HOW TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone(A very plain brown stone will do)That I may call my own;And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three—Amen!I always thought cold victual nice—My choice would be vanilla-ice.I care not much for gold or land;Give me a mortgage here and there,Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share.I only ask that Fortune sendA little more than I shall spend.Honours are silly toys, I know,And titles are but empty names;I would, perhaps, be Plenipo—But only near St. James;I’m very sure I should not careTo fill our Gubernator’s chair.Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;One good-sized diamond in a pin,Some, not so large, in rings,A ruby, and a pearl or so,Will do for me; I laugh at show.My dame should dress in cheap attire(Good, heavy silks are never dear);I own, perhaps, I might desireSome shawls of true Cashmere—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glitt’ring upstart fool;Shall not carved tables serve my turn,Butallmust be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double care—I ask butonerecumbent chair.Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;If Heaven more gen’rous gifts deny,I shall not miss them much—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone(A very plain brown stone will do)That I may call my own;And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone

(A very plain brown stone will do)

That I may call my own;

And close at hand is such a one,

In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three—Amen!I always thought cold victual nice—My choice would be vanilla-ice.

Plain food is quite enough for me;

Three courses are as good as ten;

If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three—Amen!

I always thought cold victual nice—

My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;Give me a mortgage here and there,Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share.I only ask that Fortune sendA little more than I shall spend.

I care not much for gold or land;

Give me a mortgage here and there,

Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,

Or trifling railroad share.

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend.

Honours are silly toys, I know,And titles are but empty names;I would, perhaps, be Plenipo—But only near St. James;I’m very sure I should not careTo fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Honours are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo—

But only near St. James;

I’m very sure I should not care

To fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;One good-sized diamond in a pin,Some, not so large, in rings,A ruby, and a pearl or so,Will do for me; I laugh at show.

Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful things;

One good-sized diamond in a pin,

Some, not so large, in rings,

A ruby, and a pearl or so,

Will do for me; I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire(Good, heavy silks are never dear);I own, perhaps, I might desireSome shawls of true Cashmere—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

My dame should dress in cheap attire

(Good, heavy silks are never dear);

I own, perhaps, I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere—

Some marrowy crapes of China silk,

Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glitt’ring upstart fool;Shall not carved tables serve my turn,Butallmust be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double care—I ask butonerecumbent chair.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,

Nor ape the glitt’ring upstart fool;

Shall not carved tables serve my turn,

Butallmust be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double care—

I ask butonerecumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;If Heaven more gen’rous gifts deny,I shall not miss them much—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content!Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Thus humble let me live and die,

Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;

If Heaven more gen’rous gifts deny,

I shall not miss them much—

Too grateful for the blessing lent

Of simple tastes and mind content!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

ABROW austere, a circumspective eye.A frequent shrug of theos humeri;A nod significant, a stately gait,A blustering manner, and a tone of weight,A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare:Adopt all these, as time and place will bear;Then rest assur’d that those of little senseWill deem you sure a man of consequence.Mark Lemon.

ABROW austere, a circumspective eye.

A frequent shrug of theos humeri;

A nod significant, a stately gait,

A blustering manner, and a tone of weight,

A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare:

Adopt all these, as time and place will bear;

Then rest assur’d that those of little sense

Will deem you sure a man of consequence.

Mark Lemon.

DID ye hear of the Widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh, she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts,So lovely the Widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the Widow Malone.Of lovers she had a full score,Or more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the Clerk of the Crown,All were courting the Widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the Widow Malone.But so modest was Mrs. Malone,’Twas knownNo one ever could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye,So bashful the Widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the Widow Malone.Till one Mister O’Brien from Clare—How quare.It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,My own!”“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?“But, Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Molly Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Molly Malone.”There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strong:If for widows you die,Learn tokiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,Ohone!Oh! they’re very like Mistress Malone!Charles Lever.

DID ye hear of the Widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh, she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts,So lovely the Widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the Widow Malone.

DID ye hear of the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone?

Oh, she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,Or more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the Clerk of the Crown,All were courting the Widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the Clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,’Twas knownNo one ever could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye,So bashful the Widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,

’Twas known

No one ever could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne’er catch her eye,

So bashful the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O’Brien from Clare—How quare.It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,My own!”“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?

Till one Mister O’Brien from Clare—

How quare.

It’s little for blushing they care

Down there—

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste—

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,

My own!”

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—

For why?

“But, Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Molly Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Molly Malone.”

“But, Lucius,” says she,

“Since you’ve now made so free,

You may marry your Molly Malone,

Ohone!

You may marry your Molly Malone.”

There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strong:If for widows you die,Learn tokiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,Ohone!Oh! they’re very like Mistress Malone!Charles Lever.

There’s a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;

And, one comfort, it’s not very long,

But strong:

If for widows you die,

Learn tokiss, not to sigh,

For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh! they’re very like Mistress Malone!

Charles Lever.

THERE’S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none;He has left not a gap in the world, now he’s gone;Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!The whip, how it cracks, and the wheels, how they spin!How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurled!The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approachTo gentility, now that he’s stretched in a coach;He’s taking a drive in his carriage at last,But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!And be joyful to think, when by death you’re laid low,You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,To think that a heart in humanity cladShould make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,And depart from the light without leaving a friend.Bear soft his bones over the stones!Though a pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns.Thomas Noel.

THERE’S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;

And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none;He has left not a gap in the world, now he’s gone;Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none;

He has left not a gap in the world, now he’s gone;

Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;

To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!The whip, how it cracks, and the wheels, how they spin!How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurled!The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!

The whip, how it cracks, and the wheels, how they spin!

How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurled!

The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approachTo gentility, now that he’s stretched in a coach;He’s taking a drive in his carriage at last,But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach

To gentility, now that he’s stretched in a coach;

He’s taking a drive in his carriage at last,

But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!And be joyful to think, when by death you’re laid low,You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.Rattle his bones over the stones!He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you’re laid low,

You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,To think that a heart in humanity cladShould make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,And depart from the light without leaving a friend.Bear soft his bones over the stones!Though a pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns.Thomas Noel.

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,

To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,

And depart from the light without leaving a friend.

Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns.

Thomas Noel.

WE know him, out of Shakespeare’s art,And those fine curses which he spoke—The Old Timon with his noble heart,That strongly loathing, greatly broke.So died the Old; here comes the New;Regard him—a familiar face;I thought we knew him. What! it’s you,The padded man that wears the stays;Who killed the girls, and thrilled the boysWith dandy pathos when you wrote:O Lion, you that made a noise,And shook a maneen papillotes. . . .What profits now to understandThe merits of a spotless shirt,A dapper boot, a little hand,If half the little soul is dirt? . . .A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame!It looks too arrogant a jest—That fierce old man, to take his name,You bandbox! Off, and let him rest!Alfred Tennyson.

WE know him, out of Shakespeare’s art,And those fine curses which he spoke—The Old Timon with his noble heart,That strongly loathing, greatly broke.

WE know him, out of Shakespeare’s art,

And those fine curses which he spoke—

The Old Timon with his noble heart,

That strongly loathing, greatly broke.

So died the Old; here comes the New;Regard him—a familiar face;I thought we knew him. What! it’s you,The padded man that wears the stays;

So died the Old; here comes the New;

Regard him—a familiar face;

I thought we knew him. What! it’s you,

The padded man that wears the stays;

Who killed the girls, and thrilled the boysWith dandy pathos when you wrote:O Lion, you that made a noise,And shook a maneen papillotes. . . .

Who killed the girls, and thrilled the boys

With dandy pathos when you wrote:

O Lion, you that made a noise,

And shook a maneen papillotes. . . .

What profits now to understandThe merits of a spotless shirt,A dapper boot, a little hand,If half the little soul is dirt? . . .

What profits now to understand

The merits of a spotless shirt,

A dapper boot, a little hand,

If half the little soul is dirt? . . .

A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame!It looks too arrogant a jest—That fierce old man, to take his name,You bandbox! Off, and let him rest!Alfred Tennyson.

A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame!

It looks too arrogant a jest—

That fierce old man, to take his name,

You bandbox! Off, and let him rest!

Alfred Tennyson.

WERTHER had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And, for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.William Makepeace Thackeray.

WERTHER had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter;

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And, for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther,

And, for all the wealth of Indies,

Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,

And his passion boiled and bubbled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.William Makepeace Thackeray.

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person,

Went on cutting bread and butter.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY

OH, will ye choose to hear the news?Bedad, I cannot pass it o’er;I’ll tell you all about the BallTo the Naypaulase Ambassador.Begor! thisfêteall balls does bateAt which I’ve worn a pump, and IMust here relate the splendthor greatOf th’ Oriental Company.These men of sinse dispoised expinse,Tofêtethese black Achilleses.“We’ll show the blacks,” says they, “Almack’s,And take the rooms at Willis’s.”With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls,They hung the rooms of Willis up,And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls,With roses and with lilies up.And Jullien’s band it tuck its standSo sweetly in the middle there,And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes,And violins did fiddle there.And when the Coort was tired of spoort,I’d lave you, boys, to think there wasA nate buffet before them set,Where lashins of good dhrink there was.At ten, before the ballroom doorHis moighty Excellincy was,He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd,So gorgeous and imminse he was.His dusky shuit, sublime and muteInto the doorway followed him;And oh, the noise of the blackguard boys,As they hurrood and hollowed him!The noble Chair stud at the stair,And bade the dhrums to thump; and heDid thus evince to that Black PrinceThe welcome of his Company.Oh, fair the girls, and rich the curls,And bright the oys you saw there, was;And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,On Gineral Jung Behawther was!This gineral great then tuck his sate,With all the other ginerals(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat,All bleezed with precious minerals);And as he there, with princely air,Recloinin’ on his cushion was,All round about his royal chairThe squeezin’ and the pushin’ was.O Pat, such girls, such jukes, and earls,Such fashion and nobilitee!Just think of Tim, and fancy himAmidst the hoigh gentilitee!There was Lord de L’Huys, and the PortygeeseMinisther and his lady there,And I reckonized, with much surprise,Our messmate, Bob O’Grady, there.There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,And Baroness Rehausen there,And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiarWell, in her robes of gauze in there.There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first,When only Misther Pips he was),And Mick O’Toole, the great big fool,That after supper tipsy was.There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all,And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:I wondher how he could stuff her in.There was Lord Belfast, that by me passed,And seemed to ask how shouldIgo there?And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay,And the Marchioness of Sligo there.Yes, jukes, and earls, and diamonds, and pearls,And pretty girls, was sporting there;And some beside (the rogues!) I spied,Behind the windies, coorting there.Oh, there’s one I know, bedad would showAs beautiful as any there,And I’d like to hear the pipers blow,And shake a fut with Fanny there!William Makepeace Thackeray.

OH, will ye choose to hear the news?

Bedad, I cannot pass it o’er;

I’ll tell you all about the Ball

To the Naypaulase Ambassador.

Begor! thisfêteall balls does bate

At which I’ve worn a pump, and I

Must here relate the splendthor great

Of th’ Oriental Company.

These men of sinse dispoised expinse,Tofêtethese black Achilleses.“We’ll show the blacks,” says they, “Almack’s,And take the rooms at Willis’s.”With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls,They hung the rooms of Willis up,And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls,With roses and with lilies up.

These men of sinse dispoised expinse,

Tofêtethese black Achilleses.

“We’ll show the blacks,” says they, “Almack’s,

And take the rooms at Willis’s.”

With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls,

They hung the rooms of Willis up,

And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls,

With roses and with lilies up.

And Jullien’s band it tuck its standSo sweetly in the middle there,And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes,And violins did fiddle there.And when the Coort was tired of spoort,I’d lave you, boys, to think there wasA nate buffet before them set,Where lashins of good dhrink there was.

And Jullien’s band it tuck its stand

So sweetly in the middle there,

And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes,

And violins did fiddle there.

And when the Coort was tired of spoort,

I’d lave you, boys, to think there was

A nate buffet before them set,

Where lashins of good dhrink there was.

At ten, before the ballroom doorHis moighty Excellincy was,He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd,So gorgeous and imminse he was.His dusky shuit, sublime and muteInto the doorway followed him;And oh, the noise of the blackguard boys,As they hurrood and hollowed him!

At ten, before the ballroom door

His moighty Excellincy was,

He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd,

So gorgeous and imminse he was.

His dusky shuit, sublime and mute

Into the doorway followed him;

And oh, the noise of the blackguard boys,

As they hurrood and hollowed him!

The noble Chair stud at the stair,And bade the dhrums to thump; and heDid thus evince to that Black PrinceThe welcome of his Company.Oh, fair the girls, and rich the curls,And bright the oys you saw there, was;And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,On Gineral Jung Behawther was!

The noble Chair stud at the stair,

And bade the dhrums to thump; and he

Did thus evince to that Black Prince

The welcome of his Company.

Oh, fair the girls, and rich the curls,

And bright the oys you saw there, was;

And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,

On Gineral Jung Behawther was!

This gineral great then tuck his sate,With all the other ginerals(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat,All bleezed with precious minerals);And as he there, with princely air,Recloinin’ on his cushion was,All round about his royal chairThe squeezin’ and the pushin’ was.

This gineral great then tuck his sate,

With all the other ginerals

(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat,

All bleezed with precious minerals);

And as he there, with princely air,

Recloinin’ on his cushion was,

All round about his royal chair

The squeezin’ and the pushin’ was.

O Pat, such girls, such jukes, and earls,Such fashion and nobilitee!Just think of Tim, and fancy himAmidst the hoigh gentilitee!There was Lord de L’Huys, and the PortygeeseMinisther and his lady there,And I reckonized, with much surprise,Our messmate, Bob O’Grady, there.

O Pat, such girls, such jukes, and earls,

Such fashion and nobilitee!

Just think of Tim, and fancy him

Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!

There was Lord de L’Huys, and the Portygeese

Ministher and his lady there,

And I reckonized, with much surprise,

Our messmate, Bob O’Grady, there.

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,And Baroness Rehausen there,And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiarWell, in her robes of gauze in there.There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first,When only Misther Pips he was),And Mick O’Toole, the great big fool,That after supper tipsy was.

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,

And Baroness Rehausen there,

And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar

Well, in her robes of gauze in there.

There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first,

When only Misther Pips he was),

And Mick O’Toole, the great big fool,

That after supper tipsy was.

There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all,And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:I wondher how he could stuff her in.There was Lord Belfast, that by me passed,And seemed to ask how shouldIgo there?And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay,And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all,

And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,

And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:

I wondher how he could stuff her in.

There was Lord Belfast, that by me passed,

And seemed to ask how shouldIgo there?

And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay,

And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

Yes, jukes, and earls, and diamonds, and pearls,And pretty girls, was sporting there;And some beside (the rogues!) I spied,Behind the windies, coorting there.Oh, there’s one I know, bedad would showAs beautiful as any there,And I’d like to hear the pipers blow,And shake a fut with Fanny there!William Makepeace Thackeray.

Yes, jukes, and earls, and diamonds, and pearls,

And pretty girls, was sporting there;

And some beside (the rogues!) I spied,

Behind the windies, coorting there.

Oh, there’s one I know, bedad would show

As beautiful as any there,

And I’d like to hear the pipers blow,

And shake a fut with Fanny there!

William Makepeace Thackeray.

SPECIAL jurymen of England, who admire your country’s laws,And proclaim a British jury worthy of the realm’s applause,Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a causeWhich was tried at Guildford ’Sizes, this day week, as ever was.Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief(Special was the British jury, and the judge, the Baron Chief)—Comes a British man and husband, asking of the law relief,For his wife was stolen from him; he’d have vengeance on the thief.Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was crowned,Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound;And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned,To award him for his damage twenty hundred sterling pound.He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear,Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear;But I can’t help asking, though the lady’s guilt was all too clear,And though guilty the defendant, wasn’t the plaintiff rather queer?First the lady’s mother spoke, and said she’d seen her daughter cryBut a fortnight after marriage—early times for piping eye;Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black,And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door,Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more.As she would not go, why, he went: thrice he left his lady dear—Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed;She had seen him pull his lady’s nose, and make her lip to bleed;If he chanced to sit at home, not a single word he said;Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady’s head.Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury noteHow she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat;How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit,Till the pitying next-door neighbours crossed the wall and witnessed it.Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers, a butcher, dwelt;Mrs. Owers’s foolish heart toward this erring dame did melt(Not that she had erred as yet—crime was not developed in her),But, being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner—God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life;Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife;He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months’ space,Sat with his wife, or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant’s case.Pollock, C. B., charged the jury; said the woman’s guilt was clear:That was not the point, however, which the jury came to hear;But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear,This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear—Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year.Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear—What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claimBy the loss of the affections of this guilty, graceless dame?Then the honest British twelve, to each other turning round,Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound:And towards his lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound:“My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound.”So, God bless the special jury! pride and joy of English ground,And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper:If a British wife offends you, Britons, you’ve a right to whop her.Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her,You are welcome to neglect her; to the devil you may send her;You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned;And if after this you lose her, why, you’re paid two hundred pound.William Makepeace Thackeray.

SPECIAL jurymen of England, who admire your country’s laws,

And proclaim a British jury worthy of the realm’s applause,

Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a cause

Which was tried at Guildford ’Sizes, this day week, as ever was.

Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief(Special was the British jury, and the judge, the Baron Chief)—Comes a British man and husband, asking of the law relief,For his wife was stolen from him; he’d have vengeance on the thief.

Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief

(Special was the British jury, and the judge, the Baron Chief)—

Comes a British man and husband, asking of the law relief,

For his wife was stolen from him; he’d have vengeance on the thief.

Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was crowned,Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound;And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned,To award him for his damage twenty hundred sterling pound.

Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was crowned,

Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound;

And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned,

To award him for his damage twenty hundred sterling pound.

He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear,Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear;But I can’t help asking, though the lady’s guilt was all too clear,And though guilty the defendant, wasn’t the plaintiff rather queer?

He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear,

Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear;

But I can’t help asking, though the lady’s guilt was all too clear,

And though guilty the defendant, wasn’t the plaintiff rather queer?

First the lady’s mother spoke, and said she’d seen her daughter cryBut a fortnight after marriage—early times for piping eye;Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black,And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.

First the lady’s mother spoke, and said she’d seen her daughter cry

But a fortnight after marriage—early times for piping eye;

Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black,

And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.

Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door,Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more.As she would not go, why, he went: thrice he left his lady dear—Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.

Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door,

Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more.

As she would not go, why, he went: thrice he left his lady dear—

Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.

Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed;She had seen him pull his lady’s nose, and make her lip to bleed;If he chanced to sit at home, not a single word he said;Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady’s head.

Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed;

She had seen him pull his lady’s nose, and make her lip to bleed;

If he chanced to sit at home, not a single word he said;

Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady’s head.

Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury noteHow she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat;How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit,Till the pitying next-door neighbours crossed the wall and witnessed it.

Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note

How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat;

How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit,

Till the pitying next-door neighbours crossed the wall and witnessed it.

Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers, a butcher, dwelt;Mrs. Owers’s foolish heart toward this erring dame did melt(Not that she had erred as yet—crime was not developed in her),But, being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner—God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!

Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers, a butcher, dwelt;

Mrs. Owers’s foolish heart toward this erring dame did melt

(Not that she had erred as yet—crime was not developed in her),

But, being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner—

God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!

Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life;Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife;He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months’ space,Sat with his wife, or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant’s case.

Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life;

Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife;

He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months’ space,

Sat with his wife, or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant’s case.

Pollock, C. B., charged the jury; said the woman’s guilt was clear:That was not the point, however, which the jury came to hear;But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear,This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear—

Pollock, C. B., charged the jury; said the woman’s guilt was clear:

That was not the point, however, which the jury came to hear;

But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear,

This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear—

Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year.Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear—What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claimBy the loss of the affections of this guilty, graceless dame?

Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year.

Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear—

What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim

By the loss of the affections of this guilty, graceless dame?

Then the honest British twelve, to each other turning round,Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound:And towards his lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound:“My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound.”

Then the honest British twelve, to each other turning round,

Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound:

And towards his lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound:

“My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound.”

So, God bless the special jury! pride and joy of English ground,And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper:If a British wife offends you, Britons, you’ve a right to whop her.

So, God bless the special jury! pride and joy of English ground,

And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!

British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper:

If a British wife offends you, Britons, you’ve a right to whop her.

Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her,You are welcome to neglect her; to the devil you may send her;You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned;And if after this you lose her, why, you’re paid two hundred pound.William Makepeace Thackeray.

Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her,

You are welcome to neglect her; to the devil you may send her;

You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned;

And if after this you lose her, why, you’re paid two hundred pound.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a riband to stick in his coat—Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,Lost all the others, she lets us devote;They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,So much was theirs who so little allowed:How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern, to live and to die?Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watched from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat—

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others, she lets us devote;

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern, to live and to die?

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watched from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering, not thro’ his presence;Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre;Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.Blot out his name, then; record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod;One more devils’ triumph, and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life’s night begins; let him never come back to us!There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad, confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,Menace our heart ere we master his own;Then let him receive the new knowledge, and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!Robert Browning.

We shall march prospering, not thro’ his presence;

Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.

Blot out his name, then; record one lost soul more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod;

One more devils’ triumph, and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life’s night begins; let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,

Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad, confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge, and wait us,

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

Robert Browning.

WHAT! he on whom our voices unanimously ran,Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop; see him sitNo less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow, and nods head;Each winks at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, insteadOf swords and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?Not he, of humble, holy heart! “Unworthy me,” he sighs;“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince—it is indeed a rise!So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is setSome coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we metHis mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:“The humble, holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice,He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds. “’Tis my advice.”So Pope he was; and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on—To kiss his foot we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone—That guarantee of lowlihead—eclipsed that star which shone!Each eyed his fellow; one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish:Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”Robert Browning.

WHAT! he on whom our voices unanimously ran,Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

WHAT! he on whom our voices unanimously ran,

Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:

His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop; see him sitNo less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop; see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow, and nods head;Each winks at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, insteadOf swords and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow, and nods head;

Each winks at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead

Of swords and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble, holy heart! “Unworthy me,” he sighs;“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince—it is indeed a rise!So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

Not he, of humble, holy heart! “Unworthy me,” he sighs;

“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince—it is indeed a rise!

So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is setSome coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we metHis mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set

Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met

His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:“The humble, holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice,He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds. “’Tis my advice.”

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:

“The humble, holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice,

He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds. “’Tis my advice.”

So Pope he was; and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on—To kiss his foot we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone—That guarantee of lowlihead—eclipsed that star which shone!

So Pope he was; and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on—

To kiss his foot we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone—

That guarantee of lowlihead—eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow; one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish:Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”Robert Browning.

Each eyed his fellow; one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!

I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish:

Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”

Robert Browning.

GR-R-R—there go, my heart’s abhorrence!Water your damned flower-pots, do!If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,God’s blood, would not mine kill you!What! your myrtle-bush wants trimming?Oh, that rose has prior claims—Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?Hell dry you up with its flames!At the meal we sit together:Salve tibi!I must hearWise talk of the kind of weather,Sort of season, time of year;Not a plenteous cork-crop; scarcelyDare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:What’s the Latin name for “parsley”?What’s the Greek name for swine’s snout?Whew! we’ll have our platter burnished,Laid with care on our own shelf;With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,And a goblet for ourself,Rinsed like something sacrificialEre ’tis fit to touch our chapsMarked with L for our initial!(He-he! There his lily snaps!)Saint, forsooth! While brown DoloresSquats outside the convent bankWith Sanchicha, telling stories,Steeping tresses in the tank,Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,Can’t I see his dead eye glowBright as ’t were a Barbary corsair’s?(That is, if he’d let it show!)When he finishes refection,Knife and fork he never laysCrosswise, to my recollection,As do I, in Jesu’s praise.I the Trinity illustrate,Drinking watered orange pulp—In three sips the Arian frustrate,While he drains his at one gulp.Oh, those melons! If he’s able,We’re to have a feast, so nice!One goes to the abbot’s table,All of us get each a slice.How go on your flowers? None double?Not one fruit-sort can you spy?Strange! And I, too, at such troubleKeep them close-nipped on the sly!There’s a great text in Galatians,Once you trip on it, entailsTwenty-nine distinct damnations,One sure, if another fails.If I trip him just a-dying,Sure of heaven as sure can be,Spin him round and send him flyingOff to hell, a Manichee?Or, my scrofulous French novelOn gray paper, with blunt type!Simply glance at it, you grovelHand and foot in Belial’s gripe.If I double down its pagesAt the woful sixteenth print,When he gathers his greengages,Ope a sieve and slip it in’t?Or, there’s Satan! One might venturePledge one’s soul to him, yet leaveSuch a flaw in the indentureAs he’d miss till, past retrieve,Blasted lay that rose-acaciaWe’re so proud of!Hy,Zy,Hine....’St, there’s Vespers!Plena gratia,Ave, Virgo!Gr-r-r—you swine!Robert Browning.

GR-R-R—there go, my heart’s abhorrence!

Water your damned flower-pots, do!

If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,

God’s blood, would not mine kill you!

What! your myrtle-bush wants trimming?

Oh, that rose has prior claims—

Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?

Hell dry you up with its flames!

At the meal we sit together:Salve tibi!I must hearWise talk of the kind of weather,Sort of season, time of year;Not a plenteous cork-crop; scarcelyDare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:What’s the Latin name for “parsley”?What’s the Greek name for swine’s snout?

At the meal we sit together:

Salve tibi!I must hear

Wise talk of the kind of weather,

Sort of season, time of year;

Not a plenteous cork-crop; scarcely

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:

What’s the Latin name for “parsley”?

What’s the Greek name for swine’s snout?

Whew! we’ll have our platter burnished,Laid with care on our own shelf;With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,And a goblet for ourself,Rinsed like something sacrificialEre ’tis fit to touch our chapsMarked with L for our initial!(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

Whew! we’ll have our platter burnished,

Laid with care on our own shelf;

With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,

And a goblet for ourself,

Rinsed like something sacrificial

Ere ’tis fit to touch our chaps

Marked with L for our initial!

(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

Saint, forsooth! While brown DoloresSquats outside the convent bankWith Sanchicha, telling stories,Steeping tresses in the tank,Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,Can’t I see his dead eye glowBright as ’t were a Barbary corsair’s?(That is, if he’d let it show!)

Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores

Squats outside the convent bank

With Sanchicha, telling stories,

Steeping tresses in the tank,

Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,

Can’t I see his dead eye glow

Bright as ’t were a Barbary corsair’s?

(That is, if he’d let it show!)

When he finishes refection,Knife and fork he never laysCrosswise, to my recollection,As do I, in Jesu’s praise.I the Trinity illustrate,Drinking watered orange pulp—In three sips the Arian frustrate,While he drains his at one gulp.

When he finishes refection,

Knife and fork he never lays

Crosswise, to my recollection,

As do I, in Jesu’s praise.

I the Trinity illustrate,

Drinking watered orange pulp—

In three sips the Arian frustrate,

While he drains his at one gulp.

Oh, those melons! If he’s able,We’re to have a feast, so nice!One goes to the abbot’s table,All of us get each a slice.How go on your flowers? None double?Not one fruit-sort can you spy?Strange! And I, too, at such troubleKeep them close-nipped on the sly!

Oh, those melons! If he’s able,

We’re to have a feast, so nice!

One goes to the abbot’s table,

All of us get each a slice.

How go on your flowers? None double?

Not one fruit-sort can you spy?

Strange! And I, too, at such trouble

Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

There’s a great text in Galatians,Once you trip on it, entailsTwenty-nine distinct damnations,One sure, if another fails.If I trip him just a-dying,Sure of heaven as sure can be,Spin him round and send him flyingOff to hell, a Manichee?

There’s a great text in Galatians,

Once you trip on it, entails

Twenty-nine distinct damnations,

One sure, if another fails.

If I trip him just a-dying,

Sure of heaven as sure can be,

Spin him round and send him flying

Off to hell, a Manichee?

Or, my scrofulous French novelOn gray paper, with blunt type!Simply glance at it, you grovelHand and foot in Belial’s gripe.If I double down its pagesAt the woful sixteenth print,When he gathers his greengages,Ope a sieve and slip it in’t?

Or, my scrofulous French novel

On gray paper, with blunt type!

Simply glance at it, you grovel

Hand and foot in Belial’s gripe.

If I double down its pages

At the woful sixteenth print,

When he gathers his greengages,

Ope a sieve and slip it in’t?

Or, there’s Satan! One might venturePledge one’s soul to him, yet leaveSuch a flaw in the indentureAs he’d miss till, past retrieve,Blasted lay that rose-acaciaWe’re so proud of!Hy,Zy,Hine....’St, there’s Vespers!Plena gratia,Ave, Virgo!Gr-r-r—you swine!Robert Browning.

Or, there’s Satan! One might venture

Pledge one’s soul to him, yet leave

Such a flaw in the indenture

As he’d miss till, past retrieve,

Blasted lay that rose-acacia

We’re so proud of!Hy,Zy,Hine....

’St, there’s Vespers!Plena gratia,

Ave, Virgo!Gr-r-r—you swine!

Robert Browning.

YOU prefer a buffoon to a scholar,A harlequin to a teacher,A jester to a statesman,An anonyma flaring on horsebackTo a modest and spotless woman—Brute of a public!You think that to sneer shows wisdom;That a gibe outvalues a reason;That slang, such as thieves delight in,Is fit for the lips of the gentle,And rather a grace than a blemish—Thick-headed public!You think that if merit’s exalted,’Tis excellent sport to decry it,And trail its good name in the gutter;And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted,Are the cream and quintessence of all things—Ass of a public!You think that success must be merit;That honour and virtue and courageAre all very well in their places,But that money’s a thousand times better—Detestable, stupid, degradedPig of a public!Charles Mackay.

YOU prefer a buffoon to a scholar,A harlequin to a teacher,A jester to a statesman,An anonyma flaring on horsebackTo a modest and spotless woman—Brute of a public!

YOU prefer a buffoon to a scholar,

A harlequin to a teacher,

A jester to a statesman,

An anonyma flaring on horseback

To a modest and spotless woman—

Brute of a public!

You think that to sneer shows wisdom;That a gibe outvalues a reason;That slang, such as thieves delight in,Is fit for the lips of the gentle,And rather a grace than a blemish—Thick-headed public!

You think that to sneer shows wisdom;

That a gibe outvalues a reason;

That slang, such as thieves delight in,

Is fit for the lips of the gentle,

And rather a grace than a blemish—

Thick-headed public!

You think that if merit’s exalted,’Tis excellent sport to decry it,And trail its good name in the gutter;And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted,Are the cream and quintessence of all things—Ass of a public!

You think that if merit’s exalted,

’Tis excellent sport to decry it,

And trail its good name in the gutter;

And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted,

Are the cream and quintessence of all things—

Ass of a public!

You think that success must be merit;That honour and virtue and courageAre all very well in their places,But that money’s a thousand times better—Detestable, stupid, degradedPig of a public!Charles Mackay.

You think that success must be merit;

That honour and virtue and courage

Are all very well in their places,

But that money’s a thousand times better—

Detestable, stupid, degraded

Pig of a public!

Charles Mackay.

WHOM shall we praise?Let’s praise the dead!In no men’s waysTheir heads they raise,Nor strive for breadWith you or me.So, do you see,We’ll praise the dead!Let living menDare but to claimFrom tongue or penTheir meed of fame,We’ll cry them down,Spoil their renown,Deny their sense,Wit, eloquence,Poetic fire,All they desire.Our say is said,Long live the dead!Charles Mackay.

WHOM shall we praise?

Let’s praise the dead!

In no men’s ways

Their heads they raise,

Nor strive for bread

With you or me.

So, do you see,

We’ll praise the dead!

Let living men

Dare but to claim

From tongue or pen

Their meed of fame,

We’ll cry them down,

Spoil their renown,

Deny their sense,

Wit, eloquence,

Poetic fire,

All they desire.

Our say is said,

Long live the dead!

Charles Mackay.

WHO would not beThe Laureate bold,With his butt of sherryTo keep him merry,And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long,With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.I’d care not a pin for a waiting-lord;But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward,With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,And watch the clouds that are listless as I,Lazily, lazily!And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;And I’d let my fancies roam abroadIn search of a hint for a birthday ode,Crazily, crazily!Oh, that would be the life for me,With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,Trance-somely, trance-somely!Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,And say to each other, “Just look down there,At the nice young man, so tidy and small,Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,Handsomely, handsomely!”They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,When a pellet of paper hit my nose,Teasingly, sneezingly.Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,And hyacinths plucked from the castle bowers;And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,And I’d kiss them all till they kisséd me,Laughingly, laughingly.Oh, would not that be a merry life,Apart from care and apart from strife,With the Laureate’s wine and the Laureate’s pay,And no deductions at quarter-day?Oh, that would be the post for me!With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,And scribble of verses remarkably few,And empty at evening a bottle or two,Quaffingly, quaffingly!’Tis I would beThe Laureate bold,With my butt of sherryTo keep me merry,And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!William E. Aytoun.

WHO would not beThe Laureate bold,With his butt of sherryTo keep him merry,And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

WHO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry

To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long,With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.I’d care not a pin for a waiting-lord;But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward,With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,And watch the clouds that are listless as I,Lazily, lazily!And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;And I’d let my fancies roam abroadIn search of a hint for a birthday ode,Crazily, crazily!

’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,

I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long,

With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.

I’d care not a pin for a waiting-lord;

But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward,

With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,

And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,

And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,

And watch the clouds that are listless as I,

Lazily, lazily!

And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,

And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;

And I’d let my fancies roam abroad

In search of a hint for a birthday ode,

Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me,With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,Trance-somely, trance-somely!Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,And say to each other, “Just look down there,At the nice young man, so tidy and small,Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,Handsomely, handsomely!”

Oh, that would be the life for me,

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,

And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,

Trance-somely, trance-somely!

Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,

Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,

With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,

And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,

And say to each other, “Just look down there,

At the nice young man, so tidy and small,

Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,

Handsomely, handsomely!”

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,When a pellet of paper hit my nose,Teasingly, sneezingly.Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,And hyacinths plucked from the castle bowers;And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,And I’d kiss them all till they kisséd me,Laughingly, laughingly.

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,

And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,

Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,

As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,

From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,

When a pellet of paper hit my nose,

Teasingly, sneezingly.

Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,

And hyacinths plucked from the castle bowers;

And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,

And I’d kiss them all till they kisséd me,

Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life,Apart from care and apart from strife,With the Laureate’s wine and the Laureate’s pay,And no deductions at quarter-day?Oh, that would be the post for me!With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,And scribble of verses remarkably few,And empty at evening a bottle or two,Quaffingly, quaffingly!

Oh, would not that be a merry life,

Apart from care and apart from strife,

With the Laureate’s wine and the Laureate’s pay,

And no deductions at quarter-day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,

And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,

And scribble of verses remarkably few,

And empty at evening a bottle or two,

Quaffingly, quaffingly!

’Tis I would beThe Laureate bold,With my butt of sherryTo keep me merry,And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!William E. Aytoun.

’Tis I would be

The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

William E. Aytoun.

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