COLOGNE

SLY Beelzebub took all occasionsTo try Job’s constancy and patience.He took his honour, took his health;He took his children, took his wealth,His servants, horses, oxen, cows—But cunning Satan didnottake his spouse.But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,And loves to disappoint the devil,Had predetermined to restoreTwofoldall he had before;His servants, horses, oxen, cows—Short-sighted devil,notto take his spouse!Samuel T. Coleridge.

SLY Beelzebub took all occasions

To try Job’s constancy and patience.

He took his honour, took his health;

He took his children, took his wealth,

His servants, horses, oxen, cows—

But cunning Satan didnottake his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,And loves to disappoint the devil,Had predetermined to restoreTwofoldall he had before;His servants, horses, oxen, cows—Short-sighted devil,notto take his spouse!Samuel T. Coleridge.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,

And loves to disappoint the devil,

Had predetermined to restore

Twofoldall he had before;

His servants, horses, oxen, cows—

Short-sighted devil,notto take his spouse!

Samuel T. Coleridge.

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,And pavements fanged with murderous stones,And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,I counted two-and-seventy stenches,All well defined, and separate stinks!Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,The river Rhine, it is well known,Doth wash your city of Cologne;But tell me, nymphs, what power divineShall henceforth wash the river Rhine?Samuel T. Coleridge.

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,

And pavements fanged with murderous stones,

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,

I counted two-and-seventy stenches,

All well defined, and separate stinks!

Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,

The river Rhine, it is well known,

Doth wash your city of Cologne;

But tell me, nymphs, what power divine

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

Samuel T. Coleridge.

“WHAT! rise again with all one’s bones?”Quoth Giles. “I hope you fib.I trusted, when I went to heaven,To go without my rib.”Samuel T. Coleridge.

“WHAT! rise again with all one’s bones?”

Quoth Giles. “I hope you fib.

I trusted, when I went to heaven,

To go without my rib.”

Samuel T. Coleridge.

IT was a summer’s evening;Old Casper’s work was done,And he before his cottage-doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,That he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Casper took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh,“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,“Who fell in the great victory.“I find them in the garden, forThere’s many here about;And often, when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men,” said he,“Were slain in the great victory.”“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks up,With wonder-waiting eyes:“Now tell us all about the war,And what they kill’d each other for.”“It was the English,” Casper cried,“That put the French to rout;But what they kill’d each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,” quoth he,“That ’twas a famous victory.“My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.“With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born infant died.But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.“They say it was a shocking sight,After the field was won,For many a thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun.But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,And our good Prince Eugene.”“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”Said little Wilhelmine.“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,“It was a famous victory;“And everybody praised the duke,Who such a fight did win.”“But what good came of it at last?”Quoth little Peterkin.“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;“But ’twas a famous victory.”Robert Southey.

IT was a summer’s evening;Old Casper’s work was done,And he before his cottage-doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.

IT was a summer’s evening;

Old Casper’s work was done,

And he before his cottage-door

Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,That he beside the rivuletIn playing there had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found.

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And with a natural sigh,“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,“Who fell in the great victory.

Old Casper took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,

“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden, forThere’s many here about;And often, when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men,” said he,“Were slain in the great victory.”

“I find them in the garden, for

There’s many here about;

And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out;

For many thousand men,” said he,

“Were slain in the great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks up,With wonder-waiting eyes:“Now tell us all about the war,And what they kill’d each other for.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”

Young Peterkin he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up,

With wonder-waiting eyes:

“Now tell us all about the war,

And what they kill’d each other for.”

“It was the English,” Casper cried,“That put the French to rout;But what they kill’d each other for,I could not well make out;But everybody said,” quoth he,“That ’twas a famous victory.

“It was the English,” Casper cried,

“That put the French to rout;

But what they kill’d each other for,

I could not well make out;

But everybody said,” quoth he,

“That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by;They burnt his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born infant died.But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then

And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight,After the field was won,For many a thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun.But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,

For many a thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,And our good Prince Eugene.”“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”Said little Wilhelmine.“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,“It was a famous victory;

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,

And our good Prince Eugene.”

“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”

Said little Wilhelmine.

“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,

“It was a famous victory;

“And everybody praised the duke,Who such a fight did win.”“But what good came of it at last?”Quoth little Peterkin.“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;“But ’twas a famous victory.”Robert Southey.

“And everybody praised the duke,

Who such a fight did win.”

“But what good came of it at last?”

Quoth little Peterkin.

“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;

“But ’twas a famous victory.”

Robert Southey.

AWELL there is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,Joyfully he drew nigh,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he;And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.There came a man from the house hard by,At the well to fill his pail;On the well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail.“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,“For an’ if thou has a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For an’ if she have, I’ll venture my lifeShe has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.”“I have left a good woman who never was here,”The stranger he made reply;“But that my draught should be better for that,I pray you answer me why?”“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a timeDrank of this crystal well,And before the angels summon’d her,She laid on the water a spell.“If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man henceforth is he,For he shall be master for life.“But if the wife should drink of it first,God help the husband then!”The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again.“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”He to the Cornishman said;But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head.“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i’ faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church.”Robert Southey.

AWELL there is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

AWELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;

There is not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,

And behind doth an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,Joyfully he drew nigh,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,

Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he;And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,At the well to fill his pail;On the well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail.

There came a man from the house hard by,

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,“For an’ if thou has a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,

“For an’ if thou has a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day

That ever thou didst in thy life.

“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For an’ if she have, I’ll venture my lifeShe has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,

Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an’ if she have, I’ll venture my life

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”The stranger he made reply;“But that my draught should be better for that,I pray you answer me why?”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”

The stranger he made reply;

“But that my draught should be better for that,

I pray you answer me why?”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a timeDrank of this crystal well,And before the angels summon’d her,She laid on the water a spell.

“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a time

Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angels summon’d her,

She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man henceforth is he,For he shall be master for life.

“If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man henceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first,God help the husband then!”The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again.

“But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!”

The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,

And drank of the water again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”He to the Cornishman said;But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”

He to the Cornishman said;

But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i’ faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church.”Robert Southey.

“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch;

But i’ faith she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church.”

Robert Southey.

HIS book is successful, he’s steeped in renown,His lyric effusions have tickled the town;Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to traceThe fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;While, proud as Apollo, with peerstête-à-tête,From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,And soupà la reine, little better than broth.While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.Now soupà la reinebends the knee to ox-cheek,And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,Now squat city misses their albums expand,And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.James Smith.

HIS book is successful, he’s steeped in renown,

His lyric effusions have tickled the town;

Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace

The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;

While, proud as Apollo, with peerstête-à-tête,

From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,

His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,And soupà la reine, little better than broth.While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,

Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,

Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,

And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;

Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,

And soupà la reine, little better than broth.

While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.Now soupà la reinebends the knee to ox-cheek,And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,

Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,

Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,

To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.

Now soupà la reinebends the knee to ox-cheek,

And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.

While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,Now squat city misses their albums expand,And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.James Smith.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,

Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,

Now squat city misses their albums expand,

And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;

No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,

Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,

And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.

James Smith.

FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;At Christmas the family met there to dineOn beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.To Brighton we duly go scampering down,For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,Before we began to be growing genteel;’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”But would not express what I think for a crown,For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;His Majesty never invites me to dine;The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,Which makes me suspect that I’mnobodyhere.If that be the case, why, then welcome againTwelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. BrownThatNobodynow spends his Christmas in town.James Smith.

FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,

My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;

At Christmas the family met there to dine

On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;

My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.

To Brighton we duly go scampering down,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,

Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,

Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,

Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.

We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,

That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;

The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,

But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,Before we began to be growing genteel;’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,

The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;

The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;

We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.

These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,

Before we began to be growing genteel;

’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,

But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,

Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;

Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,

Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:

Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,

With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,

Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”But would not express what I think for a crown,For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,

And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;

My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,

And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.

At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,

And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”

But would not express what I think for a crown,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;His Majesty never invites me to dine;The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,Which makes me suspect that I’mnobodyhere.If that be the case, why, then welcome againTwelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. BrownThatNobodynow spends his Christmas in town.James Smith.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;

His Majesty never invites me to dine;

The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,

Which makes me suspect that I’mnobodyhere.

If that be the case, why, then welcome again

Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.

Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown

ThatNobodynow spends his Christmas in town.

James Smith.

AND is there, then, no earthly placeWhere we can rest in dream Elysian,Without some cursed round English facePopping up near to break the vision?’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.If up the Simplon’s path we wind,Fancying we leave this world behind,Such pleasant sounds salute one’s earAs, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”Go where we may, rest where we will,Eternal London haunts us still.The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch—And scarce a pin’s-head difference which—Mixes, though even to Greece we run,With every rill from Helicon.And if this rage for travelling lasts,If cockneys of all sets and castes,Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,Will leave their puddings and coal fires,To gape at things in foreign landsNo soul among them understands;If Blues desert their coteries,To show off ’mong the Wahabees;If neither sex nor age controls,Nor fear of Mamelukes forbidsYoung ladies, with pink parasols,To glide among the Pyramids:Why, then, farewell all hope to findA spot that’s free from London-kind!Who knows, if to the West we roam,But we may find some Blue “at home”Among the Blacks of Carolina,Or, flying to the eastward, see,SomeMrs. Hopkinstaking teaAnd toast upon the Wall of China?Thomas Moore.

AND is there, then, no earthly placeWhere we can rest in dream Elysian,Without some cursed round English facePopping up near to break the vision?

AND is there, then, no earthly place

Where we can rest in dream Elysian,

Without some cursed round English face

Popping up near to break the vision?

’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.

’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,

Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;

Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,

Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.

If up the Simplon’s path we wind,Fancying we leave this world behind,Such pleasant sounds salute one’s earAs, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”Go where we may, rest where we will,Eternal London haunts us still.The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch—And scarce a pin’s-head difference which—Mixes, though even to Greece we run,With every rill from Helicon.And if this rage for travelling lasts,If cockneys of all sets and castes,Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,Will leave their puddings and coal fires,To gape at things in foreign landsNo soul among them understands;If Blues desert their coteries,To show off ’mong the Wahabees;If neither sex nor age controls,Nor fear of Mamelukes forbidsYoung ladies, with pink parasols,To glide among the Pyramids:Why, then, farewell all hope to findA spot that’s free from London-kind!Who knows, if to the West we roam,But we may find some Blue “at home”Among the Blacks of Carolina,Or, flying to the eastward, see,SomeMrs. Hopkinstaking teaAnd toast upon the Wall of China?Thomas Moore.

If up the Simplon’s path we wind,

Fancying we leave this world behind,

Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear

As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:

The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)

Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)

And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)

Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”

Go where we may, rest where we will,

Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch—

And scarce a pin’s-head difference which—

Mixes, though even to Greece we run,

With every rill from Helicon.

And if this rage for travelling lasts,

If cockneys of all sets and castes,

Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,

Will leave their puddings and coal fires,

To gape at things in foreign lands

No soul among them understands;

If Blues desert their coteries,

To show off ’mong the Wahabees;

If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids

Young ladies, with pink parasols,

To glide among the Pyramids:

Why, then, farewell all hope to find

A spot that’s free from London-kind!

Who knows, if to the West we roam,

But we may find some Blue “at home”

Among the Blacks of Carolina,

Or, flying to the eastward, see,

SomeMrs. Hopkinstaking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China?

Thomas Moore.

UNLIKE those feeble gales of praiseWhich critics blew in former days,Our modern puffs are of a kindThat truly, really “raise the wind”;And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,We find them the besttrade-windsgoing.What storm is on the deep—and moreIs the great power of Puff on shore,Which jumps to glory’s future tensesBefore the present even commences,And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us,Before the world has read one line of us.In old times, when the god of songDrew his own two-horse team along,Carrying inside a bard or twoBooked for posterity “all through,”Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes(Like yours, my friend, for after-times),So slow the pull to Fame’s abodeThat folks oft slumbered on the road;And Homer’s self sometimes, they say,Took to his nightcap on the way.But now, how different is the storyWith our new galloping sons of glory,Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,Dash to posterity in no time!Raise but one general blast of puffTo start your author—that’s enough:In vain the critics sit to watch him,Try at the starting-post to catch him;He’s off—the puffers carry it hollow—The critics, if they please, may follow;Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,He’s fairly blown through six editions!In vain doth Edinburgh dispenseHer blue and yellow pestilence(That plague so awful in my timeTo young and touchy sons of rhyme);TheQuarterly, at three months’ date,To catch the Unread One comes too late;And nonsense, littered in a hurry,Becomes “immortal” spite of Murray.Thomas Moore.

UNLIKE those feeble gales of praise

Which critics blew in former days,

Our modern puffs are of a kind

That truly, really “raise the wind”;

And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,

We find them the besttrade-windsgoing.

What storm is on the deep—and more

Is the great power of Puff on shore,

Which jumps to glory’s future tenses

Before the present even commences,

And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us,

Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the god of song

Drew his own two-horse team along,

Carrying inside a bard or two

Booked for posterity “all through,”

Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes

(Like yours, my friend, for after-times),

So slow the pull to Fame’s abode

That folks oft slumbered on the road;

And Homer’s self sometimes, they say,

Took to his nightcap on the way.

But now, how different is the story

With our new galloping sons of glory,

Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,

Dash to posterity in no time!

Raise but one general blast of puff

To start your author—that’s enough:

In vain the critics sit to watch him,

Try at the starting-post to catch him;

He’s off—the puffers carry it hollow—

The critics, if they please, may follow;

Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,

He’s fairly blown through six editions!

In vain doth Edinburgh dispense

Her blue and yellow pestilence

(That plague so awful in my time

To young and touchy sons of rhyme);

TheQuarterly, at three months’ date,

To catch the Unread One comes too late;

And nonsense, littered in a hurry,

Becomes “immortal” spite of Murray.

Thomas Moore.

Ido confess, in many a sigh,My lips have breath’d you many a lie,And who, with such delights in view,Would lose them for a lie or two?Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving:Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!If half we tell the girls were true,If half we swear to think and do,Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,The world would be in strange confusion!If ladies’ eyes were, every one,As lovers swear, a radiant sun,Astronomy should leave the skies,To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl,When nature turns your teeth to pearl,Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,Your yellow locks to golden wire,Then, only then, can heaven decree,That you should live for only me,Or I for you, as night and morn,We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.And now, my gentle hints to clear,For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!Whenever you may chance to meetA loving youth, whose love is sweet,Long as you’re false and he believes you,Long as you trust and he deceives you,So long the blissful bond endures;And while he lies, his heart is yours.But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youthThe instant that he tells you truth!Thomas Moore.

Ido confess, in many a sigh,

My lips have breath’d you many a lie,

And who, with such delights in view,

Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving:

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!

If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,

Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,

The world would be in strange confusion!

If ladies’ eyes were, every one,

As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

Astronomy should leave the skies,

To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!

Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl,

When nature turns your teeth to pearl,

Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,

Your yellow locks to golden wire,

Then, only then, can heaven decree,

That you should live for only me,

Or I for you, as night and morn,

We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!Whenever you may chance to meetA loving youth, whose love is sweet,Long as you’re false and he believes you,Long as you trust and he deceives you,So long the blissful bond endures;And while he lies, his heart is yours.But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youthThe instant that he tells you truth!Thomas Moore.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,

For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!

Whenever you may chance to meet

A loving youth, whose love is sweet,

Long as you’re false and he believes you,

Long as you trust and he deceives you,

So long the blissful bond endures;

And while he lies, his heart is yours.

But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth

The instant that he tells you truth!

Thomas Moore.

THERE was a king of Yvetot,Of whom renown hath little said,Who let all thoughts of glory go,And dawdled half his days abed;And every night, as night came round,By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,Slept very sound:Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.And every day it came to passThat four lusty meals made he;And step by step, upon an ass,Rode abroad, his realms to see;And wherever he did stir,What think you was his escort, sir?Why, an old cur.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.If e’er he went into excess,’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;But he who would his subjects bless,Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;And so, from every cask they got,Our king did to himself allotAt least a pot.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.To all the ladies of the landA courteous king, and kind, was he;The reason why, you’ll understand—They named him Pater Patriæ.Each year he called his fighting men,And marched a league from home, and then.Marched back again.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.Neither by force nor false pretence,He sought to make his kingdom great,And made (O princes, learn from hence)“Live and let live” his rule of state.’Twas only when he came to die,That his people who stood byWere known to cry.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.The portrait of this best of kingsIs extant still, upon a signThat on a village tavern swings,Famed in the country for good wine.The people in their Sunday trim,Filling their glasses to the brim,Look up to him,Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!That’s the sort of king for me.”Pierre Jean De Béranger.

THERE was a king of Yvetot,

Of whom renown hath little said,

Who let all thoughts of glory go,

And dawdled half his days abed;

And every night, as night came round,

By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,

Slept very sound:

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That’s the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to passThat four lusty meals made he;And step by step, upon an ass,Rode abroad, his realms to see;And wherever he did stir,What think you was his escort, sir?Why, an old cur.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass

That four lusty meals made he;

And step by step, upon an ass,

Rode abroad, his realms to see;

And wherever he did stir,

What think you was his escort, sir?

Why, an old cur.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That’s the kind of king for me.

If e’er he went into excess,’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;But he who would his subjects bless,Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;

If e’er he went into excess,

’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;

But he who would his subjects bless,

Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;

And so, from every cask they got,Our king did to himself allotAt least a pot.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.

And so, from every cask they got,

Our king did to himself allot

At least a pot.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That’s the kind of king for me.

To all the ladies of the landA courteous king, and kind, was he;The reason why, you’ll understand—They named him Pater Patriæ.Each year he called his fighting men,And marched a league from home, and then.Marched back again.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.

To all the ladies of the land

A courteous king, and kind, was he;

The reason why, you’ll understand—

They named him Pater Patriæ.

Each year he called his fighting men,

And marched a league from home, and then.

Marched back again.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That’s the kind of king for me.

Neither by force nor false pretence,He sought to make his kingdom great,And made (O princes, learn from hence)“Live and let live” his rule of state.’Twas only when he came to die,That his people who stood byWere known to cry.Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!That’s the kind of king for me.

Neither by force nor false pretence,

He sought to make his kingdom great,

And made (O princes, learn from hence)

“Live and let live” his rule of state.

’Twas only when he came to die,

That his people who stood by

Were known to cry.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That’s the kind of king for me.

The portrait of this best of kingsIs extant still, upon a signThat on a village tavern swings,Famed in the country for good wine.The people in their Sunday trim,Filling their glasses to the brim,Look up to him,Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!That’s the sort of king for me.”Pierre Jean De Béranger.

The portrait of this best of kings

Is extant still, upon a sign

That on a village tavern swings,

Famed in the country for good wine.

The people in their Sunday trim,

Filling their glasses to the brim,

Look up to him,

Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!

That’s the sort of king for me.”

Pierre Jean De Béranger.

FOOTNOTE:[A]Version of W. M. Thackeray.

[A]Version of W. M. Thackeray.

AKNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,While each was in quest of a fugitive love.A river ran mournfully murmuring by,And they wept in its waters for sympathy.“Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!”“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,And jump in together for company!”They search’d for an eddy that suited the deed,But here was a bramble, and there was a weed.“How tiresome it is!” said the fair, with a sigh;So they sat down to rest them in company.They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight;How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!“One mournful embrace,” sobb’d the youth, “ere we die!”So kissing and crying kept company.“Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!”“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”“To miss such perfection, how blinded was I!”Sure now they were excellent company.At length spoke the lass, ’twixt a smile and a tear,“The weather is cold for a watery bier;When summer returns we may easily die,Till then let us sorrow in company.”Reginald Heber.

AKNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,While each was in quest of a fugitive love.A river ran mournfully murmuring by,And they wept in its waters for sympathy.

AKNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,

While each was in quest of a fugitive love.

A river ran mournfully murmuring by,

And they wept in its waters for sympathy.

“Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!”“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,And jump in together for company!”

“Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!”

“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”

“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,

And jump in together for company!”

They search’d for an eddy that suited the deed,But here was a bramble, and there was a weed.“How tiresome it is!” said the fair, with a sigh;So they sat down to rest them in company.

They search’d for an eddy that suited the deed,

But here was a bramble, and there was a weed.

“How tiresome it is!” said the fair, with a sigh;

So they sat down to rest them in company.

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight;How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!“One mournful embrace,” sobb’d the youth, “ere we die!”So kissing and crying kept company.

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight;

How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!

“One mournful embrace,” sobb’d the youth, “ere we die!”

So kissing and crying kept company.

“Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!”“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”“To miss such perfection, how blinded was I!”Sure now they were excellent company.

“Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!”

“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”

“To miss such perfection, how blinded was I!”

Sure now they were excellent company.

At length spoke the lass, ’twixt a smile and a tear,“The weather is cold for a watery bier;When summer returns we may easily die,Till then let us sorrow in company.”Reginald Heber.

At length spoke the lass, ’twixt a smile and a tear,

“The weather is cold for a watery bier;

When summer returns we may easily die,

Till then let us sorrow in company.”

Reginald Heber.

ASUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East—Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—A governor, or general, at the least,I have forgotten which—Had in his family a humble youth,Who went from England in his patron’s suite,An unassuming boy, in truthA lad of decent parts, and good repute.This youth had sense and spirit;But yet with all his sense,Excessive diffidenceObscured his merit.One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,His honour, proudly free, severely merry,Conceived it would be vastly fineTo crack a joke upon his secretary.“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or tradeDid your good father gain a livelihood?”“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,“And in his time was reckoned good.”“A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,Instead of teaching you to sew!Pray, why did not your father makeA saddler, sir, of you?”Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.At length Modestus, bowing low,Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),“Sir, by your leave, I fain would knowYour father’s trade!”“My father’s trade! by Heaven, that’s too bad!My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?My father, sir, did never stoop so low—He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”“Excuse the liberty I take,”Modestus said, with archness on his brow,“Pray, why did not your father makeA gentleman of you?”Selleck Osborn.

ASUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East—

Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which—

Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron’s suite,

An unassuming boy, in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,His honour, proudly free, severely merry,Conceived it would be vastly fineTo crack a joke upon his secretary.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honour, proudly free, severely merry,

Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or tradeDid your good father gain a livelihood?”“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,“And in his time was reckoned good.”

“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade

Did your good father gain a livelihood?”

“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,

“And in his time was reckoned good.”

“A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,Instead of teaching you to sew!Pray, why did not your father makeA saddler, sir, of you?”

“A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,

Instead of teaching you to sew!

Pray, why did not your father make

A saddler, sir, of you?”

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.At length Modestus, bowing low,Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),“Sir, by your leave, I fain would knowYour father’s trade!”

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.

At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),

“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know

Your father’s trade!”

“My father’s trade! by Heaven, that’s too bad!My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?My father, sir, did never stoop so low—He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”

“My father’s trade! by Heaven, that’s too bad!

My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?

My father, sir, did never stoop so low—

He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”

“Excuse the liberty I take,”Modestus said, with archness on his brow,“Pray, why did not your father makeA gentleman of you?”Selleck Osborn.

“Excuse the liberty I take,”

Modestus said, with archness on his brow,

“Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you?”

Selleck Osborn.

AMONK, when his rites sacerdotal were o’er,In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered floor,Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain;But whether by magic’s or alchemy’s powersWe know not; indeed, ’tis no business of ours.Perhaps it was only by patience and care,At last, that he brought his invention to bear.In youth ’twas projected, but years stole away,And ere ’twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;But success is secure, unless energy fails,And at length he producedThe Philosopher’s Scales.“What were they?” you ask. You shall presently see.These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.Oh, no; for such properties wondrous had they,That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,Together with articles small or immense,From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,And naught so reluctant but in it must go:All which some examples more clearly will show.The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leafContaining the prayer of the penitent thief;When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.One time he put in Alexander the Great,With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;And though clad in armour from sandals to crown,The hero rose up, and the garment went down.A long row of almshouses, amply endowedBy a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressedBy those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest:Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce.And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.By further experiments (no matter how)He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale,Though balanced by only a ten penny nail;A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,Weighed less than a widow’s uncrystallized tear.A lord and a lady went up at full sail,When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,Ten counsellors’ wigs, full of powder and curl,All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense;A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;Yet not mountains of silver and gold could sufficeOne pearl to outweigh—’twasThe Pearl of Great Price.Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuffThat it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!When balanced in air, it ascended on high,And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;While the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell,That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.Jane Taylor.

AMONK, when his rites sacerdotal were o’er,

In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered floor,

Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,

Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain;

But whether by magic’s or alchemy’s powers

We know not; indeed, ’tis no business of ours.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,At last, that he brought his invention to bear.In youth ’twas projected, but years stole away,And ere ’twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;But success is secure, unless energy fails,And at length he producedThe Philosopher’s Scales.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,

At last, that he brought his invention to bear.

In youth ’twas projected, but years stole away,

And ere ’twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;

But success is secure, unless energy fails,

And at length he producedThe Philosopher’s Scales.

“What were they?” you ask. You shall presently see.These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.Oh, no; for such properties wondrous had they,That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,Together with articles small or immense,From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

“What were they?” you ask. You shall presently see.

These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.

Oh, no; for such properties wondrous had they,

That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,

Together with articles small or immense,

From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,And naught so reluctant but in it must go:All which some examples more clearly will show.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,

And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,

And naught so reluctant but in it must go:

All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leafContaining the prayer of the penitent thief;When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,

Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.

As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf

Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;

When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,

That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;And though clad in armour from sandals to crown,The hero rose up, and the garment went down.A long row of almshouses, amply endowedBy a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressedBy those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest:Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce.And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,

With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;

And though clad in armour from sandals to crown,

The hero rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of almshouses, amply endowed

By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,

Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed

By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest:

Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce.

And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

By further experiments (no matter how)He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale,Though balanced by only a ten penny nail;A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,Weighed less than a widow’s uncrystallized tear.

By further experiments (no matter how)

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;

A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale,

Though balanced by only a ten penny nail;

A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,

Weighed less than a widow’s uncrystallized tear.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail,When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,Ten counsellors’ wigs, full of powder and curl,All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense;A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;Yet not mountains of silver and gold could sufficeOne pearl to outweigh—’twasThe Pearl of Great Price.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;

Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,

Ten counsellors’ wigs, full of powder and curl,

All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,

Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense;

A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,

Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;

Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice

One pearl to outweigh—’twasThe Pearl of Great Price.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuffThat it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!When balanced in air, it ascended on high,And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;While the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell,That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.Jane Taylor.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,

With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,

When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff

That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!

When balanced in air, it ascended on high,

And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;

While the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell,

That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

Jane Taylor.

NEXT came Walter Scott, with a fine, weighty face,For as soon as his visage was seen in the place,The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him,And thank him with smiles for that sweet, pretty poem!However, he scarcely had got through the door,When he looked adoration, and bowed to the floor,For his host was a god—what a very great thing!And what was still greater in his eyes—a king!Apollo smiled shrewdly, and bade him sit down,With, “Well, Mr. Scott, you have managed the town;Now, pray, copy less—have a little temerity;Try if you can’t also manage posterity.All you add now only lessens your credit;And how could you think, too, of taking to edit?A great deal’s endured where there’s measure and rhyme,But prose such as yours is a pure waste of time—A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough,Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off.Be original, man; study more, scribble less,Nor mistake present favor for lasting success;And remember, if laurels are what you would find,The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind.”James Henry Leigh Hunt.

NEXT came Walter Scott, with a fine, weighty face,

For as soon as his visage was seen in the place,

The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him,

And thank him with smiles for that sweet, pretty poem!

However, he scarcely had got through the door,

When he looked adoration, and bowed to the floor,

For his host was a god—what a very great thing!

And what was still greater in his eyes—a king!

Apollo smiled shrewdly, and bade him sit down,

With, “Well, Mr. Scott, you have managed the town;

Now, pray, copy less—have a little temerity;

Try if you can’t also manage posterity.

All you add now only lessens your credit;

And how could you think, too, of taking to edit?

A great deal’s endured where there’s measure and rhyme,

But prose such as yours is a pure waste of time—

A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough,

Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off.

Be original, man; study more, scribble less,

Nor mistake present favor for lasting success;

And remember, if laurels are what you would find,

The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind.”

James Henry Leigh Hunt.

THE poor man’s sins are glaring;In the face of ghostly warning,He is caught in the factOf an overt act—Buying greens on Sunday morning.The rich man’s sins are hiddenIn the pomp of wealth and station;And escape the sightOf the children of light,Who are wise in their generation.The rich man has a kitchen,And cooks to dress his dinner;The poor, who would roast,To the baker’s must post,And thus becomes a sinner.The rich man has a cellar,And a ready butler by him;The poor must steerFor his pint of beer,Where the saint can’t choose but spy him.The rich man’s painted windowsHide the concerts of the quality;The poor can but shareA crack’d fiddle in the air,Which offends all sound morality.The rich man is invisibleIn the crowd of his gay society;But the poor man’s delightIs a sore in the sight,And a stench in the nose of piety.Thomas L. Peacock.

THE poor man’s sins are glaring;In the face of ghostly warning,He is caught in the factOf an overt act—Buying greens on Sunday morning.

THE poor man’s sins are glaring;

In the face of ghostly warning,

He is caught in the fact

Of an overt act—

Buying greens on Sunday morning.

The rich man’s sins are hiddenIn the pomp of wealth and station;And escape the sightOf the children of light,Who are wise in their generation.

The rich man’s sins are hidden

In the pomp of wealth and station;

And escape the sight

Of the children of light,

Who are wise in their generation.

The rich man has a kitchen,And cooks to dress his dinner;The poor, who would roast,To the baker’s must post,And thus becomes a sinner.

The rich man has a kitchen,

And cooks to dress his dinner;

The poor, who would roast,

To the baker’s must post,

And thus becomes a sinner.

The rich man has a cellar,And a ready butler by him;The poor must steerFor his pint of beer,Where the saint can’t choose but spy him.

The rich man has a cellar,

And a ready butler by him;

The poor must steer

For his pint of beer,

Where the saint can’t choose but spy him.

The rich man’s painted windowsHide the concerts of the quality;The poor can but shareA crack’d fiddle in the air,Which offends all sound morality.

The rich man’s painted windows

Hide the concerts of the quality;

The poor can but share

A crack’d fiddle in the air,

Which offends all sound morality.

The rich man is invisibleIn the crowd of his gay society;But the poor man’s delightIs a sore in the sight,And a stench in the nose of piety.Thomas L. Peacock.

The rich man is invisible

In the crowd of his gay society;

But the poor man’s delight

Is a sore in the sight,

And a stench in the nose of piety.

Thomas L. Peacock.

OCH! the Coronation! what celebrationFor emulation can with it compare?When to Westminster the Royal SpinsterAnd the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!’Twas there you’d see the new PolishemenMake a scrimmage at half after four;And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys,All standing round before the Abbey door.Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morningThemselves adorning, all by the candle-light,With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,And gould and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.And then approaches five hundred coaches,With Gineral Dullbeak.—Och! ’twas mighty fineTo see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.Then the guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;’Twould have made you crazy to see EsterhazyAll jools from his jasey to his di’mond boots;With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,The famale heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talkingTo Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey(They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name),Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne ladingThe Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays the Quaker,All in the gallery you might persave;But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.There was Baron Alten himself exalting,And Prince Von Schwartzenburg, and many more;Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d,To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintalely,“I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”Then the Queen—Heaven bless her!—och! they did dress herIn her purple garments and her goulden crown,Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-arThe big drums bating and the trumpets blow;And Sir George Smart, oh! he played a consarto,With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish upFor to resave her bounty and great wealth,Saying, “Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!”Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating:“Boys, here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!”Then the Nobles kneeling, to the Pow’rs appealing—“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!”And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her,All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair, too,But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,With dukes and marquises on bended knee;And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!”Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,And the swate trombones, with their silver tones;But Lord Rolle was rolling—’twas mighty consolingTo think his lordship did not break his bones!Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop;With lobsters and white-bait, and other swatemeats,And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,With fine polonies, and rich, mellow pears.Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,The sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs.Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher;Faith, it’s mesilf that’s getting mighty dhry.Richard Harris Barham.

OCH! the Coronation! what celebration

For emulation can with it compare?

When to Westminster the Royal Spinster

And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!

’Twas there you’d see the new Polishemen

Make a scrimmage at half after four;

And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys,

All standing round before the Abbey door.

Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morningThemselves adorning, all by the candle-light,With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,And gould and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.And then approaches five hundred coaches,With Gineral Dullbeak.—Och! ’twas mighty fineTo see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morning

Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,

With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,

And gould and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.

And then approaches five hundred coaches,

With Gineral Dullbeak.—Och! ’twas mighty fine

To see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,

With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

Then the guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;’Twould have made you crazy to see EsterhazyAll jools from his jasey to his di’mond boots;With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,The famale heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.

Then the guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,

All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,

Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,

The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;

’Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy

All jools from his jasey to his di’mond boots;

With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,

The famale heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talkingTo Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey(They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name),Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne ladingThe Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking

To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;

And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey

(They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name),

Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne lading

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,

And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,

The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays the Quaker,All in the gallery you might persave;But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,

In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,

And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,

And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.

Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays the Quaker,

All in the gallery you might persave;

But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,

Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,And Prince Von Schwartzenburg, and many more;Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d,To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintalely,“I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,

And Prince Von Schwartzenburg, and many more;

Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d,

To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;

With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,

And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;

But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintalely,

“I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”

Then the Queen—Heaven bless her!—och! they did dress herIn her purple garments and her goulden crown,Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-arThe big drums bating and the trumpets blow;And Sir George Smart, oh! he played a consarto,With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

Then the Queen—Heaven bless her!—och! they did dress her

In her purple garments and her goulden crown,

Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,

With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.

Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar

The big drums bating and the trumpets blow;

And Sir George Smart, oh! he played a consarto,

With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish upFor to resave her bounty and great wealth,Saying, “Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!”Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating:“Boys, here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!”

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up

For to resave her bounty and great wealth,

Saying, “Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!

Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!”

Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating:

“Boys, here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!

And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,

Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!”

Then the Nobles kneeling, to the Pow’rs appealing—“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!”And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her,All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair, too,But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

Then the Nobles kneeling, to the Pow’rs appealing—

“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!”

And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her,

All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.

The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair, too,

But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,

For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,

Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,With dukes and marquises on bended knee;And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!”Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,And the swate trombones, with their silver tones;But Lord Rolle was rolling—’twas mighty consolingTo think his lordship did not break his bones!

Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,

With dukes and marquises on bended knee;

And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,

And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!”

Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,

And the swate trombones, with their silver tones;

But Lord Rolle was rolling—’twas mighty consoling

To think his lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop;With lobsters and white-bait, and other swatemeats,And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,With fine polonies, and rich, mellow pears.Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,The sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,

All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop;

With lobsters and white-bait, and other swatemeats,

And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!

There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,

With fine polonies, and rich, mellow pears.

Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,

The sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher;Faith, it’s mesilf that’s getting mighty dhry.Richard Harris Barham.

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,

Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”

Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,

Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!

And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,

This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,

Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher;

Faith, it’s mesilf that’s getting mighty dhry.

Richard Harris Barham.

Back to Index Next