Chapter VIII: Part IV: Familiar Verse, and Poems Humorous and Satiric (4)

In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery grew in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution.

When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured From our new Faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.

The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear-- While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be-- Until the times do alter. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

Unknown

THE LOST LEADER [William Wordsworth]

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud-- We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, --He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,--not through his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ICHABOD [Daniel Webster]

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- He's ben true to one party,--an' thet is himself;-- So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life That th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT Sot To A Nursery Rhyme

"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.

"Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's--wha'd'ye call it?--divine,-- An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "'T would be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.

"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, "Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' that same old coon," sez he.

"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.

"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees; At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color: You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.

"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance, No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.

"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ex we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.

"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They're beginnin' to dance Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS A Song With A Stolen Burden

Off with your hat! along the street His Lordship's carriage rolls; Respect to greatness--when it shines To cheer our darkened souls. Get off the step, you ragged boys! Policeman, where's your staff? This is a sight to check with awe The most irreverent laugh. Chapeau bas! Chapeau bas! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well; Wait till they lift him out: It takes some time; his Lordship's old, And suffers from the gout. Now look! he owns a castled park For every finger thin; He has more sterling pounds a day Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son To a king's cousin, rich; (The mother was an oyster wench-- She perished in a ditch). His patriot worth embalmed has been In poets' loud applause: He made twelve thousand pounds a year By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole Was groom to the second James; He all but caught that recreant king When flying o'er the Thames. Devotion rare! by Orange Will With a Scotch county paid; He gained one more--in Ireland--when Charles Edward he betrayed.

He lived to see his son grow up A general famed and bold, Who fought his country's fights--and one, For half a million, sold. His son (alas! the house's shame) Frittered the name away: Diced, wenched and drank--at last got shot, Through cheating in his play!

Now, see, where, focused on one head, The race's glories shine: The head gets narrow at the top, But mark the jaw--how fine! Don't call it satyr-like; you'd wound Some scores, whose honest pates The self-same type present, upon The Carabas estates!

Look at his skin--at four-score years How fresh it gleams and fair: He never tasted ill-dressed food, Or breathed in tainted air. The noble blood glows through his veins Still, with a healthful pink; His brow scarce wrinkled!--Brows keep so That have not got to think.

His hand 's ungloved!--it shakes, 'tis true, But mark its tiny size, (High birth's true sign) and shape, as on The lackey's arm it lies. That hand ne'er penned a useful line, Ne'er worked a deed of fame, Save slaying one, whose sister he-- Its owner--brought to shame.

They ye got him in--he's gone to vote Your rights and mine away; Perchance our lives, should men be scarce, To fight his cause for pay. We are his slaves! he owns our lands, Our woods, our seas, and skies; He'd have us shot like vicious dogs, Should we in murmuring rise! Chapeau bas! Chapeau bas! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Robert Brough [1828-1860]

A MODEST WIT

A supercilious nabob of the East-- Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which--

Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His Honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?"-- "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good."

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!"

"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"

Selleck Osborn [1783-1826]

JOLLY JACK

When fierce political debate Throughout the isle was storming, And Rads attacked the throne and state, And Tories the reforming, To calm the furious rage of each, And right the land demented, Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach The way to be contented.

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, His chair, a three-legged stool; His broken jug was emptied oft, Yet, somehow, always full. His mistress' portrait decked the wall, His mirror had a crack, Yet, gay and glad, though this was all His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.

To give advice to avarice, Teach pride its mean condition, And preach good sense to dull pretence, Was honest Jack's high mission. Our simple statesman found his rule Of moral in the flagon, And held his philosophic school Beneath the "George and Dragon"

When village Solons cursed the Lords, And called the malt-tax sinful, Jack heeded not their angry words, But smiled and drank his skinful. And when men wasted health and life, In search of rank and riches, Jack marched aloof the paltry strife, And wore his threadbare breeches.

"I enter not the Church," he said, "But I'll not seek to rob it;" So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, While others studied Cobbett. His talk it was of feast and fun; His guide the Almanack; From youth to age thus gaily run The life of Jolly Jack.

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, He humbly thanked his Maker; "I am," said he, "O Father good! Nor Catholic nor Quaker: Give each his creed, let each proclaim His catalogue of curses; I trust in Thee, and not in them, In Thee, and in Thy mercies!

"Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, No hint I see of damning; And think there's faith among the Turks, And hope for e'en the Brahmin. Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, And kindly is my laughter; I cannot see the smiling earth, And think there's hell hereafter."

Jack died; he left no legacy, Save that his story teaches:-- Content to peevish poverty; Humility to riches. Ye scornful great, ye envious small, Come fellow in his track; We all were happier, if we all Would copy Jolly Jack.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

THE KING OF BRENTFORD After Beranger

There was a King in Brentford,--of whom no legends tell, But who, without his glory,--could eat and sleep right well. His Polly's cotton nightcap--it was his crown of state, He slept of evenings early,--and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace,--each day he took four meals, And for a guard of honor,--a dog ran at his heels. Sometimes to view his kingdoms,--rode forth this monarch good, And then a prancing jackass--he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits--with which this King was cursed, Except (and where's the harm on't)--a somewhat lively thirst; But people must pay taxes,--and Kings must have their sport; So out of every gallon--His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,--with manners soft and bland; With reason good, they named him,--the father of his land. Each year his mighty armies--marched forth in gallant show; Their enemies were targets,--their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor,--no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure,--his peaceful realm he swayed. And in the years he reigned,--through all this country wide, There was no cause for weeping,--save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,--do still their King deplore, His portrait yet is swinging,--beside an alehouse door. And topers, tender-hearted,--regard his honest phiz, And envy times departed,--that knew a reign like his.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

KAISER & CO

Der Kaiser auf der Vaterland Und Gott on high, all dings gommand; Ve two, ach don'd you understandt? Meinself--und Gott.

He reigns in heafen, und always shall, Und mein own embire don'd vas shmall; Ein noble bair, I dink you call Meinself--und Gott.

Vile some mens sing der power divine, Mein soldiers sing der "Wacht am Rhein," Und drink der healt in Rhenish wein Auf me--und Gott.

Dere's France dot swaggers all aroundt, She's ausgespieldt--she's no aggoundt; To mooch ve dinks she don'd amoundt, Meinself--und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein--und Gott's.

Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht shmall beer, Mit Boers und dings she interfere; She'll learn none runs dis hemisphere But me--und Gott.

She dinks, goot frau, some ships she's got, Und soldiers mit der sgarlet goat; Ach! ve could knock dem--pouf! like dot, Meinself--und Gott.

In dimes auf peace, brebared for wars, I bear der helm und sbear auf Mars, Und care nicht for den dousant czars, Meinself--und Gott.

In short, I humor efery whim, Mit aspect dark und visage grim, Gott pulls mit me und I mit Him-- Meinself--und Gott.

Alexander Macgregor Rose [1846-1898]

NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gained in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek; To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw,-- I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? what, the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends pas."--"What, is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

THE LION AND THE CUB

How fond are men of rule and place, Who court it from the mean and base! These cannot bear an equal nigh, But from superior merit fly. They love the cellar's vulgar joke, And lose their hours in ale and smoke. There o'er some petty club preside; So poor, so paltry, is their pride! Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit, In hopes to be supreme in wit. If these can read, to these I write, To set their worth in truest light.

A Lion-cub of sordid mind, Avoided all the lion kind; Fond of applause, he sought the feasts Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; With asses all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president. He caught their manners, looks, and airs; An ass in everything but ears! If e'er his Highness meant a joke, They grinned applause before he spoke; But at each word what shouts of praise! "Good gods! how natural he brays!" Elate with flattery and conceit, He seeks his royal sire's retreat; Forward, and fond to show his parts, His Highness brays; the Lion starts. "Puppy! that cursed vociferation Betrays thy life and conversation: Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace." "Why so severe?" the Cub replies; "Our senate always held me wise!" "How weak is pride," returns the sire: "All fools are vain when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise."

John Gay [1685-1732]

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS

Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train, Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round: Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burden's light." The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord: "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend, To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as Hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view."

John Gay [1685-1732]

THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN

A raven sat upon a tree, And not a word he spoke, for His beak contained a piece of Brie, Or, maybe, it was Roquefort? We'll make it any kind you please-- At all events, it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb A hungry fox sat smiling; He saw the raven watching him, And spoke in words beguiling: "J'admire," said he, "ton beau plumage," (The which was simply persiflage).

Two things there are, no doubt you know, To which a fox is used,-- A rooster that is bound to crow, A crow that's bound to roost, And whichsoever he espies He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand You're more than merely natty: I hear you sing to beat the band And Adelina Patti. Pray render with your liquid tongue A bit from 'Gotterdammerung.'"

This subtle speech was aimed to please The crow, and it succeeded: He thought no bird in all the trees Could sing as well as he did. In flattery completely doused, He gave the "Jewel Song" from "Faust."

But gravitation's law, of course, As Isaac Newton showed it, Exerted on the cheese its force, And elsewhere soon bestowed it. In fact, there is no need to tell What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird Took in the situation, He said one brief, emphatic word, Unfit for publication. The fox was greatly startled, but He only sighed and answered "Tut!"

The moral is: A fox is bound To be a shameless sinner. And also: When the cheese comes round You know it's after dinner. But (what is only known to few) The fox is after dinner, too.

Guy Wetmore Carryl [1873-1904]

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER Friend Of Humanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRIEND OF HUMANITY I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance!-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

George Canning [1770-1827]

VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES "Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your pot? How do you melt the multy swag? Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You can not bag a single stag; Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not, Until the squeezer nips your scrag, Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

VILLON'S BALLADE Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and guile, and thievery? 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With myst'ry and morality; Win gold at gleek,--and that will fly, Where all your gain at passage passes,-- And that's? You know as well as I, 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You'll gain enough, with husbandry, But--sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?-- 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

ENVOY Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly, 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH

To put new shingles on old roofs; To give old women wadded skirts; To treat premonitory coughs With seasonable flannel shirts; To soothe the stings of poverty And keep the jackal from the door,-- These are the works that occupy The Little Sister of the Poor.

She carries, everywhere she goes, Kind words and chickens, jams and coals; Poultices for corporeal woes, And sympathy for downcast souls: Her currant jelly, her quinine, The lips of fever move to bless; She makes the humble sick-room shine With unaccustomed tidiness.

A heart of hers the instant twin And vivid counterpart is mine; I also serve my fellow-men, Though in a somewhat different line. The Poor, and their concerns, she has Monopolized, because of which It falls to me to labor as A Little Brother of the Rich.

For their sake at no sacrifice Does my devoted spirit quail; I give their horses exercise; As ballast on their yachts I sail. Upon their tallyhos I ride And brave the chances of a storm; I even use my own inside To keep their wines and victuals warm.

Those whom we strive to benefit Dear to our hearts soon grow to be; I love my Rich, and I admit That they are very good to me. Succor the Poor, my sisters,--I, While heaven shall still vouchsafe me health, Will strive to share and mollify The trials of abounding wealth.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-

THE WORLD'S WAY

At Haroun's court it chanced, upon a time, An Arab poet made this pleasant rhyme:

"The new moon is a horseshoe, wrought of God, Wherewith the Sultan's stallion shall be shod."

On hearing this, the Sultan smiled, and gave The man a gold-piece. Sing again, O slave!

Above his lute the happy singer bent, And turned another gracious compliment.

And, as before, the smiling Sultan gave The man a sekkah. Sing again, O slave!

Again the verse came, fluent as a rill That wanders, silver-footed, down a hill.

The Sultan, listening, nodded as before, Still gave the gold, and still demanded more.

The nimble fancy that had climbed so high Grew weary with its climbing by and by:

Strange discords rose; the sense went quite amiss; The singer's rhymes refused to meet and kiss:

Invention flagged, the lute had got unstrung, And twice he sang the song already sung.

The Sultan, furious, called a mute, and said, O Musta, straightway whip me off his head!

Poets! not in Arabia alone You get beheaded when your skill is gone.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears, In a life parti-colored, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes be tried, but to neither would trust; And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews--sons mine.. ah God, I know not! Well-- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped, but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye-find... Ah God, I know not, I!... Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast... Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?-- The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables... but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?-- No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no more lapis to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers-- Old Gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY As Distinguished By An Italian Person Of Quality

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square. Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! --I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry! You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in the conch--fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

All the year round at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore finger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so, Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-k-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals. Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ALL SAINTS'

In a church which is furnished with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin, The penitents' dresses are sealskin and sable, The odor of sanctity's eau-de-cologne.

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its paniers and paints, He would say, as he looked at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All Sinners' if this is All Saints'?"

Edmund Yates [1831-1894]

AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither: The Rigid Righteous is a fool The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. Solomon--Eccles. vii. 16.

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've naught to do but mark and tell Your neebor's fauts and folly:-- Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, For glaikit Folly's portals! I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way;-- But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they've grown Debauchery and Drinking: Oh, would they stay to calculate The eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination,-- But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord,--its various tone, Each spring,--its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute; We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" A Logical Story

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown: "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." There! said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten; "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and Forty at last arrive, And then come Fifty, and Fifty-Five.

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)