9171
SIMPLE barytone am I—
A thing of light and joy;
Of Rank and Fame let worldlings dream.
They have no charms for me.
Far, far above them I esteem
My own—my upper G.
Oh music! sure thou dost belong
To soft Italia's clime,
Where Life and Love and sunny Song
Seem ever in their prime.
And peacefully my days go by
As when I was a boy,
The feebler ballads of the North
Are much too cold for me;
'Tis not for these I summon forth
My own—my upper G.
I love the Bacchanalian strain
In which Parisians deal;
And that which dark-eyed sons of Spain
Attempt in Old Castille.
No matter from what favour'd spot
The melody may be;
Provided it transcendeth not
My own—my upper G.
It greets me in my festal hours,
It brings my gloom relief;
It sprinkles life with loveliest flowers
And plucks the sting from grief.
I'd smile at poverty and pain;
I'd welcome death with glee—
If till the last I might retain
My own—my upper G!
ON the bleak shore of Norway, I 've lately been told,
Large numbers of cod-fish are found,
And the animals' livers are afterwards sold
At so many "pfennigs" per pound;
From which is extracted, with infinite toil,
A villainous fluid called cod-liver oil!
Now, I don't mind a powder, a pill, or a draught—
Though I mingle the former with jam—
And many's the mixture I've cheerfully quaff'd,
And the pill I have gulp'd like a lamb.
But then I envelop my pills in tin-foil,
And I can't do the same with my cod-liver oil!
In the course of my lifetime I 've swallow'd enough
To have floated a ship of the line,
And it 's purely the fault of this horrible stuff
That I've ceased to enjoy ginger wine.
For how can you wonder to see me recoil
From a liquor I mix'd with my cod-liver oil?
There are few deeds of daring from which I should quail—
There are few things I'd tremble to do—
But there's one kind of tonic that makes me turn pale,
And quite spoils my appetite, too;
But, you see, just at present, I Ve got none to spoil—
So I don't mind alluding to cod-liver oil!
They brought to my couch (I had not slept a wink,
For brooding all night on my ills)
A neat-looking bottle of something to drink.
And a neat-looking box full of pills.
A neat-looking label attracted my sight,
The neck of the bottle adorning,
Saying, "Please to take two of the pills every night
And a sixth of the draught in the morning."
After slowly perusing these words once or twice,
In a deeply contemplative way,
I exclaim'd, what a volume of useful advice
Does this one little sentence convey!
My friends, though to-day may seem cloudless and bright,
Neglect not to-morrow's dark warning;
And oh! while you 're taking the pills of to-night,
Forget not the draught in the morning!
My cheeks are pale, mine eyes are weak,
I 've cramp in every joint;
My jaws are toothless, and my beak
Is fractured—near the point.
In youth, by falling from a tree,
I broke my boyish spine;
And never yet did mortal see
Such hideous legs as mine.
In early life my skull was crack'd,
By tumbling down a drain,
And ever since my head is rack'd
With agonising pain.
But though misfortunes thickly come,
This thought consoles my mind—
If I had not been deaf and dumb,
Perhaps I should be blind.
9177
A DARK German legend survives to this
day,
Which relates to a Gottingen student,
Who came by his talent for music, they say,
At a much higher price than was prudent.
I'd rather not mention the bargain he made,—
But his playing was reckon'd so clever
As even to put Doctor Liszt in the shade,
And extinguish Herr Thalberg for ever.
My hero was anxious his rivals should see
How completely he beat them all hollow;
So he sent round his cards for aesthetics and tea,
With some meerschaums and music to follow.
Then round his respected mahogany met
All the wisdom of Gottingen city;
And History mentions that one of the set
(Nota German) was decently witty.
Of course the disputing and noise was immense,
As is always the case with deep thinkers;
But I hear that the tea showed its excellent sense,
By agreeing with most of its drinkers.
Then the music began, and the guests open'd fire,
With fugues, and sonatas, and such-like;
Which are things that we Englishmen don't much admire,
Though they 're just what the Germans and Dutch like.
Our hero stepp'd forth, and his countenance shone
With that mixture of stern resolution
And graceful reserve that a martyr puts on,
When he walks to his own execution.
He turn'd back his cuffs and he put back his hair,
And, after these grave preparations,
Sat down and perform'd an original air,
With a dozen superb variations.
When he fancied his audience was growing more warm,
And the interest rapidly heightening,
He treated the room to an improvised storm,
With abundance of thunder and lightning.
It seemed as if peal after peal rent the sky,
With a rumbling sepulchral and hollow;
And fierce lurid flashes pour'd forth from on high,
With a speed that no mortal could follow.
Of course such a state of affairs could not last,
And the player at length made his mind up,
By a whirlwind of octaves play'd furious and fast,
To bring the display to a wind-up.
He finish'd his piece and look'd modestly round,
Expecting loud cheers and encoring;—
Imagine his utter disgust when he found
Every soul in the company snoring.
He summon'd his tempter in fury, they say,
And accused him of treacherous dealings,
In selling him powers that were quite thrown away,
Amongst wretches who hadn't got feelings.
"Well, I own," said the Fiend, "they are not well-behaved.
But you 're certainly one of the flat sort
If you fancy that Christians who hope to be saved
Would be partial tomusic of that sort!"
9181
AN Alderman sat at his festive board,
Quaffing the blood-red wine,
And many a Bacchanal stave outpour'd
In praise of the fruitful vine.
Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie,
Pippins and cheese were there;
And the bibulous Alderman wink'd his
eye,
For the sherris was old and rare.
But a cloud came over his gaze eftsoons,
And his wicked old orbs grew dim;
Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons
To a couple of spoons for him.
He bow'd his head on the festive board,
By the gaslight's dazzling gleam:
He bow'd his head and he slept and snored,
And he dream'd a fearful dream.
For, carried away on the wings of Sleep,
His spirit was onward borne,
Till he saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe
On a Ninth November morn.
Guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd,
Ethiop minstrels play'd;
And still, wherever the burghers throng'd,
Brisk jongleurs drove their trade.
Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,
With a portly presence fill'd
The whole of the courtyard just outside
The hall of their ancient Guild.
And, in front of the central gateway there,
A marvellous chariot roll'd,
(Like gingerbread at a country-fair
'Twas cover'd with blazing gold.
And a being array'd in pomp and pride
Was brought to the big stone gate;
And they begg'd that being to mount and ride
In that elegant coach of state.
But, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat
Was that being of pomp and pride,
That, in spite of many attempts thereat,
He couldn't be push'd inside.
That being was press'd, but press'd in vain,
Till the drops bedew'd his cheek;
The gilded vehicle rock'd again,
And the springs began to creak.
The slumbering alderman groan'd a groan,
For in vision he seem'd to trace
Some horrible semblance to his own,
In that being's purple face.
And "Oh!" he cried, as he started up;
"Sooner than come to that,
Farewell for ever the baneful cup
And the noxious turtle fat!"—
They carried him up the winding-stair;
They laid him upon the bed;
And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,
With an ache in his nightcapp'd head.
9184
LIKE to spend an evening out
In music and in mirth;
I think a party is about
The finest fun on earth:
And if I rarely patronise
The gay and giddy throng,
'Tis not, my friend, that I despise
The revel, dance, and song:
But I 've a dread I can't express
Of going out in Evening Dress.
I'm partial to the British stage;
And—spite of its decline—
The Drama, from a tender age,
Has been a love of mine.
You ask me why I seldom go,
And why I always sit
In one distinct, unvaried row—
(The second of the pit);
'Tis not because it costs me less,
But all along of Evening Dress.
I hate the habits which denote
The slave to Fashion's rule;
I hate the black, unwieldy coat
Which makes one look a fool.
I execrate the Gibus hat
(Collapsing with a spring),
The shiny boots, the white cravat,
And nearly everything
That's worn by dandies who profess
To beau faitin Evening Dress.
My braces break—a button goes—
My razor gives a slip,
And cuts me either on my nose
Or else upon my lip;
Or, while I'm cabbing to the place,
A lot of mud or dirt
Gets plaster'd either on my face,
Or else upon my shirt.
In fact, I always make a mess
Of that confounded Evening Dress.
GO, bring me the goblet that maddens my soul
Where the sulphate of copper lurks deep in the bowl
Where the saccharine matter tastes richly intense,
And the brain-turning alcohol threatens the sense.
Deleterious acids, I laugh ye to scorn,
For one alkali kills ye, when taken at morn;
And I know that a towel tied wet round my brow,
May demolish the headache that hangs o'er me now.
No matter what vintage—no matter what name—
To the brave Bacchanalian all wines are the same:
For the best of Champagne and the mildest of Cape
Are alike manufactured from juice of the grape.
What matters it whether the North or the South
May have yielded its blood for the epicure's mouth?
What matters it whether the East or the West
May have sent the rich fluid that gladdens this breast?
Amidst Burgundy's hills or the plains of Bordeaux
May the national fruit long continue to grow.
May the art of fermenting improve day by day,
And the vatting take place in its usual way.
And, oh! may the heads of our State persevere
In their efforts to crush the rude stimulant, Beer.
By providing Great Britain the means to import
A superior claret at ninepence a quart!
9189
HO speaks to me of "giving up,"
Or thinks about despairing?
Who says the bitter in his cup
Is bitter past the bearing?
For may I feel the thing to do
(Let Fate be hard or tender)
Is—likeLa Gardeat Waterloo—
To die and not surrender.
What struggles I myself have had;
Escapes how very narrow!
My first affray was with a lad
Who bore a bow and arrow.
If I should ever meet again
That young and old offender,
I see my course before me plain—
To die and not surrender.
In youth I ran a race to snatch
A laurel from Apollo,
Whom very few contrive to catch
Though very many follow.
Amid the throng in search of song—
With bards of either gender—
E'en yet I pant and limp along,
To die and not surrender.
I strove with Plutus day and night,
But left the field in dudgeon;
And now I wage a fiercer fight
With Tempus. old curmudgeon.
Go on, Destroyer; you destroy,
But Art shall be the mender.
"Gray hair?" I 'll get a wig, old boy,
Ordyeand not surrender!
MY Brown has gone away to Greece?
My Robinson to Rome;
My Jones was off to-day for Nice,
And I am still at home.
One friend is on the Tiber,
Another on the Rhone,
The third abock-imbiber—
And I am all alone.
The Row is dull as dull can be;
Deserted is the Drive;
The glass that stood at eighty-three
Stands now at sixty-five.
The summer days are over;
The town, ah, me! has flown
Through Dover or to clover—
And I am all alone.
I hate the mention of Lucerne,
Of Baden and the Rhine;.
I hate the Oberland of Berne,
And Alp and Apennine.
I hate the wilds of Norway,
As here I sit and moan—
With none to cross my doorway—
For I am all alone.
Brick streets do not a prison make,
Nor hollow squares a cell;
And so for Memory's pleasant sake,
I 'll bear my sorrows well.
My lyre may lose the gladness
That mark'd its former tone;
But, oh! respect my sadness—
For I am all alone.
9193
ATE grant us again such a meeting
Of music, and wisdom, and wit—
Where Mirth may make sure of a
greeting,
And Care of a notice to quit.
With our long and yet fast-flying
nights,
And with six clever dogs for a
quorum—
We still may revive the delights
Of ourNoctes conoque deorum.
Long nights, to be long recollected;
Short nights, can I shortly forget,
How punning went mad, and infected
The soberest brains in our set;
How the quips and the cranks running round
Put a stopper to mental decorum;—
How Laughter was monarch, and crown'd
At ourNoctes conoque deorum?
Not always in lightness, however,
Our nights and our suppers were spent;—
At times we could cease to be clever,
Could speak with a nobler intent.
And an eloquence fresh from the heart
(Not unworthy the Senate or Forum)
Bore often a prominent part
In ourNoctes conoque deorum.
Our circle was rarely completed
Without one musician at least,
So Melody came to be treated
As welcomest fare at the feast.
From the breathings of Italy's lyre
Up to fuguesà la mode Germanorum,
We'd plenty to hear and admire
At ourNoctes conoque deorum.
I HAVE my share of common sense,
But no imagination:
I never made the least pretence
To shine in conversation.
I dare not stray in any way
An inch beyond my tether;
And, when I've nothing else to say,
I talk about the weather.
When Mary Ann and I go out
I long to play the lover,
But what on earth to talk about
I never can discover.
I blush to say I often show
The whitest kind of feather,
And stammer out, "Look here, you know—
Let's talk about the weather."
I've run a bill at Mr Snip's
For articles of raiment;
He always has upon his lips
A hint about its payment.
Whenever Mr Snip and I
Are left alone together,
You can't imagine how I try
To talk about the weather.
I go to parties now and then,
But never find it answer:
I'm forced to mix among the men
Because I'm not a dancer.
I merely put on evening dress—
White kid and patent leather—
On purpose that I may express
My thoughts about the weather.