Now soups come and fish in,

And C---- brings a dish in;

Then rages the battle,

Knives clatter, forks rattle,

Steel forks with black handles,

Under fifty wax candles;

Your soup-plate is soon full,

You sip just a spoonful.

Mr. Roe will be grateful

To send him a plateful;

And then comes the waiter,

"Must trouble for tater";

And then you drink wine off

With somebody--nine off;

Bucellas made handy,

With Cape and bad Brandy,

Of East India Sherry,

That's very hot--very!

You help Mr. Myrtle,

Then find your mock-turtle

Went off while you lingered,

With waiter light-fingered.

To make up for gammon,

You order some salmon,

Which comes to your fauces,

With boats without sauces.

You then make a cut on

Some lamb big as mutton;

And ask for some grass too,

But that you must pass too;

It served the first twenty,

But toast there is plenty.

Then, while lamb gets coldish,

A goose that is oldish--

At carving not clever--

You're begged to dissever,

And when you thus treat it,

Find no one will eat it.

So, hungry as glutton,

You turn to your mutton,

But--no sight for laughter--

The soup it's gone after.

Mr. Green then is very

Disposed to take Sherry;

And then Mr. Nappy

Will feel very happy;

And then Mr. Conner

Requests the same honor;

Mr. Clark, when at leisure,

Will really feel pleasure;

Then waiter leans over

To take off a cover

From fowls, which all beg of,

A wing or a leg of;

And while they all peck bone,

You take to a neck-bone,

But even your hunger

Declares for a younger.

A fresh plate you call for,

But vainly you bawl for;

Now taste disapproves it,

No waiter removes it.

Still hope, newly budding,

Relies on a pudding;

But critics each minute

Set fancy agin it--

"That's queer Vermicelli."

"I say, Vizetelly,

There's glue in that jelly."

"Tarts bad altogether;

That crust's made of leather."

"Some custard, friend Vesey?"

"No--batter made easy."

"Some cheese, Mr. Foster?"

"--Don't like single Glo'ster."

Meanwhile, to top table,

Like fox in the fable,

You see silver dishes,

With those little fishes,

The whitebait delicious,

Borne past you officious;

And hear rather plainish

A sound that's champagnish,

And glimpse certain bottles

Made long in the throttles;

And sniff--very pleasant!

Grouse, partridge, and pheasant.

And see mounds of ices

For patrons and vices,

Pine-apple, and bunches

Of grapes for sweet munches,

And fruits of all virtue

That really desert you;

You've nuts, but not crack ones,

Half empty and black ones;

With oranges, sallow--

They can't be called yellow--

Some pippins well-wrinkled,

And plums almond-sprinkled;

Some rout cakes, and so on,

Then with business to go on:

Long speeches are stutter'd,

And toasts are well butter'd,

While dames in the gallery,

All dressed in fallallery,

Look on at the mummery,

And listen to flummery.

Hip, hip! and huzzaing,

And singing and saying,

Glees, catches, orations,

And lists of donations,

Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney--

"Mr. Benbow, one guinea;

Mr. Frederick Manual,

One guinea--and annual."

Song--Jocky and Jenny,

"Mr. Markham, one guinea."

"Have you all filled your glasses?"

Here's a health to good lasses.

The subscription still skinny--

"Mr. Franklin--one guinea."

Franklin looks like a ninny;

"Mr, Boreham, one guinea--

Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney,

Mr. Tempest--one guinea,

Mr. Merrington--twenty,"

Rough music, in plenty.

Away toddles Chairman,

The little dark spare man,

Not sorry at ending,

With white sticks attending,

And some vain Tomnoddy

Votes in his own body

To fill the void seat up,

And get on his feet up,

To say, with voice squeaking,

"Unaccustomed to speaking."

Which sends you off seeking

Your hat, number thirty--

No coach--very dirty.

So hungry and fever'd

Wet-footed, spoilt-beaver'd,

Eyes aching in socket,

Ten pounds out of pocket,

To Brook Street the Upper

You haste home to supper.

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT;

OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

"He left his body to the sea,

And made a shark his legatee."

BRYAN AND PERENNE.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,

And quite in middling haste?

It is the picture of my Jones,

And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life,

For where's the trowsers blue?

Oh Jones, my dear!--Oh dear! my Jones,

What is become of you?"

"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,--

The half that you remark

Is come to say my other half

Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,

Yet most completely do!

A bite in one place soems enough,

But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own,

But now a shark must share!

But let that pass--for now, to you

I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce

Effected in the sea,

It has divided me from you,

And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights

To haunt, as people say;

My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs

Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,

And looking where the boat is,

A shark just snaps away a _half_,

Without a '_quarter's_ notice.'

"One half is here, the other half

Is near Columbia placed;

Oh! Sally, I have got the whole

Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu!

I've solved death's awful riddle,

And would say more, but I am doomed

To break off in the middle!"

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.[33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering

with his bill."--SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with

green."--BEWICK.

[Footnote 33: A Scotch baronet, and the once well-known promoter

of Sabbatarian legislation. Sir Andrew identified himself in the

House of Commons with the efforts of an English Association, the

"Lord's Day Society," and introduced a Bill to prohibit all open

labour on Sunday, excepting "works of necessity and mercy,"--a

measure bound, under any scheme of working, to inflict the direst

hardship and injustice. After three defeats, the Bill was actually

carried in 1837, but was afterwards allowed to drop.]

O Andrew Fairservice,--but I beg pardon,

You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden,

On curly kale and cabbages intent,--

Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,--

You are a Christian--I would be the same,

Although we differ, and I'll tell you why,

Not meaning to make game,

I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will,

About your bill,

They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,

That, if you had your way,

You'd make the seventh day

As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.

Talk of converting Blacks--

By your attacks,

You make a thing so horrible of _one_ day,

Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy,

Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday,

Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak,

Who, once a week,

P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers,

Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers,

And revel in a bloom

That is not of the loom,

Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees,

A Chapel of Ease.

Whereas, as you would plan it,

Wall'd in with hard Scotch granite,

People all day should look to their behaviors;--

But though there be, as Shakspeare owns,

"Sermons in stones,"

Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviors?

Spontaneous is pure devotion's fire;

And in a green wood many a soul has built

A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire,

Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt,

Better than if an architect the plan drew;

We know of old how medicines were back'd,

But true Religion needs not to be quack'd

By an Un-merry Andrew!

Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf

At Primrose-hill would renovate himself,

Or drink (and no great harm)

_Milk_ genuine at _Chalk_ Farm,--

The innocent intention who would balk,

And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink?

For my part, for my life, I cannot think

A walk on Sunday is "the Devil's Walk."

But there's a sect of Deists, and their creed

Is D----ing other people to be d----d,--

Yeas, all that are not of their saintly level,

They make a pious point

To send, with an "aroint,"

Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil.

To such, a ramble by the River Lea

Is really treading on the "Banks of D----."

Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers,

And say unto the sea, as Canute did,

(Of course the sea will do as it is bid,)

"This is the Sabbath--but there be no Breakers!"

Seek London's Bishop, on some Sunday morn,

And try him with your tenets to inoculate,--

Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn,

"This is not _Churchman's_ Chocolate!"

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal,

And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages,

And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal,

Shout out with holy zeal,--

"These are not _Chappet's_ sassages!"

Suppose your Act should act up to your will,

Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy,

To hear you saying of this pious bill,

"It _works_ well--on a Sunday!"

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late,

Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;--

You might have done some good, and chang'd our fate,

Could you have upset _that_, which ruined Adam!

'Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs,

Or lay post-horses under legal fetters,

While Tattersall's on Sunday stirs its _Legs_,

Folks look for good examples from their _Betters_!

Consider,--Acts of Parliament may bind

A man to go where Irvings are discoursing--

But as for forcing "proper frames of mind,"

Minds are not _framed_, like melons, for such _forcing_!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator,

The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator;

Meaning one need not ever be sojourning

In a long Sermon Lane without a turning.

Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia

May like discourses with a skein of threads,

And love a lecture for its many heads,

But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo:

Right know I am no minister you be,

For you would say your service, sir, to me,

Till I should say, "My service, sir, to you."

Six days made all that is, you know, and then

Came that of rest--by holy ordination,

As if to hint unto the sons of men,

After creation should come re-creation.

Read right this text, and do not further search

To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.

THE LOST HEIR.

"Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonny laddie gone?"

_Old Song_.

One day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened High,

I heard a loud and sodden cry,

That chill'd my very blood;

And lo! from out a dirty alley,

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,

I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaub'd with grease and mud.

She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West,

Staring like Pythoness possest,

With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.

This way and that she wildly ran,

Jostling with woman and with man--

Her right hand held a frying pan,

The left a lump of beef.

At last her frenzy seemed to reach

A point just capable of speech,

And with a tone almost a screech,

As wild as ocean bird's,

Or female Banter mov'd to preach,

She gave her "sorrow-words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall

go stick stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets

like a crying lost-looking child?

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to

run, if I only knew which way--

A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially

Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you

wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab!

You promised to have half an eye to him, you

know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing;

was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter,

a-playing at making little dirt pies.

I wonder he left the court where he was better off

than all the other young boys,

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,

and a dead kitten by way of toys.

When his father comes home, and he always comes home

as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost;

and the beef and the inguns not done!

La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns,

and don't be making a mob in the street;

O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across

my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?

Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me

like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;

Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled

away up a court for the sake of his clothes

He'd a very good jacket, for certain,

for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;

And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd,

and red plush, they was once his Father'

His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub,

or that might have gone with the rest

But he'd got on a very good pinafore

with only two slits and a burn on the breast.

He'd a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew'd in,

and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim,

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,

and not a fit, and, you'll know by that if it's him.

Except being so well dress'd, my mind would misgive,

some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,

Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with,

but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin!

Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys!

I'll break every bone of 'em I come near,

Go home--you're spilling the porter--go home--

Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer.

This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life,

ever since my name was Betty Morgan,

Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before

all along of following a Monkey and an Organ:

O my Billy--my head will turn right round--if

he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians,

They'll make him a plaster parish image boy,

they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions.

Billy--where are you, Billy?--I'm as hoarse as a crow,

with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!

And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't,

for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.

O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my

life won't be of no more vally,

If I'm to see other folk's darlins, and none of

mine, playing like angels in our alley,

And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I

looks at the old three-legged chair,

As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and

there ain't no Billy there!

I would run all the wide world over to find him,

if I only know'd where to run,

Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost

for a month through stealing a penny bun,--

The Lord forbid of any child of mine!

I think it would kill me raily,

To find my Bill holdin up his little

innocent hand at the Old Bailey.

For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say,

you may search for miles and mileses

And not find one better brought up,

and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other

of St. Giles's.

And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only

as a Mother ought to speak;

You never set eyes on a more handsomer face,

only it hasn't been washed for a week;

As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair

when I've time to just show it the comb;

I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides,

as will only bring him safe and sound home.

He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint,

though a little cast he's certainly got;

And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is

broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;

He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the

world, and very large teeth for his age;

And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to

play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.

And then he has got such dear winning ways--

but O, I never never shall see him no more!

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing

him back from death's door!

Only the very last month when the windfalls,

hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was

spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us

all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog,--

It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about,

he's such a blunderin drunken old dog;

The last time he was fetched to find a lost child,

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,

And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a

distracted Mother and Father about Town.

Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy,

come home, to your best of Mothers!

I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they

drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.

Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping

wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,

And be poked up behind with a picked pointed

pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot.

Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world

was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face,

For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon

come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.

I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly

arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!

Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was--

but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the

young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin!

But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair,

and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THE FOX AND THE HEN.

A FABLE.

Speaking within _compass_, as to fabulousness I prefer

_Southcote_ to _Northcote_.

PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when,

Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad

Right on the body of a speckled Hen,

Determined upon taking all she had;

And like a very bibber at his bottle,

Began to draw the claret from her throttle;

Of course it put her in a pretty pucker,

And with a scream as high

As she could cry,

She call'd for help--she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream

Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream,

And, with a savage growl

In answer to the fowl,

He bounded forth against the prowling sinner,

And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom,

Thought, self-deceived,

He should not be perceived,

Hiding his _brush_ within a neighboring _broom_!

But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare,

And caught in copper noose,

And looking like a goose,

Found that his fate had "hung upon a _hare_";

His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him,

And worst of all he saw old surly Tray

Coming to play

Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable,

Under his Master, a most special constable,

Instead of killing Reynard in a fury,

Seized him for legal trial by a Jury;

But Juries--Æsop was a sheriff then--

Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body--

I mean the Hen--and proved that she was dead,

To the veriest fool's head

Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill

Quite true enough to kill,

And then the Owl was call'd,--for, mark,

The Owl can witness in the dark.

To make the evidence more plain,

The Lynx connected all the chain.

In short there was no quirk or quibble

At which a legal Rat could nibble;

The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds.

As if the Jury had been _packed_--of hounds.

Reynard, however, at the utmost nick,

Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick;

Accordingly our cunning Fox,

Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd

A friendly Camel got into the box,

When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law,

If Jurors should withdraw,

They are to have no eating and no drinking,

Till all are starved into one way of thinking.

Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree,

Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock,

Till every Beast that only had _one_ stomach,

Bent to the Camel, who was blest with _three_.

To do them justice, they debated

From four till ten, while dinner waited,

When thirst and hunger got the upper,

And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper:

"Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox

Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance

But that the Solon is a sorry Solon,

Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence

Depend upon a _Colon_?

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man,

And drove the Bury coach;

But bad companions were his bane,

And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,

And how to noose the hare;

And with a wiry terrier,

He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,

To park, preserve, and wood

He went, and kept the game alive,

By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore

That he had this demerit--

Give him an inch of warren, he

Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;

And many, large and small,

Without Hall's powder, without lead,

Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer

From forest, park, or lawn;

And without courting lord or duke,

Used frequently to _fawn_.

Folks who had hares discovered snares--

His course they could not stop:

No barber he, and yet he made

Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,

He tried the keepers' nerves;

They swore he never seem'd to have

_Jam_ satis of _preserves_.

The Shooter went to beat, and found

No sporting worth a pin,

Unless he tried the _covers_ made

Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,

In Surrey not a button;

The Speaker said he often tried

The _Manors_ about _Button_.

No county from his tricks was safe;

In each he tried his lucks,

And when the keepers were in _Beds_,

He often was at _Bucks_.

And when he went to _Bucks_, alas!

They always came to _Herts_;

And even _Oxon_ used to wish

That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual _Hants_,

Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots:

He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_,

And lost his life in _Notts_.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,

And many a sigh and groan,

Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,

To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If I shall find him here?

I'm come to weep upon his corse,

My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,

With ribands all so fine,

A-flaunting in his cap--alas!

His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes,

And stand as stiff as starch;

I thought that it was love and May,

But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave

The friends he might have kep',--

No March of Intellect it was,

But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If hereabout he lies?

I want a corpse with reddish hair,

And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel

Appear'd to deeply strike:--

"Walk in," he said, "among the dead,

And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,

Half turned into a corse;

A cannon was his bolster, and

His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

Lord, here has been a skrimmage!

What have they done to your poor breast

That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head,

You're come to my last kissing;

Before I'm set in the Gazette

As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell

Right in my stomach sticks;

French mortars don't agree so well

With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance

At Brussels was to be;--

Instead of opening a ball,

A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has,

And well it does fulfil it;--

I wish mine hadn't come so straight.

But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier

And cut me on the chest;--

He had no pity in his heart,

For he had _steel'd his breast_.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance,

Began to thrust away;

I call'd for quarter, but, alas!

It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm,

Just here above the joint;--

O Patty dear, it was no joke,

Although it had a point.

"With loss of blood I fainted off,

As dead as women do--

But soon by charging over me,

The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,

I throb and ache all over;

I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars

Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn

For any royal Guelph?

I might have been a Butcher, and

In business for myself!

"O why did I the bounty take?

(And here he gasp'd for breath)

My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd

Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie

And sleep my sleep eternal:

Not ev'n a _shell_--my only chance

Of being made a _Kernel_!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells

Will never ring at Chester!

Here I must lie in Honor's bed,

That isn't worth a _tester_!

"Farewell, my regimental mates,

With whom I used to dress!

My corps is changed, and I am now

In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have

No dying consolations,

Except, when I am dead, you'll go

And see th' Illuminations."

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths,

and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and

with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn?

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse.

And physicked me and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,

A comfort to my mother dear,

And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,

Till all my bones came through my skin,

Then called me "ugly little sin?"

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,

And took me home--and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast,

"He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,

And always laid them at my door,

Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys

And when I played cried "What a noise?"--

Girls always hector over boys--

My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,

Or took it all, did he incline,

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad,"

And gave me sixpence, "all he had";

But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass,

But when misfortune came to pass,

Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,

Who ever sympathized with grief,

Or shared my joy--my sole relief?

Myself.

THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.

"I like to meet a sweep--such as come forth with the

dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional

notes, sounding like the _peep, peep_, of a young sparrow."

--ESSAYS OF ELIA.

----"A voice cried Sweep no more!

Macbeth hath murdered sweep."

SHAKSPEARE.

One morning, ere my usual time

I rose, about the seventh chime,

When little stunted boys that climb

Still linger in the street;

And as I walked, I saw indeed

A sample of the sooty breed,

Though he was rather run to seed,

In height above five feet.

A mongrel tint he seemed to take,

Poetic simile to make,

DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break,

White overcoming jet.

From side to side he crossed oblique,

Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,

And yet no English word can speak,

He walked upon the fret:

And while he sought the dingy job

His lab'ring breast appeared to throb,

And half a hiccup half a sob

Betray'd internal woe.

To cry amain he had by rote

He yearn'd, but law forbade the note,

Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,

He gaped--but not a crow!

I watched him and the glimpse I snatched

Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd

With red, as if the soot had catch'd

That hung about the lid;

And soon I saw the tear-drop stray,

He did not care to brush away;

Thought I, the cause he will betray--

And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!

But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.

They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf

and Dumb,

To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.

But they can't undo natur--as sure as ever the morning begins to peep,

Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep

As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep!

For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy,

And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy.

Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up.

Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either

bit or sup!

If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border,

Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear,

and order, order.

I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us

As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus.

God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings?

I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.

For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing,

And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with

singing.

Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks--to do the unpartial job,

If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.

Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter

the cinders,

Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily

under your windows?

There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out

Bank and City;

Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as

pretty.

I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close

thro' their hooky noses,

And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws

of Moses.

Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut?

Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.

Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart

to dance,

And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance;

If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter

and pinching weather,

For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together.

I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers,

Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving

figures,

A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other,

And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father

and Mother.

They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread

and needles,

But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common

black beadles.

If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such

peeps,

I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against

sweeps.

Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally,

Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh,

When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew,

And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue.

As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher,

But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer?

There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows,

But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than

black cows?

Do _we_ go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate

vermin,

And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral

sermon?

But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the

Parliament elves,

Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves!

Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more?

We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door.

And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations,

For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our

situations!

And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of

quality nimbly,

For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all

clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire

us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.

THE DESERT-BORN[34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."--LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

[Footnote 34: For the purposes of his pun on "night-mare," Hood

adroitly utilizes the story of the famous Lady Hester Stanhope, whom

Kinglake, in his _Eothen_, first made familiar to so many of us. He

there speaks of the "quiet women in Somersetshire," and their

surprise when they learned that "the intrepid girl who used to break

their vicious horses for them" was reigning over the wandering

tribes of Western Asia!]

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,--

To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!--

My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,

I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,

The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,--

When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud,

And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,

Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow;

A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below,

And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear;

In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;

Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk

Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk;

Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath

A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath,

Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet--

And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!

Of course I bowed my lowest bow--of all the things on earth,

The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,

To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon,

A man should bend the lowest in a _Desert_ to a _Woman_!

Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd,

Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;

There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,

Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!

With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,

I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand;

And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,

Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face,

She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;

"Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;

"It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet!

Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,

This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!"

Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,

A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands,

Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face

They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.

"Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof,

"Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!

Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,

And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth."

Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,

She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL--for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee,

But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free,

And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride,

Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side;

Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,

Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,

A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist

Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.

Methought--but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,

Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!

To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,

The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse:

Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,

Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,

I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds

Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;--

As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one _is_ a hero,

Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,

Tempestuous tail--to picture him description vainly begs!

His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath--

Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?

Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine

To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign

To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:

"Mount, happy man, and _run away_ with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,

Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,

So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born,

Or any of its _ridings_, this would be a blessed morn;

But, hapless one! I cannot ride--there's something in a horse

That I can always honor, but I never could endorse--

To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite

Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight:

In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,

I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;

Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle

On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle.

In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low,

"I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies,

And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;

"Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,

There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend,

That tells me you're of Arab race,--whatever spot of earth,

Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth,

The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse

By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;

But this--these desert sands--these palms, and cedars waving wild,

All, all, adopt thee as their own--an oriental child--

The cloud may hide the sun awhile--but soon or late, no doubt,

The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!

I read the starry characters--and lo! 'tis written there,

Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,

A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould,

Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly--I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom

Had stifled her!--the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom;

With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance,

I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,

And felt myself, and saw myself--the phantasy was horrid!--

Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!

On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r,

I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear;

I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife,

And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life;

"Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit,

Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit,

Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,

Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will."

Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,

The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!

"Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain,

Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;

Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,

And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!

As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild

But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I--(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth,

'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!

A playful child,--so full of life!--a little fair-haired boy,

His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy!

Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now!

That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;

A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse,

That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!"

Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now!

A chill ran all my marrow through--the drops were on my brow!

I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,

And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air.

How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail;

While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!

How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky,

As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!

While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave

My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play--

Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh--

Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch--

Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,--

I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small,

To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!

For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast,

Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last!

In agony I shook,--and yet, although congealed by fears,

My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;

I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair,

Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir--I could not speak--I could not even see--

A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,

I tried to pray, but found no words--tho' ready ripe to weep,

No tear would flow,--o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,--

When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,

Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front,

And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,

I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight

Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight;

Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,--

"Off with the bridle--quick!--and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,--and starting with a bound,

The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground;

And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,

Away we flew--away! away! across the shifting sands!

My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,

But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,

For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force

Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course--

One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,

The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!

And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,

Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,

A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!

What tongue could tell,--what pencil paint,--what pen describe the ride?

Now off--now on--now up--now down,--and flung from side to side!

I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone--

My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan--

My joints were racked--my back was strained, so firmly I had clung--

My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue--

When lo!--farewell all hope of life!--she turn'd and faced the rocks,

None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!

So thought I,--but I little knew the desert pride and fire,

Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;

Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,

Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;--

Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length

Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength--

My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!

She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;

Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,

I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing--

But oh! the crash!--the hideous shock!--the million sparks around!

Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born--or else 'twas demon's mirth,

One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

* * * * *

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,

And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;

For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,

The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.

My heart was still--my pulses stopp'd--midway 'twixt life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,

Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,

Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die.

Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife--

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life--

But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast?

Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning--service done--

'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,

A knot of bumpkins stood to chat

Of that and this, and this and that;

What people said of Polly Hatch--

Which side had won the-cricket match;

And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;--

How barley, beans, and 'taters sold--

What men could swallow at a meal--

When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal--

And who was taken off to jail--

And where they brew'd the strongest ale--

At last this question they address,

"What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,

It be the fancy farming line,

Like yonder gemman,--him I mean,

As took the Willa nigh the Green,--

And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;

And gave his porkers hay to eat;

And sent his footman up to town,

To ax the Lonnon gentry down,

To be so kind as make his hay,

Exactly on St. Swithin's day;--

With consequences you may guess--

That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg

Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;

But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,

As if he twigg'd the reason why,

And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance,

He didn't give the noose a chance;

So Master Blogg at last lays off,

And shams a rattle at the trough,

When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog

Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,

And flops him down in all the muck,

As hadn't been swept up by luck--

Now that, accordin' to my guess,

Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat;

I'ze bring a worser case nor that!"

"Last Friday week, I takes a start

To Reading, with our horse and cart;

Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down,

I meets a crony at the Crown;

And what betwixt the ale and Tom,

It's dark afore I starts for home;

So whipping hard, by long and late,

At last we reaches nigh the gate,

And, sure enough, there Master stand,

A lantern flaring in his hand,--

'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear?

Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear!

He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!'

There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB.

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap!

A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,

Only to fetch his milking-pails,

When up he shies like head or tails;

Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,

Till he had toss'd the best o' three;--

And there lies Tom with broken bones,

A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones;

Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,

'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,--

Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case,

For that will keep the ribs in place;'

But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,

Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw?

That's summut to the pint--yes, yes,

That's Hagricultural Distress!"

SIMON.

"Well, turn and turn about is fair:

Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare;

But nothing to my load of hay--

You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,

And cash was wanted for the rent;

So up to Lonnon I was sent,

To sell as prime a load of hay,

As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,

A chap comes up to buy my load,

And looks, and looks about the cart,

Pretending to be 'cute and smart;

But no great judge, as people say,

'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.

Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,

He'll give a simple price mayhap,

Such buyers comes but now and then,

So slap I axes nine pun' ten.

'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick

He taps his leathers with his stick.

'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay,

Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.

So in we goes, my chap and me;

He drinks to I, and I to he;

At last, says I, a little gay,

'It's time to talk about that hay,'

'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man,

Live, and let live--for that's my plan.'

'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say,

It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,'

And so we chaffers for a bit,

At long and last the odds we split;

And off he sets to show the way,

Where up a yard I leaves the hay.

Then, from the pocket of his coat,

He pulls a book, and picks a note.

'That's Ten,' says he--'I hope to pay

Tens upon tens for loads of hay.'

'With all my heart, and soon,' says I,

And feeling for the change thereby;

But all my shillings com'd to five--

Says he, 'No matter, man alive!

There's something in your honest phiz

I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;--

You'll pay next time you come to town.'

'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.'

'All right,' says he.--Thinks I 'huzza!

He's got no bargain of the hay!'

"Well, home I goes, with empty cart,

Whipping the horses pretty smart,

And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,

To think how well I'd sold the hay--

And just cotch'd Master at his greens

And bacon, or it might be beans,

Which didn't taste the worse sure_ly_,

To hear his hay had gone so high.

But lord! when I laid down the note,

It stuck the victuals in his throat,

And chok'd him till his face all grew

Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;

With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!

They seem'd a-coming out like snails!

'A note,' says he, half mad with passion,

'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!'

Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?

That's Hagricultural Distress."

COLIN.

"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing!

You only argy in a ring;

'Cause why? You never cares to look,

Like me, in any larned book;

But schollards know the wrong and right

Of every thing in black and white.

"Well, Farming, that's its common name,

And Agriculture be the same:

So put your Farming first, and next

Distress, and there you have your text.

But here the question comes to press,

What farming be, and what's distress?

Why, farming is to plough and sow,

Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow,

Thrash, winnow, sell,--and buy and breed

The proper stock to fat and feed.

Distress is want, and pain, and grief,

And sickness,--things as wants relief;

Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;

In short, ax any overseer,--

Well, now, the logic for to chop,

Where's the distress about a crop?"

"There's no distress in keeping sheep,

I likes to see 'em frisk and leap;

There's no distress in seeing swine

Grow up to pork and bacon fine;

There's no distress in growing wheat

And grass for men or beasts to eat;

And making of lean cattle fat,

There's no distress, of course, in that.

Then what remains?--But one thing more,

And that's the _Farming of the Poor_!"

HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.

"Yea!--aye!--sure_ly_!--for sartin!--yes!--

_That's_ Hagricultural Distress!"

DOMESTIC POEMS.

"It's hame, hame, hame."--A. CUNNINGHAM.

"There's no place like home."--CLARI.

I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!

When I look back at Hymen's dear day,

Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife,

Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!

But as liquid as stars in a pool;

Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,

Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair;

Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now,

As if time, when those furrows were made by the share,

Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,

When a Venus demanded their skill;

Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose,

But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,

Such a nectar there hung on each lip;

Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,

Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts,

From its dimple he could not get loose;

Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,

Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,

With their ringlets of auburn so deep!

Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,

By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,

While in whiteness it vied with your arms;

Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place,

To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,

Though it now has two twists from upright--

But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!

Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West.

My daily labors past;

On Anna's soft and gentle breast

My head reclined at last;--

The darkness clos'd around, so dear

To fond congenial souls,

And thus she murmur'd at my ear,

"My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,

Insisting on his rent;

And all the Todds are coming up

To see us, out of Kent;--

I quite forgot to tell you John

Has had a tipsy fall;--

I'm sure there's something going on

With that vile Mary Hall!--"

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,

And I have bought the rest--

Of course, if we go out of town,

Southend will be the best.--

I really think the Jones's house

Would be the thing for us;--

I think I told you Mrs. Pope

Had parted with her _nus_--

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day,

To bid me suit myself--

And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed

The victuals on the shelf.--

And, lord! there's such a letter come,

Inviting you to fight!

Of course you don't intend to go--

God bless you, dear, good night!"

III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)--

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin--

(Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air--

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey

From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,

(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint--

(Where _did_ he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)

Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life--

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South,

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--

(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,--

(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV. A SERENADE.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

Thus I heard a father cry,

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

The brat will never shut an eye;

Hither come, some power divine!

Close his lids, or open mine!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

What the devil makes him cry?

Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Still he stares--I wonder why,

Why are not the sons of earth

Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"

Thus I heard the father cry;

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Mary, you must come and try!--

Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake--

The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Fie, you little creature, fie!

Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Is no poppy-syrup nigh?

Give him some, or give him all,

I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Two such nights, and I shall die!

Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

He'll be bruised, and so shall I,--"

"How can I from bedposts keep,

When I'm walking in my sleep?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Sleep his very looks deny--

Lullaby, oh, lullaby;

Nature soon will stupefy--

My nerves relax,--my eyes grow dim--

Who's that fallen--me or him?"

THE GREEN MAN.

Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man

As ever lived--at least at number Four,

In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor,

At fifty pounds,--or thereabouts,--per ann.

The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers,

His rent so punctually paid each quarter,--

He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers--

Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers--

Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter.--

Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable--

Still on one failing tenderly to touch,

The Gentleman did like a drop too much,

(Tho' there are many such)

And took more Port than was exactly portable.

In fact,--to put the cap upon the nipple,

And try the charge,--Tom certainly _did_ tipple.

He thought the motto was but sorry stuff

On Cribb's Prize Cup--Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter--

That "D----d be he who first cries _Hold Enough!_"

The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.

And so to set example in the eyes

Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them,

All his cups were of such ample size

That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates,

In spite of Temperance's if's and buts,

So sure as Eating is set off with _plates_,

His Drinking always was bound up with _cuts_!

Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels

Bring very sad catastrophes about;

Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,

Not to forget the Gout.

Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim

To grow to Strasburg's regulation size,

As if for those hepatical goose pies--

Or out of depth the head begins to swim--

Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!

'Twas Christmas--he had drunk the night before,--

Like Baxter, who so "went beyond his last"--

_One_ bottle more, and then _one_ bottle more,

Till oh! the red-wine _Ruby-con_ was pass'd!

And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,

With many a circumbendibus to spare,

For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,

To use a fitting phrase, he _wound_ his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,

And all the nerves--(and sparrows)--in a twitter,

Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:

The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions,

A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's,

Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up--

An awkward circumstance enough for elves

Who shave themselves;

And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it,

When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass--

He jump'd--and who alive would fail to do it?--

To see however it had come to pass,

One section of his face as green as grass!

In vain each eager wipe,

With soap--without--wet--hot or cold--or dry,

Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye

One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!

Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,

Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,--

But verdant and not brown,--

What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?

Indeed it was a very novel case,

By way of penalty for being jolly,

To have that evergreen stuck in his face,

Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

"All claret marks,"--thought he--Tom knew his forte--

"Are red--this color CANNOT come from Port!"

One thing was plain; with such a face as his,

'Twas quite impossible to ever greet

Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,

Altho' 'twas such a parti-colored phiz!

As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,

The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,

With "Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please--

Unless it comes too high--

Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy

The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?"

His mind recoil'd--so he tied up his head,

As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;

Of course with feelings far from the serene,

For all his future prospects seemed to be,

To match his customary tea,

Black, mixt with green.

Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown

Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down,

And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why;

To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,

Returned an answer so mysterious

That curiosity began to fry;

The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch

By peeping in upon the patient's bed,

Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,

Got over-night of course--"Harm watch, harm catch,"

From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

So, liberty or not,--

Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in

A suicidal coffin--

The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;

Appearance,--"fiddle-sticks!" should not deter

From going to the bed,

And looking at the head:

"La! Mister S----, he need not care for her!

A married woman that had had

Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad--

Her own dear late would come home late at night,

And liquor always got him in a fight.

She'd been in hospitals--she wouldn't faint

At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;

She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't--

Turlington's Drops she made a pint to keep.

Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand--

Such skulls japann'd--she meant to say trepann'd!

Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle,

And hadn't hours to live,

From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle,

Shamefully over-driv!--

Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,

To get the brains to stop.

At imputations of the legs she'd been,

And neither screech'd nor cried--"

Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside,

And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen--

"Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!"

Alas! through Simpson's brain

Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;

It tallied truly with his own misgiving,

And brought a groan,

To move a heart of stone--

A sort of farewell to the land of living!

And as the case was imminent and urgent,

He did not make a shadow of objection

To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a "surgent,"

But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection,

While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief

Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.

Swift flew the summons,--it was life or death!

And in as short a time as he could race it,

Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath,

To try his Latin charms against _Hic Jacet_.

He took a seat beside the patient's bed,

Saw tongue--felt pulse--examined the bad cheek,--

Poked, strok'd, pinch'd, kneaded it--hemm'd--

shook his head--

Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,

(Thinking, it seem'd in Greek,)

Then ask'd--'twas Christmas--"Had he eaten grass,

Or greens--and if the cook was so improper

To boil them up with copper,

Or farthings made of brass;

Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,

Or dined at City Festivals, whereat

There's turtle, and green fat?"

To all of which, with serious tone of woe,

Poor Simpson answered "No,"

Indeed he might have said in form auricular,

Supposing Puddicome had been a monk--

He had not eaten (he had only drunk)

Of anything "Particular."

The Doctor was at fault;

A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.

Cases of other colors came in crowds,

He could have found their remedy, and soon;

But green--it sent him up among the clouds,

As if he had gone up with Green's balloon!

Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin;

From Yellow Jaundice yellow,

From saffron tints to sallow;--

Then retrospective memory lugg'd in

Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town--

East Indians, without number,

He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown,

From tan to a burnt umber,

Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen

Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke,

As "_rashes_ growing green"--

"Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green!

Nothing of course, but a broad Scottish joke!"

Then as to flaming visages, for those

The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose--

But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke!

Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage,

In common practice he had really seen;

But Green--he was too old, and grave, and sage,

To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!

So matters stood in-doors--meanwhile without,

Growing in going like all other rumors,

The modern miracle was buzz'd about,

By people of all humors,

Native or foreign in their dialecticals;

Till all the neighborhood, as if their noses

Had taken the odd gross from little Moses,

Seemed looking thro' green spectacles.

"Green faces!" so they all began to comment--

"Yes--opposite to Druggists' lighted shops,

But that's a flying color--never stops--

A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment.

Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,

Nothing at all to match the present piece;

Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind--

Green-grocers are not green--nor yet green geese!"

The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors

Of such a case had never heard,

From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd;

"Or Greenland!" cried the whalers.

All tongues were full of the Green Man, and still

They could not make him out with all their skill;

No soul could shape the matter, head or tail--

But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.

A long half hour, in needless puzzle,

Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle;

He thought, and thought, and thought and

thought, and thought--

And still it came to nought,

When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers,

"Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door!

It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,--

As brought home Mister S. to Austin Friars,

And says there's nothing but a simple case--

He got that 'ere green face

By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!"

HIT OR MISS.

"Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,

Forgather'd ance upon a time."--BURNS.

One morn--it was the very morn

September's sportive month was born--

The hour, about the sunrise, early;

The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly,

With sundry orange streaks and tinges

Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges:

The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool,

As if just skimm'd from off a pool;

The scene, red, russet, yellow, laden,

From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden,

Save here and there a turnip patch,

Too verdant with the rest to match;

And far a-field a hazy figure,

Some roaming lover of the trigger.

Meanwhile the level light perchance

Pick'd out his barrel with a glance;

For all around a distant popping

Told birds were flying off or dropping.

Such was the morn--a morn right fair

To seek for covey or for hare--

When, lo! too far from human feet

For even Ranger's boldest beat,

A Dog, as in some doggish trouble,

Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble,

With dappled head in lowly droop,

But not the scientific stoop;

And flagging, dull, desponding ears,

As if they had been soak'd in tears,

And not the beaded dew that hung

The filmy stalks and weeds among.

His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know

An errand, why, or where to go,

To trot, to walk, or scamper swift--

In short, he seem'd a dog adrift;

His very tail, a listless thing,

With just an accidental swing,

Like rudder to the ripple veering,

When nobody on board is steering.

So, dull and moody, canter'd on

Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don;

When, rising o'er a gentle slope,

That gave his view a better scope,

He spied, some dozen furrows distant,

But in a spot as inconsistent,

A second dog across his track,

Without a master to his back;

As if for wages, workman-like,

The sporting breed had made a strike,

Resolv'd nor birds nor puss to seek,

Without another paunch a week!

This other was a truant curly,

But, for a spaniel, wondrous surely;

Instead of curvets gay and brisk,

He slouch'd along without a frisk,

With dogged air, as if he had

A good half mind to running mad;

Mayhap the shaking at his ear

Had been a quaver too severe;

Mayhap the whip's "exclusive dealing"

Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling,

Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain

He did not mean to come again.

Of course the pair soon spied each other;

But neither seem'd to own a brother;

The course on both sides took a curve,

As dogs when shy are apt to swerve;

But each o'er back and shoulder throwing

A look to watch the other's going,

Till, having clear'd sufficient ground,

With one accord they turn'd them round,

And squatting down, for forms not caring,

At one another fell to staring;

As if not proof against a touch

Of what plagues humankind so much,

A prying itch to get at notions

Of all their neighbor's looks and motions.

Sir Don at length was first to rise--

The better dog in point of size,

And, snuffing all the ground between,

Set off, with easy jaunty mien;

While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him,

And made a dozen steps to meet him--

Their noses touch'd, and rubb'd awhile

(Some savage nations use the style),

And then their tails a wag began,

Though on a very cautious plan,

But in their signals quantum suff.

To say, "A civil dog enough."

Thus having held out olive branches,

They sank again, though not on haunches,

But couchant, with their under jaws

Resting between the two forepaws,

The prelude, on a luckier day,

Or sequel, to a game of play:

But now they were in dumps, and thus

Began their worries to discuss,

The Pointer, coming to the point

The first, on times so out of joint.

"Well, Friend,--so here's a new September,

As fine a first as I remember;

And, thanks to such an early Spring,

Plenty of birds, and strong on wing."

"Birds!" cried the little crusty chap,

As sharp and sudden as a snap,

"A weasel suck them in the shell!

What matter birds, or flying well,

Or fly at all, or sporting weather,

If fools with guns can't hit a feather!"

"Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don,

Putting his gravest visage on;

"In vain we beat our beaten way,

And bring our _organs_ into play,

Unless the proper killing kind

Of _barrel tunes_ are play'd behind:

But when _we_ shoot,--that's me and Squire--

We hit as often as we fire."

"More luck for you!" cried little Woolly,

Who felt the cruel contrast fully;

"More luck for you, and Squire to boot!

_We_ miss as often as we shoot!"

"Indeed!--No wonder you're unhappy!

I thought you looking rather snappy;

But fancied, when I saw you jogging,

You'd had an overdose of flogging;

Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried

While you were ranging rather wide."

"Me! running--running wide--and hit!

Me shot! what, pepper'd?--Deuce a bit!

I almost wish I had! That Dunce,

My master, then would hit for once!

Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds!

He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!"

"Well, that must be a case provoking.

What, _never_--but, you dog, you're joking!

I see a sort of wicked grin

About your jaw you're keeping in."

"A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter

Would be as much a joking matter.

To tell the truth, that dog-disaster

Is just the type of me and master,

When fagging over hill and dale,

With his vain rattle at my tail,

Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run,

But _leading_ nothing but his gun--

The very shot I fancy hisses,

It's sent upon such awful misses!"

"Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is

Your master's hand is out of practice!"

"_Practice_?--No doctor, where you will,

Has finer--but he cannot kill!

These three years past, thro' furze and furrow,

All covers I have hunted thorough;

Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors;

And put up hares by scores and scores;

Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;--

Yes, game enough to send in presents

To ev'ry friend he has in town,

Provided he had knock'd it down:

But no--the whole three years together,

He has not giv'n me flick or feather--

For all that I have had to do

I wish I had been missing too!"

"Well,--such a hand would drive me mad;

But is he truly quite so bad?"

"Bad!--worse!--you cannot underssore him;

If I could put up, just before him,

The great Balloon that paid the visit

Across the water, he would miss it!

Bite him! I do believe, indeed,

It's in his very blood and breed!

It marks his life, and, run all through it;

What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it.

Last Monday he came home to Tooting,

Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting,

And kicks at me to vent his rage--

'Get out!' says he--'I've miss'd the stage!'

Of course, thought I--what chance of hitting?

You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!"

"Why, he must be the country's scoff!

He ought to leave, and not let, off!

As fate denies his shooting wishes,

Why don't he take to catching fishes?

Or any other sporting game,

That don't require a bit of aim?"

"Not he!--Some dogs of human kind

Will hunt by sight, because they're blind.

My master angle!--no such luck!

There he might strike, who never struck!

My master shoots because he can't,

And has an eye that aims aslant;

Nay, just by way of making trouble,

He's changed his single gun for double;

And now, as girls a-walking do,

His _misses_ go by two and two!

I wish he had the mange, or reason

As good, to miss the shooting season!"

"Why yes, it must be main upleasant

To point to covey, or to pheasant,

For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,

Think _letting fly_ as good as shooting!"

"Snobs!--if he'd wear his ruffled shirts,

Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,

Or trowsers in the place of smalls,

Or those tight fits he wears at balls,

Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,

Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,

And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,

And none would stare, unless we hit.

But no--to make the more combustion,

He goes in gaiters and in fustian,

Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,

And deuce a miss but some one marks!

For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,

Dog us about like common poachers!

Many's the covey I've gone by,

When underneath a sporting eye;

Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her--

I miss 'em to prevent my master!"

"And so should I, in such a case!

There's nothing feels so like disgrace,

Or gives you such a scurvy look--

A kick and pail of slush from Cook,

Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one,

As standing to a missing gun!

It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound,

To catch your bird before the ground:

But no--a pump and ginger pop

As soon would get a bird to drop!

So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,

Till all your tail is gone to sleep;

A sort of stiffness in your nape,

Holding your head well up to gape;

While off go birds across the ridges,

First small as flies, and then as midges,

Cocksure, as they are living chicks,

Death's Door is not at Number Six!"

"Yes! yes! and then you look at master,

The cause of all the late disaster,

Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath

At gun, or birds, or maybe both;

P'rhaps curses you, and all your kin,

To raise the hair upon your skin!

Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps,

To go and hunt for more miss-haps!"

"Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel

But one long wish to go to heel;

You cannot scent for cutting mugs--

Your nose is turning up, like Pug's;

You can't hold up, but plod and mope;

Your tail like sodden end of rope,

That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side

Has soak'd in harbor, tide and tide.

On thorns and scratches, till that moment

Unnoticed, you begin to comment;

You never felt such bitter brambles,

Such heavy soil, in all your rambles!

You never felt your fleas so vicious!

Till, sick of life so unpropitious,

You wish at last, to end the passage,

That you were dead, and in your sassage!"

"Yes! that's a miss from end to end!

But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend,

You've made me shiver, skin and gristle,

As if I heard my master's whistle!

Though how you came to learn the knack--

I thought your Squire was quite a crack!"

"And so he is!--He always hits--

And sometimes hard, and all to bits.

But ere with him our tongues we task,

I've still one little thing to ask;

Namely, with such a random master,

Of course you sometimes want a plaster?

Such missing hands make game of more

Than ever pass'd for game before--

A pounded pig--a widow's cat--

A patent ventilating hat--

For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick,

Will find a coat whereon to stick!"

"What! accidentals, as they're term'd?

No never--none--since I was worm'd--

Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,--

My master does not miss by halves!

His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd

Abroad upon the whole wide world,--

But whether they be blown to dust,

As often-times I think they must,

Or melted down too near the sun,

What comes of them is known to none--

I never found, since I could bark,

A Barn that bore my master's mark!"

"Is that the case?--Why then, my brother,

Would we could swap with one another!

Or take the Squire, with all my heart,

Nay, all my liver, so we part!

He'll hit you hares--(he uses cartridge)

He'll hit you cocks--he'll hit a partridge;

He'll hit a snipe; he'll hit a pheasant;

He'll hit--he'll hit whatever's present;

He'll always hit,--as that's your wish--

His pepper never lacks a dish!"

"Come, come, you banter,--let's be serious;

I'm sure that I am half delirious,

Your picture set me so a-sighing--

But does he shot so well--shoot flying?"

"Shoot flying? Yes--and running, walking--

I've seen him shoot two farmers talking--

He'll hit the game, whene'er he can,

But failing that he'll hit a man,--

A boy--a horse's tail or head--

Or make a pig a pig of lead,--

Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet,

However hot, was known to sweat,

But sure I am that I perspire

Sometimes _before my master's fire_!

Misses! no, no, he _always_ hits,

But so as puts me into fits!

He shot my fellow dog this morning,

Which seemed to me sufficient warning!"

"Quite, quite, enough!--So that's a hitter!

Why, my own fate I thought was bitter,

And full excuse for cut and run;

But give me still the missing gun!

Or rather, Sirius! send me this,

No gun at all, to hit or miss,

Since sporting seems to shoot thus double,

That right or left it brings us trouble!"

So ended Dash;--and Pointer Don

Prepared to urge the moral on;

But here a whistle long and shrill

Came sounding o'er the council hill,

And starting up, as if their tails

Had felt the touch of shoes and nails,

Away they scamper'd down the slope,

As fast as other pairs elope,--

Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets,

To beg, or dance in fancy jackets;

At butchers' shops to try their luck;

To help to draw a cart or truck;

Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most

Who would but hit or miss a post.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.[35]

[Footnote 35: This dates from the old days of transportation and Botany

Bay. The judge indicated was Mr. Justice Alan Park, of the Common

Pleas, and Mr. Cotton was Chaplain of Newgate.]

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY.

"Vell! Here I am--no Matter how it suits

A-keeping Company vith them dumb Brutes;

Old Park vos no bad Judge--confound his vig!

Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig!

"The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales

To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails

And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock,

But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

"To go to set this solitary Job

To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob!

It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am

Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

"I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep

To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep,

The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks,

And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

"If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out

To only Baa! and Botanize about,

I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pull,

And come to Cotton, as to all this Vool!

"Von only happy moment I have had

Since here I come to be a Farmer's Cad,

And then I cotch'd a vild Beast in a Snooze,

And pick'd her pouch of three young Kangaroos!

"Vot chance haye I to go to Race or Mill?

Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till;

And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry,

I'd put the Natives' Linen in my Eye!

"If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag,

And find a Fence to turn it into Swag,

I'd give it all in London Streets to stand,

And if I had my pick, I'd say the Strand!

"But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall,

To my old Crib to meet with Jack, and Sal,

I've been so gallows honest in this Place,

I shan't not like to show my sheepish Face.

"It's wery hard for nothing but a Box

Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin' Flocks,

'Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus,

They've nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus.

"But folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick

To dumb brute Beasts,--and so I'll cut my Stick!

And vot's the Use a Feller's Eyes to pipe

Vere von can't borrow any Gemman's Vipe?"

LIEUTENANT LUFF.

All you that are too fond of wine,

Or any other stuff,

Take warning by the dismal fate

Of one Lieutenant Luff.

A sober man he might have been,

Except in one regard,

He did not like soft water,

So he took to drinking hard!

Said he, "Let others fancy slops,

And talk in praise of Tea,

But I am no Bohemian,

So do not like Bohea.

If wine's a poison, so is Tea,

Though in another shape:

What matter whether one is kill'd

By canister or grape!"

According to this kind of taste

Did he indulge his drouth,

And being fond of Port, he made

A port-hole of his mouth!

A single pint he might have sipp'd

And not been out of sorts,

In geologic phrase--the rock

He split upon was quarts!

To "hold the mirror up to vice"

With him was hard, alas!

The worse for wine he often was,

But not "before a glass."

No kind and prudent friend had he

To bid him drink no more,--

The only chequers in his course

Where at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this

His frame began to show,

For that old enemy the gout

Had taken him in toe!

And join'd with this an evil came

Of quite another sort--

For while he drank, himself, his purse

Was getting "something short."

For want of cash he soon had pawn'd

One half that he possessed,

And drinking showed him duplicates

Beforehand of the rest!

So now his creditors resolved

To seize on his assets;

For why,--they found that his half-pay

Did not half pay his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode

His creditors to chouse;

For his own execution he

Put into his own house!

A pistol to the muzzle charged

He took devoid of fear;

Said he, "This barrel is my last,

So now for my last bier!"

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,

And not against his brain,

So he blew out his lights--and none

Could blow them in again!

A Jury for a Verdict met,

And gave in it these terms:--

"We find as how as certain slugs

Has sent him to the worms!"

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy

How well to rise while nights and larks are flying--

For my part getting up seems not so easy

By half as _lying_.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,

Soaring beyond the sight to find him out--

Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,

The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime--

Only lee long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of _time_.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,

His steeds that paw impatiently about,--

Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear

Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl;

What then,--if I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,

And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs

"Wherefore should master rise before the hens

Have laid their eggs?"

Why from a comfortable pillow start

To see faint flushes in the east awaken?

A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,

Who used to haste the dewy grass among,

"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"--

Well--he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,

And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;

But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be

"All up--all up!"

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,

Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;--

A man that's fond precociously of _stirring_,

Must be a spoon.

A PLAIN DIRECTION.

"Do you never deviate?"

_John Bull_.

In London once I lost my way

In faring to and fro,

And ask'd a little ragged boy

The way that I should go;

He gave a nod, and then a wink,

And told me to get there

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I box'd his little saucy ears,

And then away I strode;

But since I've found that weary path

Is quite a common road.

Utopia is a pleasant place,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a famous town

That drove a famous trade,

Where Whittington walk'd up and found

A fortune ready made.

The very streets are paved with gold;

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a Fairy Land,

In some romantic tale,

Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive

And wicked Giants fail.

My wish is great, my shoes are strong,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard about some happy Isle,

Where ev'ry man is free,

And none can lie in bonds for life

For want of L. S. D.

Oh that's the land of Liberty!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square,"

I've dreamt about some blessed spot,

Beneath the blessed sky,

Where Bread and Justice never rise

Too dear for folks to buy.

It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is an ancient House,

As pure as it is old,

Where Members always speak their minds

And votes are never sold.

I'm fond of all antiquities,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Royal Court

Maintain'd in noble state,

Where ev'ry able man, and good,

Is certain to be great!

I'm very fond of seeing sights,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Temple too,

Where Christians come to pray;

But canting knaves and hypocrites,

And bigots keep away.

Oh that's the parish church for me!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

They say there is a Garden fair,

That's haunted by the dove,

Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse

The golden light of love--

The place must be a Paradise,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land

For public spirit known--

Whose Patriots love its interests

Much better than their own.

The Land of Promise sure it is!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate,

A Mansion large and strong;

A view all over Kent and back,

And going for a song.

George Robins knows the very spot,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a Company

All formal and enroll'd,

Will take your smallest silver coin

And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb'd,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant Land,

Where omelettes grow on trees,

And roasted pigs run crying out,

"Come eat me, if you please."

My appetite is rather keen,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION.[36]

"Now's the time and now's the hour,"--BURNS.

"Seven's the main."--CROCKFORD.

[Footnote 36: The exquisite wit and fancy of these verses need not

blind us to their touching earnestness. They might well be printed and

circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing.

The "Knight" mentioned was, of course, the excellent Charles Knight,

pioneer and forerunner of all subsequent movements for cheapening and

popularizing good literature.]

Pity the sorrows of a class of men,

Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,

No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,

But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.

Oppress'd and discontented with our lot,

Amongst the clamorous we take our station;

A host of Ribbon Men--yet is there not

One piece of Irish in our agitation.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,

We venerate our Glorious Constitution;

We joy King William's advent should have been,

And only want a Counter Revolution.

'Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,

'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne,

'Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,

The measures we dislike are all our own.

The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name;

The tone our foreign policy pervading;

The Corn Laws--none of these we care to blame,

Our evils we refer to over-trading.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;

We reverence the Church--but hang the cloth!

We love her ministers--but curse the lawn!

We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:--to serve them is a bliss!

We trust they find us civil, never surly;

All that we hope of female friends is this,

That their last linen may be wanted early.

Ah! who can tell the miseries of men

That serve the very cheapest shops in town?

Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,

Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down!

But has not Hamlet his opinion given--

O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants!

"That custom is"--say custom after seven--

"More honor'd in the breach than the observance."

O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,

O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;

Torment us all until the seventh chime,

But let us have the remnant to ourselves!

We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,

And not remain in ignorance incurable;--

To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,

And other fabrics that have proved so durable.

We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,

And not to go bewilder'd to our beds;

With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,

And pins and needles running in our heads!

For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,

Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;

Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,

Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.

Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,

We often think, when we are dull and vapoury,

The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,

Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd,

My curtains drawn and all is snug;

Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,

And Tray is sitting on the rug.

Last night I had a curious dream,

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well,

I could but woo and she was won,

Myself in blue, the bride in white,

The ring was placed, the deed was done!

Away we went in chaise-and-four,

As fast as grinning boys could flog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

What loving tête-à-têtes to come!

But tête-à-têtes must still defer!

When Susan came to live with me,

Her mother came to live with her!

With sister Belle she couldn't part,

But all _my_ ties had leave to jog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll--

A monkey too, what work he made!

The sister introduced a Beau--

My Susan brought a favorite maid.

She had a tabby of her own,

A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The Monkey bit--the Parrot scream'd

All day the sister strumm'd and sung;

The petted maid was such a scold!

My Susan learn'd to use her tongue:

Her mother had such wretched health,

She sate and croak'd like any frog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love,

I soon came down to simple "M!"

The very servants cross'd my wish,

My Susan let me down to them.

The poker hardly seem'd my own,

I might as well have been a log--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape!

Such coats and hats she never met!

My ways they were the oddest ways!

My friends were such a vulgar set!

Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd--

She could not bear that Mister Blogg--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, My Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then

Mamma must mingle in the song--

The sister took a sisters part--

The Maid declared her Master wrong--

The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!"

My life was like a London fog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine,

As proved by bills that had no end--

_I_ never had a decent coat--

_I_ never had a coin to spend!

She forced me to resign my Club,

Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout

To fops and flirts, a pretty list;

And when I tried to steal away,

I found my study full of whist!

Then, first to come and last to go,

There always was a Captain Hogg--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream

For one who single is and snug--

With Pussy in the elbow-chair

And Tray reposing on the rug?--

If I must totter down the hill,

'Tis safest done without a clog--

What d'ye think of that, my Cat?

What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

RURAL FELICITY.

Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough,

for people that's country born,

And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing

our grass and our corn.

It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write

and invite me down,

Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only

makes one more partial to town.

At first I thought I was really come down into

all sorts of rural bliss,

For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs,

and its poultry, looks not much amiss;

There's something about a dairy farm, with its

different kinds of live stock,

That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam

and his innocent flock;

But somehow the good old Elysium fields have

not been well handed down,

And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear

Leicester Fields up in town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads,

and so I should like for miles,

If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put

up such crooked stiles;

For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till

you're almost broken in two,

If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and

you stick if you try to creep through.

Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb

without constant tumbles down,

But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter

done about town.

There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and

that's by a walk in a lane,

And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never

dared go again;

For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that

wouldn't be kept in the pound,

A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking

his horns in the ground?

And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pulls

rural pleasures down,

Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's

only two up in town.

Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away

at the first early pearly dew,

And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and

I always got wetted through;

My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold,

and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,

That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or

wear our pearls, up in town!

As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge,

sweet eglantine roses to snatch,

But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how

the long brambles do scratch;

Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that

tore all the bows from the crown,

One may walk long enough without hats branching

off, or losing one's bows about town.

But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose

that it blows up for rain,

And all at once you discover yourself in a real St.

Swithin's Lane;

And while you're running all ducked and drown'd,

and pelted with sixpenny drops,

"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a

nice growing show'r for the crops!"

But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow

me another new gown?

For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as

you do with the hackneys in town.

Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go

with them gathering nuts,

And we always set out by the longest way and

return by the shortest cuts.

Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get

a poor lustyish aunt

To scramble through gaps or jump over a

ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,--

For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and

it's almost daily the case,

Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats,

I see the hooray! in their face.

There's the other day, for my sight is short, and

I saw what was green beyond,

And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till

I walked in the duckweed pond:

Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank

they see me come launching down,

As none but a stout London female can do as is

come a first time out of town.

Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a

verdurous seat to find,

But for my part I always found it a joy that

brought a repentance behind;

For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained

a whole breadth of my gown--

And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's

much better done up in town.

As for country fare, the first morning I came I

heard such a shrill piece of work!

And ever since--and it's ten days ago--we've lived

upon nothing but pork;

One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a

plague take all countrified cooks!

Why didn't they tell me, _before_ I had dined, they

made pigeon pies of the rooks?

Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when

up, it doesn't agree when it's down,

But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to

look for champagne out of town!

To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best

when he started this pastoral plan,

And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she

teaches me all that she can,

Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams,

but I'm sure that I never shall learn,

And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as

yet by chumping away at the churn;

But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I

found it more easy to make,

But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when

you're tired to sit down on the rake.

I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with a

regular country clown,

But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist

and give one such smacks in town!

Then I've tried to make friends with the birds

and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,

I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I

can't even please the pigs.

The very hens pick holes in my hands when I

grope for the new-laid eggs,

And the gander comes hissing out of the pond

on purpose to flap at my legs.

I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without

horns, and the old sow trampled me down,

The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts--but

they're kept in cages in town!

Another thing is the nasty dogs--thro' the village

I hardly can stir

Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call

off a barking cur;

And now you would swear all the dogs in the

place were set on to hunt me down,

But neither the brutes nor the people I think are

as civilly bred as in town.

Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake,

and all in a tremble of fright,

But instead of a family murder it proved an owl

that flies screeching at night.

Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all

about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing--

In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the

most happiest thing;

For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before

as endur'd for rurality's sake,

I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among

ants, and once--ugh! I trod on a snake!

And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I've

got a particular skin,

I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds

that drives the poor suicides in!

And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had

upon Holborn Hill?

And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh

butter wherever you will?

And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread

quite rustical-like and brown?

So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very

heart of the town.

Howsomever my mind's made up, and although

I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext,

I mean to book me an inside place up to town

upon Saturday next,

And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall

be at the Old Bell and Crown,

And perhaps I may come to the country again,

when London is all burnt down!

A FLYING VISIT.

"A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find

out moonshine--find out moonshine!"--_Midsummer

Night's Dream_.

I.

The by-gone September,

As folks may remember,

At least if their memory saves but an ember,

One fine afternoon,

There went up a Balloon,

Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

II.

For, nearing the sky,

At about a mile high,

The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;

So cutting his string,

In a Parasol thing

Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

III.

Meanwhile, thus adrift,

The Balloon made a shift

To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;

It got very small,

Then to nothing at all;

And then rose the question of where it would fall?

IV.

Some thought that, for lack

Of the man and his pack,

'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack;

Some held, but in vain,

With the first heavy rain

'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

V.

But still not a word

For a month could be heard

Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird;

The firm Gye and Hughes,

Wore their boots out and shoes,

In running about and inquiring for news.

VI.

Some thought it must be

Tumbled into the Sea;

Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie

For Germans, as shown

By their writings, 'tis known

Are always delighted with what is high-flown.

VII.

Some hinted a bilk,

And that maidens who milk,

In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:

Some swore that it must,

"As they said at the _fust_,

Have gone again' flashes of lightning and _bust_!"

VIII.

However, at last,

When six weeks had gone past,

Intelligence came of a plausible cast;

A wondering clown,

At a hamlet near town,

Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down.

IX.

Soon spread the alarm,

And from cottage and farm,

The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;

And off ran the folk,--

It is such a good joke

To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

X.

And lo! the machine,

Dappled yellow and green,

Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:

"Yes, yes," was the cry,

"It's the old one, sure_ly_,

Where _can_ it have been such a time in the sky?"

XI.

"Lord! where will it fall?

It can't find out Vauxhall,

Without any pilot to guide it at all!"

Some wager'd that Kent

Would behold the event,

Debrett had been posed to _predict_ its descent.

XII.

Some thought it would pitch

In the old Tower Ditch,

Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch;

And Farmers cried "Zounds!

If it drops on our grounds,

We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds."

XIII.

But still to and fro

It continued to go,

As if looking out for soft places below;

No difficult job,

It had only to bob

Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

XIV.

Who, too apt to stare

At some castle in air,

Forget that the earth is their proper affair;

Till, watching the fall

Of some soap-bubble ball,

They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.

XV.

Meanwhile, from its height

Stooping downward in flight,

The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:

Still bigger and bigger,

And strike me a nigger

Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!

XVI.

Yes, plain to be seen,

Underneath the machine,

There dangled a mortal--some swore it was Green;

Some mason could spy;

Others named Mr. Gye;

Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.

XVII.

'Twas Graham the flighty,

Whom the Duke high and mighty

Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;

'Twas Hampton, whose whim

Was in Cloudland to swim,

Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him!

XVIII.

But all were at fault;

From the heavenly vault

The falling balloon came at last to a halt;

And bounce! with the jar

Of descending so far,

An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!

XIX.

At first with the jolt

All his wits made a bolt,

As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;

And while in his faint,

To avoid all complaint,

The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint.

XX.

The face of this elf,

Round as platter of delf,

Was pale as if only a cast of itself;

His head had a rare

Fleece of silvery hair,

Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.

XXI.

His eyes they were odd,

Like the eyes of a cod,

And gave him the look of a watery God.

His nose was a snub;

Under which, for his grub,

Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.

XXII.

His person was small,

Without figure at all,

A plump little body as round as a ball:

With two little fins,

And a couple of pins,

With what has been christened a bow in the shins.

XXIII.

His dress it was new,

A full suit of sky-blue--

With bright silver buckles in each little shoe--

Thus painted complete,

From his head to his feet,

Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.

XXIV.

Fine text for the crowd!

Who disputed aloud

What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud--

"He's come from o'er seas,

He's a Cochin Chinese--

By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!"

XXV.

"Don't nobody know?"

"He's a young Esquimaux,

Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow."

"Some angel, my dear,

Sent from some upper _spear_

For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!"

XXVI.

Meanwhile with a sigh,

Having open'd one eye,

The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;

And finding his tongue,

Thus he said, or he sung,

"_Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung_!"

XXVII.

"Lord! what does he speak?"

"It's Dog-Latin--it's Greek!"

"It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!"

"It's no like the Scotch,"

Said a Scot on the watch,

"Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!"

XXVIII.

"It's not parly voo,"

Cried a schoolboy or two,

"Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew.

Some held it was sprung

From the Irvingite tongue,

The same that is used by a child very young.

XXIX.

Some guess'd it high Dutch,

Others thought it had much

In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;

But none could be poz,

What the Dickins! (not Boz)

No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!

XXX.

When who should come pat,

In a moment like that,

But Bowring, to see what the people were at--

A Doctor well able,

Without any fable,

To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.

XXXI.

So just drawing near,

With a vigilant ear,

That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,

Before one could sip

Up a tumbler of flip,

He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!

XXXII.

Then stretching his hand,

As you see Daniel stand,

In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!

Without more delay,

In the Hamilton way

He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.

XXXIII.

"_Krak kraziboo ban_,

I'm the Lunatick Man,

Confined in the Moon since creation began--

_Sit muggy bigog_,

Whom except in a fog

You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog."

XXXIV.

"_Lang sinery lear_,

For this many a year,

I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,--

_Och, pad-mad aroon_

Till one fine afternoon,

I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon."

XXXV.

"_Cush quackery go_,

But, besides you must know,

I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;

_Big botherum blether_,

Who pretended to gather

The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather."

XXXVI.

"_So Crismus an crash_

Being shortish of cash,

I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash--

_Slik mizzle an smak_,

So I'm come with a pack,

To sell to the trade, of My Own Almanack."

XXXVII.

"_Fiz bobbery pershal_

Besides aims commercial,

Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel,

_Cum puddin and tame_,

It's inscribed to his name,

Which is now at the full in celestial fame."

XXXVIII.

"_Wept wepton wish wept_,

Pray this Copy accept"--

But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:

For why a shrewd man

Had devis'd a sly plan

The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.

XXXIX.

So plotted, so done--

With a fight as in fun,

While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,

A knave who could box,

And give right and left knocks,

Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.

XL.

And hard he had fared,

But the people were scared

By what the Interpreter roundly declared;

"You ignorant Turks!

You will be your own Burkes--

He holds all the keys of the lunary works!"

XLI.

"You'd best let him go--

If you keep him below,

The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;

He left her at full,

And with such a long pull,

Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!"

XLII.

So awful a threat

Took effect on the set;

The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget;

So taking a jump,

In the car he came plump,

And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.

XLIII.

Up soar'd the machine,

With its yellow and green;

But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,

Who cried from the car

_"Dam in yooman bi gar_!"

That is,--"What a sad set of villains you are!"

XLIV.

Howbeit, at some height,

He threw down quite a flight

Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right--

And, thanks to the boon,

We shall see very soon

If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!

QUEEN MAB.

A little fairy comes at night,

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,

With silver spots upon her wings,

And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,

And when a good child goes to bed

She waves her wand from right to left,

And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,

Of fountains filled with fairy fish,

And trees that bear delicious fruit,

And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents

From lovely flowers that never fade;

Bright flies that glitter in the sun,

And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues,

For singing songs and telling tales,

And pretty dwarfs to show the way

Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,

From left to right she weaves her rings,

And then it dreams all through the night

Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,

And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,

And ogres draw their cruel knives,

To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,

Or raging flames come scorching round,

Fierce dragons hover in the air,

And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep,

And wish the long black gloom away;

But good ones love the dark, and find

The night as pleasant as the day.

TO HENRIETTA,[37]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

[Footnote 37: The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the

artist.]

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,

They will not just be treated as they used to be at home;

So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,

Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief,

They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,

With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,

And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,

And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;

And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,

For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,

But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;

For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)

In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls,

In scraps of _Galignani_ they'll screw up your little curls;

And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,

And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing

To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring;

That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;

Nor _peut-être_ a potato, as _some_ Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch,

But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch,

With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,

You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,

No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!"

So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew

Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "_Tant mi--eux_!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,

They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;

So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,

Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,

Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."--ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,

And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;

Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,

That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,

And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,

Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!

And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,

Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,

On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin--

Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,

Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong--infant pleasures as weak--

But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note;

Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"

Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce

"Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin--I see myself urchin indeed--

With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight;

Why should weeks have an end?--I am sure there was need

Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?

Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?

Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub,

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy--my tailor was nothing in fault,

For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,--

But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt"

That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!

With a lanky right leg duly planted before;

Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke,

And extended _my_ arms as "the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover--Oh! say, were you ever in love?

With a lady too cold--and your bosom too hot?

Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,

Like a _beau_ that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,

Did you walk up the aisle--the genteelest of men?

When I think of that beautiful vision anew,

Oh! I seem but the _biffin_ of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care,

And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;

Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,

And I'm seeking to hide it--by writing for bays!

A TRUE STORY.

Of all our pains, since man was curst,

I mean of body, not the mental,

To name the worst, among the worst,

The dental sure is transcendental;

Some bit of masticating bone,

That ought to help to clear a shelf,

But lets its proper work alone,

And only seems to gnaw itself;

In fact, of any grave attack

On victual there is little danger,

'Tis so like coming to the _rack,_

As well as going to the manger.

Old Hunks--it seemed a fit retort

Of justice on his grinding ways--

Possessed a grinder of the sort,

That troubled all his latter days.

The best of friends fall out, and so

His teeth had done some years ago,

Save some old stumps with ragged root,

And they took turn about to shoot;

If he drank any chilly liquor,

They made it quite a point to throb;

But if he warmed it on the hob,

Why then they only twitched the quicker.

One tooth--I wonder such a tooth

Had never killed him in his youth--

One tooth he had with many fangs,

That shot at once as many pangs,

It had a universal sting;

One touch of that ecstatic stump

Could jerk his limbs and make him jump,

Just like a puppet on a string;

And what was worse than all, it had

A way of making others bad.

There is, as many know, a knack,

With certain farming undertakers,

And this same tooth pursued their track,

By adding _achers_ still to _achers_!

One way there is, that has been judged

A certain cure, but Hunks was loth

To pay the fee, and quite begrudged

To lose his tooth and money both;

In fact, a dentist and the wheel

Of Fortune are a kindred cast,

For after all is drawn, you feel

It's paying for a blank at last;

So Hunks went on from week to week,

And kept his torment in his cheek;

Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking,

With that perpetual gnaw--gnaw--gnaw,

His moans and groans were truly shocking,

And loud,--altho' he held his jaw.

Many a tug he gave his gum

And tooth, but still it would not come,

Tho' tied to string by some firm thing,

He could not draw it, do his best,

By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest.

At last, but after much debating,

He joined a score of mouths in waiting,

Like his, to have their troubles out.

Sad sight it was to look about

At twenty faces making faces,

With many a rampant trick and antic,

For all were very horrid cases,

And made their owners nearly frantic.

A little wicket now and then

Took one of these unhappy men,

And out again the victim rushed,

While eyes and mouth together gushed;

At last arrived our hero's turn,

Who plunged his hands in both his pockets,

And down he sat, prepared to learn

How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.

Those who have felt such operations,

Alone can guess the sort of ache,

When his old tooth began to break

The thread of old associations;

It touched a string in every part,

It had so many tender ties;

One cord seemed wrenching at his heart,

And two were tugging at his eyes;

"Bone of his bone," he felt, of course,

As husbands do in such divorce;

At last the fangs gave way a little,

Hunks gave his head a backward jerk,

And lo! the cause of all this work,

Went--where it used to send his victual!

The monstrous pain of this proceeding

Had not so numbed his miser wit,

But in this slip he saw a hit

To save, at least, his purse from bleeding;

So when the dentist sought his fees,

Quoth Hunks, "Let's finish, if you please,"

"How, finish! why, it's out!"--"Oh no--

'Tis you are out, to argue so;

I'm none of your before-hand tippers.

My tooth is in my head no doubt,

But, as you say you pulled it out,

Of course it's there--between your nippers,"

"Zounds, sir! d'ye think I'd sell the truth

To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it!"

But Hunks still asked to see the tooth,

And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.

His end obtained, he took his leave,

A secret chuckle in his sleeve;

The joke was worthy to produce one,

To think, by favor of his wit

How well a dentist had been bit

By one old stump, and that a loose one!

The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth

Is still the frailest thing on earth:

Alas! how often when a joke

Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough,

There comes some unexpected stroke

And hangs a weeper on the cuff!

Hunks had not whistled half a mile,

When, planted right against a stile,

There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney,

A vagrant reaper, Irish born,

That helped to reap our miser's corn,

But had not helped to reap his money,

A fact that Hunks remembered quickly;

His whistle all at once was quelled,

And when he saw how Michael held

His sickle, he felt rather sickly.

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright,

Would soon have paid the bill at sight,

But misers (let observers watch it)

Will never part with their delight

Till well demanded by a hatchet--

They live hard--and they die to match it.

Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking,

Resolved not yet to pay the debt,

But let him take it out in hacking;

However, Mike began to stickle

In words before he used the sickle;

But mercy was not long attendant:

From words at last he took to blows,

And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose,

That made it what some folks are not--

A member very independent.

Heaven knows how far this cruel trick

Might still have led, but for a tramper

That came in danger's very nick,

To put Mahoney to the scamper.

But still compassion met a damper;

There lay the severed nose, alas!

Beside the daisies on the grass,

"Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they,

According to the poet's lay:

And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter.

Away went Hodge to get assistance,

With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after,

But somewhat at unusual distance.

In many a little country place

It is a very common case

To have but one residing doctor,

Whose practice rather seems to be

No practice, but a rule of three,

Physician--surgeon--drug-decoctor;

Thus Hunks was forced to go once more

Where he had ta'en his to t' before.

His mere name made the learned man hot,--

"What! Hunks again within my door!

I'll pull his nose"; quoth Hunks, "You cannot."

The doctor looked and saw the case

Plain as the nose _not_ on his face.

"Oh! hum--ha--yes--I understand."

But then arose a long demur,

For not a finger would he stir

Till he was paid his fee in hand;

That matter settled, there they were,

With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.

The opening of a surgeon's job--

His tools, a chestful or a drawerful--

Are always something very awful,

And give the heart the strangest throb;

But never patient in his funks

Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks,

Or surgeon half so like a devil

Prepared for some infernal revel:

His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling,

Just like a bolus in a box:

His fury seemed above controlling,

He bellowed like a hunted ox:

"Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how

We treat such cheating knaves as thou;

Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup;

I have thee by the nose--it's now

My turn--and I will turn it up."

Guess how the miser liked the scurvy

And cruel way of venting passion;

The snubbing folks in this new fashion

Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy;

He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses,

For things had often gone amiss

And wrong with him before, but this

Would be the worst of all _reverses_!

In fancy he beheld his snout

Turned upwards like a pitcher's spout;

There was another grievance yet,

And fancy did not fail to show it,

That he must throw a summerset,

Or stand upon his head to blow it.

And was there then no argument

To change the doctor's vile intent,

And move his pity?--yes, in truth,

And that was--paying for the tooth.

"Zounds! pay for such a stump! I'd rather--"

But here the menace went no farther,

For with his other ways of pinching,

Hunks had a miser's love of snuff.

A recollection strong enough

To cause a very serious flinching;

In short, he paid and had the feature

Replaced as it was meant by nature;

For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle

(No corpse's could have felt so horrid),

And white just like an naked candle,

The doctor deemed and proved it too,

That noses from the nose will do

As well as noses from the forehead;

So, fixed by din of rag and lint,

The part was bandaged up and muffled.

The chair unfastened, Hunks rose,

And shuffled off, for once unshuffled;

And as he went, these words he snuffled--

"Well, this _is_ 'paying thro' the nose.'"

THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.[38]

"Alas! what perils do environ

That man who meddles with a siren!"--_Hudibrus_.

[Footnote 38: Charles Lamb had been reading these verses when he

wrote to his friend Dibdin, in June, 1896, and called him "Peter Fin

Junior."]

On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,

And the sentimental reads;

Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes

Like the ocean--to cast her weeds;--

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,

And the Cit to spy at the ships,--

Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,--

And the Chandler for watery dips;--

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,

As lovely and fair as sin!

But woe, deep water and woe to him,

That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,

And her locks are golden loose,

And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,

To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them well,

With a sea-shark's prickly jaw;

And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell,

The fairest that man e'er saw!

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be

Hath planted his seat by her side;

"Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea,

To make thee so watch the tide?"

She turned about with her pearly brows,

And clasped him by the hand;

"Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house

On the golden Goodwin sand."

And then she gave him a siren kiss,

No honeycomb e'er was sweeter;

Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this

That Peter should be salt-Peter:

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt,

Not walking, as damsels do,

With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept,

But she hopped like a Kangaroo;

One plunge, and then the victim was blind,

Whilst they galloped across the tide;

At last, on the bank he waked in his mind,

And the Beauty was by his side

One half on the sand, and half in the sea,

But his hair began to stiffen;

For when he looked where her feet should be,

She had no more feet than Miss Biffen!

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth,

In the dabbling brine did soak:

At last she opened her pearly mouth,

Like an oyster, and thus she spoke:

"You crimpt my father, who was a skate,--

And my sister you sold--a maid;

So here remain for a fish'ry fate,

For lost you are, and betrayed!"

And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream,

And a splash of her saucy tail;

In a moment he lost the silvery gleam

That shone on her splended mail!

The sun went down with a blood-red flame,

And the sky grew cloudy and black,

And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came,

Each over the other's back!

Ah me! it had been a beautiful scene,

With the safe terra-firma round;

But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him

Like those in a churchyard ground;

And Christians love in the turf to lie,

Not in watery graves to be;

Nay, the very fishes will sooner die

On the land than in the sea.

And whilst he stood, the watery strife

Encroached on every hand,

And the ground decreased,--his moments of life

Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand;

And still the waters foamed in, like ale,

In front, and on either flank,

He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail,

There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more,

The surges came tumbling in,

He sang the evening hymn twice o'er,

And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart,

As cold as his marble slab;

And he thought he felt, in every part,

The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled,

And the little potted shrimps,

All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled,

Gnawed into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro,

And the glorious sun was sunk,

And Day, getting black in the face, as though

Of the nightshade she had drunk!