Chapter II: Preface (2)

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish THEIR frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;-- Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And pant for years to come!

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And four at FIVES! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed! And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow-cob about, Would I were in his STEED!

Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van-- To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou can be a horse at school To wish to be a man!

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown--to be a king! And sleep on regal down! Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; Far happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown!

And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? That manhood's mirth?--O, go thy ways To Drury-lane when----PLAYS, And see how FORCED our fun!

Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!-- OUR tops are spun with coils of care, Our DUMPS are no delight!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead, Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Toward that merry ground!

Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast-- Soon come, soon gone! and age at last A sorry BREAKING UP!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Twelve years ago I made a mock
Of filthy trades and traffics:
I wondered what they meant by stock;
I wrote delightful sapphics:
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supped with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!--how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures,
Those whispered syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.
The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks
Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends?--I am alone,
No playmate shares my beaker--
Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,
And some before the Speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
Does Dr. Martext's duty;
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a beauty;
And Darrel studies, week by week,
His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now--
The world's cold chain has bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:
In Parliament I fill my seat,
With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Germyn-street,
And sip my hock at Doodle's.

But often when the cares of life,
Have set my temples aching,
When visions haunt me of a wife,
When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,
Or Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beauheu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk--
Or shiver in the lobby;
I wish that I could run away
From House, and court, and levee,
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun,
And dance o'er childhood's roses;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit and broken noses;
And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,
And call the milk-maids Houris;
That I could be a boy again--
A happy boy at Drury's!

THE VICAR.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the Green,
And guided to the Parson's Wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;
Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveler up the path,
Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho,
Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
"Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady lay her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:--
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,--
Good sooth the traveler was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns:
It passed from Mohammed to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermons never said or showed
That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius;
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The hand and head that penned and planned them,
For all who understood, admired,
And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises and smaller verses;
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild,
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of Fever smiled
The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Caesar or of Venus:
From him I learned the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus;
I used to singe his powdered wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustin.

Alack the change! in vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before:
You reach it by a carriage entry:
It holds three hundred people more:
And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?--look down,
And construe on the slab before you,
HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN,
VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.

THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.
W. M. THACKERAY

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks, With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best; For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when FANNY sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms! I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-- My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

STANZAS TO PALE ALE.
PUNCH.

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever
Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!
I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,
Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
As late I've been--so high the scale
Of FAHRENHEIT--and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,
It is, in every point of view,
Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,
Like stout and porter--fattening slops!

"CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR."
PUNCH.

Sweet is the sound of infant voice;
Young innocence is full of charms:
There's not a pleasure half so choice,
As tossing up a child in arms.
Babyhood is a blessed state,
Felicity expressly made for;
But still, on earth it is our fate,
That even "Children must be paid for."

If in an omnibus we ride, It is a beauteous sight to see, When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee. But in the dog-days' scorching heat, When a slight breath of air is pray'd for, Half suffocated in our seat, We feel that "Children must be paid for."

There is about the sports of youth
A charm that reaches every heart,
Marbles or tops are games of truth,
The bat plays no deceiver's part.
But if we hear a sudden crash,
No explanation need be stay'd for,
We know there's something gone to smash;
We feel that "Children must be paid for."

How exquisite the infant's grace,
When, clambering upon the knee,
The cherub, smiling, takes his place
Upon his mother's lap at tea;
Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair--Once more
We feel that "Children must be paid for."

Presiding at the festive board,
With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored
While mirth and jollity abound:
We see our table amply spread
With knives and forks a dozen laid for,
Then pause to think--"How are they fed?"
Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"

THE MUSQUITO.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint, Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint: Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth-- Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth; For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway--- Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain: Thou art a wayward being--well--come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer!--rouge makes thee sick? And China Bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-- But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch; To worship--not approach--that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired-- Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou 'rt welcome to the town--but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet;
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.
N. P. WILLIS.

I know not who thou art, thou lovely one, Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful, Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me, While handing up thy sixpence through the hole Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!--ah, me!-- The world is full of meetings such as this; A thrill--a voiceless challenge and reply, And sudden partings after--we may pass, And know not of each other's nearness now, Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain; And even should I pass where thou dost dwell-- Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea-- So cold is this inexorable world, I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye, I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in Venture to throw to thee my innocent card, Not knowing thy papa.

Hast thou papa? Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl? And what doth he for lucre? Lo again! A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream! For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love Can make thee, and the ministering hands Of milliners, incapable of more, Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly, May rise a wall of adamant. My breath Upon my pale lip freezes as I name Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west In its far down extremity. Thy sire May be the signer of a temperance pledge, And clad all decently may walk the earth-- Nay--may be number'd with that blessed few Who never ask for discount--yet, alas! If, homeward wending from his daily cares, He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending-- Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown-- My vision is departed! Harshly falls The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!" And pitiless is woman who doth keep Of "good society" the golden key! And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, To stoop not after rising!

But farewell, And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell The passengers by Broadway Lines alone! And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, Art only not more lovely than genteel-- Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain-- And, with up-town devotedness and truth, My love shall hover round thee!

COME OUT, LOVE.
N. P. WILLIS.

Argument.--The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.

Come out, love--the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting--
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
And love is no better for chilling--
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!

What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us--
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!

On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm--
When--pest!--that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!

Oh, pity the love that must utter While goes a swift omnibus by! (Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter Of fans shows thermometers high)-- But if what I bawl, or I mutter, Falls into your ear but to die, Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter Is not more unhappy than I! *[Footnote: Query--Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?--Printer's Devil.]

THE WHITE CHIP HAT.
N. P. WILLIS.

I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter--
I think near the corner of Murray--
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a duchess's doing--
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing--
Lovely thing!

Surprising!--one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious--
Chip hat without flower or feather--
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily--
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly--
Quite the thing!

For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in tearing one's tether--
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as YOU know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney--
But I said a bad word--for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney--
Horrid thing!

Away flies the dream I had nourish'd--
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses--
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!--
Not the thing!

YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU
N. P. WILLIS.

As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying The air-track of a snipe most passing fair-- Yet colder in her blood than she is fair-- And as that robin lingers on the wing, And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air, And loves her for her coldness not the less-- But fain would win her to that warmer sky Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars-- Lo I--a languisher for sunnier climes, Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever Image the tropic deathlessness of love-- Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady, To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!

Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on, As doth the swan upon the yielding water, And with a cheek like alabaster cold! But as thou didst divide the amorous air Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift That vail of languid lashes to look in At Leary's tempting window--lady! then My heart sprang in beneath that fringed vail, Like an adventurous bird that would escape To some warm chamber from the outer cold! And there would I delightedly remain, And close that fringed window with a kiss, And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast, Be prisoner forever!

THE DECLARATION.
N. P. WILLIS.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the uushutter'd window on the air, And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me--SHE HAD BEEN ASLEEP!

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
N. P. WILLIS.

They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine--
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier--
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.

Four love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies--
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease--
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.

TO HELEN IN A HUFF.
N. P. WILLIS

Nay, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this--
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!

The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I wrote some lines, once on a time,
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed.
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. A BALLAD. JOHN G. SAXE.

An Attorney was taking a turn,
In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself:

"Unfortunate man that I am!
I've never a client but grief;
The case is, I've no case at all,
And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain,
Expecting an 'opening' to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
Some reward for the toil of his mind.

"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
While I have to plead for a case.

"O, how can a modest young man
E'er hope for the smallest progression--
The profession's already so full
Of lawyers so full of profession!"

While thus he was strolling around,
His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,
And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat
On the curb-stone the space of a minute,
Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!"
And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came
('Twas the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined
How the man had determined his end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"
Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse;
"A lawyer? Alas!" said another,
"Undoubtedly he died of remorse!"

A third said, "He knew the deceased,
An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,
'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length,
After solemnly weighing the matter,
"That the lawyer was drownDed, because
He could not keep his head above water!"

SONNET TO A CLAM. JOHN G. SAXE Dum tacent CLAMant

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil--
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

O Maryanne, you pretty girl,
Intent on silky labor,
Of sempstresses the pink and pearl,
Excuse a peeping neighbor!

Those eyes, forever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,--
For once unvail them fairly.

Hast thou not lent that flounce enough
Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more "penetrable stuff,"
To which thou never turnest.

Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble!
O might I wind their skeins of thread,
Or but pick up their thimble!

How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!

Who'll steal some morning to her side
To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure.

Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown, Well conscious that it IS hers, Who'll glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors.

Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious--
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Maryanne, my precious!

I almost wish it were my trust
To teach how shocking that is;
I wish I had not, as I must,
To quit this tempting lattice.

Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,
Across a street so narrow;
A thread of silk to string his bow,
A needle for his arrow!

NARRATIVE

TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE [OLD BALLAD, QUOTED BY SHAKSPEARE, IN OTHELLO.] PERCY RELIQUES

This winters weather itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell, my wiffe, who loves noe strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.

HE.
O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?
Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:
Itt is soe bare and overworne
A cricke he theron cannot renn:
Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,
For once Ile new appareld bee,
To-morrow Ile to towne and spend,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE.
Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
She has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow
And other things shee will not fayle;
I wold be loth to see her pine,
Good husband councell take of mee,
It is not for us to go soe fine,
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE.
My cloake it was a very good cloake
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,
But now it is not worth a groat;
I have had it four and forty yeere;
Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,
'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see.
It will neither hold out winde nor raine;
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE.
It is four and fortye yeeres agoe
Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;
Wee have brought them up to women and men;
In the feare of God I trow they bee;
And why wilt thou thyselfe misken?
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE.
O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute!
Now is nowe, and then was then:
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen.
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
Soe far above their owne degree:
Once in my life Ile doe as they,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE.
King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere;
Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe,
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE.
"Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft, to live a quiet life,
I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man;"
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,
Unlesse he first gave oer the plea:
As wee began wee now will leave,
And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. [AN OLD ENGLISH BALLAD--LONG VERY POPULAR.] PERCY RELIQUES

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high And now for the same thou needest must dye; Por except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home, What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give: That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head. Among all his liege-men so noble of birth. To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saivour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soone! --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee: And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY [A VERY FAVORITE ANCIENT BALLAD.] PERCY RELIQUES

There was a knight was drunk with wine,
A riding along the way, sir;
And there he met with a lady fine,
Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire,
Among the grass lye down-a:
And I will have a special care,
Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe,
Will spoil my damask gowne, sir:
My gowne and kirtle they are newe,
And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red,
Upon the ground I'll throwe it;
Then, lady faire, come lay thy head;
We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free
Among the cocks of hay, sir,
And if the pinner should chance to see,
He'll take my steed away, sir.

Upon my finger I have a ring,
Its made of finest gold-a,
And, lady, it thy steed shall bring
Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall;
Fair chambers there are three, sir:
And you shall have the best of all,
And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

He mounted himself on his steed so tall,
And her on her dapple gray, sir:
And there they rode to her father's hall,
Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father's hall they arrived strait;
'Twas moated round about-a;
She slipped herself within the gate,
And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend,
And take it for your pain, sir;
And two of my father's men I'll send
To wait on you back again, sir.

He from his scabbard drew his brand,
And wiped it upon his sleeve-a!
And cursed, he said, be every man,
That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire,
And wip'd it upon her gown-a;
And curs'd be every maiden faire,
That will with men lye down-a!

A herb there is, that lowly grows,
And some do call it rue, sir:
The smallest dunghill cock that
Would make a capon of you, sir.

A flower there is, that shineth bright,
Some call it mary-gold-a:
He that wold not when he might,
He shall not when he wold-a.

The knight was riding another day,
With cloak, and hat, and feather:
He met again with that lady gay,
Who was angling in the river.

Now, lady faire, I've met with you,
You shall no more escape me;
Remember, how not long agoe
You falsely did intrap me.

He from his saddle down did light,
In all his riche attyer;
And cryed, As I'm a noble knight,
I do thy charms admyer.

He took the lady by the hand,
Who seemingly consented;
And would no more disputing stand:
She had a plot invented.

Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray,
Methinks I now discover
A riding upon his dapple gray,
My former constant lover.

On tip-toe peering stood the knight,
Past by the rivers brink-a;
The lady pusht with all her might:
Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.

O'er head and ears he plunged in,
The bottom faire he sounded;
Then rising up, he cried amain,
Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu!
You see what conies of fooling:
That is the fittest place for you;
Your courage wanted cooling.

Ere many days, in her fathers park,
Just at the close of eve-a,
Again she met with her angry sparke;
Which made this lady grieve-a.

False lady, here thou'rt in my powre,
And no one now can hear thee:
And thou shalt sorely rue the hour
That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.

I pray, sir knight, be not so warm
With a young silly maid-a:
I vow and swear I thought no harm,
'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.

A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd,
To tumble me in and leave me!
What if I had in the river dy'd?--
That fetch will not deceive me.

Once more I'll pardon thee this day,
Tho' injur'd out of measure;
But thou prepare without delay
To yield thee to my pleasure.

Well then, if I must grant your suit,
Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir
Let me pull off both spur and boot,
Or else you cannot stir, sir.

He set him down upon the grass,
And begg'd her kind assistance:
Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass,
I'll make you keep your distance.

Then pulling off his boots half-way;
Sir knight, now I'm your betters:
You shall not make of me your prey;
Sit there like a knave in fetters.

The knight, when she had served him soe,
He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled:
For he could neither stand nor goe,
But like a cripple tumbled.

Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten,
Yet do not move nor stir, sir:
I'll send you my father's serving men,
To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse,
You are but a stingless nettle:
You'd never have stood for boots or shoes,
Had you been a man of mettle.

All night in grievous rage he lay,
Roiling upon the plain-a;
Next morning a shepherd past that way,
Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall,
By hill and dale he swore-a:
I'll ride at once to her father's hall;
She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard,
I'll challenge all her kindred;
Each dastard soul shall stand affeard;
My wrath shall no more be hindred.

He rode unto her father's house,
Which every side was moated:
The lady heard his furious vows,
And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage,
Once more I will endeavour:
This water shall your fury 'swage,
Or else it shall burn for ever.

Then faining penitence and feare,
She did invite a parley:
Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare,
Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

My father he is now from home,
And I am all alone, sir:
Therefore across the water come,
And I am all your own, sir.

False maid, thou canst no more deceive;
I scorn the treacherous bait-a;
If thou would'st have me thee believe,
Now open me the gate-a.

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd,
My father he has the keys, sir;
But I have for my love prepar'd
A shorter way, and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank
Full seventeen feet in measure,
Then step across to the other bank,
And there we'll take our pleasure.

These words she had no sooner spoke,
But straight he came tripping over:
The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke,
And sous'd the unhappy lover.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. A TALE. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Once on a time, in sunshine weather, Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together, The neighboring woods and lawns to view, As opposites will sometimes do. Through many a blooming mead they passed, And at a brook arriv'd at last. The purling stream, the margin green, With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene, Invited each itinerant maid, To rest a while beneath the shade. Under a spreading beach they sat, And pass'd the time with female chat; Whilst each her character maintain'd; One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd. At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth (For so she call'd her from her youth), What if, to shun yon sultry beam, We bathe in this delightful stream; The bottom smooth, the water clear, And there's no prying shepherd near? With all my heart, the nymph replied, And threw her snowy robes aside, Stript herself naked to the skin, And with a spring leapt headlong in. Falsehood more leisurely undrest, And, laying by her tawdry vest, Trick'd herself out in Truth's array, And 'cross the meadows tript away. From this curst hour, the fraudful dame Of sacred Truth usurps the name, And, with a vile, perfidious mind, Roams far and near, to cheat mankind; False sighs suborns, and artful tears, And starts with vain pretended fears; In visits, still appears most wise, And rolls at church her saint-like eyes; Talks very much, plays idle tricks, While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks; When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd, The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd. But on she will, and secrets tell Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell, Reviling every one she knows, As fancy leads, beneath the rose. Her tongue, so voluble and kind, It always runs before her mind; As times do serve, she slyly pleads, And copious tears still show her needs. With promises as thick as weeds-- Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil, To-day a saint, to-morrow devil. Poor Truth she stript, as has been said, And naked left the lovely maid, Who, scorning from her cause to wince, Has gone stark-naked ever since; And ever naked will appear, Belov'd by all who Truth revere.

FLATTERY. A FABLE. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

Fanny, beware of flattery, Your sex's much-lov'd enemy; For other foes we are prepar'd, And Nature puts us on our guard: In that alone such charms are found, We court the dart, we nurse the hand; And this, my child, an Aesop's Fable Will prove much better than I'm able.

A young vain female Crow, Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough, And sitting there at ease, Was going to indulge her taste, In a most delicious feast, Consisting of a slice of cheese. A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature) Pass'd by that way In search of prey; When to his nose the smell of cheese, Came in a gentle western breeze; No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better: He bless'd th' auspicious wind, And strait look'd round to find, What might his hungry stomach fill, And quickly spied the Crow, Upon a lofty bough, Holding the tempting prize within her bill. But she was perch'd too high, And Reynard could not fly: She chose the tallest tree in all the wood, What then could bring her down? Or make the prize his own? Nothing but flatt'ry could. He soon the silence broke, And thus ingenious hunger spoke: "Oh, lovely bird, Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd The envy of the grove; Thy form was Nature's pleasing care, So bright a bloom, so soft an air, All that behold must love. But, if to suit a form like thine, Thy voice be as divine; If both in these together meet, The feather'd race must own Of all their tribe there's none, Of form so fair, of voice so sweet. Who'll then regard the linnet's note, Or heed the lark's melodious throat? What pensive lovers then shall dwell With raptures on their Philomel? The goldfinch shall his plumage hide, The swan abate her stately pride, And Juno's bird no more display His various glories to the sunny day: Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer, And bless my longing ear With notes that I would die to hear!" Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'd The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd; In haste to show her want of skill, She open'd wide her bill: She scream'd as if the de'el was in her Her vanity became so strong That, wrapt in her own frightful song, She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner, The morsel fell quick by the place Where Reynard lay, Who seized the prey And eat it without saying grace. He sneezimg cried "The day's my own, My ends obtain'd The prize is gain'd, And now I'll change my note. Vain, foolish, cheated Glow, Lend your attention now, A truth or two I'll tell you! For, since I've fill'd my belly, Of course my flattry's done: Think you I took such pains, And spoke so well only to hear you croak? No, 'twas the luscious bait, And a keen appetite to eat, That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat 'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter, Flatterers must live by those they flatter; But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mine Might turn an abler head than thine; And though reflection may displease, If wisely you apply your thought, To learn the lesson I have taught, Experience, sure, is cheaply bought, And richly worth a slice of cheese."

THE PIG AND MAGPIE.
PETER PINDAR.