Chapter III (1)

I hope to turn M.P.
You have not any notion,
So awkward you would be
At “seconding a motion!”

TO A CRITIC.

O Cruel One! How littel dost thou knowe
How manye poetes with Unhappyenesse
Thou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to blowe
Like to yonge Buddes in theyre firste sappyenesse!
Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe
Great Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle,
Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe,
Fold up theyre strypëd leaves, and dye withalle.
Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falle
Because a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede,--
That els had growne soe fayre and eke soe talle
To-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and sprede
Its blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to rede
In soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede!

THE SWEETS OF YOUTH.

“Sweets to the sweet--farewell.”--HAMLET.

Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough--
All human children have a sweetish taste;
I used to revel in a pie, or puff;
Or tart--we all were _Tartars_ in our youth
To meet with jam or jelly was good luck,
All candies most complacently I crumped,
A stick of liquorice was good to suck,
And sugar was as often liked as lumped!
On treacle’s “linkèd sweetness long drawn out,”
Or honey I could feast like any fly;
I thrilled when lollipops were hawked about;
How pleased to compass hard-bake or bull’s-eye;
How charmed if Fortune in my power cast
Elecampane--but that campaign is past.

TO HENRIETTA,[8]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They will not just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief,
They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,
With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,
And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,
And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;
And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,
For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,
But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;
For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)
In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls
In scraps of _Galignani_ they’ll screw up your little curls;
And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You’ll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring;
That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor _peut-être_ a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!”
So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “_Tant mi--eux!_”

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

HINTS TO PAUL PRY.

Oh, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul--but not Virginia’s Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm’d withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;--

Oh no! for thou wert never born
To watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn--
Thy home is always in a crowd
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston--that dramatic Buck.

True as the evening’s primrose flower,
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house, in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d,
Still Paul--yet we are never pall’d!

Friend of the keyhole and the crack,
That lets thee pry within and pore,
Thy very nose betrays the knack--
Upturn’d through kissing with the door;
A peeping trick that each dear friend
Sends thee to Coventry, to mend!

Thy bended body shows thy bent,
Inclined to news in every place;
Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent,
Stand each a query in thy face;
Thy hat a curious hat appears,
Pricking its brims up like thy ears;

Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,
To post thee sooner here and there,
To every house where thou shouldst not;
In gait, in garb, in face, and air,
The true eavesdropper we perceive,
Not merely dropping in at eve,--

But morn and noon, through all the span
Of day,--to disconcert and fret,
Unwelcome guest to every man,
A kind of dun, without a debt,
Well cursed by porter in the hall,
For calling when there is no call.

Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch--
That rule should save thee many a sore;
But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,
A box attends thee at the door--
The household menials e’en begin
To show thee out ere thou art in!

Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,
Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,
Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,
And Subtle mourns her ruin’d plot,
And bans thy bones--alas! for why!
A tender curiosity!

Oh leave the Hardys to themselves--
Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams--
’Tis true that they were laid on shelves--
Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;
More things there are, the public sigh
To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!

There’s Lady L---- the late Miss P----,
Miss P---- and lady both were late,
And two in ten can scarce agree,
For why the title had to wait;
But thou mightst learn from her own lips
What wind detain’d the lady-ship?

Or Mr. P.!--the sire that nursed
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art,
Who form’d thy prying genius first--
(Thou wottest his untender part),
’Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”

Some people long to know the truth
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again--in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!

Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge
The porter’s glance, and just drop in
At Windsor’s shy sequester’d lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)--and kindly bring
Poor Cob’s petition to the king.

There’s Mrs. Coutts--hath she outgrown
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
’Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.

O, come abroad, with curious hat,
And patch’d umbrella, curious too--
To poke with this, and pry with that--
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!

ON STEAM.

BY AN UNDER-HOSTLER.

I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv
When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!

ALLEGORY.

A MORAL VEHICLE.

I had a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;
Although he sometimes kicked, and shied aslant.
I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red,
Because ’twas only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.
I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;
A son called Frolic, who was never still:
Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright!
Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,
Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,
And Pleasure fell a splitter on _Paine’s Hill_!

A SOMNAMBULIST.

“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”--BYRON.

Methought--for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven--
Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,
With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:
Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;
And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware;
Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,
To gain that blessed haven from all care,
Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,
When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair--
Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp--upon the Brixton Mill!

TO VAUXHALL.

“The English Garden.”--MASON.

The cold transparent ham is on my fork--
It hardly rains--and hark the bell!--ding-dingle--
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,
Mocking a Vauxhall shower!--Married and Single
Crush--rush;--Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,
Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
To study the Sublime, &c.--(vide Burke)
All Noses are upturn’d!--Whish--ish--! On high
The rocket rushes--trails--just steals in sight--
Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light--
And Darkness reigns--Then balls flare up and die--
Wheels whiz--smack crackers--serpents twist--and then
Back to the cold transparent ham again!

TO A SCOTCH GIRL,

WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION.

Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth,
Thou mak’st a washing picture well deserving
The pen and pencilling of Washington Irving:
Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth,
Dashing about the water of the Firth,
To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving,
And never from thy dance of duty swerving
As there were nothing else than dirt on earth!
Yet what is thy reward? Nay, do not start!
I do not mean to give thee a new damper,
But while thou fillest this industrious part
Of washer, wearer, mangler, presser, stamper,
Deserving better character--thou art
What Bodkin would but call--“a common tramper.”

TO A DECAYED SEAMAN.

Hail! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop!
Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion,
Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop
Became so fatal to thy locomotion;--
Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean,
Thou readest still to men a lesson good,
To King and Country showing thy devotion,
By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood!
Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol;
Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg,--
Methinks,--thou Naval History in one Vol.--
A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg,
For unlike others that desert their Poll,
Thou walkest ever with thy “Constant Peg!”

TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL.

I’m fond of partridges, I’m fond of snipes,
I’m fond of black cocks, for they’re very good cocks--
I’m fond of wild ducks, and I’m fond of woodcocks--
And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes.
I’m fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes--
I’m fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory--
I’m fond of capercailzies in their glory,--
Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types:
All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer,
And when you next address your Lordly Babel,
Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear,
With due and fit provision to enable
A man that holds all kinds of game so dear
To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table.

LIEUTENANT LUFF.

A COMIC BALLAD.

All you that are too fond of wine,
Or any other stuff,
Take warning by the dismal fate
Of one Lieutenant Luff.
A sober man he might have been,
Except in one regard,
He did not like _soft_ water,
So he took to _drinking hard_!

Said he, “Let others fancy slops,
And talk in praise of Tea,
But I am no _Bohe_mian,
So do not like _Bohea_.
If wine’s a poison, so is Tea,
Though in another shape;
What matter whether one is kill’d
By _canister_ or _grape_!”

According to this kind of taste
Did he indulge his drouth,
And being fond of _Port_, he made
A _port_-hole of his mouth!
A single pint he might have sipp’d
And not been out of sorts,
In geologic phrase--the rock
He split upon was _quarts_!

To “hold the mirror up to vice”
With him was hard, alas!
The worse for wine he often was,
But not “before a glass.”
No kind and prudent friend had he
To bid him drink no more,--
The only _chequers_ in his course
Were at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this
His frame began to show,
For that old enemy the gout
Had taken him in _toe_!
And join’d with this an evil came
Of quite another sort,--
For while he drank, himself, his purse
Was getting “_something short_.”

For want of cash he soon had pawn’d
One half that he possess’d,
And drinking show’d him _duplicates_
Beforehand of the rest!
So now his creditors resolved
To seize on his assets;
For why,--they found that his _half-pay_
Did not _half-pay_ his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode
His Creditors to chouse;
For his own _execution_ he
Put into his own house!
A pistol to the muzzle charged
He took devoid of fear;
Said he, “This _barrel_ is my last,
So now for my last _bier_!”

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,
And not against his brain,
So he blew out his _lights_--and none
Could blow them in again!
A Jury for a Verdict met
And gave it in these terms:--
“We find as how as certain _slugs_
Has sent him to the _worms_!”

LOVE HAS NOT EYES.

Of all the poor old Tobits a-groping in the street,
A Lover is the blindest that ever I did meet,
For he’s blind, he’s blind, he’s very blind,--
He’s as blind as any mole!

He thinks his love the fairest that ever yet was clasp’d,
Though her clay is overbaked, and it never has been rasp’d.
For he’s blind, &c.

He thinks her face an angel’s, although it’s quite a frump’s,
Like a toad a-taking physic, or a monkey in the mumps.
For he’s blind, &c.

Upon her graceful figure then how he will insist,
Though she’s all so much awry, she can only eat a twist!
For he’s blind, &c.

He’ll swear that in her dancing she cuts all others out,
Though like a _Gal_ that’s galvanised, she throws her legs about.
For he’s blind, &c.

If he should have a letter in answer to his sighs,
He’ll put it to his lips up, instead of to his eyes.
For he’s blind, &c.

Then if he has a meeting the question for to put,
In suing for her hand he’ll be kneeling at her foot.
For he’s blind, &c.

Oh Love is like a furnace wherein a Lover lies,
And like a pig before the fire, he scorches out his eyes.
Till he’s blind, &c.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

“If the affairs of this world did not make us so sad,
’Twould be easy enough to be merry.”--OLD SONG.

There is nothing but plague in this house!
There’s the turbot is stole by the cat,
The Newfoundland has eat up the grouse,
And the haunch has been gnawed by a rat!
It’s the day of all days when I wish
That our friends should enjoy our good cheer;
Mr. Wiggins--our dinner is dished--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

Mr. Fudge has not called, but he will,
For his Rates, Church, and Highway, and Poor;
And the butcher has brought in his bill--
Twice as much as the quarter before.
Little Charles is come home with the mumps,
And Matilda with measles, I fear;
And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your poor brother is in the Gazette,
And your banker is off to New York;
Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt,
And the “Wiggins” has foundered near Cork.
Mr. Merrington’s bill is come back;
You are chosen to serve overseer;
The new wall is beginning to crack--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

The best dinner-set’s fallen to the ground;
The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn;
Not a piece of our plate can be found,
And there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn:
Two anonymous letters have come,
That declare you shall die like a Weare;
And it may--or may not--be a hum--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

The old law-suit with Levy is lost;
You are fined for not cleansing the street;
And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost,
And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.
Your old tenant at seventy-four
Has gone off in the night with his gear,
And has taken the key of the door--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s the “Sun” and the “Phœnix” to pay,
For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick;
The new gig has been jammed by a dray,
And the old horse has taken to kick.
We have hardly a bushel of small,
And now coal is extravagant dear;
Your great coat is stole out of the hall--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail,
And the plants have all died in the night;
The magnolia’s blown down by the gale,
And the chimney looks far from upright;
And--the deuce take the man from the shop,
That hung up the new glass chandelier!--
It has come, in the end, to one drop--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

There’s misfortune wherever we dodge--
It’s the same in the country and town;
There’s the porter has burned down his lodge,
While he went off to smoke at the Crown.
The fat butler makes free with your wine,
And the footman has drunk the strong beer,
And the coachman can’t walk in a line--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

I have doubts if your clerk is correct--
There are hints of a mistress at Kew,
And some day he’ll abscond, I expect;
Mr. Brown has built out your back view;
The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts--
She has men in the house, that is clear;
And the laundress has pawned all your shirts--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

Your “Account of a Visit to Rome”
Not a critic on earth seems to laud;
And old Huggins has lately come home,
And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude;
Your election is far from secure,
Though it’s likely to cost very dear;
You’re come out in a caricature--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

You’ve been christened an ass in the Times,
And the Chronicle calls you a fool;
And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,
Has engaged the next house for a school;
And the playground will run by the bower
Which you took so much trouble to rear;
We shall never have one quiet hour--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

Little John will not take to his book,
He’s come home black and blue from the cane;
There’s your uncle is courting his cook,
And your mother has married again!
Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife,
And against them you’ll have to appear;
If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life--
But I wish you a happy New Year!

SEA-SONG.

AFTER DIBDIN.

Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that--
And it finds its own level for sartin--
For it sartinly drinks very flat:--
For my part a drop of the creatur
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by nature
The sea would have never been salt!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat!--

One day when I was but half sober,--
Half measures I always disdain--
I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax’d for some Water Champagne;--
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I’d shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,
Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore!--
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I’ve any sense of decorum
It never was meant to be neat.

REFLECTIONS ON A NEW YEAR’S DAY.

Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear!
By way of compliment and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year;
But wish me a new hat!

Although not spent in luxury and ease,
In course a longer life I won’t refuse;
But while you’re wishing, wish me, if you please,
A newer pair of shoes!

Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,
I own to one that I should not rebut--
Instead of this old rent, to have a coat
With more of the New Cut!

O yes, ’tis very pleasant, though I’m poor,
To hear the steeple make that merry din;
Except I wish one bell was at the door,
To ring new trousers in.

To be alive is very nice indeed,
Although another year at last departs;
Only with twelve new months I rather need
A dozen of new shirts.

Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear,
By way of compliment and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year,
But wish me a new hat!

WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.

Alas! of all the noxious things
That wait upon the poor,
Most cruel is that Felon-Fear
That haunts the “Debtor’s Door!”

Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,
The Sheriffs seek the cell--
So I expect their officers,
And tremble at the bell!

I look for _beer_, and yet I quake
With fright at every _tap_;
And dread a _double-knock_, for oh!
I’ve not a _single rap_!

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summon’d hence--
There’s cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door--
There’s some one double-knocks.

All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms--
They’re come to lunch of course.

And when my body’s turn’d to clay
And dear friends hear my knell,
O let them give a sigh and say--
I hear the up-stairs bell.

A BULL.

One day, no matter where or when,
Except ’twas after some Hibernian revel,
For why? an Irishman is ready then
“To play the Devil”--
A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards,
Agreed to play with Nick a game at cards.
The stake, the same that the old Source of Sin
From German Faustus and his German Cousins
Had won by dozens;
The only one in fact he cares a pin
To win.

By luck or roguery of course Old Nick
Won ev’ry trick:
The score was full, the last turn-up had done it--
“Your soul--I’ve won it!”

“It’s true for you I’ve lost that same,”
Said Pat a little hazy in his wits--
“My soul is yours--but come, another game--
_Double_, or quits!”

ON THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE.

They say, God wot!
She died upon the spot:
But then in spots she was so rich,--
I wonder which?

ON THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIE.

Let Exeter Change lament its change,
Its beasts and other losses--
Another place thrives by its case,
Now _Charing_ has two _Crosses_.

ON HER MAJESTY’S VISIT TO THE CITY, 1844.

We’ve heard of comets, blazing things,
With “fear of change” perplexing Kings;
But, lo! a novel sight and strange,
A Queen who does not fear a ‘Change!

ON THE QUEEN’S VISIT TO THE CITY,

BY A CORNHILL TRADESMAN.

Sure the measure is strange
And all Commerce so stops,
And, to open a ‘Change,
Make us shut up our shops.

ON THE STATUES IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

If Nelson looks down on a couple of Kings,
However it pleases the Loyals;
’Tis after the fashion of nautical things,
A sky-scraper over the Royals.

ON A PICTURE (407) IN THE BRITISH INSTITUTION, 1843.

Sir, let me just your tasteful eye enveigle
To yonder Painting, of the Madman Eagle.[9]
Which, _that_ by Poole? Excuse me, sir, I beg,
I really have no wish to catch “The Plague.”

HEART-SPRINGS.

My heart’s wound up just like a watch,
As far as springs will take--
It wants but one more evil turn,
And then the cords will break.

CHANGE OF MINISTRY.

As human fashions change about,
The reign of Fools should now begin,
For when the _Wigs_ are going out
The _Naturals_ are coming in.

A PIG IN A POKE.

A Lord bought of late an outlandish estate,
At its Wild Boars to Chevy and dig;
So some people purchase a pig in a poke,
And others, a poke in a pig.

COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY.

That flesh is grass is now as clear as day,
To any but the merest purblind pup;
Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay,
My Lady B---- comes and rakes it up.

THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS.

The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute;
But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit;
For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames
To Cologne for an _O_, and to Nassau for _M’s_.

A REFLECTION.

When Eve upon the first of Men
The apple press’d with specious cant,
Oh! what a thousand pities then
That Adam was not Adamant!

LAYING THE DUST.

After such years of dissension and strife,
Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife:
But his tears on her grave was nothing surprising,--
He’s laying her dust, for fear of its rising.

ON LIEUTENANT EYRE’S NARRATIVE OF THE DISASTERS AT CABUL.

A sorry tale, of sorry plans,
Which this conclusion grants,
That Affghan clans had all the _Khans_
And we had all the _cant’s_.

THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.

A Mechanic his labour will often discard
If the rate of his pay he dislikes;
But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard--
Will continue to work, tho’ it _strikes_!

PARTY SPIRIT.

“Why did you not dine,” said a Lord to a Wit,
“With the Whigs, you political sinner?”
“Why really I meant, but had doubts how the _Pit_
Of my stomach would bear a Fox Dinner.”

LORD B----.

’Tis said of Lord B., none is keener than he
To spit a Wild Boar with éclât;
But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear,
He gives it so very much _law_.

TRAITORS’ AIMS.

Three traitors, Oxford--Francis--Bean,
Have missed their wicked aim;
And may all shots against the Queen,
In future do the same:
For why, I mean no turn of wit,
But seriously insist,
That if Her Majesty were _hit_,
No one would be so _miss’d_.

ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY.

Of public changes, good or ill,
I seldom lead the mooters,
But really Constitution Hill
Should change its name with Shooter’s!

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That Picture-Raffles will conduce to nourish
Design, or cause good colouring to flourish,
Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing,
But surely Lotteries encourage Drawing!

A MORNING THOUGHT.

No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.

With larks appointments one may fix
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six,
For fish that will not _rise_!

ON A CERTAIN EQUESTRIAN STATUE AT THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.

Whoever has looked upon Wellington’s breast,
Knows well that he’s not so full in the chest;
But the sculptor, to humour the Londoners partial,
Has turn’d the lean Duke to a plump City Marshal.

ON A DAGUERREOTYPE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

Yes, there are her features! her brow, and her hair,
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic!

Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When by many a bosom’s confession,
Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to _make an impression_?

SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM.

When Woman is in rags and poor,
And sorrow, cold, and hunger tease her,
If man would only listen more
To that small voice that crieth--“Ease her!”

Without the guidance of a friend,
Though legal sharks and screws attack her,
If man would only more attend
To that small voice that crieth--“Back her!”

So oft it would not be his fate
To witness some despairing dropper
In Thames’s tide, and run too late
To that small voice that crieth--“Stop her!”

PUNISHMENT OF SUICIDES.

When would-be Suicides in purpose fail,
Who could not find a morsel though they needed--
If Peter sends them for attempts to jail,
What would he do to them if they succeeded?

ATHOL BROSE.

Charm’d with a drink which Highlanders compose,
A German traveller exclaim’d with glee,--
“Potztausend! sare, if dis is Athol Brose,
How goot dere Athol Boetry must be!”

ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY.

They may talk of the plugging and sweating,
Of our coinage that’s minted of gold,
But to me it produces no fretting
Of its shortness of weight to be told:

All the sov’reigns I’m able to levy
As to lightness can never be wrong,
But must surely be some of the heavy,
_For I never can carry them long_.

ON MRS. PARKES’S PAMPHLET.

Such strictures as these
Could a learned Chinese
Only read on some fine afternoon,
He would cry with pale lips,
“We shall have an Eclipse,
For a Dragon has seized on the Moon!”

AN EXPLANATION

BY ONE OF THE LIVERY.

Says Blue-and-Buff, to Drab-and-Pink,
“I’ve heard the hardest word I think,
That ever posed me since my teens,
I wonder what As-best-os means!”

Says Drab-and-Pink, to Blue-and-Buff,
“The word is clear, and plain enough.
It means a Nag wot goes the pace,
And so _as best os_ wins the race.”

ON THE NEW HALF-FARTHINGS.

“Too small for any marketable shift,
What purpose can there be for coins like these?”
Hush, hush, good Sir!--Thus charitable Thrift
May give a _Mite_ to him who wants a cheese!

THE SURPLICE QUESTION.

BY A BENEDICT.

A very pretty public stir
Is making, down at Exeter,
About the surplice fashion:
And many bitter words and rude
Have been bestowed upon the feud,
And much unchristian passion.

For me, I neither know nor care
Whether a Parson ought to wear
A black dress or a white dress;
Fill’d with a trouble of my own,--
A Wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress!

THE EPPING HUNT.

“HUNT’S ROASTED----”

“On Monday they began to hunt.”--_Chevy Chase._

John Huggins was as bold a man
As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round
And single Glos’ter flat;
And English butter in a lump,
And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At _counter_, with his apron tied
About his _counter-part_.

The seventh, in a Sluice-house box
He took his pipe and pot;
On Sundays, for _eel-pie_ty,
A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!
One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head!

Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage popp’d;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig’s flesh is always _chopp’d_.

But famous more as annals tell,
Because of Easter chase;
There every year, ’twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.

With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose,
And slapped his leather thigh,
And sang the burden of the song,
“This day a stag must die.”

For all the live-long day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts
On Hunting” in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo’s answering sounds,
All poets’ wit hath ever writ
In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.

Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_
To go and hunt the _dear_.

No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not _chicken-hearted_ he, although
’Twas whispered of his _eggs_!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout’s_ fee,
And Surgeon _Hunter’s_ bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
Was _Warren_-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,
As erst upon a stag;
Thus well equipped he gayly skipped,
At once upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung;
For holding of the horse!--why, no,
For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins’ own
Would only be a brag;
His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Although it was a _tit_.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly “rearing up within
The way he ought to go.”

But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne’er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot’n’am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her _orts_
Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind
Meanwhile upon the case!
And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase!

For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone,
Where folks that ride a bit of blood,
May break a bit of bone.

“Now, be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he!”
Then Huggins turned his horse’s head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on through Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker’s box--
No Friends to hunters after deer,
Though followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before--
The self-same rout inclined;
And, minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker’s hacks
(However odd it sounds),
Let out that day to _hunt_, instead
_Of going to the hounds_!

And some had horses of their own,
And some were forced to job it;
And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_,
Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad
Of costermonger line;
With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load
That any horse might drag;
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag.

Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
“Hallo!” cried they; “come trot away,
You’ll never see the chase!”

But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
“It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!”

And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a horseman met,
And letting go the _reins_ of course,
Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door,
Stood Rounding, jovial elf;
Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With master Reynard’s brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learned it from;
His age about threescore and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.

“Now welcome lads,” quoth he, “and prads,
You’re all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.

“Fair Mead’s the place, where Bob and Tom,
In red already ride;
’Tis but a _step_, and on a horse,
You soon may go _a-stride_.”

So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed--
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
_Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time
To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day
Its own fair meed of mob.

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers’ hacks,
That _shambled_ to and fro!
Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the _dough!_

Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners, such
As never climbed a wall!

’Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
_Stag_nation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood;
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse--though not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the _deer alive_,
And not the _dear deceased_!

And now began a sudden stir,
And then a sudden shout,
The prison doors were opened wide,
And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red,
Bedecked with ribbons fine;
Like other bucks that come to ‘list
The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of wild amaze,
He turned and shortly took:
Then gently ran adown the mead,
And bounded o’er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof,
Had never seen the deer,
Till all at once he saw the beast
Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same,
On horse and ass--like High and Low
And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now,
Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook,
Enjoyed their “early purl.”

A score were sprawling on the grass,
And beavers fell in showers;
There was another _Floorer_ there,
Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
Some had no caps to show:
But few, like Charles at Charing Cross
Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

“O dear! O dear!” now might you hear,
“I’ve surely broke a bone;”
“My head is sore”--with many more
Such Speeches from the _Thrown_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide Satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,
To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good that understood,
Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses “throwing off”
So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law,
Like men the Courts among;
Before those Barristers the dogs
Proceed to “giving tongue.”

But now Old Robin’s foes were set
That fatal taint to find,
That always is scent after him,
Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man
A different temper shows:
What hound resents that he is sent
To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all,
No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo!
The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked; fear stuck a knife
And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like
A ship before the gale;
Now flew to _h_ills we know not of,
Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now,
Went off at furious pitch;--
A perfect Tam O’Shanter mob,
Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts,
A hunter did endorse,
And, like a poet, seemed to ride
Upon a wingèd horse?

A whipper-in? no whipper-in:
A huntsman? no such soul:
A connoisseur, or amateur?
Why, yes--a horse patrol.

A member of police, for whom
The county found a nag,
And, like Actæon in the tale,
He found himself in stag!

Away they went, then, dog and deer,
And hunters all away;
The maddest horses never knew
_Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about,
And anticked as they rode;
And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen _Tally-ho’d_!

About two score there were, or more,
That galloped in the race;
The rest, alas! lay on the grass,
As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on
Were fewer every minute;
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and “ran a muck,”
To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes,
Were left bereft of sense;
What else could be premised of blades
That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,
Nor hedge, nor ditch could stay;
O’er all they went, and did the work
Of leap-years in a day!

And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,
For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he sate;
He never saw a county go
At such a county rate!

“Hold hard! hold hard! you’ll lame the dogs!”
Quoth Huggins, “so I do;
I’ve got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!”

Good Lord! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about,
As if with stitches in the side
That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook;
Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride;
With every kick he gave a prick
Deep in the horse’s side!

But soon the horse was well avenged
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!

Where, sharper set than hunger is,
He squatted all forlorn;
And, like a bird, was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign;
“Possession is nine points,” but his
Seems more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Although no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins’ nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!

Though felony, yet who would let
Another’s horse alone,
Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man
Seemed honest-like and fair;
For he seemed willing, horse and all,
To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins’ horse he got,
And swiftly rode away,
While Huggins mounted on the mare
Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set in double chase,
For such was fortune’s whim,
The farmer rode to hunt the stag,
And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well
In vain it was to strive;
A dab was he, as dabs should be--
All leaping and alive.

And here of Nature’s kindly care
Behold a curious proof,
As nags are meant to leap, she puts
A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, although her share
She had of hoof and frog,
On coming to a gate stopped short
As stiff as any log;

While Huggins in the stirrup stood
With neck like neck of crane,
As sings the Scottish song--“to see
The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane.”

And, lo! the dim and distant hunt
Diminished in a trice:
The steeds, like Cinderella’s team,
Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat
Soon flitted like a spark--
Though still the forest murmured back
An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned:
No comfort could he find;
While thus the “Hunting Chorus” sped,
To stay five bars behind.

For though by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate--
Howbeit there was no toll at all--
They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a New Gray’s elegy
On his departed gray.

Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course
Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh:
But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig,
And called for half-and-half.

Yet, spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door--
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o’er!

And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only “_beasts of draught_.”

For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken men discussed
The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deerlike, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could:--

And how the hunters stood aloof,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse “remained behind.”

And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift--a goodly gray!
And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray;

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,
Jumped up with sudden glee;

“A goodly gray! why, then, I say,
That gray belongs to me!

“Let me endorse again my horse,
Delivered safe and sound;
And gladly I will give the man
A bottle and a pound!”

The wine was drunk--the money paid,
Though not without remorse,
To pay another man so much
For riding on his horse;--

And let the chase again take place
For many a long, long year--
John Huggins will not ride again
To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp
Just when we think to grip her:
And hunting after Happiness,
We only hunt the slipper.

JACK HALL.

’Tis very hard when men forsake
This melancholy world, and make
A bed of turf, they cannot take
A quiet doze,
But certain rogues will come and break
Their “bone” repose.

’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,
And to the earth our earth bequeath,
Without Death-Fetches after death,
Who thus exhume us;
And snatch us from our homes beneath,
And hearths posthumous.

The tender lover comes to rear
The mournful urn, and shed his tear--
Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!
Alack! alack!
The while his Sacharissa dear
Is in a sack!

’Tis hard one cannot lie amid
The mould, beneath a coffin-lid,
But thus the Faculty will bid
Their rogues break through it,
If they don’t want us there, why did
They send us to it?

One of these sacrilegious knaves,
Who crave as hungry vulture craves,
Behaving as the ghoul behaves,
‘Neath church-yard wall--
Mayhap because he fed on graves,
Was named Jack Hall.

By day it was his trade to go
Tending the black coach to and fro;
And sometimes at the door of woe,
With emblems suitable,
He stood with brother Mute, to show
That life is mutable.

But long before they pass’d the ferry,
The dead that he had help’d to bury,
He sack’d--(he had a sack to carry
The bodies off in)
In fact, he let them have a very
Short fit of coffin.

Night after night, with crow and spade,
He drove this dead but thriving trade,
Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d
A single horsehair;
On corses of all kinds he prey’d,
A perfect corsair!

At last--it may be, Death took spite,
Or, jesting only, meant to fright--
He sought for Jack night after night
The churchyards round;
And soon they met, the man and sprite,
In Pancras’ ground.

Jack, by the glimpses of the moon,
Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,
An awful shape to meet at noon
Of night and lonely;
But Jack’s tough courage did but swoon
A minute only.

Anon he gave his spade a swing
Aloft, and kept it brandishing,
Ready for what mishaps might spring
From this conjunction;
Funking indeed was quite a thing
Beside his function.

“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands
Run out? the stoutest never stands
A chance with me,--to my commands
The strongest truckles;
But I’m your friend--so let’s shake hands,
I should say--knuckles.”

Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly
And meaning nothing but uprightly,
Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,
His mull did proffer:
But Death, who had no nose, politely
Declin’d the offer.

Then sitting down upon a bank,
Leg over leg, shank over shank,
Like friends for conversation frank,
That had no check on:
Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,
“You’re Death, I reckon.”

The Jaw-bone grinn’d:--“I am that same,
You’ve hit exactly on my name;
In truth it has some little fame
Where burial sod is.”
Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye came
Here after bodies.”

Death grinn’d again and shook his head:--
“I’ve little business with the dead;
When they are fairly sent to bed
I’ve done my turn:
Whether or not the worms are fed
Is your concern.

“My errand here, in meeting you,
Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’
I’ve done what jobs I had--a few
Along this way;
If I can serve a crony too,
I beg you’ll say.”

Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:
And now I call the thing to mind,
This parish very strict I find;
But in the next ‘un
There lives a very well-inclined
Old sort of sexton.”

Death took the hint, and gave a wink
As well as eyelet holes can blink;
Then stretching out his arm to link
The other’s arm,--
“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink
Of something warm.”

Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease
Spoke up at once:--“Why, what ye please,
Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,
A famous tap.”
But this suggestion seem’d to tease
The bony chap.

“No, no--your mortal drinks are heady,
And only make my hand unsteady;
I do not even care for Deady,
And loathe your rum;
But I’ve some glorious brewage ready,
My drink is--Mum!”

And off they set, each right content--
Who knows the dreary way they went?
But Jack felt rather faint and spent,
And out of breath;
At last he saw, quite evident,
The Door of Death.

All other men had been unmann’d
To see a coffin on each hand,
That served a skeleton to stand
By way of sentry;
In fact, Death has a very grand
And awful entry.

Throughout his dismal sign prevails,
His name is writ in coffin nails;
The mortal darts make area rails;
A skull that mocketh,
Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails
Whoever knocketh.

And lo! on either side, arise
Two monstrous pillars--bones of thighs;
A monumental slab supplies
The step of stone,
Where waiting for his master lies
A dog of bone.

The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,
The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,
The ghastly knocker rose and fell,
But caused no riot;
The ways of Death, we all know well,
Are very quiet.