0046m
CH! botheration! what a perturbation
And exasperation in the Press arose,
At the first mintion of the Queen's intintion
To confer a pinsion on the Poet Close!
There was the True-Blues-Man and the Farthing—
Newsman
All in the confushan fighting cheek by jowl;
And the Whigs and Tories forgett'n their furies
In their indignation and giniral howl!
TheTittlerTattleand thePenny-Rattle
Led off the battle with a puny squake,
Whilst theBig-Tin-Kettleand the 'heavy metal'
His hash for to settle took the liberty to spake;—
"Shure'twas most ongracious, not to say owdacious,
And enough to bring the water to their eyes,
To take the loaves and fishes from the chilthren's dishes
And bestow the Royal Bounty in such wise.
"If so be that noble Er-rls and infarior chur-rls
Has parties they don't love and daresen't bate,
Let them squeeze their purses to choke off the curses
And not foist their verses on the Public State!
'Twas worse than jobbery, and a right down robbery,
For to give the ruffian fifty pounds a year,—
Becase the swate nobilities were dhreading his civilities,
And ould Lord Lonsdale in a state of bodily fear.
"Themselves despiting, there was Carlisle writing,
And Brougham inditing of saft-sardering notes,
And Viscount Palmerston a-chuckling at the harm he's
done,
And dipping his fingers in the county votes.—
'Twould be a wrong entirely, to be remimber'd direly,
If the scribbling blackguard on 'the List' was placed,
And should the Legislature support the crature
Then for sartin shure the counthry was disgraced!"
So the papers thunder'd, and the people wonder'd
Whosenose had blunder'd into this hornet's nist;
And the Queen, Heav'n bless her! the Roy'1 Rehdresser,
Struck Close's name out of the Civil List
Och! then, what a rowing and a rubadub-dow-ing
And universal crowing fill'd the air,
With a gin'ral hissing,—but Lord Pam was missing,
And making for the house-top by the garret-stair!
(After the "Snapping Turtle.")
9050
AVE you read B. P. Du Chaillu?
Chaillu of the Big Baboon?
He who slew the fierce Gorilla
In the Mountains of the Moon?
All day long that injured party
Rested on the boughs his chin;
Strangling spifflicated niggers
Just to keep his biceps in.
Nightly several score of lions
Yielded up their worthless lives;
And there was a cry in Mickbos,
For the King had lost his wives.
Wrathful was the sable monarch
At their unexpected hops;
For the brute had cook'd the gruel
Of the Nymphs who cook'd the chops!
Thro' this land of death and danger,
Mandrake-swamp and stagnant fen,—
Where the spiders look like asses,
And the asses grow like men,—
Where the Shniego-Bmouvé sitteth
Hairless underneath his hat,
And a white man is a dainty
Irresistible if fat,—
Where the alligator gambols—
Whale like—in the black lagoon;—
Went unscathed B. P. Du Chaillu,
Chaillu of the Big Baboon!
Found the Shniego-Bmouvé squatting,
Hairless,'neath the tropic moon
Saw the spiders—saw the asses—
(When he gazed in the Lagoon)—
Twigg'd the Crocodile stupendous,
Winking with ferocious eye,—
Met the Cannibals—the feasters
On cold missionary pie;—
Shot, and bagg'd, the fierce Gorilla,
To the music of the drum,—
Heard, fifteen miles off, his roaring,
Mellow'd to a gentle—hum!
What, you doubt me! gen'rous public,
Hear me swear it's no take in—
Owen says the throat's a larynx,
And look here's the beggar's skin!
alt="053 " width="100%" />
OST, stolen, or stray'd!—During Satur—
day's fog—
A confoundedly ugly terrier dog.
Coat short, fore-legs long, color mud—
dyish black.
(Item—bites freely:)—no hair on the
back:—
Whoso brings the above to Old-Lady Place East,
Will be rewarded!!(by getting rid of the beast).
0053m
"Down before his feet she knelt,
Her locks of gold Ml o'er her."
Edward and Philippa.
9054
OME look from the window with me,
Charley love,
They are marching this way thro' the
gloom;
With clatter of steel,
And echoing peal,
And a ringing reverb'rating hum
As they come;—
'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum!
'Tis the tuck of the Volunteer drum,
Charley love.
Our own Volunteers, Caro mine,—
See, now their arms glance!
"Front form!—left—advance!"—
As the long column wheels into line
It's divine
To watch how their bayonets shine.
From village and town they have drawn,
Charley love,
They've gather'd from lowland and height,—
Their lasses have braced
The swords to their waist,
And armed them for England and Right,
and to fight
For the banner that's waving to night.
Gallant hearts! they are bound to our own,
Charley love,
They are link'd by each tie that endears,—
By hopes and by pray'rs—
By smiles and by tears—
Long, long ring those shouts in our ears!
Hark, three cheers—
Three times three for our brave Volunteers!
Adieu! the bright pageant grows dark,
Charley love,
Their ranks are beginning to fade—
The last glimmer dies—
There's a mist in my eyes!—
Their voices come faint thro' the shade,
I'm afraid
That's good night to our Rifle Brigade!
0056m
9057
FF! off! thou art an ass, thou art
an ass,
"Thou man of endless words and
little sense,
"Of pigmy powers and conceit im—
mense—
"Thou art a Donkey!
Take a bit of grass?"
Oh, Martin! Oh, my Tupper! thus exclaims
A groveling Age, grown envious of thy fames,—
Thy boundless sonnets, and Proverbial bays:
Blest Silence! lovéd Silence! thou art Heavn!—
(See my remarks in "Sonnet 47")—
Yetwill I breathe my pleasant Poems forth
Innumerable. Hundreds more—ay tens
Of thousands! Sweet etherial rhymes,
I hold ye here! and hug ye—all the lot;—
A monstrous pile of quintessential rot!!
0058m
9059
H! who will over the Downs
with me?"
Over Epsom Downs, and away—
The Sun has got a tear in his
eye,
And the morning mists are light
and high;—
We shall have a splendid day.
And splendid it is, by all that's hot!—
A regular blaze on the hill;
And the turf rebounds from the light-shod heel
And the tapering spokes of the delicate wheel
With a springy-velvety sort of a feel
That fairly invites "a spill."
Splendid it is; but we musnt stop,
The folks are beginning to run,—
Is yonder a cloud that covers the course?
No, it's fifty thousand—man and horse—
Come out to see the fun.
So—just in time for the trial spurt;
The jocks are cantering in,—
We shall have the leaders round in a crack,
And a hundred voices are shouting "back,"
But nobody stirs a pin!
There isn't a soul will budge
So much as an inch from his place,
Tho' the hue of the Masters scarlet coat
Is a joke compared to his face.
To the ropes! to the ropes!"—Now stick to your
hold;—
A breezy flutter of crimson and gold,
And the crowd are swept aside,—
You can see the caps as they fall and rise
Like a swarm of variegated flies
Coming glittering up the ride;
To the ropes, for your life!" Here they come—there
they go—"
The exquisite graceful things!
In the very sport of their strength and pride;
Ha! that's the Favourite—look at his,
It suggests the idea of wings:
And the glossy neck is arched and firm
In spite of the flying pace;
The jockey sticks to his back like glue,
And his hand is quick and his eye is true,
And whatever skill and pluck can do
They will do to win the race.
The colt with the bright broad chest,
Will run to win to day—
There's fame and fortune in every bound
And a hundred and fifty thousand pound
Staked on the gallant Bay!
"Theyre off!"....
And away at the very first start,
"Hats down! hats down in front!
"Hats down, you sir in the wide-awake!"—
The tighten'd barriers quiver and shake
But they bravely bear the brunt.
A hush, like death, is over the crowd;
D'you hear that distant cry?—
Then hark how it gathers, far and near,
One rolling, ringing, rattling cheer
As the race goes dashing by,
And away with the hats and caps in the air,
And the horses seem to fly...
Forward! forward! at railway speed,
There's one that has fairly taken the lead
In a style that can scarce miscarry;
Oyer and on, like a flash of light,
And now his colours are coming in sight,
Favourite! Favourite!—scarlet and white—
He'll win, by the Lord Harry!!
If he can but clear the Corner, I say,
The Derby is lost and won—
It's an awful shave, but he'll do the trick,
Now! Now or never—he's passing it quick.—
He's round!...
No, he isn't; he's broken his neck,
And the jockey his collar bone:
And the whirlwind race is over his head,
Without stopping to ask if he's living or dead,—
Was there ever such rudeness known?
He fell like a trump in the foremost place—
He died with the rushing wind on his face—
At the wildest bound of his glorious pace—
In the mad exulting revel;
He left his shoes to his son and heir,
His hocks to a champagne dealer at Ware,
A lock of his hair
To the Lady-Mare,
And his hoofs and his tail———to the———!
0064m
5065
9066
HO comes so damp by grass and
grave,
At ghastly twilight hour;
And bubbles forth his pois'nous
breath
On ev'ry shudd'ring flow'rî
Who dogs the houseless wanderer
Upon the wintry wold;
And kisses—with his frothy lips—
The clammy brow and cold?
Who, hideous, trails a slimy form,
Betwixt the moonlight pale;
And the pale, fearful, sleeping face?
Our little friend—the Snail.
0067m
By a Dyspeptic.
9068
UNCH, sir? Yes-ser, Pickled Salmon
Cutlets Kidneys Greens and"—
"Gammon!
Have you got no wholesome
meat, sir?
Flesh or fowl that one can
eat, sir?"
"Eat, sir? Yes-ser, on the dresser
Pork, sir"—"Pork, sir, I detest, sir"—
"Lobsters?"
"Are to me unblest, sir"—
"Duck and Peas?"
"I can't digest, sir"—
'Roe, sir?"
"No, sir!"
"Fish, sir?"
"Pish, sir!"
Sausage?"
"Sooner eat the dish, sir—
Hatha puppy charms for Briton?
Canthe soul rejoice in kitton?
"Shrimps, sir? Prawns, sir? Crawfish? Winkle?
Scallops ready in a twinkle?
Wilks and Cockles, Crabs to follow!"
"Heav'ns,nothingI can swallow!
Waitar!"
"Yes-sar."
"Bread for twenty.
I shall starve in midst of plenty!"
0069m
9070
H, Brighton's the place
For a beautiful face,
And a figure that gracefully made is;
And so far as I know
There's none other can show,
At the right time of year—say November or so—
Such a bevy of pretty young ladies.
Such blows on the Down!
Such lounges thro' Town!
Such a crush at Parade and Pavilion!
Such beaches below!
(Where people don't go),
Such bathing!—Such dressing, past Madame Tussaud!—
No wonder it catches the Million!
For bustle and breeze
And a sniff of salt seas
Oh, Brighton's the place!—not a doubt of it;—
But instead of post-chaise
Or padded coupes
If you had to get there a la excursionaise—
(Which Trench
Says is French
For a seat on a bench,
With an even toss up if you frizzle or drench)—
I think you'd be glad to keep out of it!
With their slap dash, crack crash,
And here and there a glorious smash,
And a hundred killed and wounded,—
It's little our jolly Directors care,
For a Passenger's neck if he pays his fare,
So away you go at a florin a pair,
The signal whistle has sounded!
Off at last
An hour past
The time, and carriages tight-full;
Why this should be
We can't quite see,
But of course it's all a part of the spree,
And it's really most delightful!
Crush, pack—
Brighton and back—
All the way for a shilling,—
What'prentice cit
But doesn't admit
Tho' ten in a row is an awkwardish fit,
At the price it's exceedingly filling!
(Chorus of Passengers.)
Crash, crack—
Brighton and back—
All the way for a shilling,—
Tho' the pace be slow
We're likely to go
A long journey before we get back d'you know,
The speed's so remarkably "killing"!
Ho! "slow" you find?
Then off, like the wind—
With a jerk that to any unprejudiced mind
Feels strongly as if it had come frombehind—
Away like mad we clatter;
Bang—slap,—bang—rap,—
"Can't somebody manage to see what has hap—?"
There goes Jones's head!—no, it's only his cap!—
Jones, my boy, who's your hatter?
Slow it is, is it? jump jolt,
Slithering wheel and starting bolt,
Staggering, reeling, and rocking,—
Now we're going it!—-jolt jump,
Whack thwack, thump bump,—
It's a mercy we're all stuck fast in a lump,
The permanent way is shocking!
Away we rattle—we race—we fly!—
Mrs. Brown is certain she's going to die,
'We've our own ideas on that point, you and I)
But this pitching will make evry one ill,—
Screech scream—groan grunt—
Express behind, and Luggage in front,—
If we have good luck we may manage to shunt
Before we get into the tunnel!
(Chorus of Passengers.)
Jump, jolt—
Engines that bolt—
Brighton and back for a shilling—
Jolt jump—but we've children and wives,
Jump jolt—who value our lives,
Jump—and you won't catch one here again who survives
The patent process of killing!
(Chorus of Directors.)
With our slap dash, crack crash,
And here and there a glorious smash
And a hundred killed and wounded!—
It's little we jolly directors care
For a passenger's limbs if he pays his fare,
So away you go at a florin the pair,
The signal whistle has sounded!!