_Argument._
_This poem is addressed to the Maid of "the_ RAINBOW" (_in Fleet
Street_), _where_ OSSIAN _is enjoying his Whisky and Cigar. The_
PHLARUPPE _here spoken of is the same as the AQUÆVADIUS mentioned
so frequently in Police History, and who in the year '40 headed an
expedition against the Knockers of_ COCKAIGNE, _and was repulsed
by "the force" under the command of_ ROWAN, _the chief of Scotland
(Yard), though not until_ PHLARUPPE _had routed several of his
"Divisions." Tradition assigns the date of this event to the year
'42, but on searching the pages of the historian_ HODDER, _we find
no mention made of the circumstance in his valuable work
entitled_, "SKETCHES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER TAKEN AT BOW STREET."
Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen of steel! The
mountain-dew sparkles in Ossian's brain, and it is brilliant with song.
As is the black reviver to the garment whose seams are white with age,
so is the cream of the valley to the seedy soul of the bard. It brings
back the freshness of youth.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
The draught of the waters of Kinahan wakens the memory of the past. The
odour of thy weeds, mild Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the
brow of Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou
daughter of the Rainbow! to the deeds of the superior classes.
A tale of high life!
Fair is thy Garden, O Covent! Green are its paths with the leaves of the
cabbage. There the cauliflower of Fulham rests its white head, and the
pine of Jamaica perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin are there
laden with Pippins of gold. Near are the halls of Evans. Music is heard
in them by night. The morning dawns in song. The voice of Llewellyn of
Wales gladdens the feast! and Sloman, the son of Israel, pours forth his
numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad are the halls of Evans! It is
the abode of Joy!
Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to the voice of
Ossian? My soul is bursting with song. The collars of my Corazza droop
like the ears of the Greyhound, and my eye in a fine frenzy rolls. Thus
the mighty Bunn appears when he dreams that he dwells in marble halls.
Dost thou not behold, bright maid! the head of a lion in Ossian's hand?
A ring of iron depends from its mouth, and its face wears a look of
rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgravia, tore away.
Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength of his arm. Listen, then,
daughter of the Rainbow! to the tale of high life! The deeds of the
superior classes!
What sound is that kisses the ear? Across thy Garden, sweet Covent! it
comes dancing along the breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing
the sky? But the lark wakes not the night with his notes; and bright
burns the gas in the lamp of the Tavistock. 'Tis the voice of Von Joel,
the toothless, gladdening the halls of Evans. Of Evans, the son of
Thespis.
The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast is spread around.
The strong waters of Hodges and Betts sparkle on the board. A thousand
Havannahs perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam with the
nectar of Barclay. There is the ripe fruit of Erin, and the rabbit of
Wales is there.
Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his warriors around him? He
smokes the Dodeen of peace. His face glows with the juice of the
Gooseberry. His cheeks are as red as the garments of the bearers of
letters on the festival of May? Who is it but the noble Phlaruppe, the
Lord of Belgravia? In his train is Sutton the Sambo; and Burke, the hard
of hearing, attends him. Mighty in battle are they.
The Lord of Belgravia graces the board: the Bards hail his presence with
a song. He quaffs the brown stout of Dublin. The night reels away in
revelry. The morning peeps in at the casement; and Phlaruppe, the Lord
of Belgravia, is glorious with Guinness's.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!