But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;
For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)
In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!
What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls
In scraps of _Galignani_ they’ll screw up your little curls;
And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.
You’ll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring;
That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor _peut-être_ a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.
No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!
But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!”
So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “_Tant mi--eux!_”
For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!
HINTS TO PAUL PRY.
Oh, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul--but not Virginia’s Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm’d withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;--
Oh no! for thou wert never born
To watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn--
Thy home is always in a crowd
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston--that dramatic Buck.
True as the evening’s primrose flower,
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house, in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d,
Still Paul--yet we are never pall’d!
Friend of the keyhole and the crack,
That lets thee pry within and pore,
Thy very nose betrays the knack--
Upturn’d through kissing with the door;
A peeping trick that each dear friend
Sends thee to Coventry, to mend!
Thy bended body shows thy bent,
Inclined to news in every place;
Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent,
Stand each a query in thy face;
Thy hat a curious hat appears,
Pricking its brims up like thy ears;
Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,
To post thee sooner here and there,
To every house where thou shouldst not;
In gait, in garb, in face, and air,
The true eavesdropper we perceive,
Not merely dropping in at eve,--
But morn and noon, through all the span
Of day,--to disconcert and fret,
Unwelcome guest to every man,
A kind of dun, without a debt,
Well cursed by porter in the hall,
For calling when there is no call.
Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch--
That rule should save thee many a sore;
But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,
A box attends thee at the door--
The household menials e’en begin
To show thee out ere thou art in!
Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,
Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,
Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,
And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot,
And bans thy bones--alas! for why!
A tender curiosity!
Oh leave the Hardys to themselves--
Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams--
’Tis true that they were laid on shelves--
Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;
More things there are, the public sigh
To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!
There’s Lady L---- the late Miss P----,
Miss P---- and lady both were late,
And two in ten can scarce agree,
For why the title had to wait;
But thou mightst learn from her own lips
What wind detain’d the lady-ship?
Or Mr. P.!--the sire that nursed
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art,
Who form’d thy prying genius first--
(Thou wottest his untender part),
’Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”
Some people long to know the truth
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again--in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!
Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge
The porter’s glance, and just drop in
At Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)--and kindly bring
Poor Cob’s petition to the king.
There’s Mrs. Coutts--hath she outgrown
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
’Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.
O, come abroad, with curious hat,
And patch’d umbrella, curious too--
To poke with this, and pry with that--
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!
ON STEAM.
BY AN UNDER-HOSTLER.
I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv
When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!
ALLEGORY.
A MORAL VEHICLE.
I had a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;
Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant.
I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red,
Because ’twas only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.
I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;
A son called Frolic, who was never still:
Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright!
Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,
Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,
And Pleasure fell a splitter on _Paine’s Hill_!
A SOMNAMBULIST.
“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”--BYRON.
Methought--for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven--
Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,
With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:
Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;
And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware;
Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,
To gain that blessed haven from all care,
Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,
When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair--
Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp--upon the Brixton Mill!
TO VAUXHALL.
“The English Garden.”--MASON.
The cold transparent ham is on my fork--
It hardly rains--and hark the bell!--ding-dingle--
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,
Mocking a Vauxhall shower!--Married and Single
Crush--rush;--Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,
Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
To study the Sublime, &c.--(vide Burke)
All Noses are upturn’d!--Whish--ish--! On high
The rocket rushes--trails--just steals in sight--
Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light--
And Darkness reigns--Then balls flare up and die--
Wheels whiz--smack crackers--serpents twist--and then
Back to the cold transparent ham again!
TO A SCOTCH GIRL,
WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION.
Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth,
Thou mak’st a washing picture well deserving
The pen and pencilling of Washington Irving:
Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth,
Dashing about the water of the Firth,
To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving,
And never from thy dance of duty swerving
As there were nothing else than dirt on earth!
Yet what is thy reward? Nay, do not start!
I do not mean to give thee a new damper,
But while thou fillest this industrious part
Of washer, wearer, mangler, presser, stamper,
Deserving better character--thou art
What Bodkin would but call--“a common tramper.”
TO A DECAYED SEAMAN.
Hail! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop!
Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion,
Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop
Became so fatal to thy locomotion;--
Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean,
Thou readest still to men a lesson good,
To King and Country showing thy devotion,
By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood!
Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol;
Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg,--
Methinks,--thou Naval History in one Vol.--
A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg,
For unlike others that desert their Poll,
Thou walkest ever with thy “Constant Peg!”
TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL.
I’m fond of partridges, I’m fond of snipes,
I’m fond of black cocks, for they’re very good cocks--
I’m fond of wild ducks, and I’m fond of woodcocks--
And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes.
I’m fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes--
I’m fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory--
I’m fond of capercailzies in their glory,--
Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types:
All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer,
And when you next address your Lordly Babel,
Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear,
With due and fit provision to enable
A man that holds all kinds of game so dear
To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table.
[Illustration: THE TOP OF HIS PROFESSION.]
[Illustration: JOINING IN A CATCH.]
LIEUTENANT LUFF.
A COMIC BALLAD.
All you that are too fond of wine,
Or any other stuff,
Take warning by the dismal fate
Of one Lieutenant Luff.
A sober man he might have been,
Except in one regard,
He did not like _soft_ water,
So he took to _drinking hard_!
Said he, “Let others fancy slops,
And talk in praise of Tea,
But I am no _Bohe_mian,
So do not like _Bohea_.
If wine’s a poison, so is Tea,
Though in another shape;
What matter whether one is kill’d
By _canister_ or _grape_!”
According to this kind of taste
Did he indulge his drouth,
And being fond of _Port_, he made
A _port_-hole of his mouth!
A single pint he might have sipp’d
And not been out of sorts,
In geologic phrase--the rock
He split upon was _quarts_!
To “hold the mirror up to vice”
With him was hard, alas!
The worse for wine he often was,
But not “before a glass.”
No kind and prudent friend had he
To bid him drink no more,--
The only _chequers_ in his course
Were at a tavern door!
Full soon the sad effects of this
His frame began to show,
For that old enemy the gout
Had taken him in _toe_!
And join’d with this an evil came
Of quite another sort,--
For while he drank, himself, his purse
Was getting “_something short_.”
For want of cash he soon had pawn’d
One half that he possess’d,
And drinking show’d him _duplicates_
Beforehand of the rest!
So now his creditors resolved
To seize on his assets;
For why,--they found that his _half-pay_
Did not _half-pay_ his debts.
But Luff contrived a novel mode
His Creditors to chouse;
For his own _execution_ he
Put into his own house!
A pistol to the muzzle charged
He took devoid of fear;
Said he, “This _barrel_ is my last,
So now for my last _bier_!”
Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,
And not against his brain,
So he blew out his _lights_--and none
Could blow them in again!
A Jury for a Verdict met
And gave it in these terms:--
“We find as how as certain _slugs_
Has sent him to the _worms_!”
LOVE HAS NOT EYES.
Of all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street,
A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet,
For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,--
He’s as blind as any mole!
He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d,
Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d.
For he’s blind, &c.
He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s,
Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps.
For he’s blind, &c.
Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist,
Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist!
For he’s blind, &c.
He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out,
Though like a _Gal_ that’s galvanised, she throws her legs about.
For he’s blind, &c.
If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs,
He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes.
For he’s blind, &c.
Then if he has a meeting the question for to put,
In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot.
For he’s blind, &c.
Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies,
And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes.
Till he’s blind, &c.
A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
“If the affairs of this world did not make us so sad,
’Twould be easy enough to be merry.”--OLD SONG.
There is nothing but plague in this house!
There’s the turbot is stole by the cat,
The Newfoundland has eat up the grouse,
And the haunch has been gnawed by a rat!
It’s the day of all days when I wish
That our friends should enjoy our good cheer;
Mr. Wiggins--our dinner is dished--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Mr. Fudge has not called, but he will,
For his Rates, Church, and Highway, and Poor;
And the butcher has brought in his bill--
Twice as much as the quarter before.
Little Charles is come home with the mumps,
And Matilda with measles, I fear;
And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Your poor brother is in the Gazette,
And your banker is off to New York;
Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt,
And the “Wiggins” has foundered near Cork.
Mr. Merrington’s bill is come back;
You are chosen to serve overseer;
The new wall is beginning to crack--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The best dinner-set’s fallen to the ground;
The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn;
Not a piece of our plate can be found,
And there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn:
Two anonymous letters have come,
That declare you shall die like a Weare;
And it may--or may not--be a hum--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The old law-suit with Levy is lost;
You are fined for not cleansing the street;
And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost,
And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.
Your old tenant at seventy-four
Has gone off in the night with his gear,
And has taken the key of the door--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
There’s the “Sun” and the “Phœnix” to pay,
For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick;
The new gig has been jammed by a dray,
And the old horse has taken to kick.
We have hardly a bushel of small,
And now coal is extravagant dear;
Your great coat is stole out of the hall--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail,
And the plants have all died in the night;
The magnolia’s blown down by the gale,
And the chimney looks far from upright;
And--the deuce take the man from the shop,
That hung up the new glass chandelier!--
It has come, in the end, to one drop--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
There’s misfortune wherever we dodge--
It’s the same in the country and town;
There’s the porter has burned down his lodge,
While he went off to smoke at the Crown.
The fat butler makes free with your wine,
And the footman has drunk the strong beer,
And the coachman can’t walk in a line--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
I have doubts if your clerk is correct--
There are hints of a mistress at Kew,
And some day he’ll abscond, I expect;
Mr. Brown has built out your back view;
The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts--
She has men in the house, that is clear;
And the laundress has pawned all your shirts--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Your “Account of a Visit to Rome”
Not a critic on earth seems to laud;
And old Huggins has lately come home,
And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude;
Your election is far from secure,
Though it’s likely to cost very dear;
You’re come out in a caricature--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
You’ve been christened an ass in the Times,
And the Chronicle calls you a fool;
And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,
Has engaged the next house for a school;
And the playground will run by the bower
Which you took so much trouble to rear;
We shall never have one quiet hour--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Little John will not take to his book,
He’s come home black and blue from the cane;
There’s your uncle is courting his cook,
And your mother has married again!
Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife,
And against them you’ll have to appear;
If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life--
But I wish you a happy New Year!
SEA-SONG.
AFTER DIBDIN.
Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that--
And it finds its own level for sartin--
For it sartinly drinks very flat:--
For my part a drop of the creatur
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by nature
The sea would have never been salt!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat!--
One day when I was but half sober,--
Half measures I always disdain--
I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax’d for some Water Champagne;--
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,
Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat.
REFLECTIONS ON A NEW YEAR’S DAY.
Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear!
By way of compliment and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year;
But wish me a new hat!
Although not spent in luxury and ease,
In course a longer life I won’t refuse;
But while you’re wishing, wish me, if you please,
A newer pair of shoes!
Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,
I own to one that I should not rebut--
Instead of this old rent, to have a coat
With more of the New Cut!
O yes, ’tis very pleasant, though I’m poor,
To hear the steeple make that merry din;
Except I wish one bell was at the door,
To ring new trousers in.
To be alive is very nice indeed,
Although another year at last departs;
Only with twelve new months I rather need
A dozen of new shirts.
Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear,
By way of compliment and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year,
But wish me a new hat!
WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.
Alas! of all the noxious things
That wait upon the poor,
Most cruel is that Felon-Fear
That haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”
Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,
The Sheriffs seek the cell--
So I expect their officers,
And tremble at the bell!
I look for _beer_, and yet I quake
With fright at every _tap_;
And dread a _double-knock_, for oh!
I’ve not a _single rap_!
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.
When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summon’d hence--
There’s cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door--
There’s some one double-knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms--
They’re come to lunch of course.
And when my body’s turn’d to clay
And dear friends hear my knell,
O let them give a sigh and say--
I hear the up-stairs bell.
A BULL.
One day, no matter where or when,
Except ’twas after some Hibernian revel,
For why? an Irishman is ready then
“To play the Devil”--
A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards,
Agreed to play with Nick a game at cards.
The stake, the same that the old Source of Sin
From German Faustus and his German Cousins
Had won by dozens;
The only one in fact he cares a pin
To win.
By luck or roguery of course Old Nick
Won ev’ry trick:
The score was full, the last turn-up had done it--
“Your soul--I’ve won it!”
“It’s true for you I’ve lost that same,”
Said Pat a little hazy in his wits--
“My soul is yours--but come, another game--
_Double_, or quits!”
ON THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE.
They say, God wot!
She died upon the spot:
But then in spots she was so rich,--
I wonder which?
ON THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIE.
Let Exeter Change lament its change,
Its beasts and other losses--
Another place thrives by its case,
Now _Charing_ has two _Crosses_.
ON HER MAJESTY’S VISIT TO THE CITY, 1844.
We’ve heard of comets, blazing things,
With “fear of change” perplexing Kings;
But, lo! a novel sight and strange,
A Queen who does not fear a ‘Change!
ON THE QUEEN’S VISIT TO THE CITY,
BY A CORNHILL TRADESMAN.
Sure the measure is strange
And all Commerce so stops,
And, to open a ‘Change,
Make us shut up our shops.
ON THE STATUES IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
If Nelson looks down on a couple of Kings,
However it pleases the Loyals;
’Tis after the fashion of nautical things,
A sky-scraper over the Royals.
ON A PICTURE (407) IN THE BRITISH INSTITUTION, 1843.
Sir, let me just your tasteful eye enveigle
To yonder Painting, of the Madman Eagle.[9]
Which, _that_ by Poole? Excuse me, sir, I beg,
I really have no wish to catch “The Plague.”
HEART-SPRINGS.
My heart’s wound up just like a watch,
As far as springs will take--
It wants but one more evil turn,
And then the cords will break.
CHANGE OF MINISTRY.
As human fashions change about,
The reign of Fools should now begin,
For when the _Wigs_ are going out
The _Naturals_ are coming in.
A PIG IN A POKE.
A Lord bought of late an outlandish estate,
At its Wild Boars to Chevy and dig;
So some people purchase a pig in a poke,
And others, a poke in a pig.
COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY.
That flesh is grass is now as clear as day,
To any but the merest purblind pup;
Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay,
My Lady B---- comes and rakes it up.
THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS.
The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute;
But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit;
For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames
To Cologne for an _O_, and to Nassau for _M’s_.
A REFLECTION.
When Eve upon the first of Men
The apple press’d with specious cant,
Oh! what a thousand pities then
That Adam was not Adamant!
LAYING THE DUST.
After such years of dissension and strife,
Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife:
But his tears on her grave was nothing surprising,--
He’s laying her dust, for fear of its rising.
ON LIEUTENANT EYRE’S NARRATIVE OF THE DISASTERS AT CABUL.
A sorry tale, of sorry plans,
Which this conclusion grants,
That Affghan clans had all the _Khans_
And we had all the _cant’s_.
THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.
A Mechanic his labour will often discard
If the rate of his pay he dislikes;
But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard--
Will continue to work, tho’ it _strikes_!
PARTY SPIRIT.
“Why did you not dine,” said a Lord to a Wit,
“With the Whigs, you political sinner?”
“Why really I meant, but had doubts how the _Pit_
Of my stomach would bear a Fox Dinner.”
LORD B----.
’Tis said of Lord B., none is keener than he
To spit a Wild Boar with éclât;
But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear,
He gives it so very much _law_.
TRAITORS’ AIMS.
Three traitors, Oxford--Francis--Bean,
Have missed their wicked aim;
And may all shots against the Queen,
In future do the same:
For why, I mean no turn of wit,
But seriously insist,
That if Her Majesty were _hit_,
No one would be so _miss’d_.
ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY.
Of public changes, good or ill,
I seldom lead the mooters,
But really Constitution Hill
Should change its name with Shooter’s!
ON THE ART-UNIONS.
That Picture-Raffles will conduce to nourish
Design, or cause good colouring to flourish,
Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing,
But surely Lotteries encourage Drawing!
A MORNING THOUGHT.
No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.
With larks appointments one may fix
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six,
For fish that will not _rise_!
ON A CERTAIN EQUESTRIAN STATUE AT THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.
Whoever has looked upon Wellington’s breast,
Knows well that he’s not so full in the chest;
But the sculptor, to humour the Londoners partial,
Has turn’d the lean Duke to a plump City Marshal.
ON A DAGUERREOTYPE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
Yes, there are her features! her brow, and her hair,
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic!
Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When by many a bosom’s confession,
Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to _make an impression_?
SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM.
When Woman is in rags and poor,
And sorrow, cold, and hunger tease her,
If man would only listen more
To that small voice that crieth--“Ease her!”