9197
HE town's in a panic, from peer to me-
chanic,
Since Banting has issued his Tract
for the Times;
That queer publication made such a
sensation,
That corpulence now seems the greatest of crimes.
Folks fancy good feeding a proof of ill breeding,
And stick to low diet through thick and through thin,
Till they find that their best coats, and trousers, and waistcoats,
Are perfectly "done for," if not "taken in."
Each day it grows harder to find a good larder,
And lean diners-out will, of course, suffer most;
For those who are thinnish won't care to diminish
What little they 've got for the sake of the host.
But the House of Correction will grant them protection,
(Supposing Society starves them outright,)
Where pickers and stealers and such evil dealers
Are feasted like aldermen morning and night.+
Sincerely I pity our friends in the City,
And Mansion-House banquets cut short in their prime,
Where, 'mid roses and myrtle, the love of mock-turtle
"Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime."
If I were a sheriff, I'd never be terrified
Into adopting this Barmecide tone;
For I'd throw up my station in their corporation
Before they induced me to part withmy own!
If you wish to grow thinner, diminish your dinner,
And take to light claret instead of pale ale;
Look down with an utter contempt upon butter,
And never touch bread till it's toasted—or stale.
You must sacrifice gaily six hours or so daily
To muscular exercise, outdoor and in;
While a very small number devoted to slumber
Will make a man healthy, and wealthy, andthin!
LAZILY, cloudlets, over the Moon,
(Veiling little, if aught ye veil)
Vapours across the starlight strewn,
Sail for ever, if thus ye sail.
Idle breezes out of the West,
Let them linger in phantom forms.
Night, be still as an infant's rest;
Banish the darkness, chain the storms.
Hush, my spirit, be calm as Night;
Sorrow is calm, but it is not peace.
Heralds of tempest, over the light,
Storm-clouds hurry and will not cease.
Eyes are dim that were bright and blue,
Hands were warm that are long since cold;
Both lie under the shading yew,
Both lie under the churchyard mould.
The Elves! the tiny tricksy Elves i
They love to treat their dainty selves,
To dancing' in the night-time.
'Tis twelve o'clock—the fairy hour?
For hark! the sounds from yonder tow'n
Inform me that's the right time.
Here comes the laughing, rabble rout;
See, see—they frisk around, about,
In every kind of antic.
And there's the king—the queen—the court—
The clergy, and the common sort—
All absolutely frantic.
My goodness gracious, here's a game!
I'm so delighted that I came
To brood upon my sorrow.
A melancholy muff I've been;
But, after this delightful scene,
I 'll come again to-morrow.
Hurricane signals gather apace
Thickly over the pale moon's face;
Masses of blackness looming forth,
South'ard and eastward, west and north,
Wild wind veering, ever and aye,
Over the compass—over the sky.
Mutter of thunder, lurid gleams,
Rain that clashes in deluge-streams.
Over the wheat-fields, over the stiles,
Two-and-a-quarter of English miles.
Boots that cannot exclude the wet;
Clothes the thinnest that cash can get.
Far away, in the homely cot,
Stands my gingham—the best I've got.
Never so much as a Macintosh;
N ever a cape, or an odd galosh!
(Chord in the minor, FF.)
0204m
0205m
0206m
9207
ONCE upon an evening weary,
shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious hum-
our set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping
—only very gently tapping—
For the man in charge was napping
—at the money-taker's door.
It was Mr Buckstone's playhouse,
where I linger'd at the door;
Paid half price and nothing
more.
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been
before—
Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,
And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;
(I have been so once before.)
I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;
Twenty years ago or more.
Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no
longer,
"Miss," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the
goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd shore?"
For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;
Adaptations—nothing more!
So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,
"It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.
'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!"
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was poor:
Very flat, and nothing more.)
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center'd
In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, "Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore.'
Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore!"
Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—
"Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?"
(With a bust of Julius Cæsar up above the study door.)
Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore."
I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face is
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor.
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor,)
Comes an echo, "Nelly Moore!"
9211
ALL hail, my Best and Bellingham,
Olympic brother-bards!
I am sorry that the critics have
been down upon ye lately.
Permit me to present ye both my very
best regards,
And to tell ye that I count myself
indebted to ye greatly.
I will enter to your credit all the talent ye may claim;
For the sake, my Best and Bellingham, of Little What 's-her-
name.
I have yielded, I confess it, quite a dozen times before
To the fatal fascinations of the darlings of the Drama.
I have idolised my Wilton, I have loved my Nelly Moore;
And I see a host of others in a sort of panorama,
Reaching downwards to Miss Thingamy—an evanescent flame,
Whom I sacrificed a month ago for Little What 's-her-name.
The man who takes the money for my shillingsworth of pit
Has an aggravating habit of alluding to the weather;
And I never fail to notice, from the corner where I sit,
That the feminine attendants take to whispering together.
The fiddlers in the orchestra do very much the same;
For they know that I m the worshipper of Little What's-her-
name.
I met her, quite promiscuous, a week or two ago;
To see her was to recognise—young Love's a pretty tutor—
She was affably conversing with a man I didn't know;
But I fancied, in my jealousy, I was probably her suitor.
It might have been a relative; but was it not a shame
That I couldn't breathe my sentiments to Little What's-her-
name?
I should like to make a tender of my heart and of my hand,
(For it strikes me that at present I have nothing else to proffer;)
But since I 've neither intellect nor money at command,
She would probably insult me by declining such an offer.
It's not so much the intellect—if Fortune, fickle dame,
Would grant me only opulence and Little What 's-her-name.
Will she read this emanation of a long-endured despair
With a particle of pity or an atom of emotion?
Will she linger for a moment o'er the verses that declare
All the fondness and the fulness of a Nobody's devotion?
I should seek no other honour—I should ask no higher fame
Than a corner in the memory of Little What 's-her-name.
9214
ALDERMAN HALE—though slightly
pale—
Seem'd nevertheless determined
To do his duty on Lord Mayor's Day;
So he wash'd his face in a careful way
(Though he hated anything like display),
And he brush'd his hair—of a brownish gray.
His robe was scarlet, and people say,
That its edges were thickly ermined.
But let us leave him for a while,
And hurry to Guildhall,
Where stout police (in single file),
In tight cravat and shiny tile,
Parade before the gloomy pile—
Right stalwart men and tall.
See, in their garb of modest green,
Around the court-yard stand
Our Volunteers I Ah, ne'er, I ween,
Were truer, braver warriors seen,
To fight for Alderman or Queen,
And guard our native land.
Tis twelve o'clock; the bells of Bow are clanging in the steeple,
While visible anxiety prevails among the people.
The cannons in St James's Park announce the noontide hour;
And the time is also mentioned by the cannons at the Tower.
It comes: the wish'd-for pageant comes! Observe the mailéd
knights.
Observe the squires who follow them (in somewhat seedy tights).
Observe the noble chargers, too. Methinks I've heard it said,
That E. T. Smith doth furnish them at three-and-six a head.
Make way there for the Volunteers!—make way there for the
Band!
Their home is on the battlefield; their march is "In the Strand."
Make way, too, for the Aldermen, recumbent in their coaches,
And make more waythan everfor thegingerbreadapproaches!
Then, from all the people there,
A shout arose and rent the air—
"Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious;
Fill him with turtle,
And crown him with myrtle,
And long live the Great Lord Mayor!!!"
LE Roi est mort!" is mutter'd round the bed;
"Long live the King!" we cry in louder chorus
We know that, when a year is lying dead,
A year is all before us.
To-night a dozen months of joy and care,
Of ancient fellowships and new dissensions.
Are left behind us; and the frosty air
Is thick with good intentions.
We scarcely heed the lessons of the sun—
His daily risings and his daily settings;
But, when our years are setting one by one
We sum up all regrettings.
Let us recall the losses, not the gains,
Of many a yesterday we spent in sorrow
And count upon the pleasures, not the pains
Of many a bright to-morrow.
Tis well that we should meet the coming year
And what it brings us with a bold reliance;
That we should show a faith without a fear—
A trust with no defiance.
Tis well—since all humanity must brave
The doubtful current of Time's mighty river—
To throw ourselves upon its yawning wave
Without a craven shiver.
Tonight we end one chapter of a book—
From every page some weighty moral gleaning,
And, when the story closes, we may look
To find the Author's meaning.
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