9036
T'S a classical fact very few know
(If any one knows it at all),
That Jove once prevail'd upon Juno
To issue her cards for a ball.
Olympus, of course, was delighted;
The notion was charming—so
new!
And the whole of the gods were
invited,
The whole of the goddesses too;
Including a few lucky mortals,
Especially well known to fame,
(For Olympus ne'er open'd its portals,
Except to thecrème de la crème.)
At eleven the guests were arriving,
All drest up remarkably grand;
At midnight Apollo came driving
Full pelt, in a neat four-in-hand!
In passing Parnassus he'd popp'd in,
And brought on the Muses inside;
Minerva soon afterwards dropp'd in,
And Vulcan, escorting his bride.
Lovely Venus was quite condescending,
(But chroniclers freely confess,
She was not in the habit of spending
Extravagant sums upon dress.)
The ball-room, one couldn't help feeling,
Was got up regardless of cost;
And the satyrs and nymphs on the ceiling
Were worthy of Etty or Frost.
The band that was hir'd for the dancers
(The best they could possibly get)
Look'd down with disdain on the "Lancers,"
And stuck to the "Court Minuet."
Young Ganymede carried round ices,
And Hebe (a pert-looking minx)
Cut the pineapple up into slices,
While Bacchus took charge of the drinks.
Terpsichore danced like a feather;
In fact, the spectators agreed
That she and young Zephyr together
Made very good partners indeed.
Then Momus began to grow witty;
The Graces oblig'd with a glee;
While Pan sang a pastoral ditty,
And Neptune a song of the sea!
Minerva sat pompously boring
The Muses with blue-stocking talk;
And Bacchus was put to bed snoring,
Completely unable to walk.
An hour before daylight was shining
The prudish Diana had flown
To the spot where Endymion was pining
To meet her by moonlight alone.
The next to depart was Apollo,
Who leapt on his chariot at seven:
No eye in Olympus could follow
The track of his coursers through heaven!
The lamps were beginning to burn out,
And sunshine was flooding the hall,
When the last who thought proper to turn out
Drove homeward from Jupiter's ball.
FOLKS were happy as days were long
In the old Arcadian times;
When Life seem'd only a dance and song
In the sweetest of all sweet climes.
Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage.
As the pitiless years have roll'd.
We've quite forgotten the Golden Age,
And come to the Age of Gold.
Time went by in a sheepish way
Upon Thessaly's plains of yore.
In the nineteenth century lambs at play
Mean mutton, and nothing more.
Our swains at present are far too sage
To live as one liv'd of old:
So they couple the crook of the Golden Age
With a hook in the Age of Gold.
From Corydon's reed the mountains round
Heard news of his latest flame.
And Tityrus made the woods resound
With echoes of Daphne's name.
They kindly left us a lasting gage
Of their musical art, we 're told;
And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age
Brings mirth to the Age of Gold.
Dwellers in huts and in marble halls—
From Shepherdess up to Queen-
Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,
And nothing for crinoline.
But now Simplicity isnotthe rage,
And it's funny to think how cold
The dress they wore in the Golden Age
Would seem in the Age of Gold.
Electric telegraphs, printing, gas,
Tobacco, balloons, and steam,
Are little events that have come to pass
Since the days of that oldrégime.
And, spite of Lemprière's dazzling page,
I 'd give—though it might seem bold—
A hundred years of the Golden Age
For a year in the Age of Gold.
9041
T 'S a singular fact that whenever \
order
My goblet of GUINNESS or bumper of
Bass,
Out of ten or a dozen that sport round
the border
Some fly turns a somersault into my
glass.
Oh! it's not that I grudge him the
liquor he's tasted,
(Supposing him partial to ale or to stout),
But consider the time irretrievably wasted
In trying to fish the small wanderer out.
Ah! believe me, fond fly, 'tis excessively sinful,
This habit which knocks even bluebottles up;
Just remember what CASSIO, on getting a skinful,
Observ'd about "ev'ry inordinate cup!"
Reflect on that proverb, diminutive being,
Which tells us "Enough is as good as a feast;"
And, mark me, there's nothing more painful than seeing
An insect behaving so much like a beast.
Nay, in vain would you seek to escape while I'm talking,
And shake from your pinions the fast-clinging drops,
It is only too clear, from your efforts at walking,
That after your malt you intend to take hops.
Pray, where is your home? and oh! how shall you get there?
And what will your wife and your family think?
Pray, how shall you venture to show the whole set there
That Paterfamilias is given to drink.
Oh, think of the moment when Conscience returning
Shall put the brief pleasures of Bacchus to flight;
When the tongue shall be parch'd and the brow shall be burning,
And most of to-morrow shall taste of to-night!
For the toast shall be dry, and the tea shall be bitter,
And all through your breakfast this thought shall intrude;
That a little pale brandy and Seltzer is fitter
For such an occasion than animal food.
I have known, silly fly, the delight beyond measure—
The blissful sensation, prolong'd and intense—
The rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure,
Of drinking at somebody else's expense.
But I own—and it's not without pride that I own it—
Whenever some friend in his generous way
Bids me drink without paying, I simply postpone it,
And pay for my liquor the whole of next day!
(Published, with music, by Messrs Metzler and Co., Great Marlborough Street.)
TIS midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps
Upon the garden sward:
My lady in yon turret keeps
Her tearful watch and ward.
"Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,
The stalwart seneschal;
"What's he that sitteth, clad in mail,
Upon our castle wall?
"Arouse thee, friar of orders gray;
What, ho! bring book and bell!
Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;
And, look ye, ban it well.
By cock and pye, the Humptys face!"—
The form turn'd quickly round;
Then totter'd from its resting-place—
That night the corse was found.
The king, with hosts of fighting men,
Rode forth at break of day;
Ah! never gleam'd the sun till then
On such a proud array.
But all that army, horse and foot,
Attempted, quite in vain,
Upon the castle wall to put
The Humpty up again.
Started my lord from a slumber and roar'd,
"Sirrah, go bring me my buckler and sword!
Saddle my steed! Ere he next have a feed,
I fackens, the brute will be weary indeed;
For I and my gray must be off and away
To Banbury-Cross at the dawn of the day."
People came down unto Banbury town,
In holiday doublet and holiday gown;
They muster'd in force, as a matter of course,
To see an old woman ride on a white horse.
Sir Thomas the May'r had been heard to declare
It was likely to prove an exciting affair.
Shouts of acclaim from the multitude came,
And clapping of hands for that elderly dame;
Who, as history goes, had the newest of clothes,
And rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.
Ting-a-ting, ting! Ding-a-ding, ding!
There was never beheld such a wonderful thing.
No. 3.—The Ballad of Babye Bunting.
The Knight is away in the merry green wood,
Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe:
He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood—
He is fleeter in quest of the foe.
The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings
To the babe that she rocks at her breast:
She is crooning of love and of manifold things,
And is bidding the little one rest.
"Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace!
For thy father will shortly be here;
And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase
Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear."
9047
NATURE, Nature! you're enough
To put a quaker in a huff
Or make a martyr grumble.
Whenever something rich and rare-
On earth, at sea, or in the air—
Is placed in your especial care
You always let it tumble.
You don't, like other folks, confine
Your fractures to the hardware line,
And break the trifles they break:
But, scorning anything so small,
You take our nights and let them fall,
And in the morning, worst of all,
You go and let the day break.
You drop the rains of early Spring
(That set the wide world blossoming);—
The golden beams that mellow
Our grain towards the harvest-prime;
You drop, too, in the autumn-time,
With breathings from a colder clime,
The dead leaf, sere and yellow.
You drop and drop;—without a doubt
You 'll go on dropping things about,
Through still and stormy weather
Until a day when you shall find
You feel aweary of mankind,
And end by making up your mind
To drop us altogether.
9049
listen, little children, to a proper
little song
Of a naughty little urchin who was
always doing wrong:
He disobey'd his mammy, and he
disobey'd his dad,
And he disobey'd his uncle, which
was very near as bad.
He wouldn't learn to cypher, and he wouldn't learn to write,
But he would tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite;
And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way,
That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.
At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive
To cure him of a theory that two and two made five;
And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked
whims
By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.
Instead of all such pretty books, (whichmustimprove the mind,)
He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind;
Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly,
And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.
From such a course of reading you can easily divine
The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.
His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse,
Till it scandalis'd his governess and horrified his nurse.
He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear,
And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near:
He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down,
And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and
Brown.
But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true,
That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do.
He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown,
And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town.
So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can,
And profit by the history of this unhappy man.
Read Dr Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell,
Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!
9051
NCE, in the gardens of delight,
I pluck'd the fairest, fullest rose;
But (while I prest its petals tight
Against the threshold of my nose)
That loathsome centipede, Re-
morse,
Invaded with a stealthy tread
My nasal organ, and of course
Soon reached the middle of my
head.
That hideous tenant crawls and creeps
About the chambers of my brain,
He never pauses—never sleeps—
Nor thinks of coming out again.
The movements of his hundred feet
Are gentler than the autumn breeze;
But I dislike to feel him eat
My cerebellum by degrees.
With snuff, tobacco, Preston salts,
And various other potent smells,
I strive to fumigate the vaults
In which the devastator dwells.
I pull my hair out by the root—
I dash my head against the door—
It only makes the hateful brute
A trifle noisier than before.
Then tell me not that Joy's bright flow'r
Upon this canker'd heart may bloom,
Like toadstools on a time-worn tow'r,
Or dandelions on a tomb.
I mourn departed Hope in vain,
For briny tears may naught avail;
You cannot catch that bird again
By dropping salt upon its tail!
LOOK always on the Surrey side
For true dramatic art.
The road is long—the river wide—
But frequent busses start
From Charing Cross and Gracechurch street,
(An inexpensive ride;)
So, if you want an evening's treat,
O seek the Surrey side.
I have been there, and still would go,
As Dr Watts observes;
Although it's not a place, I know,
F or folks with feeble nerves.
Ah me! how many roars I've had—
How many tears I'Ve dried—
At melodramas, good and bad.
Upon the Surrey side.
Can I forget those wicked lords,
Their voices and their calves;
The things they did upon those boards,
And never did by halves:
The peasant, brave though lowly born,
Who constantly defied
Those wicked lords with utter scorn,
Upon the Surrey side?
Can I forget those hearts of oak,
Those model British tars;
Who crack'd a skull or crack'd a joke,
Like true transpontine stars;
Who hornpip'd à la T. P. Cooke,
And sang—at least they tried—
Until the pit and gallery shook,
Upon the Surrey side?
But best of all I recollect
That maiden in distress—
So unimpeachably correct
In morals and in dress—
Who, ere the curtain fell, became
The low-born peasant's bride:
(They nearly always end the same
Upon the Surrey side.)
I gape in Covent Garden's walls,
I doze in Drury Lane;
I strive in the Lyceum stalls
To keep awake—in vain.
There's nought in the dramatic way
That I can quite abide,
Except the pieces that they play
Upon the Surrey side.
9056
ONES has a party to-night,
But there's no invitation for me to it.
People are cutting me quite;
I shall pay a few visits and see to it.
True, I've a thousand a-year,
And am reckon'd the pink of propriety;
As to good-looking, look here!
Yet I never get on in Society.
'Tis not as though I were shy,
Or unmanner'd, or not introducible;
Lower-bred people than I
Have triumphantly gone through the crucible.
Many get polish'd in time
At the cost of a little anxiety;
What's my particular crime
That I never get on in Society?
Dance?—Well, I think I may say
I'm as graceful a partner as any one:
Sir, I could caper away
To a whistle—though simply a penny one.
Sing?—I could give you a list
Of enormous extent and variety.
Play?—Let me show you my wrist
Yet I never get on in Society.
Hearing me talk is a treat,
When I take a discourse philosophic up,
During the tea, or repeat
Little anecdotes over my coffee-cup.
If you 've a passion for puns,
I could feed you on them to satiety—
New and original ones;
Yet I never get on in Society.
Two or three glasses of wine
Give a spur to good-humour and merriment;
So that, wherever I dine,
I repeat the delightful experiment.
Not that I drink till I lapse
From the paths of the strictest sobriety;
Still, now and then—why, perhaps—
Yet I never get on in Society!
I MARVELL'D why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answer'd, with a groan,
"I've got a pain inside!
"I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven
Said I, "What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?''
She answer'd, "Only seven!"
"And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?" quoth I.
"Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"
"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
"Of course you 've had eleven
The maiden answer'd, with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"
I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.
"Now, if you don't reform," said I,
"You'll never go to heaven."
But all In vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
"I ain't had more nor seven."
To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I 'd better call my song,
Lines after Ache-inside."