Chapter XIX: Part III: Mediæval Ages (13)

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
um bob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, “Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to ’em, little Nan.

“You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
And then you’re sure to take:
I’ve known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;
Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I’m speaking, where’s papa?
And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma?
Where’s Jack? Oh, there they sit!
They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy’s chaise,
To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And if you’ll blow to me a kiss,
I’ll blow a kiss to you.

[_Blows a kiss, and exit._

_THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER_

A Milkmaid, with a pretty face,
Who lived at Acton,
Had a black cow, the ugliest in the place,
A crooked-backed one,
A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful,
Vicious and spiteful;
And so confirmed a truant that she bounded
Over the hedges daily and got pounded:
’Twas in vain to tie her with a tether,
For then both cow and cord eloped together.
Armed with an oaken bough--(what folly!
It should have been of thorn, or prickly holly),
Patty one day was driving home the beast,
Which had as usual slipped its anchor,
When on the road she met a certain Banker,
Who stopped to give his eyes a feast,
By gazing on her features crimsoned high
By a long cow-chase in July.

“Are you from Acton, pretty lass?” he cried;
“Yes”--with a courtesy she replied.
“Why, then, you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?”
“Yes, she’s my cousin, sir, and next-door neighbor.”
“That’s lucky--I’ve a message for the wench
Which needs despatch, and you may save my labor.
Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it:
But mind, you owe me one--I’ve only lent it.”
“She shall know,” cried the girl, as she brandished her bough,
“Of the loving intentions you bore me;
But since you’re in haste for the kiss, you’ll allow,
That you’d better run forward and give it my cow,
For she, at the rate she is scampering now,
Will reach Acton some minutes before me.”
HORACE SMITH.

_THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH_

One of the Kings of Scanderoon,
A royal jester,
Had in his train a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester
The Court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folks his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.
It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule
Occurred not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks
Lead to innumerable scrapes,
And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
Which only seemed to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurred the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging highness:
Whether he twitched his most revered
And sacred beard,
Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the seraglio, or let fly
An epigram at royalty,
None knows: his sin was an occult one,
But records tell us that the Sultan,
Meaning to terrify the knave,
Exclaimed, “’Tis time to stop that breath:
Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!
Thou stand’st condemned to certain death:
Silence, base rebel! no replying!
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying.”

“Thy royal will be done--’tis just,”
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
“Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your majesty’s humane decree
Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
I’ll die, so please you, of old age!”
HORACE SMITH.

It is to be regretted that the feminine writers of this period showed practically no evidence of humorous scintillation, but we have searched in vain through the writings of Ann and Jane Taylor, Mary Russell Mitford, Felicia Hemans and Letitia Elizabeth Landon,--finding only some unconscious humor, not at all intentional on the part of the authoresses, as they were then called.

William Maginn was also adept at parody, but his work was ephemeral.

The rollicking rhyme of the Irishman is among the most interesting of his poems.

_THE IRISHMAN_

There was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man,
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman,
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox ’twas scarred across,
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh, the lump of an Irishman,
The whisky-devouring Irishman,
The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue, the fighting,
rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green,
And the other eye was out, my dear,
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman,
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of
an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot
That he used to snort and snuffle, oh,
And in shape and size the fellow’s neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman,
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing
Irishman!

His name was a terrible name indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,
He’d not rest till he’d filled it full again.
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The ’toxicated Irishman,
The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no-dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved,
Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
Oh, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman!
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen’s heads were bothered,
I’m sure, by this Irishman.

Thomas Haynes Bayly, though not especially a humorist, showed the influence of a witty muse in his songs, which were numerous and popular.

_She Wore a Wreath of Roses_, _Oh, No, We Never Mention Her_ and _Gaily the Troubadour Touched his Guitar_ are among the best remembered.

He was the author of many bright bits of Society Verse, and wrote some deep and very real satire.

_WHY DON’T THE MEN PROPOSE?_

Why don’t the men propose, mamma?
Why don’t the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes;
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
_That_ everybody knows;
You _fête_ the finest men in town,
Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons,
I’m ever on the watch;
I’ve hopes when some _distingué_ beau
A glance upon me throws;
But though he’ll dance and smile and flirt,
Alas! he won’t propose.

I’ve tried to win by languishing,
And dressing like a blue;
I’ve bought big books and talked of them
As if I’d read them through!
With hair cropp’d like a man I’ve felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh! they won’t propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisped out nought beyond
Plain “yesses” or plain “noes,”
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble’s rout
I heard Sir Henry Gale
Exclaim, “Now I _propose_ again----”
I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
I blushed like any rose;
But oh! I found ’twas only at
_Ecarté_ he’d propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh, what is to be done?
I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one;
At balls I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why don’t the men propose, mamma?
Why _won’t_ the men propose?

Frederick Marryat, oftener spoken of as Captain Marryat was among the most renowned writers of sea stories, and easily the most humorous of the authors who chose the sea for their fictional setting.

His books are well known in all households, and after Dickens there is probably no English novelist who has caused more real chuckles.

_NAUTICAL TERMS_

All the sailors were busy at work, and the first lieutenant cried out to the gunner, “Now, Mr. Dispart, if you are ready, we’ll breech these guns.”

“Now, my lads,” said the first lieutenant, “we must slug (the part the breeches cover) more forward.” As I never had heard of a gun having breeches, I was very curious to see what was going on, and went up close to the first lieutenant, who said to me, “Youngster, hand me that _monkey’s tail_.” I saw nothing like a _monkey’s tail_, but I was so frightened that I snatched up the first thing that I saw, which was a short bar of iron, and it so happened that it was the very article which he wanted. When I gave it to him, the first lieutenant looked at me, and said, “So you know what a monkey’s tail is already, do you? Now don’t you ever sham stupid after that.”

Thought I to myself, I’m very lucky, but if that’s a monkey’s tail, it’s a very stiff one!

I resolved to learn the names of everything as fast as I could, that I might be prepared, so I listened attentively to what was said; but I soon became quite confused, and despaired of remembering anything.

“How is this to be finished off, sir?” inquired a sailor of the boatswain.

“Why, I beg leave to hint to you, sir, in the most delicate manner in the world,” replied the boatswain, “that it must be with a _double-wall_--and be damned to you--don’t you know that yet? Captain of the foretop,” said he, “up on your _horses_, and take your _stirrups_ up three inches.” “Aye, aye, sir.” I looked and looked, but I could see no horses.

“Mr. Chucks,” said the first lieutenant to the boatswain, “what blocks have we below--not on charge?”

“Let me see, sir. I’ve one _sister_, t’other we split in half the other day, and I think I have a couple of _monkeys_ down in the store-room. I say, you Smith, pass that brace through the _bull’s eye_, and take the _sheep-shank_ out before you come down.”

And then he asked the first lieutenant whether something should not be fitted with a _mouse_ or only a _Turk’s-head_--told him the _goose-neck_ must be spread out by the armourer as soon as the forge was up. In short, what with _dead-eyes_ and _shrouds_, _cats_ and _cat-blocks_, _dolphins_ and _dolphin-strikers, whips_ and _puddings_, I was so puzzled with what I heard, that I was about to leave the deck in absolute despair.

“And, Mr. Chucks, recollect this afternoon that you _bleed_ all the _buoys_.”

Bleed the boys, thought I; what can that be for? At all events, the surgeon appears to be the proper person to perform that operation. --_Peter Simple._

Douglas Jerrold was an infant prodigy and later a noted playwright; beside being the author of the world famous Caudle lectures.

He was a celebrated wit and punster and though many epigrammatic sayings are wrongly attributed to him, yet he was the originator of as many more.

_COLD MUTTON, PUDDING, PANCAKES_

“What am I grumbling about, now? It’s very well for you to ask that! I’m sure I’d better be out of the world than--there now, Mr Caudle; there you are again! I _shall_ speak, sir. It isn’t often I open my mouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.

“You’re to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and I’m not to say a word. Where do you think pudding’s to come from every day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there’s no pudding! You go a nice way to make ’em extravagant--teach ’em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do you think they fly in at the window?

“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I’m sure you’ve the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn’t choose to hash the mutton. It’s very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ know what a joint loses in hashing: it’s a day’s dinner the less, if it’s a bit. Yes, I dare say; other people may have puddings with cold mutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever you get into the _Gazette_, it sha’n’t be _my_ fault--no; I’ll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle; you shall never have it to say that it was _my_ housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you’ll never live to want such a piece of cold mutton as we had to-day! and you may threaten to go to a tavern to dine; but, with our present means, not a crumb of pudding do you get from me. You shall have nothing but the cold joint--nothing, as I’m a Christian sinner.

“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; but you were mean enough to want to stop ’em out of my week’s money! Oh, the selfishness--the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at ’em afterward; but if it’s anything wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder you don’t blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn’t be so little for the world, Mr. Caudle!

“What are you going to do? _Going to get up?_ Don’t make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can’t say a word to you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. _Do_ be ashamed of yourself.

“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I’m made of puddings? Didn’t you have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the year for puddings? It’s all very well if I had money enough allowed me like any other wife to keep the house with; then, indeed, I might have preserves like any other woman; now, it’s impossible; and it’s cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it.

“_Apples ar’n’t so dear, are they?_ I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn’t it? And that’s how it is. That’s how one expense brings on another, and that’s how people go to ruin.

“_Pancakes?_ What’s the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? Don’t you always have ’em once a year--every Shrove Tuesday? And what would any moderate, decent man want more?

“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle--no, it’s no use your saying fine words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha’n’t. Pray, do you know the price of eggs just now? There’s not an egg you can trust to under seven and eight a shilling; well, you’ve only just to reckon up how many eggs--don’t lie swearing there at the eggs in that manner, Mr. Caudle; unless you expect the bed to let you fall through. You call yourself a respectable tradesman, I suppose? Ha! I only wish people knew you as well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I’m tired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don’t care how soon it’s ended!

“I’m sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the most of everything; and this is how I’m rewarded.”

--_Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures._

“Call that a kind man,” said an actor of an absent acquaintance; “a man who is away from his family, and never sends them a farthing! Call that kindness!” “Yes, unremitting kindness,” Jerrold replied.

Some member of “Our Club,” hearing an air mentioned, exclaimed: “That always carries me away when I hear it.” “Can nobody whistle it?” exclaimed Jerrold.

A friend said to Jerrold: “Have you heard about poor R---- [a lawyer]? His business is going to the devil.” Jerrold answered: “That’s all right: then he is sure to get it back again.”

* * * * *

If an earthquake were to engulf England to-morrow, the English would meet and dine somewhere just to celebrate the event.

* * * * *

Of a man who had pirated one of his jests, and who was described in his hearing as an honest fellow, he said, “Oh yes, you can trust him with untold jokes.”

* * * * *

Jerrold met Alfred Bunn one day in Piccadilly. Bunn stopped Jerrold, and said, “I suppose you’re strolling about, picking up character.” “Well, not exactly,” said Jerrold, “but there’s plenty lost hereabouts.”

* * * * *

Jerrold was seriously disappointed with a certain book written by one of his friends. This friend heard that he had expressed his disappointment. _Friend_ (to Jerrold): “I heard you said it was the worst book I ever wrote.” _Jerrold_: “No, I didn’t. I said it was the worst book anybody ever wrote.”

* * * * *

Some one was talking with him about a gentleman as celebrated for the intensity as for the shortness of his friendships. “Yes,” said Jerrold, “his friendships are so warm, that he no sooner takes them up than he puts them down again.”

* * * * *

Thomas Moore, called the most successful Irishman of letters of the nineteenth century, early developed a taste for music and a talent for versification. To this add his native wit, and we have a humorist of no mean order.

He wrote epistles, odes, satires and songs with equal facility, and to these he added books of travel and biography and history.

His quick wit is shown in his lighter verse and epigrams.

_NONSENSE_

Good reader, if you e’er have seen,
When Phœbus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids with their tresses green
Dancing upon the western billow;
If you have seen at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore,
The fairy train their ringlets weave
Glancing along the spangled green;--
If you have seen all this, and more,
God bless me! what a deal you’ve seen!

_LYING_

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath’d you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies’ eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!
Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.
And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you’re false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!

_WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE?_

_Quest._--Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?
_Answ._--Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

_OF ALL THE MEN_

Of all the men one meets about,
There’s none like Jack--he’s everywhere:
At church--park--auction--dinner--rout--
Go when and where you will, he’s there.
Try the West End, he’s at your back--
Meets you, like Eurus, in the East--
You’re call’d upon for “How do, Jack?”
One hundred times a day, at least.
A friend of his one evening said,
As home he took his pensive way,
“Upon my soul, I fear Jack’s dead--
I’ve seen him but three times to-day!”

_ON TAKING A WIFE_

“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life,
There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.--
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.”--
“Why, so it is, father,--whose wife shall I take?”

_UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY_

FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turn’d out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I’m banish’d from mine.

Samuel Lover and Charles James Lever are two more versatile Irish authors, the latter being the most eminent of the Irish novelists.

Both wrote delightful light verse and many popular songs.

_RORY O’MORE_

Young Rory O’More courted young Kathleen Bawn.
He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn.
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye;
“With your tricks I don’t know in troth what I’m about!
Faith! you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.”
“Oh, jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way
You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day;
And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure,
For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;
The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound.”
“Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.”
“Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go,
Sure, I dream every night that I’m hating you so.”
“Oh!” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear,
For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die,
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie.
And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure,
Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve teased me enough,
And I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So, I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.”
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck!
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light;
And he kissed her sweet lips. Don’t you think he was right?
“Now, Rory, leave off, sir--you’ll hug me no more--
There’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure.
For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.
SAMUEL LOVER.

_LANTY LEARY_

Lanty was in love, you see,
With lovely, lively Rosie Carey;
But her father can’t agree
To give the girl to Lanty Leary.
Up to fun, “Away we’ll run,”
Says she; “my father’s so conthrairy.
Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”
“Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.

But her father died one day
(I hear ’twas not by dhrinkin’ wather);
House and land and cash, they say,
He left by will to Rose his daughter;
House and land and cash to seize,
Away she cut so light and airy.
“Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”
“Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.

Rose, herself, was taken bad,
The fayver worse each day was growin’;
“Lanty, dear,” says she, “’tis sad,
To th’ other world I’m surely goin’.
You can’t survive my loss, I know,
Nor long remain in Tipperary.
Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”
“Faith, I won’t!” says Lanty Leary.
SAMUEL LOVER.

_WIDOW MALONE_

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone, ohone?
Oh! she melted the hearts of the swains in them parts,
So lovely the Widow Malone, ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score, or more,
And fortunes they all had galore, in store;
From the minister down to the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone, ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone, ’twas known,
That no one could see her alone, ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh, they could ne’er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone, ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O’Brien, from Clare--how quare!
It’s little for blushing they care down there,
Put his arm round her waist--gave ten kisses at laste--
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone, my own!
Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone.”

And the widow they all thought so shy, my eye!
Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh, for why?
“But, Lucius,” says she, “since you’ve now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone, ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone.”
CHARLES LEVER.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed belongs to the small group of Londoners which also included Calverley and Locker-Lampson. At least one great critic considers Praed the greatest of this band, and so far as metric skill and finished execution are concerned, he may well be called so. Also, his taste is impeccable, and his society verse ranks among the best.

_A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES_

Lady, I loved you all last year,
How honestly and well--
Alas! would weary you to hear,
And torture me to tell;
I raved beneath the midnight sky,
I sang beneath the limes--
Orlando in my lunacy,
And Petrarch in my rhymes.
But all is over! When the sun
Dries up the boundless main,
When black is white, false-hearted one,
I may be yours again!

When passion’s early hopes and fears
Are not derided things;
When truth is found in falling tears,
Or faith in golden rings;
When the dark Fates that rule our way
Instruct me where they hide
One woman that would ne’er betray,
One friend that never lied;
When summer shines without a cloud,
And bliss without a pain;
When worth is noticed in a crowd,
I may be yours again!

When science pours the light of day
Upon the lords of lands;
When Huskisson is heard to say
That Lethbridge understands;
When wrinkles work their way in youth,
Or Eldon’s in a hurry;
When lawyers represent the truth,
Or Mr. Sumner Surrey;
When aldermen taste eloquence
Or bricklayers champagne;
When common law is common sense,
I may be yours again!

When Pole and Thornton honour cheques,
Or Mr. Const a rogue;
When Jericho’s in Middlesex,
Or minuets in vogue;
When Highgate goes to Devonport,
Or fashion to Guildhall;
When argument is heard at Court,
Or Mr. Wynn at all;
When Sydney Smith forgets to jest,
Or farmers to complain;
When kings that are are not the best,
I may be yours again!

When peers from telling money shrink,
Or monks from telling lies;
When hydrogen begins to sink,
Or Grecian scrip to rise;
When German poets cease to dream,
Americans to guess;
When Freedom sheds her holy beam
On Negroes, and the Press;
When there is any fear of Rome,
Or any hope of Spain;
When Ireland is a happy home,
I may be yours again!

When you can cancel what has been,
Or alter what must be,
Or bring once more that vanished scene,
Those withered joys to me;
When you can tune the broken lute,
Or deck the blighted wreath,
Or rear the garden’s richest fruit,
Upon a blasted heath;
When you can lure the wolf at bay
Back to his shattered chain,
To-day may then be yesterday--
I may be yours again!

William Makepeace Thackeray, combining all the highest mental and moral qualities in his work, adds thereto a delicate and subtle humor, never broad, but always forcible and original.

This permeates all his novels, which, of course, may not be quoted here, even in excerpts.

But Thackeray was equally happy in verse, and his contributions to London _Punch_ are among the treasures of that journal’s history.

_LITTLE BILLEE_

There were three sailors of Bristol City
Who took a boat and went to sea,
But first with beef and captain’s biscuits,
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they’d got as far as the Equator
They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“I am extremely hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“With one another we shouldn’t agree!
There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”

“O Billy! we’re going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information,
He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mother taught to me.”
“Make haste! make haste!” says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee,
He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment
When up he jumps--“There’s land I see!”

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee,
There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Sir Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,
But as for little Bill, he made him
The captain of a Seventy-three.

_THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN_

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek--
I stood in the Court of A’Beckett the Beak,
Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,
Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin’ of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once,
And she came to Mrs. Roney it’s more than twelve monce
She adn’t got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,
And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks
(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),
She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,
Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

“Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;
Will you jest step to the doctor’s for to fetch me a pill?”
“That I will, my pore Mary,” Mrs. Roney says she:
And she goes off to the doctor’s as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,
Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;
She hopens all the trunks without never a key--
She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney’s best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,
Her children’s little coats and things, her boots and her hose,
She packed them, and she stole ’em, and avay vith them did flee
Mrs. Roney’s situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,
Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,
Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?
But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;
They were going to be married, and were walkin’ hand in hand;
And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,
And the parson was ready, and a waitin’ for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,
Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.
She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;
I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,
I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,
But the marriage bell is ringin’ and the ring you may see,
And this young man is a waitin’ says Mary, says she.

I don’t care three fardens for the parson and clark,
And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.
Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.
And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary’s cheek,
I took that young gurl to A’Beckett the Beak;
That exlent justice demanded her plea--
But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile,
That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,
And if she’s transpawted beyond the salt sea,
It’s a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,
From pickin’ and stealin’ your ’ands you must keep,
Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek
To pull you all hup to A’Beckett the Beak.

_WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS_

When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily’s bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble ’all,
Where England’s loveliest shine--
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems--
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures--
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams;
It is the Star of Hope--but ar!
Dost thou remember Jeames?

_SORROWS OF WERTHER_

Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter.
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person
Went on cutting bread and butter.

Charles Dickens, in some senses the world’s greatest humorist, is too much of a household word, to need either introduction or quotation.

Nor is it easy to quote from his books, which must be read in their entirety or in long instalments to get their message.

One short extract is given, from _Martin Chuzzlewit_.

_MRS. GAMP’S APARTMENT_

Mrs. Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore, metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsy Prig; Mrs. Prig of Bartlemy’s; or, as some said, Barklemy’s; or, as some said, Bardlemy’s; for by all these endearing and familiar appellations had the hospital of St. Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which Betsy Prig adorned.

Mrs. Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind, a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr. Sweedlepipe’s may have been, in the imagination of Mrs. Gamp, a stately pile. If it were not exactly that to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much accommodation as any person not sanguine to insanity could have looked for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in your mind, and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of St. Bartholomew by falling into the fire. Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an unflagging recollection of this piece of furniture by its size, which was great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead, nor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the sacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mr. Gamp’s box would not go under it, but stopped half way, in a manner which, while it did violence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The frame, too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings, if there had been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber, which, on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came tumbling down, harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors. The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity; and at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty curtain of blue check, which prevented the zephyrs that were abroad in Kingsgate Street from visiting Mrs. Gamp’s head too roughly.

The chairs in Mrs. Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for their being but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs of ancient mahogany, and were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away, with a dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs. Gamp wanted in chairs she made up in band-boxes, of which she had a great collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables, which were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for though every band-box had a carefully-closed lid, not one among them had a bottom, owing to which cause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look alone; but, in regard of security, it had a great advantage over the band-boxes, for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at its contents. This, indeed, was only to be done by one of two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.

Mrs. Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the fireplace; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals, and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with an almanac; it was also embellished with three profiles; one, in colors, of Mrs. Gamp herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs. Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in black, of Mr. Gamp deceased. The last was a full-length, in order that the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible, by the introduction of the wooden leg. A pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory, and lastly, Mrs. Gamp’s umbrella, which, as something of great price and rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the decorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall.

* * * * *

William Edmonstoune Aytoun and Theodore Martin, two young men of brilliant brains, produced together the collection of burlesque and parodies known as _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_.

At this time, the middle of the eighteenth century, parody was greatly in vogue. The Ballads were whimsical, and as a whole, kindly. They were extremely popular, as much so as the Rejected Addresses, but today they seem dull and rather futile.

Another vogue of the day was Bathos, of which the following is a fair example.

_THE HUSBAND’S PETITION_

Come hither, my heart’s darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
’T is something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving--
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak--
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine,--
I know my soul’s emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above.
These little taper fingers--
Ah, Jane! how white they be!--
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best--
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days,
When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,
When ’neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel-music,
When first I woo’d thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee
For ever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task--
A BOILED SHEEP’S-HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask!

This extract is from a long poem, called:

_THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN_

PARODY ON TENNYSON’S “LOCKSLEY HALL”

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air

Whether ’t was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I’m to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock,
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes--
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty
glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

O, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!
I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I’ve bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy,--frailer than a shilling glove,
Puppet to a father’s anger,--minion to a nabob’s love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no,--
Bless your soul, it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest
fancies,
He will understand thee, won’t he?--pay thee with a lover’s glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better, thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!

Charles Kingsley, a clergyman of attainments, possessed the same type of whimsical humor as the later and greater Lewis Carroll.

His _Water Babies_ from which a short extract is given, is a classic in child literature.

_THE PROFESSOR’S MALADY_

They say that no one has ever yet seen a water-baby. For my part, I believe that the naturalists get dozens of them when they are out dredging, but they say nothing about them and throw them overboard again, for fear of spoiling their theories. But you see the professor was found out, as every one is in due time. A very terrible old fairy found the professor out. She felt his bumps, and cast his nativity, and took the lunars of him carefully inside and out; and so she knew what he would do as well as if she had seen it in a print book, as they say in the dear old west country. And he did it. And so he was found out beforehand, as everybody always is; and the old fairy will find out the naturalists some day, and put them in the _Times_; and then on whose side will the laugh be?

So all the doctors in the country were called in to make a report on his case; and of course every one of them flatly contradicted the other: else what use is there in being men of science? But at last the majority agreed on a report, in the true medical language, one half bad Latin, the other half worse Greek, and the rest what might have been English, if they had only learned to write it. And this is the beginning thereof:

“The subanhypaposupernal anastomoses of peritomic diacellurite in the encephalo-digital region of the distinguished individual of whose symptomatic phenomena we had the melancholy honour (subsequent to a preliminary diagnostic inspection) of making an inspectorial diagnosis, presenting the interexclusively quadrilateral and antinomian diathesis known as Bumpsterhausen’s blue follicles, we proceeded----”

But what they proceeded to do my lady never knew, for she was so frightened at the long words that she ran for her life, and locked herself into her bedroom, for fear of being squashed by the words and strangled by the sentence. A boa-constrictor, she said, was bad company enough; but what was a boa-constrictor made of paving-stones?

“It was quite shocking! What can they think is the matter with him?” said she to the old nurse.

“That his wit’s just addled; maybe wi’ unbelief and heathenry,” quoth she.

“Then why can’t they say so?”

And the heaven, and the sea, and the rocks and vales re-echoed, “Why, indeed?” But the doctors never heard them.

So she made Sir John write to the _Times_ to command the chancellor of the exchequer for the time being to put a tax on long words:

A light tax on words over three syllables, which are necessary evils, like rats, but, like them, must be kept down judiciously.

A heavy tax on words over four syllables, as heterodoxy, spontaneity, spiritualism, spuriosity, etc.

And on words over five syllables (of which I hope no one will wish to see any examples), a totally prohibitory tax.

And a similar prohibitory tax on words derived from three or more languages at once, words derived from two languages, having become so common that there was no more hope of rooting out them than of rooting out peth-winds.

The chancellor of the exchequer, being a scholar and a man of sense, jumped at the notion, for he saw in it the one and only plan for abolishing Schedule D. But when he brought in his bill, most of the Irish members, and (I am sorry to say) some of the Scotch likewise, opposed it most strongly, on the ground that in a free country no man was bound either to understand himself or to let others understand him. So the bill fell through on the first reading, and the chancellor, being a philosopher, comforted himself with the thought that it was not the first time that a woman had hit off a grand idea, and the men turned up their stupid noses thereat.

* * * * *

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is conceded the gift of humor by some, but his other attributes so far outshine it that his amusing bits are hard to find. A moderately funny poem is:

_THE GOOSE_

I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter’d rhyme and reason,
“Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season.”

She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose--’twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless’d herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.

And feeding high and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff’d,
The parson smirk’d and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack’d and cackled louder.

It clutter’d here, it chuckled there;
It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle;
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl’d the pan and kettle.

“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!”
Then wax’d her anger stronger.
“Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not bear it longer.”

Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill’d the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder’d all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter’d words of scorning;
“So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning.”

The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind cleared the larder.

And while on all sides breaking loose,
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, “The devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger!”

Robert Browning, though scarcely to be called a humorous poet, had a fine wit and a quick and agile sense of whimsey.

His _Pied Piper of Hamelin_, written to amuse a sick child of Macready’s, is a masterpiece of quiet humor. His satiric vein is shown in:

_THE POPE AND THE NET_

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,
Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:
His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,
Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit
No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head;
Each wings at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead
Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs:
“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince--it is indeed a rise:
So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set
Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met
His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:
“The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!
He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “’Tis my
advice.”

So Pope he was: and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on--
To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone--
That guarantee of lowlihead,--eclipsed that star which shone!