Chapter XIX: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (5)

Lesbia hath with sauce combined
Broccoli white, without a tarnish;
'Tis hard to tell if 'tis design'd
For vegetable or for garnish.
Pillow'd on a butter'd dish,
My Chicken temptingly reposes,
Making gourmands for it wish,
Should the savor reach their noses.
Oh, my tender pullet dear!
My boiled--not roasted--tender Chicken
Day or night,
Thy meal is light,
For supper, e'en, my tender Chicken.

STEWED DUCK AND PEAS. AIR--"My Heart and Lute."

I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
Its early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.

Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas! One's hunger to allay; At least for luncheon they may pass, The appetite to stay, If seasoned Duck an odor bring From which one would abstain, The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring, Set all to rights again.

I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss'd from head to heels,
Then stew'd with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell

When Duck and Bacon in a mass You in the stew-pan lay, A spoon around the vessel pass, And gently stir away: A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring, Then in it twenty onions fling, And gently stir again.

A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves--I make my language brief--
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck--the sauce improve
In the accustom'd way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain:
And, if the dish contentment brings,
You'll dine with me again.

CURRY.

Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares, And chops it nicely into little squares; Five onions next prepares the little minx (The biggest are the best her Samiwel thinks). And Epping butter, nearly half a pound, And stews them in a pan until they're brown'd.

What's next my dexterous little girl will do? She pops the meat into the savory stew, With curry powder, table-spoonfulls three, And milk a pint (the richest that may be);

And, when the dish has stewed for half-an-hour, A lemon's ready juice she'll o'er it pour: Then, bless her! then she gives the luscious pot A very gentle boil--and serves quite hot.

P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish; Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fish Are fit to make A CURRY. 'Tis, when done, A dish for emperors to feed upon.

THE RAILWAY GILPIN.
PUNCH.

JOHN GILPIN is a citizen;
For lineage of renown,
The famed JOHN GILPIN'S grandson, he
Abides in London town.

To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear,
"Stewed up here as we've been
Since Whitsuntide, 'tis time that we
Should have a change of scene.

"To-morrew is a leisure day,
And we'll by rail repair
Unto the Nell at Dedmanton,
And take a breath of air.

"My sister takes our eldest child;
The youngest of our three
Will go in arms, and so the ride
Won't so expensive be."

JOHN soon replied, "I don't admire
That railway, I, for one;
But you know best, my dearest dear
And so it must be done.

"I, as a linen-draper bold,
Will bear myself, and though
'Tis Friday by the calendar,
Will risk my limbs, and go."

Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, "Nicely said:
And then, besides, look here,
We'll go by the Excursion Train,
Which makes it still less dear."

JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife,
And slightly smiled to find
That though on peril she was bent,
She had a careful mind.

The morning came; a cab was sought:
The proper time allow'd
To reach the station door; but lo!
Before it stood a crowd.

For half an hour they there were stay'd,
And when they did get in--
"No train! a hoax!" cried clerks, agog
To swear through thick and thin.

"Yea!" went the throats; stamp went the heels
Were never folks so mad,
The disappointment dire beneath;
All cried "it was too bad!"

JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied,
But he must needs remain,
Commanded by his willful bride,
And take the usual train.

'T was long before our passengers
Another train could find,
When--stop! one ticket for the fares
Was lost or left behind!

"Good lack!" quoth JOHN, "yet try it on."
"'T won't do," the Guard replies;
And bearing wife and babes on board,
The train without him flies.

Now see him in a second train,
Behind the iron steed,
Borne on, slap dash-for life or bones
With small concern or heed.

Away went GILPIN, neck or naught,
Exclaiming, "Dash my wig!
Oh, here's a game! oh, here's a go!
A running such a rig!"

A signal, hark!--the whistle screamed--
Smash! went the windows all:
"An accident!" cried out each one,
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went GILPIN, never mind--
His brain seemed spinning round;
Thought he, "This speed a killing pace
Will prove, I'll bet a pound !"

And still, as stations they drew near,
The whistle shrilly blew,
And in a trice, past signal-men,
The train like lightning flew.
Thus, all through merry Killbury,
Without a stop shot they;
But paused, to 'scape a second smash,
At Dedmanton so gay.

At Dedmanton his loving wife,
On platform waiting, spied
Her tender husband, striving much
To let himself outside.

"Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are--
Come out!" they all did cry;
"To death with waiting we are tired!"
"Guard!" shouted GILPIN, "Hi!"

But no--the train was not a bit
Arranged to tarry there,
For why?--because 't was an Express,
And did dispatches bear.

So, in a second, off it flew
Again, and dashed along,
As if the deuce't were going to,
With motive impulse strong.

Away went GILPIN, on the breath
Of puffing steam, until
They came unto their journey's end,
Where they at last stood still

And then--best thing that he could do--
He book'd himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down.

Says GILPIN, "Sing, Long live the QUEEN,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I'll trust that Line again,
Myself I blest will see!"

ELEGY. WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION. PUNCH. The Station clock proclaims the close of day; The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea; The last train starts upon its dangerous way, And leaves the place to darkness and to me.

Now fades the panting engine's red tail-light,
And all the platform solemn stillness holds,
Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night,
By smothered coughs announce their several colds.

Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes placed too high up to peep, All in their iron safes securely laid, The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep.

The Debts to credit side so neatly borne,
What should be losses, profits proved instead;
The Dividends those pages that adorn
No more shall turn the fond Shareholder's head.

Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield,
Their evidence arithmetic could choke:
How jocund were they that to them appealed!
How many votes of thanks did they provoke!

Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON'S toil,
Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure;
Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil
'Twas glad to share--while it could share secure.

All know the way that he his fortune made,
How he bought votes and consciences did hire;
How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed
To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire,

Till these accounts at last their doctored page,
Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll,
When virtue suddenly became the rage,
And wiped George Hudson out of fashion's scroll.

Full many a noble Lord who once serene
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.

For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late--
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate,

Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,
"Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn,
When at his levees elbowing their way,
Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn.

"There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each
Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy,
There his own arts his favorites he would teach,
And put them up to good things on the sly.

"Till to the House by his admirers borne,
Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,
And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.

"Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till, Out came one cooked account--of our M. P.; Another came--yet men scarce ventured, still, To think their idol such a rogue could be.

"Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.

Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;
When he won foully he did freely spend.
He plundered no one knows how much a-year,
But Chancery o'ertook him in the end.

No further seek his frailties to disclose:
For many of his sins should share the load:
While he kept rising, who asked how he rose?
While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?

THE BOA AND THE BLANKET. [Footnote: A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.] AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.--[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH.

It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday! May be muttered to-morrow! What?-- THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET, Speckled Enthusiast!

It was full moon's full moonlight! The Shilling I had paid down at the Gate Seem'd hung in Heaven. To NEWTON'S EYE (As Master of the Mint). A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling! I was alone, with Nothing to Speak of But Creation!

Yes! Gigantic NOAH'S Ark of twenty times her tonnage, Lay crouch'd, and purring, and velvety, and fanged About me! Cane-colored tigers--rug-spotted Leopards-- Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit--to true love knots Semblable! Striped Zebra--Onager Calcitrant--Common Ass, And I--and all were there! The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut, Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored. The Lion's Cage was hot with heat of blood: And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves!

In Gardens Zoological and Regent, I, meditating, stood! And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling, Impartial Moon, that showed me all.

My heart fluttered as tho' winged from Mercury! I moved--approached the Snake-House! Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went! The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling strings Of my melodious heart! Down--down to its coral roots! I dashed aside the human tear; and--yes--prepared myself With will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake! The Boa!! The Python!!! The Anaconda!!!!

A Boa was there! A Boa, 'neath Crystal Roof! And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws, Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped! "And so (I couldn't help it) so," I groaned--"the ancient Snake-- That milk-white thing--and innocent--trustful! And then, Death--Death-- And lo! there, typical, it is--it is-- THE BLANKET!! Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower; And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!"

Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep, And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny, Meet his demand at three and six months' date! (We know such Boas and rabbits, Know we not?) Let me pass on! And here 'tis cool; nay, even cold Without the Snake-House!

The Moon still glistens, and again I think Of Multitudes who've paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here! The city muckworm, who Prom peacock orient, scarce could tell a cock Of hay! Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pig He knows, and (as for money) Ever has his squeak for't! Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man, Master of probabilities! He sees the tusk of elephant--the two tusks-- And, with a thought, cuts 'em into cubes-- And with another thought--another--and another- Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty years Those spotted squares shall come up sixes! And this in living elephant!

And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks,
Accompanied
By
PRINCE ALBERT,
THE PRINCE OF WALES,
THE PRINCESS ROYAL,
And
The Rest of the Royal Children!--

She saw the Tiger! Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB'S Tiger's Head? She saw the Lion! Thought she of one of her own Arms? She did NOT see the Unicorn; but (With her gracious habits of condescension) Did she think of him a bit the less? Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on!

And now I am here; and whether I will or no, I feel I'm jolly! The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet (Of course i mean the Whigs), Know not, when they rise to-morrow, What color they will wake!-- The baby elephant seems prematurely old: Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughts Of cakes and oranges given it by boys; Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic! This is very sad. No more of it!

Ha! ha! here sits the Ape--the many-colored wight! Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax, And so be-colored with prismatic hues, As though he had come from sky to earth-- Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow!

Hush! I have made a perfect circle! And at the Snake-House once again I stand! Such is life! Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident! To be conceived--Oh, perhaps! Described--Oh, never! Keepers are up, and crowd about the box-- The Boa's box--with unconcerned rabbits! Not so the Boa! Look! Behold! And where's the Blanket? In the Boa's inside place! The Monster mark! How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as though He had within him rolls and rolls Of choking, suffocating influenza, That lift his eyes from out their sockets!--Of fleecy phlegm That will neither in or out, but mid-way Seem to strangle! Silence and wonder settle on the crowd; From whom instinctively and breathlessly, Ascend two pregnant questions! "Will the Boa bolt the blanket? Will the blanket choke the Boa?" Such the problem!

And then men mark and deduce Differently

"THE BLANKET IS ENGLAND: THE BOA THE POPE, WILL THE POPE DISGORGE HIS BULL?"

"THE BLANKET'S FREE TRADE: THE CORN-GORGED FOLK IS THE BOA WITH PLENTY STIFLED!"

"THE BLANKET'S REFORM TO GAG THE MOB, AND NAUGHT TO SATISFY!"

But I, a lofty and an abstract man, A creature of a higher element Than ever nourished the wood Ordained for ballot-boxes--I Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and, Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock, Says--"What's your opinion, Sir? If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must: If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?" "My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa-- You will conceive me--are a type, yes, just a type, Of this our day. The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food What needs must scour or suffocate, Not nourish! My friend, let the wool of that one blanket Warm but the back of one live sheep, And the Boa would bolt the animal entire, And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones, And turning them to healthful nutriment! Believe this vital truth; The stomach may take down and digest And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton; That would turn at and reject One little ball of worsted!"

On saying this I turned away, Feeling adown the small-o'-the back That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW We have said a good thing; Knowing it better than the vain world Ever can or ever will Reader, I have sung my song! The BOA AND THE B----, like new-found star, Is mine no longer; but the world's!-- Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note? With note akin that immortal bard The snow-white Swan of Avon? Or haply, to that --RARA AVIS, --That has --"Tried WARREN'S?"

THE DILLY AND THE D'S. [Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee," published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.] [AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.] BY S--L W--RR--N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S PUNCH.

PART FIRST.

Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature, Alien to Law! Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS, Whither away?--Away! Far from my brief--Brief with a fee upon it, Tremendous! And probably--before my business is concluded-- A REFRESHER--nay, several!! Whither whirlest thou thy thrall? Thy willing thrall? "NOW AND THEN;" But not just at this moment, If you please, Spirit! No, let me read and ponder on THE PLEADINGS. Declaration! Plea!! Replication!!! Rejoinder!!!! Surrejoinder!!!!! Rebutter!!!!!! Surrebutter!!!!!!! ETC! ETC!! ETC!!! It may not be. The Muse-- As ladies often are-- Though lovely, is obstinate, And will have her own way! * * * * And am I not As well as a Q.S., An F.R.S. And LL.D.? Ask BLACKWOOD The reason why, and he will tell you, So will the Mayor-- The MAYOR OF HULL! I obey, Spirit. Hang my brief--'tis gone!-- To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court. Whither away? Where am I? What is it I behold? In space, or out of space? I know not. In fact I've not the least idea if I'm crazy. Or sprung--sprung? I've only had a pint of Port at dinner And can't be sprung-- Oh, no!--Shame on the thought! I see a coach!-- Is it a coach? Not exactly. Yet it has wheels-- Wheels within wheels--and on the box A driver, and a cad behind, And Horses--Horses?-- Bethink thee--Worm!-- Are they Horses? or that race Lower than Horses, but with longer ears And less intelligence-- In fact--"EQUI ASINI," Or in vernacular JACKASSES? 'Tis not a coach exactly-- Now I see on the panels-- Pricked out and flourished-- A word! A magic word-- "THE DILLY!"--"THE DERBY DILLY!" Oh Dilly! Dilly!--all thy passengers Are outsiders-- The road is rough and rutty-- And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son-- Driveth Furiously! And the cad upon the monkey-board The monkey-board behind, Scorneth the drag--but goes Downhill like mad. He hath a Caucasian brow! A son of SHEM, is he, Not of HAM-- Nor JAPHETH-- In fact a Jew-- But see, the pace Grows faster--and more fast--in fact-- I may say A case of Furious driving! Take care, you'll be upset-- Look out! Holloa! * * * * Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!! The Dilly-- With all its precious freight Of men and Manners-- Is gone! Gone to immortal SMASH! Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes! Oh Muse--lend me my scroll To do it with, for I have lost My wipe!

PART SECOND

* * * Again upon the road
The road to where?
To nowhere in particular!
Ah, no--I thank thee, Muse--
That hint--'tis a finger-post,
And "he that runs may read"--
He that runs?
But I am not running--
I am riding--
How came I here?--what am I riding on?
Who are my fellow-passengers?
Ah, ha!
I recognize them now!
The Coach--
The Box--
The Driver--
And the Cad--
I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again
And now I see
That finger-post!
It saith
"To Oxford
Fifty-two miles."
And, hark! a chorus!
From all the joyous load,
Driver and cad, and all!
"We go," they sing--
To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED."
To be Doctored?
Then, wherefore
Are ye so cheerful?
I was not cheerful in my early days--
Days of my buoyant boyhood--
When, after inglutition
Of too much
Christmas pudding,
Or Twelfth cake saccharine,
I went, as we go now,
To be Doctored!
Salts!
Senna and Rhubarb!!
Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!!
And Antimonial Wine!!!!
"WORM!
IDIOT!!
DONKEY!!!"
Said the free-spoken Muse
"With them thou goest to be doctored, too,
Not in medicine--but in Law--
All these--and thou--
Are going to be made
HONORARY
LL.D.s!
Behold!
And know thy company
Be thou familiar with them,
But by no means vulgar--
For familiarity breeds contempt;
And no man is a hero
To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE!
So ponder and perpend."
DERBY!
The wise, the meek, the chivalrous--
Mirror of knightly graces
And daily dodges;
Who always says the right things
At the right time,
And never forgets himself as others--
Nor changes his side
Nor his opinion--
A STANLEY to the core, as ready
To fight
As erst on FLODDEN FIELD
His mail-clad ancestor.--
See the poem
Of MARMION,
By SIR WALTER SOOTT!
DIZZY!
Dark--supple--subtle--
With mind lithe as the limbs
Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors--
With tongue sharp as the spear
That o'er Sahara
Flings the blue shadow
Of the crown of ostrich feathers--
As described so graphically
By LAYARD, in his recent book
On Nineveh!
With tongue as sharp
As aspic's tooth of NILUS,
Or sugary
Upon the occasion
As is the date
Of TAFILAT.
DIZZY, the bounding Arab
Of the political arena--
As swift to whirl
Right about face--
As strong to leap
From premise to conclusion--
As great in balancing
A budget--
Or flinging headlong
His somersets
Over sharp swords of adverse facts,
As were his brethren of EL-ARISH,
Who
Some years ago exhibited--
With rapturous applause--
At Astley's Amphitheater--
And subsequently
At Vauxhall Gardens!
* * * * *
Clustering, front and back
On box and knife-board,
See, petty man;
Behold! and thank thy stars
That led thee--Worm--
THEE, that art merely a writer
And a barrister,
Although a man of elegant acquirements,
A gentleman and a scholar--
Nay, F.R.S. to boot--
Into such high society,
Among such SWELLS,
And REAL NOBS!
Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end
Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers!
Oh! happy, happy, happy,
Oh, happy SAM!
Say, isn't this worth, at the least
"TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!"
* * * * *
And these are all, to day at least---
Thy fellows!
Going to be made
LL.D.s, even as thyself--
And thou shalt walk in silk attire.
And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth,
And lunch in Hall--
In Hall!
Where lunched before thee,
But on inferior grub,
That first great SAM--
SAM JOHNSON!
And LAUD, and ROGER BACON,
And CRANMER, LATIMER,
And RIDLEY,
And CYRIL JACKSON--and a host besides,
Whom at my leisure
I will look up
In WOOD'S
"ATHENAE OXONIENSES"
Only to think!
How BLACKWOOD
Is honored!
ALISON! AYTOUN!
BULWER!!!
And last, not least
The great SAM GANDERAM!!!!
Oh EBONY!
Oh MAGA!
And oh
Our noble selves!

"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.

The partial power that to the female race Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace, With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one, And to another gives as good as none: But woman still for nature proves a match, And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales; Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales; To this we must refer the use of stays; Nor less the bustle of more modern days.

Artful device! whose imitative pad Into good figures roundeth off the bad-- Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen, Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline-- How oft to thee the female form doth owe A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow, Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!

There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame, Who had a friend--JAMES TAYLOR was his name. He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade And still saved up the profits that he made, Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed, The father in the savings-bank was led In his child's name a small sum to invest, From which he drew the legal interest. Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went, Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent, Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds, The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.

Our cautious legislature--well 'tis known-- Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown: 'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt, Though any thing but easy to draw out. And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay, And, short of cash, unto the bank applied; Failing some form of law, he was denied!

JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd--look'd blank and blue;-- In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do: His creditor was stern--the bill was over due. As to a friend he did his plight deplore-- The worthy dame of whom I spoke before-- (It might cause pain to give the name she owns, So let me use the pseudonym of JONES); "TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend, I do not care if I the money lend. But even friends security should hold: Give me security--I'll lend the gold." "This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries. "See--in my daughter's name the sum that lies!" She saw--and, satisfied, the money lent; Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content. But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast! What terrors throng her once unbroken rest! Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook-- But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book? Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay; Paper--as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say-- Will make wings to itself, and fly away! Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase, Until at last she hit upon a place. Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned, Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand? Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make; But when did woman vanity forsake? What nature sternly to her form denied, A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied, Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!

'Twas thought--'twas done! by help of ready pin, The sawdust was let out, the book put in. Henceforth--at home--abroad--where'er she moved, Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved. She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight: No fear of burglars scared her through the night;

But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold, What fort against cupidity can hold? Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in, The ODOR LUCRI--the strong scent of TIN? For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.

Some time elapsed--the time required by law, Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw, His kind but cautious creditor to pay, So to the savings-bank they took their way. There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew-- To do what no rude eye might see her do-- And soon returning--with a blushing look, Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book. Which he, presenting, did the sum demand Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.

What can there be upon the red-lined page That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage? What means his invitation to J.T., To "Walk in for a moment"--"he would see"-- "Only a moment"--"'twas all right, no doubt," "It could not be"--"and yet"--here he slipped out, Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed, And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed. "What means the man by treating people so?" Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know." Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew! TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue-- POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong, Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"-- And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast, Revealed the book was forged--from first to last!

Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES? The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones? The van--the hand-cuffs--and the prison cell Where pined JAMES TAYLOR--wherefore pause to tell? Soon came the Assizes--and the legal train; In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign; And though his council mustered tears at will, And made black white with true Old Bailey skill, TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued, Was doomed to five years' penal servitude; And in a yellow suit turned up with gray, To Portland prison was conveyed away!

Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame-- When lo--one day unto the bank there came A new JAMES TAYLOR--a new MRS. JONES-- And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns! "Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"-- Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks-- "The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew-- These are imposters-yet the book is true!" When like a flash upon his mind it burst-- Who brought the second book had forged the first!

Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong-- Again that pair were bid to "Come along!" The truth before the justices appear'd, And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.

In evil hour--by what chance ne'er was known, Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn, Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside The artificial charms that decked her side-- But so it was, how or whene'er assailed-- The treacherous hiding-place was tried--and failed!

The book was ta'en--a forged one fill'd its place;- And MRS. JONES was robb'd--not to her face-- And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!

Who shall describe her anguish--her remorse? James Taylor was at once released, of course; And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.

My tale is told--and, what is more, 'tis true: I read it in the papers--so may you. And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all-- Though reticules may drop, and purses fall, Though thieves may unprotected females hustle, Never invest your money in a bustle.

STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.
PUNCH.

I.

ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME.

Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal Whence flowed that sudden tear: The truth 't were kindness to conceal From thy too anxious ear.

How often when some hidden spring
Of recollected grief
Is rudely touched, a tear will bring
The bursting breast relief!

Yet 't was no anguish of the soul,
No memory of woes,
Bade that one lonely tearlet roll
Adown my chiseled nose:

But, ah! interrogation's note
Still twinkles in thine eye;
Know then that I have burnt my throat
With this confounded pie!

II.

OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe, Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough: Some other night 't were joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not now! 'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I can not now embrace The opportunity--and thee.

'Tis sad to think that jealousy's Sharp scissors may our true love sever; And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest, list--I DINED OFF DUCK!

III.

ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL.

EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness? Whence that dark o'erclouded brow? What hath stilled thy bounding gladness, Changed thy pace from fast to slow? Is it that by impulse sudden Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn? Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden Right upon thy favorite corn?

"Is it that for evenings wasted Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel? Or hath that sham champagne we tasted Turned thy polka to a reel? Still that gloom upon each feature? Still that sad reproachful frown?" ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature, All my back hair's coming down!"

COLLOQUY ON A CAB-STAND. ADAPTED FOR THE BOUDOIR. PUNCH.

"OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say-- JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet: WILLIAM, the horses of his friend, With hay and water used to tend. "Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be, That MAYNE has issued a decree, Severe and stern, against us, planned Of comfort to deprive our Stand?"

"I fear the tale is all too true," Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do." "Are we restricted to the Row And from the footpath?" "Even so."

"Must our companions be resigned, We to the Rank alone confined?" "Yes; or they apprehend the lads Denominated Bucks and Cads."

"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard And are we, too, from beer debarred?" Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here We also are forbidden beer."

"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?" "That's interdicted too." "Indeed!" "Nor in the purifying wave Must we our steeds or chariots lave."

"For private drivers, at request, It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest That we shall move, I understand?" "Such, I believe, IS the command"

"Of all remains of food and drink Left by our animals I think, We are required to clear the ground?" "Yes: to remove them we are bound."

"These mandates should we disobey--" "They take our licenses away." "That were unkind. How harsh our lot!" "It is indeed." "Now is it not?"

"Thus strictly why are we pursued?" "It is alleged that we are rude; The people opposite complain, Our lips that coarse expressions stain."

"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say We smoke and tipple all the day, Are oft in an excited state, Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."

"What shocking stories people tell! I never! Did you ever?--Well-- Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed. "May they be blest!" his Friend replied.

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.

You, who hold in grace and honor, Hold, as one who did you kindness When he publish'd former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward, for the accents, Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conception, Of the manly nervous diction, Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it?

Should you ask me, Is it worthless, Is it bosh and is it bunkum, Merely facile flowing nonsense, Easy to a practiced rhythmist, Fit to charm a private circle, But not worth the print and paper David Bogue hath here expended? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool and most presumptuous. Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it? Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"

Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectiful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this meter, And embalming the traditions, Fables, rites, and suspepstitions, Legends, charms, and ceremonials Of the various tribes of Indians, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Finds its sugar in the rushes: From the fast-decaying nations, Which our gentle Uncle Samuel Is improving, very smartly, From the face of all creation, Off the face of all creation.

Should you ask me, By what story, By what action, plot, or fiction, All these matters are connected? I should answer, I should tell you, Go to Bogue and buy the poem, Publish'd neatly, at one shilling, Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings. Should you ask me, Is there music In the structure of the verses, In the names and in the phrases? Pleading that, like weaver Bottom, You prefer your ears well tickled; I should answer, I should tell you, Henry's verse is very charming; And for names--there's Hiawatha, Who's the hero of the poem; Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, Hiawatha's graceless father; There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah-- Ladies both, of various merit; Puggawangum, that's a war-club; Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy, "Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow; And the women and the maidens Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis," Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness. Then there's lovely Minnehaha-- Pretty name with pretty meaning-- It implies the Laughing-water; And the darling Minnehaha Married noble Hiawatha; And her story's far too touching To be sport for you, yon donkey, With your ears like weaver Bottom's, Ears like booby Bully Bottom.

Once upon a time in London, In the days of the Lyceum, Ages ere keen Arnold let it To the dreadful Northern Wizard, Ages ere the buoyant Mathews Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness-- I remember, I remember How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Tried to save these Indian stories From the fate of chill oblivion. Out came sundry comic Indians Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um. With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly. Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, But repented of his bargain, And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off-- Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee. If you ask me, What this memory Hath to do with Hiawatha, And the poem which I speak of? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool, and most presumptuous; 'Tis not for such humble cattle To inquire what links and unions Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings, Of their betters, mighty poets, Mighty writers--PUNCH the mightiest; I should answer, I should tell you, Shut your mouth, and go to David, David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor, Buy the Song of Hiawatha, Read, and learn, and then be thankful Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth, PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION.
WILLIAM AYTOUN.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow in thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er
Deceive affection's searching eye;
'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share
Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep,
Have I lain with stifled breath;
Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see
My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,--
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!"

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION.
WILLIAM AYTOUN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BITER BIT.
WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. BY SIR E------- B------- L-------. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink, I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams; There should Apollo's bays be budding now: And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams. When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won
The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,
And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fice for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers," Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?" No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W------ E------ A------, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropp'd--that star of honor--on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum, Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd--let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him, as we found him--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness! Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease-- A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille. That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng! How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back. So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm), We pass'd to the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY
WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled-- No--I beg your pardon--bled! For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me.

Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie.

Who's afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman's till? Who would pay a tailor's bill? Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before-- That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly!

Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery!

Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into--of the state--a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold-- These may be inclined to scold Our severity.