9141
T was the love-lorn PHILOMEL—
The sweetest bird that sings;
And o'er my spirit came the spell
That all sad music flings.
Then—fashioning to tender words
That wordless fairy-tale—
"Sing on," I cried, "oh, bird of
birds,
Melodious Nightingale!"
Her sorrow pierced me through
and through;
And, though the village-chime
A while ago had stricken two,
I took no note of time.
But somehow, ere the clock told three,
I felt my ardour fail;
For sleep came fighting hard in me
Against the Nightingale.
An hour I lay and listen'd still
To that ecstatic voice,
(Net working out my own sweet will,
But Mr Hobson's choice.)
"This melancholy strain," said I,
"Is very like a wail!"
Eftsoons I raised a bitter cry
Of "Hang the Nightingale!"
The village-clock had sped its round,
The village-clock struck five,
And still I found my sense of sound
Remorselessly alive.
I knew my efforts at repose
Would be of small avail,
Unless I rose and donn'd my hose,
And slew the Nightingale.
No way but one. I had a gun
With which, in former years,
Great execution I had done
Amongst the Volunteers;
And, while a friendly moonbeam
And lighted hill and dale,
I loaded—took a deadly aim—
And—exit Nightingale!
REFRACTORY again,
My little—not exactly busy—B?
Well, you're a beauty, any one can see,
To call yourself a brain!
I've tried repeated raps,
As Mr Home and other media do;
But there's no getting spirits out of you;—
You 're out of them, perhaps?
It's not an easy thing
To grow poetic on a winter night,
So come along and let us take a flight
For the Pierian Spring.
Nay, fashion the verse to a knightly
strain,
And sing of some warlike band;
Of chivalry seeking a battle-plain
And perishing sword in hand.
I feel—whenever I hear you sing—
So decided a taste for that kind of thing.
9145
H! sing me a song of the wild, wide sea,
Of the peril of rocks and storms—
How mariners bold as bold can be
Face Death in a hundred forms
Methinks—whenever I hear you sing—
That I rather should relish that kind
of thing.
But can you not carol a heart-felt lay,
On the pleasures and pains of love—
A melody soft as a breeze in May,
And pure as the skies above?
I think—whenever I hear you sing—
That there may be a charm in that kind of thing.
Come, chirrup me gaily a drinking-stave,
Of the bowl and its deep delights—
A hymn to old Bacchus, the god that gave
Such mirth to our festive nights.
But stop—why trouble yourself to sing,
As I know I am good at that kind of thing?
I AM thirty to-day, and my health
Will be drunk at our family party,
Where prophecies touching my wealth
And my fame will be fluent and hearty.
Then Fancy, excited by themes
That are born of the wine and the dinner,
May bring back belief in the dreams
That I dream'd as a hopeful beginner.
Ah! my ballads, my songs, how I 've yearn'd
For the time to collect you and edit
A book that perhaps would have earn'd,
Not a name, but a quantum of credit.
I'd christen it "Sweets for the Sweet,"
Or "The Lyrics and Lays of a Lover;
And Simmonds's Poems Complete,
Should be printed in gold on the cover.
I have long'd for the pleasures that gold
Can procure—and I freely confess it:
(For avarice grows, we are told,
As theipsa pecunia crescit.)
If I had but a fortune—oh,then
I could finish my course pretty gaily,
With lots of the cleverest men
In my circle to dine with me daily.
T should give up my bachelor life
When I met with a girl to adore me:
With riches and fame and a wife,
What a path would be open before me!
My bliss would be trebly secure,
And my future unclouded and sunny.
She'd love me for love, I am sure:
And, if not, she could love me for money!
9149
HAVE a friend in Eaton Place—
A very wealthy man—
Whose house is one I love to grace
As often as I can.
His meats are always of the best,
His wines are rich and rare;
A footman, elegantly drest,
Keeps watch behind my chair.
I like the meats—I love the wine—
(For, give me leave to say,
'Tis very seldom that I dine
In that expensive way.)
But what is gold and silver plate,
And what is dainty fare?
They cannot make me tolerate
The man behind my chair.
Perchance I venture on a pun,
A quip, or else a crank;
Amongst my auditors is one
Whose face remains a blank.
I hear the table in a roar,
Loud laughter fills the air;
But no—it simply seems to bore
The man behind my chair.
I talk about my Lady This,
Or else my Lady That;
Sometimes an Honourable Miss
Comes in extremely pat.
I quote the Earl of So-and-So,
Of Such-and-Such a square;
But, socially, I feel below
The man behind my chair.
Upon the summit of ipy crown
I have a trifling patch:
A little white amidst the brown,
An opening in the thatch.
From all my fellow-men but one
I hide my loss of hair:
He sees it though; I cannot shun
The man behind my chair.
Some day, should Fortune only smile
Upon my low estate,
I mean to feed in such a style
As few can emulate.
Should ever such a lot be mine,
I solemnly declare
That I will banish, when I dine,
The man behind my chair.
I ACHIEVED my success, as a young diner-out,
Through my great conversational talents, no doubt;
For of humour and wit I was blest with a store,
And I kept the whole table, by Jove, in a roar
With my waggery, ah!
My waggery, oh!
How the company grinn'd at my waggery, oh!
You could never extort a remark out ofme
Which was not overflowing with quaint repartee.
And, when people thought proper to cavil or carp
At a notion ofmine—I was down on them sharp
With my waggery, ah!
My waggery, oh!
For I crush'd them at once with my waggery, oh!
Among persons of genius the tone that I took
Was a mixture of Jerrold and Theodore Hook.
And a great fund of anecdote, varied in style,
I employ'd among duffers to get up a smile
At my waggery, ah!
My waggery, oh!
There was often a yell at my waggery, oh!
But those days of delight are for ever gone by,
And I can't get a meal by my wit, if I try,
For care and old age, I am sorry to say,
Have destroy'd my high spirits, and bolted away
With my waggery, ah!
My waggery, oh!
I shall never see more of my waggery, oh!
9154
MONTH ago I bought a book,
Brimful of good advice,
('Twas labell'd sixpence, but they took
A somewhat smaller price.)
The cover carried signs of age,
But ne'er can I forget *
The name upon the title-page—
'Twas "Hints on Etiquette."
You can't conceive the change of tone
That volume wrought in me;
Or what an alter'd man I've grown,
From what I used to be.
This mark'd improvement in my ways
Compels me to regret
I never heard in earlier days
Of "Hints on Etiquette."
'Tis true I cling to Bass's pale,
But I redeem the fault,
By asking for "a glass of ale,"
Not "half a pint of malt."
Of old the pewter pot conferr'd
A zest on "heavy wet."
But that was long before I heard
Of "Hints on Etiquette."
When dining out, in early life,
I often used to stoop
To taking peas up with my knife,
And asking twice for soup.
I'm fast improving, though I doubt
If I am perfect yet
In all the feeding-laws set out
In "Hints on Etiquette."
I don for evening parties now
The whitest of cravats;
The blackest suit; and, on my brow
The neatest of crush-hats.
And yet, I was the oddest kind
Of guy you ever met,
Before I chanced to give my mind
To "Hints on Etiquette."
9157
BRIGHT creature of impulse, you bid
me be gay.
I would gladly adopt the suggestion,
But candour compels me sincerely to say
That I don't like the tone of your ques-
tion.
In a voice that recalls the soft murmur
of bees,
And in syllables sweet as their honey,
You say "Mamma wishes to know, if you please,
When you mean to begin to be funny?"
To-night, giddy child, when I enter'd the room
My inducement, believe me, was only
A hope that the wine-cup and dance might illume
For one evening a life that is lonely.
In this region of pleasure my clouded career
May be thought for a time pretty sunny;
I 'll join in the valse or the banquet, my dear,
But Icannotbegin to be funny.
Go, tell your Mamma that the sunmayarise
On a day when my cares shall have left me;
When Time shall once more have brought back, as he
flies,
All the hopes of which Time has bereft me.
Yes, the day may arrive that shall see me content
With my share of health, talent, and money:
Then, fitly to hail that auspicious event,
I will try to begin to be funny!
An extra smile or a burst of tears—
A fine to-day or a dull to-morrow—
A taste more joy or a drop more sorrow—
All the same in a hundred years.
A thousand hopes or a thousand fears—
A lifetime sad or a lifetime wasted—
A cup drain'd empty or left untasted—
All the same in a hundred years.
If things were thus, as one often hears,
I'd seize the pleasure, I'd leave the sorrow—
Enjoy to-day and defy to-morrow—
All the same in a hundred years.
9160
E birds, beneath your little wings
Go hide your little heads;
For oh! the pleasantest of things
On earth are feather-beds.
Go, seek your pens, my little sheep,
(And slumber while ye may;)
My own will rob me of my sleep
Until the purple day.
Shine on above the chimney-pots,
O placid Evening Star:
While gazing at youà laWatts,
"I wonder what you are."
You rose on Eden, happy place!
And still your smiles relieve
The woes and wants of Adam's race,
Delightful Star of Eve.
The nightingales are all about—
Their song is everywhere—
Their notes are lovely (though they 're out
So often in the air),
The zephyr, dancing through the tops
Of ash and poplar, weaves
Low melodies, and scarcely stops
To murmur, "By your leaves!"
Night steeps the passions of the day
In quiet, peace, and love.
Pale Dian, in her tranquil way,
Kicks up a shine above.
Oh, I could bless the hour that brings
All deep and dear delight,
Unless I had a lot of things
To polish off to-night.
WHEN I look at our present condition,
And gather the state of the realm
From the names that adorn Opposition
And those of our men at the helm;
I acknowledge that, after perusing
MyTelegraph, Standard, and Star,
'Tis a task not a little confusing
To find what my politics are.
By an ultra-Conservative journal
I 'm told that we 're all to give thanks
For a Ministry quite as paternal
As any from Liberal ranks.
By the next, in as urgent a manner,
I'm warn'd against going so far
As to mount the Conservative banner,
Whatever my politics are.
It is easy to draw my deduction—
The papers explain at a glance,
That the Tories are all for obstruction—
The Liberals all for advance.
But, in spite of the Press and its drilling,
If I live to the age of old Parr,
I shall never be able or willing
To say what my politics are.
9164
IS thine to share, O lady fair,
The throng's ignoble strife—
The rout, the bail, the banquet-
hall,
And Fashion's empty life.
Be thine the wiles and hollow
smiles
That Wealth to Beauty pays,
But envy not the poet's lot
In our prosaic days.
O lady bright, the sleepless night—
The vigil of despair,
And, worse than all, the critic's gall
Are not for thee to bear.
The town's élite is at thy feet,
And Folly lisps thy praise;
Oh, envy not the poet's lot
In our prosaic days.
Mine eyes are blue—Byronic hue!—
I turn my collar down;
Methinks I wear the longest hair
Of any bard in town.
Yet, bitter fact, my looks attract
The public's mocking gaze:
Oh, envy not the poet's lot
In our prosaic days.
I cannot find one lofty mind,
One publisher of sense;
And so my rhymes are oftentimes
Brought out at my expense.
I could not sell—I know it well—
Ten copies of my lays;
Oh, envy not the poet's lot
In our prosaic days.
Ah, lady mine, dost seek to twine
A coronal of song?
Trust him who knows what heavy woes
To poesy belong.
Forget the fame that gilds the name
Of one who wins the bays;
And envy not the poet's lot
In our prosaic days.
9167
CANNOT mind my wheel to-
day—
The weather is as hot as
blazes:
I wish that I could get away
To anywhere you like, and play
Among the buttercups and
daisies.
I wish I had a silly book
(Most easily fulfill'd of wishes)
To read beside a crystal brook—
Or else a rod, a line, a hook,
And lots of gentles for the fishes.
I wish that I were lying, prone
And idle, where the trees are shady—
Contemplative and quite alone,
Or talking in an undertone
To some beloved and lovely lady.
But, though I feel to-day a call
For reading silly books, or fishing,
Or idling where the trees are tall,
Or making love—yet, most of all,
I wish I knew the good of wishing.
PABLO PUIG is a family man,
A Catholic staunch and a Catalan.
Her Majesty's mails he hath to drive.
His oaths are many, his horses five.
Alerte, caballitos!
Master is he of a clumsy craft,
Cranky forward and cranky aft;
A thing of a weird and ogglesome kind,
Cab in the front and 'bus behind.
Alerte, caballitos!
Yet Pablo Puig in his inmost soul
Is fond of his calling, upon the whole;
Many might think itinfra dig.,
But there's little of pride in Pablo Puig.
Alerte, caballitos!
His visage is dark, his garb grotesque,
And he wears a touch of the picturesque,
A certain chic which possibly springs
From his horror of soap and of such-like things.
Alerte, caballitos!
To him there is little or no romance
In the mountain border of Spain and France;
But how he would wonder and stare, poor man,
At a moment's view of a Pickford's van.
Alerte, caballitos!