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CAMPBELL'S POETICAL WORKS. Price 2s. &d. LAMB'S POETICAL WORKS. Price Is. 6d. BAILLIE'S (JOANNA) FUGITIVE VERSES. Price Is. SHAKSPEARE'S POEMS. Price Is. Bradbury & Evani, Printer*, Whitefriari. POEMS WIT AND HUMOUR. POEMS WIT AND HUMOUR BY THOMAS HOOD. LONDON : EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXLVII. 1 7 IN the Preface to the Collection of Mr. HOOD'S Poetry published last year, it was intimated that if the reception of those volumes should justify such a step, they would be followed by a volume composed of the more thoughtful pieces in his Poems of Wit and Humour. In the selection of these pieces, no recourse has been had to the publication called Hood's Own. That work was itself a selection, made by Mr. HOOD ; and it is believed that what would have been his own wish is best consulted, by leaving its intermingled verse and prose in the places there assigned to them by their author. March, 1847. CONTENTS. FAGK A TALE OF A TRUMPET 1 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER 44 THE FORGE 59 THE LAST MAN . .... 84 THE SEASON 97 LOVE 99 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN . . . . . .101 BIANCA'S DREAM . . . . . . . 106 THE DEMON-SHIP 124 SPRING. A NEW VERSION 131 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY 134 THE FLOWER 139 THE SEA-SPELL 141 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS . . . .149 THE BACHELOR'S DREAM .... .154 Via CONTENTS. PAGB THK \\KE MAN 159 ETCHING MORALIZED 163 DEATH'S RAMBLE 177 THE PROGRESS OF ART 181 A FAIRY TALE 187 THE TURTLES . . 1 94 THE DESERT-BORN 202 LOVE LANE 218 DOMESTIC POEMS 222 A PLAIN DIRECTION 232 A TABLE OF ERRATA 238 A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS 245 EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP 255 AN OPEN QUESTION 257 MORNING MEDITATIONS 268 A BLACK JOB .... ... 271 POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOUR. A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 1 Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing ? Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing." OLD BALLAD OF all old women hard of hearing, The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing ! On her head, it is true, Two flaps there grew, That served for a pair of gold rings to go through, But for any purpose of ears in a parley, They heard no more than ears of harley. No hint was needed from D. E. F. You saw in her face that the woman was deaf : B A TALE OF A TRUMPET. From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, Each queer feature ask'd a query ; A look that said in a silent way, " Who ? and What ? and How ? and Eh ? I'd give my ears to know what you say ! " And well she might ! for each auricular Was deaf as a post and that post in particular That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now, And never hears a word of a row ! Ears that might serve her now and then As extempore racks for an idle pen ; Or to hang with hoops from jewellers' shops With coral, ruby, or garnet drops ; Or, provided the owner so inclined, Ears to stick a blister behind ; But as for hearing wisdom, or wit, Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit, Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt, Sermon, lecture, or musical bit, Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit, They might as well, for any such wish, Have been butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish A TALE OF A TRUMPET. She was deaf as a post, as said before And as deaf as twenty similes more, Including the adder, that deafest of snakes, Which never hears the coil it makes. She was deaf as a house which modern tricks Of language would call as deaf as bricks For her all human kind were dumb, Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum, That none could get a sound to come, Unless the Devil who had Two Sticks ! She was deaf as a stone say one of the stones Demosthenes sucked to improve his tones ; And surely deafness no further could reach Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech ! She was deaf as a nut for nuts, no doubt, Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out As deaf, alas ! as the dead and forgotten (Gray has noticed the waste of breath, In addressing the " dull, cold ear of death "), Or the Felon's ear that was stuff 'd with Cotton B 2 4 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Or Charles the First, in statue quo ; Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud, With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax, That only stare whatever you "ax," For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax. She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond, And wouldn't listen to Mrs. Bond, As deaf as any Frenchman appears, When he puts his shoulders into his ears : And whatever the citizen tells his son As deaf as Gog and Magog at one ! Or, still to be a simile-seeker, As deaf as dog's-ears to Enfield's Speaker ! She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy, Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy ; Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics, Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics. She was deaf as a nail that you cannot hammer A meaning into, for all your clamour A TALE OF A TRUMPET. There never was such a deaf old Gammer ! So formed to worry Both Lindley and Murray, By having no ear for Music or Grammar ! Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings, Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings, Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle, Deaf to even the definite article No verbal message was worth a pin, Though you hired an earwig to carry it in ! In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke, Or all the deafness in Yearsley's Work, Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing, Boring, blasting, and pioneering, To give the dunny organ a clearing, Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing. Of course the loss was a great privation, For one of her sex whatever her station And none the less that the Dame had a turn 6 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. For making all families one concern, And learning whatever there was to learn In the prattling, tattling village of Tringham As who wore silk ? and who wore gingham ? And what the Atkins's shop might bring 'em ? How the Smiths contrived to live ? and whether The fourteen Murphy s all pigg'd together ? The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, And what they boil'd for their Sunday dinners ? What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf, Crockery, china, wooden, or delf ? And if the parlour of Mrs. O'Grady Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady ? Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle ? Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle ? What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown ? And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown ? If the Cobbler could read, and believed in the Pope ? And how the Grubbs were off for soap ? If the Snobbs had furnished their room up-stairs, And how they managed for tables and chairs, Beds, and other household affairs, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares ; And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows ? In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys, By courtesy called Statistical Fellows A prying, spying, inquisitive clan, Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan, Jotting the Labouring Class's riches ; And after poking in pot and pan, And routing garments in want of stitches, Have ascertained that a working man Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches ! But this, alas ! from her loss of hearing, Was all a seal'd book to Dame Eleanor Spearing ; And often her tears would rise to their founts Supposing a little scandal at play 'Twixt Mrs. O'Fie and Mrs. Au Fait That she couldn't audit the Gossips' accounts. 'T is true, to her cottage still they came, And ate her muffins just the same, And drank the tea of the widow'd Dame, 8 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. And never swallow 'd a thimble the less Of something the Reader is left to guess, For all the deafness of Mrs. S., Who saw them talk, and chuckle, and cough, But to see and not share in the social flow, She might as well have lived, you know, In one of the houses in Owen's Row, Near the New River Head, with its water cut off ! And yet the almond-oil she had tried, And fifty infallible things beside, Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin, Dabb'd, and dribbled, and squirted in : But all remedies fail'd ; and though some it was clear (Like the brandy and salt We now exalt) Had made a noise in the public ear, She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear ! At last one very fine day in June Suppose her sitting, Busily knitting, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. And humming she didn't quite know what tune ; For nothing she heard but a sort of a whizz, Which, unless the sound of the circulation, Or of Thoughts in the process of fabrication, By a Spinning- Jenny ish operation, It 's hard to say what buzzing it is. However, except that ghost of a sound, She sat in a silence most profound The cat was purring about the mat, But her Mistress heard no more of that Than if it had been a boatswain's cat ; And as for the clock the moments nicking, The Dame only gave it credit for ticking. The bark of her dog she did not catch ; Nor yet the click of the lifted latch ; Nor yet the creak of the opening door ; Nor yet the fall of the foot on the floor But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown And turn'd its skirt of a darker brown. And lo ! a man ! a Pedlar ? ay, marry, With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry, 10 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Stock'd with brooches, ribbons, and rings, Spectacles, razors, and other odd things, For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings ; A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware, Held a fair dealer enough at a fair, But deem'd a piratical sort of invader By him we dub the " regular trader," Who luring the passengers in as they pass By lamps, gay pannels, and mouldings of brass, And windows with only one huge pane of glass, And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman, If he isn't a Pedlar, at least is a Showman ! However, in the stranger came, And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, Threw her as knowing a nod as though He had known her fifty long years ago ; And presto ! before she could utter " Jack "- Much less " Robinson " open'd his pack And then from amongst his portable gear, With even more than a Pedlar's tact, ( Slick himself might have envied the act) A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 11 Before she had time to be deaf, in fact Popp'd a Trumpet into her ear. " There, Ma'am ! try it ! You needn't buy it The last New Patent and nothing comes nigh it For affording the Deaf, at little expense, The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense ! A Real Blessing and no mistake, Invented for poor Humanity's sake ; For what can be a greater privation Than playing Dummy to all creation, And only looking at conversation Great Philosophers talking like Platos, And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes ! Not to name the mischievous quizzers, Sharp as knives, but double as scizzors, Who get you to answer quite by guess Yes for No, and No for Yes. " (" That 's very true," says Dame Eleanor S.) 12 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. " Try it again ! No harm in trying I 'm sure you '11 find it worth your buying, A little practice that is all And you '11 hear a whisper, however small, Through an Act of Parliament party- wall, Every syllable clear as day, And even what people are going to say I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't, But my trumpets have heard what Solomon's couldn't ; And as for Scott he promises fine, But can he warrant his horns like mine Never to hear what a Lady shouldn't Only a guinea and can't take less." (" That's very dear," says Dame Eleanor S.) ' Dear ! Oh dear, to call it dear ! Why it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear ; Only think, and you'll find on reflection You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection ; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth : Not to mention the striking of clocks A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 13 Cackle of hens crowing of cocks Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks Murmur of waterfall over the rocks Every sound that Echo mocks Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box And zounds ! to call such a concert dear ! But I mustn't swear with my horn in your ear. Why in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows At the Queen's Levees or the Lord Mayor's Shows. At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards' key-bugles all the year round. Come suppose we call it a pound ! Come," said the talkative Man of the Pack, " Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come suppose we call it a pound ! " Only a pound ! it's only the price Of hearing a Concert once or twice, 14 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. It's only the fee You might give Mr. C., And after all not hear his advice, But common prudence would hid you stump it ; For, not to enlarge, It's the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. Lord ! what's a pound to the blessing of hearing ! " (" A pound's a pound," said Dame Eleanor Spearing. " Try it again ! no harm in trying ! A pound 's a pound there 's no denying ; But think what thousands and thousands of pounds We pay for nothing but hearing sounds : Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw ; Why it costs a guinea, as I'm a sinner, To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner ! One pound one thrown into the puddle, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 15 To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle ! Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the Managers pitch it strong, To get a Signora to warble a song You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker's prong ! " It's not the thing for me I know it, To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it ; But it is the best, and time will shew it. There was Mrs. F. So very deaf, That she might have worn a percussion-cap, And been knocked on the head without hearing it snap, Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay ! Come eighteen shillings that's very low, You'll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot, By hearing whether they ring or not ! Eighteen shillings ! it's worth the price, 16 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Supposing you're delicate-minded and nice, To have the medical man of your choice, Instead of the one with the strongest voice Who comes and asks you how's your liver, And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat on the river ! And then, with a shout, like Pat in a riot, Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet ! "- Or a tradesman comes as tradesmen will Short and crusty ahout his bill, Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, And because you're deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say, In a vulgar voice that goes over the way, Down the street and round the corner ! Come speak your mind it's ' No or Yes.' " ("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.) " Try it again no harm in trying, Of course you hear me, as easy as lying ; A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 17 No pain at all, like a surgical trick, To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, Like Juno, or Rose, Whose ear undergoes Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle ! " You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, Or cut your tonsils right away, As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day ; And after all a matter of doubt, Whether you ever would hear the shout Of the little blackguards that bawl about, ' There you go with your tonsils out ! ' Why I knew a deaf Welshman who came from Glamorgan On purpose to try a surgical spell, And paid a guinea, and might as well Have call'd a monkey into his organ ! For the Aurist only took a mug, And pour'd in his ear some acoustical drug, 18 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. That instead of curing deafen 'd him rather, As Hamlet's uncle served Hamlet's father ! That's the way with your surgical gentry ! And happy your luck If you don't get stuck Through your liver and lights at a royal entry, Because you never answer 'd the sentry ! " Try it again, dear Madam, try it ! Many would sell their beds to buy it. I warrant you often wake up in the night, Ready to shake to a jelly with fright, And up you must get to strike a light, And down you go, in you know what, Whether the weather is chilly or not, That's the way a cold is got, To see if you heard a noise or not ! " Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours Is hardly safe to step out of doors ! Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt, But as quiet as if he was ' shod with felt, ' Till he rushes against you with all his force, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 19 And then I needn't describe of course, While he kicks you about without remorse, How awkward it is to be groom 'd by a horse ! Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear, And you never dream that the brute is near, Till he pokes his horn right into your ear, Whether you like the thing or lump it, And all for want of buying a trumpet ! " I 'm not a female to fret and vex, But if I belong 'd to the sensitive sex, Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds, I wouldn't be deaf for a thousand pounds. Lord ! only think of chucking a copper To Jack or Bob with a timber limb, Who looks as if he was singing a hymn, Instead of a song that 's very improper ! Or just suppose in a public place You see a great fellow a-pulling a face, With his staring eyes and his mouth like an 0, And how is a poor deaf lady to know, The lower orders are up to such games 20 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. If he's calling ' Green Peas,' or calling her names ? " (" They 're tenpence a peck!" said the deafest of Dames.) " "Tis strange what very strong advising, By word of mouth, or advertising, By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans, With fifty other different plans, The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing, It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing ! Whether the Soothing American Syrup, A safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup, Infallible Pills for the human frame, Or Rowland's 0-don't-o (an ominous name) ! A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits That it beats all others into Jits ; A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn, Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn ! " Try it again, Ma'am, only try ! " Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry ; " It 's a great privation, there 's no dispute, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 21 To live like the dumb unsociable brute, And to hear no more of the pro and con, And how Society 's going on, Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John, And all for want of this sine qua non ; Whereas, with a horn that never offends, You may join the genteelest party that is, And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz, And be certain to hear of your absent friends ; Not that elegant ladies, in fact, In genteel society ever detract, Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd, At least as a mere malicious act, But only talk scandal for fear some fool Should think they were bred at charity school. Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation, Which even the most Don Juanish rake Would surely object to undertake At the same high pitch as an altercation. It 'a not for me, of course, to judge How much a Deaf Lady ought to begrudge ; But half-a-guinea seems no great matter 22 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Letting alone more rational patter Only to hear a parrot chatter : Not to mention that feather' d wit, The Starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit ; The Pies and Jays that utter words, And other Dicky Gossips of birds, That talk with as much good sense and decorum As many Beaks who belong to the quorum. " Try it buy it say ten and six, The lowest price a miser could fix : I don't pretend with horns of mine, Like some in the advertising line, To ' magnify sounds ' on such marvellous scales, That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale's ; But popular rumours, right or wrong, Charity Sermons, short or long, Lecture, speech, concerto, or song, All noises and voices, feeble or strong, From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong, This tube will deliver distinct and clear ; Or, supposing by chance A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 23 You wish to dance, Why, it's putting a Horn-pipe into your ear ! Try it buy it ! Buy it try it ! The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it, For guiding sounds to proper tunnel : Only try till the end of June, And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune, I'll turn it gratis into a Funnel ! " In short, the Pedlar so beset her, Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon 'd her better, With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect, A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet, The deaf Old Woman bought the Trumpet. The Pedlar was gone. With the Horn's assistance, She heard his steps die away in the distance ; And then she heard the tick of the clock, The purring of puss, and the snoring of Shock ; 24 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. And she purposely dropt a pin that was little, And heard it fall as plain as a skittle ! 'Twas a wonderful Horn, to he hut just ! Nor meant to gather dust, must, and rust ; So in half a jiffy, or less than that, In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat, Like old Dame Trot, but without her Cat, The Gossip was hunting all Tringham thorough, As if she meant to canvass the horough, Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity ; And, sure, had the horn heen one of those The wild Rhinoceros wears on his nose, It couldn't have ripp'd up more depravity ! Depravity ! mercy shield her ears ! 'Twas plain enough that her village peers In the ways of vice were no raw beginners ; For whenever she raised the tube to her drum, Such sounds were transmitted as only come From the very Brass Band of human sinners ! Ribald jest and blasphemous curse A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 25 (Bunyan never vented worse), With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech Which the Seven Dialecticians teach ; Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns, And Particles pick'd from the kennels of towns, With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, Chiefly active in rows and mobs, Picking Possessive Pronouns' fobs, And Interjections as bad as a blight, Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight ; Fanciful phrases for crime and sin, And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin, Garlic, Tobacco, and offals go in A jargon so truly adapted, in fact, To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act, So fit for the brute with the human shape, Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape, From their ugly mouths it will certainly come Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb ! Alas ! for the Voice of Virtue and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth ! 26 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang, Shock 'd the Dame with a volley of slang, Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang ; While the charity chap, With his muffin-cap, His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole, Cursed his eyes, limbs, body, and soul, As if they didn't belong to the Parish ! 'Twas awful to hear, as she went along, The wicked words of the popular song ; Or supposing she listen'd as gossips will At a door ajar, or a window agape, To catch the sounds they allow 'd to escape, Those sounds belong'd to Depravity still ! The dark allusion, or bolder brag Of the dexterous " dodge," and the lots of " swag," The plunder'd house or the stolen nag The blazing rick, or the darker crime That quench 'd the spark before its time The wanton speech of the wife immoral A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 27 The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel, With savage menaces, which threaten'd the life, Till the heart seem'd merely a strop " for the knife ; " The human liver, no better than that Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman's cat ; And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding, To be punch 'd into holes, like " a shocking bad hat " That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding ! In short, wherever she turn'd the horn, To the highly bred, or the lowly born, The working man who look'd over the hedge, Or the mother nursing her infant pledge, The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels, Or the Governess pacing the village through, With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two, Looking, as such young ladies do, Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with morals Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob, Nob or Snob, The Squire on his cob, Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job, 28 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. To the Saint who expounded at " Little Zion "- Or the " Sinner who kept the Golden Lion " The man teetotally wean'd from liquor The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar- Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker She gather 'd such meanings, double or single, That like the hell With muffins to sell, Her ear was kept in a constant tingle ! But this was nought to the tales of shame, The constant runnings of evil fame, Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink : While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green, And not a little of feline spleen Lapp'd up in " Catty packages," too, To give a zest to the sipping and supping ; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are link'd together, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 29 As surely as Scarification and Cupping ; Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea Or sloe, or whatever it happen' d to be, For some grocerly thieves Turn over new leaves Without much amending their lives or their tea No, never since cup was fill'd or stirr'd Were such vile and horrible anecdotes heard, As blacken 'd their neighbours, of either gender, Especially that which is call'd the Tender, But instead of the softness we fancy therewith, As harden 'd in vice as the vice of a smith. Women ! the wretches ! had soil'd and marr'd Whatever to womanly nature belongs ; For the marriage tie they had no regard, Nay, sped their mates to the sexton's yard, (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off her L by inches) And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs ! 30 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. The men they fought and gambled at fairs ; And poach'd and didn't respect grey hairs Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses ; And broke in houses as well as horses ; Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton, And would their own mothers and wives for a button But not to repeat the deeds they did, Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, If all were true that fell from the tongue, There was not a villager, old or young, But deserv'd to be whipp'd, imprison'd, or hung, Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries To publish at Colburn's, or Longmans', or Murray's. Meanwhile the Trumpet con amore, Transmitted each vile diabolical story ; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul's, Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, Is famous for making the most of a hint. Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 31 Not a flying report that flew at a name, Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat Of a beam in the eye or diminutive mote, But vortex-like that tube of tin Suck'd the censorious particle in ; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listen 'd to serpent's hiss, Nor took the viperous sound amiss, On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon ! The Dame, it is true, would mutter " Shocking ! ' And give her head a sorrowful rocking, And make a clucking with palate and tongue, Like the call of Partlett to gather her young, A sound, when human, that always proclaims At least a thousand pities and shames, But still the darker the tale of sin, Like certain folks when calamities burst, Who find a comfort in " hearing the worst," The farther she poked the Trumpet in. Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread 32 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. East and West, and North and South, Like the ball which, according to Captain Z, Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth. What wonder between the horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made wherever they came, That the Parish of Tringham was all in a flame ! For although it requires such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To turn the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper " as sour as varges." In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbours the village through, Look'd at each other as yellow and blue As any electioneering crew Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories. Ah ! well the Poet said, in sooth, That " whispering tongues can poison Truth," Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid, A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 33 Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel, Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel, Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel, At least such torments began to wring 'em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham. The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose, and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fasten 'd their nails on each other ; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship or skiff ! The plighted Lovers, who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk ; And wish'd for two moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn't look together on one ; D 34 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snuhbed his Jo And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand, As the song has plann'd, Scratch 'd her, penniless, out of his will ! In short, to describe what came to pass In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of " Love in a Village " alas ! The piece they perform 'd was " The Devil to Pay ! However, as secrets are brought to light, And mischief comes home like chickens at night ; And rivers are track 'd throughout their course, And forgeries traced to their proper source ; And the sow that ought By the ear is caught, And the sin to the sinful door is brought ; And the cat at last escapes from the bag And the saddle is placed on the proper nag ; And the fog blows off, and the key is found A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 35 And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground And the matter gets wind to waft it about ; And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out And the riddle is guess'd and the puzzle is known So the truth was sniff d, and the Trumpet was blown I ****** # Tis a day in November a day of fog But the Tringham people are all agog ; Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers' Sons, With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns, As if in pursuit of a rabid dog ; But their voices raised to the highest pitch Declare that the game is " a Witch ! a Witch ! " Over the Green, and along by the George Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge, And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, Till they come to the whitewash 'd cottage beyond, And there at the door they muster and cluster, And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster ! D -2 36 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. A noise, indeed, so loud and long, And mix'd with expressions so very strong, That supposing, according to popular fame, " Wise Woman " and Witch to be the same, No Hag with a broom would unwisely stop, But up and away through the chimney-top ; Whereas, the moment they burst the door, Planted fast on her sanded floor, With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Lo and behold ! Dame Eleanor Spearing ! Oh ! then arises the fearful shout Bawl'd and scream 'd, and bandied about " Seize her ! Drag the old Jezebel out ! " While the Beadle the foremost of all the band, Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand And after a pause of doubt and fear, Puts it up to his sharpest ear. " Now silence silence one and all ! " For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul ! But before he rehearses A TALE OP A TRUMPET. 37 A couple of verses, The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall ; For instead of the words so pious and humble, He hears a supernatural grumble. Enough, enough ! and more than enough ; Twenty impatient hands and rough, By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff, Apron, 'kerchief, gown of stuff Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff Are clutching the Witch wherever they can, With the spite of Woman and fury of Man ; And then but first they kill her cat, And murder her dog on the very mat And crush the Infernal Trumpet flat ; And then they hurry her through the door She never, never, will enter more ! Away ! away ! down the dusty lane They pull her, and haul her, with might and main ; And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry, Dandy, or Sandy, Jerry, or Larry, 38 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Who happens to get "a leg to carry ! " And happy the foot that can give her a kick, And happy the hand that can find a brick And happy the fingers that hold a stick Knife to cut, or pin to prick And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick ; Nay, happy the Urchin Charity-bred, Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head ! Alas ! to think how people's creeds Are contradicted by people's deeds ! But though the wishes that Witches utter Can play the most diabolical rigs Send styes in the eye and measle the pigs Grease horses' heels and spoil the butter ; Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk And turn new milk to water and chalk, Blight apples and give the chickens the pip And cramp the stomach and cripple the hip And waste the body and addle the eggs And give a baby bandy legs ; Though in common belief a Witch's curse A TALE OF A TRUMPET. Involves all these horrible things, and worse As ignorant bumpkins all profess, No Bumpkin makes a poke the less At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S. ! As if she were only a sack of barley ; Or gives her credit for greater might Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night On that other old woman, the parish Charley ! Ay, now 's the time for a Witch to call On her Imps and Sucklings one and all Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown, (As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down) Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack, Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, Vinegar Tom and the rest of the pack Ay, now 's the nick for her friend Old Harry To come " with his tail " like the bold Glengarry, And drive her foes from their savage job As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob : But no such matter is down in the bond ; And spite of her cries that never cease 40 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. But scare the ducks and astonish the geese, The Dame is dragg'd to the fatal pond ! And now they come to the water's brim And in they bundle her sink or swim ; Though it 's twenty to one that the wretch must drown, With twenty sticks to hold her down ; Including the help to the self-same end, Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend. A Pedlar ! Yes ! The same ! the same ! Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame ! And now is foremost amid the stir, With a token only reveal'd to her ; A token that makes her shudder and shriek, And point with her finger, and strive to speak But before she can utter the name of the Devil, Her head is under the water level ! JJtoal : There are folks about town to name no names Who much resemble that deafest of Dames ; A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 41 And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, Circulate many a scandalous word, And whisper tales they could only have heard Through some such Diabolical Trumpets ! NOTE. THE following curious passage is quoted for the benefit of such Readers as are afflicted, like Dame Spearing, with Deafness, and one of its concomitants, a singing or ringing in the head. The extract is taken from " Quid pro Quo ; or, A Theory of Compensations. By P. S." (perhaps Peter Shard), folio edition. "Soe tenderly kind and gratious is Nature, our Mother, that She seldom or never puts upon us any Grievaunce with- out making Us some Amends, which, if not a full and perfect Equivalent, is yet a great Solace or Salve to the Sore. As is notably displaid in the Case of such of our Fellow Creatures as undergoe the Loss of Heering, and are thereby deprived of the Comfort and Entertainment of Natural Sounds. In lew whereof the Deaf Man, as testified by mine own Experience, is regaled with an inward Musick that is not vouchsafed unto a Person who hath the compleet Usage of his Ears. For note, that the selfsame Condition of Boddy which is most apt to bring on a Surdity, namely, a general Relaxing of the delicate and subtile Fibres of the Human Nerves, and mainly such as belong and propinque to the Auricular Organ, this 42 A TALE OF A TRUMPET. very Unbracing which silences the Tympanum, or drum, is the most instrumental Cause in producing a Consort in the Head. And, in particular, that affection which the Physitians have called Tinnitus, by reason of its Resemblance to a Ring of Bells. The Absence of which, as a National Musick, would be a sore Loss and Discomfort to any Native of the Low Countryes, where the Steeples and Church-Towers with their Carillons maintain an allmost endlesse Tingle ; seeing that before one quarterly Chime of the Cloke hath well ended, another must by Time's Command strike up its Tune. On which Account, together with its manye waterish Swamps and Marshes, the Land of Flandres is said by the Wits to be Ringing Wet. Such campanulary Noises would alsoe be heavily mist and lamented by the Inhabitants of that Ringing Island described in Rabelais his Works, as a Place constantly filled with a Corybantick Jingle Jangle of great, middle-sized, and little Bells : wherewith the People seem to be as much charmed as a Swarm of Bees with the Clanking of Brazen Kettles and Pans. And which Ringing Island cannot of a surety be Barbadoes, as certain Authors have supposed, but rather our own tintinnabulary Island of Brittain, where formerly a Saxon could not soe much as quench a Fire or a Candle but to the tune of a Bell. And even to this day, next to the Mother Tongue, the one mostly used is in a Mouth of Mettal, and withal so loosely hung, that it must needs wag at all Times and on all Topicks. For your English Man is a mighty Ringer, and besides furnishing Bells to a Bellfry, doth hang them at the Head of his Horse, and at the Neck of his Sheep on the Cap of his Fool, and on the Heels of his Hawk. And truly I have known more A TALE OF A TRUMPET. 43 than one amongst my Country Men, who would undertake more Travel, and Cost besides, to hear a Peal of Grandsires, than they would bestow to look upon a Generation of Grand- children. But alack ! all these Bells with the huge Muscovite, and Great Tom of Lincoln to boot, be but as Dumb Bells to the Deaf Man : wherefore, as I said, Nature kindly steps in with a Compensation, to wit a Tinnitus, and converts his own Head into a Bellfry, whence he hath Peals enow, and what is more, without having to pay the Ringers." THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. ALACK ! 'tis melancholy theme to think How Learning doth in rugged states abide, And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied ; Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen ! THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 45 ii. This College looketh South and West alsoe, Because it hath a cast in windows twain ; Crazy and crack 'd they be, and wind doth blow Thorough transparent holes in every pane, Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach, To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain Stormeth, he puts, " once more unto the breach," Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each. in. And in the midst a little door there is, Whereon a board that doth congratulate With painted letters, red as blood I wis, Thus written, "CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE:" And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate, Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak. 46 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. IV. For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, And some for Doctors of Divinitie, Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, And soe win academical degree ; But some are bred for service of the sea, Howbeit, their store of learning is but small, For mickle waste he counteth it would be To stock a head with bookish wares at all, Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball. Six babes he sways, some little and some big, Divided into classes six ; alsoe, He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig, That in the College fareth to and fro, And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below, And eke the learned rudiments they scan, And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know, Hereafter to be shown in caravan, And raise the wonderment of many a learned man. THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 47 Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, Whereof, above his head, some two or three Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls, But on the branches of no living tree, And overlook the learned family ; While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge now a birch. No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, Such as would magisterial hams imbed, But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, Secure in high authority and dread : Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head, And like Apollo's, all beset with rays, Because his locks are so unkempt and red, And stand abroad in many several ways : No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baise, 48 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. And, underneath, a pair of sha.ggy brows O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; His nose, it is a coral to the view ; Well nourish 'd with Pierian Potheen, For much he loves his native mountain dew ;- But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales ; But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, So that the wind his airy breast assails ; Below, he wears the nether garb of males, Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee ;- Thence further down the native red prevails, Of his own naked fleecy hosierie : Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 4 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, Now changeth ferula for rural hoe ; But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift His college gown, because of solar glow, And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow : Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. XXIX. And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, Link'd each to each by labour, like a bee ; Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs ; Would there were many more such wights as he, To sway each capital academic Of Cam and I sis ; for, alack ! at each There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech ! THE FORGE: A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE. Who 's here, beside foul weather ? KING LEAR. Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, Should have stood that night against my fire. CORDELIA. PART I. LIKE a dead man gone to his shroud, The sun has sunk in a coppery cloud, And the wind is rising squally and loud With many a stormy token, Playing a wild funereal air, Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare, To the dead leaves dancing here and there In short, if the truth were spoken, It 's an ugly night for anywhere, But an awful one for the Brocken ! 60 THE FORGE. For oh ! to stop On that mountain top, After the dews of evening drop, Is always a dreary frolic Then what must it be when nature groans, And the very mountain murmurs and moans As if it writhed with the cholic With other strange supernatural tones, From wood, and water, and echoing stones, Not to forget unburied bones In a region so diabolic ! A place where he whom we call old Scratch, By help of his Witches a precious batch Gives midnight concerts and sermons, In a Pulpit and Orchestra built to match, A plot right worthy of him to hatch, And well adapted, he knows, to catch The musical, mystical Germans ! However it 's quite As wild a night THE FORGE. (Jl As ever was known on that sinister height Since the Demon-Dance was inorriced The earth is dark, and the sky is scowling, And the blast through the pines is howling and growling, As if a thousand wolves were prowling About in the old BLACK FOREST ! Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves, And bursts on the rocks in windy waves, Like the billows that roar On a gusty shore Mourning over the mariners' graves Nay, more like a frantic lamentation From a howling set Of demons met To wake a dead relation. Badly, madly, the vapours fly Over the dark distracted sky, At a pace that no pen can paint ! Black and vague like the shadows of dreams. + 62 THE FORGE. Scudding over the moon that seems Shorn of half her usual beams, As pale as if she would faint ! The lightning flashes, The thunder crashes, The trees encounter with horrible clashes, While rolling up from marish and bog, Rank and rich, As from Stygian ditch, Eises a foul sulphureous fog, Hinting that Satan himself is agog, But leaving at once this heroical pitch, The night is a very bad night in which You wouldn't turn out a dog. Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm, And whenever by chance The moon gets a glance, She spies the Traveller's lonely form, Walking, leaping, striding along, As none can do but the super-strong ; And flapping his arms to keep him warm, THE FORGE. 63 For the breeze from the North is a regular starrer, And to tell the truth, More keen, in sooth, And cutting than any German carver ! However, no time it is to lag, And on he scrambles from crag to crag, Like one determined never to flag Now weathers a block Of jutting rock, With hardly room for a toe to wag ; But holding on by a timber snag, That looks like the arm of a friendly hag ; Then stooping under a drooping bough, Or leaping over some horrid chasm, Enough to give any heart a spasm ! And sinking down a precipice now, Keeping his feet the Deuce knows how, In spots whence all creatures would keep aloof, Except the Goat, with his cloven hoof, Who clings to the shallowest ledge as if He grew like the weed on the face of the clitt' ! 64 THE FORGE. So down, still down, the Traveller goes, Safe as the Chamois amid his snows, Though fiercer than ever the hurricane blows, And round him eddy, with whirl and whizz, Tornadoes of hail, and sleet, and rain, Enough to bewilder a weaker brain, Or blanch any other visage than his, Which spite of lightning, thunder, and hail, The blinding sleet, and the freezing gale, And the horrid abyss, If his foot should miss, Instead of tending at all to pale, Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright Remains the very reverse of white ! His heart is granite his iron nerve Feels no convulsive twitches ; And as to his foot, it does not swerve, Tho' the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve For parrots to Brocken Witches ! Nay, full in his very path he spies The gleam of the Were Wolf's horrid eyes ; THE FORGE. 65 But if his members quiver It is not for that no, it is not for that Nor rat, Nor cat, As black as your hat, Nor the snake that hiss'd, nor the toad that spat, Nor glimmering candles of dead men's fat, Nor even the flap of the Vampire Bat, No anserine skin would rise thereat, It 's the cold that makes Him shiver ! So down, still down, through gully and glen, Never trodden by foot of men, Past the Eagle's nest, and the She- Wolf s den, Never caring a jot how steep Or how narrow the track he has to keep, Or how wide and deep An abyss to leap, Or what may fly, or walk, or creep, Down he hurries through darkness and storm, Flapping his arms to keep him warm Till threading many a pass abhorrent, 66 THE FORGE. At last he reaches the mountain gorge, And takes a path along by a torrent The very identical path, by St. George ! Down which young Fridolin went to the Forge, With a message meant for his own death-warrant ! Young Fridolin ! young Fridolin ! So free from sauce, and sloth, and sin, The best of pages Whatever their ages, _ Since first that singular fashion came in Not he like those modern and idle young gluttons With little jackets, so smart and spruce, Of Lincoln green, sky-blue, or puce And a little gold lace you may introduce Very showy, but as for use, Not worth so many buttons ! Young Fridolin ; young Fridolin ! Of his duty so true a fulfiller But here we need no farther go, For whoever desires the Tale to know May read it all in Schiller. THE FORGE. 67 Faster now the Traveller speeds, Whither his guiding heacon leads, For by yonder glare In the murky air, lie knows that the Eisen Hutte is there ! With its sooty Cyclops, savage and grim, Hosts, a guest had better forbear, Whose thoughts are set upon dainty fare But stiff with cold in every limb, The Furnace Fire is the bait for Him ! Faster and faster still he goes, Whilst redder and redder the welkin glows, And the lowest clouds that scud in the sky Get crimson fringes in flitting by. Till lo ! amid the lurid light, The darkest object intensely dark, Just where the bright is intensely bright, The Forge, the Forge itself is in sight, Like the pitch-black hull of a burning bark, With volleying smoke, and many a spark, Vomiting fire, red, yellow, and white ! 68 THE FORGE. Restless, quivering tongues of flame ! Heavenward striving still to go, While others, reversed in the stream below. Seem seeking a place we will not name, But well that Traveller knows the same, Who stops and stands, So ruhbing his hands, And snuffing the rare Perfumes in the air, For old familiar odours are there, And then direct by the shortest cut, Like Alpine Marmot, whom neither rut. Rivers, rocks, nor thickets rebut, Makes his way to the blazing Hut ! PART II. Idly watching the Furnace-flames, The men of the stithy Are in their smithy, Brutal monsters, with bulky frames, Beings Humanity scarcely claims, THE FORGE. 77 But hybrids rather of demon race, Unbless'd by the holy rite of grace, Who never had gone by Christian names, Mark, or Matthew, Peter, or James Naked, foul, unshorn, unkempt, From touch of natural shame exempt, Things of which Delirium has dreamt But wherefore dwell on these verbal sketches, When traced with frightful truth and vigour, Costume, attitude, face, and figure, Retsch has drawn the very wretches ! However, there they lounge about, The grim, gigantic fellows, Hardly hearing the storm without, That makes so very dreadful a rout, For the constant roar From the furnace door, And the blast of the monstrous bellows ! Oh, what a scene That Forge had been 70 THE FORGE. For Salvator Rosa's study ! With wall, and beam, and post, and pin, And those ruffianly creatures, like Shapes of Sin, Hair, and eyes, and rusty skin, Illumed by a light so ruddy The Hut, and whatever there is therein, Looks either red-hot or bloody ! And, oh ! to hear the frequent burst Of strange, extravagant laughter, Harsh and hoarse, And resounding perforce From echoing roof and rafter ! Though curses, the worst That ever were curst, And threats that Cain invented the first, Come growling the instant after ! But again the livelier peal is rung, For the Smith-bight Salamander, In the jargon of some Titanic tongue, Elsewhere never said or sung, THE FORGE. 71 With the voice of a Stentor in joke has flung Some cumbrous sort Of sledge-hammer retort At Red Beard, the crew's commander. Some frightful jest who knows how wild, Or obscene, from a monster so denied, And a horrible mouth, of such extent, From flapping ear to ear it went, And show'd such tusks whenever it smiled The very mouth to devour a child ! But fair or foul the jest gives birth To another bellow of demon mirth, That far outroars the weather, As if all the Hyaenas that prowl the earth Had clubb'd their laughs together ! And lo ! in the middle of all the din, Not seeming to care a single pin, For a prospect so volcanic, A Stranger steps abruptly in, 72 THE FORGE. Of an aspect rather Satanic : And he looks with a grin, at those Cyclops grim, Who stare and grin again at him With wondrous little panic. Then up to the Furnace the Stranger goes, Eager to thaw his ears and nose, And warm his frozen fingers and toes While each succeeding minute, Hotter and hotter the Smithy grows, And seems to declare, By a fiercer glare, On wall, roof, floor, and everywhere, It knows the Devil is in it ! Still not a word Is utter'd or heard, But the beetle-hrow'd Foreman nods and winks, Much as a shaggy old Lyon blinks, And makes a shift To impart his drift To a smoky brother, who joining the links, THE FORGE. 73 Hints to a third the thing he thinks ; And whatever it he, They all agree In smiling with faces full of glee, As if about to enjoy High Jinks. What sort of tricks they mean to play By way of diversion, who can say, Of such ferocious and barbarous folk, Who chuckled, indeed, and never spoke Of burning Robert the Jager to coke, Except as a capital practical joke ! Who never thought of Mercy, or heard her, Or any gentle emotion felt ; But hard as the iron they had to melt, Sported with Danger and romp'd with Murder ! Meanwhile the Stranger The Brocken Ranger, Besides another and hotter post, That renders him not averse to a roast, Creeping into the Furnace almost, THE FORGE. Has made himself as warm as a toast- When, unsuspicious of any danger, And least of all of any such maggot, As treating his hody like a faggot, All at once he is seized and shoven In pastime cruel, Like so much fuel, Headlong into the blazing oven ! In he goes ! with a frightful shout Mock'd by the rugged ruffianly band, As round the Furnace mouth they stand, Bar, and shovel, and ladle in hand, To hinder their Butt from crawling out, Who making one fierce attempt, but vain, Receives such a blow From Red-Beard's crow As crashes the skull and gashes the brain, And blind, and dizzy, and stunn'd with pain, With merely an interjectional oh ! Back he rolls in the flames again. THE FORGE. " Ila ! Ha ! Ho ! Ho ! " That second fall Seems the very hest joke of all, To judge by the roar, Twice as loud as before, That fills the Hut from the roof to the floor, And flies a league or two out of the door, Up the mountain and over the moor But scarcely the jolly echoes they wake, Have well begun To take up the fun, Ere the shaggy Felons have cause to quake, And begin to feel that the deed they have done, Instead of being a pleasant one, Was a very great error and no mistake. For why ? in lieu Of its former hue, So natural, warm, and florid, The Furnace burns of a brimstone blue, And instead of the coleur de rose it threw, With a cooler reflection, justly due Exhibits each of the Pagan crew, Livid, ghastly, and horrid ! ; THE FORGE. But vainly they close their guilty eyes Against prophetic fears ; Or with hard and horny palms devise To dam their enormous ears There are sounds in the air, Not here or there, Irresistible voices everywhere, No bulwarks can ever rebut, And to match the screams, Tremendous gleams, Of Horrors that like the Phantoms of dreams They see with their eyelids shut ! For awful coveys of terrible things, With forked tongues and venomous stings, On hagweed, broomsticks, and leathern wings, Are hovering round the Hut ! Shapes, that within the focus bright Of the Forge, are like shadows and blots ; But farther off, in the shades of night, Clothed with their own phosphoric light, Are seen in the darkest spots. THE FORGE. 77 Sounds ! that fill the air with noises, Strange and indescribable voices, From Hags, in a diabolical clatter Cats that spit curses, and apes that chattel- Scraps of cabalistical matter Owls that screech, and dogs that yell Skeleton hounds that will never be fatter All the domestic tribes of Hell, Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter, Bones to shatter, And limbs to scatter, And who it is that must furnish the latter Those blue-looking men know well ! Those blue-looking men that huddle together, For all their sturdy limbs and thews, Their unshorn locks, like Nazarene Jews, And buffalo beards, and hides of leather, Huddled all in a heap together, Like timid lamb, and ewe, and wether, And as females say, In a similar way, Fit for knocking down with a feather ! 78 THE FORGE. Ill and out, in and out, The gathering Goblins hover about, Ev'ry minute augmenting the rout ; For like a spell The unearthly smell That fumes from the Furnace, chimney and mouth Draws them in an infernal Legion From East, and West, and North, and South, Like carrion birds from ev'ry region, Till not a yard square Of the sickening air But has a Demon or two for its share, Breathing fury, woe, and despair, Never, never was such a sight ! It beats the very Walpurgis Night, Display'd in the story of Doctor Faustus, For the scene to describe, Of the awful tribe, If we were two Gothe's would quite exhaust us ! Suffice it, amid that dreary swarm, There musters each foul repulsive form THE FORGE. 79 That ever a fancy over warm Begot in its worst delirium ; Besides some others of monstrous size, Never before revealed to eyes, Of the genus Megatherium ! Meanwhile the demons, filthy and foul, Gorgon, Chimera, Harpy, and Ghoul, Are not contented to jibber and howl As a dirge for their late commander ; But one of the bevy witch or wizard, Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard, Springs on the grisly Salamander, Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks, And tries the best of his wrestling tricks, No paltry strife, But for life, dear life, But the ruthless talons refuse to unfix, Till far beyond a surgical case, With starting eyes, and black in the face, Down he tumbles as dead as bricks ! THE FORGE. A pretty sight for his mates to view ! Those shaggy murderers looking so blue, And for him above all, Red-bearded and tall, With whom, at that very particular nick, There is such an unlucky crow to pick, As the one of iron that did the trick In a recent bloody affair No wonder feeling a little sick, With pulses beating uncommonly quick, And breath he never found so thick, He longs for the open air ! Three paces, or four, And he gains the door ; But ere he accomplishes one, The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull, And clasping his fingers round his skull, However the deed was done, That gave him that florid Red gash on the forehead With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid, THE FORGE. There 's a tremulous quiver, The last death-shiver, And Red- Beard's course is run ! Halloo! Halloo! They have done for two ! But a heavyish job remains to do ! For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand, Like elder Sons of Giant Despair, A couple of Cyclops make a stand, And fiercely hammering here and there, Keep at bay the Powers of Air But desperation is all in vain ! They faint they choke, For the sulphurous smoke Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain, They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother One for a moment survives his brother, Then rolls a corpse across the other ! Hulloo! Hulloo! And Hullabaloo ! 82 THE FORGE. There is only one more thing to do And seized by beak, and talon, and claw, Bony hand, and hairy paw, Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw, The four huge Bodies are haul'd and shoven Each after each in the roaring oven ! That Eisen Hutte is standing still, Go to the Hartz whenever you will, And there it is beside a hill, And a rapid stream that turns many a mill ; The self-same Forge, you'll know it at sight Casting upward, day and night, Flames of red, and yellow, and white ! Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge, There it is, the famous Forge, With its Furnace, the same that blazed of yore,- Hugely fed with fuel and ore ; THE FORGE. 83 But ever since that tremendous Revel, Whatever Iron is melted therein, As Travellers know who have been to Berlin Is all as black as the Devil ! G 2 "THE LAST MAN." 'TWAS in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree all alone, A chanting a merry lay, To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day ! When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags : It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags : So up he came to the timbers' foot And pitch 'd down his greasy bags. THE LAST MAN. 85 Good Lord ! how blythe the old beggar was ! At pulling out his scraps, The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : " Come down," says he, " you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps ! " Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood ; But I wish'd myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar's food, A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ; " Oh !" quoth he, " the heavens are good !" Then after this grace he cast him down : Says I, " You '11 get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side," For the felons' bones lay there But he only laugh 'd at the empty skulls, And offer 'd them part of his fare. 86 THE LAST MAN. " I never harm'd them, and they won't harm me : Let the proud and the rich be cravens !" I did not like that strange beggar man, He look'd so up at the heavens. Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; " There 's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens !" It made me angry to see his face, It had such a jesting look"; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took : Quoth he, " Though I gather the green water-cress, My drink is not of the brook ! " Full manners-like he tender 'd the dram ; Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, " Your leave, good Sir, I must ask ; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask !" THE LAST MAN. 87 And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath ; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish'd I had hurled the dead men's hones That were lying about the heath ! But the beggar gave me a jolly clap " Come, let us pledge each other, For all the wide world is dead beside, And we are brother and brother I Ve a yearning for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother. " I 've a yearning for thee in my heart That almost makes me weep, For as I pass'd from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep, But when I saw thee sitting aloft, It made me both laugh and leap ! " THE LAST MAN. Now a curse (I thought) be on his love, And a curse upon his mirth, An' it were not for that beggar man I 'd be the King of the earth, But I promised myself, an hour should come To make him rue his birth ! So down we sat and bous'd again Till the sun was in mid-sky, When, just when the gentle west-wind came, We hearken 'd a dismal cry ; " Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, " Till these horrible dogs go by ! " And, lo ! from the forest's far-off skirts, They came all yelling for gore, A hundred hounds pursuing at once, And a panting hart before, Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot And there his haunches they tore ! THE LAST MAN. 89 His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done ; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun ! I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one ! And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, Till the last dropt out of sight, Anon, saith he, "let 's down again, And ramble for our delight, For the world 's all free, and we may choose A right cozie barn for to-night !" With that, he set up his staff on end, And it fell with the point due West ; So we far'd that way to a city great, Where the folks had died of the pest It was fine to enter in house and hall, Wherever it liked me best ; 90 THE LAST MAN. For the porters all were stiff and cold, And could not lift their heads ; And when he came where their masters lay, The rats leapt out of the heds : The grandest palaces in the land Were as free as workhouse sheds. But the beggar man made a mumping face, And knock'd at every gate : It made me curse to hear how he whin'd So our fellowship turn'd to hate, And I bade him walk the world by himself, For I scorn 'd so humble a mate ! So he turn'd right and / turn'd left, As if we had never met ; And I chose a fair stone house for myself, For the city was all to let ; And for three brave holydays drank my fill Of the choicest that I could get. THE LAST MAN. 91 Aiid because my jerkin was coarse and worn, I got me a properer vest ; It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, And a shining star at the breast, 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave To see me so purely drest ! But Joan was dead and under the mould, And every buxom lass ; In vain I watch 'd, at the window pane, For a Christian soul to pass ; But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, And browz 'd on the new-come grass. When lo ! I spied the old beggar man, And lustily he did sing ! His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, And a crown he had like a King ; So he stept right up before my gate And danc'd me a saucy fling ! 92 THE LAST MAN. Heaven mend us all ! but, within my mind, I had kill'd him then and there ; To see him lording so braggart-like That was born to his beggar's fare, And how he had stolen the royal crown His betters were meant to wear. But God forbid that a thief should die Without his share of the laws ! So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, And soon tied up his claws, I was judge myself, and jury, and all, And solemnly tried the cause. But the beggar man would not plead, but cried Like a babe without its corals, For he knew how hard it is apt to go When the law and a thief have quarrels, There was not a Christian soul alive To speak a word for his morals. THE LAST MAN. Oh, how gaily I doff'd ray costly gear, And put on my work-day clothes ; I was tired of such a long Sunday life, And never was one of the sloths ; But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, And made many crooked mouths. So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot, And blinded him in his bags ; 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, For a doom'd man always lags ; But by ten of the clock he was off his legs In the wind and airing his rags ! So there he hung, and there I stood, The LAST MAN left alive, To have my own will of all the earth : Quoth I, now I shall thrive ! But when was ever honey made With one bee in a hive ! 94 THE LAST MAN. My conscience began to gnaw my heart, Before the day was done, For the other men's lives had all gone out, Like candles in the sun ! But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, A thousand necks in one ! So I went and cut his body down, To bury it decentlie ; God send there were any good soul alive To do the like by me ! But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, And bay'd me up the tree ! My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean-brim ; But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim ! THE LAST MAN. 95 Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord ! But the beggar man, where was he ? There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags Below the gallows' tree ! I know the Devil, when I am dead, Will send his hounds for me ! I 've buried my babies one by one, And dug the deep hole for Joan, And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone ! For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger him beguil'd ; But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child ! 96 THE LAST MAX. And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, At night, to make me madder, And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder ; I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, And look at the rope and ladder ! For hanging looks sweet, but, alas ! in vain, My desperate fancy begs, I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, And drink it to the dregs, For there is not another man alive, In the world, to pull my legs ! THE SEASON. SUMMER 's gone and over ! Fogs are falling down ; And with russet tinges Autumn's doing brown. Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the Book of Nature Getteth short of leaves. Round the tops of houses, Swallows, as they flit, Give, like yearly tenants, Notices to quit. THE SEASON. Skies, of fickle temper, Weep by turns, and laugh- Night and Day together Taking half-and-half. So September endeth Cold, and most perverse But the Month that follows, Sure will pinch us worse ! LOVE. LOVE ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ; A player, masquerading many parts In life's odd carnival ; a boy that shoots, From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ; The Puck of Passion partly false part real A marriageable maiden's "beau ideal." Love ! what art thou, Love ? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school ; A melancholy man, cross -gartering ? Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool ? A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring ? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool ? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? H 2 100 LOVE. Love ! what art thou, Love ? one that is had With palpitations of the heart like mine A poor bewilder'd maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters fell design ! A poet, gone unreasonably mad, Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ? Love ! but whither, now ? forgive me, pray : 1 'in not the first that Love hath led astray. FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. AN OLD BALLAD. YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade ; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetch 'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew ; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint. FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. " Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He '11 be as good as me ; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." So when they 'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She rous'd, and found she only was A coming to herself. " And is he gone, and is he gone ?" She cried, and wept outright : " Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight." A waterman came up to her, " Now, young woman," said he, " If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea." FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 103 " Alas ! they Ve taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow ;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she 'd said, Gee woe ! Says he, " They 've only taken him To the Tender-ship, you see;" " The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, " What a hard-ship that must be ! " ! would I were a mermaid now, For then I 'd follow him ; But Oh ! I 'm not a fish- woman, And so I cannot swim. " Alas ! I was not born beneath The virgin and the scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales." 104 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. Now Ben had sail'd to many a place That 's underneath the world ; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furl'd. But when he call'd on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she 'd got another Ben, Whose Christian-name was John. " Oh, Sally Brown, Oh, Sally Brown, How could you serve me so, I 've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow ! " Then reading on his 'bacco box, He heav'd a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 105 k And then he tried to sing " All 's Well," But could not, though he tried ; His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd His pigtail till he died. His death, which happen 'd in his birth, At forty-odd befell : They went and told the sexton, and The sexton toll'd the bell. BIANCA'S DREAM. A VENETIAN STORY. BIANCA ! fair Bianca ! who could dwell With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days ? The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze ; Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it, That he could light his link at in a minute. BIANCA S DREAM. 107 So that, wherever in her charms she shone, A thousand breasts were kindled into flame ; Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own, And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came All hearts indeed were conquer 'd but her own, Which none could ever temper down or tame : In short, to take our haberdasher's hints, She might have written over it, " From Flints." in. She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, At least in Venice where with eyes of brown Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex An amorous gentle with a needless frown ; Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks, And love at casements climbeth up and down, Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind, Some have considered a Venetian blind. 108 BIANCA S DREAM. Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor, To hapless Julio all in vain he sought With each new moon his hatter and his tailor ; In vain the richest padusoy he bought, And went in bran new beaver to assail her As if to show that Love had made him smart All over and not merely round his heart. , In vain he labour'd thro' the sylvan park Bianca haunted in that where she came, Her learned eyes in wandering might mark The twisted cypher of her maiden name, Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark : No one was touched or troubled by his flame, Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow In trees, like wooden dolls in embryo. BIANCA S DREAM. 109 In vain complaining elegies he writ, And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, And sang in quavers how his heart was split, Constant beneath her lattice with each eve ; She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, And slash 'd his suit so that it matched his sleeve, Till he grew silent at the vesper star, And quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar. Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er With snows unmelting an eternal sheet, But his was red within him, like the core Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat ; And oft he longed internally to pour His flames and glowing lava at her feet, But when his burnings he began to spout, She stopp'd his mouth, and put the crater out. no BIANCA'S DREAM. VIII. Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key Suspended at death's door so pale and then He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree ; The life of man is three-score years and ten, But he was perishing at twenty-three, For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, " It could not shorten his poor life much longer." For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, Nor relished any kind of mirth below ; Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head, Love had become his universal foe, Salt in his sugar nightmare in his bed, At last, no wonder wretched Julio, A sorrow- ridden thing, in utter dearth Of hope, made up his mind to cut her girth ! BIANCA S DREAM. HI For hapless lovers always died of old, Sooner than chew reflection's hitter cud ; So Thishe stuck herself, what time 'tis told, The tender-hearted mulberries wept hlood ; And so poor Sappho, when her hoy was cold, Drown 'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood, Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past, For those old suitors lived beyond their last. So Julio went to drown, when life was dull, But took his corks, and merely had a bath ; And once, he pull'd a trigger at his skull, But merely broke a window in his wrath ; And once, his hopeless being to annul, He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath, A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether. 112 BIANCA'S DREAM. Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust His sorrows thro' 'tis horrible to die ! And come down with our little all of dust, That dun of all the duns to satisfy : To leave life's pleasant city as we must, In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie, Where even all our personals must go To pay the debt of Nature that we owe ! XIII. So Julio lived : 'twas nothing but a pet He took at life a momentary spite ; Besides, he hoped that time would some day get The better of love's flame, however bright ; A thing that time has never compass 'd yet, For love, we know, is an immortal light. Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, Was always in, for none have found it out. BIANCA S DREAM. 1 j ;} Meanwhile, Bianca dream 'd 'twas once when Night Along the darken'd plain began to creep, Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep : The flow'rs had shut their eyes the zephyr light Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep. And all the little birds had laid their heads Under their wings sleeping in feather beds. Lone in her chamber sate the dark-ey'd maid, By easy stages jaunting thro' her prayers, But list'ning side-long to a serenade, That robb'd the saints a little of their shares ; For Julio underneath the lattice play'd His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, Born only underneath Italian skies, Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs. 114 BIANCA S DREAM. Sweet was the tune the words were even sweeter- Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair, With all the common tropes wherewith in metre The hackney poets overcharge their fair. Her shape was like Diana's, hut completer ; Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare : Cupid, alas ! was cruel Sagittarius, Julio the weeping water-man Aquarius. Now, after listing to such landings rare, 'Twas very natural indeed to go What if she did postpone one little pray'r To ask her mirror " if it was not so ?" 'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear, Reflecting her at once from top to toe : And there she gaz'd upon that glossy track, That show'd her front face tho' it "gave her back. BIANCA'S DREAM. 115 And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall, By that clear page where first the woman reads : That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all, She told herself and then she told her beads ; Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds ; For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs. XI3T. Then like a drooping rose so bended she, Till her bow'd head upon her hand repos'd ; But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were clos'd, A beauty bright as it was wont to be, A portrait Fancy painted while she doz'd : 'Tis very natural, some people say, To dream of what we dwell on in the day. i 2 116 BIANCA S DREAM. Still shone her face yet not, alas I the same, But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum : There was a throbbing at her heart within, For, oh ! there was a shooting in her chin. And lo ! upon her sad desponding brow, The cruel trenches of besieging age, With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show Her place was booking for the seventh stage ; And where her raven tresses used to flow, Some locks that Time had left her in his rage, And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, A compound (like our Psalms) of tete and braidy. BIANCA'S DREAM. 117 XXII. Then for her shape alas I how Saturn wrecks, And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about, Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks, Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout, Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex : Witness those pensioners call'd In and Out, Who all day watching first and second rater, Quaintly unbend themselves but grow no straighter. So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow ; His iron hand upon her spine he laid, And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow." In truth it was a change ! she had obey'd The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her Something between a Glassite and a Quaker. 118 BIANCA'S DREAM. Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme, And she had ample reason for her trouble ; For what sad maiden can endure to seem Set in for singleness, tho' growing double. The fancy madden 'd her; but now the dream, Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, Burst, but still left some fragments of its size, That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes. And here just here as she began to heed The real world, her clock chim'd out its score ; A clock it was of the Venetian breed, That cried the hour from one to twenty-four ; The works moreover standing in some need Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more ; A warning voice that clench 'd Bianca's fears, Such strokes referring doubtless to her years. BIANCA S DREAM. ]19 At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, By twenty she had quite renounc'd the veil ; She thought of Julio just at twenty-one, And thirty made her very sad and pale, To paint that ruin where her charms would run ; At forty all the maid began to fail, And thought no higher, as the late dream cross 'd her, Of single blessedness, than single Gloster. XXVII. And so Bianca changed; the next sweet even, With Julio in a black Venetian bark, Row'd slow and stealthily the hour, eleven, Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark, She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n, Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark That veil'd her blushing cheek, for Julio brought her Of course to break the ice upon the water. 120 XXVIII. But what a puzzle is one's serious mind To open ; oysters, when the ice is thick, Are not so difficult and disinclin'd ; And Julio felt the declaration stick About his throat in a most awful kind ; However, he contrived by bits to pick His trouble forth, much like a rotten cork Grop'd from a long-neck 'd bottle with a fork. But love is still the quickest of all readers ; And Julio spent besides those signs profuse That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders, In help of language, are so apt to use, Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders, Nods, shrugs, and bends, Bianca could not choose But soften to his suit with more facility^, He told his story with so much agility. BIANCA S DREAM. 121 XXX. " Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, (So he began at last to speak or quote ;) Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, (For passion takes this figurative note ;) Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier ; Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote : My lily be, and I will be thy river ; Be thou my life and I will be thy liver." This, with more tender logic of the kind, He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, That timidly against his lips inclin'd ; Meanwhile her eyes glanc'd on the silver sphere That even now began to steal behind A dewy vapour, which was lingering near, Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, Just like a virgin putting on the veil : 1'2-J BIANCA S DREAM. Bidding adieu to all her sparks the stars, That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse. With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. XXXIII. He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd (Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness ; That made her think all other kisses lack'd Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness : Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, Insipid things like sandwiches of veal. 123 He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring The pretty fingers all instead of one ; Anon his stealthy arm began to cling About her waist that had been clasp 'd by none ; Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, Since cold description would but be outrun ; For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r, In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour ! THE DEMON-SHIP. 'TWAS off the Wash the sun went down -the sea look'd black and grim, For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim ; Titanic shades ! enormous gloom ! as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light ! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky ! Down went my helm close reef d the tack held freely in my hand With ballast snug I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee my little boat flew fast, THE DEMON-SHIP. 125 But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord ! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! What darksome caverns yawn'd before ! what jagged steeps behind ! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and gallop'd in its place ; As black as night they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturn 'd a sailor's shroud : Still flew my boat ; alas ! alas ! her course was nearly run ! Behold yon fatal billow rise ten billows heap'd in one ! With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, As if the scooping sea contain 'd one only wave at last ! 126 THE DEMOX-SHIP. Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave ; It seem'd as though some cloud had turn'd its hugeness to a wave ! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine ! Another pulse and down it rush'd an avalanche of brine ! Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home ; The waters clos'd and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam ! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. * * * * " Where am I ? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?" With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath ; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around ? THE DEMON-SHIP. 127 A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft ? A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch 'd alone ; But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own ? Oh ! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I look'd on that accursed night ! I Ve seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever ; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams Hyenas cats blood-loving bats and apes with hateful stare, Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls the lion, and she- bear Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite Detested features, hardly dimni'd and banish 'd by the light! 128 THE DEMON-SHIP. Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast, But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast! His cheek was black his brow was black his eyes and hair as dark : His hand was black, and where it touch 'd, it left a sable mark ; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath, His breast was black all, all was black, except his grinning teeth. His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves ! Oh, horror ! e'en the ship was black that plough 'd the inky waves ! " Alas ! " I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, THE DEMON-SHIP. 12ft Where am I ? in what dreadful ship ? upon what dread- ful lake ? What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul ! Oh, mother dear ! my tender nurse ! dear meadows that heguil'd My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, My mother dear my native fields, I never more shall see : I 'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea ! " Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once : A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy 'd the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. 130 THE DEMON-SHIP. They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole ; " Our skins," said he, "are black ye see, because we carry coal ; You '11 find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields For this here ship has pick'd you up the Mary Ann of Shields!" SPRING. A NEW VERSION. Ham. The air bites shrewdly it is very cold. Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air. HAMLET. " COME, gentle Spring ! ethereal mildness come ! " Oh ! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason, How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum ? There 's no such season. The Spring ! I shrink and shudder at her name ! For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter ! And suffer from her blows as if they came From Spring the Fighter. Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing, And be her tuneful laureates and upholders, Who do not feel as if they had a Spring Pour'd down their shoulders ! K 2 132 SPRING. Let others eulogise her floral shows, From me they cannot win a single stanza, I know her blooms are in full blow and so 's The Influenza. Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale, Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at, Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale, Are things I sneeze at ! Fair is the vernal quarter of the year ! And fair its early buddings and its blowings- But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear With other sowings ! For me, I find, when eastern winds are high, A frigid, not a genial inspiration ; Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy An inflammation. SPRING. 133 Smitten by breezes from the land of plague, To me all vernal luxuries are fables, Oh ! where 's the Spring in a rheumatic leg, Stiff as a table's ? I limp in agony, I wheeze and cough ; And quake with Ague, that great Agitator ; Nor dream, before July, of leaving off My Respirator. What wonder if in May itself I lack A peg for laudatory verse to hang on ? Spring mild and gentle ! yes, a Spring-heeled Jack To those he sprang on In short, whatever panegyrics lie In fulsome odes too many to be cited, The tenderness of Spring is all my eye, And that is blighted ! FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms ! Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, " Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot ! " The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he, " They 're only pegs : But there 's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs ! " FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 135 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay ! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff ; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off ! " Oh, Nelly Gray ! Oh, Nelly Gray ! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform ! " Said she, " I loved a soldier once, For he was hlythe and hrave ; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave ! 136 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. " Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now ! " " Oh, Nelly Gray ! Oh, Nelly Gray ! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's breaches ! " " Why, then," said she, " you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms ! " " Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray ! I know why you refuse : Though I 've no feet some other man Is standing in my shoes ! FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 137 "I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For you will he my death ; alas ! You will not he my Nell ! " Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck, A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line ! One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off, of course, He soon was off his legs ! 138 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town, For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down ! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside ! THE FLOWER. ALONE, across a foreign plain, The Exile slowly wanders, And on his Isle beyond the main With sadden 'd spirit ponders : This lovely Isle beyond the sea, With all its household treasures ; Its cottage homes, its merry birds, And all its rural pleasures : Its leafy woods, its shady vales, Its moors, and purple heather ; Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars His childhood loved to gather : 140 THE FLOWER. When lo ! he starts, with glad surprise, Home-joys come rushing o'er him, For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd," He spies the flower before him ! With eager haste he stoops him down, His eyes with moisture hazy, And as he plucks the simple bloom, He murmurs, " Lawk-a-daisy ! " THE SEA-SPELL. Cauld, cauld, he lies beneath the deep." Old Scotch Ballad. IT was a jolly mariner ! The tallest man of three, He loosed his sail against the wind, And turned his boat to sea : The ink-black sky told every eye, A storm was soon to be ! But still that jolly mariner Took in no reef at all, For, in his pouch, confidingly, He wore a baby's caul ; A thing, as gossip-nurses know, That always brings a squall ! 142 THE SEA-SPELL. His hat was new, or, newly glaz'd, Shone brightly in the sun ; His jacket, like a mariner's, True blue as e'er was spun ; His ample trousers, like Saint Paul, Bore forty stripes save one. And now the fretting foaming tide He steer 'd away to cross ; The bounding pinnace play'd a game Of dreary pitch and toss ; A game that, on the good dry land, Is apt to bring a loss ! Good Heaven befriend that little boat, And guide her on her way ! A boat, they say, has canvass wings, But cannot fly away ! Though, like a merry singing-bird, She sits upon the spray ! THE SEA-SPELL. 143 Still south by east the little boat, With tawny sail, kept beating : Now out of sight, between two waves, Now o'er th' horizon fleeting ; Like greedy swine that feed on mast, The waves her mast seem'd eating ! The sullen sky grew black above, The wave as black beneath ; Each roaring billow show'd full soon A white and foamy wreath ; Like angry dogs that snarl at first, And then display their teeth. The boatman look'd against the wind, The mast began to creak, The wave, per saltum, came and dried, In salt upon his cheek ! The pointed wave against him rear'd, As if it own'd a pique ! 144 THE SEA-SPELL. Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave, The boatman could alarm, But still he stood away to sea, And trusted in his charm ; He thought by purchase he was safe, And arm'd against all harm ! Now thick and fast and far aslant, The stormy rain came pouring, He heard, upon the sandy bank, The distant breakers roaring, A groaning intermitting sound, Like Gog and Magog snoring ! The sea-fowl shriek 'd around the mast, A-head the grampus tumbled, And far off, from a copper cloud, The hollow thunder rumbled ; It would have quail'd another heart, But his was never humbled. THE SEA-SPELL. 1 J/> For why ? he had that infant's caul ; And wherefore should he dread ? Alas ! alas ! he little thought, Before the ebb-tide sped, That, like that infant, he should die, And with a watery head ! The rushing brine flowed in apace ; His boat had ne'er a deck : Fate seem'd to call him on, and he Attended to her beck ; And so he went, still trusting on, Though reckless to his wreck ! For as he left his helm, to heave The ballast-bags a-weather, Three monstrous seas came roaring on, Like lions leagued together. The two first waves the little boat Swam over like a feather, 146 THE SEA-SPELL. The two first waves were past and gone, And sinking in her wake ; The hugest still came leaping on, And hissing like a snake. Now helm a-lee ! for through the midst, The monster he must take ! Ah, me ! it was a dreary mount ! Its hase as black as night, Its top of pale and livid green, Its crest of awful white, Like Neptune with a leprosy, And so it rear'd upright ! With quaking sails the little boat Climb'd up the foaming heap; With quaking sails it paused awhile, At balance on the steep ; Then, rushing down the nether slope, Plunged with a dizzy sweep ! THE SEA-SPELL. 147 Look, how a horse, made mad with fear, Disdains his careful guide ; So now the headlong headstrong boat, Unmanaged, turns aside, And straight presents her reeling flank Against the swelling tide ! The gusty wind assaults the sail ; Her ballast lies a-lee ! The sheet 's to windward taught and stiff ! Oh ! the Lively where is she ? Her capsiz'd keel is in the foam, Her pennon 's in the sea ! The wild gull, sailing overhead, Three times beheld emerge The head of that bold mariner, And then she screamed his dirge ! For he had sunk within his grave, Lapp'd in a shroud of surge ! L 2 148 THE SEA-SPELL. The ensuing wave, with horrid foam, Rushed o'er and covered all, The jolly boatman's drowning scream Was smother 'd by the squall, Heaven never heard his cry, nor did The ocean heed his cauL A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. THERE 's some is born with their straight legs by natur And some is born with bow-legs from the first And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs : I 've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. 'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, 150 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well I gives chase, But as she run Two knots to one, There warn't no use in keeping on the race ! Well casting round about, what next to try on, And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : Well there they stand, four kickers in a row, And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn ! A SAILOR S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 151 My eyes ! how she did pitch ! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. The devil sink the craft ! And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays ! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft ! Well I suppose We hadn't run a knot or much beyond (What will you have on it ?) but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond ! There I am ! all a-back ! So I looks forward for her bridle -gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack ; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears ! What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, 15-2 A SAILORS APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water ? I didn't like my burth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting taughter, Says I I wish this job was rayther shorter ! The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking : Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she 's letting out her reefs, I 'm thinking And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder ! And there 's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder ! Well, there off Hartford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, A SAILORS APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 153 And can't contrive a signal of distress ; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out and nothing less ; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : Hollo ! says I, come underneath her quarter ! And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I '11 be blow'd ! And that 's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd ! 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 ! THE BACHELOR S DREAM. } 55 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 tete-a-tetes to come ! But tete-a-tetes 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 favourite 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 ? 156 THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. The Monkey bit the Parrot scream' d, All day the sister strum m'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, Duck, 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 ! THE BACHELORS DREAM. i:>7 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 Mama must mingle in the song The sister took a sister's 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 / never had a decent coat / 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 ? 158 THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. 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 ? THE WEE MAX. A ROMANCE. IT was a merry company, And they were just afloat, When lo ! a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hail'd the boat. ' ' Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in ? A slender space will serve my case, For I am small and thin." They saw he was a dwarfish man, And very small and thin ; Not seven such would matter much, And so they took him in. 160 THE WEE MAN. They laugh 'd to see his little hat, With such a narrow brim ; They laugh 'd to note his dapper coat, With skirts so scant and trim. But harely had they gone a mile, When, gravely, one and all, At once began to think the man Was not so very small. His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim, His leg grew stout, and soon plump'd out A very proper limb. Still on they went, and as they went, More rough the billows grew, And rose and fell, a greater swell, And he was swelling too ! THE WEE MAN. 161 And lo ! where room had been for seven, For six there scarce was space ! For five ! for four ! for three ! not more Than two could find a place ! There was not even room for one ! They crowded by degrees Aye closer yet, till elbows met, And knees were jogging knees. " Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, The wave will else come in ! " Without a word he gravely stirr'd, Another seat to win. " Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, You must not sit a-lee ! " With smiling face, and courteous grace, The middle seat took he. 162 THE WEE MAX. But still, by constant quiet growth, His back became so wide, Each neighbour wight, to left and right, Was thrust against the side. Lord ! how they chided with themselves, That they had let him in ; To see him grow so monstrous now, That came so small and thin. On every brow a dew-drop stood, They grew so scared and hot, " I' the name of all that 's great and tall, Who are ye, sir, and what ? " Loud laugh'd the Gogmagog, a laugh As loud as giant's roar " When first I came, my proper name Was Little now I'm Moore!" ETCHING MORALIZED. TO A NOBLE LADY. " To point a moral." JOHNSON. FAIREST Lady and Noble, for once on a time, Condescend to accept, in the humblest of rhyme, And a style more of Gay than of Milton, A few opportune verses design'd to impart Some didactical hints in a Needlework Art, Not described by the Countess of Wilton. An Art not unknown to the delicate hand Of the fairest and first in this insular land, But in Patronage Royal delighting ; And which now your own feminine fantasy wins, Tho' it scarce seems a lady-like work that begins In a scratching and ends in a biting I M 2 164 ETCHING MORALIZED. Yet oh ! that the dames of the Scandalous School Would but use the same acid, and sharp-pointed tool, That are plied in the said operations Oh ! would that our Candours on copper would sketch ! For the first of all things in beginning to etch Are good grounds for our representations. Those protective and delicate coatings of wax, Which are meant to resist the corrosive attacks That would ruin the copper completely ; Thin cerements which whoso remembers the Bee So applauded by Watts, the divine LL.D., Will be careful to spread very neatly. For why ? like some intricate deed of the law, Should ttie ground in the process be left with a flaw, Aquafortis is far from a joker ; And attacking the part that no coating protects, Will turn out as distressing to all your effects As a landlord who puts in a broker. ETCHING MORALIZED. 165 Then carefully spread the conservative stuff, Until all the bright metal is cover 'd enough, To repel a destructive so active ; For in Etching, as well as in Morals, pray note That a little raw spot, or a hole in a coat, Your ascetics find vastly attractive. Thus the ground being laid, very even and flat, And then smoked with a taper, till black as a hat, Still from future disasters to screen it, Just allow me, by way of precaution, to state, You must hinder the footman from changing your plate, Nor yet suffer the butler to clean it. Nay, the Housemaid, perchance, in her passion to scrub, May suppose the dull metal in want of a rub, Like the Shield which Swift's readers remember Not to mention the chance of some other mishaps, Such as having your copper made up into caps To be worn on the First of September. 166 ETCHING MORALIZED. But aloof from all damage by Betty or John, You secure the veil'd surface, and trace thereupon The design you conceive the most proper : Yet gently, and not with a needle too keen, Lest it pierce to the wax through the paper between, And of course play Old Scratch with the copper. So in worldly affairs, the sharp-practising man Is not always the one who succeeds in his plan, Witness Shylock's judicial exposure ; Who, as keen as his knife, yet with agony found, That while urging his point he was losing his ground, And incurring a fatal disclosure. But, perhaps, without tracing at all, you may choose To indulge in some little extempore views, Like the older artistical people ; For example, a Corydon playing his pipe, In a Low Country marsh, with a Cow after Cuyp, And a Goat skipping over a steeple. ETCHING MORALIZED. 167 A wild Deer at a rivulet taking a sup, With a couple of Pillars put in to fill up, Like the columns of certain diurnals ; Or a very brisk sea, in a very stiff gale, And a very Dutch boat, with a very big sail Or a bevy of Retzsch's Infernals. Architectural study or rich Arabesque Allegorical dream or a view picturesque, Near to Naples, or Venice, or Florence ; Or "as harmless as lambs and as gentle as doves, 1 A sweet family cluster of plump little Loves, Like the Children by Reynolds or Lawrence. But whatever the subject, your exquisite taste Will ensure a design very charming and chaste, Like yourself, full of nature and beauty Yet besides the good points you already reveal, You will need a few others of well-temper 'd steel, And especially form'd for the duty. 168 ETCHING MORALIZED. For suppose that the tool be imperfectly set, Over many weak lengths in your line you will fret, Like a pupil of Walton and Cotton, Who remains by the brink of the water, agape, While the jack, trout, or barbel, effects its escape Thro' the gut or silk line being rotten. Therefore let the steel point be set truly and round, That the finest of strokes may be even and sound, Flowing glibly where fancy would lead 'em. But alas ! for the needle that fetters the hand, And forbids even sketches of Liberty's land To be drawn with the requisite freedom ! Oh ! the botches I 've seen by a tool of the sort, Rather hitching than etching, arid making, in short, Such stiff, crabbed, and angular scratches, That the figures seem'd statues or mummies from tombs. While the trees were as rigid as bundles of brooms, And the herbage like bunches of matches ! ETCHING MORALIZED. 1G9 The stiff clouds as if carefully iron'd and starch 'd, While a cast-iron bridge, meant for wooden, o'er-arch'd Something more like a road than a river. Prythee, who in such characteristics could see Any trace of the beautiful land of the free The Free- Mason Free-Trader Free-Liver ! But prepared by a hand that is skilful and nice, The fine point glides along like a skate on the ice, At the will of the Gentle Designer, Who impelling the needle just presses so much, That each line of her labour the copper may touch, As if done by a penny-a-liner. And behold ! how the fast-growing images gleam ! Like the sparkles of gold in a sunshiny stream, Till perplex'd by the glittering issue, You repine for a light of a tenderer kind And in choosing a substance for making a blind, Do not sneeze at the paper call'd tissue. 170 ETCHING MORALIZED. For, subdued by the sheet so transparent and white, Your design will appear in a soberer light, And reveal its defects on inspection, Just as Glory achieved, or political scheme, And some more of our dazzling performances seem Not so bright on a cooler reflection. So the juvenile Poet with ecstasy views His first verses, and dreams that the songs of his Muse Are as brilliant as Moore's and as tender Till some critical sheet scans the faulty design, And alas ! takes the shine out of every line That had form'd such a vision of splendour. Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch, Which, design 'd by a hand unaccustom'd to etch, With a luckless result may be branded ; Wherefore add this particular rule to your code, Let all vehicles take the wrong side of the road, And man, woman, and child, be left-handed. ETCHING MORALIZED. 171 Yet regard not the awkward appearance with doubt, But remember how often mere blessings fall out, That at first seem'd no better than curses ; So, till things take a turn, live in hope, and depend That whatever is wrong will come right in the end, And console you for all your reverses. But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth, Of that Club (may all honour betide it !) Which, tho' dealing in copper, by genius and taste, Has accomplish 'd a service of plate not disgraced By the work of a Goldsmith beside it ! * So your sketch superficially drawn on the plate, It becomes you to fix in a permanent state, Which involves a precise operation, With a keen biting fluid, which eating its way As in other professions is common they say Has attain'd an artistical station. * The Deserted Village. Illustrated by the Etching Club. 172 ETCHING MORALIZED. And it 's, oh ! that some splenetic folks I could name If they must deal in acids would use but the same, In such innocent graphical labours ! In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith They keep biting the backs of their neighbours ! But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch, You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which You may pour the dilute aquafortis. For if raw, like a dram, it will shock you to trace Your design with a horrible froth on its face, Like a wretch in articulo mortis. Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure, From the use of strong waters, without any pure, A vile practice, most sad and improper ! For, from painful examples, this warning is found, That the raw burning spirit will take up the ground, In the churchyard, as well as on copper ! ETCHING MORALIZED. 173 But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites Only just where the visible metal invites, Like a nature inclined to meet troubles ; And behold ! as each slender and glittering line Effervesces, you trace the completed design In an elegant bead-work of bubbles ! And yet constantly secretly eating its way, The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey, Like some sorrow beyond inquisition, Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile, And the wit is in bright ebullition. But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff Has corroded and deepened some portions enough The pure sky, and the water so placid And these tenderer tints to defend from attack, With some turpentine varnish and sooty lamp-black You must stop out the ferreting acid. 174 ETCHING MORALIZED. But before with the varnishing brush you proceed, Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed From the other less innocent liquor After which, on whatever you want to protect, Put a coat that will act to that very effect, Like the black one which hangs on the Vicar. Then the varnish well dried urge the biting again, But how long at its meal the eau forte may remain, Time and practice alone can determine : But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill, The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will, Are as black as the spots on your ermine. It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap, With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap, Is consider'd as rather Rernbrandty ; And that very black cattle and very black sheep, A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep Are the pets of some great Dilettante. ETCHING MORALIZED. 175 So with certain designers, one needs not to name, All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame, From our hirth to our final adjourning Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack ! What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black As a Warehouse for Family Mourning ! But before your own picture arrives at that pitch, While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich, More transparent than ebony shutters, Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say, Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away, As you please, into bottles or gutters. Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat, Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti, or sweet For your hand a performance scarce proper So some careful professional person secure For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur To assist you in cleaning the copper. 176 ETCHING MORALIZED. And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job, To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob Though as sure of an instant forgetting When as after the dark clearing off of a storm The fair Landscape shines out in a lustre as warm As the glow of the sun in its setting ! Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint, That with certain assistance from paper and print, Which the proper Mechanic will settle, You may charm all your Friends without any sad tale Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale With a fine India Proof of your Metal. DEATH'S RAMBLE. ONE day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel. His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone ? He dabbled and spill 'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own. 178 DEATH S RAMBLE. The first he slaughtered it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker. Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, Quoth he, " We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer. He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother ; And he shot one through at once for he knew They never would shoot each other. He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal ; Said Death, " He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal." DEATH S RAMBLE. 179 He met a coachman driving his coach So slow, that his fare grew sick ; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the quick. Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity ; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summon'd to all eternity. He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further ; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther ! Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum ; But he let them be for he knew that the " fee " Was a prelude to " faw " and "fum." N 2 180 DEATH'S RAMBLE. He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust ; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust. He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter ; For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water. Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump ! THE PROGRESS OF ART. HAPPY time ! Art's early days ! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung ! When great Rembrandt but little seem'd And such Old Masters all were deem'd, As nothing to the young ! Some scratchy strokes abrupt and few, So easily and swift I drew, Suffic'd for my design ; My sketchy, superficial hand, Drew solids at a dash and spann'd A surface with a line. 182 THE PROGRESS OF ART. Not long my eje was thus content, But grew more critical my bent Essay 'd a higher walk ; I copied leaden eyes in lead Rheumatic hands in white and red,. And gouty feet in chalk. Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces happy phrase, For faces such as mine ! Accomplish'd in the details then, I left the minor parts of men, And drew the form divine. Old Gods and Heroes Trojan Greek, Figures long after the antique, Great Ajax justly fear'd ; Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt, And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt Bird-nesters to his beard. THE PROGRESS OF ART. 183 A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas, that out-star'd her owl, A Vulcan very lame ; A Dian stuck about with stars, With my right hand I murder 'd Mars (One Williams did the same). But tir'd of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast, And gave my brush a drink ! Dipping " as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," That is in Indian ink. Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows : What clouds of dingy hue ! In spite of what the bard has penn'd, I fear the distance did not " lend Enchantment to the view." 184 THE PROGRESS OF ART. Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design Black Forests, half so black as mine, Or lakes so like a pall ; The Chinese cake dispers'd a ray Of darkness, like the light of Day And Martin over all. Yet urchin pride sustain 'd me still, I gaz'd on all with right good will, And spread the dingy tint ; " No holy Luke help'd me to paint, The Devil surely, not a Saint, Had any finger in't ! " But colours came ! like morning light, With gorgeous hues displacing night, Or Spring's enliven 'd scene : At once the sable shades withdrew ; My skies got very, very blue ; My trees extremely green. THE PROGRESS OF ART. 185 And wash'd by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush ; With lock of auburn stain (Not Goldsmith's Auburn) nut-browu hair, That made her loveliest of the fair ; Not " loveliest of the plain ! " Her lips were of vermilion hue ; Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, Set all my heart in flame ! A young Pygmalion, I ador'd The maids I made but time was stor'd With evil and it came ! Perspective dawn'd and soon I saw My houses stand against its law ; And "keeping " all unkept ! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond imaginings ; But horrors to be wept ! 186 THE PROGRESS OF ART. Ah ! why did knowledge ope my eyes ? Why did I get more artist- wise ? It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine That I 'm no Hilton in design In nature no Dewint ! Thrice happy time ! Art's early days ! When o'er each deed with sweet self-praise, Narcissus-like I hung ! When great Remhrandt hut little seem'd, And such Old Masters all were deem'd As nothing to the young ! A FAIRY TALE. ON Houuslow heath and close beside the road, As western travellers may oft have seen, A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode ; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood ; The walls of white, the window-shutters green ; Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, (Tho' now at rest) On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintain'd a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row ; But made his business travel for itself, Till he had made his pelf, And then retired if one may call it so, Of a roadsider. 188 A FAIRY TALE. Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan ; Perchance, he lov'd the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil, That furnish 'd, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ; And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower, Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow'r ! But, tir'd of always looking at the coaches, The same to come, when they had seen them one day ! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E 's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday, So, having had some quarters of school-breeding, They turn'd themselves, like other folks, to reading ; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripen 'd in the seventh stage, A FAIRY TALE. 189 The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have hegun, Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, But spelt, on Sahhaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax 'd themselves with Whittington, Or Valentine and Orson But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted, in their dotage, Slobber 'd, and kept Reading, and wept Over the white Cat, in their wooden cottage. Thus reading on the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, If talking Trees and Birds reveal 'd to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons, And magic-fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons, Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons ; 190 A FAIRY TALE. When, as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and-parlour door, A hideous roar Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels, Or Durham feed ; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From nether side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth ; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, When, whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank ; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment, However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kick'd out a passage thro' the beastly rabble ; A FAIRY TALE. 191 And after a pas seul, or, if you will, a Horn- pipe before the Basket-maker's villa, Leapt o'er the tiny pale, Back'd his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse, who could ? two tales at once ; And being huff'd At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, Bang'd-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed, increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, " took to the road " again ! Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper 192 A FAIRY TALE. Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper : Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach, what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd a corner, quite Gone out of sight ! At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing ; And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house no villa there no nothing ! No house ! The change was quite amazing ; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seem'd to harden; But soon her superannuated nous Explained the horrid mystery ; and raising A FAIRY TALE. 193 Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, On which she meant to sup, " Well ! this is Fairy Work ! I '11 bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch 'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden !" THE TURTLES: A FABLE. The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle. BYRON. ONE day, it was before a civic dinner, Two London Aldermen, no matter which, Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner- But both were florid, corpulent, and rich, And both right fond of festive demolition, Set forth upon a secret expedition. Yet not, as might be fancied from the token, To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street Of Bread, or Grub, or anything to eat, Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken, But eastward to that more aquatic quarter, Where folks take water, THE TURTLES. 195 Or bound on voyages, secure a berth For Antwerp or Ostend, Dundee or Perth, Calais, Boulogne, or any Port on earth ! Jostled and jostling, through the mud, Peculiar to the Town of Lud, Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they div'd, Past many a gusty avenue, through which Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch, From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf deriv'd ; With darker fumes, brought eddying by the draught, From loco-smoko-motive craft ; Mingling with scents of butter, cheese, and gammons, Tea, coffee, sugar, pickles, rosin, wax, Hides, tallow, Eussia-matting, hemp and flax, Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper 'd salmons, Nuts, oranges, and lemons. Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum, Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum ; Alamode-beef and greens the London soil Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine, and oil, Bark, asafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops, o 2 196 THE TURTLES. In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs, and snuffs, From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs, Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, waggons, taverns, shops, Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river's ridge, Assault the nose below the bridge. A walk, however, as tradition tells, That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose, Because, incapable of other views, He met with " such a sight of smells." But on, and on, and on, In spite of all unsavoury shocks, Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John, Steadily steering ship-like for the docks And now they reach a place the Muse, unwilling, Recals for female slang and vulgar doing, The famous Gate of Billing That does not lead to cooing And now they pass that House that is so ugly A Customer to people looking smuggl'y THE TURTLES. 197 And now along that fatal Hill they pass Where centuries ago an Oxford bled, And prov'd too late to save his life, alas ! That he was " off his head." At last before a lofty brick-built pile Sir Peter stopped, and with mysterious smile Tingled a bell that served to bring The wire-drawn genius of the ring, A species of commercial Samuel Weller To whom Sir Peter, tipping him a wink, And something else to drink, " Show us the cellar." Obsequious bowed the man, and led the way Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows small, Dappled with mud, let in a dingy ray A dirty tax, if they were tax'd at all. At length they came into a cellar damp, With venerable cobwebs fringed around, A cellar of that stamp Which often harbours vintages renown M, 198 THE TURTLES. The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly, With sherry, brown or golden, Or port, so olden, Bereft of body 'tis no longer portly But old or otherwise to be veracious That cobwebb'd cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious, Held nothing crusty but crustaceous. Prone, on the chilly floor, Five splendid Turtles such a five ! Natives of some West Indian shore Were flapping all alive, Late landed from the Jolly Planter's yawl A sight whereon the dignitaries fix'd Their eager eyes, with ecstacy unmix'd, Like fathers that behold their infants crawl, Enjoying every little kick and sprawl. Nay far from fatherly the thoughts they bred, Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried ! The Aldermen too plainly wish'd them dead And Alderm anbury 'd ! THE TURTLES. 19$ " There !" cried Sir Peter, with an air Triumphant as an ancient victor's, And pointing to the creatures rich and rare, " There's picters !" " Talk of Olympic Games ! They 're not worth mention ; The real prize for wrestling is when Jack, In Providence or Ascension, Can throw a lively turtle on its back !" " Aye ! " cried Sir John, and with a score of nods, Thoughtful of classical symposium, " There's food for Gods! There 's nectar ! there 's ambrosium ! There 's food for Roman Emperors to eat Oh, there had been a treat (Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us) For Helio-gobble-us !" " There were a feast for Alexander's Feast ! The real sort none of your mock or spurious !" And then he mentioned Aldermen deceased, 200 THE TURTLES. And " Epicurius," And how Tertullian had enjoyed such foison ; And speculated on that verdigrease That isn't poison. " Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that ! Give me green fat ! As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles And billing turtles, Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there, A-billing in a hill of fare !" " Of all the things I ever swallow Good, well-dressed turtle heats them hollow It almost makes me wish, I vow, To have two stomachs, like a cow !" And lo ! as with the cud, an inward thrill Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb'd his frill, His mouth was oozing and he work'd his jaw " I almost think that I could eat one raw !" And thus, as " inward love breeds outward talk," The portly pair continued to discourse ; THE TURTLES. 201 And then as Gray describes of life's divorce, With " longing lingering look " prepared to walk, Having thro' one delighted sense, at least, Enjoy'd a sort of Barmecidal feast, And with prophetic gestures, strange to see, Forestall 'd the civic Banquet yet to he, Its callipash and callipee ! A pleasant prospect hut alack ! Scarcely each Alderman had turn'd his back, When seizing on the moment so propitious, And having learn 'd that they were so delicious To bite and sup, From praises so high flown and injudicious, And nothing could be more pernicious ! The Turtles fell to work, and ate each other up ! MORAL. Never, from folly or urbanity, Praise people thus profusely to their faces, Till quite in love with their own graces, They 're eaten up by vanity ! THE DESERT-BORN. Fly to the desert, fly with me." LADY HESTER STANHOPE. '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, THE DESERT-BORN. 203 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 colour 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 pearl 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 any thing uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman I 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, 204 THE DESERT-BORN. 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) for ever 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. THE DESERT-BORN. 205 " 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 Cir- cassian 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. 206 THE DESERT-BORN. 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 sup- plied : THE DESERT-BORN. 207 " 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 honour, 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 ! " 208 THE DESEET-BORN. 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 hend, That tells me you're of Arab race, whatever spot of earth, Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honour of your birth, - The East it is your country ! Like an infant changed at 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, THE DESERT-BORN. 209 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 wasfoal'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 bitt, P 210 THE DESERT-BORN. 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 ! THE DESERT-BORN. 211 Ah me ! the frantic shriek she gave ! I hear it ringing now ! That hour, upon the hloody spot, I made a holy vow ; A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse, That never more these limhs 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 rolTd her eyes between the earth and sky, As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly ! p 2 212 THE DESERT-BORN. 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 bear a horse's ears at play Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh Whose foot within a stabledoor 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. THE DESERT-BORN. 213 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 her 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 ; [hands, And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive Away we flew away ! away ! across the shifting sands ! 214 THE DESERT-BORN. 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 torrid hurricane still adverse to our course One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea, The next it 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 THE DESERT-BORN. -Ji:, My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue When lol 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 grey 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 216 THE DESERT-BORN. 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 demons' 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 ! THE DESERT-BORN. 217 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 labouring breast ? Why any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest. LOVE LANE. IF I should love a maiden more, And woo her ev'ry hope to crown, I 'd love her all the country o'er, But not declare it out of town. One even, by a mossy bank, That held a hornet's nest within, To Ellen on my knees I sank, How snakes will twine around the shin ! A bashful fear my soul unnerv'd, And gave my heart a backward tug ; Nor was I cheer'd when she observ'd, Whilst I was silent," What a slug ! " LOVE LANE. 219 At length my offer I preferr'd, And Hope a kind reply forebode Alas ! the only sound I heard Was, " What a horrid ugly toad ! " I vow'd to give her all my heart, To love her till my life took leave, And painted all a lover's smart Except a wasp gone up his sleeve ! But when I ventur'd to abide Her father's and her mother's grants Sudden, she started up, and cried, " dear ! I am all over ants ! " Nay, when beginning to beseech The cause that led to my rebuff, The answer was as strange a speech, A " Daddy-Longlegs sure enough ! " 220 LOVE LANE. I spoke of fortune house, and lands, And still renew'd the warm attack, "Tis vain to offer ladies hands That have a spider on the back ! 'Tis vain to talk of hopes and fears, And hope the least reply to win, From any maid that stops her ears In dread of earwigs creeping in ! 'Tis vain to call the dearest names Whilst stoats and weazels startle by As vain to talk of mutual flames, To one with glow-worms in her eye ! What check'd me in my fond address, And knock 'd each pretty image down ? What stopp'd my Ellen's faltering Yes ? A caterpillar on her gown ! LOVE LANE. 221 To list to Philomel is sweet To see the Moon rise silver-pale, But not to kneel at Lady's feet And crush a rival in a snail ! Sweet is the eventide, and kind Its zephyr, balmy as the south ; But sweeter still to speak your mind Without a chafer in your mouth ! At last, emholden'd by my bliss, Still fickle Fortune play'd me foul, For when I strove to snatch a kiss She scream' d by proxy, through an owl ! Then, Lovers, doom'd to life or death Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats, Lest you should have in selfsame breath To bless your fate and curse the gnats ! DOMESTIC POEMS. 1 It 's hame, hame, hame." A. CUNNINGHAM. 1 There 's no place like home." CLARI. I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS. 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 grey ! 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 ! DOMESTIC POEMS. 223 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 favourite 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 ! 2-24 DOMESTIC POEMS. 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 ! DOMESTIC POEMS. 225 II. THE sun was slumbering in the Westj My daily labours 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 ! " 226 DOMESTIC POEMS. " 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 ! DOMESTIC POEMS. _>_> 7 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 hy 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 '11 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 ! ) Q 2 DOMESTIC POEMS. 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 '11 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 '11 have that jug off, with another shove !) Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man ! (He '11 climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touch 'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life (He 's got a knife ! ) DOMESTIC POEMS. 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 '11 tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he 's sent above !) 230 DOMESTIC POEMS. 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 ! DOMESTIC POEMS. 231 Hush, ob, hush, for mercy's sake The more I sing, the more you wake ! " " Lullaby, ob, lullaby ! Fie, you little creature, fie ! Lullaby, ob, 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 '11 be bruised, and so shall I, How can I from bedposts keep, When I 'm walking in my sleep ?" " Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny Lullaby, oh, lullaby ; Nature soon will stupify My nerves relax, my eyes grow dim Who 's that fallen me or him ?" 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. A PLAIN DIRECTION. 233 Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there ? " Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I 've read ahout 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 ahout 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." 234 A PLAIN DIRECTION. 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. A PLAIN DIRECTION, 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. ! that 's the parish church for me ! But how shall I get there ? " Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." 236 A PLAIN DIRECTION. 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. A PLAIN DIRECTION. 237 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." A TABLE OF ERRATA. (Hostess loquitur.) WELL ! thanks be to Heaven, The summons is given ; It 's only gone seven And should have been six ; There 's fine overdoing In roasting and stewing, And victuals past chewing To rags and to sticks ! How dreadfully chilly ! I shake, willy-nilly That John is so silly And never will learn ! A TABLE OF ERRATA. 239 This plate is a cold one, That cloth is an old one, I wish they had told one The lamp wouldn't burn. Now then for some blunder, For nerves to sink under ; I never shall wonder Whatever goes ill. That fish is a riddle ! It 's broke in the middle. A Turbot ! a fiddle ! It 's only a Brill ! It 's quite over-boiled too, The butter is oil'd too, The soup is all spoil'd too, It 's nothing but slop. The smelts looking flabby, The soles are as dabby, It all is so shabby That Cook shall not stop ! 240 A TABLE OF ERRATA. As sure as the morning, She gets a month's warning, My orders for scorning There 's nothing to eat ! I hear such a rushing, I feel such a flushing, I know I am blushing As red as a beet ! Friends flatter and flatter, I wish they would chatter ; What can be the matter That nothing comes next ? How very unpleasant ! Lord ! there is the pheasant ! Not wanted at present, I 'm born to be vext ! The pudding brought on too ! And aiming at ton too ! And where is that John too, The plague that he is ? A TABLE OF ERRATA. 241 He 's off on some ramble : And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz ! The veal they all eye it, But no one will try it, An Ogre would shy it So ruddy as that ! And as for the mutton, The cold dish it 's put on, Converts to a button Each drop of the fat. The beef without mustard ! My fate 's to be fluster 'd, And there comes the custard To eat with the hare ! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing, I cannot help wishing A woman might swear ! 242 A TABLE OF ERRATA. Oh dear ! did I ever But no, I did never Well, come, that is clever, To send up the brawn ! That cook, I could scold her, Gets worse as she 's older ; I wonder who told her That woodcocks are drawn ! It 's really audacious ! I cannot look gracious, Lord help the voracious That came for a cram ! There 's Alderman Fuller Gets duller and duller. Those fowls, by the colour, Were boil'd with the ham ! Well, where is the curry? I 'm all in a flurry. No, cook 's in no hurry A stoppage again ! A TABLE OF ERRATA. 243 And John makes it wider, A pretty provider ! By bringing up cider Instead of champagne ! My troubles come faster ! There 's my lord and master Detects each disaster, And hardly can sit : He cannot help seeing, All things disagreeing ; If lie begins d ing I 'm off in a fit ! This cooking ? it 's messing ! The spinach wants pressing, And salads in dressing Are best with good eggs. And John yes, already Has had something heady, That makes him unsteady In keeping his legs. R 2 244 A TABLE OF ERRATA. How shall I get through it ! I never can do it, I 'm quite looking to it, To sink by and by. Oh ! would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now And have a good cry ! A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. Glorious Apollo from on high beheld us." OLD SONG. As latterly I chanced to pass A Public House, from which, alas ! The Arms of Oxford dangle ! My ear was startled by a din, That made me tremble in my skin, A dreadful hubbub from within, Of voices in a wrangle Voices loud, and voices high, With now and then a party-cry, Such as used in times gone by To scare the British border ; When foes from North and South of Tweed- 246 A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. Neighbours and of Christian creed Met in hate to fight and bleed, Upsetting Social Order. Surpris'd, I turn'd me to the crowd, Attracted by that tumult loud, And ask'd a gazer, beetle-brow'd, The cause of such disquiet. When lo ! the solemn-looking man, First shook his head on Burleigh's plan, And then, with fluent tongue, began His version of the riot : A row ! why yes, a pretty row, you might hear from this to Garmany, And what is worse, it 's all got up among the Sons of Harmony, The more 's the shame for them as used to be in time and tune, And all unite in chorus like the singing-birds in June ! Ah ! many a pleasant chant I Ve heard in passing here along, When Swivellerwas President a-knocking down a song ; A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 247 But Dick's resign'd the post, you see, and all them shouts and hollers Is 'cause two other candidates, some sort of lamed scholars, Are squabbling to be Chairman of the Glorious Apollers ! Lord knows their names, I 'm sure I don't, no more than any yokel, But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal ; Nay, some do say, although of course the public rumour varies, They 've no more warble in 'em than a pair of hen canaries ; Though that might pass if they were dabs at t'other sort of thing, For a man may make a song, you know, although he cannot sing ; But lork ! it 's many folk's belief they 're only good at prosing, For Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their com- posing ; And when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials, If pop'lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials, 248 A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey, It 's chanted like the " Dog's Meat Man," or " If I had a Donkey." Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither, No ballad worth a ha'penny has ever come from either, And him as writ " Jim Crow," he says, and got such lots of dollars, Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Howsomever that 's the meaning of the squabble that arouses This neighbourhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses, Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reason, In Christian peace and charity according to the season. But from Number Thirty-Nine since this electioneering job, Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there 's an everlasting mob ; Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by, But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye ; A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 049 And a pretty noise there is ! what with canvassers and spouters, For in course each side is furnish'd with its backers and its touters ; And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried, You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married ; Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms, If you 're dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the " Arms :" While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars, To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Well, that, sir, is the racket ; and the more the sin and shame Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same ; Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup, But they '11 be the House's ruin, or the shutting of it up, With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears, While they 've damaged many articles and broken lots of squares, 250 A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother, By throwing Morning Heralds, Times, and Standards at each other; Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn't to repeat, And the names they call each other for I Ve heard 'em in the street Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judases, and Vipers, and what not, For Pasley and his divers an't so blowing-up a lot. And then such awful swearing ! for there 's one of them that cusses Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition 'busses ; For he cusses every member that 's agin him at the poll, As I wouldn't cuss a donkey, tho' it hasn't got a soul ; And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim, To the babby in the cradle, if they don't agree with him. Whereby, altho' as yet they have not took to use their fives, Or, according as the fashion .is, to sticking with their knives, A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 251 I 'm bound there '11 be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars, Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers ! To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall, Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call And as if there wasn't Whigs enough and Tories to fall out, Besides politics in plenty for our splits to be about Why, a cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows, For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews, To agitate society and loosen all its screws ; And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres, But it 's not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears. And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach, And I Ve had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach, And so knows the University, and all as there belongs, And he says that Oxford 's famouser for sausages than songs, 25'J A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant, As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want, Or other Tavern Melodists I can't just call to mind But it 's not the classic system for to propagate the kind, Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars May be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers ! For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice, It 's the best among the vocalists I 'd honour with the choice ; Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch ; Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch ; 'Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec's. But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud, And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd, Have brought their jangling voices, and as far as they can compass, Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus, A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. 253 And him as knows most hymns altho' I can't see how it f oilers They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers ! Well, that 's the row and who can guess the upshot after all ? Whether Harmony will ever make the " Arms " her House of call, Or whether this here mobbing as some longish heads foretel it, Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it. Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of any peace, For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the New Police ; But if I was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man, Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan, Why, I 'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle, For I 'd have another candidate and that's the Parish Beadle, Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy, And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy ; 'J54 A ROW AT THE OXFORD ARMS. Whereby if folks was wise instead of either of them Scholars, And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers, They '11 lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as f oilers, Namely Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers ! EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP. i. IT was a young maiden went forth to ride, And there was a wooer to pace by her side ; His horse was so little, and hers so high, He thought his Angel was up in the sky. ii. His love was great, tho' his wit was small ; He hade her ride easy and that was all. The very horses began to neigh, Because their betters had nought to say. in. They rode by elm, and they rode by oak, They rode by a church-yard, and then he spoke : " My pretty maiden, if you '11 agree You shall always ramble through life with me." 256 EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP. IV. The damsel answer 'd him never a word, But kick'd the grey mare, and away she spurr'd. The wooer still folio w'd behind the jade, And enjoy 'd like a wooer the dust she made. They rode thro' moss, and they rode thro' moor, The gallant behind and the lass before ; At last they came to a miry place, And there the sad wooer gave up the chase. Quoth he, " If my nag were better to ride, I 'd follow her over the world so wide. Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail, But I Ve lost the last glimpse of the grey mare's tail! " AN OPEN QUESTION. " It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions." BUNYAN. WHAT ! shut the Gardens ! lock the latticed gate Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket ! And hang a wooden notice up to state, " On Sundays no admittance at this wicket !" The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race Denied to friends and visitors till Monday ! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? 258 AN OPEN QUESTION. The Gardens, so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses, Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub, Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses ? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head, Nor rum nor gin not even of a Monday The Lion is not carved or gilt or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? The Bear denied ! the Leopard under locks ! As if his spots would give contagious fevers ; The Beaver close as hat within its box ; So different from other Sunday beavers ! The Birds invisible the Gnaw-way Rats The Seal hermetically seal'd till Monday The Monkey tribe the Family of Cats, We visit other families on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? AN OPEN QUESTION. 259 IV. What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling ? The Kangaroo is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling ? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat, Struck all a heap to see a Coati mundi ? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday ? But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? V. What feature has repulsed the serious set ? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret ? One thing is plain it is not in the feeding ! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Gruudy ? s 2 260 AN OPEN QUESTION. VI. What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic ? Turns fell Hyaena of the Ghoulish race ? The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic ? Do Irish minds, (whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday) Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? There are some moody Fellows, not a few, Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious : Is 't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? AN OPEN QUESTION. 261 VIII. What dire offence have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney ? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea ? Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to moult The feathers in her head at least till Monday ; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? IX. At whom did Leo struggle to get loose ? Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing ? Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian Goose ? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing ? Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he prey'd extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? 262 AX OPEN QUESTION. To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin (Unless he 's loose) to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday (That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? AN OPEN QUESTION. 263 XII. In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I cannot think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen " Natural " on Monday, The wondrous history of Bird and Beast, Can be Unnatural because it 's Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? XIII. Whereon is sinful fantasy to work ? The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven ? The tender Love-Bird or the filial Stork ? The punctual Crane the providential Raven ? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young ? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feather 'd marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? 264 AN OPEN QUESTION. The busy Beaver that sagacious beast ! The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East, The horn'd Rhinoceros the spotted Leopard The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday The Elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? XV. What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature, Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of " Animated Nature ?" Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour amongst the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? AN OPEN QUESTION. 265 XVI. Why, zounds ! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds ! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology ? Is Brahma's Bull a Hindoo god at home A papal Bull to he tied up till Monday Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? Spirit of Kant ! have we not had enough To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubhish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast rattling rubbish ! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? 266 AN OPES QUESTION. NOTE. THERE is an anecdote of a Scotch Professor who happened during a Sunday walk to be hammering at a geological speci- men which he had picked up, when a peasant gravely accosted him, and said, very seriously, " Eh ! Sir, you think you are only breaking a stone, but you are breaking the Sabbath." In a similar spirit, some of our over-righteous sectarians are fond of attributing all breakage to the same cause from the smashing of a parish lamp, up to the fracture of a human skull ; the " breaking into the bloody house of life," or the breaking into a brick-built dwelling. They all originate in the breaking of the Sabbath. It is the source of every crime in the county the parent of every illegitimate child in the parish. The picking of a pocket is ascribed to the picking of a daisy the robbery on the highway to a stroll in the fields the incendiary fire to a hot dinner on Sunday. All other causes the want of education the want of moral culture the want of bread itself, are totally repudiated. The criminal himself is made to confess at the gallows that he owes his appearance on the scaffold to a walk with " Sally in our alley " on the " day that comes between a Saturday and Monday." Supposing this theory to be correct, and made like the law " for every degree," the wonder of Captain Macheath that we haven't " better company at Tyburn tree " (now the New Drop) must be fully shared by every body who has visited the Ring in Hyde Park on the day in question. But how AN OPEN QUESTION. 267 much greater must be the wonder of any person who has happened to reside, like myself, for a year or two in a Con- tinental city, inhabited, according to the strict construction of our Mawworms, by some fifteen or twenty thousands of habitual Sabbath-breakers, and yet, without hearing of mur- der and robbery as often as of blood-sausages and dollars ! A city where the Burgomaster himself must have come to a had end, if a dance upon Sunday led so inevitably to a dance upon nothing ! The " Saints " having set up this absolute dependence of crime on Sabbath-breaking, their relative proportions become a fair statistical question ; and, as such, the inquiry is seri- ously recommended to the rigid Legislator, who acknow- ledges, indeed, that the Sabbath was " made for man," but, by a singular interpretation, conceives that the man for whom it was made is himself ! 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 lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time. MORNING MEDITATIONS. 269 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-fingered 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. 270 MORNING MEDITATIONS. 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 '11 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 BLACK JOB. No doubt the pleasure is as great, Of being cheated as to cheat." HUDIBJIAS. THE history of human-kind to trace Since Eve the first of dupes our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race Has certainly a taste for being diddled. Witness the famous Mississippi dreams ! A rage that time seems only to redouble The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams, That cost our modern rogues so little trouble. No matter what, to pasture cows on stubble, To twist sea-sand into a solid rope, To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, '27 '2 A BLACK JOB. Or light with gas the whole celestial cope Only propose to blow a bubble, And Lord ! what hundreds will subscribe for soap ! Soap ! it reminds me of a little tale, Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory, When rustic games and merriment prevail But here 's my story : Once on a time no matter when A knot of very charitable men Set up a Philanthropical Society, Professing on a certain plan, To benefit the race of man, And in particular that dark variety, Which some suppose inferior as in vermin, The sable is to ermine, As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster, As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow, As blacking, or as ink to " milk below," Or yet a better simile to show, As ragman's dolls to images in plaster ! A BLACK JOB. -_>7;> However, as is usual in our city, They had a sort of managing Committee, A board of grave responsible Directors A Secretary, good at pen and ink A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink, And quite an army of Collectors ! Not merely male, but female duns, Young, old, and middle-aged of all degrees With many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese ! And what might be their aim ? To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes, Their necks from iron yokes ? To end or mitigate the ills of slavery, The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery ? To school the heathen Negroes and enlighten 'em. To polish up and brighten 'em, And make them worthy of eternal bliss ? 274 A BLACK JOB. Why, no the simple end and aim was this Reading a well-known proverb much amiss To wash and whiten 'em ! They look'd so ugly in their sable hides ; So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides, However the poor elves Might wash themselves, Nobody knew if they were clean or not On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot ! Not to forget more serious complaints That even while they join'd in pious hymn, So black they were and grim, In face and limb, They look'd like Devils, tho' they sang like Saints ! The thing was undeniable ! They wanted washing ! not that slight ablution To which the skin of the White Man is liable, Merely removing transient pollution But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing And scrubbing, A BLACK JOB. _>7; ( Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather, And pails of water hottish rather, But not so hoiling as to turn 'em red ! So spoke the philanthropic man Who laid, and hatch 'd, and nursed the plan And oh ! to view its glorious consummation ! The brooms and mops, The tubs and slops, The baths and brushes in full operation ! To see each Crow, or Jim, or John, Go in a raven and come out a swan ! While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels, Black Venus rises from the soapy surge, And all the little Niggerlings emerge As lily-white as mussels. Sweet was the vision but alas ! However in prospectus bright and sunny, To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was money ! T 2 '6 A BLACK JOB. Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks, and collars, shirts, and frills, Cravats, and kerchiefs money, without which The negroes must remain as dark as pitch ; A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living so to speak in Satan's livery ! Money the root of evil, dross, and stuff ! But oh ! how happy ought the rich to feel, Whose means enabled them to give enough To blanch an African from head to heel ! How blessed yea thrice blessed to subscribe Enough to scour a tribe ! While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one, Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe, Or little one ! Moved by this logic, or appall 'd, To persons of a certain turn so proper, A BLACK JOB. 077 The money came when call'd, In silver, gold, and copper, Presents from " Friends to blacks," or foes to whites, " Trifles," and " offerings," and "widow's inites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts, Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. As thus Elisha Brettel, An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Rebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howels, Half-a-dozen towels. The Master Rush's, Two scrubbing-brushes. Mr. T. Groom, A stable broom, And Mrs. Grubb, A tub. 278 A BLACK JOB. Great were the sums collected ! And great results in consequence expected. But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavour, According to reports At yearly courts, The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever ! Yes ! spite of all the water sous'd aloft, Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft, Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand, Brooms, brushes, palm of hand, And scourers in the office strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The routing and the grubbing, The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever ! In fact in his perennial speech, The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach, As he had hoped, From being washed and soaped, A circumstance he named with grief and pity ; But still he had the happiness to say, A BLACK JOB. 279 For self and the Committee, By persevering in the present way, And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day, Although he could not promise perfect white, From certain symptoms that had come to light, He hoped in time to get them gray ! LulPd by this vague assurance, The friends and patrons of the sable tribe Continued to subscribe, And waited, waited on with much endurance Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter Many a stinted widow, pinching mother With income by the tax made somewhat shorter, Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter, Only to hear as ev'ry year came round, That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound ; And as she loved her sable brother, That Mr. Treasurer must have another ! But, spite of pounds or guineas, Instead of giving any hint 280 A BLACK JOB. Of turning to a neutral tint, The plaguy negroes and their piccaninnies Were still the colour of the bird that caws Only some very aged souls Showing a little gray upon their polls, Like daws ! However, nothing dashed By such repeated failures, or abash'd, The Court still met ; the Chairman and Directors, The Secretary, good at pen and ink, The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink, And all the cash collectors ; With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Without whose help, no charlatan alive, Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive, Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous Those good and easy innocents in fact, Who willingly receiving chaff for corn, As pointed out by Butler's tact, Still find a secret pleasure in the act Of being pluck'd and shorn ! A BLACK JOB. -JHl However, in long hundreds there they were, Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court, To hear once more addresses from the Chair, And regular Report. .Mas ! concluding in the usual strain, That what with everlasting wear and tear, The scrubbing-brushes hadn't got a hair The brooms mere stumps would never serve again The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds, The towels worn to threads, The tubs and pails too shatter 'd to be mended And what was added with a deal of pain, But as accounts correctly would explain, Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended The Blackamoors had still been wash'd in vain ! " In fact, the negroes were as black as ink, Yet, still as the Committee dared to think, And hoped the proposition was not rash, A rather free expenditure of cash " But ere the prospect could be made more sunny Up jump'd a little, lemon-coloured man, 282 A BLACK JOB. And with an eager stammer, thus began, In angry earnest, though it sounded funny : " What ! More subscriptions ! No no no, not I ! You have had time time time enough to try ! They WON'T come white ! then why why why why why, More money ? ' ' " Why !" said the Chairman, with an accent bland, And gentle waving of his dexter hand, " Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust, More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold The why, sir, very easily is told, Because Humanity declares we must ! We 've scrubb'd the negroes till we 've nearly killed 'em, And finding that we cannot wash them white, But still their nigritude offends the sight, We mean to gild 'em ! " THE END. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. I. In Two Volumes, price 12s. cloth, POEMS. BY THOMAS HOOD. SECOND EDITION. n. In One Volume, illustrated by 350 Wood-cuts, price 10*. 6d. cloth, HOOD'S OWN; OR, LAUGHTER FROM YEAR TO YEAR. A NEW EDITION. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. 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