9076
Y, there they sit! a merry rout
As village green can show,
That were such woful little wights
A summer hour ago.
Such woful weary little wights!
And precious hungry too—
And now they look like sausages
All smiling in a row.
For they have fed on dainty fare
This blazing August day,
And ate—as only people eat
Whenotherpeople pay!
A pyramid of roasted ox
Has vanish'd like a shot;
Plum puddings, brobdiguag, have gone
The second time, to pot;
Devoted fowls have come to grief,
With persecuted geese;
And ducks (it is a wicked world!)
Departed life in peas.
My Lord and Lady Bountiful
Have done the civil thing,—
The lady patrons of "the turf"
Have waited in the "ring;"
The Grand Comptroller of the cake
Can hardly hold the knife;
The milk-and-water Ganymede
Is weary of his life;
Yet still the conflict rages round!
But now there comes a lull—
The edge of youthful appetite
Is waxing somewhat dull—
And fat Fenetta bobs, and says,
"No, thank ye, mam,—I'm 'ful'!"
Alone amid the festive throng
One tiny brow is sad!
One cherub face is wet with grief—
What ails you little lad?
Why still with scarifying sleeve
That tearful visage rub?
Ah! much I fear, my gentle boy,
You don't enjoy your grub!
You're altogether off your feed,
Your laughing looks have fled,—
Perhaps some little faithful friend
Has punch'd your little head?
You miss some well remembered face
The merry rout among?
The lips that blest, the arms that prest,
The neck to which you clung?
A brothers voice? a sister's smile?
Perhaps—you've burnt your tongue?
Here, on a sympathetic breast,
Your tale of suff'ring pour.
Come, darling! tell me all——"Boo-hoo;—
"I can't eat any more!"
0079m
A POET WRITES TO HIS FRIEND. Place—BEDLAM. Time—PROBABLY "SATURDAY NIGHT ABOUT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING."
"Dear my friend, and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you;
"Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will." (!!!) Mrs. Browning's "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."
9080
O Ho, Ha Ha, He He—Hum!!!! 0,
Charley, let me weep adown your
Manly bosom! o'er that chamber, tears
must surely run ad libi.—
I'm a victim! friend and pitcher!—done incontinently
brown—your
Poet is immensely diddled by a—butnarrabo tibi:—
(There's a Lady, * who writes verses, in the true spas—
modic metre,—
Better writes she, certes, better than all women with—
out end:
Writes full darkly:—I defy all Bards alive or dead to
beat her
At a nubibustic stanza that no man can comprehend—
Her sublime afflatus had I, and her noble scorn of
rhyming,
I could write you something tallish—should make
Lindley Murray suffer,—
Would she "lean her spirit" o'er me, in this rhympho—
leptic climbing, **
I would paint My Courtship in a style would make
you stare, Old Buffer!)—
* I cannot forego this opportunity of paying my humble tribute of ad— miration to the genius and accomplishments of Mrs. Barrett Browning, whose lamented death has occurred since the above effusion first appeared in print; and I do so the more readily as I fear lest lines which were written in mere gaité de cour may possibly have been construed into a serious attack upon works, the general and undoubted merits of which I should be the first to acknowledge.
** "Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the muses— "And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star." —Lady Geraldine's Courtship.
You know, Charley, 'where I saw my Marianne (first) in
Belgravia;
And (secundo) how I loved her, with more love than
kith and kin do:
(Tertio) how I won,—and wed her,—yestermorn; and
her behaviour
You shall hear in five words—last night she exodus'd
BY THE WINDOW!!=
O! my Charley, you remember, on that cold fifth of
November,
As we saunter'd slowly Eastward, with the weed between
our lips;
How we spied a damsel beauteous, lymphomatically
duteous,
(I.E. cook at Number 7, scrubbing of the kitchen steps).
Charley, you and I remember, on that bright fifth of
November,
How she knelt there like a statue,—knelt bare-armëd
in the breeze,—
Whist her saponaceous lavement catalambanized the
pavement,
And her virginal white vesture flutter'd, reef d-wise, to
the knees.
Spell-bound in the road behind her, paused the Hurdy—
Gurdy Grinder,
Strangling in his wild excitement, Jumping Jimmy the
baboon;
Whilst the Genius of the Organ, fascinated by her
Gorgon
Beauty, stood enraptured—captured—playing madly out
of tune.
Then with her blue eyes entrancing, and her taper ankle
glancing,
And her rounded arms akimbo resting on her dainty
waist;
She half turn'd,—and turning threw me one glance
"utterly to undo me"—
(Well, you know'twas me she look'd at, Charley, and
she show'd her taste! )
Evermore my soul beguiling, in arch silence she kept
smiling—
And my heart within my bosom, pretematurally hopp'd;
Still as near I drew, and nearer, she grew fair and yet
more fairer (!)—
On both knees upon the pavement (Miles's bags, my
Boy) I dropp'd.
0084m
Then—but why should I confide you, what you know as
well as I do?
How she look'd up like an angel, (I can see her figure still!)
"I am yours, sir, if you'll take me—if you'll marry me
and make me
"A fine Lady, like my Missis:"—how I cried, "By
Jove, I WILL!"
How thenceforward ev'ry morning, wet and wind and
weather scorning,
By the steps of Number 7, punctual as the clock I past,—
How my love grew daily stronger—strength'ning as the
days grew longer—
Till my Marianne consented, and we named the day at
last.
How my Queen of Cake and Curry volunteer'd a
muffin-worry,
How I fondly made my advent somewhat ere the
moment due,—
And on going to the cupboard, like a second Mother
Hubbard,
Found the same, not "bare," but fill'd with six feet one
of Horse Guards Blue.
"Monster!'tis my only brother!"—"Silence, Madam—
you're another:
"Come out of your cupboard, Lobster! come out, gallant
Corporal Brown,—
"Slave! (I said) base Kitchen-creeper! (said I) I will
stop your peeper!
"I will tap your claret, Lobster,—I'll—"
0086m
—but here he knock'd me down.
How, still chain'd by Love the Fetterer, spite of cupboard
and etcetera,
To Cremome one night I took her, in a "Pork Pie"
highly killing;
Purvey'd buns and ices satis, and a sherry-cobbler
—gratis!
(Tho' you know I do not, Charley, love to sep'rate from
a shilling)—
How, when ev'rything was paid for; fun and fireworks
only stay'd for;
And my belle amie had eaten ev'rything that she was able;
Whilst the Resonant Steam-Dragon* (that's the tea—
pot), and the flagon
Of Lymphatic Cow (that's milk), stood smiling on the
arbor table,—
"Might she just step out and find her parasol she'd left
behind her?
"Whilst I kindly pour'd the tea out, and the cream that
look'd so yellow?"—
* "She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant Steam-Eagles Follow far on the direction of her little dove-like hand."Lady Geraldine's Courtship.
Yellow? Ha, ha! who could think it!—She never came
back to drink it:—
I fell flooded in a Brown. * ( study, understood, Old Fellow).
How my love withstood this trial, (toughish there is no
denial)
Soul-subdued by her low pleading, satin-tongued, soap—
soft as silk,—
Not a saint his heart could harden, thus so sweetly
ask'd for pardon:—
I suck'd in the obvious crammer kindly as my mother's
milk.
Soh! (I said)—and then forgave her: and she promised
to behave her—
Self in future like an angel (which she did, and show'd
her wings)
And I fancied yestermorning (fool) that my reward was
dawning,—
So it was—and with a vengeance! (fool again) But
some one rings?—
* . . . "I fell flooded in a dark."—Lady Geraldine's Courtship.
'Twas a cruel thing—but funny?—her eloping ere her
Honey—
0089m
Moon'd scarce risen?—cutting, very,—and for me the
world is dead.
Slightly crushing to my hopes is this performance on the
ropes! Miss
Mariannesuspensa scalis—(would t'were sus. per col.
instead!)
Ass that I was to be wedded!—Wonderfully wooden—
headed!
I'm a wiser man now, Charley,—certes, up to snuff—but
sadder,—
Oh, the fickle little Hindoo!Facilis descensuswindow!
Oh—that bell again! what's this?—— A Bill
OF £5 FOR THE LADDER!
0090m
(How you speak through your Dose)
9091
O, doe, doe!
I shall dever see her bore!
Dever bore our feet shall rove
The beadows as of yore!
Dever bore with byrtle boughs
Her tresses shall I twide—
Dever bore her bellow voice
Bake bellody with bide!
Dever shall we lidger bore,
Abid the flow'rs at dood,
Dever shall we gaze at dight
Upod the tedtder bood!
Ho, doe, doe!
Those berry tibes have flowd,
Ad I shall dever see her bore,
By beautiful! by owd!
Ho, doe, doe!
I shall dever see her bore,
She will forget be id a bonth—
Bost probably before.
She will forget the byrtle boughs,
The flow'rs we pluck'd at dood,
Our beetigs by the tedtder stars,
Our gazigs od the bood.
Ad I shall dever see agaid
The Lily ad the Rose;
The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow!
The perfect bouth ad dose!
Ho, doe, doe!
Those berry tibes have flowd—
Ad I shall dever see her bore,
By beautiful!! by owd!!
5093
9094
EELER! hast thou found my treasure,—
Hast thou seen my vanish'd Fair?
Flora of the raven ringlets,
Flora of the shining hair?
Tell me quick, and no palaver,
For I am a man of heat—
Hast thou seen her, X 100?
Hast thou view'd her on thy beat?
Mark'd, I say, her fairy figure
In the wilderness of Bow?
Traced her lilliputian foot-prints
On the sands of Rotten Row?
Out, alas! thou answ'rest nothing,
And my senseless anger dies;
Who would look for "speculation"
In a boil'd potato's eyes?
Foggy Peeler! purblind Peeler!
Wherefore walk'st thou in a dream?—
Ask a plethoric black beetle
Why it walks into the cream!
Why the jolly gnats find pleasaunce
In your drowsy orbs of sight,—
Why besotted daddy long-legs
Hum into the nearest light,—
'Tis his creed, "non mi ricordo,"
And he wanders in a fog;
As that other peel, her—
Baceous, wanders in your glass of grog;—
Ah, my Flora! (graceless chit!) O
Pearl of all thy peerless race!
Where shall fancy find one fit, O
Fit to fill thy vacant place?
Who can be the graceful ditt-o
Ditto to that form and face?
Hence, then, sentimental twaddle!
Love, thy fetters I will fly—
Friendship is not worth a boddle,
Lost, alas! I've lost—my Skye.
0096m
(Preach'd by Puck ye Poete against Paint and Pommade.)
9097
DO you wish that your face should
be fair?
That your cheek should be rosy
and plump?
Morning noontide and night
Take a dip in the bright
Wave that flows from the spout of
the pump,—
From a Pump!—
Not a dump
Do we care for the lily
Pick'd in Piccadilly,
Or grown by the "Camphorate Lump."
Do you sigh for ambrosial hair?
For clustering ringlets to match?
Little goose!
To the deuce
With pommades—learn the use
Of the BRUSH, and you'll soon have a thatch
That shall 'catch'
The moustachio'd amasser
Of Rowland's Macassar,
(At twenty-five shillings a batch).
Is it ivory teeth you desire?
A set that no dentist may trammel?
To Rowland's O-dont-o
Cry, "No that we won't O!
"It softens the precious enamel!"
(That Schamyl
Sends packing, confound it,
To the Sultan Mahound. (It
'Sau naturel, perch'd on a Camel))
Then toy not with powder and paste!
Sweet nymphs, they are deadliest foes;
No Piver persuade you—
No Rowland invade you—
In peace let each dimple repose
Where it grows!
When he shows
You his Kalydor Lotion
Reply "We've a notion
"It takes all the skin off one's nose!"
(As he goes)
Add "There's nothing can beat your's
"For blist'ring the features
"But, 'Atkinson's Milk of the Rose!"'
0099m
9100
F you love to wear
An unlimited extent of hair
Push'd frantically back behind a pair
Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy—
And peripatate by star light
To gaze upon some far light
Till you've caught an aggravated catarrh right
In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye,—
Or if you're given to the style
Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle,
And fancy all the while, you're taking "an earnest view" of things;
Making Rousseau a hero,
Mahomet better than Nero,
And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings:
Or if you write sonnets,
In (and out of) Time and on its
Everlasting "works of art and genius" (cobweb wreath'd!)
And fly off into rapture
At some villanous old picture
Not one atom like nature
Nor any human creature, that ever breath'd,—
Some Amazonian Vixen
Of indescribable complexion
Andhideousall conception to surpass;
And actually prefer this abhorrence
To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence——
Why then—I think that you must be an Ass!
0101m
"Away there, to the east—
"Towards the Surrey ridge,—
"I see a puff of dunnish smoke
"Over the Southwark Bridge:"—
A single curl of murky mist
That scales the summer air:
And the watchman wound his listless way
Slow down the turret stair.
London! that deck'st thyself with wave-won spoils,
Sea-gather d wealth—Spires, palaces,
And temples high;
Well might thy goodly burgesses exclaim
"See this—and die! *—
"See these great streets; survey these monster marts;
"The lordly'Changes of our merchant kings;—
"Behold this Thames, with all its flutt'ring breast
"Brave with white wings.—
"Wharves, stately with warehouses—
"Docks, with a world's treasure-chest in bail—
"What hand shall touch ye?
"What rash foe assail?"
"Fire! to the eastward—Fire!
A hurrying tramp of feet,—
A sickly haze that wraps the town
Like a leaden winding-sheet,—
A smothering smoke is in the air—
A crackling sound—a cry!—
And yonder, up over the furnace pot
That smokes like the smoke of the Cities of Lot,
There's something fierce and hissing and hot
That licks the very sky!
* The Italians have a proverb,"See Naples, and die"
Fire! fire! ghastly fire!
It broadens overhead;
Red gleam the roofs in lurid light
The Heav'ns are glowing-red.
From east to west—from west to east!—
Red runs the turbid Thames—
"Fire! fire! the engines! fire!
"Or half the town's in flames—
"Fire———"
A raging, quivering gulf...
A wild stream, blazing by...
Red ruin... fearful flaming leaps...
White faces to the sky....
"The engines, Ho! back for your lives!"
And out the Firemen dash'd;
"Stand clear in front! room, townsmen, room!"—
Like lightning thro' the gath'ring gloom
The swarthy helmets flash'd:
Stand from the causeway—Horse and Man!—
Back, while there's time for aid—
Back, gilded coach!—back, lordly steed S—
There's fear and fate hangs on their speed,
And life and death and daring deed,
Room for the Fire Brigade!