IX.

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short

As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales;

But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,

So that the wind his airy breast assails;

Below, he wears the nether garb of males,

Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;--

Thence further down the native red prevails,

Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:--

Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie.

X.

Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap

His function in a magisterial gown,

That shows more countries in it than a map,--

Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,

Besides some blots, standing for country-town;

And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;

But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,

He turns the garment of the other side,

Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!

XI.

And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,

That look for shady or for sunny noon,

Within his visage, like an almanack,--

His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:

But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,

With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,

Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,

And with forebodings of near wrath and storms

They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.

XII.

Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat

"Corduroy Colloquy,"--or "Ki, Kæ, Kod,"--

Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat

More sodden, tho' already made of sod,

For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,--

Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,

He never spoils the child and spares the rod,

But spoils the rod and never spares the child,

And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.

XIII.

But, surely, the just sky will never wink

At men who take delight in childish throe,

And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink

Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;

Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,

By useless birches, that forlorn recess,

Which is no holiday, in Pit below,

Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,--

A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?

XIV.

Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use

Of needful discipline, in due degree.

Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,

Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.

This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,

Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,

And Learning's help be used for infamie,

By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,

In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.

XV.

But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm

The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,

All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,

And cackling chorus with the human scream;

Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam

In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,

Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,

That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,

Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.

XVI.

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;--

Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,

And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,

Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof,

Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,

Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,

Or, whilst he labors, weaves a fancy-woof,

Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile;--

Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!

XVII.

Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,

When first the scholar lists in Learning's train,

And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,

Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,

From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,

Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,

For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain,

Another weepeth over chilblains fell,

Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!

XVIII.

Anon a third, for his delicious root,

Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,

So soon is human violence afoot,

So hardly is the harmless biter bit!

Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit

And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,

Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,

Alack,--mischance comes seldomtimes alone,

But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.

XIX.

For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,

Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,--

Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub!

Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,

And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,

That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry;

Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,

His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,

Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.

XX.

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,

And with his natural untender knack,

By new distress, bids former grievance cease,

Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,

That sets the mournful visage all awrack;

Yet soon the childish countenance will shine

Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,

For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,

This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.

XXI.

Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,

The Dominie lays ope the learned page;

(So be it called) although he doth expound

Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;

Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age,

How Romulus was bred in savage wood,

By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage;

And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud,

But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.

XXII.

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,

How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;

And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,

Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown;

And eke the bard, that sung of their renown,

In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn,

He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down,

Because, at once, in seven cities born;

And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.

XXIII.

Anon, through old Mythology he goes,

Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,

But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows

How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,

Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;

But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope

Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,

And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope,

Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope!

XXIV.

From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,

To new philosophies, that still are green,

And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide

The wheels of great political machine;

If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,

And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet;

How many pigs be born to each spalpeen;

And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,--

With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!

XXV.

Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,

That stood around with serious look intense,

Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,

Which they had opened to his eloquence,

As if their hearing were a threefold sense.

But now the current of his words is done,

And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,

In future time, with any mother's son,

It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.

XXVI.

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,

The hour is come to lay aside their lore;

The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon,

And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,--and four

Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,

Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,

All blithe and boisterous,--but leave two more,

With Reading made Uneasy for a task,

To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,

XXVII.

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod,

With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,

That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,

So soothly kind is Erin to her own!

And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,--

For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow;

Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone!

Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,

And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!

XXVIII.

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,

Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;

But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift

His college gown, because of solar glow,

And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:

Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,

Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,

Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,

With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.

XXIX.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,

Linked each to each by labor, like a bee;

Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;--

Would there were many more such wights as he,

To sway each capital academie

Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each

There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,

That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,

But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,

And used to war's alarms;

But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

So he laid down his arms!

Now as they bore him off the field,

Said he, "Let others shoot,

For here I leave my second leg,

And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:

Said he,--"They're only pegs:

But there's as wooden members quite,

As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,

Her name was Nelly Gray;

So he went to pay her his devours,

When he'd devour'd his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,

She made him quite a scoff;

And when she saw his wooden legs,

Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

Is this your love so warm?

The love that loves a scarlet coat

Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once,

For he was blithe and brave;

But I will never have a man

With both legs in the grave!"

"Before you had those timber toes,

Your love I did allow,

But then, you know, you stand upon

Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

For all your jeering speeches,

At duty's call, I left my legs

In Badajos's _breaches!_"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet

Of legs in war's alarms,

And now you cannot wear your shoes

Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!

I know why you refuse:--

Though I've no feet--some other man

Is standing in my shoes!"

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;

But, now, a long farewell!

For you will be my death:--alas!

You will not be my _Nell!_"

Now when he went from Nelly Gray,

His heart so heavy got--

And life was such a burthen grown,

It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck

A rope he did entwine,

And, for his second time in life,

Enlisted in the Line!

One end he tied around a beam,

And then removed his pegs,

And, as his legs were off,--of course,

He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead

As any nail in town,--

For though distress had cut him up,

It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,

To find out why he died--

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,

With a _stake_ in his inside!

BIANCA'S DREAM.

A VENETIAN STORY.

I.

Bianca!--fair Bianca!--who could dwell

With safety on her dark and hazel gaze,

Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell,

Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days?

The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell,

She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze;

Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it,

That he could light his link at in a minute.

II.

So that, wherever in her charms she shone,

A thousand breasts were kindled into flame;

Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own,

And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came;

All hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own,

Which none could ever temper down or tame:

In short, to take our haberdasher's hints,

She might have written over it,--"from Flints."

III.

She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex,

At least in Venice--where with eyes of brown

Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex

An amorous gentle with a needless frown;

Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks,

And Love at casements climbeth up and down,

Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind,

Some have considered a Venetian blind.

IV.

Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught,

Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailer,

To hapless Julio--all in vain he sought

With each new moon his hatter and his tailor;

In vain the richest padusoy he bought,

And went in bran new beaver to assail her--

As if to show that Love had made him _smart_

All over--and not merely round his heart.

V.

In vain he labor'd thro' the sylvan park

Bianca haunted in--that where she came,

Her learned eyes in wandering might mark

The twisted cypher of her maiden name,

Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark:

No one was touched or troubled by his flame,

Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow

In trees,--like wooden dolls in embryo.

VI.

In vain complaining elegies he writ,

And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve,

And sang in quavers how his heart was split,

Constant beneath her lattice with each eve;

She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit,

And slash'd his suit so that it matched his sleeve,

Till he grew silent at the vesper star,

And, quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar.

VII.

Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er

With snows unmelting--an eternal sheet,

But his was red within him, like the core

Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat;

And oft he longed internally to pour

His flames and glowing lava at her feet,

But when his burnings he began to spout.

She stopp'd his mouth, and put the _crater_ out.

VIII.

Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men,

So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key

Suspended at death's door--so pale--and then

He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree;

The life of man is three score years and ten,

But he was perishing at twenty-three,

For people truly said, as grief grew stronger,

"It could not shorten his poor life--much longer."

IX.

For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed,

Nor relished any kind of mirth below;

Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head,

Love had become his universal foe,

Salt in his sugar--nightmare in his bed,

At last, no wonder wretched Julio,

A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth

Of hope,--made up his mind to cut her girth!

X.

For hapless lovers always died of old,

Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud;

So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told,

The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood;

And so poor Sappho when her boy was cold,

Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood,

Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past,

For those old _suitors_ lived beyond their last.

XI.

So Julio went to drown,--when life was dull,

But took his corks, and merely had a bath;

And once he pull'd a trigger at his skull,

But merely broke a window in his wrath;

And once, his hopeless being to annul,

He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath,

A line so ample, 'twas a query whether

'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.

XII.

Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust

His sorrows thro'--'tis horrible to die!

And come down, with our little all of dust,

That dun of all the duns to satisfy:

To leave life's pleasant city as we must,

In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie,

Where even all our personals must go

To pay the debt of nature that we owe!

XIII.

So Julio liv'd:--'twas nothing but a pet

He took at life--a momentary spite;

Besides, he hoped that time would some day get

The better of love's flame, howover bright;

A thing that time has never compass'd yet,

For love, we know, is an immortal light.

Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt,

Was always in,--for none have found it out.

XIV.

Meanwhile, Bianca dream'd--'twas once when Night

Along the darken'd plain began to creep,

Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright,

Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep:

The flow'rs had shut their eyes--the zephyr light

Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep.

And all the little birds had laid their heads

Under their wings--sleeping in feather beds.

XV.

Lone in her chamber sate the dark-ey'd maid,

By easy stages jaunting thro' her pray'rs,

But list'ning side-long to a serenade,

That robb'd the saints a little of their shares;

For Julio underneath the lattice play'd

His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs,

Born only underneath Italian skies,

Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs.

XVI.

Sweet was the tune--the words were even sweeter--

Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair,

With all the common tropes wherewith in metre

The hackney poets overcharge their fair.

Her shape was like Diana's, but completer;

Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare:

Cupid, alas! was cruel Sagittarius,

Julio--the weeping water-man Aquarius.

XVII.

Now, after listing to such laudings rare,

'Twas very natural indeed to go--

What if she did postpone one little pray'r--

To ask her mirror "if it was not so?"

'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear,

Reflecting her at once from top to toe:

And there she gazed upon that glossy track,

That show'd her front face tho' it "gave her back."

XVIII.

And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall,

By that dear page where first the woman reads:

That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all,

She told herself--and then she told her beads;

Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall

Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds;

For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares,

Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs.

XIX.

Then like a drooping rose so bended she,

Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed;

But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see,

That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed,

A beauty-bright as it was wont to be,

A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed:

'Tis very natural some people say,

To dream of what we dwell on in the day.

XX.

Still shone her face--yet not, alas! the same,

But 'gan some dreary touches to assume,

And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came--

Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom,

Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same,

Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum:

There was a throbbing at her heart within,

For, oh! there was a shooting in her chin.

XXI.

And lo! upon her sad desponding brow,

The cruel trenches of besieging age,

With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show

Her place was booking for the seventh stage;

And where her raven tresses used to flow,

Some locks that Time had left her in his rage.

And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady,

A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy.

XXII.

Then for her shape--alas! how Saturn wrecks,

And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about,

Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks,

Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout,

Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex:

Witness those pensioners called In and Out,

Who all day watching first and second rater,

Quaintly unbend themselves--but grow no straighter.

XXIII.

So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made

Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow;

His iron hand upon her spine he laid,

And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow."

In truth it was a change!--she had obey'd

The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow,

But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her

Something between a Glassite and a Quaker.

XXIV.

Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme,

And she had ample reason for her trouble;

For what sad maiden can endure to seem

Set in for singleness, tho' growing double.

The fancy madden'd her; but now the dream,

Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble,

Burst,--but still left some fragments of its size,

That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes.

XXV.

And here--just here--as she began to heed

The real world, her clock chimed out its score;

A clock it was of the Venetian breed,

That cried the hour from one to twenty-four;

The works moreover standing in some need

Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more;

A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears,

Such strokes referring doubtless to her years.

XXVI.

At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun,

By twenty she had quite renounced the veil;

She thought of Julio just at twenty-one,

And thirty made her very sad and pale,

To paint that ruin where her charms would run;

At forty all the maid began to fail,

And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her,

Of single blessedness, than single Gloster.

XXVII.

And so Bianca changed;--the next sweet even,

With Julio in a black Venetian bark,

Row'd slow and stealthily--the hour, eleven,

Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark;

She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n,

Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark

That veil'd her blushing cheek,--for Julio brought her

Of course--to break the ice upon the water.

XXVIII.

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind

To open;--oysters, when the ice is thick,

Are not so difficult and disinclin'd;

And Julio felt the declaration stick

About his throat in a most awful kind;

However, he contrived by bits to pick

His trouble forth,--much like a rotten cork

Grop'd from a long-necked bottle with a fork.

XXIX.

But love is still the quickest of all readers;

And Julio spent besides those signs profuse

That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders,

In help of language, are so apt to use,

Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders,

Nods, shrugs, and bends,--Bianca could not choose

But soften to his suit with more facility,

He told his story with so much agility.

XXX.

"Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear,

(So he began at last to speak or quote;)

Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier,

(For passion takes this figurative note;)

Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier;

Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote:

My lily be, and I will be thy river;

Be thou my life--and I will be thy liver."

XXXI.

This, with more tender logic of the kind,

He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear,

That timidly against his lips inclin'd;

Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere

That even now began to steal behind

A dewy vapor, which was lingering near,

Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale,

Just like a virgin putting on the veil:--

XXXII.

Bidding adieu to all her sparks--the stars,

That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train,

Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars--

Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again.

Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars,

Bianca did not watch these signs in vain,

But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse,

With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips.

XXXIII.

He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd

By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness,

Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd

(Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness;

That made her think all other kisses lack'd

Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness;

Being used but sisterly salutes to feel,

Insipid things--like sandwiches of veal.

XXXIV.

He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring

The pretty fingers all instead of one;

Anon his stealthy arm began to cling

About her waist that had been clasp'd by none,

Their dear confessions I forbear to sing,

Since cold description would but be outrun;

For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r,

In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour!

THE DEMON-SHIP.

'Twas off the Wash--the sun went down--the sea look'd black and grim,

For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim;

Titanic shades! enormous gloom!--as if the solid night

Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!

It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye

With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

Down went my-helm--close reef'd--the tack held freely in my hand--

With ballast snug--I put about, and scudded for the land.

Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee--my little boat flew fast,

But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.

Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!

What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!

What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps behind!

Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind.

Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,

But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place;

As black as night--they turned to white, and cast against the cloud

A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud:--

Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!

Behold yon fatal billow rise--ten billows heap'd in one!

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast,

As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last!

Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;

It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave!

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face--

I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!

I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!

Another pulse--and down it rush'd--an avalanche of brine!

Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home;

The waters clos'd--and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam!

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed--

For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.

* * * * *

"Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?"

With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath;

My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound--

And was that ship a _real_ ship whose tackle seem'd around?

A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft;

But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft?

A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone;

But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own?

Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight

As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night!

I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes

Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams--

Hyenas--cats--blood-loving bats--and apes with hateful stare,--

Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls--the lion, and she-bear--

Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite--

Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light!

Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs--

All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms--

Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,--

But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!

His cheek was black--his brow was black--his eyes and hair as dark;

His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark;

His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath,

His breast was black--all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth.

His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves!

Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves!

"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake,

Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?"

"What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?

It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul!

Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd

My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,--

My mother dear--my native fields, I never more shall see:

I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!"

Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return

His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern--

A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce--

As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once:

A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit,

With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit.

They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole;--

"Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry coal;

You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields--

For this here ship has pick'd you up--the _Mary Ann_ of Shields!"

TIM TURPIN.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,

And ne'er had seen the skies:

For Mature, when his head was made,

Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue,

Poor Tim was forc'd to do--

Look out for pupils, for he had

A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight

Of objects dim and small:

But Tim had _specks_ within his eyes,

And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid,

And took her to his arms;

For he, like Pyramus, had cast

A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down

Where'er he wished to jog,

A happy wife, altho' she led

The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv'd a month

In honey with his wife,

A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes,

Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open'd thus,

He wish'd them dark again:

For when he look'd upon his wife,

He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,

He couldn't bear to eat:

For she was any thing but like

A Grace before his meat.

Tim he was a feeling man:

For when his sight was thick,

It made him feel for every thing--

But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand--

It was not light or slim--

He knocked at his wife's head until

It open'd unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold,

He took his slaughter'd spouse,

And laid her in a heap with all

The ashes of her house.

But like a wicked murderer,

He lived in constant fear

From day to day, and so he cut

His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in:

Said he, this wound I dread

Can hardly be sew'd up--his life

Is hanging on a thread.

But when another week was gone,

He gave him stronger hope--

Instead of hanging on a thread,

Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work

In ashes round about,

How little he supposed the truth

Would soon be sifted out.

But when the parish dustman came,

His rubbish to withdraw,

He found more dust within the heap

Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,

Were sworn that very day;

But tho' they all were jurors, yet

No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen,

You need not waste your breath,

For I confess myself at once

The author of her death.

And, oh! when I reflect upon

The blood that I have spilt,

Just like a button is my soul,

Inscrib'd with double _guilt_!

Then turning round his head again,

He saw before his eyes

A great judge, and a little judge,

The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment cap,

And put it on his head,

And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang,

'Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung

(Fit punishment for such)

On Horsham-drop, and none can say

It was a drop too much.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.[27]

[Footnote 27: Of course suggested by Coleridge and Southey's

_Devil's Walk_. It is ablaze with wit and real imagination. Old

nursery tales are not so well remembered in these days that it is

superfluous to point out that the "fee" being a prelude to "faw" and

"fum," is taken from the formula of the Ogre in _Jack and the

Bean-Stalk_, whose usual preliminary to the slaughter of his victims

was--

"Fee, Faw, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!"]

One day the dreary old King of Death

Inclined for some sport with the carnal,

So he tied a pack of darts on his back,

And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,

His body was lean and lank,

His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur

Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,

This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd

Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh,

(For the man was a coffin-maker,)

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,

Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,

Quoth he, "We shall not differ."

And he let them alone, like figures of stone,

For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,

In fear they could not smother;

And he shot one through at once--for he knew

They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,

And he gave a snore infernal;

Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep

Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach

So slow, that his fare grew sick;

But he let him stray on his tedious way,

For Death only wars on the _quick_.

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll,

In the spirit of his fraternity;

But he knew that sort of man would extort,

Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,

But he let him write no further;

For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,

Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,

And a doctor that took the sum;

But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee"

Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,

And he gave him a mortal thrust;

For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,

Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he marked him out for slaughter;

For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,

And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,

But the game wasn't worth a dump,

For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,

To wait for the final trump!

A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.

There's some is born with their straight legs by natur--

And some is born with bow-legs from the first--

And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter,

But they were badly nurs'd,

And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs

Astride of casks and kegs:

I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard,

And starboard,

And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.--

'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,

That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip;

But on the tenth of May,

When I gets under weigh,

Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship,

I sees the mail

Get under sail,

The only one there was to make the trip.

Well--I gives chase,

But as she run

Two knots, to one,

There warn't no use in keeping on the race!

Well--casting round about, what next to try on,

And how to spin,

I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,

And bears away to leeward for the inn,

Beats round the gable,

And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:

Well--there they stand, four kickers in a row.

And so

I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable.

But riding isn't in a seaman's natur--

So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,

And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter

To splice me, heel to heel,

Under the she-mare's keel,

And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!

My eyes! how she did pitch!

And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line,

Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,

But always making lee-way to the ditch,

And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways.

The devil sink the craft!

And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays!

We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft!

Well--I suppose

We hadn't run a knot--or much beyond--

(What will you have on it?)--but off she goes,

Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond!

There I am!--all a-back!

So I looks forward for her bridle-gears,

To heave her head round on the t'other tack;

But when I starts,

The leather parts,

And goes away right over by the ears!

What could a fellow do,

Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes,

But trim myself upright for bringing-to,

And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows,

In rig all snug and clever,

Just while his craft was taking in her water?

I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever,

Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,--

Says I--I wish this job was rayther shorter!

The chase had gain'd a mile

A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking;

Now, all the while

Her body didn't take of course to shrinking.

Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking--

And so she swell'd, and swell'd,

And yet the tackle held,

'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.

My eyes! but she took in enough to founder!

And there's my timbers straining every bit,

Ready to split,

And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!

Well, there--off Hertford Ness,

We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together,

And can't contrive a signal of distress;

Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,

Tho' sick of riding out--and nothing less;

When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:--

Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!--

And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.

So I gets off, and lands upon the road,

And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,

A-standing by the water.

If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!--

And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!

THE VOLUNTEER.

"The clashing of my armor in my ears

Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me

In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe

To dig my grave."

THE LOVER'S PROGRESS.

I.

'Twas in that memorable year

France threaten'd to put off in

Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each

To be a British coffin,

To make sad widows of our wives,

And every babe an orphan:--

II.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,

And heads were dredg'd with flour,

I listed in the Lawyer's Corps,

Against the battle hour;

A perfect Volunteer--for why?

I brought my "will and pow'r."

III.

One dreary day--a day of dread,

Like Cato's, over-cast--

About the hour of six, (the morn

And I were breaking fast,)

There came a loud and sudden sound,

That struck me all aghast!

IV.

A dismal sort of morning roll,

That was not to be eaten;

Although it was no skin of mine,

But parchment that was beaten,

I felt tattooed through all my flesh,

Like any Otaheitan.

V.

My jaws with utter dread enclos'd

The morsel I was munching,

And terror lock'd them up so tight,

My very teeth went crunching

All through my bread and tongue at once,

Like sandwich made at lunching.

VI.

My hand that held the tea-pot fast,

Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady,

Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er

The cup in one long eddy,

Till both my hose were marked with _tea_,

As they were mark'd already.

VII.

I felt my visage turn from red

To white--from cold to hot;

But it was nothing wonderful

My color changed, I wot,

For, like some variable silks,

I felt that I was shot.

VIII.

And looking forth with anxious eye,

From my snug upper story,

I saw our melancholy corps,

Going to beds all gory;

The pioneers seem'd very loth

To axe their way to glory.

IX.

The captain march'd as mourners march,

The ensign too seem'd lagging,

And many more, although they were

No ensigns, took to flagging--

Like corpses in the Serpentine,

Methought they wanted dragging.

X.

But while I watch'd, the thought of death

Came like a chilly gust,

And lo! I shut the window down,

With very little lust

To join so many marching men,

That soon might be March dust.

XI.

Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so,

Our foe the coast must land on";--

I felt so warm beside the fire

I cared not to abandon;

Our hearths and homes are always things

That patriots make a stand on.

XII.

"The fools that fight abroad for home,"

Thought I, "may get a wrong one;

Let those who have no homes at all

Go battle for a long one."

The mirror here confirm'd me this

Reflection, by a strong one.

XIII.

For there, where I was wont to shave,

And deck me like Adonis,

There stood the leader of our foes,

With vultures for his armies--

No Corsican, but Death himself,

The Bony of all Bonies.

XIV.

A horrid sight it was, and sad,

To see the grisly chap

Put on my crimson livery,

And then begin to clap

My helmet on--ah me! it felt

Like any felon's cap.

XV.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse,

An undertaker's crest;

My epaulette's like coffin-plates;

My belt so heavy press'd,

Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie

At once upon my breast.

XVI.

My brazen breast-plate only lack'd

A little heap of salt,

To make me like a corpse full dress'd,

Preparing for the vault--

To set up what the Poet calls

My everlasting halt.

XVII.

This funeral show inclined me quite

To peace:--and here I am!

Whilst better lions go to war,

Enjoying with the lamb

A lengthen'd life, that might have been

A Martial Epigram.

THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

[Footnote 28: Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with

illustrations by George Cruikshank. It was while Hood was living at

Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features

of this once famous Civic Revel--the Easter Monday Hunt--even then in

its decadence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt--The historian of the old English

ports--the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a

yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will

soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have

had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and

this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is

inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more

accustomed to riding than writing:--

"Sir,--About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a

great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was

nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle

extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be

in the last Stag of a decline."

"I am, Sir,"

"With respects from your humble Servant,"

"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

"On Monday they began to hunt."--_Chevy Chase_.

John Huggins was as bold a man

As trade did ever know,

A warehouse good he had, that stood

Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round,

And single Glo'ster flat,--

And English butter in a lump,

And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand,

His business next his heart,

At _counter_, with his apron tied

About his _counter-part._

The seventh, in a sluice-house box

He took his pipe and pot;

On Sundays, for _eel-piety_,

A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone

Beyond its rural shed!

One Easter-tide, some evil guide

Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed,

And pork in sausage pop't;

Where, winter time or summer time,

Pig's flesh is always _chop't_.

But famous more, as annals tell,

Because of Easter Chase:

There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer,

There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,

And slapt his leather thigh,

And sang the burthen of the song,

"This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before,

And all the night in bed,

Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts

On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,

And echo's answering sounds,

All poets' wit hath ever writ

In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.

Alas! there was no warning voice

To whisper in his ear,

Thou art a fool in leaping _Cheap_

To go and hunt the _deer_!

No thought he had of twisted spine,

Or broken arms or legs;

Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho'

T'was whispered of his _egg_!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,

Nor dreamt of ending ill;

Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee,

And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots,

Of lustre superfine;

The liquid black they wore that day

Was _Warren_-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,

As once upon a stag;

Thus well equipt he gaily skipt,

At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein

A crown he nimbly flung:

For holding of the horse?--why, no--

For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins' own,

Would only be a brag;

His neighbor Fig and he went halves,

Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray,

Unknown to brother cit;

The horse he knew would never tell,

Altho' it was a _tit_.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis,

As he began to show,

By quickly "rearing up within

The way he ought to go."

But Huggins, like a wary man,

Was ne'er from saddle cast;

Resolved, by going very slow,

On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,

An ancient town well known,

Where Edward wept for Eleanor

In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose,

To play on such a loss;

Wherever she set down her _orts_,

Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here,

That lived beside the way;

One that had promised sure to be

His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind,

Meanwhile upon the case!

And meaning not to hunt at all,

Had gone to Enfield Chase.

For why, his spouse had made him vow

To let a game alone,

Where folks that ride a bit of blood

May break a bit of bone.

"Now, be his wife a plague for life!

A coward sure is he":

Then Huggins turned his horse's head,

And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone,

Past many a Quaker's box,--

No friends to hunters after deer,

Tho' followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before--

The self-same route inclined,

And, minded all to march one way,

Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she,

And swell, and blood, and prig;

And some had carts, and some a chaise,

According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks,

(However odd it sounds),

Let out that day _to hunt_, instead

_Of going to the hounds!_

And some had horses of their own,

And some were forced to job it:

And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_,

Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans,

Bad, middling, and the smart;

Here rolled along the gay barouche,

And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad

Of costermonger line;

With one poor hack, like Pegasus,

That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load,

That any horse might drag,

When all, that morn, at once were drawn

Together by a stag!

Now when they saw John Huggins go

At such a sober pace;

"Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away,

You'll never see the chase!"

But John, as grave as any judge,

Made answer quite as blunt;

"It will be time enough to trot,

When I begin to hunt!"

And so he paced to Woodford Wells,

Where many a horseman met,

And letting go the _reins_, of course,

Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door,

Stood Rounding, jovial elf;

Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,

But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye,

A cheek of jolly blush;

A claret tint laid on by health,

With Master Reynard's brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow,

The prince he learned it from;

His age about threescore and ten,

And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,

So many guests to boast;

So certain congregations meet,

And elevate the host.

"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads,

You're all in glorious luck:

Old Robin has a run to-day,

A noted forest buck.

"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom

In red already ride;

'Tis but a _step_, and on a horse

You soon may go _a-stride_."

So off they scampered, man and horse,

As time and temper pressed--

But Huggins, hitching on a tree,

_Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time

To join with Tom and Bob,

All in Fair Mead, which held that day

Its own fair mead of mob.

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some,

Of Tattlers in a squeeze;

Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,

Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks,

That shambled to and fro!

Bakers intent upon a buck,

Neglectful of the _dough_!

Change Alley Bears to speculate,

As usual, for a fall;

And green and scarlet runners, such

As never climbed a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference

A single creature made;

A single stag had caused a whole

_Stag_nation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,

And in the stirrups stood:

And lo! a little cart that came

Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,--tho' not

For corpses in the least;

For this contained the _deer alive_,

And not the _dear deceased_!

And now began a sudden stir,

And then a sudden shout,

The prison-doors were opened wide,

And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red,

Bedecked with ribbons fine;

Like other bucks that come to 'list

The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of mild amaze,

He turned and shortly took;

Then gently ran adown the mead,

And bounded o'er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof,

Had never seen the deer,

Till all at once he saw the beast

Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score

Of riders did the same,

On horse and ass--like high and low

And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now,

Thrown off with sudden whirl,

A score within the purling brook,

Enjoyed their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass,

And beavers fell in showers;

There was another _Floorer_ there

Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,

Some had no caps to show;

But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,

Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

"O dear! O dear!" now might you hear,

"I've surely broke a bone";

"My head is sore,"--with many more

Such speeches from the _thrown_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved

The wide Satanic clan,

Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,

To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood,

Their laughter knew no bounds,

To see the horses "throwing off,"

So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law,

Like men the Courts among;

Before those Barristers the dogs

Proceed to "giving tongue."

And now Old Robin's foes were set

That fatal taint to find,

That always is scent after him,

Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man,

A different temper shows,

What hound resents that he is sent

To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all,

No single tongue was mute;

The stag had led a hart, and lo!

The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife

And fork in either haunch;

And every dog he knew had got

An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like

A ship before the gale;

Now flew to "_h_ills we know not of,"

Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now,

Went off at furious pitch;--

A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob,

Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts,

A hunter did endorse,

And like a poet seemed to ride

Upon a wingèd horse,--

A whipper-in?--no whipper-in:

A huntsman? no such soul.

A connoisseur, or amateur?

Why yes,--a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom

The county found a nag,

And, like Acteon in the tale,

He found himself in stag!

Away they went then, dog and deer,

And hunters all away,--

The maddest horses never knew

_Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about,

And anticked as they rode,

And butchers whistled on their curs,

And milkmen _tally-hoed_.

About two score there were, not more,

That galloped in the race;

The rest, alas! lay on the grass,

As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on

Were fewer every minute,--

The field kept getting more select,

Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt,

Some fell in miry bogs,

And vainly rose and "ran a muck,"

To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes,

Were left bereft of sense--

What else could be premised of blades

That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,

Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay;

O'er all they went, and did the work

Of leap years in a day.

And by their side see Huggins ride,

As fast as he could speed;

For, like Mazeppa, he was quite

At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check,

The gallop to remit,

For firm and fast, between his teeth,

The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled

Beneath him as he sate,--

He never saw a county go

At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs,"

Quoth Huggins, "So I do,--

I've got the saddle well in hand,

And hold as hard as you!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along,

And throw his arms about,

As if with stitches in the side,

That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down,

Now like a jelly shook:

Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall

For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while,

As tars are apt to ride,

With every kick he gave a prick,

Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged

For cruel smart of spurs,

For, riding through a moor, he pitched

His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is

He squatted all forlorn;

And like a bird was singing out

While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be,

Such cushion to resign:

"Possession is nine points," but his

Seemed more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points

That entered in his skin,

His nag was running off the while

The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport,

Thus laid upon the shelf,

Altho' no horse he had to cross,

He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill

That none can say is fair;

A jolly wight there was, that rode

Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came

Of pagan blood and bone;

For down upon her knees she went

To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift,

This farmer, shrewd and sage,

Resolved, by changing horses here,

To hunt another stage!

Tho' felony, yet who would let

Another's horse alone,

Whose neck is placed in jeopardy

By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man

Seemed honest-like and fair;

For he seemed willing, horse and all,

To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins' horse he got,

And swiftly rode away,

While Hugging mounted on the mare,

Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase,

For such was fortune's whim,

The farmer rode to hunt the stag,

And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well

In vain it was to strive;

A dab was he, as dabs should be--

All leaping and alive!

And here of Nature's kindly care

Behold a curious proof,

As nags are meant to leap, she puts

A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, altho' her share

She had of hoof and frog,

On coming to a gate stopped short

As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood

With neck like neck of crane,

As sings the Scottish song--"to see

The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane."

And lo! the dim and distant hunt

Diminished in a trice:

The steeds, like Cinderella's team,

Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat

Soon flitted like a spark,--

Tho' still the forest murmured back

An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned:

No comfort could he find;

While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped,

To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got

A leap in spite of fate--

Howbeit there was no toll at all,

They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,

And sorely cursed the day,

And mused a new Gray's elegy

On his departed gray!

Now many a sign at Woodford town

Its Inn-vitation tells:

But Huggins, full of ills, of course,

Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up

With many a merry laugh,

But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig,

And called for half-and-half.

Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink

Remembrance of his loss;

To drown a care like his, required

Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn

Struck up without the door,--

The mounted mob were all returned;

The Epping Hunt was o'er!

And many a horse was taken out

Of saddle, and of shaft;

And men, by dint of drink, became

The only "_beasts of draught_."

For now begun a harder run

On wine, and gin, and beer;

And overtaken man discussed

The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast,

And how at bay he stood,

Deer-like, resolved to sell his life

As dearly as he could;

And how the hunters stood aloof,

Regardful of their lives,

And shunned a beast, whose very horns

They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed

By help and ostler kind,

And when they cleaned the clay before,

How worse "remained behind."

And one, how he had found a horse

Adrift--a goodly gray!

And kindly rode the nag, for fear

The nag should go astray.

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,

Jumped up with sudden glee;

"A goodly gray! why, then, I say

That gray belongs to me!

"Let me endorse again my horse,

Delivered safe and sound;

And, gladly, I will give the man

A bottle and a pound!"

The wine was drunk,--the money paid,

Tho' not without remorse,

To pay another man so much,

For riding on his horse.

And let the chase again take place,

For many a long, long year,

John Huggins will not ride again

To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp,

Just when we think to grip her;

And hunting after happiness,

We only hunt a slipper.

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond

Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others,

Were little ducklings in a pond,

Swimming about beside their mothers--

Small things like living water-lilies,

But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

"It's very hard," she used to moan,

"That other people have their ducklings

To grace their waters--mine alone

Have never any pretty chucklings."

For why!--each little yellow navy

Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond, I mean--

Its wave was rather thick than pearly--

She had two ducks, their napes were green--

She had a drake, his tail was curly,--

Yet 'spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,

No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers--

The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck--

The infant D's came forth like others--

But there, alas! the matter stuck!

They might as well have all died addle

As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her,

The mother set her brood afloat,

They sank ere long right under water,

Like any overloaded boat;

They were web-footed too to see,

As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humor in a gander

Brought havoc on her little folks,--

No poaching cook--a frying pander

To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,--

Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em!

They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction

It seemed of nature and her works!

For little ducks, beyond conviction,

Should float without the help of corks:

Great Johnson, it bewildered him!

To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do

But change the breed--and she tried divers

Which dived as all seemed born to do;

No little ones were e'er survivors--

Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking,

They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn;

They floundered still!--Batch after batch went!

The little fools seemed only born

And hatched for nothing but a hatchment!

Whene'er they launched--oh, sight of wonder!

Like fires the water "got them under."

No woman ever gave their lucks

A better chance than Mrs. Bond did;

At last quite out of heart and ducks,

She gave her pond up, and desponded;

For Death among the water-lilies,

Cried "_Duc_ ad me" to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more,

She brooded often on this riddle--

Alas! 'twas darker than before!

At last about the summer's middle,

What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did,

To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius dog-like drank

So deep, his furious tongue to cool,

The shallow waters sank and sank,

And lo, from out the wasted pool,

Too hot to hold them any longer,

There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit,

In such a case below the surface;

And when the eels were caught and split

By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face,

In each inside at once to spy

A duckling turned to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case,

Making the Dame look rather silly:

The tenants of that _Eely Place_

Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_,

And so, by under-water suction,

Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.

A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August--Hastings every day was filling--

Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"!

With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling

To be bedipped--be noticed--or be braced,

And all things rose a penny in a shilling.

Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste

"Accommodation bills" kept coming down,

Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits,

Flying from London smoke and dust annoying,

Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,

And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying,

Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,

And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying

A morning's reading by the ocean's rim,

That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature,

So small, he almost might a twin have been

With Miss Crachami--dwarfish quite in stature,

Yet well proportioned--neither fat nor lean,

His face of marvellously pleasant feature,

So short and sweet a man was never seen--

All thought him charming at the first beginning--

Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance--and chance repaid

His ardent passion with her fondest smile,

The sunshine of good luck, without a shade,

He staked and won--and won and staked--the bile

It stirred of many a man and many a maid,

To see at every venture how that vile

Small gambler snatched--and how he won them too--

A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,

'Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass,

And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks

Of needles, silks, and cottons--but, alas!

She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox

Was lucky--but she saw three caddies pass

To that small imp;--no living luck could loo him!

Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed--and rode--and won--and walked,

The wondrous topic of the curious swarm

That haunted the Parade. Many were balked

Of notoriety by that small form

Pacing it up and down: some even talked

Of ducking him--when lo! a dismal storm

Stopped in--one Friday, at the close of day--

And every head was turned another way--

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise

Bulky and slow upon the southern brink

Of the horizon--fanned by sultry sighs--

So black and threatening, I cannot think

Of any simile, except the skies

Miss Wiggins sometimes _shades_ in Indian ink--

_Mis-shapen_ blotches of such heavy vapor,

They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave,

And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on

The stony-hearted beach;--some bards would have

It always rampant, in that idle fashion--

Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave,

Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion,

Who meekly settle in and take their places,

With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head,

Like troubled table-beer--and make it bounce,

And froth, and roar, and fling--but this, I've said,

Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce:

But then, a grander contrast thus it bred

With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce

Something more awful in the serious ear,

As one would whisper that a lion's near--

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder

Growled long--but low--a prelude note of death,

As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,

But still it muttered to the sea beneath

Such a continued peal, as made us wonder

It did not pause more oft to take its breath,

Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,

And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm,

Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes

Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm:

Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas,

Right on our coast;--a dismal, coal-black form;

Many proud gaits were quelled--and all bravadoes

Of folly ceased--and sundry idle jokers

Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days

The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing,

And they are used to many a pretty blaze,

To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing

With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays:

And truly one could think, without much lashing

The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful

And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin--all the fair crowd

Vanished--as if they knew their own attractions,--

For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud

Began to make some very crooked fractions--

Only some few remained that were not cowed,

A few rough sailors, who had been in actions,

And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's,

Lest it should _blow_,--were pulling up the _Rose_:

(No flower, but a boat)--some more were hauling

The _Regent_ by the head:--another crew

With that same cry peculiar to their _calling_--

Were heaving up the _Hope_:--and as they knew

The very gods themselves oft get a mauling

In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew

The _Neptune_ rather higher on the beach,

That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power,

Had all usurped the azure of the skies,

Making our daylight darker by an hour,

And some few drops--of an unusual size--

Few and distinct--scarce twenty to the shower,

Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes--

But then this sprinkle thickened in a trice

And rained much _harder_--in good solid ice.

Oh for a very storm of words to show

How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us!

Handel would make the gusty organs blow

Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:--

But ev'n his music seemed composed and low,

When we were _handled_ by this Hailstone Chorus;

Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,

And frozen comfits rolled along the ground--

As big as bullets:--Lord! how they did batter

Our crazy tiles:--and now the lightning flashed

Alternate with the dark, until the latter

Was rarest of the two!--the gust too dashed

So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter

Some panes,--and so it did--and first it smashed

The very square where I had chose my station

To watch the general illumination.

Another, and another, still came in,

And fell in jingling ruin at my feet,

Making transparent holes that let me win

Some samples of the storm:--Oh! it was sweet

To think I had a shelter for my skin,

Culling them through these "loopholes of retreat"--

Which in a little we began to glaze--

Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

But which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played

Its crooked fires in constant flashes still,

Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed

Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill,

So that it lit the town, and grandly made

The rugged features of the Castle Hill

Leap, like a birth, from chaos into light,

And then relapse into the gloomy night--

As parcel of the cloud;--the clouds themselves,

Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,

Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,

That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting.

We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves

Busy upon those crags, and ever casting

Huge fragments loose,--and that we _felt_ the sound

They made in falling to the startled ground.

And so the tempest scowled away,--and soon

Timidly shining through its skirts of jet,

We saw the rim of the pacific moon,

Like a bright fish entangled in a net,

Flashing its silver sides,--how sweet a boon

Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget,

With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas--

Peace in the sky--and coolness in the breeze!

Meantime the hail had ceased:--and all the brood

Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;

At every window there were maids who stood

Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains,--

Or with coarse linens made the fractions good,

Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,--

Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt

The wind resolved--blowing the candles out.

No house was whole that had a southern front,--

No greenhouse but the same mishap befell;

_Bow_-windows and _bell_-glasses bore the brunt,--

No sex in glass was spared!--For those who dwell

On each hill-side, you might have swum a punt

In any of their parlors;--Mrs. Snell

Was slopped out of her seat,--and Mr. Hitchin

Had a _flower_-garden washed into a _Kitchen_.

But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed

The recent violence.--Each after each

The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed,

Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach.

Howbeit his _weather eye_ the seaman aimed

Across the calm, and hinted by his speech

A gale next morning--and when morning broke,

There was a gale--"quite equal to bespoke."

Before high water--(it were better far

To christen it not _water_ then, but _waiter_,

For then the tide is _serving at the bar_)

Rose such a swell--I never saw one greater!

Black, jagged billows rearing up in war

Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter,

With lots of froth upon the shingle shed,

Like stout poured out with a fine _beachy head_.

No open boat was open to a fare,

Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips;

No bathing woman waded--none would dare

A dipping in the wave--but waived their dips;

No seagull ventured on the stormy air,

And all the dreary coast was clear of ships;

For two _lea shores_ upon the River Lea

Are not so perilous as one at sea.

Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene

Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,--

A boiling ocean of mixed black and green,

A sky of copper color, grim and surly,--

When lo, in that vast hollow scooped between

Two rolling Alps of water,--white and curly!

We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming,

Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!

Sometimes a hand--sometimes a little shoe--

Sometime a skirt--sometimes a hank of hair

Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view,

Sometimes a knee--sometimes a back was bare--

At last a frightful summerset he threw

Right on the shingles. Any one could swear

The lad was dead--without a chance of perjury,

And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown,

Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,

And after venting Pity's sigh and groan,

Then curiosity began with _her_ fit;

And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!

'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit!

And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies,

We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles!

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave

His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,

Providing in this world he was to have

A lordship over luck, by whose exertion

He might control the course of cards and brave

All throws of dice,--but on a sea excursion

The juggling demon, in his usual vein,

Seized the last cast--and _Nicked_ him in the _main_!

LINES TO A LADY.[29]

[Footnote 29: A parody of John Hamilton Reynolds's once popular

lines, beginning--

"Go, where the water glideth gently ever,"]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,

And tempest make a soda-water sea,

Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,

And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens _her_ juice,--

A wine more praised than it deserves to be!

Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,

And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth,

Making a midnight meal of he and she;

Go where the lion in his hunger howleth,

And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,

Or lies along at full length like a tree,

Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,

And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth

In mono-_polly_-logue with tongue as free,

And, like a woman, all she can revealeth,

And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,

And parasols of straw where hats should be,

Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,

And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills,

And tall bamboos--may none _bamboozle_ thee!

Go gaze upon their elephants and castles,

And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier,

And parch the peppered palate like a pea,

Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier,

And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,

Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay,

Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,

And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,

Go to the land of pagod and rupee,

Where every black will be your slave and servant,

And think of me!

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up!

For it does not accord with my notions,

Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,

To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,

And dip in at each watery dimple;

But however I wish

To inveigle the fish,

To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,

My bad luck never seems to diminish;

It would seem that the Bream

Must be scarce in the stream,

And the _Chub_, tho' it's chubby, be _thinnish_!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,

Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,

And although at my hook

With _attention_ I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a _Tench on_!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,

But they seem upon different terms now;

Have they taken advice

Of the "_Council of Nice_,"

And rejected their "_Diet of Worms_," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,

Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;

For the gut I have brought,

I had better have bought

A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,

It is vain in this river to search then;

I may wait till it's night,

Without any bite

And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak,

Save what in the air is so sharp now;

Not a Dace have I got,

And I fear it is not

"Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize

To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!

What then can I deem

Of so fishless a stream

But that 'tis--like St. Mary's--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try,

By a method of Walton's own showing--

But a fisherman feels

Little prospect of Eels,

In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,

Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,

And hungry and faint--

Let the Fancy just paint

What it is, _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,

While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell--

So, wet to the skin,

I'll e'en back to my inn,

Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."--DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!--

For this address I need not make apology--

Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,

And planting further off its vile Zoology--

Permit me thus to tell,

I like your efforts well,

For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first,

And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts,

Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst,

And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers!

And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!

As wild as Tartar-Curds,

That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers;

Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex

Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle;

And save the female sex

From being cow'd--like Iö--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on

The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,--

Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop,

Taking themselves to Thomson's with a _Fear-on!_

Or, in St. Martin's Lane,

Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,--

Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,

While rushing souse

Into a coffee-house,

To find it--Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:--

Walking along the street, some stranger Miss,

Her head with no such thought of danger laden,

When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"--

You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo,

Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone

Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!

At that vile spot now grown

So generally known

For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall,

Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate

Just pins you to the wall,

Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate!_

Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round

The Market-ground

Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows--

"'Tis well for you that live apart--unable

To hear this brutal Babel,

But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_."

"Folks that too freely sup

Must e'en put up

With their own troubles if they can't digest;

But we must needs regard

The case as hard

That _others'_ victuals should disturb our rest,

That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us!

We like, ourselves, a steak,

But, Sirs, for pity's sake!

We don't want oxen at our doors to _rump-us!_"

"If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad!

We constantly are roar'd awake or rung,

Through bullocks mad

That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers--now let's take

The woes of those that wish to keep _a Wake!_

O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts,

Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones;

Such fierce tame beasts,

That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"

Seeing a red Cow come

To swallow her Tom Thumb,

And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,

When looking at their public private boxes,

To see in the back row

Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's!

Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come

Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,

Just when the Ghost is certain,

A great rent in the curtain,

And enter two tall skeletons--of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics

Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,

Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,

The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!

Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right,

And to each Show and sight

Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;

To Richardson's Stage Dramas,

Dio--and Cosmo--ramas,

Giants and Indians wild,

Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,

And that most rare of Shows--a Show of Gratitude!

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."--SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B.

One night were sitting down to tea,

With toast and muffins hot--

They heard a loud and sudden bounce,

That made the very china flounce,

They could not for a time pronounce

If they were safe or shot--

For Memory brought a deed to match

At Deptford done by night--

Before one eye appeared a Patch,

In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life,

Without some small attempt at strife,

Our nature will not grovel;

One impulse hadd both man and dame,

He seized the tongs--she did the same,

Leaving the ruffian, if he came,

The poker and the shovel.

Suppose the couple standing so,

When rushing footsteps from below

Made pulses fast and fervent;

And first burst in the frantic cat,

All steaming like a brewer's rat,

And then--as white as my cravat--

Poor Mary May, the servant!

Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter,

Master and Mistress both flew at her,

"Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?"

Till Mary, getting breath,

Upon her tale began to touch

With rapid tongue, full trotting, such

As if she thought she had too much

To tell before her death:--

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs,

And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs;

'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'--and there she stops for coughin,

'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often,

But please the pigs,'--for that's her way of swearing in a passion,

I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion!

Well down she takes my master's horn--I mean his horn for loading,

And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding.

Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper,

I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper;

You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff,

But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.

Well, when the pinch is over--'Teach your Grandmother to suck

A powder horn,' says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck.

Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips,

'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips;

Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these;

I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.

So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle,

I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle!

Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs,

And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks.

Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter,

But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water.

I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance,

As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence;

All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap

Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap.

Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together,

As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather;

But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality,

She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality.

Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother,

Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.

So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,

Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it;

Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin;

Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking--

Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,

And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt;

But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt!

Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump,

When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.

And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,

A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:

Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches,

And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,

For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew;

Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true,

But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew?'"

"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30]

[Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr.

Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still

survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses,

inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S----, to ask

A Benedictine pen,

That cannot quite at freedom write

Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint

To fill this page's span,

But be correct and recollect

I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink

How hard to get along,

That may not turn on words that burn

Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I

May woo all in a clan,

But one Miss S---- I daren't address--

I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head

May eke it out with heart,

And in their lays it often plays

A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss,

But if _I_ so began,

I have my fears about my ears--

I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak,

Nor on your lip be warm,

I must be wise about your eyes,

And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short,

On T.H. Bayly's plan,

I must not twine a single line--

I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart

To keep you off its _beat_,

And I might dare as soon to swear

At _you_, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire

As other poets can--

My life (she's by) won't let me die--

I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove,

Forbidden bow and dart,

Without a groan to call my own,

With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd

To flirt e'en with your fan,

Here end, as just a friend, I must--

I'm not a single man.

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,

When all in hungry trim,

Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup

With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod

How bravely I shall sup"--

When, whiter than the tablecloth,

A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O father dear, O mother dear,

Dear Kate, and brother Jim--

You know when some one went to sea--

Don't cry--but I am him!"

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace

To greet your absent Jack,

But oh, I am come here to say

I'm never coming back!"

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail,

With corn, and oil, and figs,

But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck

Upon the Sow and Pigs!"

VI.

"The ship we pumped till we could see

Old England from the tops;

When down she went with all our hands,

Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart,

The very place it tells;

I think it says twelve fathom deep,

Clay bottom, mixed with shells."

VIII.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'

We have at last a call;

The pug I had for brother Jim,

Kate's parrot too, and all."

IX.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest

In Davy Joneses sod,

Till I've appeared to you and said--

Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"

X.

"You live on land, and little think

What passes in the sea;

Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,

That Cod was picking me!"

XI.

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,

And seem so nicely done,

They put my corpse in many shells,

Instead of only one."

XII.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters then,

And do not touch the shrimps;

When I was in my briny grave,

They sucked my blood like imps!"

XIII.

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,

The brutes I used to pat,

They'll know the smell they used to smell,

Just try the dog and cat!"

XIV.

The spirit fled--they wept his fate,

And cried, Alack, alack!

At last up started brother Jim,

"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,

And little Kitten too,

And down they put the Cod and sauce,

To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,

Puss never stood at crimps,

But munched the Cod--and little Kit

Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod

And sauce, they stood like posts;

Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,

Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one

nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown,

There lived a Mister Bray,

Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,

And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair outsides are seldom seen,

Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell, but there your court

No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love;

I who have shot a pigeon match,

Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more,

Consider what you do;

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell--

I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,

Your threats I quite explode;

One who has been a volunteer

Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless

Your passion quiet keeps,

I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,

May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed,

And that for copper red;

But these two went away to give

Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece,

This pleasant thought to give--

When they were dead, they thus should have

Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long

The seconds then forbore,

And having taken one rash step,

They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan

Against the deadly strife,

By putting in the prime of death

Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,

But when they took their stands,

Fear made them tremble so, they found

They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

Here one of us may fall,

And like St. Paul's Cathedral now

Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach

Misconduct to your name;

If I withdraw the charge, will then

Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree--

But think of Honor's Courts!

If we go off without a shot,

There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright,

Though cloudy it begun:

Why can't we aim above, as if

We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air

Their bullets they did send;

And may all other duels have

That upshot in the end!

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."--_Scotch Song_.

On that first Saturday in May,

When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,

Repair to see what each R.A.

Has done since last they sought the Strand,

In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,

In short, what's called the private view,--

Amongst the guests--the deuce knows how

She got in there without a row--

There came a large and vulgar dame,

With arms deep red, and face the same,

Showing in temper not a Saint;

No one could guess for why she came,

Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way,

Elbowed Lord Durham--poked Lord Grey--

Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move,

And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;

The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,

She made the Vice, his Honor, budge,

And gave a pinch to Park, the judge.

As for the ladies in this stir,

The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two,

She searched the pictures through and through,

On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,

And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part,

A deeper red each cheek became,

Her very eyes lit up in flame,

That made each looker-on exclaim,

"Really an ardent love of art!"

Alas! amidst her inquisition,

Fate brought her to a sad condition;

She might have run against Lord Milton,

And still have stared at deeds in oil.

But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,

She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes,

Like a lay-figure for surprise,

At last this stammered out, "How now?

Woman--where, woman, is your ticket,

That ought to have let you through our wicket?"

Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?"

Said Mr. H---- with expedition,

"There's no Cow in the Exhibition."

"No Cow!"--but here her tongue in verity,

Set off with steam and rail celerity--

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity,

Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee!

No Cow--but hold your tongue--for you needn't talk to me--

You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be--

I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow,

Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow!

You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards,

Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!

They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors,

David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,--

Why, Morland was a fool to him,--at a little pig or sow--

It's really hard it ain't hung up,--I could cry about the Cow!

But I know well what it is, and why--they're jealous of David's fame,

But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,--

Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now?

David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow

If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners--

Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's?

Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row,

If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow!

I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature,

Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature!

It must be hung--and shall be hung--for, Mr. H----, I vow

I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow!

As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,

If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair.

Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand,

Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand--

Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow,

It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow.

We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here,

The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear--

And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw,

And the Suffolk Gallery will not do--it's not a Suffolk Cow:

I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals

Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels:

His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,

He hardly whipped the boys at all,--or helped to nurse the babby,

And when he had her all complete and painted over red,

He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.

Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow,

Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow.

And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half--

David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true,

And I was blest in so believing;

But till this hour I never knew--

That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss,

Or some such trifle when I courted,

You said, indeed, that love was bliss,

But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face--

It would have been an unfair feeling

To dream that you had pilfered lace--

And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred,

To bring your coldness to repentance,

Before I hammer'd out a word,

How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth

I strove to prove my love no fiction,

How could I guess I urged a truth

On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part,

Your hand--where I have look'd and linger'd,

Altho' it stole away my heart,

Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew,

The charms in which my muse delighted--

Alas! the lay I thought was new.

Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,

Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,

I little thought that you had run

A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world,

My vanity it now must shock it--

And down at once my pride is hurled,

You've pick'd me--and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far,

The banns were read by Doctor Daly,

Who asked if there was any bar--

Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones

In that pure white that angel garb is,

Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,

Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_?

And when the parson came to say,

My goods were yours, if I had got any,

And you should honor and obey,

Who could have thought--"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!--the worst of all your slips

I did not till this day discover--

That down in Deptford's prison ships,

O Mary! you've a hulking lover!

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.[31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."

_Picture of Isle of Wight_.

[Footnote 31: Written when Walter Scott was familiarly known as the

"Wizard of the North," the title which is the key to the present poem.

Scott died in September, 1832, in the interval between the writing and

the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in

the Preface to the _Comic Annual_ for 1833, in which they appeared.]

I.

One close of day--'twas in the Bay

Of Naples, bay of glory!

While light was hanging crowns of gold

On mountains high and hoary,

A gallant bark got under weigh,

And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct,

With wine and oil for cargo,

Her crew of men some nine or ten,

The captain's name was Jago;

A good and gallant bark she was,

La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view,

With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,

Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair,

Meet heads for painter's study;

But midst their tan there stood one man,

Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow

Ne'er shone in song or sonnet,

His hair, a little scant, and when

He doff'd his cap or bonnet,

One saw that Grey had gone beyond

A premiership upon it!

V.

His eye--a passenger was he,

The cabin he had hired it,--

His eye was gray, and when he look'd

Around, the prospect fired it,--

A fine poetic light, as if

The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.

VI.

His frame was stout, in height about

Six feet--well made and portly;

Of dress and manner just to give

A sketch, but very shortly,

His order seem'd a composite

Of rustic with the courtly.

VII.

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed,

And chatted with the seamen,

And often task'd their skill and ask'd,

"What weather is't to be, man?"

No demonstration there appeared,

That he was any demon.

VIII.

No sort of sign there was that he

Could raise a stormy rumpus,

Like Prospero make breezes blow,

And rocks and billows thump us,--

But little we supposed what he

Could with the needle compass!

IX.

Soon came a storm--the sea at first

Seem'd lying almost fallow--

When lo! full crash, with billowy dash,

From clouds of black and yellow,

Came such a gale as blows but once

A cent'ry, like the aloe!

X.

Our stomachs we had just prepared

To vest a small amount in;

When, gush! a flood of brine came down

The skylight--quite a fountain,

And right on end the table rear'd

Just like the Table Mountain.

XI.

Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine,

Each roll, its rôle repeating,

Roll'd down--the round of beef declar'd

For parting--not for meating!

Off flew the fowls, and all the game

Was "too far gone for eating!"

XII.

Down knife and fork--down went the pork,

The lamb too broke its tether;

Down mustard went--each condiment--

Salt--pepper--all together!

Down everything, like craft that seek

The Downs in stormy weather.

XIII.

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake,

Her timbers seem'd to sever;

Down, down, a dreary derry down,

Such lurch she had gone never;

She almost seem'd about to take

A bed of down forever!

XIV.

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw,

Thus robbed of all its uses,

He thought he saw the Evil One

Beside Vesuvian sluices,

Playing at dice for soul and ship,

And throwing Sink and Deuces.

XV.

Down fell the steward on his face,

To all the Saints commending;

And candles to the Virgin vow'd,

As save-alls 'gain'st his ending.

Down fell the mate, he thought his fate,

Checkmate, was close impending!

XVI.

Down fell the cook--the cabin boy,

Their beads with fervor telling,

While Alps of surge, with snowy verge,

Above the yards came yelling.

Down fell the crew, and on their knees

Shudder'd at each white swelling!

XVII.

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue,

His crimson light a cleaver

To each red rover of a wave:

To eye of fancy-weaver,

Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in

A raging scarlet fever!

XVIII.

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd

To Saint aid Virgin Mary;

But one there was that stood composed

Amid the waves' vagary;

As staunch as rock, a true game-cock

'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!

XIX.

His ruddy cheek retained its streak,

No danger seem'd to shrink him:

His step still bold--of mortal mould

The crew could hardly think him:

The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd

To know; could never sink him.

XX.

Relaxed at last the furious gale

Quite out of breath with racing;

The boiling flood in milder mood,

With gentler billows chasing;

From stem to stern, with frequent turn,

The Stranger took to pacing.

XXI.

And as he walked to self he talked,

Some ancient ditty thrumming,

In undertone, as not alone--

Now whistling, and now humming--

"You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes,"

"Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."

XXII.

Down went the wind, down went the wave,

Fear quitted the most finical;

The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,

And Hope was at the pinnacle:

When rose on high a frightful cry--

"The Devil's in the binnacle!"

XXIII.

"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried,

His voice with quite a falter--

"Steady's my helm, but every look

The needle seems to alter;

God only knows where China lies,

Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"

XXIV.

The captain stared aghast at mate,

The pilot at th' apprentice;

No fancy of the German Sea

Of Fiction the event is:

But when they at the compass look'd,

It seem'd non compass mentis.

XXV.

Now north, now south, now east, now west,

The wavering point was shaken,

'Twas past the whole philosophy

Of Newton, or of Bacon;

Never by compass, till that hour,

Such latitudes were taken!

XXVI.

With fearful speech, each after each

Took turns in the inspection;

They found no gun--no iron--none--

To vary its direction;

It seem'd a new magnetic case

Of Poles in Insurrection!

XXVII.

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives,

And all their household riches;

Oh! while they thought of girl or boy,

And dear domestic niches,

All down the side which holds the heart,

That needle gave them stitches.

XXVIII.

With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed

To see them so white-livered:

And walked abaft the binnacle,

To know at what they shivered;

But when he stood beside the card,

St. Josef! how it quivered!

XXIX.

No fancy-motion, brain-begot,

In eye of timid dreamer--

The nervous finger of a sot

Ne'er showed a plainer tremor;

To every brain it seemed too plain,

There stood th' Infernal Schemer!

XXX.

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew,

Just like a pullet's gizzard;

Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit,

From tacking like an izzard,

Bore down in this plain course at last,

"It's Michael Scott--the Wizard!"

XXXI.

A smile passed o'er the ruddy face:

"To see the poles so falter

I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you,

For with no fiends I palter!

Michael I'm not--although a Scott--

My Christian name is Walter."

XXXII.

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell

On all the fearful faction;

The captain's head (for he had read)

Confess'd the needle's action,

And bow'd to Him in whom the North

Has lodged its main attraction!

THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

"I'll be your second."--LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago,

There lived one Mr. Brown;

And many folks considered him

The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out--

One Friday he died hard,

And left a widow'd wife to mourn,

At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months

Thought mourning quite a tax;

And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,

To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;

The thing came thus about:

She asked him in at home, and then

At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man

In ashes could not stand;

So like a Phoenix he rose up

Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite

Appeared before her view;

It came a little after one,

But she was after two!

"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!

Are these your sorrow's deeds,

Already getting up a flame,

To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left

For aye the mortal scene;

My memory--like Rogers's--

Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace,

I almost have a doubt--

I'm like an old Forget-me-not,

With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger joint

Another pledge should cling;

O Bess! upon my very soul

It struck like 'Knock and Ring,'"

"A ton of marble on my breast

Can't hinder my return;

Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood

A-boiling in my urn!"

"Remember, oh! remember, how

The marriage rite did run,--

If ever we one flesh should be

'Tis now--when I have none!

"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend--

Of perjured faith convict,

As ghostly toe can give no blow,

Consider you are kick'd.

"A hollow voice is all I have,

But this I tell you plain,

Marry come up!--you marry, ma'am,

And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer

The spritely shade did shock

With sudden crow,--and off he went,

Like fowling-piece at cock!

THE FALL.

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep."

_Count Fathom_.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,

Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;

Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope,

And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope;

While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave

Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;

And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss;

One--only one--hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!

Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme,

To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!

In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,

I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might:

On--on--still on--direct for doom, the river rush'd in force,

And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course.

My eyes I closed--I dared not look the way towards the goal;

But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.

Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore!

And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by for evermore;

Plainly--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound,

The torrent's voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round.

Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet:

Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.

With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge,

Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge,

From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep;

I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.

How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find:

At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;

And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,--a cry as shrill as birds

Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:

"It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares!

He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[Footnote 32: "Edgar Huntley, the Somnambulist," was the title of

a popular novel of the time.]

OUR VILLAGE.

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village

of Bullock Smithy,

Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and

a withy;

And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a

half;

It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three

horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf!

Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law

lease,

And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs,

four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.

Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when

the little village boys play at cricket;

Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and

stand right before the wicket.

There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and

pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,

With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of

Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads.

The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or

money can raise

A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a

ramshackle "neat post-chaise!"

There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their

ranks in life or their degrees,

Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist

Chapel of Ease;

And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the

time is seasonable

Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very

low and reasonable.

There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack

Jeffery and Tom Pike;

For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else

you like.

I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright

post;

But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always

there almost.

There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way,

Old Joe Bradley,

Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very

badly.

There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of

Mr. Task;

But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask.

You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old

sugary cask:

There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out,

For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election

placards all about.

That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the

window is seen;

A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a

teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.

As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines,

you may go and whistle;

But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth

of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!

There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the

chief--

With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every

year is stripped by a thief.

There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable

Mrs. Gaby,

A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four

little girls and a baby;

There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that

never smokes,

For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of

folks;

There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded,

shock-headed churls,

And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies

in false curls;

There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small

greengrocer's, and a baker,

But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal

merchant besides, and an undertaker;

And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with

the London shops;

One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and

the other sells malt and hops,

And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters,

Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler,

lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.

Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and

except one more house,

But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the

Village Poor House!

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 stewards' assistance

Has placed you at distance,

And, thanks to arrangers,

You sit amongst 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.