Chapter XIX: Part III (7)

"What! accidentals, as they're term'd? No never--none--since I was worm'd-- Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,-- My master does not miss by halves! His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd Abroad upon the whole wide world,-- But whether they be blown to dust, As often-times I think they must, Or melted down too near the sun, What comes of them is known to none-- I never found, since I could bark, A Barn that bore my master's mark!"

"Is that the case?--Why then, my brother, Would we could swap with one another! Or take the Squire, with all my heart, Nay, all my liver, so we part! He'll hit you hares--(he uses cartridge) He'll hit you cocks--he'll hit a partridge; He'll hit a snipe; he'll hit a pheasant; He'll hit--he'll hit whatever's present; He'll always hit,--as that's your wish-- His pepper never lacks a dish!"

"Come, come, you banter,--let's be serious; I'm sure that I am half delirious, Your picture set me so a-sighing-- But does he shot so well--shoot flying?"

"Shoot flying? Yes--and running, walking-- I've seen him shoot two farmers talking-- He'll hit the game, whene'er he can, But failing that he'll hit a man,-- A boy--a horse's tail or head-- Or make a pig a pig of lead,-- Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet, However hot, was known to sweat, But sure I am that I perspire Sometimes _before my master's fire_! Misses! no, no, he _always_ hits, But so as puts me into fits! He shot my fellow dog this morning, Which seemed to me sufficient warning!"

"Quite, quite, enough!--So that's a hitter! Why, my own fate I thought was bitter, And full excuse for cut and run; But give me still the missing gun! Or rather, Sirius! send me this, No gun at all, to hit or miss, Since sporting seems to shoot thus double, That right or left it brings us trouble!"

So ended Dash;--and Pointer Don Prepared to urge the moral on; But here a whistle long and shrill Came sounding o'er the council hill, And starting up, as if their tails Had felt the touch of shoes and nails, Away they scamper'd down the slope, As fast as other pairs elope,-- Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets, To beg, or dance in fancy jackets; At butchers' shops to try their luck; To help to draw a cart or truck; Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most Who would but hit or miss a post.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.[35]

[Footnote 35: This dates from the old days of transportation and Botany Bay. The judge indicated was Mr. Justice Alan Park, of the Common Pleas, and Mr. Cotton was Chaplain of Newgate.]

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY.

"Vell! Here I am--no Matter how it suits A-keeping Company vith them dumb Brutes; Old Park vos no bad Judge--confound his vig! Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig!

"The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock, But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

"To go to set this solitary Job To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob! It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

"I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep, The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks, And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

"If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out To only Baa! and Botanize about, I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pull, And come to Cotton, as to all this Vool!

"Von only happy moment I have had Since here I come to be a Farmer's Cad, And then I cotch'd a vild Beast in a Snooze, And pick'd her pouch of three young Kangaroos!

"Vot chance haye I to go to Race or Mill? Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till; And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry, I'd put the Natives' Linen in my Eye!

"If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag, And find a Fence to turn it into Swag, I'd give it all in London Streets to stand, And if I had my pick, I'd say the Strand!

"But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall, To my old Crib to meet with Jack, and Sal, I've been so gallows honest in this Place, I shan't not like to show my sheepish Face.

"It's wery hard for nothing but a Box Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin' Flocks, 'Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus, They've nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus.

"But folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick To dumb brute Beasts,--and so I'll cut my Stick! And vot's the Use a Feller's Eyes to pipe Vere von can't borrow any Gemman's Vipe?"

LIEUTENANT LUFF.

All you that are too fond of wine,
Or any other stuff,
Take warning by the dismal fate
Of one Lieutenant Luff.
A sober man he might have been,
Except in one regard,
He did not like soft water,
So he took to drinking hard!

Said he, "Let others fancy slops,
And talk in praise of Tea,
But I am no Bohemian,
So do not like Bohea.
If wine's a poison, so is Tea,
Though in another shape:
What matter whether one is kill'd
By canister or grape!"

According to this kind of taste
Did he indulge his drouth,
And being fond of Port, he made
A port-hole of his mouth!
A single pint he might have sipp'd
And not been out of sorts,
In geologic phrase--the rock
He split upon was quarts!

To "hold the mirror up to vice"
With him was hard, alas!
The worse for wine he often was,
But not "before a glass."
No kind and prudent friend had he
To bid him drink no more,--
The only chequers in his course
Where at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this
His frame began to show,
For that old enemy the gout
Had taken him in toe!
And join'd with this an evil came
Of quite another sort--
For while he drank, himself, his purse
Was getting "something short."

For want of cash he soon had pawn'd
One half that he possessed,
And drinking showed him duplicates
Beforehand of the rest!
So now his creditors resolved
To seize on his assets;
For why,--they found that his half-pay
Did not half pay his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode
His creditors to chouse;
For his own execution he
Put into his own house!
A pistol to the muzzle charged
He took devoid of fear;
Said he, "This barrel is my last,
So now for my last bier!"

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs,
And not against his brain,
So he blew out his lights--and none
Could blow them in again!
A Jury for a Verdict met,
And gave in it these terms:--
"We find as how as certain slugs
Has sent him to the worms!"

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy How well to rise while nights and larks are flying-- For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as _lying_.

What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out-- Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime-- Only lee long enough, and bed becomes A bed of _time_.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought, His steeds that paw impatiently about,-- Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl; What then,--if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs "Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?"

Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"-- Well--he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be "All up--all up!"

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;-- A man that's fond precociously of _stirring_, Must be a spoon.

A PLAIN DIRECTION.

"Do you never deviate?"
_John Bull_.

In London once I lost my way In faring to and fro, And ask'd a little ragged boy The way that I should go;

He gave a nod, and then a wink, And told me to get there "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I box'd his little saucy ears, And then away I strode; But since I've found that weary path Is quite a common road.

Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a famous town That drove a famous trade, Where Whittington walk'd up and found A fortune ready made.

The very streets are paved with gold; But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a Fairy Land, In some romantic tale, Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive And wicked Giants fail.

My wish is great, my shoes are strong, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about some happy Isle, Where ev'ry man is free, And none can lie in bonds for life For want of L. S. D.

Oh that's the land of Liberty! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square,"

I've dreamt about some blessed spot, Beneath the blessed sky, Where Bread and Justice never rise Too dear for folks to buy.

It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is an ancient House, As pure as it is old, Where Members always speak their minds And votes are never sold.

I'm fond of all antiquities, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Royal Court Maintain'd in noble state, Where ev'ry able man, and good, Is certain to be great!

I'm very fond of seeing sights, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Temple too, Where Christians come to pray; But canting knaves and hypocrites, And bigots keep away.

Oh that's the parish church for me! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Garden fair, That's haunted by the dove, Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse The golden light of love--

The place must be a Paradise, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land For public spirit known-- Whose Patriots love its interests Much better than their own.

The Land of Promise sure it is! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate, A Mansion large and strong; A view all over Kent and back, And going for a song.

George Robins knows the very spot, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a Company All formal and enroll'd, Will take your smallest silver coin And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb'd, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant Land, Where omelettes grow on trees, And roasted pigs run crying out, "Come eat me, if you please."

My appetite is rather keen, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION.[36]

"Now's the time and now's the hour,"--BURNS.

"Seven's the main."--CROCKFORD.

[Footnote 36: The exquisite wit and fancy of these verses need not blind us to their touching earnestness. They might well be printed and circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing. The "Knight" mentioned was, of course, the excellent Charles Knight, pioneer and forerunner of all subsequent movements for cheapening and popularizing good literature.]

Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.

Oppress'd and discontented with our lot,
Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men--yet is there not
One piece of Irish in our agitation.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
We venerate our Glorious Constitution;
We joy King William's advent should have been,
And only want a Counter Revolution.

'Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne,
'Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,
The measures we dislike are all our own.

The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name;
The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws--none of these we care to blame,
Our evils we refer to over-trading.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
We reverence the Church--but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers--but curse the lawn!
We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:--to serve them is a bliss!
We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
That their last linen may be wanted early.

Ah! who can tell the miseries of men
That serve the very cheapest shops in town?
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,
Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down!

But has not Hamlet his opinion given--
O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants!
"That custom is"--say custom after seven--
"More honor'd in the breach than the observance."

O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,
O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;
Torment us all until the seventh chime,
But let us have the remnant to ourselves!

We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,
And not remain in ignorance incurable;--
To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,
And other fabrics that have proved so durable.

We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,
And not to go bewilder'd to our beds;
With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,
And pins and needles running in our heads!

For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,
Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;
Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,
Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.

Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,
We often think, when we are dull and vapoury,
The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,
Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won, Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

What loving tête-à-têtes to come! But tête-à-têtes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all _my_ ties had leave to jog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll-- A monkey too, what work he made! The sister introduced a Beau-- My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own, A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The Monkey bit--the Parrot scream'd All day the sister strumm'd and sung; The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learn'd to use her tongue: Her mother had such wretched health, She sate and croak'd like any frog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants cross'd my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seem'd my own, I might as well have been a log-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd-- She could not bear that Mister Blogg-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, My Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sisters part-- The Maid declared her Master wrong-- The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end-- _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my Club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away, I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With Pussy in the elbow-chair And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill, 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

RURAL FELICITY.

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

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

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads,
and so I should like for miles,
If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put
up such crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till
you're almost broken in two,
If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and
you stick if you try to creep through.
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb
without constant tumbles down,
But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter
done about town.
There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and
that's by a walk in a lane,
And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never
dared go again;
For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that
wouldn't be kept in the pound,
A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking
his horns in the ground?
And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pulls
rural pleasures down,
Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's
only two up in town.
Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away
at the first early pearly dew,
And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and
I always got wetted through;
My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold,
and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,
That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or
wear our pearls, up in town!
As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge,
sweet eglantine roses to snatch,
But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how
the long brambles do scratch;
Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that
tore all the bows from the crown,
One may walk long enough without hats branching
off, or losing one's bows about town.
But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose
that it blows up for rain,
And all at once you discover yourself in a real St.
Swithin's Lane;
And while you're running all ducked and drown'd,
and pelted with sixpenny drops,
"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a
nice growing show'r for the crops!"
But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow
me another new gown?
For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as
you do with the hackneys in town.

Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go
with them gathering nuts,
And we always set out by the longest way and
return by the shortest cuts.
Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get
a poor lustyish aunt
To scramble through gaps or jump over a
ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,--
For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and
it's almost daily the case,
Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats,
I see the hooray! in their face.

There's the other day, for my sight is short, and
I saw what was green beyond,
And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till
I walked in the duckweed pond:
Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank
they see me come launching down,
As none but a stout London female can do as is
come a first time out of town.
Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a
verdurous seat to find,
But for my part I always found it a joy that
brought a repentance behind;
For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained
a whole breadth of my gown--
And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's
much better done up in town.
As for country fare, the first morning I came I
heard such a shrill piece of work!
And ever since--and it's ten days ago--we've lived
upon nothing but pork;
One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a
plague take all countrified cooks!
Why didn't they tell me, _before_ I had dined, they
made pigeon pies of the rooks?
Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when
up, it doesn't agree when it's down,
But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to
look for champagne out of town!
To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best
when he started this pastoral plan,
And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she
teaches me all that she can,
Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams,
but I'm sure that I never shall learn,
And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as
yet by chumping away at the churn;
But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I
found it more easy to make,
But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when
you're tired to sit down on the rake.
I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with a
regular country clown,
But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist
and give one such smacks in town!
Then I've tried to make friends with the birds
and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,
I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I
can't even please the pigs.
The very hens pick holes in my hands when I
grope for the new-laid eggs,
And the gander comes hissing out of the pond
on purpose to flap at my legs.
I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without
horns, and the old sow trampled me down,
The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts--but
they're kept in cages in town!
Another thing is the nasty dogs--thro' the village
I hardly can stir
Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call
off a barking cur;
And now you would swear all the dogs in the
place were set on to hunt me down,
But neither the brutes nor the people I think are
as civilly bred as in town.
Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake,
and all in a tremble of fright,
But instead of a family murder it proved an owl
that flies screeching at night.
Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all
about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing--
In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the
most happiest thing;
For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before
as endur'd for rurality's sake,
I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among
ants, and once--ugh! I trod on a snake!
And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I've
got a particular skin,
I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds
that drives the poor suicides in!
And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had
upon Holborn Hill?
And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh
butter wherever you will?
And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread
quite rustical-like and brown?
So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very
heart of the town.
Howsomever my mind's made up, and although
I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext,
I mean to book me an inside place up to town
upon Saturday next,
And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall
be at the Old Bell and Crown,
And perhaps I may come to the country again,
when London is all burnt down!

A FLYING VISIT.

"A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find
out moonshine--find out moonshine!"--_Midsummer
Night's Dream_.

I.

The by-gone September,
As folks may remember,
At least if their memory saves but an ember,
One fine afternoon,
There went up a Balloon,
Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

II.

For, nearing the sky,
At about a mile high,
The Aëronaut bold had resolved on a fly;
So cutting his string,
In a Parasol thing
Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

III.

Meanwhile, thus adrift,
The Balloon made a shift
To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;
It got very small,
Then to nothing at all;
And then rose the question of where it would fall?

IV.

Some thought that, for lack
Of the man and his pack,
'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack;
Some held, but in vain,
With the first heavy rain
'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

V.

But still not a word
For a month could be heard
Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird;
The firm Gye and Hughes,
Wore their boots out and shoes,
In running about and inquiring for news.

VI.

Some thought it must be
Tumbled into the Sea;
Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie
For Germans, as shown
By their writings, 'tis known
Are always delighted with what is high-flown.

VII.

Some hinted a bilk,
And that maidens who milk,
In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:
Some swore that it must,
"As they said at the _fust_,
Have gone again' flashes of lightning and _bust_!"

VIII.

However, at last,
When six weeks had gone past,
Intelligence came of a plausible cast;
A wondering clown,
At a hamlet near town,
Had seen "like a moon of green cheese" coming down.

IX.

Soon spread the alarm,
And from cottage and farm,
The natives buzz'd out like the bees when they swarm;
And off ran the folk,--
It is such a good joke
To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

X.

And lo! the machine,
Dappled yellow and green,
Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:
"Yes, yes," was the cry,
"It's the old one, sure_ly_,
Where _can_ it have been such a time in the sky?"

XI.

"Lord! where will it fall?
It can't find out Vauxhall,
Without any pilot to guide it at all!"
Some wager'd that Kent
Would behold the event,
Debrett had been posed to _predict_ its descent.

XII.

Some thought it would pitch
In the old Tower Ditch,
Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul's it would hitch;
And Farmers cried "Zounds!
If it drops on our grounds,
We'll try if Balloons can't be put into pounds."

XIII.

But still to and fro
It continued to go,
As if looking out for soft places below;
No difficult job,
It had only to bob
Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

XIV.

Who, too apt to stare
At some castle in air,
Forget that the earth is their proper affair;
Till, watching the fall
Of some soap-bubble ball,
They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.

XV.

Meanwhile, from its height
Stooping downward in flight,
The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:
Still bigger and bigger,
And strike me a nigger
Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure!

XVI.

Yes, plain to be seen,
Underneath the machine,
There dangled a mortal--some swore it was Green;
Some mason could spy;
Others named Mr. Gye;
Or Holland, compell'd by the Belgians to fly.

XVII.

'Twas Graham the flighty,
Whom the Duke high and mighty
Resign'd to take care of his own lignum-vitæ;
'Twas Hampton, whose whim
Was in Cloudland to swim,
Till e'en Little Hampton looked little to him!

XVIII.

But all were at fault;
From the heavenly vault
The falling balloon came at last to a halt;
And bounce! with the jar
Of descending so far,
An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!

XIX.

At first with the jolt
All his wits made a bolt,
As if he'd been flung by a mettlesome colt;
And while in his faint,
To avoid all complaint,
The muse shall endeavor his portrait to paint.

XX.

The face of this elf,
Round as platter of delf,
Was pale as if only a cast of itself;
His head had a rare
Fleece of silvery hair,
Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.

XXI.

His eyes they were odd,
Like the eyes of a cod,
And gave him the look of a watery God.
His nose was a snub;
Under which, for his grub,
Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.

XXII.

His person was small,
Without figure at all,
A plump little body as round as a ball:
With two little fins,
And a couple of pins,
With what has been christened a bow in the shins.

XXIII.

His dress it was new,
A full suit of sky-blue--
With bright silver buckles in each little shoe--
Thus painted complete,
From his head to his feet,
Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins's wheat.

XXIV.

Fine text for the crowd!
Who disputed aloud
What sort of a creature had dropp'd from the cloud--
"He's come from o'er seas,
He's a Cochin Chinese--
By jingo! he's one of the wild Cherokees!"

XXV.

"Don't nobody know?"
"He's a young Esquimaux,
Turn'd white like the hares by the Arctical snow."
"Some angel, my dear,
Sent from some upper _spear_
For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!"

XXVI.

Meanwhile with a sigh,
Having open'd one eye,
The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;
And finding his tongue,
Thus he said, or he sung,
"_Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung_!"

XXVII.

"Lord! what does he speak?"
"It's Dog-Latin--it's Greek!"
"It's some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!"
"It's no like the Scotch,"
Said a Scot on the watch,
"Pho! it's nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!"

XXVIII.

"It's not parly voo,"
Cried a schoolboy or two,
"Nor Hebrew at all," said a wandering Jew.
Some held it was sprung
From the Irvingite tongue,
The same that is used by a child very young.

XXIX.

Some guess'd it high Dutch,
Others thought it had much
In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;
But none could be poz,
What the Dickins! (not Boz)
No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!

XXX.

When who should come pat,
In a moment like that,
But Bowring, to see what the people were at--
A Doctor well able,
Without any fable,
To talk and translate all the babble of Babel.

XXXI.

So just drawing near,
With a vigilant ear,
That took ev'ry syllable in, very clear,
Before one could sip
Up a tumbler of flip,
He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!

XXXII.

Then stretching his hand,
As you see Daniel stand,
In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!
Without more delay,
In the Hamilton way
He English'd whatever the Elf had to say.

XXXIII.

"_Krak kraziboo ban_,
I'm the Lunatick Man,
Confined in the Moon since creation began--
_Sit muggy bigog_,
Whom except in a fog
You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog."

XXXIV.

"_Lang sinery lear_,
For this many a year,
I've long'd to drop in at your own little sphere,--
_Och, pad-mad aroon_
Till one fine afternoon,
I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon."

XXXV.

"_Cush quackery go_,
But, besides you must know,
I'd heard of a profiting Prophet below;
_Big botherum blether_,
Who pretended to gather
The tricks that the Moon meant to play with the weather."

XXXVI.

"_So Crismus an crash_
Being shortish of cash,
I thought I'd a right to partake of the hash--
_Slik mizzle an smak_,
So I'm come with a pack,
To sell to the trade, of My Own Almanack."

XXXVII.

"_Fiz bobbery pershal_
Besides aims commercial,
Much wishing to honor my friend Sir John Herschel,
_Cum puddin and tame_,
It's inscribed to his name,
Which is now at the full in celestial fame."

XXXVIII.

"_Wept wepton wish wept_,
Pray this Copy accept"--
But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:
For why a shrewd man
Had devis'd a sly plan
The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.

XXXIX.

So plotted, so done--
With a fight as in fun,
While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,
A knave who could box,
And give right and left knocks,
Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.

XL.

And hard he had fared,
But the people were scared
By what the Interpreter roundly declared;
"You ignorant Turks!
You will be your own Burkes--
He holds all the keys of the lunary works!"

XLI.

"You'd best let him go--
If you keep him below,
The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;
He left her at full,
And with such a long pull,
Zounds! ev'ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!"

XLII.

So awful a threat
Took effect on the set;
The fright, tho', was more than their Guest could forget;
So taking a jump,
In the car he came plump,
And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.

XLIII.

Up soar'd the machine,
With its yellow and green;
But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,
Who cried from the car
_"Dam in yooman bi gar_!"
That is,--"What a sad set of villains you are!"

XLIV.

Howbeit, at some height,
He threw down quite a flight
Of Almanacks, wishing to set us all right--
And, thanks to the boon,
We shall see very soon
If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!

QUEEN MAB.

A little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,
With silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,
And when a good child goes to bed
She waves her wand from right to left,
And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents
From lovely flowers that never fade;
Bright flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,
From left to right she weaves her rings,
And then it dreams all through the night
Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,
To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
Or raging flames come scorching round,
Fierce dragons hover in the air,
And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away;
But good ones love the dark, and find
The night as pleasant as the day.

TO HENRIETTA,[37]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

[Footnote 37: The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the artist.]

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief, They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls, In scraps of _Galignani_ they'll screw up your little curls; And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring; That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes; Nor _peut-être_ a potato, as _some_ Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!" So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "_Tant mi--eux_!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."--ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,
Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,
That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!
I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song
That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,
When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin--
Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,
Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong--infant pleasures as weak--
But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note;
Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"
Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?
Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?
Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce
"Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin--I see myself urchin indeed--
With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight;
Why should weeks have an end?--I am sure there was need
Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?
Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?
Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub,
And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy--my tailor was nothing in fault,
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,--
But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt"
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!
With a lanky right leg duly planted before;
Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke,
And extended _my_ arms as "the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover--Oh! say, were you ever in love?
With a lady too cold--and your bosom too hot?
Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,
Like a _beau_ that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,
Did you walk up the aisle--the genteelest of men?
When I think of that beautiful vision anew,
Oh! I seem but the _biffin_ of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care,
And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;
Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,
And I'm seeking to hide it--by writing for bays!

A TRUE STORY.

Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But lets its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the _rack,_ As well as going to the manger.

Old Hunks--it seemed a fit retort Of justice on his grinding ways-- Possessed a grinder of the sort, That troubled all his latter days. The best of friends fall out, and so His teeth had done some years ago, Save some old stumps with ragged root, And they took turn about to shoot; If he drank any chilly liquor, They made it quite a point to throb; But if he warmed it on the hob, Why then they only twitched the quicker.

One tooth--I wonder such a tooth Had never killed him in his youth-- One tooth he had with many fangs, That shot at once as many pangs, It had a universal sting; One touch of that ecstatic stump Could jerk his limbs and make him jump, Just like a puppet on a string; And what was worse than all, it had A way of making others bad. There is, as many know, a knack, With certain farming undertakers, And this same tooth pursued their track, By adding _achers_ still to _achers_!

One way there is, that has been judged A certain cure, but Hunks was loth To pay the fee, and quite begrudged To lose his tooth and money both; In fact, a dentist and the wheel Of Fortune are a kindred cast, For after all is drawn, you feel It's paying for a blank at last; So Hunks went on from week to week, And kept his torment in his cheek; Oh! how it sometimes set him rocking, With that perpetual gnaw--gnaw--gnaw, His moans and groans were truly shocking, And loud,--altho' he held his jaw. Many a tug he gave his gum And tooth, but still it would not come, Tho' tied to string by some firm thing, He could not draw it, do his best, By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest.

At last, but after much debating, He joined a score of mouths in waiting, Like his, to have their troubles out. Sad sight it was to look about At twenty faces making faces, With many a rampant trick and antic, For all were very horrid cases, And made their owners nearly frantic. A little wicket now and then Took one of these unhappy men, And out again the victim rushed, While eyes and mouth together gushed; At last arrived our hero's turn, Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, And down he sat, prepared to learn How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.

Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations; It touched a string in every part, It had so many tender ties; One cord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes; "Bone of his bone," he felt, of course, As husbands do in such divorce; At last the fangs gave way a little, Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And lo! the cause of all this work, Went--where it used to send his victual!

The monstrous pain of this proceeding Had not so numbed his miser wit, But in this slip he saw a hit To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; So when the dentist sought his fees, Quoth Hunks, "Let's finish, if you please," "How, finish! why, it's out!"--"Oh no-- 'Tis you are out, to argue so; I'm none of your before-hand tippers. My tooth is in my head no doubt, But, as you say you pulled it out, Of course it's there--between your nippers," "Zounds, sir! d'ye think I'd sell the truth To get a fee? no, wretch, I scorn it!" But Hunks still asked to see the tooth, And swore by gum! he had not drawn it.

His end obtained, he took his leave, A secret chuckle in his sleeve; The joke was worthy to produce one, To think, by favor of his wit How well a dentist had been bit By one old stump, and that a loose one! The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth Is still the frailest thing on earth: Alas! how often when a joke Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, There comes some unexpected stroke And hangs a weeper on the cuff!

Hunks had not whistled half a mile, When, planted right against a stile, There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney, A vagrant reaper, Irish born, That helped to reap our miser's corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly; His whistle all at once was quelled, And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly.

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight Till well demanded by a hatchet-- They live hard--and they die to match it. Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt, But let him take it out in hacking; However, Mike began to stickle In words before he used the sickle; But mercy was not long attendant: From words at last he took to blows, And aimed a cut at Hunks's nose, That made it what some folks are not-- A member very independent.

Heaven knows how far this cruel trick Might still have led, but for a tramper That came in danger's very nick, To put Mahoney to the scamper. But still compassion met a damper; There lay the severed nose, alas! Beside the daisies on the grass, "Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they, According to the poet's lay: And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter. Away went Hodge to get assistance, With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, But somewhat at unusual distance. In many a little country place It is a very common case To have but one residing doctor, Whose practice rather seems to be No practice, but a rule of three, Physician--surgeon--drug-decoctor;

Thus Hunks was forced to go once more Where he had ta'en his to t' before. His mere name made the learned man hot,-- "What! Hunks again within my door! I'll pull his nose"; quoth Hunks, "You cannot." The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose _not_ on his face. "Oh! hum--ha--yes--I understand." But then arose a long demur, For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand; That matter settled, there they were, With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.

The opening of a surgeon's job-- His tools, a chestful or a drawerful-- Are always something very awful, And give the heart the strangest throb; But never patient in his funks Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks, Or surgeon half so like a devil Prepared for some infernal revel: His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, Just like a bolus in a box: His fury seemed above controlling, He bellowed like a hunted ox: "Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how We treat such cheating knaves as thou; Oh! sweet is this revenge to sup; I have thee by the nose--it's now My turn--and I will turn it up."

Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all _reverses_! In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upwards like a pitcher's spout; There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset, Or stand upon his head to blow it.

And was there then no argument To change the doctor's vile intent, And move his pity?--yes, in truth, And that was--paying for the tooth. "Zounds! pay for such a stump! I'd rather--" But here the menace went no farther, For with his other ways of pinching, Hunks had a miser's love of snuff. A recollection strong enough To cause a very serious flinching; In short, he paid and had the feature Replaced as it was meant by nature; For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle (No corpse's could have felt so horrid), And white just like an naked candle, The doctor deemed and proved it too, That noses from the nose will do As well as noses from the forehead; So, fixed by din of rag and lint, The part was bandaged up and muffled. The chair unfastened, Hunks rose, And shuffled off, for once unshuffled; And as he went, these words he snuffled-- "Well, this _is_ 'paying thro' the nose.'"

THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.[38]

"Alas! what perils do environ
That man who meddles with a siren!"--_Hudibrus_.

[Footnote 38: Charles Lamb had been reading these verses when he wrote to his friend Dibdin, in June, 1896, and called him "Peter Fin Junior."]