Chapter XXI (1)

But what to do?--my temples ache
From evening’s dew till morning’s pearl,
What course to take my boy to make--
Oh could I make my boy--a girl!

CLUBS,

TURNED UP BY A FEMALE HAND.

“Clubs! Clubs! part ’em! part ’em! Clubs! Clubs!”--ANCIENT CRIES OF
LONDON.

Of all the modern schemes of Man,
That time has brought to bear,
A plague upon the wicked plan
That parts the wedded pair!
My female friends they all agree
They hardly know their hubs;
And heart and voice unite with me,
“We hate the name of Clubs!”

One selfish course the Wretches keep;
They come at morning chimes,
To snatch a few short hours of sleep--
Rise--breakfast--read the Times--
Then take their hats, and post away,
Like Clerks or City scrubs,
And no one sees them all the day,--
They live, eat, drink, at Clubs!

On what they say, and what they do,
They close the Club-House gates;
But one may guess a speech or two,
Though shut from their debates:
“The Cook’s a _hasher_--nothing more--
The Children noisy grubs--
A Wife’s a quiz, and home’s a bore”--
Yes,--that’s the style at Clubs!

With Rundle, Dr. K., or Glasse,
And such Domestic Books,
They once put up--but now, alas!
It’s hey! for foreign cooks!
“When _will_ you dine at home, my Dove?”
I say to Mister Stubbs,--
“When Cook can make an omelette, love,--
An omelette like the Clubs!”

Time was, their hearts were only placed
On snug domestic schemes,
The book for two--united taste,--
And such connubial dreams,--
Friends dropping in at close of day
To singles, doubles, rubs,--
A little music--then the tray--
And not a word of Clubs!

But former comforts they condemn;
French kickshaws they discuss,
They take their wine, the wine takes them,
And then they favour us:--
From some offence they can’t digest,
As cross as bears with cubs,
Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best--
That’s how they come from Clubs!

It’s very fine to say “Subscribe
To Andrews’--can’t you read?”
When Wives, the poor neglected tribe,
Complain how they proceed!
They’d better recommend at once
Philosophy and tubs,--
A woman need not be a dunce
To feel the wrong of Clubs.

A set of savage Goths and Picts,
Would seek us now and then--
They’re pretty pattern-Benedicts
To guide our single men!
Indeed my daughters both declare
“Their Beaux shall not be subs.
To White’s, or Black’s, or anywhere,--
They’ve seen enough of Clubs!”

They say, “_without_ the marriage ties,
They can devote their hours
To catechize or botanize--
Shells, Sunday Schools, and flow’rs--
Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,
Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,
Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds--
As Wives do since the Clubs.”

Alas! for those departed days
Of social wedded life,
When married folks had married ways,
And lived like Man and Wife!
Oh! Wedlock then was pick’d by none--
As safe a lock as Chubb’s!
But couples, that should be as one,
Are now the Two of Clubs!

Of all the modern schemes of man
That time has brought to bear,
A plague upon the wicked plan
That parts the wedded pair!
My female friends they all allow
They meet with slights, and snubs,
And say, “They have no husbands now,--
They’re married to their Clubs!”

THE UNITED FAMILY.

“We stick at nine.”--MRS. BATTLE.

“Thrice to thine
And thrice to mine,
And thrice again,
To make up nine.”
--_The Weird Sisters in Macbeth._

How oft in families intrudes
The demon of domestic feuds,
One liking this, one hating that,
Each snapping each, like dog and cat,
With divers bents and tastes perverse,
One’s bliss, in fact, another’s curse.
How seldom anything we see
Like our united family!

Miss Brown of chapels goes in search,
Her sister Susan likes the church;
One plays at cards, the other don’t;
One will be gay, the other won’t:
In pray’r and preaching one persists,
The other sneers at Methodists;
On Sundays ev’n they can’t agree
Like our united family.

There’s Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart,
His lady takes the Tories’ part,
While William, junior, nothing loth,
Spouts Radical against them both.
One likes the News, one takes the Age,
Another buys the unstamped page;
They all say _I_, and never _we_,
Like our united family.

Not so with us;--with equal zeal
We all support Sir Robert Peel;

Of Wellington our mouths are full,
We dote on Sundays on John Bull,
With Pa and Ma on selfsame side,
_Our_ house has never to divide--
No opposition members be
In our united family.

Miss Pope her “Light Guitar” enjoys,
Her father “cannot bear the noise,”
Her mother’s charm’d with all her songs,
Her brother jangles with the tongs.
Thus discord out of music springs,
The most unnatural of things,
Unlike the genuine harmony
In our united family!

We _all_ on vocal music dote;
To each belongs a tuneful throat,
And all prefer that Irish boon
Of melody--“The Young May Moon”--
By choice we all select the harp,
Nor is the voice of one too sharp,
Another flat--all in one key
Is our united family.

Miss Powell likes to draw and paint,
But then it would provoke a saint,
Her brother takes her sheep for pigs,
And says her trees are periwigs.
Pa praises all, black, blue, or brown;
And so does Ma--but upside down!
They cannot with the same eye see,
Like our united family.

Miss Patterson has been to France,
Her heart’s delight is in a dance;
The thing her brother cannot bear,
So she must practise with a chair.
Then at a waltz her mother winks;
But Pa says roundly what he thinks,
All dos-à-dos, not vis-à-vis,
Like our united family.

We none of us that whirling love,
Which both our parents disapprove,
A hornpipe we delight in more,
Or graceful Minuet de la Cour--
A special favourite with Mamma,
Who used to dance it with Papa,
In this we still keep step, you see,
In our united family.

Then books--to bear the Cobb’s debates!
One worships Scott--another hates,
Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for,
And Jane likes “Bunyan’s Holy War.”
The father on Macculloch pores,
The mother says _all_ books are bores;
But blue serene as heav’n are we,
In our united family.

We never wrangle to exalt
Scott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Galt,
We care not whether Smith or Hook,
So that a novel be the book,
And in one point we all are fast,
Of novels we prefer the last,--
In that the very heads agree
Of our united family!

To turn to graver matters still,
How much we see of sad self-will!
Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life,
Would be a poor lieutenant’s wife.
A lawyer has her Pa’s good word,
Her Ma has looked her out a Lord,
What would they not all give to be
Like our united family!

By one congenial taste allied,
Our dreams of bliss all coincide,
We’re all for solitudes and cots,
And love, if we may choose our lots.
As partner in the rural plan
Each paints the same dear sort of man;
One heart alone there seems to be
In our united family.

One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind,--
One voice, one choice, all of a kind,--
And can there be a greater bliss--
A little heav’n on earth--than this?
The truth to whisper in your ear,
It must be told!--we are not near
The happiness that ought to be
In our united family!

Alas! ’tis our congenial taste
That lays our little pleasures waste--
We all delight, no doubt, to sing,
We all delight to touch the string,
But where’s the heart that nine may touch?
And nine “May Moons” are eight too much--
Just fancy nine, all in one key,
Of our united family!

The play--Oh how we love a play,
But half the bliss is shorn away;
On winter nights we venture nigh,
But think of houses in July!
Nine crowded in a private box,
Is apt to pick the stiffest locks--
Our curls would all fall out, though we
Are one united family!

In art the self-same line we walk,
We all are fond of heads in chalk,
We one and all our talent strain
Adelphi prizes to obtain;
Nine turban’d Turks are duly sent,
But can the royal Duke present
Nine silver palettes--no, not he--
To our united family.

Our eating shows the very thing,
We all prefer the liver-wing,
Asparagus when scarce and thin,
And peas directly they come in,
The marrow-bone--if there be one--
The ears of hare when crisply done,
The rabbit’s brain--we all agree
In our united family.

In dress the same result is seen,
We all so doat on apple-green;
But nine in green would seem a school
Of charity to quizzing fool--
We cannot all indulge our will
With “that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,”
No _remnant_ can sufficient be
For our united family.

In reading hard is still our fate,
One cannot read o’erlooked by eight,
And nine “Disowned”--nine “Pioneers,”
Nine “Chaperons,” nine “Buccaneers,”
Nine “Maxwells,” nine “Tremaines,” and such,
Would dip into our means too much--
Three months are spent o’er volumes three,
In our united family.

Unhappy Muses! if the Nine
Above in doom with us combine,--
In vain we breathe the tender flame,
Our sentiments are all the same,
And nine complaints address’d to Hope
Exceed the editorial scope,
One in, and eight _put out_, must be
Of our united family!

But this is nought--of deadlier kind,
A ninefold woe remains behind.
O why were we so art and part?
So like in taste, so one in heart?
Nine cottages may be to let,
But here’s the thought to make us fret,
We cannot each add Frederick B.
To our united family.

THE DEAD ROBBERY.

“Here’s that will sack a city.”--HENRY THE IVTH.

Of all the causes that induce mankind
To strike against themselves a mortal docket,
Two eminent above the rest we find--
To be in love, or to be out of pocket:
Both have made many melancholy martyrs,
But p’rhaps, of all the felonies de se,
By ponds, and pistols, razors, ropes, and garters,
Two-thirds have been through want of _£. s. d.!_
Thus happen’d it with Peter Bunce;
Both in the _dumps_ and out of them at once,
From always drawing blanks in Fortune’s lottery,
At last, impatient of the light of day,
He made his mind up to return his clay
Back to the pottery.

Feigning a raging tooth that drove him mad,
From twenty divers druggists’ shops
He begg’d enough of laudanum by drops
T’ effect the fatal purpose that he had;
He drank them, died, and while old Charon ferried him,
The Coroner convened a dozen men,
Who found his death was _phial_-ent--and then
The Parish buried him!
Unwatch’d, unwept,
As commonly a Pauper sleeps, he slept;
There could not be a better opportunity
For bodies to steal a body so ill kept,
With all impunity.
In fact, when Night o’er human vice and folly
Had drawn her very necessary curtains,
Down came a fellow with a sack and spade,
Accustom’d many years to drive a trade,
With that Anatomy more Melancholy
Than Burton’s!

The Watchman in his box was dozing;
The Sexton drinking at the Cheshire Cheese;
No fear of any creature interposing,
The human Jackal work’d away at ease:
He toss’d the mould to left and right,
The shabby coffin came in sight,
And soon it open’d to his double-knocks,--
When lo! the stiff’un that he thought to meet,
Starts sudden up, like Jacky-in-a-box,
Upon his seat!
Awaken’d from his trance,
For so the laudanum had wrought by chance,
Bunce stares up at the moon, next looking level,
He spies a shady Figure, tall and bony,
Then shudders out these words “Are--you--the--Devil?”
“The Devil a bit of him,” says Mike Mahoney,
“I’m only com’d here, hoping no affront,
To pick up honestly a little blunt--”
“Blunt!” echoes Bunce, with a hoarse croak of laughter,--
“Why, man, I turn’d life’s candle in the socket,
Without a rap in either pocket,
For want of that same blunt you’re looking after!”
“That’s true,” says Mike, “and many a pretty man
Has cut his stick upon your very plan,
Not worth a copper, him and all his trumps,
And yet he’s fetch’d a dacent lot of stuff,
Provided he was sound and fresh enough,
And dead as dumps.”
“I take,” quoth Bunce, with a hard wink, “the fact is,
You mean a subject for a surgeon’s practice,--
I hope the question is not out of reason,
But just suppose a lot of flesh and bone,
For instance, like my own,
What might it chance to fetch now, at this season?”
“Fetch, is it?” answers Mike, “why prices differ,--
But taking this same small bad job of ours,
I reckon, by the pow’rs!
I’ve lost ten pound by your not being stiffer!”

“Ten pounds!” Bunce echoes in a sort of flurry,
“Odd zounds!
Ten pounds,
How sweet it sounds,
Ten pounds!”
And on his feet upspringing in a hurry--
It seem’d the operation of a minute--
A little scuffle--then a whack--
And then he took the Body Snatcher’s sack
And poked him in it!
Such is this life!
A very pantomime for tricks and strife!
See Bunce, so lately in Death’s passive stock,
Invested, now as active as a griffin,
Walking--no ghost--in velveteens and smock,
To sell a stiff’un!

A flash of red, then one of blue,
At last, like lighthouse, came in view;
Bunce rang the nightbell; wiped his highlows muddy;
His errand told; the sack produced;
And by a sleepy boy was introduced
To Dr. Oddy, writing in his study
The bargain did not take long time to settle,
“Ten pounds,
Odd zounds!
How well it sounds,
Ten pounds,”
Chink’d into Bunce’s palm in solid metal.
With joy half-crazed,
It seem’d some trick of sense, some airy gammon,
He gazed and gazed,
At last, possess’d with the old lust of Mammon,
Thought he, “With what a very little trouble,
This little capital I now might double----”
Another scuffle of its usual brevity,--
And Doctor Oddy, in his suit of black,
Was finishing, within the sack,
His “Thoughts upon Longevity!”

The trick was done. Without a doubt,
The sleepy boy let Bunce and burthen out;
Who coming to a lone convenient place,
The body stripp’d; hid all the clothes; and then,
Still favoured by the luck of evil men,
Found a new customer in Dr. Case.
All more minute particulars to smother,
Let it suffice,
Nine guineas was the price
For which one doctor bought the other;
As once I heard a Preacher say in Guinea,
“You see how one black sin bring on anudder,
Like little nigger pickaninny,
A-riding pick-a-back upon him mudder!”
“Humph!” said the Doctor, with a smile sarcastic,
Seeming to trace
Some likeness in the face,
“So death at last has taken old Bombastic!”
But in the very middle of his joking,--
The _subject_, still unconscious of the scoff--
Seized all at once with a bad fit of choking,
He too was _taken of_!
Leaving a fragment “On the Hooping Cough.”

Satan still sending luck,
Another body found another buyer:
For ten pounds ten the bargain next was struck,
Dead doctors going higher.
“Here,” said the purchaser, with smile quite pleasant,
Taking a glimpse at his departed brother,
“Here’s half a guinea in the way of present--
Subjects are scarce, and when you get another,
Let _me_ be first.”--Bunce took him at his word,
And suddenly his old atrocious trick did,
Sacking M.D. the third,
Ere he could furnish “Hints to the Afflicted.”

Flush’d with success,
Beyond all hope or guess,
His new dead robbery upon his back,
Bunce plotted--such high flights ambition takes,--
To treat the Faculty like ducks and drakes,
And sell them all ere they could utter “Quack!”
But fate opposed. According to the schools,
When men become insufferably bad,
The gods confer to drive them mad;
March hairs upon the heads of April fools!
Tempted by the old demon avaricious,
Bunce traded on too far into the morning;
Till nods, and winks, and looks, and signs suspicious,
Ev’n words malicious,
Forced on him rather an unpleasant warning.
Glad was he to perceive, beside a wicket,
A porter, ornamented with a ticket,
Who did not seem to be at all too busy--
“Here, my good man,
Just show me, if you can,
A doctor’s--if you want to earn a tizzy!”

Away the porter marches,
And with grave face, obsequious precedes him,
Down crooked lanes, round corners, under arches;
At last, up an old-fashion’d staircase leads him,
Almost impervious to the morning ray,
Then shows a door--“There, that’s a doctor’s reckon’d,
A rare Top-Sawyer, let who will come second--
Good day.”

“I’m right,” thought Bunce, “as any trivet;
Another venture--and then up I give it!”
He rings--the door, just like a fairy portal,
Opens untouch’d by mortal----
He gropes his way into a dingy room,
And hears a voice come growling through the gloom,
“Well--eh?--Who? What?--Speak out at once!”
“I will,” says Bunce.
“I’ve got a sort of article to sell;
Medical gemmen knows me very well--”
But think Imagination how it shock’d her
To hear the voice roar out, “Death! Devil! d--n!
Confound the vagabond, he thinks I am
A rhubarb-and-magnesia Doctor!”
“No Doctor!” exclaim’d Bunce, and dropp’d his jaw,
But louder still the voice began to bellow,
“Yes,--yes,--odd zounds!--I _am_ a Doctor, fellow,
At law!”
The word sufficed.--Of things Bunce feared the most
(Next to a ghost)
Was law,--or any of the legal corps,--
He dropp’d at once his load of flesh and bone,
And, caring for no body, save his own,
Bolted,--and lived securely till fourscore,
From never troubling Doctors any more!

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)--
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin--
(Good heavn’s! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air--
(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane! he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting hone
From ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that’s his precious nose!)

Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint--
(Where _did_ he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He’s got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he’s sent above!)

A SERENADE.

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Thus I heard a father cry,
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids or open mine!”

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
What the devil makes him cry?
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Still he stares--I wonder why?
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from the birth?

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!”
Thus I heard the father cry;
“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try!--
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake--
The more I sing, the more you wake!”

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie;
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!”

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Two such nights, and I shall die!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,--
How can I from bedposts keep,
When I’m walking in my sleep?”

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny--
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Nature soon will stupify--
My nerves relax,--my eyes grow dim--
Who’s that fallen--me or him?”

AN INCENDIARY SONG.

Come, all conflagrating fellows,
Let us have a glorious rig:
Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows!
Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!

Christmas time is all before us:
Burn all puddings, north and south.
Burn the Turkey--Burn the Devil!
Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!

Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!
Burn Burn’s Justice--burn Old Coke.
Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!
Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!

Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.
Let all burnings have a turn.
Burn Chabert, the Salamander,--
Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!

Burn the old year out, don’t ring it;
Burn the one that must begin.
Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,
Burn the burn he paidled in.

Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!
Burn the baker! Burn his man!
Burn the butcher--Burn the dustman,
Burn the sweeper, if you can!

Burn the Postman! burn the postage,
Burn the knocker--burn the bell!
Burn the folks that come for money!
Burn the bills--and burn ’em well.

Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!
Burn all taxes in a mass.
Burn the Paving! Burn the lightning!
Burn the burners! Burn the gas!

Burn all candles, white or yellow--
Burn for war, and not for peace;
Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!
Burn the King of all the Greece!

Burn all canters--burn in Smithfield.
Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.
Burn his kettle, burn his water,
Burn his muffin, burn his mug!

Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,
Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!
Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,
Just for being good for burns.

Burn all Swindlers! Burn Asphaltum!
Burn the money-lenders down--
Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!
Burn the Cheapest House in town!

Burn all bores and boring topics;
Burn Brunel--aye, in his hole!
Burn all _subjects_ that are Irish!
Burn the niggers black as coal!

Burn all Boz’s imitators!
Burn all tales without a head!
Burn a candle near the curtain!
Burn your Burns, and burn your bed!

Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,
Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims--
Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!
Burn all sorts of burning shames!

Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!
Burn all parties, great and small!
Burn that everlasting Poynder--
Burn his Suttees once for all!

Burn the fop that burns tobacco.
Burn a Critic that condemns.--
Burn Lucifer and all his matches!
Burn the fool that burns the Thames!

Burn all burning agitators--
Burn all torch-parading elves!
And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,
If they haven’t burnt themselves.

COPY.

A NEW SPECIES OF POETRY.

If I were used to writing verse,
And had a Muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy’s call to spring
And Carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev’ry blossom where it ‘lights;
If I, alas! had such a Muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill’d in vain!
But ah! the power was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy’s mine:
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies’ old domain--
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the “gradual dusky veil”
Drawn over Tempé’s tuneful vale,
In classic lays remembered long--
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height,
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns, }
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns, }
Who sang his native braes and burns. }

For me a novice strange and new,
Who ne’er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain’d to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic’s eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,
For anything that’s fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!

_1st of April, 1840._ E. M. G.

SKIPPING. A MYSTERY.

Little Children skip,
The rope so gaily gripping,
Tom and Harry,
Jane and Mary,
Kate, Diana,
Susan, Anna,
All are fond of skipping!

The Grasshoppers all skip,
The early dew-drop sipping,
Under, over,
Bent and clover,
Daisy, sorrel,
Without quarrel,
All are fond of skipping!

The tiny Fairies skip,
At midnight softly tripping;
Puck and Peri,
Never weary,
With an antic,
Quite romantic,
All are fond of skipping!

The little Boats they skip,
Beside the heavy Shipping,
While the squalling
Winds are calling,
Falling, rising,
Rising, falling,
All are fond of skipping!

The pale Diana skips,
The silver billows tipping,
With a dancing
Lustre glancing
To the motion
Of the ocean--
All are fond of skipping!

The little Flounders skip,
When they feel the dripping;
Scorching, frying,
Jumping, trying
If there is not
Any shying,
All are fond of skipping!

The very Dogs they skip,
While threatened with a whipping,
Wheeling, prancing,
Learning dancing,
To a measure,
What a pleasure!
All are fond of skipping!

The little Fleas they skip,
And nightly come a nipping,
Lord and Lady,
Jude and Thady,
In the night
So dark and shady--
All are fond of skipping!

The Autumn Leaves they skip;
When blasts the trees are stripping;
Bounding, whirling,
Sweeping, twirling,
And in wanton
Mazes curling,
All are fond of skipping!

The Apparitions skip,
Some mortal grievance ripping,
Thorough many
A crack and cranny,
And the keyhole
Good as any--
Are all fond of skipping!

But oh! how Readers skip,
In heavy volumes dipping!
* * * * * and * * * * *
* * * * and * * * * *
* * * and * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
All are fond of skipping!

A BUTCHER.

Whoe’er has gone thro’ London Street,
Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps
Gloating upon a sheep’s
Or bullock’s personals, as if his own;
How he admires his halves,
And quarters--and his calves,
As if in truth upon his own legs grown;--
_His_ fat! _his_ suet!
_His_ kidneys peeping elegantly thro’ it!
_His_ thick flank!
And _his_ thin!
_His_ shank!
_His_ shin!
Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!

With what an air
He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare
Gazing--and will not let a body by,
Tho’ buy! buy! buy! be constantly his cry;
Meanwhile his arms a-kimbo, and a pair
Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare
At his Joint Stock--for one may call it so,
Howbeit without a _Co._
The dotage of self-love was never fonder
Than he of his brute bodies all a-row.

Narcissus in the wave did never ponder,
With love so strong,
On his “portrait charmant,”
As our vain butcher on his carcass yonder.
Look at his sleek round skull!
How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is!
His visage seems to be
Ripe for beef-tea;
Of brutal juices the whole man is full--
In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,
The Butcher is already half a Bull.

A PUBLIC DINNER.

“Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide.”--ARABIAN NIGHTS.

At seven you just nick it,
Give card--get wine ticket;
Walk round through the Babel,
From table to table,
To find--a hard matter--
Your name in a platter;
Your wish was to sit by
Your friend Mr. Whitby,
But Steward’s assistance
Has placed you at distance,
And, thanks to arrangers,
You sit among strangers;
But too late for mending;
Twelve sticks come attending
A stick of a Chairman,
A little dark spare man,
With bald shining nob,
‘Mid Committee swell-mob;
In short, a short figure,
You thought the Duke bigger;
Then silence is wanted,
_Non Nobis_ is chanted;
Then Chairman reads letter,
The Duke’s a regretter,
A promise to break it,
But chair he can’t take it;
Is grieved to be from us,
But sends friend Sir Thomas,
And what is far better,
A cheque in the letter.
Hear! hear! and a clatter,
And there ends the matter.

Now soups come and fish in,
And C---- brings a dish in;
Then rages the battle,
Knives clatter, forks rattle,
Steel forks with black handles,
Under fifty wax candles;
Your soup-plate is soon full,
You sip just a spoonful.
Mr. Roe will be grateful
To send him a plateful;
And then comes the waiter,
“Must trouble for tater;”
And then you drink wine off
With somebody--nine off;
Bucellas made handy,
With Cape and bad Brandy,
Or East India Sherry,
That’s very hot--very.
You help Mr. Myrtle,
Then find your mock-turtle
Went off, while you lingered,
With waiter light-fingered.
To make up for gammon,
You order some salmon,
Which comes to your fauces
With boats without sauces.
You then make a cut on
Some Lamb big as Mutton;
And ask for some grass too,
But that you must pass too;
It served the first twenty,
But toast there is plenty.
Then, while lamb gets coldish,
A goose that is oldish--
At carving not clever--
You’re begged to dissever,
And when you thus treat it,
Find no one will eat it.
So, hungry as glutton,
You turn to your mutton,
But--no sight for laughter--
The soup it’s gone after.
Mr. Green then is very
Disposed to take Sherry,
And then Mr. Nappy
Will feel very happy;
And then Mr. Conner
Requests the same honour;
Mr. Clarke, when at leisure,
Will really feel pleasure;
Then waiter leans over
To take off a cover
From fowls which all beg of,
A wing or a leg of;
And while they all peck bone,
You take to a neck bone,
But even your hunger
Declares for a younger.
A fresh plate you call for,
But vainly you bawl for:
Now taste disapproves it,
No waiter removes it.
Still hope, newly budding,
Relies on a pudding;
But critics each minute
Set fancy agin it--
“That’s queer Vermicelli.”
“I say, Vizetelly,
There’s glue in that jelly.”
“Tarts bad altogether;
That crust’s made of leather.”
“Some custard, friend Vesey?”
“No--batter made easy.”
“Some cheese, Mr. Foster?”
“--Don’t like single Glo’ster.”
Meanwhile, to top table,
Like fox in the fable,
You see silver dishes,
With those little fishes,
The whitebait delicious
Borne past you officious;
And hear rather plainish
A sound that’s champaignish,
And glimpse certain bottles
Made long in the throttles:
And sniff--very pleasant!
Grouse, partridge, and pheasant,
And see mounds of ices
For patrons and vices,
Pine-apple, and bunches
Of grapes for sweet munches,
And fruits of all virtue
That really _desert_ you.
You’ve nuts, but not crack ones,
Half empty, and black ones;
With oranges sallow--
They can’t be called yellow--
Some pippins well wrinkled,
And plums almond sprinkled,
Some rout cakes, and so on,
Then with business to go on;
Long speeches are stutter’d,
And toasts are well buttered,
While dames in the gallery,
All dressed in fallallery,
Look on at the mummery:
And listen to flummery.
Hip, hip! and huzzaing,
And singing and saying,
Glees, catches, orations,
And lists of donations.
Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney--
“Mr. Benbow, one guinea;
Mr. Frederick Manual,
One guinea--and annual.”
Song--Jockey and Jenny--
“Mr. Markham one guinea.”
“Have you all filled your glasses?”
Here’s a health to good lasses.
The subscription still skinny--
“Mr. Franklin--one guinea.”
Franklin looks like a ninny;
“Mr. Boreham, one guinea--
Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney,
Mr. Tempest--one guinea,
Mr. Merrington--twenty,”
Rough music, in plenty.
Away toddles Chairman,
The little dark spare man,
Not sorry at ending,
With white sticks attending,
And some vain Tomnoddy
Votes in his own body
To fill the void seat up,
And get on his feet up,
To say, with voice squeaking,
“Unaccustomed to speaking,”
Which sends you off seeking
Your hat, number thirty--
No coach--very dirty.
So, hungry and fevered,
Wet-footed, spoilt beavered,
Eyes aching in socket,
Ten pounds out of pocket,
To Brook-street the Upper
You haste home to supper.

A CHARITY SERMON.

“‘I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and,
believe me, I will shortly pay thee another visit; but my friends,
I fancy, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately.’
Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, ‘Thou dost not
intend to rob me?’

* * * * *

‘I would have thee know, friend,’ addressing himself to Adams, ‘I
shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is,
better than to give to vagabonds.’”--JOSEPH ANDREWS.

I’m an extremely charitable man--no collar and long hair, though a little carrotty;
Demure, half-inclined to the unknown tongues, but I never gain’d anything by Charity.
I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother was traced and baited,
And the overseers found _her_ out--and she found _me_ out--and the child was affili_ated_.
Oh, Charity will come home to roost--
Like curses and chickens is Charity.

I once, near Whitehall’s very old wall, when ballads danced over the whole of it,
Put a bad five-shilling-piece into a beggar’s hat, but the old hat had got a hole in it;
And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer’s eye seem’d to care for it,
As my bad crown piece went through _his_ bad crown piece, and they took me up to Queen’s Square for it.
Oh, Charity, &c.

I let my very old (condemn’d) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low,
So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes--all defunct and fatherless now;
For the plaguy one-sided party wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter,
And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal verdict of Manslaughter.
Oh, Charity, &c.

I pick’d up a young well-dress’d gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St. Martin’s Court,
And charitably offer’d to see him home--for charity always seem’d to be my forte,
And I’ve had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky
job--
Do you know, he got my watch--my purse--and my handkerchief--for it was one of
the swell mob.
Oh, Charity, &c.

Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man, when it
seem’d that
they must be dash’d to pieces,
Though several kind people were following him with all their might--but such
following a horse his speed increases;
I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength; and I meant to ride it
home, of course;
But the crowd came up and took me up--for it turn’d out the man had run away with
the horse.
Oh, Charity, &c.

I watch’d last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it’s a
positive fact,
That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against everybody
under Mr. Martin’s act;
But I couldn’t catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the ears,
or over the head;
And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten swell’d
fingers in bed.
Oh, Charity, &c.

Well, I’ve utterly done with Charity, though I used so to preach about its
finest fount;
Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but _I_ can’t turn it to any account--
It goes so the very reverse way--even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety;
That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely out of the List
of Subscribers to the Humane Society.
Oh, Charity, &c.

THE CHINA MENDER.

Good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call! Well! here’s another pretty job!
Lord help my Lady!--what a smash!--if you had only heard her sob!
It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey,
To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney.
“Deuce take your stupid head!” says my Lady to his very face;
But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there’s Chiney in the case;
And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion
It’s my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.
Her brother’s a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads--
Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads;
And great nidnoddin’ mandarins, with palsies in the head:
I declare I’ve often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.
But the frightfuller they are--lawk! she loves them all the better:
She’d have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they’d let her.

Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it’s breaking her very heart;
If I touch’d it, she would very soon say, “Mary, we must part.”
To be sure she _is_ unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall,
And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle:
He’s a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch,
And that’s why my Lady doesn’t take to children much.
Well! there’s stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two great coat flaps,
Must go and sit down on the Dresden shepherdesses’ laps,
As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room;
I couldn’t have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom.
Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear!
Well! after all, there’s nothing like good ironstone ware for wear.
If ever I marry, that’s flat, I’m sure it won’t be John Dockery,--
I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery.
I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy,
And afraid of mad bulls on market-days every Monday and Friday.
I’m very much mistook if Mr. Lambert’s will be a catch;
The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match.
Missis wouldn’t have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney;
She never forgives a chip, if it’s ever so small and tiny.
Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;
I could find in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.
To see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany;
But what signifies apologies, if they won’t mend old Chaney!
If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood’s and Mr. Spode’s,
He couldn’t make amends for the crack’d mandarins and smash’d toads.
Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self,
I’d rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother’s old shelf:
A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns,
And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns,
And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top boots and sky-blue vest,
And a frill and flower’d waistcoat, with a fine bowpot at the breast.
God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into ’em at her death,
Though she’s a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath.
Well! you think the things will mend--if they won’t, Lord mend us all!
My Lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won’t need to call:
I’ll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give,
He won’t sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live.
Poor soul! I only hope it won’t forbid his bans of marriage,
Or he’d better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady’s carriage.
But you’ll join ’em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert’s friend;
I’ll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend.
To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats;
Here’s this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats:
Be particular with the pagoda: and then here’s this pretty bowl--
The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole;
And here’s another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll--
Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol.
But I needn’t tell you what to do; only do it out of hand,
And charge whatever you like to charge--my Lady won’t make a stand.
Well! good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call; for it’s time our gossip ended:
And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney’s mended.

ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER.

Why, Lover, why
Such a water rover?
Would she love thee more
For coming _half seas over_?

Why, Lady, why,
So in love with dipping?
Must a lad of _Greece_
Come all over _dripping_?

Why, Cupid, why
Make the passage brighter?
Were not any boat
Better than a _lighter_?

Why, Madam, why
So intrusive standing?
Must thou be on the stair
When he’s on the _landing_?

MISS FANNY’S FAREWELL FLOWERS.

Not “the posie of a ring.”
SHAKESPEARE (all but the _not_).

I came to town a happy man:
I need not now dissemble
Why I return so sad at heart--
It’s all through Fanny Kemble:
Oh! when she threw her flowers away,
What urged the tragic slut on
To weave in such a wreath as that,
Ah me! a bachelor’s button.

None fought so hard, none fought so well,
As I to gain some token--
When all the pit rose up in arms,
And heads and hearts were broken;
“Huzza!” said I, “I’ll have a flower
As sure as my name’s Dutton;”--
I made a snatch--I got a catch--
By Jove! a bachelor’s button!

I’ve lost my watch--my hat is smashed--
My clothes declare the racket;
I went there in a full dress coat,
And came home in a jacket.
My nose is swell’d--my eye is black--
My lip I’ve got a cut on!
Odds buds!--and what a bud to get--
The deuce! a bachelor’s button!

My chest’s in pain; I really fear
I’ve somewhat hurt my bellows,
By pokes and punches in the ribs
From those _herb-strewing fellows_.
I miss two teeth in my front row;
My corn has had a _fut_ on;
And all this pain I’ve had to gain
This cursed bachelor’s button.

Had I but won a rose--a bud--
A pansy--or a daisy--
A periwinkle--anything--
But this--it drives me crazy!
My very sherry tastes like squills,
I can’t enjoy my mutton;
And when I sleep I dream of it--
Still--still----a bachelor’s button

My place is book’d per coach to-night,
But oh, my spirit trembles
To think how country friends will ask
Of Knowleses and of Kembles.
If they should breathe about the wreath,
When I go back to Sutton,
I shall not dare to show my share,
That all!--a bachelor’s button!

My luck in life was never good,
But this my fate will burden:
I ne’er shall like my farming more,--
I know I shan’t the Garden.
The turnips all may have the fly,
The wheat may have the smut on,
I care not,--I’ve a blight at heart,--
Ah me!--a bachelor’s button!

THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO.

‘It must be. So Plato?--Thou reasonest?--Well.”
--_School Cato._

It’s very hard! oh, Dick, my boy,
It’s very hard one can’t enjoy
A little private spouting;
But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives,
Up comes our master, bounce! and gives
The tragic muse a routing!

Ay, there he comes again! be quick!
And hide the book--a playbook, Dick,
He must not set his eyes on!
It’s very hard, the churlish elf
Will never let one stab one’s self
Or take a bowl of p’ison!

It’s very hard, but when I want
To die--as Cato did--I can’t,
Or go _non compos mentis_--
But up he comes, all fire and flame;--
No doubt he’d do the very same
With Kemble for a ‘prentice!

Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick! it was not so
Some half a dozen years ago!
Melpomene was no sneaker,
When, under Reverend Mister Poole,
Each little boy at Enfield School
Became an Enfield speaker!

No cruel master-tailor’s cane
Then thwarted the theatric vein;
The tragic soil had tillage.
O dear dramatic days gone by!
You, Dick, were Richard then--and I
Play’d Hamlet to the village,

Or, as Macbeth, the dagger clutch’d,
Till all the servant-maids were touch’d--
Macbeth, I think, my pet is;
Lord, how we spouted Shakespeare’s works--
Dick, we had twenty little Burkes,
And fifty Master Betties!

Why, there was Julius Cæsar Dunn,
And Norval, Sandy Philip,--one
Of Elocution’s champions--
Genteelly taught by his mamma
To say, not father, but papa,
Kept sheep upon the Grampians!

Coriolanus Crumpe--and Fig
In Brutus, with brown-paper wig,
And Huggins great in Cato;
Only he broke so often off,
To have a fit of whooping-cough,
While reasoning with Plato.

And Zangra too,--but I shall weep,
If longer on this theme I keep,
And let remembrance loose, Dick;
Now forced to act--it’s very hard--
“Measure for Measure” with a yard--
You Richard, with a goose, Dick!

Zounds! Dick, it’s very odd our dads
Should send us there when we were lads
To learn to talk like Tullies;
And now, if one should just break out,
Perchance, into a little spout,
A stick about the skull is.

Why should stage-learning form a part
Of schooling for the tailor’s art?
Alas! dramatic notes, Dick,
So well record the sad mistake
Of him who tried at once to make
Both _Romeo_ and _Coates_, Dick!

YE TOURISTS AND TRAVELLERS.

Ye Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine,
Provided with passport, that requisite docket,
First listen to one little whisper of mine--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

Don’t wash or be shaved--go like hairy wild men,
Play dominoes, smoke, wear a cap, and smock-frock it,
But if you speak English, or look it, why then--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds,
Find charges as apt to mount up as a rocket,
With thirty per cent. as a tax on your heads,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll see old Cologne,--not the sweetest of towns,--
Wherever you follow your nose you will shock it;
And you’ll pay your three dollars to look at three crowns,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll count seven Mountains, and see Roland’s Eck,
Hear legends veracious as any by Crockett;
But oh! to the tone of romance what a check,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

Old Castles you’ll see on the vine-covered hill,--
Fine ruins to rivet the eye in its socket--
Once haunts of Baronial Banditti, and still--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll stop at Coblenz, with its beautiful views,
But make no long stay with your money to stock it,
Where Jews are all Germans, and Germans all Jews,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!--

A Fortress you’ll see, which, as people report,
Can never be captured, save famine should block it--
Ascend Ehrenbreitstein--but that’s not their _forte_,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll see an old man who’ll let off an old gun,
And Lurley, with her hurly-burly, will mock it;
But think that the words of the echo thus run,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

You’ll gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the Vine!
Of course you will freely Moselle it and Hock it--
P’raps purchase some pieces of Humbugheim wine--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

Perchance you will take a frisk off to the Baths--
Where some to their heads hold a pistol and cock it;
But still mind the warning, wherever your paths--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

And Friendships you’ll swear, most eternal of pacts,
Change rings, and give hair to be put in a locket;
But still, in the most sentimental of acts--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

In short, if you visit that stream or its shore,
Still keep at your elbow one caution to knock it,
And where Schinderhannes was Robber of yore,--
Take care of your pocket!--take care of your pocket!

RURAL FELICITY.

Well, the country’s a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that’s country born,
And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn.
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down.
Tho’ as yet all I’ve seen of a pastoral life only makes me more partial to town.

At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss,
For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss;
There’s something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock,
That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam, and his innocent flock;
But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down,
And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles,
If it wasn’t for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you’re almost broken in two,
If you clamber you’re certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through.
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles-down,
But still as to walking so stylishly, it’s pleasanter done about town.
There’s a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that’s by a walk in a lane,
And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again;
For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn’t be kept in the pound,
A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground?
And that, by-the-bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down,
Ev’ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there’s only two up in town.

Then I’ve rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew,
And to meet Aurory, or whatever’s her name, and I always got wetted through;
My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my
gown,
That’s not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!
As for picking flowers, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,
But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;
Beside hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown,
One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one’s bows about town.
But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,
And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin’s Lane;
And while you’re running all duck’d and drown’d, and pelted with sixpenny drops,
“Fine weather,” you hear the farmers say; “a nice growing shower for the crops!”
But who’s to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?
For you can’t take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.