Chapter XVII: Part III (5)

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity, Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee! No Cow--but hold your tongue--for you needn't talk to me-- You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be-- I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow, Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow! You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards, Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords! They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors, David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,-- Why, Morland was a fool to him,--at a little pig or sow-- It's really hard it ain't hung up,--I could cry about the Cow! But I know well what it is, and why--they're jealous of David's fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,-- Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now? David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners-- Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's? Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row, If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow! I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature, Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature! It must be hung--and shall be hung--for, Mr. H----, I vow I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow! As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair. Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand, Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand-- Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow, It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow. We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear-- And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do--it's not a Suffolk Cow: I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels: His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all,--or helped to nurse the babby, And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow, Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow. And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half-- David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true,
And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew--
That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face--
It would have been an unfair feeling
To dream that you had pilfered lace--
And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred,
To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammer'd out a word,
How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth
I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part,
Your hand--where I have look'd and linger'd,
Altho' it stole away my heart,
Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew,
The charms in which my muse delighted--
Alas! the lay I thought was new.
Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run
A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world,
My vanity it now must shock it--
And down at once my pride is hurled,
You've pick'd me--and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far,
The banns were read by Doctor Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar--
Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_?

And when the parson came to say,
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honor and obey,
Who could have thought--"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!--the worst of all your slips
I did not till this day discover--
That down in Deptford's prison ships,
O Mary! you've a hulking lover!

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.[31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."
_Picture of Isle of Wight_.

[Footnote 31: Written when Walter Scott was familiarly known as the "Wizard of the North," the title which is the key to the present poem. Scott died in September, 1832, in the interval between the writing and the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in the Preface to the _Comic Annual_ for 1833, in which they appeared.]

I.

One close of day--'twas in the Bay
Of Naples, bay of glory!
While light was hanging crowns of gold
On mountains high and hoary,
A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,
Her crew of men some nine or ten,
The captain's name was Jago;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view,
With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,
Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair,
Meet heads for painter's study;
But midst their tan there stood one man,
Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow
Ne'er shone in song or sonnet,
His hair, a little scant, and when
He doff'd his cap or bonnet,
One saw that Grey had gone beyond
A premiership upon it!

V.

His eye--a passenger was he,
The cabin he had hired it,--
His eye was gray, and when he look'd
Around, the prospect fired it,--
A fine poetic light, as if
The Appe-Nine inspir'd it.

VI.

His frame was stout, in height about
Six feet--well made and portly;
Of dress and manner just to give
A sketch, but very shortly,
His order seem'd a composite
Of rustic with the courtly.

VII.

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laughed,
And chatted with the seamen,
And often task'd their skill and ask'd,
"What weather is't to be, man?"
No demonstration there appeared,
That he was any demon.

VIII.

No sort of sign there was that he
Could raise a stormy rumpus,
Like Prospero make breezes blow,
And rocks and billows thump us,--
But little we supposed what he
Could with the needle compass!

IX.

Soon came a storm--the sea at first
Seem'd lying almost fallow--
When lo! full crash, with billowy dash,
From clouds of black and yellow,
Came such a gale as blows but once
A cent'ry, like the aloe!

X.

Our stomachs we had just prepared
To vest a small amount in;
When, gush! a flood of brine came down
The skylight--quite a fountain,
And right on end the table rear'd
Just like the Table Mountain.

XI.

Down rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine,
Each roll, its rôle repeating,
Roll'd down--the round of beef declar'd
For parting--not for meating!
Off flew the fowls, and all the game
Was "too far gone for eating!"

XII.

Down knife and fork--down went the pork,
The lamb too broke its tether;
Down mustard went--each condiment--
Salt--pepper--all together!
Down everything, like craft that seek
The Downs in stormy weather.

XIII.

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake,
Her timbers seem'd to sever;
Down, down, a dreary derry down,
Such lurch she had gone never;
She almost seem'd about to take
A bed of down forever!

XIV.

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw,
Thus robbed of all its uses,
He thought he saw the Evil One
Beside Vesuvian sluices,
Playing at dice for soul and ship,
And throwing Sink and Deuces.

XV.

Down fell the steward on his face,
To all the Saints commending;
And candles to the Virgin vow'd,
As save-alls 'gain'st his ending.
Down fell the mate, he thought his fate,
Checkmate, was close impending!

XVI.

Down fell the cook--the cabin boy,
Their beads with fervor telling,
While Alps of surge, with snowy verge,
Above the yards came yelling.
Down fell the crew, and on their knees
Shudder'd at each white swelling!

XVII.

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue,
His crimson light a cleaver
To each red rover of a wave:
To eye of fancy-weaver,
Neptune, the god, seemed tossing in
A raging scarlet fever!

XVIII.

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd
To Saint aid Virgin Mary;
But one there was that stood composed
Amid the waves' vagary;
As staunch as rock, a true game-cock
'Mid chicks of Mother Carey!

XIX.

His ruddy cheek retained its streak,
No danger seem'd to shrink him:
His step still bold--of mortal mould
The crew could hardly think him:
The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd
To know; could never sink him.

XX.

Relaxed at last the furious gale
Quite out of breath with racing;
The boiling flood in milder mood,
With gentler billows chasing;
From stem to stern, with frequent turn,
The Stranger took to pacing.

XXI.

And as he walked to self he talked,
Some ancient ditty thrumming,
In undertone, as not alone--
Now whistling, and now humming--
"You're welcome, Charlie," "Cowdenknowes,"
"Kenmure," or "Campbells' Coming."

XXII.

Down went the wind, down went the wave,
Fear quitted the most finical;
The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,
And Hope was at the pinnacle:
When rose on high a frightful cry--
"The Devil's in the binnacle!"

XXIII.

"The Saints be near," the helmsman cried,
His voice with quite a falter--
"Steady's my helm, but every look
The needle seems to alter;
God only knows where China lies,
Jamaica, or Gibraltar!"

XXIV.

The captain stared aghast at mate,
The pilot at th' apprentice;
No fancy of the German Sea
Of Fiction the event is:
But when they at the compass look'd,
It seem'd non compass mentis.

XXV.

Now north, now south, now east, now west,
The wavering point was shaken,
'Twas past the whole philosophy
Of Newton, or of Bacon;
Never by compass, till that hour,
Such latitudes were taken!

XXVI.

With fearful speech, each after each
Took turns in the inspection;
They found no gun--no iron--none--
To vary its direction;
It seem'd a new magnetic case
Of Poles in Insurrection!

XXVII.

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives,
And all their household riches;
Oh! while they thought of girl or boy,
And dear domestic niches,
All down the side which holds the heart,
That needle gave them stitches.

XXVIII.

With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed
To see them so white-livered:
And walked abaft the binnacle,
To know at what they shivered;
But when he stood beside the card,
St. Josef! how it quivered!

XXIX.

No fancy-motion, brain-begot,
In eye of timid dreamer--
The nervous finger of a sot
Ne'er showed a plainer tremor;
To every brain it seemed too plain,
There stood th' Infernal Schemer!

XXX.

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew,
Just like a pullet's gizzard;
Meanwhile the captain's wandering wit,
From tacking like an izzard,
Bore down in this plain course at last,
"It's Michael Scott--the Wizard!"

XXXI.

A smile passed o'er the ruddy face:
"To see the poles so falter
I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you,
For with no fiends I palter!
Michael I'm not--although a Scott--
My Christian name is Walter."

XXXII.

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell
On all the fearful faction;
The captain's head (for he had read)
Confess'd the needle's action,
And bow'd to Him in whom the North
Has lodged its main attraction!

THE GHOST.

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.

"I'll be your second."--LISTON.

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out--
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn,
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing came thus about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!

"O Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory--like Rogers's--
Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace,
I almost have a doubt--
I'm like an old Forget-me-not,
With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger joint
Another pledge should cling;
O Bess! upon my very soul
It struck like 'Knock and Ring,'"

"A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in my urn!"

"Remember, oh! remember, how
The marriage rite did run,--
If ever we one flesh should be
'Tis now--when I have none!

"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend--
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider you are kick'd.

"A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up!--you marry, ma'am,
And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow,--and off he went,
Like fowling-piece at cock!

THE FALL.

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep."
_Count Fathom_.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss; One--only one--hath ever lived to rise from that abyss! Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light, I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might: On--on--still on--direct for doom, the river rush'd in force, And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed--I dared not look the way towards the goal; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore! And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by for evermore; Plainly--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep; I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind; And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,--a cry as shrill as birds Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: "It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares! He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[Footnote 32: "Edgar Huntley, the Somnambulist," was the title of a popular novel of the time.]

OUR VILLAGE.

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds, With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle "neat post-chaise!" There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist Chapel of Ease; And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green. As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle! There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the chief-- With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby, A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby; There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops, And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the Village Poor House!

A PUBLIC DINNER.

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide."
_Arabian Nights_.

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

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

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT;

OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

"He left his body to the sea,
And made a shark his legatee."
BRYAN AND PERENNE.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear!--Oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?"

"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,--
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place soems enough,
But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass--for now, to you
I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a _half_,
Without a '_quarter's_ notice.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.[33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering
with his bill."--SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with
green."--BEWICK.

[Footnote 33: A Scotch baronet, and the once well-known promoter of Sabbatarian legislation. Sir Andrew identified himself in the House of Commons with the efforts of an English Association, the "Lord's Day Society," and introduced a Bill to prohibit all open labour on Sunday, excepting "works of necessity and mercy,"--a measure bound, under any scheme of working, to inflict the direst hardship and injustice. After three defeats, the Bill was actually carried in 1837, but was afterwards allowed to drop.]

O Andrew Fairservice,--but I beg pardon, You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden, On curly kale and cabbages intent,-- Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,-- You are a Christian--I would be the same, Although we differ, and I'll tell you why, Not meaning to make game, I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will, About your bill, They say, among their other jibes and small jeers, That, if you had your way, You'd make the seventh day As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers. Talk of converting Blacks-- By your attacks, You make a thing so horrible of _one_ day, Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy, Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday, Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak, Who, once a week, P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers, Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers, And revel in a bloom That is not of the loom, Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees, A Chapel of Ease. Whereas, as you would plan it, Wall'd in with hard Scotch granite, People all day should look to their behaviors;-- But though there be, as Shakspeare owns, "Sermons in stones," Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviors?

Spontaneous is pure devotion's fire; And in a green wood many a soul has built A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire, Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt, Better than if an architect the plan drew; We know of old how medicines were back'd, But true Religion needs not to be quack'd By an Un-merry Andrew!

Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf At Primrose-hill would renovate himself, Or drink (and no great harm) _Milk_ genuine at _Chalk_ Farm,-- The innocent intention who would balk, And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink? For my part, for my life, I cannot think A walk on Sunday is "the Devil's Walk."

But there's a sect of Deists, and their creed Is D----ing other people to be d----d,-- Yeas, all that are not of their saintly level, They make a pious point To send, with an "aroint," Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil. To such, a ramble by the River Lea Is really treading on the "Banks of D----."

Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers, And say unto the sea, as Canute did, (Of course the sea will do as it is bid,) "This is the Sabbath--but there be no Breakers!" Seek London's Bishop, on some Sunday morn, And try him with your tenets to inoculate,-- Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn, "This is not _Churchman's_ Chocolate!"

Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal, And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages, And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal, Shout out with holy zeal,-- "These are not _Chappet's_ sassages!" Suppose your Act should act up to your will, Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy, To hear you saying of this pious bill, "It _works_ well--on a Sunday!"

To knock down apple-stalls is now too late, Except to starve some poor old harmless madam;-- You might have done some good, and chang'd our fate, Could you have upset _that_, which ruined Adam! 'Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs, Or lay post-horses under legal fetters, While Tattersall's on Sunday stirs its _Legs_, Folks look for good examples from their _Betters_!

Consider,--Acts of Parliament may bind A man to go where Irvings are discoursing-- But as for forcing "proper frames of mind," Minds are not _framed_, like melons, for such _forcing_!

Remember, as a Scottish legislator, The Scotch Kirk always has a Moderator; Meaning one need not ever be sojourning In a long Sermon Lane without a turning. Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia May like discourses with a skein of threads, And love a lecture for its many heads, But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.

Religion one should never overdo: Right know I am no minister you be, For you would say your service, sir, to me, Till I should say, "My service, sir, to you." Six days made all that is, you know, and then Came that of rest--by holy ordination, As if to hint unto the sons of men, After creation should come re-creation. Read right this text, and do not further search To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.

THE LOST HEIR.

"Oh where, and oh where
Is my bonny laddie gone?"
_Old Song_.

One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sodden cry, That chill'd my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaub'd with grease and mud. She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man-- Her right hand held a frying pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seemed to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech, As wild as ocean bird's, Or female Banter mov'd to preach, She gave her "sorrow-words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way-- A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing; was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a-playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd, and red plush, they was once his Father' His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagg'd at the brim, With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and, you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dress'd, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan, Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break every bone of 'em I come near, Go home--you're spilling the porter--go home-- Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: O my Billy--my head will turn right round--if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians, They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions. Billy--where are you, Billy?--I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally, If I'm to see other folk's darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley, And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair, As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and there ain't no Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd where to run, Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,-- The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily, To find my Bill holdin up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey. For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's. And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak; You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week; As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways-- but O, I never never shall see him no more! O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny! And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewash'd us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog,-- It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy--where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face, For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him! Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was-- but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THE FOX AND THE HEN.

A FABLE.

Speaking within _compass_, as to fabulousness I prefer
_Southcote_ to _Northcote_.
PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when,
Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad
Right on the body of a speckled Hen,
Determined upon taking all she had;
And like a very bibber at his bottle,
Began to draw the claret from her throttle;
Of course it put her in a pretty pucker,
And with a scream as high
As she could cry,
She call'd for help--she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream
Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream,
And, with a savage growl
In answer to the fowl,
He bounded forth against the prowling sinner,
And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom,
Thought, self-deceived,
He should not be perceived,
Hiding his _brush_ within a neighboring _broom_!
But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare,
And caught in copper noose,
And looking like a goose,
Found that his fate had "hung upon a _hare_";
His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him,
And worst of all he saw old surly Tray
Coming to play
Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable, Under his Master, a most special constable, Instead of killing Reynard in a fury, Seized him for legal trial by a Jury; But Juries--Æsop was a sheriff then-- Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body--
I mean the Hen--and proved that she was dead,
To the veriest fool's head
Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill Quite true enough to kill, And then the Owl was call'd,--for, mark, The Owl can witness in the dark. To make the evidence more plain, The Lynx connected all the chain. In short there was no quirk or quibble At which a legal Rat could nibble; The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds. As if the Jury had been _packed_--of hounds. Reynard, however, at the utmost nick, Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick; Accordingly our cunning Fox, Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd A friendly Camel got into the box, When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law, If Jurors should withdraw, They are to have no eating and no drinking, Till all are starved into one way of thinking. Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree, Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock, Till every Beast that only had _one_ stomach, Bent to the Camel, who was blest with _three_. To do them justice, they debated From four till ten, while dinner waited, When thirst and hunger got the upper, And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper: "Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance
But that the Solon is a sorry Solon,
Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence
Depend upon a _Colon_?

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride
When once destroyed can never be supplied.
GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man,
And drove the Bury coach;
But bad companions were his bane,
And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,
And how to noose the hare;
And with a wiry terrier,
He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,
To park, preserve, and wood
He went, and kept the game alive,
By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore
That he had this demerit--
Give him an inch of warren, he
Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;
And many, large and small,
Without Hall's powder, without lead,
Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer
From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,
Used frequently to _fawn_.

Folks who had hares discovered snares--
His course they could not stop:
No barber he, and yet he made
Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,
He tried the keepers' nerves;
They swore he never seem'd to have
_Jam_ satis of _preserves_.

The Shooter went to beat, and found
No sporting worth a pin,
Unless he tried the _covers_ made
Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,
In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried
The _Manors_ about _Button_.

No county from his tricks was safe;
In each he tried his lucks,
And when the keepers were in _Beds_,
He often was at _Bucks_.

And when he went to _Bucks_, alas!
They always came to _Herts_;
And even _Oxon_ used to wish
That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual _Hants_,
Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots:
He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_,
And lost his life in _Notts_.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap--alas!
His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep',--
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel
Appear'd to deeply strike:--
"Walk in," he said, "among the dead,
And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,
Half turned into a corse;
A cannon was his bolster, and
His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,
Lord, here has been a skrimmage!
What have they done to your poor breast
That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head,
You're come to my last kissing;
Before I'm set in the Gazette
As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell
Right in my stomach sticks;
French mortars don't agree so well
With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance
At Brussels was to be;--
Instead of opening a ball,
A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has,
And well it does fulfil it;--
I wish mine hadn't come so straight.
But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest;--
He had no pity in his heart,
For he had _steel'd his breast_.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance,
Began to thrust away;
I call'd for quarter, but, alas!
It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm,
Just here above the joint;--
O Patty dear, it was no joke,
Although it had a point.

"With loss of blood I fainted off,
As dead as women do--
But soon by charging over me,
The _Coldstream_ brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,
I throb and ache all over;
I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars
Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn
For any royal Guelph?
I might have been a Butcher, and
In business for myself!

"O why did I the bounty take?
(And here he gasp'd for breath)
My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd
Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie
And sleep my sleep eternal:
Not ev'n a _shell_--my only chance
Of being made a _Kernel_!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells
Will never ring at Chester!
Here I must lie in Honor's bed,
That isn't worth a _tester_!

"Farewell, my regimental mates,
With whom I used to dress!
My corps is changed, and I am now
In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have
No dying consolations,
Except, when I am dead, you'll go
And see th' Illuminations."

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths,
and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and
with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse. And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer? My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me "ugly little sin?" My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home--and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys And when I played cried "What a noise?"-- Girls always hector over boys-- My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had"; But at the stall the coin was bad? My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump? Alas! My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy--my sole relief? Myself.

THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.

"I like to meet a sweep--such as come forth with the
dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional
notes, sounding like the _peep, peep_, of a young sparrow."
--ESSAYS OF ELIA.

----"A voice cried Sweep no more!
Macbeth hath murdered sweep."
SHAKSPEARE.

One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betray'd internal woe. To cry amain he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped--but not a crow! I watched him and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I, the cause he will betray-- And thus at last he did.