Chapter XI

The story like wildfire o’er Cambria was spread,
From the borders of Chester, to fam’d Holyhead,
In a vein of good humour, the vein that is blue,
Will long be remember’d by me and by you:
Then fill a bright bumper to honour this vein,
A bumper of pleasure to badger all pain;
So hear us, celestials, gay mortals below!
Drink c—t, the blue vein, wherein floods of joy flow.

COUNTRY LIFE.

_Written by CAPTAIN MORRIS._

WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS BY MR. HEWERDINE, MARKED BY INVERTED COMMAS.

Captain Morris’s song is here inserted, for the sake of the answer that follows.

In LONDON I never know what to be at—
Enraptur’d with this, and transported with that;
I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan—
And life seems a blessing too happy for man!

But the COUNTRY (Lord bless us!) sets all matters right—
So calm and composing from morning to night:
Oh, it settles the stomach, when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common—a goose on a green!

In LONDON how easy we visit and meet!—
Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat;
Our mornings a round of good humour delight—
And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night!

In the COUNTRY how pleasant our visits to make,
Thro’ ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake;
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,
And no thought in our head—but a ditch or a bog!

In LONDON, if folks ill together are put,
A _bore_ may be roasted, a _quiz_ may be cut.
“In the COUNTRY your friends would feel angry and sore,
“Call an old maid a _quiz_, or a parson a _bore_.”

In the COUNTRY you’re nail’d like a pale in your park,
To some stick of a neighbour cramm’d into the ark;
Or, if you are sick, or in fits tumble down,
You reach death, ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I’ve heard that how love in a cottage is sweet,
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:—
I know nothing of that; for, alas, I’m a swain
Who requires (I own it) more links to MY chain!

Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees,
And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please:
But a house is much more to my mind than a tree;
And, for groves—oh, a fine grove of chimneys for me!

“In the ev’ning you’re screw’d to your chairs fist to fist,
“All stupidly yawning at sixpenny whist;
“And, tho’ win or lose, ’tis as true as ’tis strange,
“You’ve nothing to pay—the good folks _have no change!_

“But, for singing and piping, your time to engage,
“You’ve cock and hen bullfinches coop’d in a cage;
“And what music in nature can make you so feel,
“As a pig in a gate stuck, or knife-grinder’s wheel!

“I grant, if in fishing you take much delight,
“In a punt you may shiver from morning to night;
“And, tho’ blest with the patience that JOB had of old,
“The devil a thing do you catch—but a _cold_!

“Yet ’tis charming to hear, just from boarding-school come,
“A Tit-up tune up an old family strum:
“Play _God save the King_ in an excellent tone,
“With the sweet variation of _Old Bob and Joan_!

“But, what tho’ your appetite’s in a weak state,
“A pound at a time they will push on your plate:—
“’Tis true, as to health, you’ve no cause to complain;
“For they’ll drink it, GOD bless ’em, _again and again_!”

Then in TOWN let me live, and in TOWN let me die;
For, in truth, I can’t relish the COUNTRY—not I.
If I must have a villa in LONDON to dwell,
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall-mall!

THE ANSWER TO CAPTAIN MORRIS’S SONG, “_The COUNTRY LIFE_.”

I.

As town-bitten bards, bred in fashion and noise,
The country decry, and its health yielding joys;
Let us fairly examine the preference due
To the smoak-smother’d town, o’er the villa’s clear view.

II.

At ev’ry town tavern you turn in to dine,
Tho’ your dinner’s half cold, smoaking hot is your wine;
Then how pleasant and wholesome while picking your bone,
The mix’d odour of other folks food and your own.

III.

Then noisy and drunk, scarcely feeling their legs,
Bucks sup at the M⸺, on hash’d duck, oysters, eggs,
Eggs pregnant with chick, oysters sp—d up before,
The duck dainty fed in the streets common sewer.

IV.

Yet, how charming Vauxhall in a cold rainy night,
To hear dull-hacknied ditties to music so trite;
You’ve a thin slice of ham, town-made wine thick and flat:
View a tinman’s cascade, and a fidler’s cock’d hat!

V.

See Ranelagh! folly and fashion’s resort,
And vapid masqued balls, where Intrigue holds her court;
There girls are “loose fishes,” pull’d up in their turns;
There wives are harpoon’d, and dull husbands get horns.