('THOMAS INGOLDSBY')
I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of sizeInferior far to that described by Byron,Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,'—That's too a stone one, this is made of iron—And little donkey-boys your steps environ,Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.And then, on many a raw and gusty day,I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,And seen the crews, that did embark so gayThat self-same morn, now disembark so queer;Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear!Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's aLondon Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'—But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanzaIs all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.
I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of sizeInferior far to that described by Byron,Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,'—That's too a stone one, this is made of iron—And little donkey-boys your steps environ,Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.And then, on many a raw and gusty day,I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,And seen the crews, that did embark so gayThat self-same morn, now disembark so queer;Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear!Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's aLondon Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'—But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanzaIs all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.
I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of sizeInferior far to that described by Byron,Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,'—That's too a stone one, this is made of iron—And little donkey-boys your steps environ,Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.
I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size
Inferior far to that described by Byron,
Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,'
—That's too a stone one, this is made of iron—
And little donkey-boys your steps environ,
Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,
Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,
For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,
The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.
And then, on many a raw and gusty day,I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,And seen the crews, that did embark so gayThat self-same morn, now disembark so queer;Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear!Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's aLondon Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'—But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanzaIs all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.
And then, on many a raw and gusty day,
I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,
And seen the crews, that did embark so gay
That self-same morn, now disembark so queer;
Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear!
Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a
London Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'—
But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanza
Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.
Not asoushad he got,—not a guinea or note,And he look'd confoundedly flurried,As he bolted away without paying his shot,And the Landlady after him hurried.We saw him again at dead of night,When home from the Club returning;We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,Reclined in the gutter we found him;And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,With hisMarshallcloak around him.'The Doctor's as drunk as the d——,' we said,And we managed a shutter to borrow;We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his headWould 'consumedly ache' on the morrow.We bore him home, and we put him to bed,And we told his wife and his daughterTo give him, next morning, a couple of redHerrings, with soda-water.Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,And his Lady began to upbraid him;But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.We tuck'd him in, and had hardly doneWhen, beneath the window calling,We heard the rough voice of a son of a gunOf a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling.Slowly and sadly we all walk'd downFrom his room in the uppermost story;A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,And we left him alone in his glory.
Not asoushad he got,—not a guinea or note,And he look'd confoundedly flurried,As he bolted away without paying his shot,And the Landlady after him hurried.We saw him again at dead of night,When home from the Club returning;We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,Reclined in the gutter we found him;And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,With hisMarshallcloak around him.'The Doctor's as drunk as the d——,' we said,And we managed a shutter to borrow;We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his headWould 'consumedly ache' on the morrow.We bore him home, and we put him to bed,And we told his wife and his daughterTo give him, next morning, a couple of redHerrings, with soda-water.Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,And his Lady began to upbraid him;But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.We tuck'd him in, and had hardly doneWhen, beneath the window calling,We heard the rough voice of a son of a gunOf a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling.Slowly and sadly we all walk'd downFrom his room in the uppermost story;A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,And we left him alone in his glory.
Not asoushad he got,—not a guinea or note,And he look'd confoundedly flurried,As he bolted away without paying his shot,And the Landlady after him hurried.
Not asoushad he got,—not a guinea or note,
And he look'd confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,When home from the Club returning;We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning;
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,Reclined in the gutter we found him;And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,With hisMarshallcloak around him.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With hisMarshallcloak around him.
'The Doctor's as drunk as the d——,' we said,And we managed a shutter to borrow;We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his headWould 'consumedly ache' on the morrow.
'The Doctor's as drunk as the d——,' we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head
Would 'consumedly ache' on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,And we told his wife and his daughterTo give him, next morning, a couple of redHerrings, with soda-water.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.
Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,And his Lady began to upbraid him;But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly doneWhen, beneath the window calling,We heard the rough voice of a son of a gunOf a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk'd downFrom his room in the uppermost story;A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,And we left him alone in his glory.
Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.
By a Newspaper Critic.
[Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haines Bayly's farce 'Decorum.']
Oh no! we'll never mention him;We won't, upon our word!'Decorum' now forbids to nameAn unsuccessful bard.From Drury Lane we'll toddle toOur 'office' with regret,And if they ask us, 'Who'sbeen dished?'We'll say that 'we forget!'We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,'And try his ancient strain;He'd better 'be a butterfly'Than write a farce again.'Tis true that he can troll a song,Or tender Canzonette;But if you ask us, 'What beside?'Why, really, 'we forget.'And, oh, there are so many now,Who write good come-dy,—There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake,And Poole, who wrotePaul Pry,Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone joinTo make a funny set,With some half-dozen jokers more,Whose names we quite forget.They tell us he has got, behind,A bran-new five-act play;They say that it is devilish droll,But heed not what they say;Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle onA night or two, but yetIf 'tis no better than his farce,The pair you'll soon forget!
Oh no! we'll never mention him;We won't, upon our word!'Decorum' now forbids to nameAn unsuccessful bard.From Drury Lane we'll toddle toOur 'office' with regret,And if they ask us, 'Who'sbeen dished?'We'll say that 'we forget!'We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,'And try his ancient strain;He'd better 'be a butterfly'Than write a farce again.'Tis true that he can troll a song,Or tender Canzonette;But if you ask us, 'What beside?'Why, really, 'we forget.'And, oh, there are so many now,Who write good come-dy,—There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake,And Poole, who wrotePaul Pry,Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone joinTo make a funny set,With some half-dozen jokers more,Whose names we quite forget.They tell us he has got, behind,A bran-new five-act play;They say that it is devilish droll,But heed not what they say;Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle onA night or two, but yetIf 'tis no better than his farce,The pair you'll soon forget!
Oh no! we'll never mention him;We won't, upon our word!'Decorum' now forbids to nameAn unsuccessful bard.From Drury Lane we'll toddle toOur 'office' with regret,And if they ask us, 'Who'sbeen dished?'We'll say that 'we forget!'
Oh no! we'll never mention him;
We won't, upon our word!
'Decorum' now forbids to name
An unsuccessful bard.
From Drury Lane we'll toddle to
Our 'office' with regret,
And if they ask us, 'Who'sbeen dished?'
We'll say that 'we forget!'
We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,'And try his ancient strain;He'd better 'be a butterfly'Than write a farce again.'Tis true that he can troll a song,Or tender Canzonette;But if you ask us, 'What beside?'Why, really, 'we forget.'
We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,'
And try his ancient strain;
He'd better 'be a butterfly'
Than write a farce again.
'Tis true that he can troll a song,
Or tender Canzonette;
But if you ask us, 'What beside?'
Why, really, 'we forget.'
And, oh, there are so many now,Who write good come-dy,—There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake,And Poole, who wrotePaul Pry,Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone joinTo make a funny set,With some half-dozen jokers more,Whose names we quite forget.
And, oh, there are so many now,
Who write good come-dy,—
There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake,
And Poole, who wrotePaul Pry,
Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone join
To make a funny set,
With some half-dozen jokers more,
Whose names we quite forget.
They tell us he has got, behind,A bran-new five-act play;They say that it is devilish droll,But heed not what they say;Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle onA night or two, but yetIf 'tis no better than his farce,The pair you'll soon forget!
They tell us he has got, behind,
A bran-new five-act play;
They say that it is devilish droll,
But heed not what they say;
Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle on
A night or two, but yet
If 'tis no better than his farce,
The pair you'll soon forget!