Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

My stars, in the air here's a knife!--
I'm sure it can not be a hum;
I'll catch at the handle, odd's life!
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I've got him!--no, at him again!
Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes;
This must be some blade of the brain--
Those witches are given to hoax.

I've one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o'er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill'd,
Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint--
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw--
Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw
Was naught but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial hive
A life paralytic is spread;
For while the one half is alive,
The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan, in grand majesty,
Has got my state-bed for a snooze;
I've lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!
Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking!
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking.
This knife shall be in at the death--
I'll stick him, then off safely get!
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,
For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.

Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles!
It sounds like a funeral knell;
O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls
To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won't fly,
But rather prefer Pluto's ether,
Only wait a few years till I die,
And we'll go to the devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.

CASE NO. II.

THE STRANGER.

Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,
A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,
A husband suspicious--his wife acted Ranger,
She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.
Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,
That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;
Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible--
My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in.
With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see;
And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,
And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough,
Where was her plate?--why, 'twas laid on the shelf;
Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff--
Dressing the dinner instead of herself.
No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,
Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,
With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal,
She lighted the company up to their bed.

Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon
Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,
Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon
Sat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout.
One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,
Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?
'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,
Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.

Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it
Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear;
No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,
Exposed as he was to the count's _son_ and _heir_.
Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour,
To show that my gratitude is not mere talk
You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller,
Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.

Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner,
With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball,
And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner,
He made of the Stranger no stranger at all.
At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken--
A bird that she never had met with before;
But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off kicking.
And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.

To finish my tale without roundaboutation,
Young master and missee besieged their papa;
They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation--
The Stranger cried, Oh! Mrs. Haller cried, Ah!
Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,
I have no good moral to give in exchange;
For though she, as a cook, might be given to melting,
The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange,
With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see,
And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,
And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

CASE NO. III.

GEORGE BARNWELL.

George Barnwell stood at the shop-door,
A customer hoping to find, sir;
His apron was hanging before,
But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.
A lady, so painted and smart,
Cried, Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late;
I've got nothing left but a groat--
Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate?
Rum ti, &c.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes,
Which made her look prouder and prouder;
His hair stood on end with surprise,
And hers with pomatum and powder.
The business was soon understood;
The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,
Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,
And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch.
Rum ti, &c.

Now nightly he stole out, good lack!
And into her lodging would pop, sir;
And often forgot to come back,
Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir.
Her beauty his wits did bereave--
Determined to be quite the crack O,
He lounged at the Adam and Eve,
And call'd for his gin and tobacco.
Rum ti, &c.

And now--for the truth must be told,
Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill--
He stole from the till all the gold,
And ate the lump-sugar and treacle.
In vain did his master exclaim,
Dear George, don't engage with that dragon;
She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,
And leave you the devil a rag on
Your rum ti, &c.

In vain he entreats and implores
The weak and incurable ninny,
So kicks him at last out of doors,
And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.
His uncle, whose generous purse
Had often relieved him, as I know,
Now finding him grow worse and worse,
Refused to come down with the rhino.
Rum ti, &c.

Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core
Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,
If ye mean to come here any more,
Pray come with more cash in your pocket:
Make nunky surrender his dibs,
Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,
Or stick a knife into his ribs--
I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels.
Rum ti, &c.

A pistol he got from his love--
'Twas loaded with powder and bullet;
He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,
But wanted the courage to pull it.
There's nunky as fat as a hog,
While I am as lean as a lizard;
Here's at you, you stingy old dog!--
And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.
Rum ti, &c.

All you who attend to my song,
A terrible end of the farce shall see,
If you join the inquisitive throng
That follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea.
If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,
Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;
Had I stuck to my pruins and figs,
I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell.
Rum ti, &c.

Their bodies were never cut down;
For granny relates with amazement,
A witch bore 'em over the town.
And hung them on Thorowgood's casement.
The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,
The miracle noisily brag on;
And the shop is, to this very day,
The sign of the George and the Dragon.
Rum ti, &c.

PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS.

BY T. H.[55]

Rhymes the rudders are of verses,
With which, like ships, they steer their courses.
HUDIBRAS.

_Scene draws, and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne, surrounded
by_ LEAR, LADY MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARNWELL,
HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET, FRIAR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO,
_and_ FALSTAFF.--PUNCH _descends, and addresses them in the
following_

RECITATIVE.

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,
So I with you am master of the ceremonies--
These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em?--
Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium.
October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day,
And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday!
On this great night 'tis settled by our manager,
That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,
Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion,
And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;
That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,
May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.
So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56]
Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57]
That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses,
May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis!

_They dance and sing._

AIR--'_Sure such a day._' TOM THUMB.

LEAR.

Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril--
Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;
Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel,
Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.
See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,
And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's
hubbub.
They tweak my nose, and round it goes--I fear they'll break the
ridge of it,
Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of
it.[58]

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

LADY MACBETH.

_I_ kill'd the king; my husband is a heavy dunce;
He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud.
One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king's evidence,
Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.

MACBETH.

When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,
To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;
With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,
Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

OTHELLO.

Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,
Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef;
Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid
That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief.

GEORGE BARNWELL.

Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?
Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;
If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,
Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

HAMLET.

I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia
The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat.
I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,
Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, 'Rat, rat!'

GHOST.

Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup--no more I'll be an actor in
Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

MACHEATH.

I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O;
But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

JULIET.

I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore--
A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.

FRIAR.

And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore.

APOTHECARY.

And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.

ROMEO.

I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous.

FALSTAFF.

I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous;
For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it
ere I
Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

[_Exeunt dancing._

'"Punch's Apotheosis," by G. Colman, junior, is too purely
nonsensical to be extracted; and both gives less pleasure to
the reader, and does less justice to the ingenious author
in whose name it stands, than any other of the poetical
imitations.'--_Edinburgh Review._

'We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author
of this amusing little volume. He who is such a master of
disguises may easily be supposed to have been successful in
concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so many
styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should
guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his
own character--that his natural style was neither very lofty
nor very grave--and that he rather indulges a partiality
for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut
out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets,
and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and
in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the
applause of the country shall induce him to take off his
mask.'--_Edinburgh Review._

THE MORNING POST.

_Additional note intended for p. 61._--This journal was, at
the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the
figure called by the rhetoricians _catachresis_. The Bard of
Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he
writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in
the mouth of a cannon. _The Morning Post_, in the year 1812,
congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's
mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high
time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles!

GEORGE ELLIS.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COLLEGE LIBRARY.

(GRAY)

The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,
Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires,
Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around,
And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.

Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free,
The sot's full bottles in quick order move,
While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,
And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.

Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,
Save where, the broken battlements among,
The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes,
And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.

Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,
Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,
In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat,
The labours of our ancestors repose.

No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,
The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;
For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,
Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.

For them no more shall booksellers contend,
Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;
Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,
While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.

Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,
While still they found each meaning but the true;
Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,
And give to Virgil words he never knew;

Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scorn
Condemn their memory or their toils deride,
Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn
A waste of words, and learning ill-applied?

Can none remember?--yes, I know all can--
When readings against different readings jarred,
While Bentley led the stem scholastic van,
And new editions with the old ones warred.

Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed,
Unmindful of the graver moral part,
Contemn these works, if as you run and read,
You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.

Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing power
To heavy works the stamp of merit give?
Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour,
Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?

In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed,
Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,
Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood,
Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.

With store of barbarous Latin at command,
Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,
Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.

Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,
Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';
Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,
Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.

Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lie
The rude memorial of some ancient song,
Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy,
Once waked to rapture every listening throng.

To trace fair Science through each wildering course,
With new ideas to enlarge the mind,
With useful lessons drawn from Classic source,
At once to polish and instruct mankind,

Their times forbade; nor yet alone represt
Their opening fancy; but alike confined
The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,
And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;

With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59]
Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name,
To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe,
Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.

Their humble science never soared so far,
In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,
Or wage with common-sense eternal war,
In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.

Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame,
Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,
But still aspired to raise their sinking name,
And fondly hoped that name might ever last.

Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]
Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.

For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthened labours hoped to gain
Some present profit, or some future praise?

Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,
Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend,
Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain,
Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.

For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme,
Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail,
If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)
Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;

Haply some ancient Fellow may reply--
Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,
E'en till the western sun went down the sky,
Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.

Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;
At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie,
Or from his window looking o'er the street,
Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.

At night, encircled with a kindred band,
In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away;
True as the College clock's unvarying hand,
Each morrow was the echo of to-day.

Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,
Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,
A lethargy assailed his harmless life,
And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,

Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,
And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,
Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,
With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.

THE EPITAPH.

Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man
By prudence taught each rude excess to shun;
Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan,
And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.

By no eccentric passion led astray,
Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,
Calmly through life he steered his quiet way,
Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.

Seek not his faults--his merits--to explore,
But quickly drop this uninstructive tale,
His works--his faults--his merits--are no more,
Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.

GEORGE CRABBE.

INEBRIETY.

(POPE)

The mighty spirit, and its power, which stains
The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,
I sing. Say, ye, its fiery vot'ries true,
The jovial curate, and the shrill-tongued shrew,
Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,
Where bowl the second charms like bowl the first;
Say how, and why, the sparkling ill is shed,
The heart which hardens, and which rules the head....
Lo! the poor toper whose untutor'd sense,
Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense;
Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer,
Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer;
But simple nature can her longing quench,
Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench:
Some kitchen fire diffusing warmth around,
The semi-globe by hieroglyphics crown'd;
Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd,
Nor waiters rave, nor landlords thirst for gold;
Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine,
He asks no limpid punch, no rosy wine;
But sees, admitted to an equal share,
Each faithful swain the heady potion bear:
Go wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste,
Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest;
Call vulgar palates what thou judgest so;
Say beer is heavy, windy, cold, and slow;
Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence,
Yet cry, when tortured, where is Providence?

CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE.

ODE.

(GRAY)

Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng,
Fair learning's train, are seen,
Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,
And up her benches green.
Unfolded to their mental eye
Thy awful form, Sublimity!
The moral teacher shows--
Sublimity of Silence born,
And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn
And dimly-vision'd woes;
Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great
Mocks the malignity of fate.
While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound
Murmurs the crowded room around,
And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,
Exulting hails her new dominions.
Oh! both on me your influence shed,
Dwell in my heart and deck my head!

Where'er a broader, browner shade
The shaggy beaver throws,
And with the ample feather's aid
O'er-canopies the nose;
Where'er with smooth and silken pile,
Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,
The crimson velvet glows;
From some high bench's giddy brink,
Clinton with me begins to think
(As bolt upright we sit)
That dress, like dogs, should have its day,
That beavers are too hot for May,
And velvets quite unfit.

Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw
From her unerring lip;
How light, how simple are the straw,
How delicate the chip!
Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,
The audience melt away,
I fly to fix my final choice
And bless th' instructive day.

The milliner officious pours
Of hats and caps her ready stores,
The unbought elegance of spring;
Some wide, disclose the full round face,
Some shadowy, lend a modest grace
And stretch their sheltering wing.

Here clustering grapes appear to shed
Their luscious juices on the head,
And cheat the longing eye;
So round the Phrygian monarch hung
Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue
For ever seem'd to fly.

Here early blooms the summer rose;
Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;
Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes--
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,
Swan-like, and as her feathers light
When on the still wave spread;
And let it wear the graceful dress
Of unadorned simpleness.

Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;
Of modest fancy cheaply bought,
A stranger yet to Payne.

With undissembled grief I tell,--
For sorrow never comes too late,--
The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall
Is sold for £1 8s.

To Calculation's sober view,
That searches ev'ry plan,
Who keep the old, or buy the new,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the shabby and the gay
Must meet the sun's meridian ray;
The air, the dust, the damp.
This, shall the sudden shower despoil;
That, slow decay by gradual soil;
Those, envious boxes cramp.

Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;
Who will, our taste deride;
We'll scorn the fashion of the day
With philosophic pride.

Methinks we thus, in accents low,
Might Sydney Smith address,
'Poor moralist! and what art thou,
Who never spoke of dress!

'Thy mental hero never hung
Suspended on a tailor's tongue,
In agonizing doubt;
Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,
Who languish'd for the newest mode,
Yet dar'd to live without.'

FRAGMENT.

(WORDSWORTH)

There is a river clear and fair,
'Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there--
It winds about like any hare;
And then it takes as straight a course
As on the turnpike road a horse,
Or through the air an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore,
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing.
Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,
But ever to be growing.

The impulses of air and sky
Have reared their stately stems so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,--
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee--
Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.
For they have gained the river's brink,
And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child--
He is my youngest boy;
To look on eyes so fair and wild,
It is a very joy:--
He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,
As fresh and gay as them.
He loiters with the briar rose,--
The blue bells are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will,
Why should not he continue still
A thing of Nature's rearing?
A thing beyond the world's control--
A living vegetable soul,--
No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see
That child become a willow-tree,
His brother trees among.
He'd be four times as tall as me,
And live three times as long.

JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.

A FABLE.

(DRYDEN)

A dingy donkey, formal and unchanged,
Browsed in the lane and o'er the common ranged,
Proud of his ancient asinine possessions,
Free from the panniers of the grave professions,
He lived at ease; and chancing once to find
A lion's skin, the fancy took his mind
To personate the monarch of the wood;
And for a time the stratagem held good.
He moved with so majestical a pace
That bears and wolves and all the savage race
Gazed in admiring awe, ranging aloof,
Not over-anxious for a clearer proof--
Longer he might have triumph'd--but alas!
In an unguarded hour it came to pass
He bray'd aloud; and show'd himself an ass!

The moral of this tale I could not guess
Till Mr. Landor sent his works to press.

THE COURSE OF TIME.

(ROBERT POLLOK)

Robert Pollok, A.M.! this work of yours
Is meant, I do not doubt, extremely well,
And the design I deem most laudable,
But since I find the book laid on my table,
I shall presume (with the fair owner's leave)
To note a single slight deficiency:
I mean, in short (since it is called a poem),
That in the course of ten successive books
If something in the shape of poetry
Were to be met with, we should like it better;
But nothing of the kind is to be found,
Nothing, alas! but words of the olden time,
Quaint and uncouth, contorted phrase and queer,
With the familiar language that befits
Tea-drinking parties most unmeetly matched.

GEORGE CANNING AND JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.

INSCRIPTION

_For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the
'Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._

(SOUTHEY)

For one long term, or e'er her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She scream'd for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind
Shap'd strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan Goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our MILTON, when at college. For this act
Did BROWNRIGG swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed!

THE SOLDIERS' FRIEND.

DACTYLICS.

(SOUTHEY)

Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here:
I am the soldiers' friend--here are some books for you;
Nice clever books by Tom Paine the philanthropist.
Here's half-a-crown for you--here are some handbills too;
Go to the barracks and give all the soldiers some:
Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.

[_Exit Drummer Boy, with Handbills and Half-Crown.
--Manet Soldier's Friend._]

Liberty's friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
Freedom's volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty,
Reason, philosophy, 'fiddledum diddledum,'
Peace and fraternity, higgledy piggledy,
Higgledy piggledy, 'fiddledum diddledum.'
_Et cætera, et cætera, et cætera._

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE

_Being the Quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were or ever
will be written._

(SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE)

Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays--
Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, 'ah! for thy heavy chance!'

Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet:
Slow is the Syllable which thou would'st urge to speed,
Lame and o'erburden'd, and 'screaming its wretchedness!'

* * * * *[61]

Ne'er talk of Ears again! look at thy Spelling-book;
_Dilworth_ and _Dyche_ are both mad at thy quantities--
DACTYLICS, call'st thou 'em?--'God help thee, silly one!'

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

_Sapphics._

(SOUTHEY)

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

'Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order--
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't
So have your breeches!

'Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day "Knives and
Scissors to grind O!"

'Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire, or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

'Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

'(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.'

KNIFE-GRINDER.

'Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

'Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
-Stocks for a vagrant.

'I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.'

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

'_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first--
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!'

[_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit
in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and
universal philanthropy._]

JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE, GEORGE CANNING,
AND GEORGE ELLIS.

THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES.

_A Mathematical and Philosophical Poem._

(ERASMUS DARWIN)

Stay your rude steps, or e'er your feet invade
The Muses' haunts, ye sons of War and Trade!
Nor you, ye legion fiends of Church and Law,
Pollute these pages with unhallow'd paw![62]
Debased, corrupted, grovelling, and confin'd,
No DEFINITIONS touch _your_ senseless mind;
To _you_ no POSTULATES prefer their claim,
No ardent AXIOMS _your_ dull souls inflame;
For _you_ no TANGENTS touch, no ANGLES meet,
No CIRCLES join in osculation[63] sweet!

For _me_, ye CISSOIDS,[64] round my temples bend
Your wandering curves; ye CONCHOIDS extend;
Let playful PENDULES quick vibration feel,
While silent CYCLOIS rests upon her wheel;
Let HYDROSTATICS,[65] simpering as they go,
Lead the light Naiads on fantastic toe;
Let shrill ACOUSTICS tune the tiny lyre;
With EUCLID sage fair ALGEBRA conspire;
The obedient pulley strong MECHANICS ply,
And wanton OPTICS roll the melting eye!

I see the fair fantastic forms appear,
The flaunting drapery and the languid leer;
Fair sylphish forms[66]--who, tall, erect, and slim,
Dart the keen glance, and stretch the length of limb;
To viewless harpings weave the meanless dance,
Wave the gay wreath, and titter as they prance.

Such rich confusion[67] charms the ravish'd sight,
When vernal Sabbaths to the Park invite.
Mounts the thick dust, the coaches crowd along,
Presses round Grosvenor Gate th' impatient throng;
White-muslin'd misses and mammas are seen,
Link'd with gay cockneys, glittering o'er the green:
The rising breeze unnumber'd charms displays,
And the tight ankle strikes th' astonish'd gaze.

But chief, thou NURSE of the DIDACTIC MUSE,
Divine NONSENSIA, all thy soul infuse;
The charms of _Secants_ and of _Tangents_ tell,
How LOVES and GRACES in an _Angle_ dwell;
How slow progressive _Points_ protract the _Line_,
As pendant spiders spin the filmy twine;
How lengthen'd _Lines_, impetuous sweeping round,
Spread the wide _Plane_, and mark its circling bound;
How _Planes_, their substance with their motion grown,
Form the huge _Cube_, the _Cylinder_, the _Cone_.

Lo! where the chimney's sooty tube ascends,
The fair TROCHAIS[68] from the corner bends!
Her coal-black eyes upturn'd, incessant mark
The eddying smoke, quick flame, and volant spark;
Mark with quick ken, where flashing in between
Her much-loved _Smoke-Jack_ glimmers thro' the scene:
Mark how his various parts together tend,
Point to one purpose,--in one object end:
The spiral _grooves_ in smooth meanders flow,
Drags the long _chain_, the polish'd axles glow,
While slowly circumvolves the piece of beef below:
The conscious fire with bickering radiance burns,
Eyes the rich joint, and roasts it as it turns.

So youthful HORNER rolled the roguish eye,
Cull'd the dark plum from out his Christmas pie,
And cried in self-applause--'How good a boy am I.'

So, the sad victim of domestic spite,
Fair CINDERELLA, pass'd the wintry night,
In the lone chimney's darksome nook immured,
Her form disfigured, and her charms obscured.
Sudden her godmother appears in sight,
Lifts the charm'd rod, and chants the mystic rite.
The chanted rite the maid attentive hears,
And feels new ear-rings deck her listening ears;
While 'midst her towering tresses, aptly set,
Shines bright, with quivering glance, the smart aigrette;
Brocaded silks the splendid dress complete,
And the Glass Slipper grasps her fairy feet.
Six cock-tail'd mice transport her to the ball,
And liveried lizards wait upon her call.

Alas! that partial Science should approve
The sly RECTANGLE'S[69] too licentious love!
For _three_ bright nymphs the wily wizard burns;--
_Three_ bright-ey'd nymphs requite his flame by turns.
Strange force of magic skill! combined of yore
With PLATO'S science and MENECMUS' lore.
In _Afric's_ schools, amid those sultry sands
High on its base where POMPEY'S pillar stands,
This learnt THE SEER; and learnt, alas! too well,
Each scribbled talisman and smoky spell:
What mutter'd charms, what soul-subduing arts,
Fell ZATANAI[70] to his sons imparts.

Gins![71]--black and huge! who in DOM-DANIEL'S[72] cave
Writhe your scorch'd limbs on sulphur's azure wave,
Or, shivering, yell amidst eternal snows,
Where cloud-capp'd CAF[73] protrudes his granite toes
(Bound by _his_ will, _Judæa's_ fabled king,[74]
Lord of _Aladdin's_ lamp and mystic ring).
Gins! YE remember! for YOUR toil convey'd
Whate'er of drugs the powerful charm could aid;
Air, earth, and sea ye search'd, and where below
Flame embryo lavas, young volcanoes glow--
GINS! ye beheld appall'd th' enchanter's hand
Wave in dark air th' _Hypothenusal_ wand:
Saw him the mystic _Circle_ trace, and wheel
With head erect, and far-extended heel;
Saw him, with speed that mock'd the dazzled eye,
Self-whirl'd, in quick gyrations eddying fly:
Till done the potent spell--behold him grown
Fair _Venus'_ emblem--the _Phœnician Cone_.[75]

Triumphs THE SEER, and now secure observes
The kindling passions of the _rival_ CURVES.

And first, the fair PARABOLA behold,
Her timid arms, with virgin blush, unfold!
Though, on one _focus_ fix'd, her eyes betray
A heart that glows with love's resistless sway,
Though, climbing oft, she strive with bolder grace
Round his tall neck to clasp her fond embrace,
Still ere she reach it, from his polish'd side
Her trembling hands in devious _Tangents_ glide.

Not thus HYPERBOLA:--with subtlest art
The blue-eyed wanton plays her changeful part;
Quick as her _conjugated axes_ move
Through every posture of luxurious love,
Her sportive limbs with easiest grace expand;
Her charms unveil'd provoke the lover's hand:
Unveil'd, except in many a filmy ray,
Where light _Asymptotes_ o'er her bosom play,
Nor touch her glowing skin, nor intercept the day.

Yet why, ELLIPSIS, at thy fate repine?
More lasting bliss, securer joys are thine.
Though to each Fair his treach'rous wish may stray,
Though each, in turn, may seize a transient sway,
'Tis thine with mild coercion to restrain,
Twine round his struggling heart, and bind with endless chain.

Thus, happy FRANCE! in thy regenerate land,
Where TASTE with RAPINE saunters hand in hand;
Where, nursed in seats of innocence and bliss,
REFORM greets TERROR with fraternal kiss;
Where mild PHILOSOPHY first taught to scan
The _wrongs_ of Providence, and _rights_ of MAN:
Where MEMORY broods o'er FREEDOM'S earlier scene,
The _Lantern_ bright, and brighter _Guillotine_;
_Three_ gentle swains evolve their longing arms,
And woo the young REPUBLIC'S virgin charms;
And though proud BARRAS with the Fair succeed,
Though not in vain th' Attorney REWBELL plead,
Oft doth th' impartial nymph their love forgo,
To clasp thy crooked shoulders, blest LEPEAUX!

So, with dark dirge athwart the blasted heath,
_Three_ SISTER WITCHES hail'd th' appall'd Macbeth.

So, the _Three_ FATES beneath grim _Pluto's_ roof,
Strain the dun warp, and weave the murky woof;
Till deadly ATROPOS with fatal shears
Slits the thin promise of th' expected years,
While midst the dungeon's gloom or battle's din,
Ambition's victims perish, as they spin.

Thus, the _Three_ GRACES on the _Idalian_ green
Bow with deft homage to _Cythera's_ Queen;
Her polish'd arms with pearly bracelets deck,
Part her light locks, and bare her ivory neck;
Round her fair form ethereal odours throw,
And teach th' unconscious zephyrs where to blow;
Floats the thin gauze, and glittering as they play,
The bright folds flutter in phlogistic day.

So, with his daughters _Three_, th' unsceptred LEAR
Heaved the loud sigh, and pour'd the glistering tear;
His DAUGHTERS _Three_, save one alone, conspire
(Rich in _his_ gifts) to spurn their generous sire;
Bid the rude storm his hoary tresses drench,
Stint the spare meal, the hundred knights retrench;
Mock his mad sorrow, and with alter'd mien
Renounce the daughter, and assert the queen.
A father's griefs his feeble frame convulse,
Rack his white head, and fire his feverous pulse;
Till kind CORDELIA soothes his soul to rest,
And folds the parent-monarch to her breast.

Thus some fair spinster grieves in wild affright,
Vex'd with dull megrim, or vertigo light;
Pleas'd round the fair _Three_ dawdling doctors stand,
Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand,
State the grave doubt, the nauseous draught decree,
And all receive, tho' none deserve, a fee.

So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides
The DERBY _dilly_, carrying _Three_ INSIDES.
One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease,
With folded arms, propt back, and outstretch'd knees;
While the press'd _Bodkin_, punch'd and squeez'd to death,
Sweats in the mid-most place, and pants for breath.

'Twas thine alone, O youth of giant frame,
ISOSCELES! that rebel heart to tame!
In vain coy MATHESIS[76] thy presence flies:
Still turn her fond hallucinating eyes;
Thrills with _Galvanic_ fires each tortuous nerve,
Throb her blue veins, and dies her cold reserve.
--Yet strives the Fair, till in the giant's breast
She sees the mutual passion flame confessed:
Where'er he moves, she sees his tall limbs trace
_Internal Angles equal at the base_;
Again she doubts him: but _produced at will_,
She sees _th' external Angles equal still_.

Say, blest Isosceles! what favouring power,
Or love, or chance, at night's auspicious hour,
While to the _Asses'-Bridge_ entranced you stray'd,
Led to the _Asses'-Bridge_ th' enamour'd maid?--
The _Asses'-Bridge_, for ages doom'd to hear
The deafening surge assault his wooden ear,
With joy repeats sweet sounds of mutual bliss,
The soft susurrant sigh, and gently-murmuring kiss.

So thy dark arches, LONDON _Bridge_, bestride
Indignant THAMES, and part his angry tide,
There oft--returning from those green retreats,
Where fair _Vauxhallia_ decks her sylvan seats;--
Where each spruce nymph, from city compters free,
Sips the froth'd syllabub, or fragrant tea;
While with sliced ham, scraped beef, and burnt champagne,
Her 'prentice lover soothes his amorous pain;
There oft, in well-trimm'd wherry, glide along
Smart beaux and giggling belles, a glittering throng:
Smells the tarr'd rope--with undulation fine
Flaps the loose sail--the silken awnings shine;

'Shoot we the bridge!' the venturous boatmen cry;
'Shoot we the bridge!' th' exulting fare reply.
--Down the steep fall the headlong waters go,
Curls the white foam, the breakers roar below.
The veering helm the dextrous steersman stops,
Shifts the thin oar, the fluttering canvas drops;
Then with closed eyes, clench'd hands, and quick-drawn breath,
Darts at the central arch, nor heeds the gulf beneath.
--Full 'gainst the pier the unsteady timbers knock,
The loose planks, starting, own the impetuous shock;
The shifted oar, dropp'd sail, and steadied helm,
With angry surge the closing waters whelm,
--Laughs the glad THAMES, and clasps each fair one's charms,
That screams and scrambles in his oozy arms.
--Drench'd each smart garb, and clogg'd each struggling limb,
Far o'er the stream the Cockneys sink or swim;
While each badged boatman, clinging to his oar,
Bounds o'er the buoyant wave, and climbs the applauding shore.

So, towering ALP! from thy majestic ridge
Young FREEDOM gazed on LODI'S blood-stain'd _Bridge_;
Saw, in thick throngs, conflicting armies rush,
Ranks close on ranks, and squadrons squadrons crush;
Burst in bright radiance through the battle's storm,
Waved her broad hands, display'd her awful form;
Bade at her feet regenerate nations bow,
And twin'd the wreath round Buonaparte's brow.
--Quick with new lights, fresh hopes, and alter'd zeal,
The slaves of despots dropp'd the blunted steel:
Exulting Victory crown'd her favourite child,
And freed LIGURIA, clapp'd her hands, and smiled.

Nor long the time ere Britain's shores shall greet
The warrior-sage, with gratulation sweet:
Eager to grasp the wreath of naval fame,
The GREAT REPUBLIC plans the _Floating Frame_!
--O'er the huge frame gigantic TERROR stalks,
And counts with joy the close-compacted balks:
Of young-eyed MASSACRES the Cherub crew
Round their grim chief the mimic task pursue;
Turn the stiff screw,[77] apply the strengthening clamp,
Drive the long bolt, or fix the stubborn cramp,
Lash the reluctant beam, the cable splice,
Join the firm dove-tail with adjustment nice,
Thro' yawning fissures urge the willing wedge,
Or give the smoothing adze a sharper edge.
--Or group'd in fairy bands, with playful care,
The unconscious bullet to the furnace bear;--
Or gaily tittering, tip the match with fire,
Prime the big mortar, bid the shell aspire;
Applaud, with tiny hands, and laughing eyes,
And watch the bright destruction as it flies.

Now the fierce forges gleam with angry glare--
The windmill[78] waves his woven wings in air;
Swells the proud sail, the exulting streamers fly,
Their nimble fins unnumber'd paddles ply:
--Ye soft airs breathe, ye gentle billows waft,
And, fraught with Freedom, bear the expected RAFT!
Perch'd on her back, behold the Patriot train,
MUIR, ASHLEY, BARLOW, BUONAPARTE, PAINE!
While ROWAN'S hand directs the blood-empurpled rein.

Ye IMPS of MURDER! guard her angel form,
Check the rude surge, and chase the hovering storm;
Shield from contusive rocks her timber limbs,
And guide the SWEET ENTHUSIAST[79] as she swims;

--And now, with web-foot oars, she gains the land,
And foreign footsteps press the yielding sand:
--The _Communes_ spread, the gay _Departments_ smile,
Fair _Freedom's Plant_ o'ershades the laughing isle:
Fired with new hopes, the exulting peasant sees
The Gallic streamer woo the British breeze;
While, pleased to watch its undulating charms,
The smiling infant[80] spreads his little arms.

Ye Sylphs of DEATH! on demon pinions flit
Where the tall _Guillotine_ is rais'd for PITT:
To the pois'd plank tie fast the monster's back,
Close the nice slider, ope the expectant sack;
Then twitch, with fairy hands, the frolic pin--
Down falls the impatient axe with deafening din;
The liberated head rolls off below,
And simpering FREEDOM hails the happy blow!

GEORGE CANNING AND GEORGE ELLIS.

SONG BY ROGERO.

(GERMAN TRAGEDY)

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

[_Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he
wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds._]

Sweet 'kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in,
Alas, Matilda _then_ was true,
At least I thought so at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

[_At the repetition of this line_ ROGERO _clanks his chains
in cadence_.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,
Her neat post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish'd at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in!
My years are many--They were few
When first I enter'd at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, Law Professor at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water gru-
-el never shall I see the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!--
-niversity of Gottingen!

[_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly
against the walls of his prison, and, finally, so hard as
to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on
the floor in an agony. The curtain drops--the music still
continuing to play, till it is wholly fallen._]

JAMES HOGG.

WALSINGHAME'S SONG

FROM 'WAT O' THE CLEUCH.'

(SCOTT)

O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch?
The lad that has worrying tikes enow,
Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,
And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine
With two pint stoups of good red wine;
But when he look'd they both were dry;
O poverty parts good company!
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tine
To woo a maid both gallant and fine;
But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side
He smell'd the mutton and left the bride.
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch?

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal,
He wanted milk and he wanted veal;
But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow
He hough'd the calf and eated the cow!
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight,
But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright,
And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray,
He wist not what to do or to say;
But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree,
A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree.
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch!

But the devil is cunning as I heard say,
He knew his right, and haul'd him away;
And he's over the Border and over the heuch,
And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch!

But of all the wights in poor Scotland,
That ever drew bow or Border brand,
That ever drove English bullock or ewe,
There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch.
Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!
Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch!

THE FLYING TAILOR.

FURTHER EXTRACT FROM 'THE RECLUSE,' A POEM.

(WORDSWORTH)

If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead
Into that green and flowery burial-ground
That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles
The church of Grasmere,--by the eastern gate
Enter--and underneath a stunted yew,
Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk,
On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave,
With unelaborate headstone beautified,
Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps
'Neath which the children of the valley lie.
There pause--and with no common feelings read
This short inscription--'Here lies buried
The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!'

Him from his birth unto his death I knew,
And many years before he had attain'd
The fulness of his fame, I prophesied
The triumphs of that youth's agility,
And crown'd him with that name which afterwards
He nobly justified--and dying left
To fame's eternal blazon--read it here--
'The Flying Tailor!'

It is somewhat strange
That his mother was a cripple, and his father
Long way declined into the vale of years
When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe
Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass
Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up
The sickly wretch, she to the father said,
'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect?
The mother being, as I said before,
A cripple, and the father of the child
Long way declined into the vale of years.

But mark the wondrous change--ere he was put
By his mother into breeches, Nature strung
The muscular part of his economy
To an unusual strength, and he could leap,
All unimpeded by his petticoats,
Over the stool on which his mother sat
When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,
Or meek performing other household tasks.
Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,
And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,
Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig,
More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.
What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog
Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers
He shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say?
Vainly so named. What though in attitude
The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race
When issuing from the weed-entangled pool,
Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields,
A jocund people, bouncing to and fro
Amid the odorous clover--while amazed
The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk
With folded pinions and forgets to sing.
Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was;
But sure his bounds across the village green
Seem'd to my soul--(my soul for ever bright
With purest beams of sacred poesy)--
Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill,
When, close-environed by the tinchels chain,
He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky,
Then o'er the many-headed multitude
Springs belling half in terror, half in rage,
And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind
Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.

No more of this--suffice it to narrate,
In his tenth year he was apprenticed
Unto a Master Tailor by a strong
And regular indenture of seven years,
Commencing from the date the parchment bore,
And ending on a certain day, that made
The term complete of seven solar years.
Oft have I heard him say, that at this time
Of life he was most wretched; for, constrain'd
To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board,
The natural circulation of the blood
Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt
So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise
Up from his work he could not, but fell back
Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd
With various colours, brightening gorgeously,
The board all round him--patch of warlike red
With which he patched the regimental-suits
Of a recruiting military troop,
At that time stationed in a market town
At no great distance--eke of solemn black
Shreds of no little magnitude, with which
The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing,
That in the new-roof'd church he might appear
With fitting dignity--and gravely fill
The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence,
Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith
The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit
Of atheist drying up each argument,
Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn
Their point against himself, and overthrow
His idols with the very enginery
Reared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.

Oft too, when striving all he could to finish
The stated daily task, the needle's point,
Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch,
Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mail
In vain defended, and the crimson blood
Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit;
A dismal omen! that to mind like his,
Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance
Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress
And feverish perturbation, so that oft
He scarce could eat his dinner--nay, one night
He swore to run from his apprenticeship,
And go on board a first-rate man-of-war,
From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool,
Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew
Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar
Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice
Of battle, he might strive to mitigate
The fever that consumed his mighty heart.