,
Who ne’er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain’d to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic’s eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,
For anything that’s fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!
_1st of April, 1840._ E. M. G.
SKIPPING. A MYSTERY.
Little Children skip,
The rope so gaily gripping,
Tom and Harry,
Jane and Mary,
Kate, Diana,
Susan, Anna,
All are fond of skipping!
The Grasshoppers all skip,
The early dew-drop sipping,
Under, over,
Bent and clover,
Daisy, sorrel,
Without quarrel,
All are fond of skipping!
The tiny Fairies skip,
At midnight softly tripping;
Puck and Peri,
Never weary,
With an antic,
Quite romantic,
All are fond of skipping!
The little Boats they skip,
Beside the heavy Shipping,
While the squalling
Winds are calling,
Falling, rising,
Rising, falling,
All are fond of skipping!
The pale Diana skips,
The silver billows tipping,
With a dancing
Lustre glancing
To the motion
Of the ocean--
All are fond of skipping!
The little Flounders skip,
When they feel the dripping;
Scorching, frying,
Jumping, trying
If there is not
Any shying,
All are fond of skipping!
The very Dogs they skip,
While threatened with a whipping,
Wheeling, prancing,
Learning dancing,
To a measure,
What a pleasure!
All are fond of skipping!
The little Fleas they skip,
And nightly come a nipping,
Lord and Lady,
Jude and Thady,
In the night
So dark and shady--
All are fond of skipping!
The Autumn Leaves they skip;
When blasts the trees are stripping;
Bounding, whirling,
Sweeping, twirling,
And in wanton
Mazes curling,
All are fond of skipping!
The Apparitions skip,
Some mortal grievance ripping,
Thorough many
A crack and cranny,
And the keyhole
Good as any--
Are all fond of skipping!
But oh! how Readers skip,
In heavy volumes dipping!
* * * * * and * * * * *
* * * * and * * * * *
* * * and * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
All are fond of skipping!
A BUTCHER.
Whoe’er has gone thro’ London Street,
Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps
Gloating upon a sheep’s
Or bullock’s personals, as if his own;
How he admires his halves,
And quarters--and his calves,
As if in truth upon his own legs grown;--
_His_ fat! _his_ suet!
_His_ kidneys peeping elegantly thro’ it!
_His_ thick flank!
And _his_ thin!
_His_ shank!
_His_ shin!
Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!
With what an air
He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare
Gazing--and will not let a body by,
Tho’ buy! buy! buy! be constantly his cry;
Meanwhile his arms a-kimbo, and a pair
Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare
At his Joint Stock--for one may call it so,
Howbeit without a _Co._
The dotage of self-love was never fonder
Than he of his brute bodies all a-row.
Narcissus in the wave did never ponder,
With love so strong,
On his “portrait charmant,”
As our vain butcher on his carcass yonder.
Look at his sleek round skull!
How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is!
His visage seems to be
Ripe for beef-tea;
Of brutal juices the whole man is full--
In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,
The Butcher is already half a Bull.
A PUBLIC DINNER.
“Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide.”--ARABIAN NIGHTS.
At seven you just nick it,
Give card--get wine ticket;
Walk round through the Babel,
From table to table,
To find--a hard matter--
Your name in a platter;
Your wish was to sit by
Your friend Mr. Whitby,
But Steward’s assistance
Has placed you at distance,
And, thanks to arrangers,
You sit among strangers;
But too late for mending;
Twelve sticks come attending
A stick of a Chairman,
A little dark spare man,
With bald shining nob,
‘Mid Committee swell-mob;
In short, a short figure,
You thought the Duke bigger;
Then silence is wanted,
_Non Nobis_ is chanted;
Then Chairman reads letter,
The Duke’s a regretter,
A promise to break it,
But chair he can’t take it;
Is grieved to be from us,
But sends friend Sir Thomas,
And what is far better,
A cheque in the letter.
Hear! hear! and a clatter,
And there ends the matter.
Now soups come and fish in,
And C---- brings a dish in;
Then rages the battle,
Knives clatter, forks rattle,
Steel forks with black handles,
Under fifty wax candles;
Your soup-plate is soon full,
You sip just a spoonful.
Mr. Roe will be grateful
To send him a plateful;
And then comes the waiter,
“Must trouble for tater;”
And then you drink wine off
With somebody--nine off;
Bucellas made handy,
With Cape and bad Brandy,
Or East India Sherry,
That’s very hot--very.
You help Mr. Myrtle,
Then find your mock-turtle
Went off, while you lingered,
With waiter light-fingered.
To make up for gammon,
You order some salmon,
Which comes to your fauces
With boats without sauces.
You then make a cut on
Some Lamb big as Mutton;
And ask for some grass too,
But that you must pass too;
It served the first twenty,
But toast there is plenty.
Then, while lamb gets coldish,
A goose that is oldish--
At carving not clever--
You’re begged to dissever,
And when you thus treat it,
Find no one will eat it.
So, hungry as glutton,
You turn to your mutton,
But--no sight for laughter--
The soup it’s gone after.
Mr. Green then is very
Disposed to take Sherry,
And then Mr. Nappy
Will feel very happy;
And then Mr. Conner
Requests the same honour;
Mr. Clarke, when at leisure,
Will really feel pleasure;
Then waiter leans over
To take off a cover
From fowls which all beg of,
A wing or a leg of;
And while they all peck bone,
You take to a neck bone,
But even your hunger
Declares for a younger.
A fresh plate you call for,
But vainly you bawl for:
Now taste disapproves it,
No waiter removes it.
Still hope, newly budding,
Relies on a pudding;
But critics each minute
Set fancy agin it--
“That’s queer Vermicelli.”
“I say, Vizetelly,
There’s glue in that jelly.”
“Tarts bad altogether;
That crust’s made of leather.”
“Some custard, friend Vesey?”
“No--batter made easy.”
“Some cheese, Mr. Foster?”
“--Don’t like single Glo’ster.”
Meanwhile, to top table,
Like fox in the fable,
You see silver dishes,
With those little fishes,
The whitebait delicious
Borne past you officious;
And hear rather plainish
A sound that’s champaignish,
And glimpse certain bottles
Made long in the throttles:
And sniff--very pleasant!
Grouse, partridge, and pheasant,
And see mounds of ices
For patrons and vices,
Pine-apple, and bunches
Of grapes for sweet munches,
And fruits of all virtue
That really _desert_ you.
You’ve nuts, but not crack ones,
Half empty, and black ones;
With oranges sallow--
They can’t be called yellow--
Some pippins well wrinkled,
And plums almond sprinkled,
Some rout cakes, and so on,
Then with business to go on;
Long speeches are stutter’d,
And toasts are well buttered,
While dames in the gallery,
All dressed in fallallery,
Look on at the mummery:
And listen to flummery.
Hip, hip! and huzzaing,
And singing and saying,
Glees, catches, orations,
And lists of donations.
Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney--
“Mr. Benbow, one guinea;
Mr. Frederick Manual,
One guinea--and annual.”
Song--Jockey and Jenny--
“Mr. Markham one guinea.”
“Have you all filled your glasses?”
Here’s a health to good lasses.
The subscription still skinny--
“Mr. Franklin--one guinea.”
Franklin looks like a ninny;
“Mr. Boreham, one guinea--
Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney,
Mr. Tempest--one guinea,
Mr. Merrington--twenty,”
Rough music, in plenty.
Away toddles Chairman,
The little dark spare man,
Not sorry at ending,
With white sticks attending,
And some vain Tomnoddy
Votes in his own body
To fill the void seat up,
And get on his feet up,
To say, with voice squeaking,
“Unaccustomed to speaking,”
Which sends you off seeking
Your hat, number thirty--
No coach--very dirty.
So, hungry and fevered,
Wet-footed, spoilt beavered,
Eyes aching in socket,
Ten pounds out of pocket,
To Brook-street the Upper
You haste home to supper.
A CHARITY SERMON.
“‘I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and,
believe me, I will shortly pay thee another visit; but my friends,
I fancy, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately.’
Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, ‘Thou dost not
intend to rob me?’
* * * * *
‘I would have thee know, friend,’ addressing himself to Adams, ‘I
shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is,
better than to give to vagabonds.’”--JOSEPH ANDREWS.
I’m an extremely charitable man--no collar and long hair, though a little carrotty;
Demure, half-inclined to the unknown tongues, but I never gain’d anything by Charity.
I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother was traced and baited,
And the overseers found _her_ out--and she found _me_ out--and the child was affili_ated_.
Oh, Charity will come home to roost--
Like curses and chickens is Charity.
I once, near Whitehall’s very old wall, when ballads danced over the whole of it,
Put a bad five-shilling-piece into a beggar’s hat, but the old hat had got a hole in it;
And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer’s eye seem’d to care for it,
As my bad crown piece went through _his_ bad crown piece, and they took me up to Queen’s Square for it.
Oh, Charity, &c.
I let my very old (condemn’d) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low,
So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes--all defunct and fatherless now;
For the plaguy one-sided party wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter,
And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal verdict of Manslaughter.
Oh, Charity, &c.
I pick’d up a young well-dress’d gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St. Martin’s Court,
And charitably offer’d to see him home--for charity always seem’d to be my forte,
And I’ve had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky
job--
Do you know, he got my watch--my purse--and my handkerchief--for it was one of
the swell mob.
Oh, Charity, &c.
Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man, when it
seem’d that
they must be dash’d to pieces,
Though several kind people were following him with all their might--but such
following a horse his speed increases;
I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength; and I meant to ride it
home, of course;
But the crowd came up and took me up--for it turn’d out the man had run away with
the horse.
Oh, Charity, &c.
I watch’d last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it’s a
positive fact,
That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against everybody
under Mr. Martin’s act;
But I couldn’t catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the ears,
or over the head;
And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten swell’d
fingers in bed.
Oh, Charity, &c.
Well, I’ve utterly done with Charity, though I used so to preach about its
finest fount;
Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but _I_ can’t turn it to any account--
It goes so the very reverse way--even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety;
That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely out of the List
of Subscribers to the Humane Society.
Oh, Charity, &c.
THE CHINA MENDER.
Good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call! Well! here’s another pretty job!
Lord help my Lady!--what a smash!--if you had only heard her sob!
It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey,
To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney.
“Deuce take your stupid head!” says my Lady to his very face;
But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there’s Chiney in the case;
And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion
It’s my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.
Her brother’s a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads--
Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads;
And great nidnoddin’ mandarins, with palsies in the head:
I declare I’ve often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.
But the frightfuller they are--lawk! she loves them all the better:
She’d have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they’d let her.